Стивен Бут - Blind to the Bones

‘I don’t think I want to know any more.’

‘Sharon was two years older than me. She worked on the checkout at Tesco’s, so she had strong fingers. She got free food, too — stuff that was going to be chucked out because it was past its sell-by date. But the trouble was, she wouldn’t go all the way. She was scared to death of getting pregnant, the way some of her mates at school had done.’

‘I didn’t know there was a Tesco’s in Edendale,’ said Fry.

‘Not any more. They had to pull out, too,’ said Murfin gloomily.

They had parked the car partly on the pavement, nudging a yellow ‘no parking’ cone out of the way. Edendale town centre was solid with vehicles today.

‘Anyway, it was the sort of thing Dad said to us,’ said Murfin. ‘I reckon it was his way of saying morris dancers were a set of soft jessies. These days, he reckons they’re responsible for AIDS.’

Fry locked the car and looked back at him. ‘Are you coming, or are you happy just reminiscing about your vanished childhood?’

‘These morris dancers,’ said Murfin. ‘I don’t suppose they’re actually gay. Most of them have beards, don’t they?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

A little bit of sun was out. That meant people would be crowding the garden centres and nurseries, buying up bedding plants that would be killed by frost within a week. In the car park behind the market square, a girl in a converted Bedford van was selling ice cream.

‘Don’t think I’m obsessed or anything,’ said Murfin. ‘It’s just that Mr Hitchens had me helping with those enquiries into the gay community when he found out about Neil Granger. I think it might have turned me a bit funny, like.’

The venues chosen for the dance groups were all within a couple of minutes’ walk of each other. As a result, it was possible to hear several different kinds of music at once, all coming from different directions. Over there, towards the river, was a country and western line-dancing tune coming from a portable speaker. Behind the shops, in one of the cobbled courtyards, someone was playing ‘Zorba’s Dance’ on a CD, and probably just getting to the stage where they all tried to dance too fast and trod on each other’s feet.

From the market square came the sound of melodeons and a banjo, where one of the border morris teams was performing. That was definitely live. Fry could almost smell the sweat.

There were extra officers on duty in Edendale today, too — not to control the morris dancers, but because Stoke City football fans were in town, passing through on their way to Sheffield for a match. Traditionally, they called at Bakewell, on the A6, to tank up on beer in the local pubs, which they always left wrecked. But last year, the pub landlords in Bakewell had shut their doors for an hour or two until the Stoke contingent had moved on. This year, the fans had chosen to come to Edendale instead. And their arrival had coincided with the Day of Dance.

Fry found a grey-haired morris dancer taking a rest on a bench. He was dressed in white shirt and trousers in the Cotswold style, with ribbons tied to his wrists and ankles and a colourful baldrick across his chest. He was using his handkerchief to wipe some of the sweat from his face.

‘The Border Rats? They’re down in that little courtyard by the river, I think,’ he said. ‘What have they done?’

‘Nothing. We just want to talk to them,’ said Fry.

‘Well, it’s no use talking to the Squire. He’s an Oxley. You might as well talk to that lamp post.’

‘Have you got a better idea?’

‘Aye, their Bagman. He’s the one that has the brain cell.’

‘Bagman?’

‘Secretary, if you like. The organizer, the admin man. He has to make sure everyone gets to the right place at the right time and knows what they’re supposed to be doing. That’s no mean task with that lot, I can tell you. I’d rather try to herd a pack of wild dogs.’

‘And what’s this Bagman’s name?’

‘Neil Granger. You might have a bit of luck there, I suppose.’

‘I’m afraid Neil Granger’s dead, sir.’

‘Is he? Well, I didn’t know him so well. I just remember him from last year. The Border Rats raided one of our sets.’

‘Thanks a lot, sir. You’ve been very helpful.’

‘Well, don’t tell anybody that. I’ll get kicked out.’

Ben Cooper had already found the right place by following the noise. The courtyard was a new development enclosed by shops and paved to match the original setts. The design amplified the sound of the Border Rats band, which included a melodeon, concertina, drum, recorder and fiddle. Cooper didn’t recognize any of the musicians, even allowing for the costumes and make-up. Presumably, these were some of the Hey Bridge contingent. But Scott and Ryan Oxley were there, with their rag coats, top hats and blacked-up faces, along with Sean and Glen, and even little Jake, blacked up and with his own stick, almost as tall as himself.

There was no sign of Lucas Oxley. But the old man, Eric, stepped forward from the band and addressed the crowd to introduce the group and the first performance.

Then the music began — melodeon and concertina playing in a minor key, with the drum beating time for the striking of the sticks. Six of the dancers stood up straight, crossed over once, then twice, turned and clashed their stick together. A double clash, then another turn and they advanced again, with the sun flashing off their mirrored sunglasses and the black make-up on their faces glistening with sweat.

Instinctively, the audience began to draw back, shuffling their feet uneasily as the dancers moved towards them. The Border Rats marched proudly, almost swaggered, their sticks over their shoulders and heads held high, confident that no one would get in their way. In contrast, their spectators began to resemble a small flock of sheep, huddling closer together and shying nervously as they clutched at their hot dogs and cameras. One small child seemed momentarily paralysed. His fingers lost their grip, and his ice cream landed on the flags with a crunch and a splatter of white.

The dancers did an about-turn and advanced towards the crowd on the far side. Then they spun through ninety degrees and did the same to left and right, with the crowd backing away from them each time, until they had cleared sufficient space in the middle.

The music paused, then started again, much faster. The dancers had established their territory, and now they were going to perform their ritual.

In the enclosed courtyard, the simultaneous clash of the sticks was so loud and at such a pitch that it was painful on the ears. The Border Rats were building up a head of steam and really going for it in a dance called Much Wenlock. Then Eric Oxley announced that the next was a fighting dance. This turned out to involve charging, screaming and clashing. Some of the tourists in the audience were starting to look a bit scared. They were backed up against the shop windows and had no escape route when the sticks started flying and the boots came trampling near their sandals and trainers.

A dance called Brimfield looked positively obscene, with the dancers holding their sticks thrust into their groins as blatant phallic symbols. But then they started throwing the sticks instead. They passed high overhead, but were caught each time before they landed among the audience. Cooper wondered whether their public liability insurance was up to date.

Cooper spotted his new neighbour, Peggy Check, across the crowd, and he worked his way round to speak to her. She gave the impression of being a small oasis of good humour and normality in a widening desert of irrationality, and that was what he needed at the moment.

‘So what happened to the coffee?’ she said when he reached her.