Roger Curtis - Lights in a Western Sky

‘Sheffield.’

‘Thought it had gone quiet up there. But with so many members now it’s impossible to keep track.’

‘It’s not exactly the most active,’ Graham said apologetically.

The activity at the bar suddenly increased. From behind it a figure rose up above the level of the heads. The hair was black and the eyes dark and deep-set, the demeanour magisterial. Every head in the room turned towards him. Those close to him were smiling, but the couples at the tables looked apprehensive. It was clear to Graham that this was no party game. The man spoke with an authority in keeping with his bearing. He was no barman.

‘This year the competition has been – how shall I put it – as fierce as any we have seen in recent times. You will appreciate that coming to a decision has not been easy, but we trust you will agree that your committee has made the correct choice. As has often been the case, the need to balance presentation against individual circumstances has caused particular difficulties. For all their good looks some here have harrowing tales to tell. It’s just a pity there can be only one winner. But let’s not prolong the suspense: this year it is… the couple at table number six.’

At the burst of applause the couple rose to their feet and embraced one another across their soiled plates. A knife on the man’s side fell to the floor, but no-one seemed to notice. Many of the men from the bar crowded round. Graham noted with amusement that their only purpose seemed to be to steal a kiss from the lucky lady. She relished the attention, not minding that her carefully coiffured hair was now awry. Her companion looked on with pride and – curiously, Graham thought – with deep relief.

‘In a way that’s a pity,’ Graham’s companion exclaimed.

‘Why’s that?’

‘She’s pretty – such a bloody waste.’ He leant across to whisper in Graham’s ear. ‘It’ll be a good one though. I can promise you that.’

‘You had a hand in the decision?’

‘Deciding vote.’

Graham smelt the alcohol on the man’s breath and wondered if he was giving too much away.

‘Think of it,’ George continued. ‘Every year, infertile couples competing to have their way with each other on that stone. Every year for thousands of years. And all kept secret.’

‘Do you think it works?’

‘Whether it works or not is irrelevant. It’s the deeper meaning that counts.’

‘I suppose that’s right.’

‘And then, every tenth year… to satisfy the greater powers…’ His voice became hushed. ‘Well, no need to tell you what happens.’

The couple were at the centre of a cluster of bodies that was quickly becoming an entourage. The man who had spoken from the bar now had a chain around his neck and a multi-coloured staff in his hand. The group moved towards the door, which Graham noticed had to be unlocked to let them out. They left to the sound of gently tinkling bells and the braying of an unseen and not particularly melodious horn.

‘You need to keep your eyes peeled to appreciate the subtleties,’ George said, getting up and walking towards the tables. He stopped at the one vacated by the successful couple, picked up the card bearing their names and read it. As if by accident a napkin fell to the floor. He bent down, fumbling to retrieve it, and replaced it carefully on the table. Graham thought he put something into his pocket, but could not see what it was. Then George followed the others out into the night.

Through the window Graham watched the party melt into the darkness of the moor. With the last faint call of the horn he turned to survey the room. The tables were being cleared and there were fewer people at the bar. Graham wandered to the table where the winning couple had sat. Brian and Fenella Browning, the card said. He tried to imagine what had led to the couple’s participation. A waiter came to collect the plates. With his arm loaded the man paused for a moment, as if looking for something, then shrugged and walked away.

For the first time Graham felt relaxed. He joined the others at the bar and ordered a beer. He was about to ask for the phone to order a taxi home but, remembering George’s story about the bus, decided to wait. It seemed odd that all the couples had gone, and more so that there was now not a single woman in the place. He began to survey the prints and paintings on the walls, at first casually, then more intently. There were several of the stone circle. Some had the stones steeped in sunlight, while in another they were in darkness with just an orange glow in the position of the central stone. Disappointingly, there was none of Rebecca’s stone. Then he noticed something quite bizarre. Along the far wall – and previously invisible from where he was sitting – was a series of women’s heads. Or, rather, blank ovals of wood, the size of faces, topped with carefully arranged hair in a variety of styles and colours. He rose and walked over to them.

The waiter appeared at his shoulder. ‘Interesting, aren’t they,’ he said, pointing to one of the more extravagant examples.

Graham stood on tip-toe to see the small brass label on its base. ‘1876,’ he read.

‘Yes, that’s one of the oldest we have,’ the waiter said. ‘It’s a complete series, you know. The others are in the cellar. I could get the key if you’re interested.’

Before Graham could answer the door to the moor flew open. A dishevelled figure whom Graham recognised as the successful Brian held itself momentarily in the frame before lurching towards the bar. He was breathing heavily and there was blood on his hands. Graham forgot about the hair-style collection.

‘My friend,’ the waiter said to Brian, ‘you seem to have a problem.’

‘There’s someone dying on the path from the stone… bleeding badly. Please… please call an ambulance.’

‘Where’s your companion?’ the waiter said, unperturbed.

‘She’s with him. She’s a nurse, but she can’t cope alone. Please get help, quickly.’

‘Was your union… consummated?’ the waiter asked.

‘Yes… yes it was, but that’s irrelevant, for God’s sake!’

‘Irrelevant? I hardly think so,’ the waiter said quietly, ‘but we’ll do as you suggest.’ He turned to one of the barmen. ‘Frank, can you call the… er, 999?

‘They’ll be a while coming,’ Frank replied. ‘So we’d better go and look ourselves. I suggest you come with me, Eric, and the rest of you remain here.’

When the two men had gone Graham approached the stricken Brian, now abandoned on a bar stool. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you need to wash the blood off. I’ll come with you to the gents.’

On the way to the toilets they passed more of the hair-pieces. The last was a twirled construction in black hair that resembled the top of an ice-cream cone.

‘Bloody creepy, if you ask me,’ Brian said.

‘No time to look now,’ Graham said, whilst glancing quickly himself. He ushered Brian through the toilet door.

They looked at each other in the mirror above the sink.

‘However did you get involved in this?’ Graham asked.

‘An advert in Aphrodite magazine,’ Brian replied. ‘An unusual but effective treatment for infertile couples, it said – and a pleasant weekend in the country. Looked marvellous. We all met up at a hotel in Derby. Then, to our surprise, they bussed us here.’

‘Had you heard of… this place… before?’

‘Well, yes, it’s quite well known in our… circle.’

‘What happened to the others?’

‘They were bussed back. It was over for them. Didn’t you see them go?’

As the two men emerged into the bar a car crunched onto the gravel outside. A flashing light through the window sent streaks of blue chasing shadows around the walls of the room. There were raised voices outside which Graham did not recognise. A policeman in uniform entered the room, but the other voices were heard receding into the distance.