Phil Rickman - The Smile of a Ghost

‘You live in a village.’ Sophie carried the teapot to the desk.

‘With a shop. Called in the other night for a bottle of wine and some cigarettes and I left my glasses in the car. Never thought about it.’

‘But I thought the people there—’

‘The Prossers are fine, they’d never… No, it was night-time, you see, and the new girl, Paris, was on the till – that is, new to the shop, not the village. Ledwardine born and bred. She probably told everybody who came in and everybody she met on the way home. I didn’t think. I’m so stupid.’

‘And how would it get to Canon Clarke?’

‘I can guess.’ Merrily stood up and took off her glasses in disgust. ‘What exactly did she say about Lol?’

‘She said that – there’s no nice way I can put this – that someone had suggested this was no more than anyone could expect if they became involved with a mental patient with… his history.’

‘Who?’ Merrily was hot with fury. ‘Who – knowing him – would say that?’

‘Canon Clarke said how regrettable it was that so many people still had such a primitive attitude towards mental illness.’

‘But he—’ Merrily hurled her cigarette packet at the desk. ‘Lol was never—’

‘I know that.’

‘And she has no reason to think that either, but she chooses not to correct anyone’s impression.’ Merrily sat down, hands dangling between her knees, head thrown back. ‘What am I going to do about this, Soph?’

‘Merrily, most black eyes have quite a simple explanation, connected with tripping up, cupboard doors…’

‘No, they don’t. Most black eyes are caused by people getting hit. I go around now, telling people I’ve walked into a lamppost, what’s that going to sound like, at this stage? And I obviously can’t exactly open the Plascarreg can of worms, can I? I mean, apart from implicating Mumford, it would seem a bit coincidental after today’s news. I’m… I’m stuffed here, Sophie. And the worst thing of all… I’ve damaged Lol.’

‘Do you want to hear the rest?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Canon Clarke is wondering, judging by your recent… erratic behaviour—’

‘Erratic, how?’

‘—If this violence hasn’t been a long-term difficulty. Not unknown, in her experience, among the female clergy, who are sometimes rather too assiduous about turning the other cheek.’

‘That woman is so full of crap.’

‘Husbands who resent the ubiquity of religion in the home, become violently jealous of God. So many cases have come to light, apparently, that there’s a special counselling service operating now, within the Church, for just such situations.’

‘I know,’ Merrily said, ‘but this… Sophie, has it occurred to you why she’s telling you about it?’

‘I assume because it’s the quickest way of getting it back to you.’

‘Exactly. Why?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps… rather fewer people than you fear have been exposed to this nonsense. However, if you start to… overreact and go around looking for people to blame, you’re going to spread it over quite a wide circle. Perhaps that’s what she wants.’

‘You do think she has an agenda, then?’

‘We both know she has an agenda, Merrily. I think it’s probably no more complicated than a ferocious ambition.’

‘You know the Archdeacon’s suggesting they hang a bunch of extra parishes on me?’

‘Oh. So that’s true.’

‘Who planted the idea?’

‘I suspect we’ll never get further than a guess. It’s fairly clear that an anti-Deliverance movement is gathering ground within the diocese. I don’t know how we’re going to fight it, but my feeling is that the best way to frustrate this stupid rumour is for you to continue as normal. Not rise to it.’

‘Wearing the glasses or not?’

‘Not, I should say. You have absolutely nothing to hide – if necessary, tell people exactly what happened, you don’t have to name the estate. Anyway, the swelling’s reduced considerably this morning.’

‘And Lol. What does he do? What does he tell people?’

‘He’s the one they won’t ask,’ Sophie said, ‘I’m afraid.’

‘BASTARDS.’ GOMER PARRY accepted a glass of cider. ‘Thank you, boy. Longer I live, the less number of folks I gives a shit about, and that’s a fact. Bloody gossip-mongering bastards.’

Gomer sat on Lol’s new sofa. It was coming up to ten a.m. He took off his cap, and his white hair sprayed out in different directions like an old wallpaper-brush. He said he’d been out early, giving the churchyard a bit of a trim, casually chatting to folks as they came through… and it had come filtering out – people interested in talking to Gomer this morning because they knew he was well in with the vicar.

‘All sorts of ole wallop. Folks remembering how they seen the vicar creeping out of yere at night, furtive-like. Like her’s got some’ing to be ashamed of. Some daft bitch in the shop, her even said the reason Alison Kinnersley cleared out, went off with Bull-Davies, was you was slappin’ her around a bit, too.’

Lol shook his head wearily. ‘Gomer, that is just—’

‘Aye.’ Gomer put down his cider glass, got out his ciggy tin. ‘I says, listen, you go and ask Alison. You ask bloody Bull-Davies ’isself. Bastards. All this ole wallop. Makes you sick to the gut. One day you’re a hero, next it’s, Oh we knew what he was all along, that feller. Look, boy, I’m sorry to have to bring this to your door, but I figured you needed to know what was goin’ around.’

‘I’m grateful.’ Lol was standing by the inglenook, the hearth stale with dead ash.

‘How’d she actually get it, boy – the bruise – you don’t mind me…?’

‘Kids. It was on the Plascarreg Estate in Hereford. She was helping Andy Mumford – family thing – and there was a struggle with some kids. Nothing to—’

‘Miserable Andy? He’s off the streets now, en’t he?’

‘Retired, but not exactly off the streets. His nephew?’

‘Ar… yeard that boy come off the castle was his nephew.’ Gomer licked the end of a cigarette paper. ‘All goes deep with Mumford, see. Not a happy family. I remember his ole man, Reg Mumford, when he was a copper. Hard bastard – too fond of discipline, you get my meaning. Too handy with his bloody belt was the word. Has an effect, see. Vicar should take more care, you tell her from me.’

‘I will.’ Lol wondered if even Gomer might have harboured some small suspicion that the rumour might be true and that was why he’d come. In or out of a JCB, Gomer believed in direct action, shovelling away all the rubble until you reached the core of whatever it was.

‘Come on then, boy.’ Gomer fired up a ciggy. ‘Spit it out. The ole plant-hire’s been a bit slack lately, see, so I been letting Danny do the lion’s share – needs the money more’n me. You and the vicar wants me to hire a loudspeaker van, go up and down the streets shaming these bastards, I got the time.’

‘No, no. God. Look… Gomer… I was wondering, is it possible to trace the source of these stories?’

Gomer thought about it. ‘Lucy Devenish could do it, only one as ever could just by lookin’ in folks’ eyes. Lucy was so deep into this village, her’d just go round asking questions and gazin’ into people’s faces. Folks spreads stuff they reckons is prob’ly lies, see, they’ll never quite look you in the eye. Once you finds the one knows it’s a lie, you’re getting close.’

‘So this isn’t just gossip?’ Lol said.

‘No.’ The light boiled in Gomer’s glasses. ‘Not in my view it en’t.’

‘Orchestrated?’

‘That’s the word.’