Phil Rickman - The Smile of a Ghost

‘Get off me, you ole paedophile!’

‘We gonner do this the easy way, boy, or the hard way?’ Gomer said. ‘Either you tells this man what you did or we goes and talks to your dad.’ He looked across at Lol, who was standing in the doorway. ‘His dad’s on the Hereford council – Lib Dem, hangin’ on by his fingertips last time. Hate it to get out that his boy was in the poison-pen business. Now tell the man.’

The kid looked at the step Lol was standing on.

‘Posted you a letter.’

‘I see,’ Lol said. ‘And did you, er, write the letter?’

‘Tell him,’ Gomer growled.

‘Yeah,’ the kid said. ‘But I din’t make it up. He told me what to write.’

‘Who tole you?’ Gomer said.

‘Bloke.’

‘What bloke?’

‘I don’t know! I keep tellin’ you and you don’t believe me. He give me a quid both times.’

‘How much?’

‘Fiver.’ The kid looked up at Gomer. The light flared in Gomer’s glasses. ‘Tenner. To keep quiet.’

‘So let’s get this clear, boy. Bloke gives you the paper, tells you what to write on it, then he puts it in the envelope, tells you where to take it, right?’

‘Yeah. When it’s dark.’

‘What do he look like, this bloke?’

‘I dunno – tall.’

‘Local?’

‘Uh?’

‘You seen him before round yere?’

‘No.’

‘Was he in a car?’

‘Yeah.’

‘All right,’ Gomer said. ‘You see him again, you come and tell me. You know where I live – bungalow down the hill, with the big sheds.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You tell me quick enough, mabbe I’ll give you a tenner. Or mabbe I just won’t tell your dad. Now bugger off.’

When the kid had gone, Lol said, ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Paedophile – you yere that? Bloody hell, it don’t take the little bastards long, do it?’

‘How did you find out about him?’

‘Maggie Tomlin – lives across the way. Sits in a wheelchair by the window, listenin’ to the radio. Knows everybody. Jasper Ashe, her says, straight off. Thought he was delivering flyers for a car boot or some’ing, but he only delivered the one. Gavin Ashe’s boy. Gavin had Rod Powell’s ole seat on the council, but the Tory woman run him close last time, see.’

‘I don’t get it, Gomer.’

‘Ar, it’s a puzzler,’ Gomer conceded. ‘Somebody got it in for you and the vicar, but they en’t local. But mabbe you’re supposed to think they are local.’

‘Making me paranoid. Unsettled.’

‘Sure to, ennit.’

‘Well… thanks, Gomer.’

‘Us incomers gotter stick together,’ Gomer said.

‘Er… yes.’ As Lol understood it, Gomer had been born approximately ten miles outside Ledwardine. ‘Right.’

‘Where’s the vicar?’

‘Over in Ludlow.’

‘Been out all night, looks like.’

‘Er…’ Lol heard his mobile from inside the house, playing the first few bars of the tune that Jane had keyed in – ‘Sunny Days’.

‘You better get that, boy, might be her.’

‘It might.’

‘You wanner keep an eye on that little woman,’ Gomer said. ‘Some funny folks in Ludlow now, what I yeard.’

The next caller had asked for Mrs Watkins. Jane hadn’t recognized the voice, but it was too precise to be, like, Emma from Everest Double-glazing or somebody in Delhi calling on behalf of British Telecom. This voice was also actually quite low and pleasant.

‘Would that be… Jane?’

‘It would, yes.’

‘Jane, this is Siân Callaghan-Clarke. Canon Callaghan-Clarke, from Hereford.’

‘Oh, hello.’

Big warning bells, up close and agonizingly loud, like in the belfry on a Sunday morning.

‘Jane, I’m awfully sorry to bother you, but it’s most important I get hold of your mother before… other people do.’

‘Other people?’

‘The media, for instance.’

‘She’s pretty good with the media, actually.’

‘Yes, so I understand. Do you know where she might be? Does she routinely tell you where she’s going?’

‘You mean, like, am I a latchkey kid who gets her own meals?’

Siân Callaghan-Clarke laughed lightly.

‘Actually, she normally tells me everything,’ Jane said, ‘but I’m afraid I got in rather late last night myself – the bus broke down – and I, um, overslept. She’s usually up very early, on her hands and knees, scrubbing the church floor, or visiting the sick, and I’m afraid I have to go out again in a minute, so…’

‘Hmm.’

‘I could leave a note for her.’

‘You’re sure she hasn’t gone to Ludlow, Jane?’

‘Ludlow.’ Jane paused. ‘That’s in Shropshire, isn’t it?’

‘Thank you,’ Siân Callaghan-Clarke said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

Mistake.

‘So something’s gone down,’ Jane said to Lol. ‘And I don’t know what it is. And Mum hasn’t rung and I can’t get hold of her because bloody Belladonna’s ex-directory. And Eirion’s gonna be here any minute to pick me up.’

‘What can I do?’

‘Maybe you could come over to the vicarage and just like… stay here? Man the phone and stuff?’

‘You think I’m responsible enough?’

‘Please, Lol, it really is the best thing you could do right now. Something’s happened, and I don’t know what it is. I’ve got the radio on – Hereford and Worcester – and there’s nothing. Lol, please…’

In the dream – and she knew all along that it was a dream – Merrily was at a junction of several old streets with gilded buildings on either side. They had timbers like bars of dull gold and small bricks like jewels, and the entrance of each street, as she approached it, was aglow with enticing lights, the air perfumed with applewood smoke. But the further in she went, the darker and closer it all became, the brickwork crumbling, the beams blackening and the perfume gradually corrupted by a rising stench of dampness and rot. And ahead of her – slapping of sandals on dry flagstones – a woman with a musical-instrument case swinging like a censer from one hand.

Scared, Merrily began wading out of the dream. She opened her eyes, and one of them hurt. The light was grey and rationed, sweat congealing on her face like a sour syrup. She pushed the plain cream duvet away, tentatively lowered her bare feet to bare boards.

No splinters on this floor. This was very old wood, worn smooth long before it had been laid here. Could have come from anywhere. Had its own history.

The Weir House. Hundreds of disparate histories mingled here, their vibrations filtered through reclaimed timbers and the stones of demolished barns from miles away and nothing would be—

God, what time is it?

In bra and pants and small pectoral cross, she stumbled across to the only window, a Gothic slit with just one pane, and peered out.

She saw a short track with a metal gate at the end. There was a flat field, a glint of river and, above it all, sprouting out of the wooded bank and a sky that was as cold and hard as marble, something like a ragged and monstrous clump of giant brown mushrooms.

Use the castle room . Bell Pepper opening the door for her but not entering. An engaging smile through twisted teeth. But if you see Marion, be careful. She’s unstable.

Merrily had not wanted, at that time, to see Marion. She remembered sitting down on the bed, alone, to think and to pray: St Patrick’s Breastplate – Hold me safe from the forces of evil. On each of my dyings shed your light.

Must have slept, for… She went back to the bed. The rest of her clothes – T-shirt, jeans, fleece – were in a heap beside it, her watch on top. It was nearly eleven-thirty a.m. She’d slept for nearly six hours.