‘Uh, call me old-fashioned’ – Robin gently detached her hands – ‘but I really don’t think that would be too wise.’
‘Well, if anybody’s watching...’ Marianne’s voice rose. ‘If anybody’s spying from behind their lace bleedin’ curtains, they can go fuck themselves!’
Robin panicked; no way he wanted to be associated with this particular attitude. He backed off so fast that Marianne toppled towards him, clawed vaguely at the air and fell with her hands flat on the cindered surface of the pub’s parking lot.
Where she stayed, on all fours, looking down at the road.
Oh shit.
Robin moved to help her. She looked up at him and bared her teeth like a cornered cat. ‘You pushed me.’
‘No, no, I really didn’t. You know I didn’t.’
Marianne staggered to her feet, hands waving in the air for balance.
‘How about we get you inside,’ Robin said.
‘You pushed me!’ Backing towards the yard entrance, holding up her scratched hands like she was displaying crucifixion scars. If the people of Old Hindwell hadn’t been watching from behind their curtains before, they sure were now.
‘Fuck you!’ Marianne said. ‘Fuck you!’ she screamed and flew at him like a crazy chicken.
Robin backed off and spun around and found himself running any which way, until he was out of breath.
He stopped. Apart from his own panting, the place was silent again. He looked around, saw only night. The buildings had gone. He didn’t know where he was.
And then he looked up and there, set into the partially afforested hillside, was the tip of a golden light, a shining ingot in the dense, damp, conifered darkness. It was, by far, the brightest light in Old Hindwell village and, as he stepped back, it lengthened and branched out. Became a cross, in golden neon.
Nick Ellis’s clapboard church.
The cross hung there as if unsupported, like a big, improbable star.
The truth was, Robin found it kind of chilling. It was like he’d been driven into a trap. Away in the darkness, he heard footsteps. He froze. Was she coming after him?
Too heavy, too slow. And the steps were receding. Robin walked quietly back the way he’d come and presently the light above the pub door reappeared. He moved cautiously into the roadway in case Marianne was still around, claws out.
A few yards ahead of him, passing the entrance to the school-turned-surgery, was a man on his own. A man so big he was like an outsize shadow thrown on a wall. Must be a head taller than most of the farmers hereabouts. But he hadn’t come out of the pub. He was not drunk. He had a steady, stately walk and, as he passed the pub, Robin saw by the bulkhead light that the man was dressed in a dark suit and a white shirt and tie. The kind of attire farmers wore only for funerals.
The guy walked slowly back down the street, the same way Robin was headed. After a dozen or so paces, he stopped and looked over his shoulder for two, three seconds. Robin saw his face clearly: stiff, grey hair and kind of a hooked nose, like the beak of an eagle.
The guy turned and continued on his way down the street. Robin, having to take the same route, hung around a while to put some distance between them; he didn’t feel too sociable right now, but he did feel cold. He stood across from the pub, shivering and hugging himself.
The big guy was a shambling shadow against curtained windows lit from behind. Halfway down the street, he stopped again, looked back over his shoulder. Looked, not glanced. Robin only saw his face in silhouette this time. He was surely looking for someone, but there was no one there.
Robin shook his head, uncomprehending – a little more spooked.
The nightlife of Old Hindwell.
11
No Ghosts, No God
HUDDLED IN JANE’S duffel coat, she walked past the village square, where the cobbles were glassy with frost. The moon was in the west, still hard and brighter than the security lamp beside the front door of the Swan.
It was five-thirty a.m. She clutched the church keys in a gloved hand. She planned to pray before the altar for Barbara Buckingham and for the soul of her sister, Menna.
Merrily walked in through the lychgate. Somewhere, beyond the orchard, a fox yelped. Down in the churchyard she saw a soft and now familiar glow.
‘Last time, vicar. Honest to God.’
‘Gomer, I don’t mind, really.’
‘Unnatural, sure t’be. Be thinkin’ I’m some ole pervert, ennit?’
Merrily smiled. He was crouching by Minnie’s grave, an area of raised earth, an elongated mole-tump, with the hurricane lamp on it. No memorial yet. No sound of underground ticking.
‘I was just thinking, like,’ Gomer said. ‘I don’t want no bloody stone. I got to have a stone?’
‘Don’t see why.’
‘Wood. I likes wood. En’t no good with stone, but I could carve out a nice piece of oak, see.’ He looked up at Merrily, lamplight moons in his glasses. ‘En’t nothing to do with the money, like. Be a proper piece. We never talked about it, but her liked a nice bit of oak, my Min. I’ll put on it about Frank as well, see.’
‘Whatever you like, Gomer. Whatever you think she’d have wanted.’
‘Summat to do, ennit? Long ole days, see, vicar. Long ole days.’
Merrily sat on a raised stone tomb, tucking her coat underneath her. ‘What else will you do, Gomer?’
‘Oh.’ Gomer sniffed meditatively. ‘Bit o’ this, bit o’ that.’
‘Will you stay here?’
‘Never thought about moving.’
‘Jane thought you might go back to Radnorshire.’
‘What for?’
‘Roots?’
Gomer sniffed again abruptly. ‘People talks a lot of ole wallop ’bout roots. Roots is generally gnarled and twisted. Best kept buried, my experience.’
‘Yeah, you could be right.’ She had a thought. ‘You ever know a family called Thomas down on the border?’
‘Knowed ’bout half a dozen families called Thomas, over the years. Danny Thomas, up by Kinnerton, he’s a good ole boy. Keeps a ’lectric guitar and amplifiers in his tractor shed, on account his wife, Greta, she hates rock and roll. They was at Min’s funeral.’
‘Around Old Hindwell, I was thinking.’
‘Ole Hindwell.’ Gomer accepted a Silk Cut from Merrily’s packet. ‘Gareth Prosser, he’s the big man in Ole Hindwell. Laid some field drainage for him, years back. Then he inherits another two hundred acres and a pile o’ cash, and the bugger buys ’isself a second-hand digger at a farm sale. Always thought theirselves a cut above, the Prossers. County councillor, magistrate, all this ole wallop.’
‘These particular Thomases had two daughters. Barbara was one?’
‘Got you now. Her runned away?’
‘That’s right.’
‘An’ the other one wed Big Weal, the lawyer.’
‘Menna.’
‘Their ole man was Merv Thomas, Maesmawr, up by Walton. Never worked for ’em, mind – too tight, digged their own cesspits, never drained a field. Merv’s dead now, ennit? Ar, course he is. Her’d never be wed otherwise.’
‘You know Weal?’
‘Always avoided lawyers,’ Gomer said. ‘Thieving bastards, pardon me, vicar. Weal’s ole-fashioned, mind, but that don’t make him any less of a thieving bastard. Looks after his wife, though, ’cordin’ to what they says.’
‘Menna’s dead, Gomer.’
‘Never!’ Gomer was shocked enough to whip the ciggy out of his mouth.