Crybbe aka Curfew

Tessa smiled.

'What you done with then other drawings, the old feller?'

'Got fed up with him,' Tessa said. 'Passed him on.'

'Who to?'

'Dunno where he might end up,' Tessa said mysteriously. 'Part of the fun.' She smiled and fitted a forefinger down the front of Warren's jeans and drew him towards her, across the old box.

'Let's do it here… do it… by the box. Leave it open, see what happens.'

'Prob'ly come crawlin' out an' pinch your bum,' Warren said slyly. 'Anyway, it's too late now, for that.'

Tessa took her finger out of Warren's jeans, 'I waited for you.'

'Had a job to do.'

'What was so important?"

'You'll find out,' Warren said.

Tessa reached out and touched a white knuckle-bone.

'Cold,' she said, it's nice and cold.'

'It was cold in the river, too,' Warren said.

Rachel lay in the brass bed. When he slid in gratefully beside her, she awoke.

'J.M.?'

'I couldn't put a light on. The power's off again.'

He'd lit up Bell Street with the headlights, watching the small figure in bloodstained blue nylon walking to her door. When she was safely inside, he drove back into the lightless main street, where all the windows were blind eyes. Then down the hill and over the bridge. A tight right turn, and there was the perfect little riverside cottage. He'd almost expected it not to be there, like a dream cottage.

The presence of Rachel in the bed reinforced a sense of home. Before she could ask, he told her where he'd been, poured it all out, the whole bizarre episode.

'Arnold?' Rachel sat up in the darkness. 'Jonathon Preece shot Arnold?'

He told her about the shotgun, how he'd come to pick it up from the grass.

'I really wanted to kill him. I thought I had killed him at one point. I could feel myself pulling the triggers, both triggers, and then his chest… It was as if time had skipped a beat, and I'd already shot him.'

'You're overtired,' Rachel said.

'Then the dog – Arnold – whimpered, and I was back in the second before I did it. Arnold was Henry Kettle's dog.'

'I know.'

'You don't know how badly I wanted to kill that guy.'

'This doesn't seem like you, J.M.'

'No,' Powys said, it didn't.'

There was a window opposite the bed. Across the river, he saw a few sparse lights coming on, like candles on a cake.

'Power's back.'

'And you're a hero, J.M.,' Rachel said, moulding her body into his. 'Although you'll be a marked man in Crybbe if anyone finds out.'

PART FIVE

You won't need to worry and you won't have to cry

Over in the old golden land.

Robin Williamson

From the album

'Wee Tarn and the Big Huge'

CHAPTER I

No, don't move 'im yet, Gomer.'

Jack Preece ambled across the field to where Gomer Parry and his nephew, Nev, were preparing to get the bulldozer back on the lorry.

'Don't speak to me, Jack.' Gomer didn't turn round. 'Embarrassed? Humiliated, more like!'

'Aye, well, I'm sorry, Gomer.'

'Sorry? You bloody should be sorry, Jack Preece. Never before have Gomer Parry Plant Hire failed to carry out a contract. Never! I should 'ave told your dad where 'e could stick 'is…

'Only, see, the district council's 'avin' a bit o' trouble on the new landfill site over Brynglas,' Jack Preece said. 'Need of an extra bulldozer, quickish, like. Three days' work, sure t'be.'

Gomer Parry turned shrewd eyes on Jack Preece, standing in the damp old field, between downpours, his back to the Tump and the famous wall – still intact, except for the bits of masonry dislodged when old Kettle had his crash.

'Reckon you can do it, Gomer?'

Gomer shot him a penetrating took through his wire-rimmed glasses. 'Something goin' on yere, Jack. Don't know what it is, but there's something.'

'Aye, well,' Jack Preece said, eyes averted. 'No need to worry about your reputation, Gomer, anyway. You'll be all right. We looks after our own, isn't it.'

He started to walk away then turned back. You seen Jonathon about?'

'Not lately,' Gomer said.

'Boy didn't come 'ome last night.'

'Likely 'avin' 'is end away somewhere,' said Gomer. 'Only young once, Jack.'

'Aye,' said Jack. Sure t'be.'

Powys drove back to Hereford, loaded up a couple of suitcases, a box of books, his Olivetti and two reams of A4.

'Aha,' said Barry, the osteopath from upstairs. 'Ensnared. He's got you. I knew he would. What was the deciding factor Powys. The money?'

Powys shook his head.

The women?'

Powys said, 'Just hold that door open for me, would you?'

'I knew it! It's the Summer of Love in Crybbe. You always were a sucker for a cheesecloth cleavage.'

'Barry,' said Powys, 'don't you have somebody's spine to trample on?'

'Good luck, Joe,' Annie said wistfully.

'What d'you mean "good luck''?' He'd noticed the crystals had been joined on the counter by a small display of astrological amulets in copper. Where the hell had she found those?

'You're going back,' Annie said.

'I am not "going back".'

Annie and Barry smiled knowingly to each other.

During the return drive it rained. It rained harder the nearer he got to Crybbe. Powys did some thinking, images wafting across his mind with the rhythm of the windscreen wipers.

Seriously unseasonal rain was throwing the river over the banks like rumpled bedclothes. He saw an image of a shotgun getting slowly pushed downstream, its barrels clogged with corrosive silt. Unless Jonathon had managed to retrieve it. Would he ever find out? And would Jonathon report him to the police?

Unlikely. He hoped. Well, it was a question of image: the farmer who let a townie in a suit pinch his gun and toss it in the river. They'd love that in the saloon bar of the Cock, it would go down in the folk history of the town.

Rachel was spending the morning at the Court, organizing workmen putting finishing touches to the stable-block. He thought of going to see Mrs Seagrove.

He carried his suitcases into the cottage. It was a good cottage, a better home than his flat. It had wonderful views over the river – slopping and frothing feverishly, after hours of heavy rain.

He couldn't stay here for long though. Not on false pretences. There was no way he was going to write the New Age Gospel According to Goff.

And the sequence by the river last night kept replaying itself. The feeling of the warm gun, the knowledge that he was not only capable of killing but wanted to kill. The bar of shadow across the grass and the river, all the way from the Tump, where Henry Kettle died.

And Arnold, Henry Kettle's dog. A dowser's dog, Henry used to say, isn't like other dogs.

It wasn't raining any more. Through the large window in the living-room, he saw the clouds had shifted like furniture pushed to the corners of the room, leaving a square of light. Fifty yards away, the river, denied its conquest of the meadow, slurped sulkily at its banks. On the other side of the river, in the semi-distant field – probably Goff's land – Powys saw two tiny figures, one holding a couple of tall poles.

He thought, the dodmen. Alfred Watkins's term for the prehistoric surveyors who had planned out the leys, erecting standing stones and earthworks at strategic points. The surveyors would, Watkins imagined, have held up poles to find out where tall stones would be visible as waymarkers. Now modern dodmen were at work, recreating prehistoric Crybbe in precisely the way it was presumed to have been done four thousand or so years ago.

From here, Powys couldn't even make out whether they were dodmen or dodwomen. But he was prepared to bet one of them would be Andy Boulton-Trow.

Calm, laid-back, omniscient old Andy.

I think Joe ought to present himself to the Earth Spirit in the time honoured fashion…