Crybbe

'Give me strength,' said Alex.

'Fay'll be there, no doubt.'

'Won't want me in her hair.'

'Or there's Grace. All alone in Bell Street. Will she be worried, perhaps, that you haven't been home for a couple of nights?'

'I thought you said she didn't exist as anything more than a light form.'

'She didn't. Unfortunately, she's become a monster.'

'Uh?' Alex lost his twinkle.

'Tell me,' Jean said. 'Have you ever performed an exorcism?'

The Cock was no brighter than a Victorian funeral parlour, Denzil, the licensee, no more expressive than a resident corpse. Half past eight and only two customers – all his regulars over the town hall.

J.M. Powys stared despairingly into his orange juice, back to his habitual state of confusion. Everything had seemed so clear on the hillside overlooking the town, when Fay was aglow with insight.

Arnold lay silently under the table. Possibly the first dog in several centuries to set foot – all three of them – in the public bar of the Cock. 'We can't,' Fay had warned. 'Sod it,' Powys had replied, following the dog up the steps. 'I've had enough of this. Who's going to notice? Who's going to care?'

And, indeed, now they were inside there was nobody except Denzil to care, and Denzil didn't notice, not for a while.

Powys glanced up at Fay across the table, it could all be crap,' he said.

'There.' Fay was drinking tomato juice; it was a night for clear heads. 'You see…'

'What?'

'You're back in Crybbe. You're doubting yourself. You're thinking, what the hell, why bother? It's easy to see, isn't it, why, after four centuries, the apathy's become so ingrained.'

'Except that it could though, couldn't it? It could all be crap.'

'And we're just two weirdoes from Off trying to make a big deal out of something because we don't fit in.'

'And if it's not – not crap – what can we do about it?'

'Excuse me, sir." Denzil was standing by their table, low-browed, heavy-jowled. He picked up their empty glasses.

'Thanks,' Powys said. 'We'll have a couple more of the same.' Glanced at Fay. 'OK?'

Fay nodded glumly.

'No you won't,' Denzil said. 'Not with that dog in yere you won't.'

'I'm sorry?'

'Don't allow no dogs in yere.'

Powys said mildly, 'Where does it say that?'

'You what, sir?'

'Where does it say, "no dogs"?'

'We never 'ad no sign, sir, because…'

'Because you never had no dogs before. Now, this is interesting.' Powys tried to catch his eye; impossible. 'We're the only customers. There's nobody else to serve. So perhaps you could spell out – in detail – what this town has against the canine species. Take your time. Give us a considered answer. We've got hours and hours.'

Powys sat back and contemplated the licensee, who looked away. The bar smelled of polish and the curdled essence of last night's beer.

'No hurry,' Powys said. 'We've got all night.'

Denzil turned to him at last and Powys thought. Yes he does. .. He really does look like a malignant troll.

'Mr Powys,' Denzil said slowly. 'You're a clever man…'

'And we…' said Fay, '… we don't like clever people round yere.' And collapsed helplessly into giggles.

Denzil's expression didn't change. 'No more drinks,' he said. 'Get out.'

It was getting so dark so early that Mrs Seagrove decided it would be as well to draw the curtains to block out that nasty old mound. Ugly as a slag-heap, Frank used to say it was.

The curtains were dark-blue Dralon. Behind curtains like this, you could pretend you were living somewhere nice.

'There,' she said. 'That's better, isn't it, Frank?'

Frank didn't reply, just nodded as usual. He'd never had much to say, hadn't Frank. Just sat there in his favourite easy-chair, his own arms stretched along the chair arms. Great capacity for stillness, Frank had.

'I feel so much safer with you here,' Mrs Seagrove said to her late husband.

CHAPTER II

Like an old castle, the church was, when the light was going, with the tower and the battlements all black.

Something to really break into. Not like a garage or a school or a newsagent's. Magic, this was, when you got in, standing there in the great echoey space, shouting out 'fuck' and 'piss'.

When you broke into a church, there was like an edge to it.

Sacrilege. What did it mean? What did it really mean? Religion was about being bored. They used to make him come here when he was a kid. Just you sit there, Warren, and keep it shut until they gives you a hymn to sing… and don't sing so bloody loud next time, you tryin' to show us up?

So when he stood here and shouted 'fuck' and 'piss', who was he shouting it at? His family, or the short-tempered ole God they didn't like to disturb by singing too loud?

Tonight he didn't have to break in; nobody'd bothered to lock the place after he'd done the window in the vestry, when he'd been up the belfry and then doled out this plate of dog food on the altar.

Still couldn't figure why he'd done that. Tessa's idea, she'd given him the can. Next time she'd have to explain. He was taking no more orders, not from anybody.

Warren ground his teeth and brought his foot back and slammed it into the side door, wanting to kick it in, anyway. Because it was a rotten old door that'd needed replacing years ago. Because he wanted to hear the latch splintering off its screws.

Because he wanted Jonathon to know he was coming.

Me again, Jonathon. You don't get no peace, bro, till you're in the ground.

There was a real rage in him tonight that just went on growing and growing, the more he thought about that bastard Goff and the way he'd tricked him. Warren could see right through the layers of blubber to the core of this fat phoney. The real reason he'd had a nice letter sent back to Warren with the tape was he didn't know how Warren's grandad stood the question of Warren being a professional musician – for all Goff knew the old git could've been 'supportive', as they said. And the old git was the Mayor, and Goff couldn't afford to offend him.

Warren got out his Stanley knife, the Stanley knife, and swaggered up the aisle to the coffin, saw its whitish gleam from this window over the altar that used to be stained glass, only the bloody ole stained bits blew out, once, in a gale, on account the lead was mostly gone, and they filled it up with plain frosted glass like you got in the windows of public lavs – typical that, of the cheapo bastards who ran the Church.

Anyway, what was left of the white light shone down on reliable, steady, trustworthy ole Jonathon.

Saint Jonathon now.

He flicked out the blade, felt his lips curling back into tight snarl as he sucked in a hissing breath and dug the point into the polished lid, dagger-style, and then wrenched it back getting two hands to it, one over the other.

Sssccccreeeeagh!!!!!

Remember me, Jonathon?

I'm your brother. I was there when you died. Maybe you don't remember that. Wasn't a chance I could very well miss, though, was it? Not when that feller sets it up for me so nice, chucking the old gun in the drink – couldn't go back without that, could you bro'? Couldn't face the ole man… steady, reliable, ole Jonathon lost the bloody family heirloom shooter. Didn't see me, did you? Didn't see me lying under the hedge on the other side of the bank? Well, people don't, see. I'm good at that even if I don't know nothing about farming and I'm a crap guitarist.

Always been good at not being seen and watching and listening. And you gets better at that when you know they don't give a shit for you, not any of the buggers. You learn to watch out for yourself, see.