Anyway, so there you are, wading across the river, getting closer and closer to my side. Hey, listen… how many times did the ole man tell us when we were kids: never get tempted to cross the river, that ole river bed's not stable, see, full of these gullies.
See, you might not remember this next bit, being you were in a bit of trouble at the time, like, bit of a panic, churning up the water something cruel And, like, if you did see me, well, you might still be thinking I was trying to rescue you, brotherly love, all that shit.
Might've thought I was trying to hold your head above the water. Well, fair play, that's an easy mistake to make when you're floundering about doing your best not to get yourself drowned.
Anyway, you failed, Jonathon.
Gotter admit, it's not often a bloke gets the chance like that to drown his goodie-goodie, smart-arse, chairman of the Young Farmers' brother, is it?
Worth getting your ole trainers soaked for any day, you ask me.
Gotter laugh, though, Jonathan. Gotter laugh.
It was quite impressive inside. Late nineteenth century perhaps. High-ceilinged, white-walled. And a white elephant, now, Guy thought, with no proper council any more.
He was watching from the entrance at the back of the hall, while Larry Ember was doing a shot from the stage at the front. People were pointing at Larry, whispering, shuffling in their seats. Real fly-on-the-wall stuff this was going to be, with half the punters staring straight into the lens, looking hostile.
'Make it quick, Guy, will you,' Col Croston said behind a hand. 'I've been approached about six times already by people objecting to your presence.'
Catrin said, 'Do they know who he is?'
'Stay out of this, Catrin,' said Guy. 'Col, we'll have the camera out within a couple of minutes. But as it's a public meeting, I trust nobody will try to get me out.'
'I should sit at the back, all the same,' Col said without opening his mouth.
'Look!' Larry Ember suddenly bawled out at the audience, leaping up from his camera, standing on the makeshift wooden stage, exasperated, hands on his hips. 'Stop bleedin' looking at me! Stop pointing at me! You never seen a telly camera before? Stone me, it's worse than little kids screaming "Hello, Mum." Pretend I'm not here, can't yer?'
'Maybe you shouldn't be yere, then,' a man shouted back.
'Sorry about this,' Guy said to Col Croston. 'Larry's not terribly good at public relations.'
'Better get him out,' Col said. 'I'm sorry, Guy.'
'I suspect we're all going to be sorry before the night's out,' Guy said, unknowingly blessed, for the first time in his life with the gift of prophecy.
A hush hit the hall, and Guy saw Larry swing his arms, and his camera, in a smooth arc as though he'd spotted trouble at the back of the room.
The hush came from the front left of the hall, occupied by members of the New Age community and – further back – other comparative newcomers to the town. The other side of the hall, where the Crybbe people sat, was already as quiet as a funeral.
The hush was a response to the arrival of Max Goff. Only the trumpet fanfare, Guy thought, was missing. Goff was accompanied. An entourage.
First came Hilary Ivory, wife of the tarotist, carrying her snowy hair wound up on top, like a blazing white torch. Her bony, nervy husband, Adam, was way back, behind Goff, even behind Graham Jarrett in his pale-green safari suit. There were some other people Guy recognized from last Friday's luncheon party, including the noted feminist astrologer with the ring through her nose and a willowy redhead specializing in dance therapy. There were also some accountant-looking men in John Major-style summerweight grey suits.
Max Goff, in the familiar white double-breasted and a velvet bow-tie, looked to Guy like a superior and faintly nasty teddy bear, the kind that wealthy American ladies kept on their bed; with a pistol inside.
Would you turn your town over to this man?
Guy watched Goff and his people filling the front two rows on the left, the chamber divided by its central aisle into two distinct factions. Old Crybbe and New Age, tweeds against talismans.
He felt almost sorry for Goff; this was going to be an historic fiasco. But he felt more sorry for himself because they weren't being allowed to film it.
Alex drained his cup in a hurry and bumped it back on its saucer, hand trembling slightly.
Exorcism. Oh God.
'Well, obviously, I was supposed to know about things like that. Been a practising clergyman for damn near three-quarters of my life. But… sometimes she was… in my bedroom. I'd wake up, she'd be sitting by the bed wearing this perfectly ghastly smile. Couple of seconds, that was all, then she'd be gone. Happened once, twice a week, I don't know. Fay came down to stay one weekend. I was in turmoil. Looked awful, felt awful. What did she want with me? Hadn't I done enough?'
Jean put on her knowing look.
'Yes,' Alex said, 'guilt again, you see. A most destructive emotion. Was she a product of my obsessive guilt – a lifetime of guilt, perhaps?'
Jean nodded.
'Poor old Fay. I think she thought I'd finally slipped into alcoholism. Anyway, she sent me to the doctor's, he sent me for tests and they discovered the artery problem. Everything explained. Poor old buffer's going off his nut. Can't be left alone. And that was how Fay and I got saddled with each other.'
'And do you feel you need her now?'
'Well, I… No, I'm not sure I do. Wendy, this… this Dr Chi business… Look, I don't mean to be offensive…'
'Of course not,' said Jean solemnly.
'But this renewed, er, sprightliness of mind… It's just that I don't honestly feel I'm the most worthy candidate for a miracle cure.'
Jean stood up, went over to the window and drew the curtains on the premature dusk, bent over to put on the lamp with the parchment shade, showing him her neat little gym- mistressy bum. Came back and sat down next to him on the settee, close enough for him to discover she was wearing perfume.
'There are no miracles, Alex, surely you know that by now.'
She didn't move an inch, but he felt her coming closer to him and smelled the intimacy of her perfume. He felt old stirrings he'd expected never to feel again. And yet it was somehow joyless.
'Dr Chi and I have done almost all we can for you, Alex. You've been here more than a day. Intensive treatment.'
'It seems longer.'
Jean nodded. 'You feel well now?'
Alex cleared his throat. 'Never better,' he said carefully.
'So why don't you go home?'
'Ah,' said Alex.
Jean looked steadily at him in the lamplight, unsmiling.
He said, 'What time is it?'
'Approaching eight. She'll be there soon, Alex.'
'Will she?'
'Only one way to find out,' Jean said gently, 'isn't there?'
'Oh now, Wendy, look…'
'Perhaps…' She stood up and went to lean against the mantelpiece, watching him. 'Perhaps it worries you that once you leave this house, your mind will begin to deteriorate again. And when you face her once more, the guilt will return.'
He squirmed a little.
'You might not be responsible for actually bringing her spirit back.' Her eyes narrowed, 'I think we can blame Crybbe for that. But you do seem to have made her rather more powerful in death than she was in life. You've projected upon her not only the portion of guilt to which she may or may not have been due, but all the guilt due to your wife and, no doubt, many other ladies and husbands and whatnot. .. and, bearing in mind your rather poor choice of profession, perhaps your God himself. Is that not so, Alex?'
'I…'
'You've been feeding her energy, Alex. The way I've been feeding you. A kind of psychic saline drip. So I'm afraid it's your responsibility to deal with her.'
Alex began to feel small and old and hollow.
'When you leave here…' Jean said regretfully. 'This house, I mean. When you do leave, there's a chance you'll lapse quite soon into the old confusion, and you'll have that to contend with, too. I'm sorry.'