Crybbe

Now there was mist as well. That came down bloody quick. Gomer snapped on the full beams, only to discover his left headlight bulb had gone.

Bollocks. No copper'd be able to resist pulling him in to point this out, and then he'd get a good whiff of Gomer's breath… Mind just blowing in this yere nozzle, sir… Oh, dear, afraid I'll have to ask you to accompany me to the station, well, Gomer could already see the smile cracking up the fat features of that bastard Wynford Wiley, and he couldn't stick that.

What he'd have to do then was switch off the headlights and try and get through the mist on the itsy-bitsy sidelights which were bugger-all use on these roads on the best of nights.

So he flicked off the heads and slowed down to about twenty, and it was still like skin-diving in a cesspit and he had to drop down to second gear.

Bloody Crybbe.

Didn't know why he said that, you couldn't blame everything on Crybbe.

Well, you could…

Gomer hit the brakes. 'What the 'ell's that?'

Bloody hell fire, it's the old Tump. Where'd he come from?

Hang on a bit, boy, you done something a bit wrong yere. Isn't usual to see that thing straight up ahead, looming out of the mist so sudden like that, enough to scare the life out of you.

Hello… not on the road now, are we?

We surely are not!

Bloody teach you to go over the limit. Thought you could handle a couple of pints, no problem, but the thing is, you're getting older, boy, your reactions isn't what they was, see.

And now, look what you done, you gone clean off the road, over the verge and you're on the bloody common now and if you keep on like this you'll be knocking down that Goff's wall for him after all and buggering up your digger like they did the bulldozer.

Gomer was about to pull up sharp when the front end took a dip and he realized that if he didn't go with it he was likely to turn this thing over. And he thought about Jack Preece… talk about lightning striking twice. Well, he didn't like this, not one bit.

'I can't stand it!' Hilary Ivory shrieked suddenly. 'This room so black and negative. It's oppressing me, I've got to have out. And I can't stand to look at him any more!'

'Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not going to cover him up,' Col told her. 'Really daren't risk disturbing anything, isn't that right, Sergeant?' Wynford Wiley nodded vaguely, his cheese face sliced clean of expression; he'd given up – he should be directing this situation and look at him… jacket off, tie around his ear, glazed-eyed and sweating like a pig.

'All I can suggest is you look the other way, Mrs Ivory, I'm sorry.'

'It's your fault,' Hilary turned furiously on her husband 'You knew it was coming. You should have warned him. What use is a seer who sees and doesn't tell?'

'Me?' Hitherto gloomily silent, Adam Ivory was stunned into speech. 'You didn't want me to say a word, you bloody hypocritical cow!' Halfway out of his seat, gripping his knees 'You didn't want to throw a shadow over things. You didn't want to lose your cosy little flat in your cosy little town in.. in…'

'Just a minute.' Col Croston jumped down from the platform and strode over to where the couple were sitting amidst Jarrett, a bunch of healers, the Newsomes and Larry Ember standing up, smoking a cigarette, his camera held between his ankles.

'What's this about? What are you saying?'

Guy Morrison said wearily, Adam reads tarot cards. He saw disaster looming.'

'Oh,' said Col, disappointed, 'I see.'

'No, you don't,' said Guy. 'Don't knock it, Col. This is a very weird set-up. Guy Morrison used to think he knew everything there was to know about the supernatural, i.e. that the whole thing was a lame excuse for not milking real life for everything one could get.'

Guy made a steeple out of the fingers of both hands and pushed them together, hard. 'But for once,' he said, 'Guy Morrison was wrong.'

'What d'you mean exactly?' Col looked for somewhere to sit down. There wasn't a spare chair, so he squatted, hands on thighs. 'What's the score here, as you see it, Guy? I mean, Christ, I've been around. Been in some pretty odd places, among some pretty primitive people, but, well, we don't notice things under our noses, sometimes. We think it's what you might call… what? Rural eccentricity, I suppose.'

'No. Look…' Guy had taken off his expensive olive leather jacket. He didn't seem to notice it was lying on the floor now, entangled in dusty shoes. 'Which is Mrs Byford? Ask her if she knows her granddaughter's some kind of witch… that girl, the artist. Ask her about the ex-policeman who cut his throat in her bathroom. Go on. Ask her.'

Oh hell, Col Croston thought. Bit barmy. He decided not to tell Guy the girl was here, displaying an anatomical interest in the corpse.

'You think I'm crazy, don't you? Ask her!'

'Shut up,' Jocasta Newsome hissed. 'Just shut up, Guy. Just for once.'

Guy whirled on her, eyes alight. 'You know I'm not crazy, you of all people. You showed me the drawings. You sent me to talk to the bloody girl. You… uuurh.'

Hereward Newsome's thin, sensitive, artistic hands were around his throat. 'You… smooth… self-opinionated… bastard!'

Col Croston leapt up as Guy's chair crashed over into the aisle, the chair's and Guy's legs both in the air, Hereward, teeth clenched, trying to smash Guy's head into the boarded floor.

'No wonder… she wanted you to… open the fucking.. . exhibition.' Col Croston gripping Hereward's shoulder, wrenching him off, as Catrin Jones – 'Guy!' – fell down heavily beside her producer 'Are you all right?' Lifting his head into her lap. 'Guy?' Staring up, appalled, at the madman with the thinning hair and the greying, goatee beard, held back by his collar like a snarling dog, hands clawing at the air.

'He's only been screwing my wife,' the madman spat, and Catrin froze – maybe he was not so mad, after all – allowing Guy's head to fall to the floor with an audible thump.

Larry Ember was cradling his camera, ostensibly to save it from being kicked, the lens pointed casually at the scene before him. 'One for the Christmas tape,' he murmured to Tom, the soundman. 'Got to keep the old spirits up, ain'tcha?' On the same tape were the pictures he'd surreptitiously shot of Max Goff's body, while carrying the camera under his arm at waist level.

'You'll put that thing away!' Sharp-featured Mrs Byford, the council clerk, was on her feet, back arched.

'Wasn't aware it was out, darlin'.' Larry inspecting his trousers.

'Colonel!'

'Come on, old boy, please. Leave the thing under the table, hmm?'

'I don't think so, squire.' Larry raising the camera to his shoulder, aiming it at Col, adjusting the focus.

'Guy, would you mind exerting your…?'

But Guy, still sprawled half-stunned in the aisle, was staring over the Colonel's shoulder, eyes widening. 'She… she's there.. . Jocasta… tell them…'

The girl stood on the edge of the platform. She wore black jeans and a black top. Even her lipstick was black. Her skin, in the blue fluorescence, was like a grim, cloudy day.

A small, grey-faced man, perhaps the husband, snatched ineffectually at Mrs Byford's arm as she stepped out, screeching, 'Tessa! What you doing in yere…? Get out… No,

I…'

'Nobody gets out,' Tessa said sweetly.

Guy was up, staggering, one hand massaging the back of his head, the other groping for the cameraman's arm. 'The girl. Shoot her. I want the girl.'

As Larry advanced slowly towards the girl, camera on his shoulder, eye hard to the projecting viewfinder, Mrs Byford launched herself at him from behind, pummelling his back, clawing at his neck.

'Nettie!' the grey-faced man shouted. 'No! Don't cause no.. .'

Col pulled her off with one hand, getting his face scratched. 'Mrs Byford! Guy, can't you stop this stupid bastard before…'