Crybbe

Out of the corner of her right eye she saw the onion in its saucer on top of the television set.

Then Mrs Preece let out a scream so harsh and ragged it felt as though the skin was being scoured from the back of her throat.

The onion, fresh this morning, was as black as burnt cork.

CHAPTER VII

Goff said, 'As you say, Gavin, it's been a hell of blow, obviously cast a pall over things here. Rachel'd been with me nearly four years. She was the best PA I ever had. But you ask if it's gonna dampen my enthusiasm for what we're doing here… I have to say no, of course it isn't. What we have here is too important for Crybbe… and for the human race.

Gavin Ashpole, of Offa's Dyke Radio, nodded sympathetically.

At the back, behind everybody. Fay groaned. Nobody noticed her, not even Guy.

There were about a dozen reporters and two TV crews in the stable-block, everybody asking what Fay thought were excruciatingly banal questions.

But, OK, what else could they ask? What did they have to build on? If it hadn't involved Max Goff, all this sad little episode would have been worth was a couple of paragraphs in the local paper and an Offa's Dyke one-day wonder. A small, insignificant, accidental death.

OK, Goff didn't want the residue of anything negative hanging on him or the Crybbe project. But if Rachel had been here, she'd have talked him out of this mini-circus; it wasn't worth a press conference, which would only draw the wrong kind of attention.

But then, if Rachel had been here… Fay fell the clutch of sorrow in her breast and something else less definable but close to anxiety.

Joe had said, 'Got to sort this out. I'm going to find him.'

'Boulton-Trow? Is that wise?'

'I want to take a look at this place he's got, in the wood.'

'I saw it. Yesterday, when I look the short-cut to church. It might be better inside, but it looks like a hovel.'

'We'll find out.'

'I didn't like it. I didn't like the feel of the place.'

Joe had shrugged. She'd felt torn. On one hand, yes, he really ought to sort this thing out, even it meant facing up to his own delusions. On the other hand, well, OK, she was scared for him.

'You go to your press conference,' he'd said, touched her arm hesitantly and then walked away, head down, across the square towards the churchyard.

So here she was, sitting a few yards behind Guy's stocky, aggressive-looking cameraman, Guy standing next to him, occasionally whispering instructions. The chairs had been laid out in three rows in the middle tier of the stable-block, so that the assembled hacks were slightly higher than Goff.

And yet, somehow, he appeared to be looking down on them.

Goff was at his desk, his back to the window and the Tump, as if this was his personal power-source.

'Max,' one of the hacks said, 'Barry Speake, Evening News. Can I ask you what kind of feedback you're getting from the local community here? I mean, what's the local response to your plans to introduce what must seem to a lot of ordinary people to be rather bizarre ideas, all this ley-lines and astrology and stuff?'

Goff gave him both rows of teeth. 'Think it's bizarre, do you, Barry?'

'I'm not saying I think it's bizarre. Max, but…'

'But you think simple country folk are too unsophisticated to grasp the concept. Isn't that a little patronizing, Barry?'

There was a little buzz of laughter.

'No, but hold on.' Goff raised a hand. 'There's a serious point to be made here. We call this New Age, and, sure, it's new to us. But folks here in Crybbe have an instinctive understanding of what it's about because this place has important traditions, what you might call a direct line to the source… Something I'd ask the author, J. M. Powys, to elaborate on, if he were here… Yeah, lady at the back.'

Fay stood up. 'Mr Goff, you're obviously spending a lot of money here in Crybbe…'

'Yeah, just don't ask me for the figures.'

Muted laughter.

Fay said, 'As my colleague tried to suggest, it is what many people would consider a slightly bizarre idea, attempting to rebuild the town's prehistoric heritage, putting back all these stones, for instance. What I'd like to know is… why Crybbe?' Who told you about this place? Who told you about the stones? Who said it would be the right place for what you had in mind?'

Goff's little eyes narrowed. He was wearing, unusually, a dark suit today. Out of respect for the dead Rachel? Or his image.

'Who exactly are you?' he said. 'Which paper you from?'

'Fay Morrison.' Adding, 'Freelance,' with a defiant glance at Ashpole.

'Yeah, I thought so.'

He'd never actually seen her before. He was certainly making up for that now, little eyes never wavering.

'I'm not sure how relevant your question is today,' Goff said. 'But, yeah, on the issue of how we came to be doing what we're doing here, well, we've been kicking this idea around for a year or two. I've had advisers and people looking…'

'What kind of advisers? Who exactly?' The questions were coming out without forethought, she was firing blind. In fact, what the hell was she doing? She hadn't planned to say a word, just sit there and listen.

Goff looked pained. 'Ms Morrison, I don't see… Yeah, OK

… I have many friends and associates in what's become known as the New Age movement – let me say, I don't like that term, it's been devalued, trivialized, right? But, yeah, it was suggested to me that if I was looking for a location which was not only geophysically and archaeologically suited to research into forgotten landscape patterns and configurations, but was also suited – shall we say atmospherically – to research into human spiritual potential, then Crybbe fitted the bill.'

He produced a modest, philanthropic sort of smile. 'And it was also clearly a little down on its luck. In need of the economic boost our centre could give it. So I came along and looked around, and I.. . Well, that answer your question?'

'Was it the late Henry Kettle? Did he suggest you came here?'

'No, I sought advice from Henry Kettle, in a very small way, at a later stage. We were already committed to Crybbe by then. What are you getting at here?'

Goff leaned back in his leather rock-and-swivel chair. He was alone at the desk, although Humble and a couple of people she didn't recognize were seated a few yards away. Fay didn't think Andy Boulton-Trow was among them.

'Well,' she said, still on her feet, 'Henry Kettle was, of course, the first person to die in an accident here, wasn't he?'

'Aw now, hey,' Goff said.

Several reporters turned their heads to look at Fay. Maybe some of them hadn't heard about Henry. He was hardly a national figure, except in earth-mysteries circles. His death had been a minor local story; his connection with Goff had not been general knowledge, still wasn't, outside Crybbe.

It occurred to her that what she'd inadvertently done here was set the more lurid papers up with a possible Curse of Crybbe story. She imagined Rachel Wade looking down on the scene from wherever she was, rolling her eyes and passing a hand across her brow in pained disbelief.

Fay started to feel just a little foolish. Gavin Ashpole, sitting well away from her, was smirking discreetly into his lap.

She knew Goff had to make a move here.

He did. He gave the hacks a confidential smile.

'Yeah, take a good look,' he said, extending a hand towards Fay. 'This is Ms Fay Morrison.'

More heads turned. Guy's, not surprisingly, was one of the few which didn't.

'Ms Morrison,' drawled Goff, 'is a small-time freelance reporter who earns a crust here in town by stirring up stories nobody else can quite see.'

Some bastard laughed.

'Unfair,' Fay said, starting to sweat, 'Henry Kettle…'