'Or if they even existed.'
'Or, as Paul says, if they even existed, except in the lad's imagination. I'd let it go, me, if we find that gun. Accidental, and you'd never prove otherwise, not in a million years. What we supposed to do, stake out the entire moor every night till they come back for another do?'
'Poor bugger.'
'Aye. Glad we found him before it got dark, or we'd be out here again, first light. Well, look at that, what d'you know, it's starting raining again, Desmond.'
'Yes Sarge.'
'Hot lemon, lad, my advice. Wi' a good dollop of whisky.'
Oh Lord, we're asking you to intercede, to help us sanctify this place, drenched for centuries in sin and evil. Oh Lord, come down here tonight, give us some help. Come on down, Lord ... shine your light, that's what we're asking ... come on ...'
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'
'Yes, and into every murky corner, come on ...'
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'
'Through every dismal doorway ...'
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'
'Into every fetid crevice ...'
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'
And Willie shouted it too.
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'
It was easy. It was just pulled out of you, like a handkerchief from your top pocket. Nowt to it.
At first he'd felt right stupid. Felt bloody daft, in fact, as soon as he walked in, wearing his suit, the only suit in the place, so it was obvious from the start that he wasn't one of them.
Not that this had bothered them. They'd leapt on him - big, frightening smiles - and started hugging him.
'Welcome, brother, welcome!'
'Good to see someone's been brave enough to turn his back on it all. What's your name?'
'Willie.' Gerroff, he wanted to shout, this is no bloody way to behave in church. Or anywhere, for that matter, soft buggers.
'Willie, we're so very glad to have you with us. To see there is one out there who wants to save his soul. Praise God! And rest assured that, from this moment on, you'll have the full protection of the Lord, and there'll be no repercussions because you'll be wearing the armour of the Lord's light. Do you believe that? Is your faith strong enough, Willie, to accept that?'
'Oh, aye,' said Willie.
'No,' Milly Gill had said flatly and finally, when Mr Dawber wanted to go. 'It's got to be you, Willie. Mr Dawber looks too intelligent.'
'Thanks a bunch.'
'You know what I mean. You look harmless. It's always been your strength, Willie luv. You look dead harmless.'
'Like a little vole,' said Frank Manifold Snr's wife Ethel in a voice like cotton-wool, and Milly gave her a narrow look.
'Just watch and listen, Willie. Listen and watch.'
'What am I listening for?'
'You'll know, when you hear it.'
What he'd heard so far had left him quite startled. They sang hymns he'd never encountered before, with a rhythm and gusto he associated more with folk clubs. He felt his fingers begin to respond, tried to stop it but he couldn't. Felt an emotional fervour building around him, like in the days when he used to support Manchester City.
It had started with everybody - there'd be over fifty of them now - sitting quietly in the pews, as Joel Beard led them in prayer.
But when the hymns got under way they'd all come out and stand in the aisle, quite still - no dancing - and turn their faces towards the rafters and then lift up their hands, palms open as if they were waiting to receive something big and heavy.
When the hymn was over, some of the younger ones stayed in the aisle and sat there cross-legged, staring up at the pulpit, at their leader.
'Some of you,' Joel Beard said soberly, 'may already have realised the significance of tonight.'
Joel in full vestments, leaning out over the pulpit, the big cross around his neck swinging wide, burnished by the amber lights which turned his tight curls into a helmet of shining bronze.
A bit different from downbeat, comfortable old Hans with his creased-up features and his tired eyes.
But no Autumn Cross over Joel's head.
No candles on the altar. All statuary removed.
And despite all the people in their bright sweaters and
jeans, with their fresh, scrubbed faces and clean hair ...
... Despite the colourful congregation and despite the
emotion, the church looked naked and cold, and gloomy as a
cathedral crypt.
Joel said, 'Every few years, the realms of God and Satan collide. The most evil of all pagan festivals falls upon the Lord's day. Tonight, my friends, my brothers, my sisters, we pray for ourselves. For we are at war.'
Bloody hell, Willie remembered, it's ...
'It is Sunday,' Joel said quietly. 'And it is All-Hallows Eve.'
New Year's Eve, Willie thought.
Time was when they'd have a bit of a do down The Man. Except that always happened tomorrow, All Souls. Bit of a compromise, reached over the years with the Church. And a logical one in Willie's view. Imagine the reaction, in the days of the witch hunts, to a village which had a public festival at Hallowe'en. So they had it the following night, All Souls Night. Made sense.
Wouldn't be doing much this year, though. Bugger-all to celebrate.
'We have recaptured this church,' Joel Beard proclaimed, 'for the Lord.'
Sterilised it, more like, Willie thought, feeling a lot less daft, a lot more annoyed. Despiritualised it, if there's such a word.
'And it is left to us ... to hold it through this night.'
'YES!'
Oh, bloody hell, they're never!
'PRAISE GOD!'
'We'll remain here until the dawn. We'll sing and pray and keep the light.'
'KEEP THE LIGHT!'
It's a waste of time, Willie wanted to shout. It's a joke. Apart from the Mothers doing whatever needs to be done - in private - Hallowe'en's a non-event in Bridelow. Just a preparation for the winter, a time of consolidation, like, a sharing of memories.
'I would stress to all of you that it's important to preserve a major presence here in the church.'
Nay, lad, give it up. Go home.
Joel said, if anyone needs to leave to use the toilet, the Rectory is open. But - hear me - go in pairs. Ignore all distractions. And hurry back. Take care. Make your path a straight one. Do not look to either side. Now ... those who thirst will find bottles of spring water and plastic cups in the vestry. Do not drink any water you may find in the Rectory; it may have been taken from the local spring, which is polluted, both physically and spiritually.'