The Man in the Moss

            'Chrissie, for Chr—' He hurled the car into low gear and raced up a dark, twisty hill.

            'No clammy, peaty feelings any more?'

            'What the hell's the matter with you tonight?'

            'What's the matter with you?'

            When they crested the hill she saw a strange blue moon. 'What on earth's that?'

            'It's the Beacon of the Moss,' Roger said in a voice that was suddenly tired. 'Look, I'm sorry. Sorry I ever got committed to Stanage. I admit I'm in too deep, all right?'

            She saw the bog below them. In the headlights it looked like very burned rice-pudding.

            'It's as though he owns a piece of me,' Roger said. 'Bought me just as surely as he's bought Gannons Ales. I mean, last weekend, when I went to London ... Chrissie, I didn't go to London. I was at Stanage's place.'

            'In Buxton?'

            'In Buxton, yes. That's where ... Look, I'm a scholar, an academic, not religious, not impressionable. I'm basically a very sceptical person, you know that.'

            Chrissie stifled it. 'Absolutely.' She allowed herself a deep, deep breath. 'But tell me this: who gave the bogman a penis?'

            Roger slowed down for the causeway across the Moss. He seemed to slump on the wheel; she could have sworn she actually heard him gulp.

            'I did.'

            Ha!

            'I used a piece of gut, what they thought was part of the duodenum.' He sounded relieved to be telling someone. 'Moulded with peat and something Stanage gave me ... a ... a stiffening agent.'

            How ridiculously sleazy it sounded. Hadn't done much laughing, though, had she, when she saw the thing lying there projecting its bloody great menacing cock into the lights?

            Actually, it was pretty sick.

            They set off very slowly across the causeway. It seemed to be raining harder than ever here.

            'Why?' she said. As if she really didn't know. Scholar. Academic. Sceptic. Not impressionable. Ha.

            'He insisted it'd ... you know ... do the trick. Said I'd obviously become very close to the bogman, and the bogman had - this sounds very stupid - power. And I should use it.'

            'You didn't laugh in his face because you needed him.'

            'No! I didn't laugh because ... because he isn't a man you can laugh at. You'll know what I mean when you meet him. Look, do you really think I'd go discussing my private difficulties with ... well, with anyone? I mean, my bloody wife's a doctor, and I couldn't talk to her about it. Of course, I did think things would be different with you.'

            'Because I was a bit of a slag, I suppose. And not very bright in comparison with Doctor Mrs Hall. And because I was impressed with this big glamorous archaeologist who was on telly a lot, and flattered.'

            'No, of course not, what do you think I... ?'

            'Stick to honesty, Roger, you were doing very well. So you discussed your little ... problem with Mr Stanage.'

            'I didn't intend to. Well, obviously. He just seemed to know. He looked at me ... into me, almost. Smiling faintly. As if he'd decided to find something out about me that I didn't want him to know. And then he said, "Try something for me, would you?" Sympathetic magic, he called it. I knew if I didn't give it a go, he'd know somehow. And if anyone saw it, I'd just blame the students. But then ...'

            'But then it started to work,' Chrissie said. Or something did. Probably the power of suggestion.

            'As you know,' he said.

            'You must have been half-dismissive and half-elated. And half-frightened, I suppose. I know that's three halves, but I'm not very bright, as we established. God almighty, Roger, what

have you got yourself into?'

            'He's ... a strange man. His knowledge is very extensive indeed. But, yes, there is something I can't say I like.'

            'Some of his books are very weird, Roger.'

            'I haven't read his bloody books.'

            'You should.'

            'Just keep your mouth shut when we're there, that's all.'

            'At the party?'

            'It's not. . :'

            'What is it, then?'

            Roger drove up off the causeway, past the entrance to the big stone pub, The Man I'th Moss, and into the main village street. Halfway up the street, greasy light seeped out of a fish and chip shop, but it seemed to have no customers; not surprising in this weather. The blue moon turned out to be shining out of the church wall - must be a clock with a face each side of the steeple. But no hands, no numerals. How strange.

            The clock lit up the inside of the car and Roger's bearded face. Chrissie began to feel uneasy.

            'Come on, then, Roger.' As if the blue clock was lighting him up for interrogation. 'What else are you hiding?'

            'Yes.' He turned right before the church, back into darkness. 'I'll tell you. Stanage says he can get the body back.'

            'Oh, yes. Who from?'

            'I don't know.'

            'How?'

            'I don't know.'

            'What do you know?'

            'He says we should all get together, those of us who've been close to him.'

            'Him?'

            'Him.'

            Chrissie lit a cigarette. 'Turn 'round,' she said.

            'What?'

            'Turn the fucking car 'round, Roger, I'm not having anything to do with this.'

            He stopped the car abruptly in the narrow road and it skidded into the kerb. The rain drummed violently on the roof and splashed the dark windows. It was savage and relentless, like a thrashing from God.

            'Chrissie, please ...'

            She blew smoke in his face.

            He choked back a cough. 'Chrissie, I don't want to go on my own.'

            'Grow up, Roger.'

            'Listen, I'm just a little bit scared too, can't help it. If only for my ... for my reputation.'

            'Well, naturally.'

            'But I can't not go, can I? And say goodbye to everything … make him, you know ...'

            'Make him what?'

            'Angry,' he said pathetically.

            She couldn't see his face; she didn't want to. She gritted her teeth. 'Turn it 'round, I said.'

Lay off, eh, Frank?'

            'I wanna know. Come on, he can't just fucking show up, middle of the night, and not tell us why. Don't want no more fucking mysteries in this place. Had it up to here with fucking mysteries.'