The Man in the Moss

            'Did you find it was ... murky ... when you lived here?'

            'Mr Beard, it was layer upon layer. Tell me - small point - what are your views on the ordination of women?'

            'I deplore it,' said Joel from the heart. 'I shall always deplore it.'

            'Well said. Probably hasn't escaped your notice that the so-called spirituality of this place has been steered for generations by women.'

            'They call this spirituality?' Joel gestured towards the space where the pagan abomination had spread her legs.

            John lifted his hands. 'My point entirely. Expressed, in various ways, many years ago. Before I was made to leave. Not much more than a boy at the time. Excluded. And then sent away. Do what they like, these close-knit communities.'

            'Made to leave? Because you stood out against their witchery?'

            John shrugged.

            'It's barely credible,' said Joel.

            'I'll be quite frank with you, Joel - may I call you Joel, I feel we've known each other so long now - I'll be quite honest, I promised myself that one day, I'd see them and their way of life destroyed. Can you understand that?'

'"Vengeance is mine sayeth the "Lord." However, in certain circumstances, we're all tools, are we not? I've always seen myself as a tool.'

            'Quite.' John pulled open the inner door into the church itself and stepped through into the amber-lit interior. He moved like a partially blind man, feeling his way. He kept touching things, placing his hands on the walls, the pillars, the pew-ends, as if surprised that he was not receiving electric shocks.

            'It's been cleansed,' Joel said. 'But it's still vulnerable. Was Hans Gruber here in your time?'

            'Who? Oh, the collaborating minister. No, I left many years before he arrived. Fellow called Boston in my day. But much the same, y' know. Much the same.'

            'A quisling?'

            'They're all tamed within a remarkably short space of time. Which is why I thought you should be alerted.'

            'How did you know I'd come here?'

            'Dear boy, could you have resisted it? Besides which, there was Archdeacon Flemming.'

            'Oh.'

            'Friends of friends, y' know.'

            Joel was vaguely disappointed. He'd seen his mission to Bridelow in terms of divine orchestration rather than human machination. And yet, could not the two be interlinked?

            'Gone mostly unchallenged for centuries y' know,' John said. 'And so when local papers were passed to me, relating your adventures in Sheffield, it was clear you were The Man

for The Job, as it were. All the namby-pamby clerics around. All the airy-fairy, New Age nancy-boys. No. Anybody could rattle them, Joel, it was going to be you.'

            John walked slowly up the nave. Even the amber lights failed to colour the pallor of his skin or the snow-white hair receding in ridges from his grey-freckled forehead.

            'Used to have crosses here, made of twigs and things, dangling down. Kiddies would be sent out to collect the entrails.'

            'Gone. I dealt with it. And their nasty little shrine at the edge of the moor.'

            'But your friends have chickened out. Why was that?'

            'There was . . Joel shook water from his curls, '... a manifestation of evil. Some of them couldn't... cope. John, I have to know ... are you a priest?'

            John's yellow teeth reappeared. 'Joel,' he said. 'I've told you as much as I can about me and more than I should.'

            'I thought so,' said Joel. He paused. 'It isn't over, is it? If it were, you wouldn't be here.'

            'Well deduced, Joel, m' boy. Have you ever been up to the lamp?'

            Joel stared at him. He felt an almost chemical excitement in his stomach. 'The so-called Beacon?'

            'I said we'd put it out, didn't I? I said between us we'd put out the Devil's Light. So. After you, m' boy.'

            'Where?'

            'To the stairs. Do you have a hammer?'

            'I believe there's one in the shed, bottom of the churchyard.'

            John looked at his watch. 'No time, old lad. Witching hour approaches. Have to make do with what we've got.'

            He grinned, affable, relaxed and not quite like any priest Joel had ever encountered.

'Stanage fixed it,' Macbeth said, 'so Moira would be performing at the Celtic convention. He also requested that she play a certain song, called "The Comb Song", which was of, uh, personal significance to her.'

            'I know.' Willie Wagstaff started to pour out more whisky, then changed his mind and capped the bottle. 'I was there, must be ten years ago, when that song was recorded. My contribution seems to have been chopped in the final mix, but she wanted friends around her during the session. She invited Matt and me, but Matt couldn't come, I think probably Lottie wouldn't let him.'

            Macbeth was a mite dismayed. 'Said she hadn't told anyone the background to that song before.'

            'She didn't, lad, far as I know. She just wanted us to be there. She never told us what it were about and I didn't ask.'

            Macbeth felt a small pinprick of tears. Quickly, to cover up, he began to tell them about the deer-head incident.

            'See, just before it happened, it grew real cold in that room and real tense, like a thunderstorm's on the way. Afterwards, this guy — who I now know to be Stanage - is close up to Moira, and he's bleeding from one eye. Probably got hit by a shaft of bone. Looking back, I get the feeling there was some kind of contest - that's too mild a word, some kind of struggle, battle of wills ... and that's what caused it. I started thinking of two stags locking horns. But there was so much ...'

            'Energy.' Milly Gill was nodding. 'So much energy that it exploded in the atmosphere and brought down all these ... things '

            'See, another thing, Moira felt pretty negative about the deer heads, the idea of guys like the Earl blasting off at defenceless animals for kicks and then hanging the heads on their walls. Not the old Celtic way, she said, to boast about, I dunno, the superiority of one species over another. Or maybe I heard that someplace.'

            Ernie Dawber chuckled. 'The Celts were more likely to display human heads. But even then, as you say, not gratuitously.'

            'It does sound, doesn't it,' Milly said, 'if what you say about him bleeding is correct, that if there was a contest, then Moira won it.'

            'He wouldn't like that,' Willy said. Macbeth sensed that beneath the table the little guy's fingers were beating bruises into his knees. He found his own fists were clenching.

            'But why'd he target Moira, that's the question? What'd he want with her?'

            Willie said, 'Well, it's no coincidence, is it?'

            Ernie Dawber looked up at the wall-clock, hand-painted with spring flowers. 'I don't want to hurry you, but I'm not sure where this is getting us.'