Chrissie said, 'Part of the ritual, apparently, when he was sacrificed.'
'I suppose that would be quite a sacrifice for a man,' said Alice, pretending to shudder.
'Actually, it's possible they just cut it off after he was dead.'
'I see.' Alice shrugged into her sheepskin coat. Hard luck, Chrissie thought. Now you'll never know how big they were in pre-Christian times.
Alice took her car keys out of her bag, stuck the bag under an arm. 'So it's all right then, if I leave now?'
'Yes,' Chrissie said. Yes, yes, yes! she screamed to herself.
But when Alice had gone, she decided it wasn't all right. Bloody fat-arsed cow got away with too much. Spends most of the day experimenting with this disgusting sea-green nail varnish, then pisses off to sprawl on the sofa and moan to her husband about how overworked she is.
Chrissie picked up the dentist's appointment card which Alice had left behind. It looked authentic enough, if you didn't happen to know Alice's eldest daughter was a dental receptionist.
It was 4.30. A dim grey afternoon, with all the lights on. She couldn't herself go in case somebody (Roger) rang, or one of the research students came in to raid the files.
She stared across the office at a double-locked metal door.
Just me and you, chum, and you've got no dick.' Chrissie laughed.
Under the laughter, there was a soft noise from behind the metal door.
Chrissie breathed in hard. 'Who's that?'
There was silence.
Yes, that was it - just a soft noise. Not a thump, not a clang. She looked around and over her shoulder. The room had three desks, seven filing cabinets and two big metal-framed bookcases. It was garishly lit by fluorescent tubes and the windows had Venetian blinds. Between the blinds she could see the deserted college playing-fields and, beyond, the tops of container-lorries on the motorway.
She was alone in the Field Centre and there was nobody apparent outside. 'Now, look,' Chrissie said, 'this is not on. This is not bloody on.'
It was going dark out there.
The soft noise came again, like a heavy cushion - an old-fashioned one, with brocade - being tossed on to a sofa.
Bravely, Chrissie slipped off her shoes and moved quietly to the metal door.
Should she check this out? Dare she?
Although she'd never been in there alone, she knew where there was a key.
She put her ear to the door.
There was silence.
Shaw's Porsche was coming up the drive, black as a funeral - did it have to be a black one? She could tell by the speed that it wouldn't be stopping at the house but continuing up to the brewery. There was a new link road for the brewery lorries, so they never grumbled past the Hall these days, and no local vehicles, except for Shaw's Mercedes and his Porsche, ever laboured up from Bridelow any more.
So the Hall, sealed off from both the brewery and village, irrelevant now to both, might as well not exist.
'Nor me,' Liz Horridge whispered into the empty, high-ceilinged room with its bland Regency-striped wallpaper and its cold, crystal chandelier. 'I've become irrelevant to everybody.'
Even Shaw - famous mother's boy - had quite casually replaced her in his life. Always away at meetings, in Matlock, Buxton, Sheffield, London even. Or with his girlfriend, the mysterious Therese.
With whom Shaw appeared obsessed. As well he might. The girl was far too beautiful for him - at thirty-one, he was at least ten years older, losing his hair, conspicuously lacking in style despite his costly education. But being seen with Therese (Therese Beaufort, no less) had done wonders for his confidence, and his lifelong stutter had virtually disappeared.
Her delight had turned to a damp dismay. Years of speech therapy, of love and patient coaxing at the fireside. And what was it that finally killed Shaw's stutter?
Sex.
She could weep. Had wept.
And wept and wept.
Last week he'd made her position quite appallingly clear. If I were you, Mother,' he'd said in passing - everything Shaw said to her these days appeared to be in passing - 'If I were you, I'd be off. Out of here. Somewhere warm. The Channel Islands. Malta.'
She clung to the sofa. 'But I don't want a holiday, Shaw.'
'No, not a holiday. I mean, for good. To live. Why not? It's warm, it's civilized. And absolutely everyone would want to come and stay with you.'
'What are you saying?
Shaw had smiled affably and dashed off to his 'meeting'.
Every day since, she'd sat here, by this bay window, and listened to his voice in her head saying so smoothly, without a hint of impediment, Somewhere warm. The Channel Islands, Malta ...
And envisaged Therese Beaufort, in some slinky designer costume, drink in hand, languid in this window, gazing out on her property.
Liz Horridge thought she could see old Mrs Wagstaff waddling up the main street of Bridelow towards the church. Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe she just needed to see the old girl.
How's dear old Ma these days? Is she well?
Three decades ago, in the crowded parlour full of bottles, two cats on the hearth, Ma Wagstaff cradling Liz's head. Sleeping in the little bedroom. If he comes to you ... scream. Don't matter what time.
And now, Perhaps I'll drop in. Wouldn't you like that?
You can't. She'll stop you.
Things change. Barriers weaken.
She looked out at the village, willing it closer. She'd give anything to be able to shatter that damned glass screen before it all went black.
Well, look at it this way - there was no way anyone could have got in there without her or Alice knowing about it. Therefore there was no one in there, except for ... well, yes.
The spare key was filed in the third filing cabinet. Under K, for key.
The problem was, suppose something was amiss in there? Suppose a rat or something had got in? Suppose something electrical had malfunctioned, threatening the bogman's welfare? And therefore Roger's. And hers.
Tentatively, she unlocked the third filing cabinet and located the key. It was smoky-coloured steel, about four inches long.
Who would Roger blame if something had gone wrong with the bogman, his future? Who was in charge of the office in Roger's absence?