The Man in the Moss

            'All bloody same to me. With respect. Like I say, it's not summat they warn you about at agricultural college, Vicar. Sheep scab's one thing, Satanism's summat else.'

            'Yes.' Hans didn't know what to do about this. The man wasn't interested in counselling, sympathy, platitudes; he wanted practical help.

            'So I've come to you, like.' His name was Sam Davis. This was his first farm. A challenge - seventy acres, and more than half of it basically unfarmable moorland, with marsh and heather, great stone outcrops ... and the remains of two prehistoric stone circles half a mile apart.

            'Cause it's your job, really, int it?' said Sam Davis, thrusting out his ample jaw. A lad with responsibilities. Two kids, a nervy wife and no neighbours. 'T'Devil. An' all his works, like.'

            And there he really had put his finger on it, this lad. If this was not a minister's job, what was? Hans tried to straighten his leg. Some minister he was, took him half an hour to climb into the pulpit.

            'Tell me again,' he said. "There was the remains of a fire. In the centre of the circle. Now ... on the previous occasion, you actually found blood. And, er, the ram's head, of course. On the stone.'

            'Just like they wanted me to find it,' Sam Davis said. 'Only it weren't me as found it, it were t'little girl.' He set his cup down in the hearth, as if afraid he was going to crush it in his anger.

            'Yes. Obviously very distressing. For all of you. But you know ... It's easy for me to say this, obviously, I'm not living in quite such an exposed ...'

            'Hang on now, Vicar, I'm not ...'

            'I know ... you're a big lad and well capable of taking care of your family. The actual point I was trying to make is that it's easy to get this kind of thing out of proportion. Quite often it's youngsters. They read books and see films about Satanism, they hear of these ritual places, the stone circles ... not in Transylvania or somewhere but right here within twenty miles of Manchester and Sheffield ...'

            'So you think it's youngsters, then.'

            'I don't know. All I'm saying is it's often kids. The kind, if you saw them, you could probably tuck a couple under each arm.'

            'Aye, well, like I say, it's not me ... so much as the wife. I wanted to wait up there, maybe surprise 'em, like, give 'em a bloody good hiding, but ...'

            'I think your wife was right,' Hans said. 'Don't get into a vendetta situation if you can help it. It's probably a phase, a fad. They'll go off and find another circle in a week or two, or perhaps they'll simply grow out of it. You've told the police, and apart from the, er, the ram ...'

            'I've not told coppers about last night. Only you. There's nowt to see. Only ashes. No blood. No bits.'

            'How far is the nearest circle from where you live?'

            'Half a mile ... three-quarters. But it's a tricky climb at night, can't do it wi'out a light, and wi' a light they'd see me comin'. Jeep's no bloody use either, on that ground.'

            'So you saw the fire ...'

            'Bit of a red glow, that were all.'

            'And your wife heard ...'

            'She thought she heard. Like I say, could've bin a sheep ... fox ... owl ... rabbit.'

            'But she thought it was ...'

            'Aye,' said Sam Davis. 'A babby.'

'There's a dragon,' the boy said, and his bottom lip was trembling. 'There is ...!'

            'Gerroff,' said Willie Wagstaff.

            He'd been for his morning paper and didn't plan to bugger about on a day as cold as this, wanted to get home and put a match to his fire.

            'You go an' look, Uncle Willie.'

            This was Benjie, nearly eight, Willie's youngest sister Sally's lad. Tough little bugger as a rule. He had The Chief with him, an Alsatian, Benjie's minder.

            Willie folded up his paper, stuck it under his arm. 'What you on about at all?'

            '...'s a dragon, Uncle Willie ...'s 'orrible ...'

            He was about to cry. Pale too. Cheeks ought to be glowing on a morning like this. Especially with having the day off school, to go to Matt's funeral.

            Then again, could be that was at the bottom of this. Death, funerals, everybody talking hushed, a big hole being dug in the churchyard for the feller he called Uncle Matt. And Benjie trying to understand it all, seeing this great big dragon.

            'All right,' Willie said, pretending he hadn't noticed the lad was upset. 'I'll buy it. Where's this dragon?'

            'On t'Moss.'

            'Oh, aye. And what were you doin' on t'Moss on your own then, eh?'

            'I weren't on me own, Uncle Willie. T'Chief were wi' me. An' 'e dint like it neither.'

            The big dog flopped his mouth open, stuck his tongue out and looked inscrutable.

            'Gerroff,' said Willie. 'That dog's scared of nowt. All right, lead the way. But if you're havin' me on, you little Arab, I'll ...'

When the farmer had gone, Catherine came in with a mid-morning mug of tea for Hans, and he asked her, 'You hear any of that?'

            'Bits.' His daughter sat on the piano stool. She was wearing a plain black jumper and baggy, striped trousers with turn-ups. 'Got the gist. What are you going to do about it, Pop?'

            'Well,' said Hans, 'I don't really know. Obviously I don't like the sound of this baby business. And I'm not one to generalize about hysterical women. But still, I think if a child had gone missing virtually anywhere in the country we'd have heard about it, don't you?'

            Cathy looked serious, as she often did these days, as if she'd suddenly decided it was time to shoulder the full responsibility of being an adult, as distinct from a student.

            'No,' she said. 'Not necessarily.'

            'What do you ... ?' Hans looked puzzled. Then he said, 'Oh. That.'

            'It's been exaggerated a lot, of course, but that doesn't mean it doesn't go on, Pop.'

            'You're beginning to sound like Joel Beard.'

            'Oh, I don't think so.'

            'Well,' said Hans, 'if there really is a possibility of something of that nature, then he should tell the police, shouldn't he? But where's his evidence? His wife thought she heard a baby crying. As he said, it could have been any one of a dozen animals, or the wind or ...'

            Cathy said, 'A friend of mine at college did a study of so-called ritual child abuse. What it amounts to, in most of the cases which have been proved, is that the ritual bits - the devil masks and the candles and so on - are there to support the abuse clement. Simply to scare the children into submission. So in most cases we're not talking about actual Devil worship ...'

            'Just extreme evil,' Hans said. 'Where's the difference exactly?'

            'I'm not an expert,' Cathy said, 'but I rather think there is a difference.' She grinned slyly. 'I think it's something Ma Wagstaff could explain to you if you caught her in the right mood.'