'Well ... I thought I heard a noise in there, where ... he is ... a couple of nights ago, but it was nothing. Probably a bird on the roof.'
'You didn't raise the alarm?'
'What for? It was locked. I knew nobody could get in through those doors without making a hell of a racket, so there didn't seem ...'
'Somebody got in tonight, Miss White.'
'Oh, hell,' said Chrissie. 'They didn't damage him, did they? Roger'll go hairless.'
She was cold. The BMW beckoned.
She could, after all, simply drive away from this.
Nobody invited you, girl.
Frost on the cobbles. No one else on the street. Curtains drawn, chimneys palely smoking.
Ah, the burden of guilt and regret. All he'd done for you, all he meant to you, and the thought that you'd never see him again.
Well, you saw him.
She shivered.
Problem with this place was there was nowhere you could even get a cup of coffee ... except the pub.
She stood and stared at it from across the road. It was a large, shambling building set back from the street, with a field behind it and nothing behind that but peat. Dark sooty stone. Windows on three floors, none of the upper ones lit. Outside was a single light with an iron shade, a converted gaslamp, quite a feeble glow, just enough to light up the sign above the door: The Man I'th Moss. In black. No picture.
Didn't look like Lottie Castle's kind of place. Lottie was big sofas and art-nouveau prints.
Moira stepped lightly across the cobbles, peered through the doorway. Only a dozen or so people in the bar, Lottie not among them. Willie was there, with Eric Marsden. The big dollop of hair over Eric's forehead had gone grey but he looked no more mournful than he always had. Eric: the quiet one. In every band there was always a quiet one.
Go in then, shall I?
Why, it's Moira ...
Come to help us re-form the band?
Just one problem. We had to bury Matt.
Never mind. Have a drink, lass.
She turned away, gathering her cloak about her. Moved quietly across the forecourt to the steeply sloping village street.
There was a guy leaning against the end wall of a stone terrace, smoking a cigarette. She kept her distance, walked down the middle of the street, along the cobbles.
Nothing for you here. Go back to what you know. The fancy clubs and the small halls. You can play that scene until you're quite old, long as the voice holds out. Save up the pennies. In twenty years you can retire to a luxury caravan, like the Duchess. Sea views. All your albums collected under the coffee table.
As she came abreast of him, the guy against the wall turned and looked at her, muttered something. Sounded like 'Fucking hell'.
Then he tossed his cigarette into the road at her feet. 'And they tell me,' he said, 'that this used to be a respectable neighbourhood.'
'Who's that?' Too dark to make out his features.
'You don't know me.'
'But you know me, huh?'
'Yeah,' he said. 'But not nearly as well as my dad did.'
'Oh,' Moira said.
His voice had sounded different when she last heard it. Like high, pre-pubertal.
She sighed.
'Dic,' she said. 'You want to go somewhere and discuss all this?'
He laughed. A short laugh. Matt's laugh, A cawing.
'Well?' she said.
'I'm thinking,' he said from deep within his shadow.
''Cause I don't mind,' Moira said. 'I'm easy.'
'Yeah,' he said, 'we all knew that.'
Moira paused. 'That was your chance, Dic. I threw you that one. You gave the predictable, adolescent answer. So go fuck yourself, OK?'
She turned away, moved quickly up the street, clack, clack, clack on the cobbles. As good a way as any to do your exit.
Grabbing the chance to go out angry; it helped. On either side of her were the gateposts of the stone cottages, a black cat on one, watching her like it knew her well. Lights behind curtains, lights from an electrified gaslamp projecting from an end wall, and over them all, like another moon, the illuminated church clock. Take it all in, you won't see it again. Bye-bye, Bridelow.
'All right!' It rang harshly from the cobbles like an iron bar thrown into the street.
It didn't stop her.
'Yeah, OK!' Running feet.
She carried on walking, turned towards the lych-gate, the corpse gate, but passed it by and entered the parking area behind the church, where it was very dark.
She was taking her keys out of her bag when he caught up with her.
'I'm sorry. All right?'
'Good. You'll be able to sleep.' Fitted the key in the car door. 'Night, Dic. Give my love to your mother.'
'Look ...'
'Hey,' she said gently. 'I'm leaving, OK? You know your dad was screwing me, what can I say to that?'
'I want to talk about it.'
'Well, I'm no' talking here, it's cold and I'm no' going to the pub, so maybe you should just go away and think about it instead, huh? Call me sometime. Fix it up with my agent. I'm tired. I'm cold.'
'Where will you go?'
'And what the fuck does that have to do with you? I shall find a nice, anonymous hotel somewhere ...'
'Look,' Dic said. 'There is somewhere we can talk. Somewhere warm.'
'Cosy.' Moira got into the car. 'Goodnight.'
'Moira ...'
She started the engine, switched on the lights, wound down the window- 'By the way. Your playing, it was ... Well, you're getting there.'
'I don't want to get there,' he said without emotion. 'I just wanted to please him.'
'Aye,' Moira said.
'It never did, though.'
'No,' she said.
A dumpy, elderly man walked through the headlamp beams. He wore a long raincoat and a trilby bat, like Donald's, only in better shape. 'Good evening,' he said politely, as he passed.
The lights were on in the church, am be ring the pillars in the nave. A suitcase stood by the font.
Ernie Dawber watched the new curate manhandling a metal paraffin stove into the vestry.
'All right, lad?'
Joel Beard, alarmed, set down the stove with a clang.