Something squelched and snagged around his ankle like a trap. He went down, caught hold of it - curved and hard - and realised, sickened, that he must have put his foot through the
ribcage of a dead sheep.
Pulling at the foot, dragging the bones up with it, he saw the light was rising from the moor in front of him, misty and shimmering in the downpour.
And it seemed to him - soaked through, foot stuck in a sheep - that the light had a face, features forming and pulsing, a face veiled by a thin muslin curtain, the fabric sucked into a gaping mouth.
Sam's mouth was open too, now; he was screaming furiously into the rain, wrenching the torch from his pocket, thumbing numbly at its switch, until it spurted light, a brilliantly harsh directional beam making a white tunnel in the rain and mist, straight up into the face.
Where the tunnel of light ended suddenly. A beam designed to light up an object eighty yards away, and it shone as far as the rearing figure of light, a matter of four, five feet away. Where it died. In the beam, the figure of light turned into a shadow, a figure of darkness and cold.
'No ...' Sam Davis wanted chanting townies in robes and masks. He wanted sick, stupid people. Wanted to see them dancing, getting pissed wet through. Wanted to hear them praying to the fucking Devil, with their fire hissing and smouldering in the rain. Didn't want this. Didn't want it. No.
When the shadow stretched and the torch beam began to shrivel, as if all the light had been sucked out, leaving only a thinly shining disc at the end of the torch, Sam felt his bowels give way.
All the rage and aggression slithered out of him like the guts of a slaughtered pig, and the void they left behind was filled with a cold, immobilizing fear.
Lottie Castle came awake in swirling darkness.
Awakened by the cold air on her own body, exposed to the night, the sheets and blankets thrust away, her nightdress shed.
Her body was rolling about on the bed, drenched in sweat, arms and legs and stomach jerking and twitching with electricity, nipples rigid and hurting.
What's happening, what's happening?
She was ill. Her nervous system had finally rebelled against the months of agony and tension. She was sick, she was stricken. She needed help, she needed care. She should be taken away and cared for. She should not be alone like this, not here in this great shambling mausoleum.
Lottie began to pant with panic, feeling the twisted pillow sweat-soaked under her neck as it arched and swayed. She couldn't see anything, not her body, not the walls, nor even the outline of the window behind the thin curtains.
It couldn't be darker. But it wasn't silent.
And fright formed a layer of frost around Lottie's heart as she became aware that every muscle in her body was throbbing to the shrill, sick whinny of the Pennine Pipes, high on the
night.
CHAPTER IV
At 8 a.m., the Sunday sky hung low and glistened like the underside of a huge aircraft.
It didn't menace Joel Beard, God's warrior, skimming across the causeway, hands warm in his gauntlets, deep and holy thoughts protected inside his helmet, his leathers unzipped to expose the cross.
Nourished by little more than three hours' sleep at Chris and Chantal's place in Sheffield, he felt ... well, reborn. Talked and prayed and cried and agonized until 2 a.m. Old chums, Chris and Chantal. Born Again brethren, still with the Church of the Angels of the New Advent. Still strong in their faith.
'I sometimes wish I'd never left.' Joel reaching out for reassurance.
'Why? It was your great mission, Joel - we all knew that, it's terrific - to carry our commitment, all our certainty, into the straight Church.'
'But it's just so ... lonely, Chantal. I didn't realise how ... or how corrupt. That there were places where the Church allowed the evil to remain - real evil - for a quiet life. A quiet life - is that what it's come to? I mean, tonight, going back to the church, after this fiasco with the grave, it was there for anyone to see. The ghastly light from the clock that isn't really a clock, and all the sneering gargoyles and the place over the door where this revolting Sheelagh na gig thing used to be ... And you realise ... it's everywhere. How many country churches have these pagan carvings, the Green Man, all kinds of devil-figures? Demons. Twisted demon faces, everywhere, grinning at you - it's our Church!'
Yes ... yes ... yes ... the pieces of so-called character clinging to old churches like barnacles to a wreck, the very aspects of ancient churches that tourists found so picturesque ... 'Oh, yes, I've always been fond of old churches.' As if this was some sanctified form of tourism, when really they were soaking up the satanic.
'What it means is that the Church has been sheltering this filth, pressed to its own bosom, for centuries. What everyone finds so appealing about these old parish churches are the things that should not be there. Am I the only one to see this?'
They'd brought him food and coffee. Made up a bed for him in the sitting room. Sat up half the night with him. Prayed with him in his agony.
'I've had visions. Dreams. I've been tested. All the time I'm there I'm tested. It tries to twist me. How can I handle this? I'm only one man.'
'No. You're not only one man, Joel. We're here. We're in this together. Tens of thousands of us. Listen, you were our emissary. You've seen and you've come back. We hear you, Joel. We hear you!'
Yes.
He slowed for the cobbles, bumping up the street towards the church, its stonework black with age and evil.
'Say the word, Joel. Just say the word. We're with you.'
'I'm tired. I've only been there a couple of days, and I'm exhausted.'
'You'll sleep tonight, Joel. We'll cover you with our prayers. You'll sleep well.'
And he had. Even if it was only for a few hours. He'd awoken refreshed and ready for his first morning worship at St Bride's, no prepared sermon in his pocket, no script, no text. He would stride into that pagan place and cleanse it with the strength of his faith. His sermon would be unrehearsed; it would almost be like ... speaking in tongues.
Cathy said, 'You look really awful.',
'Thanks.'
'I've been trying to understand it,' Cathy said.
'Don't. It won't do you any good.'
Cathy pushed the fingers of both hands through her hair, 'I mean, they broke in here, in this really obvious, unsubtle way and they didn't take the telly or the video, or even your guitar ... just this comb. Does it look valuable?'
Moira broke the end off a piece of toast and tried to eat it. 'Looks like one of those metal combs you buy for grooming dogs, only not so expensive and kind of corroded. Like a lot of stuff over a thousand years old, it looks like junk.'
'Look,' Cathy said reasonably, is it not possible it just sort of slipped out when you were bringing your stuff in? Should I search the garden?'