The remains of an altar, p.37
The Remains of an Altar, page 37
‘Sorry to scare you, son,’ Spicer said.
‘I wasn’t—’
‘Nah, nah, you got good reason to be wary, way things’ve been lately. Louis with you?’
‘He’s with Dad. They’re meeting a guy about … installing tennis courts.’
Tennis courts?
‘Tennis courts, eh? Smart move.’ Spicer walked up to the boy. ‘Be having an eighteen-hole golf course next.’
‘Yeah. Look, I’ll tell them you—’
Spicer’s back blurred across the windscreen. Merrily didn’t see how it happened, but it happened in near-silence, and when Spicer stepped aside he was holding the shotgun and Hugo Devereaux was writhing on the lamplit gravel.
She gasped, sat up, springing open the car door and rolling out to find Spicer breaking the shotgun, taking out both cartridges, putting them one by one in his pocket.
He looked down at the boy. ‘God have mercy on you, son.’
But she saw that he’d taken off his dog collar.
What followed was surreal and desperately chilling. Reality distanced, like she was watching down the wrong end of a telescope. The mind’s way of handling an experience that was both alien and vividly shocking.
They’d followed Hugo Devereaux into the house and Spicer, still wearing his black gloves, was opening doors and cupboards like a burglar. Seemed to know his way around as well as if he had the layout in his head.
Kicking open the door of the Beacon Room with its long window, the British Camp like a high altar, hard under the haloed moon. Syd stopping to listen in the churchy stillness.
‘Cellars, Hugo?’
‘By the back stairs.’
‘Keys?’
‘I’ll get them. But there’s nothing down there.’
‘Good. You go first.’
Spicer no longer had the shotgun with him, just a bunch of keys on a ring. Merrily followed them, hanging back, trying to filter out what was most important: primarily that, if Spicer was correct and Loste hadn’t murdered Winnie or Wicklow, Lol was in no direct danger at Whiteleafed Oak. It was something.
Spicer had followed Hugo to the top of some stone steps going down. Curving. No handrail. Fluorescent lights were stammering on. Hugo – couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen – was stumbling in front of Spicer without argument, his head bent, his body occasionally twitching in pain. Merrily staying well back, a hand on the wall on either side. Not trusting Spicer, not by a long way.
The cellars at the bottom had strip lights at crazy angles on the low ceilings. There were several rooms and Spicer checked them all before motioning the boy into a square and windowless cell where wooden crates and cardboard boxes were stacked.
‘Can I ask you to do something, Merrily? Could I ask you to go back to the car and, if Mr Devereaux or Louis or both should happen to appear in their new Land Rover – or, indeed, if anyone appears in anything – drive out past them and blow the horn, once.’
‘And what will you be doing?’
‘I’ll be talking to my friend Hugo, and if he helps me, as I’m sure he will, I’ll join you in a very short time.’
‘Why have you taken off your collar?’
‘I was hot. I swear to you before God that I’m doing the best I can to spare lives, prevent violence. I might be proved wrong, and that’s my responsibility—No!’
Hugo had been edging towards the door.
‘Don’t, son,’ Spicer said wearily. ‘Please. I can hurt you very badly in a very short time, and if you insist on making me prove it we’ll both be very upset. No shame in this. In your place I’d cooperate fully because I’d realize the situation was seriously weighted against me. We understanding one another, Hugo?’
Hugo’s narrow face was white under the striplight, except for eyes which looked hot and red. His cheek was grazed and flecked with grit from where he’d fallen outside.
Spicer said, ‘I’m sure Mrs Watkins would be more inclined to do what I’m suggesting if she thought you weren’t going to get hurt.’
‘Fuck off,’ Hugo said.
It had never sounded feebler.
‘Man’s world, eh, Hugo?’ Spicer said. ‘Was that what it felt like when you were dealing with Winnie? That wasn’t like Wicklow, was it? Wait in the cave or somewhere out of sight, then a quick bang on the head and the rest is just … well, just basic butchery, piece of cake for a country boy. Done some slaughtering, have we? Pigs, maybe? Enjoy that, did we? Made us feel like a big, grown man? Power of life and death?’
Hugo sniffed hard, wouldn’t look at Spicer.
Spicer said, ‘Maybe Wicklow was even easier than pigs.’
He glanced at Merrily. She didn’t move, avoiding eye contact. In the blueish, gassy light, Spicer’s face was flat, like his voice.
‘But when they’re in front of you, facing you full on, and they know it’s coming and they’re fighting to stay alive, that’s not so easy, is it?’
He took a step towards Hugo, who edged himself into a corner, stumbling over a crate.
‘I mean, that is unbelievably more difficult. Even when it’s two of you, hard boys against one little woman.’
Merrily’s mouth was suddenly dry.
‘Amazing how long the life stays in them, isn’t it?’ Syd Spicer said. ‘You slash and you slash and they’re all over the place – wouldn’t have believed it, would you, how much life there is to deal with when they’re determined to keep it. Hacking it away, bit by bit, but it still clings on, and you start to panic, too, and she’s screaming and crying and flailing and spitting just to hold on to that precious God-given gift of life. So precious to her and so cheap to you, up to now. And maybe this is when you realize for the first time what a huge item life is. But you can’t stop now, and you just keep slash—’
‘Stop it! Fuck you … !’ Hugo running at him, face red and wet and twisted. ‘Just—’
Syd Spicer sidestepped and tipped him almost gently to the stone flags. He said over his shoulder, ‘Would you do that, Merrily? Wait in the car. Keep a lookout?’
‘No,’ Merrily said. ‘I don’t think so.’
57
Difficult Times in Old England
‘The line,’ Lol said. ‘The line from here, from Whiteleafed Oak through all the hilltops and Wychehill Church … how does Winnie see that? An energy line or a … spirit path?’
There was silence, except for an owl somewhere. Lol was thinking about Jane and Coleman’s Meadow.
‘Where the dead can travel,’ he said. ‘I’m just trying to help you to remember.’
Tim began to rock backwards and forwards, his bulk alternately blocking out the moon and then exposing it. He’d gone soft and rambling again.
‘Exercises to do.’
‘Winnie gave you exercises?’
‘Breathing and meditation. Pretty hard at first, but I kept on. I persevered and then it … I had to visualize him walking. And Mr Phoebus. We had a photo enlarged to life-size and put it in the hall, so it looked as if he was there, waiting to … to ride out.’
‘And you visualized this…’
‘Yes. Sometimes, when I was walking the hills at night, I … felt I was able to hear what he could hear … the hidden themes in the whistling of the wind. I’d just start walking, and he’d bring me here. Come along, young ’un. He loved to come to Whiteleafed Oak. One of his favourite walks when he lived at Birchwood. When he was working on G—, on Gerontius. When his mind was hovering between life and death and … whatever comes. He was walking this path in his dreams. And he still does.’
‘Yes. So you visualized Elgar…’
‘Coming along the path, to and from Whiteleafed Oak. Or along the road with Mr Phoebus.’
‘To Wychehill Church.’
‘Or the other way.’
‘So, earlier on, when you were whistling the Cello Concerto … ?’
‘Sometimes, when you do it properly, all the way … it’s as if there are two of you whistling it. It’s … very weird. And thrilling.’
Lol succumbed to a small shiver.
‘And is that where you walk … along the spirit path, from hilltop to hilltop, by the Iron Age sites and the monastic chapels and shrines, from Wychehill … to the Beacon … Hangman’s Hill … Midsummer Hill … Whiteleafed Oak.’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s the way you came tonight?’
Tim’s face contorted.
‘To escape from the demons.’
‘I’m sorry … ?’
‘Just when you think you’ve come through it all, the demons are there.’ Tim swung round. ‘It’s the price you have to pay.’
‘For what?’
‘For daring to reach for the Highest. You have to get past the demons first.’
‘And who are the demons?’
Tim stood up, moved to the open front of the barn, holding on to one of the supporting uprights, began to beat his head against it.
In the end, Merrily had agreed to go out and move the car out of the yard into a space suggested by Spicer behind one of the barns. She’d just had to get out of there.
She took the opportunity to try again to get through to Lol: voicemail. Jane: voicemail. Gomer: endless ringing in an empty bungalow. And now it was late, getting on for eleven, surely. She didn’t try Bliss again.
As she stood in the yard, breathing in the soft, sweet summer air, a different countryside lay revealed. The moon was high now, and white and hard, less of a security lamp than a hunting tool. Owl sounds flickered through the woodland, a screen for shadowy slaughter. Owls hunting, talons out. Jets of blood and small lives taken, big lives too, and God looking diplomatically away, supervising the sunrise in another hemisphere.
Merrily felt numb, isolated. Cored by outrage and horror. Also, starved of light, starved of knowledge. A spectator who didn’t even understand the game.
When she went back, the atmosphere in the cellar was tight with a stripped-down harshness. Syd Spicer’s sleeves were rolled up.
The Reverend S. D. Spicer. Try to imagine him celebrating communion, visiting the sick, organizing a donkey for the church nativity play.
‘The gullet,’ he was saying, nodding. ‘Yeah, that makes sense. I should’ve thought of that.’
Syd and Hugo were sitting on upturned crates. Hugo looked up when Merrily came in, then looked away. Merrily noticed a new bruise just below his left eye. But, more than that, he looked emotionally beaten, dulled by defeat. He sniffed occasionally, his eyes watering, his thin face bony in the purply fluorescence. Resentment there, and self-pity. The sullen ugliness of corrupted youth.
She looked at Syd, at his still, small eyes.
The gullet.
‘Hugo is on his gap year, Merrily,’ Syd said. ‘He was going to spend it with the West Malvern Hunt, but of course the ban put a stop to that. They’re not even doing drag hunts, Hugo?’
‘What’s the point of that?’ Hugo said. ‘It’s a joke.’
‘A lot of disappointment in your family, then.’
Hugo snorted.
‘And a lot of rage,’ Syd said. ‘To understand this, you need to understand the rage, the way it ferments. The ingredients. Remember when the MP for Worcester was in the forefront of the campaign for a total ban? Must’ve seemed like a betrayal from within.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Betrayal upon betrayal. The hunting ban was just the final insult. Years before that they’d killed your grandfather, turned your dad’s life around. The government. The EC. The way the farmers in every other European country seemed to ignore the new rules, but Britain’s farmers got away with nothing. And then the great plagues: Mad Cow Disease and the ban on exports. Foot and Mouth. When the countryside smelled of smoke and burning flesh.’
‘It’ll never be the same,’ Hugo said. ‘We built this country. We made it what it was, and now they’ve giving it all away to the scum. Eating their cheap foreign meat from supermarkets owned by foreigners.’
‘And the one law they pass that isn’t crawling up the Euro-arse, it’s a ban on hunting. They’ll be coming for your guns soon. Land of hope and glory. Mother of the free.’
‘Joke.’
Syd said, ‘You know, sometimes – thinking back to the Regiment – it was hard to work out who you were fighting for. Had to come down to values in the end. You start thinking you’re doing it for Blair and Brown, it don’t work at all. Luckily, we still got Her Maj.’ Syd smiled. ‘Obviously it’s worse for an old family. Came with the Conquest, the Devereauxs? 1066?’
‘Bit later.’
‘Good long time, though. Longer than the Windsors. A long and glorious history going down the pan.’
‘We’re not the only ones.’
‘No, I appreciate that,’ Syd said. ‘Difficult times in Old England. Tell me about Wicklow.’
‘Came to my father for a job.’
‘Did he? Cheeky.’
‘It was a bit like … close to blackmail. Thought he was clever, but he didn’t know anything really. Thought he was hard and we were middle-class and soft. They don’t know what hard is.’
‘The city boys?’
‘Strip off all the bling and boasting, take their guns away, they’re weak. Thick as shit. It’s why they always get caught. You don’t need scum like that.’
‘And was I right?’ Syd said. ‘You waited for him in the cave.’
‘No, he was using the cave. Dealing out of there. Thought that was smart. We waited for him to come out of the cave. We were in the trees then the rocks behind the cave.’
‘You and Louis.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Bang. Pro job.’
‘Then Louis sent the text to Khan.’
‘Text? What was that for?’
Hugo shut his mouth. Syd put his head on one side, looking sorrowful, his fingers flexing slightly. It was enough.
‘Louis had these lines about Druid sacrifice from an Elgar CD,’ Hugo said. ‘We put it in the text to Khan from Wicklow’s phone. Louis said it was like a warning of what he was taking on.’
‘Old England showing its teeth,’ Syd said. ‘How dare these lowlifes pollute the Malverns with their noxious substances. And the Elgar – that would also be why the police pulled Tim? Neat. Double whammy.’
‘Dad didn’t think so. He didn’t think it was cool doing him on the stone, either. He’s like, You don’t get flash. You don’t get cocky. And if it looks a bit intelligent the police can narrow it down right away. But Louis’d done it by then. And it did work. Nearly.’
‘But then someone else figured it out. Someone your ole man really did underestimate for a while.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Your dad know what you did to her tonight?’
Hugo stared at the stone flags.
‘Does now.’
‘He was here when you came back?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Mad?’
‘Pretty pissed off.’ Hugo’s head jerked forward. ‘He’d’ve wanted it done, though. He said he—’
‘Pissed off that you couldn’t handle it? Or that Louis made you go with him?’
‘Mainly…’ Hugo found a sickly smile. ‘Mainly, he was mad that Loste wasn’t in the Gullet.’
Merrily said, ‘The gullet?’
Syd ignored her. ‘So where’s he now, your old man? And Louis.’
‘Out there. He—’
‘Finishing the job?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know.’
Syd tilted his head, put his hands on his knees as if he was about to get up. Terror bloomed in Hugo’s eyes. Merrily went cold.
‘I don’t know. Please!’ Hugo rolled off his crate onto the flags, putting his hands up. ‘Honest to God!’
Syd stood up.
Hugo rolled away. He was weeping.
‘I’m locking you in, son.’ Syd stepped away from him. ‘At some stage, the police’ll be told where you are. When they arrive, I’d cooperate fully, if I were you.’
Hugo nodded, sagging, not trying to get up.
‘It’s completely finished, Hugo. But I’m guessing you knew that in Loste’s back room. There’s a point where you cross a barrier, and Louis led you right to the wire, and you didn’t go over. It’s a life you didn’t quite take, and you’ll be grateful for that.’
Hugo said nothing. Syd motioned to Merrily and followed her out of the door. The door was oak and reinforced and not very old. Syd tried various keys until one of them locked it.
‘I hope you didn’t want to pray with the boy, Merrily, but I’m afraid that would’ve conveyed the wrong message.’
‘Unlike hitting him again…’
‘Once. God forgive me, but experience suggested it needed underlining, or he might’ve thought he could get away with lies or half-truths. Intelligent lad, and he’d’ve been able to string the cops along. For a while. But we don’t have a while. We did the best we could. We hit on the weak link. That was the easy part. I suspect we’ve exhausted our quota of good fortune for one night.’
Merrily went ahead of Spicer up the stone steps into the manure-smelling back hall, with its coat hooks and its wellies, and waited for him by the door to the courtyard. She felt reduced and dirty and a long and twisted way from God.
‘What’s the gullet?’
Syd Spicer hung the bunch of keys on one of the coat hooks.
‘The Gullet is this deep pool, flooded quarry, up near the Beacon. People get drowned there sometimes. Kids thinking it’s safe for a swim on summer nights like this. Only it’s very, very cold.’
‘And?’
‘It’s on Tim Loste’s regular route – they knew this; they’d followed him enough times – takes him close to the Gullet. The plan was to mess him with Winnie’s blood and turn him loose and catch up with him near the Gullet, and then oops. Only, what happened with Winnie, Hugo couldn’t take it, he’s only a boy. Hugo went badly to pieces and Louis had to take him outside, case he left vomit anywhere. And of course by the time Louis’d slapped some sense into Hugo, Tim was away. Not quite on the usual path, either, which was understandable under the circumstances, and they couldn’t find him.’
