Crybbe (AKA Curfew) Read online

  But what was wrong with the Court was more fundamental. It was a dead spot. Nothing psychic, though, you understand? Just nothing thrived there. Indeed, he couldn't figure out why it hadn't been abandoned and left to rot centuries ago, long before it had become a 'listed' building, deemed to be of historic interest.

  Arnold sprang up on the back seat and growled.

  'And what's up with you now?'

  The dog had his front paws on the back of Mr. Kettle's seat, his furry head against- his master's cheek, lips curled back, showing his teeth, white and feral in the gloom.

  Mr. Kettle tried to follow Arnie's gaze, thinking maybe the dog had caught sight of a badger ambling out of the hedge. But all he could see was the yellow of the headlights thrown back at him.

  He rubbed at the windscreen. 'Bugger me, Arn, that mist's come down quick tonight, boy.'

  But there was nothing moving in the mist. No noise, no lights, no badgers, not even tree shapes.

  Only the Tump.

  He was up in the highest field now, but at the bottom end by the wood, the lambing light at his feet, the grass wet and cold, the sweat on him mingling with the mist, the spade handle clammy with it. He didn't care; he'd never felt like this before.

  Warren scraped the earth into the hole and pulled the turf back over it, slamming it down with the spade, jumping on it, getting it tight so nobody would know. Not that anybody came here; only the sheep, and the old man once or twice a year.

  Beneath the turf and the soil and the clay was the old box, buried good and deep, with the Stanley knife still inside it. It seemed right, somehow, to leave the knife in the box.

  Or it seemed not right to put his hand in the box and take the knife out.

  Not with the other hand in there.

  'Where did that come from?'

  The dog snarled.

  The Tump was off-centre in the mist. But it shouldn't have been there at all because he'd passed it, he must have, couple of minutes ago at least.

  'Now just you sit down, you daft dog.' And then he looked up at the Tump and said suddenly, softly, 'You're not right, are you?'

  At that moment Arnold was thrown to the floor, as, without warning, the car lurched off to the right, the steering wheel spinning away so fiercely it burned the palms of Mr. Kettle's hands when he tried to hold it.

  'Oh no you don't, you bugger.' Addressing, through his teeth, neither the dog, nor the car, for he should have been half-expecting this, bloody old fool. Wrenching at the wheel, as the black mound rose up full in the windscreen.

  From behind his seat, the dog's growl built to a yelp of terror.

  'I know, I'm sorry!' Cursing the part of him which responded to nonsense like this; mad as hell at his bloody old, slowing body which no longer seemed to have the strength to

  loose it out.

  Arnold cringed on the floor next to the back seat, shivering and panting. Then Mr. Kettle felt the bumps and heard the clumps under the car, and knew what must have happened.

  'We're in the bloody field!'

  Common land. Unfenced. Flat and well-drained enough where it met the road to offer no obstacles to car wheels.

  No obstacles at all, until you got to the humps and ridges.

  And then the wall.

  They said the wall, which almost encircled the mound, had been built centuries ago of stones taken from the old castle foundations. It was not high - maybe five feet - but it was a very' thick wall, and as strong and resistant as ever it'd been. He'd never thought about this before, but why would they build a wall around it?

  Behind the wall, the Tump bulged and glowered and Mr. Kettle's faculty started leaping and bounding the way his body hadn't managed to in thirty years.

  The wild senses were rising up, leaving the body hobbling behind and the old car trundling across the field, going its own sweet way.

  And something in Henry' Kettle, something he used to be able to control, locking into the Tump's wavelength with a long, almost grateful shudder. As if it was going home.

  Going back, rolling down.

  'Silly young devil.' Mr. Watkins chiding him when he rolled over and over, down from Clifford Castle, coming to rest at the feet of the stern old man. 'One day you'll learn respect for these places, boy.'

  Mr. Watkins, face in shadow under his hat.

  One day you'll learn.

  But he hadn't.

  Hadn't been able to connect with it at all when he was up there with Goff, looking round, seeing where the Tump stood in relation to the stones.

  Had it now, though, too bloody much of it, filling him up, like when they'd sent him to the hospital for the enema, colonic clean-out, whatever they'd called it, pumping this fluid through his backside and he could feel it going right up into his insides, terrible cold.

  Something here that was cold and old and dark and . . .

  . . . was no home to be going to.

  'Oh Christ, Arnold,' said Mr. Kettle. 'Oh Christ.'

  Knowing it for the first time. Why they must have built a wall around it. Knowing a lot of things about the stones and the leys and why Mr. Watkins had not . . .

  Knowing all this as the car went over a ridge in the field - maybe one of the old ramparts when it had been a castle - and began to go downhill, and faster.

  'I can deal with this, don't you worry!' 'Course he could.

  Nothing psychic here. Understand that.

  Stamping down on the brake - frantic now - but the car going even faster, ripping through the field like a tank. A muffled bump-clank, bump-clank, then the rending of metal and the car ploughing on like a wounded animal, roaring and farting.

  In the windscreen, the trees on the Tump were crowding out of the mist, a tangle of black and writhing branches, spewing like entrails from a slashed gut, the centremost trees suddenly flung apart as if blown by a sudden gale, as if the wind was bursting out and over the mound like a fountain of air.

  And he could see it. He could see the wind . . .

  And as it rushed down, it took the form . . .

  nothing psychic, nothing psychic, nothing . . .

  of a huge black thing, a dog . . . hound . . . bounding down the mound and leaping at the car, an amber hunger smoking in eyes that outshone the headlights because . . .

  '. . . you're bloody evil. . .'

  Arnold screaming from behind. Not barking, not whimpering, but making the most piteously distressed and upsetting noise he'd ever been forced to hear.

  All the time thinking - the words themselves forming in his head and echoing there - I've seen it. It was there. I've seen Black Michael's Hound.

  And when the illusion of the wind and the thing it carried had gone he saw the headlight beams were full of stone.

  Nothing to be done. Bloody old fool, be thought sadly, and suddenly it seemed he had all the time there was to ponder the situation and realize he hadn't touched the brake pedal, not once. The car having automatic transmission - only two pedals - what had happened was his foot had plunged down hard, time and time again, on the other one.

  The accelerator.

  Well he did try to pull the stupid foot off, but his knee had locked and he saw through the windscreen that the thick, solid stoic wall was being hurled at him by the night, and the night would not miss.

  There was a hollow silence in the car and that seemed to last a very long time, and Mr. Kettle could feel Arnold, his faithful dog somewhere close to him, quiet now. But his eyes'd be resigned, no light in them any more.

  Mr. Kettle put out a hand to pat Arnold but probably did not reach him before the impact killed both headlamps and there was no light anywhere and no sound except, from afar, the keening song of the old stone.

  A few minutes later the electricity was restored. Bulbs flared briefly, sputtered, died and then came back to what passed, in Crybbe, for life.

  Business had not been interrupted in either of the two bars at the Cock, where, through past experience, a generator was always on hand. When the lights revived,
closing-time had come and gone, and so had most of the customers.

  Few people in the houses around the town realized the power was back, and the wavering ambience of oil lamps, Tilley lamps and candles could be seen behind curtained windows.

  One electric light blinked back on and would remain needlessly on until morning.

  This was the Anglepoise lamp on Fay Morrison's editing table. She'd unplugged the tape-machine before going to bed but forgotten about the lamp. All through the night it craned its neck over her desk-diary and a spiral-bound notepad, the one which often served, unintentionally, as a personal diary, especially when she was feeling angry and hopeless.

  Across the page, in deeply indented frustration, the pencil lettering said,

  . . . we'd tear your bloody hand off. . .

  PART TWO

  Although I have been able to divine water and do other

  simple things of that kind for many years ... I had not

  thought that this faculty might be related to the formation

  of ghosts.

  T. C. Lethbridge,

  Ghost and Divining Rod (1963)

  CHAPTER I

  No, no . . . don't hold him like that. Not so tightly. You're like a nervous kiddy riding a bike.'

  'Oh, sorry. Like this?'

  'Better. Don't think of him as an implement - he's an extension of your arms. Be comfortable.'

  'I think I've got it. What do I do now?'

  'Just walk across towards the tree - and don't be so nervous, girl.'

  'Well, I've never done it before, Henry. I'm a virgin.'

  She thought, shall I leave that?

  Nah. Maria will only chop it. She'll think I'm trying to be clever. Too clever for Offa's Dyke Radio, God forbid.

  Fay marked it up with a white Chinagraph pencil, sliced and cut just over a foot of tape with a razorblade cutter, spliced the ends, ran the tape again.

  Crunch, crunch. Rustle, rustle.

  'All right, now, Fay, ask yourself the question.'

  'Huh? Oh, er ... is ... Is There Any Water Under Here? I feel a bit daft, to be honest, Henry. And there's . . . nothing . . .happening. Obviously haven't got your natural aptitude, if that's the word.'

  'Course you have, girl. Anybody can do it as really wants to. It's not magic. Look, shall I help you?'

  'Yes please.'

  'Right, now, we'll do it again. Like this.'

  'Oh, you're putting your hands . . .'

  'Over yours, yes. Now relax, and we'll walk the same path and ask ourselves the same question.'

  'OK. Here we go. Is there any . . . ? Fucking hell, Henry!'

  Laughter.

  'Caught you by surprise, did it?'

  'You could say that.'

  Pause.

  'Look, Henry, do you think we could do that bit again, so I can moderate my response?'

  Fay marked the tape. Fast forwarded until she heard her say, 'OK, Take Two', made another white mark after that and picked up the razorblade.

  Shame really. Never as good second time around. All the spontaneity gone. 'Whoops' had been the best she could manage the second time, when the forked hazel twig had flipped up dramatically, almost turning a somersault in her hands, near dislodging the microphone from under her arm.

  'Whoops'. ... not good enough. She started to splice the ends of the tape together, wondering if she had time to go into a field with the Uher and do a quick, 'Gosh, wow, good heaven I never expected that,' and splice it in at the appropriate point.

  The phone rang.

  'Yes, what?' The damn roll of editing tape was stuck to her hands and now the receiver.

  'Fay Morrison?'

  'Yes, sorry, you caught me . . .'

  'This is James Barlow in the newsroom.'

  'Which newsroom?' Fay demanded, being awkward because the voice somehow reminded her of her ex-husband, who always called people by their full names.

  'Offa's Dyke Radio, Fay.' No, not really like Guy. Too young. A cynical, world-weary twenty-two or thereabouts. James Barlow, she hadn't dealt with him before.

  'Sorry, I was editing a piece. I've got tape stuck to my fingers.'

  'Fay, Maria says she commissioned a package from you about Henry Kettle, the water-diviner chap.'

  'Dowser, yes.'

  'Pardon?'

  'Water-diviner, James, is not an adequate term for what he does. He divines all kinds of things. Electric cables, foundations of old buildings, dead bodies . . .'

  'Yeah, well, he obviously wasn't much good at divining stone walls. Have you done the piece?'

  'That's what I'm . . .'

  "Cause, if you could let us have it this morning . . .'

  'It's not for News,' Fay explained. 'It's a soft piece for Maria. For Alan Thingy's show. Six and a half minutes of me learning how to dowse.' Fay ripped the tape from the receiver and threw the roll on the editing table. 'What did you mean about stone walls?'

  'Tut-tut. Don't you have police contacts, down there, Fay? Henry Kettle drove into one last night. Splat.'

  The room seemed to shift as if it was on trestles like the editing table. The table and the Revox suddenly looked so incongruous here - the room out of the 1960s, grey-tiled fireplace, G-plan chairs, lumpy settee with satin covers. Still Grace Legge's room, still in mourning.

  'What?' Fay said.

  'Must've been well pissed,' said James Barlow, with relish, 'straight across a bloody field and into this massive wall. Splat, actually they're speculating, did he have a heart attack? So we're putting together a little piece on him, and your stuff . . .'

  'Excuse me, James, but is he ... ?'

  '. . . would go quite nicely. We'll stitch it together here, but you'll still get paid, obviously. Yes, he is. Oh, yes. Very much so, I'm told. Splat, you know?'

  'Yes,' Fay said numbly.

  'Can you send it from the Unattended, say by eleven?'

  'Yes.'

  'Send the lot, we'll chop out a suitable clip. Bye now.'

  Fay switched the machine back on. Now it no longer mattered, Take Two didn't sound quite so naff.

  '. . . whoops! Gosh, Henry, that's amazing, the twig's flipped right over. If your hands hadn't been there, I'd've . . .'

  A dead man said, 'Dropped it, I reckon. Well, there you are then, Fay, you've found your first well. Can likely make yourself a bob or two now.'

  'I don't think so, somehow. Tell me, what exactly was happening there? You must have given it some thought over the years.'

  'Well. . . it's nothing to do with the rod, for a start. It's in you, see. You're letting yourself connect with what's out there and all the things that have ever been out there. I don't know, sounds a bit cranky. You're, how can I say . . . you're reminding your body that it's just part of everything else that's going on, you following me? Never been very good at explaining it, I just does it. . . You can mess about with this, can't you, Fay, make it sound sensible? Fellow from the BBC interviewed me once. He . . .'

  'Yes, don't worry, it'll be fine. Now, what I think you're saying is that, in this hi-tech age, man no longer feels the need to be in tune with his environment.'

  'Well, aye, that's about it. Life don't depend on it any more, do he?'

  'I suppose not. But look, Henry, what if. . . ?'

  She stopped the tape, cut it off after 'Life don't depend on it any more.' Why give them the lot when they'd only use four seconds?

  Anyway, the next bit wasn't usable. She'd asked him about this job he was doing for Max Goff and he'd stepped smartly back, waving his arms, motioning at her to switch the tape off. Saying that it would all come out sooner or later. 'Don't press me, girl, all right?'

  Later, he'd said, 'Not being funny, see. Only it's not turned out as simple as I thought it was going to be. Something I don't quite understand. Not yet, anyway.'

  She hadn't pressed him. Very unprofessional of her. She had, after all, only approached Henry Kettle about doing six minutes for the 'people with unusual hobbies' spot because she'd heard M
ax Goff had brought him to Crybbe and it was her job to find out what Goff himself was doing here.

  But she'd ended up liking Henry Kettle and actually liking somebody was sometimes incompatible with the job. So now nobody would know what he'd been doing for Goff unless Goff himself chose to disclose it.

  Fay sat down, she and the room both in mourning now. He'd been a great character, had Henry, he'd leave a gap.

  But if you had to go, maybe Splat wasn't a bad exit line at the age of - what was he, eighty-seven? Still driving his own car, too. Fay thought about her dad and the sports cars he'd had. He'd prefer Splat to arterial strangulation anytime.

  Talking of the devil, she caught sight of him then through the window, strolling back towards the cottage with the Guardian under his arm, looking at ladies' legs and beaming through his big, snowy beard at people on either side - even though, in Crybbe, people never seemed to beam back.

  The cottage fronted directly on to the street, no garden. Canon Alex Peters pushed straight into the office. He wasn't beaming now. He was clearly annoyed about something.

  'Don't they just bloody love it?'

  'Love what?' Fay joined some red leader to the end of the tape, deliberately not looking up, determined not to be a congregation.

  'A tragedy. Death, failure - 'specially if it's one of the dreaded People from Off.'

  'What are you on about, Dad?'

  'That's what they say, "From Off. Oh, he's from Off." I've calculated that "Off" means anywhere more than forty miles away. Anywhere nearer, they say, "Oh, he's from Leominster" or "He's from Llandrindod Wells". Which are places not near enough to be local, but not far enough away to be "Off".'

  'You're bonkers, Dad.' Fay spun back the finished tape. 'Anyway, this poor sod was apparently from Kington or somewhere, which is the middle category. Not local but not "Off". So they're quite content that he's dead but not as happy as they'd be if he was from, say, Kent.'