Crybbe (AKA Curfew) (68 page)

   
'Don't make a fuss, Mr Powys. I
only wanner know 'ow you got that face.'

   
Powys couldn't think of a way
out. He stepped under Wynford's arm and the arm, predictably, came down.

   
Somebody held open the door for
Wynford and the big policeman followed him out, hand gripping his elbow. At
that moment, as if to make things easier for the forces of the law, the power
came back on, or so it seemed, and Wynford's face shone like a full moon.

   
Powys froze in the brightness,
momentarily blinded. Wynford reeled back.

   
There was a figure behind the
light, maybe two. The light was blasting from something attached like a miner's
lamp to the top of a big video camera carried on the shoulder of a stocky man
with a Beatles hairstyle (circa Hamburg '62) and an aggressive mouth.

   
Whom Powys recognized at once
as Guy Morrison's cameraman, Larry Ember.

   
'You carry on, Sarge.' Larry
Ember moved to a lower step and crouched, the light still full on Wynford.
'Just pretend we ain't here.'

   
Wynford was squinting, mouth
agape. 'You switch that bloody thing off, you 'ear me? When did you 'ave
permission to film yere?'

   
'Don't need no permission,
Sarge. Public place, innit? We were just knocking off a few routine
night-shots. You go ahead and arrest this geezer, don't mind us, this is nice.'

   
Wynford blocked the camera lens
with a big hand and backed into the pub door, pushing it open with his
shoulders. He glared at Larry Ember over the hot lamp. 'I can 'ave you for
obstruction. Man walks into a pub, face covered with cuts and bruises, it's my
job to find out why.'

   
'Yeah, yeah. Well, there was a
very nasty accident happened up at a place called Court Farm tonight while some
of us, Sergeant, were safely in the pub getting well pissed-up. As I understand
it, this gentleman was up to his neck in shit and oil helping to drag some poor
bleeder out from under his tractor. Fact is, he'll probably be in line for an
award from the Humane Society.'

   
Powys kept quiet, wondering
what the hell Larry Ember was on about.

   
'Well . . .' Wynford backed off.
'That case, why didn't 'e I speak up, 'stead of being clever?'

   
'He's a very modest man,
Sarge.'

   
Wynford Wiley backed awkwardly
into the pub, stabbing a defiant forefinger into the night. 'All the same, you
been told, Powys. Don't you leave this town.'

   
'Dickhead,' said Larry Ember,
when the door closed. 'Shit, I enjoyed that. Best shots I've had since we came
to this dump. You all right, squire?'

   
'Well, not as bad as the guy under
the tractor. Was that on the level?'

   
'Sure. We didn't go, on account
of our leader was otherwise engaged, shafting his assistant.'

   
'Well, thanks for what you
did,' Powys said. 'I owe you one.'

   
'Yeah, well, I was getting
bored.' Larry swung the camera off his shoulder, switched the lamp off. 'And I
figured he'd never arrest you in his state, more likely take you up that alley and
beat seven shades out of you.'

   
The cameraman, who'd obviously
had a few pints himself, grabbed Powys's arm and started grinning. 'Hey,
listen,
you
know Morrison, don't you?
Bleedin' hell, should've seen him. We shot this hypnotist geezer, taking young
Catrin back through her past lives, you know this, what d'you call it . . . ?'

   
'Regression?'

   
'Right. And in one life, so-called,
she's this floozy back in the sixteenth century, having it away with the local
sheriff, right?'

   
Powys stiffened. 'In Crybbe?'

   
'That's what she said. Anyway,
in real life, Catrin's this prim little Welshie piece, butter wouldn't melt. But,
stone me, under the influence, she's drooling at the mouth, pulling her skirt
up round her waist, and Morrison - well, he can't bleedin' believe it. Soon as
we get back, he says, in his most pompous voice, he says, "Catrin and I .
. . Catrin and
I
, Laurence, have a
few programme details to iron out." Then he shoves her straight upstairs.
Blimey, I'm not kidding, poor bleeder could hardly walk . . .'

   
'What time was this?'

   
'
Ages
ago. Well over an hour. And they ain't been seen since.
Amazing, eh?'

   
'Not really,' Powys said sadly.

The few oil lamps in the houses had gone out and so had the moon. The
town, what could be seen of it, was like a period film-set after hours. An old
man with a torch crossed his path at one point; nothing else happened. Powys
supposed he was going back to the riverside cottage to sleep alone, just him
and the Bottle Stone,

   
He couldn't face being alone,
even if it was now the right side of the curfew and the psychic departure
lounge was probably closed for the night.

   
What was he going to do? He had
an idea of what was happening in Crybbe and how it touched on what had happened
to him twelve years ago. But to whom did you take such ideas? Certainly not the
police. And if what remained of the Church was any good at this kind of thing,
it wouldn't have been allowed to fester.

   
He could, of course, go and see
Goff and lay it all down for him, explain in some detail why the Crybbe project
should be abandoned forthwith. But he wasn't sure he could manage the detail or
put together a coherent case that would convince someone who might be a New Age
freak but was also a very astute businessman.

   
What it needed was a Henry
Kettle.
   
Or a Dr John Dee, come to that.

   
What
he
needed was to talk to Fay Morrison, but it was unlikely she'd
want to talk to him.

   
He passed the house he thought
was Jean Wendle's. Jean might know what to do. But that was all in darkness.
Faced with a power cut, many people just made it an early night.

   
As he slumped downhill towards
the police station and the river bridge, something brushed, with some intent,
against his ankles. It didn't startle him. It was probably a cat, there being no
dogs in Crybbe.

   
It whimpered.

   
Powys went down on his knees.
'Arnold?'
   
It nuzzled him; he couldn't see it. He
moved his hands down, counted three legs.

   
'Christ, Arnold, what are you
doing out on your own. Where's Fay?'

   
He looked up and saw he'd reached
the corner of Bell Street. Sudden dread made his still-bruised stomach
contract.
   
Not again. Please. No.

   
No
!

   
He picked Arnold up and carried
him down the street. If the dog had made it all the way from home, he'd done
well, so soon after losing a leg. Arnold squirmed to get down and vanished
through an open doorway. Powys could hear him limping and skidding on linoleum,
and then the lights came back on.
   
Powys went in.

   
He couldn't take it in at
first, as the shapes of things shivered and swam in the sudden brilliance. Then
he saw that Arnold had nosed open the kitchen door and was skating on the blood.

PART SEVEN

. . . but we could not bring him to human
form. He was
seen like a great black dog and troubled the folk in the
house much and feared them.

Elizabethan manuscript, 1558

CHAPTER I

Max Goff said, 'I came as soon as I heard.'

   
Indeed he had. It was not yet 8
a.m. Jimmy Preece was surprised that someone like Goff should be up and about
at this hour. Unhappy, too, at seeing the large man getting out of his car,
waddling across the farmyard like a hungry crow.

   
Mr Preece remembered the last
time Goff had been to visit him alone.

   
This morning he'd been up since
five and over at Court Farm before six to milk the few cows. He couldn't rely
on Warren to do it - he hadn't even seen Warren yet. Mr Preece was back on the
farm, which he still owned but was supposed to have retired from eight years
ago to make way for future generations.

   
Becoming a farmer again was the
best way of taking his mind off what had happened to the future generations.

   
Everything changing too fast,
too brutally. Even this Goff looked different. His suit was dark and he wore no
hat. He didn't look as if he'd had much sleep. He looked serious. He looked
like he cared.

   
But what was it he cared
about
? Was it the sudden, tragic death
of Jonathon, followed by the grievous injury to Jonathon's father?

   
Or was it what he, Goff, might
get out of all this?
   
Like the farm.

   
Mr Preece thought of the crow
again, the scavenger. He hated crows.

   
'Humble said you'd be here.'
Goff walked past him into the old, bare living-room, where all that remained of
Jack was a waistcoat thrown over a chair back. No photos, not even the old gun
propped up in the corner any more.

   
Goff said, 'Reason I came so
early is the meeting. It's the public meeting tonight. What I wanted to say -
there's time to call it off, Mr Mayor.'

   
'Call 'im off?' Jimmy Preece
shook his head. No, it would be an ordeal, this meeting, but it couldn't be put
off. The meeting would be his best opportunity to make it clear to this Goff that
he wasn't wanted in Crybbe, that this town had no sympathy with him or his
ideas.

   
There would, however, be a
great deal of sympathy -
overwhelming
sympathy - for old Jim Preece, who'd lost his grandson and whose son was now
lying maimed for life in Hereford Hospital.

   
Goff would have realized this.
Cunning devil.
   
No way Mr Preece wanted that meeting
calling off.
   
'Too late now. People coming yere from
all over. Never get word out in time.'

   
'If we start now, Mr Mayor,
spread the word in town, get it out on Offa's Dyke Radio . . .'

   
'No, no. Very kind of you to
offer, but the town council stick to their arrangements, come fire, flood. And
personal tragedy, like.'

   
He'd be making time today to
pay a final visit to each of the farmers with land around Crybbe, make sure
they all understood about the need to keep the stones away. He thought they
were still with him, but money could turn a farmer's head faster than a runaway
bull.

   
'Thought I should at least make
the offer, Mr Mayor. And tell you how sorry I was.'

   
'Aye.'

   
There was a long silence. Mr
Preece noticed circles like bruises around Goff's eyes and his beard not as
well manicured as usual.

   
'Well,' Mr Preece said. He might
as well say it now, make it clear where they stood. 'I expect you'll be wonderin'
'bout the future of this place. What's gonna happen if Jack's crippled and with
Jonathon gone, like.'

   
'It's a problem, Mr Mayor. If
there's any way I can help . . . We're neighbours, right?'

   
'No,' Jimmy Preece said.
'There's no way you can 'elp. And no, I won't be sellin' the farm.'

   
Goff spread his legs apart and
rocked a bit. He didn't laugh, but he looked as if he wanted to.

   
'Aw, jeez, I realize you got to
be in an emotional and anxious state, Mr Mayor, but if you're thinking maybe
I'm here because I'm angling to buy the place, let me say that was about the
last thing . . . I'm not a fucking property shark, Mr Preece.'

   
'No,' Jimmy Preece said, and it
might have been a question.

   
'This family's been here four,
five centuries, yeah? Isn't there another son, young, er. . . ?'
   
'Warren,' said Mr Preece.
   
'Yeah, Warren.'