Dancing With the Virgins (27 page)

He thrust the leaf into Cooper's hands. It smelled
damp and green and broken. Cooper held it lightly, not
sure what to do with it, reluctant just to walk away, too intrigued by the performance to stop it.

‘
The male organs release sperm. Oh, yes. We know
about sperm, don't we? But ferns . . . their sperm use
the rain water. See? The leaves are always damp up
here, in the autumn, so the sperm can travel through
the moisture to reach the female organs and fertilize the eggs. And then a new plant grows. A new fern. More bracken. More and more of it. And you know
what else? Ferns have been doing that for three hundred
million years.
’

Stride stared at Cooper wildly. 'Pre-historic tree ferns
grew to over a hundred feet. They're way down there
now, under the ground, still there. Fossilized tree ferns.
We call them coal.' He snatched the leaf back from
Cooper as if he wasn't worthy to hold it. 'So which is
the most successful species? The cleverest? The most
efficient? The most useful? Humans?' He laughed. 'I
studied botany. They tried to tell me it was a science;
they tried to make me study mycology and phytopathology. They wanted me to look at diagrams of a
monocotyledon or analyse the process of hydrotropism.
They wanted me to see pistils and radicles and calyxes.
But all I saw were miracles everywhere. Miracles of life.
’

He stepped out of the bracken and bent down to the
ground near the path. He picked up a small piece of
quartz. He held it with gentleness, handling it as if it
were a living thing, sensitive to his touch.

‘
Look at the earth. She looks so attractive, you could
stroke her. Her fur is like velvet. But she's a wild creature, she can never be tamed. A huge beast, sleeping.
Or maybe only pretending to be asleep. This is her body.
’

Cooper was silent, feeling foolish and embarrassed, like a man who had wandered into the wrong church
service and didn't know what to do when everyone else
prayed.

‘
The dancers know all about it,' said Stride. 'The dan
cers became part of her body.
’

A suggestion of movement on the moor made Cooper
look up. For a moment, he thought there were people
standing in the trees at the scene of Jenny Weston's
murder — grey shapes that passed each other slowly,
leaning to whisper to one another across the sandy earth
of the clearing. Then he realized that he was seeing the Nine Virgins themselves, the stones momentarily transformed by the intensity of Stride's conviction.

‘
I can understand why our ancestors worshipped
trees,' said Stride. 'Can't you? When you hear a chain-
saw in the woods, when you see a JCB and smell new
tarmac, don't you feel it? Don't you feel, deep inside
your head, the cry of "murder"? Do you understand?
’

Cooper frowned, wanting to see what he meant. 'I understand that you've found some sort of truth for yourself.'

‘
Believe those who are seeking the truth,' said Stride.
'But doubt those who say they've found it.
’

*

When they got back to the van, Stride seemed rapidly
to become exhausted. He collapsed on the cushions,
stretched out full-length, limp and breathing raggedly.
After a few minutes, he spoke, though his voice was barely loud enough for them to hear.

‘
I can still see her face,' he said
.

Stride's own face was hidden by the shadows of the
candle, expressionless, moving with the flickering light
in unnatural ways. Cooper felt too warm in the claustro
phobic interior of the van. He was uncomfortably
hemmed in by the rugs and blankets and the smell of
unwashed bodies, too tightly embraced by the metal walls. He longed for escape.

‘
Whose face?' he said
.

But Stride seemed to have departed. Though his body
still sprawled against the cushions, his mind had left,
perhaps to drift over the moor with the kestrel. He had
sunk into a state of exhaustion, and when he spoke
again it was no more than a whisper, addressed only
to himself.

‘
I can still see her face.
’

Owen and Cal seemed at ease with each other. Cooper
wondered what they had talked about while he was
away, whether they had simply exchanged comfortable insults as they drank their beer. Owen drained his can and they all went outside, leaving Stride alone. Cal was
still looking at Cooper suspiciously.

‘
Do you really not have a life to go back to, Cal?' said
Cooper.

‘
Oh, yeah. If I wanted to. There are the aged parents,
if I want to spend the rest of my life being lectured at.
There was a girlfriend as well. But, well . . . sometimes
you're better off on your own, you know?'

‘
But you're not on your own now.
’

`Me and Stride? Stride says it was karma, us meeting
like that. You know, the idea of fate repaying you for
what you've done in a previous life?'

‘
He seems to be quite knowledgeable about esoteric
practices.'

‘
He knows sod all about it,' said Cal.

‘
Oh?'

‘
He's picked up a few phrases from books here and
there, that's all. But it keeps him content in himself.
That's what religion is for, isn't it? Whatever he believes
in, it works for him.'

‘
Like the auric egg.'

‘
Yeah, well. If he actually believes it keeps negative
mind energies away, then it probably does.
’

Cooper considered this. It seemed as useful as any
advice a psychiatrist could have given.

‘
How well do you really know Stride?'

‘
He's my brother.'

‘
You met him only a few months ago, at the summer
solstice.'

‘
That doesn't make any difference. He's my brother.
’

‘
I bet you don't know anything about him. Where is
he from?'

‘
What does it matter? Who cares what he did or where
he came from in another life? This is our life. This is what matters now.'

‘
Do you go up on the moor sometimes?' asked Cooper.

‘
Of course.'

‘
To the stone circle?'

‘
Stride likes to talk to the Virgins. Nothing wrong with that. He's not doing any harm.'

‘
Do you go with him? Or does he go on his own?' Cal clamped his mouth shut. 'I think I've talked to you enough.'

‘
Does he go out on his own at night?'

‘
You're like all the others really, aren't you? You
sneak your way into the van, thinking you'll get some
thing on us. Well, just leave off Stride. He doesn't do anyone any harm, not now.'

‘
Not now?' said Cooper gently
.

But Cal turned on his heel with a scowl and walked
back to the van. Cooper looked at his watch. He had
spent too long at Ringham Moor already. He had an appointment with another set of stones, and there would be trouble if he was late
.

*

Like most things in Edendale, the cemetery was built
halfway up a hill. Over the bottom wall, beech trees ran
down Mill Bank to an estate of new housing off Meadow
Road, where white semis clustered round the back of
the council highways depot. A squirrel foraged among
the leaves and dead branches on the floor beneath the
beeches
.

Sergeant Joe Cooper was buried in the new part of
the cemetery, brought into use four or five years ago,
when the old one became full. In the new cemetery,
there were no visible graves, only rows of headstones,
with the grass mowed smooth right up to them. The
dead were no longer allowed to be untidy. These head
stones would never loosen and tilt and grow moss with
age. They were orderly, almost regimented, a picture
of civic perfection. Sergeant Cooper was far tidier now
than he had been at the moment of his dying, when his
blood had run out on to the stone setts in Clappergate,
leaving a stain that had taken council workmen weeks
to remove. His killing had darkened the reputation of
the town for months afterwards. No wonder they wanted to tidy him away
.

Occasionally, a jam-jar full of spring flowers or petu
nias appeared in front of the headstone. The Coopers
never knew who they were from
.

The brothers had said nothing to each other as they drove to the cemetery. By the time they were out of the
car and back in the open air, Ben was beginning to feel
uncomfortable with the silence between them.

‘
We went to see Warren Leach again yesterday,' he said as they followed the path towards their father's grave. 'I just wondered if you found anything out .
.

Matt didn't answer. His shoulders stiffened a bit, and
his stride quickened.

‘
There must be somebody who knows him, Matt.
’

‘
I dare say.
’

But Matt sounded so dismissive that Ben knew not
to press it. The silence had grown even deeper by the
time they reached the right spot. On every occasion they
came, the row of graves had extended a little further,
as if their father was somehow physically receding into
the past
.

Ben and Matt left their flowers and found a bench
under the hawthorn hedge, where they could see the
headstone. The cemetery grass had been raked clear of
leaves. It glittered an unnaturally bright green against
the browns and oranges of the hillside behind it, and
the grey of the stone houses piled on top of each other
on the outskirts of the town
.

For a while, the brothers sat and watched each other's
breath drifting in small clouds, cold and formless, van
ishing before it had even moved out of reach.

‘
Two years, and it doesn't seem a day,' said Matt.
His words couldn't help but sound trite, but Ben was
sure they were sincere. 'I know what you mean,' he said.

‘
I still keep expecting him to appear. I think he's going
to come round the corner and tell me to stop idling
around. It's as if he's just been on night shift for a while.
Remember when we didn't used to see him for a few
days, then he would appear again, looking so tired? He
always said it was short turn that was the real killer.'

‘
He was already too old for night shifts by then.'

‘
But he wouldn't stop doing it. He always did his stint.
’

There was a new National Police Memorial being
created in Staffordshire, with a commemorative avenue
of trees known as 'The Beat' and a daily roll of honour
showing details of the officers who had died on duty.
The work would take several years to complete, and Ben Cooper had offered to help
.

Here in the cemetery, Sergeant Joe Cooper's name
was carved in stone. Eventually, it would be worn away
by the rain driven down the Eden Valley, and the Febru
ary frosts would crumble the surfaces. But now, just
two years from his death, the letters were still crisp and
clear, with sharply chiselled edges, cold and precise.
Life might be brief and transient, scrawled in the sand.
But death was written in a much harder alphabet
.

Ben had the names of the group of youths who had
killed his father imprinted on his mind. Now and then,
they cropped up in other enquiries, or in court cases he
read about in the
Eden Valley Times.
Two of them were
still serving ten-year sentences for manslaughter, but
those who were free seemed to be following predictable
careers. It wouldn't be long before they, too, had a taste
of prison. The thought gave Cooper no satisfaction. It
would solve nothing
.

As always on these occasions, he found his brain spill
ing out memories like sour wine from an uncorked
bottle; deeply stored images of his father that were pre
served as if in vinegar. There were glimpses of a tall,
strong man with wide shoulders and huge hands toss
ing bales of hay with a pitchfork, his face flushed and
laughing. At other times he was frowning and angry,
a terrifying figure in a dark uniform, opening his mouth
to bring down the wrath of God on his sons. But among
Ben's memories was also a picture of his father lying
dead and bleeding on the stone setts of Clappergate. It was a sight Ben hadn't even seen, yet it was etched on
his mind like a nail embedded in a tree — it was long
grown over, but still there, hard and sharp, splitting the
flesh that pressed too tightly around it
.

But Ben had to close the stopper tight on his thoughts.
He couldn't bear to taste those memories. The pain of
them was too thick for him to swallow.

‘
He always expected great things of you,' said Matt.
'He didn't just expect great things — he demanded
them.'

‘
He demanded a lot, that's true. But he was very
proud of you. And you did exactly what he hoped for,
always.
’

Ben looked at his brother. 'Matt, he gave me an appal
ling time. He drove me like a maniac. Nothing I ever
did was good enough for him. I always had to do better,
to work a bit harder. But you were different. You were
the favoured son.'

‘
Rubbish.'

‘
He never drove you like he did me. He left you alone
to do whatever you wanted.'

‘
Exactly,' said Matt.

‘
What do you mean?'

‘
It shows that it was you that he cared about, Ben.
He cared about you more than anything.'

‘
It didn't feel like it at the time.'

‘
It was obvious to everybody else. Obvious to me, anyway. It didn't matter to him what I did. It didn't matter how hard I worked, how successful I was at
what I chose to do. It meant nothing to him. He would
just say, "That's fine," and he'd turn away to ask how
your training was going, or how you'd dealt with an
incident, and what your feelings were about it. Every
last detail about you was important to him. But me, I
could just do what I liked. I might as well not have been there.
’

Ben thought he and Matt had little in common physi
cally, except perhaps a look of their father around the
eyes and nose. Their mother was blue-eyed, but the
eyes of both her sons were brown, their hair dark where
she was fair. Though Cooper was five foot eleven, it was Matt who had inherited their father's size, the
wide shoulders, the enormous hands and the uncertain
temper.

‘
Matt, you're the one who's like him. Everyone says
that. People always told me I took after Mum. But Dad
and me, we were like chalk and cheese. It infuriated
him every time he saw me reading a book. He nearly
threw me out of the house when I got interested in
music and joined the choir. For Heaven's sake, I barely
came up to his shoulder. I was a pigmy in his eyes.
’

Matt stood up. When he towered over him, with that
exasperated frown, Matt looked more than ever like Sergeant Joe Cooper come back to life.

‘
Maybe you never saw the similarity, Ben,' he said.
'But everybody else did. I can see him in you now, over
this case you're involved in, this woman who was killed
on Ringham Moor.'

‘
What on earth has that got to do with it?'

‘
You stand here by his grave, today of all days, and
you start asking me about this bloody Warren Leach.
As if I cared about all that. But Dad would be proud
of you, all right. Your head's full of the same big ideas
that his was, like justice and truth. You think you have
to put the world right on your own. Just like him. You're
exactly
like him.
’

Before his brother could reply, Matt walked away to
stand over the grave, leaving Ben on the bench. Matt
rearranged the flowers at the foot of the headstone and
re-read the inscription
.

Ben stood up. 'I'm sorry, Matt,' he said
.

Matt half-turned his head. His eyes glistened, and he
wiped the heel of his hand across his face. 'You can't
help it, Ben,' he said. 'Neither of us can help it.
’

They walked in silence back through the cemetery,
passing a workman sweeping up leaves. When they
reached the car, Matt paused and looked back at the
cemetery. Their father's grave was no longer discernible from here. It had merged into anonymous rows of head
stones, swallowed up among centuries of Edendale dead.

‘
Ben . . . this Warren Leach,' said Matt.

‘
What about him?'

‘
They say his farm is in big trouble. Creditors are
calling the debts in, the usual story. He's very close to bankruptcy, they reckon, but he won't admit it. Leach
is the type who'll try to pretend it's not happening until
it's much too late. It'll only take one small thing to be
the last straw.
’

Cooper thought back to the two occasions he had met
the farmer. 'He isn't exactly a barrel of laughs. But it
can't be much of a life up there.'

‘
Those hill farmers are proud men. They think they
don't need anyone else; they want to believe they're
self-reliant, like their ancestors always were. It's hard
for men like that to admit any sort of weakness. Losing
the farm would be the end of the world for Warren Leach. He must be close to the edge.'

‘
I understand.'

‘
Do you, Ben? I'm not sure.'

‘
What do you mean?'

‘
I mean I'd watch out for Warren Leach, if I were
you. When a man is driven close to the edge, he might
do anything. And, unlike you, Ben, some men can com
pletely lose sight of what's right and what's wrong.'