Ritual (13 page)

13

In the local village hall, opposite the Cat Butcher and about a minute from St. Peter’s, an official questioning was taking place. Led by the Squire, select villagers were questioning Gilly concerning the death of Dian. Gilly was dazed with the intensity of the speakers. Everyone was having a go. Mrs. Spark inserted her verbal razor blades. Gilly’s own father and mother were just as ruthless. At the moment the three labourers were attacking her.

‘Why were you running so hard away from the tree if it was only an accident, Gilly? Why?’

‘It was an accident! An accident! Accident...!’

The Squire broke the questions with a command. ‘Silence! I’ll explain this to you for the last time, Gilly. If you don’t tell us the truth, we’ll have the Inspector on our backs for weeks! What’s worse, he’ll ruin the celebrations this evening! The truth, Gilly! Or we’ll hold you to blame! You know what that’d mean, don’t you? You
do
know what that would mean, don’t you?’

Gilly looked at her parents. She knew what that would mean all right.

‘I’m telling the truth! How many times do I have to say it? Look, if you don’t believe me I know a way you could find out for sure. Dian told me that her Mum could put people to sleep, and then ask them questions, and then they always had to tell the truth...’

The breathing hushed in the hall. Eyes swivelled to Mrs. Spark. So even a child knew her powers.

Gilly hurtled on regardless. ‘Well, couldn’t you put me to sleep, Mrs. Spark, and then ask me all these questions? And then you’d know if I was telling the truth, or not, wouldn’t you?’

Mrs. Spark spoke to Gilly. ‘Come here, girl, sit on this chair.’

Gilly did so.

‘Look into my eyes, Gilly—no, no, deeper, deeper—until my eyes are everywhere—that’s it—that’s it—it’s water—fathoms of green untroubled water—and now, and now, you are moving down a spiral staircase of water—through corn—yellow corn, shaking their husks together—like rain on the bright water—and now—and now—you are sleeping in the bright water...’

Gilly’s head lolled back over the end of the hard chair. Mrs. Rowbottom held her daughter’s pale hair between her fingers. She whispered, ‘Gilly, tell Mummy, tell Mummy, how did Dian die, Dian die?’

Gilly’s eyes were wide open even though she was sleeping. Too wide. They seemed to stretch like ovals of moon glass. Life had left them. They protruded between her eyelashes.

‘Gilly, come along, darling, tell Mummy—tell Mummy...’

Under the throb of hypnosis, slowly Gilly began to assemble her words. The watchers tensed. They knew that whatever she now said would be the truth. If any fingers were to be pointed, they would be pointed now. Gilly would indict the guilty.

‘Dian’s slowly climbing... slowly climbing the tree... oh, it is so slowly... I’m chewing a bit of grass... sucking the green juice out... she’s laughing... at me... she’s pelting me with twigs and a flurry of oak leaves... and I’m angry... I’m shouting at her... I hate her, really... I hate her Mother... she’s a witch, too... evil…’

Amused eyes flickered in the direction of Mrs. Spark. Gilly’s mother dabbed a blob of sweat which was forming on the bridge of her daughter’s nose.

‘Go on, my darling, tell Mummy what happened next. What happened next.’

Gilly sucked in a hiss of breath.

‘I hate you, Dian Spark, and your rotten mother... it’s your fault the cream from the cows goes rotten... that the chickens die... it’s your fault we have bad harvests... and it always rains... your Mum gives me horrid dreams at night... she gets inside my head and makes the ghosts get me... I wish you both were deader than dead!!!... now she’s laughing at me with those eyes... you know that gleam of hate... and now she’s riding the branch like a broomstick... up and down... down and up... the leaves are chatting together... and look, look, the branch is swinging too high... and she’s twisted her foot against the trunk... she’s going to fall... she’s falling out of the sky... I’ll catch her... catch her... her knees smack my chin... I’ve crunched my cheek against the trunk... listen, please, listen, a flute is playing over the hills and far away... a flute is crying... crying out to me... and Dian... I’m getting up and standing over her... she’s lying there... her neck looks broken like the grass stalk in my hand... Are you all right, Dian? I didn’t mean what I said... about you, and your Mum, and that... I didn’t mean... you can hit me if you like! Or pull my hair... as long as you don’t do it too hard... or I’ll have to clunk you one!... But she’s just lying there... I’m taking her pulse like on the telly... but there’s no throbbing... Are you dead? You are, aren’t you? Aren’t you…?’

Gilly’s head ripped forward. She screamed and screamed and screamed. Mrs. Spark stepped forward and methodically lashed out across Gilly’s cheek bone. Just below the eye. The scream jerked to a dry sob. Gilly was thrust out of her trance.

Mrs. Rowbottom seemed remarkably unconcerned. Other than a white finger mark which was creeping along Gilly’s cheekbone, the girl seemed to be suffering few after-effects. She was unaware she’d been hit. Her mouth licked into the birth of a smile.

‘Was it all right, then, Mum? I was telling the truth, wasn’t I? I mean, it was an accident, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, Gilly,’ purred Mrs. Spark, ‘you were telling the truth.’

Then she turned to the quiet hostility of her audience.

‘Friends, and I mean friends, please, accept my humble apologies for doubting your honesty and your motives. I deserve to be punished for distrusting you. I’m sure I’ll be punished. I ask you to try and forgive me—please!’

Most of her audience were willing to forgive her. They understood the strain she was under. Only Mr. Rowbottom tightened his distaste into hate.

Mrs. Spark finished her plea and left the hall. She had never apologised in her life. The humiliation hurt. She only felt disgust for herself.

The Squire motioned silence after she’d gone.

‘Now, ladies and gentlemen. We can all go home. We’ve enough evidence now to squash the Inspector’s murder theories. Tonight we celebrate! Celebrate!’

A roar of agreement possessed the audience. They surged out of the Hall. Only the stains of tobacco breath and sweat remained inside. The walls closed in on themselves again. They drew the memory of the experiment into the secret history of the building. One day someone with hypersensitive hearing, would come into this Hall and listen. The walls would tell him their history. The listener would hear the story and wonder.

After the meeting had ended, the villagers made their way home. At least, some of them did. One thing was certain, a restlessness had interrupted the routine. No one wanted to be with anyone else. Husbands and wives walked on the opposite sides of the road. Walking was the order of the day. They by-passed their houses. Some went to the woods. Some to the sea. Midsummer churned their brains to hot cream.

*

Inspector Hanlin was still pursuing Fat Billy. He’d searched the surrounds of the great oak tree. Twice. Then he’d retraced his aching footsteps in the woods. He was now completing a rapid patrol of the beach.

Yes, children’s footprints, all right. Soggy with sea. But no children. The footprints could have been made by any child.

Worn out, he headed for the village, by way of the Squire’s house.

Hanlin paused outside the gate. The white horse was no longer in the field. He walked back to examine the grass. To his surprise, there were no signs of fresh horse dung. Yesterday’s dried manure, yes, but nothing else. Where had the horse gone? Cynically he considered the possibility of the Squire having sold it to the cat butcher as best sirloin. Anything was possible in this village!

He decided to enquire. David was uncertain why, but he knew the disappearance of the horse was vitally significant.

Tired. He felt very tired. Lack of sleep dragged at his eyes. Twitching growth of stubble irritated his upper lip and chin. Sweat tweaked the hairs under his arms and crotch. He’d been wearing the same clothes since he left London and needed a bath.

Having reached the Squire’s cottage, he rapped on the door. To no effect. He clattered three times. No answer. So he continued his jaunt to the village. Hunger began to squeeze and complain. One round of cold toast and a flick of marmalade made him feel like a scruffy monk on penance for a filthy mind.

Twenty minutes later he reached the village, having twice removed broken pieces of shell from his shoes. He was really tired now. He looked at his watch. My God, twelve o’clock! Time just does not exist in those woods. Only the fear exists there.

He entered the main street. Suddenly he remembered his paperknife. He took it out of his pocket. With his penknife be began to add sophisticated twirls to the dragon’s tail. He felt he could even gobble the dragon down, fire and all, he was so hungry.

Once inside the dark cool of the cottage, he lugged himself up the stairs. Even before he reached the upper landing, he knew that there was someone in his room. That could only mean one of the settlers had decided to search it. But why? He tip-toed across the landing. The door of his room was closed. With extreme care, he slid his shoulder against the door frame and turned the handle. Softly does it. That’s it. Swinging the door in a wide arc, he entered.

Anna was sitting on the bed examining the contents of his case. On the coverlet beside her, there was a plate of sandwiches, cut in fresh triangles. He closed the door behind him. She was vaguely frightened. The upper side of a clear wave turned in her eyes.

‘I just came to see how you were. Brought you something to eat. Why didn’t you come to me last night?’

Her words interrupted each other. In reply he crammed a tomato and cucumber triangle into his mouth. As he scrunched the sharp cucumber on his side teeth, he said, ‘You’ll end up dead, Dian—I mean, Anna! What were you doing with those children? Whatever it was it was bestial.’

He munched two other sandwiches, noting that crab and gooseberry jam didn’t really mix. His hunger was a decimal point this side of vomiting. She watched him gorge. She liked the dark muscles clenching and unclenching under his chin.

‘Why didn’t you come into my room last night, David? I wanted it. I would have impressed you. I felt you hot through the cold wall. Forgive my lack of modesty, but after all, we are only enlightened animals, aren’t we?’

Her hand flickered like a lizard’s tongue towards his core. She was disappointed to find he was unimpressed. His penis was as slack as a discarded snake’s skin. She stared at him bewildered.

‘Don’t you fancy me? I know in my bowels that you really want to have me. Don’t you?’

David removed his sunglasses. Her tense fingers left his groin. She made a final attempt. She stroked the trouser leg hard against his upper thigh. Nothing. So she curved her nipple against him. She was beginning to bore him.

His Puritan mind allocated time and place for sensuality. The time was midnight and the place, the lady’s bed. Not now and on his carpet. Patiently he searched his fingers into her rich hair. Minute flakes of scurf stuck to his fingernails. Then he gripped a handful of hair and unceremoniously yanked her to her feet. She screamed! He rammed his hand over her wet mouth. She snapped at him. He avoided her teeth. Releasing his grip on mouth and hair, he deposited her on the bed. She stretched her breasts and arms towards him. His very controlled cruelty proved to be a further aphrodisiac. He accepted her offer by thrusting two sandwiches into his mouth and stepping right away from the bed.

‘Anna, I’ll be forced to give you a good hiding with my braces if you don’t close your apertures and pull yourself together! On a midnight, if I’m desperate, I might condescend to have you. But as things stand, you’re a nymphomaniac and I’m a policeman. I have a job to do and it isn’t you! Now I suggest you talk. And I mean, talk.’

As he said this, he unbuttoned his braces. Fortunately, his trousers fitted so he wasn’t reduced to his long underpants. Anna grinned. He twanged them free without taking his jacket off.

‘Oh, David. Lovely! Beaten first, followed by sublime nooky! So your kink is braces on a nude arse, is it? Or perhaps across the breasts? Or...?’

Oliver Cromwell charged behind David’s eyes. Foam grimed the corners of his mouth. He brought the lash of his braces down on her wrist. His attitude was that of the school master. He certainly didn’t enjoy inflicting pain. Her green eyes glazed. She liked it. It was an experience. Not a new one in pain, but very stimulating because a policeman was responsible. And she’d never had a Detective Inspector before—plus sunglasses and braces!

He prepared to lash her across the wrist again. She suddenly realised that sex wouldn’t follow. She changed her mind about enjoying it and decided to play for time. Already she’d heard from her mother that Dian’s death was definitely an accident. Her mother wanted the Inspector back in London. Anna just wanted the Inspector. And she wasn’t going to allow him out of her talons until she’d had him.

‘Mother has definite proof—she says—that Dian was not murdered!’

‘Well, do go on.’

She saw the icebergs submerge in his eyes. His irises warmed from purple to pink. Self-conscious under her stare, David locked his sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose. ‘Well, go on!’

‘Well, they put young Gilly Rowbottom in a hypnotic trance. As you probably know, my mother’s recognised as the village witch. So she did it. The word “witch” has many interpretations. She is whatever you like her to be. What would you like her to be, sexy David.’