Ritual (16 page)

‘Enjoy yourself, won’t you?’ he said, and helped himself to the tag-ends of David’s shepherd’s pie.

David stepped out into the warm moonlight and shut the door behind him.

The women smiled to one another and left the table. They frisked up stairs to prepare for the evening.

To his amazement, the night was hot on his face when he left the alleyway. Midsummer’s Eve was here. He remembered Shakespeare’s Dream, and other stories not so sweet. The night burned like curry breath on his face. Even if magic is only the products of a hypersensitive imagination, or only a thousand years of electricity crackling in a wood waiting for a believer, or a madness loved by madmen. Even if it’s only fractions of all these, it is present in this village on this Midsummer in England, he thought. And, in spite of myself, I believe.

As David passed the cottages, he realised there wasn’t a single light on in a single room. The houses were like tombstones under the moon. Where had everyone gone? He checked his watch. Ten-forty.

Within three minutes, with the aid of his torch, he moved into the wood. Immediately he knew he was being followed. His watcher wanted him to know he was there. A twig sharply exploded under a foot.

Trying to scare me, I shouldn’t wonder. Well, they’re doing a bloody good job! I feel someone tonight will really try to kill me—and not just with thought-transference, either. This time it will be very physical. It could, of course, be Gypo—or Gregory Peck—or both. Let’s face it, it could be anybody!

Gnats attacked his face with remarkable consistency. Tonight the wood was oppressive. A moth skittered against his neck. An owl with a vanguard of rooks shrieked towards him. Someone was putting the screws on the animals. The rooks gouged towards his eves. He ducked. Then hit out with his torch. It was pointless. He knew the birds wanted flesh. Wherever he moved, they followed. Their penknife beaks were eager to sign autographs on his cheek bones. And then, just as he felt it was goodnight, a whistle curved through the black leaves and the birds seemed hypnotised. They flapped their night wings against his arms, but were pulled away from him by the musical notes. Then they crarked their way home to their master. Whoever he was.

David took advantage of the lull in the experiment and cut east towards Cready’s Manor. The magicians were giving him a free demonstration. Like most people he had a certain amount of guts against the known, but he wished to Christ his fear of the
unknown
was not so acute.

As he left the wood and approached the Manor, he noticed a quiet yellow fire burning in the trees at the bottom of the lawn. He’d never been to this particular garden gate before. It was the entrance the children had used earlier that morning. He rang the iron chain on the side of the gate. Even before he had tugged it once, Martin simpered across the lawn to let him in. David flashed the torch in his face. He would love to shake up this muscular crutch-lover. When the circle of light hit Martin’s face, David’s mouth creaked open with surprise.

Martin was wearing highly stylised feminine make-up. His eyes were painted a magenta green. The eyebrows were perfect black half ellipses. The cheeks were rouged and the mouth was like a slit vein. The slit vein widened into a full circle, revealing the teeth. Martin assimilated a smile.

‘Come in, Inspector. If you look surprised at the outward signs, whatever will you do when you have to face your insides!’

16

No sooner had David stepped into the wood, than a scuffle of feet tip-toed into the street. Animals’ feet. In a dancing rhythm the celebrations began. First the children cowled in animal skins. Gilly wore a snuffly beaver’s mask and paws. Susan and Joan were March Hares in June. The twins wore lizards’ heads. They throbbed like human drums onto the dead street. Slowly, slowly, with moon silver on their black hoods, the grown ups followed. They all carried torches. Ribbons of smoke stung their eyes as the old rhythms, older than dancing, took over their bodies. Then two huge barrels grated onto the cobble-stones, each propelled by two villagers. They were in a hurry. The sea demanded them.

A huge figure with a goat mask swayed onto the street. And then Mrs. Spark, witch and loving it, arrived. She led the dancers. Dressed in a black cowl, hair plastered back from her forehead with oil, she moved to the sea. Like a black river heightened with flame, the villagers followed her. The witch focussed on the moon. The children beat their furry paws on the ground. Mr. Rowbottom padded forward in his wolf mask and the goat was the epilogue.

Soon they left the road and took a short cut through the cornfields. The sea pulled them to the circle of Midsummer. Each generation prepared the whole year for this celebration. It was the ritual of blood. Part of their breathing. Even if they wanted to escape the fire in themselves, it would be impossible. They owed allegiance to the elements without which they could not live. Air, fire, water and earth. Tangible elements, not the vagaries of a crucified Christ. They had nothing against Christ. He was a miracle maker, but his bitter Passion was not theirs.

Their shadows flickered like hedgehogs over the corn. They felt the apex of the year demanding in their groins and feet. And the contents of the heavy barrels would be the catalyst.

Suddenly Anna Spark and the three labourers appeared in the middle distance. They were the last to leave the village. The labourers wore grey horse heads and black cloaks. Anna was draped in white bear’s fur. Only her pink mouth sucked in the moonlight, as the top of her face was masked. The four of them were dragging something extremely heavy in a bundle of sacks. The children left off dancing and padded to help them. They all dragged the sacks along the ground. The labourers were very grateful for the children’s help.

No one spoke. Other than the pad of feet, the creaking barrels and the sacks, the night was silent. Awake, but silent. An owl razored a mouse’s neck with only a gurgle. The animal world was content to wait for the humans. Content to wait for the first real kill. Midnight would ring her bells. The sea was hissing nearer and nearer. The dancers itched with impatience but did not hurry. Their dance was slow, slow, slow with the fever to come.

*

Martin led David over the warm lawn. They walked past the archery gallery towards the fire in the poplars. There was no wind. The moon was heavy on David’s shoulders. He’d never known it as heavy. He found it difficult to walk.

‘On a night such as this, Inspector, the natural order of things is against the sophisticated. I suggest you relax into the pull of the moon, or it will control you.’

David laughed. But then he remembered his childhood. One moon night he was lying in bed with the window wide open. It must have been towards twelve. He was staring at the domed sky. Like tonight, there was a conspicuous absence of stars. He found he was being hypnotised by the craters scribbled on the moon. He was being drawn into the moon’s circle. The sky itself was only a blurred violet on the perimeter of his vision. The moon was everything. Like tonight. It was crawling towards him. There was nothing but whiteness. He tried to pull his eyes back into himself. But he couldn’t. He was possessed by the moon. Then the horror came. The moon came through the window to devour him. He screamed with nine years of fear behind him. The moon fed on his brain. He ran down the stairs and burst in on his parents, who were entertaining friends. They had the lights off, and the curtains drawn. He screamed again. They s topped playing their game of table-tapping. The table rocked on its pedestal then bit into the wall.

No, his parents didn’t smack him. They didn’t even make him pay to have the wall replastered. Oh, they were good while they lived. They listened to his terror, gave him two Aspros and tucked him into sleep. But the dreams got him and worked him over.

They reached the fire. David tugged himself into the present. The fire danced on a primitive altar of stones. Beyond the altar was an Oriental conceit of a pool. There was something basically phoney about the whole thing. But David wasn’t sure what. He only knew it was for
his
benefit.

Martin folded his arms. He was practically naked except for a long black waistcoat affair. The waistcoat was buttonless. In fact, it hardly had a front. His muscular chest was painted to give the effect of a young girl’s breasts. The nipples licked the edge of the waistcoat like dwarfs’ tongues. David couldn’t believe his eyes. Also Martin wore a ridiculous pair of diaphanous pantaloons. Black, of course. They were hipsters. Well, more or less. David realised indecency was to be the order of the evening. To complete the illusion Martin had shaved the curling hair from the visible portions of his navel. The armpits were shaved, too. They gave off a musk scent.

David pushed Oliver Cromwell back inside his braces. There was no point in being squeamish. The hermaphrodite treats had only just begun. But it was still phoney. Or was it? He wasn’t sure any more. He presumed they were waiting for the Circus Master—or Mistress—as you prefer. He drifted to the triangular pond. It stank of decayed leaves and flesh. In the apex of the triangle, there was naturally a lewd statue of Pan rutting a classical sea nymph classically. The altar, the pool, the rutting and the hermaphrodite were all being laid on with a big trowel. But why?

Suddenly ice slithered down the nape of his neck. David wrenched himself round and there was Cready.

‘Your fingers are like ice!’

‘Naturally, Inspector. I have a piece of ice in my fingers. It’s always good to rest a piece on the main artery. It relaxes one before making an invocation.’ He threw the slither of ice to Martin, who caught it. ‘Put it under your armpits, Sugar Plum. It will cool down that disgusting musk which is setting my nostrils on fire.’

David considered whether he should strangle them both now or later. No one would notice their absence. The pool would gnaw them to fish food. Only the odd bubble would disturb the surface.

‘Oh, don’t be so naïve, Inspector. There are two of us. Enjoy the ceremony. You have a box seat. Do you like my gear? I bought it back with me from Japan.’

Cready’s ‘gear’ was certainly impressive. He was dressed in the correct Satanic black. He looked like a monk who wanted to be a Japanese nun. The silk fitted him better than his own skin. Under the tight robe, he was obviously wearing a school girl’s bra and an Elizabethan cod-piece. The effect was tremendously subtle! The transvestite. Also Cready had the full make-up on, like his lover. Presumably they’re lovers, thought David. A couple of old queens!

He had to admit that in a disagreeable sort of way they were amusing. They both want to play Madame Butterfly. That’s their problem. His police faculties shrivelled up inside him. Everything was pointless. Why arrest them? Why arrest anybody? They were harmless. Gently perverted but harmless. At least they enjoyed their little vices. More than most people.

He decided he’d hand in his resignation in the morning. Yes, that’s what he would do. Apply to be an assistant librarian. Not a chief librarian, of course. That would be too responsible a position. No—assistant librarian would suit him fine. Bring your own packed lunch and have one of the typists for dessert with a bottle of Spanish Chablis in the lavatory. Perfect. The discipline and respectability would keep Oliver Cromwell happy. And the hand up the skirt would keep Hanlin’s lechery happy. That’s what he’d do! Resign tomorrow on the grounds of hallucinations. He’d only have to tell his super about these two and he’d be given the sack on the spot for a dirty imagination!

Having worked out his life, he decided to go for a midnight swim in the nude. Perhaps anarchy would suit him better. Perhaps they had something, the way they lived here, living out their smutty fantasies. At least they were doing what they wanted. Which was more than he could say for himself. He’d worked all his life against crime and what had he to show for it; a bad memory, constant failure, and nightmares. Well, he could get those without any effort at all. Perhaps if he indulged himself a little, life might be more interesting. He always wanted to let his imagination go but he’d never dared.

Why don’t I satisfy the cravings inside me? But I’m like all Puritans. The Abyss is always round the corner for my sort. I’m an extremist, and when I’m disillusioned, the dark’s very attractive. And yet, and yet, I’m misleading myself—I’m forgetting something—something to do with blood—what is it?

He slammed down his mental visor and walked away from the queens. Behind him a flame snagged off the altar and singed a poplar. David turned. The stench of urine misted his nostrils. Cready was pouring what could have only been urine, from a jade phial onto the blaze. Instead of dampening the flame, the fire seemed to feed off the waste product as though it were petrol.

It reminded him of his mother dying. She lost control of her bowels. The fog of urine clung to the room for weeks after her death. He was glad she had died without much pain. It was only in the last week that disease pulled out the decaying teeth from the gums of her body. Pain, and the perfume of corrupting flesh were her final companions, though.

As he walked back to the altar, David wondered why he no longer wished to bathe nude in the sea. It was as if Cready were deliberately creating physical manifestations to jog his memory. But how could he? Cready didn’t know anything of his history. Or did he? He found himself staring into the fire. Watching.

Cready smiled. Then he produced two swords from behind the altar. David remembered he’d seen them earlier that morning. Cready thrust their white blades into the guts of the fire. They didn’t blacken with the wood smoke. They remained white and immune. After five minutes of sword purification, Cready slithered them out of the fire and levelled them like bull’s horns at the belly of the moon.

The moon ignored them and tugged at David’s shoulders. For the first time since that boyhood evening, David knew the prologue to moon madness. He felt its power. The swords narrowed like the apex of goring horns. David was led to the craters scribbled on the moon. The moon was leaving the sky to possess him.

*

The moon possessed the beach and the heavy suck of the sea. In the centre of the sand, a bonfire of dead sycamore branches crackled out of time to the waves. The barrels were now open, and the villagers—even the children—were helping themselves to its contents, a mixture of crude spirit and home-made wine. Mrs. Spark watched them. She knew that the annual brew would release their tensions. Inhibitions would go. They would slide into the sensual fever. There would be no going back. End of reality. Beginning of nightmare. And her power absolute.

Within minutes the children were dancing in a slow circle round the fire. Their feet padded into the slushy sand. The villagers slowly joined them. And the dance was slowly danced. Bare feet, animal masks, the horse, the wolf, the hare, the goat, beat out time to their fever.

The labourers walked unsteadily to the sacks. They had left them by the trees. They dragged them over the moist sand. It took them some minutes to reach the sea.

Dancers, children and grown-ups, weaved dark blotches round the fire. Guttural noises barked out of their mouths. The dissonance grew. Then the witch took two swords out of a pile of rags and raised them to the moon. The dancers padded away from the fire and danced round her. They believed. Their agony was to believe. They had no reservation in their worship. Above the thud of their feet, she chanted;

‘Light, half light of earth, darkness is always and ever. There is no other way in the living. Only the fluted call of the darkness, and always and ever the lust to perform the ritual of having, so corn will grow from our fingers and milk will spirt from our mouths. You half light of earth, you have eaten the groins of our fathers and given them sperm in the moonlight to breed. The worship of dark lasts for ever.’

The goat put a flute to his human mouth and fluted the call of the darkness. The notes were soft like moss. They were held beyond hearing. The dancers were drowned in the flute notes which sang through the sound of the sea. The witch was on fire with the moon.

*

David stared as the swords glowed to a point, skewering the moon. But the moon did not leave the sky. He relaxed. Cready screamed defiance at the light. Hate jerked from his mouth. He seemed to border on epilepsy. Martin was the same. David watched sensuality take over the queens. They screeched like hysterical women. Their screams chipped at his sanity. The high falsettos cut through him.

‘Shut up, I say, shut up!’ he yelled at them.

But they turned on him like vindictive whores. They leered their carmine mouths and male breasts.

‘Why don’t you drink our sweat, Inspector?’

He knew they were deliberately attacking the basis of his Puritanism. It was the sexual shock treatment all right. He knew however hard he fought, he knew that between them they could do what they liked. He wanted to run. He was terrified of the unnatural. He found he was backing across the lawn. The hot grass caressed his ankles. The roof of his mouth was a squeezed lemon.