Ritual (18 page)

‘Billy was dead long before he reached the hospital—which is hardly surprising when you consider that he was found with this hat-pin thrust through his left ear-hole right into the centre of the brain! If I had not spent years of my life studying the subtleties of ritual, it would have taken a doctor quite some time to discover the cause of death. The pin was thrust so deep in the ear that hadn’t I known what I was looking for, I would never have found it!’

The dancers were dumbfounded. No one questioned him. They waited for the accusations. David continued, ‘It was very clever of you to decoy me with Mr. Cready’s melodrama. I must admit I was really taken in. Right in. I nearly missed the soap opera! And that was really professional!

‘I’ve got a very strong feeling about the killer, Mrs. Spark! You had the motivation and the means, didn’t you? And this hat pin is a very feminine weapon, too. I’m not accusing you—yet. I want all of you! I want to throw the book at all of you! And tonight as good a time as any...’

‘If you know so much about us, why don’t you act? Why don’t you?’ said Mrs. Spark, completely unruffled. ‘Arrest me! Go on, arrest me! You’re conducting this case in a very strange way, aren’t you? Perhaps you’re frightened of something. Frightened. But you’re not sure what of, are you? I think you’re cracking up...!’

She continued to insult him. She’s right, thought David. If I’m so sure she’s a murderess, why don’t I arrest her? At least on suspicion? It’s something in this village! Eating into my brain. I’ve lost my mental energy. Well, losing it. No precision in thinking.

He knew he was being stripped down to his emotions. Everything he’d done so far had been on the basis of passion. Not logical thought. Why couldn’t he arrest her? His hands dragged on his wrists. His feet seemed to disintegrate in the sand. He was so tired. Centuries of implied evil in this village had unlocked his bones and brain. He just wanted to sleep. Curl up and sleep. Mrs. Spark had challenged him and he could only stare limply. The sea was purring to itself.

‘Why don’t you arrest me? Why don’t you arrest me?’ she repeated.

Anna came forward. Her hands were nervously crossed over her breasts.

‘David, I’m sorry. I know what’s happening to you. It happens to everyone here. Sometimes it takes days, sometimes months and sometimes years, but it always happens. You see, everything’s unreal here.’

The Squire and the labourers ordered her to be quiet. She ignored them.

‘You’ll lose your reason. Your will to do anything will leave you. You should’ve brought Scotland Yard with you. No one could tie this up by themselves. No one!’

She clenched her fingers into his arms. He could smell wine on her breath and sex on her hands. He felt sick. She knew what he was thinking.

‘David, there’s part of me that wants this over! If my mother murdered Billy, she must be put away. But you don’t have any proof, do you? Only desperation! And that’s not enough! You’ll only drive yourself mad. Go home.’

He wanted to beat her. Of course, he didn’t. He realised it was only frustration. Like everything else. He had nothing to say. He just wanted to go to sleep. They were winning hands down. He’d even forgotten how to gather information. He didn’t want to any more, in any case. God, he was sleepy. But he daren’t go to sleep because he knew they would attack his dreams. So he just stood there, swaying, with the fire on his face.

The Squire spoke to him sharply. ‘Hanlin, don’t delve out of your depth. Not just an orgy, this! Far more. It eats us alive!’

David was determined to make a last attempt. Even though he was so tired... so tired... He knew that everyone was focusing their quiet hate on him. He tried to shake off the growing hypnosis. He shouted, shouted!

‘Mrs. Spark! Mrs... Spark...!’ It was a tremendous effort to speak. He found it difficult to force his aching mouth round the words. The consonants stayed behind his teeth. ‘Mrs. Spark... I arrest you in the name of the law... any... anything you say, will... will... will... be tttaken down…’

No more words came. He swayed. He wanted to fall into the fire and sleep.

A small shell tweaked his mouth. Someone had thrown it. Then another shell hit him. This time it stung the faded scar on his eyelid. It partially woke him up. Two more shells ricocheted off his chest. Than a sharp stone twanged his funny-bone. He shuddered.

The children were the culprits. They were lifting handfuls of sea-ammunition and throwing them. At him. The Indians were turning ugly. Five more stones hit him. One was thrown by Mr. Rowbottom. Slowly, with cold precision, the villagers began to stone him. Their arms were physical extensions of their hate. Anna tried to stop them but they brushed her aside. Then a large stone cut his ankle. He decided to run. He knew under ordinary circumstances he wouldn’t. But that was a long time ago. So he ran. Stones struck his shoulder-blades and the back of his head. And he ran. He ran into the woods.

Cready and Martin sneered as he passed them. As he ran, he realised that
he
had given the performance tonight—not them. And a bad one, too. He wanted out. Sleep. Death. Anything. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter...

18

David ran through the wood. He knew he was being followed as usual. He was sure the witch was talking to him. He tried to close his mind against the thought-waves.

All he wanted to do now was to ring Scotland Yard and have all responsibility taken away from him. But she continued to break his privacy. Not that he had much of that left. He felt as if everyone were using his mind as a cesspool to dump all their filth in. His body jogged up and down as he forced one leg in front of another. Then he understood what she was saying, over and over; ‘You will go mad tomorrow, you will go mad, quite mad, tomorrow, you will go...’

Gypo watched the desperate policeman. He was pleased. Once he was sure that Hanlin had left the wood, Gypo slithered through the warm undergrowth until he reached a small wooden hut. He opened the door. The black furnace of trapped air stung his face. Quickly he unslung his bow and notched an arrow into the gut. Five bats creaked out of the hut towards him. So he loosed the arrow. The bat found itself quite dead, arrowed through its silken belly to the hut door.

‘Got you, me little bastard! Got you! I’ll get them all—a copper’s no exception! Here comes another.’

Four more bats twirled their wings in the moonlight like oiled leaves on froth. Gypo hit two of them with one arrow. It ripped off the first’s head before tearing into the lungs of the second.

‘Oh, I know things. I know everything. You don’t go lonely in woods in summer without knowing things! I know a killer when I see one. I know who killed our Billy. I know.’

He talked to the torn bats. Another member of the leather Air Force flapped towards him. He loosed an arrow but missed. This put him in a bad mood. He ripped the dead bats off his arrows before cleaning them, then returned the arrows to his quiver. Then he ran, with a scrunched bat in his hand, to an oak tree on the sea edge of the wood. He listened for a moment to the flute and the throbbing feet. But he ignored them. He opened a small purse, which he carried in his jeans’ back pocket. Having selected a bronze hat-pin, he stuck it through the bat, and pinned it to the tree.

‘That’ll worry him! That will! No one has any idea of the lovely way of killing. Perhaps I’m gently cracked but I can still stir things up! Tomorrow I’ll shake him! Shake him!’

Having surveyed his handiwork and given the bat a final wing-straightening, he disappeared into the hot dark.

*

The Inspector had been standing outside the telephone box for about a quarter of an hour. He knew he’d ring in the end. But he was teasing himself with the possibility that he wouldn’t. He’d fallen into a major decline. As a boy, he would never have dithered. But then again, he would never have given in like he had tonight. Oh, he could still fight crime, but he couldn’t fight mental corruption, bordering on the supernatural.

He went into the booth, dialled Chief Inspector Peter Thornton’s private residence. He heard the telephone ring at the other end. In his imagination he could see his Super in the middle of a humping session. Thornton’s sweaty forehead reeking of tobacco and curry as he nibbled the nipples of his Russian girlfriend. The telephone continued to ring. At last the receiver was wrenched off its cradle and the sticky roar of his super exploded in his ear.

‘Who the bloody hell is that at this time of night? If that’s you, Hanlin, I’ll have you out on your diarrhoea ear!’

David pulled himself together and shouted back, ‘It is me, sir, and I’m handing in my resignation. Now, don’t blow your top! I haven’t the time or the energy to listen!’

‘Hanlin!’ screeched Thornton. ‘Hanlin, what the...!’

‘I said shut up and listen, sir! And I meant shut up and listen! A ritual murder occurred this afternoon. A young boy, Billy Thompson, was found dead under the usual oak tree, with a hat pin thrust through his left ear into his brain. Not very nice.’

‘Why, in the name of Leicester Square Urinal, didn’t you ring me before? I’ve told you... Hey, what did you say about handing in your sanguinary resignation?’

‘So, sir, I want you to send me down tracker dogs, two patrol cars at least, and let the Press know. I want this village blown sky-high. I want to terrify these bastards down here into voluntary confession. I want...’

‘
You
want?’ howled his super. ‘What’s it got to fornicating do with what you want? We’re not running the whoring police-force for your benefit. I have to carry the can back if you bugger it up! So you’d better be pretty hot on your facts, or I’ll make you crudding suffer!’

‘To what I’ve been through, Chief, anything you did would be a holiday. By the way, I refuse to retract my resignation. I’ll see this case through. Unless, of course, you’d like me to stop now. And then I’m going to apply for a Librarian’s post in the Scilly Isles. The reason I didn’t ring before was that I hadn’t enough evidence to make them sweat. And what I witnessed tonight even Old Compton Street Club Cinemas would be impressed with. But now I realise I can’t deal with it on my own. Yes, laugh if you want to—but even you, Chief, would find your bowels turning to water here!’

‘Don’t you swear at me, you middle-aged basket!’

‘So if your men don’t find me around, it’s because I’m going to have one last attempt my way—whether you like it or not! No, don’t interrupt me! I said don’t. Your men can pick up anyone in this village and charge them with absolutely anything and hold them indefinitely! And I mean anyone and anything! Except, of course, the Vicar and Mr. Spark. He’s married to a witch, by the way. She’s high on the suspect list. The witch, not the vicar! Please don’t blaspheme, sir. Your sexy lady won’t like it! Now give her all you’ve got! If you’ve got anything left to give, that is!’

And David hung up. He felt marvellous. He’d been wanting to do that for years. He performed a quick scissor movement with his legs, made a vague jump at the moon, and whistled his way down the High Street. He no longer had any authority to do anything. Wonderful! Oh, he knew he would get a bollocking from his super. He knew Thornton would demand him to take his resignation back. But he wouldn’t. He was nearly forty, fairly broke and just this side of a mental breakdown. And that’s the way he wanted to stay.

The yew trees in St. Peter’s Churchyard trembled. The dead were eating the roots. There was a bitter scent by the churchyard wall.

David paused under a yew tree and instinctively peered into the graveyard. Morbid fascination, perhaps. He was always trying to calm his subconscious fears by daring himself to face the probability of the supernatural. He didn’t believe in arbitrary powers outside humanity. He didn’t believe that good or evil were independent forces, either. And yet, and yet, what had happened to him tonight was more than being attacked by other people’s minds. They had something extra to bombard him with. Perhaps they’d harnessed other dimensional power. Maybe they’d opened their subconscious stream and allowed the history of concentrated evil in. Centuries of man’s evil waiting in corners of rooms and angles of trees, waiting to climb into willing minds. Their power was simply based on the darkness lying around them. They’d compressed it into their imaginations. Either that, or Hanlin was going mad. What happens, he thought, if nothing has happened? What happens if it’s all the products of my brain? What happens then?

As he peered at the tombstones and the church spire, he was aware of someone standing over Dian’s grave. The figure was hardly distinguishable from the creeping ivy. Quietly, David vaulted over the wall. His fear was quenched by his excitement. Placing his desert boots one in front of the other, and avoiding twigs, he manoeuvred himself until he was some six feet away from the figure. David stepped behind the shadow-weavings of two yew trees. Their trunks tightened in a tree embrace.

I’ll give our grave visitor a small fright. Yes, that’s what I’ll do!

Smoothly he shook one of the overhanging branches. The leaves rippled together like tinfoil. The branch complained and shadows stalked over the grave visitor. The visitor felt the shadows hit his neck, so he bent down and picked up a bucket-like object from between his feet. David creaked another bough and then swung it wildly through the leaves. It hissed like boiling water on cold glass. The visitor seemed unimpressed by David’s ghost performance. He just continued doing what he was doing—whatever that was.

Having suffered supernatural indignity long enough, the figure spoke without even looking round, ‘Oh, do please transport yourself from the murky shadows. It is so boring!’

David realised that the visitor was his ‘favourite’; the Reverend White, extraordinaire. His spooking had come to a close so he sauntered out into the moonlight. He looked down to see exactly what the Reverend was holding. It was a rusty old watering can. The Reverend set it between his feet to greet his guest.

David spoke first. He knew if he didn’t get his questions in now he wouldn’t have a chance later. The Reverend’s main vice was uncontrolled high falutin’ chat! Though why question him? David thought. My official function as a policeman terminated ten minutes ago. Well, I’m curious. Secretly I’d like to solve the odd mystery. And it’s bound to be odd!

‘Exactly what are you doing, Reverend? Desecrating Dian’s grave?’

The Reverend laughed. Everyone in this village always laughed before they lied. It was part of their style.

‘Watering the flowers on the graves, my dear Inspector.’ ‘My Dear Inspector’ was a lie for a start!

‘How nice for you, Reverend. I would have thought that you would have had something better to do. Religious flagellation...’

‘I beg your pardon!’

‘Religious flagellation of your flock to begin with! For your flock needs flagellating because it’s bloody evil!’

‘You see, Inspector, I have to water the flowers on the graves. This heat would kill them. And we’ve got enough dead around here with any encouragement from me! But that’s not the real reason I’m here.’

‘I’ll bet it’s not!’

‘The real reason is that I actually came to water the dead themselves.’

‘You what?’ He’s a complete nutter, this one! Nutty as a Cadbury’s!

‘Oh, yes, you see, the dead get very lonely after midnight. No one comes to see them but me. So I bestow a little of my dewy leisure on them.’

David groaned. If only he’d gone straight to bed like a good boy, he would’ve missed all this. Instead, he’d moved from one lot of nutters to the next. Well, now I’m here, I might as well fulfil the odd police function, he thought. It was strange how years of police questions took over. All the old inquiries tumbled out. But David was no longer interested in the answers. He was simply fulfilling a function. He stood outside himself, outside the graveyard, outside England. At last he was completely himself. The answers didn’t matter, and yet, and yet... there was always ‘and yet’.

Even having acclimatised himself to failure, there were still areas of his personality that demanded success. The conflict went on. The gravestones understood. Under them was out and peace. No complexes only decomposition.

‘Where were you at three o’clock this afternoon? Near the giant oak tree?’

‘Of course I was. I always take my constitutionals there after half a bottle of Sandeman’s Port. Naturally, I’m only being spiritually humorous. If you follow the alcoholic pun...’

‘Less of the linguistics and more of the alibi, if you please!’ insisted the Inspector.

‘Well, since you ask me so nicely. I saw someone running away from the oak tree.’

‘Who?’

‘I think it was a man. Though one can never ascertain correctly these days. Anyway, the runner wore trousers.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Like a man! That’s, of course, if he wasn’t a woman. I’m afraid my sight is a little blurred over long distances. That’s why I’m unsure of the sexual possibilities.’

‘So you must have been the first person to see the body after the murderer.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Unless, of course, you were the murderer.’

‘Are you daring to…?’

‘Well, if you weren’t responsible, why didn’t you report what you’d seen immediately?’

‘You never asked me to. If you remember, you didn’t tell me you were an officer of the law. You wouldn’t trust me with your identity. I had to find it out in the pub—er—lic lavatory, I mean, library, from Mrs. Spark. She told me. Well, I surmised, if he’s clever enough to find his murderer without my divine assistance, let him do just that!’

‘All right! All right! I’m sorry, etcetera—but now please tell me all you know!’

‘I’ve told you. I saw this personage run away. I discovered Billy’s body. That’s all.’

‘How do you think he was killed?’

‘I’ve no idea. Surely that’s your job.’ The Reverend grinned. ‘If you wish to interrogate me further, please kindly do it in the morning. Unlike the dead, I need my sleep.’

He grinned again and retired toward the Vicarage. David caught him up.

‘Look, Reverend, you’re obviously far better informed than you pretend. I’m sure you know who the murderer is, and you’re protecting her, aren’t you? For it’s a woman, isn’t it? The local witch? I know you won’t give her away, but allow me to give you some advice.

‘Tomorrow morning Scotland Yard will take this village by storm. They’ll put it through the Third Degree. And they don’t have my humane methods. Oh, no, they go in for strict interrogation and it’s much rougher and tougher than the newspaper stories you’ve read! They’ll beat this village to a pulp. Now, I came here to help—to try and understand—but apparently, no one wants helping or understanding. So now you’ve got the S.S. Troops instead! And they’ll treat the guilty and innocent alike until they’re satisfied who’s who! I’m telling you this because it’s your job as a priest to advise your sheep. Well, I suggest before eleven o’clock tomorrow morning you advise them to relinquish the murderer to us, and then perhaps our Sanitary Department will forget the whole thing! Otherwise, I’ll personally see that sadism and lechery are thrashed out with a big stick! And you’ll come under the hammer as well! Because you know what’s going on here, don’t you? The orgies, etcetera, don’t you? Well?’