Ritual (4 page)

‘... alone and palely loitering...’

James began to giggle. William followed suit. Cready was unimpressed, and continued the recital.

Mrs. Spark set the silver tray on the sideboard and sat at the foot of the table. Amid guffaws, Cready completed the poem, unimpressed by the intellectual reception. The listeners were nervous and he knew it. After all, they’re part of any country experiment, he thought. They are the explosive element in the orchards and cornfields. They stimulate me. And he closed the book. They are the bread and I am the yeast!

In the cool room, twelve eyes focused on Mrs. Spark. Her midnight emeralds answered them.

‘Will he come do you think? To make the round? Will he?’

Fourteen eyes stared at the empty owl-headed chair at the top of the table.

Lawrence Cready dribbled softly out of the righthand corner of his mouth, retrieved the dribble with a beige-coloured tongue and murmured; ‘He wouldn’t miss it for words. Oh, he wouldn’t miss it!’

*

David Hanlin walked casually towards the woods, noting a telephone booth three hundred yards to his left. He stopped by it.

Half running, Squire Fenn abruptly came out of the woods. He flickered an eye over the stranger and ran on. David walked out and intercepted him.

‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but could you tell me if I’m going the right way for the famous giant oak? You know, where the little girl had the accident...’

Obviously, the Squire was in a hurry and unwilling to be specific. He swung his arm in a 45-degree arc.

‘Over there! Just keep going. You can’t miss it. There’s only forty thousand oak trees between you and it!’

The Squire jogged into the village. David was pleased that the settlers were being so co-operative. Almost as helpful as the Indians. He left the road and felt excited as his feet passed from tarmac to scorched grass on the edge of the wood. Once under the trees he knew his eyes would be safe from the sun. He ran into the feather-green shadows and listened with his hands and his feet. Deep down. Listened. Remembered childhood. The past leap-frogged into his eyes.

His brother, younger than him, died in an airplane crash. And they would hunt one another in woods like these.

Blackberries and strawberries uncoiled under his feet like electric springs. He felt the earth pulling him down. Deeper than slugs and snails, he was being drawn into the whirlpool of summer. Inside his city fingers there was the damp scent of last year’s pinecones and bluebells. Boyhood bluebells plucked so they scream as they’re snapped from the earth. Boyhood.

He found he had gathered a bunch of honeysuckle. Wet, it clung to his hands. With one hand he removed his sun glasses. His mauve eyes rested in the cool. It was luscious. Too luscious. Unreal. But he had come to these woods for a purpose.

My brother, funny kid! We’d take our bows and arrows to the woods. Without Mum knowing, of course! And we’d hunt one another! Arrows; any old straight piece of wood with bits of white cardboard to flight them and dart heads screwed onto the ends to make them lethal. And, by God, they were lethal!

Unconsciously he stopped and rolled up his right trouser leg. He rubbed the white-faced scar on the calf. His fore-finger carefully searched out the creamy surface. The tissue was like the underside of a baby’s wrist. It was about three inches long, surrounded by black tufted hair. Boyhood pain. The kind of pain that snags the memory on day-dream afternoons when it is least expected.

I was running. Really running. We’d been hunting one another for over two hours. I’d lost sight of you. And you were the better hunter. It was so quiet that the silence hurt. Suddenly my nerve snapped. I broke into the clearing, winging an arrow behind me. And then I ran. And I mean ran. Then out of the green came the quick pain. Worse than when I dipped my hand in Mum’s toffee and burnt my mouth. Far worse. Stupidly I stopped and announced to the grinning trees; ‘You’ve bloody shot me!’ And you had. I looked down as my lunch churned towards my throat. An arrow was sticking into my calf. An inch and a quarter in. The dart-head was talking to the bone. And your worried little face followed by you in short trousers appeared. ‘I’ve bloody shot you!’ you said. You were always profound, weren’t you? Twenty years ago. And there aren’t any woods there now. A lovely crematorium. Why remember? You’ve seen worse than that.

He flicked his hand lightly over the bald spot on the top of his scalp. A bullet scar.

It’s remarkable I’ve avoided plastic surgery so long. Then there’s the knife scar on my left eyelid. Hardly noticeable now. They’re recent. Too recent. So pull yourself together! This is not a woodland stroll. You’ve got a job to do. So get on with it.

He began to walk faster. Took out a compass as he felt he was losing his way, then walked on. Listening. And there was something to listen to. Soft foot-scuffles behind him. A rabbit? Or what? Then he felt eyes like minute blowlamps eating into the base of his skull. They were not rabbit’s eyes. He stopped and turned quickly in their direction. Other than the whispering undergrowth, he could see nothing. A slip of the imagination, perhaps. He moved on again. The eyes pursued. He jogged into a light run. He was unsure whether he was frightened, but he thought he might be. The leaf-footed thing broke into a run also. If leaves can run, that is. The woods were no longer on his side. And the honeysuckle unstuck itself from his sticky grip and retired into the grass.

Why run, you fool? There’s no hurry. Fear is here, and that’s that. You can never leave it long.

He put both hands in his trouser pockets. He knew it was coming—whatever it was—and he was fascinated to meet it.

He wiped his perspiring hands on the linings of his trouser pockets. The feet had stopped moving in the undergrowth. The eyes continued to scorch the back of his neck. A dwarf sweat bubble dangled beneath his chin. The sweat glands were working overtime. He stopped walking altogether. He wanted to shout. He did not shout. And the eves laughed.

4

The loft was silent. Coldly the Rowbottoms rubbed knees under the oak table. Mrs. Spark was near to breaking point. Mr. Rowbottom pulled open his mouth with a smacking noise.

‘What is really the purpose, then, Mrs. Spark? I mean, bringing us here like this, after the funeral. What do you want from us?’

Deliberately Mrs. Spark replied; ‘I would prefer you not, Mr. Rowbottom, I would prefer you not to speak of my daughter at this time.’

A tear edged its way to the side of her nose. Impatiently, she dabbed it. Mr. Rowbottom continued; ‘You’ve got us here for a kind of purpose. I know you, Mrs. Spark, and I wasn’t born yesterday! What is it? Is it anything to do with our other celebrations—if you follow me? Which you do—don’t you? Is it?’

Lawrence Cready’s eyebrow formed a question. He also wanted to know. At this point there was an abrupt knock on the door. All heads swivelled to the door. Squire Fenn entered. Excluding Lawrence Cready, everyone in the room lowered their heads as the Squire moved round the table to take his place at the top. The meeting was open. Rowbottom continued as soon as the Squire had seated himself.

‘Well, now the Squire himself is here,’ he nodded deferentially to the Squire and forged on, ‘well, perhaps you’ll tell us the purpose. I mean, it can’t be just to read poetry and that. I know you too well, and if it is only reading poetry and that, we’re going, aren’t we, mates?’

The labourers smiled and said nothing. Rowbottom was about to chunter on when the Squire silenced him.

‘Rowbottom, you say too much. Don’t. Spoils your image. We need silence. I’m right, Mrs. Spark, aren’t I, eh?’

Mrs. Spark nodded.

‘Squire, would you read us an old village legend I came across the other day?’

She slid a battered volume across the table to the Squire. It hissed along the polished surface before entering his cracked hands. The Squire had a small intelligent head and a feast of white hair, parted down the centre, perfectly cutting his head in half. He was very proud of his hair. He let it curl onto his jacket collar.

‘The third legend in the book, please, Squire.’

The precision of Mrs. Spark’s speech was to say the least unnerving. She carved her words with a ruthless chisel before allowing them to represent her in the doubtful business of communication.

The Squire opened the book on the legend in question. He began to read.

‘And it was the midsummer.

Celebrations under the sun.

Morning was heavy with lusting.

And the young maiden trailed

Her pale hair in oak leaves.

Her laughing was longer than summer.

Then brown hands muscled their way

And took her and danced her

And danced her again and again.

Brown eyes lusting for pale hair...’

As he read this, even the hungry eyes of Rowbottom glazed. The Squire was surprised. Mrs. Spark did not blink but listened to the floating of silence. Slowly her head began to sway backwards and forwards and backwards and forwards. Her harmony enveloped the watchers. Her music possessed them. Water laved over them. The room became spray. Their heads rocked like tongueless bells on the steeples of their shoulders.

Mrs. Spark whispered; ‘Brown eyes lusting for pale hair, so they took her and danced her, then took her among them, and delved in her deeply, breasts and her navel shone in the summer, as they took her and danced midsummer dances, maidenhead gone where the poppy breaks corn, and she bled on the poppies under the oak tree when the dancing was over, on her breasts and her navel, now red in the summer, and they climbed with her swaying in the leaves of the oak tree, and blessed fever of summer, and coiled her pale hair round her snow shoulders, and snapped the pale bones in her white-foaming neck, and threw her dead dancing, high through warm branches, low to the shadows, and death her new dancer, and then her ripe blood bubbled her mouth, and swam down her breasts and her navel, and all her bright laughter was loosed to the wind, where the butterflies danced the dance of midsummer...’

Mrs. Spark’s voice purred on one note. The swaying of the listeners had subsided. Only she moved in time to her thoughts. In the strained faces around her, there was the knowledge that the legend was aimed at them. The legend was of them. Perhaps it was them. Perhaps it was the undercurrent of the summer ritual. Yes, they were excited by the story. And they were appalled by the excitement the story released in them.

Cready looked along the length of the table to discover each held the other’s hand. The Squire’s mapped fingers were clutching his, and he was clutching James. Unconsciously they had formed the circle. The only noise in the white room was the murmurings of Mrs. Spark. She was repeating over and over sounds which had no meaning. Her eyes were withdrawn in herself.

The sun continued to pour through the open windows. And then, and then, when there was only sunshine to cling to, a breeze rustled over the window ledge. It paused to catch its breath, and then whispered in a circle round the table. And clinging to it, a flame butterfly twittered into the room. Fourteen eyes clung to the butterfly. Mrs. Spark was still withdrawn in herself. Unperturbed by its audience, it hovered near a bundle of manuscripts. The breeze hissed the butterfly until it was suspended some twelve inches above Mrs. Spark’s nose.

Mrs. Spark whispered to someone. Someone not in the room.

‘Where are you? In your new dimension is there rest? Listen to me, Dian. I know my words are meaningless on the other planes. But I still feel you clinging to the bark of our trees. I still feel you wound in the earth. Try and answer me. Some sign. Any sign. I know words to the dead are only scratches on a pane of glass. You hear the squeak as the glass is marked. But come the mist, the glass is unmarked again and only reflects the light. Dian, I am trying to force my words into a groove that will reach you, though I feel only my friends and the walls hear them. Only the walls...’

The butterfly fluttered onto her left breast. It sensed the pulse of her tired nipple. The pulse was too slow for living. She had consciously trapped herself between the living and the dead. The strain on her middle-aged heart was acute. For the first time, she noticed the butterfly. Her words became softer and clearer. Slightly cricking her neck, she turned to the butterfly.

‘Dian? Are you turned to a pair of wings? How did you die, little girl? Were you murdered? Or was it just the snap of a branch? Listen to me! Help me! If you were only broken by a tree fall, I will be able to sleep again. But if you were killed by men—I will open the pit to help you sleep—I will!’

Cready, who had enjoyed the experiment until now, felt the sweat on the palms of his hands cool to an ice slush. The labourers allowed themselves to slide into her imagination. The Rowbottoms were very excited.

‘Dian? Were you murdered? Tell me! Tell me! I promise you retribution. Blood I promise you!’

*

David did not move. Nothing. He listened. Nothing. The eyes still burned on his neck.

‘Come out! It’s gone past a game. Come out!’

The eyes refused to answer. David started to run again. A snail scrunched under his feet. Then, without warning, an arrow bit into an elm tree on his right. Arrows were all right for children, but in the middle of a grown-up wood—this was ridiculous! And slightly critical. David slowed his run down to a stop.

‘All right! All right! A game’s a game! But there’s no need to turn it into bloody Robin Hood! Come out and we’ll chat it over!’

Silence. Even the wood pigeons gave up their shooing. Only a fern uncoiled in a shaft of sunlight. Another arrow flashed in front of him. David pulled it out of the turf. He wondered whether a few words to the archer would solve the dilemma. He decided against it and walked away. A wood pigeon clattered a few inches above his head. David persuaded his feet to run and dashed towards the thicket. The pigeon’s shooing harshed to a tight shriek, and it clattered out of the leaves—an arrow in its stubby neck. Besides being a humourist, the archer was becoming serious.

David bent down to examine the dead pigeon. A treacle smear of blood made the bird’s beak sticky. Nice in one of Mum’s pies, he thought, as he held it by its old man’s claws. The hooked prongs of the bird’s feet were covered in slimy leather. Just to touch it made David feel sick. Even though it was dead, it quivered twice in his hands.

Suddenly, he found himself in the vice of a half-Nelson. All David could see was a brown wrist lugging his neck back. His training had taught him to completely relax—just this side of going limp. So he completely relaxed—just this side of going limp. His head hung loose like a pendulum. The half-Nelson became less vicious. Hanlin counted a silent ‘One! Two! Three!’ and lashed behind him with his left foot. The steel tip on his heel ripped his attacker’s ankle. In the flush of pain, he loosened his grip a second on David’s neck. Immediately, David slammed his whole body against his attacker. They both scrunched onto the ground. David managed to slip free from the vice as he fell. He badly bruised his shoulder. Almost at once, they were on their feet, circling one another. David partially tripped on the dead pigeon. A blackberry thorn ripped its claw into his left hand. His hard pulsed violently.

Four feet away from him, a young man flexed on his toes. He was barely twenty-two and of Romany extraction. That’s if appearances meant anything. Appearances often don’t. Sun had burnt the man’s skin to bronze. He was dressed in a battered pair of blue jeans—and that’s all. Neither shirt nor sandals civilized him. Copper rings clung to his earlobe, and his hair was a circus of black snakes. It rippled down his chin into a beard. A grin split his face like a melon. He edged towards his bow which swung from the lower branch of a silver birch. As he backed to the tree, light licked his face. His features were definitely a mixture of pale Negroid and Arab. Fast and dark, his hand uncoiled to the bow. David swerved to his right. The Negroid eyes followed David’s movement. David doubled back fractionally in his tracks and then with two giant leaps, he rugger-tackled. He was only able to clamp a partial grip on him, but sufficient to trip him up.

David was extremely strong, but he found he could not pin him down. He even attempted a Karate chop on the exposed neck. The gypsy avoided the blow and lashed out with his knee, bruising David’s rib cage. David recovered, and hurled himself at his attacker. He caught David’s parallel body with both feet in the gut. David was catapulted over his head. Hanlin’s wallet left his inside pocket as he was rammed by his own velocity into a handful of fern. Holding his gut, painfully he achieved his feet. Breathing was like emery paper rubbed on the back of the hand until blood comes. Brushing the headache out of his eyes, he refocused on the gypsy, who appeared to be very amused. His melon grin had spread to two melons. He held his bow in his left hand and an arrow between his teeth.

He’s seen too many Indian films, thought David.

In his right hand he held David’s wallet. He spoke with the arrow between his teeth. His words were badly formed but still recognisably English.

‘Your wallet, Mister! Rough on you, eh? You ain’t got no wallet no more. You got nothing but a bunch of bruises—and they’re free!’

David noticed that he wore the beard to cover up tiny white spots which punctuated his chin. The moustache under his squashed nose was only a boyish wisp. It wouldn’t grow properly and he was very concerned about it.

‘Laddy, I should return my wallet or your moustache might wither and drop off! The strain of stealing is very severe on beards!’

The gypsy’s reply was to thumb open the wallet.

‘I shouldn’t do that, Laddy, the contents might give you hair failure! I said I shouldn’t! I said...’

The gypsy examined the contents. He did not have to look far. In the usual place for photographs, he read the following: ‘Detective Inspector David Hanlin, Scotland Yard, Special Branch’. He dropped the wallet as though it had nibbled him, and rubbed his moustache. One of the white spots oozed by his nose.

‘You see what I mean, Laddy!’

‘Hey, you ain’t a—what it says in there—are you?’ Hanlin examined his numerous bruises.

‘Yes, I’m afraid so. My wallet, please. Thank you. What’s your name? Where do you live? What are you doing arrowing passersby? Have you a licence for that weapon? Come on, show me! And no lies. My bruises have narrowed my sense of humour.’

‘Sorry, Mister, I ain’t got no licence, and they call me Gypo, and I live in these woods, and I’m sorry...’

‘You haven’t even got a proper name, never mind a licence! What do you know about the death of a certain little girl?’

As he said this, he picked up his briefcase and moved on. Gypo followed him, sliding the arrow from his mouth to the quiver on his nude shoulders.

‘Which girl, Mister?—I mean, Mr. Policeman?’

David grabbed the lad by his hair and shook him like a messy cat.

‘Oh come on, you know all right, son, you know what I mean! And whatever you’ve heard about police toleration, especially when they come to deal with lying and evasion, well, you can take it from me, there’s no such bloody thing! I could throw the book at you. You’d probably get six months for trying to William Tell a policeman for a start! And three months extra for a disagreeable face! And I do find your face disagreeable. So you can oblige yourself and me by answering the trifles I ask you. Right! Now, how did Dian Spark die? She was murdered, wasn’t she? Ritual murder!’