Dancing With the Virgins (26 page)

‘
Please don't try to patronize me on the subject. I'm
learning to be a realist. People won't accept me now.
But people have never really accepted me in my entire
life.
’

Fry frowned. If there was anything in the file to sup
port this perception, she had missed it. Maggie Crew
had received a perfectly normal education and upbring
ing. Her father had been a regional manager for British
Rail, and the family had lived in Wingerworth, near Chesterfield. Mrs Crew had died some years ago of
cancer, and a sister, Catherine, had married and lived
in Ireland. Maggie's father was still alive, though, and
living not so far away
.

The two girls, Fry noted, had attended a well-known
Catholic girls school in Chesterfield, and both had gone on to university. Maggie had studied for her Law degree
in Nottingham. She had been successful in her career,
yet had never married or had children.

‘
Do you see much of your father?' asked Fry.
'He's rather elderly now,' said Maggie.

‘
Yes?'

‘
And . . . well, we were never a very close family, really.'

‘
Does the same apply to your sister?'

‘
Cath? She has her own family. A husband and four
children. Why would she bother about me? She's as content as an old cat in her little town in Ireland.'

‘
And did you never want to do the same, Maggie?'
But Maggie smiled. Fry was beginning to recognize
that smile as one that signalled a subject she didn't want
to discuss.

‘
What about you, Diane?' said Maggie. 'Married?
’

‘
No.'

‘
Children?'

‘
No.'

‘
Ah. It would interfere with the career, perhaps? No creche at the police station? No husband at home, no
mother-in-law to look after them during the day? It's
so difficult for some women, I know. We see them in
the legal profession, carrying their babies invisibly on
their backs in court, disposable nappies spilling out of
their briefcases, baby sick on their clothes, yawning
from lack of sleep on the night before an important case.
You can't help but feel sorry for them.'

‘
It happens in the police, too.'

‘
No broody feelings for you either, Diane? No ticking
biological clock?'

‘
I don't believe so.'

‘
You're lucky, then. I find the idea pretty horrific, to
be perfectly honest. Awful, puking things, aren't they?
I can understand women who have abortions. It's a
horrible business, but there must be times when it seems
vastly preferable to the alternative.
’

Fry was conscious of Maggie's gentle probing. It was
well done, the sign of a skilful interviewer. The fact that
Fry had allowed herself to be interviewed had encouraged Maggie, of course. At this point, she either went
along with the game and told Maggie what she wanted
to know, or she closed it down and risked losing the fragile intimacy she had built up.

‘
I had an abortion once,' she said
.

Maggie's voice dropped a shade, sliding a sympath
etic note into her next words.

‘
They tell me you always wonder what the baby
would have been like, what sex it was. You think about
what name you would have given it, if it had been
allowed to live. Even an abortion doesn't mean a clean
ending, it seems to me.'

‘
Yes, you're right.
’

A small silence developed between them. Fry held on to it, valuing the suggestion of understanding. At
the same time, she was calculating how she could use
it. The time was almost right.

‘
But there's more, isn't there?' said Maggie quietly.
'Something else that you can't forget.'

‘
Yes,' said Fry. 'There is.' She told herself it was for
the best. She could work it out of her system later
.

Maggie seemed to decide not to push for details.

‘
Sometimes there are things you need to remember,
no matter how much it hurts,' she said.

‘
A necessary pain?'

‘
Maybe. But that necessary pain . . . does it always
have to be a pain that you inflict on yourself? Because
that sort of pain hurts all the more, don't you find?
’

Fry put her finger on the 'play' and 'record' buttons,
and looked at Maggie.

‘
Shall we try again?
’

Maggie closed her eyes. The tapes whirred quietly.
'Think about when you reached Ringham .
. .’

Maggie breathed quietly. 'I remember the leaves
under my feet,' she said. 'There were deep piles of them. They crunched when I trod in them. Thousands of dead
leaves. I kicked some of them up in the air, like I used
to do when I was child. A great heap of them, all brown
and gold.
’

Fry thought she had stopped there. She waited for a
moment, listening to the click of the tape decks. She had just opened her mouth to nudge Maggie with a question, when she began again.

‘
The wind blew the leaves about, and I grabbed
at them, trying to catch them in my hands. Some of
them landed on me; they were on my arms and in my
face, touching my skin. They felt cold and clammy,
not what I expected at all. They smelled of damp and
rottenness. I tried to brush them off my face. There were
leaves in my hair as well, sticking there like bats. Then
I didn't think it was funny any more. I brushed at
the leaves harder. I had my head down, to get them off.
’

The sound of Maggie's voice had changed. It had a
childish intonation that Fry had not heard before. It
was slightly shocking coming from the mouth of this
woman. It was as if she were recalling a childhood incident, not a trauma from a few weeks ago
.

This time the pause was even longer. Fry squeezed
her fingers together to stop herself breaking the silence and interrupting. She looked at the tapes to make sure
they were both still running. But the silence went on
too long.

‘
Is there anyone else around?' asked Fry as gently as she could, though her urge was to push Maggie harder
as they reached a critical stage.

‘
Anyone else? No, she's not there.
’

Fry shook her head, thinking she had misheard. 'Who?
’

Now Maggie looked confused too, as if two different
memories were mingling together.

‘
I had my head down, looking at the ground,' she
repeated. 'I was looking at the ground, where the leaves
were. That's why I didn't see him.
’

Maggie's voice had become bleak. Her pitch had risen
slightly as people's voices did when they were close to
that crack in the facade that let through the tears.

‘
If I hadn't kicked at the leaves, I would have heard
him coming. I could have got away.'

‘
When did you first become aware of another person,
Maggie?'

‘
He was already close then.'

‘
How did you know? Did you hear him?'

‘
The leaves were rustling. They were too loud. I wasn't paying attention.'

‘
All right. You didn't hear him. Did you smell him, Maggie?'

‘
Smell him?' Maggie frowned. Her nostrils flared as
if she was drawing in remembered odours
.

Fry knew that smells were powerful aids to memory.
If Maggie could recall a single whiff of something — a
distinctive deodorant, body odour, cigarette smoke — it
would be something to add to the picture.

‘
I can't smell him,' said Maggie. 'Only the leaves.'

‘
Can you hear him now?' asked Fry, switching to the present tense that Maggie herself had started using.
Maggie's eyes were distant. Was she listening? Fry was sure that Maggie could hear something. Some
sound was replaying in her mind, but Fry was power
less to know what it was until she felt able to share it.

‘
A rustling noise,' said Maggie hesitantly, at last.
'The leaves again? He was walking through the leaves. You heard his feet in the leaves.'

‘
Yes, there was that too. But something else. A plastic
rustling. No, not plastic — nylon. He was wearing a nylon cagoule or anorak.
’

Fry felt a little surge of excitement. 'That's very
good, Maggie. Think carefully now. Can you see it, this
cagoule? What colour is it?
’

Maggie shook her head. 'I don't know. Black. Maybe
blue.'

‘
That's good. Can you describe it? Does it have but
tons or a zip? Has it got a hood?'

‘
I can't tell.'

‘
Why not?
’

Maggie paused. 'It's dark.
’

Fry opened her mouth and shut it again. She looked
at the tape machine, wondering whether it had heard
the same thing that she had. Then she stared at Maggie Crew, resisting an urge to grab the woman by the shoul
ders and shake her, to force her to answer the biggest
question of all.

‘
Maggie,' she said,
'what were you doing on the moor in the dark?
’

But Maggie was silent now. Fry thought she had lost her completely, that she had slipped away into sleep or
some other world. But if she had, it was a world where
there were only nightmares. Maggie's body was rigid,
her face strained and frightened. Her eyes were screwed
tightly shut. She shook her head abruptly, like someone
throwing off brambles tangled in her hair. Fry caught
a glimpse of red, puckered tissue, glistening as if freshly
burned
.

Then Maggie put her hands to her face, covering her
right eye, her fingers pressed tightly to her forehead for
protection. There was only the sound of her breathing
in the room, a ragged hiss through her nose that the
tapes would fail to catch, though they kept on turning.
And there was a high, distant noise, like the wheeze in
the chest of an asthmatic, or the faint whimper of a small creature dying at the side of the road.

‘
I can't remember,' said Maggie. 'I can't remember.
’

19

‘
Golden Virginia,' said Owen Fox. 'It's their favourite.
’

Owen had a six-pack of lager in one hand, a tin of
tobacco in the other. Ben Cooper followed him uncertainly. He had paid for the lager and tobacco, and he knew perfectly well that he wasn't going to be able to
claim them back on expenses.

‘
Are you sure it will work?' said Cooper. 'It seems a
bit like bribing the natives with glass beads.'

‘
It's
the only way to get close to these spiritual types,'
said Owen. 'You've got to appeal to their materialism.
’

‘
Still —'

‘
Trust me, Ben. I'm a Ranger.
’

But Cooper was still doubtful. It was because he knew he shouldn't be there at all. This wasn't an official visit —there had been no action form issued for him to conduct
another interview with Calvin Lawrence and Simon
Bevington. But he needed to talk to them on his own. There were things he couldn't concentrate on properly
with Diane Fry and a bunch of uniformed officers crowding round the van
.

Cooper could smell cigarette smoke on Owen's jacket.
He guessed he had been to see Cal and Stride quite
recently, and his red fleece had absorbed the scent of
their roll-ups. Owen walked up to the van and stood
by the cab. He gestured to Cooper to stand out of sight,
and knocked on the side door. It was an unusual knock,
a series of short and long raps. After half a minute, the
door slid partly open.

‘
Cal,' said Owen. 'We come in peace.'

‘
Bloody hell, it's Red Rum. What's
up?
Got no tourists
to piss off ?'

‘
Yes, but pissing you off is more fun.
’

Cal stuck his head out of the door and spotted Cooper. 'What's
he
want?'

‘
A bit of your friendly conversation. No hassle. He's
all right, Cal.
’

The youth stared at Cooper, then back at Owen. 'You
saying he's all right? He's a copper. Coppers is bastards,
period.'

‘
He's all right.
’

Cal nodded. 'Give us the cans then, you mean sod.'
Owen winked at Cooper, and they clambered into
the back of the VW. Cooper's senses sprang instantly
alive, awakened by the powerful mixture of scents and
sensations contained in the van. Cal and Stride had been
smoking roll-ups for months in the enclosed space, and
their aroma had ingrained itself into the panels of the
van and soaked into the blankets and cushions and sleeping bags that lay on the floor. There was the
pungent smell of unwashed bodies and dirty clothes. And, overlying it, the odour of cooked food, including
a lingering trace of the chicken curry they had eaten at least two days before. There was also a slightly
worrying whiff of gas from the two-ring camping stove
behind the driver's seat
.

Cooper hesitated when he saw Stride. He was sitting
in the back corner, barely visible in the gloom.

‘
Don't worry about Stride,' said Cal. 'He's just doing
an auric egg.'

‘
OK. That's fine.
’

Cooper eyed Stride cautiously. He didn't seem to be
doing much of anything, really, let alone laying an egg.
He was very still, sitting upright, with his eyes closed
and his hands in his lap. The expression on his face
was concentrated, but calm. Cooper wondered if Stride
genuinely hadn't noticed there was anyone else in the
van. It seemed unlikely. It must just be a bit of acting
talent, mustn't it?

‘
It's to protect himself against negative mind energies,' said Cal.

‘
Right.'

‘
He puts a shell round his aura.'

‘
No problem.
’

Owen settled himself on a pillow to one side of an
old chest of drawers. Cooper followed suit on the other
side. He felt something hard pressing into his hip. He looked down to find the biscuit tin packed with small
mementoes that Stride had searched in for his NUS card
.

The boy's entire previous life was crammed into that
tin. Maybe he very rarely opened it, but at least he had
brought it with him into his new life. It was useless for
him to pretend that memories of his past life held no
value for him. The evidence said differently.

‘
So what are you doing here on your own?' said Cal.
'Where's the heavy mob?'

‘
I just wanted to talk. I thought I might be able to help.
’

Cal snorted. 'Bullshit. Since when did the cops help
the likes of us? You're employed by middle-class,
middle-aged folk with their property and comfortable
lives to protect.'

‘
People like your parents, you mean?'

‘
Yes, people like them.'

‘
Well, we're here to protect everybody.'

‘
Stuff that. I don't pay your wages. I don't pay any taxes. So why should you bother about me?
’

Cooper hesitated while he considered the answer. Everything depended on saying the right thing.

‘
Hey,' said Owen. 'I've just realized — that means you
don't pay my wages either. Well, what a revelation.' He
started to get up, brushing down his jacket. 'That's that,
then. I'll be off. I can't be wasting my time with a couple
of dirty, idle gypsies. I've got nice, clean middle-class
people to look after.'

‘
Yeah. Fuck off, then,' said Cal, popping the ring-pull
off a can of lager
.

Owen stood over him. He didn't say anything. Cal
looked at Cooper. 'I hate this bastard in the red jacket,'
he said. 'He thinks he's my dad or something.'

‘
We all know you never had a father, Calvin,' said Owen.

‘
And if you call me Calvin again, I'll set fire to your
fuckin' beard.'

‘
Get the matches out then, Calvin.
’

Cal's eyes glittered. He offered a can to Cooper, who
shook his head. Then he held it up above his head, and
the Ranger took it.

‘
We both came for the solstice,' said Cal. 'That's how we ended up in this quarry. There were loads of people
parked down here then. It was like a real community.
But the van broke down, and I had no dosh to get it
repaired. It's something to do with the drive shaft, they
reckon. Coming down that slope knackered it.'

‘
And you've stayed ever since.'

‘
Everybody else drifted off and left us.'

‘
Did you and Stride come together?'

‘
No, we didn't know each other until then. He'd been
camping over the valley there — the place they call Robin
Hood's Stride. There's a cave there, some kind of her
mit's place or something, where he was sheltering. He
didn't know anything about the Nine Virgins, but he
wandered over to see what was happening. That's how
we met up, and that's why we called him Stride. We just seemed to hit it off. He had nowhere else to go, you see.
’

Cooper realized he was being watched. He had for
gotten Stride for a moment. He had been so still and
quiet he could have been camouflaged by an entire forest of trees instead of sitting there in full view a
few inches away. His eyes were open now and he was
looking at Cooper.

‘
Nowhere else to go,' he said
.

Stride's paleness was worrying. Cooper wondered
what medical attention the two youths had access to.
None, he supposed. In an earlier age, Stride would have
been described as sickly and consumptive. Cooper
would have liked to find out how he came to be camp
ing in a hermit's cave in the Peak District in the first place. But it seemed too big a question to ask.

‘
You went to university, didn't you?' he said
.

Stride nodded. Cal passed him the tobacco and the
Rizlas, and he began to roll a cigarette.

‘
What degree did you get?
’

Stride smiled. 'Did I say I got a degree?'

‘
It's usually the reason for going to university.
’

‘
Only if you finish the course. Otherwise they get a
bit stuffy about giving it to you.'

‘
I see. You dropped out.
’

Now Stride laughed. 'You might call it that.
’

‘
So what were you studying?
’

Stride stared at him, a sudden gleam in his eye, his
hand fluttering to his mouth in that curious gesture.
Energy seemed to visibly flow through him. From an
almost catatonic state he was transformed into a ball of
vitality.

‘
You really want to know?' he said. 'Come with me.
’

‘
What?
’

He was excited now, tugging at Cooper's sleeve like
a puppy wanting him to come out and play. Cooper
looked at Owen, who just smiled and nodded affection
ately at Stride.

‘
Go on,' he said. 'You might learn something.
’

They jumped out of the van, and Cooper scrambled
up the path after Stride to reach the top of the quarry.
The chimes were moving slowly in the birch, jingling gently. One of them turned and caught the sunlight,
and Cooper could almost make out the words scrawled
on the silver foil in felt-tipped pen
.

Stride turned to him at the top of the quarry face and
held his hand to his ear, like a bad actor miming his
reaction to a knock at the door.

‘
Can you hear it? We're right on the edge.'

‘
The edge?
’

Cooper listened. All he could hear was the wind
which caught at him now they were on the plateau. It
carried a whispering in the bracken and the jingle of
the chimes. He listened more carefully. He heard several
types of bird call — finches twittering nearby, a robin
singing in the birches, the jackdaws in Top Quarry;
and something else further away, possibly rooks and a blackbird. There was nothing more. Cooper looked up.
There was a kestrel hovering over the rough grass on
the edge of the quarry, but it was absolutely silent.

‘
Do you hear it?' said Stride. 'That's great.'

‘
The edge of what?'

‘
The reality zone. From here on, all that stuff down
there disappears.' He waved vaguely in the direction of Matlock and the A6.

‘
Not for me, it doesn't.
’

Suddenly, Stride threw himself full-length into the
damp bracken. For a moment, he disappeared com
pletely as the brown leaves closed over him. Only his
laugh could be heard from somewhere in the dripping
depths.

‘
Look at this!' he said. His head appeared. He wiped
a bracken leaf across his face, smearing the rain water
on his skin and licking the moisture off his lips, closing
his eyes in ecstasy. Bits of foliage and fragments of dead
heather were clinging to his hair and shoulders; the sleeves of his jacket were soaked.

‘
I suppose you think this is just a weed. Farmers tear
it up and burn it, because it's a pest. But bracken is a
miracle. All ferns are a miracle. Look, look.' He stroked
a tiny, furled leaf. It would probably never open now
— it was too late in the year. 'Each of these produces
hundreds of spores. They're spread around by the wind
or animals. I'm doing it now. Look!' He rolled over
on the ground, laughing breathlessly. 'I'm part of the
process! I'm part of nature!
’

Stride plucked a larger leaf and held it in front of
Cooper's face. 'Every spore that lands grows into a little
disc. And do you know what? It has both male and
female sexual organs. It's a bisexual. Humans will tell
you that isn't natural. But it is!
’