Friends of the Dusk
Read Friends of the Dusk Online
Authors: Phil Rickman
Contents
3 Hallowe’en. Normal, irrational anxieties
52 The song with the big cigar
Part One
I was much disturbed by the unhealthy and near-hysterical publicity given by the national press to the question of exorcisms in the Church of England. I was also disturbed by the number of requests for help and advice about the exorcizing of places or persons which I was receiving…
The general attitude in the Church of England seemed to be to regard exorcism as an exercise in white magic or a survival of medieval superstition.
The findings of a commission convened by the Right
Reverend Robert Mortimer, Bishop of Exeter.
‘Exorcism’ (SPCK, 1972)
Castle Green is the hidden gem of Hereford. To find it, behind the streetscape and beyond the Cathedral, it has to be stalked…
David Whitehead,
The Castle Green at Hereford, a Landscape of Ritual,
Royalty and Recreation.
(Logaston Press, 2007)
1
Touch the darkness
W
AS IT REALLY
a good thing visiting the old woman ahead of a much-foreboded late-October storm?
Was it, in fact, a good thing to be visiting her at all?
The room at The Glades, a Victorian greystone home for the elderly, had expanded into a whole suite after the deaths – eerily timely – of Anthea White’s immediate neighbours on the second landing. Two new doorways had been made in the partition walls. Miss White had paid for all this from a recent bequest. She could have bought herself a nice, period cottage down in Hay, but she claimed The Glades suited her lifestyle.
The new living room had floor-to-ceiling bookcases and a view of the bell tower of Hardwicke Church. Miss White was curled into her wide, multi-cushioned swivel chair, a black widow spider biding its time. Were people who’d recently had hip surgery supposed to sit like that?
‘Oh, now, you’ll never believe this, Watkins…’ The old girl leaning forward. ‘… Cardelow’s woman was apparently
refusing to dust the books
.’
‘Actually,’ Merrily said from the piano stool – no piano, just the stool, ‘I think I
would
believe it. Especially if you were sitting there watching her. Even with her back turned, the malevolence would be palpable.’
Miss White smiled modestly. Mrs Cardelow, proprietor of The Glades, had brought them tea and cakes herself, asking Merrily if she’d mind bringing back the tray when she came
down.
Save my legs
, Mrs Cardelow had said wearily.
And possibly a little of my sanity.
‘Cardelow’s daughter was married the other weekend, did I tell you?’ Miss White said in her tiny, kitteny voice. ‘Some awful junior canon at the Cathedral.’
‘Really? What’s his name?’
‘Didn’t ask. Couldn’t be arsed, but I expect you’ll know him by his receding chin. All change, I hear, at the dicky heart of the Hereford Diocese.’
‘Just a new bishop.’
‘Is he charismatic, like the delicious Hunter?’
‘I hope not, with all my heart; I haven’t met him yet. Next week, apparently.’
Merrily became aware of an oak side table to the left of Miss White’s chair, a white mat on top holding something covered with a black velvet cloth, like a very small catafalque. Miss White peered at Merrily, eyes darker than the caked mascara.
‘Why are you here, Watkins?’
A trapped, tawny leaf flapped irritably outside the window. Merrily shrugged.
‘Just passing.’
‘Bollocks!’
‘I was on the way back from Hay, where I visit the Thorogoods occasionally, and I, erm… thought I’d drop in and, you know, see if you were still breathing?’
Miss White scowled.
‘Don’t trivialize breathing. I enjoy my breathing, in all its infinite varieties. Along with occasional astral tourism, it’s all I have left.’
Merrily smiled. OK, she’d called in because Betty Thorogood had said the word in the bookshop was that Miss White was
not well
. At her age, often a euphemism for
may not see the weekend.
She’d been surprised at how hard this had hit her. Exchanging banter with Miss White had become almost like a spiritual exercise, a test of faith. Reaching out a
hand to touch the darkness just to prove you could still draw it back.
She glanced at the nearest shelves where a whole row of books had the name Crowley on the spine.
‘And it’s Hallowe’en next week, of course. Your official birthday, Anthea.’
Moments of quiet. The leaf escaped from the window and fluttered away like a timid soul. Miss White was leaning lazily back into her nest of cushions. She might be dying, but it didn’t look imminent.
‘And are things going well for you?’
‘Things are fine. My daughter, Jane, she’s due back from her gap-year archaeological dig in a week or so. Sooner than expected, but I’m quite glad.’
‘And Robinson?’
‘Lol is also finally coming home. Been touring all summer, for the first time in years, then he was asked to do some studio work. Good for his self-esteem.’
Miss White pondered this.
‘He’s never been frightened of me. Odd, that.’
‘Unlike me, huh?’
‘I love the way you come here simply because you
are
frightened.’
‘Oh, come—’
Merrily leaned back then had to steady herself on the piano stool. Miss White raised her eyes
‘Come on, then, little clergyperson. Out with it. Don’t be annoying.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Thinking of packing it in, are we?’
‘
What?
’
‘Snipping off the dog collar? Depositing the cassock in the Oxfam bank in the vain hope it might reach some impoverished African priestess?’
The old woman seemed to be rearing in her chair, without
moving; she could play tricks with your head. Wasn’t bloody dying at all, was she? Merrily coughed.
‘Makes you ask that?’
Miss White was smiling sweetly again, bending to the tray on the Victorian Gothic table between them to pour more tea. Then she stopped, looking up.
‘Oh, but I never thought…’
Putting down the teapot and leaning back to the side table, she pulled away the black velvet cloth to reveal a small, rectangular cardboard box, with gold sides. On the top, it said:
Ordo Templi Orientis
Thoth Tarot Cards
Merrily had seen the pack before. Exquisitely painted by Lady Frieda Harris, designed by A. Crowley.
‘
Would
you like me to read for you, Watkins?’
The window rattled, and the first raindrops plopped on the glass. The impending high winds were supposed to be the residue of some Atlantic hurricane with a pretty name.
‘No, I would not,’ Merrily said.
2
A date with Hurricane Lorna
D
RIVING BACK TO
Hereford from Annie’s place, his mood as crazy as the night, Bliss got pulled over by the cops four miles short of the city.
Bugger.
Brakes on as the traffic car’s headlights turned near-horizontal rain into tracer fire, he lowered the glass minimally, sat and waited, engine running. The road was a causeway through a war zone of waterlogged fields. No lights in the farmhouses.
‘… assuming, sir, that you didn’t see the sign back there?’
This big, sarky face swimming up in the side window, all pink and runny like the inside of a freshly sliced tomato: Darryl Mills, ex-CID, gone back into uniform for a more exciting life in a powerful car. Bliss cut his engine, leaned back out of the spray.
‘You know, Darryl, I don’t believe I did. Maybe it got blown away?’
‘One second.’ Up came the flashlight to confirm that Bliss’s face matched the only Scouse accent in Gaol Street. ‘Ah. Sorry, boss.’
‘If you want a whiff of me breath,’ Bliss said wearily, ‘you’ll have to hop in the other side. Buggered if I’m gerrin out in this.’
‘Only the sign you missed, look, that was a diversion.’
‘Darryl, this is Herefordshire, where they leave the friggin’ flood signs up in a drought.’
Darryl Mills shrugged his sodden shoulders.
‘Just telling you, boss. Road’s well blocked up ahead. Trees down everywhere.’
A blast of weather had Darryl hanging on to the wing mirror to stay on his feet, his partner billowing up behind him, waterproofs flapping: Big Patti Calder, mother of four.
‘If you’re going into town, Frannie, it’s gonna take you a while. Five B-roads closed. A49 north of Ross. Flash flood at Letton. Might be more, all we know. Rough ole night.’
‘Bastard of a night,’ Bliss said.
In all kinds of ways. The last thing he’d planned was a date with Hurricane Lorna. His day off. He should be warm and dry at Annie’s flat in Malvern. And would be if her old man hadn’t rung around teatime to check she was at home – Charlie thinking he’d drop in for a coffee on his way back from some meeting in Worcester. Bliss getting the gist and throwing his jacket on before Annie was off the phone. He had bad memories of a rainy night with Charlie Howe in it.
Annie had been wearing the famous old stripy sweater from the night the God of Policing had thrown them together. The sweater had holes in both elbows now. Worn these days only as a kind of talisman against evil fate.
Yeh, right. Putting down the phone, Annie had finally told him the real reason Charlie was coming round. What she’d already known about the old bastard but had kept to herself in the hope he’d come to his senses. Bliss had just stared at Annie, and she’d looked down at her slippers. It was like a bad joke. Except Annie didn’t do jokes.
‘—OK, boss?’ Patti Calder said through the blast. ‘You look—’
‘Just recovering from a bit of awkward news, Patti. Not your problem.’ Though it could be a problem for all of them, soon enough. ‘Listen, how bad is it, really? I’m assuming nobody’s actually been
under
a fallen tree?’
Darryl Mills laughed, and the rest got blown away. Bliss thrust his head into the weather.