The Man in the Moss (63 page)

           
Cathy said, realising this wasn't going to do much for
her father's recovery, 'Suppose ... suppose he did spend a night down there.
And he was already worked up after that business at the funeral. And he stirred
something up. Brought something on. Suppose he was tested - and failed?'

           
'Well,' Hans said. 'There's an old story Ernie Dawber
once told me. About what really happened when that bishop spent a night down
there in eighteen whenever. They say he went totally bloody bonkers.'

           
Hans patted Cathy's hand. 'But then,' he said, 'wouldn't
have been much of a story at all if he hadn't, would it?'

There was a loud, urgent
rapping on Willie's front door, which could only be Milly.

           
Who knew the door was hardly ever locked - certainly not
when Willie was at home - but who'd knock anyway, for emphasis, when it was
something important.

           
Willie had been re-reading Moira's note. It had been a
relief at first; didn't think he could really apply himself to Matt's bogman
music, not right now, not the way he was feeling.

           
But what did she mean,
I have to go home
? Why did she have to go so quickly she couldn't
wait to say ta'ra?
           
'Aye,' he shouted. 'Come in,
lass.'

           
'Willie.' She stood panting in the doorway, her flowery
frock dark-spotted with rain.

           
 
'I were just going
to make some toast for me tea. You want some?'

           
'Willie,' she said. 'Come and see this.'
           
"s up?'

           
'You've got to see it,' Milly gasped,
           
'It's pissing down. I'll need
me mac'
           
'Never mind that!' She pulled
him out of the door, dragged him up the entry and into the street. 'Look.'
           
'It's a bus,' said Willie.

           
A big green single-decker was jammed into the top of the
street outside the Post Office. Thin rivers of rain were running down the
cobbles around its back wheels. On the back of the bus it said,
Hattersley's Travel, Sheffield.

           
'Coach tour?' Willie said, puzzled. Coaches would come to
Bridelow quite often in the old days. In summer, admittedly, not on a wet
Sunday at the end of October.

           
'Look,' Milly said.

           
About forty people had alighted from the coach, mostly
young people in jeans and bright anoraks. A small circle had gathered around the
unmistakable, golden-topped figure of Joel Beard. They stepped forward in turn,
men and women, to hug him.

           
'Praise God!' Willie heard. As he and Milly moved further
up the street, he heard the phrase repeated several times.

           
Willie looked at Milly through the lashing rain. 'What
the bloody hell's this?'

           
Milly nodded towards two young men unwrapping a long,
white banner. Gothic golden lettering explained everything - to Milly, anyway.

           
'Who the bloody hell,' said Willie, 'are the Angels of
the New Advent?'

           
'They've got a church in Sheffield. Me cousin's daughter
nearly became one about a year ago. They're fundamentalist Born Again
Christians, Willie. They see the world as one big battleground, God versus
Satan.'

           
'Like the World Cup?'

           
'It's not funny, Willie.'

           
'This is what you've dragged me out to see? A bloody
Bible-punchers' outing?'

           
'You're not getting this, are you, Willie luv?' Milly's
greying hair was streaming; her dress was soaked through.
           
Willie noticed with a quick
stirring of untimely excitement that she wasn't wearing a bra.

           
'What I'm saying, if you'll listen,' Milly hissed, 'is
that they're God.
And we're Satan.'

A short time later, Milly
heard a small commotion and looked out of the Post Office window to see a group
of people assembled in the centre of the street between the lych-gate and the
Rectory.

           
One of them was Joel Beard. Someone held up the trumpet
end of a loud-hailer and handed a plastic microphone to Joel.

           
'GOD IS HERE,' he blasted. 'GOD IS HERE IN BRIDELOW. YOU
ARE ALL INVITED TO A SPECIAL SERVICE AT EIGHT P.M. TO REDEDICATE THE CHURCH IN
HIS NAME.'

           
Milly felt a terrible trepidation. Obviously none of the
villagers would turn up. But what effect was it going to have, all these no
doubt well-meaning but dangerously misguided people stirring up the atmosphere?

           
THIS IS AN OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT. BRIDELOW HAS TONIGHT
BEEN FORMALLY REPOSSESSED BY THE LORD.'

           
'Heathens out!' someone yelled.

           
'HEATHENS OUT!'

Part Eight

From
Dawber's
Secret
Book of Bridelow
(unpublished):

MEN

What part have men really
played in the history of Bridelow?

                       
Not perhaps, if we are honest, a
distinguished one, except for our late friend the Man in the Moss, who - we are
told - gave his life for our community.

                       
We have, I suppose, dealt with the more
mundane elements: the business matters, employment, the sustenance of a measure
of wealth - enough, anyway, to keep our heads above the Moss.

                       
And we - that is, male members of the Dawber
family - have acted as local chroniclers. Albeit discreet ones, for I am sure
that if this present manuscript were ever to see the light of day our so-far
hereditary function as the compilers of the dull but worthy Book of Bridelow
would cease immediately to be a tolerated local tradition.

                       
But as for the important things in life (and
death), well, all that traditionally is the preserve of the women, and as far
as most of the men have been concerned they are welcome to it. We are, in the
modern parlance, a Goddess-orientated society, although the role of the
Christian deity is more than politely acknowledged. (Thank You, Mother - and
You too, Sir, is one of our phrases.)

                       
However, men being men, there have been
occasional attempts to disrupt the arrangement. And when a man is possessed of
abilities beyond the normal and a craving for more, then, I am afraid, the
repercussions may be tragic and long-lasting.

CHAPTER
I

Macbeth pumped money into
the coinbox, all the loose change he had.
           
A young female voice said,
'This is ... hang on, I can't make it out ... two four oh six, I think. I don't
live here, I've just picked up the phone.'

           
Macbeth could hear a lot of people talking excitedly in
the background. He said, 'Can I, uh, speak with Moira? Moira Cairns?'

           
'This is Bridelow Rectory.'

           
'Sure. I need to speak with Moira. Can you get her to the
phone?'

           
'I'm sorry, I'm pretty sure we haven't got a Moira. We've
got a Maureen. Would you like to speak to her?'

           
The glass of the phone booth was streaked with rain. It
was going dark; all he could see were the lights of a fast-food joint over the
road. Didn't even know which town this was. He'd just kept stopping at phones,
ringing this number. First time anyone had answered.

           
The young female voice asked, 'Are you still there?'

           
'Yeah, yeah, I'm still here. Listen, ask around, willya?
Moira Cairns, I ... Chrissake, she has to be there.'

           
There was a long pause, then, 'I'm sorry,' the female
voice said coldly. 'Your speech is profane. Goodbye.'

           
And hung up on him.

           
Hung up the fucking phone, just like that!
           
Macbeth raced out of the booth
and across the street, bought a burger with a ten-pound note and got plenty of
change. The burger was disgusting; after two bites he tossed it into a waste
bin and took his change back to feed the phone.

           
He wasn't about to waste this number, all the time it had
taken to obtain it. The call to the Earl, the waiting around for Malcolm
Kaufmann, the blackmail.

           
'I called the Earl
this morning, Malcolm. You remember the Earl? The man who asked if this Rory
McBain, who was booked to entertain his guests, could perhaps be replaced by
Moira Cairns? This coming back to you, Malcolm? The way the Earl was prepared
to, uh, oil the wheels?'

           
This last item was a lucky guess, the Earl having denied
any suggestion of making it worth Kaufmann's while.

           
None the less, it had gone in like a harpoon, spearing
Malcolm to the back of his executive swivel chair.

           
'See, the longer it takes for me to
find her, Malcolm, the more likely it seems I'm gonna have to reveal to Moira
the extent of your co-operation in this, uh, small deception.'

           
At which Malcolm had pursed his lips and written upon his
telephone memo pad a phone number. All he had. He swore it. Moira had phoned
yesterday, left this emergency-only contact number, along with a message: no
gigs until further notice.

           
'She done this kind
of thing before?'
           
'All too often, Mr Macbeth.'

On top of the coinbox,
Macbeth had three pounds and a couple of fifty-pence coins. He dialled again.

           
This time it was a different voice, male.

           
Macbeth said, 'Who's that?'

           
'This is Chris.'

           
'Chris,' Macbeth said. 'Right. Listen, Chris, I need to
speak with Moira. Moira Cairns. You know her?'

           
'Oh,' said Chris. 'You rang a few minutes ago. You were
abusive, apparently."

           
'Je—!' Macbeth tightened his grip on the phone, calmed
himself, 'I'm ... sorry. Just I was in a hurry. It's kind of urgent, Chris.
Please?'

           
'Look,' Chris said. 'We're strangers here. Why don't you
speak to Joel? Just hang on.'

           
Macbeth fed a fifty-pence coin into the phone. Presently
a different guy came on. 'This is the Reverend Joel Beard. Who am I speaking
to?'

           
'Uh, my name is Macbeth. I was told I could get Moira
Cairns on this number, but nobody seems to know her, so maybe if I describe
her. She's very beautiful, has this dark hair with ...'

           
'With a vein of white,' the voice enunciated, slowly and
heavily.

           
Macbeth breathed out. 'Well, thank Christ, I was
beginning to think I'd been fed a bunch of ... what?'

           
'I said, what did you say your name was?'

           
'Macbeth. That's M ... A ... C ...'

           
'Ah. That's an assumed name, I suppose. I'd heard you
people liked to give yourselves the names of famously evil characters as a way
of investing yourselves with their - what shall we call it - "unholy
glamour".'

           
'Huh ... ? Listen, friend, I don't have time for a
debate, but it's now widely recognised that the famously evil, as you call him,
Macbeth was in fact seriously misrepresented by Shakespeare for political
reasons and, uh, maybe to improve the storyline. He ...' - shoving in a pound coin
- 'Jeez, what am I doing? I don't want to get into this kind of shit. All I
want is to talk with Moira Cairns, is that too much to ask? What the fuck kind
of show you running there?'