The Man in the Moss (64 page)

           
A silence. Clearly the guy had won himself an attentive
audience.

           
'The woman you're seeking' - the voice clipped and cold -
'has been driven away. As' - the voice rose - 'will be all of your kind. You
can inform your disgusting friends that, as from this evening, the village of
Bridelow, erstwhile seat of Satan, has been officially repossessed ... by
Almighty God!'

           
'YEEEESSSS!' The background swelled, the phone obviously
held aloft to capture it, a whole bunch of people in unison. 'PRAISE GOD!'

           
And they hung up.

           
Macbeth stood in the rain washed booth, cradling the phone
in both hands.

           
'Jesus Christ,' he said.

Back in his hire-car,
windows all steamed-up, he slumped against the head-rest.

           
Is this real?

           
I mean,
is
it?

           
The Duchess had indicated Moira had gone to this North of
England village for the purpose of laying to rest the spirit of her old friend
Matt Castle, whichever way you wanted to take that.

           
Whatever it meant, it had clearly left the local clergy
profoundly offended.

           
But while Macbeth's knowledge of Northern English
clerical procedure was admittedly limited, the manner of response from the guy
calling himself The Reverend Joe-whoever and what sounded like his backing
group was, to say the least, kind of bizarre.

           
Wherever she goes,
that young woman, she's bound to be touched with madness.

           
Yeah, yeah, can't say I wasn't warned.

           
But there is a point at which you actually get to
questioning yourself about how much is real. Or to what extent you are
permitting yourself to be absorbed into someone else's fantasy.

           
But not unwillingly, surely?

           
Well, no. Not yet.

           
Truth is, it's kind of stimulating.

           
The time was 5.15. Macbeth left the car and returned to
the diner across the street, on the basis that one sure way of restoring a
sense of total reality would be another attempt to consume a greasy
quarter-pound shitburger and double fries.

About an hour ago, before
leaving Glasgow, he'd found a Sunday-opening bookshop where he bought a road
atlas and a paperback.

           
He laid the paperback on his table next to the
shitburger.

           
The cover showed a huge cavern full of stalactites and
stalagmites. The angle of vision was roof-level, and way down in the left-hand
corner was a small kid with a flashlight.

           
The book was called
Blue
John's Way
. From inside the title page Macbeth learned it had been first
published some thirty years ago, and this was apparently the seventeenth
paperback impression.

           
On the inside cover, it said,

THE AUTHOR

                       
John Peveril Stanage has emerged as one of
the half-
                       
dozen best-loved
children's writers of the twentieth
                       
century.

                                   
Basing his compelling stories on
the history,
                       
myths and legends
of the Peak District and the
                       
southern Pennines,
of which he has an unrivalled
                       
knowledge, he has
ensnared the imagination of millions

                       
of young readers the world over.

                                   
Mr Stanage's work has been
translated into more
                       
than fifteen
languages and won him countless awards.

           
Not over-enlightening, and there was no picture. But
then, Macbeth thought, the guy didn't exactly look like a favourite uncle;
maybe the publishers figured he'd scare the readers.

           
But then again, that was obviously part of his intention,
if
Blue John's Way
was typical.

           
A quote on the back from some literary asshole on the
London
Guardian
said the book
conveyed a powerful sense of adolescent alienation.

           
The bookseller had told Macbeth a growing number of
adults were hooked on Stanage's stories for kids; apparently he was becoming a
minor cult-figure, like C. S. Lewis.

           
'In America, I'm told,' the bookseller said, 'his books
aren't even marketed as children's fiction any more.'

           
'That so?' Macbeth, whose reading rarely extended beyond
possible mini-series material, had never previously heard of Stanage. 'He live
down in - where is it? - the English Peak District?'

           
'He's publishing under false pretences if he isn't.'
           
You got any idea precisely
where?'

           
A shrug. Negative.

           
This morning, under pressure, the Earl had admitted to
Macbeth that he personally had been unfamiliar with the work of Moira Cairns
until a member of The Celtic Bond steering committee had drawn his attention to
it. Yes, all right, forcefully drawn his attention ...

           
'So it was Stanage
who was insistent Moira should be hired for this particular occasion?'

           
'He was keen, yes
...'

           
'How keen?'

           
'He's a great admirer of her work.'

           
'Tell me, Earl, why is Mr Stanage on
your steering committee?'

           
'Well... because he's a great
authority on an aspect of Celtic studies- the English element - which is often
neglected. And because he's ... he's very influential.'

           
And also rich, Macbeth thought. That above all. The
crucial factor. The reason you're taking all this shit from me, Earl, the
reason you deigned to accept this call at all.

           
Macbeth propped the paperback against a sauce bottle and
re-read the blurb.

                       
John Clough is an unhappy boy growing up
fatherless
                       
in a remote
village in me Northern hills.

                                   
He has never been able to get on
with his mother
                       
or his sisters who
live in a strange world of their own,
                       
from which John,
as the only male, is excluded. At
                       
weekends, he
spends most of his time alone in the
                       
spectacular
limestone caverns near his home, where
                       
he forms a special
bond with the Spirits of the Deep.
                       
With the Spirits'
help, John discovers the dark secret
                       
his mother has
been hiding - and sets out to find his

                       
true identity.

           
Macbeth went back to the counter, ordered up a black
coffee and opened up the road-atlas.

           
'How long you figure it would take me to get to ... uh
... Manchester, England?'

           
'Never been, pal. Five hours? 'Pends how fast you drive.'

Last night Macbeth had
called his secretary in New York to find out how seriously they were missing
his creative flair and acumen. His secretary said he should think about coming
home; his mom was working too hard. Which meant his mom was working
them
too hard and therefore enjoying him
being out of the picture.

           
So no hassle.

           
Five hours? A short hop.

           
But they claimed Moira had been given an assisted passage
out of town.
The woman you're seeking has
been driven away.

           
So she might no longer be in that area.

           
But she would not be the easiest person to get rid of if
she still had unfinished business.

           
Macbeth was getting that Holy Grail feeling again. The
One Big Thing.

           
What the fuck ... He climbed back into the Metro, started
up the motor.

CHAPTER
II

'Right, let the dog see the
rabbit. That the photo, Paul? Ta.'
           
'Got to be him, Sarge.'
           
'Not necessarily, lad, all
sorts come out here purely to top umselves. I remember once . .
   
'It is, look ...'

           
'Aye, well done, lad. Never've thought he'd have got this
far in last night's conditions, no way. But where's the gun?'

           
The body lay face-up in the bottom of the quarry, both
eyes wide as if seeking a reason from the darkening sky.

           
'Hell fire, look at state of his head. Must've bounced
off that bloody rock on his way down. You all right, Desmond?'

           
'Just a bit bunged-up, Sarge. Reckon it's this flu.'

           
'Hot lemon. Wi' half a cup of whisky. That's what I
always take. Least you can't smell what we can smell. Hope the poor bugger shit
hisself
after
he landed.'

           
'What d'you reckon then?'

           
'Harry, if you can persuade your radio to work, get word
back to Mr Blackburn as he can call off the troops, would you? And let's find
that gun, shall we? I don't know; be a bloody sight simpler if we hadn't got
his missus bleating on about him charging after Satanists.'
           
'Haw.'

           
'Ah now, don't knock it, Desmond. If you'd seen some of
the things I've seen up these moors. All right, more likely poor sod'd been
trying to find his way back home,
terrible
bloody conditions, gets hopelessly disorientated, wandering round for hours -
what's he come, six miles, seven? - and just falls over the edge. But this
business of intruders, somebody'll want it checked out,
whoever
they were,
whatever
they
was up to ...'

           
'Or if they even existed.'

           
'Or, as Paul says, if they even existed, except in the
lad's imagination. I'd let it go, me, if we find that gun. Accidental, and
you'd never prove otherwise, not in a million years. What we supposed to do,
stake out the entire moor every night till they come back for another do?'
           
'Poor bugger.'

           
'Aye. Glad we found him before it got dark, or we'd be
out here again, first light. Well, look at that, what d'you know, it's starting
raining again, Desmond.'
           
'Yes Sarge.'

           
'Hot lemon, lad, my advice. Wi' a good dollop of whisky.'

Oh Lord, we're asking you
to intercede, to help us sanctify this place, drenched for centuries in sin and
evil. Oh Lord, come down here tonight, give us some help. Come on down, Lord
... shine your light, that's what we're asking ... come on ...'

           
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'

           
'Yes, and into every murky corner, come on ...'
           
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'
           
'Through every dismal doorway
...'
           
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'
           
'Into every fetid crevice ...'
           
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'

           
And Willie shouted it too.
           
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'