The Man in the Moss (98 page)

                       
But Ma Wagstaff knew. Ma Wagstaff spoke more
than once of the 'one who'll come after me' and everybody laughed because it
sounded so quaintly biblical.

                       
They have a fund, you know, the Mothers. A
bank account in Glossop or Macclesfield or somewhere, to which
unexpected windfalls and bequests are added from time to time, and there was sufficient
money in that to put Cathy through theological college without anyone knowing.

                       
If all goes well, it'll be The Reverend Cathy
soon. And in a few years, all things being equal, Bridelow will have its first
woman minister. Oh, aye. You can count on it. You really think the Archdeacon
won't give us his full backing in ensuring that the lass is appointed? By 'eck,
lad, we've got enough dirt on that bugger to buy his soul off him, and we're
not afraid to use it!

                       
Makes you think though, doesn't it. Another
giant step for mankind in little Bridelow: probably the first official Anglican
clergy person (as we'll have to say) equipped to serve both God and the
Goddess.

                       
By 'eck.

Could've given Macbeth
twenty-five years at least, this bastard, his face white as a skull, white as
the skulls that tumbled from the walls in the Earl's Castle so long ago, in
another time,
another life.

           
But so goddamn strong. His hands so hard, so tight around
Macbeth's throat that Macbeth figured one finger must have been driven, nail
first, through the skin, through the flesh and up his windpipe where it had
lodged and swollen to the size of a clenched fist.

           
He fought to breathe, but there was no air left, not
anywhere in the world.

           
Stanage's eyes had receded into his skull as he thrust
Macbeth's head down under the water once, twice. Second time he came up,
Macbeth's eyes were popping too far out, probably, for eyelids to cover, and he
was seeing nothing through the black water. Only his inner eyes saw everything,
with a helpless clarity:

           
...
this is how it
happens, this is how you drown.

           
His lungs hard as concrete, his whole body filled up with
peat.

           
... gonna be
preserved. For all time. For ever.

           
'I remember you now,' he heard Stanage saying. 'Scotland,
yes? An American. Followed the Cairns creature around like a bloody lamb.'

           
Stanage must have known the last question, the one
Macbeth couldn't speak, the one which even his blacked-out eyes could no longer
convey.

           
He said, almost gently, 'She died.'

           
And Macbeth stopped resisting, surrendered to the
limitless night.

           
'Bloody unfortunate, really. Didn't want her dead at a
crucial stage. But it'll be OK, I suppose; she won't be doing much yet. They're
very bewildered, you see, m'boy. At first. It can take about three days - well,
weeks, months, years in some cases. Oh, she was doubtless better prepared than
most, but however developed they are, it's three days, minimum, 'fore they can
do
damage
.'

           
Stanage wore a black jacket over a white shirt. The shirt
was spotless; suddenly this was the worst thing, a spiritual travesty; Macbeth,
dying, felt sick at the injustice of it.

           
'Caught her unawares, I think, when it came, m'boy. Even
though she certainly did have a spirit. Damn well caught me unawares on one
occasion, as you saw. Bitch. But the Scottish business, that was really …'

           
Forcing Macbeth under the dark water again; this time no
struggle, get it over ...

           
But Stanage brought him up again.

           
'... just a small clash of egos, in comparison. Small
clash of egos. This, though ... this is a splendid shake-up. Past and present,
worlds colliding ...'

           
Macbeth's eyes cleared a moment; he saw a big yellow
grin.
           
'... roof coming in, I was
expecting it, threw myself under a table. Central beam - oak beam - came down
on her. If she'd had all her hair - ironic, really - I wouldn't have seen it
happen. Not in quite such exquisite detail ... crrrr
unch
. Like an eggshell.'

           
Eased his grip a fraction, so that a thin jet of air
entered Macbeth's lungs. He used it.
           
'Motherfucker.'

           
Stanage laughed. 'What? Lord, no. You ever see my
mother?'

           
Closed up Macbeth's throat.

           
'Fucked a sister or two. That was fun. For a while.
Strengthens the old family ties. Goodnight, m'boy. Don't suppose
your
passing will cause much of a vibe
on the ether.'

           
Last thing Macbeth saw, with gratitude, was some dark
shit on Stanage's shirt.

           
Must've sprayed it out with 'motherfucker'.

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

They haven't found his body
and happen they never will.

                       
Peat preserves.

                       
Oh, aye, it does that. But how much of what
peat preserves
should
be preserved?

                       
It's not natural, that's the problem. Dust to
dust. All things must pass. All things must rot. For in rotting there's change.
That's the positive aspect of physical death. All things must
change.

                       
Nothing changes much in the peat; so peat, in
my view, works against natural laws. Living on the edge of it, Bridelow folk
have always been aware of the borderline between what is natural and what
isn't.

                       
This is not whimsy. But all the same, I've
had a bellyful, so I've decided, on balance, that I won't die here. Happen my
soul'll find its way back, who can say? But, the Lord - and Willie Wagstaff -
decided one rainy night that the peat was not for me, so I'm taking the hint
and I'll pop me clogs somewhere else, thank you very much.

                       
Also, to be realistic, I think I need what
time's left to me to do a bit of thinking, and I reckon Bridelow is too
powerful a place right this minute to get things into any sort of perspective.

                       
So.

                       
I'm off to Bournemouth, owd lad.

                       
Don't you dare say
owt
. And don't anybody panic either; when I say Bournemouth, I mean
Bournemouth - I've a cousin runs a little guest house up towards Poole Harbour.
Your Cathy says she'll come and see me and bring Milly, and they'll try their
hand at a spot of the old Bridelow healing. 'Doctors!' Cathy says. 'What do
they
know?'

                       
Aye. What
do
the buggers know?

                       
We'll see.

He could taste the peat on
her face. Nothing ever tasted as good. He wanted to believe it. He didn't.

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

           
He thought, If we're
both
dead maybe I got a chance this side.

           
'I ...'

           
'Don't talk. Not if it hurts.'

           
There was light in the sky; this time maybe the real
thing: dawn.

           
All Souls Day.

           
His ass was wet. Everything was wet.
           
No.

           
The Duchess said.
Now,
who is the white man?
           
'No!' Macbeth screamed. 'Fuck
you. Duchess!'
           
'She won't take too kindly to
that.'
           
'No,' he said. 'Please. No
tricks. No more tricks.' He opened his eyes. Shut them tight again. 'Stanage,
you motherf—'

           
'He's gone. Believe me. He's the other side. He can't get
across. Whether he's alive or dead, he can't get across.'

           
Macbeth opened his eyes. Kept them open. Kept staring and
staring.

           
'Eggshell,' he said. 'Said her head was smashed like an
eggshell.'

           
'Whose head?'

           
'Yours? When the roof came in?'

           
'I hope not,' Moira said, putting a hand for the first
time to the remains of her hair. She wrinkled her nose. 'But I sure as hell
kept bloody still underneath that beam until he'd gone. Can you walk? I mean,
can you stand up?'

           
Macbeth leaned his back against the wall and did some
coughing. Coughed his guts up. Felt better. Not a whole lot better, and the way
his goddamn heart was beating ...

           
He got his eyes to focus on her.

           
'Are you real?'

           
'Do I no' look real?'

           
Her slashed hair was in spikes. Her face was streaked
with black peat and blood. He couldn't tell what she was wearing except for
peat.

           
'Uh ... yeah,' he said. 'I guess you look real. 'And I
... Did we come through this?'

           
'Come on,' Moira said. 'We need to move.'

           
Holding on to each other, Macbeth still feeling like he
was dream-walking, they made it back across the forecourt to where the peat
came no higher than their thighs.

           
And then Moira's plastic lamp went out, which seemed to
bother her a lot. 'Just hang on, Mungo, thing's coming to pieces.'

           
'That's OK.' His brain felt like it was muffled. Mossy.
'We don't need a light any more. Sun's here. Someplace.'

           
Figured that even if she walked away from him at the top
of the street, even if she walked away for ever, he had all the light he'd ever
need.

           
'No,' Moira stopped. 'Been through a lot, me and this
lamp. There's blood on it. Is it mine, or Stanage's?'

           
Macbeth panicked then. He spun around in the peat, saw
the roof of The Man I'th Moss, the caved-in roof of the barn, spars and
serrated masonry projecting jaggedly into the half- light.

           
'He's gone,' Moira said.

           
'You sure he's gone? How can you be
sure
? Someone like that, he can go that easy?'

           
He stared down into the peat, like a pair of hands might
break and drag him down. Or even worse, if there were hands
down there, underneath ...

           
'Please God ...' Macbeth breathed as a hand went around
his arm.

           
'It's OK, Mungo.'

           
'Is it?
Is
it
OK? Are you still real? Oh, Jesus ...'

           
He started to weep.
           
'Mungo,' Moira said. 'Wasny
that easy.'

Clawing
at his hard, white face, at his nose, his teeth, going at him like a madwoman.
Blood oozing, greasy, warm blood. And once I saw his eyes, never really seen
his eyes before.

           
In his eyes is this, like,
languorous amusement. The damage I'm doing is superficial, and he's laughing at
me.

           
Behind him, there's a shadow on the
moss. The shadow isn't moving.

           
Behind me ...

           
This warm breath on my neck. I don't
even have to turn around to know how putrid this breath is. Death-room breath.

           
But I do turn around. I turn my back
on John Peveril Stanage, and Matt Castle is there.