Beneath the Tor (27 page)

It took me an age to scroll through the images, mostly because I'm rubbish at deleting, even a bit of floor with half a shoe at the corner. I found the photos of our night on the Tor, but held onto the phone, unable to pass it over. The best shot was a selfie; all the workshoppers were in it, squashed close together. Wolfs, Shell and Alys next to me, Brice with Freaky, Yew and Ricky behind. Anag, waving like mad, was captured at one corner. Juke's image was right at the front, half obliterating my face, his quizzical smile sharp in the camera's lens—the natural focal point of the shot.

I didn't move, desperate to delete the photo. Rey gently lifted the phone from me and sat beside Anthony while he took the picture in.

“Oh God.” He peered closer for several seconds, and as he did, he groaned, as if in pain, as if someone was grinding a stone into the back of his head.

“You see him?”

“I see them all.”

“The one with the blond beard?”

“They were a nice crowd.”

“Does anything stand out?” I asked, joining them, staring down at the selfie.

“
Her
. She never stopped dancing, like they never stopped drumming.”

I had a sensation of internal pain. Alys's face, full of anticipation and joy, lit up the picture. She'd loved the night on the Tor, perhaps more than almost any of our party, and she glowed.

“Is there anyone there that you later saw at the bus stop in Glastonbury or on the ride home, Anthony?” Rey repeated. “Take a closer look.”

“It's confusing. It's confusing, yeah? Because I did see all of these people; they were all with Alys.”

“Are you sure?” It was a croak. I swallowed and tried again. “Not the one with the little beard?”

“I can't. I can't look no more.”

“Try to have a think after we've gone. It might take a while to register.”

“Yeah, okay.”

I didn't think I'd hear from Anthony again. Why would he revisit that morning of death and pain? He'd watched Alys die. He'd been attacked for no reason. All he wanted to do was forget.

“I'll drive,” said Rey, on the way back in the car. I slid into the passenger seat and sat silent as he made a whining reverse move, turned the car, and set off.

“I've been trying to work out the timing, Rey. When Anthony Bale was attacked in Yeovil, Juke was in Glastonbury with all of us. And when Gerald Evens was attacked, Juke should have been at work in Bridgwater. The only time he's in the frame is at the Angel Shopping Centre and that's only because I called him and he came to help.”

Rey gave a laugh; short, unfunny. “You don't have to work out timings, Sabbie. Our search is over. We'll probably never know who threw a stone at Anthony, but it definitely was not whoever attacked Gerald Evens. And that attack isn't linked to
Marty-Mac
—he got himself into a dangerous mess and one of his associates took him out.”

“I never did think Juke was anything to do with this.” My voice came out all sulky.

“Then we're on the same wavelength—first time ever! So, to put this to rest, I'm going for a combination of number one and number two scenario.”

“What?”

“Brice is sending these emails to himself; he's spotted these incidents on social media, and it's giving him perverse satisfaction roping his friends further into his grieving patterns.”

I loosened my shoulders, hearing the ligaments crunch. The miles swept under our tyres.

Suddenly, Rey said, “I'm going to take you out tonight.”

“What?”

“We never do that. Should get a table on a Wednesday.”

“Ooo,” I said. “Why not? It'd be nice.”

“I need to get relaxed. Enjoy a break. I've done nothing but think of Macaskill for days. Where would you like to eat?”

I shrugged. It had been too long since I'd been to a restaurant.

“In fact, let's take a day off, shall we? A day out of our lives. You got clients booked tomorrow?”

This was so unlike Rey I could hardly think. “Not … no I haven't.”

“Right. It promises fine. Let's motor down to North Devon. Exmoor. Find a nice
gastro-inn
and hole up for the night. Ever been to Lynton?”

“No.”

“We'll pack a bag and escape for one night.”

“It's the high season. There might not be any rooms.”

“There's always a room if you're prepared to pay.”

“What's brought this on?”

“You don't like being whirled off your feet?”

“Well, yes, as it happens, but—”

“I've got a meeting at nine on Friday morning.”

“Is that to do with …”

“Yeah. They call them meetings, but they're interrogations. My Police Federation rep will be there, but so far I've emerged feeling like I've been through a car crusher.”

“They have nothing on you, Rey!”

“Except an extreme dislike of any copper who doesn't play by the rules.”

I shook my head. “Someone killed
Marty-Mac
, but instead of looking for them, they're focusing on you.” He stared through the windscreen at the quiet road ahead, both hands sensibly on the steering wheel.

“We are good, aren't we Rey?”

“Christ, yes. We're solid.”

“From now on, then, promise you'll tell me things?”

“I know I can be … unforthcoming. Lesley used to make the same complaint.”

“I'm not Lesley,” I said, keeping my voice light. “I'm not complaining at all.”

All at once, he indicated into the side of the road and pulled on the handbrake. He wrapped his arms around me, squeezing so tight my breath left my lungs. His chin rested on my shoulder. I couldn't see his face properly, only that his eyes were tightly closed and his mouth was a firm, set line, like someone in the middle of making a resolution. “Let's do it, Sabbie. For
twenty-four
hours, let's just forget all our worries.”

twenty-six

brice

I got off the
train at Paddington and headed straight to the crematorium. It was Friday morning, the day of the funeral. Brice and Wolfsbane were waiting for me. We couldn't go in, of course; the funerals ran in strict order, like movie showings. Ours was scheduled for two p.m., but Brice had wanted us to show up early; I couldn't blame him for that. We found the appropriate chapel, then sat on a bench in the sun to run through the ritual.

This celebration of Alys's life had to include everyone who knew her, not just her pagan friends. The family on both sides would be cautious if not downright hostile to a solely pagan affair, and we'd worked round that. Pagans like to celebrate in a circle, wearing ritual gear that focuses their intent and holding hands in a natural, open space, some sort of sacred site. The very shape of a circle suggests that no one is in charge in quite the same way as the minister who stands in front of a congregation. We hoped we'd come up with a harmonizing of both worlds.

By the time we'd finalized things I'd begun to feel less terrified. Brice took off, so that he could be in the official car that would move slowly behind the hearse bearing Alys's coffin.

“We've got two hours,” said Wolfsbane. “I'm going to book in at the hotel and grab something to eat. You coming?”

“I'm not staying the night.”

“What? Aren't you stopping over until the scattering of the ashes? It's all on Brice, Sabbie. Take advantage.”

“Things are awful for Rey at the moment. I want to get back
for him.”

When Wolfsbane had left, I wandered the huge site, past row upon row of gravestones and marble monuments and beech trees in full, bright green leaf. I gazed up at chapels with gargoyles and ornate finials and walked between scented palettes of colour—gold of calendula, pink of pelargoniums, and brilliant scarlet of salvia, all in their individual beds. I sat for sometime at the edge of a lily pond, the trickle of the waterfall calming me.

Scooting off for an overnight stay had been perfect for both Rey and me. We'd found a
family-run
hotel in a tiny village on the north coast of Devon. We'd soaked up the sun—not brilliantly hot but not breezy either. We'd eaten great food, walked on the beach, and browsed round craft shops. Rey had bought me a bronze cast of fighting hares. We'd promised each other things … when all this is over … when Rey was reinstated … We'd talked about a life together. Rey had got close to agreeing that he might give up his bedsit. Going to Devon had felt like a crossing; like leaving one shore and reaching a better land.

This morning he'd had his “meeting”—the interview with the team investigating his status. I longed to check how things were with him, but he wasn't answering his phone. Maybe the meeting was prolonged. Protracted.

In the ladies loo behind the café, I tried smiling at myself as I stuck on a bit of makeup and tugged a
wide-toothed
comb through my hair. My funeral clothes were a brown skirt that hung to my calves, a black top, and a charcoal grey jacket which I'd purchased for the occasion from one of the charity shops in Bridgwater, knowing I'd never wear it again. Hanging on the wardrobe door at home, I'd been worried; every item had clashed. Brice had asked us all to wear something with strong colour; ties for men, scarves for women. I'd chosen a floaty cerise and tan scarf which had the surprising effect of pulling the mix of colours together.

I sat in the café garden, in earshot of the fountain, picking at sponge cake. The sun was weak today, with a haze that felt slightly teary. Good weather for a summer funeral.

I'd almost finished my tea when Ricky came out of the café carrying a tray of drinks and eats. Freaky and Yew followed behind. They veered towards my table, Yew picking up further bistro chairs on his way through. We made a full round of hellos, during which I stacked my dishes to give the diners more elbow room.

“You're conducting the service, aren't you?” said Yew, once I'd settled between them all.

I nodded, slightly mute. Freaky laid a hand on my shoulder. “All will be well, my dear friend.” He started powering through his Danish pastry.

“Do you happen to know who else is coming?” I asked. “Juke?”

“No.” Ricky was staring down at his hands, not touching his food or drink.

“I guess he's already pulled too many sickies.”

“Stef and Esme have commitments,” Freaky said. “Ahem. I saw our friend Anagarika in the George and Pilgrim. I got the feeling he knew he wasn't welcome, but he did have an excuse. Another workshop—Labyrinth Healing.” Freaky moved into a passable Australian accent: “The full, advanced, practitioner training, cobber!”

“Maybe he'll drop out of sight forever,” joked Yew. “Right into the Hollow Hill.”

“Right down to Australia, with any luck,” Freaky replied.

“We did that,” said Ricky. There was a
micro-pause
, as we turned to him. “What my mum used to say, when we dug holes in the sand on holiday. Fall through to Australia.”

The three of us chuckled. The spiky energy round him suggested he got uncomfortable at funerals and there was already an unwritten consensus between us that we needed to prevent Ricky from bursting into tears. “Anyway, you can't dig holes into the Tor. I mean, you shouldn't,” he added, into the silence. “Although the upper crust is rock, quite hard, so it would be tricky.”

“You'd need more than a seaside spade, then,” I quipped.

“Yeah,” said Yew. “Internally is the silt and clay. Plenty of chance for digging. If you could get there.”

“
I walk with my
companion-at
-arms into the Hollow Hill.”
I looked at all three of them as I quoted from Morgan le Fay's last email. There wasn't a flicker of recognition. I wondered if Juke would have reacted—if Rey's theories about him would hold out—then remembered that Rey didn't have theories, except that the emails meant Brice was losing his mind.

My phone beeped—the alarm I'd set as reminder. I needed to get in place for the start of the funeral. “I've got to go, guys. See you outside the crematorium.”

The chapel Brice had chosen was of ultra-modern architecture, big and white, speaking of man's accomplishments, rather than nature's beauty. Wolfsbane and I gathered everyone—the mourners, I guess they were called—together a short way off, where sun filtered through leafy trees. We encouraged them into a rough, tightly-packed circle and had them hold hands. The turnout was huge. I looked round the circle, taking in over two hundred flinted expressions, and it hit me like a fist—we were here to support them.

Wolfsbane stood directly across the circle, opposite me. Close by was Brice, flanked by his family and close friends. Yew stared ahead, well under control. Freaky had his eyes closed. Ricky's shoulders jerked constantly. Shell slipped in next to him, as if finding a space, and I saw her secret squeeze of his hand.

Wolfsbane lifted his voice, and it rang as I'd never heard before. “We will begin by bringing peace into our circle.”

“For without peace,” I continued, trying to let my voice carry, “we cannot accomplish the work we are here to do.”

Those words set us both rolling. We brought power into the circle in the way I would do in my therapy room—we could take that core of power into the crematorium—we could even keep it going until Alys's ashes had been scattered. Yew lit incense in a heavy cauldron and placed it in the centre, where it billowed fragrant smoke. Freaky had brought spring water from Glastonbury and he walked the perimeter of our circle with it, sprinkling it in consecration. We asked everyone to take three deep breaths, while we visualized a circle of light that would keep us safe.

We explained the significance of the yew tree, which grew widely in churchyards round London. Yew had brought a basket of branches, and I'd got Shell to frantically pull them apart before we'd assembled in a circle, so there'd be enough for everyone. She took the basket around and people chose a sprig to take with them as a commemoration.

Then I handed out nightlights. Luckily, we'd brought giant Ikea bags of candles so there were plenty. I lit mine with Wolfsbane's power lighter that would burn in a
force-ten
storm. There was no wind, which was lucky, because our plan was that each person would light their candle from the flame of the person next to them, so allowing the little lights to grow bright one by one round the circle.

As Shell touched her burning wick against Ricky's nightlight, he finally let his emotions out. He pressed the back of his free hand to his eyes as if that would hold in the tears.

Under the protection of the tree canopy the flames grew strong on their wicks, outlining our circle shape. We'd tried to think through the practicalities; we wanted everyone to carry their tiny lights in a snaking line towards the crematorium before the wax became molten. We weren't allowed to be a fire risk, so we left them—two hundred and more flickering lights—beside the floral offerings in the courtyard.

Wolfsbane led the company in behind the coffin, which was carried by Brice, Alys's brother, and four of her workmates. Yew walked behind, the smoke rising from his cauldron of burning resins. Freaky brought his chalice of spring water. I came last, to catch
late-comers
.

Inside the huge room, two of Alys's friends started with an acoustic version—guitar and vocals—of the Led Zeppelin ballad “Stairway to Heaven.” They were good, but what was most affecting was the passion coming from them. They were good despite being torn to pieces.

The rest of the funeral was a celebration of Alys's life. Several people stood to read poems and Shell did her eulogy in a sweet and simple manner. There was a slideshow of pictures from Alys's birth to the day before she died—arriving at Stonedown, looking happy and expectant. Like me, Brice had captured her on his phone dancing on the Tor, but thought those too poignant to include.

Brice spoke last, without notes, a tribute that was also a love letter. Finally, the coffin began its macabre journey, accompanied by Queen's “Who Wants to Live Forever.” Apparently Alys had loved '70s and '80s rock music since being introduced to it by her father. The lyrics set almost everyone off, apart from Brice, who had remained
stony-faced
throughout, and Ricky, who'd continue to weep steadily from the start. Alys's mother buried her face in her hand, her sobs echoing around the building. The slow disappearance of the coffin made it all too real. Ricky lurched to his feet. Tears were streaking his powdered face. His fingers chained his hands together as he reached both arms out towards the coffin.

“It never should have been,” he cried out. “Surely this is against nature and reason, unless all is illusion!”

His words rang around the building, and an awful stillness settled, as if no one dared move. Finally, Shell got him back into his seat.

Brice registered his presence for the first time.

The wake was held in a function room just outside the crematorium gates. The congregation walked through the grounds, some pacing out the distance, eager to grab a drink, others as befitted the act of mourning. Some veered off, taking a wander through the grounds. The idea of finding a place for meditation was an attractive one, but my urgent need was to switch my phone back on. There were no missed calls. I dialed Rey's number, my mouth drying in anticipation of his answering. I didn't know what news he would give me, how he would sound after the grilling by his superiors. I didn't even get his message box. A sharp needle of concern drove through me. He'd switched the phone off. He didn't want to speak to anyone. I pushed the phone into my pocket and went into the reception.

Everyone wanted to talk to me and Wolfs. Our rite had gone down well with people—some surprised, some a little relieved at its relevance for them. Having shaken his hand on the way into the reception, I didn't manage to speak to Brice in the crush. I saw him, though, standing with various groups of people, stoic and impassive,
bone-dry
eyes and a
firm-set
mouth which opened to speak as little as possible.

A table laden with finger food and hot and cold drinks stood against a long wall. Finally I made for the queue. Yew was ahead of me. We began filling our paper plates with savouries, Yew for the second time around, I fancied.

“It's been a terrible summer,” I said.

“Like a portent. Death on the Tor as the sun rose at the zenith of its powers.” He dug out a piece of quiche and put it straight into his mouth. “A distressing symbol,” he managed, through the pastry.

I grabbed my moment; there was something I needed to clear up. “Yew; can you remember what you did directly after Alys's body was airlifted to hospital?”

“We took the lads into Glastonbury and tried to find somewhere that was open that early in the morning. You'd've thought plenty of places would have been keen to feed the hordes coming off the Tor, but no damn place bothered. I ended up talking the manager of the Crown into cooking a hotel breakfast.”

“Who was there?”

“In the end, it was just me.” Yew gave me the cautious look again. “I gave Wolfsbane back the cash, if that's what you're thinking.”

“No, I was wondering where the others had got to.”

“Freaky went back to his caravan to crash out. Anag might have gone to his digs until it was time for retail therapy.” Yew let off a crack of a laugh. “Everyone was shattered twice over. Juke and Ricky wanted to get their heads down too.”

“Their beds were back at Stonedown.”

“That'd be it, then, yeah?”

“Yeah. That'll be it.” I fell into silence, as I cast my mind back. Ricky
had
come downstairs from the boys' bedroom, at perhaps
half-ten
or eleven. Juke had not arrived back until almost one with Anag, but I'd never asked either of them if they'd met on the High Street, or on the way back. It was annoying that neither of them were here so I could check that out.