The Chalice (43 page)

      
But Diane wasn't even listening. She wouldn't even look at
Juanita. just gazed at the walls, at Jim's picture, anything.

      
'I was thinking, Why me? I'd concluded that it wasn't me at all
it wanted, it was Nanny Three. Violet. Dion Fortune. I thought Ceridwen could
perhaps explain it, if... you know ... if they could get through to her. But
now I know it
is
me.'

      
'No, Diane…'

      
'Because Archer's the threat. To the Tor and all the magic of
Glastonbury. Avalon out. Don't you see? It wants me because I'm Archer's
sister. It wants me to stop him.'

      
'Sure. Fine. As long as…'

      
'And you were right, Juanita. With
The Avalonian
. It was meant. You have a purpose too.'

      
'Well thanks. Thank you very much, Diane.'
      
There was a long, fraught silence,
Diane staring hard at the picture on the wall. Then she said, 'That's the same
picture, isn't it? The one you've had for ages.'

      
Diane had gone pale. She looked close to fainting. It was
ridiculous. She shouldn't go dashing about, working herself into a state.
People carrying too much weight around, there was always a danger.

      
'I'll make some tea,' Juanita said.

      
'No.' Diane didn't move. 'Why's it gone dark? 'The sun-line in
the picture. Why's it gone dark, Juanita?'

'I'll ring him again.' Trying
to sound calm, but her too-thin, nervous fingers prodding at the wrong numbers.
She held the phone up to the light, began again.

      
And the phone rang and rang and the old bastard didn't answer.

      
Juanita pulled feverishly at her cigarette. There was a time when
she didn't actually need to smoke. Didn't need the wine. Never over-reacted.

      
The breeze tossed some rain at the window like a handful of
pebbles.

      
'OK. How did you mean?' Her voice limp. 'How did you mean it
had darkened?'

      
Diane swallowed. 'That red fine. Like a red-hot wire. It
had gone black. It was a black line. It was like a thin cut bleeding ... black.
All over the painting.'

      
'Why can't I see it?'

      
'I can't see it now. These things don't last.'

      
Juanita started to shake her head, wrapped her arms around
herself, began to pace the room, staring down and rocking.

      
'Diane, you'd ... OK, listen, you'd come in off the street,
into a darkened shop, darkened hallway, and then you burst into a lighted room ...'

      
'Juanita, sometimes you've got to trust me.'

      
Juanita blinked. 'Look, OK, 'I'll go over to Jim's. Check him out.
You stay here. Stay by the phone, just in case.'

      
'You're not going on your own.'

      
'Well, you're not coming.'

      
'Juanita, I can be frightfully stubborn. You are not going on
your own. If I have to get the van going and follow you.'

      
Juanita told her why it was impossible. She told her that her friends,
the Pilgrims, were back. Not all of them. Maybe half a dozen. But back. They'd
be spread all over the hill.'

      
'Oh.' Diane became very still. 'In that case, there're a few
things I need to ask them. About Headlice.'

      
Juanita's calves ached: varicose veins, was it, now?

      
Your time is close,
woman. It'll happen sooner than you dread.

      
Diane said, 'I'll get the van.'

      
'No. OK. We'll take the Volvo.' Juanita was sweating. Her
posh, grey jacket felt like rags.

      
Hot sweat, cold sweat, menopause,
hag.

St John's church tower was
watching them from above, unfeeling behind its lagging of rain and night.

      
Juanita pulled car keys from her shoulder bag, gripped them
until the jagged edges bit into her palm.

      
'Listen. OK. Just listen.' Facing Diane over the bonnet of the
Volvo. 'We go directly to Jim's. We don't stop for anybody. Is that
understood?'

      
Diane nodded; Juanita didn't trust her. She pulled the old
Afghan coat out of the boot, dragged it on. The rain was relentless as they
drove into Chilkwell Street - a few cars parked, a little light traffic. Small
town, rainy night.

      
Halfway up Wellhouse Lane, they came to the first vehicle. The
old Post Office van. 'You agreed,' Juanita snapped. 'You agreed we don't stop.
I don't care who you recognise, we keep going.'

      
Then the hearse.

      
'Mort,' Diane breathed.

      
'Shut up.'

      
Dim lamplight in some of the buses and vans. A few people plodded
from one to another. Metallic music rattled the Volvo's windows.

      
'It's them, it's Mort's hearse.'

      
'I don't care if it's Storming Norman's bloody tank, we're not
stopping.'

      
'I don't think I want to anymore.' Diane actually seemed a
little scared.

      
'Good.' Juanita trod on the gas, eased forward past the hearse.
And then collapsed on the brake…
      
'What the hell?'

      
... as a grey cliff-face arose in their path.

      
The motor coach was in the middle of the road. Not moving. No
lights. The Volvo stalled.
   
Juanita
wound down the window in rage, and screamed at anybody, 'What do you think this
is, the municipal dump?'

      
Laughter came like breaking glass.

      
'Stay!' Juanita hissed at Diane. 'Just don't move an inch.'
      
She slammed out into the road.
There was a group of people, or it might have been people and bushes; it didn't
move.

      
What
if he's here? With his sickle. Gwyn ap Nudd.
In his animal mask
. Juanita tasted oil and wanted to run away, but she made
herself speak to them.
      
'Excuse me. We need to get past.'

      
'Can't be done, lady.' A calm voice, unhurried. 'You're gonna
have to turn back.'

      
All she could see was a tall grey figure and a cigarette end too
small to fizz in the rain. Did whoever it was recognise her from the other
night? Did they all recognise her?

      
'Mel's bus broke down, OK? We can't fix it tonight. You gotta
go back. There's another way. Wherever you're headed, there's, like, always
another way, lady.'

      
'Not to where we're going. I don't get this. What are you guys
doing back here?'

      
'Lady, we are the army for Avalon. Public meeting, yeah? About
the road? We're the public.'

      
'Can't you just reverse it down the hill?'

      
'It's fuckin' clapped. Don't you listen? We'll get it seen to
when the morning comes.'

      
'I do like your coat.' A cruel, female cackle. 'My granny had
one like that.'

      
Juanita was preparing an acid reply when she saw that Diane
was at her side.

      
'Mort? Are you there?'

      
'For Christ's sake, what did we agree, Diane? The road's blocked,
anyway. One of their buses broke down.'

      
'Mort!' Diane cried out shrilly. 'Where's Mort?'

      
'Shiiiit,' one of the female travellers drawled from the darkness.
'We got bleedin' Fergie?'

      
'Rozzie? Is that you? It's me. Di... Molly. It's Molly F-f-Fortune.'

      
'She on about?'

      
'Interbreeding, it is,' the man said. 'Been poking their cousins
for centuries. All got brains the size of fuckin' walnuts.'

      
The mild rain between them was as dense and muffling as a
velvet curtain. Diane shouted, 'Mort, we have to talk. I know you're there,
I've seen the hearse.'

      
'It's my hearse, darlin'. Paul Pendragon at your service. There's
nobody called Mort. And, listen, you shouldn't be here hassling us, you should
be down at that meeting. Got to stop this fuckin' road, ladies. You come down
with us, we'll look after you.'

      
'Diane, come on.'

      
'She yours, lady?'

      
'Diane, will you…?'

      
'Why did you leave?' Diane screamed. 'Why didn't you take poor
Headlice to hospital? Why did you let him die? Why'd you leave him?'

      
Silence. Juanita had a horrible sense of
déjà vu.
She tensed, snatched at Diane's arm.

      
Somebody laughed and held up a hurricane lamp that passed from
face to face, and there were beards and plaits and dreadlocks and face-paint,
and Juanita didn't recognise, thank God, anyone.

      
'Sweetheart,' Paul Pendragon said, 'we took every case of
headlice to hospital the Health Service'd grind to a bleeding standstill.'

Diane was all fuzzy and
bewildered.

      
'They aren't the same. They're different.'
      
Well, they had to be. No way the
last lot would return after the death, the possible murder, of one of their
tribe.

      
Juanita was entirely relieved, if you wanted the truth. They
got back into the car and she reversed about twenty yards, pulled into the side
of the lane, half in the bushes, switched off the engine and the lights.

      
'I think what we do is we walk from here. But we let them go
past first.'

      
Juanita leaned across Diane, pulled a torch from the glove
compartment as a bunch of them came down the hill with the hurricane lamp. The
army for Avalon marching to something mournful played on a tin whistle. She
opened the driver's door and stood in the bushes until all she could hear was faint
music and the echo of laughter.

      
She and Diane moved past the vehicles. Six, Juanita counted,
including the bus blocking the road.

      
It was still raining, but they were less than half a mile from
Jim's. A stupid exercise, really.

      
When, after nearly ten minutes' walking, a light appeared ahead
of them and there was the sound of solid footsteps, Juanita was convinced it
was Jim himself and started thinking of an excuse. It would have to be the
Headlice issue: they wanted Jim's opinion before going to the cops. Tried to
ring…

      
The footsteps stopped immediately in front of them, like a soldier
coming to attention, and he turned the beam of his lamp on himself, lighting up
a Barbour so old and worn it could have been Mr Barbour's prototype, and a face
like a round of rough Cheddar.

      
'Is it the fire of hell, Mrs Carey? Or is it the wrath of God?
Cursed, it is, this place. The devil in a black buzz and now the fire of hell.'

      
'Don.' Juanita wondered if she'd ever squeezed more disappointment
into one syllable. 'I think we can do without the evangelism tonight.'

      
'She thought you were Jim Battle,' Diane said.

      
'Oh.' Don Moulder let his lamp arm fall to his side, the beam
trailing in the road. 'Mr Battle. Aye, When I heard your voices, I did hope as
he were comin' up with you. I called 'em already, look. Soon's I seen it, went
back up the house, called 999. Told 'em to get their fingers out.'

      
Juanita felt herself go limp.

      
'Now don't you start worryin' nor nothin'. He couldn't be in
there, no way, my love. When I seen it, I thought it were them hippies an'
their paraffin again. I mighter smelt it and went down there earlier, look, but
for this rain, and ... and things.'

      
'Oh God,' Juanita howled. She pushed past Don and tore blindly
down the little lane which led to Jim's track.
      
She could smell it herself now,
sour and acrid.