The Lamp of the Wicked (38 page)

No heaven; you could only make a temporary heaven, out of money or sex or drugs. She’d never done drugs. Had opportunities, inevitably – Es, whizz, spliff, all that – but she’d resisted it. Felt slightly contemptuous of kids who spent all their spare cash on chemicals, because there were other ways to get there, weren’t there? Meditation, ritual dance, spiritual exercises. Other ways of
actually being there
.

Or not. Maybe there was nowhere to go but deeper into your own delusions.

Jane turned the pillow over to the dry side.

Merrily remembered the parcel she’d left on the hall table, and went to fetch it. She was suspicious of parcels now. The Jiffy bag wasn’t light, and it bulged. Suppose it contained another few thousand pounds in used fifties.

She took it into the scullery and pulled it open under the Anglepoise.

There were three paperback books inside, all scuffed and with split spines:
An Evil Love. Happy Like Murderers. She Must Have Known
.

There was a note on yellow paper attached to one of the books with a paperclip.

EVERYTHING YOU EVER WANTED TO KNOW

ABOUT THE WESTS AND A LOT YOU’LL WISH YOU

DIDN’T. JUST IN CASE YOU WERE INTERESTED.

LET ME HAVE THEM BACK SOMETIME.

F.

‘Well, thanks, Frannie.’ Merrily put the books back in the bag. ‘Just what I bloody needed.’

She switched off the lamp and sat there in the blood red of the old electric fire and wondered where all this was going.

J
ANE SAID
, ‘
WHAT
are you doing sitting here in the dark?’

Silhouetted in the doorway, with the creamy kitchen behind her, she looked so slight and vulnerable that Merrily wanted to rush over and hold her. The way you did sometimes, even in normal circumstances.

As if she’d sensed it and didn’t want it, Jane backed off into the kitchen.

‘Sorry.’ Merrily felt a cool wave of dismay. ‘Sorry, flower. I was on the phone, and the light just faded on me. What’s the time?’

‘Twenty to six.’

Merrily got up. ‘Things have been a bit… Maybe we could put some music on later?’ Code for a deep and meaningful chat.

‘Whatever.’

‘You OK?’

‘Yeah.’ The light, throwaway kind of
yeah
, carrying many times its weight of meaning. And now the damn phone was going again. Merrily glanced back to make sure she hadn’t switched off the machine by mistake.

‘Better get it,’ Jane said quickly. ‘Might be important.’

Merrily hesitated, and Jane turned away. Merrily sighed, went back and picked up. ‘Ledwardine Vic—’

‘Mrs Watkins!’ Cheery, booming male voice. ‘George Lomas, Lomas and Sons, Coleford. We haven’t done business before, but we’re burying a certain gentleman – if that’s the correct term in this instance – for Mr Tony Lodge and your good self.’

‘Ah, right. Erm… hello.’

‘You have Friday, I believe.’

‘As I understand it.’

‘And, unfortunately, Mrs Watkins, I have to tell you, as
quite a number of people
now understand it. Mr Lodge had hoped to keep it discreet by using ourselves, rather than one of the firms in Ross, but it seems someone’s let the cat out of the bag, and I had a phone call this afternoon from the local press.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Quite.
Not
what we want, under the circumstances. However, I’ve spoken to the parties concerned, including the Reverend Banks, and we have an alternative proposal to put to you, if it can be accommodated into your schedule. And that is Wednesday – the day after tomorrow. We’re suggesting late afternoon –
very
late afternoon.’

‘You mean under cover of darkness?’

‘I think it makes sense, Mrs Watkins. It
had
been arranged that Mr Lodge’s coffin should spend at least one night in the church prior to burial, so no one will be surprised to see a hearse arrive. We propose – and Mr Tony Lodge is somewhat reluctantly in agreement – that the funeral should be carried out as soon as possible. We expect there to be no more than five mourners.’

‘A clandestine funeral?’

‘That wouldn’t exactly be my choice of word but, under the circumstances… well, Mr Banks is certainly in agreement. It means that Mr Lodge will be safely interred before anyone can… cause problems.’

‘You’ve been warned of problems?’

‘Not if it’s dealt with on Wednesday evening and arrangements remain confidential. Could we say five-thirty?’

‘Well…’ There really wasn’t an alternative, was there? ‘OK.’

‘Splendid,’ said Mr Lomas.

When she put down the phone, it rang again, under her hand.

‘Damn.’ Merrily picked up. ‘Led—’

Sophie said, ‘I was just doing my final check on the e-mail, and there’s one you might just want to know about before the morning. Cherry Lodge?’

‘
Already?
How long is it?’

‘Quite long. Merrily, I’ve already mailed it, but I thought I’d tell you in case you weren’t going to check your e-mails again until the morning.’

‘Fine. Thanks. Oh, sh— the computer’s gone down. It’s not working. I was going to ring up someone tomorrow. Oh God, look, under the circumstances I think I’d better come in and collect it.’

‘I could drive it over there if you’re tired. You sound tired.’

‘No, that’s ridiculous, I’ll come in. How’s the fog?’

‘Patchy. I’ll wait for you.’

‘No need.’

‘I’ll
wait
.’

‘OK, give me just over half an hour.’

When she’d put the phone down, Merrily went into the kitchen and found Jane at the farthest window, where the light was dim, looking out at dark nothings in the garden. The kid didn’t turn round.

‘Off to HQ, then.’

‘Sorry. Something I need to pick up.’ Merrily saw that Jane’s hair was flattened on one side, as if she’d been lying on it. ‘Erm… why don’t you come, too? We could call for some chips on the way back.’

‘I’ve got homework to wrap. Anyway, it always takes you longer than you think it’s going to, once you’re up there closeted with Auntie Sophie.’

‘No, I’ll be as quick as I can, honest. But if you want to get something to eat, meanwhile… or I could—’

Jane said, ‘Just go, Mum, huh?’

Desperately cuddling Ethel, Jane had thought about it for a long time, and it was her fault. No question, she was the guilty party.

she would call him.

A mature decision. You didn’t – because of your own weakness, your own inadequacy – just walk away like this from someone who was not only your first lover but also your best friend. Who you’d lain with and laughed about things with together. Who had virtually nicked his stepmother’s car last summer to drive you home from Wales on a whim. Who, also last summer, had been – face it –
hurt
for you, and almost very badly, in fact almost—

Jane clutched the edge of the refectory table with both hands, squeezing hard until she, too, was hurting. Ethel watched her, big-eyed, from the stone flags.

She should be able to understand why she was feeling like this, continually juggling rage and despair. Like, she’d read
The Catcher in the Rye
, about the kid in the 1950s making the shattering discovery that all adults were hypocrites. But this wasn’t the 1950s and she wasn’t a kid any more, and she’d known for years that all adults were
total
fucking hypocrites.

OK, maybe except for Lol. And Gomer. And Mum, who did her best.

And anyway, all these were people in the process of getting damaged.

Jane let go of the table, walked into Mum’s office, and snapped on the light. It was actually quite calm and plain in here. No awful Victorian Bible scenes. Just a blue-framed print of a painting by Paul Klee, which Huw Owen had once given Mum: irregular coloured rooftops under a white moon. On the wall above the desk, there was just one smallish cross, in oak. A paperback New Testament and a prayer book lay on the desk. There was a single bookcase in which the standard theological tomes were being gradually displaced by the kind of books that Jane herself used to borrow: paranormal stuff.

The Deliverance Ministry. My mother, the exorcist
.

An Anglican shaman, a Christian witch doctor. Paid peanuts to humour fruitcakes.

Could be worse; she might actually have finished her

So university course and become a lawyer, like Dad, like Uncle Ted. Jane forced a grin, picked up the phone, tapped out a mobile number more familiar than their own. He’d be home now, in the grim family fortress outside Abergavenny.

Irene, what can I say? I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve to live
. Could he bear to hear that again?

Ominous silence. No ring.

Vodaphone robot: ‘
The Vodaphone you are calling has been turned off…
’

And nothing about voice-mail.
No, please…
Jane felt like she was about to start hyperventilating. He’d even disabled his voice-mail.

Oh Christ, I didn’t mean it
. Slamming down the phone, staggering back into the kitchen.
I didn’t mean any of it. You know I didn’t, you utter bastard!

Drawing in a breath like a long, thin hacksaw blade. Once too often – she’d abused him once too often.

Jane wrapped her arms around herself.

It was over. It really
was
over.

She stood there, not moving, as though she was set in marble, an angel on a grave. Stood there for well over a minute before moving numbly to the sink, half-filling a glass with water and drinking it, watching Ethel disappearing purposefully through the cat door.

She went back to the table and pulled out the chair where Mum normally sat, removing a book from the seat before sitting down. This house was like a nunnery; even the book was by St Thomas Aquinas, Mum’s place marked with an envelope at a page with – she opened it – some stuff about… angels, of course. Bloody angels.

Messengers of God. Jane shook her head slowly in contempt, then lowered it into her arms on the table top. This was what Mum had once admitted to doing when all else failed, when she didn’t know where to turn. With a cringing curtsy to primitive superstition, she would actually open the Bible or some other holy tome at random, seeking divine inspiration from the first she read. God, the weight of sadness in a gesture like
that
.

And wasn’t it ironic that, after years of mocking Jane’s own passing fascination with nature spirits and angels, Mum should get finally get round to investigating the subject because a madwoman had given the church a hefty bung? Wasn’t it also typical that she’d turned to a medieval theologian rather than simply ask her own daughter, who had read more books on angelic forces…

Jane lifted her head slowly, then shook it, smiling what she guessed was a smile of near-insanity but really, what the
hell
?

Maybe it worked. A sign from God. Angelic inspiration. She looked at the clock: five to seven. Be a least a couple of hours before Mum got back.

She got to her feet and went through to the hall. Didn’t, for once, feel the need to take down
The Light of the World
and smash it onto the flags, didn’t even give it a glance as she pulled her blue fleece jacket from the peg, shrugging it on as she opened the front door, Mum’s voice bleating in her head from when they’d had the row about Jenny Driscoll.

Maybe I didn’t push her hard enough.

Well, of course she didn’t. She wasn’t intellectually equipped for it. The truth was that Mum simply didn’t have the knowledge. Everything she knew about angels came from the Bible or the works of guys like Aquinas, whereas Jenny Box-née-Driscoll was coming directly from the New Age, where angelic energies corresponded with the
deva
s, the high-level faerie entities supervising whole areas of life… where angels were considered to be an ecological fact, not a religious device.

OK, it was all sad crap, but it was crap she
knew about
. Nobody in – well, OK, certainly nobody in this village was better equipped to get the truth out of Driscoll.

The fog wasn’t bad now, actually. Jane zipped up her fleece, plunged her hands in the pockets and set off down the drive, towards the square and Chapel House. It would have been good to discuss this first with Eirion, but she was on her own again now, had to find her own way, make her own decisions. thing

D
ELIVERANCE

From:
cherry lodge [email protected]

To:
[email protected]

‘Has her own separate e-mail address,’ Merrily noted. ‘But I’d be a bit concerned about mailing her back, all the same.’

‘I wouldn’t worry – the husband probably never even goes near the computer,’ Sophie said. ‘Some older farmers are uncomfortable with them. Their farm’s a private world, a domain, and they don’t like the thought of anything having access – whether it’s through a public footpath or the Internet. Electronic intrusion is as big a threat as a Ministry man with a clipboard.’

Lately, Sophie had been letting her white hair grow; in the subdued light it looked unexpectedly dense and dramatic above the grey cashmere and pearls. She was perched elegantly on a corner of the desk, her back to the window, conveying no hurry to be away. Sophie Hill: a woman who lived close to and
for
the Cathedral. Who didn’t, therefore, keep ‘hours’.

There’d been tea waiting for Merrily in the Bishop’s Palace gatehouse, and chocolate biscuits. Jane’s ‘Auntie Sophie’ jibe had not been entirely misplaced. It
was
a bit like going to your auntie’s when you were a kid. A guilty pleasure now, especially with Jane at home nursing her private angst.

Have you read this?’ Merrily asked. Below the Cathedral gatehouse, the lights of Broad Street were still fuzzy with fog.

‘Merrily, it’s why I called you.’

‘So what do you think?’

‘Well, obviously my first thought was that they should have told the police.’