The Chalice, page 35
‘This is the second death in just over a month connected with traffic congestion in the town. The other involved a fire, which emergency services couldn’t reach because of New Age travellers’ vehicles on the approach road to Glastonbury Tor. You’ve initiated a campaign to limit access to the Tor. Do you think that’s a related issue?’
Tammy made a face at the clumsiness of her question, but Archer was straight in there.
‘I think what both these tragedies are telling us is that this is a town which has been getting seriously out of control. I think we have to calm down, consider whether we believe Glastonbury has been going in the right direction and then take steps to ensure the town is run for – and by – normal, decent, law-abiding people.’
Meaning, Avalon out, Woolaston out. Sam felt like rushing out there, making a scene, giving them some real footage for their programme.
‘Thank you.’ Tammy nodded to the cameraman to wind up.
‘Got all you wanted?’ Archer asked obligingly as the camera light went out.
‘Fine. Unless you’ve got any views about the Bishop’s meet-the-pagans mission on Thursday.’
‘Silly man,’ Archer said. ‘Off the record, of course.’
‘Also off the record,’ murmured Tammy, ‘the word is that not every member of your family is backing your Tor scheme.’
Archer smiled. ‘Diane.’
‘Just talk. As yet.’
‘Look, strictly off the record,’ Archer said awkwardly, ‘we’ve all been terribly worried about Diane, who’s in a … particularly delicate state … you remember she was at that awful fire? Plus, she’s been working non-stop on this, ah, hippy magazine thing from early in the morning until late at night.’
‘Must be a problem for you,’ Tammy said ambiguously.
‘Oh lord, yes.’ Archer’s expression was no longer visible. ‘She’s given us a few headaches in her time, you must have heard about all that, Tammy.’
‘Well, you know …’
‘God knows, we help her all we can. Try to help her. Ha ha.’
Sam was so blind furious he could have smashed his fist into the wall. The two-faced git. So smooth, so deft. Tossing his sister to the pack like a fox cub.
Mad, restless energy was pumping through Sam’s body. No way he could go home, sit there with a can of lager and a sandwich and wait for the slimy turd to come up on the box. No way he could go to any pub in this town tonight and listen to the gloating gossip about how Councillor Crackpot had helped kill an innocent little baby.
Archer and Tammy and the cameraman were moving away. ‘Really, very good of you to talk to us at a time like this, Mr Ffitch.’
‘Archer, please. Probably be seeing a good deal more of each other in the months to come. Do you and your colleague have time for a drink?’
Sam watched them walk away from the mess of Magdalene Street. Wanted to scream at Archer’s broad, dark back, like a hooligan.
No good.
He decided to go alone to Bowermead Hall, climb a few fences, jump a few streams, figure out how to sabotage the forthcoming Pennard Hunt.
EIGHT
Scorched Earth
The case was very light, as though it contained nothing but discarded bandages and stale hospital air. Joe Powys carried it out to the car.
Outside, she seemed to wilt. Her blue three-quarter-length, belted coat looked too big for her; her gloves too small. She shouldn’t be wearing gloves at all, according to the young doctor called George, who’d said to Powys, ‘I hope you know what you’re taking on, mate.’
Because she couldn’t use either of her hands, Powys had signed her out. The little nurse called Karen had said, stone-faced, ‘I hope you’re proud of yourself,’ and George, who had a half-grown beard, said, ‘This is very silly, Mrs Carey.’ Trying to sound grown-up. ‘You’re going to have a lot of pain, you know.’
Juanita had looked raw and frayed. ‘For reasons I can’t discuss, I’d be in a lot more mental anguish if I didn’t get out. Can you get my case, Karen? Do I have a coat?’
‘Juanita, does this have something to do with that woman? Sister Dunn?’
‘Look, Karen, please, just leave it, all right? Think of the extra bed. Sorry. I really am grateful for everything you’ve done.’
*
No longer iridescent, Juanita Carey stood shivering in the hospital car park, looking at the filthy, dented white Mini. And at the black and white dog with enormous ears and only three legs.
‘Um … Arnold,’ Powys said.
Juanita instinctively put out a gloved hand to the dog, and then drew back.
‘It’s OK,’ Powys said. ‘He likes all women.’ Before he realised that she was afraid of patting the dog because of her hands. That she was afraid to touch anything.
‘Stupid,’ she said. ‘I had the physiotherapy, but told the shrink to sod off. You’ve got to deal with things yourself, haven’t you? Is there somewhere I can get some cigarettes?’
‘We’ll find somewhere.’ He held open the passenger door for her, watched her get in without using her hands, holding them in front of her as if the gloves were borrowed and mustn’t get dirty. She fell back into the little bucket seat, closed her eyes and breathed in.
They stopped at a newsagent’s and he bought her forty Silk Cut. Unwrapped a packet, lit one for her.
‘Sorry. This is pathetic. But I just feel so … frail. They tell you you’re going to, but you don’t really expect it. You’re so looking forward to your first breath of real air. And real smoke.’
Waiting to get into the traffic, he was aware of her taking the cigarette from her lips, trapping it not very effectively between the very tips of her fingers. The next time he glanced at her she was shuddering, breathing very fast.
‘Can we stop? I’m sorry.’
He pulled into the side of the road to a chorus of hooting, revved-up road rage from behind.
‘Sorry.’ She let him take the cigarette. ‘Thanks. I nearly dropped it. This is ridiculous, I just … It’s on fire, you know? It never occurred to me before that they were on fire. Christ.’ She exhaled. ‘I always thought if it ever came to this I’d get myself quietly put down.’
Powys said, ‘Dan Frayne’s been worried about you.’
‘Good old Danny.’ She leaned her head back over the seat, stared at the tear in the roof-fabric. ‘Your publisher now?’
‘Possibly.’
‘You are the only one, aren’t you? I mean he hasn’t persuaded a whole bunch of esoteric authors to come to the aid of the disabled bookseller? I’m not going to find John Michell redecorating the flat, Colin Wilson hoovering the sitting room.’
Juanita sat up, laughed and coughed. ‘God, what am I going to do if half of me’s screaming for a cigarette and the other half’s terrified to hold one? Don’t forget to note this. For your report.’
‘I’m doing a report?’
‘For Danny. He’s sent you to find out how crazy I’ve become, right? Why I tried to burn myself to death.’
‘Well, no,’ Powys said. ‘The official brief is to find out how crazy Glastonbury’s become.’
‘Glastonbury’s always been crazy. He knows that.’
He told her about the book Frayne wanted them to co-write. She spent some time examining her gloves.
‘Forget it.’ She didn’t look up. ‘He’s just being kind. You don’t need me. Were I to write about Glastonbury, the way I’m feeling now, it’d read like either Paradise Lost or Dante’s Inferno. He doesn’t want that. He sent you because he’s feeling a bit of residual guilt from a long time ago, but he’s afraid to come himself.’
‘He’s afraid to see you again. He thinks it might destroy his marriage.’
‘Mr Smooth-mouth. If he saw me now, he’d be booking the hotel for his golden wedding.’
‘I don’t think so. Um … I’ve read your letters. Everything you ever wrote to Dan Frayne since about 1977.’
After a considered silence, she said, ‘I may kill him for this.’
She held up a gloved hand. ‘I’m not supposed to wear these. They’re quite painful. ‘I’m supposed to let the air get at my hands. How squeamish are you?’
‘My dog has three legs,’ Powys said.
Diane collapsed against the Abbey gates. Closed. As if God had shut His eyes.
She looked up at the charcoal sky through her tears.
How could you? Doesn’t this town matter to you any more?
Across the street, men with chainsaws were cutting the remains of the Christmas tree into slices.
Don Moulder had driven her back into town until they came up against a traffic tailback and diversion signs. Diane had got out in the Safeway car park where Don could turn round. He’d been silent most of the way, then, as she was getting out, he’d said, ‘Field I got next to the road, I agreed to let ’em have it for car parking. When the bishop comes to the Tor on Thursday. I been thinkin’, maybe if I was to ask him – the bishop – to bless the bottom field. Sure to count for something, a bishop.’
Diane had nodded dubiously. ‘Anything’s worth a try.’
Minutes later, she was learning about the terrible accident from Matthew Banks, the tall, willowy herbalist, loading apples and grapes and Linda McCartney TV dinners into his 2CV.
‘This is awful, Matthew. Why did he stop like that? Cat run across the road or something?’
‘Oh, something bigger than that,’ Matthew had said. ‘So big that nobody else saw it.’
Diane turned her back on the Abbey, edged around the POLICE/ACCIDENT signs and the taped-off area and walked down Benedict Street, where Woolly had his shop.
She had to tell him. Not that it would help him much, credibility wise. The good news: somebody else believes you saw a black bus that wasn’t there.
The bad news: it’s Lady Loony.
You could see the big house now, the lights just coming on, winking through the stripped-off trees. Only, it wasn’t a friendly wink; the lights were a baleful white. In Sam Daniel’s view, Bowermead Hall made Dartmoor Prison look like the House at Pooh Corner.
The moon had risen over the woods, making it easier to see the footpath even when it got tangled. So far he was legal, not even trespassing, although you wouldn’t know that from the signs.
New signs. Aggressive signs with red lettering.
PRIVATE LAND. KEEP OUT. SECURITY PATROLS. ALL TRES-PASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
Sam knew all these public paths. Two or three years ago, he and Hughie had joined a protest with the Ramblers’ Association when Gerry Rankin had fenced off a right-of-way with barbed wire. They’d taken wire-cutters to the fence, and Rankin couldn’t say anything apart from, I’ll remember your faces. Which was when Hughie grew his beard.
There was plenty of new barbed wire now, dense and high. But there were ways. Rankin had to get in and out. Stay clear of the hall was the answer, go for Rankin’s farmhouse, which was about five, six hundred yards from the Hall, tucked into the bottom of a wooded hill. The vineyards were the other side of it, facing the town and Glastonbury Tor. Between the farmhouse and the entrance to the vineyards Sam saw what looked like new hunt kennels: two long, low sheds in a cobbled yard.
He thought about the possibilities. Maybe he could pull a stroke the night before, like letting the hounds into the vineyards.
Or, presuming the meet was at the Old Bull like it used to be, with stirrup cups and all this shit … well, that was over three miles away, so they’d be using transport – horse transporters, dog wagons. Maybe he could find out tonight where they’d got the trucks. Then come up here very early Boxing Day morning and slash all the tyres.
Wilful damage, Sammy? Hughie’s voice in his head. They’ll throw the book at you this time, son. You’re known. You’ve been warned. Conditional discharge … conditional, yeh? Also, you just don’t do this kind of stuff when you’re angry. That’s how you get nicked.
‘Oh. I see. You do it when you’re feeling rather tolerant about bloodsports. My mistake.’
Sam stopped halfway over a rotting wooden stile. Bloody well talking to himself now. You really are in a bad way now, Sammy. You know what this is? It’s what love does to you.
‘Piss off. Don’t be soft.’
A dog barked in the kennels, and then another.
Damn. Once they started, it would go on and on. That was why it was normally best to do a recce in the daytime. Come the innocent rambler bit if anyone saw you.
Except when they know your face …
Sam detoured off the path and into the woods behind the new kennels. He was on higher ground now and suddenly he could see the Tor, like an upturned paraffin funnel prodding the white moon.
The Tor would do that, suddenly come into view from nowhere. If poor bloody Woolly was here now, he’d be climbing to the top of the next hill to see if he could see the tower of Stoke St Michael church, which was the next point on his beloved St Michael Line.
Poor little sod. He’d probably be hounded out of town, out of Somerset in fact. And then the old man would swagger back with a bloody huge majority thanks to Glastonbury First, which stood for Traditional Standards and road safety and getting rid of nutters.
Sam kicked at a branch, which turned out to be dead and rotten. It shattered into a shower of sodden splinters and one lump flew into his face. Bastards!
Everything collapsing. Everything diseased. How could any silly bugger believe there was a God up there?
The full implications were only now becoming sickeningly clear. The way the scum was rising back to the top: the return of Councillor Griff, man of the people, and Archer Ffitch smarming his way into Parliament – the cool, blatant way Ffitch had planted the idea with the TV people that his little sister was a hopeless fruitcake and you mustn’t hold her against him.
Sam peered down the slope towards the bulk of a barn. You’d get a couple of horse boxes in there, no problem. If he got here before daybreak, came round under cover of this wood, he could do all the tyres before breakfast. No way they’d get them all replaced in time. Not on Boxing Day. Hunt off. Piece of cake. Merry Christmas, Mr Fox.
So, need to check for padlocks on the doors. Might need some cutters.
Sammy, Going Equipped for Burglary is the charge, coppers find you with bolt cutters. You’ll go down for three months and when you come out nobody respectable’s going to give you any more work.
‘Get off my back, Hughie!’
Sam was about to slide down the bank towards the big barn when he smelled something.
Smoke. Burning.
Well, he wasn’t daft. If Pennard was hosting a top-people’s barbecue over the next rise, he wanted to know about it.
He scrambled back up the slope, holding on to bushes, torch in his pocket. Slowing up the nearer he got to the top, trying not to breathe too loudly.
The hill was longer than it looked. Must have been two, three hundred yards. Scrambling to the top, he nearly toppled into empty air.
He dropped flat, didn’t move, kept very quiet for two minutes, the acrid smell everywhere now. Peered over the unexpectedly abrupt edge – almost like a big slice had been taken out of the hill.
It had. That was precisely what had happened. You could make it out now: a big, wide trench. JCB job.
What we got here then, Sammy?
No sign of flames. No sounds, not even an owl. He was well out of sight of Bowermead Hall and, presumably, Rankin’s farm. He pulled a torch from his jacket pocket, a Maglite, big beam. Snapped it on, stared in disbelief.
Shit on toast!
At first, Sam didn’t understand. Used to be all woodland here. Lovely woods. Used to sneak in here as kids. It was legendary for conkers. Giant horse-chestnut trees. Also beech and sycamore and huge, thick oaks.
Now, for as far as the torch beam would stretch, it was a sea of stumps. And fallen tree trunks whose branches and winter foliage had been cut off, piled together and burned.
Burned. It was horrible. A massacre. When he switched off the torch he could detect glimmerings of red, the damped-down smouldering of bonfires.
I don’t get it. I don’t get it, Hughie.
Come on, Sammy, where’s your brain gone? It’s the road! The sensitive Glastonbury stretch of the Bath–Taunton fucking Relief Road! It’s happening now. Here. In secret.
Sam felt like one of those poor bloody trees, all the sap in him drying up, everything crashing to earth around him. This was some of the finest broadleaf woodland in Somerset. A wildlife paradise, with badger sets and all kinds of birds and wild orchids.
Scorched earth, now. He scrambled down, stood in the deep, wide trench, flashed his torch from one side to the other. It was massive, surely twice as wide as a dual carriageway. But then, they had to allow for the banks, the verges and the hard shoulder.
It made some sense when you thought about it. If Pennard had sold a chunk of his precious land for the road, what he didn’t want was a few hundred eco-guerrillas camping out on the site and living in the trees to prevent them being axed. This was a pre-emptive strike.
He shone his torch ahead of him. The beam faded out before the road did. When he looked up, he could see the Tor again, looking shadowy and majestic … and dead straight ahead.
The full horror of the plan, the awesome scale of it made him go cold. He’d never liked the idea, but he’d figured he could live with it. Not quite the stab to the heart it was to Woolly and those guys.
But suddenly he wanted to cry aloud. This was England. Ancient England. He could hear the traffic already, he could smell exhaust and diesel fumes. See the articulated lorries and holiday coaches and the flash gits in their Porsches, all the men like Archer Ffitch, all the women like Charlotte.
The hounds began to howl in their kennels. Heard him, maybe. So what? He was going to let this out, what they’d done – illegally, no doubt – and it would damage Pennard and Archer a whole lot more than just sabbing their hunt.
The howling went on. It dawned on Sam that this was no ordinary howling. He began to feel uncomfortable. Exposed. He moved away along the trench, walking quickly along the ruts, dodging the remains of bonfires, the hounds going at it all the time like the Wild Hunt of bloody Gwyn ap Nudd. It was creepy, like moving through an open wound, like he was stumbling into a bleak and ravaged future. Up on the banks, exposed, bare saplings were writhing and rattling.
