Johannes Cabal the Necromancer

This morning, however, I was called to the church by the sexton, who told me, and I use his exact words, “The darrft ol’ biddy’s really done it this time, arr.” At the time I believed he meant that she had excelled herself in a positive sense. I discovered my mistake the instant that I entered the church.

The stench was appalling, breathtakingly so, like a poorly run pig farm. The source of the smell was immediately obvious. Where I would have expected to see examples of Mrs. B*** ’s work, there were instead the most extraordinarily repulsive piles of rotting vegetable matter.

I was in the process of discussing with the sexton how we should dispose of the mess, when Mrs. B*** herself entered. I could swear that there was an expression of pride upon her face, but it was wiped away so quickly by the smell, I cannot be sure. She was devastated. Yes, she admitted that she had supplied the floral arrangements as agreed, but could cast no light upon how it was that they had rotted in so short a time. She kept saying how beautiful they had been, how exotic.

I helped carry out the grotesquely wilted remains to the sexton’s wheelbarrow, which he had brought around for the purpose. An unenjoyable process: the flowers were wet and dripped some sort of ichor. The sexton was going to dump the mess on the composting heap in the corner of the churchyard, but I told him that I did not care to have such matter upon consecrated ground, to take it away entirely and burn it. This comment elicited a remarkable reaction from Mrs. B***. She put her hand to her mouth, and I heard her say, “Consecrated!” to herself, as if coming to a horrible realisation.

She was just hurrying off when Mrs. J*** arrived. She had her husband pushing along their own wheelbarrow, upon which were several floral pieces. Word travels quickly around the Green, but I was still astonished at the alacrity with which Mrs. J*** had leapt into the breach. Mr. J*** wheeled them through the gate, and again Mrs. B*** reacted unexpectedly, gasping as the barrow made its way through the churchyard.

There followed a harshly whispered conversation between the two women that seemed very unfriendly. From what little I could make out, it appears that they had both attended the funfair the previous evening. Mrs. B*** had purchased a quantity of exotic plants, the acquisition of which had required her to sell some personal item. These plants she had used in her arrangements, although why they had survived all the evening yet rotted so quickly when in the church defeated me. Mrs. J*** had also bought something there, presumably a book on flower arranging, for her work — though it uses only common, simple flowers — was the best I’ve ever seen.

Mrs. B*** left in a hurry, presumably after the fairground people to demand her money back, although they have already moved on in the night, and nobody seems to know where. I wish her well, but I fear this is most certainly a case of caveat emptor.

CHAPTER 10 in which the carnival reaches journey’s end and difficulties present themselves en masse

Francis Barrow folded the last bit of fried bread with his knife and fork, speared it, and used it to mop up the remains of the cooked yolk that had escaped from his poached egg. Placing his cutlery on the greasy plate, he picked up his tea and took an appreciative look out of his dining-room window It was a horribly unhealthy meal, of course, and one his daughter only allowed him to have once a fortnight. A luxury’s only a luxury if you don’t get it often, he thought, and picked up the local paper.

Leonie came in as he read the front page. “Anything exciting?” she asked as she cleared up the table.

He sniffed and flicked rapidly through the pages. “No, not really. They’re repainting the crossing in front of St. Cuthbert’s Primary, there’s a Beetle Drive at the parish hall on Friday, and we’re playing Millsby at the weekend, of course.”

His daughter laughed. “‘We’re playing Millsby’?” she said. “When was the last time you wore flannels?”

“Aye, well,” he said, and put the paper down. “Showing moral support, then.”

“It’ll be you and your cronies on the boundary, sitting there in deck-chairs with a relay of local lads running between you and the beer tent. You’re incorrigible.”

“It’s what cricket’s all about,” he said. He looked at her and could see his wife so strongly in the line of her chin and her nose. The tawny blond hair was all her own, but the way she set her face sometimes … Leonie had just turned twenty-five: the same age her mother had been when they’d married. All those years ago. His smile became sad.

There was a slightly frantic knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” said Leonie, and went out of the room and down the hall. Barrow could hear her speaking to Joe Carlton, who seemed busting to tell her something. After a moment, Joe himself came in, the most excited he’d been since he’d almost become mayor six years ago.

“Frank!” said Joe. “You’ve got to see this! Come on!” He did something that looked a little too much for comfort like capering.

“Calm down, you’ll do yourself a mischief,” said Frank. Joe tried, but he just went pinker. “Now, what’s all the fuss?”

“It’s the railway station!” One of Joe’s legs looked like it might involve him in another caper any second.

“What about the railway station?”

“It’s come back!”

* * *

It was a beautiful morning by anybody’s standards. The air was crisp and clear, with birds singing so high in the sky they were little more than dots. The fields were a shocking green beneath the blue vault of the sky, and it was so near perfect it took a little effort to remember that he was going to see something astounding. Carlton had run out of words very quickly, and he now lived for the look he was sure was going to appear on Barrow’s face when they arrived. Barrow was notoriously difficult to surprise, and Carlton was wishing that he hadn’t blurted out what had occurred. Still, he hoped the actual sight was going to be astounding enough. They walked down a cobble path that had long been disused, turned a corner by a bridge that stood over nothing, and there it was.

“Well,” said Barrow. He took out his tobacco pouch and started to fill his pipe. “I’ll be buggered.” The station was indeed back.

The station had been built comfortably over a century before, before there was even photography to record its newly built appearance. It couldn’t possibly have looked so well as it did now. Beautifully painted drainpipes ran down from the eaves of a roof whose slate tiling surpassed mere human precision; a team of twenty master roofers with obsessive-compulsive disorders and micrometer screw gauges could have toiled a year and not even come close to its perfection. Windows so clear that they seemed to actively repulse grease and grime stood exactly and totally framed in a way that no other panes of glass had ever been framed before. A fire bucket depended from a hook by the waiting-room door; never has a bucket been so red, never has the sand within it seemed so pure and just that the act of stubbing a cigarette in it would reduce any man to tears.

And yet.

And yet, as Frank Barrow looked at the supernaturally beautiful station, he didn’t like it. Not at all. It seemed somehow sleek and smug and very, very pleased with itself. Even the illustration of five boys on the chocolate machine seemed somehow unpleasant and unnerving. Then again, it always did. Barrow was still trying to work out how this thing had happened when the door to the stationmaster’s office opened and, awfully enough, the stationmaster came out.

He saw Barrow and Carlton and strode over, a natural ebullience and easy manner showing in every step. “Frank!” he called when he was still ten feet away. He walked over and clapped him on the shoulder. “Have you seen? Isn’t it wonderful?” He waved his hand at the station and the bridge they’d just come over. Barrow looked back at it and noticed for the first time the tracks that lay there. They were made of some black, dull metal and lay upon sleepers of what seemed to be, at first sight, mahogany. Barrow turned back to the stationmaster.

“Morning, Wilf. And how are you?”