The Cold Calling

Falconer programme.’

‘And the lady in the pub told me how Mrs Willis had cured her of a fairly vile rash, so …’

‘Yes, all right, I get the picture.’

The boy was so painfully sincere it was hard to imagine how he managed to work with Falconer.

Fraser-Hale said, ‘I didn’t mean to be surreptitious or anything.’

‘No, all right. Just the old girl gets tired. She’s … not young, and while she might think she’s pretty fit, I’m trying to discourage people from just turning up.’

Marcus stopped talking and waited for Fraser-Hale to go, but the boy just stood there, looking uncomfortable and fingering his psoriasis.

‘Actually, Mr Bacton, if I could just say … I mean, what happened this morning, and the bad feeling between you and Roger. I’m really frightfully divided about all that. Because, you know, I’m rather more on your side of the fence than his. And I think you’re absolutely right about Black Knoll …’

‘High Knoll.’

‘Yes, of course. I think it was probably the pivotal terrestrial power-centre for this whole area. I mean, one only has to spend time there, put one’s hands on the stone. So I’m … well, I … I think Roger’s wrong to fence it off and try to keep it for himself. I just wanted to tell you that.’

‘Well, it’s, er, good to know that you’re not all tarred with the same brush over at Cefn-y-bedd.’ A thought struck him. ‘You didn’t tell Mrs Willis about what happened this morning, did you?’

‘Oh dear.’ Adrian Fraser-Hale looked bereft. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Bacton. You see, I thought you’d have already told her.’

‘No,’ said Marcus, ‘I’m afraid I was in a bit of a state. Wanted to walk off the er … before I broke the news.’

‘I’m terribly sorry.’

‘Not your fault. I suppose I was avoiding it.’

Fuck.

Mrs Willis liked to rest after a healing session, so Marcus waited half an hour before popping his head around the door.

‘All right, old love?’

She was lying on her daybed, a copy of her beloved People’s Friend by her side.

‘Sorry,’ he said inadequately. ‘I mean, you know …’

‘I knew there was something when you didn’t come back.’ Her face creasing, activating a thousand wrinkles. The old dear had started to look her age almost overnight. It was frightening.

‘I really am sorry,’ Marcus said. ‘Perhaps it’s all my fault. Perhaps if I’d got down on one knee to the fellow from the start. I’m going to talk to the County Council anyway. He can’t bar that footpath, he doesn’t own the meadow. And there must be some way we can stop him fencing it off.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Mrs Willis.

‘It doesn’t matter? ‘

This was how she’d been for nearly a week. Not bothered about anything. Pale, listless. Dried up. Etiolated. No-one who saw her now would even recognize the bustling widow who’d turned up at the door, having come by bus and walked over a mile after his advertisement for a cleaner.

Cleaner. Ha. Much later, Marcus had discovered that the crafty old soul had made a few inquiries about him, discovered that here was a retired man with no practical skills to speak of but an undying interest in the Mysterious. And a house that was far too big for him: lots of room for jars and potions.

‘Don’t do this to me, old love,’ Marcus said. ‘You know it matters like hell that you won’t be able to go to the Knoll.’

Remembering how unutterably moved he’d been when he’d introduced her to the Knoll. When she’d stood by the burial chamber in silence, taking several long, slow breaths before declaring that he was right, it was special, it had a healing air. And, by God, she knew how to use it. How to focus it and channel it and pass it on. Look at the Anderson woman …

‘I never told you,’ Mrs Willis said in that dreamy way she sometimes had. ‘But I saw a black light.’

‘You saw what? ‘

What remained of the English teacher in him restrained itself from pointing out that you couldn’t actually have a black light. This was no time for bloody semantics.

‘Tell me, old love,’ he said. ‘When was this?’

‘What’s that?’

‘When? When did you see this …?’

‘Last Thursday night, would it be?’

‘You went at night? You shouldn’t be going out at bloody night! I didn’t see you go.’

Mrs Willis smiled the old sweet smile. ‘You’re a sound sleeper, boy.’

‘At night? I don’t understand.’ Bewilderment and panic jostling one another in his chest. ‘What’s going on? Bloody hell, Mrs Willis, that’s why you’ve been off colour, is it?’

‘Not been much of a housekeeper, have I?’

‘Forget that. Jesus Christ-’

‘Marcus!’

‘Sorry. Look. Just tell me. This black light. What d’you mean a “black light”? How can you see a black light at night? What are we talking about here? Was it some premonition about Falconer? Why did you see Fraser-Hale? What did he tell you? What’s going on?’

Mrs Willis just sat there with her back to the matchboard wall and the rickety shelves supporting the old lady’s herbs and potions in jam jars and ancient Marmite pots.

‘Falling apart,’ said Mrs Willis wryly, following his eyes.

‘What did you do for young Fraser-Hale?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Fraser-Hale. Falconer’s lad.’

‘That boy? I said I’d make him some ointment. I advised hot baths in Epsom salts and told him to boil his meat first. It’s only a rash.’

‘Pity you can’t poison his bloody boss.’

‘Never say that,’ Mrs Willis said sternly. ‘It’ll come back on you, boy.’

‘I’d swing for that man.’

She observed him shrewdly through her pebble glasses. ‘You’re saying I shouldn’t treat that boy because he works for a man you don’t like? I would treat Mr Falconer himself, if he was in need.’

‘You’re a bloody saint, Mrs Willis. And unfortunately I’m never going to reach your stage of spiritual development. I’d push the bastard off a cliff I mean, why is he doing this to us? Is it just bloody spite, because I’ve been slagging him off in a little sodding rag nobody ever reads?’

‘Perhaps you should be grateful to him for fencing it off.’

‘What’s that mean? What d’you mean by a black light? A sense of evil? For Christ’s sake, old love, that’s what the Church tried to say when the child had her vision. I’ve spent years trying to knock all that on the head. Is that what you mean?’

‘I’m tired.’ Mrs Willis picked up her People’s Friend. ‘I think I shall finish my story.’

VII

The minute she reached home, Grayle dived at the answering machine, as she did every night, in case there should be a message from Ersula.