The Cold Calling

work in the village of St Mary’s.

When she arrived she was getting to the stage of hating her own body. Scared to go out, in case she disgraced herself. Finding herself explaining all this to the housekeeper, Mrs Willis, who’d knocked tentatively at the cottage door this particular afternoon. Everything coming out, all the self-pity. Mrs Willis just listening, never once mentioning alternative therapies, as if she knew instinctively how a nursing sister was going to react to that old rubbish.

But would Mrs Anderson perhaps like to come for a walk with her and Marcus one morning? Well, Mrs Willis, that would be nice, but I have this wee problem about leaving the vicinity of a working lavatory before eleven. What time were you thinking?

Five a.m.? Five? Jesus God, are you mad?

Mrs Willis was the kind that just nods and smiles but you know you’ve ruined her day. So that night Andy just didn’t go to bed. Stayed up all night, drinking coffee, chain-smoking, going to the lavvy. Some days you could just live in the lavvy, head in your hands, a human sewer.

By four a.m. she was half delirious, aching all over. They were waiting outside. It was painful to pull on her coat and scarf. Outside, it was still dark. Marcus said, Don’t bloody well blame me, Mrs Anderson. Whatever the old girl says, I don’t question it these days.

They clambered over stiles, Marcus leading with his torch. On the edge of a big field, Andy was stricken with a leg cramp and fell down, rolling on the grass in her agony. Mrs Willis massaging the leg until the lump went down and then Marcus picking her up. Good God, woman, you’re like a bundle of bloody twigs. And it occurred to Andy that there wasn’t much weight left to go; she was a living husk, the disease finally draining the life out of her, and she couldn’t even cry about it, on account of the parched body wouldn’t produce tears any more.

Just before she passed out in Marcus’s arms, she heard Mrs Willis saying, in a matter-of-fact kind of way, Inside, Marcus. God knows, she’s thin enough. Put her inside the tomb.

‘Falconer!’ Marcus roared in her ear.

‘What?’

‘Fucking Falconer!’

Just one aspect that was not so peaceful, the old lady had said. But there was no harm in him.

‘Know what the bastard’s done? Four-strand barbed wire fence. Five feet high, no stiles! Fucking cunt.’

The degeneration of Marcus’s language had roughly kept pace with the deterioration of Mrs Willis’s hearing.

‘I don’t understand. What fence?’

‘Around the Knoll!’

‘He allowed to do that?’

‘He owns it. He’s bought the fucking Knoll!’

‘Marcus, you’re kid-’

‘He wants his own little burial chamber like other people want a garden gnome. He’s going to do lots of filming up there, for his bloody programme. His assistants will be doing their scientific experiments. They’ll be dowsing it and dreaming on it … Oh, and it’s closed to the public between — are you ready for this — between six p.m. and nine a.m.’

‘You mean nobody can go there at sunrise? Jesus God, Marcus. What about Mrs … Oh no.’

‘You wouldn’t recognize her. She won’t see a doctor, of course. But what would a doctor do? Give her blood- pressure pills?’

‘How old is she?’

‘That, Anderson, is one of the Big Mysteries.’

‘Must be over eighty.’

‘I was going to take her to the Knoll this morning. I was sure … Bloody hell, Andy, I love that place. I believe in it. I don’t give a shit what anybody-Did I tell you about the lunatic American woman?’

Andy said, absently, ‘Lunatic what?’ She was thinking about Mrs Willis. If I could bring down the sun for Bobby, why couldn’t …

‘American woman,’ Marcus said. ‘This American woman rang me about half an hour ago. One of these who talks so fast you’re lucky if you can answer one question in three. Trying to find her sister, last heard of working at Falconer’s place. I met the girl, actually. Wanted to know about the Knoll. Told her about Annie.’

‘Oh, aye?’ If I can bring the High Knoll sunrise to Elham General, why can’t Mrs Willis fetch it to the bottom of the hill?

‘And, of course, she was involved in Falconer’s stupid dream survey and so she wanted to sleep at the Knoll, and I said, you know, best of luck but don’t expect a holy miracle. Now the girl’s written to her sister describing this horrific nightmare and … Oh, I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve had a bellyful today. She told me she saw a black light over the Knoll.’

‘Americans are impressionable people, Marcus.’

‘No … Mrs Willis!’

‘A what?’

‘A black light. Over the Knoll.’

Andy shivered, clutching the housecoat to her throat.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ Marcus said. ‘I’m at my wits’ end.’

‘OK, look. I’m coming down.’

‘You?’

‘I owe her everything, Marcus. I’ll talk to the hospital. I’ll get time off. I’ll be there tonight, all right?’

‘That’s bloody good of you, Anderson.’

‘Jesus God, it’s the least-A black light? ‘

‘I don’t know what she meant either,’ Marcus said. ‘But it does have an ominous ring of death to it, doesn’t it?’

XI

Riggs, the boss man, turned slowly and looked into space for a moment before inclining his head. He smiled with all the warmth of a polecat greeting a rabbit.

‘This is my dad, sir,’ Maiden said. ‘Norman.’

Riggs had a thinner man’s face. An oddly sensitive face with fine translucent skin; you could see tiny veins underneath, like the filaments in a light bulb. There was something extraterrestrial about Riggs; you always thought he could read your thoughts, and this struck you anew every time you saw him.

‘Honoured to meet you, sir.’ Norman hung around, like someone waiting to be called into the witness box. ‘Reading about you the other week. Now what did I read?’ He pretended to think for a second or two. ‘Jarvis. You nailed Terry Jarvis. I nicked his dad, must’ve been four times. John Karl Jarvis. GBH mostly. Aggravated burglary, once. By, that were a hard bugger …’

‘Family trait, Mr Maiden. Sit down. I’ll fetch another chair.’

‘I’ll get it, sir,’ Norman said, and he did.

Riggs sat. His narrow, bony face smiling at Norman with its full, genial mouth while its eyes remained cool, occasionally seeking out Norman’s boy.

Who stayed glazed, focused on nothing, smiling inanely from his bed. Playing damaged. Brain in dry dock. Attention-span of a goldfish.

‘You’re looking a bit blurred, Bobby,’ Riggs said. ‘You were lucky.’

‘So they tell me, sir.’

‘Oh, before I forget … Roger Gibbs, managing editor of the Messenger group, was