The Cold Calling

It had occurred to him that in not leaving the farmhouse after Anderson’s call, he had been spectacularly stupid. If Maiden and Cindy the bloody Shaman had returned, he’d have told them about Anderson’s message and they’d have urged him to go with them; he’d have refused, naturally, at first, but might conceivably have backed down.

It occurred to him, as he noticed how rapidly the sky was darkening and curdling, that he might actually be rather frightened.

Some of the families, Grayle saw, were dubious about going inside the circle. They hung around on the fringes, a couple of feet behind the stones. Grayle moved back, too, hearing their whispers.

‘… must be drab enough on a nice day.’

‘… ought at least to have the union blessed in a proper church.’

‘… and I’m sorry, Chris, but if it starts raining I shall have to go back to the car. Not going to get much shelter from those pines, are we?’

Sure won’t, Grayle thought. The pines stood tall and ravaged, strung out behind the circle, even more witchy, somehow, than the stones.

The people inside the stones, making another circle, were mostly young and casually dressed, though with a flourish, most of the women in long skirts like Grayle’s. A couple of guys wore sixties-style caftans and there were bright gypsy scarves and vests — New Age, earth-mysteries chic.

Charlie had brought his altar out over a bald patch in the grass, close to the centre of the circle. He was talking to Matthew. Apparently there wasn’t going to be a best man; Matthew said there should be just the three of them at the heart of it all, himself, his bride and the priest.

She wondered where Adrian would stand when he arrived, which group he would feel he belonged to, the New Agers or the establishment. Strange guy. Not what you first thought he was. She wondered how he was getting on with the car.

There was a ragged cheer from the New Age contingent as three men and a woman arrived with a couple of guitars and one of those Irish hand drums and set up under a tall, thrusting stone in the eastern part of the circle.

‘I can see we won’t be having hymns, then,’ a relative observed sourly.

Charlie had placed two candles on his altar, with glass funnels round them to prevent the wind blowing them out. There was no wind. Looking at the sky, they’d need all the light they could get.

‘Grayle?’

She turned. It was a voice she knew, a face she didn’t, not at first. Grey-haired guy in a jacket and tie.

‘Thank God,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Cindy Mars-Lewis.’

‘Oh God. What are you-’

‘A word, Grayle.’

He wasn’t smiling. He walked away, not a single bangle jangling, into the wood between the circle and the road, and she followed, with a sense of dumb foreboding. Behind, on the edge of the circle, the band had started playing an English folksong about its being pleasant and delightful on a midsummer morn, and that sounded about as wrong as everything else here this evening.

Two of them. One was thickset, almost chubby, his head shaved close; he wore jeans and a short denim jacket. The other had a longer, looser jacket, one hand inside it. He was a longer, looser man all round; he had spiky red hair and a seemingly permanent smile.

They must have left their van in the lane. Marcus hadn’t heard it stop. He kept very quiet at the top of his broken tower. It was dark enough for there to be lights in the house and there were none. They’d surely reason it out that there was nobody at home and bugger off.

Or perhaps go back to their van and wait for someone to return.

When they had a slight struggle opening the five-barred gate, he saw they both wore short leather gloves and the squat man had a leather wristband with brass studs.

There was no creeping about; they walked in as if they owned the bloody place. Marcus was furious.

‘Whassis? Fucking castle?’

‘Think of it as a new experience, Bez. Life’s rich tapestry. We never done a castle.’

Birmingham accents.

‘All I’m saying, he never said nothing about a fucking castle.’

‘He said Castle Farm, you twat!’

‘So? We lived in Castle Close, but there weren’t no fucking castle there. And the next street up was called Palace Place, but there weren’t …’

‘Are yow gonna shut the fuck up? It’s only a fucking ruin. Be no fucking men at arms up there with fucking crossbows.’

‘Just fucking hate old places. Got rooms where they shouldn’t’ve got no rooms. Bits of wall sticking out, fucking slits yer can’t see what’s the other side. What’s the fucking use of it? Knock ‘em down, I would.’

‘Yer scared, yow, en’t yer? Yer fucking scared. Yer spooked. ‘

‘Fuck off.’

They were standing now directly under the tower where Marcus sat. They were perhaps mid-twenties. Kind of youths he used to teach, used to have for breakfast. Ten years on. Marcus felt a sense of outrage.

The squat, shaven-headed one cupped his hands around his mouth and bawled out. ‘Anybody in?’

‘Anybody comes out,’ the other one said, ‘tell ‘em we broke down up the road and can we use the phone, right?’

The squat one walked out into the middle of the yard. ‘I said ‘s there any fucker in?’ Turned back. ‘Deserted. What y’wanna do, Bez?’

‘Not going back without. No way. We fucked up once. Fuck up twice, you get a reputation. We’ll wait. I’m not staying out here, neither.’ Bez looked up. ‘Gonna rain. Yow go’n do a door, I’ll just check the outbuildings. In case. And the castle, case Dracula’s in. Eh? Gallow?’

‘Fuck off.’ The squat one, Gallow, jerked up a forefinger and walked off towards the house.

‘Hey!’

‘’s up?’

‘Just in case …’ The red-haired one, Bez, took his hand out from inside his jacket. Something gleamed. ‘Which one you want?’

‘Gimme the sawn-off then. Might be a few of ‘em in there, keeping quiet sorta thing.’

A gun? A sawn-off bloody shotgun? Marcus’s whole face seemed to explode with sweat. They were assassins. They were here to kill. When you thought about professional killers, you somehow imagined serious, sinister, taciturn individuals. Not mindless young cretins, egging each other on, taking the piss. What was happening to the world?

Bez turned away and looked up and around and Marcus saw his face between the stones, through the branches, saw that Bez was old beyond his years, his face hard and flat, his smile stamped on, his eyes small and bright and compassionless.

Marcus cursed Maiden. Clutched the jagged stone that stood up like a single battlement and wished that Maiden might never have a night’s sleep for the rest of his miserable second life.

When Gallow reached the front door, Malcolm barked.

‘Shit. Fucking dog in there, Bez. I hate it, me, when there’s a fucking dog. En’t scared, dogs en’t. Can’t threaten a dog. Gotta shoot it, then y’gotta fuck off case it made too much fucking noise and some fucker phones the filth.’

‘Get fucking real, willya, man. No problem, place like this. No neighbours, shotguns going off the whole time, rabbits and things, nobody gives a shit. Nobody even notices. Now, go on. Do a door, do a window. Any problem, shout.’

‘I hate the fucking country. Everything’s too big.’ Gallow began to kick the front door, looking for weak points. In the kitchen, Malcolm barked and barked.

Marcus hugged his jagged stone for support. The bastard would get in. Start kicking open door after door, until he reached the kitchen, and then, when the door was open, Malcolm would go silent. Observe the newcomer