To Dream of the Dead

‘Well, just let me know.’

‘Will do.’

She’d need to be prepared. If anyone was made temporarily homeless, there were spare bedrooms at the vicarage, just need to get more beds from somewhere. And she’d need to get over to Knights Frome and pick up the Boswell. Get across the county without a boat.

‘Mrs Watkins?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry…?’

She turned to find a woman standing next to her under the canopy of furrowed oak.

Fulsome red hair against turquoise Gore-Tex and a metal-framed case. Oh God, not now.

‘My name’s Leonora Winterson.’

‘Oh… yes.’

‘I think you met my husband?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Well.’ Mrs Winterson gazed down Church Street. ‘This is all looking a bit critical, isn’t it?’

‘Well, not exactly critical yet…’

‘Nothing’s safe any more, Mrs Watkins. Not even a place like this. All these people moving in looking for Olde England, and Olde England’s getting washed away before their eyes. Soon be no more stable than Bangladesh, but I suppose we all have to grab what we can while we can. And I think I…’ Stooke’s wife pushed her hair back from her pale face ‘… need to grab you.’

‘Me?’

Mrs Winterson pushed the strap of her camera bag higher up her shoulder, looking down at the cobbles, like smooth brown stones on the bed of a shallow stream.

‘Is there somewhere private we could go?’

‘Well, I need to be available, in case…’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘What about the church?’ Merrily said.

Mrs Winterson almost laughed.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Why not?’

37 Emperor of Unbelief

The stone effigy wore the high-necked jacket of a puritan, had a sword unsheathed by his side. And that feature every tourist seemed to notice.

‘Who is he?’ Mrs Winterson asked. ‘And why do his eyes appear to be open? That’s not… normal. Is it?’

Her own eyes were grey-green and quick with nervous energy. Merrily stepped down into the chapel.

‘His name’s Thomas Bull. One of the post-feudal lords of the manor who’d have to shell out periodically to stop this church falling down. You probably saw one of his descendants organising things on the square just now.’

‘Oh, the… bossy one. James?’

‘A lot less wealthy than his ancestor. But a better man.’

‘It’s awfully gloomy in here,’ Mrs Winterson said.

‘But it is private.’

The Bull Chapel was one step down from the chancel, behind the organ pipes. It had one leaded window that looked frosty even in summer. ‘And all mod cons.’

Merrily pulled two folding wooden chairs from a stack wedged between the tomb and the chapel wall. She opened them out. ‘Not long after we moved here, someone told me that, when the tomb was sculpted, the eyes — as with most effigies — were shut. But, because of the iniquities he’d perpetrated in his lifetime, Tom Bull was unable to rest. One day, the vicar’s wife walked in, looking for her husband, and the eyes were… as they are now. It was said that particular vicar’s wife never came in here again.’

‘And you… believe that, do you?’

‘Well, no, my guess is that Tom Bull left instructions for the eyes to be left open so he could lie here for all eternity ogling visiting women. How can I help you, Mrs Winterson?’

Merrily sat down and gathered her cape across her knees, all prim and priestly. Mrs Winterson didn’t join her.

‘You’re probably thinking I haven’t chosen a particularly good time for this.’

‘Well, the village is slowly flooding, and I’m sure there must be something I could be doing out there, but…

‘This really is a horrible place.’

Merrily nodded. It was, sometimes. Interesting that the atmosphere, which she’d always felt was distinctly unholy, should get to an atheist.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘we could’ve gone to the vicarage. Only I didn’t want to disturb Jane. She might be in the middle of a ritual to persuade the river god to turn back before the flood water reaches the grave of the high priestess, Lucy Devenish.’

Mrs Winterson stared for a long moment, exhaled a brittle laugh. Then she sat down opposite Merrily, unpopping her jacket.

‘All right. Point taken. I listen to gossip. I like gossip, I’m a journalist, it’s what I do. I’m sorry. I’m guessing you’ve had bad experiences with the media.’

‘Not so far. But then, they usually make a direct approach.’

‘I’m sorry. When I met your daughter, I…’ Mrs Winterson hooked an Ugg-booted foot around the strap of the camera bag, dragging it in front of her chair. ‘What did my husband have to say?’

‘He asked me a lot of questions.’

‘It’s not something you can easily turn off, professional curiosity. Besides, if you’re looking for somewhere to settle, you like to know how the place works. And the people.’

‘Yes, he was asking how I worked.’

‘Look, if we’ve offended you, I’m sorry. Elliot can be…’

A bank of rain washed against the leaded window and Merrily sensed the water rising, the sudden urgency of life and what a waste of energy it was, all this tap-dancing around the truth.

‘Disingenuous?’ she said.

‘What are you saying, Mrs Watkins?’

‘That’s what you call him is it? Elliot?’

‘It’s what I’ve always called him.’

‘You didn’t like Mathew?’

Leonora made a small noise in her throat.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘that’s saved a bit of time.’

The site was isolated by the rain, Cole Hill mired in cloud. Couple of long tents and the two caravans. Puddles turning into pools, where they’d hit clay. And nobody around, thank God, except Gregory, the security guy, standing in the doorway of his caravan. Jack-the-lad in his bomber jacket, leather trousers, Doc Martens. The caravan behind him a big boom-box vibrating to a hip-hop stammer.

‘What a shithole, eh?’ Gregory said.

Jane could only agree. It looked no prettier than a building site. If Eirion thought she’d feel better seeing it like this, he was wrong. No connections were made. It wasn’t hers, wouldn’t be again.

‘Last day for me, anyway,’ Gregory said. ‘I’m out of here tonight.’

‘What, there’s going to be no security over Christmas?’

‘Not me, anyway. I’ll be getting pissed with my mates. Will you miss me?’

Jane said nothing.