Crybbe aka Curfew

while his colleagues from CID had been trying to persuade J. M. Powys to confess to the murder of his girlfriend.

'Been in a fight, is it, Mr Powys?'

Wiley looked more than half-drunk. He was sitting in a group of middle-aged men in faded tweeds or sleeveless, quilted body-warmers. Summer casual wear, Crybbe-style.

'You want the truth?' Powys swallowed some brandy but still didn't feel any warmth.

'All I ever wants is the truth, Mr Powys.' Wynford was wearing an old blue police shirt over what looked like police trousers.

'Amateur dramatics,' Powys said wearily. 'I've been auditioning for the Crybbe Amateur Dramatic Society. Banquo's Ghost. What do you think of the make-up?'

Wynford Wiley stopped smiling. He stood up at once, rather unsteadily. Planted himself between Powys and the door. And came out with that famous indictment of intruders from Off, those few words which Powys suddenly found so evocative of the quintessential Crybbe.

'We don't like clever people.' Wynford stifled a burp. 'Round yere.'

There was that thrilled hush which the first spark of confrontation always brings to rural pubs.

Powys said, 'Maybe that's why this town's dead on its feet.' He finished his brandy. 'Now' – placing his glass carefully on the bar-top – 'why don't you piss off and stop bothering me, you fat bastard.'

He listened to himself saying this, as if from afar. Listened with what ought to have been a certain horrified awe. He'd done it now. Thrown down a direct public challenge to the authority of the senior representative for what passed for the law in this town. In order to retain his authority and his public credibility, Sergeant Wiley would be obliged to take prompt and decisive action.

And Sergeant Wiley was drunk.

And Powys didn't care because tonight he'd seen the appalling thing that was known locally as Black Michael's Hound and witnessed the dark conflagration of its union with a young woman, and in terms of total black menace, Wynford Wiley just didn't figure.

'Let's slip outside, shall we, Mr Powys?'

Wynford held open the door. To get out of here, Powys would have to step under his arm, and as soon as he was outside the door the arm would descend. He was likely to wind up in a cell. If he resisted he would wind up hurt in a cell. If he ran away the town would soon be teeming with coppers. Anyway, he was too knackered to run anywhere, even if there'd been anywhere to run.

'Don't make a fuss, Mr Powys. I only wanner know 'ow you got that face.'

Powys couldn't think of a way out. He stepped under Wynford's arm and the arm, predictably, came down.

Somebody held open the door for Wynford and the big policeman followed him out, hand gripping his elbow. At that moment, as if to make things easier for the forces of the law, the power came back on, or so it seemed, and Wynford's face shone like a full moon.

Powys froze in the brightness, momentarily blinded. Wynford reeled back.

There was a figure behind the light, maybe two. The light was blasting from something attached like a miner's lamp to the top of a big video camera carried on the shoulder of a stocky man with a Beatles hairstyle (circa Hamburg '62) and an aggressive mouth.

Whom Powys recognized at once as Guy Morrison's cameraman, Larry Ember.

'You carry on, Sarge.' Larry Ember moved to a lower step and crouched, the light still full on Wynford. 'Just pretend we ain't here.'

Wynford was squinting, mouth agape. 'You switch that bloody thing off, you 'ear me? When did you 'ave permission to film yere?'

'Don't need no permission, Sarge. Public place, innit? We were just knocking off a few routine night-shots. You go ahead and arrest this geezer, don't mind us, this is nice.'

Wynford blocked the camera lens with a big hand and backed into the pub door, pushing it open with his shoulders. He glared at Larry Ember over the hot lamp. 'I can 'ave you for obstruction. Man walks into a pub, face covered with cuts and bruises, it's my job to find out why.'

'Yeah, yeah. Well, there was a very nasty accident happened up at a place called Court Farm tonight while some of us, Sergeant, were safely in the pub getting well pissed-up. As I understand it, this gentleman was up to his neck in shit and oil helping to drag some poor bleeder out from under his tractor. Fact is, he'll probably be in line for an award from the Humane Society.'

Powys kept quiet, wondering what the hell Larry Ember was on about.

'Well…' Wynford backed off. 'That case, why didn't 'e I speak up, 'stead of being clever?'

'He's a very modest man, Sarge.'

Wynford Wiley backed awkwardly into the pub, stabbing a defiant forefinger into the night. 'All the same, you been told, Powys. Don't you leave this town.'

'Dickhead,' said Larry Ember, when the door closed. 'Shit, I enjoyed that. Best shots I've had since we came to this dump. You all right, squire?'

'Well, not as bad as the guy under the tractor. Was that on the level?'

'Sure. We didn't go, on account of our leader was otherwise engaged, shafting his assistant.'

'Well, thanks for what you did,' Powys said. 'I owe you one.'

'Yeah, well, I was getting bored.' Larry swung the camera off his shoulder, switched the lamp off. 'And I figured he'd never arrest you in his state, more likely take you up that alley and beat seven shades out of you.'

The cameraman, who'd obviously had a few pints himself, grabbed Powys's arm and started grinning. 'Hey, listen, you know Morrison, don't you? Bleedin' hell, should've seen him. We shot this hypnotist geezer, taking young Catrin back through her past lives, you know this, what d'you call it…?'

'Regression?'

'Right. And in one life, so-called, she's this floozy back in the sixteenth century, having it away with the local sheriff, right?'

Powys stiffened. 'In Crybbe?'

'That's what she said. Anyway, in real life, Catrin's this prim little Welshie piece, butter wouldn't melt. But, stone me, under the influence, she's drooling at the mouth, pulling her skirt up round her waist, and Morrison – well, he can't bleedin' believe it. Soon as we get back, he says, in his most pompous voice, he says, 'Catrin and I… Catrin and I, Laurence, have a few programme details to iron out.' Then he shoves her straight upstairs. Blimey, I'm not kidding, poor bleeder could hardly walk…'

'What time was this?'

'Ages ago. Well over an hour. And they ain't been seen since. Amazing, eh?'

'Not really,' Powys said sadly.

The few oil lamps in the houses had gone out and so had the moon. The town, what could be seen of it, was like a period film-set after hours. An old man with a torch crossed his path at one point; nothing else happened. Powys supposed he was going back to the riverside cottage to sleep alone, just him and the Bottle Stone,

He couldn't face being alone, even if it was now the right side of the curfew and the psychic departure lounge was probably closed for the night.

What was he going to do? He had an idea of what was happening in Crybbe and how it touched on what had happened to him twelve years ago. But to whom did you take such ideas? Certainly not the police. And if what remained of the Church was any good at this kind of thing, it wouldn't have been allowed to fester.

He could, of course, go and see Goff and lay it all down for him, explain in some detail why the Crybbe project should be abandoned forthwith. But he wasn't sure he could manage the detail or put together a coherent case that would convince someone who might be a New Age freak but was also a very astute businessman.

What it needed was a Henry Kettle.

Or a Dr John Dee, come to that.

What he needed was to talk to Fay Morrison, but it was unlikely she'd want to talk to him.

He passed the house he thought was Jean Wendle's. Jean might know what to do. But that was all in darkness. Faced with a power cut, many people just made it an early night.

As he slumped downhill towards the police station and the river bridge, something brushed, with some intent,