Crybbe aka Curfew

come here when he was a kid. Just you sit there, Warren, and keep it shut until they gives you a hymn to sing… and don't sing so bloody loud next time, you tryin' to show us up?

So when he stood here and shouted 'fuck' and 'piss', who was he shouting it at? His family, or the short- tempered ole God they didn't like to disturb by singing too loud?

Tonight he didn't have to break in; nobody'd bothered to lock the place after he'd done the window in the vestry, when he'd been up the belfry and then doled out this plate of dog food on the altar.

Still couldn't figure why he'd done that. Tessa's idea, she'd given him the can. Next time she'd have to explain. He was taking no more orders, not from anybody.

Warren ground his teeth and brought his foot back and slammed it into the side door, wanting to kick it in, anyway. Because it was a rotten old door that'd needed replacing years ago. Because he wanted to hear the latch splintering off its screws.

Because he wanted Jonathon to know he was coming.

Me again, Jonathon. You don't get no peace, bro, till you're in the ground.

There was a real rage in him tonight that just went on growing and growing, the more he thought about that bastard Goff and the way he'd tricked him. Warren could see right through the layers of blubber to the core of this fat phoney. The real reason he'd had a nice letter sent back to Warren with the tape was he didn't know how Warren's grandad stood the question of Warren being a professional musician – for all Goff knew the old git could've been 'supportive', as they said. And the old git was the Mayor, and Goff couldn't afford to offend him.

Warren got out his Stanley knife, the Stanley knife, and swaggered up the aisle to the coffin, saw its whitish gleam from this window over the altar that used to be stained glass, only the bloody ole stained bits blew out, once, in a gale, on account the lead was mostly gone, and they filled it up with plain frosted glass like you got in the windows of public lavs – typical that, of the cheapo bastards who ran the Church.

Anyway, what was left of the white light shone down on reliable, steady, trustworthy ole Jonathon.

Saint Jonathon now.

He flicked out the blade, felt his lips curling back into tight snarl as he sucked in a hissing breath and dug the point into the polished lid, dagger-style, and then wrenched it back getting two hands to it, one over the other.

Sssccccreeeeagh!!!!!

Remember me, Jonathon?

I'm your brother. I was there when you died. Maybe you don't remember that. Wasn't a chance I could very well miss, though, was it? Not when that feller sets it up for me so nice, chucking the old gun in the drink – couldn't go back without that, could you bro'? Couldn't face the ole man… steady, reliable, ole Jonathon lost the bloody family heirloom shooter. Didn't see me, did you? Didn't see me lying under the hedge on the other side of the bank? Well, people don't, see. I'm good at that even if I don't know nothing about farming and I'm a crap guitarist.

Always been good at not being seen and watching and listening. And you gets better at that when you know they don't give a shit for you, not any of the buggers. You learn to watch out for yourself, see.

Anyway, so there you are, wading across the river, getting closer and closer to my side. Hey, listen… how many times did the ole man tell us when we were kids: never get tempted to cross the river, that ole river bed's not stable, see, full of these gullies.

See, you might not remember this next bit, being you were in a bit of trouble at the time, like, bit of a panic, churning up the water something cruel And, like, if you did see me, well, you might still be thinking I was trying to rescue you, brotherly love, all that shit.

Might've thought I was trying to hold your head above the water. Well, fair play, that's an easy mistake to make when you're floundering about doing your best not to get yourself drowned.

Anyway, you failed, Jonathon.

Gotter admit, it's not often a bloke gets the chance like that to drown his goodie-goodie, smart- arse, chairman of the Young Farmers' brother, is it?

Worth getting your ole trainers soaked for any day, you ask me.

Gotter laugh, though, Jonathan. Gotter laugh.

It was quite impressive inside. Late nineteenth century perhaps. High-ceilinged, white-walled. And a white elephant, now, Guy thought, with no proper council any more.

He was watching from the entrance at the back of the hall, while Larry Ember was doing a shot from the stage at the front. People were pointing at Larry, whispering, shuffling in their seats. Real fly-on-the-wall stuff this was going to be, with half the punters staring straight into the lens, looking hostile.

'Make it quick, Guy, will you,' Col Croston said behind a hand. 'I've been approached about six times already by people objecting to your presence.'

Catrin said, 'Do they know who he is?'

'Stay out of this, Catrin,' said Guy. 'Col, we'll have the camera out within a couple of minutes. But as it's a public meeting, I trust nobody will try to get me out.'

'I should sit at the back, all the same,' Col said without opening his mouth.

'Look!' Larry Ember suddenly bawled out at the audience, leaping up from his camera, standing on the makeshift wooden stage, exasperated, hands on his hips. 'Stop bleedin' looking at me! Stop pointing at me! You never seen a telly camera before? Stone me, it's worse than little kids screaming 'Hello, Mum.' Pretend I'm not here, can't yer?'

'Maybe you shouldn't be yere, then,' a man shouted back.

'Sorry about this,' Guy said to Col Croston. 'Larry's not terribly good at public relations.'

'Better get him out,' Col said. 'I'm sorry, Guy.'

'I suspect we're all going to be sorry before the night's out,' Guy said, unknowingly blessed, for the first time in his life with the gift of prophecy.

A hush hit the hall, and Guy saw Larry swing his arms, and his camera, in a smooth arc as though he'd spotted trouble at the back of the room.

The hush came from the front left of the hall, occupied by members of the New Age community and – further back – other comparative newcomers to the town. The other side of the hall, where the Crybbe people sat, was already as quiet as a funeral.

The hush was a response to the arrival of Max Goff. Only the trumpet fanfare, Guy thought, was missing. Goff was accompanied. An entourage.

First came Hilary Ivory, wife of the tarotist, carrying her snowy hair wound up on top, like a blazing white torch. Her bony, nervy husband, Adam, was way back, behind Goff, even behind Graham Jarrett in his pale-green safari suit. There were some other people Guy recognized from last Friday's luncheon party, including the noted feminist astrologer with the ring through her nose and a willowy redhead specializing in dance therapy. There were also some accountant-looking men in John Major-style summerweight grey suits.

Max Goff, in the familiar white double-breasted and a velvet bow-tie, looked to Guy like a superior and faintly nasty teddy bear, the kind that wealthy American ladies kept on their bed; with a pistol inside.

Would you turn your town over to this man?

Guy watched Goff and his people filling the front two rows on the left, the chamber divided by its central aisle into two distinct factions. Old Crybbe and New Age, tweeds against talismans.

He felt almost sorry for Goff; this was going to be an historic fiasco. But he felt more sorry for himself because they weren't being allowed to film it.

Alex drained his cup in a hurry and bumped it back on its saucer, hand trembling slightly.

Exorcism. Oh God.

'Well, obviously, I was supposed to know about things like that. Been a practising clergyman for damn near three-quarters of my life. But… sometimes she was… in my bedroom. I'd wake up, she'd be sitting by the bed wearing this perfectly ghastly smile. Couple of seconds, that was all, then she'd be gone. Happened once, twice a week, I don't know. Fay came down to stay one weekend. I was in turmoil. Looked awful, felt awful. What did she