Crybbe aka Curfew

Breathing faster, Mrs Seagrove turned and switched off the wireless and turned back to the chair and rubbed her eyes with the screwed-up tissue, but Frank was gone and the door was closed.

She started to feel very confused.

Get a grip, Minnie, get a grip.

Nothing was right. Nothing was right. Mrs Seagrove went to the window and flung back the curtains. 'It's you, isn't it? It's you.'

Great, ugly slag-heap thing. She'd probably be able to see the church if it wasn't for that; always liked to see a church in the distance, even if she didn't go.

She could see the mound quite clearly tonight, even though there was no moon. It was a bit like the mound was lit up from inside, not very lit up, sort of a yellowish glow like a lemon jelly.

She thought she could see a shadow moving across the field.

'Is that you, Frank?' She banged on the window. 'You're not going out in that wet grass this time of night!'

He was stupid sometimes, Frank, like a little boy. He'd walk down to that river and just stare at it, wondering why he never caught that many fish.

She pulled her walking shoes from under the sideboard. 'You come back here, Frank Seagrove. It's not safe out there!'

CHAPTER IX

FAY was still seeing it like a bad home video: fuzzy, ill-lit, full of camera-shake and over-reaction. Women screaming, people staring at each other in shock, trying to speak, faces hard and grainy in the blue, deep-freeze light. Stricken Max Goff convulsing on the floor. Col Croston bending over him.

'Get a doctor!'

Portly man from Off shouldering his way to the front. Fay recognized him as the local GP.

Wynford Wiley – probably the last to react – moving like a sleepwalker, Fay following in his considerable wake, up the central aisle, pushing past Guy. Hilary Ivory stumbling towards them, face in a permanent contortion like that painting of Munch s – The Scream – etched in similar stark, nervy colours because of the stammering lights.

Hilary's hands squeezing her hair and then the hands coming out like crimson rubber-gloves and Hilary's shrieks almost shredding Col's crisp command:

'Nobody move! Nobody leaves the hall!'

And then, turning to the doctor, 'Bloody obvious. Had his throat slashed.'

At which point, spangled brightness burst out of the wrought-iron chandeliers – an electrical blip – and Fay saw the Mayor, Councillor James Oswald Preece, standing on the edge of the raised area, holding his arms as though, with his frail frame, he could conceal the carnage.

'Silence!'

Even Wynford Wiley stopped, so suddenly that Fay almost bumped into his big blue back. The big lights stuttered again, leaving the Mayor with a momentary jagged aura of yellow and black.

'Listen to me!'

'Is he dying?' a woman demanded from the New Age quarter.

One of the men in suits said, 'Look, I'm his legal advisor and this is…'

'Is Max dead?'

'… I insist you call an ambulance.'

'Is he…?'

'Will… you… be… quiet madam!'

A new and significant Jimmy Preece, Fay saw. No longer the husk of a farmer, flat-capped, monosyllabic – 'ow're you, 'ow're you… Authority there now. Resonance.

'Now,' Jimmy Preece said. 'I'm not going to elaborate on this. Isn't the time. So don't none of you ask me. I'm speaking to you as your First Citizen, but I'm also speaking as a Preece and most of you'll know what I'm saying yere.'

The Mayor's eyes flickered to one side. 'For all the newcomers, I'd ask you to accept my word that… that we are in… well…'

He stopped. His jaw quivered.

'.. . in serious, mortal danger… '

He let this sink in. Fay looked around to see how they were taking it. Some of the Crybbe people looked at each other with anxiety and varying amounts of understanding.

'Serious. Mortal. Danger,' Jimmy Preece intoned again, almost to himself, looking down at his boots.

The lawyer said, 'Oh, for heaven's sake, man…'

'And it's more than us what's in danger. And it's more than our children and… and their children.'

The doctor stood up, flecks of blood on his glasses.

'No!' somebody shouted. 'Oh God, no!' And the New Age quarter erupted.

Jimmy Preece held up a hand. 'I…' His voice slumped. I'm sorry he's dead.'

'… through the oesophagus, I'd imagine,' the doctor told Col Croston quietly, but not quietly enough.

'I mean it,' the Mayor said. 'I wished 'im no harm, I only wished 'im… gone from yere.'

Fay glanced at Guy. His face sagged. His blond hair, disarranged, revealed a hitherto secret bald patch. Catrin Jones was several yards away, looking past him to where Larry Ember was walking up the aisle, camera on his shoulder.

'Who let you in?' Jimmy Preece said wearily, 'Switch that thing off, sir, or it'll be taken from you.' Guy turned, tapped Larry's arm and shook his head.

To the side of Guy, the Newsomes mutely held hands.

'I'm going now,' Jimmy Preece said, 'to see to the bell. I urge you all – and this is vital – to stay absolutely calm.'

'… come with you, Jim,' somebody said.

'No you won't. You'll stay yere. You'll all stay yere.'

'Ah, look…' Col Croston said, 'Mr Mayor, there's been a murder here. It's not a normal situation.'

'No, Colonel, it's not normal, and that's why nobody goes from yere till I sees to the bell. I don't say this lightly. Nobody is to leave, see. Nobody.'

'Who's to say,' Col came close to the Mayor, 'whoever did this isn't still in the room?'

'No. 'E isn't yere, Colin, you can…'

Wynford Wiley pleaded, 'Let me radio for assistance, Jim. Least let me do that.'

'Leave it, Wynford. You're a local man, near enough. This is not a police matter.'

'But it's a murder,' Col Croston protested.

'It's a Crybbe matter, sir!'

'Jim,' Wynford whined, 'it's more than my…'

'Your job? A blue vein throbbed in the Mayor's forehead. 'Your piffling little job? You'll take out your radio, Wynford Wiley, and you'll put 'im on that table.'

Wynford stood for a moment, his small features seeming to chase each other around his Edam cheese of a face. 'I can't.' He hung his head, turned away and trudged back towards the main door.

But when he reached it, he found his way barred by four large, quiet men of an unmistakably agricultural demeanour.

'Don't be a bigger fool than you look. Wynford,' said the Mayor, walking slowly down the aisle. 'Just give me that radio.'

Wynford sighed, took out the pocket radio in the black rubber case with the short rubber aerial and placed it in Jimmy Preece's bony, outstretched hand.

'It's for the best, Wynford. Now.' The Mayor turned and looked around him. 'Where's Mrs Morrison?'

Oh Christ.

'I'm here, Mr Preece.'