Crybbe aka Curfew

'What's that?' said Gomer, suspicious. 'Oh, bugger me…'Enry Kettle! Is this where 'Enry Kettle…?'

'You knew Henry?'

'Course I knew 'im. 'Enry Kettle, oh hell, aye. Wells, see. Wells. 'E'd find 'em, I'd dig 'em. Talk about a tragic loss. Friend o' yours too, was 'e?'

He nodded and put out his hand. 'Joe Powys.'

Gomer shook it. 'Gomer Parry Plant Hire.'

Powys did some rapid thinking. Gomer had gone off the road, probably at the same spot as Henry. And yet Gomer had survived.

'What happened? When you came off the road?'

'Bloody strange,' Gomer said. 'Thought I muster been pissed, like – sorry Mrs S – but I'd only 'ad a couple, see. Anyway. it was just like I'd blacked out and come round in the bloody field… only I never did. And then it was like… well, it was like goin' downhill with a hell of a strong wind up your arse – sorry, Mrs…'

'You see anything?'

'Oh, er…' Gomer scratched his face. 'Got in a bit of a panic, like, tell the truth. See all sortser things, isn't it? Thought I'd seen a feller one second, up there, top o' the Tump, 'mong the ole trees, like, but nat'rally I was more bothered 'bout not turnin' the ole digger over, see. Best one I got this. Customized, fixed 'im myself, big David Brown tractor an' half of this ole JCB I got off my mate over Llandod way. Bloody cracker, this ole thing. Managed to stop 'im 'fore I reached the ole wall – if 'e 'ad gone into it, I'd've been pretty bloody sore about it, I can tell you.'

'Word has it,' said Powys, 'that you were pretty bloody sore when somebody borrowed your bulldozer.'

'Don't you talk to me 'bout that!' said Gomer in disgust. 'Bloody vandals.'

'You were warned off, weren't you? You could've had this wall down no problem, but they warned you off.'

'Ow'd you know that?' demanded Gomer.

'Made sense.'

'Oh aye? You know anythin' else makes sense?'

'Going back to this figure on the top of the Tump. Where exactly were you when you saw him?'

'You're askin' a lot o' questions. Mister. You with the radio, too?' Although he didn't sound as if he'd mind if this were the case. 'No, see, I said I thought I seen 'im. 'E was prob'ly another tree with the light catchin' 'im funny, like.'

'Your headlights are that powerful, that you could see a man standing on top of the Tump when you're coming down and the lights are pointing down?'

'Light. Only got one 'eadlight workin', Joe.'

'So when you said a tree caught in the light…'

'Aye,' Gomer said thoughtfully. 'You're right. Not possible, is it? See, I'll tell you what it was like. You know kids when they gets a torch and they wants to frighten other kids and flashes it under their chin and their face lights up really well, on account of half it's in shadow. Well, it was like that, only it was like his whole body was lit up that way. Scary. Only I'm strugglin' with the wheel, I thinks, get off, it's only an tree.'

Minnie Seagrove looked at Powys. 'I used to think like that when I first saw the Hound. You do. You look for explanations, sort of thing.'

'The hound?' said Gomer.

Arnold began to bark.

'Right,' said Gomer, opening the door of the cab. 'If there's anybody else up there I'm gonner bloody find out this time.'

The single headlight spotlit the Tump again, and Powys watched as Arnold ran into the white circle.

Ran. Arnold ran into the light.

He'd lost a leg just a few days ago, and he was running.

Was this Arnold?

'Arnold!' Powys shouted. 'Come on!'

The dog trotted down to the foot of the mound and ambled across. Powys bent down and the dog snuffled up at him and licked his hands. Gently, Powys slid one hand underneath, he could actually feel the stitching.

Arnold squirmed free and made off, back across the field towards the Tump, looking back at Powys every few yards and barking.

'He's found something,' Minnie Seagrove said. 'He wants to show you something.'

I can't believe this, Powys thought. This is seriously weird. He isn't even limping.

Arnold's tail started to wave when he saw Powys was following him. He ran a few yards up the side of the Tump and then sat down.

He sat down.

The dog with only one back leg sat down.

Arnold barked. He turned around and put his nose into the side of the Tump and snuffled about. Then he turned round again and started to bark at Powys.

Powys thought – the words springing into his mind in Henry Kettle's voice – he's a dowser's dog.

He wandered back to the digger, rubbing his forehead. 'Gomer, what are the chances of you doing a spot of excavation?'

'What?' Gomer said, in there?'

'Be a public service,' Powys said. 'That Tump's a liability. If it wasn't for that Tump, Henry Kettle would be alive today and locating wells.'

'Protected Ancient Monument, though, isn't it?' Gomer said. 'That's an offence, unauthorized excavation of a Protected Ancient Monument.'

'Certainly is,' said Powys.

'That's all right, then,' said Gomer, glasses twinkling. 'Where you want the 'ole?'

CHAPTER XVI

The acoustic in the square was tight and intimate, like a studio, and the voice was deep and resonant: strong and melancholy music. Wonderful broadcasting voice, Fay thought, trying to be cynical. Radio Three, FM.

'When you think about it,' the voice said, 'any town centre's an intensely powerful place; it's where energy gathers from all directions, thoughts and feelings pouring in. It's where we go to tap into a town, to feel its life rhythm.'

Pure radio, Fay thought. The purest radio of all, because we can't see anything. No distractions. He can design his pictures in our minds.

'The town centre is where the centuries are stored,' Andy said. 'Smell them. Smell the centuries.'

All I can smell, Fay thought, is shit. Four hundred years of shit. And all I can hear is bullshit. Had to keep telling herself that. This was Andy Boulton-Trow, of Bottle Stone farm. Descendant of Sheriff Wort, scourge of Crybbe, black magician, the most hated man in…

'What you can smell,' Andy Boulton-Trow said (and she felt, most uncomfortably, that he was speaking directly to her), 'is many centuries of human life. There haven't always been sewerage systems and hot water and fresh vegetables. This town lived on the border of two often hostile countries, and it had to live within itself. It ground its own flour, killed its own meat and kept its own counsel.'

He paused. 'And its secrets. It kept its secrets.'

Fay thought, drab secrets densely woven into a faded, dim old tapestry.

Boulton-Trow's voice was the only sound in the square. The only sound in the world – for this square was the world. None of them could leave it, except – perhaps – by dying.

Should have been a terrifying thought. Wasn't.

She couldn't remember, for the moment, quite what he looked like, this Boulton-Trow. Only that he was tall and dark and bearded. Like Christ; that was how people saw Him.

But she couldn't see Boulton-Trow. She couldn't see anybody. You'd have thought your eyes would have