Crybbe aka Curfew

'This appears to be the general idea,' the vicar said uncomfortably. 'The central dilemma is, as you know, I'm not into sham. Too much of that in the church.'

'Absolutely, old chap.'

'You see, my problem is…'

'Oh, I think I know what your problem is.' Perhaps, Alex thought, it used to be my problem too, to an extent. How sure of our ground we are, when we're young ministers. 'For instance, Murray, if I were to ask you what you consider to be the biggest evils in the world today, you'd say…?'

'Inequality. Racism. Destruction of the planet due to unassuageable… I'm not going to say capitalism, let's call it greed.' He eyed the Guardian on Alex's chair-arm. 'Surely you'd agree with that?'

'Course, dear boy. Spot on. Look, Tolstoy, would you mind not sharpening your claws on my inner thigh, there's good cat. So who wants you to do this exorcism?'

'Difficult.' Murray smiled without humour. 'Difficult situation. It's a teenager. Lives with the grandparents. Think there's some sort of – his mouth pursed in distaste – 'disruptive

etheric intrusion. In the house.'

'Poltergeist, eh? What have the grandparents got to say?'

'That's the difficulty. I'm not supposed to speak to them. This… person is rather embarrassed about the whole thing. Having read somewhere that so-called poltergeists are often caused by, or attracted to, a disturbed adolescent. You know that theory?'

'Rampant hormones overflowing. Smart boy. In my day, of course, the vicar would just have told him to stop wanking and the thing would go away.'

Murray said, 'It's a girl.'

'Oh.'

'She wants me to go along when her grandparents are out and deal with this alleged presence.'

'Oh dear.' Alex opened his can of Heineken with a snap 'You're right, my boy, it is a difficult one. Erm…' He looked across at Murray, all cropped hair, tight mouth and steely

efficiency. 'Do you suppose this youngster might have something of a… crush on you?' Well, it wasn't entirely beyond the bounds of possibility; there were some pretty warped kids around these days.

'Oh, I don't think it's that, Alex. That would be comparatively easy to deal with.'

'Glad you think so. What have you said to her, then?'

'We had a long discussion about the problems and insecurities of the post-pubescent period. Made more difficult in this case because she has no parents to go to – mother dead, father in the merchant navy. You see, I don't want to fail the kid. Because, you know, so few people in this town ever actually come to me for help. Especially with anything of a non-material nature – i.e. anything that doesn't involve opening jumble sales. It's obvious most of them find me an institutional irrelevance most of the time.'

'Wouldn't say that, old chap.'

'Wouldn't you? Oh, certainly, they're always there on Sunday. Well, enough of them anyway. So no congregation problems, as such, but…'

'That's what it's all about, old son. That's the core of it, bums on pews.'

'Is it? Is that what you think?' The dining chair creaked as Murray hunched forward, chin thrusting. 'Have you ever looked out over your parishioners and seen all the animation, all the commitment, of a doctor's waiting room or a bus queue?'

Alex nodded. 'They're not expressive people in this town, I grant you. Perhaps a chap like you ought to be working in a more happening situation, as they say.'

Murray clearly thought so too. But Alex could see the difficulty. He'd been lucky to get a parish this size at his age, still in his twenties. Could be a key step on the way to the bishop's palace before he turned forty if he made the right impression…

They heard footsteps on the path, a key in the front door. Ah, here's Fay. Look, Murray, why don't we ask her about your problem? Used to be a teenage girl herself not awfully long ago.'

'No!' Murray Beech jerked on the edge of his dining chair. 'Not a word, if you don't mind, Alex. I don't want this turned into a joke on the radio.'

'Good God, Murray, I hardly think…'

'Please.'

'OK, if that's how you'd prefer it. I say, what's wrong with old Chekhov?'

The cat had leapt on to the chair-back next to Alex's shoulder, looking even less at ease than the vicar of Crybbe.

'Dad,' Fay called from the hall. 'You haven't got Rasputin in there, have you? If you have, just hold on to him.' There was a patter of paws. 'We may have a minor integration problem.'

The cat hissed in Alex's ear.

'I must go,' Murray Beech said, putting the unopened can of lager on top of Grace's little nest of tables.

The door opened and a dog came in, followed by Fay. The dog was straining on the end of a clothes-line. It was a rather bizarre dog. Black and white, the size of a sheepdog. But with a terrier's stance and enormous ears, like a donkey's.

The dog ignored Rasputin but sniffed suspiciously at Murray Beech, as the vicar came to his feet.

'Sorry about this, Dad,' Fay said. 'But you and Rasputin have to make allowances, show a little charity. Oh, hullo Murray, I'm quite glad you're here.'

The dog ambled over to Alex. 'He's had a bereavement,' Fay said. 'Listen, Murray, do you know Mrs Byford?'

Halfway to the door, the vicar stiffened. 'The Old Police House?'

'That's the one, yes. Is she all right?'

'I'm sorry… What do you mean, 'all right'?'

Alex, patting the dog, observed how inhibited Murray Beech became when Fay was around. Partly, he thought, because of what she did for a living and partly, no doubt, because he couldn't help fancying the arse off her. Open to that kind of thing now, too, since his engagement had gone down the toilet

'This Mrs Byford,' Fay said, 'was throwing the most amazing wobbly. He' – looking at the dog – 'was howling in his cell at the nick, and Mrs Byford was reacting as if it was the four-minute warning or something. Really going for Wynford, the copper. 'Get it stopped! I'm not having it! I don't like it!' Way over the top.'

'Perhaps she simply feels she has a right to peace and quiet,' Murray said tightly.

'Living next to the cop-shop? Drunks getting hauled in on a Saturday night? What the hell does she know about peace and quiet?'

Murray shrugged. 'I'm sorry, I have to go. I'll talk to you again, Alex.'

'Yes, call in any time, old chap.'

When the vicar had gone. Fay said, 'Creep.'

'No, just a duck out of water,' Alex said, stroking the rigid Rasputin. 'He'd be far more at home in Birmingham, preaching peaceful coexistence with Islam. Who's your extraordinary

friend?'

'Um, yes. I'm sorry to spring him on you, but it all happened very quickly, what with this loopy woman – definitely something wrong with her.' Fay knelt down and detached the clothes-line from the dog's collar. 'He's called Arnold. He was Henry Kettle's dog. He seems to have been in the car when it crashed. Must have got out through a window afterwards. They found him this morning, sitting by the wreckage like the Greyfriars Bobby. Breaks your heart, doesn't it?'

Arnold rested his chin for just a moment on Alex's knee. There was a savage hiss from Rasputin. 'Poor old chap,' Alex said. He thought the dog had strangely kind eyes. 'But he can't stay here.'

Arnold glanced at Rasputin with disinterest then padded away. Fay said, 'I was afraid, to be honest, of what Wynford might have done to shut him up.'

'Oh, surely not.'

'I don't know, the police round here are… different. Wynford had him in this concrete coal shed kind of place. Hard door, no windows, no basket or anything. A metal bucket to

drink out of. Barbaric. So I thought, that's it, he's not staying here. Then Wynford and I had this terrific