Crybbe aka Curfew

suit.

'The Tump?'

'A ceremony,' Goff said. 'To launch the project. We're gonna knock down the wall around the Tump. Maybe that's where Mr Kettle's memorial should be. We're gonna finish what he began. We're gonna liberate the Tump.'

Andy Boulton-Trow nodded.

Goff grinned massively. 'It's the beginning,' he said. 'Come on, let's get back to the Cock, see who shows up.'

From the top of the farmyard there was a fine view of the river and the Welsh hills behind. But Jimmy Preece and his son Jack were looking, for once, the other way, up towards the Court. This was a view Jack had been conditioned, over the years, to avoid – as if, when he emerged from the farmyard gates, he was to wear an imaginary patch over his right eye.

This afternoon a great black cloud hung over the Tump.

Below it, the bulldozer was bright yellow.

'Gomer Parry's,' Jack said.

'Sure t'be,' Jimmy said. 'And only one reason 'e's down there.'

'So what you gonner do, Father?'

'No choice, Jack. I shall 'ave to 'ave a word with 'im when 'e gets back.'

The two men stood in silence for over a minute.

Then Jack mumbled, almost to himself. 'Sometimes… sometimes I wonders, well, so what? What if 'e do come down, that ole wall? An' the ole bell… what if 'e don't get rung some nights?'

Jimmy Preece was too certain of his son even to reply. Jack was like him. Jonathon was like Jack. And Warren – well, Warren was only a second son, so it didn't matter, anyway, about Warren.

The Mayor was about to walk away, back into town, when he heard Jack saying, '… And the ole box. If the ole box is gone, do it matter?'

Jimmy Preece stopped and turned and walked back very slowly to where Jack stood, a bigger man than Jimmy, habitually in dark-green overalls.

'The ole box?'

'I don't know, Father, 'e's gone. Maybe. Might've gone. Hard to say, isn't it, without pulling the whole wall out?'

Jimmy Preece said, 'Can't 'ave gone, Jack. Sometimes them ole bricks subside. I told you, anyway, leave 'im alone, that old box. Keep 'im walled up. Tell Jonathon when 'e's thirty and married. Never tell Warren.'

'Found some bits of plaster and stuff in the fireplace,' Jack said. 'Poked about a bit and the bricks fell out the cavity.'

'Put 'em back, block 'em up.'

'That's what I was doin'. Cavity, though, see, cavity was empty, Father.'

'That case, you got a job to do, Jack. You get in there and find where the box's fallen to, then you put 'im back on the ledge and you seals the bugger up proper. And another thing, Jack, you get that dog seen to. Last night…'

'I know. Yeard 'im from the belfry even. I phoned 'er up. I give 'er till weekend.'

'This is the weekend,' said Jimmy Preece. 'Get Jonathon to do it.'

Jack Preece looked down at his boots. 'Gets to me sometimes, Father, that's all. Why us?'

He walked off without saying goodbye, because none of the Preeces ever said goodbye to each other; only 'Ow're you' on Christmas morning.

CHAPTER IV

The one time Rachel had seen Guy Morrison, at a preliminary meeting with Max in London, he'd been wearing a lightweight suit with sun-glasses in the breast pocket and carrying a briefcase and a mobile phone.

Today, Guy was in director mode. He wore denims and a leather pouch, like a holster, on his belt. He had blond hair and craggy features. A TV man from central casting, Rachel thought. At his shoulder stood a dumpy, stern- faced girl with straight black hair and a waterproof clipboard.

Hustling J.M. off to the Cock, Goff had told Rachel over his shoulder, 'Morrison wants to do a few exterior shots of the Court with nobody about. Stick around till he shows, Rach, keep an eye on him.'

'Who is this, Catrin?' Guy Morrison asked the black-haired girl in Rachel's hearing. 'Remind me.'

'Guy, this is Rachel Wade, Max's PA.' Catrin's accent had a clipped sibilance Rachel identified as north-west Wales.

'Of course, yes.'

Rachel offered him a languid hand. 'We've spoken on the phone.'

Guy Morrison look the hand and held it limply for an extra moment, looking steadily, unsmiling, into her eyes. 'You're almost everything your voice implied, Rachel Wade.'

'Good,' said Rachel, with a tight, tired smile.

Guy Morrison dropped Rachel's hand, stepped back, looked around the courtyard then up into the sky again, where clouds and mist still formed a damp canopy.

He frowned. 'I wanted some GVs today. Establishing shots. But this weather's not conducive. At all. So I've told the crew, Rachel Wade, to set up in that stable-place. Acceptable to you, yes?'

'Fine.'

'Because what I thought I'd do after lunch is bang off a brief opening interview with Max Goff. Background of sawing and rubble everywhere. Traces of sawdust on the white suit, emphasizing the hands-on approach. May not use it, but I'm not happy unless there's something in the can on Day One.'

'You'd better see how he feels about that.'

Guy Morrison nodded and turned away. She watched him pace the courtyard, looking up at the hills fading into mist and at the Court itself, grey and spectral in us small hollow, like an old galleon half-sunk into a mud-flat.

When they arrived back at the Cock, close to 1 p.m., a car was being parked on the square, close to the steps: a silver-grey Ford Escort with an Offa's Dyke Radio sticker on its windscreen.

The driver got out and came over.

'Rachel, is it? Could I just have a word?'

Guy Morrison, peering at the car-sticker and registering it was only local radio, went ahead, up the steps, with his assistant.

'I'm from Offa's Dyke Radio. We carried a report yesterday without checking the details with you.'

Rachel had never seen this person before He was a shortish, muscular man, about twenty-five, with a half- grown moustache.

'Word reached me you weren't happy about what went out, and I just want you to know I've looked into it. Gavin Ashpole, News Editor. You'll be seeing more of me.'

'Good,' said Rachel dismissively. 'Now if…'

'Problem is, we've been using a freelance. Fay Morrison, in Crybbe, but it hasn't been working out.'

'Apart from this one instance,' Rachel said, 'I don't think…'

'So, from now on, any major stories in this area, we're going to handle direct. What Mr Goff's doing amounts to a major story, naturally, so if there's anything you want to say, anything you want to get out on Offa's Dyke Radio, you call me direct. Here's my card.'

'Thank you.'

'In fact – this is off the record – we're considering putting a staff reporter into Crybbe. Especially if your thing takes off and the population starts to expand.'

'Really.'