‘Not really.’
‘We talk. We think about things. You could try it. It doesn’t hurt.’
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‘You’re young. You should be out in the world enjoying life,’ said Fry. ‘This place is so empty and bleak.’
‘No. All you see is a landscape of rocks and heather,’ said Stride. ‘But the moor is a living thing. It has moods; it has desires.’ He grinned at Fry, and his voice hushed. ‘It has secrets.’
‘Stride’s right,’ said Cal. ‘The moor was here long before us. The Fiddler will still be playing long after we’ve gone.’
‘The who?’
‘The Fiddler. Don’t you know the story?’ ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Have you seen the stones?’ said Stride. ‘Don’t you know what they are? Nine virgins, turned to stone for dancing on a Sunday. Punished for their sin. They desecrated the Sabbath with their dancing. But that single stone, outside the circle … They say that’s the Fiddler, who played the tune for the dancers. He was turned to stone, too. But he wasn’t dancing. Do you think the Fiddler got justice?’
‘What nonsense.’
‘Is it? Don’t underestimate the power of nature. The spirits don’t forget.’
Fry was concentrating on the manner of the two travellers as much as on their words. She already knew she was never going to be able to ask the right questions, no matter how long she stayed here. There was something rehearsed about their performance that only reinforced her scepticism.
‘But what do you believe in?’ she said, voicing the real question that was on her mind.
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‘Stride talks to the Fiddler at nights, sometimes,’ said Cal. ‘He tells him about things like that. The Fiddler knows the truth.’
‘The truth? And what truth is it you’re looking for?’ Stride only smiled. The smile became wider, and turned into a laugh that filled the van. He leaned forward, and laid a hand on Fry’s knee. She flinched, but was unable to pull back from his touch in the confined space. Stride’s hand lay still and steady, as if he were trying to calm her thoughts, to transfer some of his own contentment by direct contact.
‘How can you know the truth until you find it?’ he said.
For a moment he stared directly into her eyes, as if seeking a shred of understanding, willing her to share a bit of enlightenment. But she kept her face expressionless, resisting. Even Stride finally realized the futility, repulsed by the rigidity of her muscles beneath his hand.
Then Cal stepped in. ‘Stride believes there may be a vengeful spirit of the moors, driving intruders away.’ ‘And what the hell does that mean?’ said Fry angrily. Cal didn’t even seem to have heard. He looked at
Stride, who was still staring at Fry and seemed to be attempting to drive his thoughts into her head by willpower.
‘Well, if you find this vengeful spirit has a physical body and a face, let us know,’ she said.
Stride looked unperturbed. ‘It’s the Fiddler himself,’ he said. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s the Fiddler who makes the women dance.’
369
Ben Cooper turned right at the Fina petrol station and dropped the Toyota down a gear to go up the steep street. He wasn’t familiar with this estate on the southern edge of Edendale. It was a fairly recent one, with cheap housing built to provide somewhere that local people could afford to live without having to move out of town. The houses were small stone semis, with narrow alleyways and car ports.
The homes on Calver Crescent looked like all the others, and the only thing that distinguished number 17 was a slightly neglected air. The paintwork on the front door was starting to peel, and part of the car port’s Perspex roof had come loose and split, leaving a gap plugged by a sheet of polythene that flapped and rattled in the rain.
Mark Roper was waiting outside, under the light of a bare bulb. He ran down the short drive and climbed into Cooper’s car. He was wearing jeans and a denim jacket, and Cooper hardly recognized him.
‘Can we go somewhere?’ asked Mark. ‘Sure. Anywhere in particular? A pub?’
‘No, somewhere quiet, where we can talk. I’ll show you where.’
‘OK.’ Mark told him to drive westwards out of Edendale until they left the street lamps behind and there was only the reflection of the Toyota’s headlights from the Catseyes in the road and from the rain that drifted across the bonnet. Two miles out of town they turned and headed uphill until they were rising through the dark, dripping fringes of Eden Forest. They saw few
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cars on the road and passed even fewer houses - just the occasional farmstead wrapped in its own little bowl of protective light.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Cooper. ‘Not far now.’
After a few more minutes, Mark directed him off the road. Cooper found they were in a gravel car park with litter bins and a map in a glass case pointing out the major features of the view that must he somewhere out there in the darkness. He turned the Toyota round so that it was pointing back towards the road.
‘Well?’ Mark hesitated. Cooper knew better than to try to push him. It was better to let him take his time, now that they had come all this way. Gradually, his eyes started adjusting to the darkness. There were faint strings of light floating in mid-air in front of him, marking a hamlet or a village on a hillside across the valley. Then the hills themselves began to come into focus, black humps against the sky. Directly ahead, he had the sensation of a steep drop into a vast hole in the darkness.
Eventually, Mark felt the moment was right.
‘You know I told you this morning about something going on at Ringham Edge Farm.’
‘The big shed,’ said Cooper. ‘Vehicles arriving at night.’
‘That’s right.’
‘We haven’t had a chance to look into it, Mark. We’ve all had a lot of other things on our minds. You’ll just have to wait. Give us time.’
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‘I know, I know.’ ‘It will probably turn out to be nothing, anyway.’ Mark chewed his lip. The rain was beginning to obscure the Toyota’s windscreen.
