Juanita said to Diane, 'Is she pissed or what?'
'I certainly am not. If you must try to explain everything, I think I'm probably in a state of heightened consciousness.'
'While your husband', said Juanita sweetly, 'is in a state of heightened stress, heightened bewilderment and heightened likelihood of being nicked for criminal damage. Plus he's cut his hand rather badly breaking somebody's window.'
Domini sniffed. 'Not a terribly inventive response, all told. But not bad for a boring little turd of' primary school teacher.' She uncrossed her legs and sat up. 'Hey, come on, this is what it's all about, Juanita. Change. No, don't look at me like that. This is what Avalon does for us. Challenges all our preconceptions Forces us to change.'
'Get her out of here,' Juanita said wearily.
'Oh,' said Domini. 'It was different for you then, was it?'
'What?'
'When you threw your man out. When Carey and Frayne lost its Frayne.'
Diane said, 'That's not awfully fair…'
And then the phone rang.
'Excuse me,' Juanita said. Perhaps it was Jim. Perhaps he'd gone straight home. She hoped it was Jim. 'I'll take it upstairs.'
Juanita's sitting room was directly above the shop and overlooked High Street. It appeared much quieter down there now. Nobody seemed to have called the police. She could see a light on over the restyled Holy Thorn Ceramics.
Tony must have gone home. Well, there was no room for bloody Domini to sleep here.
She picked up the phone from the windowsill. 'Hello, Carey and Frayne.'
All she could hear was some awful wheezing. Oh please, not a breather.
Through the window, she saw a large group of people drifting up the street from the Assembly Rooms where this utter dickhead Pel Grainger had been promoting his tenebral therapy. He'd been in the shop a couple of weeks back, suggesting she should place a major order for his forthcoming book. Embracing the Dark. Maybe she should, if he'd pulled a crowd that size.
'Mrs Carey?' A man. Not Jim. She was sorry. If Jim had been about to say tonight what she'd thought he was about to say, then they really needed to talk. Not in a pub.
Poor Jim. With his bikes and his brushes and all those paintings he was going to sell one day when he'd found his Grail. Poor buggering Jim, who she'd thought was just a Really Good Friend. Perhaps no man ever wanted to be just her friend; was that a compliment at her age?
'Sorry,' she said into the phone. 'Yes, it's me.'
'Mrs Carey, I'm so sorry, I'm afraid I'm not awfully well. Little short of breath. It's Timothy Shepherd. From the Pixhill Trust. Terribly sorry to telephone so late, I did try earlier but there was no reply.'
'I've been out. Sorry. No problem, Major.'
'You sound as if there is.'
'Do I?'
'You sound a little stressed.'
'Sorry. It's nothing. Nothing really. Look, Major, if you're ringing to see how the book's selling, I'm afraid not very well at all.'
Major Shepherd went into a prolonged coughing fit.
God, what was the matter who him? Not just flu, that was for sure.
'Don't worry about the book,' he said eventually. 'Mrs Carey, I should like to see you, but I'm afraid I'm in no condition to travel to Glastonbury. Would it be possible for you to come up here?'
'To Cirencester?'
'I wouldn't presume upon your valuable time if I didn't think it was of some considerable importance. Could you come tomorrow?'
She thought about tomorrow's already-unnerving agenda. Jim to sort out, with extreme tact and delicacy. And the problem of the swastika boy. Should she urge Diane to tell the police what she knew?
'Major, quite honestly, tomorrow- could be a problem.'
'Will you try?'
'I really don't think…'
'Friday, then. I beg you to try, Mrs Carey.'
'Is there a particular problem? About the book?'
'Forget the damn book.' She could hear his voice going into a wheeze, and a woman in the background, exasperated, God's sake, Tim…
'Major, do you think I could call you back tomorrow evening?'
'Look, Mrs Carey… All right, Rosemary… I'm sorry. Mrs Carey, how can I approach this with you? There are things you don't know. Parts of the diary we couldn't print for legal reasons. Elements of George Pixhill's past which have a bearing on what I… what I understand is beginning to happen in Glastonbury.'
Bloody Pixhill, Juanita thought. I wish I'd never heard of bloody Pixhill.
'All right,' she said. 'I'll come on Friday.'
'Thank you,' said Major Shepherd slowly. 'Bless you, Mrs Carey.' He said it in a peculiar way, as though it was an actual benediction.
'A pleasure,' Juanita said, strained. Through the window, she saw two women walking up the street; one was Dame Wanda Carlisle.
'And please,' the Major said, 'please don't let me down. Verity Endicott can no longer deal with this alone.'
She watched the two women pass under the window. Dame Wanda Carlisle flamboyant in a cape and – talk of the devil – Verity Endicott a pace behind, like a little chihuahua.
Synchronicity.
Juanita hated synchronicity. She stood there holding the phone, pushing back the metal aerial. The button at its tip was missing and she kept pushing the point into her palm, to experience the reality of pain. More mystery. I don't need any more flaming mystery.
'Major, how does Verity Endicott come into this?'
She saw a man in a cap and a belted raincoat crossing the road towards the bookshop.
'Goodnight, Mrs Carey.' As though he hadn't heard.
'Major Shepherd…'
The man in the raincoat reached the kerb and pulled off his cap. Coils of thick grey hair tumbled out. It wasn't a man at all.
'Oh shit,' Juanita said.
Ceridwen.
Don Moulder could never approach that bottom field now without a feeling of resentment.
It was well out of sight of the farmhouse. Bloody perfect, it was: gently sloping, easy access from the road, magnificent views to the Tor.
Ideal for housing. Also, the only field he'd hardly notice if it had gone. When the snooty beggars at the council had turned the plan down, Don reckoned this was because Griff Daniel was involved and now he'd lost his seat the planners were putting the boot in. Seemed like the only way to get the scheme through now was to get Griff back on the council.
Don slowed up, gun pointing downwards now. No lights down there. Nothing.
Crafty devils.
Griff Daniel had been round earlier with a roll of posters for Don to stick on his fences, on telegraph and electric poles, trees. The posters said: GLASTONBURY FIRST
All would be clear very soon, Griff had said.
What was in the field was not clear at all. Even though there was a bit of a moon, so he didn't need his hand-lamp yet.
There was something – he could sense that, the way you could sense whether there was livestock in a
