FOUR
Horrid Brown Fountain
Woolly said, 'Mind if I move some of this stuff, Diane.' I need to spread the maps out.'
She put on all the shop lights; it was a dark morning. 'Gosh, how many have you got?'
'Three. I need to put 'em all together. Think we're gonner have to use the floor. This is heavy shit, Diane, man. This is, like, end-of-the-world-scenario.'
Woolly squatted on the carpet and began to unfold an Ordnance Survey map, sliding one edge under two legs of the display table for current bestsellers. He'd phoned just after seven, to check if he could come round before the shop opened. He needed to lay something on her. Couldn't believe what he was seeing.
For once, Diane hadn't wanted to get up, not even for Woolly. She'd been out long after midnight. Yes, OK, she'd lied to J. M. Powys. It did matter about the van. It mattered terribly.
'I got the proof here, look, no hype,' Woolly said.
'Proof?'
'About the road. You all right, Diane?'
'Yes. Fine. Sorry. Go ahead.'
The maps were covered with little circles and ruler marks. All Woolly's Ordnance maps were customised into ley-line plans, with prehistoric sites – stones and burial mounds – and ancient churches, moats, beacon hills and things neatly encircled in red ink. People like Woolly could prove all kinds of wonderful things with maps and rulers and set-squares.
What you did was to find how many of the old sites fell into straight lines and then draw them in. It never failed; you'd finish up with a whole network of lines, some with four or five points, sometimes a whole star- formation of lines radiating out from a single point, indicating a very powerful ancient centre.
Glastonbury Tor, of course, was the classic example, perhaps the most important power centre in the whole of Western Europe. Sure enough, there it was on the second of Woolly's maps, with lines of force spraying out in all directions.
'Spent all night on this, Diane. Couldn't believe it myself at first, where the road goes. Bit of a mind-blower, girl. Don't know how we missed it, here of all places.'
Woolly was a very intelligent chap, but he'd done so many exotic drugs in his time that he tended to approach life obliquely, from strange directions. So that rather mundane things seemed, to him, quite astonishing.
Of course, there was the possibility that what Woolly saw was the truth and everyone else was blinded by the familiarity of things. Diane liked to think that, most of the time.
She made some tea. When she came back he had the three maps pushed together, taking up more than half the shop. He was thumbing through one of the paperback Dion Fortunes.
'Wish this lady was still around, Diane She'd get us organised all right.'
Diane handed him his tea and said nothing.
'Ever heard of the Watchers of Avalon, Diane?'
'Sort of. The group she founded to defend Britain against Nazi black magic in World War Two?'
'I believe that,' Woolly said. 'Everybody goes on about the V-2 or whatever it was being the Nazis' secret weapon, but the secret secret weapon was heavy-duty magic. They were well into it. Now the Watchers, they were all over Britain, but they all concentrated on the Tor at certain prearranged times and like pooled their energy. Really heavy. A real reservoir of psychic power to keep the enemy out.'
'The Tor's a very powerful beacon,' Diane said. A few weeks ago, all this would have sent her into overdrive, but this morning, everything felt so dull and stagnant.
'Some people say the Watchers of Avalon are still around, you know. Not the original ones, like, but magical adepts who've picked up the banner. What I wanner know- is, if they are around, what the hell they doing about this fuckin' road? Right,' Woolly rubbed his hands together. 'Got your notebook?'
'I've got a good memory. Oh gosh!'
'Huh?'
'Nothing. It's OK.'
What if Colonel Pixhill and John Cowper Powys were involved with DF in the Watchers of Avalon? Pixhill first came to Glastonbury in the War – while recovering from his wounds in fact. Was that how the three got together?
'OK,' Woolly said. 'Gimme a sec to get my head together. Everything'll be cool.'
'Everything will be cool,' repeated a voice as smooth as cashmere 'Is this a cartographer's convention, Diane, or have I wandered into a timewarp?'
Woolly spun round in alarm.
Dark overcoat, briefcase, gloves. Diane's brother Archer in his city clothes.
'Leaving early to catch my train to London,' Archer said.
'Saw the lights. The sign said Closed but the door was slightly open. So I took the liberty of walking in.'
Woolly dived at his maps like a maniac, gathering them to his chest. The one held down by the table legs ripped in two places.
'Not inconvenient, I trust,' Archer said.
Young Paul, who thought even anoraks were a little avant garde, was wearing a sleeveless pullover in maroon. He was waving his arms about.
'Swear to God, Sam, I'm coming back from the Avalon Internet Group at Dean Wiggin's flat, I'm taking a short cut across the car park… and there she is. Got three, four spray cans and she's going at it like a loo… like mad.'
'Painting her van? At night?' Sam leaned back in his favourite director's chair, legs stretched out, hands behind his head. 'You don't by any chance take hallucinogenic drugs at meetings of the Avalon Internet Group?'
Paul looked insulted. The kid didn't even drink; his idea of hard drugs was extra-strong mints.
'Sam, I saw it.'
Sam needed to think about this. He'd been in the print-shop since seven, no need to be here, wasn't expecting Diane cracking the whip or anything. The Avalonian dummy was more or less in the can, just waiting for the interview the guy with the dog was doing with the bishop. So no sleep lost over The Avalonian.
Just Diane?
Daft eh? Found he couldn't sleep for ages last night, through… not exactly worrying about her. Trying to puzzle her out. Track down her motivations. Odd, that. Never lost a wink of sleep over Charlotte or the row with his dad. Or even getting arrested over the sabbing, come to that. Probably the last time was the fox cub. Six nights feeding the little guy with a dropper – seven, eight years ago, this must be, a hunt orphan from Pennard's land.
Nearly got himself snatched by that bastard, Rankin – Hughie Painter shouting, Leave it, Sam, they'll see your face.
He couldn't do that.
Rufus. Cute little guy. Still had that sweet, puppy smell. Used to fall asleep on Sam's knees. He'd cried like a baby into his pillow the night Rufus died.
'OK, Paul,' Sam said. 'You don't mention this to a soul.'
'No, Sam.'
'Good boy.' Sam sat up in his director's chair, Beyond puzzlement this time
Verity arose at seven-thirty and made a point of not putting on any lights, doing her tenebral breathing as she found her way through the shadows to the kitchen.
Although it was the youngest and least museum like part of the house, the Victorian kitchen was depressing in its own way. Those tall, dark stained, fitted dressers leaving hardly any wall visible. Knotted, exposed wiring crawling along two beams like varicose veins. The water pipes coiling in the shadows, making intestinal noises.
In the drab stillness, the telephone rang just after eight a.m., rattling the plates on the dresser, the combined sound somehow reminding Verity of the shrill, protesting warble of the fire engines trapped in Wellhouse Lane, less
