to Matt's bogman music, not right now, not the way he was feeling.
But what did she mean, I have to go home? Why did she have to go so quickly she couldn't wait to say ta'ra?
'Aye,' he shouted. 'Come in, lass.'
'Willie.' She stood panting in the doorway, her flowery frock dark-spotted with rain.
'I were just going to make some toast for me tea. You want some?'
'Willie,' she said. 'Come and see this.'
's up?'
'You've got to see it,' Milly gasped,
'It's pissing down. I'll need me mac'
'Never mind that!' She pulled him out of the door, dragged him up the entry and into the street. 'Look.'
'It's a bus,' said Willie.
A big green single-decker was jammed into the top of the street outside the Post Office. Thin rivers of rain were running down the cobbles around its back wheels. On the back of the bus it said, Hattersley's Travel, Sheffield.
'Coach tour?' Willie said, puzzled. Coaches would come to Bridelow quite often in the old days. In summer, admittedly, not on a wet Sunday at the end of October.
'Look,' Milly said.
About forty people had alighted from the coach, mostly young people in jeans and bright anoraks. A small circle had gathered around the unmistakable, golden-topped figure of Joel Beard. They stepped forward in turn, men and women, to hug him.
'Praise God!' Willie heard. As he and Milly moved further up the street, he heard the phrase repeated several times.
Willie looked at Milly through the lashing rain. 'What the bloody hell's this?'
Milly nodded towards two young men unwrapping a long, white banner. Gothic golden lettering explained everything – to Milly, anyway.
'Who the bloody hell,' said Willie, 'are the Angels of the New Advent?'
'They've got a church in Sheffield. Me cousin's daughter nearly became one about a year ago. They're fundamentalist Born Again Christians, Willie. They see the world as one big battleground, God versus Satan.'
'Like the World Cup?'
'It's not funny, Willie.'
'This is what you've dragged me out to see? A bloody Bible-punchers' outing?'
'You're not getting this, are you, Willie luv?' Milly's greying hair was streaming; her dress was soaked through.
Willie noticed with a quick stirring of untimely excitement that she wasn't wearing a bra.
'What I'm saying, if you'll listen,' Milly hissed, 'is that they're God. And we're Satan.' A short time later, Milly heard a small commotion and looked out of the Post Office window to see a group of people assembled in the centre of the street between the lych-gate and the Rectory.
One of them was Joel Beard. Someone held up the trumpet end of a loud-hailer and handed a plastic microphone to Joel.
'GOD IS HERE,' he blasted. 'GOD IS HERE IN BRIDELOW. YOU ARE ALL INVITED TO A SPECIAL SERVICE AT EIGHT P.M. TO REDEDICATE THE CHURCH IN HIS NAME.'
Milly felt a terrible trepidation. Obviously none of the villagers would turn up. But what effect was it going to have, all these no doubt well-meaning but dangerously misguided people stirring up the atmosphere?
THIS IS AN OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT. BRIDELOW HAS TONIGHT BEEN FORMALLY REPOSSESSED BY THE LORD.'
'Heathens out!' someone yelled.
'Heathens out!'
Part Eight
From Dawber's Secret Book of Bridelow (unpublished):
MEN
What part have men really played in the history of Bridelow?
Not perhaps, if we are honest, a distinguished one, except for our late friend the Man in the Moss, who – we are told – gave his life for our community.
We have, I suppose, dealt with the more mundane elements: the business matters, employment, the sustenance of a measure of wealth – enough, anyway, to keep our heads above the Moss.
And we – that is, male members of the Dawber family – have acted as local chroniclers. Albeit discreet ones, for I am sure that if this present manuscript were ever to see the light of day our so-far hereditary function as the compilers of the dull but worthy Book of Bridelow would cease immediately to be a tolerated local tradition.
But as for the important things in life (and death), well, all that traditionally is the preserve of the women, and as far as most of the men have been concerned they are welcome to it. We are, in the modern parlance, a Goddess-orientated society, although the role of the Christian deity is more than politely acknowledged. (Thank You, Mother – and You too, Sir, is one of our phrases.)
However, men being men, there have been occasional attempts to disrupt the arrangement. And when a man is possessed of abilities beyond the normal and a craving for more, then, I am afraid, the repercussions may be tragic and long-lasting.
CHAPTER I
Macbeth pumped money into the coinbox, all the loose change he had.
A young female voice said, 'This is… hang on, I can't make it out… two four oh six, I think. I don't live here, I've just picked up the phone.'
Macbeth could hear a lot of people talking excitedly in the background. He said, 'Can I, uh, speak with Moira? Moira Cairns?'
'This is Bridelow Rectory.'
'Sure. I need to speak with Moira. Can you get her to the phone?'
'I'm sorry, I'm pretty sure we haven't got a Moira. We've got a Maureen. Would you like to speak to her?'
The glass of the phone booth was streaked with rain. It was going dark; all he could see were the lights of a fast-food joint over the road. Didn't even know which town this was. He'd just kept stopping at phones, ringing this number. First time anyone had answered.
The young female voice asked, 'Are you still there?'
'Yeah, yeah, I'm still here. Listen, ask around, willya? Moira Cairns, I… Chrissake, she has to be there.'
There was a long pause, then, 'I'm sorry,' the female voice said coldly. 'Your speech is profane. Goodbye.'
And hung up on him.
Hung up the fucking phone, just like that!
Macbeth raced out of the booth and across the street, bought a burger with a ten-pound note and got plenty of change. The burger was disgusting; after two bites he tossed it into a waste bin and took his change back to feed the phone.
He wasn't about to waste this number, all the time it had taken to obtain it. The call to the Earl, the waiting
