around for Malcolm Kaufmann, the blackmail.
'I called the Earl this morning, Malcolm. You remember the Earl? The man who asked if this Rory McBain, who was booked to entertain his guests, could perhaps be replaced by Moira Cairns? This coming back to you, Malcolm? The way the Earl was prepared to, uh, oil the wheels?'
This last item was a lucky guess, the Earl having denied any suggestion of making it worth Kaufmann's while.
None the less, it had gone in like a harpoon, spearing Malcolm to the back of his executive swivel chair.
'See, the longer it takes for me to find her, Malcolm, the more likely it seems I'm gonna have to reveal to Moira the extent of your co-operation in this, uh, small deception.'
At which Malcolm had pursed his lips and written upon his telephone memo pad a phone number. All he had. He swore it. Moira had phoned yesterday, left this emergency-only contact number, along with a message: no gigs until further notice.
'She done this kind of thing before?'
'All too often, Mr Macbeth.' On top of the coinbox, Macbeth had three pounds and a couple of fifty-pence coins. He dialled again.
This time it was a different voice, male.
Macbeth said, 'Who's that?'
'This is Chris.'
'Chris,' Macbeth said. 'Right. Listen, Chris, I need to speak with Moira. Moira Cairns. You know her?'
'Oh,' said Chris. 'You rang a few minutes ago. You were abusive, apparently.'
'Je-!' Macbeth tightened his grip on the phone, calmed himself, 'I'm… sorry. Just I was in a hurry. It's kind of urgent, Chris. Please?'
'Look,' Chris said. 'We're strangers here. Why don't you speak to Joel? Just hang on.'
Macbeth fed a fifty-pence coin into the phone. Presently a different guy came on. 'This is the Reverend Joel Beard. Who am I speaking to?'
'Uh, my name is Macbeth. I was told I could get Moira Cairns on this number, but nobody seems to know her, so maybe if I describe her. She's very beautiful, has this dark hair with…'
'With a vein of white,' the voice enunciated, slowly and heavily.
Macbeth breathed out. 'Well, thank Christ, I was beginning to think I'd been fed a bunch of… what?'
'I said, what did you say your name was?'
'Macbeth. That's M… A… C…'
'Ah. That's an assumed name, I suppose. I'd heard you people liked to give yourselves the names of famously evil characters as a way of investing yourselves with their – what shall we call it – 'unholy glamour'.'
'Huh…? Listen, friend, I don't have time for a debate, but it's now widely recognised that the famously evil, as you call him, Macbeth was in fact seriously misrepresented by Shakespeare for political reasons and, uh, maybe to improve the storyline. He…' – shoving in a pound coin – 'Jeez, what am I doing? I don't want to get into this kind of shit. All I want is to talk with Moira Cairns, is that too much to ask? What the fuck kind of show you running there?'
A silence. Clearly the guy had won himself an attentive audience.
'The woman you're seeking' – the voice clipped and cold – 'has been driven away. As' – the voice rose – 'will be all of your kind. You can inform your disgusting friends that, as from this evening, the village of Bridelow, erstwhile seat of Satan, has been officially repossessed… by Almighty God!'
'YEEEESSSS!' The background swelled, the phone obviously held aloft to capture it, a whole bunch of people in unison. 'PRAISE GOD!'
And they hung up.
Macbeth stood in the rain washed booth, cradling the phone in both hands.
'Jesus Christ,' he said. Back in his hire-car, windows all steamed-up, he slumped against the head-rest.
Is this real?
I mean, is it?
The Duchess had indicated Moira had gone to this North of England village for the purpose of laying to rest the spirit of her old friend Matt Castle, whichever way you wanted to take that.
Whatever it meant, it had clearly left the local clergy profoundly offended.
But while Macbeth's knowledge of Northern English clerical procedure was admittedly limited, the manner of response from the guy calling himself The Reverend Joe-whoever and what sounded like his backing group was, to say the least, kind of bizarre.
Wherever she goes, that young woman, she's bound to be touched with madness.
Yeah, yeah, can't say I wasn't warned.
But there is a point at which you actually get to questioning yourself about how much is real. Or to what extent you are permitting yourself to be absorbed into someone else's fantasy.
But not unwillingly, surely?
Well, no. Not yet.
Truth is, it's kind of stimulating.
The time was 5.15. Macbeth left the car and returned to the diner across the street, on the basis that one sure way of restoring a sense of total reality would be another attempt to consume a greasy quarter-pound shitburger and double fries. About an hour ago, before leaving Glasgow, he'd found a Sunday-opening bookshop where he bought a road atlas and a paperback.
He laid the paperback on his table next to the shitburger.
The cover showed a huge cavern full of stalactites and stalagmites. The angle of vision was roof-level, and way down in the left-hand corner was a small kid with a flashlight.
The book was called Blue John's Way. From inside the title page Macbeth learned it had been first published some thirty years ago, and this was apparently the seventeenth paperback impression.
On the inside cover, it said,
THE AUTHOR
John Peveril Stanage has emerged as one of the half- dozen best-loved children's writers of the twentieth century.
Basing his compelling stories on the history, myths and legends of the Peak District and the southern Pennines, of which he has an unrivalled knowledge, he has ensnared the imagination of millions of young readers the world over.
Mr Stanage's work has been translated into more than fifteen languages and won him countless awards.
Not over-enlightening, and there was no picture. But then, Macbeth thought, the guy didn't exactly look like a favourite uncle; maybe the publishers figured he'd scare the readers.
But then again, that was obviously part of his intention, if Blue John's Way was typical.
A quote on the back from some literary asshole on the London Guardian said the book conveyed a powerful sense of adolescent alienation.
The bookseller had told Macbeth a growing number of adults were hooked on Stanage's stories for kids; apparently he was becoming a minor cult-figure, like C. S. Lewis.
'In America, I'm told,' the bookseller said, 'his books aren't even marketed as children's fiction any more.'
'That so?' Macbeth, whose reading rarely extended beyond possible mini-series material, had never previously heard of Stanage. 'He live down in – where is it? – the English Peak District?'
'He's publishing under false pretences if he isn't.'
You got any idea precisely where?'
A shrug. Negative.
This morning, under pressure, the Earl had admitted to Macbeth that he personally had been unfamiliar with the work of Moira Cairns until a member of The Celtic Bond steering committee had drawn his attention to it. Yes, all right, forcefully drawn his attention…
'So it was Stanage who was insistent Moira should be hired for this particular occasion?'
'He was keen, yes…'
'How keen?'
