'He's a great admirer of her work.'
'Tell me, Earl, why is Mr Stanage on your steering committee?'
'Well… because he's a great authority on an aspect of Celtic studies- the English element – which is often neglected. And because he's… he's very influential.'
And also rich, Macbeth thought. That above all. The crucial factor. The reason you're taking all this shit from me, Earl, the reason you deigned to accept this call at all.
Macbeth propped the paperback against a sauce bottle and re-read the blurb.
John Clough is an unhappy boy growing up fatherless in a remote village in me Northern hills.
He has never been able to get on with his mother or his sisters who live in a strange world of their own, from which John, as the only male, is excluded. At weekends, he spends most of his time alone in the spectacular limestone caverns near his home, where he forms a special bond with the Spirits of the Deep.
With the Spirits' help, John discovers the dark secret his mother has been hiding – and sets out to find his true identity.
Macbeth went back to the counter, ordered up a black coffee and opened up the road-atlas.
'How long you figure it would take me to get to… uh… Manchester, England?'
'Never been, pal. Five hours? 'Pends how fast you drive.' Last night Macbeth had called his secretary in New York to find out how seriously they were missing his creative flair and acumen. His secretary said he should think about coming home; his mom was working too hard. Which meant his mom was working them too hard and therefore enjoying him being out of the picture.
So no hassle.
Five hours? A short hop.
But they claimed Moira had been given an assisted passage out of town. The woman you're seeking has been driven away.
So she might no longer be in that area.
But she would not be the easiest person to get rid of if she still had unfinished business.
Macbeth was getting that Holy Grail feeling again. The One Big Thing.
What the fuck… He climbed back into the Metro, started up the motor.
CHAPTER II
'Right, let the dog see the rabbit. That the photo, Paul? Ta.'
'Got to be him, Sarge.'
'Not necessarily, lad, all sorts come out here purely to top umselves. I remember once.. 'It is, look…'
'Aye, well done, lad. Never've thought he'd have got this far in last night's conditions, no way. But where's the gun?'
The body lay face-up in the bottom of the quarry, both eyes wide as if seeking a reason from the darkening sky.
'Hell fire, look at state of his head. Must've bounced off that bloody rock on his way down. You all right, Desmond?'
'Just a bit bunged-up, Sarge. Reckon it's this flu.'
'Hot lemon. Wi' half a cup of whisky. That's what I always take. Least you can't smell what we can smell. Hope the poor bugger shit hisself after he landed.'
'What d'you reckon then?'
'Harry, if you can persuade your radio to work, get word back to Mr Blackburn as he can call off the troops, would you? And let's find that gun, shall we? I don't know; be a bloody sight simpler if we hadn't got his missus bleating on about him charging after Satanists.'
'Haw.'
'Ah now, don't knock it, Desmond. If you'd seen some of the things I've seen up these moors. All right, more likely poor sod'd been trying to find his way back home, terrible bloody conditions, gets hopelessly disorientated, wandering round for hours – what's he come, six miles, seven? – and just falls over the edge. But this business of intruders, somebody'll want it checked out, whoever they were, whatever they was up to…'
'Or if they even existed.'
'Or, as Paul says, if they even existed, except in the lad's imagination. I'd let it go, me, if we find that gun. Accidental, and you'd never prove otherwise, not in a million years. What we supposed to do, stake out the entire moor every night till they come back for another do?'
'Poor bugger.'
'Aye. Glad we found him before it got dark, or we'd be out here again, first light. Well, look at that, what d'you know, it's starting raining again, Desmond.'
'Yes Sarge.'
'Hot lemon, lad, my advice. Wi' a good dollop of whisky.' Oh Lord, we're asking you to intercede, to help us sanctify this place, drenched for centuries in sin and evil. Oh Lord, come down here tonight, give us some help. Come on down, Lord… shine your light, that's what we're asking… come on…'
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'
'Yes, and into every murky corner, come on…'
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'
'Through every dismal doorway…'
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'
'Into every fetid crevice…'
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'
And Willie shouted it too.
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'
It was easy. It was just pulled out of you, like a handkerchief from your top pocket. Nowt to it.
At first he'd felt right stupid. Felt bloody daft, in fact, as soon as he walked in, wearing his suit, the only suit in the place, so it was obvious from the start that he wasn't one of them.
Not that this had bothered them. They'd leapt on him – big, frightening smiles – and started hugging him.
'Welcome, brother, welcome!'
'Good to see someone's been brave enough to turn his back on it all. What's your name?'
'Willie.' Gerroff, he wanted to shout, this is no bloody way to behave in church. Or anywhere, for that matter, soft buggers.
'Willie, we're so very glad to have you with us. To see there is one out there who wants to save his soul. Praise God! And rest assured that, from this moment on, you'll have the full protection of the Lord, and there'll be no repercussions because you'll be wearing the armour of the Lord's light. Do you believe that? Is your faith strong enough, Willie, to accept that?'
'Oh, aye,' said Willie. 'No,' Milly Gill had said flatly and finally, when Mr Dawber wanted to go. 'It's got to be you, Willie. Mr Dawber looks too intelligent.'
'Thanks a bunch.'
'You know what I mean. You look harmless. It's always been your strength, Willie luv. You look dead harmless.'
'Like a little vole,' said Frank Manifold Snr's wife Ethel in a voice like cotton-wool, and Milly gave her a narrow look.
'Just watch and listen, Willie. Listen and watch.'
'What am I listening for?'
'You'll know, when you hear it.'
What he'd heard so far had left him quite startled. They sang hymns he'd never encountered before, with a rhythm and gusto he associated more with folk clubs. He felt his fingers begin to respond, tried to stop it but he couldn't. Felt an emotional fervour building around him, like in the days when he used to support Manchester
