A Crown of Lights

‘Where’s he live exactly?’

‘Some gloomy, rotting mansion out near Abergavenny. It was quite nice of him to come, wasn’t it?’

‘It was incredibly nice of him. But then... he is a nice guy.’

‘Yeah.’

Merrily tilted her head. ‘Meaning he’d be more attractive if he was a bit of a rogue? Kind of dangerous?’

‘You think I’m that superficial?’

‘No, flower. Anyway, I expect he’ll be going to university next year.’

‘He wants to work in TV, as a reporter. Not – you know – Livenight.’

‘Good heavens, no.’

‘So you’re going to do that after all then?’ Jane said in that suspiciously bland voice that screamed hidden agenda.

‘I was blackmailed.’

‘Can I come?’

Merrily raised her eyes. ‘Do I look stupid?’

‘See, I thought we could take Irene. He’s into anything to do with TV, obviously. Like, he knows his dad could get him a job with BBC Wales on the old Taff network, but he wants to make his own way. Which is kind of commendable, I’d have thought.’

‘Very honourable, flower.’

‘Still, never mind.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Sure. You told that – what was her name? Tania?’

‘Not yet.’

‘She’ll be ever so pleased.’

And Jane slid away with her plate, and Merrily saw Uncle Ted, the senior churchwarden, elbowing through the farmers. He was currently trying to persuade her to levy a charge for the tea and coffee provided in the church after Sunday services. She wondered how to avoid him. She also wondered how to avoid appearing on trash television to argue with militant pagans.

‘Mrs... Watkins?’

She turned and saw a woman looking down at her – a pale, tall, stylishly dressed woman, fifty-fiveish, with expertly bleached hair. She was not carrying any food.

‘I was impressed,’ she said, ‘with your sermon.’ Her accent was educated, but had an edge. ‘It was compelling.’

‘Well, it was just...’

‘... from the heart. Meant something to people. Meant something to me, and I didn’t even know... er...’

‘Minnie Parry.’

‘Yes.’ The woman blinked twice, rapidly – a suggestion of nerves. She seemed to shake herself out of it, straightened her back with a puppet-like jerk. ‘Sister Cullen was right. You seem genuine.’

‘Oh, you’re from the hospital...’

‘Not exactly.’ The woman looked round, especially at the farmers, her eyes flicking from face to florid face, evidently making sure there was nobody she knew within listening distance. ‘Barbara Buckingham. I was at the hospital, to visit my sister. I think you saw her the other night – before I arrived. Menna Thomas... Menna...’ Her voice hardened. ‘Menna Weal.’

‘Oh, right. I did see her, but...’

‘But she was already dead.’

‘Yes, she was, I’m afraid.’

‘Mrs Watkins,’ the woman took Merrily’s arm, ‘may I talk to you?’ Not a request. ‘I rang your office, in Hereford. Sister Cullen gave me the number. She said you were probably the person to help me. The person who deals with possession.’

‘Oh.’

‘I rang your office and they said you were conducting a funeral here, so I just... came. It seemed appropriate.’ She broke off. She was attracting glances.

‘It’s a bit crowded, isn’t it?’ Merrily said. ‘Would you like—?’

‘I’ll come to the point. Would it be possible for you to conduct a funeral service for me?’

Merrily raised an eyebrow.

‘For my sister, that is. I suppose I mean a memorial service. Though actually I don’t. She should have... she should have a real funeral in church. A proper funeral.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not getting this.’

‘Because I can’t go, you see. I can’t go to the... interment.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because... it’s going to take place in that bastard’s garden.’ Her voice rose. ‘He won’t let her go. It’s all about possession, Mrs Watkins.’

‘I don’t...’ Several people were staring at them now, over their piled-up plates.

‘Possession of the dead by the living,’ explained Barbara Buckingham.

‘I think we’d better go back to the vicarage,’ Merrily said.

8 The E-Word

‘OH MY GOD,’ Betty said. ‘The only time I go out on my own, in walks number one on the list of situations I wouldn’t trust you to handle.’

Robin couldn’t keep still. He was pacing the kitchen, touching walls and doors, the sink, the fridge – as if the permanence of this place in his life was no longer certain.

‘So he’s in this old green Cherokee, right? And he has on this well-worn army jacket with, like, camouflage patches. And it’s unzipped, and all the time I’m hoping what’s underneath is just gonna turn out to be some kind of black turtleneck. With, like, a thick white stripe around the neck.’

Betty took off her coat, hung it behind the door and came to sit down. It wasn’t the vicar that worried her – every newcomer sooner or later had a visit from the vicar. It was how Robin had dealt with him.

‘Pretty damn clear from the start he wasn’t just coming to ask the way to someplace.’ Robin went over to the kitchen table; there were two half-pint glasses on it and four small beer bottles, all empty. ‘Guy wanted to talk. He was waiting for me to ask him in.’

‘I don’t suppose he had to wait long.’

‘Soon’s we get inside, it’s the firm handshake. “Hi, I’m Nick Ellis.” And I’m wondering do these guys drink beer? So I offer him a Michelob from the refrigerator.’

‘Normal practice is to offer them tea, Robin.’

‘No... wait... Transpires he spent some years in the States – which became detectable in his accent. And then – what can I say? – we...’

‘You exchanged history. You drank beer together.’

‘I confess, I’m standing there pouring out the stuff and I’m like...’ Robin held up a glass with a trembling hand. ‘Like, all the time, I’m half-expecting him to leap up in horror, pull out his cross... slam it in my face, like the guy in the Dracula movies. But he was fine.’

She looked sceptical. ‘What did you tell him about us?’

‘Well... this was hard for me. I’m a straight person, I’ve no time for deception, you know that.’

‘What did you tell him?’ Clenching her hands. ‘What did you say about us?’

‘Fucksake, whaddaya think I said? “Hey, priest, guess how we spent Halloween”?’ Robin went over and pulled out a chair and slumped down. ‘I told him I was an illustrator and that you were into alternative therapy. I told him you were British and we met when we were both attending a conference in New England. I somehow refrained from identifying the conference as the Wiccan International Moot in Salem, Mass.