A Crown of Lights

‘Evil?’ Robin shouted. ‘They really listened to that crazy motherfucker?’

But it was the big picture, in colour, that made him cringe the most.

It was a grainy close-up of a snarling man, eyes burning under long, shaggy black hair. On his sweat-shiny cheeks were streaks of paint, diluted – if you wanted the truth – by bitter tears, but who was ever gonna think that? This was blue paint. It had obviously come off the cloth he’d used to wipe his eyes. In the picture, it looked like freaking woad. The guy looked like he would cut out your heart before raping your wife and slaughtering your children. Aligned with the picture, the story read:

This is the face of the new ‘priest’ at an ancient village church.

Robin Thorogood is a professional artist. He and his wife, Betty, are also practising witches. Now the couple have become the owners of a medieval parish church – while the local rector has to hold his services in the village hall.

‘This is my worst nightmare come true,’ says the Rev. Nicholas Ellis. ‘It is the manifestation of a truly insidious evil in our midst.’

Now the acting Bishop of Hereford, the Rt Rev. Bernard Dunmore, is to look into the bizarre situation. ‘It concerns me very deeply,’ he said last night.

It is more than thirty years since the church, at Old Hindwell, Powys, was decommissioned by the Church of England. For most of that time, it stood undisturbed on the land of farming brothers John and Ifan Prosser. When the last brother, John, died two years ago it passed out of the family and was bought by the Thorogoods just before Christmas.

Robin Thorogood, who is American-born, says he and his wife represent ‘the fastest-growing religion in the country’.

He claims that many of Britain’s old churches were built on former pagan ritual sites – one of which, he says, he and his wife have now repossessed.

However, when invited to explain their plans for the church, Mr Thorogood became abusive and attacked Daily Mail photographer Stuart Joyce, screaming, ‘I’ll turn you into a f—ing toad.’

Now villagers say they are terrified that the couple will desecrate the ruined church by conducting pagan rites there. They say they have already seen strange lights in the ruins late at night.

The Thorogoods’ nearest neighbour, local councillor Gareth Prosser, a farmer and nephew of the former owners, said, ‘This has always been a God-fearing community and we will not tolerate this kind of sacrilege.

‘These people sneaked in, pretending to be just an ordinary young couple.

‘Although this is a community of old-established families, newcomers have always been welcome here as long as they respect our way of life.

‘But we feel these people have betrayed our trust and that is utterly despicable.’

‘Trust?’ Robin exploded. ‘What did that fat asshole ever trust us with?’ Jeez, he’d hardly even spoken to the guy till a couple days ago, and then it was like Robin was some kind of vagrant.

He sat down, beating his fist on the table. It was a while before he realized the phone was ringing. By that time, Betty had come down and answered it.

When she came off the phone she was white with anger.

‘Who?’ Robin said.

She didn’t answer.

‘Please?’

She said in low voice, ‘Vivvie.’

‘Good of them to call back after only a day. Did they know anything about that programme? For all it matters.’

‘She was on the programme.’

He sat up. ‘What?’

‘They were both there in the studio, but only Vivienne got to talk.’ Betty’s voice was clipped and precise. ‘It was a late-night forum about the growth of Dark Age paganism in twenty-first-century Britain. They had Wiccans and Druids, Odinists – also some Christians to generate friction. It’s a friction programme.’

Robin snorted. TV was a psychic drain.

‘Vivienne was one of a group of experienced, civilized Wiccans put together by Ned Bain for that programme.’

‘Jesus,’ Robin said, ‘if she was one of the civilized ones, I sure wouldn’t like to be alone with the wild children of Odin.’

And Ned Bain? Who, as well as being some kind of rich, society witch, just happened to be an editorial director at Harvey-Calder, proprietors of Talisman Books. Robin had already felt an irrational anger that Bain should have allowed Blackmore to dump a fellow pagan – although, realistically, in a big outfit like that, it was unlikely Bain had anything at all to do with the bastard.

Betty said, ‘She claims she lost her cool when some woman priest became abusive.’

‘She doesn’t have any freaking cool.’

‘This priest was from Hereford. Ned Bain had argued that, after two thousand years of strife and corruption, the Christian Church was finally on the way out and Vivienne informed the Hereford priest that the erosion had already started in her own backyard, with pagans claiming back the old pagan sites, taking them back from the Church that had stolen them.’

Robin froze. ‘You have got to be fucking kidding.’

She didn’t reply.

‘She... Jeez, that dumb bitch! She named us? Right there on network TV?’

‘No. Some local journalist must have picked it up and tracked us down.’

‘And sold us to the Mail.’

‘The paper that supports suburban values,’ Betty said.

The phone rang. Robin went for it.

‘Mr Thorogood?’

‘He’s away,’ Robin said calmly. ‘He went back to the States.’ He hung up. ‘That the way to handle the media?’

Betty walked over and switched on the machine. ‘That’s a better way.’

‘They’ll only show up at the door.’

‘Well, I won’t be here.’

He saw that she was wearing her ordinary person outfit, the one with the ordinary skirt. And this time with a silk scarf around her neck. It panicked him.

‘Look,’ he cried, ‘listen to me. I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry about that picture. I’m sorry for looking like an asshole. I just... I just lost it, you know? I’d just had... I’d just taken this really bad call.’

‘From your friend?’ Betty said.

‘Huh?’

‘From your friend in the village?’

The phone rang again.

‘From Al,’ he said. ‘Al at Talisman.’

The machine picked up.

‘This is Juliet Pottinger. You appear to have telephoned me over the weekend. I am now back home, if you would like to call again. Thank you.’

‘Look’ – Robin waved a contemptuous hand at the paper – ‘this is just... complete shit. Like, are we supposed to feel threatened because the freaking Bishop of Hereford finds it a matter warranting deep concern? Because loopy Nick Ellis sees us as symptoms of some new epidemic of an old disease? What is he, the Witchfinder freaking General, now?’

He leapt up, moved toward her.