A Crown of Lights

‘That’s Councillor Prosser, Gomer?’

‘Impressive, en’t he? Wait till you hears him talk. Gives whole new meanin’ to the word orat’ry.’

‘Not that you don’t rate him or anything.’

‘Prince among men,’ said Gomer.

By the time the march reached the track to St Michael’s Farm, a police car was crawling behind. That figured: even good Christians these days had short fuses. They walked slowly on.

‘That reminded me,’ Gomer said. ‘Learned some’ing about the Prossers and this Ellis ’fore I left the Lion. Greg yeard it. One o’ the boys – Stephen? – got pulled over in a nicked car in Kington. Joyridin’, ’e was. ’Bout a year ago, this’d be. Woulder looked real bad for a magistrate’s boy.’

‘It happens.’

‘Not yere it don’t. First offence, mind, so Gareth talks to Big Weal, an’ they fixes it with the cops. Gareth an’ Judy promises the boy won’t put a foot out o’ line again. Just to make sure of it, they takes him to the Reverend Ellis, gets him hexorcized...’

Merrily stopped in the road. ‘I’m not hearing this.’

The mobile bleeped in her pocket. She pulled it out, hearing Judith Prosser’s words: Time was when sinners would be dealt with by the Church, isn’t it?

‘Merrily?’

‘Sophie!’ She hurried back along the lane to a quieter spot.

‘Is this convenient? I tracked down a Canon Tommy Long, formerly the priest in charge of St Michael’s, Cascob. He was more than glad to discuss something which he said had been puzzling him for many years. Shall I go on?’

‘Please.’

‘Seems that, in the late summer of nineteen seventy-five, he had a visit from the Reverend Mr Penney. A very odd young man, he said – long-haired, beatnik-type, and most irrational on this occasion – who suggested that, as Cascob was a remote place with no prospect of anything other than a slow and painful decline in its congregation, the Reverend Long might wish to seek its decommissioning by his diocese.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘Once he realized this was far from a joke, the Reverend Long asked Mr Penney to explain himself. Mr Penney came out with what was described to me as a lot of nonsensical gobbledegook relating to the layout of churches around Radnor Forest.’

‘St Michael churches?’

‘In an effort to deflect it, the Reverend Tommy Long pointed out a folk tale implying that if one of the churches were destroyed it would allow the, ah, dragon to escape. Mr Penney said this was... quite the reverse.’

‘Why?’

‘Mr Long wasn’t prepared, at the time, to hear him out and now rather wishes he had.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Nothing. Mr Long pointed out that the Church in Wales would hardly be likely to part with a building as historic and picturesque as Cascob, especially as it contains a memorial to William Jenkins Rees, who helped to revive the Welsh language in the nineteenth century. The Reverend Mr Penney went somewhat sullenly away and, some months later, committed his bizarre assault on St Michael’s Old Hindwell.’

‘When he went away, where did he go? Does Mr Long know?’

‘There’s no happy ending here, Merrily. Mr Long says he was told some years later that Terry Penney died in a hostel for the homeless in Edinburgh or Glasgow, he isn’t sure which. The poor man had been a heroin addict for some time. I think I shall go home now, Merrily.’

Robin spotted some lights, but they were the wrong lights.

He saw them through the naked trees, through the bald hedgerow further along from the barn. They were not headlights.

George came to stand alongside him at the window.

‘What do you want to do, Robin? Shall we all go out and have a few words with them – in a civilized fashion?’

Vivvie dumped her glass of red wine and came over, excited. ‘Is it them?’ She had on a long red velvet dress, kind of Tudor-looking, and she wore those seahorse earrings that Robin hated. The bitch was ready to appear on TV again. ‘What I suggest is we—’

‘What I suggest,’ Robin said loudly, ‘is we don’t do a god-damn thing. This is still my house... mine and... Betty’s.’

The whole room had gone quiet, except for the damp twigs crackling in the hearth.

‘I’m gonna go talk to them,’ Robin said.

George smiled, shaking his head. ‘You’re not the man for this, Robin. You tend to speak before you’ve thought it out, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘I do mind, George. I mind like hell...’

‘And you’re tired,’ Alexandra said kindly. ‘You’re tired and you’re upset.’

‘Yeah, well, damn freaking right I’m upset. I’ve been accused by that bastard of being a manifestation of insidious evil. How upset would you feel?’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

Robin backed up against the window, gripping the ledge behind him with both hands. ‘So, I’m gonna go out there on my own.’

‘That’s really not wise,’ Vivvie said, appealing to the coven at large.

Max cleared his throat. ‘What I would suggest—’

‘Don’t you...’ Robin threw himself into the room. ‘Don’t any of you tell me what’s wise. And you...’ He levelled a shaking finger at Vivvie. ‘If it hadn’t been for you and your goddamn big mouth—’

‘Robin...’ George took his arm, Robin shook him off.

Vivvie said, ‘Robin, I’ll thank you not to use the expression God-damned...’

‘Shut the fuck up!’

Robin saw that it had begun to rain again. He saw the lights curling into rivulets on the window.

He took off his sweater.

The gate to St Michael’s Farm was shut.

Through the bare trees you could see lights in the house, you could see the black hulk of what seemed to be a barn. But you could not see the church. The itinerant congregation formed a semicircle around Nicholas Ellis at the gate. The two men with garden torches stood either side of the gate.

A white wooden cross was raised – five or six feet long, like the one in the bungalow garden on the road from Walton.

Merrily felt an isolated plop of rain. Umbrellas went up: bright, striped golf umbrellas. A cameraman went down on one knee on a patch of grass, as if he’d found God, but it was only to find a low angle, to make Ellis look more like an Old Testament prophet.

Disgracefully, Ellis responded to it. A kind of shiver seemed to go through him, like invisible lightning, and his wide lips went back in a taut grimace.

‘My friends, can you feel the evil? Can you feel the evil here in this place?’ And then he was crying to the night sky. ‘Oh Lord God, we pray for your help in eradicating this disease. You who sent Your most glorious warrior, Michael, to contain the dragon, the Adversary, the Old Enemy. Oh Lord, now that this infernal evil has once again returned, we pray that You will help us drive out these worshippers of the sun and the moon and the horned gods of darkness. Oh Lord, help us, we pray, help us!’

And the chant was taken up. ‘Help us! Help us, Lord!’ Faces were turned up to the rain.

Merrily winced.

Ellis cried, ‘... You who send Your blessed rain to wash away sin, let it penetrate and cleanse this bitter