'And what do you suggest we do?' Tom snapped.
'Okay, we should calm down.' Ruth raised her hands between them. 'Same team and all that. I vote we sleep together tonight and take it in turns to keep watch. You're right, we need to check out what that Laura woman has to say and we've only got to get through the night.'
They agreed, but before they could return to their drinks, Ruth turned to Church and asked, 'And what did you see?'
'A black dog, but like no-'
Tom froze with his glass halfway to his lips. 'My God,' he said in a thin voice.
As Church related what had happened that afternoon in the cathedral cloisters, Tom's face grew darker. 'Black Shuck,' he said when Church had finished. 'The Devil Dog. I hoped it would just be the Baobhan Sith-'
'What is it?' Ruth said.
'A demon, some claim. And the precursor of something far worse. It was here long before the first settlement was hacked out, trailing disaster in its wake. I remember once, in Scotland, lying awake one night listening to its awful howling above the raging of the worst storm of the year, and I knew some poor bastard was about to die horribly.' Tom took a deep swig of his cider. 'Before you encountered it, or just after, did you see something-like a shadow flitting across your vision, or a misty figure passing nearby?'
Church nodded. 'In the cathedral. It seemed to be watching.'
Tom took a breath and said, 'Black Shuck marks the way for the Grey Walker. The Erl-King, the leader of the Wild Hunt.'
Church stared into his Guinness, recalling a snippet from the reading he had done for a strand of his degree. 'The hunt that hounds lost souls to damnation.'
There was a commotion at the bar as a tall, thin man with swept-back silver hair and a hollow face was berated by a group of drinkers. He was smiling obsequiously, but one woman seemed on the verge of attacking him.
Ruth raised her glass. 'Here's to the end of the world.'
'Now there's a toast to which one can really drink.' The silver-haired man had slid up behind her, clutching the dregs of a half-pint. His broad smile revealed a gap between his middle teeth, which were stained with nicotine. His black suit had the grey sheen of overuse, but it was offset with a red brocade waistcoat. His boots were dusty and worn; the smell of the road came off him, of muddy verges and damp hedges, a hint of sweat and the bloom of being caught in too many downpours. Despite the colour of his hair, he couldn't have been more than forty-five. Tom eyed him suspiciously; Church finished his drink.
'Knock it all down and start again, I say. Deconstruction before reconstruction.' He raised his glass heartily. 'Cheers!' Ruth smiled in return, and the man gave her a wink.
Church picked up his empty glass and offered the others a refill with a nod. As he turned towards the bar, the silver-haired man quickly drained his glass and held it out. 'As you're going, old boy, do me a favour and fill this up. I'll get the next one in.'
A sarcastic comment at the stranger's audacity sprang to Church's lips, but it seemed more trouble than it was worth. Grudgingly, he snatched the glass as he passed.
'Cider, please,' the man said, slipping into Church's seat. 'And thank you kindly.' He turned to Ruth and took her hand. 'Charmed to meet you, my dear. I have many names, though the one I like the most is Callow. I hope you don't mind me resting my old bones. It's been a long day's travelling. The romance of the open road is a fine thing, but no one talks about the exhaustion at the end of the day.'
'Where are you going?' Ruth asked politely.
Callow laughed. 'Oh, from here to there and back again. There's too much to see on this beautiful, beautiful island of ours to be resting in one place for too long. I've done all that, you see. Worn a strangling tie in an office prison, filed the papers, counted the paper clips, watched the clock mark the passing of my life. Slow death for a poor wage. But how much could they pay you to make it worth dying? One needs to hear oneself think. In the words of Longfellow, `Not in the clamour of the crowded street, Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.' And if you can't find a reason for being in one place, or even for being, then you have to look elsewhere.'
'I know what you're saying.' Ruth was entertained by his attitude. It was an act he had obviously perfected over time, a mix of music hall comedian and slightly fey theatre ham. If it managed to get him a few free drinks, who was she to judge?
'Ah, a kindred spirit. And have you broken the shackles of mundanity for the life of quicksilver heels?'
'We're just touring around,' Tom interjected coldly before Ruth could answer.
Callow reached across the table. 'Pleased to meet you.' He nodded towards the badges on Tom's holdall at the edge of the table. 'A veteran of the road too, I see. Ah, the Isle of Wight Festival. I remember it well. Hendrix played guitar like an angel. And Glastonbury, so many weeks there in the summer. The mud! You must remember the mud! Terrible. But fun. If you know what I mean. The Stonehenge Free Festivals too! Ah, how I miss them. The Battle of the Beanfield. I was there, I was there. Took a truncheon from a stormtrooper in blue. Saved some poor young girl from getting her head stove in.' He shook his head sadly. 'Ah me, the end of the world. And not a day too soon.'
Church placed the others' drinks before them, then pointedly held Callow's cider up high for him to vacate his seat. Callow stood up to take it, then sat down quickly and snatched a thirsty sip. 'And cheers to all of you!'
'That's my seat,' Church snapped.
'There's one over there, old boy.' Callow waved his hand dismissively to a stool next to Tom. 'Don't interrupt us now. We're reminiscing about the good old days.'
Ruth couldn't help a giggle at the irritation on Church's face. It deflated the moment, making it churlish for him to have stood his ground. With obvious annoyance, he took up his new position.
Callow didn't leave a gap in the conversation long enough for the others to throw him out, and soon his constant spiel mingling with the effects of the alcohol had almost lulled them into a hypnotic acceptance. As their guards dropped, they loosened up and the conversation became fourway. There was no doubting that Callow was entertaining, with a knowledge of every subject, it seemed, and a colourful use of language that was bizarrely at odds with his lifestyle, although, if they had been sober, they would have admitted to themselves he was accepted more because he was a distraction from the worries that lay heavily upon them.
When Callow finally felt comfortable enough to go to the toilet, Church said, 'How did we get lumbered with that freak?'
'Oh, he's harmless,' Ruth said, 'and entertaining, which is a relief after listening to you and Tom go at each other with knives.'
'I'd be happier if he stood his round,' Church said. 'He's freeloading his way to getting well and truly pissed.'
Ruth punched him on the shoulder a little harder than she intended. 'Don't be so miserable. You can afford it-spread a little happiness.'
As the night progressed, the pub became more and more crowded, the air filling with smoke, shouts and laughter. Ruth surprised them all with a tale of her engagement to a political activist whom her father had admired and whom she had jilted on her wedding day after a panic attack that had almost resulted in a call for an ambulance. Church related the story of his brief, aborted career as a guitarist in a band which ended at his debut gig in a pub backroom when he vomited on stage through a mixture of nerves and too much drink. And Tom, loosened by several pints of cider, had several outlandish tales of his wanderings, most of them involving drug abuse: to Goa, and a frantic escape from the local police; to California, and a trip over the border to Mexico in search of the fabled hallucinogenic cactus; how he had raised the alarm about the brown acid at Woodstock; and his brief time as a 'spiritual advisor' to The Grateful Dead which seemed to involve little more than handing out vast quantities of drugs.
As drinking-up time rolled around, Church leaned across the table to Tom and said drunkenly, 'So when will we get the Wild Hunt knocking at our door?'
Tom waved him away with a dismissive snort, but Callow's eyes sparkled and his brow furrowed curiously. 'The Wild Hunt?'
'Don't you know?' Church slurred. 'Every fairytale you ever heard is true! Bloody goblins and bogles and beasties are real-they've just been hiding away! And now they've come back!'
