Midwinter of the Spirit

‘Inquiries are in hand.’

Lol said, ‘I’ve had Viv in the shop looking into the Pod.’

‘Ah… that explains her.’

‘Apparently – you might find this interesting, not to say insulting – the women were told to look after Jane. That she was a special person with, er, a problem background.’

Merrily stiffened. ‘A special person? She said that? A special person with a problem background? Where did that come from? Who told these women all this?’

‘Don’t know.’

Merrily breathed out slowly.

That night, Lol dreamed he awoke and went into the living room and stood at the window gazing down into Capuchin Lane, which was murky with pre-dawn mist, no lights anywhere.

He knew she was there, even before he saw her: grey and sorrowful, the dress meeting the mist in furls and furrows, her eyes as black as the eyes of the crumbling skulls she held, one in each hand.

I’d like to sleep now, Lol, she said. But the tone of it had changed; there was anguish.

He awoke, cold and numb, in Ethel’s chair. He didn’t remember going to sleep there.

39 One Sad Person

SHE SLEPT THROUGH, incredibly, until almost ten, without any circles of golden light. Without, come to think of it, any protective prayers, only mumbles of gratitude as she fell into bed.

‘Why didn’t you wake me?’

‘Because you were like mega-knackered,’ Jane said. ‘You obviously needed it.’

Merrily registered the toast crumbs. Jane had breakfasted alone. There was weak sunshine, through mist. It looked cold out there.

‘Nobody rang?’

‘Nobody.’

‘Not even Ted? Not Huw Owen?’ She’d called Huw four times last night, to keep herself in line for last-caller if he should try 1471.

‘Uh-huh.’ Jane shook her head. ‘You need a new dressinggown, by the way. You look like a bag-lady.’

‘Not Annie Howe either?’

‘The ice-maiden of West Mercia CID? You can’t be that desperate for friends.’

‘We commune occasionally.’

‘Jesus,’ said Jane, ‘it’ll be girls’ nights out at the police social club next. And guest spots on identity parades.’

‘Jane.’

‘What?’

Merrily pulled out a dining chair. ‘Sit down.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we need to talk.’

‘I can’t. I’m meeting Rowenna in town.’

‘When?’

‘For lunch at Slater’s, then we’re going Christmas shopping. But I wanted to get into town a couple of hours early because I haven’t got her anything yet, OK?’

‘You’re spending a lot of time with Rowenna, aren’t you?’

‘Meaning like more than with you.’

‘Or even boys,’ Merrily said lightly.

Jane’s eyes hardened. ‘That’s because we’re lesbians.’

‘You going to sit down, flower?’

‘I have to go.’

‘Sit down.’

Jane slumped sullenly into the chair. ‘Why do you hate Rowenna?’

‘I don’t know Rowenna. I’ve only met her once.’

‘She’s a significant person,’ Jane said.

‘In what way?’

‘In a way that I’d expect you to actually understand. Like she has a spiritual identity. She seeks wisdom. Most of the people at school, teachers included, think self-development is about A-levels and biceps.’

‘Rowenna’s a religious person?’

‘I think we’ve had this discussion before,’ Jane said loftily. ‘Religion implies organized religion.’

‘Anything else, therefore, must be disorganized religion.’

‘Ah’ – a fleeting faraway-ness in the kid’s eyes – ‘how wrong can you get?’

‘So tell me.’

Jane looked at her, unblinking. ‘Tell you what?’

‘Tell me how wrong I can get. Tell me why I’m wrong.’

‘Again?’ Jane raised her eyes. ‘It has to be a personal thing, right? You have to work at it. Make a commitment to yourself. I mean, going to church, singing a couple of hymns, listening to some trite sermon, that’s just like, Oh, if I do this every week, endure the tedium for a couple of hours, God’ll take care of me. Well, that’s got to be crap, hasn’t it? That’s the sheep mentality, and when you end up in the slaughterhouse you’re thinking: Hey, why didn’t I just get under the fence that time?’

Merrily felt shadows deepening. ‘So you’re under the fence, are you, flower?’

Jane shrugged.

‘Only I had this anonymous letter,’ Merrily said.

‘Was it sexy? Was it from one of those sad old guys who want to get into your cassock?’

‘I’ll show it to you.’ Merrily went over to the dresser, plucked the folded letter out of her bag, handed the letter to Jane. Glimpsing the words brazenly endangering her Soul, as the kid unfolded it.

‘ “Brazenly endangering her soul and yours,” ’ Jane said, ‘ “by mixing with the Spiritually Unclean.” Well, well. Unsigned, naturally. When exactly did this come?’

‘Few days ago.’

‘So you’ve been kind of sitting on it, right?’

‘I’ve had one or two other things to think about, as you well know.’

Jane held the letter between finger and thumb as though it might be infected. ‘Burn it, if you like,’ Merrily said.

‘Oh no.’ Jane carefully folded the paper. Her eyes glowed like a cat’s. ‘I don’t think so. I’m going to hunt down this scumbag, and when I find out—’

‘I think,’ Merrily said, more sharply than she intended, ‘that you’re missing the point. You went to this so- called psychic fair without even mentioning it.’

‘Why? Would you have wanted to come along?’

‘Maybe I would, actually.’

‘Yeah, like some kind of dawn raid by the soul police.’

‘I accept’ – Merrily kept her temper, which would have gone out of the window long ago if they’d been having this discussion last night – ‘that most of the self-styled New Age people at these events’ – selecting her words like picking apples from an iffy market stall and finding they were all rotten – ‘are perfectly nice, well-meaning…’

‘… deluded idiots!’

‘Jane—’

‘I can’t believe this!’ Jane leapt up. ‘Some shrivelled-up, pofaced old fart sends you a poison-pen letter and