The Lamp of the Wicked

‘For most people,’ Merrily said, ‘nothing’s come into this village but progress. Therefore, good.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘I don’t know.’ She gripped the top bar of the gate with both hands. It was greasy with lichen. ‘You’re like Sam and his death road. You’re following a black trail all the way from Gloucester, and I don’t know how valid that is. I don’t know if it exists. You always told us to question everything – question, question, question. So now I’m questioning you. Like, how objective is this?’

In her coat pocket, a phone began to buzz. She pulled out two: her own and Frannie’s.

Hers.

‘Mrs Watkins?’ Female, young-sounding. ‘My name’s Libby Porterhouse, from the Mail on Sunday. I know you’re rather busy at the moment, but I wonder if we could have a chat.’

Not what she needed, but if there was one thing you learned about dealing with the press it was never to say no comment. Express interest, surprise, ask some questions of your own, but never let them think you had any reason to be unhelpful.

‘Well, I’ll tell you what I can,’ Merrily said, ‘but I’m not sure I’m the best person. I’m just the hired help on this one.’

‘Ah, we may be talking at cross purposes,’ Libby Porterhouse said. ‘I know you’re involved with this serial killer funeral row in the Wye Valley, but this is something entirely different. I’m with Features, and I’m doing quite an extensive piece on Jenny Driscoll.’

‘What about her?’

‘I understand she’s a friend of yours.’

‘We live in the same village.’

‘And that she’s given you a large sum of money. I’d like to ask you about that and a few other things, get your side of the story.’

‘Story?’

‘How long have you known Jenny Driscoll?’

Merrily said, ‘It’s just that I’m standing in a muddy field, with some people…’

‘Well, if you tell me when it’s best to call you back. I really don’t want to keep hassling you, and I truly think, when you know about this, that it’s something you’ll want to comment on. For your own sake.’

Oh God. ‘Can we leave it till tomorrow? If you’re not carrying the piece until Sunday…’

‘What about tonight?’

‘OK, I’ll see what I can do,’ Merrily said.

Remembering the note from Jane but not Jenny Box’s number, Merrily rang Directory Inquiries and asked for Box, Ledwardine. It turned out, as expected, to be ex-directory. Damn. Nothing else she could do from here.

‘Problem?’ Huw said.

‘Parochial.’ She rang Uncle Ted’s number. What the hell kind of story had the Mail got? She remembered James Bull- Davies: Woman’s got a bit of a crush on you, after all. Pretty common knowledge.

No answer at Ted’s. She shut down the phone and stood staring across the scrubby field to where Gomer was shovelling out his first shallow trench, Bliss walking alongside now, peering down. The chapel, behind them, was black and formless.

Ring the brother, eh?’ Huw said close to her ear. ‘Tell him you think a requiem would be best for all concerned and, as nobody’s going to know, time’s no longer of the essence.’

‘Huw,’ she said, ‘did you set me up for this funeral?’

‘Banks genuinely didn’t want to do it.’

‘I realize that.’

‘Merrily,’ Huw said, ‘you’ve not been at it long but, of all of them, you’re the one I trust most. You don’t make assumptions and you never just go through the motions. And you’re never too sure of yourself, never afraid to say when you don’t understand.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Merrily said.

Huw looked away. ‘I’ve said enough. Don’t want to influence you.’

‘I’m already influenced. I think you and Frannie are letting personal issues block your objectivity. Personal grief, in your case.’

‘Sometimes you have to follow your heart.’

‘You never said that before. That’s the opposite to what you told us on the course.’ She stood in front of him, her back to the digger. ‘You never said that before!’

‘Happen I never knew it.’

‘Christ, Huw…’ Her shoes were sinking into the mud. ‘You cannot exorcize him! Even if you think he’s here. Even if you think he’s in that chapel, you cannot do it. Because, no matter what kind of pond life he was, he was of this earth.’

‘What if there were summat else?’

‘There was nothing else.’ She thought of the missing builders’ tools, the callused hands around Zoe Franklin’s neck, the walking definition of the term earthbound, the lamp of the wicked and the hunger of the dead. ‘It was soiled lust of the worst kind – a depraved appetite that could only be sated, in the end, by causing extreme, mortal fear.’

‘And what happens when the body’s gone and only the appetite remains in a black void? What is that? And what happens when there are human beings out here, amongst us, who ‘actually aspire to the black void? People who are, by whatever means, prepared – eager – to call it into themselves?’

Merrily closed her eyes. She felt the cold mass of the old Baptist chapel very close behind her, almost as if she was carrying it on her back. She could hear the digger coming towards her, and then the shuffling, metallic scraping of the blade in the earth.

‘At least do the requiem,’ Huw said.

She nodded and brought out her phone.

45 Execution

THERE WAS A low rumbling: the wind on ill-fitting leaded windows.

‘In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.’

No need to raise the voice above normal, not for a congregation of nine, including the two undertakers and the corpse.

Under lights that were dusty orbs, yellow going on brown, Merrily walked over to Roddy Lodge’s coffin.

‘I’m convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rules, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Jesus Christ our Lord.’

It had been well after dusk when a white van had been driven to the church door. George Lomas, cheerfully overweight, with rimless glasses, and his son, Stephen, stocky and hedgehog- haired, had slipped Roddy inside like contraband.

Only ninety minutes later than planned.

No disrespect, but it seemed like the best way, Mr Lomas had whispered to Merrily, shaking hands in the porch. I panicked a bit after that demo last night. Didn’t want no scratches on the hearse, so I phoned the Lodges, suggested we put the whole thing back until everybody’s home from work, watching telly. Didn’t nobody tell you?

‘I’m afraid not,’ Merrily had said coldly to Mr Lomas, whose bill might reasonably be expected to reflect the unorthodox hours.

Lol’s concert! She could have wept.