The Prayer of the Night Shepherd

from Old Hindwell, with his missus and his walking stick.

‘Moves like lightning, has him up against the wall, both hands round his neck, knee in his crotch,’ Gwilym said. ‘Never seen Sebbie move as fast — not after seven Scotches, anyway.’

‘So who was this?’ Danny asked, fetching his beer over. ‘Who was Sebbie having a go at?’

‘Tommy Francis, Felinfawr.’ Gwilym shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Tommy Francis! Been mates since Tommy had the hunt kennels. Only feller yereabouts dares take the piss out of Sebbie. Went too far tonight, mind. Oh hell, aye.’

‘Thought he was gonner kill him,’ Jed Begley said. Jed, who built scrambling bikes the other side of Evenjobb, did a fair impression of Sebbie. ‘ “Whadja mean by that, hey? Whadja mean?” ’

‘But what did he say?’ Danny asked him. ‘What did Tommy say?’

‘All he said—’ Gwilym looked round for support. ‘All he said was, “Must be frustratin’ for you, seein’ that boy comin’ home to this tasty piece, thinkin’ what’s he got that I en’t?” That right?’

‘Close,’ Robin Thorogood said. ‘Surprised the hell out of me, way the guy reacted.’

‘It’s about ground, it is,’ Gwilym said. ‘Always comes back to ground round yere. Sebbie won’t never be happy till he’s lord of all he surveys, and he can’t survey all his ground from any direction without he closes one eye to block out The Nant.’

‘And who in his right mind’s gonner close an eye, woman like that around,’ Jed Begley said, and people laughed.

Not Danny, though. He’d last seen Jeremy and this Natalie here at the Eagle, when he and his new partner, Gomer, had dropped in to grab some lunch, week or so back. This Natalie with a half of lager, Jeremy with his usual limeade — and this unmistakable stiff quietness around them. Well, Danny’d been in that situation himself enough times, him and Gret. But this kind of atmosphere so early in a courting boded no particular good. Jeremy’s face, for the first time ever, had seemed lined and creased and there was a brightness in his eyes that was like harsh sunshine in a leaden sky.

‘Been bloody strange lately, mind,’ Jed Begley went on. ‘Look at them gun-boys. Did Sebbie hire them boys, or en’t he?’

Danny had heard of this: shooters on the prowl. ‘Welshies, ennit?’

‘South Wales, aye. Hired to shoot foxes.’

‘Do that make sense?’ Danny said. ‘Sebbie’s the flamin’ hunt.’

‘Barry Roberts at the Arrow Valley Gun Club, he don’t get it neither,’ Jed Begley said. ‘And he en’t happy. ’Sides, you seen more foxes than normal lately? I en’t. No, see, what you got with Dacre is a drink problem. Plus, he’s mad.’

‘Got his own agenda, and he plays his cards close,’ Gwilym said. ‘Always has done. Danny knows.’

Danny nodded, said nothing. Sebbie Dacre, Sebbie Three Farms: magistrate, master of the hunt, robber baron of the Marches, with this fancy but phoney Norman coat of arms over his porch and his customized Range Rover. What passed for gentry these days — an apology for it, in Danny’s view, but Sebbie was influential, supported the local shops and the pubs and the feed dealers, and he employed local labour — well, normally he did.

Sebbie Dacre and Jeremy Berrows had lived side by side all Jeremy’s life, with no socializing but no real trouble… although if you stood on any one of Jeremy’s boundaries you could feel Sebbie glowering like storm clouds massing. This was because Sebbie’s ole man, having bought Emrys Morgan’s farm, had put in a good bid for The Nant that was wedged between Emrys’s farm and the Dacre estate, but the owners — Sebbie’s own relations — had sold it to the Berrowses instead, for no good reason except that they liked the Berrowses. Which was no reason at all, in Sebbie’s view.

‘En’t been the same since he got divorced,’ Jed said. ‘What’s that — ten years now? Not so much losin’ the wife and kid as what her cost him, plus the fees for Big Weale. Which is why he don’t let women get closer than a quick bang, n’more. And here’s Jeremy Berrows and this totally spectac’lar woman, delivered to his doorstep.’ Jed going back into Sebbie-speak. ‘ “What’s this, hey? What’s this about?” Should’ve seen him drive off, Danny, when we finally got him in his motor. Hunches over the wheel, crunching his bloody gears. You wouldn’t wanner be on the same road.’

‘Like his nan,’ ole Joe Cadwallader said suddenly, in his high voice.

Gwilym bent down to him. ‘Wassat, Joe?’

‘His nan. You’re all too bloody young, that’s the trouble. His nan, her used to go to the pub in Gladestry — ’fore the war, this was. Idea of a woman goin’ in a pub on her own, them days… unheard of. Idea of a woman drinkin’ pints… well! Idea of a woman goin’ to the pub, havin’ six pints then gettin’ behind the wheel of a big ole car…’

‘Jeez,’ Robin Thorogood said. ‘She never kill anybody?’

Ole Joe Cadwallader didn’t reply because Robin Thorogood was from Off. He just looked around — big smile, gaping mouth like an abandoned quarry.

‘Whoop, whoop,’ he said, and then he finished his Guinness.

The discussion died then, people drifting away. Last orders had been and gone. Danny drifted to the door and was sure he heard ole Joe Cadwallader, still sitting there behind him, going very quietly, like a whistling wind, ‘Whoop, whoop.’

Somewhere in the middle of the night, the wind came in from Wales and rattled the eaves and made the pines shiver.

Jane rolled out of bed, wrapped herself in her fleece and went to the window. Amber was right, it was freezing here, and it wasn’t even December yet. But that was OK; she wasn’t a guest, she wasn’t expected to be warm.

She’d spent two hours helping Amber finish redecorating another bedroom. Tarting the place up, Amber had said desperately, in case they ever needed to accommodate a conference, ho, ho. Well, it was more fun than cleaning lavatories and changing bedding, and Jane was starting to take the injustice of this situation personally now. These were good people who worked hard, even if Ben was inclined to mess people around like he was still working in TV.

In a way, she was drawn to his philosophy. Life’s like television — if it’s on the screen it must have happened. Well, why not? It was a way of actually making things happen. Or like amending reality. Amber had talked about it in a disparaging way, as though she didn’t understand why it was so intoxicating.

Jane understood. She’d been going out with Eirion for nearly a year now, and Eirion was obsessed with getting into the visual media. And she herself… well, only another year at school after this one. Decisions had to be made.

Through the window — there was a crack in the pane and a thin draught oozing through it — she could see a vague, orangey moon, and the clouds were sliding across it like they were on fast-forward.

This little room wasn’t quite an attic, and there were much better views from inside the witch’s-hat tower, but it was high enough to overlook some of the forestry, and you could see across to the long plateau of Hergest Ridge and the sombre conifers under the moon. And down to the Celtic Border, this seam in the earth, the secret snake which sometimes awoke and writhed. She experienced that familiar longing to feel the Border and all it represented: points of transition, cultures in collision.

But not from the tower room, thank you.

There was something about that room that was essentially mind-shrinking. Unpleasant, basically. Haunted rooms were fascinating, but not on your own. If Eirion was here — the irresistible smile, the allegedly puppy-fat spare tyre — well, that would be a whole different ball game. That could’ve been… almost fun.

Only she hadn’t seen him in a fortnight. And in a couple of weeks’ time, when they should be getting together for the Christmas holidays — intimate hours in candlelit corners — he would instead be on a plane with his wealthy Welsh family, bound for St Moritz or one of those other cheesy, overpriced, overcrowded playgrounds for bored tossers. It had been arranged months ago, before she had this job, and she could have gone with them — OK, so her mother was only a vicar on a pittance but they could have worked