The Prayer of the Night Shepherd

something out.

Sure they could. Could have applied for a Lottery grant.

Jane felt resentful and unsettled.

A tiny light was moving somewhere below the ridge. A white light, bobbing, as if someone was carrying it. Perhaps the shooters again. The shooters who Ben had ordered off his land. Men with guns at night: bad news.

Or maybe just Jeremy. Clancy said Jeremy would sometimes creep out in the night to check on his stock. Jeremy was married to his farm, Clancy had said, which didn’t hold out much hope for her mother. And Jane had thought, Huh? — wondering how Clancy managed to see it that way around. When you saw Natalie, this cool, careless beauty, with Jeremy, this stocky, hesitant little farmer with limited communication skills and hair like the fluff you found under the bed, you were like, What? However this unlikely liaison had come about, Jeremy must feel like it was his birthday every day it lasted.

The bobbing light went out, or it disappeared into the forestry or something. Shedding her fleece, Jane went back to her single bed, wishing Eirion was here. Like here, now. The ironic thing was that Eirion had admitted he’d rather be coming here, talking to Ben, meeting some of the telly people — not so much the stars as the producers — who, according to Ben, were likely to drop in over the festive season. Like, this documentary guy, for instance, Largo. Eirion could talk their language; he’d done work experience at HTV Wales — other kids got to hang around behind the counter in the NatWest bank, Eirion spent a fortnight with a documentary team.

Family connections, Daddy’s directorships.

A distant gunshot had her springing back from the bed, back to the window.

Nothing. No lights.

They were very close last night, she’d said to Ben last Sunday when they’d come in from the rain and he’d been raging about the gun club.

Yeah. So close, one of them was right inside her head. She’d awoken in the tower room — must have been about three in the morning — with this single colossal angry bang deep inside her head… this swelling, echoing explosion that awoke her instantly, absolutely cold with fear, immediately thinking — the way you always thought at three in the morning — of a brain tumour or something, and she’d felt just totally… sick. Nauseous, headachy and — considering the size of that room — so horribly claustrophobic that she’d rushed to open the window, sliding her head under the sash into the freezing night.

There. It was out. She’d relived it.

And it was, of course, probably something for Mum.

And Mum was the reason she’d said nothing. This was what she did separate from Mum. The Independent Working Woman on the Border did not go crying to her mum.

Jane wrapped herself in the duvet and lay on her back with her eyes wide open to the grey window. It was crap when something awoke you in the night. You wanted to be alive to the magic in life, but all you could see was the injustice of everything, and the fragility and the darkness beyond the glass.

6 Beastie

The breakfast table was a battleground, and Ben was on his knees.

When Jane came in with the extra toast that nobody had asked for, Antony Largo, the independent producer, was saying. ‘No, no, that is a wee bit unfair, pal, I certainly wouldnae use the word shite.’

Largo must have got in very late last night. He didn’t look like he’d had much sleep — that room? — and he wasn’t eating much of the food that Jane was putting out for him and Ben. Breakfast was good for eavesdropping because you could make frequent trips to and from the kitchen with fruit juice and toast and coffee, and you could hang around a lot in the doorway.

Ben was in his jogging gear, hanging back in his chair, probably thinking he was looking fit and relaxed and glowing. In fact, he looked nervous, and he was laughing too much. Jane was wincing inside for him.

The dining room at Stanner Hall was long and chilly, its end wall encrusted with a chipped and faded coat- of-arms over the fireplace where unlit logs were piled into a dog-grate. Opposite was this church-size Gothic window, which still had some stained glass in veins of cold blue and blood red. The two men were sitting under the window, next to a flaking grey concertina radiator that made more noise than heat.

‘OK,’ Antony Largo said, ‘we’re mates, we go back, I can think aloud with you.’ He gave Ben this level stare, amusement in his eyes. ‘You tell me: where’s the contemporary dynamic? Where’s the now drama coming from?’

Bloodied sunlight flared on Ben’s forehead. He’d have done his usual run, down the drive in the early mist, up through the forestry and back into the gardens. Working up an excuse for the sweat.

‘Actors,’ Ben said.

Antony Largo studied the toast. The set of his shoulders said give me strength. He said patiently, ‘We talked about that. We said we could ship over a few famous faces from your illustrious past, old friends sampling the accommodation. That is no’ a difficulty.’

‘That’s not—’ Ben picked up the silver pepper-pot, and Jane thought for a moment that he was going to whizz it at Largo’s head, but he just brought it down again on the tablecloth to emphasize a point. ‘That’s not what I meant. If we have one fairly prominent actor playing Doyle, this would be the only speaking part. All the rest — Vaughan, Ellen — would be shadowy figures, half seen… in black and white or sepia, so that’s —’

‘Yeah, yeah, it’d be entirely workmanlike, and perfectly acceptable at seven p.m. on Channel Five. This is peak-hour Channel 4 and requires viscera. Sorry, pal, it still leaves me half a dozen good thrusts short of a decent climax.’ Antony Largo looked up at Jane and winked. ‘My apologies, hen.’

Jane grinned. Antony Largo leaned back and poured himself some coffee. With a name like that, you expected Armani and suave; what you got were faded old denims and this honed Glasgow scepticism. He was about thirty-five, and wiry, with oiled black hair. He had one ear-stud and a hard, blue-grey stubble. He looked like one of those guys who stayed fit without jogging and never put on weight — an honorary life member of the gymnasium of the street.

‘Antony.’ Ben laughed again, his anxiety lines deepening. ‘Why do you always, always start off by talking everything down?’

‘This is not tactics, pal.’ Antony leaned forward, shaking his head slowly. ‘Way back, when there was advertising coming out the networks’ ears, money falling from the sky, we just fenced around a bit, for appearances’ sake. But that was then, this is now — Independent TV drama belly-up and barely twitching.’

‘Yes, but drama-documentary—’

‘… Is the new drama, yeah. Doco is the new drama. But a doco with no contemporary propulsion, no plot line? OK. See it from my angle. I walk in there and I go, This is about where the Sherlock Holmes guy got his idea for The Hound of the Baskervilles, but hey, it’s not what you think. And they’re going, Why would we think anything? Why would we give a fart?’

‘Because…’ Ben looked up and saw Jane, who realized she must be standing there, blatantly listening, maybe with her head on one side and her mouth slightly open. She turned away and started rearranging things on her tray. ‘Thank you very much, Jane,’ Ben said, meaning Piss off. His laughter had gone tepid.

‘Sorry.’ Jane gave him an uncomfortable smile and slalomed away between tables that didn’t match. At one time, there would have been a single banqueting job down the middle of the room; now the small separate tables looked mean and utility, kind of cafeteria. Symptomatic of what was wrong with this place.

She didn’t hear Ben explaining to Antony how he thought the TV people could be made to care. Which would have been interesting.