The Prayer of the Night Shepherd

‘Forgive me, this guy sounds like a nutter.’

‘But what if he’s right? What if it works?’

‘All right, look,’ Bliss said, ‘what I’ll do is, I’ll run Dexter past an ancient custody sergeant called Melvyn. Melvyn’s old-Force, very, very discreet and he’s gorra brain like an antique computer — feed him a name, it goes clank, clank, clank for a few hours, and if there’s a connection with anything notably unlawful over the past many years, he’ll deliver eventually, like ticker tape. His specialist subject is Prostitution in Hereford since Nell Gwynne.’

‘That’s a big one.’

‘Leave it with me,’ Bliss said.

After they cut the call, Merrily considered phoning Sophie to see how soon they could arrange a meeting of all the Hereford clergy who’d declared an interest in the Healing Ministry, not including those who wanted nothing to do with Deliverance, Lew Jeavons and women.

How many would that leave? Herself, probably.

The phone went again: Jane, out of breath. Behind her, the patient rumbling of school buses.

‘Mum, look… screwed up. Left vital books for Eng Lit at Stanner, so I… figured I should get on Clancy’s bus and pick them up. That OK?’

Stanner. In a matter of weeks, the whole axis of Jane’s life had shifted.

Merrily frowned. ‘And you’d get home how?’

‘I called Gomer. He’s with Danny, on a blocked-soakaway crisis at New Radnor. He could pick me up around seven, which would be perfect.’

‘So you do want to come home, eventually?’ Merrily said.

‘That a serious question?’

On Saturday, Jane, who didn’t like killing a tree for Christmas, had collected some dead branches, which they were going to spray silver and gold to arrange in the hall. She supposed she’d have to spray them herself now.

‘I don’t really know,’ she said.

A few minutes later, rinsing her mug at the sink, she heard a song of Lol’s in her head, the one he’d written in — she’d always supposed — a state of bitter despair about ever getting into her bed.

Did you suffocate your feelings
As you redefined your goals
And vowed to undertake the cure of souls?

She wiped the mug and hung it from the shelf over the sink. And thought about Lol and told herself she was too old for one-night stands.

She needed emotional back-up, someone to hold at night, when everything else was falling away: Jane growing up, moving on, and the cure of souls — the job, the calling — wobbling on the rim of the irrational.

Snowy dusk on the Border, but the moody pines rearing behind Stanner Hall were still black and green, dark guardians. The snow had stopped after a couple of hours last night, but it had frozen by morning, and Stanner was locked into winter, the witch’s-hat towers shining like white lanterns under an icy half-formed moon.

Such a lovely, lovely shot.

Jane leaned back, shoulders braced against one of the gateposts, both hands supporting the camcorder, holding it tight but not too tight. Sure, Irene, avoid hand-held. But if she wasted time rushing up to the hotel for the tripod, the dusk would be over and this incredible image would be history.

Jane triggered the shot, trying to breathe evenly. All day at school, she’d kept the equipment concealed in her bag to avoid attracting a crowd of sad boys with Quentin Tarantino fantasies. At lunchtime, in the school library, she’d studied her notes on Eirion’s instructions and added to them, remembering things he’d said.

Make sure your shots are long enough — remember you’re recording what might be a familiar scene to you for people who’ve never seen it before, so hang in there.

No hardship lingering on this one: pure Baskerville Hall. Was this what Conan Doyle had been picturing when he wrote about dull light through mullioned windows, holes in the ivy? OK, there was less ivy here, and it wasn’t built of black granite; if he hadn’t altered some of the minor details he’d have given it away.

She contained the urge to zoom in on one of the towers, holding the shot instead until she became aware of Clancy Craven shivering, kind of miserably — which, in that wildly expensive Austrian ski-jacket, Clancy was definitely not entitled to do.

Jane lowered the camera. ‘You can almost hear the distant howling, Clan.’ She threw back her head and howled at the cautious moon. The howl was unexpectedly resonant, echoing back off the Hall.

Clancy said, ‘Don’t.’

She had her shoulders hunched and her hands deep in the pockets of her blue jacket. Jane looked up to see if she was serious. Clan, though younger, was quite a bit taller than Jane. She was bony now, but you could tell she’d be like Natalie in a year or two, with a bonus of natural blonde hair. Clearly destined for serious beauty, this was a girl who really ought to be happier than she was.

Clancy shivered again, although this one was probably faked. ‘You really like spooky things, don’t you, Jane?’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’ Jane squeezed the camera back into her overnight bag, Poor Irene — he’d have been gutted to the point of self-mutilation if she’d told him that Antony was bunging her a hundred a week for this. Money for jam.

‘I don’t,’ Clancy said. ‘I never have. All the kids are on about Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel. I can’t watch that stuff.’

They had nothing in common, did they? Jane shouldered the bag. Of course, she’d have to tell Mum about the hundred a week at some stage. Maybe she could actually spend the money on, say, a new automatic washing machine to forestall the Second Great Flood.

‘Why do they have to try and invent things to scare us, when there’s so much…’ Clancy shook her head and began to trudge up the drive, keeping out of the slippery tyre tracks in the snow, and Jane started giving her some attention, because something was very much bothering this kid.

The fact that she was here at all tonight was unusual. Normally, Clancy would go straight home to Jeremy’s farm. On the bus just now, she’d told Jane that Natalie wanted her to come up to the hotel from now on, so that they could go home together in the car. Jane wondered if there could be some problem with Jeremy. Older men, teenage girls in the house — these things happened, right?

‘Your mum’s not scared of anything is she, though?’ Jane probed, catching up with her.

Clancy stopped, fingering the drawstrings at the waist of her costly ski-jacket. Most of Clancy’s clothes were expensive. ‘Only thing she’s scared of is something happening to me.’

‘They’re all scared of that. Erm, I’ve never liked to ask…’ Jane zipped up her fleece. It was very cold; you didn’t notice the conditions when you were working creatively. ‘What happened to your dad?’

Clancy started walking again. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh.’

‘He wasn’t anybody special. Just some guy who got her pregnant.’

‘You mean like at a party or something, when everybody was pissed out of their heads?’

‘Something like that. Your dad was killed, wasn’t he?’

‘Car crash on the motorway. With his assistant, Karen. Assistant and lover. He was a lawyer. Having a thing on the side. Both killed.’ Jane was aware of the subject having been changed, but she was casual enough about this now. ‘Bit of a bastard, my dad. Obviously, I remember him as being really nice, but I don’t remember that much, as the years pass. I was still quite little when he died.’

‘I suppose your mother hasn’t been with many guys since. Being a vicar.’

‘It’s what makes it hard getting this thing with Lol beyond first base. She doesn’t know what you’re supposed to do, how you’re supposed to play it. Women priests haven’t been around long enough to establish a precedent.’

‘Excuse me?’