Remains of an Altar

‘You’re telling me you didn’t know? Very, very stupid people, Laurence. ’Bout a dozen of ’em. Posters, placards. Trying to protect something we all know don’t exist.’

Lol saw Pierce taking in the OS maps on the desk with the ancient sites ringed and the pencil lines connecting them. He began to fold them up as Pierce smirked.

‘Yes, I can see you didn’t know a thing about it.’

‘It was in the Guardian.’

‘And who put it there, Laurence? I’ll admit I’m having difficulty with this, see. Why you and that girl and those cranky sods out there wanner put the mockers on a much-needed development in an otherwise useless, derelict area.’

‘But … isn’t there a statutory notice posted at the site for the actual purpose of inviting objections?’

‘Aimed at local council-tax payers with a legitimate viewpoint, not sad buggers with nose rings who come from miles away ’cause they feel lost if they en’t got a protest to go to. And not adolescents getting above themselves and trying to cause trouble. In fact…’ Pierce looked down at his shoes and then back at Lol. ‘I think I should tell you that people are beginning to feel it’s time that girl’s mother did something to curb her behaviour before—’

‘Before the community does? A curfew? Court order banning her from going within half a mile of Cole Hill?’

‘Don’t get silly, now.’

Lol raised both eyebrows. ‘All because she feels strongly about preserving the village heritage?’

‘Laurence, that’s balls. One of our experts says it en’t even in that feller’s book. She made it up. It don’t exist. It never existed. It’s a bloody joke. It’s … flying-saucer stuff. Me, I’m simply trying to be reasonable, here, see both sides of it. When she’s a bit more mature, she’ll likely realize that, like all these villages, Ledwardine has to grow or die.’

‘Grow into what?’

‘All I’m saying … if people consider we’re now within commuting distance of London, then we got to run with that. Home Counties overrun with asylum seekers, decent hard-working folk gotter move somewhere. If they wanner sell up and bring their money here, who’re we to—?’

‘Grow into an extension of London suburbia? Three hours is now commuting distance?’

‘Or quicker, with a fast car.’

‘Jesus,’ Lol said.

‘You people…’ Lyndon went back on his heels. ‘You really make me laugh. You’re living in the bloody past. I’m an accountant, boy, we’re the first to see the signs. I see the farmers’ profits going on the slide, year after year. It’s patently clear that agriculture can’t sustain the county any longer and the county can’t sustain agriculture. If cheap imports are killing farms and the government don’t want ’em growing food n’ more, there en’t nothing we can do about that. Farmer wants to survive, he sells what ground he can for quality housing at the best price he can get. Our job’s to support the farmers.’

‘That’s a very twisted kind of logic, Lyndon.’

‘And I’ll give you some more. City people, weekend folk, are used to more sophisticated facilities than we’ve been able to provide, and if they wants ’em on the doorstep we gotter give them that in Ledwardine itself – more shops, proper supermarkets, and at the same time—’

‘Jim Prosser know about that?’

‘Jim Prosser’ll be retired soon. And we can catch up on what the rural areas’ve been missing all these years. You don’t think local people should have sophisticated facilities, Laurence? Decent leisure centre?’

‘Has anybody asked them?’

‘Laurence…’ Lyndon Pierce blew air slowly down his nostrils. ‘That’s why you elect councillors. It’s called local democracy.’ He beamed, case proven. ‘Anyway, if you do hear from Mrs Watkins, put her in the picture, would you? If she wants to speak with me about this matter I’ll be available.’

‘Are these … ?’ Lol heard the stairs creak. ‘Are these protesters still there?’

‘Not for long. New legislation’s made it easier to deal with time-wasting scum. Likely we’ll have it sorted before teatime without any arrests.’

‘What with, water cannon? Rubber bullets?’

‘People like you worry me,’ Pierce said. ‘Vicar be back home tonight, will she?’

‘Far as I know.’

‘Only, folks keep saying to me as how she spends so much time out of the parish these days we might as well not have a vicar at all.’

‘Who would that be, specifically, Lyndon?’

‘Pretty hard, seems to me, for a parish vicar to win back support once it starts to slip, Laurence. Specially if her daughter’s setting a bad example to other kids, skipping school, making trouble. I’ll leave you to think about the implications of that.’

Pierce placed a hand on the living-room doorknob, then turned back to Lol with a minimal smile.

‘Oh … and if certain people who en’t local don’t like the way we do things around yere, seems to me they might think about moving on? Knowing they can always get a good price for their period cott—’

The door opened, pushing Lyndon Pierce back into the room. Jane was standing there, face as white as her school shirt, gazing at Pierce with all the warmth of a November twilight.

‘You mean if people don’t like things being run by bent councillors?’

Pierce’s smile was history. Lol watched, with a horrified kind of fascination, as the man tongued his full lips as though he was trying to tease it back.

‘Or maybe,’ Jane said, ‘maybe if they don’t like bastards who used to shoot blue tits off the nut-containers with their airguns?’

‘You…’ Pierce’s forefinger came up ‘… had better watch your mouth.’

‘Lyndon,’ Lol said softly. ‘She’s just a child.’

Pierce spun round at him.

‘As for you … vicar know you’ve had her daughter upstairs? ’Cause it looks like she’s gonner find out, ennit? But don’t you worry, Laurence, it won’t be from me. Not directly, boy, not directly.’

Lol had to grab Jane and hold on to her to stop her going for Pierce. Or maybe it was the other way round.

Whichever, them holding one another like this, he knew as soon as Pierce stepped briskly outside and all the heads began to turn that it wasn’t going to look good from the crowded street.

39 Temple of Sound

In the copy of the Malvern Gazette open on Raji Khan’s ebony desk, there was a hole where the face of Leonard Holliday used to be.

Mr Khan stabbed it again with his gold Cross pen.

‘Why are they doing this to me, Mrs Watkins? Can you tell me that?’

He was wearing a cricket shirt and cream slacks and white shoes. His black hair hung beyond his shoulders, cavalier style. In his left ear he wore what might have been an emerald. Merrily sat on the other side of the desk in a dark wood chair which was meaningfully lower than his.

‘Probably just that … this is not what they expect to find,’ she said carefully, ‘in a place like this? Have you tried inviting the Wychehill Residents’ Action Group up here to discuss it?’

Mr Khan’s office, upstairs at the Royal Oak, was like something out of Sherlock Holmes: drapery and brass standard lamps, deep maroon walls and a grey picture-rail. Didn’t really work in summer, but with a coal fire on a December day it would be awfully cosy. A middle-aged Asian woman who dressed like Sophie had shown Merrily up. No doormen apparent on the premises, no DJ Xex.

‘You know, I once did invite them,’ Mr Khan said. ‘They wouldn’t meet me. I am, it would appear, the very spawn of Satan.’