The Fabric of Sin

Phil Rickman The Fabric of Sin

Shapen of clay and kneaded with water

A bedrock of shame and a source of pollution

A cauldron of iniquity and a fabric of sin …

What can I say that hath not been foreknown

Or what disclose that hath not been foretold?

The Essenes: Poems of Initiation

PART ONE

Do I believe in ghosts…? I answer that

I am prepared to consider evidence and

accept it if it satisfies me.

M. R. James. Introduction to his Complete Ghost Stories.

1 Third Hill

Although the countryside around the barn was open and level, three landmark hills were laid out along the horizon. Like ancient and venerated body parts, Merrily thought, the bones of the Border. Holy relics on display in the sunset glow.

Standing at the barn window with Adam Eastgate, she tracked them, right to left, from the southern end of the Black Mountains: the volcanic-looking Sugar Loaf and the ruined profile of The Skirrid which legend said had cracked open when Jesus Christ died on the cross.

Still somehow sacred, these hills. No towns crowded them, nobody messed with them.

At least, not the way someone had with the third and lowest hill, the only one this side of the Welsh border but still maybe a dozen miles away. The third hill had been stabbed under its summit, some kind of radio mast sticking out like a spear from the spine of a fallen warrior, a torn and bloody pennant of cloud flurrying horizontally from its shaft.

‘Oh,’ Merrily said, realizing. ‘Right. They say it’s like another country up there.’

Garway.

The light through the window was this deep, fruity pink, the sun dying somewhere behind the hill with its radio mast, its famously enigmatic church and a farmhouse called the Master House that they were saying was haunted.

Adam Eastgate had been aiming a forefinger like he wanted to stab the hill himself, again and again. Sighing, he let his hand fall.

‘We don’t often make mistakes, Merrily.’

* * *

She’d never actually been to Garway Hill. Nor, before today, to this place either — a tidy cluster of converted farm buildings off a dead-end country lane, maybe three miles outside the city. Pieces of Herefordshire adding up to more than twelve thousand acres were administered from here, on behalf of perhaps the most prestigious landlord in the country, and she hadn’t even heard of it.

All the stuff you ought to know about and didn’t. Sometimes this county could be just a little too discreet. All a bit awkward. Merrily turned away from the window and the hills.

‘Jane and I — my daughter — we keep planning to go over to Garway, check out the Knights Templar church. Somehow never seem to find the time.’

‘Aye, we saw it with the Man, when he came to inspect the farm. Likes a quiet stroll when he can. And, of course, it’s always so quiet there, nobody noticed us even when—’ Adam Eastgate slipping her a cautious glance. ‘Why are you smiling?’

‘You might not have seen a soul, but it’d be all over the hill before he was back in his Land Rover.’ Merrily looked down at the outline plans on the conference table. They were blurred. She rubbed her eyes. ‘He inspects every property you take on? Personally?’

‘Aw, hey, he’s not just a figurehead.’

The brackeny accent digging in — Northumbria. In his dry, soldierly way, Adam Eastgate was affronted. Very protective of the Man, the people working here.

‘Does he know about this particular problem then?’

Eastgate didn’t reply, which could have meant yes or no or not something you’re supposed to ask.

‘OK, then.’ Merrily sat down in one of the high-backed chairs, red brocade. ‘What, specifically, are we looking at?’

‘Oh hell, I can’t tell you. Perhaps I wasn’t listening hard enough, y’know?’

‘Or you find it embarrassing?’

‘Not a question of embarrassment, Merrily, I’m just not the man it happened to. If anything did.’

Always the get-out clause.

‘How would you like me to play it, then?’

‘How would you normally play it?’

‘Well …’ Dear God, how long was this going to take? ‘To begin with, we usually try to find out if there’s a back-story. Talk to local people, village historian — there’s always a village historian. Or maybe—’ She clocked his wince. ‘That would be the wrong approach, would it?’

‘Depends if you want it on American TV before the week’s out.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Merrily …’ Tight smile. ‘I’m the land-steward. Deal with builders, architects … and tenants, right? Most of whom … good as gold. But we know if we’re forced to evict somebody who hasn’t parted with the rent for two years, next day’s tabloids we’re half-expecting Prince Puts Family on the Street.’

‘Oh.’

‘You see where we’re going?’

‘Haunted Prince calls in Exorcist?’

Eastgate shuddered. Nice chap, Adam, the Bishop had said. Knows what he wants and how to get it done. But raising this had taken the best part of half an hour and three false starts.

This had been two nights ago, one of those receptions where the Duchy was explaining its ambitious conservation plans to the great and the good of Hereford. The Bishop and the Archdeacon and their wives were having a drink afterwards with Adam Eastgate when the Garway investment had come up. And its complications. You could imagine the Bishop nodding helpfully. We do have a person, you know, looks after this kind of thing.

‘I mean, you’ll’ve read the stuff, same as I have,’ Eastgate said. ‘He only has to venture an off-the-cuff opinion on whatever it is — architecture, alternative medicine, GM foods …’

‘The benefits of talking to plants?’

‘See, there you go! That’s exactly it. How many years ago was that? But do they ever forget?’