'Right, let the dog see the rabbit. That the photo, Paul? Ta.'
'Got to be him, Sarge.'
'Not necessarily, lad, all sorts come out here purely to top umselves. I remember once.. 'It is, look…'
'Aye, well done, lad. Never've thought he'd have got this far in last night's conditions, no way. But where's the gun?'
The body lay face-up in the bottom of the quarry, both eyes wide as if seeking a reason from the darkening sky.
'Hell fire, look at state of his head. Must've bounced off that bloody rock on his way down. You all right, Desmond?'
'Just a bit bunged-up, Sarge. Reckon it's this flu.'
'Hot lemon. Wi' half a cup of whisky. That's what I always take. Least you can't smell what we can smell. Hope the poor bugger shit hisself after he landed.'
'What d'you reckon then?'
'Harry, if you can persuade your radio to work, get word back to Mr Blackburn as he can call off the troops, would you? And let's find that gun, shall we? I don't know; be a bloody sight simpler if we hadn't got his missus bleating on about him charging after Satanists.'
'Haw.'
'Ah now, don't knock it, Desmond. If you'd seen some of the things I've seen up these moors. All right, more likely poor sod'd been trying to find his way back home, terrible bloody conditions, gets hopelessly disorientated, wandering round for hours – what's he come, six miles, seven? – and just falls over the edge. But this business of intruders, somebody'll want it checked out, whoever they were, whatever they was up to…'
'Or if they even existed.'
'Or, as Paul says, if they even existed, except in the lad's imagination. I'd let it go, me, if we find that gun. Accidental, and you'd never prove otherwise, not in a million years. What we supposed to do, stake out the entire moor every night till they come back for another do?'
'Poor bugger.'
'Aye. Glad we found him before it got dark, or we'd be out here again, first light. Well, look at that, what d'you know, it's starting raining again, Desmond.'
'Yes Sarge.'
'Hot lemon, lad, my advice. Wi' a good dollop of whisky.' Oh Lord, we're asking you to intercede, to help us sanctify this place, drenched for centuries in sin and evil. Oh Lord, come down here tonight, give us some help. Come on down, Lord… shine your light, that's what we're asking… come on…'
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'
'Yes, and into every murky corner, come on…'
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'
'Through every dismal doorway…'
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'
'Into every fetid crevice…'
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'
And Willie shouted it too.
'SHINE YOUR LIGHT.'
It was easy. It was just pulled out of you, like a handkerchief from your top pocket. Nowt to it.
At first he'd felt right stupid. Felt bloody daft, in fact, as soon as he walked in, wearing his suit, the only suit in the place, so it was obvious from the start that he wasn't one of them.
Not that this had bothered them. They'd leapt on him – big, frightening smiles – and started hugging him.
'Welcome, brother, welcome!'
'Good to see someone's been brave enough to turn his back on it all. What's your name?'
'Willie.' Gerroff, he wanted to shout, this is no bloody way to behave in church. Or anywhere, for that matter, soft buggers.
'Willie, we're so very glad to have you with us. To see there is one out there who wants to save his soul. Praise God! And rest assured that, from this moment on, you'll have the full protection of the Lord, and there'll be no repercussions because you'll be wearing the armour of the Lord's light. Do you believe that? Is your faith strong enough, Willie, to accept that?'
'Oh, aye,' said Willie. 'No,' Milly Gill had said flatly and finally, when Mr Dawber wanted to go. 'It's got to be you, Willie. Mr Dawber looks too intelligent.'
'Thanks a bunch.'
'You know what I mean. You look harmless. It's always been your strength, Willie luv. You look dead harmless.'
'Like a little vole,' said Frank Manifold Snr's wife Ethel in a voice like cotton-wool, and Milly gave her a narrow look.
'Just watch and listen, Willie. Listen and watch.'
'What am I listening for?'
'You'll know, when you hear it.'
What he'd heard so far had left him quite startled. They sang hymns he'd never encountered before, with a rhythm and gusto he associated more with folk clubs. He felt his fingers begin to respond, tried to stop it but he couldn't. Felt an emotional fervour building around him, like in the days when he used to support Manchester City.
It had started with everybody – there'd be over fifty of them now – sitting quietly in the pews, as Joel Beard led them in prayer.
But when the hymns got under way they'd all come out and stand in the aisle, quite still – no dancing – and turn their faces towards the rafters and then lift up their hands, palms open as if they were waiting to receive something big and heavy.
When the hymn was over, some of the younger ones stayed in the aisle and sat there cross-legged, staring up at the pulpit, at their leader.
'Some of you,' Joel Beard said soberly, 'may already have realised the significance of tonight.'
Joel in full vestments, leaning out over the pulpit, the big cross around his neck swinging wide, burnished by the amber lights which turned his tight curls into a helmet of shining bronze.
A bit different from downbeat, comfortable old Hans with his creased-up features and his tired eyes.
But no Autumn Cross over Joel's head.
No candles on the altar. All statuary removed.
And despite all the people in their bright sweaters and jeans, with their fresh, scrubbed faces and clean hair…
… Despite the colourful congregation and despite the emotion, the church looked naked and cold, and gloomy as a cathedral crypt.
Joel said, 'Every few years, the realms of God and Satan collide. The most evil of all pagan festivals falls upon the Lord's day. Tonight, my friends, my brothers, my sisters, we pray for ourselves. For we are at war.'
Bloody hell, Willie remembered, it's…
'It is Sunday,' Joel said quietly. 'And it is All-Hallows Eve.'
New Year's Eve, Willie thought.
Time was when they'd have a bit of a do down The Man. Except that always happened tomorrow, All Souls. Bit of a compromise, reached over the years with the Church. And a logical one in Willie's view. Imagine the reaction, in the days of the witch hunts, to a village which had a public festival at Hallowe'en. So they had it the following night, All Souls Night. Made sense.
Wouldn't be doing much this year, though. Bugger-all to celebrate.
'We have recaptured this church,' Joel Beard proclaimed, 'for the Lord.'
Sterilised it, more like, Willie thought, feeling a lot less daft, a lot more annoyed. Despiritualised it, if there's such a word.
'And it is left to us… to hold it through this night.'
'YES!'
Oh, bloody hell, they're never!
'PRAISE GOD!'
'We'll remain here until the dawn. We'll sing and pray and keep the light.'
'KEEP THE LIGHT!'
It's a waste of time, Willie wanted to shout. It's a joke. Apart from the Mothers doing whatever needs to be done – in private – Hallowe'en's a non-event in Bridelow. Just a preparation for the winter, a time of consolidation, like, a sharing of memories.
'I would stress to all of you that it's important to preserve a major presence here in the church.'
Nay, lad, give it up. Go home.
Joel said, if anyone needs to leave to use the toilet, the Rectory is open. But – hear me – go in pairs. Ignore all distractions. And hurry back. Take care. Make your path a straight one. Do not look to either side. Now… those who thirst will find bottles of spring water and plastic cups in the vestry. Do not drink any water you may find in the Rectory; it may have been taken from the local spring, which is polluted, both physically and spiritually.'
Willie was stunned. This was insane. This was Bridelow he was on about.
'And of course,' Joel said, 'we shall eat nothing until the morning.'
'PRAISE GOD!'
Willie slumped back into his pew next to a girl with big boobs under a pink sweatshirt with white and gold lettering spelling out, THANK GOD FOR JESUS! 'Have we been taken over, though?' Milly said. 'Have we lost our village? Gone? Under our noses?'
'Bit strong, that,' Ernie Dawber said with what he was very much afraid was a nervous laugh. 'Yet.'
They were in Milly Gill's flowery sitting room.
He'd set out for evensong, as was his custom; if there was a boycott it was nowt to do with him, damn silly way to react, anyroad.
She had caught up with him, suddenly appearing under his umbrella, telling him about the Angels of the New Advent. Time to talk about things, Milly said, steering him home, sitting him down with a mug of tea.
'You're the chronicler, Mr Dawber. You know it's not an exaggeration. You've watched the brewery go. You've seen people fall ill and just die like they never did before. You know as well as I do Ma didn't just fall downstairs and die of shock.'
'It's common enough,' Ernie said damply, 'among very old people.'
'But Ma Wagstaff?' Milly folded her arms, trying for a bit of Presence. 'All right? Who's taken the Man? Who's taken Matt Castle from his grave? Come off the fence, Mr Dawber. What do you really think?'
'You're asking me? You're in charge now, Millicent. I'm just an observer. With failing eyesight.'
'There you go again. Please, Mr Dawber, you've seen the state of us. We're just a not-very-picturesque tradition. What did I ever do except pick flowers and dress the well? And we meet for a bit of a healing – this is how it's been – and Susan says she can't stop long because of the child and it's Frank's darts night.'
'Young Frank needs a good talking to,' said Ernie.
'That's the least of it. They're all just going through the motions, and nothing seems to work out. It's like, we're going into the Quiet time – this is last midsummer – and Jessie Marsden has to use her inhaler twice. We can't even beat our own hay fever any more. It'd be almost funny if it wasn't so tragic.'
The image speared Ernie again. Ma showing him the Shades of Things and making him promise to get the bog body back. And him failing her, in the end. But need this be the end?
'Happen you need some new blood,' he said finally.
'I don't think that's the answer, Mr Dawber. The strength is in the tradition. New blood's easy to get. Remember that girl who showed up a couple of years ago? Heard about Bridelow – God knows how – and wanted to "tap the source"? Place of immense power, how lucky we were, could she become a… a "neophyte", was that the word?'
Ernie Dawber smiled. 'From the Daughters of Isis, Rotherham, as I remember. Nice enough girl. Well-intentioned. You sent her away.'
'Well, Mr Dawber, what would you have done? We couldn't understand a word she was saying – all this about the Great Rite and the Cone of Power.'
'Come off it, Millicent. You knew exactly what she was saying.'
'Well… maybe it seemed silly, the way she talked. Made it all seem silly. It does, you know, when you give it names, like the Cone of Power. New blood's all right, in this sort of situation, when you're strong enough to absorb it. When you're weak it can just be like a conduit for infection.'
'That, actually,' Ernie said, 'was not quite what I meant by new blood. Let's try and look at this objectively. Everything was ticking over quite nicely – not brilliant, bit wackery round the joints – but basically all right, given the times we're in. Until this bog body turns up. The Man. It all comes back to the Man.'
'You think so, Mr Dawber? The Man himself, rather than what people have made of him?'
'It's all the same,' Ernie said. 'That's the whole point of a human sacrifice.'
Milly stood up and went to the window, opaque with night and rain. 'How long's it been raining now, Mr Dawber?'
'Over a day non-stop, has to be, and corning harder still. Stream's been out over the church field since tea time, and the Moss… the Moss will rise. It does, you know. Absorbs it like a sponge. In 1794, according to the records, the Moss rose three feet in a thunderstorm.'
Ernie laughed.
'See, that's me. The chronicler, the great historian. Head full of the past, but we don't learn owt from it, really, do we? The past is our foundation, but we look back and say, nay, that was primitive, we're beyond that now, we've evolved. But we haven't, of course, not spiritually, not in a mere couple of thousand years. It's still our foundation, no matter how crude. And when the foundation's crumbled or vanished, we've got to patch it up best we can.'
Milly Gill didn't seem to be listening.
She said, 'I prayed to the Mother tonight. Sent Willy off to the church to learn what he could and then I went up to the Well with a lantern and knelt there in the rain at the poolside with the Mother's broken-off head in me hands, and I asked her what we'd done and what we could do.'
Milly fell silent. Ernie Dawber looked round the room, at the grasses and dried flowers, at Milly's paintings of flowers and gardens. At Milly herself, always so chubby and bonny. For the first time, she looked not fat but bloated, as if the rain had swelled her up like the Moss.
'And what happened?' Ernie said after a while. He thought of himself as one of the dried-out roots hanging in bundles from the cross-beam. Shrivelled, easy to snap, but possessed of certain condensed pungency. Put him in the soup and he could still restore the flavour. He looked closely at Milly and saw she was weeping silently.
'Well?' he said softly.
'If she was telling me anything,' Milly said, 'I couldn't hear it. Couldn't hear for the rain.' Shaw said, 'What have you got on under that cloak?'
'Not a thing.' Sitting at Shaw's mother's dressing table, Therese had rubbed some sort of foundation stuff into her face, to darken her complexion, and painted around her eyes. 'But it's not for you tonight. You can get excited though, if you like – make him jealous.'
Shaw touched her shoulder through the black wool.
She turned and looked at him, her eyes very dark. The look said, Get away from me.
Shaw winced.
He looked over at the bed, at his mother's well-worn dressing gown thrown across it. He was surprised she hadn't taken it with her.
'Therese,' he said, 'how was she really? When she left.'
'Your mother? Fine. She'll be enjoying the change.'
'I'm not over-happy about it. She's a dismal old cow, but…'
'Relax. Or rather, don't relax. Look, she didn't want to be here. She's really not very sociable these days, is she? Especially where the brewery's concerned.'
He watched Therese's eyes in the mirror. She could always, in any circumstances, make things happen. Yesterday, his mother had been almost hysterical when he said he'd be bringing the Gannons chairman over for drinks. This morning the old girl was missing but Therese – miraculously, shockingly – was in Shaw's bed, and Therese said, 'Oh, I popped in last night, and we had a terrific heart-to-heart, Liz and I. She's become far too insular, you know, losing all her confidence. Anyway, I persuaded her to go to the Palace in Buxton for a couple of days. Packed her case, ordered her a taxi before she could change her mind. Wasn't that clever of me?'
Yes, yes, he'd been so relieved. The old girl would have been suspicious as anything if he'd suggested it. He remembered the Malta idea. Hopeless. But trust Therese to win her confidence.
Trust Therese. Drifting around the house rearranging things; how the house had changed in just a few hours, a museum coming alive.
'What've you got there?'
She'd picked up a black cloth bag from the dressing table, tightened its drawstrings and set it down again.
'Hair.' She turned the word into a long, satisfied breath 'Beautiful, long black hair.'
'Hair?'
'With a single gorgeous strand of white. I had to use a wig for so long. But there's no substitute for the real thing.'
'Can I look?'
'Of course not. Don't you learn anything? If it's taken out now, it loses half its energy. That was why it was important to leave her as long as possible. And it's nicely matted with blood, too, now, which is a bonus.'
'It's all moving too fast for me,' said Shaw. 'That comb… does that tie in?'
'Well, the comb was a problem at first, actually. It's had to be sort of reconsecrated. We're not touching that either until the moment comes.'
She stretched. Her slim arms – leanly, tautly muscular – emerging from the folds of the black cloak. 'Then I shall uncover the hair and run the comb through it. You know how combing your hair can generate electricity? If you comb it in the dark, looking into a mirror, you can sometimes see blue sparks. Ever done that?'
'With my hair?'
Therese laughed. 'Poor Shaw. One day, perhaps.'
Shaw said, 'I'm sure it must have grown another quarter of an inch since I… you know, since Ma Wagstaff.'
'There you are, you see. First you simply felt better. Now you even look better. And after tonight…'
Shaw said, 'I'm not sure I really want to be there. I'll be so scared, I'll probably screw up or something.'
'Nonsense.' Therese lifted the hood of the cloak. 'How do I look?'
Her voice had a husky, slightly Scottish edge.
Shaw shuddered.