The Magus of Hay(24)

Merrily twisted away. The window overlooking Broad Street and the Cathedral Green was grey with mist.

‘You may as well have it all. She then asked what procedure she might follow if she wanted to file a complaint. Now that isn’t—’

‘Against me, personally?’

‘Or the Church. It wasn’t clear. But it isn’t going to happen.’

Merrily pulled her bag from the desk, stood up.

‘Merrily, do sit down. It’s an irrational complaint. George Curtiss will clarify things for her. Make her see sense.’

‘And the Bishop didn’t see fit to talk to me first?’

‘No time. Had to catch his train to London. He’ll be away for three or four days.’

‘Taking only emergency calls. Sure.’

‘Look it’s absolutely no reflection on you. He knows you’d never overreact to that extent. He simply doesn’t see it as a Deliverance issue, that’s all. Not now.’

‘Or not something he wants me to handle. Too sensitive. Meaning politically sensitive.’

‘Exorcism’s been on thin ice for several years now,’ Sophie said. ‘Still in favour in some parts of the Vatican, but you won’t find any corresponding enthusiasm in the C. of E. at present. But then you know that. Merrily, you’re—’

‘I know. Tired.’

Clutching her car keys, she stood in the dampness, looking blankly around the Bishop’s Palace yard. Had she parked the Volvo here or left it in King Street?

Her gaze had passed twice over the black Freelander before she remembered it was hers. This had happened twice before; she’d come rushing out of somewhere, absently looking for the old Volvo with its familiar dents and its rusty scabs, the Volvo that was two weeks traded in, on the advice of a reliable garage guy, friend of Gomer Parry. It had felt like putting an elderly relative into a Home.

She sagged into the Freelander, feeling absurdly tearful. Everything was changing, all the certainties in her life. Lol going back on the road, what if that triggered some old impulses: booze, dope, groupies? OK, not the Lol she knew, but she hadn’t known him back in the days when he was almost famous.

And she was tired of subterfuge. Having to hide from Sophie that it was actually Sian Callaghan-Clarke, the Archdeacon, who’d discreetly asked her to accept Martin Longbeach as a holiday locum. Keep an eye on him, but don’t let him know you’re doing it. Was she expected to grass him up if he did anything unstable, in or out of the chancel? And if she didn’t?

Leaving the palace yard under the archway, she wondered if the Bishop wanted her out… out of the psychic sector, anyway. Periodically, the C. of E. would attempt to shrink its exorcism role: an embarrassing anachronism, sometimes dangerous, rarely politically correct. Untraceable reports and memos submitted to the shadowy guardians at Church House. Huw Owen had warned her enough times.

All politics now, lass. Women bishops, gay bishops, cross-dressing bishops, sheep-shagging bishops… I’ve nowt against any of it, it just didn’t used to be what they like to call an Issue. All the Church does now is react to the whims of a society that’s lost all awareness of itself and thinks arseholes like Dawkins wi’ a string of degrees are possessed of actual wisdom. In the old days, society used to react to us.

Huw laughing like a maniac, stretching out his legs, shoeless feet exposed to the open fire at his rectory in the Beacons until, as usual, his socks had begun to smoulder.

I reckon we have one advantage, lass, folks like us… though it’s also a disadvantage. Most of the clergy still believe in a God, of sorts, but most of the general public… they believe in ghosts.





12

Cripple


BETTY HAD LEFT Robin painting tree shadows on the shop walls between the bookcases while she shopped for food in Hay.

The sun was out, tourists on the streets. Book tourists. You could pick them out by the shabby-chic clothing, bum bags and back-carriers for babies, some of the men in Bohemian wide-brimmed hats. All kind of middle-class neo-hippy, and Mr and Mrs Oliver looked more like tourists than locals.

They were coming out of Jones the Chemists, one of the oldest businesses in town, Mr Oliver stuffing packages into an old Waitrose bag-for-life.

‘—right then. If I go and pick up the rest and see you outside Shepherds in say an hour?’

Crossing the road arching his neck in his purposeful way. When, half an hour later, Betty saw Mrs Oliver – long skirt, summery bag on a sash – walk into the ewe’s milk ice cream parlour, she followed her in, introduced herself.

‘And when are you opening?’ Mrs Oliver said.

She was comfortably plump, hair short and near-white. Diamond earrings, sharp eyes, gardener’s tan.