hapter II

Close up, she was like a dark, crooked finger pushing out of the earth, beckoning him into the brambles.

    When he looked back from the entrance to the field, she'd shrivelled into something more sinister: a bent and twisted old woman. A crippled crone.

    Or maybe just the broken stump of a fence post. Maybe only that.

    She hadn't been visible from here at all until, earlier that day, Mr. Kettle had put on his thick gloves and pulled away the brambles, then pruned the hedge around her so that she stood naked, not even a covering of moss.

    Now he'd brought Goff to see his discovery, and he should have felt a bit proud, but he didn't. All the time he'd been cutting away the undergrowth something had been pulling at him, saying. Leave it be, Henry, you're doing no good here.

    But this was his job, and this stone was what showed he'd earned his money. It made a nonsense of the whole business if he didn't reveal the only real evidence that proved the line was there, falling sure as a shadow across the field, dead straight, between two youngish oak trees and . . .

    'See that gate?'

    'The metal gate?'

    'Aye, but he's likely replaced generations of wooden ones, Mr. Kettle said, his voice rolling easy now, like the hills around them. Even without the final proof he'd have been confident of this one. Wonderful feeling it was, when you looked up and everything in the landscape - every hill and every tree, every hedge, every gateway - suddenly smiled at you and nodded and said you were right, you done it again, boy.

    Like shaking hands with God.

    Happening again, so suddenly like this, everything dovetailing, it had taken his mind off the doubts, and he'd been asking himself: how can there be anything wrong, when it all falls together so neatly.

    He indicated the gate again. 'Prob'ly the cattle chose the spot, you following me?'

    'Because they'd always go out that way! Out of the field, right?'

    'You're learning.' Though it was still warmish, Mr. Kettle wore a heavy tweed suit. He carried what once had been a medical bag of scuffed black leather, softened with age. The tools of the trade in there, the forked twigs and the wire rods and the pendulums. But the tools weren't important; they just made the clients feel better about paying good money to a walking old wives' tale like him.

    Max Goff had a white suit, a Panama hat and the remains of an Aussie accent. For a long time Mr. Kettle had found it hard to take him seriously, all the daft stuff he came out with about wells of sacred power and arteries of healing energy and such.

    The New Age - he kept on about that. Mr. Kettle had heard it all before. Twenty years ago they were knocking on his door in their Indian kaftans and head-bands, following him out to stone circles, like Mitchell's Fold up in Shropshire, where they'd sit smoking long, bendy cigarettes and having visions, in between pawing each other. Now it was a man in a white suit with a big, powerful motor car, but it was the same old thing.

    Many, many times he'd explained to people that what he did was basically about science. Wonderful, yes - even after all these years the thrill was there all right. But it was a natural  thing. Nothing psychic about dowsing.

    What sun there'd been had all but gone now, leaving a  mournful old sky with clouds like a battle-flag torn into muddy, blood-stiffened strips. It hadn't been a good spring and it  wouldn't be a good summer.

    'Now look up from the gate,' said Mr. Kettle.

    'Yeah, that . . . church steeple, you mean?'

    'No, no, before that. Side of that bit of a hedge.'

    'Oh . . . that thing.'

    The old girl was about a hundred yards down the field, separated from the hedge now, blackened against the light, no more than three feet tall. But she was there, that was the point. In the right place.

    'Yes,' Mr. Kettle said. 'That thing.'

    It was no good, he didn't like her. Even if she'd proved him right he didn't like the feeling coming off her, the smell that you could smell from a good distance, although not really.

    'Is it a tree stump?' And then, 'Hey, you're kidding, it can't be!' The little eyes suddenly sparking. He'd be ruthless and probably devious in his business, this feller, but he had this enthusiastic innocence about him that you couldn't altogether dislike.

    'Jeez,' Goff said. 'I thought they'd all gone!'
    'Why don't you go over and have a look at 'er?' Mr. Kettle put down his bag and sat on it under the hedge and patted the grass so that Arnold, his dog, would sit down, too. And they both sat and watched this bulky, bearded bloke making his ungainly way across the tufted meadow. Impatient, stumbling, because he'd thought they'd all gone, the old stones of Crybbe. . .

Mr. Kettle, too, had believed they'd all gone, until this morning when they'd finally let him into the field for the first time and he'd located the line and walked slowly along it, letting it talk to him, a low murmur.

    And then the tone had altered, strengthened, calling out to him, the way they did. 'I'm here, Henry, the only standing stone left standing within a mile of Crybbe.'

    Or vibrations to that effect. As megaliths went, she wasn't impressive, but she hadn't lost her voice. Not a voice he liked, though; he felt it was high and keening and travelled on a thin, dry wind.

    But it proved he hadn't lost his capacity to receive. The faculty.

    'Still there, then, Arnold. Every time I goes out I reckon it isn't bound to work any more,' He scratched the dog's head. 'But it's still there, boy.'

    The only conclusion Mr. Kettle could reach about why this stone had survived was that there must've been a wood here and the thing had been buried in brambles. And if they'd noticed her at all, they, like Goff, might have thought it was just an old tree stump.

    He could see the figure in the white suit bending over the stone and then walking all around, contemplating the thing from different angles, as if hoping she'd speak to him. Which, of course, she wouldn't because if Goff had possessed the faculty there'd have been no reason to send for Henry Kettle.

    An odd customer, this Goff, and no mistake. Most of the people who consulted dowsers - that is, actually paid them - had good practical reasons. Usually farmers looking for a water supply for their stock. Or occasionally people who'd lost something. And now and then those afflicted by rheumatics, or worse, because they'd got a bad spring under the house.

    'Why am I still thinking he's trouble then, Arnie?'

    The dog considered the question, looked serious.

    Well, hell, he didn't want to think that. Not at all, became this Goff was the first person who'd ever paid him to go ley-hunting.

    'Mr. Kettle,' he'd said, coming straight to the point, which Mr. Kettle liked, 'I've been advised that this used to be quite a centre for prehistoric remains, and I wanna know, basically, what happened to them. Can you find out where they used to be? The old stones? The burial mounds? And I'm told you can kind of detect ley-lines, too, yeah?'

    'Well,' Mr. Kettle had said carefully, 'I know what you mean. It do sometimes seem they fall into straight lines, the old monuments.'

    'No need to be coy with me, Mr. Kettle. I'm not afraid to call a ley-line a ley-line.'

    Now this had, at first, been a joy, taking the old chap back nigh on seventy years. He remembered - a memory like a faded sepia photo - being on a hazy hilltop with his father and other members of the Straight Track Club. Mr. Watkins pointing out the little bump on the horizon and showing how the line progressed to it from mound, to stone, to steeple. The others nodding, impressed. The picture frozen there: Mr. Watkins, arm outstretched, bit of a smile under his stiff beard.

    Now, remarkably - and loathe as Mr. Kettle had been, at first, to admit it - this Goff had stumbled on something Mr. Watkins would, no question, have given his right arm to know about.

    So it had proved unexpectedly exciting, this survey, this ley-hunt. Bit of an eye-opener. To say the least.
    Until . . .

    One morning, knowing there had to have been a stone in a particular place in Big Meadow and then digging about and finding part of it buried nearby, Mr. Kettle had got a feeling that something about this was not regular. In most areas, old stones were lost gradually, over centuries, plucked out at random, when exasperation at the damage done to a plough or a harrow had finally overcome the farmer's inbred superstition.

    But at Crybbe, he was sure, it had been systematic.

    Like a purge.

    Mr. Kettle's excitement was dampened then by a bad feeling that just wouldn't go away. When he dug up the stone he thought he could smell it - something faintly putrid, as if he'd
unearthed a dead sheep.

    And, as a man who lived by his feelings, he wondered if he ought to say something. About the purge on the stones. About the history of the Court - John Dee, Black Michael and the hangings. And about the legends, which travelled parallel to history and sometimes, if you could decode them, told you far more about what had really happened than the fusty old documents in the county archives.

    Mr. Kettle, who kept his own records, was getting more and more interested in Crybbe - wishing, though, that he didn't have to be. Wishing he could ignore it. Detecting a problem here, a serious long-term problem, and wishing he could turn his back on it.

    But, as the problem was likely to remain long after he'd gone, he'd taken steps to pass on his fears. With a feller like this Max Goff blundering about the place, there should always be somebody who knew about these things - somebody trustworthy - to keep an eye open.

    He supposed he ought to warn Goff, but the thought of 'something sinister' would probably only make the place more appealing.

    'And, anyway, you can't tell these New Age types anything, can you, Arnold?' Mr. Kettle was scratching the dog's head again. 'No, you can't, boy.'

Ten minutes later Goff was back, puffing, the flush in his cheeks making his close-mown beard seem even redder. Excitement coming off him like steam.

    'Mr. Kettle, let me get this right. According to your calculations, this is line B, right?'

    'That's correct.'

    'And by following this line, as you dowsed it, we suddenly come across what could be the only remaining stone in the alignment. Is it exactly where you figured it'd be?'

    'Well . . . Mr. Kettle got to his feet and picked up his bag. Max Goff eyed it.

    'Got the rods in there? Can we dowse the line some more, maybe find another stone?'

    No, we bloody can't, Mr. Kettle thought. You might as well ask, how about if we grabs hold of this electric cable to see if he's live?

    He saw, to his dismay, that Goff was looking at him in some kind of awe; he'd found a new guru. It was not a role Mr. Kettle fancied. 'Getting late,' he said. 'I ought to be away. Don't like driving in the dark these days.'

    'When can you come again?'

    'Look,' Mr. Kettle said. 'I'm an old man. I likes my fireside and my books. And besides, you got it all now. You know where they all are. Or used to be.'

    This Goff was a man whose success in business had convinced him that if you knew a source, knowledge and experience could be bought like . . . what would this feller buy?. . .
cocaine? Mr. Kettle, who still read two newspapers every day, knew a bit about Max Goff and the kind of world he came from.

    'Maybe your role in this is only just beginning,' Goff said. 'How about I send a car for you next time?'

    Money was no object for this bugger. Made his first million by the time he was twenty-seven, Mr. Kettle had read, by starting his own record company. Epidemic, it was called. And it had spread like one. Now it was international magazines and book publishing.

    'Well,' Mr. Kettle said. 'Isn't much more as I can tell you, anyway. You've got the maps. Nothing more to be found, even if you excavates, I reckon.'

    'Hmmm.' Goff was making a show of being unconvinced, as they followed what Mr. Kettle now thought of, wrote of in his journal - but never spoke of - as the Dark Road, the Thoroughfare of the Dead. Returning at dusk, back into Crybbe, a town which had loitered since the Middle Ages, and probably before, in the area where England hardened into Wales.

    On the very border.

CHAPTER III

It was the seventh bell they always rang, for the curfew. Almost rang itself these days. Seventeen years Jack had been doing it. Didn't need to think much about it any more. Went regular as his own heartbeat.
    The bell clanged above him.
    Jack let the rope slide back through his hands.

    Seventy-three.

    His hands closed again around the rope.
    Seventy-four.

    He hadn't been counting. At any point during the ringing Jack could tell you what number he was on. His arms knew. His stomach knew.

    One hundred times every night. Starting at ten o'clock. Newcomers to the town, they'd asked him, 'Don't you find it spooky, going up there, through that graveyard, up all those narrow stone steps, with the church all dark, and the bell-ropes just hanging there?'

    'Don't think about it,' Jack would say. And it was true; he didn't.

    There were eight bells in the tower, and that was reckoned to be a good peal for this part of the country.

    For weddings, sometimes in the old days, they'd all be going. Even fairly recently - though not any more - it had been known for some snooty bride from Off to bring in a handful of bell-ringers from her own parish for the big day. This had only been permitted for weddings, sometimes. On Sundays, never. And not Christmas. Not even Easter.

    And also, every few years some bearded clown in a sports jacket would pass through. And then the church or the town council would gel a letter from the secretary of some group of nutters that travelled the country ringing other people's bells.

    The town council would say no.

    Occasionally - this was the worst problem - there'd be somebody like Colonel Croston who'd moved in from Hereford, where he was reckoned to have been in the SAS. He liked to keep fit. Jogged around the place.

    And rang bells, as a hobby.

    He'd been a pain in the neck at first, had Colonel Croston. 'No bell-ringers apart from you, Jack? That's appalling. Look, you leave this one to me.'

    Jack Preece remembered the Colonel putting up posters inviting all able-bodied folk to come to the church one Friday night and learn the ropes. 'Give me six months. Guarantee I'll knock them into shape.'

    Jack had gone along himself because he didn't like the thought of youngsters running up and down the stone steps and swinging on his ropes.

    When the two of them had been waiting around for nearly an hour he let the despondent Colonel take him for a drink.
    'Doesn't deserve these bells, Jack, this town.'

    'Aye, aye,' Jack had said non-committally, and had permitted Colonel Croston to buy him a large brandy.

    He hadn't bothered to tell the Colonel that even he only knew how to ring the curfew using the seventh bell. Well, no point in buggering with the others, see, was there? No point in making a show. They could have pulled the other bells down and flogged them off for scrap, far as Jack Preece was concerned.

    Anyhow, what they'd done now, to save a lot of bother and pestering was to take down all the ropes. Except, of course the one that rang the seventh bell.

    Some nights, Jack would be real knackered after a day's dipping, or shearing, or lambing. He'd stagger up them steps, hurting all over his body, dying for a pint and aching for his bed. Some nights he'd grab hold of that rope just to stop himself falling over.

    Still the hundred would be done. And done on time.

    And it was on nights like this that Jack felt sometimes he was helped. Felt the belfry was kind of aglow, and other hands were pulling on the rope beside his own.

    Spooky?

    Well, he didn't think about it. Where was the point in that?

They walked slowly into the town over a river bridge with old brick walls which badly needed pointing, the river flat and sullen below. Past a pub, the Cock, with flaky paintwork and walls that had once been whitewashed but now looked grey and unwashed.

    A dark, smoky, secretive little town. There was still an afterglow on the fields, but the town was already embracing the night.

    Mr. Kettle had never been to Paris or New York. But if, tonight, he was to be flown into either of them, he suspected he wouldn't feel any more of a stranger than he did entering Crybbe - a town he'd lived within twenty miles of all his life.

    This town, it wasn't remote exactly, not difficult to reach, yet it was isolated. Outsiders never had reason to pass through it on the way to anywhere. Because, no matter where you wanted to reach, there was always a better way to get there than via Crybbe. Three roads intersected here, but they were B roads, two starting in Wales - one leading eventually to Hereford, the other to Ludlow - and the other . . . well, buggered if he knew where that one went.

    Max Goff, almost glowing in his white suit, was striding into the dimness of the town, like Dr Livingstone or somebody, with a pocketful of beads for the natives.

    They'd take the beads, the people here. They wouldn't thank him, but they'd take the beads.

    Henry Kettle didn't claim to understand the people of Crybbe. They weren't hostile and they weren't friendly. They kept their heads down, that was all you could say about them.
A local historian had once told him this was how towns and villages on the border always used to be. If there was any cross-border conflict between the English and the Welsh they never took sides openly until it was clear which was going to win. Also, towns of no importance were less likely to be attacked and burned.

    So keeping their heads down had got to be a way of life.

    Tourists must turn up sometimes. By accident, probably. Mr. Kettle reckoned most of them wouldn't even bother to park. Sure the buildings were ancient enough, but they weren't painted and polished up like the timber-frame villages on the Hereford black-and-white trail. Nothing here that said 'visit me' with any enthusiasm, because there was no sense of pride.

    From the church tower, above the cobbled square, a lone bell was clanging dolefully into the musty dusk. It was the only sound there was.

    'What's that?' Goff demanded.

    'Only the curfew.'

    Goff stopped on the cobbles, his smile a great gash. 'Hey really . . . ? This is a real curfew, like in the old days?'

    'No,' Mr. Kettle said. 'Not really. That's to say, people are no longer required to be off the streets by nightfall. Just tradition nowadays. The Preece family, it is, performs the duty. One of 'em goes up the belfry, God knows how many steps every night, summer and winter; nine-thirty, or is it ten?'

    He looked up at the church clock but it was too dark to make out where its hands were pointing. He was sure there used to be a light on that clock. 'Hundred times it rings, anyway.'

    'Might only be a tradition, but there's still nobody on the streets,' Max Goff observed. 'Is there?'

    'That's 'cause they're all in the pubs,' said Mr. Kettle. 'No, what it is, there's some old trust fund arranges for the bell to be rung. The Preeces get grazing rights on a few acres of land in return for keeping up the custom. Passed down, father to son, for four hundred-odd years. Being farmers, they always has plenty sons.'

    They stood in the square until the ringing stopped.

    'Crazy,' Goff said, shaking his big head in delight. 'Cray-zee. This is the first night I've spent here, y'know?'I've always stayed in Hereford. It's magic, Mr. Kettle. Hey, we still on the line?'

    'I suppose we must be. Aye, see the little marker by there?'

    A stone no more than a foot high, not much more than a bump in the cobbles. Goff squatted next to it and held his palms over it, as though he expected it to be hot or to light up or something. The dog, Arnold, watched, his head on one side as if puzzled by a human being who went down on all fours to sniff the places where dogs had pissed.

    Two middle-aged women walked across the square talking in low voices. They stopped talking as they walked past Goff, but didn't look at him, nor Mr. Kettle, nor each other.

    Then they went rigid, because suddenly Arnold's head was back and he was howling.

    'Jeez!' Goff sprang up. The two women turned, and Mr. Kettle felt he was getting a very dark, warning look, the women's faces shadowed almost to black.

    'Arnold!' With some difficulty - beginning to think he must have a bad spring under his own house, the way his rheumatism had been playing up lately - Mr. Kettle got down on his knees and pulled the dog to him. 'Sorry, ladies.'

    The women didn't speak, stood there a moment then turned and walked away quickly as the howling subsided, because Mr. Kettle had a hand clamped around Arnold's jaws. 'Daft bugger, Arnold.'

    'Why'd it do that?' Goff asked, without much interest.
    'I wish I knew, Mr. Goff.'

    Mr. Kettle wanted some time to think about this. Because for a long time he'd thought it was just a drab little town, full of uninspired, interbred old families and misfits from Off. And now, he thought, it's more than that. More than inbreeding and apathy.

    He unclamped the dog's jaws, and Arnold gave him a reproachful glance and then shook his head.

    There were lights in some town houses now. They lit the rooms behind the curtains but not the square, not even a little, folk in this town had never thrown their light around.

    'OK?' Goff said, feet planted firmly on the cobbles, legs splayed, quite relaxed. Wasn't getting it, was he? Wasn't feeling the resistance? Didn't realize he was among the descendants of the people who'd pulled up the stones.

    Mr. Kettle was getting to his feet, one hand against the wall, like his old bones, the brick seemed infirm. The people here, they cared nothing for their heritage.

    And their ancestors had torn up the stones.

    Goff was just a big white blob in the dim square. Mr. Kettle walked to where their cars were parked in a little bay behind the church overhung with yew trees. His own car was a dusty VW Estate. Goff had a Ferrari.

    'Come to dinner, OK?' Goff said. 'When I've moved into the Court.'

    'You're going through with it, then?'
    'Try and stop me.'

    'Can I say something?' Henry Kettle had been thinking about this for the past fifteen minutes or so. He didn't much like Goff, but he was a kindly old chap, who wanted at least to put out a steadying hand.
    'Of course.'

    Mr. Kettle stood uneasily in the semi-dark. 'These places . . .' he began, and sucked in his lips, trying to concentrate. Trying to get it right.

    'I suppose what I'm trying to say is places like this, they - how can I put it? - they invites a kind of obsession.' He fell silent, watching the buildings in the square hunching together as the night took over.

    A harsh laugh came out of Goff. 'Is that it?' he asked rudely.

    Mr. Kettle unlocked his car door and opened it for Arnold 'Yes,' he said, half-surprised because he'd thought he was going to say more. 'Yes, I suppose that is it.'

    He couldn't see the dog anywhere. 'Arnie!' he called out sharply. He'd had this problem before, the dog slinking silent away, clearly not at ease, whimpering sometimes.

    He hadn't gone far this time, though. Mr. Kettle found him pressed into the churchyard wall, ears down flat, panting with anxiety. 'All right, Arn, we're leaving now,' Mr. Kettle said patting him - his coat felt lank and plastered down, as if he was the first dog ever to sweat. This was it with a dowser's dog - he'd pick up on the things his master was after and, being a dog and closer to these matters anyway, his response would be stronger.

    Slipping his hand under Arnold's collar, Mr. Kettle led him back to the car and saw Goff standing there quite still in his white suit and his Panama hat, like an out-of-season snowman.

    'Mr. Kettle,' Goff took a steep breath. 'Perhaps I ought, explain. This place ... I mean, look around . . . it's remote, half-forgotten, run-down. For centuries its people lived from the land, right? But now agriculture's in decline, it doesn't provide extra jobs any more, and there's nothing here to replace it. This town's in deep shit, Mr. Kettle.'

    Mr. Kettle couldn't argue with that; he didn't say anything. Watched Max Goff spread his hands, Messiah-style.

    'And yet, in prehistory, this was obviously a sacred place,' Goff said. 'We have this network of megalithic sites - a dozen or so standing stones, suggestions of a circle or a henge. And the Tump, of course. Strong indications that this was a major focus of the Earth Force. A centre of terrestrial energy, yeah? Do you see any signs of that energy now?'

    'People pulled the stones out,' Mr. Kettle said.

    'Precisely. And what happened? They lost touch with it.'

    'Lost touch with what?'

    'With the life force, Mr. Kettle! Listen, give me your opinion on this. Whaddaya think would happen if. . . ?'

    Max Goff walked right up to Mr. Kettle in the ill-lit square and looked down at him, lowering his voice as if he were about to offer him a tip for the stock market. Mr. Kettle felt most uneasy. He was getting the dead-sheep smell.

    'Whadda you think would happen,' Goff whispered, 'if we were to put the stones back?'

    Well, Mr. Kettle thought, that depends. Depends on the true nature of leys, about which we know nothing, only speculate endlessly. Depends whether they're forgotten arteries of what you New Age fellers like to call the Life Force. Or whether they're something else, like paths of the dead.

    But all he said was, 'I don't know, Mr. Goff. I wouldn't like to say.'

How old was the box, then?
    Warren Preece reckoned it was at least as old as the panelling in the farmhouse hall, which was estimated to be just about the oldest part of the house. So that made it sixteenth century or so.

    He was into something here all right. And the great thing, the really fucking great thing about this was that no other bastard knew about it. Lived in this house all his life, but he'd never had cause to poke about in the chimney before - well, you wouldn't, would you? - until that morning, when his old man had shouted, 'Put that bloody guitar down, Warren, and get off your arse and hold this torch, boy!'

    Piss off, Warren had spat under his breath, but he'd done it, knowing what a bastard the old man could be when a job wasn't going right.

    Then, standing in the fireplace, shining the torch up the chimney - the old man on a step-ladder struggling to pull the crumbling brick out - a bloody great lump of old cement had fallen away and broken up and some of the dust had gone in Warren's eye.

    'You clumsy bastard. Dad!' Warren fell back, dropping the torch, ramming a knuckle into his weeping eye, hearing masonry crumbling where he'd staggered and kicked out. If he made it to college without being registered disabled through living in this broken-down pile of historic crap, it'd be a real achievement.

    'Come on. Warren, don't mess about! I need that light.'

    'I'm f . . . Hang on, Dad, I can't flaming see.' Hunched in the fireplace, scraping at his gritty, watery eye.

    And it was then, while picking up the torch - flashing it on and off to make sure the bulb hadn't broken when he'd dropped it - that Warren found this little tunnel.

    It was no more than a deepish recess in the side wall of the fireplace, about eighteen inches off the ground. Which would have put it on a level with the top of the dog grate, when they'd had one. Must have been where he'd kicked back with his heel, hacking off a cob of sixteenth-century gunge.

    Warren shone the light into the recess and saw what looked like carving. Put a hand inside, felt about.

    Hey, this was . . .

    'Warren! What you bloody doing down there, boy?'
    Quickly he shoved bits of brick into the opening, ramming them tight with the heel of his trainer. Then shone the torch back up the chimney for the old man pretty damn fast.

    In fact, for the rest of the day he'd been a very willing labourer - 'You stay there, Dad, I'll get it.' 'Want me to mix the cement down here and pass it up, Dad?' 'Cuppa tea, Dad?' Anything so the old man'd get the job done and bugger off out of the way.

    The old man had been surprised and pleased, grinning through a faceful of soot, patting Warren on the shoulder. 'We done a good job there, boy. He won't set on fire again, that ole chimney. Fancy a pint?'

    He'd never said that before. Well, not to Warren. Most nights, sometimes with Jonathon, he just went off to the Cock without a word.

    So Warren, too, was surprised and almost pleased. But wasn't going for no pint with the old man tonight. No way.

    'Told Tessa I'd be round, Dad. Sorry.'

    The old man looked quite relieved. Warren had watched him tramping off up the track, eager to wash the dust out of his throat. So eager he hadn't bothered to clean up the mess in the hearth and so hadn't noticed anything he shouldn't.

    Stupid git.

    Warren got himself a can of Black Label from the fridge and went back to the fireplace to pull out them old bricks.

    He'd got the box out, was squatting on the hearth, dusting off, when he heard Jonathon's car. He'd tucked the box under his arm - bloody heavy, it was, too - and got it out through the back door and round the back of the barn, where he'd hidden it in the bottom of an old water-butt.

    And gone up to his room and waited for Jonathon to piss off.

The way he saw it, you didn't seal up an oak box like this and stash it away in a secret compartment in the chimney unless there was something pretty damn valuable inside. And, as he'd discovered, just about anything a bit old was valuable these days.

    Warren had a mate, a guy who got rid of stuff, no questions asked. He could be looking at big money here on the box alone, it was in good nick, this box, sealed up warm and dry for centuries. Warren looked at the box and saw- a new amplifier for the band. He looked harder and saw this second-hand Stratocaster guitar. Felt the Strat hanging low round his hip, its neck slippy with sweat.

    The curfew bell was tolling in the distance. His dad had sunk a swift pint and plodded off up the tower to do his night duty, silly old bugger.

    Why do you keep on doing that. Dad? Don't pay, do it? And no bugger takes any notice 'part from setting their watches.'

    'Tradition, boy. Your grandad did it for over thirty year. And when I gets too rheumaticky to climb them steps Jonathon'll do it, right, son?'

    Jonathon nodding. He was always 'son', whereas Warren was 'the boy'. Said something, that did.

    What it said was that Jonathon, the eldest son, was going to get the farm. Well, OK, if Jonathon wanted to wallow in shit, shag sheep all his life, well, fair enough.

    Warren didn't give a toss about going to college in Hereford either, except that was where the other guys in the band lived.

    But Crybbe - he could hardly believe this - was where Max Goff was going to be.

    Max Goff, of Epidemic Records.

    He'd seen him. Been watching him for days. Somehow Max Goff had to hear the band. Because this band was real good - he could feel it. This band fucking cooked.

    The box was in one of the sheds on the old workbench now. He'd rigged up an old lambing light to work by, realizing this was going to be a delicate operation. Didn't want to damage the box, see, because it could be worth a couple of hundred on its own.

    Now. He had a few tools set out on the bench: hammer, screwdriver, chisel, Stanley knife. Precision stuff, this.
    Warren grinned.

    OK, if it came to it, he would have to damage it, because he hadn't got all bloody night. But better to go in from underneath than cut the lid, which had a bit of a carving on it nothing fancy, like, nothing clever, just some rough symbols. Looked like they'd been done with a Stanley knife. A sixteenth century Stanley knife. Warren had to laugh.

    Round about then, Crybbe had another power cut, although Warren Preece, working in the shed with a lambing light, wasn't affected at all.

But Fay Morrison was furious.

    She'd always preferred to do her editing at night, especially in the days when she was producing complete programmes, there'd just be her and the tape-machine under a desk-lamp, and then, when the tape was cut together, she would switch off the lamp and sit back, perhaps with a coffee, and play it through in the cosy darkness. Only a red pilot-light and the soft green glow of the level-meters, the gentle swish of the leader tape gliding past the heads.

    Magic.

    This was what made radio so much more satisfying than television. The intimacy of moments like this. And the fact that you could do all the creative work on your own, only going into studio for the final mix.

    Fay really missed all that. Hadn't imagined she'd miss it so much.

    Tonight, she'd waited until her father had wandered off to the pub for his nightly whisky and his bar-supper. And then she'd gone into her office, which used to be Grace Legge's sitting-room.

    And still was, really, in the daytime. But at night you could switch off the G-plan furnishing and the fifties fireplace, and the front room of Number 8, Bell Street, Crybbe, became more tolerable, with only a second-hand Revox visible in the circle light from the Anglepoise.

    Fay had a package to edit for Offa's Dyke Radio. Only a six-minute piece to be slotted into somebody else's afternoon chat-and-disc show on what was arguably the worst local shoe-string station in the country.

    But it was still radio, wasn't it? After a fashion.

    And this morning, doing her contribution for a series on - yawn, yawn - 'people with unusual hobbies', Fay had actually got interested in something. For a start, he was ever such a nice old chap - most of the people around here, far from being quaint rural characters, were about as appealing as dried parsnip.
    And he'd actually been happy to talk to her, which was a first. Until, she'd come here. Fay had encountered very few people who didn't want to be on the radio: no cameras, no lights, and no need to change your shirt or have your hair done. But in this area, people would make excuses - 'Oh, I'm too busy, call again sometime.' Or simply refuse - 'I don't want be on the wireless' - as if, by collecting their voices on tape you were going to take their souls away.
    Yes, it was that primitive sometimes.
    Or so she felt.

    But the water-diviner, or dowser, had been different and Fay had been fascinated to learn how it was done. Nothing apparently, to do with the hazel twig, as such. Simply a faculty you developed through practice, nothing as airy-fairy as 'intuition'.

    And it definitely was not psychic.

    He kept emphasizing that, scrutinizing her a bit warily as she stood there, in her T-shirt and jeans, wishing she'd brought a sweater and a wind-muff for the microphone. It had been bit breezy in that field, even if tomorrow was Midsummer Day.

    'Do you think I could do it, Henry?' she'd asked, on tape. You always asked this question, sounding as if it had just occurred to you. There would then follow an amusing couple of minutes of your attempting to do whatever it was and, of course, failing dismally.

    'You could have a try,' he'd said, playing along. And she'd taken the forked twig in both hands. 'Hold it quite firmly so it doesn't slip, but don't grip it too hard. And, above all,
relax . . .'

    'OK,' she'd heard herself say through the speaker. And that was when the power went off.

    'Bloody hell!' Fay stormed to the window to see if the other houses in the street were off. Which they were.

    It was the fourth power cut in a month.

    'I don't believe it!'

    OK, you could imagine that on some distant rock in the Hebrides, even today, there would be quite a few times when the power got waylaid on its way from the mainland.

    But this was close to the epicentre of Britain. There were high mountains. And they were not in the middle of an electric storm.

    She couldn't remember if it was South Wales Electricity or Midlands Electricity. But neither could be up to much if they were unable to maintain supplies to a whole town - OK, a very small town - for longer than a fortnight without a break.

    Hereward Newsome, who ran the art gallery in town, had complained to his MP and tried to get up a petition about it, but he'd given that up in disgust after collecting precisely fifteen signatures, all from newcomers, including Fay and her dad.

    Of course, the Newsomes' problem did appear to be somewhat more serious. Not only were they having to suffer the power cuts but they were affected by other surges in supply, which, Hereward swore, were almost doubling their electricity bills. He was getting into a terrible state about it.

    Actually, Fay was a bit dubious about the huge bills being caused by a fault in the system. She grinned into the darkness, it was probably Jocasta's vibrator, on overdrive.

    There was a bump and the sound of two empty spools clattering to the floor.

    'Pushkin, is that you?'

    Grace's cats got everywhere.

    Fay decided she didn't like this room very much in the absolute dark.

    She felt along the wall for the tape-recorder plug, removed it and went to bed.
    Living in Crybbe would drive anybody to a vibrator.

Warren should have known.
    Sixteenth-century lock. Not as if it was Chubb's finest, was it? Stanley knife into the groove, sliding it around a bit, that's all it took. Then the screwdriver pushed into the gap. Hit just once with the palm of his hand.
    It didn't exactly fly open, the box. Well, it wouldn't, would it?
    Being as how it had turned out to be lead-lined.
    Fucking lead! No wonder it was so heavy. Good job he didn't tried to cut into it through the bottom.

    'Course that lead lining was a bit of a disappointment. Warren had been hoping the box weighed so much because was full of gold coins or something of that order. Lead, even antique lead, was worth bugger all, he was pretty sure of that.

    Funny smell.

    Well, not that funny. Old, it smelled old and musty. He moved the lambing light closer, poked a finger in.

    Cloth, it was. Some sort of old fabric, greyish. Better be a bit careful here, bloody old thing might disintegrate.

    On the other hand, he couldn't afford to waste any time. His old man - who wasn't much of a drinker - might even be on his way back from the church. He might, of course, have called back round the pub for one with Jonathon and his mates. (If Warren was in the pub with his mates and the old man came in, he'd turn his stool round, pretend he hadn't seen him, but Jonathon would call him over, buy him a pint; that was the kind of smarmy git Jonathon was.) But most likely he'd come home, getting a few early nights in before haymaking time and dipping and all that rural shit.

    And as he came up the track he'd see the light in the shed.

    Warren pulled the lamp down, away from the shed window. He couldn't see much through the glass, with its thick covering of cobwebs full of dust and dead insects, except that it was very nearly dark and there was a mist.

    He was feeling cold now, wanting to get it over with and go back to the house. It was going to be no big deal, anyway. Old papers probably. Some long-dead bugger's last will and testament.

    He prodded the cloth stuff with the end of the Stanley knife and then dug the blade in a bit and used the knife to pull the fabric out of the box in one lump.

    What was underneath the cloth was whiteish and yellowish like brittle old paper or parchment crumpled up.

    He gave it a prod.

    And the Stanley knife dropped out of Warren's fingers - fingers that had gone suddenly numb.
    'Aaaa . . .'

    Warren caught his breath, voice gone into a choke.

    The knife fell into the box and made this horrible little chinking noise.

Mr. Kettle raised a hand to Goff as he drove away. He was thinking, well, somebody had to buy the place. Better this rich, flash bugger - surely - than a family man with a cosy wife and perhaps a daughter or two, with horses for the stables and things to lose. Good things. Peace of mind. Balance of mind.

    He left the town on the Ludlow road which would take him past the Court. It wouldn't be Goff's only home. Well, he'd move in and stride around for a while, barking orders to battalions of workmen, changing this and restoring that in the hope it would give the house some personality, a bit of atmosphere. And then he'd get tired of the struggle and go back to London, and the Court would become a weekend home, then an every-other-weekend home, then a holiday home, then just an investment.

    Then he'd sell it.

    And the process would begin all over again.

    Dead ahead of him at this point, the Court crouched like an animal behind the Tump. The Tump was a mound which at some stage may or may not have had a castle on top. Trees sprouted from it now and brambles choked the slopes. The Tump was a field away from the road, about two hundred yards, and there was a wall around it.

    Arnold whined once and crept into the back seat where he lay down.

    Behind the wall, the Tump loomed black against the dull, smoky dregs of the dusk. All the more visible because there were no lights anywhere. Nothing. Had there been a power cut?

    It had always been obvious to Mr. Kettle that whether or not the Tump had once had a castle on it, before that - long, long before that - it had been a burial place of some importance. He'd been up there but found no sign of it having been excavated. Which was not that unusual; mounds like this were ten a penny in the Marches.

    The business of the stones. That was unusual.

    What would happen if he put them back, the same stones where you could find them, substitutes where they'd vanished entirely? Well, probably nothing. Nothing would happen. That was what Mr. Kettle told himself as he drove in the direction of the Tump along a road which vaguely followed the ley he'd marked on the Ordnance Survey map as 'line B'. The mound, of course, was on the line.

    He was relieved when the road swung away from the ley and the shadow of the Tump moved over from the windscreen to the side window. Now, why was that? Why was he relieved?

    He slowed for the final bend before the town sign and glanced in the mirror, seeing in the dimness the dog's intelligent eyes, wide, bright and anxious.

    'He don't know really what he's takin' on, Arn,' Mr. Kettle said, his voice softening as it always did when he and the dog were alone.

    He put out his left hand to switch on the headlights. Towns ended very abruptly in these parts. Full street lighting and then, in the blink of an eye, you were into the countryside, where different rules applied. But tonight there were no lights; it was all one.

    People said sometimes that the Court must be haunted, whatever that meant. Atmospherics, usually. The couple of times he'd been in there it had been cold and gloomy and had this miserable, uncared for kind of feeling. In Mr. Kettle's experience, so-called haunted houses were not normally like that - they could be quite bright and cheerful in the daytime, except for those cold bits. There were always cold bits.

    But what was wrong with the Court was more fundamental. It was a dead spot. Nothing psychic, though, you understand? Just nothing thrived there. Indeed, he couldn't figure out why it hadn't been abandoned and left to rot centuries ago, long before it had become a 'listed' building, deemed to be of historic interest.

    Arnold sprang up on the back seat and growled.

    'And what's up with you now?'

    The dog had his front paws on the back of Mr. Kettle's seat, his furry head against- his master's cheek, lips curled back, showing his teeth, white and feral in the gloom.

    Mr. Kettle tried to follow Arnie's gaze, thinking maybe the dog had caught sight of a badger ambling out of the hedge. But all he could see was the yellow of the headlights thrown back at him.

    He rubbed at the windscreen. 'Bugger me, Arn, that mist's come down quick tonight, boy.'

    But there was nothing moving in the mist. No noise, no lights, no badgers, not even tree shapes.

    Only the Tump.

He was up in the highest field now, but at the bottom end by the wood, the lambing light at his feet, the grass wet and cold, the sweat on him mingling with the mist, the spade handle clammy with it. He didn't care; he'd never felt like this before.

    Warren scraped the earth into the hole and pulled the turf back over it, slamming it down with the spade, jumping on it, getting it tight so nobody would know. Not that anybody came here; only the sheep, and the old man once or twice a year.

    Beneath the turf and the soil and the clay was the old box, buried good and deep, with the Stanley knife still inside it. It seemed right, somehow, to leave the knife in the box.

    Or it seemed not right to put his hand in the box and take the knife out.

    Not with the other hand in there.

'Where did that come from?'
    The dog snarled.

    The Tump was off-centre in the mist. But it shouldn't have been there at all because he'd passed it, he must have, couple of minutes ago at least.

    'Now just you sit down, you daft dog.' And then he looked up at the Tump and said suddenly, softly, 'You're not right, are you?'

    At that moment Arnold was thrown to the floor, as, without warning, the car lurched off to the right, the steering wheel spinning away so fiercely it burned the palms of Mr. Kettle's hands when he tried to hold it.

    'Oh no you don't, you bugger.' Addressing, through his teeth, neither the dog, nor the car, for he should have been half-expecting this, bloody old fool. Wrenching at the wheel, as the black mound rose up full in the windscreen.

    From behind his seat, the dog's growl built to a yelp of terror.

    'I know, I'm sorry!' Cursing the part of him which responded to nonsense like this; mad as hell at his bloody old, slowing body which no longer seemed to have the strength to
loose it out.

    Arnold cringed on the floor next to the back seat, shivering and panting. Then Mr. Kettle felt the bumps and heard the clumps under the car, and knew what must have happened.

    'We're in the bloody field!'

    Common land. Unfenced. Flat and well-drained enough where it met the road to offer no obstacles to car wheels.

    No obstacles at all, until you got to the humps and ridges.
    And then the wall.

    They said the wall, which almost encircled the mound, had been built centuries ago of stones taken from the old castle foundations. It was not high - maybe five feet - but it was a very' thick wall, and as strong and resistant as ever it'd been. He'd never thought about this before, but why would they build a wall around it?

    Behind the wall, the Tump bulged and glowered and Mr. Kettle's faculty started leaping and bounding the way his body hadn't managed to in thirty years.

    The wild senses were rising up, leaving the body hobbling behind and the old car trundling across the field, going its own sweet way.

    And something in Henry' Kettle, something he used to be able to control, locking into the Tump's wavelength with a long, almost grateful shudder. As if it was going home.

    Going back, rolling down.

    'Silly young devil.' Mr. Watkins chiding him when he rolled over and over, down from Clifford Castle, coming to rest at the feet of the stern old man. 'One day you'll learn respect for these places, boy.'

    Mr. Watkins, face in shadow under his hat.
    One day you'll learn.
    But he hadn't.

    Hadn't been able to connect with it at all when he was up there with Goff, looking round, seeing where the Tump stood in relation to the stones.

    Had it now, though, too bloody much of it, filling him up, like when they'd sent him to the hospital for the enema, colonic clean-out, whatever they'd called it, pumping this fluid through his backside and he could feel it going right up into his insides, terrible cold.

    Something here that was cold and old and dark and . . .

    . . . was no home to be going to.

    'Oh Christ, Arnold,' said Mr. Kettle. 'Oh Christ.'

    Knowing it for the first time. Why they must have built a wall around it. Knowing a lot of things about the stones and the leys and why Mr. Watkins had not . . .

    Knowing all this as the car went over a ridge in the field - maybe one of the old ramparts when it had been a castle - and began to go downhill, and faster.

    'I can deal with this, don't you worry!' 'Course he could.

    Nothing psychic here. Understand that.

    Stamping down on the brake - frantic now - but the car going even faster, ripping through the field like a tank. A muffled bump-clank, bump-clank, then the rending of metal and the car ploughing on like a wounded animal, roaring and farting.

    In the windscreen, the trees on the Tump were crowding out of the mist, a tangle of black and writhing branches, spewing like entrails from a slashed gut, the centremost trees suddenly flung apart as if blown by a sudden gale, as if the wind was bursting out and over the mound like a fountain of air.

    And he could see it. He could see the wind . . .

    And as it rushed down, it took the form . . .

    nothing psychic, nothing psychic, nothing . . .

    of a huge black thing, a dog . . . hound . . . bounding down the mound and leaping at the car, an amber hunger smoking in eyes that outshone the headlights because . . .
    '. . . you're bloody evil. . .'

    Arnold screaming from behind. Not barking, not whimpering, but making the most piteously distressed and upsetting noise he'd ever been forced to hear.

    All the time thinking - the words themselves forming in his head and echoing there - I've seen it. It was there. I've seen Black Michael's Hound.

    And when the illusion of the wind and the thing it carried had gone he saw the headlight beams were full of stone.

    Nothing to be done. Bloody old fool, be thought sadly, and suddenly it seemed he had all the time there was to ponder the situation and realize he hadn't touched the brake pedal, not once. The car having automatic transmission - only two pedals - what had happened was his foot had plunged down hard, time and time again, on the other one.
    The accelerator.

    Well he did try to pull the stupid foot off, but his knee had locked and he saw through the windscreen that the thick, solid stoic wall was being hurled at him by the night, and the night would not miss.

    There was a hollow silence in the car and that seemed to last a very long time, and Mr. Kettle could feel Arnold, his faithful dog somewhere close to him, quiet now. But his eyes'd be resigned, no light in them any more.

    Mr. Kettle put out a hand to pat Arnold but probably did not reach him before the impact killed both headlamps and there was no light anywhere and no sound except, from afar, the keening song of the old stone.

A few minutes later the electricity was restored. Bulbs flared briefly, sputtered, died and then came back to what passed, in Crybbe, for life.

    Business had not been interrupted in either of the two bars at the Cock, where, through past experience, a generator was always on hand. When the lights revived, closing-time had come and gone, and so had most of the customers.

    Few people in the houses around the town realized the power was back, and the wavering ambience of oil lamps, Tilley lamps and candles could be seen behind curtained windows.

    One electric light blinked back on and would remain needlessly on until morning.

    This was the Anglepoise lamp on Fay Morrison's editing table. She'd unplugged the tape-machine before going to bed but forgotten about the lamp. All through the night it craned its neck over her desk-diary and a spiral-bound notepad, the one which often served, unintentionally, as a personal diary, especially when she was feeling angry and hopeless.

    Across the page, in deeply indented frustration, the pencil lettering said,

. . . we'd tear your bloody hand off. . .

 

PART TWO

Although I have been able to divine water and do other
simple things of that kind for many years ... I had not
thought that this faculty might be related to the formation
of ghosts.

T. C. Lethbridge,
Ghost and Divining Rod (1963)

CHAPTER I

No, no . . . don't hold him like that. Not so tightly. You're like a nervous kiddy riding a bike.'
    'Oh, sorry. Like this?'

    'Better. Don't think of him as an implement - he's an extension of your arms. Be comfortable.'

    'I think I've got it. What do I do now?'

    'Just walk across towards the tree - and don't be so nervous, girl.'

    'Well, I've never done it before, Henry. I'm a virgin.'
    She thought, shall I leave that?

    Nah. Maria will only chop it. She'll think I'm trying to be clever. Too clever for Offa's Dyke Radio, God forbid.

    Fay marked it up with a white Chinagraph pencil, sliced and cut just over a foot of tape with a razorblade cutter, spliced the ends, ran the tape again.

    Crunch, crunch. Rustle, rustle.

    'All right, now, Fay, ask yourself the question.'

    'Huh? Oh, er ... is ... Is There Any Water Under Here? I feel a bit daft, to be honest, Henry. And there's . . . nothing . . .happening. Obviously haven't got your natural aptitude, if that's the word.'

    'Course you have, girl. Anybody can do it as really wants to. It's not magic. Look, shall I help you?'
    'Yes please.'

    'Right, now, we'll do it again. Like this.'
    'Oh, you're putting your hands . . .'

    'Over yours, yes. Now relax, and we'll walk the same path and ask ourselves the same question.'

    'OK. Here we go. Is there any . . . ? Fucking hell, Henry!'
    Laughter.

    'Caught you by surprise, did it?'

    'You could say that.'

    Pause.

    'Look, Henry, do you think we could do that bit again, so I can moderate my response?'

    Fay marked the tape. Fast forwarded until she heard her say, 'OK, Take Two', made another white mark after that and picked up the razorblade.

    Shame really. Never as good second time around. All the spontaneity gone. 'Whoops' had been the best she could manage the second time, when the forked hazel twig had flipped up dramatically, almost turning a somersault in her hands, near dislodging the microphone from under her arm.

    'Whoops'. ... not good enough. She started to splice the ends of the tape together, wondering if she had time to go into a field with the Uher and do a quick, 'Gosh, wow, good heaven I never expected that,' and splice it in at the appropriate point.

    The phone rang.

    'Yes, what?' The damn roll of editing tape was stuck to her hands and now the receiver.
    'Fay Morrison?'

    'Yes, sorry, you caught me . . .'

    'This is James Barlow in the newsroom.'

    'Which newsroom?' Fay demanded, being awkward because the voice somehow reminded her of her ex-husband, who always called people by their full names.

    'Offa's Dyke Radio, Fay.' No, not really like Guy. Too young. A cynical, world-weary twenty-two or thereabouts. James Barlow, she hadn't dealt with him before.

    'Sorry, I was editing a piece. I've got tape stuck to my fingers.'

    'Fay, Maria says she commissioned a package from you about Henry Kettle, the water-diviner chap.'
    'Dowser, yes.'
    'Pardon?'

    'Water-diviner, James, is not an adequate term for what he does. He divines all kinds of things. Electric cables, foundations of old buildings, dead bodies . . .'

    'Yeah, well, he obviously wasn't much good at divining stone walls. Have you done the piece?'

    'That's what I'm . . .'

    "Cause, if you could let us have it this morning . . .'
    'It's not for News,' Fay explained. 'It's a soft piece for          Maria. For Alan Thingy's show. Six and a half minutes of me learning how to dowse.' Fay ripped the tape from the receiver and threw the roll on the editing table. 'What did you mean about stone walls?'

    'Tut-tut. Don't you have police contacts, down there, Fay? Henry Kettle drove into one last night. Splat.'

    The room seemed to shift as if it was on trestles like the editing table. The table and the Revox suddenly looked so incongruous here - the room out of the 1960s, grey-tiled fireplace, G-plan chairs, lumpy settee with satin covers. Still Grace Legge's room, still in mourning.
    'What?' Fay said.

    'Must've been well pissed,' said James Barlow, with relish, 'straight across a bloody field and into this massive wall. Splat, actually they're speculating, did he have a heart attack? So we're putting together a little piece on him, and your stuff . . .'

    'Excuse me, James, but is he ... ?'

    '. . . would go quite nicely. We'll stitch it together here, but you'll still get paid, obviously. Yes, he is. Oh, yes. Very much so, I'm told. Splat, you know?'

    'Yes,' Fay said numbly.

    'Can you send it from the Unattended, say by eleven?'
    'Yes.'

    'Send the lot, we'll chop out a suitable clip. Bye now.'

   

Fay switched the machine back on. Now it no longer mattered, Take Two didn't sound quite so naff.

    '. . . whoops! Gosh, Henry, that's amazing, the twig's flipped right over. If your hands hadn't been there, I'd've . . .'

    A dead man said, 'Dropped it, I reckon. Well, there you are then, Fay, you've found your first well. Can likely make yourself a bob or two now.'

    'I don't think so, somehow. Tell me, what exactly was happening there? You must have given it some thought over the years.'

    'Well. . . it's nothing to do with the rod, for a start. It's in you, see. You're letting yourself connect with what's out there and all the things that have ever been out there. I don't know, sounds a bit cranky. You're, how can I say . . . you're reminding your body that it's just part of everything else that's going on, you following me? Never been very good at explaining it, I just does it. . . You can mess about with this, can't you, Fay, make it sound sensible? Fellow from the BBC interviewed me once. He . . .'

    'Yes, don't worry, it'll be fine. Now, what I think you're saying is that, in this hi-tech age, man no longer feels the need to be in tune with his environment.'

    'Well, aye, that's about it. Life don't depend on it any more, do he?'

    'I suppose not. But look, Henry, what if. . . ?'

    She stopped the tape, cut it off after 'Life don't depend on it any more.' Why give them the lot when they'd only use four seconds?

    Anyway, the next bit wasn't usable. She'd asked him about this job he was doing for Max Goff and he'd stepped smartly back, waving his arms, motioning at her to switch the tape off. Saying that it would all come out sooner or later. 'Don't press me, girl, all right?'

    Later, he'd said, 'Not being funny, see. Only it's not turned out as simple as I thought it was going to be. Something I don't quite understand. Not yet, anyway.'

    She hadn't pressed him. Very unprofessional of her. She had, after all, only approached Henry Kettle about doing six minutes for the 'people with unusual hobbies' spot because she'd heard Max Goff had brought him to Crybbe and it was her job to find out what Goff himself was doing here.

    But she'd ended up liking Henry Kettle and actually liking somebody was sometimes incompatible with the job. So now nobody would know what he'd been doing for Goff unless Goff himself chose to disclose it.

    Fay sat down, she and the room both in mourning now. He'd been a great character, had Henry, he'd leave a gap.

    But if you had to go, maybe Splat wasn't a bad exit line at the age of - what was he, eighty-seven? Still driving his own car, too. Fay thought about her dad and the sports cars he'd had. He'd prefer Splat to arterial strangulation anytime.

    Talking of the devil, she caught sight of him then through the window, strolling back towards the cottage with the Guardian under his arm, looking at ladies' legs and beaming through his big, snowy beard at people on either side - even though, in Crybbe, people never seemed to beam back.

    The cottage fronted directly on to the street, no garden. Canon Alex Peters pushed straight into the office. He wasn't beaming now. He was clearly annoyed about something.

    'Don't they just bloody love it?'

    'Love what?' Fay joined some red leader to the end of the tape, deliberately not looking up, determined not to be a congregation.

    'A tragedy. Death, failure - 'specially if it's one of the dreaded People from Off.'
    'What are you on about, Dad?'

    'That's what they say, "From Off. Oh, he's from Off." I've calculated that "Off" means anywhere more than forty miles away. Anywhere nearer, they say, "Oh, he's from Leominster" or "He's from Llandrindod Wells". Which are places not near enough to be local, but not far enough away to be "Off".'

    'You're bonkers, Dad.' Fay spun back the finished tape. 'Anyway, this poor sod was apparently from Kington or somewhere, which is the middle category. Not local but not "Off". So they're quite content that he's dead but not as happy as they'd be if he was from, say, Kent.'

    It clicked.

    'You're talking about Henry Kettle.'
    'Who?'

    'Henry Kettle. The dowser I interviewed yesterday morning.'

    'Oh God,' Canon Peters said. 'That's who it was. I'm sorry, Fay, I didn't connect, I. . .'

    'Never mind,' Fay said soothingly. Sometimes, on his good days, you were inclined to forget. Her father, who'd been about to sit down, was instantly back on his feet. 'Now look . . . It's got nothing to with Dr Alphonse sodding Alzheimer.'

    'Alois.'

    'What?'

    'Alois Alzheimer. Anyway, you haven't got Alzheimer's disease.'

    The Canon waved a dismissive hand. 'Alzheimer is easier to say than arteriosclerotic dementia, when you're going gaga.'
    He took off his pink cotton jacket. 'Nothing to do with that anyway. Always failed to make connections. Always putting my sodding foot in it.'

    'Yes, Dad.'

    'And stop being so bloody considerate.'

    'All right then. Belt up, you old bugger, while I finish this tape.'

    'That's better.' The Canon slung his jacket over the back of the armchair, slumped down, glared grimly at the Guardian.
    Fay labelled the tape and boxed it. She stood back and pulled down her T-shirt, pushed fingers through her tawny hair, asking him, 'Where was it, then? Where did it happen?'

    Canon Peters lowered his paper. 'Behind the old Court. You know the tumulus round the back, you can see it from the Ludlow road? Got a wall round it? That's what he hit.'
    'But - hang on - that wall's a bloody mile off the road.'
    'Couple of hundred yards, actually.'
    'But still . . . I mean, he'd have to drive across an entire field for Christ's sake.' When James Barlow had said something about Mr. Kettle crossing a field she'd imagined some kind of extended grass-verge. 'Somebody said maybe he'd had a heart attack, so I was thinking he'd just gone out of control, hit a wall not far off the road. Not, you know, embarked on a cross country endurance course.'

    'Perhaps,' speculated the Canon, 'he topped himself.'
    'Cobblers. I was with him yesterday morning, he was fine. Not the suicidal type, anyway. And if you're going to do yourself in, there have to be rather more foolproof ways than that.'

    'Nine out of ten suicides, somebody says that. There's always an easier way. He was probably just confused. I can sympathize.'

    'Any witnesses?' Above the tiled fireplace, opposite the window, was a mirror in a Victorian-style gilt frame. Fay inspected her face in it and decided that, for a walk to the studio, it would get by.

    Canon Peters said, 'Witnesses? In Crybbe?'

    'Sorry, I wasn't thinking.'

    'Wouldn't have known myself if I hadn't spotted all the police activity, so I grilled the newsagent. Apparently it must have happened last night, but he wasn't found until this morning.'

    'Oh God, there's no chance he might have been still alive, lying there all night . . . ?'

    'Shouldn't think so. Head took most of it, I gather, I didn't go to look. A local milkman, it was, who spotted the wreckage and presumably said to himself, "Well, well, what a mess," and then wondered if perhaps he ought not to call Wynford, the copper. No hurry, though, because . . .'

    'He wasn't local,' said Fay.

    'Precisely.'

    Fay said it for the second time this week. 'Why don't you get the hell out of this town, Dad? You're never going to feel you belong.'

    'I like it here.'

    'It irritates the hell out of you!'

    'I know, but it's rather interesting. In an anthropological sort of way.' His beard twitched. She knew she wasn't getting the whole story. What was he hiding, and why?

    Fay frowned, wondering if he'd seen the spoof FOR SALE notice she'd scribbled out during a ten-minute burst of depression last night. She said tentatively, 'Grace wouldn't want you to stay. You know that.'

    'Now look, young Fay,' Canon Peters leaned forward in the chair, a deceptive innocence in the wide blue eyes which had wowed widows in a dozen parishes. 'More to the point, there's absolutely no need for you to hang around. You know my methods. No problem at all to find some lonely old totty among the immigrant population to cater for my whims. In fact, you're probably cramping my style.'

    He raised the Guardian high so that all she could see was his fluffy while hair, like the bobble on an old-fashioned ski hat.

    'Anyway,' he mumbled. 'Early stages yet. Could be months before I'm a dribbling old cabbage.'

    'Dad, I'll . . . !' The phone rang. 'Yes, what . . . ? Oh, Mrs. Seagrove.'

    All she needed.

    'Serves you right,' rumbled the Canon from the depths of the Guardian.

    'I saw it again, Mrs Morrison. Last night. When the power was off.'

    'Oh,' Fay said, as kindly as she could manage. 'Did you?'

    'I can't bear it any more, Mrs Morrison.'

    Fay didn't bother to ask her how she could see a huge coal-black beast when all the lights were out; she'd say she just could. She was one of the aforementioned lonely old Midland immigrant widows in a pretty cottage on the edge of town. One of the people who rang local reporters because they needed someone to make a cup of tea for.

    'I'm at the end of my tether, Mrs Morrison. I'm going out of my mind. You wouldn't think anything as black as that could glow, would you? I'm shivering now, just remembering it.'

    In other places they rang the police for help. But in Crybbe the police was Sergeant Wynford Wiley and nobody wanted to make a cup of tea for him.

    'I've tried to explain, Mrs Seagrove. It's a fascinating . . .'

    'It's not fascinating, my love, it's terrifying. It's no joke. It's frightening me out of my mind. I can't sleep.'

    'But there's nothing I can do unless you're prepared to talk about it on tape. I only work for the radio, and unless we can hear your voice . . .'

    'Why can't you just say someone's seen it without saying who I am or where I live?'

    'Because . . . because that's not the way radio works. We have to hear a voice. Look,' Fay said, 'I really would like to do the story. Perhaps you could find someone else who's seen it and would be prepared to talk about it and have it recorded.'

    Mrs Seagrove said bitterly, They all know about it. Mrs Francis at the post office, Mr Preece. They won't admit it. They won't talk about it. I've tried telling the vicar, he just listens and he smiles, I don't think he even believes in God, that vicar. Perhaps if you came round this afternoon, we could . . .'

    'I'm sorry,' Fay said, 'I've got several jobs on the go at the moment.'

    'Ho, ho,' said the Guardian.

    'Look,' Fay said. 'Think about it. It's quite easy and informal, you know. Just me and a portable recorder, and if you make any fluffs we can keep doing it again until you've got it right.'

    'Well, perhaps if you came round we could . . .'

    'Not unless you're prepared to talk about it on tape,' Fay said firmly.

    'I'll think about it,' Mrs Seagrove said.

    Fay put the phone down. Of course she felt sorry for the lady. And ghost stories always went down well with producers, even if the eye-witnesses were dismissed as loonies. Local radio needed loonies; how else, for instance, could you sustain phone-in programmes in an area like this?

    But ghost stories where nobody would go on the record as having seen the apparition were non-starters. On that same basis, Fay thought ruefully, a lot of stories had been non-starters in Crybbe.

CHAPTER II

The windscreen was in splinters. There was blood on some of them, dried now. And there were other bits, pink and glistening like mince on a butcher's tray, which Max Goff didn't want to know about.

    'What are you saying here?' he demanded irritably. 'You're saying it's a fucking omen?'

    He looked up at the hills shouldering their way out of the morning mist, the sun still offstage, just.

    He turned and gazed at the Tump. A prosaic, lumpen word for the mystic mound, the branches of the trees on its summit still entwined with tendrils of mist.

    A thing so ancient, so haunted, yet so benign. Yeah, well, he believed in omens, but. . .

    There was some kind of awful creaking, tearing sound as the breakdown truck hauled the car out of the wall. A heavy crump and a rattle as the VW's shattered front end came down on the turf, its radiator ripped off, car-intestines hanging out.

    Max Goff winced. Beside him, Rachel Wade, his personal assistant, was saying in her deep voice, 'Don't be silly.' Spreading out her hands in that superior, pained, half-pitying way she had. 'All I'm saying is it's not exactly an auspicious start, is it?'

    Goff stared coldly at Rachel in her shiny, new Barbour coat and a silk scarf. Knowing how much he'd depended on her judgement in the past, but knowing equally that this was an area where she was well out of her depth. A situation where the smooth bitch couldn't be relied upon to get it right. No way.

    She didn't, of course, want him to go through with it. Nobody whose opinion was worth more than shit had been exactly encouraging, but Rachel was subtler than most of them. She hadn't said a word about the nylon sheets in their room at the Cock. Had made no comment about the coffee at breakfast being instant, just sat there, languid and elegant and at ease, refusing everything they offered her with a professional smile. Yeah, OK, under normal circumstances Goff himself would have insisted on different sheets and ground coffee and some kind of muesli instead of Rice Krispies. But he might need the
Cock again.

    Actually, he might need to buy it.

    He'd been pondering this possibility, deciding not to discuss it with Ms Wade just yet, when the local Plod had turned up, waiting respectfully in the lobby until he'd finished his Nescafe, then asking, 'Are you Mr Goff, sir? Mr Max Goff?' as if they didn't recognize him.

    The body had been taken away by the time they got to the scene. Max Goff only hoped the poor old bastard had at least one surviving relative. He didn't really feel like identifying the Kettle corpse in some seedy white-tiled mortuary where the atmosphere was heavy with obnoxious smells and bodily gases.

    If it came to that, Rachel could do it. She'd hired Kettle originally. And nothing ever fazed Rachel, just as nothing ever blew her mind - there was even something suspiciously nonchalant about her orgasms.

    'Right, Tom,' somebody shouted, and the breakdown truck started across the field, the broken car on its back, a smashed coffin on an open hearse.

    Then the truck stopped for some reason.

    And, in that moment, the sun came out of the mist and the land was suddenly aglow and throbbing with life force.

    And Goff remembered what day this was.

    He turned towards the light, head back, eyes closing and the palms of his hands opening outwards to receive the burgeoning energy.

    I am here. At the zenith of the year. I am in a state of total submission.

    'It's the solstice,' he whispered. 'I'd forgotten.'

    'Oh,' said the uncommitted Rachel Wade. 'Super.'

    As if guided. Max Goff turned back to the open field, opened his eyes and saw . . .

    . . . reflected, quite perfectly, in the rear window of Henry Kettle's smashed-up old Volkswagen on the back of the truck, he saw the venerable mound, the Tump at Crybbe Court, and the sun above it like a holy lamp.

    And the connection was formed.

    Revelation.

    The truck started up again, moved off towards the road.

    Goff pointed urgently at the mound, talking rapidly, forefinger stabbing at the air between him and Rachel. 'Listen, when they built these things, the old Bronze Age guys, they'd, you know, consecrate them, according to their religion, right?'

    Rachel Wade looked at him, expressionless.

    'What they'd do is, they'd sacrifice somebody. I mean, the remains have been found, sacrifices, not burials - they have ways of telling the difference, right?'

    Rachel freed a few strands of pale hair from the collar of her Barbour, flicked them back.

    'And sometimes, right,' Goff surged on, 'at very important sites, the high priest himself would be sacrificed. Without resistance. Willingly, yeah?'

    Rachel said, 'How would they know that?"

    'Know what?'

    '"a", that he died willingly. And "b", that the fragment of bones or whatever belonged to a high priest?'

    Goff was annoyed. 'Jeez, they know, OK? Doesn't matter how, I'm not a flaming archaeologist. But what it meant was the sacrifice would put the seal on the sanctity of the place. The dead priest would live on as its guardian. For all time, right?'

    A police sergeant came over, the same one who'd fetched them from the Cock. Big moon-faced guy, didn't strike Goff as being all that bright. 'We'd just like you to make a statement if you would, sir.'

    'Everything Max Goff does is a Statement,' Goff told him and grinned. 'Who was it wrote that?'

    'Time Out' said Rachel automatically and a little wearily. 'August 1990.'

    The police sergeant didn't get it. 'You appear to have been the last person to see Mr. Kettle alive, sir. You'll probably be called to give evidence to that effect at the inquest.'

    'Shit,' Goff said. 'How . .. ? No, that's OK. That's fine. I'll join you back at the house. Ten minutes, right?'

    'If you wouldn't mind, sir.'

    'Point I was making,' Goff said, impatiently turning his back on the departing Plod, 'is that Henry Kettle was about as close as you could find to a kind of high priest these days. Get in tune with the earth and its spirit, responding to its deeper impulses. Shamanic, yeah?' Closing his eyes, he felt the holy light of the solstice on his face. Carried on talking with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Talking to himself really, letting his thoughts unravel, the connections forming.

    'So Henry Kettle - how old was the guy? Eighty-five? How long did he have to go, anyway? So, OK, we have this old man, the shaman, homing in, a dead straight line across the field - straight at the mound, the Tump, right - and . . .'

    Goff opened his eyes suddenly and fully, and was dazzled by radiant blobs of orange and blue spinning from the top of the mound.

    '. . . and . . . whoomp!' He clapped his big hands violently together. Smiling hugely at Rachel Wade. 'Listen, what I'm saying, we're not looking at some bad omen here. It's a positive thing. Like the high priest going almost willingly to his death, sacrificing himself all over again to put his life energy into my project. Whoomp!'

    Rachel said, 'That's really sick. Max.' But Goff was looking up at the mound with a new pride, not listening.

    'I bet if we mark out those tyre-tracks across that field we'll find they correspond exactly to line B.'

    'Line B?'

    'The fucking ley-line, Rachel.'
    'Max, that's . . .'

    Goff looked hard at Rachel. She shut up.

    Jesus, she thought.

    Whoomp.