The Cold Calling Part 60

'Too cold. Brrrr.' Cindy shook his arms. Bangles jangled. 'Oh ... while I remember.' He slid a small package into Maiden's jacket pocket. 'There you are. You've got everything now, lovely.'

'What is it?'

'It's the ca.s.sette we recorded on the Knoll, when you slept on the stone. Your dream tape.'

'Do I want to hear it?'

'Well,' Cindy said, 'the truth is, most of it didn't come out. I lied.'

'What, that whole dream session ...'

'You can call it a psychological placebo if you like, but I am a shaman and I collected the soil, and I believe ... Anyway, recorders and cameras and such items often do malfunction when something really quite significant is happening. Someone up there laughing at us. There is, however, something about a lady. Under a street-lamp.'

'Oh, wow,' Grayle said.

Maiden smiled. 'That was my mum.'

'Interesting,' Cindy said. 'Do expand.'

'Well, actually, the truth of it came to me bizarrely when the fork lightning was coming down in the pines and Fraser-Hale was firing and I was struggling to find the b.l.o.o.d.y gate in the railings and failing. I didn't think about it again until last night.'

'Your mother's death, perhaps, in the hit-and-run?'

'My dad told me and the inquest that she obviously ran out to push me away from an oncoming lorry. While he was at work and someone left the gate open. Not quite how it happened.'

'How old were you?'

'Two. I ... feel ... that what happened was that my mum was finally leaving the old man. Because he'd hit her once too often.'

He'd dreamt about her again last night. A sputtering lamp in Old Church Street. Coming on, going off. A woman beneath it, lit up for a strobing second: a small woman in a light cardigan over a summer dress with bulls-eyes. A small, pale face, curly hair held back with clips that often fell out.

'Claimed he wasn't there at the time, but he was. He came back, maybe suspecting something, and she was waiting at the bus stop, with a small case. And me. She was taking me with her. It was a very quiet lane, almost in the country, no immediate neighbours. He got very angry. He hit her. She stumbled. And that was when I ran out in the road.'

'How do you know this, Bobby?'

Bobby Maiden gave him back the brown paper parcel containing the ca.s.sette tape.

'How the h.e.l.l should I know? You're the b.l.o.o.d.y shaman.'

A pale band had appeared in the eastern sky.

'How you gonna handle this?' Grayle wondered.

Cindy seemed a little despondent. 'I'd hoped for more people, actually. We need to demonstrate that things have changed. Six of us, and all outsiders ... Still, we can but try.'

'So, how-'

Cindy tapped his chin and his bangles rattled. 'Well, for a start, I thought it would be nice if one of us could go inside the chamber.'

'It's collapsed.'

'Annie managed it. And, of course, the good Sister Anderson. Replaced a little weight since then, fortunately for her. I wonder who is the smallest of us now.'

'Uh-uh. No way,' Grayle said. 'Let's forget this right now.'

'I should never have even suggested it. My apologies. I simply thought that, as only one of us has been permitted to see her ... '

It was 6.50 a.m. A thin, amber line over the Malvern Hills.

'Hullo,' Marcus said. 'What's this?'

A chain of lights coming up the rise. UFOs maybe, Grayle thought. Something for The Phenomenologist. She'd been thinking a lot about The Phenomenologist, what a piece of c.r.a.p it was, although it didn't have to be a piece of c.r.a.p. With a little more cash behind it, a redesign. Some real journalism.

Stupid, a pipe dream. She didn't belong here.

'Quite a few of the b.u.g.g.e.rs,' Marcus noted.

Andy said, 'Probably the entire hospital trust come to drag me back.'

They came up the path taken, Cindy understood, by Annie Davies herself on a morning when the castle ruins hung damply in the mist around the yard, Annie sliding through the scabbed and k.n.o.bbly remains towards the pinkening light. Not this time of year, of course, there would have been no chill then; it would be another hot day.

There were not a great many, fewer than there'd been at the funeral. By the light of the torches, Cindy recognized several of those who had been in the pub when Amy Jenkins had broken the village's silence. Cindy spotted the old man in the flat cap, the fat woman with the hat and the old woman with the funny eye. And Amy herself, of course. Who would have rounded them up, badgered, cajoled, blackmailed, offered to wipe slates clean ...

Cindy met her at the edge of the Knoll.

'Amy,' he said. 'If I were a real man, I should ask you to marry me.'

Bobby Maiden spotted a familiar shabby figure looking slightly uncomfortable amongst all these yokels.

'The lady in the pub said I'd find you here, no other police around,' Vic Clutton said. 'We need to talk, Mr Maiden.'

'Always happy to talk with you, Vic. Saved my life, as I recall.'

'Yeah,' Vic said, like this had only just occurred to him. 'I did, didn't I? You heard about me saving anyone else's life at all?'

'Wouldn't surprise me. But no.'

'Really no?'

'Really no.'

'Or any other ... incidents?'

'Don't know what you're on about.'

'So there's no question of any of these ... incidents ... raising their ugly heads, sorter thing, in the future.'

'Wouldn't be because of me. Because I haven't heard of them.'

'Right ... right. Erm ... that time you suggested Riggs had Dean strung up ...'

'Mmm,' Maiden said. 'I don't see us standing that one up either, I'm afraid. But there are other ... issues ... on which Riggs might be put away. And Beattie. And one or two others. Once you take away a few bricks ... in a jerry-built place like Elham ... you know what I mean?'

'Got you. All right. I'll be in touch.' Vic nodded and turned away. 'Be seeing you, Mr Maiden.'

'Don't go,' Maiden said. 'Stay for our little rustic ritual. Illegal drinks afterwards at the Tup. All nice, decent people. Oh ... except for Marcus Bacton. The murderer.'

With the capstone only inches above her, the supporting stones on all sides and all the gaps between them blocked by the legs of the thirty-plus people standing in a circle around the monument, it was dark as h.e.l.l in here. Ersula was right.

The claustrophobia can be intense. You start to scream inside. All you want is out of there. But, like I said, you have to stop your conscious mind getting a hold of you. What you are dealing with here is the unconscious and that must be left to find its own route to what you would probably call enlightenment.

Scary fun, huh, Ersula?

However, even without her coat, she found it curiously warm. She laid her head on her folded arms. Cindy was leading some kind of chant out there and it was kind of soporific. Maybe she fell asleep. Maybe she dreamed; maybe she didn't.

When she awoke (or didn't) her left hand was like on fire. And when she inched forward, it was suddenly so bright on her face that she had to shut her eyes.

In a long, long moment of amber radiance, Grayle's body was suffused with a startling warmth.

Now, OK, this was crazy. By all the laws of prehistoric science this should not be happening, because this was 1 November and the chamber was supposed to be oriented to the midsummer sunrise.

The warmth settled around her like a fleece, but very lightly. And then she felt it inside her, in the lowest part of her gut like good brandy. She kept her eyes tight shut and lay very still. This was no hards.h.i.+p. In the closeness of the burial chamber on High Knoll, she felt she never wanted to move again, that she'd be quite happy to die here, in this long, ecstatic moment, at the age of ... G.o.dd.a.m.n it, nearly thirty, and what had she done that was in any way worthwhile?

When she opened her eyes, she found herself at the very end of the tunnel, and what had seemed like a slit ... well, because of the positioning of the stones and the people's legs, it was now wide enough to be almost a doorway. She guessed that what had happened was that the capstone, having collapsed, had collapsed some more and the sun was coming in through some other slit.

Whatever.

The sun was a glorious deep red, made all the more intense by the frosty air, the starkness of the trees. You'd swear it was coming down.

Like just for her.

And Annie Davies.

'Bulls.h.i.+t,' Grayle whispered. Uncertainly.

Feeling, somehow, that she was not alone in here.

HALE QUIZZED OVER PRISON KILLING.

The serial killer, Adrian Fraser-Hale, was being questioned last night by police investigating the murder of an a.s.sistant chaplain at Dartmoor Prison.

The Rev. Paul Campion, a 29-year-old father of two, was found with a peeling-knife lodged in his throat in one of the prison kitchens.

Hale, 31, who has been described as 'a model prisoner' since his arrival at ...

The Times, May 17.

Notes and acknowledgements.

The ideas in this novel arose from established research into the paranormal properties of prehistoric monuments. The dream survey has been carried out, more or less as described, by the Dragon Project Trust. Details can be found in back copies of The Ley Hunter magazine and in Paul Devereux's book Secrets of Ancient and Sacred Places. Theories about prehistoric weather control are aired in Tom Graves's Needles of Stone and more about Cindy's shamanic heritage can be discovered in The Celtic Shaman by John Matthews and Shamanism and the Mystery Lines by Paul Devereux. Aubrey Burl's Rites of the G.o.ds discovers what ancient sites have to tell us about the religion of Neolithic peoples.

Sightings of the Virgin Mary, incidentally, are not unknown in the Black Mountains.

This book would not have worked without Bill Scott-Kerr's unique combination of faith and ruthlessness, the tireless, even more ruthless, but inspired editorial overview of my wife, Carol, and the help of the following: Pam Baker, Paul Devereux, Paul Gibbons, John Grant, Andrew Hewson, Wendy Isle, Derek Ivens, Mike Kreciala, Laurence Main and Lofty Wiseman. Many thanks to them all.

About the Author.

Phil Rickman is the author of the internationally-acclaimed novels featuring Merrily Watkins, rural diocesan exorcist, and a new series about the Elizabethan astrologer John Dee. His early horror novels were praised by Stephen King but - determined to avoid any hint of fantasy - he now concentrates on realistic crime with a subtle element of the paranormal. Phil is fascinated by ancient places, loves rock and folk music and, with guitarist and composer Allan Watson, writes songs for the CDs linked to his novels.

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