'Where shall we go?'
'My cottage?' They were in a street of narrow terraces and no lights. 'Or your house?'
'I suppose it is my house now,' Fay said, still sounding completely disconnected. 'Unless Dad's left it to some mysterious totty. I mean… I don't want it. I'll take the cats, but I'm not having Grace. Can you give a house to charity?'
He took hold of her upper arms, gently. 'Fay, please.'
She looked at him in mild enquiry, her green eyes calm as rock pools at low tide.
'I need you,' Powys said, and he hadn't meant to say that.
Fay said, 'Do vou?' from several miles away.
He nodded. They seemed to have been through years of experience together in about two days.
He'd tried to explain briefly what had happened. About the Tump, the head in the box. About Andy. Not about Jean Wendle; it wasn't the time.
What he wanted to tell her now was that something had been resolved. He wanted to say reassuring things about her dad.
But as he reached out for her he felt his body breaking up into awful, seismic shivers. It's not over – the words squeezed into his brain like the fragmented skull of the man in the vice – it's not over.
chapter iv
Joe had left the candle behind.
Taken the lamp but brought the candle down from the attic and left it on the floor in the open doorway, well out of the reach of Andy Boulton-Trow.
The candlelight would guide the paramedics with their stretcher to the room where Andy lay, feeling no pain, only frigid fury which he knew he had to contain if he were to preserve the legacy.
Andy fancied he could hear distant sirens; didn't have much time. He picked up the head of Michael Wort and held it above him – oh, yes, he could use his arms, he'd lied about that. But not his legs; he couldn't feel his legs or his lower body, only the bubbling acid of rage which he would have to control and channel.
'Michael,' he hissed, and his lungs fell very small and also oddly detached, as though they were part of some ancillary organism.
The head of Michael Won had no eyes, his remaining teeth were bare, its skin reduced to pickled brown flakes. But the skull was hard.
Andy looked deep into the dark sockets and summoned the spirit of the man who, four hundred years ago this night, had dared to seize the Infinite.
'Dewch,' he whispered, 'Tyrd i lawr, Michael.' He lay back and – balancing the head on his solar plexus – closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, began to visualise with an intensity he'd never known. 'Tyrd I lawr.'
The first police car arrived as they approached the bridge. Joe didn't want to cross at first, in case they were stopped. Joe was a worrier. Fay didn't see any problem.
And the car didn't stop.
As the police car warbled away, she remembered something. 'Where's Arnold?'
'Mrs Seagrove's looking after him. He's… Well, I'll tell you. Some time.'
Some time? Fay looked at him curiously. Then said to herself, My father's dead. Every time she thought of something else, she was going to make herself repeat this, with emphasis.
What she wanted was to be suddenly overcome with immeasurable grief, to sob bitterly, throw a wobbly in the street.
No parents at all any more. No barrier. In the firing line now. Stand up, Fay Morrison. Bang.
Bang.
Bang!
Fay stopped. MY DAD'S DEAD.
Yes. But that wasn't the whole point. This was Crybbe. In Crybbe, death wasn't necessarily the worst thing that could happen to you. He'd looked peaceful under the gallery spotlights, with the paintings. But was he at peace, or was he going to bang around, like Grace, as some kind of psychic detritus?
Was this the destiny of the dead of Crybbe, to moulder on, like the town?
'Psychic pollution,' she said suddenly. 'What can you do about psychic pollution?'
She peered over the bridge parapet, down to where the dark water loitered indolently around the stone buttresses.
'Nuclear waste you can just about bury,' she said. 'Hundreds of feet underground in immovable granite. And, maybe, after four hundred years…'She straightened up. 'You know, I really underestimated the… the toxicity of this town.'
Joe was staring at her. I need you, he'd said, the words sounding strange. Probably because nobody had actually said that to her before. Not her dad, not Offa's Dyke Radio, not even her old boss at Radio Four. Certainly not Guy. (We could be good for each other, Fay.) No. Nobody.
She looked at Joe in the light of the streetlamp at the end of the bridge. She thought he was a nice guy. She could, in better circumstances, be quite seriously attracted to him.
He still looked sort of wary, though.
'Maybe they were right,' he was saying, 'with their curfew and their Crybbe mentality. Maybe it was the best they could do. Maybe they just hadn't got the knowledge or the resources to handle it.'
'Handle what exactly, Joe?'
'I don't know. I don't suppose we'll ever know. Whatever
… properties it has. To amplify things. The Old Golden Land. Where psychic doorways are easy to open.'
'And pretty near impossible to close.'
'John Dee knew it,' Joe said. 'Wort knew it. Just goes a lot deeper than either of them probably imagined. When you think about it, the great Michael Wort was probably just another loony. Like Andy. He didn't know what the fuck he was doing either.'
They were approaching the cottage which overlooked the river.
Fay said, without thinking about it, 'Is that the Bottle Stone I can hear?'
'What?'
'Thin drone, like the hum from a pylon.'
'I can't hear anything.'
'Probably nothing.'
'Probably,' he said uncertainly. 'Funny, isn't it? We build up this big theory about Black Michael, and because he was four hundred years ago we think he's some kind of god. But he was just another… just another pollutant.'
Out of the night came a slow clapping of hands. Ironic, essentially mocking applause.
'Persuasively argued, Joe,' Jean Wendle said.
Joe Powys froze.
Jean Wendle was leaning against the cottage wall. She was wearing a pink velour tracksuit, She looked elegant and relaxed.
Two police cars went rapidly past, followed by a fire-engine.
Joe froze, and Fay sensed it wasn't because of the police cars, not this time.
'But quite wrong,' said Jean. 'And you know it.'
He didn't say anything.
'Michael Wort,' said Jean, 'had one of the finest of the Renaissance minds. Scientist, philosopher… these terms simply cannot encompass Michael's abilities. We no longer like to use words like magus, but that's what he was, and the reason he isn't as famous as Francis Bacon and Giordano Bruno and even – God forbid – John Dee. .. is that he realized the futility of books and so never wrote any. And also, of course, he lived not in Florence or Rome, or even London. But in Crybbe.'
Fay could see Joe trying to say something, trying to frame words.
'If he never wrote anything,' he said, 'how do you know he was so great?'
'Because,' said Jean, 'like all great teachers, he passed on his knowledge through training and through experience.'
Another police car went past, followed by another fire-engine.
'There's a Michael Wort tradition,' Jean said. 'It began with his own family, and then was passed to selected scholars.'
'What kind of tradition?'
'Fascinating stuff,' Jean said. 'All to do with the spirit landscape, and the interpenetration of planes. Knowledge we are only now beginning to approach.'
'They called him Black Michael,' Fay said.
'As they would. In Crybbe.'
'He hanged people.'
'He studied death, and he utilized his period as high sheriff to pursue that study. That was all.'
How bizarre. Fay thought. All hell breaking loose up in the town and here we are, three uncommitted observers from Off, calmly discussing the background as if it's a piece of theatre.