Dan began to unpack the brown envelope. It was full of letters, some hand-written, some printed.
'When you look like her, there's no shortage of suitors. But it was clear – you can read this stuff – that she'd built a wall around herself. Maybe that's how you do it. Survive. You know, mentally.'
'And this is the woman you wanted to do the book? The definitive Glastonbury expose.'
Dan Frayne finished his beer.
'I'm worried about her,' he said. I get a feeling, I… nothing like that, I'm about as psychic as a microwave oven. I'm just worried. Maybe a little latent guilt. I'm sorry, this isn't what you expected to hear.'
'You want to commission a book because you're worried about a woman you left in Glastonbury?'
'Urn…' Dan Frayne considered. 'Yeah.' He put his glass down. 'Yeah, I suppose that's the size of it. Amazing.'
FOURTEEN
It was a Gothic-shaped doorway six steps up at the end of an alley framed by High Street shops. Over the door a sign said: ASSEMBLY ROOMS.
The alternative town hall, in fact. On occasion, Juanita could be induced to admit a certain affection for the place.
Diane said, 'I'll let you know what happens, then.' With her usual fashion flair, she was wearing an old and patched red woollen coat over a baggy turquoise sweatshirt and jeans.
'Er… slight misunderstanding.' Juanita smiled innocently. Diane had got away with enough today; because of Jim not showing up they hadn't made it to the police station. 'I kind of thought you might go to the other one. Would you mind?'
'Glastonbury First? But I thought…'
Diane was looking at Juanita's outfit, which comprised a plain charcoal-grey formal jacket with a skirt, a creamy silk top and a pink chiffon scarf'. Not very Assembly Rooms.
'Would that be a terrible imposition, Diane? I thought you might recognise a few of the people I wouldn't.'
Diane looked resigned. 'Do you want me to take notes?'
'I don't think so. Let's not make your Avalonian role too obvious at this stage. Try and blend into the background.'
Some chance of that, Juanita thought, watching Diane drift down the street, as inconspicuous as a pheasant in a chicken run. But at least she wouldn't be in the same meeting as the predatory Ceridwen.
The church type wooden doors of the Assembly Rooms had been thrown back to reveal yellow walls, more steps inside and a stand-up poster reading; RESIST ROAD-RAPE.
Woolly wandered up to stand with Juanita at the entrance to the alleyway, watching the punters going in, shaking his head in disappointment.
'Two real locals, maybe three.'
'And the rest we know,' Juanita said.
It was a shame; Woolly had also tried to give the meeting an element of conventional respectability. He was wearing a suit, had his hair pulled tightly back and bound with a fresh rubber band, looked almost like a regular person.
'That bastard Griff Daniel. You reckon he had advance warning about the road?'
'Well, the word is some posters went out yesterday. But they only went up this morning. Archer?'
'Bastard.' Woolly shook his head.
Still, he couldn't have been exacting a vast crowd. Apart from the easing of traffic congestion and rush-hour hold-ups, most people would be thinking about all the extra jobs the road would bring, how it would open up central Somerset to Euro-money.
Trouble is, the Government's got the bloody moral high ground,' Woolly said. 'Take the juggernauts off the village roads, make the towns safer for the kids, you got the mums and dads on your side before you start. But it's all bullshit – you put this bloody road in and traffic expands to fill it, as traffic invariably does, and the lorries start hitting the village lanes again and kiddies still get mown down, and then you need another new road, and so it goes, until the whole of the West is a sea of metal.'
'That's what I love about you old hippies,' Juanita said. 'You never lose that dewy-eyed optimism.'
'Unless we stop it now.' Woolly pulled Juanita into the shadowy doorway of a picture-framing shop, I got this leaflet through the post the Other day. Offering the support of the eco-guerrillas.'
'God,' said Juanita. 'I'm not sure I like the sound of that.'
'They got a point. Public inquiries and stuff, 'tis no more than a charade. But if contractors find their diggers getting vandalised, the bosses' fancy cars getting scratched…'
'Oh, Woolly, that's not you.'
'Yeah, I know. I hate that stuff. Man of peace. But what d'you do, Juanita?'
'Well, you don't do anything undemocratic. You're a councillor.'
'Sure,' said Woolly. 'But when you get on the council, you find out pretty soon how helpless local authorities are. Thing is, with this bunch in there and no local locals, you're gonner get demands for the extreme option anyway. Not counting the ones who'll recommend curses and laying out the runes and stuff.'
'Ceridwen's there, then,' Juanita said.
Woolly grinned. 'Least you done me proud, Juanita. You look
… sheesh.'
'Well, thank you, Woolly. I decided to pass up on the pearls.'
'Anyway.' Woolly straightened his tie, it was actually a kipper tie, circa 1974, featuring Andy Warhol's Marilyn Monroe. 'I better get in there, strut my stuff.'
'Just don't go over the top, there'll almost certainly be Press there.'
'Yeah,' said Woolly dismally. They're the ones not smoking joints. Sheesh, I can't even see Jim Battle. He'll be coming, surely?'
'Yes.' Juanita said tightly. 'I'm sure he will.' She glanced over her shoulder and went into the meeting.
He poured another Scotch, pulled three bristle brushes from the sink, putting aside the linseed oil; time for neat turps.
Got to work fast. Get this down while the energy's there.
The three paintings on their easels were all part of the same picture. He could see it now. The afterglow, usually close to the centre of the canvas, should in fact be on the perimeter, a before glow. The paint burning through from the edges, to the heart of the experience, the core of the pyramid.
Where lay the Grail.
Why had he never seen this before? To reach the inner light, you had to pass through darkness. Every experience, no matter how negative, was a force for progress. Even the worst humiliation – the sickle over your head, rejection by the woman you'd yearned for
… all part of a rite of passage, through the deepest darkness, to the core of it all.
He was feeling so much better now he was painting. He'd been hoping for a good dusk to fire him, but the rain had kept on. Only when a bough of the ash tree tapped on his window, awakening him – and he saw something hanging from that bough, yes, yes – did he realise he could ignite his own.
Inside, he'd poured more whisky, finishing off the Johnnie Walker, starring on the Chivas Regal he'd been saving for Christmas. Arousing a glow in his gut and feeling it spread.
And outside, he'd pulled out the dog grate and lit a fire on the stone hearth, building a pyramid of oak logs, watching the sparks shoot out until the logs began to turn red, and then he'd wedged more logs around them, making a hard, hot tunnel.
By the time it got dark, the whole room was glowing with a roaring, red energy.
Never lifting his gaze from the canvas, Jim Battle rummaged like a blind man among the tumble of tubes on his worktable to find a fat, full one he rarely used.
It would be labelled Lamp Black.
The association calling itself Glastonbury First was clearly not a sham after all. For a start, you had to be seriously confident to hold your inaugural public meeting at the Town Hall.
The building was next to the Abbey gatehouse and a little taller – nineteenth-century officialdom overseeing ancient sanctity. The town hall was lit up, the gatehouse an archaic silhouette.