'Fine. Unless you've got any views about the Bishop's meet the pagans mission on Thursday.'
'Silly man,' Archer said. 'Off the record, of course.'
'Also off the record,' murmured Tammy, 'the word is that not every member of your family a backing your Tor scheme'
Archer smiled. 'Diane'
'Just talk. As yet.'
'Look, strictly off the record,' Archer said awkwardly, 'we've all been terribly worried about Diane, who's in a… particularly delicate state… you remember she was at that awful fire? Plus, she's been working non-stop on this, ah, hippy magazine thing from early in the morning until late at night.'
'Must be a problem for you,' Tammy said ambiguously.
'Oh lord, yes.' Archer's expression was no longer visible. 'She's given us a few headaches in her time, you must have heard about all that, Tammy.'
'Well, you know…'
'God knows, we help her all we can. Try to help her. Ha ha.'
Sam was so blind furious he could have smashed his fist into the wall. The two-faced git. So smooth, so deft. Tossing his sister to the pack like a fox cub.
Mad, restless energy was pumping through Sam's body. No way he could go home, sit there with a can of lager and a sandwich and wait for the slimy turd to come up on the box. No way he could go to any pub in this town tonight and listen to the gloating gossip about how Councillor Crackpot had helped kill an innocent little baby.
Archer and Tammy and the cameraman were moving away. 'Really, very good of you to talk to us at a time like this, Mr Ffitch.'
'Archer, please. Probably be seeing a good deal more of each other in the months to come. Do you and your colleague have time for a drink?'
Sam watched them walk away from the mess of Magdalene Street. Wanted to scream at Archer's broad, dark back, like a hooligan.
No good.
He decided to go alone to Bowermead Hall, climb a few fences, jump a few streams, figure out how to sabotage the forthcoming Pennard Hunt.
EIGHT
The case was very light, as though it contained nothing but discarded bandages and stale hospital air. Joe Powys carried it out to the car.
Outside, she seemed to wilt. Her blue three-quarter-length, belted coat looked too big for her; her gloves too small. She shouldn't be wearing gloves at all, according to the young doctor called George, who'd said to Powys, 'I hope you know what you're taking on, mate.'
Because she couldn't use either of her hands, Powys had signed her out. The little nurse called Karen had said, stone-faced, 'I hope you're proud of yourself,' and George, who had a half-grown beard, said, 'This is very silly, Mrs Carey.'
Trying to sound grown-up. 'You're going to have a lot of pain, you know.'
Juanita had looked raw and frayed. 'For reasons I can't discuss, I'd be in a lot more mental anguish if I didn't get out. Can you get my case, Karen? Do I have a coat?'
'Juanita, does this have something to do with that woman? Sister Dunn?'
'Look, Karen, please, just leave it, all right? Think of the extra bed. Sorry. I really am grateful for everything you've done.'
No longer iridescent, Juanita Carey stood shivering in the hospital carpark, looking at the filthy, dented white Mini. And at the black and white dog with enormous ears and three legs
'Um… Arnold,' Powys said.
Juanita instinctively put out a gloved hand to the dog, then drew back.
'It's OK,' Powys said. 'He likes all women.' Before he noticed that she was afraid of patting the dog because of her hands. That she was afraid to touch anything.
'Stupid ' she said. 'I had the physiotherapy, but told the shrink to sod off. You've got to deal with things yourself, haven't you? Is there somewhere I can get some cigarettes?
'Weil find somewhere.' He held open the passenger door for her, watched her get in without using her hands, holding them in front of her as if the gloves were borrowed and mustn't get dirty. She fell back into the little bucket seat, closed her eyes and breathed in.
They stopped at a newsagent's and he bought her forty Silk Cut. Unwrapped a packet, lit one for her.
'Sorry. This is pathetic. But I just feel so… frail. They tell you you're going to, but you don't really expect it. You're so looking forward to your first breath of real air. And real smoke.'
Waiting to get into the traffic, he was aware of her taking the cigarette from her lips, trapping it not very effectively between the very tips of her fingers. The next time he glanced at her she was shuddering, breathing very fast.
'Can we stop? I'm sorry.'
He pulled into the side of the road to a chorus of hooting, revved-up road rage from behind.
'Sorry.' She let him take the cigarette. 'Thanks. I nearly dropped it. This is ridiculous, I just… It's on fire, you know? It never occurred to me before that they were on fire. Christ.' She exhaled. 'I always thought if it ever came to this I'd get myself quietly put down.'
Powys said, 'Dan Frayne's been worried about you.'
'Good old Danny.' She leaned her head back over the seat, stared at the tear in the roof fabric. 'Your publisher now?'
'Possibly. '
'You are the only one, aren't you? I mean he hasn't persuaded a whole bunch of esoteric authors to come to the aid of the disabled bookseller? I'm not going to find John Michell redecorating the flat, Colin Wilson hoovering the sitting room.'
Juanita sat up, laughed and coughed. 'God, what am I going to do if half of me's screaming for a cigarette and the other half's terrified to hold one? Don't forget to note this. For your report.'
'I'm doing a report?'
'To Dan. He's sent you to find out how crazy I've become, right? Why I tried to burn myself to death.'
'Well, no,' Powys said. 'The official brief is to find out how crazy Glastonbury's become.'
'Glastonbury's always been crazy. He knows that.'
He told her about the book Frayne wanted them to co-write. She spent some time examining her gloves.
'Forget it.' She didn't look up. 'He's just being kind. You don't need me. Were I to write about Glastonbury, the way I'm feeling now, it'd read like either Paradise Lost or Dante's Inferno. He doesn't want that. He sent you because he's feeling a bit of residual guilt from a long time ago, but he's afraid to come himself.'
'He's afraid to see you again. He thinks it might destroy his marriage.'
'Mr Smooth mouth. If he saw me now, he'd be booking the hotel for his golden wedding.'
'I don't think so. Um… I've read your letters. Everything you ever wrote to Dan Frayne since about 1977.'
After a considered silence, she said, 'l may kill him for this.'
She held up a gloved hand. 'I'm not supposed to wear these. They're quite painful. I'm supposed to let the air get at my hands.
How squeamish are you?'
'My dog has three legs,' Powys said.
Diane collapsed against the Abbey gates. Closed. As if God had shut his eyes.
She looked up at the charcoal sky through her tears.
How could you? Doesn't this town matter to you anymore?
Across the street, men with chainsaws were cutting the remains of the Christmas tree into slices.
Don Moulder had driven her back into town until they came up against a traffic tailback and diversion signs. Diane had got out in the Safeway car park where Don could turn round. He'd been silent most of the way, then, as she was getting out, he'd said, 'Field I got next to the road, I agreed to let 'em have it for car parking. When the bishop comes to the Tor on Thursday. I been thinkin', maybe if I was to ask him – the bishop – to bless the bottom field. Sure to count for something, a bishop.'
Diane had nodded dubiously. 'Anything's worth a try.'
Minutes later, she was learning about the terrible accident from Matthew Banks, the tall, willowy herbalist, loading apples and grapes and Linda McCartney TV dinners into his 2CV.