'The date Pixhill died?'
'Another coincidence for you.' Feeling slightly foolish, Juanita sipped her coffee through the straw, the first time she'd done this in public.
'Mrs Carey,' Powys said. 'I – I'm not sure how to put this – I seem to have walked into a… a situation.'
'Oh yes.'
'Diane says it's meant.'
'Diane thinks everything is meant,' Juanita said. 'Let me guess – you're John Cowper Powys, she's Dion Fortune and you've both been brought to Glastonbury to help deal with something of apocalyptic magnitude.'
Powys stirred his tea. 'So you think she's…?'
'Off her trolley?'
Juanita thought for a while, watching the young waiters looking overworked, underpaid and sullen in their Santa hats.
'No,' she said at last. 'There've been times when I've thought she was… shall we say psychologically stretched. A victim of her upbringing. Living a fantasy life of her own creation because real life at Cold Comfort Hall was so bloody dire and restrictive. I feel a bit ashamed of thinking that now.'
'Now?'
'Being in hospital you have a lot of time to think. That's not always good. I don't know. Maybe I'm just as screwed up as she is.'
'What do I do about these?' Powys pulled over a plate with two chocolate muffins on it.
'Embarrassing.' Juanita said. 'Can't pick it up, Powys. In hospital they fed me like an animal in the zoo. Little Karen was probably right, I could be in deep trouble out here.'
'How about this?' Powys presented a muffin in a napkin. 'I'll hold it while you take a bite. Or I could take a bite out of the other side at the same time and then everyone will think we're soppy lovers and they'll be embarrassed.'
Juanita smiled.
They'd smashed the window with a brick and pulled out about five instruments. The eighteenth-century-style guitar was clamped to the stomach of a stocky, wide-shouldered man who was standing in the middle of the street trying to prise heavy metal chords out of it.
Another, much younger person was banging on a shamanic drum with half a brick and bawling up at the window over the shop, 'Come on out, Woolly. Join the band. You little piece of dogshit.'
Diane had recognised him at once. It was Wayne Rankin.
Eighteen years old, the farm manager's son who had kicked Headlice in the face while he lay on the ground.
She had crept to the corner of the cobbled alley. Could see them clearly under a tin shaded exterior bulb. She might be called on to identify them if they got away before the police came.
If Woolly was inside he would surely have telephoned for help by now. If he wasn't, it was up to her; all the other premises in the little square were lock up shops and there were no lights in the apartments or storerooms. No one had come out; either they hadn't heard the breaking glass and the shouting or they didn't want to get involved.
If there'd still been a policeman back in the town centre, she would have run to him. As it was, she would have to knock on someone's door.
The half brick finally ruptured the parchment of the deep-bodied stannic drum. Wayne Rankin let it fall, drew back his foot and sent the drum rolling down the cobbles like an empty barrel.
'Come on. Woolly!' the heavy man bellowed. 'We wants a private consultation with our councillor, look.' He gave up trying to find power chords on the little guitar, swung the instrument round by the neck and shattered it against the wall.
Diane cringed.
'That's what we're gonner do to you, Woolaston,' Wayne Rankin sang. 'You gonner come out, baby-killer?'
'We know you're in there' The big man had put on an American cop voice. He pulled a beer can from his pocket and ripped at the ring-pull.
'Woolaston!' Wayne screeched. 'You don't come out, you piece of hippy shit, we're gonner have your door in.'
He began to jump up and down on the soundbox of the guitar.
It was too much. Diane's eyes flooded. They were making as much noise as they could, and where was everybody.
She couldn't stand it, turned away and walked blindly back up Benedict Street, determined to beat furiously on the first door with a light behind it.
It was no use pretending everything would return to shambolic normality because it wouldn't, Colonel Pixhill was right, there was a growing darkness and an evil in this town which fed on division and extremism and prejudice. The road scheme, the Glastonbury First which polarised people and led to tragedy and accusations and a really despicable, meaningless kind of violence, and…
And like a vision of the Grail, it came to Diane then what she must do. Here in Benedict Street, named after the little church, which may or may not be the resting place of the bones of St Benignus the hermit, she saw her direction.
She had to write about it. Like Pixhill had, but in a far more immediate way. She had to find the courage to throw journalistic balance to the winds and document it all and name names. Tell everyone about Headlice and Rankin's involvement, about the Glastonbury First movement and how it existed to split the town in two.
The Avalonian. They would bring out the first edition for Christmas, late on Christmas Eve when there'd be no other papers until after the holiday.
Even if everyone rejected it and scorned it as Lady Loony's ravings. Even if Sam refused to get it printed because it wasn't up to his professional standards. Even if Juanita was frightfully angry and never spoke to her again because she'd gone down the same sad, dead-end road as Colonel Pixhill.
She had no choice.
Diane felt, for a moment, quite awesomely calm.
And then, in the shadows between streetlamps, she walked into a pair of open arms. 'Hey, now.' The long arms closed lovingly around her.
She thought, Sam?
She smelled beer. The arms manoeuvred her under a streetlamp.
'Who we got here then?'
The light splattered like egg yolk on a great shambling grin built around the kind of large, yellow teeth which, according to Sam, looked appealing on donkeys but rather less so on Darryl Davey.
Sam had had a lot to say, over the weeks, about Darryclass="underline" thick as shit but king of the third form on account of being overdeveloped for his age, like a shark in a goldfish tank.
'Lovely Lady Loony,' Darryl Davey said, holding her tightly to his body.
'Please excuse me.'
'I don't think so.'
She felt his hands through her sweater, clasped between her shoulder-blades.
'You're quite a handful, you are, my lover,' Darryl Davey said.
He began to move jerkily down the street, pushing her before him, his wiry red hair springing as he pressed himself against her.
'Stop it. How dare you?' He'd bulldozed her back to Woolly's alley.
'I do what I like, Lady Loony. Go on, struggle. Push them big titties out.'
'Get off me! You disgusting…'
'All right.' Darryl's hands parted and he stepped back.
'Thank you.' Relief streamed through her.
Darryl grinned.
As arms in a thick check workshirt came around her from behind. Diane shrieked.
Darryl bellowed with laughter. Diane struggled and tried to turn her head to see the face, although she knew it must be the wide shouldered man who'd smashed Woolly's guitar.
On the edge of her vision she saw Wayne Rankin slip back into the alley. He wouldn't want her to see him. She couldn't see the face of the man holding her; whenever she tried to twist away from him, he danced her around from behind. He was quite a bit shorter than Darryl. He pulled her to him and she felt something hard press into the base of her spine.
Darryl said conversationally, 'They d'say Sammy Daniel's been shaggin' you.'
'Leave me alone!'
'Ah, you can do better than him, my lover.'
Diane kicked back hard with her trainer. There was a grunt. 'Fuckin' fat slag.' A hand plunged into her coat and squeezed her left breast hard. She screamed out.