‘Yes. Thank you, Huw.’
Shit.
Merrily tipped the phone very gently into its rest. Gazing at her reflection in the dark mirror of the scullery window and into a too-familiar void.
8
Heresy
THIS JOB …
People learned what you did, and envisaged desecrated graves, chalices of blood, night-long spiritual struggles with an indelibly black metaphysical evil, his satanic majesty, The Beast 666.
Their disappointment, almost invariably, was palpable.
So you’ve never really had to rescue anyone from actual demonic possession?
To which you’d shrug and smile awkwardly and admit that, rather than the coils of the Old Serpent, it mostly came down to the spirals of the subconscious mind.
This was the void – the thought that there might, in the end, be nothing there that psychology would not be equipped to explain. That people like Siân Callaghan-Clarke might just be right about the relevance of what you were doing.
The dark night of no-soul. What, in the end, you feared most, and a dampener on the spirit, as Merrily drove down into the Unknown Border, using a route she’d never travelled before: sunken lanes below the bare, abraded hillsides, wind-whipped, twisted trees.
Still England. It had to be; there, below the road, was the River Monnow, which was the border, failing to be crossed by a smashed and collapsing footbridge, fenced off, with a sign that said: Danger.
But if this wasn’t Wales, neither was it truly Herefordshire, not with names like Bagwllydiart on the signposts. Rural Wales – almost all of it, now – was designated tourist country, while Herefordshire’s own tourist country was Ledwardine and its neighbouring black and white villages in the north of the county and the lushness of the Wye Valley in the south.
The Unknown Border was only about an hour from Ledwardine and, sooner or later, it would be joining the New Cotswolds.
Not for a while, though.
And it certainly had never been, nor ever would be, East Anglia.
Jane had them all, natch. The Penguin Complete Ghost Stories of M. R. James (1862-1936).
Sitting up in bed last night, under the blackened oak beams, with her dressing gown around her shoulders and the tawny owls fluting in the churchyard, Merrily had read ‘Oh, Whistle, and I’ll Come to You, My Lad’, first published in 1904.
She couldn’t possibly have read it before or even seen it on TV, because it really wasn’t something that would ever allow itself to be forgotten, this story of Parkins, an academic on a golfing holiday on the Suffolk coast, and what he discovers there, and what discovers him.
Oh Parkins, says a colleague before he leaves, if you are going to Burnstow, I wish you would look at the site of the Templars’ preceptory and let me know if you think it would be any good to have a dig there in the summer.
Templar preceptory. The only immediate connection with the village of Garway. Preceptory: the Templars’ term for one of their communities, a description apparently unique to this curious order of medieval warrior monks.
But Burnstow, according to the author’s own foreword, was based on a seaside town the whole width of England away.
Merrily had followed Parkins into the Globe Inn, where the only room available had two beds. Sure to be significant. As for the Templars’ preceptory, all Parkins had found there was a series of unpromising humps and mounds … Oh, and – in a cavity near the possible site of an altar – an old whistle.
On one side of the whistle it said:
QUIS EST ISTE QUIVENIT
Who is this who is coming?
If you weren’t aware of Garway Hill, it meant that you were either on or immediately below it. She couldn’t see a radio mast, only a row of houses like battered ornaments on a shelf, overlooking – a couple of fields away on the right – the Church of St Michael.
Welcome to GARWAY. Please drive carefully.
Like you had a choice in lanes like these.
Sanded by the low October sun, the church was aloof, in its own shallow valley. Saturday afternoon, nobody about. The folder containing the directions and the key of The Master House lay on the old Volvo’s passenger seat. The house was supposed to be within sight of the church tower, but only just. You should look for two white gateposts, one broken in half.
Later, maybe.
If at all. Thanks to Huw Owen and M. R. James, the case was as good as closed. Fuchsia was making it up. Delusion was another possibility, but probably less likely, now.
A right turning brought Merrily to the entrance of the churchyard. No concessions here to the advent of the motor vehicle. Parking tight into the hedge, she climbed out through the passenger door, walking up, in jeans and a Gomer Parry Plant Hire sweatshirt, into a curving and shaded path leading to a mellow enclosure. A haze of greens and ambers, an awning of birdsong.
If you wanted to know about a place, always check out the church first. Feel its disposition: benevolence or disapproval or, more often nowadays, a mildewed resignation.
This one, she thought, was … aware of her.
She walked up into the bumpy churchyard, under the tower: plain stone, simple pyramidal hat. And yet …
Its origins are almost certainly Celtic. The earliest record of a monastery on the site is in the seventh century. Sophie’s notes, from the internet. But it is not until the arrival of the Knights Templar in 1180 that the history of Garway Church opens out … and, at the same time, closes in.
You could, apparently, still see the foundations of the original circular nave which the Templars had created in imitation of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem – the extent of Merrily’s knowledge of Templar architecture. She took a step back, looking up. The tower was square and unadorned, stonework like oatmeal biscuit, the lower half darker as if it had been dunked in tea. Two vertical slits near the top on each of the four sides were disconcertingly like all-round eyes. Watchful and mildly amused.
‘I suppose, seen from above, it does look rather as though its neck has been broken. Like a chicken’s.’
Merrily half-turned. He was standing alongside her, in walking boots and fishing hat, a two-tone nylon hiking jacket over his faded blue shirt and clerical collar.
‘You see, the tower originally was entirely separate from the body of the church, which is why it’s set at such an angle. The gap was bridged at a later date, as you can see. The arrangement would have looked less odd, one imagines, in the days when the nave was circular. I’m so sorry …’ He bowed his head. ‘Didn’t mean to sneak up. It is Mrs Merrily Watkins, I hope. Walking home from the pub when I saw the car, and you did look rather purposeful behind the wheel.’
‘Mr Murray.’
‘Teddy.’ He bent down to her, putting out a hand. ‘So glad. I realize this must be a terrible bind for you, but … heavens, the gossip this sort of thing engenders. Usually among people who enter a church no more than twice in their lifetimes, carried in and out both times. Not really what one looks for in retirement.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
Actually, the Reverend Murray didn’t look old enough, or unfit enough, to be retired. Handshake firm, eyes vividly blue, and skin tanned to the colour of Garway’s lower tower around the stiff white beard and the high bland dome of his forehead.
‘Never been a particularly pastoral sort of chap, Merrily. When the girl turned up here asking for protection … sanctuary … I confess I was completely thrown.’