Merrily stopped on the wide pavement, under the first street lamp beyond what had been the town boundary, the road sloping to the River Teme at Ludford Bridge.
‘What happened?’
‘I ran away, of course. Or stumbled away would be more accurate. When I realized I was actually cringing into the stones, like a cornered animal, I… threw out a prayer, like a sort of yelp. Just God help me! Just praying that I could move. And I did move. Like the clappers. And you’re probably smiling.’
‘I’m not, honest, boss.’
‘I’ll cut it short. There are two ways out of that tower, and I took the wrong one at first and came up against some steps that led nowhere any more, a blank wall, and that was horrifying, as if whichever way I went I’d come up against a wall that hadn’t been there when I went in. Imagination, in these situations, becomes so unbelievably powerful. So I scrambled back down and back into the chamber and… well… that’s when I saw her. I bloody saw her.’
‘What?’
‘She was— Look at me…’ The Bishop held his hands out under a street light. ‘After all these years… still shaking.’
‘You saw Marion?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, I don’t know who or what it was, but I remember I did know, with a quite awful certainty, that something was going to happen as soon as I re-entered the chamber. Partly because of the cold – yes, I do know that’s a cliché. But it wasn’t a normal cold, not a healthy cold – not like rushing wind or crackling frost. It was a negativity, an absence, a hollow-ness… an area in which warmth couldn’t exist. Any more than normal prayer.’
Bernie held the lamp-post, like a drunk, Merrily feeling chilled now. One of those attic moments, when you opened an old chest to expose ancient rotting fabric.
The Bishop’s tale. She wondered when he’d last told it to anyone. And she wondered why, in all the discussions they’d had about the nature of Deliverance, he’d never even hinted at a personal experience.
‘She… it was… as I re-entered the chamber, there was a paleness. I can see it now, but I still can’t properly describe it – only my own reactions to something that seemed to be made of nothing more than the cold air and the damp unfurling from the stone. I wasn’t aware of a face, but I was sensing a horrible smile that was more like an absence of smile. A smile so cold, so bleak, so devoid of hope… only this perpetual, bitter… terminality.’
Merrily brought the cigarette to her mouth. It had gone out. As she fumbled for her lighter, the Bishop stepped away from the lamp-post, rubbing the warm blood back into his hands.
And then, as Merrily’s lighter flared, so did bigger lights – flashing white and orange and wild blue, bouncing from pale walls and darkened windows.
10
Leave God Out of It
THE ROAD HAD already been closed below Ludford Bridge, which explained the sparseness of traffic on Broad Street.
Not so sparse, though, at the bottom of the hill, where there had once been mills and the distinctive Horseshoe Weir sent the River Teme rushing over flat rocks – a beauty spot on the edge of town, now a garish confluence of hysterical light: an ambulance, police cars, blue beacons still revolving, inviting an audience like bleak neon.
‘Road accident, looks like,’ Bernie Dunmore said. ‘Funny we didn’t hear it happen. Better turn back, I suppose. Last thing they need is—’
‘Andy.’ In the full-beam headlights of a static vehicle, Merrily could see the stocky figure climbing over the lower wall towards the river. ‘Down there, look, by those—’
Two policemen were going after Mumford, close to the shimmering sheet of the river.
‘Poor chap can’t seem to walk away from it, can he?’ the Bishop said.
But Merrily was already running down the hill, the throbbing voice inside her chest keeping time with her pounding feet, going, No… no… no… no…
They were bringing him back over the wall, one pushing him to the other who’d leapt over onto the pavement, Andy shouting, ‘Don’t you stupid bastards ever listen?’
The cops had an arm each. At the side of the road, a third shone his torch on them.
‘Andy? Andy Mumford?’
‘Get them off me!’
‘It’s all right, boys,’ the third cop said. ‘Who told you?’
‘Small town, Steve.’ Mumford shaking them off, brushing at his arms where they’d gripped him.
‘Did you see…?’
‘Didn’t get a chance, did I?’ In the torchlight Mumford’s face was smooth and cold, like washed grey stone. ‘These cretins—’ He looked up, saw Merrily. ‘Mrs Watkins.’
‘Andy, what’s—?’
‘Better go and make sure, hadn’t you?’ the third cop said.
Merrily found herself following Mumford over the wall, nobody blocking his way now they knew who he was. It was a longer drop the other side than she’d been expecting, and she stumbled, Mumford catching her arm.
‘Couple of neighbours waiting for me outside the house, with Dad. One was walking his dog by the river when he seen these boys come out of the pub by the bridge and go wading into the water.’
The policeman called Steve came alongside.
‘Can’t believe this, Andy.’
Mumford said nothing. They reached another cop and two paramedics in luminous jackets. There was a stretcher, and two wide-beam lamps were sparing them nothing. Merrily looked once and then turned away, fists tightening, watching the moonlit river washing under Ludford Bridge, hearing the hard questions, the terse replies.
‘No mistake, Andy?’
‘No.’ Mumford moving round the body. ‘No other injuries?’
‘Not that we can see.’
The swab of froth on Phyllis Mumford’s mouth had made it look as if she’d swallowed soap. Had made it seem, at first, like she was still alive, blowing bubbles. The bandage on her leg had been hanging loose, like a pennant.
Mumford grunted, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched.
‘Nothing anybody could’ve done,’ Steve said.
‘Didn’t go off the bridge, then?’
‘Be more damaged, wouldn’t she, Andy? Looks like she got over that wall, same way we just came in, just started wading out from the bank and then slipped on the rocks. Anybody’d fall over in a minute, in the daytime even. No chance at all at night, see.’
‘Not at her age.’
‘No. What can any of us say? If those boys had got there five minutes earlier… I’m real sorry, mate.’
‘Aye.’
Merrily turned, and Mumford was there. They walked back slowly towards the wall, Mumford clearly coping with it the only way he knew how – like he hadn’t retired and this was someone else’s mother. Someone else’s mother, someone else’s nephew, someone else’s life.
‘Cold water,’ he said. ‘They always reckon a heart attack gets them first.’
‘I’m sure it… must,’ she said. ‘Andy—’
‘A mercy. Under the circumstances.’
‘—Why? Why would she come out in the dark, on her own?’
‘You tell me.’
‘This is just…’ Standing there, stupidly shaking her head. ‘I should’ve…’
Didn’t know what she should’ve done. This was altogether beyond comprehension.
‘My fault, ennit?’ Mumford said. ‘Should’ve noticed the way she was going. Should’ve had her assessed. Couldn’t expect the ole feller to see it, he en’t noticed her for years.’ His arm came back and he smashed his right fist into his left palm. ‘Christ!’