Mean Spirit Part 17

'Perhaps they'd had what they wanted out of her,' Marcus said. 'A few moments of paranormal excitement. Something for them to gossip about for weeks.'

Grayle wrinkled her nose in disbelief.

'And anyway', Marcus said, 'she sent it back. Tainted money.'

'Tainted career. Let me get this right in the following ten days or so, she tries two other sittings, one for this regular circle she holds in London rich matrons and like that and no sooner does she hit trance than ...'

'The inference being that whatever came to her in Cheltenham, she took it away with her. Like a disease. A virus.'

'Yeah, yeah, yeah, but ... and you know this is unlike me, Marcus, to go looking for the psychological answer ... but could we not be getting a mental projection of this woman's own increasing negativity? She admitted that when she came out of it she felt a wave of self-disgust, right?'

'Yes, but, Underhill-'

'Marcus, you have a good hard think about this before you blow me out the sky. Could not that scarred, evil face be an image of her own soiled inner being? A realization of herself as a psychic trickster preying on the sick and the lonely and the frightened and the bereaved?'

'Good G.o.d, Underhill!'

She spread her hands. 'I just throw this in, Marcus, for the sake of argument.' And for the sake of a night's sleep. 'Curious that it all comes to a head the night she takes a pile of money against even her own better judgement for putting on a psychic sideshow.'

'And the smell?'

'Like a dirty d.i.c.k? Interesting to think what that might be saying, hmmm?'

'And the cold? And the Chinese vase?'

'Look, I'm not gonna deny she may have psycho-kinetic powers. Sure, it could be coincidence, but let's not argue about that. Think about the central issue what do we have? We have a big karma crisis. Nervous exhaustion resulting from a major guilt trip. Of course it went with her when she left the party. It's a part of her an ugly reflection of her dark side. And every time she sits down to contact her friends, the dead folks, out it comes again. Wooh, gross!'

Marcus started to say something and dried up. She heard him breathing like an old steam train in an echoey station yard. Then he came heavily to his feet.

'She really has n.o.body to turn to, you know, Underhill. Her father's abroad. She has no siblings. She isn't in a relations.h.i.+p. No friends she can count on. She doesn't even trust her own agent. And now this physical a.s.sault ...'

'She still puts on an act. Like when I first found her, you'd've thought she was an alcoholic, the way the place stank of booze. But is she drinking that way now? Uh-huh. See, I guess that was because she thought you were gonna come in person, and you'd be like, Oh my G.o.d, Persephone, how did it come to this? How can I help? What can I do to save you from this degradation? You want my opinion, Marcus, I think there's still major stuff she isn't telling us. Too many things that just don't meet in the middle. But right now I'm not thinking too hard about the big mysteries. All I want is my car back out of Justin's garage and for Justin, whatever kind of b.a.s.t.a.r.d he is, to still have a face, you know?'

'Yes.' Marcus bent and shut the woodstove. 'Think I'll go to bed.'

'Good.'

Grayle awoke under a woollen rug on the sofa, listening to the wind in the eaves and Malcolm snoring.

A cold, silky moonbeam filigreed the books on the high shelves.

She turned her head and saw by the darkness that the stove was out. She felt the weight of all the books on the walls. All that knowledge. All that speculation. You couldn't trust anything in a book. You couldn't trust your own memory, your own eyes, your own ears.

She'd woken up thinking, Maybe I said it out loud. Maybe I actually spoke the words.

THE b.i.t.c.h IS MAKING THIS UP.

Maybe she'd said it under her breath and Callard's hearing was incredibly acute. Whatever, twice now, the first time at Mysleton Lodge, the woman had seemed to repeat to her her own thoughts.

G.o.d-d.a.m.n.

Grayle thought, We need you out of here, Ms Callard. You're an unhappy presence. A poltergeist. Marcus can't help you with your problems. And me I need my car back and you out of here.

Throw that one back at me.

XVIII.

UNDER AN OYSTER-Sh.e.l.l SKY, GRAYLE APPROACHED THE STONES through stiff, yellow gra.s.s.

A big vista from up here. Over to the east you could see the Malvern Hills, a line of small b.u.mps. But there was no sunrise. No big, red, rolling ball today.

'So, OK, what happened ... one morning it was midsummer a young girl called Annie Davies came up here from Castle Farm. This was about 1920 and I think it was her birthday. She would be thirteen, and I guess all her hormones were churning up like the inside of a was.h.i.+ng machine, so maybe she was ready for anything.'

Grayle laid a hand on the collapsed capstone.

'This monument is about four thousand years old and was oriented, we think, to the midsummer sunrise. A shaft of first light would pa.s.s through a slit in the stones and into the chamber. Though with the capstone collapsed, it's hard to see precisely how that worked now, but you get the idea.'

Persephone Callard nodded. Perhaps faintly bemused about why Grayle had insisted on bringing her up here, banging on the dairy door in the morning mist.

Bemused that was no bad thing.

'So Annie Davies is up here we don't know whether she was standing on top of the capstone, which was already partly collapsed by then, or if she was inside. It's still possible to get inside, if you're small.'

'Like you,' Callard said.

'Yeah, I did it, once. It was ... strange. A strange experience. Anyhow, this is where she had the vision. On midsummer morning the sun came down in a giant red ball and settled on the ground and it rolls towards her along the hills, and out of the sun strolls this ... lady. It's hard to get a picture of it on a dull day in the wrong season, but-'

'It isn't hard at all.' Callard wore jeans and a black, hooded sweats.h.i.+rt. No time for make-up and her hair was still loose. 'These places were very carefully sited according to the landscape and the heavens and the effects they have on you. Can we see Castle Farm from here?'

'Down behind those trees. You can see the village over there, St Mary's ... the church ... Uh, the legend of High Knoll is not too well known on account of the villagers, for all kinds of reasons, covered it up about Annie Davies. The Border temperament: play it down, don't draw attention. No way did they want another Bernadette. Plus, the Anglican Church was apparently suggesting the kid was either lying or evil.'

'Typical.'

'Yeah. And when Marcus heard about it, he was ... well ... You know Marcus.'

'Furious.' Callard looking amused now. The wind blew her tobacco hair across her face.

'See, for Marcus, this story ... these stones, symbolized a whole lot of things about how it all went wrong. About people closing their eyes to the miraculous turning a blind eye to the Big Mysteries. The establishment clamping down on whatever it can't fit between its own cramped parameters.'

''Twas ever thus, Grayle.'

'He hasn't had a lot of luck, Persephone. His wife and his little daughter both died; there was some talk of medical negligence, which is how come he hates doctors. Doctors and lawyers and politicians and scientists and ... teachers.'

'Yes. A teacher who hated teachers. I remember.'

'So when The Phenomenologist came up for sale ... and also Castle Farm, which at the time was even more rundown ... Marcus grabbed the chance to get out of formal education and into ... into finding out stuff, undermining received wisdom, spreading a sense of wonder. He likes to be called a crank, an anarchist, an old curmudgeon. And maybe ... maybe a crank is a fine thing to be, you know?'

Persephone Callard pulled the hair out of her face. Her amber eyes glittered. 'Let me try and a.n.a.lyse what you're saying, Grayle. Why you brought me here.'

'Well, I've come to realize what part you played in all this, is all.' Grayle turned away, watching a buzzard wheel and mew. 'You were his first big breakthrough. Incontrovertible evidence of the world being a bigger place. Marcus's Philosopher's Stone. If Annie Davies was the legend and the inspiration, you were the proof. And maybe, all the time he was sc.r.a.ping together the money, he was holding you in front of him, just as much as Annie.'

'Whereas you know I'm just spoiled and neurotic.'

'Aw, look, I never ...' Grayle tugged her hair into bunches. 'I'm not a sceptical person. I'm a gullible person. Holy Grayle, remember? Mind so wide open you could store a Freightliner in there. Underneath, I wanna believe what you're saying, what you represent, just as much as he does.'

'Oh, sure.' Callard walked around the burial chamber until she was facing Grayle across the capstone. 'But you also want to protect him. Because suppose Callard's lying. Or fooling herself. Or become a psychiatric case? Or always was? Suppose she's not a Big Mystery at all, just a medical anomaly? What's that going to do to poor old Marcus finding out that everything he cares about is founded on angel dust?'

Grayle bent and rested her cheek on the cold stone. She felt suddenly near to tears. It sometimes happened at High Knoll.

Callard said, more softly, 'There's something else about this place, isn't there? It means something to you.'

'It ...' Grayle sighed. 'This was also the place Ersula my sister came. When she was a research archaeologist at Cefn-y-bedd. The University of the Earth?'

She straightened up, folded her arms on top of the stone.

'They had a research programme into the effects of ancient monuments on human consciousness, which involved sleeping out at places like this and recording your dreams. It was how she got killed.'

Callard stepped back from the stones. 'Here?'

'I don't think she was killed here. They found her body in a shallow grave, a co-worker at the centre and a police detective, Bobby Maiden ... But that's all over, the killer dealt with and all. You read about it. Everybody read about it.'

'But this is why you came back here, to work? To be near ...?'

'Or in spite of being near. I'd got to know Marcus, I liked what he believed in ...'

'Until now?'

'I don't know.'

Callard said, 'You want me to leave.'

'I don't know. I don't know that he can help you. He has a lot of books and a lot of contacts. He'll find out if any other mediums ever got stuck with a ... presence ... they couldn't lose. He'll find out how they handled it. But in the end, I-. Look, you don't need to involve Marcus. He's sick. Why can't I help you?'

Callard blinked. 'How?'

'Practical stuff. Seems to me if there's an immediate problem it relates to you and me and what happened the other night. Like, personally, I'm not gonna be able to rest until I find out what that was all about and what I did to that guy ... who he was, all of that.'

'Don't go thinking that's your problem. It isn't.'

'It is now,' Grayle insisted. 'Also, on the most basic level, I need to get my car back. So ... what I figured ... maybe you could take me over there this morning, while Marcus is poring over his files and phoning his mediums. And then when we get the car or ... or we deal with that in some way ... we could go over to Cheltenham, see this Barber ...'

'He's in France.'

'Oh.'

'And I wouldn't want to go back there.'

'Isn't that just the place you oughta go? He has to know stuff that could help you. Like suppose his apartment was like haunted infested with this ... this presence? How do you know he didn't plan to unload the s.h.i.+t on you? Seffi, however you look at it, that b.a.s.t.a.r.d was holding out.'

'And what do I do? Offer to give it back to him? No. It was a bad place. I couldn't go back.'

'Bad place? What's that mean?'

'Oppressive. I don't know.' Across the big, flat stone, Callard looked vague. 'I'm just a receiver, a monitor. I'm not the whole computer.'

She turned her back on the stones, walked away to the new stile and the pathway down the hill.

Grayle followed, pausing to pat the capstone. 'Wait there, OK?'

It was Marcus's long-term plan, if The Vision ever made real money, to try and buy this scrubby field and this monument and then erect a pedestal with a gla.s.s case on top to relate the story of Annie Davies and the day the sun rolled across the hill.

The former dairy had four small rooms, including a kitchen with a hotplate and grill and a refrigerator. The living area was basic, with a pine-framed sofa like a child's cot with the side down, a chair and a low table. Apparently, Marcus's friend Andy Anderson, the nurse, had fixed this place up for him as a source of extra income. It was done out in her favourite colour: hospital white, bright and sterile, halogen wall lights reflecting the dazzling whitewashed stones back at each other.

The door to the bedroom was ajar. From the chair, Grayle could see Callard's suitcase open on the floor; she hadn't even properly unpacked.

'I do expect a bill for the use of this place', Callard said from the kitchen, 'before I leave. You have sugar in your tea?'

'Two. I don't put on weight, I use nervous energy.'

She was, as yet, unsure about how successful the expedition to High Knoll had been. On the one hand, she was on the way to getting this basket case off Marcus's back. On the other disturbingly she was less sure that Callard was a basket case.

Grayle said, 'Uh, this may be simplistic, but did you ever think maybe a priest-'

'G.o.d, no!' Callard flung back from the kitchen. 'Not having anybody gleefully wheeling out the b.l.o.o.d.y bell, book and candle trolley for me.'

'But you wear the cross.'

'It's different,' she said quickly.

'I guess so.' Marcus would understand that: the radiant symbol transcending all the dogma and the liturgy and the politics. 'But there are other kinds of priests is what I was thinking. Guy we know ... he has abilities in this general area. He's helped people. I guess.'

'What does that mean?'

'Hard to know how to describe it. But he's had results.'

'This is someone Marcus trusts?'

'Uh ...' b.l.o.o.d.y prancing pervert, deranged deviant '... trust may not be the appropriate word in this instance. I'll need to think about this. Look, should I tell Marcus we're driving over to Stroud, or what?'

Callard came in with two mugs of tea. 'I'm not entirely happy about it, but I can't see an alternative. We'd have to go carefully.'

'Naturally.'

'I ...' Callard hesitated. 'I've been thinking about Barber. And that party. There is another possibility. I'd forgotten about this, but we had a letter from the woman whose son committed suicide. Coral ... Coral Hole. Asking if she could see me again. A private consultation.'

'You didn't follow up on it?'

'Nancy sent the usual reply I'm committed for the foreseeable future, but if she'd care to write again in six months' time. They never do.'