Ritual

  Ritual

  David Pinner

  © David Pinner 2014

  David Pinner has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 1967 by Arrow Book, and imprint of The Random House Group.

  This edition published 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd

  To Jonathan Clowes

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  Extract Shades of Death by Aline Templeton

  1

  The oak tree was very old. One of its lower branches had been recently snapped off. And some five feet below, a monkey’s head and three garlic flowers had been fastened to the trunk by a hat pin. Yet the little girl, who was asleep in its shadow, seemed unaware of the tree or its strange decorations. She did not even notice a rook shuttling towards her. She noticed nothing as the blood whispered between her front teeth and slid down her throat. Soon it streaked into her corn hair but she still noticed nothing. And she wasn’t asleep. Dian Spark was eight years old and very dead.

  Against her thigh she clutched a spray of garlic, but this passed unnoticed by the crow as he jerked from her ankle to her knee cap. He was preoccupied with something else. Twice he snapped at the butterfly and twice he missed. The insect was far too quick for him. Provocatively it flickered in front of his beak before landing on the little girl’s nose. Again the crow snapped, but this time the butterfly spread its yellow wings and flew away.

  It zig-zagged for about a quarter of a mile before catching up with Gully Rowbottom. It fanned past her ear but she did not notice. She was aware only of running away from her dead friend, and the butterfly did not stop for it had somewhere else to go. Her breath flamed in her throat and her throat ached for water. She was running as hard as she could, her knees beating towards her chin. Before she had time to realise it, she had skidded through a stream and the mud was sloshing inside her socks. She had never been so frightened in all her life. And then in time to her breathing, she heard St. Peter’s Church bells bashing out Sunday. This made her run harder and harder through the thick grass on to the cornfields. And then out of the corner of her eye, she saw three farm labourers waving to her. She ignored them so they shouted; ‘Hey, what’s the matter, kid? What’s the hurry?’

  But she still took no notice and ran on. And as if by instinct they recognised her fear and ran after. Puffing for breath she refused to look behind. All she wanted now was to reach the village, but she felt she would never make it. Her throat was really hurting and vomit rose from her chest to her mouth. Using her will power, she forced it back. She could still hear the labourers chasing behind. A final stumble through the brambles on the outskirts of the woods before panting on to the Main Street.

  She found it easier running now; left past the Cat Butcher’s, right past the Village Hall, then turning left again she saw St. Peter’s Church, sharp in the morning sun. She was nearly home.

  Thorn was very like any other Cornish village. And to Gilly, the Elizabethan cottages and the pub, ‘Green Fingers In My Hair’ passed unnoticed as she ran with her news that hot Sunday morning. It was only seconds before she reached the churchyard, and she was just leap-frogging a new grave when she saw her parents coming towards her on their monthly visit to church. But she did not stop. She knew she must tell Dian’s parents first. She knew her father would never understand so she scampered through his legs and out of the churchyard. As she disappeared, her father’s ill-tempered shout proved her right.

  ‘Hey, where the bloody hell do you think you’re going, Gilly, my girl? Come back here this instant! I said come back!’

  Mr. Rowbottom had barely finished yelling at his daughter when the three labourers barged past him. But other than slightly irritating him, he hardly noticed them.

  He screwed his face into his neck, callously dismissed his daughter from his mind and stepped into God’s tomb. Equally unperturbed, Mrs. Rowbottom followed suit. They both disliked church with a progressive intensity. As she entered, she flicked perspiration from under her fringe on her forehead, and then blinked rapidly as the ice light from the stained glass dazzled her eyes.

  After collecting their prayer books, they sat in their usual pews and stared coldly at their neighbours. With a slight nod of the head, Mrs. Rowbottom acknowledged a smile from Squire Fenn. Then she grinned knowingly at Lawrence Cready, actor retired, as the organ music ground down the chancel steps. The cross on the altar burnt white on her eyes so she closed them. And almost in unison, Rowbottom closed his.

  Lawrence Cready watched the couple with amusement and encouraged his lacquered moustaches into a pair of bull’s horns. Squire Fenn watched the actor and whistled an Elizabethan air. And they were all glad that Midsummer was only three days away.

  The service had barely started when Gilly turned the final corner, cutting her calf on a lamp post. She ran straight across the street and was nearly knocked down by a lorry carrying Liquid Chemicals. She panted up to the Spark’s confectionary shop. Through the window, she could see Dian’s father opening a large cardboard box, marked ‘Dolls. Handle With Care’. He removed the tissue paper before lifting a pink nude doll into the sunlight which glinted through the sweet jars. It was approximately four inches high. Then he tested its arms and legs, making them squeak in arcs like pink propellers.

  I’ll sell them at six bob apiece, he thought.

  Suddenly a jar of aniseed balls clunked on to the lino. Mr. Spark whirled round.

  ‘Gilly, for God’s sake, watch the bottles! Hey, why are you crying? What’s the matter?’

  He took her gently by the shoulders, but she flailed out his of grip and stumbled through the curtain into the living quarters at the back of the shop. She sobbed her way into the kitchen where Mrs. Spark was making strawberry jam. And she was being assisted by her eldest daughter, Anna, who was twenty-three, sexual, and loving it. As the girl burst into the room, they both turned to face her.

  ‘Dian’s dead!’ the girl blurted out. ‘Dead! She’s broken her neck! She fell out of the giant oak tree and broke her neck!’

  On the other side of the street, the three labourers watched Gilly go into the confectionary shop, but were undecided whether to follow her or not. They debated the pros and cons.

  ‘Well, why did she run as though Hell were aback of her, James? I never seen a girl run like that! I never!’

  ‘Taint our business—it aint! We’d better get back to the fields!’

  Having agreed on their course of action, James led the other two back past the church. Victorian hymns droned on to the summer street. Then without warning, James spat at nothing in particular. The saliva dribbled down the tomb-stone. He was a long distance spitter and very accurate.

  As the labourers moved towards the corn field, Mr. Spark was shaking Gilly against the kitchen sink in spite of himself.

  ‘Gilly, the truth now! How could she have broken her neck? She’s a damn good climber and you know she is!’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Spark, she was a better climber than me, she was! But she swung out on one of them big boughs—right out! She kind of spun in the air, and then mashed her head in the grass—she screamed horrid—she screamed...!’

  Anna’s face tightened. She wanted to ask so many questions about her little sister but the words wouldn’t come. Gilly stuttered on as Mrs. Spark’s eyes g
littered like light on a carving knife.

  ‘Now, what really happened, Gilly? The real truth? Who killed her? Who?’

  ‘No one! No one! It happened just like I said, Mrs. Spark! Honest, it did! She swung out on one of those boughs...!’

  With the sun behind her black hair, Mrs. Spark gripped Gilly’s wrist.

  ‘Come on, Gilly, the truth! Truth!’

  Quickly Mr. Spark realised his wife’s intentions and removed Gilly from her grip.

  ‘All right, Gilly it’s all right. I believe you—even if my wife doesn’t. Are you sure she’s dead, Gilly? Are you?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Spark?’

  ‘Are you?’ insisted Mrs. Spark.

  ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’

  There was a pause. They were numb. No one knew what to do.

  Finally Mr. Spark said quietly, ‘Will you show us where it happened, Gilly? Will you? Please?’

  He did not cry. He wanted to, but the water wouldn’t come to relax the corners of his eyes.

  ‘Please, Gilly...’

  Slowly Gilly nodded her head as the tears dripped from her eyelashes. She remembered the blood on Dian’s lips, the flowers pinned to the tree, the monkey’s head, the wind—and the sea plucking the pebbles just beyond hearing. And far away the strange high sound of the flute.

  Suddenly Mrs. Spark cut into the girl’s day dreams.

  ‘Did men—and you know what I mean—did they take her to a fire? Did they dance her? And you know what I mean...!’

  ‘No, no, no! There was no one there but us! No one!’

  Mrs. Spark’s green eyes seemed to widen across her face to midnight emeralds. Gilly felt her childhood was being devoured.

  ‘Tell me, Gilly! I recommend you do! Or sleep will be hard for you. Nightmares easy! Tell me!’

  Gilly couldn’t take any more. She poised her head on a long scream and ran into the street. The rhythm of running came back to her with pains in the thigh muscles and hot saliva in her throat. Mrs. Spark had terrified her—as usual. She hadn’t gone far, when behind her she heard running feet, but she didn’t dare look to see who it was. Then the feet caught her up and out of nowhere a hand clamped on her shoulder. She squealed as a bald head wedged itself between her and the sun. It was Mr. Spark. But she continued to squeal until she saw that he was crying, then she relaxed into a wet sniff. She put her arms round his neck to comfort him. In return he patted her pale hair. Crying came easy to them. When the tears subsided, he lifted her into his arms and carried her towards the Police Station. She was heavy but he didn’t notice.

  Curtains of cottages edged back as Mr. Spark’s bald head bobbed down the High Street with Gilly buried against his shoulder. And then the whispering began. Whispers which crowded the cottages, waiting for the future to hear them. And the roses listened intently.

  It was half an hour later when Gilly ran out of the trees, followed by Mr. Spark, the local police sergeant and a policeman. As soon as she reached the oak tree, she indicated the body. The crow was still there and squarked his disapproval. Gilly shooed him away. And Mr. Spark tried to hug his dead daughter to him.

  ‘No, please, don’t touch her, sir!’ interrupted the sergeant. ‘We’ve got to examine the body—I mean, we’ve got to examine your daughter.’

  Mr. Spark moved away as the sergeant bent over Dian. The policemen noted the absence of foot or finger prints, other than the dead girl’s and Gilly’s. After a few moments, the sergeant addressed the crying shape of Mr. Spark.

  ‘It looks like natural causes, sir. An accident.’

  As he said this, a young man in a beige raincoat sidled from behind a beech tree.

  ‘Hey, you!’ shouted the sergeant. ‘We can do without any hawkers or circulars, thank you very much!’

  The young man thumbed a Press Card into view. Reluctantly the sergeant accepted him. Then the intruder produced a small camera from his mac pocket and took a quick photograph of the body.

  ‘Now, don’t think you’re going to print that, young Smiler,’ said the sergeant, ‘Cos you’re not, see!’

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you, sergeant? Notice the garlic flowers in the girl’s hand?’

  The sergeant hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Of course I had! So what?’

  The young man grinned.

  ‘Good. Then you know why I’ll print this photograph.’

  The sergeant didn’t.

  ‘Over my dead body, young Smiler!’

  The crow winked from the oak tree, waiting for the humans to go. He preferred them dead or gone. He was very hungry.

  The monkey’s head and the garlic flowers had disappeared from the tree trunk. Gills noticed this but she said nothing.

  2

  The photograph of Dian Spark plus her bouquet of garlic flowers appeared a day later in the local paper. Gilly Rowbottom’s account of the accident was set out in medium print below and that was the end of that.

  Apparently copies of the paper reached London, Manchester and Birmingham and it was even mentioned fleetingly by the News of the World.

  Dian’s funeral took place two days after her death. The clear English sun came out to encourage the mourners as they stared at the coffin. Mr. Rowbottom was dreaming of Midsummer Eve, and his wife registered distaste as she allowed her eyes to wander from coffin to church spire. She scowled behind her veil as Pastor White signalled the coffin to be lowered into the freshly dug grave. Opposite her Squire Fenn, poverty stricken, now living in a cottage near the sea, hummed quietly, ‘Ring a ring a roses’. He was in his fifty-fifth year, and very interested in early English music and other things.

  Lawrence Cready, retired actor, caught his eye and blew him a sticky smile. Cready was on his way to death, heart trouble, knew it and was experimenting with pleasure before the scythe came.

  He was very satisfied with life which was hardly surprising as he had bought the Squire’s Manor from the Squire. Unperturbed by this, the Squire began to hum a falsetto version of ‘The Last Post’. After all, it was a funeral.

  Mr. Spark was closed in behind his eye lashes. Won’t it ever be over? We’re only doing the ceremony for us. Dian doesn’t care. She would have liked the dolls I bought. Six bob each. With squeaky joints. After all, I have to make a living, don’t I?

  A flake of clay dropped into the grave. Without any warning he found himself throwing a handful of earth onto the coffin. Then everyone seemed to be hurling earth onto the coffin. The sun was impassive as ever.

  Mrs. Spark focused her two liquid emeralds on Pastor White and hated. Then on Mr. Cready and hated. Then on Squire Fenn and hated.

  Leaning against a yew tree, Jeremiah, the grave-digger, carefully pulled slivers of old wood from the haft of his spade. He wanted his lunch although it was only eleven in the morning. He had to admit funerals no longer had the attraction they had in his youth. The pageantry was gone. No one had dug up a new grave on a midnight to steal a corpse for years now. The churchyard had deteriorated. Each year the children grew less afraid of him in his battered cottage in Hangland’s Wood. Now they called him names or ignored his power. As he stood there that Tuesday morning, he felt he would dearly love to go berserk with his spade, split open a few greasy heads, rape the odd lady, and conduct a mass burial with the priest on the top. Only for a second, though. He wanted his dinner even more. And he was not a violent man.

  James, William, and the other labourer moved into the churchyard. William carried a tattered bunch of primroses which he threw into the grave. Squire Fenn acknowledged William’s gesture with two bars of the Trumpet Voluntary. William tugged his non-existent forelock in deference to the Squire. The routine of the village continued through death. The mourners grew restless, thinking of mid-morning tea or a pint at ‘Green Fingers In My Hair’.

  Anna Spark had not come.

  One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! heads appeared over the churchyard wall, unobserved by the mourners. Children! The Gang! First James and John, the six year old twins,
followed by Susan and Joan, not twins or even sisters, eight years a piece. Then little freckled Bert, the five year old menace, and with him Gilly Rowbottom, and last of all their feared leader, ten year old Fat Billy, and metaphorically ten yards wide. The children giggled. It was two days since their friend had died. And already she was gone from their minds. Only Gilly remembered flute notes, a monkey’s head, and a blood trickle. But even Gilly was unsure what she remembered or why. Except Dian owed her three rainbow marbles and a skipping rope.

  *

  Whilst the funeral was taking place, a London train streaked through the Cornish landscape. A man wearing dark sunglasses sat in one of the compartments alone. With a sharp penknife he was whittling a piece of white wood. He paused for a moment and checked his watch. It was eleven o’clock. Nearly there. Once more he carefully applied the penknife to the wood he was holding. Expertly he winkled out a perfect circular shaving. A minute dragon’s head was taking shape. He was carving a paperknife. Minute by minute he chipped with precision, stopping occasionally to adjust his sunglasses. Perspiration bubbled down the bridge of his nose. He looked about forty, and he was hungry for something other than food.

  Outside the carriage windows, Cornwall shimmered in the sun. White rocks and the sea.

  Soon be there, the man thought to himself. Then we’ll see.

  *

  The mourners left the dead, and the dead continued decomposing six feet under.

  The children, led by Fat Billy, performed a balancing act round the perimeter of the church wall. Suddenly Pastor White appeared and told them to return home and not to desecrate religious property. Fat Billy screamed his tubby defiance.

  ‘What you on about? God only lives in the church! Ghosts and spooks own the graveyard! If God was in this rotten graveyard, he’d stop the ghosts coming to get us at night!’

  ‘Look, Billy...’

  ‘My Dad says priests are crooks!’

  Followed by his gang, Billy vaulted over the church wall and disappeared down the main street. Pastor White found himself shouting at the tomb stones. The children had gone. The priest shook his head in the direction of Dian’s grave. He was tired and wished he could afford a glass of port, well, two glasses. He trundled towards ‘Green Fingers In My Hair’.