Ritual Read online

  ‘Why don’t you push off, copper, before you get chopped?’

  Billy ran in a wild zig-zag towards the Inspector, making similar rude comments.

  ‘You’re asking for belt round the head, boy!’ retorted the Inspector. ‘And if I belt you, my boy, you’ll know you’ve been hit!’

  The fat boy circled the slim man. And then to everyone’s surprise, he rugger-tackled the policeman. No one was more surprised than David who was prepared for nearly anything—but not that.

  He fell face forward but managed to spring his weight on his hands. He was soon on his feet again. Two dull green stains grinned on the knees of his trousers. Billy had hurt himself more. Ruefully he rubbed wet soil off his elbows.

  At first, no one noticed the contents of Billy’s pockets winking in the sunlight. David saw them first and picked them up. There were three rainbow marbles, a half-eaten squidgey chocolate biscuit, four halfpennies, a corroded water pistol—and a pink doll with a large bronze pin thrust through its abdomen.

  David handed Billy the contents of his pockets. Except for the hat pin and the doll. Like worker bees, stings at the ready, the children buzzed round their queen bee. They intended to protect her. Cready quietly moved behind little Berty, awaiting trouble.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this, Billy, eh?’ demanded the Inspector. ‘And why have you painted the word “Dian” in black capitals on the back of this doll?’

  David held up the doll for everyone to see. Billy blubbered. He knew whatever he said the bee-keeper would squash him. He decided hysteria might help his lost cause. So he forced his mouth open into a scream. Then he backed this up with four perfect tears. The tears were the most difficult part of Operation Hysteria. He had to screw his face to a squeezed grapefruit and then force the tears from behind his eyes. It was hard work. Very. In the past, he’d put in a great deal of crying overtime. So it had a certain expertise. When the tears finally burst through, he grabbed at the doll with his left hand. David held the doll’s head and feet between finger and thumb. So all Fatso succeeded in grabbing was the spike of the pin. This jabbed into his thumb. Now he really had something to cry about. A perfect bubble of blood erupted. He licked it. He was very miserable now.

  ‘I hated Dian! I hated her, well, we all did—didn’t we, Gang?’ As the liquid salt throbbed from his eyes, he pleaded with the silent children. ‘Her mother is a witch—a witch...’

  David wanted to interrupt and ask specific questions but he controlled himself. Billy screamed on. ‘Oh, she’s a witch all right, Mister! Make no mistake!’

  Cready tried to edge past little Berty. He intended to quiet the boy. David saw this and he shook his head. No one moved. Then Cready pushed forward again.

  ‘Leave the boy alone, Cready, or I’ll have you in for intimidating witnesses. Your sex life, although now officially legal, could still cause you the odd problem in the hands of some of my policemen. They don’t approve of the change in the law, if you follow me.’

  Cready accepted defeat. Billy went on. ‘Yes, well, her Mum could get us, see, Mister! She can make you have nightmares. Scared me rigid for weeks, she has! Vampires come to get me in my sleep. She climbs into your dreams and gets you, and Dian was like her Mum. Sneaky and nasty! Her elder sister, Anna, she’s very nice. But I’m glad Dian’s dead! I’m glad! She tried to take my Gang away from me. We all hated her guts, didn’t we, Gang?’

  The other children were going to say nothing. They didn’t know what Billy was talking about.

  ‘We hated her, didn’t we? Didn’t we?’

  Billy’s hysteria contorted his words. He was barely comprehensible. Only the hate was specific.

  David held the doll up to Billy.

  ‘Did you stick this pin in the doll?’

  No answer. Only harsh panting and tears.

  ‘You say her Mum is a witch. But you worked in black magic too. You wished Dian dead by thrusting this pin into the doll’s stomach. Is that what you wanted to happen to Dian? A horrible death like this? Did you want her to squirm with a hat pin in her gut? Like this! See the flesh split like this plastic? You’re that kind of boy, aren’t you, Billy? The coward! The coward who sneakily bullies his mates because he’s not as good as they are!

  ‘You killed her, Billy, didn’t you? That’s what happened, isn’t it? You were all playing games round the giant oak tree. Then you persuaded Dian to climb the tree. And then our brave little Billy climbed up after her. The gang watched and waited because they wouldn’t mind her dead. Her mother wouldn’t bother you kids, would she, if Dian was dead? But none of you knew what death was really like, did you?’

  He turned on the silent children. His sunglasses drank the sun as he searched the children’s’ faces. They stared back. Only the occasional eyelash blinked. Susan tongue-probed a wisdom tooth. No one moved.

  ‘Well, you know what death is now, don’t you, Billy? You pushed her out of that tree! It was so easy, like kicking a kitten or pulling a fly to pieces. Her neck cracked under her as her shoulders smashed into the grass. It was wrenched from her spinal column. No, don’t look away, Billy, I know my description excites you. Pain always excites you—as long as you’re not the one that’s suffering!’

  Billy sobbed his breath to a howl.

  ‘It’s lies! Lies! I was at home when she died, wasn’t I, Gang? Now, you little rotters, tell the copper what I say is true! Please, tell him. Tell him! Tell him we were playing in my garden!’

  The hint of a smile flickered on the corners of the twins’ mouths. The twins always reacted together as though they were plugged into the same adaptor and then switched on. Anything could set them off. Especially the discomfort of their leader. Joan allowed her lip muscles to relax into an open grin. Her eyes wrinkled to slits as the corners of her mouth edged towards her ears.

  Billy lost control and shrieked. ‘You must tell him that I wasn’t there! Look. I’ll get you! I’ll get you! So tell him! Tell him!’

  Cready chortled inwardly. Martin slobbered. Two oily beads of saliva dribbled down his chin.

  ‘Tell him! Tell him!’

  The gang gave up the pretence and exploded with laughter. All Billy could see was seven swaying heads singing out their laughter. Laughter and laughter and laughter!

  They’re laughing at me. They believe I did it! But I didn’t! Help me, Mummy! I didn’t do it, didn’t, Mummy, Mummy...

  His body ached with complete loneliness, crying in a disinterested crowd. They were no longer his Gang. They hated him. Like he hated Dian. He was the old tatty pig thrown out to the hounds.

  They hate me! They hate me...!

  Suddenly he pushed his way past Joan and at the same time grabbed the doll from the Inspector’s hand. Then he shoved past Cready, past Martin, and ran, and ran. Momentarily the Inspector was unsure what to do. Whether to put Cready and the gang through the Third Degree. Or whether to pursue the boy. He was not usually slow witted but events were leap-frogging all over the place.

  Billy swung through the iron gate and puffed towards the woods. It was rough going. He was out of breath with too much crying. His lard ached with the strain of forcing one leg in front of the other. And he was sweating profusely. It began to glue his underpants to his bottom. The continuous movement chafed pink sores between his legs. He could smell the sickly aroma of cooked pork.

  The sun had turned into a hammer and his squat body was the running anvil. With relief, he reached the liquid shadows of the woods. They slid over his sweating body like a piece of soft ice down his back. Once underneath the mottled green, he began to shake with relief. He looked back the way he’d come and saw the Inspector running after him. Billy knew big trouble would hit him if he remained, so he swished into the undergrowth.

  Two minutes later, David found the shadows. But no Billy. He was now sure that Billy was the key to the labyrinth.

  ‘Billy, where are you? Come on out, son! You’re only making it worse for yourself by putting off telling the truth! Come on, Billy
!’

  A pigeon cooed in the folds of a silverbirch.

  ‘Billy, look, sonny-boy, come on, don’t mess me about! I warn you—I’m a busy man...’ He moved into the undergrowth. It was like pursuing a mouse in a granary. He walked and ran in vegetable circles. No sign. No Billy. Then he found himself on another edge of the wood.

  The giant oak tree unwound in the sun dazzle. Its shadow was a grass pool where pike ached for roach. He had lost Billy. Then something moved by the oak tree. Adjusting his sunglasses, he ran into the pike shadows.

  13

  In the local village hall, opposite the Cat Butcher and about a minute from St. Peter’s, an official questioning was taking place. Led by the Squire, select villagers were questioning Gilly concerning the death of Dian. Gilly was dazed with the intensity of the speakers. Everyone was having a go. Mrs. Spark inserted her verbal razor blades. Gilly’s own father and mother were just as ruthless. At the moment the three labourers were attacking her.

  ‘Why were you running so hard away from the tree if it was only an accident, Gilly? Why?’

  ‘It was an accident! An accident! Accident...!’

  The Squire broke the questions with a command. ‘Silence! I’ll explain this to you for the last time, Gilly. If you don’t tell us the truth, we’ll have the Inspector on our backs for weeks! What’s worse, he’ll ruin the celebrations this evening! The truth, Gilly! Or we’ll hold you to blame! You know what that’d mean, don’t you? You do know what that would mean, don’t you?’

  Gilly looked at her parents. She knew what that would mean all right.

  ‘I’m telling the truth! How many times do I have to say it? Look, if you don’t believe me I know a way you could find out for sure. Dian told me that her Mum could put people to sleep, and then ask them questions, and then they always had to tell the truth...’

  The breathing hushed in the hall. Eyes swivelled to Mrs. Spark. So even a child knew her powers.

  Gilly hurtled on regardless. ‘Well, couldn’t you put me to sleep, Mrs. Spark, and then ask me all these questions? And then you’d know if I was telling the truth, or not, wouldn’t you?’

  Mrs. Spark spoke to Gilly. ‘Come here, girl, sit on this chair.’

  Gilly did so.

  ‘Look into my eyes, Gilly—no, no, deeper, deeper—until my eyes are everywhere—that’s it—that’s it—it’s water—fathoms of green untroubled water—and now, and now, you are moving down a spiral staircase of water—through corn—yellow corn, shaking their husks together—like rain on the bright water—and now—and now—you are sleeping in the bright water...’

  Gilly’s head lolled back over the end of the hard chair. Mrs. Rowbottom held her daughter’s pale hair between her fingers. She whispered, ‘Gilly, tell Mummy, tell Mummy, how did Dian die, Dian die?’

  Gilly’s eyes were wide open even though she was sleeping. Too wide. They seemed to stretch like ovals of moon glass. Life had left them. They protruded between her eyelashes.

  ‘Gilly, come along, darling, tell Mummy—tell Mummy...’

  Under the throb of hypnosis, slowly Gilly began to assemble her words. The watchers tensed. They knew that whatever she now said would be the truth. If any fingers were to be pointed, they would be pointed now. Gilly would indict the guilty.

  ‘Dian’s slowly climbing... slowly climbing the tree... oh, it is so slowly... I’m chewing a bit of grass... sucking the green juice out... she’s laughing... at me... she’s pelting me with twigs and a flurry of oak leaves... and I’m angry... I’m shouting at her... I hate her, really... I hate her Mother... she’s a witch, too... evil…’

  Amused eyes flickered in the direction of Mrs. Spark. Gilly’s mother dabbed a blob of sweat which was forming on the bridge of her daughter’s nose.

  ‘Go on, my darling, tell Mummy what happened next. What happened next.’

  Gilly sucked in a hiss of breath.

  ‘I hate you, Dian Spark, and your rotten mother... it’s your fault the cream from the cows goes rotten... that the chickens die... it’s your fault we have bad harvests... and it always rains... your Mum gives me horrid dreams at night... she gets inside my head and makes the ghosts get me... I wish you both were deader than dead!!!... now she’s laughing at me with those eyes... you know that gleam of hate... and now she’s riding the branch like a broomstick... up and down... down and up... the leaves are chatting together... and look, look, the branch is swinging too high... and she’s twisted her foot against the trunk... she’s going to fall... she’s falling out of the sky... I’ll catch her... catch her... her knees smack my chin... I’ve crunched my cheek against the trunk... listen, please, listen, a flute is playing over the hills and far away... a flute is crying... crying out to me... and Dian... I’m getting up and standing over her... she’s lying there... her neck looks broken like the grass stalk in my hand... Are you all right, Dian? I didn’t mean what I said... about you, and your Mum, and that... I didn’t mean... you can hit me if you like! Or pull my hair... as long as you don’t do it too hard... or I’ll have to clunk you one!... But she’s just lying there... I’m taking her pulse like on the telly... but there’s no throbbing... Are you dead? You are, aren’t you? Aren’t you…?’

  Gilly’s head ripped forward. She screamed and screamed and screamed. Mrs. Spark stepped forward and methodically lashed out across Gilly’s cheek bone. Just below the eye. The scream jerked to a dry sob. Gilly was thrust out of her trance.

  Mrs. Rowbottom seemed remarkably unconcerned. Other than a white finger mark which was creeping along Gilly’s cheekbone, the girl seemed to be suffering few after-effects. She was unaware she’d been hit. Her mouth licked into the birth of a smile.

  ‘Was it all right, then, Mum? I was telling the truth, wasn’t I? I mean, it was an accident, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Gilly,’ purred Mrs. Spark, ‘you were telling the truth.’

  Then she turned to the quiet hostility of her audience.

  ‘Friends, and I mean friends, please, accept my humble apologies for doubting your honesty and your motives. I deserve to be punished for distrusting you. I’m sure I’ll be punished. I ask you to try and forgive me—please!’

  Most of her audience were willing to forgive her. They understood the strain she was under. Only Mr. Rowbottom tightened his distaste into hate.

  Mrs. Spark finished her plea and left the hall. She had never apologised in her life. The humiliation hurt. She only felt disgust for herself.

  The Squire motioned silence after she’d gone.

  ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen. We can all go home. We’ve enough evidence now to squash the Inspector’s murder theories. Tonight we celebrate! Celebrate!’

  A roar of agreement possessed the audience. They surged out of the Hall. Only the stains of tobacco breath and sweat remained inside. The walls closed in on themselves again. They drew the memory of the experiment into the secret history of the building. One day someone with hypersensitive hearing, would come into this Hall and listen. The walls would tell him their history. The listener would hear the story and wonder.

  After the meeting had ended, the villagers made their way home. At least, some of them did. One thing was certain, a restlessness had interrupted the routine. No one wanted to be with anyone else. Husbands and wives walked on the opposite sides of the road. Walking was the order of the day. They by-passed their houses. Some went to the woods. Some to the sea. Midsummer churned their brains to hot cream.

  *

  Inspector Hanlin was still pursuing Fat Billy. He’d searched the surrounds of the great oak tree. Twice. Then he’d retraced his aching footsteps in the woods. He was now completing a rapid patrol of the beach.

  Yes, children’s footprints, all right. Soggy with sea. But no children. The footprints could have been made by any child.

  Worn out, he headed for the village, by way of the Squire’s house.

  Hanlin paused outside the gate. The white horse was no longer in the field. He walked back to examine the grass
. To his surprise, there were no signs of fresh horse dung. Yesterday’s dried manure, yes, but nothing else. Where had the horse gone? Cynically he considered the possibility of the Squire having sold it to the cat butcher as best sirloin. Anything was possible in this village!

  He decided to enquire. David was uncertain why, but he knew the disappearance of the horse was vitally significant.

  Tired. He felt very tired. Lack of sleep dragged at his eyes. Twitching growth of stubble irritated his upper lip and chin. Sweat tweaked the hairs under his arms and crotch. He’d been wearing the same clothes since he left London and needed a bath.

  Having reached the Squire’s cottage, he rapped on the door. To no effect. He clattered three times. No answer. So he continued his jaunt to the village. Hunger began to squeeze and complain. One round of cold toast and a flick of marmalade made him feel like a scruffy monk on penance for a filthy mind.

  Twenty minutes later he reached the village, having twice removed broken pieces of shell from his shoes. He was really tired now. He looked at his watch. My God, twelve o’clock! Time just does not exist in those woods. Only the fear exists there.

  He entered the main street. Suddenly he remembered his paperknife. He took it out of his pocket. With his penknife be began to add sophisticated twirls to the dragon’s tail. He felt he could even gobble the dragon down, fire and all, he was so hungry.

  Once inside the dark cool of the cottage, he lugged himself up the stairs. Even before he reached the upper landing, he knew that there was someone in his room. That could only mean one of the settlers had decided to search it. But why? He tip-toed across the landing. The door of his room was closed. With extreme care, he slid his shoulder against the door frame and turned the handle. Softly does it. That’s it. Swinging the door in a wide arc, he entered.