Ritual Page 13

  The Chief Inspector was bellowing so loudly that he frightened a gnat in the phone box into hysteria. The gnat was trying to climb up David’s trouser leg in search of fleshy goodies. But as soon as hysteria gripped his fibreglass body, he bit into David’s ankles. David yelled a brief, ‘Fornication!’

  ‘What did you say to me, Hanlin? Did you say “fornication” to me, Hanlin? Fornication did you say to me Hanlin? If I were a humourist, I would ask “when?” or “where?”—but I’m not, I’m an overworked, frustrated member of Her Majesty’s Fornicating Police Force!’

  The gnat bit again. This time to the right. David clammed all the obscenities he could think of firmly behind his front teeth. Holding the phone away from his bruised ear, he deftly lifted up the trouser leg in question, and allowed the deaf gnat out. The gnat settled on a window pane just to the right of David. After a lot of scrabbling, David lugged out a telephone book. With a scrunch, he swung S-Z and spread the biology of the gnat all over the glass. Satisfied, he returned the book to its slot and continued to suffer the threats of his super. Thank God, this call is on the Force, he thought, as his super hammered through another canon of obscenities.

  The Chief Inspector took a deep breath and roared, ‘Well, Fornicating Hanlin, haven’t you any bleeding, or otherwise, information that you would like to pass on to your insane super? Can’t you please give me one tiny grotting clue you’ve discovered, so we can share it—for laughs?’

  What’s the point of telling him about the fluting Squire, the anthropoid Vicar, the games’ master, Cready, the village witch, Mrs. Spark, or that bundle of over-excited sex, Anna? What’s the point? They make no sense. Only as hints of something deeper—which tonight’ll reveal, thought David.

  ‘If you’ll forgive me, sir, there’s nothing that I can tell you at this time that would be of any concrete use to you...’

  ‘Other than your head, Hanlin, which I could cheerfully eat at this moment.’

  ‘But tonight, sir, I’ll clear it up I promise. Otherwise I’d very much welcome those lovely dribbly dogs and those even lovelier dribbly policemen!’

  ‘And you’ll get them! Do you realise how much this urinating phone call has cost? Why do you always bloody well talk so much? I could hardly get a stinking word in edgewise!’

  And Chief Inspector Peter Thornton hung up.

  David removed the dazed phone from his dazed ear and returned it to its cradle. As he walked back to the village, he wondered why he’d told nobody the truth. Not even his Chief. He had more than a clue. He had a fact. He knew how Billy had died. Nasty.

  15

  Just before David reached the village he went into another phone booth. He dialled Scotland Yard again. He heard the familiar roar. He ignored it and shouted over the tidal wave, ‘Chief, send me a Forensic. I want him here tonight. And I will tell you something. I’ve been thinking it over. There is definite witchcraft here and ritual murder. Can’t stop now. Ring you tonight. Bye, sir!’

  ‘What the fornicating hell are you doing?’

  ‘Don’t forget the Forensic, will you, sir!’

  David hung up. Steam puffed through the phone’s ear-piece.

  Chief Inspector Peter Thornton was flabbergasted. He crunched the phone down and padded over to a large map of the British Isles. Scarlet headed pins were stuck in areas of Ireland, Wales, the Scottish Islands and East Anglia. The Chief selected a pin and stuck it in Cornwall.

  Witchcraft, eh? Why did it always excite him? He didn’t know why but, by Hades, it did! He was looking forward to making that lovely titty lady tonight. She had boobs like a wet dream. And he was going to stroll through the various positions of the Perfumed Garden. He prayed, for Hanlin’s sake, that Hanlin would not be so foolish as to ring him during ‘Knees Up Mother Brown!’ He rang for a Forensic expert.

  David was pleased at the way that he’d taken the bluster out of the Chief’s sails. Suddenly a cry reverberated the street.

  In the centre of the road, some three hundred yards in front of him, was Anna Spark. She was screaming, ‘Murder! There’s a killer in this village. I don’t care what any of you have found out by hypnosis! My sister was murdered! And now Billy’s been murdered the same way! In the same place! We’ve got to stop pretending! Whoever’s hiding the killer must throw him out into the light! We’ve got a detective here. He wants to help us! Let him! For Christ’s sake, we can’t go on like this! We can’t!’

  No one answered her. Even the curtains remained unfingered behind the cottage windows. Outbursts of passion were part of the village’s heritage. They regarded anyone who lost control of themselves as possessed. So they left them alone. Left them to unwind their horrors alone.

  Anna tried to scream again. Her words only battered herself. She was alone in her knowledge.

  ‘Please! Please let’s destroy him! I want him dead at my feet! His neck broken like my little sister’s was! Dead! I want him! Dead! I want him dead!’

  David walked into view. He felt pleased with himself. His hunch had paid off. The anonymous phone call to Anna had frightened her. Perhaps she would reveal a few secrets now.

  A triangle of sunlight bounced off his sunglasses. Anna saw him. At first she didn’t recognise him. She ran towards him. She wasn’t sure who it was. Then she knew. She stopped running. In her muddled thinking, she still believed him to be the outsider. She turned and ran back the way she came. David followed. Then Pastor White materialised out of a black shadow. Anna ran into his arms. She didn’t trust the Reverend, either, but at least he was a villager and therefore not so dangerous. David approached them.

  ‘You know something, don’t you, Anna? You know it’s murder! I heard you screaming! You know all right!’

  Protectively the Reverend White led Anna away from him. But he followed. He continued to question her but she refused to reply as though he hadn’t spoken. Eventually they reached Anna’s house. David continued to interrogate.

  Anna would still say nothing. Reverend White told him to leave her alone.

  ‘She’s suffering from shock, Inspector! Leave her alone! She couldn’t have meant any of those preposterous sentiments she screamed at the invisible face of Christ...’

  Having begun his criticism, the Reverend White made a complex speech—which in retrospect, even the Reverend White didn’t understand. Then he escorted the silent girl into the cottage.

  David was in two minds what to do. He could use his official power and take her down to the Station and force her to talk. Or he could appeal to her better nature in her own home. But for the moment they were both out of the question. In the first place, if he took her to the Station, her parents would no longer allow him to use their home as a base. And at present he preferred to be in the centre of things. And in the second place, he knew gentle persuasion would be useless. Only seduction would open her up—in every sense of the word. Seduction—that’s the answer! It wouldn’t look very good in the final report, though, would it? Lascivious witness enjoyed prolonged intercourse with Puritan Inspector in murder hunt! And, in any case, he didn’t feel like putting a strain on his heart this afternoon. To do it once, he’d heard, was equivalent to a nine mile walk. And he knew Anna wouldn’t be satisfied with less than a couple of marathons! Well, at least one and a half!

  He went to his room alone. Mrs. Spark had taken Anna to her own bedroom. Rightly she felt the Inspector would give her no peace if she stayed in the room next to his. The Reverend conducted a verbose recital for the bewildered benefit of Mr. Spark in the kitchen.

  David lay in the bed. He fixed his electric razor into his bedside lamp and proceeded to scrape his two-day beard off. Between scrapes, he considered his situation in regard to himself. He hadn’t married. He was a failure in his job. Well, not quite. Some five years ago when he wasn’t so tired all the time, he’d discovered a couple of sex maniacs. The higher authorities were very pleased with his sexual coup. But because of his own sexual make-up, he’d known what he was looking for. He had milde
r obsessions himself. His upbringing had nothing to do with his little Oliver Cromwell complex. No, he’d gone out of his way to be moral in reaction to the immorality around him. It was a kind of experiment with himself. But now he’d tied himself hands and groin. He wished he hadn’t. Sometimes he felt sexual violence vibrate in his centre, but he controlled it. Oh, it was so easy to find those little girl killers—so easy!

  But Thorn village was a different proposition. He knew his methods were unorthodox to say the least. It was all a syrupy mess. There were sticky clues everywhere but still no honey. God, he was tired. Especially of himself.

  I should have been a librarian. I could have dreamed undisturbed in the musk of tired leather. I know I’ve not asked the right questions to the right people. And if tonight doesn’t come off, I’ll hand in my resignation. Hand it in! I’ll be sacked!

  He unplugged the razor and returned it to its case. He gave the pillow two gentle buffets to make sure it wasn’t lumpy, and then fell asleep. Almost immediately dreams insinuated their way into his sleep. Stark images played rugger together before larger faces took their place. Not exactly faces, but personalities. The essence of the villagers swam and drowned in his subconscious. He was aware of excitement which electrified the village. In his sleep, he knew they were preparing strange animal skins and hunks of fur. But he didn’t know why. There were animals’ heads, too. And they were dancing. Suddenly he knew why he hadn’t fallen asleep before. They wanted him to sleep so they could climb into his dreams. He was sure he was being manipulated but he couldn’t wake up. Images were thrown onto the screen of his imagination. Frenzied images. He could smell the rank fur and the animal mouths. The dreams were thrust into his brain to frighten him. He began to perspire. His hands thrashed at the pillow. His feet gripped the writhing sheets like a mad monkey. The dream animals lunged towards him.

  With a jerk, his head banged itself against the cast-iron head of the bed. His sunglasses chinked on to the lino. He woke up. Very frightened. As sleep left him, he grabbed at the tail of his dream. He needed to examine it by sunlight. Slowly putting his glasses on, he relived his dream. He was aware of a mind, or perhaps two minds, trying to control him. As usual, his theory was unprovable. He knew his super would have him certified.

  Was it telepathy? Yes, that’s what it was! My mind’s always been open to auto-suggestion. I retain images and impressions without even wanting to. God, I’m tired. It’s pointless going back to sleep. The same thing will only happen again. They’re all concentrating on me. They want me out. I’ve brought the city under my armpits. They don’t like the smell. They find it difficult to let go whilst I’m around. Especially tonight.

  David levered himself off the bed and made his way to the bathroom. Once inside, he relieved himself and proceeded to strip. He came of a family that didn’t possess a bath, so he still preferred a standing-up-head-to-toe wash. He took his watch off and laid it on the sill. It was five o’clock. He must have been asleep for over four hours and it only seemed five minutes. One thing was certain, time spiralled any way it pleased in this village. The only certainty was the coming of the dark.

  As he sponged himself down with cold water, he felt the blur of sleep leaving him. He noticed his genitals were drooping sadly. He coughed to see if they still functioned. They jerked a quarter of an inch like desolate clowns. Thank God, they still work! It was surprising how dirty he was. He scrubbed his back, shoulders, and trunk very hard. He seemed to flagellate himself with the scrubbing brush. The body was irritated to a violent sunrise without actually bleeding.

  Then he doused himself with cupped handfuls of water. The lobster colouring smoothed to a gentle pink. His skin was cooked salmon.

  Flexing his muscles, he noticed with consternation, sleek wedges of baby-fat intruding on his waistline. Definite love handles! Pity there was no one to swing on them. There was water everywhere. The bathroom was like a minor reservoir. He found a cloth under the sink and gave the floor a good drubbing.

  There was a knock on the door. Instinctively his hands rushed to prevent his privates from becoming public. Almost immediately he returned his hands to his hips. He realised no one could see him through the door. There was another knock.

  ‘What is it, please? I’m just finishing my bath.’

  On the other side of the door Mrs. Spark was not amused. She bent down and floated an envelope under the door. Then she returned to the kitchen to prepare dinner for the Inspector and her husband. Only for the Inspector and her husband. Anna and she were not eating tonight. Well, not immediately.

  David’s wet hands opened the envelope and pulled out the letter.

  Midsummer Eve.

  The Manor.

  Dear Inspector,

  I wonder if you would care to learn more of the occult delights. I would dearly love to initiate you. Can I look forward to seeing you at about 11 o’clock tonight. Don’t be too late. 12 o’clock is as potent and randy as they come and they come potent and randy! Don’t eat too much dinner. And please avoid wearing a crucifix or any other saint’s tattoo. Garlic is unadvisable. Have a good bath before coming. Ha! Ha! When you receive this letter, you will have just completed your primitive ablutions. I enjoyed your dreams very much. When you have read this, you will instinctively desire to come roaring over here immediately. It is pointless. Forget your instinct. For I am not here. I am somewhere there. Wherever there may be.

  Looking forward to sharing your mind with you.

  Sincerest purples,

  Lawrence Cready.

  Initiate.

  Well, it’s here, thought David. This is the night that makes me or fordoes me quiet! A free adaptation of Shakers by Hanlin.

  He dressed quickly into his dirty trousers and shirt, returned to his bedroom, undressed again, threw dirty trousers and shirt in case, took clean trousers and shirt from case, dressed again in clean trousers and shirt, cut and cleaned finger and toe nails, removed wax from ears, bogeys from nose, blackheads from chin, polished teeth, gargled Listerine, brushed hair, adjusted filling in wisdom tooth, remembered something, opened trousers and applied talcum powder to privates, opened shirt and applied anti-perspirant to hairy armpits, opened face and applied after-shaving lotion to cheeks and jaw, and finally sank back on bed completely exhausted.

  The sun turned rose to bonfire to ash. Silver ash on a field of buttercups. Then the silver turned to gunmetal to cobalt to sapphire and the sun died. The sea seethed in the dark blue light. Knuckles of foam stroked the sand’s navel. The oak tree was frenzied and the wood was walking.

  David adjusted his tie, put on a jacket, and went down to dinner. In the kitchen as usual. He picked at the shepherds’ pie and apologised for his lack of appetite. Mrs. Spark and Anna ignored him. Obviously Anna had no intention of talking. She stared through him and drank a glass of water. Mr. Spark wanted to talk but decided his wife’s bad mood would grow worse if he did so he didn’t. He just munched his shepherd’s pie. When he’d finished, he polished his plate with a hunk of brown bread and then gorged his way through a second helping. And then a third.

  David had stopped eating some time ago. He sipped a glass of water. Then accidentally Anna spilt half a glass over her father’s fourth helping of shepherd’s pie. This didn’t deter him. Contentedly he drank it down. When he’d finished the fourth helping, he went to the sink with the plate and poured the brown water away. Then he returned to the table and helped himself to a fifth helping.

  It was ten fifteen. The women were excited. David noticed the way Anna was subconsciously massaging her left nipple through her bra with the handle of her spoon. Mrs. Spark spent the majority of the meal staring at the moon through the window. She didn’t blink.

  At ten twenty, David excused himself from the table, downed the remainder of the water, and moved to leave. Only Mr. Spark acknowledged David had spoken.

  ‘Enjoy yourself, won’t you?’ he said, and helped himself to the tag-ends of David’s shepherd’s pie.

  Da
vid stepped out into the warm moonlight and shut the door behind him.

  The women smiled to one another and left the table. They frisked up stairs to prepare for the evening.

  To his amazement, the night was hot on his face when he left the alleyway. Midsummer’s Eve was here. He remembered Shakespeare’s Dream, and other stories not so sweet. The night burned like curry breath on his face. Even if magic is only the products of a hypersensitive imagination, or only a thousand years of electricity crackling in a wood waiting for a believer, or a madness loved by madmen. Even if it’s only fractions of all these, it is present in this village on this Midsummer in England, he thought. And, in spite of myself, I believe.

  As David passed the cottages, he realised there wasn’t a single light on in a single room. The houses were like tombstones under the moon. Where had everyone gone? He checked his watch. Ten-forty.

  Within three minutes, with the aid of his torch, he moved into the wood. Immediately he knew he was being followed. His watcher wanted him to know he was there. A twig sharply exploded under a foot.

  Trying to scare me, I shouldn’t wonder. Well, they’re doing a bloody good job! I feel someone tonight will really try to kill me—and not just with thought-transference, either. This time it will be very physical. It could, of course, be Gypo—or Gregory Peck—or both. Let’s face it, it could be anybody!