Ritual
Authors: 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
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 glittered 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.