Ritual (17 page)

‘Oh, come, come,’ purred Cready. ‘Come on, come on, take your clothes off! You’ve always wanted to. Deep down. You’ve suppressed it, that’s all. All policemen do. You’re only frightened of us because inside you—you are us. Under those tight blue uniforms your centres strain to unload in us. Oh, yes, we could have a lovely Ménage a Trois. Undo your braces... undo and release... let it all come... essence to essence... we will help... you might scream a little at first... virginity is a difficult thing to lose... then you’ll whimper as you did as a child when you were beaten by bullies... now, don’t deny it.... I read it in your mind... they tied you down to an oak tree root... strange, how it’s always an oak tree...’

David had stopped moving. It was true. Part of him wanted to listen. He was no different from anyone else. He was fascinated to hear about himself. He knew, as he listened to Cready, he knew he was enjoying the seduction of the mind. A little of him leaned to the muscularity of the homosexual. He would never practice, of course. The physical buttock act repelled him. Though sometimes he experienced a jolting warmth when Tom, one of his friends, bear-hugged him. Or gave him a bristled kiss on a bristled cheek. Certainly there was masculine voltage there. But it was safe. It was the rose border to the act. And like a voyeur, he could peer into the tropical garden from the safety of the rose border. He could experience male pillage of his sex mentally. Yes, it was safe. He would never step from the rose to the man-eating orchid. English rain and misty sun, yes. The hints, yes. But he would never take his machete into the jungle.

‘... And they tied you to this oak tree root, didn’t they, Inspector, dear... yes, they did... and you enjoyed it... you were an imaginative boy... and like Shakespeare’s Richard the Second, you liked to savour the sweetness of pain... and they stripped you, didn’t they...’

David tried to force his tongue to deny it. He’d lied before. Why not now? When he first came to the village he lied many times. But that was in his official capacity. It had nothing to do with his essence. This was his essence. This was him.

‘... And they beat you with the finest strips of willow the woods allowed. And the woods allowed the finest strips of willow. Your brother was the leader of the Gang, remember? “It won’t hurt, little David”, he said... “We’re just experimenting with pain, David. So do co-operate, mate. I have to put a report in at the Sixth Form Medical Conference at the end of the week. We want to know so badly, oh, so badly, at which point under pain the mind blacks out...!” Fortunately for you, he was your brother... so the experiment didn’t progress much further than the twenty blood ribbons on the young fluff of your bum!’

Cready was very excited as he neatly turned David’s painful past into present pornography. David could read Cready’s desire. To strip him. That was it. In every way. The total lack of reality baffled David. He knew he would try to kill them if they tried to touch him.

Daintily they moved towards him. Martin caressed the shaved hair just below his own belly button. Cready adjusted his school-girl bra. And David had to laugh. It was a real hermaphroditic circus. The whores didn’t laugh. They found David’s guffaws stimulating. Like all women in season, when the heat is on—it’s on!

17

The beach throbbed. The moon invocation was over. The children danced round the witch. The villagers danced round the children. The wine possessed them. And the sea doubled her beat.

The labourers tore open the brown sacking to reveal a terrified animal. It was the white horse. Now tarnished silver against the black sea. It shuddered as the hot moonlight blistered its mane. Stretching its legs, it whinnied its fear. The dancers danced nearer, beating their upper thighs with the flats of their hands.

Suddenly the goat vaulted onto the horse’s back. He gripped his goat knees on the white ribcage. The horse whimpered and bucked. But the goat was too wily. Tangling his fingers in the mane and thrusting his feet against the belly, he mastered the fear. The horse was soon exhausted. Frenzy subsided. Then the goat rode the horse in an abrupt circle round the dancing villagers.

The witch swirled her cowl through the dancers. Like a matador, she swayed in the path of the oncoming horse. She made a pass at it with the drift of her cloak. Horse and rider dripped perspiration on her black hair as they passed. With a fierce yank on the mane, the goat wheeled the horse round to charge at the witch again.

It was the ritual of necessity. The darkness forcing itself into the darkness. The basic earth rhythms of dancing practised secretly in different ways in every country in the world. The dancers, the witch, the goat and the horse, all bound in a circle of urgency to act out themselves. They are unaware of anything but the necessity. Nothing was being proved. The power existed in the crude act. Each year the ritual added further dimensions to their lives. It was beautiful because it was natural.

Three times the horse and rider charged past the sword points of the witch. And now the sacrifice.

The rider brought the horse to a halt. The preliminaries were completed. The witch blessed the swords in the moonlight. The rider snagged his heels hard into the horse’s belly, then knelt on its back. The horse charged over the green sand. The sea pulsed. Anna forced her way through the dancers and stood beside her mother. She threw back her bear mask. Her eyes were midnight emeralds like her mother’s. She was her mother now. They were inseparable now. She was the sea.

The horse charged. The witch handed her daughter a sword. They lifted their swords above their heads and awaited the white thunder. The swords looked like Minotaur’s horns. The horse loosened into the beauty of absolute speed. The goat uncurled from kneeling to standing on its back. Nearer, nearer, faster, faster, then, now, here, and two icy horns gouged into the horse’s throat.

It fluted its agony. Blood roses blossomed on its white throat. Knees cracked, then buckled, and it wedged its skull in the sand. Then James brought an axe from the bundle of rags and methodically hacked the horse in half. The dancers danced to the trees and danced back to the sea carrying large logs. They lashed the logs into a crude raft.

The horse’s blood stretched its sticky fingers into the sea’s hair. Waves sluiced a heavy purple. James continued to hack. The blood splashed into his hair. He crashed the axe into the corpse until he persuaded the back legs to leave the head and shoulders. Then the eager children helped him to lower the horse’s back legs onto the fire. The stench was murder. Flames lapped the white to a crackled brown.

Whilst the children stoked the fire, the villagers dragged the head and shoulders over the sand and lashed them onto the raft. It took ten minutes to prop the blood-stained head up. There was blood everywhere. Everything was too rich, too perfumed. The sea slushed its split grapes onto the sand.

The children danced to the woods and collected cloaks full of flowers. Mostly dandelions and dogroses. Gilly decided to offer willow branches. And Susan lugged bunches of fern. The scavengers soon returned to the blood with their harvest. They proceeded to decorate the torn head with the flowers. Gilly wove willow between its eyes. The twins thrust dogroses into its dead ears. No one spoke as the libation to the sea was completed. Then the labourers dragged the raft to the sea’s edge. Slowly the waves laved at the wood, seducing it onto the sea. The horse’s head bobbed into the moonlight. It neighed in silence.

The witch gave thanks. ‘For centuries we have done this. Given You and the sea your rites. Give us good harvest and good darkness. Give us.’

Then she led the dancers to the fire where the legs of the horse were roasting. It smelt like pork. The goat removed his head and the Squire emerged. He drew a scout’s Bowie knife from a leather scabbard and cut a portion of hair from the horse’s upper flank. Then he dug the knife into the pink flesh. It was far from cooked. He made a swift incision and removed a hunk of soft muscle. The dancers swayed, waiting. The Squire stuffed the flesh into his mouth, savoured it slowly and then gulped it down. That was the signal. The children with sharp shells and the grown-ups with knives attacked the horse. The stench of the burnt hair didn’t deter them. They rammed flesh, blood, hair, and all into the holes where they kept their mouths. They didn’t chew, simply vomited straight to their bowels, and sluiced the meat down with wine.

Examined coldly it was infantile. But like all experiences beyond the norm, to the participant it was beautiful. As they gutsed the food without chewing, they were soon replete. One excess stimulated the next. They were not by nature an extreme village. Odd but not extreme. But come Midsummer, with the moon in their blood, desire was strong.

Mrs. Spark had always wanted to humiliate Mrs. Rowbottom, and to be bucked by her husband would be a stab in the right direction. The villagers used the season of coupling as an excuse for minor revenges. It was the season of initiation. The children were taught the blunt arts of expression. They learnt how to go on living in a civilisation that ignored them.

A beast roar sprang from their throats as the male contemplated the female. It was the nearest sound the human could produce to the bull elephant. It curved toward the moon.

David heard it. He’d been facing the sinuous lechery of the two queens. No one had moved or spoken for minutes now. Obviously they only wanted to offend his mental virginity. Not physical rape, but something far more insidious. Yes, they were undermining his clutch on existence. They’d done everything to spiral off images in his past. To make him remember. They’d succeeded in accomplishing a greater defeat. Without touching him, they’d made him reassess his life. He didn’t like what he’d found. At all.

Cready grinned, waiting to see how the policeman would resolve his permanent dilemma. He flexed his schoolgirl bra. The paper in the cups creaked as he shifted the bra’s position.

For no reason, David’s mind hung on the cry he had just heard. Something irritated his fingers to wander up the lapels of his jacket. Unconsciously he was searching for something in the fibre. Cready was doing everything to try and make him forget. Make him forget what? Slowly his forefingers slid up the outside of the left lapel. And just beyond the buttonhole, at the point of the lapel, he found it.

Another animal roar forked from the beach. David tugged at the object embedded in the lapel. He tugged it into the moonlight. The bronze hat-pin.

Then he realised. Then he knew. The queens had deliberately filled his mind with images in order that he should forget his purpose. The murder hunt. He’d been tricked with illusions. It was pointless attacking them. They’d won.

‘I see you’ve tumbled to our little charade, Inspector,’ said Cready. ‘I’m afraid we’re not queens! We’re not even queer! You should consider yourself honoured. This whole performance was just for you. We’ve been practising most of the day. It was rather good, wasn’t it?’

There was another roar from the beach. David ran toward the sound. Cready and Martin had provided him with the transvestite theatre so that the main opera of the evening could continue without him.

As he ran through the gate in the wall, he heard Cready and Martin laughing. With the aid of his torch, he lumbered through the woods. As usual he was being followed. He didn’t care. The drumming of feet grew nearer. This was his last attempt. If this fell apart he was finished. His desert boots hit the first hot sand dune. I’ll definitely hand in my notice tomorrow, he thought. But I’ll break this village with my bare hands tonight.

A slither of sand worked its way into his boots. It irritated him but he didn’t stop. The fire was just over the rise. Now he could see the dancers, hear them, but he had no idea what they were doing.

The children were scrabbling at one another. Gilly was fighting off the child-lust of the twins. The Squire was trying to mount the praying Anna, but his impotence was as obvious as his flute playing.

Mrs. Spark was half encouraging and half rebuffing Mr. Rowbottom. For years, in the hate behind his flybuttons, Rowbottom had wanted to fornicate the witch. But she continued to fight him off. He grabbed her wildly by her oiled hair. Making love was the same as killing to him.

In comic-desperation, the labourers were trying to rut one another. They’d often thought about it but had never had the incentive. Rowbottom rollicking the witch was the incentive.

There was something pathetic in the sensual licence. Each year the ideal gave way more and more to the debauched reality. Each year the throb of fornication overpowered the worship.

The Inspector came into view. No one noticed him. They were too preoccupied. He could see what they were doing now, all right. The animals were rutting on the beach. There was even a unison in the ploughing. David noticed it was nearly in time to the thrust of the sea. The salt air was heady with the tang of sperm and sweat. Just to watch made his gorge rise.

The witch received Rowbottom’s second harvest.

David realised it wasn’t even perverted. It was comic pornography. He had to stop them. He had to. Or he’d vomit.

‘Stop it! Stop it! You’re turning into stinking animals! Worse than animals!’

But the animals didn’t hear. They were too engrossed with playing the beast with two backs.

David ran to the fire and lugged off a large branch. Its shrivelled leaves formed talons of flame. Armed with his jaw-bone, Goliath laid into the Philistines. He beat Row-bottom. Then he singed the rogering labourers. He even whistled the branch over the children. It took minutes before fornication subsided. Slowly the seed-dancing drained from their bodies.

Anna looked up and saw disgust in David’s face. She stood up and wiped the sweat from between her breasts. She was still unsatisfied. Only the squeal of lechery had been appeased. She made a move towards David. A spit bubble formed between his lips. He restrained himself. He didn’t spit.

David turned and saw Rowbottom still rutting the witch. He lashed the lizard again across his bare buttocks. Rowbottom did not stop. He thought it was his wife encouraging him to greater sexual exploits. So David kicked him hard in the ribs. With a hiss the reptile slid away. The witch straightened her dress and faced the Inspector.

The dancers cowered. Only their eyes and necks drew away. Their feet didn’t move. David waited. The villagers felt stronger in his silence. They moved towards him.

‘You’ve made a mistake, animals!’ David began quietly. ‘You’ve returned to the grunt of the pig-sty, revealed yourselves for what you are! Maggots rutting in slimy cheese. You’ve dragged down witchcraft into the sexual abyss! Don’t pretend, even to yourselves, that this is an act of worship! No, this is anarchy! Licence! Glutting yourselves on your bodies to avoid the present! You’ve given up life. You’ve thrust your pubic hands into your own excrement! And now you’re really enjoying yourselves! You’re eating it! Unfortunately, that’s not all—you’ve delved right into your own bowels and found a cancer—and you’ve planted that cancer in other bowels—and that cancer’s called murder!’

Mrs. Spark challenged David.

‘You can charge us with sexual licence, if you like! Though it’d be very difficult to prove in court. There’s a lot of us, and there’s only one of you. And we can produce witnesses. They’ll say you’re suffering from hallucinations! So you can charge us with lust if you like—but to charge us with murder’s absurd! Whose murder? My daughter’s? You know we proved by hypnosis that her death was an accident. The murder of who, then? Frankly, Inspector, I should retire!’

The dancers giggled. They were pleased to see the copper screwed up.

David didn’t smile. He continued as if the witch hadn’t spoken.

‘Murder. The Murder of fat Billy Thompson.’

Silence. Only the veined waves stroked the shingle. One wave in particular, with a frothing hood of spray, climbed on the backs of the others. It climbed higher and higher. Its white hair dripped into dark folds. Then it scrunched a young jelly-fish and a fistful of seaweed onto the beach.

The Squire broke through the wave-fall.

‘Billy isn’t even dead—never mind murdered! His mother came to see me when she’d taken him to hospital. Said the staff wouldn’t let her see him! Felt there was something going on. That’s why she came to see me. I said she was talking nonsense and proved it—I rang up the hospital. I was right—it was nonsense. They said the boy was suffering with severe concussion, but there was a good chance he’d pull through, d’you know!’

‘No, Squire. He’ll never pull through because he’s dead. Murdered.’

David held up the hat-pin for everyone to see. It shimmered in the firelight.