Ritual (9 page)

By the time David had reached the tree, there was only a candy ribbon as a reminder that anyone had been there at all. David called out Anna’s name four times. No one answered. Disconsolate, he moved away from the tree. He suffered the stabs of Puritan conscience. The needles of Oliver Cromwell dug into his brain. He always dressed conservatively, fought his lechery and believed with a cold passion in human dignity. As a detective, he had found his morality a source of embarrassment, and often a hindrance. His loathing of the beast in man expressed itself in hate.

He searched his torch beam around the neighbouring bushes. The bushes had nothing to say and would only make a statement in the morning. Having found nothing other than a bile taste in his mouth, he returned to the oak tree to look for occult signs. And there, under the gnarled Maypole, sitting cross-legged, was little Gilly Rowbottom.

‘I waited ‘cause I knew you wanted to talk to me, Mister.’

9

So the Indians are going to be of assistance. Very unlike the Indians. David crouched down on his haunches beside Gilly and waited. He seemed to spend the whole of his professional life crouching and waiting.

‘You want to know how it happened, don’t you?’ She mischievously twinkled her eyes.

The first stars shimmered. A vast orange moon throbbed over the sea. A harvest moon before August.

‘Don’t you want to know?’

‘Yes, it was—er—rather the purpose of my visit.’

‘Well, I’ll show you—yes, that’s what I’ll do!’

She uncurled to her feet like a she-ape. Then with a precise flurry of arms and legs, she began to climb the tree. With monkey agility, she half jumped and half walked up six feet of trunk until she reached one of the lower main arteries. Then swinging on the whip of her wrists, she straddled a branch.

Her face was hidden behind the black leaves. She could taste the stale bite of centuries of salt. Concentrating hard, she edged along the branch. The veined leaves tinsled together. Now she was above the Inspector’s head. Directly twelve feet above, swaying precariously. A cold breeze nipped her eyelashes as she rode the living broomstick. Stars froze in her hair. In her mind, the magic of the dance returned, and she was dancing again in her mind. The bough was a deep rhythm, which she clung to with her thighs.

She flew on the wide arc of the music towards the moon.

And from a far cottage, she heard again the cry of the flute. The bough danced into a swollen wave. She felt her body swelling with the swaying of the tree. She was growing beyond here and now. This is what a star is, she thought. This is devoid of man. Absolute. She did not hear the Inspector calling her to come down. She only heard the flute cry, the moon, and the sea. She had no parents now, only herself and the deep rhythm.

She rocked the bough harder and faster, creating a home-made storm. And the waves of the air battered her, and the sea demanded. She wrenched herself from the leaves’ web and fell and fell. She heard herself shout as she fell; ‘This is how—this is...!’ And she performed an involuntary somersault in the dark. And then continued to plummet like Icarus.

David braced himself on the springs of his feet to catch her. Not a chance, he thought. Gilly’s arm lashed across his face and her knee bruised him hard just above his heart. He twisted and crunched backwards with the girl wrapped round him. His back relaxed to take the weight as he hit a root knuckle. The jolt vibrated along his spine before electrifying his brain. The pain only lasted an atom split. He sat up and disentangled himself from this female octopus. She grinned at him.

‘You see, Mister, if you hadn’t caught me—I’d have busted my neck—wouldn’t I? Like my friend, Dian!’

‘So instead, you nearly busted mine! I think that’s enough aerobatics for today!’

He set the girl on her feet. ‘Now, what really happened? It’s as good a fairy story as I’ve heard so far. And I’ve heard a lot! I’m an authority on old Grimm and Hans, you know—so let’s have the truth!’

She pointed to a flying bundle of snow, which turned out to be an owl.

‘See that owl, Mister! Well, he’s butterfly hunting. Ooh, he scrunches ‘em up beautiful when he catches ‘em! He’d get you if I told him! Our Gang has power over animals, you know!’

‘Have you now? Well, you’ve certainly got powerful imaginations!’

Gilly skipped towards the wood. The Inspector followed.

Through a flap of pale hair, which wandered across her face, she shouted, ‘Look, you don’t belong here, Mister! You smell different! You wash too much!’

Instinctively David slipped two fingers of his left hand onto the back of his neck where the spinal column rubbed against his collar. He felt very sweaty indeed. And even though the evening was now pleasantly cool, tacky grease from his neck clung to his fingers. He could certainly do with a wash.

He was filthy.

‘Gilly, what where you doing with Anna? Come on, you can tell me!’

Gilly looked frightened. As they walked into the wood, he thrust home his next question. ‘It was bad what you were doing, wasn’t it? You were praying to the oak, weren’t you? You were worshipping the tree where your friend was murdered, weren’t you?’

He clamped his strong fingers onto her forearm. He considered whether it would be wise to frighten the truth out of her. He decided against it and relaxed his grip.

‘Come on, I won’t hurt you. But Anna might. Do you believe in Jesus?’ David hated evoking images of Christ. But it was better she believed in Christ than dabbled in the insidiousness of Satan. ‘Don’t you believe Christ died on a cross for your sins? He was gentle and good. Whereas the things you were doing were vicious and bad.’ The role of the schoolmaster was difficult. Pious words were bitter and uneasy in his mouth, and he knew it.

She stared at the crushed dock leaves under her feet but didn’t answer. They walked on again.

About halfway through the wood, she stopped and listened. The Inspector didn’t notice this but continued his catechism. Gilly was positive they were being watched. She laughed and walked on.

‘You’ll have to go, Mister. Everyone wants you to go!’ And she went on laughing.

*

‘He’ll have to go, Squire. We all want him to go. Yes, we do have our differences but we all agree on one thing. The celebrations will be ruined with him here.’

Between sentences, Lawrence Cready sipped the white smoke of his Pernod. He and the Squire were sitting in a dark alcove in ‘Green Fingers In My Hair’. The Pub dated back vaguely to late Elizabethan. Naturally, it had been renovated and only the ceiling and the giant fireplace indicated its age. It had been bathed in white paint. The thick beams were stained a rich brown and polished to a sheen. Shining horse-shoes and harnesses decorated the beams.

Their alcove was near the fireplace so they could not be overheard.

‘We must take the necessary actions, Squire. And you know what I mean!’

The Squire furrowed his forefinger along the parting down the centre of his scalp. His hair ached where it met the parting. It needs washing to take the ache away. That’s what it needs, he thought to himself.

‘Are you listening to me, Squire?’

‘Usually do, Cready. I listen to you all right. That’s how I lost my house! You and your theories! Well, you have my house, and I have your theories! Was bankrupt, so I sold it to you, but come the day well, let it come, eh?’

‘You must question the girl, Squire. We have to establish once and for all that it was not murder. Even if it is. The workers are getting excited. I heard your flute stimulating their blood. Oh, the village is ripe for shaking but we mustn’t let the Inspector shake us! And he will, if he can!’

‘Right! I’ll try. But, if it doesn’t work—I’d be obliged if you’d prepare a treat of your own for him. Y’know what I mean. Give him a run for his pay. Tomorrow night’s tomorrow night. And we don’t want him here. Open his mind to the way he believes he wants to go. Show him what he thinks he wants to see.
He
must be shaken, not us! You’re equipped to shake him, aren’t you? Midsummer Eve’s tomorrow night, and I’m hungry!’

*

Gilly and David reached the Rowbottom’s cottage. He had obtained no information. Every question he had asked had been greeted with another question—or laughter.

As she was about to open the side door into her cottage, she trembled. Her hands quivered. She murmured four harsh words to herself, which David couldn’t catch. The only thing he was sure of was that the words had never been printed in any known dictionary. Then she raised her pale head to the lights in the sky; ‘Protect me’. And turned the door knob. A circle of electric light dazzled their eyes as she opened the door. Mr. Rowbottom stood, arms akimbo, in his hallway. He was angry. Very angry. He grabbed the girl by a fistful of hair and lugged her into the cottage.

‘Mr. Rowbottom, I found your daughter dancing like an animal round the giant oak tree. With the other children! And they were being led by Anna Spark...!’

David had barely started when the door was slammed in his face. He was left bewildered, addressing the blistered paint on the door knocker. His first reaction was to bang the knocker three times, which he did. Behind the door, Rowbottom answered him by grinding two iron bolts home. The Inspector banged again and listened intently. He heard the heavy footfall of Rowbottom walking into another room.

‘They’re so bloody hospitable! If I’d told him that she’d been raped, he would probably have given me a lollipop for being “a good boy”.’

Having thought it out, he let himself into the Sparks’ cottage by the passage entrance with a yale key which Anna had given him. To his surprise, the house was completely empty. Only the clocks were talking. And the furniture was creaking, readjusting its wood for the long night. He made his way to his bedroom. Once inside, he examined it to see if anyone had been nosy. No one had. He lay down on the bed. An impatient spring probed his left shoulder. With an indulgent groan, he pulled out his half-finished paper-knife and applied a small chisel to the wood. He worked silently with the occasional grunt of annoyance when the chisel slipped. The paper-knife was almost completed. The dragon coiled itself deep into the white wood. David found it relaxing. His muscles slowly unknotted after a day of major frustrations and minor fears. Whilst he worked, he thrust all the day’s happenings into his subconscious to brew. He hoped to make a murder broth in the morning.

A cube of moonlight illuminated the paper-knife through the curtains. He liked working in the half light. Even electric light hurt his vision. Slowly he sliced shavings off the delicate blade of the paper-knife. Soon it would be very sharp indeed.

After a time he fished out an official diary from the briefcase. He began to scribe his thoughts.

Have discovered nothing concrete so far. Am sure it is murder. Wouldn’t be surprised if most of the villagers were involved. Even if only by implication. Can smell witchcraft. Will bring it to a head.

P.S. The only thing that is really going well is the paper-knife!

P.P.S. Think I’m right in thinking I’m not popular!

Having completed his memo, which he knew would drive Chief Inspector Thornton into a passion, David placed his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.

I should ring him up now. He told me to. But he would be very angry if I disturbed his sexual athletics with that Russian girl. He usually indulges in the long jump on Tuesday and Friday nights.

Then he tried to curl himself in sleep but he was a bad sleeper. It must have been an hour later when he was in the middle of a sensual reverie of strawberries crushed on the upper part of a girl’s bronze thighs with wild honey lapping her nipples, etc. Yes, it must have been about an hour later when he heard Anna tiptoe into her room. Her door clicked shut. He waited. No sooner was the door closed when he heard two sharp taps on her bedroom window. He slid off his bed and crawled across the room. The moonlight weaved tarnished silver on the back of his jacket. Slightly pushing the curtain back, he peered into the dark.

The Sparks had no back garden. But there was a broken path with trees overhanging. David could see Gypo on the top of the ladder which rested on Anna’s bedroom window ledge. Gypo tapped on her window again. With a wooden squeal, Anna pushed up the lower half of the window.

‘I’ve come for you, Anna! I feel like it tonight. A bit of bedroom dancing. I miss you naked. I’ve come for it!!’

The Inspector observed to himself that Gypo was being subtle. Still, he was more advanced than the majority of civilisation in that he said exactly what he meant. And, by Golly-gumdrops, he intended to have exactly what he meant!

‘Go away, Gypo! I don’t feel like it! Anyway, even if I did, you smell of bad toadstools! You need a bath! And don’t think you’re having one here because you’re not! So you can find someone else to relieve your tensions on. You bore me! Your technique hasn’t advanced at all! I should give you lessons! But I haven’t the time or inclination!’

‘You teach me, lovely arse!’

David knew he shouldn’t listen but it was delightfully healthy and he enjoyed verbal stimulation. He was not a born voyeur, but as a policeman he was an attentive watcher and listener. He felt the window sill hard against his chin, and wondered how he would feel under similar observation.

However, this did not deter him. By lowering his head like a heron in training, he was able to see what had now developed into a grunting match outside Anna’s window. Gypo’s left hand was fastened onto her ribcage, partially cupping her breast. His right hand was trying to keep his balance on the swaying ladder.

‘You’re a crude pig, Gypo! Disgusting!’

She freed herself from the raping hand, at the same time as levering the ladder away from the wall.

‘And you love it, Anna, you love it! I’ve knocked some girls in my time but I’ve never had such a rabbiter as you. The cruder it is, the more you like it!’

How she found the dictionary, David could not see. But he did see the heavy tome crunch into Gvpo’s face with nine stone of hate to help it along. The ladder jerked away from the wall. Then it skidded back onto the wall. But helped by another wild dictionary swing from Anna, it curved into the night and finally slammed Gypo some fifteen feet below on the path. A moth chugged a floppy circuit round the Gypsy and then headed for the moon.