The Chalice (59 page)

      
'We want to see the Colonel take his place among the great
pioneers of modern Glastonbury, along with ... with all the others. And for Meadwell
to become recognised as architecturally on a par with the Tribunal, The George
and Pilgrims ...'

      
'But the Colonel quite deliberately- sealed up the well so that
nobody...'

      
'Probably because he was unhappy about spending the money that
would have been required to clean and repair it. But times change. Miss
Endicott. There are now thousands of tourists with an unassuageable thirst for
the Spiritual, and if this man Grainger can help put us on the map ...'

      
Put us on the map!

      
Was Major Shepherd the last of them to realise that the Colonel's
last wish had been for Meadwell to stay, for the forseeable future, entirely
off
the map?

      
Any faint hopes that Mrs Rosemary Shepherd, the Major's widow,
might have picked up his sword had been dispelled by a telephone call around teatime.

      
'Miss Endicott, I've been trying to clean out Tim's study, getting
rid of all the silly books Pixhill made him read, and I keep falling over this
blasted parcel - full of boring papers connected With the Pixhill diaries and
addressed to a Mrs Carey. If I've phoned her once I've phoned her a dozen times.
Keep getting the same tedious answering machine. Would you have any idea at all
what on earth the problem
is with this woman?'

      
Verity had explained that Mrs Carey was in hospital, having
been injured in a serious fire.

      
'Oh. Well, how long's she going to be in hospital? Look, suppose
I send this stuff to you, can you pass it on to her?
      
'Yes, that makes sense. I shall do
that.'

      
Nothing makes sense any
more
, Verity thought.

Coming into Glastonbury, there
were several police diversion signs. One said,
AVOID TOWN CENTRE.

      
'Still got bloody roadworks, I see,' Juanita said. 'I'd ignore
it. It's just to avoid congestion in the daytime.'

      
Seconds later they were stopped by a policeman.

      
'You're going to ask me if I can read, aren't you?' Powys said.

      
'I wouldn't insult you, sir
 
I was going to ask you which paper you worked for and then I saw the dog
and Mrs Carey. Welcome home, Mrs Carey.'

      
'I'm sorry?' Juanita looked fogged.

      
'It's OK, you won't recognise me.' The policeman leaned on the
wound-down window. 'I was at the fire.'

      
'Oh,' Juanita said.

      
'I'm glad to see you looking so much better. We were a bit
worried about you. I put my jacket under your head. Tried to keep you calm
until the ambulance got through. You kept saying, "Get the cat.'' I
thought, If there's a cat in here he can get himself out.'

      
Powys felt rather than saw Juanita go absolutely rigid.

The one time Don Moulder
had felt safe going down to the field was at dawn, when the cross would make a
proud and rugged silhouette against the eastern sky and the Tor.

      
At night, no silhouette was a good silhouette.

      
Bloody woman. How could she have seen flames down here? And
wouldn't it have been easy just to stop the car and have a quick glance over the
hedge? She did it on purpose; sensed there was something he didn't like in the bottom
field but wouldn't tell her.

      
Trouble with this field, you approached it from the farmhouse
and you couldn't see what was inside it till you were practically through the
gate.
      
Protect
me, Lord.

      
Don slid the bar and walked in, praying under his breath.

      
No flames No light at all, except from his lamp. Which he kept
switched on and tightly in his right hand all the way to the cross

      
Feeling safer when he reached the cross. He went to embrace
it, that good and sturdy telegraph pole he'd bought far 50p when they moved the
lines.

      
The cross felt oddly light when he threw his arms about it. And
brittle, like a husk. He felt his fingers sinking in.

      
His arms dropped, nerveless, to his sides, the lamp still
clutched in his right hand. He backed away and held up his left hand to the
light. It was black.

      
He let out a cry as the wooden cross started to shiver.

      
Charcoal. It was burned to charcoal. Lord, how could it be?

      
How can it be, Lord?
D'you hear me?

      
He shone the light on the cross. Black as soot. Black as sin.
Burned to a black cinder and still standing, like the fire had come from
inside.

      
This was what the missus seen? Not ten minutes ago, coming
home from the WI, she'd seen the cross on fire?

      
Couldn't be.

      
Don flung himself at the cross and hugged it close, feeling it
flaking in his arms, beginning to crumble.

      
He began to whimper. It was burned through, and worse than
that, worse than that...

      
... Worse than that, it was cold.

      
In a corner of the field, an old engine cranked into unholy
life.

Behind the barriers, the
Christmas tree lay in slaughtered sections at the side of the road. Christmas
had been cancelled and the market cross exposed again, a solitary finger
accusing God.

      
Powys winced. 'I suppose you know this guy Woolaston.'

      
'Yes.' Her voice sounded slack. 'And Kirsty Cotton.'

      
He pulled sharply into the kerb just below Carey and Frayne.
The pavements were deserted, most of the shop lights were out. Even The George
and Pilgrims had looked quiet, a muted glow beyond the ancient windows.

      
'Woolly has a reputation', Juanita said, 'for being the slowest
driver under seventy in the entire West Country. It doesn't bear thinking
about.'

      
But she still sounded as if there was something else pressing
on her mind, something the policeman had said before he told them about the
horrific accident. Maybe it was being reminded of the fire by someone else
who'd been there. More likely, though, it was what the policeman had said about
the cat. Had Jim Battle had a cat?

      
Powys climbed out of the Mini, took the suitcase from the
boot, went round and opened Juanita's door wide.

      
It was a penetratingly cold night. She stood shivering in the
road. Almost directly across the street, the goddess smouldered in purple, in
one of the very few windows which remained lit.

      
'My God.' Juanita looked slowly around her as if she might be
in the wrong town.

      
If it's all changed so much from this morning, Powys thought,
what the hell must it seem like after more than a month?

      
She seemed unsteady. He put a hand under her arm, guided her
to the pavement.
      
And stopped.

      
There was a new sign in the window of Carey and Frayne.

      
It had been pasted to the outside and was clearly legible under
the streetlamp. He realised it was effectively covering a sign which the
printer guy, Sam, had made and Diane had stuck up on the inside of the glass.
The sign which said,
COMING SOON - THE
AVALONIAN.

      
This one was much bigger. It had foot-high black letters on
luminous yellow paper, pasted the full width of the window right at the top, where
you couldn't hope to reach it from outside. Whoever had done this must have had
ladders. Or maybe parked a van on the pavement and stood on its roof.

      
The sign said,
THEAVALOONIAN
IS HERE.

ELEVEN

Home Temple

'It's all right.'

      
'Oh please… please, no… I won't tell any… Oh, no… no, please
don't…'
      
'Shhhhhhh.'

      
'No! Get away from me! You dis—'
      
'Open your eyes, Diane. You're
safe. Nobody's going to do anything to you.'

      
She opened her eyes. Into other eyes. Shut them in panic.
      
'Take it easy. You're all right.'
      
'Oh. Oh gosh.'
      
'You see?'
      
'Have they…?'

      
'Gone. Yes they have. They wouldn't tangle with me. Diane, my
dear, you're trembling horribly.'

      
Light from the tin-shaded bulb sprayed down on her.
      
Her relief turned it into golden
tinsel.
      
'They were going to rape me.'
      
'I do believe they were,' said
Ceridwen.

Juanita ran up the stairs
with her coat flapping and her useless gloved hands held out in front of her
like fins.
      
'Diane? Diane!'

      
Joe Powys followed, doing what Juanita couldn't, tossing doors
open, smacking lights on.

      
He found her standing in the middle of the upstairs living
room. She looked about to faint. He made her sit down.

      
'She's not here, Powys. Where is she? Why isn't she here?'

      
'Oh hey, she could be anywhere. She's working flat out on
The Avalonian.
Goes to meetings and
things. Teaches correspondents how to write shorter paragraphs.'
      
'Well, she can't have been here
when whoever it was put that sign up.'

      
'They could have done it in the last few minutes. Anytime. These
Glastonbury First guys move fast. What's more, nobody seems to stop them.'
      
'How do you know it's them?'

      
'I don't. But I can't think who else would want to discredit
Diane. On the other hand, none of the Glastonbury First people I've met struck me
as clever enough to think of that one.'

      
He helped her take off her coat and she sat there looking lost
in the absurdly festive Aztec-pattern skin and the lemon-coloured, off-the-shoulder
top. Her face was white.

      
Powys had never been up here before. It was cozy; dense-pile
carpet, many bookshelves; between them, paintings of luminous, twilight skies.
Jim Battle.

'Let me moisten your lips.
There. Better? lie back on the sofa. That's it.'

      
'Where is this place?'
      
'A sanctuary.'

      
It was dark and warm. She could smell something musty but not
unpleasant, not quite incense. Domini Dorrell-Adams and the angular woman,
Jenna, had picked them up in a car. She vaguely remembered going through
backstreets and across the car park.

      
Didn't remember arriving because she'd collapsed against
Ceridwen, in shuddering tears, on the back seat of the car.
Remembering Darryl Davey, his copper-wire hair, his buck teeth, his penis out.
Better than a tube of Smarties, my lover.

      
'... terrible ordeal, Diane.'

      
'They ... He put his ...'

      
'But he's gone.'

      
'Yes.'

      
'Drink this.'
      
'What is it?'
      
'Only herbs.'
      
'It's sweet.'

      
'It's for shock. Drink it slowly. My, you've lost weight, Diane.'

      
'Don't seem to have had time for meals.'
      
'You need looking after. Shouldn't
be on your own. Certainly not tonight.'
      
'No. I mean, I'll be OK.'
      
'Comfortable?'

      
'Mmmm. Thank you. Where's...where is this?'
      
'You've been here before, haven't
you, Diane?'
      
'I don't think so.'
      
'It's Wanda's temple.'