he’d tell me to walk away and stay away. The owner of the house is not here.’
‘And cops still have possession.’
‘They’ve finished. They’ve even had it cleaned up, apparently.’
‘But you can get in, anyway.’
‘Ah…’
She looked up at the New House, a greasy moon kissing the row of tooth-like windows between the dark conservatory and the flat section of roof. In Anita Wells’ kitchen, extra lights had been put on. Through the window, she saw Anita and Geoffrey Unsworth both looking out towards her.’
‘Anita Wells has a key.’
‘Bugger.’
‘Jonathan gave it to her when they went on holiday, in case anything needed attention.’
Huw said, ‘You want me to come over?’
‘Hell, no, I’m not dragging you across the Beacons at—’
‘At my age?’
‘At this time of night. Because it might be nothing.’
‘It always might be nothing, lass.’ Huw’s laugh was slightly unhealthy. ‘It might
all
be nowt more than a condition in our heads. It’s the agony we live with.’
‘What the bloody hell have we become?’
‘We’re what we’ve always been.’ Huw said. ‘The last-chance saloon. Happen I’ll open up me church. Light a few candles. Backup.’
‘You mean I should do it? With these people? Oh hell, I’m sorry that sounds—’
‘You’re saying you’d rather have a bunch of cross-waving evangelicals who think you’re God’s handmaiden?’
She started to laugh bleakly.
‘Aylestone Hill,’ Huw said. ‘I’ve looked it up on t’ map. Where it stands in relation to the cathedral and the other hills.’
‘It’s all built over. You can’t really tell it’s a hill.’
‘Use the cathedral,’ Huw said. ‘Bring it closer. Use the city. As for the house…’
‘Exorcism of place?’
‘You need a focus.’
‘Susan Lulham.’
‘Happen.’
* * *
She got out of the Freelander, followed the pavement to a turning circle and a tree-draped gap in the housing with a view over the lights of Hereford. She stood for a while, regulating her breathing.
The hum of night traffic. A prayer.
She raised her head, saw a thin band of amber in the sky, but the cathedral was invisible in the blackness between the lights.
18. Travelling light
‘It would, essentially, be a funeral,’ Merrily said.
Three stools around the island unit. More coffee. She’d reminded them that funerals were not what they used to be. Cremation could be a conveyor-belt, with a priest like some duty GP in a clinic knowing little more about the customer than was on his computer.
Very small, very swift
- Sophie on Suze’s dispatch.
The eulogy brief and dishonest. What else could they do under the circumstances?
‘I’m assuming,’ she said, ‘that everyone realises that the last time I was here it all ended in tears. I’m guessing the YouTtube clip’s been around.’
‘You weren’t to know,’ Anita said, ‘how combustible it was. Zoe was restricting what she told you. She was…’
‘Cleverer than we thought, yes.’
They were talking like Zoe was history.
‘When you get to my age,’ Mr Unsworth said, ‘there’s one every week.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘A funeral. But you’re right - get stuck in the traffic, you’ve missed it.’
‘If you want the metaphysics, with a modern, quickie funeral, it’s suggested the soul - or the spirit, whatever - may not… achieve separation. Might hang around, making a nuisance of itself, disturbing the living. It’s been shown - and I say this carefully - that a proper Requiem Eucharist, involving people who care, can… kick-start the next stage. But it’s not something you do lightly.’
She watched Mr Unsworth nodding slowly. Anita Wells pushed her coffee away.
‘This is Susan Lulham?’
‘She might not have started this, but it seems likely she’s become the focus. You look at the house, you see Susan Lulham. Or is that just me?’
‘And you would be attempting to… lay her to rest, as it were?’
‘It’s an option. I
‘And cops still have possession.’
‘They’ve finished. They’ve even had it cleaned up, apparently.’
‘But you can get in, anyway.’
‘Ah…’
She looked up at the New House, a greasy moon kissing the row of tooth-like windows between the dark conservatory and the flat section of roof. In Anita Wells’ kitchen, extra lights had been put on. Through the window, she saw Anita and Geoffrey Unsworth both looking out towards her.’
‘Anita Wells has a key.’
‘Bugger.’
‘Jonathan gave it to her when they went on holiday, in case anything needed attention.’
Huw said, ‘You want me to come over?’
‘Hell, no, I’m not dragging you across the Beacons at—’
‘At my age?’
‘At this time of night. Because it might be nothing.’
‘It always might be nothing, lass.’ Huw’s laugh was slightly unhealthy. ‘It might
all
be nowt more than a condition in our heads. It’s the agony we live with.’
‘What the bloody hell have we become?’
‘We’re what we’ve always been.’ Huw said. ‘The last-chance saloon. Happen I’ll open up me church. Light a few candles. Backup.’
‘You mean I should do it? With these people? Oh hell, I’m sorry that sounds—’
‘You’re saying you’d rather have a bunch of cross-waving evangelicals who think you’re God’s handmaiden?’
She started to laugh bleakly.
‘Aylestone Hill,’ Huw said. ‘I’ve looked it up on t’ map. Where it stands in relation to the cathedral and the other hills.’
‘It’s all built over. You can’t really tell it’s a hill.’
‘Use the cathedral,’ Huw said. ‘Bring it closer. Use the city. As for the house…’
‘Exorcism of place?’
‘You need a focus.’
‘Susan Lulham.’
‘Happen.’
* * *
She got out of the Freelander, followed the pavement to a turning circle and a tree-draped gap in the housing with a view over the lights of Hereford. She stood for a while, regulating her breathing.
The hum of night traffic. A prayer.
She raised her head, saw a thin band of amber in the sky, but the cathedral was invisible in the blackness between the lights.
18. Travelling light
‘It would, essentially, be a funeral,’ Merrily said.
Three stools around the island unit. More coffee. She’d reminded them that funerals were not what they used to be. Cremation could be a conveyor-belt, with a priest like some duty GP in a clinic knowing little more about the customer than was on his computer.
Very small, very swift
- Sophie on Suze’s dispatch.
The eulogy brief and dishonest. What else could they do under the circumstances?
‘I’m assuming,’ she said, ‘that everyone realises that the last time I was here it all ended in tears. I’m guessing the YouTtube clip’s been around.’
‘You weren’t to know,’ Anita said, ‘how combustible it was. Zoe was restricting what she told you. She was…’
‘Cleverer than we thought, yes.’
They were talking like Zoe was history.
‘When you get to my age,’ Mr Unsworth said, ‘there’s one every week.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘A funeral. But you’re right - get stuck in the traffic, you’ve missed it.’
‘If you want the metaphysics, with a modern, quickie funeral, it’s suggested the soul - or the spirit, whatever - may not… achieve separation. Might hang around, making a nuisance of itself, disturbing the living. It’s been shown - and I say this carefully - that a proper Requiem Eucharist, involving people who care, can… kick-start the next stage. But it’s not something you do lightly.’
She watched Mr Unsworth nodding slowly. Anita Wells pushed her coffee away.
‘This is Susan Lulham?’
‘She might not have started this, but it seems likely she’s become the focus. You look at the house, you see Susan Lulham. Or is that just me?’
‘And you would be attempting to… lay her to rest, as it were?’
‘It’s an option. I
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