The Cold Calling Part 7

Marcus delivering his side of the argument in two successive issues of The Phenomenologist: why the ludicrous University of the Earth would ultimately be a bad thing for the area. Leaving copies lying around, pinning up the article on the village noticeboard. With the exception of Amy, at the Tup, the villagers didn't understand. They all thought he was out of his b.l.o.o.d.y tree. And jealous.

Falconer's perpetually tanned face flexed and he flashed his white crowns. A combative, buccaneering smile, often seen on his accursed TV programme: the informed sceptic challenging the gullible, hare-brained mystic.

Marcus released the dog and straightened up: six inches shorter than Falconer, two stones heavier, ten years older. Malcolm growled happily.

'You get hold of that b.l.o.o.d.y thing.' The soundman backed away, protecting his privates. He wouldn't know Malcolm was all mouth, no bite.

'Dog's got as much right to be here as you,' said Marcus. 'Probably more.'

'You couldn't be more wrong about that,' Falconer said smoothly.

'That animal touches me,' the soundman said, 'I'll have the police in. Have it picked up and put down and you up in court.' Turned on the cameraman. 'I hate the country. You never told me there'd be any of this s.h.i.t. You said there was no need for personal injury insurance. I've got kids, Patrick.'

'Marcus,' Falconer said, 'did anyone ever tell you what an offensive little man you were? You've been here approximately half a minute, you've disrupted my shoot, upset my crew ...'

'Falconer.' Marcus stared him in the eyes. 'You have lived here less than six b.l.o.o.d.y months. In that short time, you have offended every one of my most basic sensibilities.'

'Sensibilities?' Falconer shook his head pityingly. 'G.o.d preserve us.'

Marcus advanced on him. 'Turned the whole valley into a sodding film set. Everywhere I go, there you are doing one of your inane "pieces-to-camera" on the psychology of Neolithic person ... as though the whole b.l.o.o.d.y Stone Age is your b.l.o.o.d.y backyard.'

'Well,' Falconer said. 'At least my version of pre-history is based on knowledge, as distinct from wishful thinking. But I really don't have the time to discuss the nonsense of ley lines with an old fart whose opinions are irrelevant anyway, so-'

'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks! You don't really know any more than the rest of us. You're just a b.l.o.o.d.y academic vampire. A leech. '

Marcus stopped, knowing he was losing it. Falconer was laughing.

'Roger,' the cameraman said. He looked about twenty-two, and petulant. 'Just look at that sun, will you? We're missing my shot. '

'Oh dear!' Marcus snarled. 'You're missing the little t.u.r.d's shot.'

Falconer stopped laughing. There was clearly a real possibility they wouldn't be able to video him with the sun beaming out of his head. Not today, anyway. Oh b.l.o.o.d.y dear.

'All right, old chap.' The great man stretched a stiff arm at Marcus. 'Run along. Out!'

'Out?' Marcus stood his ground. 'Out of the district? Out of the country? Who the f.u.c.k do you think you are?'

'All right, I'll tell you who I am.' Falconer's face hardened. 'I am the owner of Black Knoll.'

There was a moment of ghastly silence as the words. .h.i.t Marcus like an anvil and all the breath went out of him. Before disbelief set in.

'Rubbish. That's ... rubbish. b.a.l.l.s. You ... you can't just buy an ancient monument. Even you.'

'Of course I can. And the land it stands on.'

'That's impossible.' Marcus felt weak. Couldn't be true. The Jenkins brothers knew how much he wanted the Knoll. Knew he'd get the money together one day.

'Contracts were exchanged yesterday at four p.m., in Hereford.' Falconer pausing to savour the reaction. 'The Jenkinses are very happy indeed at the thought of getting rid of a useless, scrubby little mound without having to sell the meadow as well. If you'd like to see the paperwork, Marcus, call in at my office at Cefn-y-bedd. On your way down.'

'But ...' Marcus couldn't summon the breath; his chest felt tight as a b.l.o.o.d.y drum. Wait till he saw the Jenkins brothers, f.u.c.king traitorous b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. 'Why ...?'

'Because I like the b.l.o.o.d.y thing, Marcus. Because I want to study it in peace. Because the University of the Earth really ought to have its own ancient site, where my people can carry out their experiments uninterrupted by-'

'Their experiments? This is a b.l.o.o.d.y shrine!'

Falconer pa.s.sed a hand across his eyes, tottered theatrically. 'Bacton, people like you astonish me. You have the credulity of small children. Anything bizarre, anything determinedly unscientific, like the fantasies of some deluded, p.u.b.escent brat back in the twenties-'

'It's people like you' Marcus brandished a finger at him 'who hounded that child out of the village.'

'And one can only be thankful, Marcus, that there weren't people like you around to canonize her.'

Marcus thought suddenly of Mrs Willis. Her recent, unprecedented tiredness, her headaches. His stomach went cold.

'You don't understand anything, do you? It's a healing place. That's why it was sited where it is. To channel solar energy.'

'Sure, sure. Just one of the theories we'll be putting to the test. Scientifically.'

'With a view to disproving it. And meanwhile, what about the people who come up to draw on the energy?' Marcus felt his lip tremble, picturing Mrs Willis making her way here in the dark, increasingly unsteady, but determined, knowing that the return journey would be so much lighter.

'b.a.l.l.s,' Falconer said. 'I've never heard such complete b.a.l.l.s.'

'Roger ...'

'I'll be right with you, Patrick. Marcus Bacton is leaving. And he's not coming back. In future and I'm making this clear now, in front of witnesses he'll not be welcome on this site.'

'Oh, I'm sure you'd b.l.o.o.d.y love to stop us coming here, but you know you can't, so-'

'Oh, I can, Marcus. It's not a public right of way. When we install our fence ...'

'Fence? Fence?' He'd bring Mrs Willis up here in defiance of the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but how could he lift her over a fence? 'You don't know what you're f.u.c.king doing ...'

'I'm fully cognisant of my legal position. Anyone wishing to visit Black Knoll will require permission which, in most cases, if we're not working here, will be given. Between the hours of nine a.m. and six p.m.'

His narrow, allegedly handsome face flushed with triumph, Falconer waited for the significance of this to dawn, as it were, on Marcus.

'You b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' Marcus whispered. 'You utter, cra.s.s b.a.s.t.a.r.d. '

Falconer flicked a contemptuous hand at him, walked off and went to stand by the burial chamber. 'Too late, Patrick?'

'Not if we're quick,' said the cameraman.

Marcus turned abruptly away so they wouldn't see the tears in his eyes, his jaw quaking. Sensing his distress, Malcolm kept close to his legs as he made his way down from the Knoll.

'He can't,' Marcus told the dog. 'He f.u.c.king can't. '

The rising sun full in his face.

For Annie Davies, the sun had come down and appeared to roll along the ground, between the hills, a great, glowing ball. Just rolling, in total silence. But also vibrating ... shimmering.

'And if that animal happens to s.h.i.t on my land,' Falconer called after him, 'clean it up, would you? Old chap.'

V.

The sky was boiling over.

A finger of lightning prodding almost languidly out of the deep, dark, sweating clouds as if it was attached to the arm of a vengeful G.o.d. There was a flock of sheep, several already struck down, a heavy tumble of bodies, milk-eyed heads flat to the plain.

A few yards away, the shepherd lay dead. His dog, back arched, howling a pitiful protest at the heavens.

Terror, death.

And only the great stones in their element. Whitened, as if they were lit from within by electric filaments, the stones exulted in the lightning.

Energy. The horrific energy of death.

The sky boiled over and yet it was cold. So cold.

All through the night, he cowered in terror on the plain as the frigid lightning struck and struck again, like a white snake.

Sister Andy had hardly slept, feeling close to feverish. And in the morning, when she ought to have been totally clapped-out, she felt stronger and years younger. There was a polish on the world. The colours were brighter.

Very much like the time when she herself was cured. What was this saying to her?

Don't dwell on it. At the best of times, Sister Andy was ever a fatalist. It cannae last, hen.

Coming on nightshift, she dumped her bags in the office and went straight to find Jonathan.

'So. How is he tonight?'

'Your miracle?' Jonathan beamed at her. 'He wakes up. He looks bemused. He drinks half a cup of tea and he goes back to sleep. He's fine. He's restored all our faith.'

Andy shook her head, looked down at her hands. All worn and scoured, the texture of grade four sandpaper.

Something moved in mysterious ways.

'He saying much?'

'Not a great deal.'

'It's a b.l.o.o.d.y miracle he can even activate his lips. Four minutes gone? Jesus G.o.d.'

'Maybe it just seemed like four minutes,' Jonathan said. 'We were all a little ...'

'Hysterical? I don't think so, Jonathan.'

They'd all be backtracking now, of course. The paramedics saying maybe we were wrong, maybe he was alive when we brought him in. Debbie Barnes saying maybe he wasn't flatlining three minutes plus. Well it couldn't have been that long could it, or he'd have come round as a cabbage; you could turn him into coleslaw and he wouldn't notice.

'You think it was ma.s.s hysteria, Jonathan?'

'I think it would be a black day for all of us if you were to leave, Sister Andy.'

'Aw.' Andy turned away, embarra.s.sed. 'It really wasnae me, y'know?'

He was blinking at her with the undamaged right eye. The left eye would take a while to clear. It looked like the RAF symbol, circles of red, white and blue, but not necessarily in that sequence. She'd been there the first time the good eye opened. And there to hear the first word he'd spoken when, against all the medical precedents she could recall, his brain broke surface.

He'd said, Cold.

Which was how Andy had been feeling, entirely convinced they'd lost him, the way the sun turned black fast as a shutter coming down over a camera lens.

'How you feeling, Bobby?'

'Strange.' He blinked some more.

They had him in a side ward, on his own. There was always a small risk; something they might've missed, so Jonathan wanted to hold on to him until tomorrow, when they'd wheel him up to the men's ward for a few days' bedrest, observations, tests.

Andy touched her fingertips together in slightly cautious wonder. She couldn't let him go to the men's ward yet. Something very strange had happened here. It would never make it onto any report; the suits would see to that, but ...

'Hang on,' Bobby said. 'It's Sister Andy, isn't it?'

She went to sit on the bed. His eyes were open again.

'Nothing wrong with the memory then, son.'

'I can still smell cocoa.' He smiled, all lopsided, a boxer's smile the day after the fight.

Some fight.

He fell asleep again and the smile died on his lips.

It had looked textbook, the way he'd come out of it: a long sleep, a few words, another long sleep. The usual questions. Who's the Prime Minister, Bobby? Neville Chamberlain, he'd said grumpily, and gone directly back to sleep. He'd seemed annoyed at being wakened. Not quite textbook.

Cold, he'd said, that first time, everybody amazed at his coming out of it enough to make a sound, let alone speak a recognizable word.

Then he'd coughed and rolled his head this way and that on the pillow, and there'd been a bit of a panic in case he was somehow choking on dust or something. He'd made small, dry spitting motions with his mouth before subsiding into an uneasy sleep.

Andy had hung around and watched and listened. Staying on for nearly two hours after her shift had finished, sitting beside his bed, talking to him softly, making notes of the things he said.

Concluding that something well outside the textbook parameters had happened to him during the minutes of his death.

Every word he'd spoken she'd written down more or less verbatim, in shorthand. Feeling it was important, somehow.