Free Candlenight by Phil Rickman Page A

England: a burglar alarm and a Volvo estate car outside some cottage originally
built for farm workers who couldn't afford their own cart?
        Touch of therapy for Berry too,
to be out here. Distances were negligible in Britain. Couple of hours ago he'd
been in the office, the combination of events and Miranda ensuring that by the
time he arrived at work he was already feeling overtired. This had cut no ice
at all with American Newsnet's London bureau chief, Addison Walls, who'd
ordered
him to go at once to Gloucestershire, where the Government's Energy Secretary
had his country home. The Minister was to give an unofficial Press conference
explaining why he'd chosen to resign over the Oil Crisis.
        "Anybody in the States give
a shit about this?" Berry had asked, and Addison Walls looked at him like
he was crazy.
    "Morelli, watch my lips. The Oil
Crisis. O-I-L."
    "Yeah, yeah, OK. Just tired, is
all."
        "Get outta here."
muttered Addison Walls. "Fuckin' radical."
        When he finally arrived at what
turned out to be quite a modest Cotswold farmhouse—barely an acre of land around
it—Berry learned he'd missed the Press conference by a good twenty minutes. He
found two reporters chatting by their cars in the lane. One was Shirley Gillies
of the BBC with a black Uher tape recorder over her shoulder. The other was
Giles Freeman, his wheat-coloured hair uncombed and grey circles under his
eyes.
        "Don't worry about it.
mate." he told Berry, waving a weary, dismissive hand. "Wasn't worth
coming. Terse statement, nothing new in it. Wouldn't answer questions. Posed for
a few simpering pictures with his wife. Didn't offer us coffee."
        "Giles rebuked him for wasting
our time." Shirley Gillies said. I'm afraid if I spoke like that to a
Government minister, the next farewell piss-up would be mine, but he as good as
apologised to Giles. Who can be quite impressive when he's sober."
        Giles, who was wearing a
crumpled cream suit, shrugged in a what-the-hell kind of way. The attitude of a
guy who wasn't planning to be around much longer. Berry thought.
    He hesitated then said. "Ah,
talking of farewell piss-ups. I suppose you . . ."
        Giles sighed. "It was all
round the office. What can I say? I feel awful. Easy to say, 'if only I'd
known.' I mean, God—"
        Berry wondered if this might be
the time to fulfil his obligation to put the arm on Giles. He couldn't,
however, say anything with Shirley around. Couldn't think, anyway, how to
start. Suppose Old Winstone was simply paranoid?
        "Still, I suppose if he'd
had a choice of where to snuff it," Giles said, "he'd probably have
opted for the pub."
        "I gather you were still
there. Berry," Shirley Gillies said brightly, "when it
happened."
        "Yeah," Berry said. "Tell
you about it sometime"
        "Yes," Shirley said,
clearly meaning no. "Look. I must go. See you around, Giles."
        Giles and Berry stood in silence
in the Colswold lane as Shirley loaded her gear into her car. It was a soft,
dull summer morning, still moist from last night's rain.
        "Bloody awful smug place, this,"
Giles said. "Not exactly nature in the raw. is it? Not like—" He
broke off.
        "You gonna give me the
Minister's statement?"
        "Sure. Let's find a pub.
You don't have to rush back?"
        Berry shook his head. Giles
said abruptly, "We're nowhere near bloody Painswick, are we?"
        "Now how would I know
that?"
        "Claire's mother lives near
Painswick. Wouldn't like to run into the old bat. Not just now. I wouldn't be
responsible."
        Berry followed Giles's silver
BMW in his beat-up Sprite. They motored through shimmering ochre villages
before pulling up at Hollywood's idea of an olde English pub, outside which
Giles had detected an obscure Real Ale sign. They sat on upholstered wooden
stools at the bar, the first customers of the day. On Giles's recommendation.
Berry ordered two halves of