Free To Dream of the Dead by Phil Rickman Page A

the corner of Broad Street and King Street, just across from the Cathedral, its sandstone tower wadded in charcoal cloud.
    There was a light on, up in the Deliverance office in the gatehouse, and she could see Sophie Hill standing at the window, quite still, poised like a mannequin in some discreet dress shop for elegant women of a certain age.
    But the composure was illusory. By the time she was halfway up the stone steps, Sophie was looking down at her, rigid now, in the office doorway.
    ‘Merrily—’
    ‘Just dropped in to see if you fancied a bit of lunch?’
    ‘Can’t. I’m sorry.’
    ‘Soph?’ Following her into the office, Merrily noticed that the white hair was coming adrift and a silver-blue silk scarf lay discarded in the correspondence tray. ‘Is there something . . .?
    Looking into Sophie’s eyes. On any other woman’s face, the expression would convey maybe mildly disturbed. On Sophie it suggested horribly distraught.
    ‘Merrily, you’re not in a hurry, are you?’
    ‘Well, no, I—’
    ‘Could I ask you to mind the office for an hour? I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. You’re not in a hurry, are you?’
    ‘You just asked me . . . No.’
    ‘Good. Thank you.’
    Sophie pulled her coat from the peg. Merrily took off her black woollen funeral coat and went and sat down behind the desk. In the centre of it was the leather-bound pad Sophie used to take down the Bishop’s dictation. Nothing else.
    ‘There’s nothing I can . . .?’
    ‘If you could just look after the office for an hour. If the Bishop of Bath and Wells rings, tell him Bernard will get back to him tonight. If I’m going to be longer than an hour, I’ll call. If you have to leave, lock up, would you? You know where the keys are . . .?’
    ‘Of course I know where . . .
You’re
OK, aren’t you? I mean—’
    ‘Yes,’ Sophie said. ‘I’m fine.’
    Had the Bishop’s secretary ever looked this pale?
    Jane said, ‘You ever heard of a photographer known as Lensi?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘L-E-N-S-I.’
    She was in a cubicle in the girls’ toilets, with the mobile. Keeping her voice down.
    ‘This a joke?’ Eirion said.
    ‘Irene, would I really be ringing you this time in the morning to tell you a joke?’
    Was he
glad
she’d rung? Had his fancy phone ID’d her, with LED red stars glittering around her name? Was he excited to hear her voice, the way, if you twisted her arm, she’d have to admit it was really good to hear him, even to hear herself calling him
Irene
?
    A few months ago, they’d been in one another’s phones all the time, like this was for eternity. But situations changed.
    ‘What’s she do?’ Eirion said.
    ‘She takes pictures. Photojournalist.’
    Had to admit this was an excuse to call him. Yeah, yeah, she accepted she’d been looking for one and this would probably be the best reason she’d get this side of Christmas.
    ‘I don’t really know many photographers, except for a few TV cameramen,’ Eirion said. ‘I’m . . . as you know, I’m just another student.’
    ‘
You
don’t think you’re just another student, Irene.’
    He read all the papers, in a professional kind of way. He remembered the bylines, who was a good writer, who got the biggest stories.
    ‘What’s her full name, Jane?’
    ‘I’ve told you, I don’t know her real name. She does pictures for the
Independent
.’
    ‘That’s a start. What’s she look like?’
    ‘Like . . . early thirties? Red-haired. Not small. Not exactly plump but certainly, you know, voluptuous.’
    ‘And you want to know about her
because
. . .?’
    ‘Because she’s just moved into the village and maybe has an interest in witchcraft or something. Not that she seems to know much about it. She’s probably just attracted to the nudity and fertility rites. And she wants to take my picture.’
    ‘Without your clothes?’
    ‘I can see I’m wasting my—’
    ‘
If
, however, you were just looking for a reason to call me, I’m flattered,’