Free Fabric of Sin by Phil Rickman Page B

refers people to us – people looking for an open-air holiday. Not on a percentage basis, I have to add
.
    Well
, she’d said finally,
I have a few things to sort out at home, so maybe I could ring you tomorrow
.
    Pleasant enough guy, but Merrily had been glad to get away. His
interpretive
role suggested he’d been appointed by the Archdeacon as her native guide. Useful in some ways, but there was a sense of remote control that she didn’t like.
    The rain gusted into her face and drummed on the side of her hood. She let it come, shivering, thinking of the wind that had suddenly arisen when Parkins, the academic in the M. R. James story, had blown, experimentally, on the old whistle he’d found in the remains of the Templar preceptory.
    Who is this who is coming?
    A figure like wind-blown rags pursuing Parkins along the deserted beach. Making its final, most memorable appearance at night in his room at the Globe Inn. Arising under the sheets of the second bed and standing in front of the bedroom door, with its arms outstretched and its
intensely horrible face of crumpled linen
.
    Although the dust sheets were plastic, you got the idea.
    Merrily turned back towards the old Volvo, with the wind behind her.

10

Signposts
     
    U SING THE MOBILE from the scullery – this was insane – she called Sophie at home. Sophie’s husband, Andrew, answered,
humph
ed a bit. Andrew, the architect and cathedral widower – they even lived in one of the cloisterish streets behind the close.
    ‘Merrily.’ Sophie had picked up an extension, Andrew humphing again and hanging up. ‘I was half-expecting you to call this afternoon – the Bishop having suggested, in an email from the Palace this morning, that a preliminary written report might be quite useful.’
    ‘And you thought, odd – he’s never previously particularly requested a report of
any
kind on anything relating to deliverance.’
    ‘Correct.’
    It was almost dark, the grey-brown sky melding with the churchyard wall outside the scullery window. Still no rain here. Maybe Garway Hill had its own climate.
    ‘Well, Sophie, it might all be academic now, anyway.’
    Merrily put on the desk lamp and explained in some detail about Huw Owen’s M. R. James revelation. Never any discretion problems here; next to Sophie, the grave was Broadcasting House.
    ‘So the woman made it up?’ Ice particles in Sophie’s voice. ‘The whole thing?’
    ‘Either that or her perceptions have been conditioned by her reading habits, which seems unlikely.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I’ve no idea.’
    ‘Presumably you’ll go back and ask her.’
    ‘Oh, yes.’
    ‘That should be revelatory.’
    ‘I’m almost looking forward to it, in a rather unChristian way. I’ll try and get over to Monkland tomorrow after the morning worship. With or without a Special Branch tail.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Merrily – I may have misheard.’
    ‘You didn’t.’ Merrily looked at the cigarettes on the desk, decided against. ‘Sources close to Gaol Street intimate I’ve been checked out by the security services. Jane, too – the heritage terrorist.’
    ‘This is purely because of your unsolicited proximity to the business interests of the heir to the throne?’
    ‘I don’t know, Sophie.’
    ‘But you’re a minister in the Church of England.’
    ‘That makes me harmless? Think about it.’
    ‘The amount of surveillance in this country is becoming quite terrifying.’ A pause. ‘Incidentally, have you had a chance to read Canon Dobbs’s file on the Prince of Wales?’
    ‘Not really. It’s on the desk here. I’ll try and have a look later.’
    ‘Well,’ Sophie said, ‘I realize we live in troubled times, but I think this has gone far enough. Leave it with me.’
    ‘What are you going to do?’
    ‘I think I’m going to call the Bishop in London.’
    Sophie was probably the only person, outside his immediate family, with the Bishop’s mobile number.
    ‘I’m not sure that would really—’
    ‘Will