Free The Wine of Angels by Phil Rickman Page A

what he said he was. An old ... friend. Sort of.’
    ‘If you think I’m that dumb,’ Jane said loftily, ‘you’re spending too much time with the fairies.’
    ‘He’s just hard to get rid of. You must’ve had friends like that. That’s all it was. No drugs. Sorry. Oh—’ Alarm doubled back across his face. ‘You say he talked to the Cassidy girl?’
    ‘Briefly. Like he was asking her the way or something.’
    ‘Look. Seriously. Jane? You listening? If you see him again, keep out of his way, yeah? Will you promise me that, Jane?’
    ‘You want me to come and tell you if I see him again?’
    ‘No! Just stay out of his way. Tell Colette, too ... No, don’t, it’d just get her interested. Leave it. Please. Forget it happened.’
    Fatal instruction. ‘Bit bloody one-way, this, if you ask me,’ Jane said.
    ‘Suppose I give you the dirt on Wil Williams.’
    ‘Oh, sure,’ Jane said. ‘Change the subject.’
    ‘It’s one L, by the way,’ Lol said. ‘If you didn’t know. W-I-L. The Welsh way.’
    ‘All right then,’ Jane said. ‘Wil Williams. One L. And it better be good.’
    ‘It wasn’t that good for him. But I expect you’ll find it good. It’s spooky. Here, have a notebook to write it down.’
    Lol reached up, flipped one from a rack behind him. A quick, nervous thing, as though he was giving his hands something to do to stop them shaking. He laid the notebook on the counter; it had an apple on the front.
    ‘I’ll pay for it,’ Jane said primly. ‘And what should I do about this? ’
    Opening her left hand over the counter. A tiny fairy looked up, stricken, from her palm, its apple-streaked gossamer wings in shreds, its matchstick spine snapped.
    ‘Your ... old friend ... knocked it off its perch. Crunched it under his shoe on his way out. Pretended not to notice, but I think he did.’
    Both Lol’s hands were behind his back now. He bit his lip.
    After the lady vicar had gone, Gomer Parry was down the ditch dragging some of the brambles away, sizing up the job, when the shadow fell across him.
    ‘What d’you think of her, Gomer?’
    The hooked nose under the hat. Like some old eagle, she was.
    ‘The vicar? ‘Er’s all right, Lucy. Nice little girl. Don’t throw the Ole Feller in your face the whole time.’
    ‘ Nice little girl. Pshaw! You know what I’m asking, Gomer. Is she strong?’
    ‘’Er gonner need t’be, Lucy?’
    ‘She’s a woman.’
    ‘Never thought to hear that comin’ from you.’
    ‘Because you don’t know what I mean, do you?’
    Gomer tried to climb out of the ditch, slipped back, and she offered him a hand and pulled him out easy as this hydraulic winch he used to have.
    ‘What did you talk about? When you were looking out to the orchard?’
    Ah, watching them, was she? ‘This an’ that,’ Gomer said. ‘Number of buds in the Apple Tree Man kind of thing.’
    ‘The Apple Tree Man?’ Face near black against the light. ‘Heaven save us, there’s no such damn thing as the Apple Tree Man! Not here. That’s Somersetshire lore. Ours is a different tradition altogether. You should know that. No apple tree man, no guns.’
    ‘Well, pardon me,’ Gomer said, ‘for bein’ just a humble plant-hire operative.’
    ‘It’s important, Gomer. These clowns move in with their twisted interpretations, and we wake up one day and we’re living in a different place – a fantasy village. It’s what happens when you get too much change too quickly. This was a terribly poor place when I was a child – miserable farm wages, children still in rags. Now it’s damn near the richest village in the county. Looks beautifully authentic, but it’s a sham. And do they care, the locals, what’s left of them? Do they hell.’
    ‘Money’s money,’ Gomer said, winding her up, see where this was heading. ‘Shops doin’ well. Plenty jobs for plumbers, builders, carpenters, the ole rural craftsmen. Why should they care?’
    ‘It’s false wealth, you know that. Cider was