Free Unholy Rites by Kay Stewart, Chris Bullock Page B

thing.”
    The map crinkled as she made another fold. “What’s that?”
    â€œThe missing hind legs. Our culprit may be hungry.”

Eight
    â€œThat blonde I saw you with at the play last week,” said Arthur’s friend Brad. “Who is she? I’d guess she’s a Scandinavian actress except for the boobs, know what I mean?”
    â€œGet your mind out of the gutter,” Arthur said. “She’s a friend from Canada, that’s all. Ukrainian father, Swedish mother.” He wasn’t about to say that Danutia was a police officer.
    Brad snickered. “Friend, is it? I know you better than that, old chap. Say, whatever happened to that other Canadian cutie? Didn’t you two get married?”
    Arthur sipped his wine, thinking about his ex-wife. “Married and divorced. Turned out she liked her theater more than she liked me.”
    â€œâ€™Twas ever thus with you, wasn’t it. You go for the earnest, no-nonsense types, and then they dump you because you’re too frivolous.” Brad drained his pint. “My round.”
    Uncoiling his long legs, Brad stood up, and in two strides was leaning over the main bar at the Reward, trying to make out the drinks and prices. He’d always been a bit shortsighted, but too vain to wear glasses and too much in a hurry to use contacts. Dark and gaunt as ever, he still looked the undernourished child from the wrong side of London. He and Arthur had acted together in many university productions and Brad had gradually established himself in the Manchester theater scene. He’d made a side trip to Mill-on-Wye on his way to audition for the upcoming Buxton Fringe, and Arthur had suggested drinks at the pub. Brad returned with their drinks and sat with his long legs splayed to the side. “Sorry to hear about your mum, by the way. I remember her struggling to say something nice about that dreadful play we were in at the uni. Yet she obviously hadn’t understood a word of it.”
    â€œThanks, Brad. It’s been six weeks. You’d think I’d have a grip by now. I thought the funeral would be the worst part, but sorting through things in the cottage hasn’t been a picnic.”
    â€œYou need a purpose in life, that’s what.” Brad’s face took on an earnest expression Arthur knew well. You’d be shooting the breeze with him about soccer or the weather, and suddenly he’d fix you with an intense gaze as a prelude to revealing his latest passion. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
    â€œWhat is it now? You want help collecting pre-Raphaelite garden gnomes? Or arrow feathers from Sherwood Forest?”
    â€œMock all you want, Arthur, but this is serious. Last year I took over as president of the Manchester Humanist Society. The foundation of humanism is the recognition of human reason and responsibility as the true agents of progress in human affairs. Our mission is to combat religious obscurantism wherever it is to be found. The society was dying until the bombing woke everyone up. I mean, here’s Catholic sectarians battling with Protestant sectarians right here in our front yard. Of course the bombing was condemned from all the pulpits, but a good many people were smart enough to see that the pulpits themselves were the problem. Nearly two hundred people turned out for a talk I gave on ‘The Dangers of Religious Fundamentalism.’ It was amazing.”
    â€œWhat do you want from me?”
    Brad leaned forward. “Join us, Arthur. I know you’re not much of a joiner, but I also know you’re skeptical about religion. This is no time to stay on the sidelines. Fundamentalism is only going to get worse if it isn’t challenged. It could do all of us in.”
    Arthur was searching for a response when he became aware of a black raincoat pearled with water drops next to his elbow.
    â€œWhat’s this? Some new peril about to do