Ritual Read Free

through the Cornish landscape. A man wearing dark sunglasses sat in one of the compartments alone. With a sharp penknife he was whittling a piece of white wood. He paused for a moment and checked his watch. It was eleven o’clock. Nearly there. Once more he carefully applied the penknife to the wood he was holding. Expertly he winkled out a perfect circular shaving. A minute dragon’s head was taking shape. He was carving a paperknife. Minute by minute he chipped with precision, stopping occasionally to adjust his sunglasses. Perspiration bubbled down the bridge of his nose. He looked about forty, and he was hungry for something other than food.
    Outside the carriage windows, Cornwall shimmered in the sun. White rocks and the sea.
    Soon be there, the man thought to himself. Then we’ll see.
    *
    The mourners left the dead, and the dead continued decomposing six feet under.
    The children, led by Fat Billy, performed a balancing act round the perimeter of the church wall. Suddenly Pastor White appeared and told them to return home and not to desecrate religious property. Fat Billy screamed his tubby defiance.
    ‘What you on about? God only lives in the church! Ghosts and spooks own the graveyard! If God was in this rotten graveyard, he’d stop the ghosts coming to get us at night!’
    ‘Look, Billy...’
    ‘My Dad says priests are crooks!’
    Followed by his gang, Billy vaulted over the church wall and disappeared down the main street. Pastor White found himself shouting at the tomb stones. The children had gone. The priest shook his head in the direction of Dian’s grave. He was tired and wished he could afford a glass of port, well, two glasses. He trundled towards ‘Green Fingers In My Hair’.
    Tuesday dragged its way to midday. The sun searched its white splinters into the narrow streets. The streets were empty. No, not quite. A yellow butterfly danced in the hot light. It danced its fire against the white cottages and drifted into the ice shadows of the alleyways. The butterfly owned Thorn Village.
    Mr. Spark pulled himself into his shop doorway. As he stared into the street, the butterfly brushed its honey wings against his chin. He didn’t notice. He moved away from the shop door and began arranging pink dolls in rows around the sweet jars. A heavy lorry bumped over the cobble stones. He looked up and noticed it was carrying Liquid Chemicals.
    *
    The train from London drew into Thorn Station. The man looked for the third time at the photograph in his right hand. He was playing beach ball on a summer lawn with a little girl. The little girl with her pale hair looked not unlike Dian Spark. In the photograph she was laughing and he was grinning. But, in reality, he was crying behind his sunglasses. Slowly, unhurriedly, he was crying.
    The train had been stationary for two minutes now. With a shunt, it started to move again. The man read the words ‘Thorn Station’ through the window, grabbed his belongings, and even though the train was gathering speed, swung himself with a jolt through the door onto the asphalt. He bruised his knee. The train noticed nothing as it hurried to the sky line. The station master appeared, impressive in his excess blubber, and helped the man to his feet.
    ‘Dangerous, that, sir! Inviting a funeral, that!’
    The man smiled a thank you for the warning and assistance, handed the station master his ticket, checked he was carrying his large briefcase, his wallet and the photograph and moved towards the exit barrier. The station master chugged up behind him. ‘You, er... dropped your paper, sir...’
    ‘Thank you,’ said the man, taking the newspaper and folding it deliberately in two so the photograph of the body of Dian Spark caught the station master’s eye.
    ‘Oh, beg pardon, sir, it can’t have been your paper, can it? I mean, it’s yesterday’s. Someone else must have dropped it.’
    ‘No, it’s mine all right! Do you know where this little girl was buried!’
    ‘Do you