Ritual Read Free Page B

the sweet from the stranger and stuffed it in his mouth without even removing the wrapper. He chewed it over twice, then mumbled through it.
    ‘My Dad says never take sweets from strangers. You never know where they’ve been.’
    Billy then spat the wrapper out, followed by the sweet, in the direction of the stranger, and ran off.
    Fortunately for the stranger, unlike James the labourer, Billy was a very inaccurate spitter, so his trousers were preserved. The Gang followed their brave leader. So, the Indians were proving troublesome. Whatever were the settlers going to be like?
    The man brushed a thin streak of hair over the balding spot in the centre of his scalp, and walked into the graveyard. He decided on a circular tour. It took a good five minutes before he sighted Dian’s grave some three hundred yards away.
    Suddenly he saw a small figure helter-skelter between the grave stones. Running after her, he was lashed across the eye by a yew tree. His sunglasses flipped onto the grass. The sun’s prongs jabbed at his eyes. Blinded by the light, he crunched his head against the tree. Gums grazed, the tang of bark in his mouth, and temporarily blinded, he crouched to his knees. Then, using his hands as feelers, he probed for his glasses. It took over a minute to locate them. He carefully fitted them onto his nose and adjusted the plastic behind his ears. He looked round the graveyard. The grave dancer had gone. Blood tasted pleasantly salty on his lower gums. Picking up his brief case, he moved to Dian’s grave.
    He studied the inscription, then lowered his eyes. A sprig of garlic lay on the grave bed. The stranger licked the blood from his gums and wondered. He bent down to pick the garlic up. A shadow crept along his spine and slid its icicle into the base of his skull. Another man’s shadow was freezing him. The stranger turned his head, skating his eyes along the ground. His tongue pricked on the roof of his mouth.
    A pair of black shoes were the first things he saw. A black gown hung one and a half inches above the shoes. The gown was belted, and was set off with a white circular collar at the throat. The face of Pastor White sprouted out of the collar. The stranger moistened his tongue again. The spikes of fear returned to his subconscious. It was only a God man.

 
    3
    The God man spoke quietly.
    ‘And who is having the specific pleasure of desecrating a virgin’s grave? I do hope I’m not intruding on your good work!’
    Pastor White’s face glowed with sarcasm. Obviously he chose his words with delight and precision. He was now in his middle sixties, with a hoar frost mat of hair and a deep tan.
    The stranger, still holding the garlic flowers, smiled through his sunglasses and stood up.
    ‘May I introduce myself?’
    ‘You most certainly may.’
    ‘My name is David Hanlin. I’m not desecrating this grave. I simply picked up this bunch of garlic flowers because it is a strange phenomenon. Not exactly in themselves, but certainly in my field of research.’
    ‘Do explain yourself.’
    David found himself talking in the same pedantic tone as Pastor White. This disturbed him.
    ‘I am not suggesting that the garlic flowers themselves are odd, but I am suggesting that they carry unpleasant implications when found on a new grave. Like this one. Necromancy, etc. And I am carrying out a village to village research on religious cults for London University. Christ is not amongst them. I hope I’m making myself clear.’
    ‘Not very. Research into the Old Religion, eh? Presumably you are being humorous? Witchcraft, as such, exists in certain uncultivated areas of Ireland and Scotland and maybe un peu in East Anglia, but I, personally, backed by God himself, of course, have stamped out any shadow in my parish! I know I am making myself clear.’
    With an index finger, he pointed at the church spire.
    ‘The slender arm of Christ cuts through the villagers’ nightmares now. I have firmly printed a cross on their