Crybbe (AKA Curfew) by Unknown Read Free Book Online

solid stoic wall was being hurled at him by the night, and the night
would not miss.
        There was a hollow silence in
the car and that seemed to last a very long time, and Mr. Kettle could feel Arnold, his faithful dog somewhere close
to him, quiet now. But his eyes'd be resigned, no light in them any more.
        Mr. Kettle put out a hand to
pat Arnold but probably did not reach him before the impact killed both
headlamps and there was no light anywhere and no sound except, from afar, the
keening song of the old stone.
     
    A few minutes later the electricity was restored. Bulbs flared briefly, sputtered,
died and then came back to what passed, in Crybbe, for life.
        Business had not been
interrupted in either of the two bars at the Cock, where, through past
experience, a generator was always on hand. When the lights revived,
closing-time had come and gone, and so had most of the customers.
        Few people in the houses around
the town realized the power was back, and the wavering ambience of oil lamps,
Tilley lamps and candles could be seen behind curtained windows.
        One electric light blinked back
on and would remain needlessly on until morning.
        This was the Anglepoise lamp on
Fay Morrison's editing table. She'd unplugged the tape-machine before going to
bed but forgotten about the lamp. All through the night it craned its neck over
her desk-diary and a spiral-bound notepad, the one which often served, unintentionally,
as a personal diary, especially when she was feeling angry and hopeless.
        Across the page, in deeply indented
frustration, the pencil lettering said,
     
    . . . we'd tear your bloody hand off. . .

 
     
     
     
     
     
    PART TWO
     
    Although I have been able to divine water and
do other
simple things of that kind for many years ... I had not
thought that this faculty might be related to the formation
of ghosts.
     
    T. C. Lethbridge,
Ghost and Divining Rod (1963)

 
    CHAPTER I
     
     
    No, no . . . don't hold him
like that. Not so tightly. You're like a nervous kiddy riding a bike.'     'Oh, sorry. Like this?'
        'Better. Don't think of him as an implement - he's an extension of your
arms. Be comfortable.'
        'I think I've got it. What do I do now?'
        'Just walk across towards the tree - and don't be so nervous, girl.'
        'Well, I've never done it before, Henry. I'm a virgin.'
    She thought, shall I leave that?
        Nah. Maria will only chop it.
She'll think I'm trying to be clever. Too clever for Offa's Dyke Radio, God
forbid.
        Fay marked it up with a white
Chinagraph pencil, sliced and cut just over a foot of tape with a razorblade
cutter, spliced the ends, ran the tape again.
        Crunch, crunch. Rustle, rustle.
        'All right, now, Fay, ask yourself the question.'
        'Huh? Oh, er ... is ... Is There Any Water Under Here? I feel a
bit daft, to be honest, Henry. And there's . . . nothing . . .happening.
Obviously haven't got your natural aptitude, if that's the word.'
        'Course you have, girl. Anybody can do it as really wants to. It's
not magic. Look, shall I help you?'
    'Yes please.'
        'Right, now, we'll do it again. Like this.'
    'Oh, you're putting your hands . . .'
        'Over yours, yes. Now relax, and we'll walk the same path and ask
ourselves the same question.'
        'OK. Here we go. Is there any . . . ? Fucking hell, Henry!'     Laughter.
        'Caught you by surprise, did it?'
        'You could say that.'
        Pause.
        'Look, Henry, do you think we could do that bit again, so I can
moderate my response?'
        Fay marked the tape. Fast
forwarded until she heard her say, 'OK, Take Two', made another white mark
after that and picked up the razorblade.
        Shame really. Never as good
second time around. All the spontaneity gone. 'Whoops' had been the best she
could manage the second time, when the forked hazel twig had flipped up dramatically,
almost turning a