Crybbe (AKA Curfew) by Unknown Read Free Book Online Page A

somersault in her hands, near dislodging the microphone from
under her arm.
        'Whoops'. ... not good enough.
She started to splice the ends of the tape together, wondering if she had time
to go into a field with the Uher and do a quick, 'Gosh, wow, good heaven I
never expected that,' and splice it in at the appropriate point.
        The phone rang.
        'Yes, what?' The damn roll of
editing tape was stuck to her hands and now the receiver.
    'Fay Morrison?'
        'Yes, sorry, you caught me . .
.'
        'This is James Barlow in the
newsroom.'
        ' Which newsroom?' Fay demanded, being awkward because the voice
somehow reminded her of her ex-husband, who always called people by their full
names.
        'Offa's Dyke Radio, Fay.' No,
not really like Guy. Too young. A cynical, world-weary twenty-two or
thereabouts. James Barlow, she hadn't dealt with him before.
        'Sorry, I was editing a piece.
I've got tape stuck to my fingers.'
        'Fay, Maria says she commissioned
a package from you about Henry Kettle, the water-diviner chap.'
    'Dowser, yes.'
    'Pardon?'
        'Water-diviner, James, is not
an adequate term for what he does. He divines all kinds of things. Electric
cables, foundations of old buildings, dead bodies . . .'
        'Yeah, well, he obviously
wasn't much good at divining stone walls. Have you done the piece?'
        'That's what I'm . . .'
        "Cause, if you could let
us have it this morning . . .'
    'It's not for News,' Fay explained.
'It's a soft piece for           Maria. For
Alan Thingy's show. Six and a half minutes of me learning how to dowse.' Fay
ripped the tape from the receiver and threw the roll on the editing table.
'What did you mean about stone walls?'
        'Tut-tut. Don't you have police
contacts, down there, Fay? Henry Kettle drove into one last night. Splat.'
        The room seemed to shift as if
it was on trestles like the editing table. The table and the Revox suddenly
looked so incongruous here - the room out of the 1960s, grey-tiled fireplace,
G-plan chairs, lumpy settee with satin covers. Still Grace Legge's room, still
in mourning.
    'What?' Fay said.
        'Must've been well pissed,'
said James Barlow, with relish, 'straight across a bloody field and into this
massive wall. Splat, actually they're speculating, did he have a heart attack?
So we're putting together a little piece on him, and your stuff . . .'
        'Excuse me, James, but is he
... ?'
        '. . . would go quite nicely.
We'll stitch it together here, but you'll still get paid, obviously. Yes, he
is. Oh, yes. Very much so, I'm told. Splat, you know?'
        'Yes,' Fay said numbly.
        'Can you send it from the
Unattended, say by eleven?'
    'Yes.'
        'Send the lot, we'll chop out a
suitable clip. Bye now.'
       
     
    Fay switched the machine back on. Now it no longer mattered, Take Two
didn't sound quite so naff.
        '. . . whoops! Gosh, Henry, that's amazing, the twig's flipped
right over. If your hands hadn't been there, I'd've . . .'
        A dead man said, 'Dropped it, I reckon. Well, there you are then,
Fay, you've found your first well. Can likely make yourself a bob or two now.'
        'I don't think so, somehow. Tell me, what exactly was happening
there? You must have given it some thought over the years.'
        'Well. . . it's nothing to do with the rod, for a start. It's in you,
see. You're letting yourself connect with what's out there and all the things
that have ever been out there. I don't know, sounds a bit cranky. You're, how
can I say . . . you're reminding your body that it's just part of everything
else that's going on, you following me? Never been very good at explaining it,
I just does it. . . You can mess about with this, can't you, Fay, make it sound
sensible? Fellow from the BBC interviewed me once. He . . .'
        'Yes, don't worry, it'll be fine. Now, what I think you're saying
is that, in this