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

hi-tech age, man no longer feels the need to be in tune with
his environment.'
        'Well, aye, that's about it. Life don't depend on it any more, do
he?'
        'I suppose not. But look, Henry, what if. . . ?'
        She stopped the tape, cut it
off after 'Life don't depend on it any more.' Why give them the lot when they'd
only use four seconds?
        Anyway, the next bit wasn't
usable. She'd asked him about this job he was doing for Max Goff and he'd
stepped smartly back, waving his arms, motioning at her to switch the tape off.
Saying that it would all come out sooner or later. 'Don't press me, girl, all
right?'
        Later, he'd said, 'Not being
funny, see. Only it's not turned out as simple as I thought it was going to be.
Something I don't quite understand. Not yet, anyway.'
        She hadn't pressed him. Very
unprofessional of her. She had, after all, only approached Henry Kettle about
doing six minutes for the 'people with unusual hobbies' spot because she'd
heard Max Goff had brought him to Crybbe and it was her job to find out what
Goff himself was doing here.
        But she'd ended up liking Henry
Kettle and actually liking somebody was sometimes incompatible with the job. So
now nobody would know what he'd been doing for Goff unless Goff himself chose
to disclose it.
        Fay sat down, she and the room
both in mourning now. He'd been a great character, had Henry, he'd leave a gap.
        But if you had to go, maybe
Splat wasn't a bad exit line at the age of - what was he, eighty-seven? Still
driving his own car, too. Fay thought about her dad and the sports cars he'd had.
He'd prefer Splat to arterial strangulation anytime.
        Talking of the devil, she
caught sight of him then through the window, strolling back towards the cottage
with the Guardian under his arm,
looking at ladies' legs and beaming through his big, snowy beard at people on
either side - even though, in Crybbe, people never seemed to beam back.
        The cottage fronted directly on
to the street, no garden. Canon Alex Peters pushed straight into the office. He
wasn't beaming now. He was clearly annoyed about something.
        'Don't they just bloody love
it?'
        'Love what?' Fay joined some
red leader to the end of the tape, deliberately not looking up, determined not
to be a congregation.
        'A tragedy. Death, failure -
'specially if it's one of the dreaded People from Off.'
    'What are you on about, Dad?'
        'That's what they say,
"From Off. Oh, he's from Off." I've calculated that "Off"
means anywhere more than forty miles away. Anywhere nearer, they say, "Oh,
he's from Leominster" or "He's from Llandrindod Wells". Which
are places not near enough to be local, but not far enough away to be
"Off".'
        'You're bonkers, Dad.' Fay spun
back the finished tape. 'Anyway, this poor sod was apparently from Kington or
somewhere, which is the middle category. Not local but not "Off". So
they're quite content that he's dead but not as happy as they'd be if he was
from, say, Kent.'
        It clicked.
        'You're talking about Henry
Kettle.'
    'Who?'
        'Henry Kettle. The dowser I
interviewed yesterday morning.'
        'Oh God,' Canon Peters said. ' That's who it was. I'm sorry, Fay, I
didn't connect, I. . .'
        'Never mind,' Fay said
soothingly. Sometimes, on his good days, you were inclined to forget. Her
father, who'd been about to sit down, was instantly back on his feet. 'Now look
. . . It's got nothing to with Dr Alphonse sodding Alzheimer.'
        'Alois.'
        'What?'
        'Alois Alzheimer. Anyway, you
haven't got Alzheimer's disease.'
        The Canon waved a dismissive
hand. 'Alzheimer is easier to say than arteriosclerotic dementia, when you're
going gaga.'
    He took off his pink cotton jacket.
'Nothing to do with that anyway. Always failed to make connections. Always
putting my sodding foot in it.'
        'Yes, Dad.'
        'And stop being so