mortified.'
She rang him at home in Dumbarton. 'Malcolm,' she said,
'I may never convince myself to forgive you for this. I may even cast about in
the shark-infested waters you inhabit for a new agent.
He didn't say a word. Had he heard all this before from
her? More than once? Was she becoming querulous? Creeping middle age? She felt
tired, woozy. She shook herself, straightened her back, raised her voice.
'Listen, there are so-called Celts here not only from
Ireland and Wales and Brittany, but from Switzerland and Italy - with Mafia
connections, no doubt - and America and some wee place nudging up to Turkey.
And they are, to a man, Malcolm - they are a bunch of pretentious, elitist,
possibly racist wankers.'
'Racism?' Malcolm said. 'I thought it was about money. EC
grants. Cultural exchanges. More EC grants ...'
'Aye, well ...'
'Is
it not a good fee for you?'
'Is
it the same fee as Rory's fee would have been?'
'Oh,
Moira, come now ...'
'Forget
it. Listen, the real reason I disturbed you on the sabbath ...'
'Not
my sabbath, as it happens.'
' ...
is my answering machine is on the blink and I suspect someone's trying to get
hold of me, and it's no' my daddy because I called him.'
'Nothing
urgent that I'm aware of, Moira, don't you worry your head."
'No
messages?'
'None
at all.' He paused. 'You aren't feeling unwell again, you?'
'I'm fine.' Her left hand found the guitar case, clutched
at it. She had that feeling again, of being touched. She shivered. She felt
cold and isolated but also crowded in, under detailed examination. Too many
impressions: the hollow chime, the eyes, the touch - impersonal, like a
doctor's. Too much, too close. She had to get out of here.
'It's none of my business, of course,' said Malcolm, who
believed in the Agent's Right to Know, 'but what was it exactly that made you
think someone wanted to contact you?'
'Just a feeling.'
'Just a feeling ?'
'Aye,' she said wearily. There was nothing touching her
now. The room was static and heavy, no atmosphere. The furniture lumpen,
without style. A museum. Nothing here.
Nothing ...
right?
He said, 'You are a strange, witchy woman, Moira.'
'Malcolm,' Moira said. 'Go
fuck yourself, huh?'
From Dawber's Book of Bridelow:
RELIGION (i)
Bridelow is dominated by
the ancient church dedicated to Saint Bride and built upon a small rise,
thought to be the remains of the 'low' or burial mound from which the village
gets the other half of its name.
The tower is largely Norman, with later medieval
embellishments, although there was considerable reconstruction work to this and
to the main body of the church in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The
clock was added to the tower following a donation by the Bridelow Brewery in
1889 and was subsequently illuminated, enhancing the role of the tower as a
'beacon' for travellers lost on Bridelow Moss.
The churchyard offers a spectacular view over
the Moss and the surrounding countryside,
which, to the rear, gives way to a large tract of moorland, uninhabited since
prehistoric days.
CHAPTER
IV
During evensong, though he
still didn't know quite what had happened with Matt, the Rector said a short
prayer for the dying landlord of The Man I'th Moss.
Holding on to the lectern, eyes raised to the bent and
woven branches of the Autumn Cross, he said carefully,
She rang him at home in Dumbarton. 'Malcolm,' she said,
'I may never convince myself to forgive you for this. I may even cast about in
the shark-infested waters you inhabit for a new agent.
He didn't say a word. Had he heard all this before from
her? More than once? Was she becoming querulous? Creeping middle age? She felt
tired, woozy. She shook herself, straightened her back, raised her voice.
'Listen, there are so-called Celts here not only from
Ireland and Wales and Brittany, but from Switzerland and Italy - with Mafia
connections, no doubt - and America and some wee place nudging up to Turkey.
And they are, to a man, Malcolm - they are a bunch of pretentious, elitist,
possibly racist wankers.'
'Racism?' Malcolm said. 'I thought it was about money. EC
grants. Cultural exchanges. More EC grants ...'
'Aye, well ...'
'Is
it not a good fee for you?'
'Is
it the same fee as Rory's fee would have been?'
'Oh,
Moira, come now ...'
'Forget
it. Listen, the real reason I disturbed you on the sabbath ...'
'Not
my sabbath, as it happens.'
' ...
is my answering machine is on the blink and I suspect someone's trying to get
hold of me, and it's no' my daddy because I called him.'
'Nothing
urgent that I'm aware of, Moira, don't you worry your head."
'No
messages?'
'None
at all.' He paused. 'You aren't feeling unwell again, you?'
'I'm fine.' Her left hand found the guitar case, clutched
at it. She had that feeling again, of being touched. She shivered. She felt
cold and isolated but also crowded in, under detailed examination. Too many
impressions: the hollow chime, the eyes, the touch - impersonal, like a
doctor's. Too much, too close. She had to get out of here.
'It's none of my business, of course,' said Malcolm, who
believed in the Agent's Right to Know, 'but what was it exactly that made you
think someone wanted to contact you?'
'Just a feeling.'
'Just a feeling ?'
'Aye,' she said wearily. There was nothing touching her
now. The room was static and heavy, no atmosphere. The furniture lumpen,
without style. A museum. Nothing here.
Nothing ...
right?
He said, 'You are a strange, witchy woman, Moira.'
'Malcolm,' Moira said. 'Go
fuck yourself, huh?'
From Dawber's Book of Bridelow:
RELIGION (i)
Bridelow is dominated by
the ancient church dedicated to Saint Bride and built upon a small rise,
thought to be the remains of the 'low' or burial mound from which the village
gets the other half of its name.
The tower is largely Norman, with later medieval
embellishments, although there was considerable reconstruction work to this and
to the main body of the church in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The
clock was added to the tower following a donation by the Bridelow Brewery in
1889 and was subsequently illuminated, enhancing the role of the tower as a
'beacon' for travellers lost on Bridelow Moss.
The churchyard offers a spectacular view over
the Moss and the surrounding countryside,
which, to the rear, gives way to a large tract of moorland, uninhabited since
prehistoric days.
CHAPTER
IV
During evensong, though he
still didn't know quite what had happened with Matt, the Rector said a short
prayer for the dying landlord of The Man I'th Moss.
Holding on to the lectern, eyes raised to the bent and
woven branches of the Autumn Cross, he said carefully,
Similar Books
