“Oh, my God. Holy fucking bloody shit and hell.” Gideon sat up in bed and buried his face against his knees. “Jesus, Lee. I had a horrible dream.”
“It’s not Lee,” a familiar voice tartly informed him. “Really, Gideon. I ought to wash your mouth out with soap.”
“Or holy water,” Gideon agreed, sheepishly meeting his brother’s eyes. Ezekiel was bolt upright in an armchair by the bed. He was clad from top to toe in ministerial black, his hair combed back severely off his brow. “Sorry, Zeke. What are you doing here? Where’s Lee?”
“Catching up on some of the sleep he missed through you ranting and raving all last night about beasts and fires. I came over early to relieve him at his post. You’ve had some kind of flu virus, Dr Samuels says. He was here to see you overnight, and he left you these pills, to be taken directly on waking.”
Zeke shook a small plastic bottle at Gideon with evident satisfaction, and poured a glass of water from the jug on the bedside table. Obediently Gideon shook a couple of the pills out onto his palm. “These are enormous,” he said wonderingly. “Are you sure they’re for oral administration, not to get shoved up my—”
“Gideon!”
“Sorry.” Gideon wrestled the tablets down under his brother’s stern gaze. The dream was fragmenting to echoes and shadows in his head. He felt more hung over than anything else, and he had a peculiar taste in his mouth, as if he’d been forced to eat an underdone steak. “Flu? When did that come on?”
“Don’t you remember? You were taken ill at work yesterday, and your friend Sergeant Spargo drove you home.”
“Yesterday? That means today’s... Tuesday, right?”
“That’s a relief. You were telling poor Lee last night that it was the end of the world.”
“Well, it might be. But it’s still the Pride parade at Kerdrolla.”
Zeke frowned. “At where? If you mean the one in Falmouth, don’t worry—Lee’s persuaded Ma to go out for tea with him somewhere instead. If he’s not here looking after you, that is. You still seem very confused.”
“I’m not.” He swung his legs off the bed, relieved to see that somebody had at some point equipped him with pyjama trousers. “That’s just it. I’m not confused at all. I’ve got to get that march stopped. With that level of threat, there’s no question.” He paused, scattered shards of memory finding a pattern again. “Wait. You’re not supposed to know about the threat.”
“Who—me and Ma?”
“Well, anybody, really.”
“Why wouldn’t you tell us about something like that?”
Gideon drew a breath. But he couldn’t think of any reason, and he exhaled carefully, looking at the sunny room around him. Everything was in its place. Even Zeke seemed perfectly and honourably himself this morning: irascible, priestly, buttoned up in his clothes. “You’re all ready for action, aren’t you? What happened to giving it up?”
“Eleanor and I had a long talk. We agreed that, since we’re getting married, and given my long standing as minister in this village, I might do more harm by abandoning my position than by sticking with it—imperfect as I am.”
Gideon could relate to that. “Good,” he said huskily, a prickle of tears at the back of his throat. “You stick to your guns. Look after Dark.”
“You’re pleased? I thought you were in favour of freedom from repressive patriarchal religions.”
“I am. But if people walk into a Methodist chapel, I don’t think they’re looking for freedom, are they? I think they’re looking for you.”
“Nonsense, Gideon. They’re looking for God.”
“Well, you say tomato.” Gideon levered himself off the bed. He gave his brother a cheerful grin. “Thank you for looking after me, but grab yourself a coffee and bugger off now, eh?”
“If you’re really feeling better, I do have four funerals and a wedding today. Or the other way round—I can’t quite remember.” Stiffly he got up. “Maybe your strange dreams were infectious. I feel quite odd this morning.”
“All right, though?”
“Fine. Better than I have in some time, actually. Clearer, somehow.”
“And... the chapel’s all right too?”
“The chapel? Why wouldn’t it be?”
“No reason. Just those dreams.”
“Before I go, Eleanor says I have to ask you something. We were going to have a very quiet wedding, but last night we decided...”
Gideon nodded encouragingly. “Bollocks to that, you decided. Eleanor wants a meringue and a four-gun salute.”
One corner of Zeke’s mouth twitched. “Hardly that. But she does want a ceremony, and since she objects to the notion of being given away, she’d like you and Lee to be our best men.” He paused, then added awkwardly, “I’d like it too. Of course.”
Gideon stopped in the doorway. Leave it to Zeke to throw an emotional grenade into an ordinary weekday morning, in his very driest tones. He took firm control over his own voice. “Are you allowed, then? To have two of us, I mean?”
“I hope so. I’d hate to have the job of separating you.”
“Right. That which is joined at the hip, let no man put asunder, and all that.”
“You’re a blasphemous, godless, unrepentant heathen, Gideon. I don’t understand everyone’s blind partiality for you—especially Lee’s. He’s worth a hundred of you, you know.”
“I know.”
“You will still do it, though—won’t you?”
Gideon swept back into the room. He hauled his brother into a crushing embrace. He was suddenly so grateful for the fact of his existence, big rangy frame, stiff neck and all. Starchy-arsed God-botherer, he thought, and began to laugh. After a bewildered moment, Zeke joined in. “What on earth is the matter with you?”
“Nothing. I’m happy about you and Eleanor, that’s all. Of course we’ll be your best men.”
“Well, good.” Zeke patted him clumsily and let him go. “I don’t have time for coffee, so I will bugger off as you suggest. Whatever does or doesn’t happen in Falmouth today, be careful. We can’t do without our Sergeant Tyack-Frayne.”
Gideon leaned on the banister to watch his retreat down the stairs. Sergeant Tyack-Frayne hadn’t sounded quite right in his ears. Incomplete somehow, although Zeke had diligently used both halves of his married name...
It didn’t matter. What mattered was the open door on the far side of the landing, early light pouring through it. Gideon made his way through the sunlight blindly, and it opened like veils to admit him, closed behind him like wings. On the single spare-room bed, his husband was fast asleep. At some point he must have given up on getting Tamsyn to bed or keeping her there, because the little girl was draped face-down across his stomach. She was wearing her romper suit with the tiger tail and ears, and was snoring blissfully, head resting on the well-worn plush planet Earth Zeke and Eleanor had given her for her first birthday. Isolde was guarding the bed, after her own fashion, which involved stretching out far enough that any intruder would trip over her.
Can you do it, little girl? Can you lift the weight of the whole world? Gideon shook the strange voice out of his head and sat down carefully on the edge of the mattress. He felt as if he’d woken up in a new life, and only certain memories from the old one were valid. As if he had to pick them up, taste and test them one by one. “She did make the rock float,” he said aloud, musingly. “That part was real.”
Lee opened his eyes. The pure love and trust in them dawned directly into Gideon’s soul. “Afraid so,” he said. “I don’t think we can let these things worry us, Gid. More importantly...” He patted the little girl’s rear end. “Dry nappy overnight, will you believe.”
“That certainly has more direct impact on our daily lives.”
“So let’s take what we’ve got, one day at a time.” He sat up far enough to wrap his arms around Gideon’s neck and return his kiss. “I’m so pleased you’re better.”
He didn’t need to ask. Gideon felt his untroubled presence like a warm shadow in his mind, just as it always was. Straightening the furniture, brushing away a little accumulated dust... “I’m fine. I’m sorry about all the fuss last night.”
“Well, you had us worried for a while. But Doc Saunders said it was just flu, and Zeke’s a surprisingly good nurse.”
“Mm. Florence bloody Nightingale, I’m sure.” Gideon planted another kiss on Lee’s brow, and reluctantly let him go. He ran a hand over Tamsyn’s curls. “She’s spark out, isn’t she? Why don’t you two stay here and sleep it off? I’ll bring you a cuppa and some toast.”
“No, my fine hero. Things to do, sh-...” He paused to check that Tamsyn was really asleep. “Shit to shovel.”
Gideon pulled a face. “Clients?”
“Do you know, I think I’ll cancel ’em off and just concentrate on my scripts for a few days. The readings are a pain, and... I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel as urgent anymore.”
“Good.” Gideon straightened up and stretched. He felt as if he’d dodged a bullet, been granted a second chance at a run. It was something to do with Lee, and his relief and joy knew no bounds. “God, I love you.”
“Careful, big man. Say it like that and I won’t let you out the door. Speaking of which, isn’t it that damn march today?”
“Yeah, but I’m gonna try and get DI Lawrence to call it off. Just too risky. And if I do end up there, I’ll be careful. I promise.”
Lee sat up in bed, as perfect a portrait of unshaven, rumpled morning glory as any man could wish. He caught Tamsyn as she slithered into his arms. “Mind you are. You couldn’t eat your dinner last night, so I’m gonna be sure to cook you up something extra special this evening.”
Bloody hell. That innocent lasciviousness was a cock-stiffener, and no mistake. Groaning faintly, Gideon turned away. A cold shower for him before he got dressed, or he’d never get to work. Distractedly he pulled a pair of jeans and a T-shirt out of the chest of drawers. They were clean, and vaguely matched, and would do for a day on the streets of...
He rubbed his brow. “Lee, where’s Kerdrolla?”
“Ker-... What?”
“Kerdrolla. I thought it was on the coast, somewhere between Truro and Falmouth.”
“Never heard of it. Are you sure that’s what it’s called?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“It’s a bit of an odd one in Cornish, that’s all. The ker part is common enough for a settlement or village. But drolla means—well, a folk tale, an old yarn. Storytown.” He started to chuckle. “Hoi, you. It’s Tuesday, not casual Friday.”
“What?”
“You need your uniform, not your weekend gear.”
“My—my uniform?”
“Yesterdays is past redemption, you sweated in it so much. But there’s two other sets clean and ready for you in your wardrobe next door.”
“Right. Er—yeah, of course. Thanks.”
“Well, you’re not much of a domestic tyrant, and God knows I’m just barely housebroken myself. But what kind of stay-at-home hubbie would I be if I couldn’t manage that much?”
***
Freshly showered and dressed, Gideon jogged down the stairs. His semi-tamed other half—pretty well in command of his household as far as Gideon could see—was already moving about the kitchen, whistling as he strode from toaster to kettle to stove. “Hi, handsome. Got time for scrambled eggs?”
“Just. Yes, please.” The kitchen was huge, exactly the kind of friendly central space he’d always wanted in his home. Family parties, Lee’s paperwork and his own, Tamsyn’s homework someday... He wondered why he hadn’t been able to enjoy it properly until now. His vague unease had lifted, although the place was still the same money-trap as before, with its grumpy Aga and leaking roof. “Anything I can do?”
“Stop out from under my feet. Oh, and talk to Mrs Waite—she’s come for some scrambled eggs, too.”
Gideon jumped. The old lady was right at his elbow. “Oh! Good morning, Flora. I didn’t see you there.”
“I know it’s early, Gideon. But I couldn’t stay away.”
She was pale as death. Gideon took hold of her elbow. “Well, Lee does scramble a beautiful egg. Would you like to sit down?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind. I haven’t come for breakfast, though, really. I’ve got to confess.”
Oh, hell. She was grimly serious. Her hair was unbrushed, her hands plucking uncertainly at the edge of the table as Gideon pulled out a chair for her. She’d always been eccentric, but up until now she’d run her little business empire to the benefit of the village, and he hoped she wasn’t beginning a slide into dementia. “A confession?” he asked, as gently as he could. He sat down beside her. “What have you been up to, then?”
“Ah, you try to take it lightly. And I appreciate that, because you’re a dear, and you’ve always taken such good care of us. But this is terribly serious. I know I’ll probably go to jail. I meant to tell you last night, but... I don’t know. Something happened.”
“All right. Why don’t you tell me now, and we’ll see what we can do.”
She looked faintly disappointed. “Aren’t you going to write things down in your notebook?”
Some wrongdoers, just like the sinners of Ezekiel’s flock, drew comfort from their punishment. Gideon folded his arms, tried to exude severity. “The thing is, Flora, that if I were to do that, and you were to say anything that might incriminate you, I’d have to use it in evidence against you. Do you see?”
She nodded solemnly, and Gideon, who’d glanced up in time to catch Lee’s eye-roll, bit his tongue. “All right,” she said. “It is incriminating, though. Terribly. My Dev—Dev Bowe, my godson—escaped from Lamshear Hall three days ago.”
“Bloody hell, Flora.” Gideon sat up, truly taken aback. “Wait. No, he can’t have done. I was worried about him, from the way you were talking, and I gave the staff at Lamshear a call the day before yesterday. He was there.”
“That’s just it. He wasn’t. He turned up at mine after dark on Sunday night, thin as a rake and crying. What could I do but take him in? I telephoned the hall straight away, and they said they’d send someone straight out to fetch him. And the lady I spoke to—the new matron, the daughter of an old friend of mine, so what could I do?—she begged me not to tell anyone, because she’d just got the job, and the hall was already in trouble with the inspectors over some poor young girl committing suicide, and...”
She ran out of breath, coughing. Lee appeared at her elbow with a mug of tea. “Here,” he said, crouching beside her. “Drink this.”
Gideon watched while she obeyed. He almost went to get his notebook after all, but she was scared enough. “Flora,” he said, when she’d recovered. “You’re right. This is serious. Did anyone from Lamshear ever come?”
“Oh, yes! But this is the terrible thing I have to tell you. Dev ran away.”
“From—from your house?”
“Yes. Before the Lamshear people could get there. And my friend’s daughter, the matron—she said to keep quiet about it, because I’d be in as much trouble as she was for not telling the police straight away. And I believed her. And I am, amn’t I?”
Tears were streaming down her face. Gideon took her hand. His blood was running cold, but his own sick fear, a relic of that day in John Bowe’s harvest fields, didn’t matter. “Listen, Flora. We’ll sort out who’s in trouble for what later on. The only important thing is Dev—his safety, and the safety of anyone he comes into contact with. Do you understand that?”
“Yes. Oh, yes! I just want to make it right.”
“You can. You just have to tell me when he left, and what he was wearing.”
“He was barely with me for an hour. He slipped away while I was trying to warm up some food for him, trying to get him to eat. He was wearing—oh, poor lad, he’s not right in the head, is he? I didn’t even notice until he unfastened his long coat. A long black duffle, and jeans, and underneath it a white nightdress, just like that one of his mum’s that he used to put on.” She rocked herself miserably. “Poor lad! I suppose he’s terribly dangerous, isn’t he?”
Gideon honestly didn’t know. All the forensic evidence backed up Dev’s earnest, repeated confession that he and no other had slain both his brothers in the Guldize corn. But the boy weighed eight stone wet through, and until insanity had seized him two years ago, had shamed his farming family by his inability to pick up a rifle and shoot so much as a rat in a barn. He drew a deep breath. “Don’t you worry about it, Flora. Excuse me, will you—I’ve got to go and make some calls. Lee, will you be a good lad and make sure Mrs Waite eats some breakfast?”
***
Lee caught him up in the hallway with his own: buttered toast, at least, wrapped in a napkin, and a flask of tea. Before Gideon could kiss him by way of thanks, he had darted back into the kitchen. He returned five seconds later with his arms full. “Hey, you dozy sod. Don’t forget this lot.”
Gideon held still while Lee helped him into his stab vest, then passed him his high-vis jacket. “Ta. I swear, I’d forget my head this morning.”
“Speaking of which, here’s your cap.” Lee reached up and settled it into place, then critically inspected the finished effect. “I dunno. First they dress you all in black, so you vaguely blend in, and then they put a huge police label across your shoulder blades and make you wear a hat and a neon-yellow coat, so you’re practically visible from space.”
“We’re not meant to blend in, love. We’re meant to be seen.”
“Mm. By the right people—lost kiddies, and grandmas wanting directions to the bingo hall. Do you still have to go down to Falmouth? Don’t they want you on the manhunt for Dev Bowe?”
“Nope. I asked, but Lawrence is short-staffed and freaking out. I have to go. In case I didn’t mention it before, I love you too.”
“Fair enough. But I am giving you notice, my handsome, that solstice falls at twenty four minutes past five tomorrow morning, and I want you home—tucked up in bed, all doors locked, and no bloody Golowan weirdness going on—long before then.”