his cushion in front of the fire, with wide amber eyes, and purred gently. ‘I can’t have a cat in my block of flats. But pets are supposed to be good for you, calming.’
‘Caesar says you can come and stroke him any time.’
Hilary opened the passenger door when we reached the station car park. I got out too and locked up. ‘It’s alright, Alex. I can find my way to the right platform,’ she laughed.
I came round to her side of the Volkswagen to where she was standing in the light of a street lamp. Suddenly, without thinking, I leant forward and kissed her mouth. She put up a hand to touch the side of my face. ‘I was beginning to think you’d never do that.’ We kissed again.
‘I’ll ring you later to make sure you’re safely home.’
Back in my own home, with Caesar out for a post-prandial prowl of the neighbouring gardens, and a whisky and dry ginger satisfyingly within reach, I began to think about the toys we had seen. Hilary’s explanation of a benign wish to comfort a dead boy’s spirit seemed too kindly a theory. Jack Linden was the obvious person to ask but I was afraid he would only jump to some bizarre conclusion again and we would be back in the morass of sinister ancient rituals that I found completely out of place in our cosy seaside, suburban context.
Ringing Hilary as I had promised (or was it threatened?) when I thought she must have made it home, I asked: ‘Do you think we should tell anyone about those toys?’
‘What could we say? That we thought they were rather peculiar? Wouldn’t people think we were, peculiar, I mean? And who would we tell? The police? Jack might have some thoughts but I imagine you must have already discarded that idea. I think we just have to wait and see.’
‘I was thinking of the last time we did that. It nearly cost me my job. Will have, even now, if the hearing goes against me. But then I think of my chairman’s face if I tried to involve him in some tale of mysterious rituals. He’d probably have me sectioned not just sacked. So I guess you’re right. We’ll have to wait and see.’
By the time the phone rang again the next morning, I had firmly convinced myself that silence was our best course. It was Jack.
‘Well?’
‘What’s up, Jack?’
‘The toys.’
‘What about them?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? You must have seen them too.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘That there were more toys of Dionysus.’
I gave in. ‘How did you find out?’
He laughed. ‘I spotted them in a newspaper photograph. The little group on its own, with that grotesque attempt at a narthex and bull-roarer so I came down early to take a look.’
‘A what?’
‘A narthex. The fennel head on a stick as carried by the priests of Dionysus and, even earlier, Ahura Mazda.’
‘And the other thing?’
‘The bull-roarer. Quite a clever substitute: a football rattle. Same principle: whirling something round to make a loud noise. Lots of cults have used those, from every part of the world: Australia, Africa, Greece.’
‘What do you think it means?’
‘We have a trickster who knows what he’s doing.’
‘But what’s it all for?’
‘Somebody either likes to play games or, kindest interpretation, to join in mourning for a child. Maybe a modern day Orphic. Some sort of religious freak.’
‘What do you think we should do? Hilary and I wondered whether we should tell anyone.’
‘I don’t think there’s enough, or rather anything concrete, to tell anyone else without being suspected of being a freak oneself.’
‘That’s what we decided.’
‘We have to wait and see. If it’s not just a harmless bit of whimsy something will turn up that will tell us more. Or the whole thing will just fade away. Anyway I’m still on your patch, in a pub on the sea front. Very chilly it all looks too. Why don’t you join me? Then you can show me the original site where the grave was found.’
My case was due to be heard at the end of the week.
‘Do
‘Caesar says you can come and stroke him any time.’
Hilary opened the passenger door when we reached the station car park. I got out too and locked up. ‘It’s alright, Alex. I can find my way to the right platform,’ she laughed.
I came round to her side of the Volkswagen to where she was standing in the light of a street lamp. Suddenly, without thinking, I leant forward and kissed her mouth. She put up a hand to touch the side of my face. ‘I was beginning to think you’d never do that.’ We kissed again.
‘I’ll ring you later to make sure you’re safely home.’
Back in my own home, with Caesar out for a post-prandial prowl of the neighbouring gardens, and a whisky and dry ginger satisfyingly within reach, I began to think about the toys we had seen. Hilary’s explanation of a benign wish to comfort a dead boy’s spirit seemed too kindly a theory. Jack Linden was the obvious person to ask but I was afraid he would only jump to some bizarre conclusion again and we would be back in the morass of sinister ancient rituals that I found completely out of place in our cosy seaside, suburban context.
Ringing Hilary as I had promised (or was it threatened?) when I thought she must have made it home, I asked: ‘Do you think we should tell anyone about those toys?’
‘What could we say? That we thought they were rather peculiar? Wouldn’t people think we were, peculiar, I mean? And who would we tell? The police? Jack might have some thoughts but I imagine you must have already discarded that idea. I think we just have to wait and see.’
‘I was thinking of the last time we did that. It nearly cost me my job. Will have, even now, if the hearing goes against me. But then I think of my chairman’s face if I tried to involve him in some tale of mysterious rituals. He’d probably have me sectioned not just sacked. So I guess you’re right. We’ll have to wait and see.’
By the time the phone rang again the next morning, I had firmly convinced myself that silence was our best course. It was Jack.
‘Well?’
‘What’s up, Jack?’
‘The toys.’
‘What about them?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? You must have seen them too.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘That there were more toys of Dionysus.’
I gave in. ‘How did you find out?’
He laughed. ‘I spotted them in a newspaper photograph. The little group on its own, with that grotesque attempt at a narthex and bull-roarer so I came down early to take a look.’
‘A what?’
‘A narthex. The fennel head on a stick as carried by the priests of Dionysus and, even earlier, Ahura Mazda.’
‘And the other thing?’
‘The bull-roarer. Quite a clever substitute: a football rattle. Same principle: whirling something round to make a loud noise. Lots of cults have used those, from every part of the world: Australia, Africa, Greece.’
‘What do you think it means?’
‘We have a trickster who knows what he’s doing.’
‘But what’s it all for?’
‘Somebody either likes to play games or, kindest interpretation, to join in mourning for a child. Maybe a modern day Orphic. Some sort of religious freak.’
‘What do you think we should do? Hilary and I wondered whether we should tell anyone.’
‘I don’t think there’s enough, or rather anything concrete, to tell anyone else without being suspected of being a freak oneself.’
‘That’s what we decided.’
‘We have to wait and see. If it’s not just a harmless bit of whimsy something will turn up that will tell us more. Or the whole thing will just fade away. Anyway I’m still on your patch, in a pub on the sea front. Very chilly it all looks too. Why don’t you join me? Then you can show me the original site where the grave was found.’
My case was due to be heard at the end of the week.
‘Do
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