The Llanffugiol Choral Festival, he said carefully, blowing out the double-L sound with a singers breath.
Never heard of it, said the Welshman indifferently. Pass me that wrench, will you, boyo?
Boyo, Joe had learned from Starbright, wasnt a racist put-down but a term of familiarity in Welsh-speak. He passed the wrench and would have liked to discover whether it was just the festival or Llanffugiol itself Nye hadnt heard of, which would be odd as Merv had assured them they were only half an hours drive away. But Merv was lurking menacingly and an enquiry could have sounded like a vote of no confidence in his navigation, so Joe held his peace.
It took almost an hour for Nye to finish and another ten minutes to tot up his bill. Merv looked at it and indulged in an intake of breath so sharp that in another it would have merited a very severe whipping from Percy.
A full and frank discussion followed with Joe as arbiter. Finally forced to admit the justice of the claims, Merv produced his clincher.
Dont carry that kind of cash, he said, producing his wallet to demonstrate its leanness. Joe, well need a whip-round.
Joe, imagining Aunt Mirabelles reaction if he went to her with a collection plate, shook his head firmly.
Its your coach, Merv, he said.
Its your choir, retorted Merv.
For a moment, deadlock. Then Nye broke it by reaching forward to pluck a credit card from the open wallet.
Plastics fine, he said.
On the passenger seat of his van was a credit-card machine and a camera. As Merv with ill grace signed the counterfoil, Nye snapped him, then again full face as he looked up, and finally he took a couple of the coach after cleaning the dust from the numberplate.
Souvenirs, he said. I like to remember my customers.
Hope that cards good, Merv, said Joe, as they watched the van hiccup into the distance.
Makes no matter, said Merv evilly. Cos Im going to run that squat little bastard off the road when I overtake him. Everyone aboard! Lets get this wagon train arolling.
It was now early evening with the sun lipping the western hills and curls of mist patterning the surface of the stream.
How far to go, Mr Golightly? enquired Rev. Pot as he climbed aboard.
Fifteen, twenty miles, maybe a little more, said Merv vaguely.
The Reverend Percy Potemkin had not spent half a lifetime curing souls without developing a sharp ear for human vaguenesses. But he was not a man to rush to judgement. His gaze met Joes and asked for confirmation that this lack of precision was merely a form of speech. Joe loyally gave an optimistic smile. But he knew that if his friend had a fault, it was his reluctance to admit the possibility of anything being wrong till the trout came belly up in the milk churn.
At least the engine had a sweeter sound now. Someone started a chorus of To Bea Pilgrim, but their hearts werent in it and after a while most of the travellers settled down to inner contemplation or sleep.
Joe studied his information sheet. Llanffugiol, it told him, was a substantial village which in recent years had become the focal point of musical life in this area of rural Wales. This was its very first Choral Festival so there was no list of previous winners, but there was an impressive roll-call of top choirs which had been invited to take part. It was a bit less impressive if you studied the small print and worked out those which had actually accepted at the time the info sheet was sent out, but it still contained enough first-class opposition, like the German Guttenberg Singverein, to make this a tough competition. But Boyling Corners triumph three years in a row at the Bed and Bucks Choriad had clearly given the chapel choir the beginnings of a national reputation which they were determined to live up to. As Rev. Pot said, We sing for the Lord not for glory, but if the Lord fancies a bit of glory thrown in, who are we to argue?
Their accommodation was in the dormitories of Branddreth College, a boys boarding school a couple of miles out of Llanffugiol. There was a sketch map showing the relation of the college to the village, but nothing to relate the area to the outside world. Written directions had been sent and these were now in Mervs possession, so all should have been straightforward, but Joes heart misgave him when he recalled Mervs cavalier attitude to route-finding in his taxi. During daylight hours he used the sun, at night the stars, and when the weather was overcast, he fell back on instinct. Salmon and swallows do it every year, he said. And if mans no better than fish or fowl, hes got no right to be organizing the World Cup.
Well, it would be instinct tonight, thought Joe, glancing out of the window.
Darkness was falling fast, accelerated by the mist which had long since escaped from the river and was now printing its bloomy patterns on the outside of the glass.
Mervs threat to the wellbeing of Nye Garage had proved empty as, despite the apparent debility of his van, they hadnt overtaken it. Indeed, they hadnt seen anybody to overtake or be overtaken by for over an hour, which was just as well as the roads seemed to be getting narrower and narrower.
Suddenly the coach halted. In the headlights through the mist it was just possible to see a triple parting of the ways. There was a signpost, and Joes heart, always a buoyant organ, rose sharply as he made out the letters Llan. Merv got out with his flashlight to take a closer look and Joe joined him. It was crash-dive time again. True, each of the three arms pointed to somewhere beginning with Llan but none of them was Llanffugiol.
Merv, dont you think its time to look at a map?
Been looking at a sodding map for the past half-hour, said Merv, like an atheist admitting to prayer. Trouble is, none of the funny names on the sodding map match any of the funny names on these sodding signposts!
What you going to do then?
Take the middle one till we reach the place mentioned then consult the natives, he said. Then, his irrepressible optimism returning, he added, Maybe therell be a pub!
He climbed back in the coach and called, Not long now, folks.
So he knows where we are? said Beryl as Joe returned to his seat.
Dont think so, said Joe.
Dont think so? Joe, isnt it time you got on that phone of yours and rang someone to ask for directions?
Yeah, maybe. Only you cant ask for directions lessn you know where you are. Soon as we reach this village were heading for, Ill give it a go.
But no village appeared. The coach was now full of anxious and mutinous muttering. Rev. Pot went up the aisle and started talking to Merv. Joe knew it was strictly none of his business, but an accusatory glance from Aunt Mirabelle sent him to join the debate, which was getting so heated that Merv brought the bus to a halt in order to bring both arms to the discussion.
Well, whose fault is it, then? Rev. Pot was demanding. Youre the driver.
Thats right, Im the driver. I just follow directions. You know so much, why dont you tell me where to go, Reverend?
If I wasnt a man of the cloth, I might just do that, brother, thundered Rev. Pot.
Out of the corner of his eye, Joe thought he glimpsed a light moving way to his left. He blinked. Yes, there it was. Looked like a single headlight. On a tractor maybe. Some farmer out working late. Maybe some crops were best gathered at night. Joe was a little vague on matters agricultural.
Out of the corner of his eye, Joe thought he glimpsed a light moving way to his left. He blinked. Yes, there it was. Looked like a single headlight. On a tractor maybe. Some farmer out working late. Maybe some crops were best gathered at night. Joe was a little vague on matters agricultural.
Joe turned to the disputants and said, Why dont we ask that guy?
What guy?
That guy wheres he gone?
The light had vanished.
You seeing things now, Joe? said Merv sceptically.
No, Im not. Ill go talk to him.
He grabbed the flashlight Merv carried under the dash and got out of the coach. It was so dark and alien out there, he felt like hed just been beamed down from the Enterprise. Hastily he switched on his light. That was better. Still alien but not so dark. There was a gate into the field where hed seen the light. He unlatched it and stepped into what felt like a bog. Did the Welsh grow rice? He shone the torch down and saw it was a pungent mixture of mud and cow dung.
Oh shoot, he said. But he wasnt going to retreat. He reasoned all the farmer had done was switch off his light and engine till the coach went on its way. Reason? Maybe he was shy.
He aimed the beam forward and squinted along it. Nothing but its light reflected from the drifting mist wraiths. Then his straining eyes glimpsed something more solid. A shape. A sort of vehicle shape. Hed been right.
He began to move forward. As he got nearer he saw that it wasnt a tractor after all, but one of those farm buggies with the big tyres. But before he could take in any detail, the headlight blossomed again, full in his face, dazzling.
Hi there, he called, shielding his eyes. Sorry to trouble you but were a bit lost. Wondered if you could give us some directions.
Silence. Then a muffled voice said, Where to?
Place called Llanffugiol, said Joe. Where the Choir Festival is.
More silence.
Never heard of it, said the voice.
The buggys engine burst into life and it started moving forward. For a second, Joe thought it was going to go straight over him, then it swung away in a semicircle and bounced off into the mist.
He raised his flashlight and for a second caught the drivers back full in its beam. Long narrow body in a black fleecy jacket. Matching narrow head, bald or close-shaven, could have passed for that guy who played the King of Siam in the old musical. Maybe I shouldve tried singing Getting to Know You, thought Joe.
Then the mist closed behind him.
Joe returned to the coach. He tried to clean his shoes on the grass verge, but the smell of the countryside came in with him and he didnt have any good news to compensate.
Merv rolled his eyes heavenwards as if the farmers response was Joes fault, engaged gear noisily and set the coach rolling forward along the narrow road once more.
Even Rev. Pot seemed to have forgotten his duty of Christian charity.
Now thats real helpful, Joe, he said sarcastically. So whats your guess? I mean, just how many miles away do you think we are if folk round here havent even heard of the place?
Half a miles a long way in the country, said Joe, his anti-rural prejudices now in full cry. These natives probably never been out of their own village.
Rev. Pot gave him a glance which had he been in the exorcism business would have cast Joe back into the outer darkness, no problem.
Then Merv said, Hang about. Look, that has to be civilization.
He was looking ahead. The mist was of the ground-clinging variety which occasionally permitted glimpses of treetops while their bases were hidden at ten paces. Joe saw what had caught Mervs eye. There was a distinct glow in the sky, the kind of light which could only come from a substantial settlement.
The road ahead rose steeply and as the coach laboured up it, the mist began to fall away behind and the glow increased. Then they reached the crest and saw its source was much closer than theyd imagined.
Far from being a substantial settlement, it was a solitary house. And the reason it was casting such light was it was on fire.
Merv ran the coach through an open gate and came to a halt some thirty yards from the building. Joe got out. Even from this distance he could feel the heat.
The others crowded round him.
It wasnt his charisma that attracted them, it was his phone.
Better ring for help, said Beryl.
He pulled out the mobile. Someone said, You see that? and pointed.
On the side of a small outbuilding someone had sprayed the words, ENGLISH GO HOME!
This the welcome they keep in the hillside? said Merv.
Joe stabbed 999.
Shoot, he said. Not getting anything.
Wouldnt say that, said Merv. Best service Ive ever seen.
A car had come up behind the bus at speed and a uniformed police sergeant got out and came running to join them. Had a look of that Welsh movie actor who kept on getting married to Liz Taylor, thought Joe. The voice too.
What the hells going on here? he demanded.
Merv, never one to miss the chance of sending up a copper, said, Could be a millennium bonfire, got the dates wrong.
The cop ignored him. His face expressed a strange mixture of anger and bafflement. Might look like Richard Burton but he was far from word perfect in his role, which was to take charge of the situation, thought Joe. He punched 999 once more.
Beryl said, Joe, have you forgotten to switch on again?
Now the cop found his lines.
Leave this to me, he snapped. And move back, will you? Now!
He ran back to his car, presumably to call up help.
Joe examined his phone. Beryl was right. Again. He smiled sheepishly at her. He didnt mind being wrong. You got used to it. And it was nice that now he could relax and enjoy the fire without feeling he had to do anything about it.
Then Beryl screamed, Joe, theres someone in there!
And looking up along the line indicated by her pointing finger, Joe saw the black outline of a human figure against the dark-red glow in one of the upstairs windows.
Chapter 2
If Beryl hadnt prefaced her cry with Joe! he might not have done it.
And if hed taken thought, he certainly wouldnt have done it, not because thought would have brought self-interest into play and there was a presumably fully paid-up public servant in calling distance, but simply because for Joe problem-solving by the cerebral route usually involved a paper and pencil and two pints of Guinness.
But pausing only to thrust the phone into Beryls hand, hed set off running around the back of the house before hed had time to work out by reason alone that just because the front of the house was an inferno didnt mean the back was burning fiercely too.
It wasnt. Not yet. At least not upstairs, though the flicker of the flames was clearly visible through the ground-floor windows. Meaning it was pointless going in at that level.
Against the rear wall stood a lean-to wash house with a sloping roof angling up to a first-floor window. There was a large aluminium water butt under the wash house downspout. With difficulty Joe clambered on it and used it as a step up on to the roof.