Abracadabra THE MAIN ROAD from Old Hindwell to New Radnor passed through the hamlet of Llanfihangel nant Melan. The church of St Michael was right next to the road and, although it didn't actually look very old, there were indications of a circle of ancient yew trees, which suggested it had been rebuilt.

Although there were a number of other cars nearby, Betty stopped the Subaru. She was in no mood to talk to Mrs Wilshire or anybody else right now. She would check out the atmosphere of the church. It might even calm her down.

She was still furious with Robin. If he'd been accosted the other night by the drunken wife of Greg Starkey, feeling him up in the street, why hadn't he told Betty when he arrived home? Old Hindwell wasn't exactly known for its red-light quarter. So why had he kept quiet?

Why? Because they'd just had a goddamn row over his handling of Nick Ellis. Because he'd slammed out of the house and didn't think she'd be speaking to him anyway. Because he was cold and tired. Because.

So why hadn't he mentioned it the next day, even?

Because... Jeez, was it important? Did she think he enjoyed it? Did she think he'd snatched this chance to feel Marianne's tits?

Actually, she didn't think that. What she thought was that Robin hated to tell her anything that might make her think less of Old Hindwell. Why don't you get to know the people here? Like Judith Prosser she's OK, not what I imagined.

Dickhead.

Betty walked over to the church. The stonework suggested extensive Victorian renovation. Did anything remain of the church built as part of some alleged St Michael circle? How would this one feel inside?

Sooner or later, when Robin was not around, she would have to go back into the Old Hindwell ruins to face the question now looming large: the stained and sweating, fear-ridden man at prayer was that him? Was that the Reverend Terry Penney? Was he dead now?

But this wasn't an exercise in psychic skills. Before she went back there, she wanted to know all there was to be known about all the churches in the St Michael circle.

However, in Llanfihangel Church, she was immediately accosted by a man in a light suit who asked her if she was on the bride or the groom's side. So much for standing there in the silence and feeling for the essence of the place. Betty apologized and escaped with a handful of leaflets, which she inspected back in the Subaru.

And just couldn't believe it. One, apparently produced as a result of a community tourism initiative, was blatantly entitled, 'Where sleeps the Dragon on the trail of St Michael's churches'.

Betty slumped back in her seat, broke into a peal of wild, stupid laughter. A tourist leaflet. Was that how all this had started?

The text explained that there were four St Michael churches around Radnor Forest at Llanfihangel nant Melan, Llanfihangel Rhydithon, Cefnllys and Cascob. It presumably didn't mention Old Hindwell because it was a ruin, now on private land.

An inside page was headed: 'St Michael and the Dragon of Radnor Forest'.

It referred to the introduction by Jewish Christians of 'angelology'. Angels guarded nature and local communities. St Michael guarded Israel and was named in the Book of Revelations, etc., etc. Most Welsh churches dedicated to him had appeared in the tenth and eleventh centuries.

The specific Radnor reference had been pulled from a book called A Welsh Country Parson by D. Parry-Jones, who recounted a legend that the last Welsh dragon slept in Radnor Forest and, to contain it, local people had built four St Michael churches in a circle around the Forest. It was said that if any of these churches was destroyed, the dragon would awaken and ravage the countryside once more.

This was it? This was the source of Nicholas Ellis's paranoia?

Crazy!

Still, it did look as though Robin and Ellis were right. Assuming there was no fire-breathing elemental beast locked into the landscape, this appeared to be a simple metaphor for paganism, the Old Religion.

... if any one of these churches is destroyed...

Old Hindwell had been virtually destroyed... and initially by its rector, which didn't make any obvious sense. Why would a clergyman make a gesture which was bound to be adversely interpreted by anyone superstitious enough to give any credence to the dragon legend?

Unless Penney had been a closet pagan. Was that likely?

Not really. Something was missing. For a moment, Betty smelled again the rich, sickening stench from the praying man in the skeletal nave.

She drove off too quickly, the Subaru shuddering.

Lizzie Wilshire greeted her with a spindly embrace.

'I don't know whether it's your herbal mixture or just you, my dear, but I feel so much better.' Holding out her right hand and making it into a claw, the fingertips slowly but effectively closing on the palm.

'Gosh,' Betty said.

'I haven't been able to do that for months!' Those ET eyes shining like polished marbles. 'You're a wonder, my dear!'

'I wouldn't quite say that.'

Psychological? The potion couldn't possibly have had such a spontaneous and dramatic effect unless her problem was essentially, or to an extent, psychosomatic.

And yet... Betty caught an unexpected sidelong glimpse of Lizzie's aura. It was, without a doubt, less fragmented. And she was talking constantly, garrulous rather than querulous now.

'Were you originally called Elizabeth? Like me?'

'A long time ago,' Betty admitted, as they sat down.

'A long time ago, my dear, you weren't even born.' Lizzie Wilshire laughed hoarsely. 'Now, were those papers useful? If not, just throw them away. I'm in a clearing-out mood. Clutter frightens me. I'm even thinking of selling the summer house. Every time I look out at it, I expect to see Bryan walking across the garden. Do people buy summer houses second-hand like that? Can they take them away?'

'I should think so. You could advertise it in the paper. I could do that for you, if you want.'

'Oh, would you? That's terribly kind. Yes. I told Dr Coll I hope you don't mind...'

'About the summer house?'

'About you, of course! About your wonderful herbal preparation. He called in this morning, even though it's Saturday such a caring, caring man and said how much better I was looking, and naturally I told him about you.'

'Oh.' In Betty's experience the very last thing a doctor liked to be told was that some cranky plant remedy had had an instantaneous effect on a condition against which powerful drugs had thus far failed to make a conspicuous impact.

'He was delighted,' Lizzie said.

'He was?'

'Far be it from him, he said, to dismiss the old remedies. Indeed, he's often suggested I might benefit from attending one of the Reverend Ellis's services but that's all too brash and noisy for me.'

'He must be a very unusual doctor.'

'Simply a very caring man. I didn't realize how pastoral country doctors could be until Bryan died. Bryan had a thing about the medical profession, refused to call a doctor unless in dire emergency. He'd have liked you. Oh, yes. His army training involved finding treatments in the hedgerows. A great believer in natural medicine, was Bryan. Although, one does need to have a fully qualified medical man in the background, don't you think?'

'Yes,' Betty said. 'I suppose so. Shall I make some tea?'

She knew now where everything was kept. She knew on which plate to arrange which biscuits. On which tray to spread which cloth. All of which greatly pleased Mrs Wilshire. When it was done, Betty sat down with her and they smiled at one another.

'You've brightened my life in such a short time, Betty.'

'You've been very helpful to me, too.'

'I won't forget it, you know. I never forget a kindness.'

'Oh, look...'

'We never had children, I've no close relatives left. At my age, with my ailments, one doesn't know how long one has left...'

'Come on... that's daft.'

'I'm quite serious, my dear. I said to Dr Coll some time ago, is there anything I can do to help you after my death? Is there anything you need? New equipment? An extension to the surgery? Of course, he brushed that aside, but I think when you've been treated so well by people, by a community, it's your duty to put something back.'

'Well...'

'In the end, the most he would do was give me the name of a local charity he supports, but... Oh dear, I've embarrassed you, I'm so sorry. We'll change the subject. Tell me how you're getting on with that terrible old place. Have you been able to do anything with the damp?'

'These things take time,' Betty said, careful not to mention the need for money.

Getting into the car, she felt deeply uncomfortable. It might be better if she didn't return to Mrs Wilshire's for a while. The old girl probably wasn't aware of trying to buy attention, even if it was only with compliments about a very ordinary herbal preparation, but... Oh, why was everything so bloody complicated, suddenly?

She leaned back in the seat, rotating her head to dispel tension. She noticed the dragon leaflet on the passenger seat. Where, out of interest, was the next church on the list?

Cascob.

Nestles in the hills near the head of the Cas Valley... village appears in the Domesday Book as Casope the mound overlooking the River Cas.

Promising, she supposed. And was about to throw the leaflet back on the seat, when another word caught her eye.

It was 'exorcize'.

A couple of miles into Radnor Forest, Betty became aware of an ominous thickening of cloud... and, under it, a solitary signpost.

She must have passed this little sign twenty times previously and never registered it, perhaps because it pointed up that narrow lonely lane, a lane which didn't seem to lead anywhere other than: Cascob.

Strange name. Perhaps some chopped-off, mangled Anglicization of a Welsh phrase which meant 'obscure-church-at-the-end-of-the-narrow-road-that-goes-on-for-ever'. Or so it seemed, perhaps because this was the kind of road along which no stranger would dare travel at more than twenty mph. It was deserted, sullen and moody. Robin would be enchanted.

There wasn't much to Cascob. A bend in a sunken, shaded lane, a lone farmhouse and, opposite it, a few steep yards above the road, the wooden gate to the church itself, tied up with orange binder twine. Betty left the Subaru in gear, parked on the incline, untied the twine around the gate.

Sheep grazed the sloping, circular churchyard among ancient, haphazard gravestones and tombs that were crumbly round the edges, like broken biscuits. There was a wide view of a particularly lonely part of the Forest, and the atmosphere was so dense and heavy that Betty couldn't, for a while, go any further.

Some places, it was instantaneous.

The old man in the cellar at Grandma's place in Sheffield... that had probably been the first. None of them had frightened her for quite a while, not until she'd learned from other kids that you were supposed to be afraid of ghosts. Until then, she'd been affected only by the particular emotions specific to each place where something similar happened: fear, hatred, greed and the one emotion she hadn't at first understood lust.

She steadied her breathing. Cascob Church squatted under low, grey cloud. It looked both cosy and creepy. To what extent had the present sensations been preconditioned by what she'd read in the leaflet?

... to exorcize a young woman...

She walked on, towards the church.

The stone and timbered building, like many this old, seemed to have grown out of the site organically. There were oak beams in its porch and under the pyramid-cap of the tower. It snuggled against an earthmound which was clearly not natural, possibly a Bronze Age tumulus. From the base of the mound grew an apple tree, spidery winter branches tangled against the cold light. There was a gate across the porch more twine to untie.

Betty stepped inside. There were recent posters on the wall and a framed card invited all who entered to say a prayer before they left. She would not be so crass as to offer a prayer to the goddess. When she put out a hand to the oak door, Cascob Church seemed to settle around her, not unfriendly, certainly ancient and comfortably mysterious.

And locked.

She wondered for a moment if this was a sign that she was not supposed to enter this place. But then, all churches were kept locked these days, even perhaps especially in locations this remote.

She walked back across the churchyard and the narrow road to the farmhouse to enquire where she might borrow a key. The bloke there was accommodating and presented her with a highly suitable one, about six inches long. It made her right hand tingle with impressions, and she twice passed it quickly to her left hand and back again before reaching the porch.

The lock turned easily. She went in and stood tensely, with the door open behind her.

The church inside was dark and basic. Betty stood poised to banish anything invasive. But there was nothing. It was quiet. So far removed from the foetid turmoil swirling in the Old Hindwell ruins that she banished that from her thoughts, lest she somehow infest Cascob.

The place was tiny and probably little changed since the fourteenth or fifteenth century. A farmers' church, with a font for christenings but no room for gentry weddings.

There was a wooden table with literature on it, including the sleeping dragon leaflet and a similar one about Cascob Church itself. A collection box had Betty fumbling for a fiver, an offering to appease the god of the Christians. She stood for a moment behind one of the back pews, not touching its dark wood, her head hanging down so as not to face the simple altar. It was not her altar, it faced the wrong direction, and she'd turned away from all this eight years ago.

Betty closed her eyes. It had been her decision. She'd turned from the east to face the north: a witch's altar was always to the north. There was no turning back... was there?

When she reopened her eyes, she was facing the whitewashed north wall, where a document hung in a thin, black frame.

Betty looked at it, breathed in sharply. The breathing came hard. The air around her seemed to have clotted. She stared at the symbols near the bottom of the frame.

And saw, with an awful sense of deja vu: She felt almost sick now, with trepidation. There was nothing coincidental about this.

At the top of the document, under the funeral black of the frame, was something even more explicit.

ABRACADABRA.

ABRACADABR.

ABRACADAB.

ABRACADA.