Chapter Fifteen Zig
Zig wandered down what passed for a high street in Glastonbury, although it was missing all the usual chain stores.
Instead, there were more of the witchy-type shops he’d seen last night, all done up for the season.
The vintage clothing store was all right—reminded Zig of Camden—but who the hell bought the crystals and dreamcatchers and other mystic stuff?
Was that what the locals were into, or was it all for the tourists?
And did anyone actually buy incense, when they could walk through town and get a lungful of the stuff for free?
On the corner, there was a bloke with feathers in his top hat selling stuff out of a handcart.
Zig strolled closer. Wands. He was selling wands.
Zig gave a half-despairing laugh. Jesus, what he wouldn’t give for a way to magic all his problems away.
Still, he should be safe here, shouldn’t he?
No reason for anyone back in London to guess he’d come here.
A couple of women bustled past, one of them wearing long skirts and an honest-to-God cloak, like she’d stepped out of Lord of the Rings. Zig turned to watch her, and noticed nobody else did, although one or two looked at him funny. Like he was the weirdo, for staring.
Huh. She was probably a lot warmer than he was in his jeans and leather jacket.
Maybe he ought to get himself one of them cloak things.
If anywhere had shops that sold ’em, it’d be here.
Zig shoved his hands into his pockets and wandered on, smiling at a Yorkshire terrier that scurried over to sniff at his ankles. “All right, mate?”
“Merlin!” The dog’s owner, a middle-aged woman in wellies, pulled him in firmly by his lead. “Sorry about him.”
“Hey, no worries.” He flashed her a grin, and she blushed and hurried on.
Glastonbury, Zig realised a moment later, was full of dogs.
Every second pedestrian seemed to have a dog on a lead, and half the shops had their own doggy sales assistants keeping the humans company from a basket by the till.
Dogs of all shapes and sizes trotted briskly along the streets, breath steaming in the chill air.
Zig was amazed the streets weren’t knee-deep in dog shit, but it seemed people were a bit more diligent about picking up after their pets than in his neck of the woods.
His old neck of the woods. Zig’s throat was tight. Would he ever go back to south London? Could he?
He’d spent his whole life there— Well, give or take a few years of involuntary banishment.
And now he’d cut himself off from the place for God knew how long.
Would it have been better to stay and face what was coming, instead of running away?
When he’d packed a bag and hopped on that train, he hadn’t thought about what it would mean long-term.
Then again, staying might have had long-term consequences too.
Zig didn’t know how much his dad knew, or guessed, about who’d landed him inside, but he’d told Ani that Zig owed him.
Maybe it was simply a You ungrateful child sort of thing, but would Dad be bothering to track him down if that was the case?
Zig shivered. It wasn’t like Dad had ever been violent, exactly.
He’d never been the sort to lash out for no reason.
But when there was reason . . . well, that was a different matter.
As for Trent, if he knew what Zig had done, God help him.
Fuck it. Sod the long term; Zig would be happy if he survived the short term with both kneecaps intact. He looked around and saw he’d strayed into a residential area. Great. He hadn’t been paying attention to where he was going, and now he’d run out of town without realising it.
There was a brown tourist sign pointing the way to the tor, though, so Zig followed it out of a mix of one part mild curiosity to nine parts wanting to have the certainty of a destination in mind.
The path led up steeply through a sort of country version of an alley, with trees and bushes on either side that at least cut off the wind.
Round a corner, and he could finally see where he was going: the tor and its stone tower, not on the top like he’d thought but set off to one side, were visible beyond a big wooden gate. Zig pushed through it.
There was a homeless person settled in on the other side of the gate.
They were bundled up against the cold in a sleeping bag and most likely several layers of clothing underneath, cos the face that poked out the top of all that bulk was thin, with delicate features topped by a riot of loose curls.
They had white skin, like most people round here seemed to.
Zig had heard most places were pretty un-diverse compared to London but it still felt weird and somehow old-fashioned, like a TV show from the last century.
“Spare any change?” the homeless person intoned, like the words had lost all meaning cos they’d said them so often.
Zig chucked them a few quid he probably couldn’t spare, as a vicious gust of wind blew icicles down his neck.
He hunched his shoulders, wishing again that he’d worn something warmer.
The countryside had really opened up, this side of the gate, and there were no cosy cafés to duck into.
“Shit, mate, you gotta find a better place to sleep. You’ll freeze your bollocks off up here.
Or tits, whatever,” he added, cos it wasn’t obvious whether or not they were of the bollock-owning persuasion.
They shrugged. “Don’t sleep here in winter. I go down the town.”
“Hostel?”
“Nah. There’s places round the backs of shops. It’s sheltered, but you’re not in everyone’s face, so the feds don’t care. You from London?”
Zig froze. “What’s it to you?”
They drew back, eyes wary. “Nothing. Just, you don’t dress like you’re from round here. And you talk like you’re auditioning for EastEnders.”
Sod it. Way to fucking go, Zig. Frighten the homeless person half your size. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to come over all heavy. I’m here for a fresh start, you know? Don’t wanna think about where I came from.”
The tension went out of their bundled-up frame, and they nodded. “I get that. I’m Kai. Same.”
Zig hesitated, but Jesus, it wasn’t like he was going around giving a false name to anyone else who asked, was it? “Zig. So, you been here long, then?”
“Since the summer. Came for the festival, then I thought I’d see what the town was like. Never left.” They paused, then spoke in a rush. “You got somewhere to sleep? Cos there’s a shelter—”
“I’m good, cheers. Staying with a mate. For now.
When he gets fed up with me kipping on his sofa I guess I’ll have to get me own place.
Need a job for that, though.” Zig’s mouth rattled on while his brain listened in faint shock.
Was that really what he was planning? To make a life here, in this tiny, tiny town?
There weren’t even any decent shops, just a load of hippie stuff and blokes selling wands on the street.
Christ knew what the nightlife was like, if there was any.
Would Si get fed up with him? Zig snorted. Course he fucking will.
Shit. Yesterday, Zig had been totally focused on how Si might react when a years-ago ex turned up like a runny turd on his doorstep. He hadn’t stopped to consider how long any undeserved welcome might actually last.
No wonder Si hadn’t responded to his come-ons last night. Hah, maybe he was at the flat now, changing the locks . . . Except he didn’t need to do that, did he? He hadn’t given Zig a key.
“You all right?” Kai’s voice broke into his reverie of despair. “I got a sandwich someone gave me if you’re hungry.”
Zig shook himself. “Nah, I’m good. Cheers, though. Things on me mind, that’s all. Right. This tor’s not gonna climb itself, eh? You keep warm.” He flashed a smile and headed on up the path.
You wanker. Kai was probably gonna be down in town later warning all their mates about this mentally vulnerable bloke they’d met on the tor. Comes off as a bit of an arse but he’s probably harmless. Still, best to steer clear.
There were sheep in the field, looking fluffy and weirdly clean for animals that slept outside.
Thank God it wasn’t cows. Zig had seen cows close up on a school trip to a farm once, and they were big bastards.
One of his mates had told him they trampled people to death given half a chance.
Which, fair dues, if he’d been kept in a field and had half his family slaughtered for meat, Zig would probably want to kill a few people too.
The sheep didn’t look like they cared much, though, cos they kept chomping down grass as he carried on up the path. All except one bugger that stood and watched him all the way to the next gate, like it reckoned he had a butcher’s knife stashed in his jeans.
Zig shuddered as a familiar image flashed through his head: the old bloke from that last job. Chill, mate. No knives on me. Ever.
On the other side of the next gate was a tree, its branches bare except that the lower ones were strung with ribbons.
Was that for Christmas? Zig trod closer, careful not to get his Converse covered in mud.
The ribbons were all colours of the rainbow, some of them faded and well tattered, like they’d been up for months. So, not for Christmas. What then?
There weren’t any handy notice boards to tell him, so he shrugged and carried on up the path. It’d got even steeper, with steps cut into it. He was on the tor proper now, and he’d have said the end was in sight except the tower had disappeared somehow, so there was probably a fair way to climb yet.
Zig rounded a corner and stopped for a breather at a rough wooden bench. The wind had picked up with a vengeance, and his hair whipped into his face with stinging force. The air smelt damp and earthy, no trace here of the sweet incense that suffused the town.
He could literally see for miles. The red roofs of Glastonbury lay below him, huddling together as though they were as cold as he was.
Then there were green fields, big as the town itself, with other towns visible beyond.
It was like looking at Google Earth. It felt weird, knowing that the bloke with the wands and the girl with the cloak were down there somewhere.
Si, too, doing his locksmithing. Fixing people’s stuff, or driving around between jobs, or whatever.
He took a last look at the view, his eyes starting to water from the wind, and hurried on up the path. The tower had come back into sight, and with it, a few other idiots who’d come up the tor on such a bollock-freezing day. Course, they had big coats and hats and scarves on. Lucky bastards.
Zig sped up his pace, and the exertion made him at least a little warmer by the time he reached the tower.
It was a lonely thing—old as fuck, around three or four storeys high—and he could see right through the arched doorways in front and back.
He guessed there had been a church or something it’d been attached to, back in the mists of time, but no trace of that remained.
People in the Middle Ages or whatever must have been really desperate for building materials to trek up here and carry the stones all the way down.
Zig stepped through the doorway, trailing his fingers along the rough surface of the arch, feeling the rasp against his skin.
Inside the tower, a bearded guy in a woollen hat with a long, trailing pom-pom leant against the wall, a guitar in his hands. A young woman, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of a bright, shapeless orange coat, stood beside him as he struck up a few chords. Zig halted. Was he intruding?
The man glanced over at him and smiled. “Hope we’re not disturbing you.”
Zig blinked. “Nah, carry on, mate. Although I gotta say, you ain’t gonna earn much busking up here.”
Both of them laughed. “We’re not here for money. It’s about connecting with the energies of the tor.”
Was this guy some kind of time traveller from the 1960s?
Saving Zig from having to find a reply, the guitarist launched into a tune.
It sounded folksy—the sort of thing that would have got him laughed out of the pubs Zig knew in London.
If the hat hadn’t done that already. Up here, though, there was nothing ridiculous about it.
It sounded fitting, somehow. The woman began to sing along, her voice high and lilting, with lyrics Zig couldn’t quite understand.
Something about a woman and her son, maybe, and .
. . shapeshifters? It felt like the retelling of a tale all the listeners were supposed to know already, only Zig didn’t.
Maybe there were books on that kind of thing in town?
When the song finished, Zig wasn’t sure if he was supposed to applaud or not.
Before he could make up his mind, a couple of people strode up to the couple and clapped them on the back.
The newcomers were bundled up in scruffy padded jackets and hand-knitted hats.
Zig hadn’t noticed them come into the tower.
“Classic, mate,” one of them said in an accent more like Zig’s than anything local.
The guitarist grinned in response. “Good to see you. How’s it going? Will you be coming up here for the solstice celebrations?”
“Course. Not gonna miss a chance to get me bodhrán out, now am I?”
Zig didn’t like to speculate what the bloke’s . . . boughron? . . . might be, or why he was so keen to whip it out on the top of the tor. He turned to go but felt a hand on his arm.
It was the singer. Close up, he could see she was older than he’d first thought, with fine lines around her mouth and eyes. “You should come too, if you’re around. Lots of music. It’s a great celebration of life and the cycles of nature.”
“Uh, thanks?”
“We’ll be up here to greet the rising sun. There’s a real sense of community.”
“Maybe I’ll give it a go.” Zig’s tone was uncertain, but she still gave him a blinding smile before turning back to her friends.
He wasn’t sure why she’d singled him out, as there were others around who’d presumably stood listening to the song.
Still, solstice celebrations sounded cool, despite having to get up before sunrise.
Better than Christmas, which was only about shops getting people to spend money they couldn’t afford.
And solstice was earlier than Christmas, right?
He had a vague memory of reading something about it somewhere, and got out his phone to check with numbed fingers.
Right. Twenty-first December. Much better date, if you asked him.
Maybe he’d see if Si was free that day and fancied a pre-dawn trek up the tor.
If not, he could always come on his own.
Or with Kai, if they were interested. Feeling a strange mix of excitement and nerves, Zig stood for a moment outside the tor, taking in the view, and then started out on the path back down.