December

by Phil Rickman

  'Just a little,' Stephen said.

  'Steve, it's burning you up.'

  'Yeah. Sure.' Better he think that than get the idea Stephen Case might need a recording coup to save his career, to keep his head above all the other younger heads with thicker hair.

  A sudden draught, like a lorry going past, made him glance up; one of the curtains was quivering.

  Martin Broadbank smiled. 'You feel that?'

  'Feel what?'

  'This is my drawing-room. I went to considerable expense to ensure it's totally draught-proof.'

  'What are you saying?'

  Martin Broadbank was sitting on the opposite side of the fire, chinking something pale in a brandy balloon. He gave it a swirl.

  'An old house just doesn't seem like the real thing at all without a ghost or two, don't you think?'

  Stephen Case smirked. 'That's rather pathetic, Martin.'

  'We country dwellers keep an open mind on such matters,' said Broadbank. 'And if I were you I'd keep my scepticism to myself when Meryl's around. She attends a spiritualist church in Gloucester, every Friday evening.'

  'Jesus Christ. She must be good in bed.'

  'The Lady Bluefoot. That's our ghost. Lost her husband in a hunting accident in eighteen-something. Couldn't come to terms with it, apparently, and used to have a place laid for him at the dinner table every night. Now Meryl likes to set out a place for her, extra knives and forks and things. Keeps her sweet, she says.'

  'If this is what living in the country does to you,' Case said, 'I think I'll put up with the M25.'

  Martin Broadbank stood up. 'I do hope the Storeys aren't going to be late. Meryl's putting you next to the living legend himself, by the way. I shall be next to Mrs Storey. Or rather, next to Mrs Storey's sublime left breast.'

  'Won't, er, Meryl be jealous?'

  'Oh no,' said Broadbank. 'Meryl isn't like that at all.'

  They heard a car approaching along the gravel drive.

  X

  The Man With Two Mouths

  It was a fifteen-minute journey, no more than ten, eleven miles beyond the village. Past the pub and the village hall, which were all lights. Past the post office, in darkness. Past the pretty Cotswold stone church, floodlit.

  In the first three-quarters of a mile, Tom Storey made three attempts to get out of the Volvo.

  'You bloody idiot,' Shelley yelled, as they crested the last hill, the one with the sign which had Larkfield St Mary on the other side.

  She put on the headlights, shoved her foot down on the accelerator. If he jumped now he'd break his bloody neck and serve him right.

  Safe in the knowledge that Tom was not a brave man in that sense, she listened to him pulling the passenger door shut. She could also hear his breath, like a distant train.

  'Oh, honey, it'll be all right, trust me. People. You have to rediscover people.'

  'You don't understand,' Tom mumbled sourly. 'You will never understand.'

  'I think I do, Tom,' she said, knowing all the same that, in a sense, he was right.

  He had tried, though, digging out a quite respectable green cord jacket and a pair of brushed denim trousers which were almost not jeans. No, he didn't have a tie, but she did, a black one from when they were in fashion for women a couple of years back, so he was wearing that; with all the three jacket buttons fastened you almost couldn't tell the tie ended half-way down his chest. Or, if you could, it looked like a fashion statement that hadn't quite come off.

  Tom was a silent, tense presence for about eight dark, rural miles, Shelley drove into Broadbank's village. It looked more intimate than Larkfield, cottages squashed together.

  'Looks awfully cosy. Don't you think?'

  'No.'

  Broadbank had said,

  About two hundred yards past the church, you'll see a phone box on your left, in a layby. Almost opposite that there's a little signpost with Bisley 4 on it. You turn up there ...

  'Where the fuck we going?'

  'Only another half mile Tom.'

  'I hate these little country lanes.'

  'I know you do, Honey, I know you do.'

  Deborah.

  'Wish I'd never fucking ... Gawd, whassat?'

  'Only a rabbit. It's gone now. Through the hedge.'

  Talking to him like you'd talk to a child. Soothing. Oh God, how long could this go on?

  After about half a mile, you'll come to a hairpin bend, and right on the bend you'll see an opening dead ahead of you. There's no sign, but this is it. Hall Farm.

  'It's OK, Tom, we're here now.'

  Changing down to second, hitting the gravel, headlights full on.

  An avenue of trees, almost leafless now, and at the end of it was a cluster of lights, warm and mellow. They drove between gateposts with some sort of birds on them, eagles or owls.

  'I don't like the look of this,' Tom said. 'You said he'd built hisself a place.'

  'I thought he had,' Shelley lied, glad he couldn't see her face. 'It doesn't matter, though, does it?'

  Conspicuously ancient stone in the headlights.

  'It's old.' Tom began to bounce on the seat like a huge child. 'It's fucking old.'

  Whirling on her as she applied the handbrake. 'It's old, you lying bitch!'

  'Tom, it'll be OK. It'll be fine.' Reaching over the back seat for her coat.

  'Turn the car. Turn the fucker round. You get me away from here.'

  'No. You're not running away this time.'

  'The hell I'm not.'

  Tom threw himself at the door like a gorilla in a metal cage.

  Vanessa had made Weasel an omelette, with tomatoes and soya-based cheese-substitute. There was too much pepper and it was overrdone. Weasel liked his omelettes runny and made with mature Cheddar.

  Tucking in at the kitchen table, he told her it was, no question, the most brilliant omelette he'd ever had in all his life.

  Vanessa beamed pinkly and asked him would he like to watch a video.

  'What you got?'

  'Eddie Murphy,' Vanessa said. 'I've got to wind it back, though.'

  'Yeah, great,' Weasel said. 'You like Murphy?'

  'He's cool,' Vanessa said. She thought about it some more. Seriously cool.'

  She was wearing a blue frock, instead of the jeans and sweater. This was obviously on the basis that you had to dress up if you were entertaining a guest. She had make-up on: eyeshadow behind the thick-lensed designer glasses and scarlet lipstick.

  You wouldn't know, you really wouldn't, Weasel thought admiringly. He wondered if she'd ever get around to having boyfriends, and if they'd be, you know, like her, or, well, normal.

  Aw, Jeez, she was normal. She'd never had cause to think otherwise. OK, probably she knew she wasn't like the other kids at school, but not on account of being handicapped or challenged or however they put it these days. But because she was Vanessa. Special.

  'Princess,' Weasel wondered, 'was you named after actress, Vanessa Wossername?'

  She didn't seem to understand.

  'Your name. Vanessa.'

  Vanessa considered this seriously for a few seconds, then she said, 'Daddy gave it me.'

  'Redgrave!' Weasel remembered. 'Vanessa Redgrave, right?'

  He pushed back his plate with a sigh. Triffic, Princess.' Blew her an appreciative kiss. 'Knockout.'

  Vanessa was looking at him through her big glasses like he was very thick indeed. 'Van Morrison, silly,' she said. 'I was named after Van Morrison.'

  'Oh. Right.' Weasel nodded slowly. 'Obvious when you fink about it.'

  'It was a com-plim-ent,' Vanessa said. 'He's a big, fat, rude man, but Daddy says he's the best. Weasel, would you like coffee, or lager?'

  'There you are then. Clever Daddy.'

  'Or Ribena?'

  'Oh ... er, lager, please, Princess, if you got it. That'd be great.'

  She brought a can from the fridge, set it down on the kitchen table for him with a tumbler. It was this low-alcohol stuff the Scotch geezer plugged on
the box.

  'It's Shelley's lager,' Vanessa said. 'Daddy doesn't drink any more.'

  'Very wise.' Weasel was remembering when Daddy had been through a period of drinking a great deal and also injecting funny stuff into his arm. Daddy had done the lot in his time. Daddy was well out of it. (Although, actually, not well at all, and it depended on how you interpreted 'out of it'.)

  'He didn't want to go out tonight.' Vanessa sat down at the table opposite Weasel with a can of diet Tango. 'Shelley had to Put The Arm On Him.'

  'Likes a quiet life nowadays, your dad '

  'He's not quiet at all! He's very noisy!'

  'Yeah. Course he is.' You had to say exactly what you meant to Vanessa. You had to think about how to put it.

  'He'll be all right, though,' she said.

  'Course he will. Princess.'

  'Because ...' Vanessa leaned across the table and whispered … the Man with Two Mouths will be looking after him.'

  Weasel stiffened. 'Say that again?'

  Shelley was out of the car before Tom and dashing round to his side. If she could pull him into the trees perhaps they could talk this out without making a public scene of it.

  She'd been really very stupid. Why hadn't she used the childproof lock? The truth was she'd never bothered to find out how to work it. Vanessa, even as a kid, would sit there for hours watching the world through the windows.

  He was out now, standing swaying like a drunk on the gravel path in the headlights, his jacket straining over his stomach. Oh God, God, God, was there no end to this?

  She approached him warily. In this mood he was quite likely to lash out, forgetting who she was in his panic.

  'Tom,' she whispered. 'Come on, Tom. Over here.' Like calling a frightened puppy.

  He said hoarsely, 'Gimme.' And advanced out of the headlights towards her.

  'Please, Tom. You're a grown man. You're a big man. Nobody's going to harm you.'

  'Shelley, darlin', I'm ain't going in there. No way. You wanna stay, you stay, it's your party. Just ... Just gimme the keys.'

  Something walked over her grave, the way he said that.

  And then more light suddenly gushed out from the house, followed by quick footsteps on the gravel, and a man was in the headlights, a sleek man with crinkly hair and a plump, genial face.

  'Shelley. Hi. You found us. Wonderful.'

  'Oh,' Shelley said. 'Mr Broadbank. We ... We were just wondering if we'd come to the right ...

  Urgently looking around for Tom; he'd gone, vanished. Oh, please...

  'Martin, for heaven's sake,' Broadbank said heartily. 'Now. Where's your old man?'

  Well, actually, Martin, he was here a moment ago but then he panicked and now he's going to walk all the way home, unless I follow you into the house and happen to leave the keys in the car, in which case ...

  And then Tom was towering over Broadbank in the lurid area where the headlights and the houselights met. Oh, Christ, he's going to hit him. Shelley gripped the handle of the driver's door, regretting everything. Wishing that Broadbank had never come into the shop that day. Wishing above all that a big bluff guitarist had never stumbled into the Epidemic press office on a winter's day fifteen years ago. ('... that bloody Goff and his Earl Grey and his Lapsang wotsit. Got any PG Tips?')

  Wishing ...

  Tom's right hand came down. Shelley's eyes closed.

  When she opened them, Tom was gripping Broadbank by the upper arm, as if for support.

  'Tom ... Tom Storey,' he said gruffly. 'How are ... how are ya, mate?'

  He was trying very, very hard.

  Shelley wanted to cry. Oh God, Tom.

  Tom didn't look at her once while the faintly bemused Broadbank was ushering them into the house.

  Her husband was walking rigidly in the tight jacket, hands by his sides, the left one trembling.

  Vanessa was arranging chocolate biscuits on a plate.

  'The Man wiv Two Mouths,' Weasel said. 'You said the Man wiv Two Mouths.'

  Vanessa said, 'I like these ones best. They've got orange cream in the centre.'

  'Princess, who is the Man wiv Two Mouths?'

  Weasel was thinking, I should be there with them. I shouldn't have let them go on their own. Not with somebody after them.

  Somebody after them. He didn't know how he knew this, he just did. Maybe being near Tom made you a bit extra-sensory too. Maybe it rubbed off.

  Vanessa said, 'Daddy doesn't like him.'

  'He ever come round, Princess? He come round here when I'm out wiv the van?'

  'Oh,' said Vanessa. 'He's always around.'

  'Why don't your daddy like him?'

  Vanessa thought about this. 'He likes him a bit,' she said. But he's frightened of him. He doesn't like to see him. Have a biscuit, Weasel.'

  'Princess, have you seen him? Have you seen this geezer?'

  Vanessa nodded, turned away from him, scrambled down from her stool and ran out of the kitchen. He heard her stomping up the stairs ... Shit, she's taken offence. What'd I say?

  Weasel went to the door. 'Princess! I'm sorry. Didn't mean to put the squeeze on yer. Come down, all right?'

  Silence.

  'Vanessa! I fought we was gonna watch Eddie Murphy!'

  No reply.

  This was difficult. What was he gonna do now? It'd been a big act of faith on Shelley's part, leaving the kid with Weasel. What was this gonna look like?

  Weasel went over to the sink, dunked his glass. What a situation, eh? With Tom's brains turning to pot-noodle, Shelley had to be on the verge of booking a cheap-day return to Valium Valley. So what was all this doing to the kid? Screwing her up good, that was what. If any kid didn't deserve this ...

  Weasel splashed cold water in his face.

  Total Psychic Allergy Syndrome. Jeez.

  Couldn't help thinking back to last week when he'd faced up Tom with the mystery of the missing albums. Tom finally breaking down, admitting it; soon as somebody snuffed it their albums went straight in the stove. The implication being that Tom was so thin-skinned - on the psychic level - that all it took was being exposed to the music of some geezer what had passed over, hearing it at just the right time ... the wrong time ... and he'd be off into something.

  Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Mama Cass Eliot, Brian Jones ...

  'And Jim Morrison. I been in Paris, wiv Jim Morrison. Dead in the bath, all bloated.'

  Weasel had got the hell out. Couldn't stand it no more. Run back to his caravan and blasted his brains out with ZZ Top.

  He wiped his face on a piece of kitchen towel and blinked.

  The kid was back. Weasel breathed out a throatful of tension.

  She was standing in the doorway, big hoop earrings still swinging from running down the stairs. Her arms were full of this huge brown book.

  'Sorry it took me so long, Weasel.' Dumping the giant tome on the kitchen table, 'I had to go to the attic for it.'

  'Bleedin' hell. Princess, in the dark? Whyn't you get me to go up for yer?'

  Vanessa looked sly, which was a rarity. 'Because it was hidden.' A cobweb snapping as she opened up the book. 'Daddy chucked it out for the dustman 'cause it wouldn't fit in the stove. I brought it back and hid it.'

  Weasel moved over to the table, interested. Was there gonna be more albums in here?

  'Look,' Vanessa said, peering down through her thick lenses.

  'Oh,' Weasel said, disappointed. It was just photos, ancient pix, mostly black and white - people at weddings, people with babies, studio portraits of kids with their hair combed straight.

  'Er ... yeah,' Weasel said. 'Very nice.'

  Vanessa, very solemn, started turning pages over slowly, creasing each one flat.

  'There,' she said.

  It was a faded photo of a couple either side of a small boy. The bloke was very tall and gangly, wearing an open shirt that looked kind of ex-army, and you could see his string vest underneath. He was grinning down at the small boy, had a big hand on the kid's shoulder. />
  'There you are,' Vanessa said.

  'Yeah.' He hadn't seen the picture before but he recognised the people all right. 'That's an old one, innit, Princess?'

  'That's him:

  'Yeah, it's ...'

  'The Man with Two Mouths.'

  'What?'

  Weasel started to feel a little queasy. He said hesitantly, 'He's ... he's only got the one, Princess.'

  'Not now.' Vanessa shook her head. 'He's got one here.' Putting a finger on the bloke's lips. 'And another one ...' Moving the finger just slightly '... here.'

  'Oh jeez.' Weasel felt almost faint.

  'Only bigger,' Vanessa said.

  XI

  Bloody Glasses

  When the lights went down, there was just the piano - a grand piano, but not that grand, even by nightclub standards: battered, legs chipped, rainbow grease marks on the lid.

  The piano sat just left of centre stage, only half in spotlight, so that Prof never saw the figure emerge from the shadows and slide on to the stool, only noticing that people around him in the club had gone quieter.

  Not that there were people exactly around him ... around him was a conspicuous circle of vacated chairs; he'd knocked a couple of drinks over earlier on, other people's, a little clumsy tonight. Not pissed, you understand, if only because he couldn't seem to get pissed any more, not in the old sense of enjoying it. And needing it, well, that was a sad situation, when it came down to needing it. Which he didn't; this was a conscious decision or, at worst, a temporary abrasion ... aberration.

  He didn't realise he'd spoken aloud until this big, bearded git in a creased tuxedo leaned over and whispered, if you'd like to pop outside, sir, I'd be happy to assist.'

  The bloke had hard eyes. Prof held up his glass of scotch. 'Diet Pepsi,' he said, and he chuckled.

  The man took the glass out of his hand and set it down on the table. 'You're spilling it, sir.'

  'Why don't you just piss off, eh, son?' Prof turned his chair away.

  And then the piano began, those famous, sublime opening chords, and he didn't see the bouncer any more.

  Light came down on the pianist. It was like a heavenly light. like you saw illuminating angels in those naff, sentimental Victorian pictures in your granny's sitting-room. But Prof stared with this fuddled kind of awe, the same way he'd stared at those pictures as a kid.