by Phil Rickman
Prof said, 'What happened next? What did you do with the tapes?'
Russell relaxed, spread his arms behind his head, stretched, yawned; this one was easier. 'Turned them over to Max. He called me up, I told him what I'd done. He said to bring him the tapes, which I did. He took them off me, no explanation, told me to forget all about it. End of story.'
'Not so.' Prof leaned forward. 'As I understand it, Russell, Steve Case, of the TMM recording conglomerate, has plans to release this album. What do we know about this?'
'Nothing,' Russell said. 'Those tapes are a hopeless mish-mash. They don't make any sense. That album's ever released, it better not have my name on it, that's all I can say.'
'You're telling us you haven't heard from Case?'
Russell's eyes went wary again. 'I didn't say that.'
'Shit, Russell, we got to hire you by the hour to get some coherent facts?'
'I think you should hear this from Case, is all I'm saying.'
'Case and me are not speaking,' Prof said. 'We've had words.'
'OK,' Russell said. 'I'll be brief, because I really do have to get back to the Manor before the children wake up. Case called me last week and asked me if I'd be interested in completing my contract. After we'd gone through all the what-the-hell-is-this-about stuff, he said he thought it was potentially a brilliant album and he wanted the Philosopher's Stone to go back into the studio with me and finish it.'
There was silence. Russell leaned his chair back and smiled sweetly.
'Shiiiiit,' Dave breathed.
'I said, you must be joking,' Russell said. 'Do I look like a man who's desperate for money?'
'What did he say?'
'He said either you do it or you don't, but if you want to work with us again, you keep quiet about this. Which is what I was trying to do until you guys turned nasty.'
Dave drank some of Prof's whisky chaser and choked.
'Serves you fucking right,' Prof said.
'He wants us to go back? To the Abbey?'
'Well, there's a turn-up.' Prof snatched his glass back, swallowed the lot, began to laugh and then sing hoarsely, Fourteen years since you heard the news, your last chance to
beat the Dakota Blues.'
'I'd be very grateful, guys,' Russell said, 'if you didn't go blabbing this around. It certainly can't be a short-term proposition, that place is derelict.'
'Yeah,' Prof said. 'I bet. Ever since Soup Kitchen, right?'
Russell, unsmiling, stood up. 'Right,' he said tightly. 'That's it. Thanks for the drink, guys.'
Sometimes Mrs Marina Edwards worried about Eddie.
Always so enthusiastic. She'd found, quite early in their life together, that the one thing you must never do was offer to help him with one of his hobbies. He'd assume you were actually interested. Tiring? Well. She felt exhausted just remembering the cycling phase, the quest for otters on a tributary of the Usk which went on for about eight miles, the search for the foundations of Owain Glyndwr's lost palace.
Nowadays, the words 'What's that you've got there?' seldom passed her lips. She sang in the choir, attended the WI, went shopping in Ross and Monmouth in her little Renault and left him to it, whatever it was.
But worried sometimes. You couldn't avoid that.
Especially when there were phone calls like this one while he was out.
'Where is he, then?'
'Went off with the vicar, I think, to Abergavenny. Said he wouldn't be back for lunch.'
'Shit.'
'I beg your pardon!'
'Look, I'm sorry, could you get him to ring me as soon as he comes in. At work or at home. But absolutely as soon as he gets back.'
'Well, who shall I say ...'
'Sorry, yes, Ivor Speed. Dr Speed in Swansea. Tell him we're probably looking at a police matter.'
'Oh heavens,' said Marina.
V
Curse of the Witchy Woman
' I gave your name, by the way,' she said, 'as next of kin.'
She thought Malcolm Kaufmann might have looked less horrified on being told he'd been nominated for a charity bungee jump from the Forth Bridge.
'The Infirmary tell me you discharged yourself entirely against medical advice. And appearing to be still in shock. I cannot but agree.' Malcolm buzzed his secretary. 'A black coffee for Moira, please, Fiona.'
'What d'you have that thing for anyway? The kid works the whole time with an ear to the wall. Two sugars, Fiona, please! Jesus, would you mind if I stood up? I'm finding it a wee bit hard getting myself comfortable.'
'Moira ...' In some anguish, Malcolm ran both hands through his light tan hair. 'Not only are you probably clinically insane, I don't think you're even my client any more.'
'Client?' She went and stood over by the filing cabinet. She was wearing this outsize, pastel blue fluffy sweater - mainstay of the normal woman's wardrobe - pulled down to near knee-level to hide the terrible mess she and the ambulance team had made of her jeans, getting them off. It was true that she was getting past the age when she could look like this and it would be rather fetching.
'Malcolm,' she said, in a small voice but precise. 'If it'd make you feel better, I'd gladly surrender ten per cent of the first-degree burns, but it would be quite nice if for just a few minutes you could see your way to assuming the role of mere friend.
'I'm sorry,' Malcolm Kaufmann closed his desk diary, took the phone off the hook. 'Sit down. Or rather, do go on standing up, if that helps.' He pushed his chair back, smoothed his hair.
'Tell me exactly what happened.'
Where to begin? A wee lecture on metaphysics?
'Exactly,' she told him tiredly, 'is what I haven't precisely figured out. In plain, physical terms, a hotel kettle malfunctioned. I had hold of the flex at the time. I pulled the kettle on top of me. The lid came off About a pint and a half of boiling water gushed over my milky-white thighs.'
Malcolm recoiled.
'Actually, I was wearing these jeans at the time. That probably made it worse. Whatever ...' She wrinkled her nose. Blistering, and stuff. I won't give you details. Suffice to
say …'
She tried for a grin; it didn't happen.
'... No intimate relations for wee Moira for quite some time.'
'You appear to have a charmed life,' Malcolm said soberly, in reverse. What did you do?'
'This is the Clydeview Private Hotel. What could I do? I ran into the en suite, which was about half a mile down the fucking corridor, gave myself a cold shower and screamed the place down.'
Malcolm was quiet for a surprising while.
'The Clydeview Private Hotel,' he said at last. 'We both know you could be earning enough to buy the Clydeview Private Hotel. What offends me the most is the thought that one day, perhaps not so far into the future, you will be generally regarded as a Tragic Case.'
Moira scowled, said she was awful sorry if anyone had seen her coming into his establishment in this condition, but when you discharged yourself in a hurry you were obliged to leave in the clothes they cut off you in the ambulance.
'Give Fiona your size,' Malcolm said at once. 'And I'll send her to Marks and Spencer's. You can't go home like that.'
'I can't go home at all,' Moira said dismally. 'This is the real tragedy.'
Eddie Edwards had to sit down afterwards. He was feeling almost faint.
This was altogether beyond comprehension.
Ivor Speed had said to him that if they didn't put this piece of candle very rapidly into the hands of the police, both he and the University of Wales could be in very serious trouble.
Ivor Speed was not being humorous.
Eddie had asked him, his voice failing, 'Can you be sure this?'
'Well, no, it's too early to say that. We may never be able to confirm it. But it's a strong and plausible possibility. Most candles today are made of this petroleum-based stuff or beeswax if you can afford it. Old-fashioned tallow, now, that was bovine or sheep fat. Which we thought it was at first. Goes brown
with age and oxidization, which partly explains the colour and consistency. Although there were also traces of powdered charcoal here. And, er, possibly blood. We can't say for sure that it's human fat, but it's certainly consistent with the properties thereof. Where the hell did you find the dreadful thing?'
'Well, I... I'm not sure I should say,' Eddie stammered. 'I would need to talk to someone about it.'
'You need to talk to the police, boy, and fast.'
'Well, look ... suppose it's hundreds of years old. That's not going to start a manhunt, is it?'
'Unlikely. It might look old, but it isn't. Probably. My chap reckons it's no more than a year or two or three since that stuff was wobbling about on somebody's midriff.'
'Oh, good God.'
'Get it to the police, Eddie. Look, I'll tell you what I'll do. There's a senior policeman I know in Gwent who isn't going to overreact and haul you into the station. Not in the short term. Not if I tell him about you. I'll ring him, OK?'
And the police would say: What made you think to send candle for analysis?
Because it seemed so strange and old, so redolent of dark mystery, that's the only reason. Because, in forty years of being unable to pass a sign that says Museum, I have never seen its like before.
And because of the way the vicar reacted.
Was he going to tell the police that? No, he was not. He would not drop the vicar in it. But, by Christ, he was going to use this to get some answers out of that chap before the law was upon them.
Human fat? And recent? It was the 'recent' element which made the mind reel. The implications were clear. Much of Eddie Edwards's work as an adviser to schools had been angled on social history, especially for primary establishments and the less academically able streams at secondary level. Talk to youngsters about witchcraft and the like and you had their full attention, so yes, Eddie Edwards knew full well the significance of candles made with human grease.
But who? Who would burn a human body until the fatty tissue melted and collect it and mould it into a tube with a wick down the middle? And where would they acquire such a thing as a body without committing ...
murder?
And how had the candles been installed unnoticed? The church was right in the centre of a very small, fairly remote community. Strangers going in and out were observed. Cars arriving late at night were noted. There were some very, very nosy people in this village, speaking as one of them and not ashamed to confess it.
So how did whoever it was bring the candles into the church, unless it was someone with a right to be there?
And why? Why the little parish church of St Mary at Ystrad Ddu when, if they wanted to carry out some nauseous, heathen ceremony, there were so many comparatively isolated churches in this area ... old, ruined churches, even.
Why not the Abbey?
He saw Marina watching him from the kitchen door, the question And What Have You Been Getting Into Now? written across her placid features.
'No problems, my love,' he said. 'Just a little something to sort out with the vicar.'
He couldn't but look embarrassed. Normally, the thought that he was with the vicar should be a comfort. In this case, perhaps quite the opposite.
'Listen to me," Malcolm Kaufmann said. 'Don't talk. Don't throw anything at me. Just drink your coffee and listen.'
And Malcolm went on for a good while about her career as a singer and a songwriter; how it wasn't too late, how - with her distinctive presence ... yes, presence - she might even wish to consider a little acting. The bottom line being that in whichever direction she wished to turn there were many and varied possibilities.
For a while.
'Until whichever goes first,' Moira said, 'my looks or my mind, right? Listen, do you know why I had to get out of the Infirmary? Because I was causing distress to the other sick folk on the casualty ward.'
Nurses waking her none too gently in the middle of the night, an old lady near-hysterical. Make her stop. Tell her we don't want to hear about it. This is a hospital ward, tell her we don't want to hear about death!
'Bad dreams,' Moira said. 'Another night like that and I wouldn't have extricated myself so easily. Be getting a discreet transfer to the divisional psychiatric unit.'
'Have you money?'
'A few grand in the Bank of Scotland, and a croft house I'm scared to go back to. See, I thought it was the island protecting me, Malcolm. I was wrong. It was the Duchess. I've been wrong about a lot.'
'Protecting you from what?' Malcolm was just this side of beating his head in exasperation. He was a showbiz agent, for God's sake. 'Is it this Dave Reilly?'
'Och, no.' This was getting neither of them anywhere. She was just grateful for the coffee and someone's filing cabinet to lean on. 'Let's just call it the Curse of the Witchy Woman.'
'I'm simply not buying it this time,' Malcolm said. 'Is this anything to do with the TMM letter? Is that what's brought all this back?'
'Maybe. Partly. Maybe that's another symptom."
'OK.' Malcolm picked up his phone, pressed the button to reclaim the line. 'Why don't you ring them now? Find out what they want?'
He held the phone out to her. She shrank away from it, shaking her head.
Malcolm didn't say anything; just sat there holding out the phone like some aborigine witch-doctor pointing the bone.
'I can't.'
'I would normally never think of applying a tin opener to someone else's can of worms,' Malcolm said. 'But if you don't phone them, I shall.'
The vicar of Ystrad Ddu choked back the sob which had become like an habitual cough. Pulled on his boots and his waterproof jacket.
Then, angrily, he flung the jacket off. He wanted to be cold. He wanted to be wet. He wanted to walk out there and die of exposure.
He strode out of the vicarage, leaving the front door unlocked, crossed the road to the church and followed, under a dishwater sky, the path curving around the churchyard to the great cleft rock.
Truth was, he'd wanted to sleep, but had been afraid to. Even in daylight. That was the truth.
Afraid of waking up again, sticky in the waxy darkness, throat full of grease and self-hatred, and the Bible on the floor. He could go to bed clutching the Bible and all it symbolised to his chest, and something inside him - so deep inside that it was now beyond his grasp - would oh-so-casually rip the good book physically and symbolically into the waiting darkness.
And release his devil.
Had he, therefore, answered the question which had brought him here, made him apply for a post he didn't want in a place he'd never wanted to see again?
Is it in this place? Or is it inside me?
Swathes of rain swept up the valley as Simon veered from the winding path. He stood on a narrow ledge at the bottom of the cloven rock, the tree-strewn hill behind him sloping steeply to the churchyard.
He hesitated. A test beckoned. His breath quickened in anticipation and the promise of fear. Then he put his hands on the stone, started pulling himself up the side of the rock towards the cleft.
Simon was mindlessly angry. He hated his body, distrusted his soul.
He had no head for heights.
The rock was wet, slimed with moss and lichen.
Twice, he glared defiantly down between his legs, revelling in the awesome terror. The main part of the church roof was between his knees, about a hundred feet below. When he arrived here he'd been glad the church had no tower; vertigo would grab him in belfries, like having a coat thrown over his head his arms seized and his body spun round and round.
Simon started to laugh aloud with the perverse joy of fear. This was what it had come to: if it wasn't perverse, it was without pleasure.
His intention had been to climb up until he could see the Holy Mountain, the Skirrid. To hold out his hands to it, draw in the emanations like a truth drug.
He'd have come directly up here first thing this morning if well-meaning Eddie Edwards hadn't turned up at eight-thirty, determined to haul him off t
o Abergavenny. Eddie was a force of nature. And, besides, that might have been divine intervention, he might have experienced a moment of revelation in the ruins of Abergavenny Castle, where Aelwyn had witnessed the unspeakable.
Aelwyn Breuddwydiwr. The dreamer. And not the only one, if Simon was expecting divine intervention.
He climbed on, carelessly. A piece of rock was torn off by his left boot, and the boot took a savage, lunging step down towards the distant church slates, dragging his left hand from the rock, his right hand grabbing instinctively, just in time, at the outsprung root of a stunted rowan tree, while his mind was screaming for his body to be free of all this.
It left him hanging gloriously in space, intoxicated with the knowledge that certain death was simply a matter of relaxing his fingers.
I'm going to fucking do it, he decided. I'm really going to let go.
Far below him, a van crawled like a beetle up the village lane, and the church roof began to see-saw.
A blast of wind took him in the stomach. The tree root began to split. He saw his broken body supine amid broken slates across the spine of the roof.
His arm began to ache. He looked up. The rowan tree was growing out of the middle of the great cleft, clinging like him to the rock. But the tree had to go on clinging until some gale uprooted it, and he'd simply made the decision to let go, the mind committing the body to the air.
'Last chance!' He felt his face contort, his teeth bared like a wolf's. 'Tell me. Is it the Abbey or is it me? Tell me, damn you!'
The root snapped.
VI
Like a Dog Turd
Tom Storey started to laugh.
He was sprawled on the double bed, hands behind his head. Meryl sat upright on a padded stool alongside the fitted dressing-table unit, her hands in her lap. She didn't much like the laughter, but it was an improvement on his belligerence outside.
Tom said, 'When I was wiv Sile Copesake's band - sixty-nine, seventy, this'd be - the motel was still quite a new fing in this country, not many around, you know? But Sile, he knew where to find 'em.'
