by Phil Rickman
Tom was watching her now, his eyes half-closed. 'I'm sorry. What I said earlier. I insulted you. I didn't mean to. I mean, I did mean to, but ... anyway, I'm sorry. You're quite a sexy lady. When I seen you last night, all made up, the black clobber, I fought, you know, strewth.'
'I dress like that for my employer,' Meryl said primly. 'Tom, the vision. It wasn't only the Tulleys. It was Case. And your wife. And Martin. Dead. All dead.'
'Yeah.'
'Doesn't that scare you? After what happened to the Tulleys?'
'That was coincidence, the Tulleys. Nah. It don't scare me. Nuffink scares me no more. I seen it all before. The blood at the table, this is Aelwyn wosname, and the massacre. Picked it up at the Abbey, like a dog turd on your shoe. All illusion. Half of what you see, it's illusion. You learn that."
'How can you talk of coincidence?'
'I'm tired,' Tom said. 'I'm knackered. Shagged out. I can't go home. I can't go back there again.'
'What about Shelley?'
'Shelley's got it together. Shelley don't need me '
'And the little girl?'
'I don't know. I need to sleep. You gonna stay wiv me, while I get to sleep? Please?'
'Why should I stay if you're not scared?'
Meryl stood up, arms by her side.
'Fuck you, lady.' Tom clutched at one of her hands, his eyes wide open and glassy. 'Ain't you got no perception? I'm scared clean out of my perishing mind.'
The Holy Mountain, the Skirrid, was like a single wing. A cold sun made the serrated rims of ruptured clouds shine like metal. It spread a fan of light-rays around the peak.
Divine light. The scene shimmered.
He lay inside the cleft of rock above Ystrad Ddu, an enormous cradle fined with moss.
Above him, under the Skirrid, was a calm, still, bearded face. A face be knew.
Simon whispered, 'Jesus?'
When the root of the rowan tree had snapped, the arm of Jesus had reached out of the sky and grasped his wrist and held it firmly and pulled him back until his boots had found footholds in the rockface.
Divine intervention.
Jesus laughed.
Jesus wore a short leather jacket and jeans and hiking boots. Jesus had short grey hair starting high on his forehead above a deeply-lined face.
And an earring.
Jesus said, 'Close thing, Simon. Nobody tell you you need proper gear for rock-climbing? Ropes and spiky things to bang into crevices? Risky sport, mate.'
His face was so familiar from somewhere. He had a wide, friendly smile, although some of his teeth were chipped and discoloured. Jesus wouldn't have teeth like that.
'I followed you up here. Figured it was time we talked.'
He put a hand to help Simon to his feet.
'Sile Copesake,' he said. 'We haven't met.'
VII
December: Ain't It Always?
Motorway services. Dave felt like he'd driven a thousand miles without a break. His legs not too bothered about supporting him. Fuddled, he'd asked Prof on the way in here, 'Can we talk to Barney Gwilliam?' And Prof had asked him if he'd got a serviceable spade.
Now Prof brought coffee and doughnuts to the window table where Dave was sagging, 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Sorry, sorry, sorry, OK?'
'Me too. I didn't know. Why'd he do it?'
''He didn't leave a note, David. We're into speculation. Listen, what I meant, I'm sorry about my behaviour, the things I said in the car. Angel of death. Sorry. Not funny.'
'Forget it.'
'Can't forget it. That's the whole flaming problem. I heard the Black Album just the once, can't forget it. It's lodged.' Prof tapped his head. 'Here. I'm stuck with it. Makes new doorways into places you didn't know were there. I would really hate it to be released.'
Prof started fiddling in the breast pocket of his jacket. 'Here, let's get this thing out in the open.'
A folded paper rumbled out. Prof trapped it with a hand, smoothed it out, pushed it across to Dave. 'This was in the post for me this morning.'
It was a photocopy of a single-column clipping from an unidentified, undated newspaper.
STUDENT DOUBLE-DEATH PROBED
Detectives were last night investigating the deaths of two Oxford students whose bodies were found in the flat they shared in the city.
The students, both aged 20, were ...
Dave looked up at Prof. It meant nothing to him.
'Hang on,' Prof said, 'this is a better one.'
The second paper had two stories, expanding on the first, identifying the students as Mark Collier and Declan Smallwood. The room was in a mess, and it looked as if Smallwood had killed Collier by beating him over the head with a blunt instrument and then taken an overdose. They were described as 'very close friends'.
Prof said, 'Crime of passion was the implication. The papers didn't dwell on it. Gay domestic murders, who cares? Especially seven years ago. See this bit at the bottom ...'
... shared an interest in music and had been working on an album of their songs.
'These boys,' Prof said, 'sound a bit like Simon and Garfunkel in the sixties. Bedsit dreamers. Called themselves Soup Kitchen. Final cutting, OK?'
Police found a bloodstained electric guitar near a student's battered body in a room lit by candles, an inquest was told today. Nearby lay the body of Mark Collier's killer, with
'Blunt instrument was dead right. Seems Smallwood beat the shit out of Collier with a secondhand Strat-copy and then topped himself. They reckoned he was so cut-up about what he'd done he lit the candles as a kind of ceremonial gesture before taking his pills. And the bottom line ...'
Prof jabbed a finger at the final paragraph.
The students had returned to Oxford two days earlier after working on their music at a studio in Gwent, South Wales. Recording verdicts of murder and suicide. Coroner Paul Galloway said, 'There was an obsessional element in this relationship that may never be fully understood.'
Dave's whole body was now feeling as subdued as his legs. 'Russell was producing these kids? At the Abbey?'
'Guy I know sent me this stuff, music journalist. While I was waiting for you this morning, I called him back. Seems Soup Kitchen had signed to Epidemic, very hush hush at the time. The boys wanted somewhere atmospheric to record. They suggested the Manor, which was local for them, but they were told it was fully booked for months ahead. Then somebody says, Hey, what about the Abbey?'
'But it was closed down by then.'
'So they used a mobile. Maybe it impressed Smallwood and Collier that Epidemic were prepared to open up the Abbey just for them.'
Dave said, 'So this would be ... how long after the Philosopher's Stone session?'
'Six, seven years. It didn't immediately close down because Tom Storey had a bad accident there, why should it? So the boys are taken up to the Abbey on two or three weekends, to get the feel of the place, get some demos down. The idea being they could go back and lay down the whole album during their Christmas holidays from the University.'
'Hang on ...' Dave fumbled his cup into its saucer, spilling hot coffee over both hands. 'Strewth ... This was December?'
'Ain't it always?' said Prof.
'What date?'
'They died on ... the tenth. About then.'
'So they could've been in the studio on the night of the eighth?'
Prof shrugged.
'What about Barney?' Dave was mopping at his wrists with a napkin, trying to hold it steady.
'Barney died on the twenty-ninth, less than a week after joining the BBC, Cardiff-based. Two days before New Year's Eve, he sat himself in the studio, all alone, slashed his throat. And he'd been in that job less than a week and doing well. Whatever it was made him do it, he brought it with him.'
'Why the BBC? I mean, he was a top engineer. Be a major drop in pay, that, wouldn't it?'
'But maybe,' Prof said, 'a raise in peace of mind.' He pushed his coffee away. 'Or so he might have thought. I find this particularly heartbreaki
ng, David, because here was a boy who lived for his work. To this guy, the studio - any studio - was home.'
'Let me get this right.' Dave sucked at his wrist where the coffee had burned it. 'Barney engineered this Soup Kitchen session at the Abbey.'
'I don't know that. I would've put it to Russell, but he didn't hang around, did he?'
Dave said, 'Maybe it's better you didn't. Maybe it's better he doesn't know we know about that. OK, let's assume he did engineer that session. Where does that get us?'
'Gets us to the central question of why he packed it in and took a lower-paid job at the Beeb. Like I said, this is a boy who lived for his job. Juggling sounds, making music work. At the Beeb, half the time he'd be on speech programmes, routine stuff. Why's a man like Barney want to do this, unless ...'
'Unless something happened to make him frightened of music. Scared to put a pair of cans over his ears because of what he might hear, scared to mess with a mixing deck because of the sounds his fingers might produce. That's what you're getting at?'
Prof said, 'You asked me to re-mix the Black Album, I'd be shit scared. Scared of what it might touch inside me. What it might bring out. It sticks like slime, some of that music. I tell you, the worst thing ... I was never scared of death before. Scared of dying, how it might happen, sprawled in the gutter stinking of meths, whatever. But not death itself. Now …'
Dave shook his head. 'I really don't remember getting that far I knew that was how it was going to end. I, me, Aelwyn, we were resigned to it, but I ran out on him. And Moira. We backed off.'
Thinking, No, I backed off, ran out on them all, Moira, Tom, Simon, everybody. And it was a long time before she came out of there.
'Ask her some time,' Prof said. 'Ask her about dying.'
Ice-crystals started to form around Dave's solar plexus. It was the second time Prof had spoken like this about Moira. He couldn't deal with it.
'So, OK,' Prof said, 'Barney quits. Maybe he's on the edge of a breakdown, who can say? He was the kind of guy who'd bottle things up. So he packs in, gets himself a nice, safe job at the BBC. But it doesn't go away. I know that it doesn't go away. It sets up home in dreams. What causes this? What did you let in? What did Soup Kitchen let in?'
'Sometimes,' Dave said, from the heart, 'I think it'd be better for everyone if I'd actually died that night.'
'Don't be a plonker.'
'No, think about it. Would Tom have gone rushing for the Land Rover? Would Mark Chapman have pulled the trigger?'
'You've got a wheel loose, son. You're coming off the track. Need to sort your head out. Anyway, like I said, I'd be shit scared. But I'd do it.'
'What you on about?'
'Remix the album. You go back, give Steve what he wants, take me with you as engineer.'
'You tired of life. Prof?'
'Yeah,' said Prof. 'I am tired of life. Tired of this life. Tired of hearing about guys who didn't make it. Tired of drinking coffee in dumps like this talking about poor sods with wonky auras. Tired of pretending not to be a piss artist. Tired of looking at your miserable face.'
The bedroom window faced a grassed-over courtyard. It had lace curtains and full-length drapes which Meryl didn't bother to draw.
She got undressed without preamble, laying her sweater and her trousers across a chair, unhooking her bra, tossing it on the chair too, but keeping her panties on. Plain pink ones.
She had heavy brown breasts, which dipped and wobbled as she got into bed. She hadn't even thought about the Lady Bluefoot for some hours.
'It's a waste of time,' Tom said gloomily, tossing his jeans out of the side of the bed. 'I can't do nuffink lately.'
'You can hold me.' Meryl unclipped her dark hair. She was excited, like the first time she went to the spiritualist church in Gloucester. I'm a psychic groupie, she thought.
Tom said, 'This ain't charity, is it?'
'Think of me as one of those bimbos after the concerts. A raddled old bimbo.'
'You ain't raddled. You're a sexy lady. And you done this before.'
'Not all that often.' Meryl said. 'Never with somebody like you.'
'Yeah. I can believe that.'
He put an arm around her, cupped a breast. Meryl was glad to feel the nipple begin to swell. Tom said miserably, 'I do love Shelley, you know. She done a lot for me. She gave up a hell of a lot.'
'She's a good woman,' Meryl said. 'But there are things she couldn't do. She couldn't make you free.'
'And you could? I don't fink so, lady.'
Meryl kissed his sad, grey-haired chest. 'Take me where you go,' she said. 'That's all I ask. Then we'll see.'
When Dave got back to the bedsit, around the corner from Muthah Mirth, there was a short note waiting for him on the inside of the door.
Please be out by eight tonight. Got to get place cleaned up for another artist. Don't forget your answering machine. Your phone calls amount to £7.30, leave money under telly.
Bart
Wherever he went he took his answering machine and an adaptor. The machine was still connected, its light flashing. Bart would have left a dismissive message on it, else why mention it?
He looked at his watch. The time was 6.45 p.m.
The calendar on the wall said that tomorrow it would be December.
A thin wind rattled the window panes.
He picked up the phone, called his mother in Hoylake. She was a long time coming to the phone and there was awkward silence when he asked if he could come up, stay for a few days while he got a few things sorted out, had a bit of a think.
'But, David, I thought you were in London until after Christmas.'
'Yeh, sorry, Ma, the schedule got changed.'
'Only it's Cecil.'
'Cecil?'
'Me friend. He's staying a few nights. He's got your room, I won't have talk.'
She'd never let anybody stay in his room before, was going to open it to the public when he was famous. He didn't think he'd would have wanted to stay with Cecil in the house even if the old guy hadn't got his room. Who wanted to be a wallflower, especially with your ma.
'I'm really sorry, David.'
'Don't worry about a thing. Have a good one. Christmas. I can make other arrangements.'
Like what? Sleep on Prof's sofa with the empties?
He began to pack up his things, none too carefully. Wouldn't exactly be a tight fit in the Fiat without the guitar. Tossing clothing into a case, he pressed the answer button on the machine.
The first message didn't waste time on pleasantries.
'Dave Reilly. Prof must've told you by now. It's Stephen Case at TMM. It's Wednesday, November thirtieth. If you'd like to discuss the album, I'll be in the office until seven. Or even eight, on a bad day. Cheers.'
The voice was affable, no implied threat.
Bombshell.
Dave stopped the machine, snatched up the phone, called Prof.
His voice shook. 'That song - "On a Bad Day". You told me it wasn't on the Black Album tape.'
'I dunno, David. How does it go?"
'You know how it goes. Just me and an acoustic guitar. Reference to Patience Strong.'
'I don't know what you're talking about. All the tracks on that tape were full-band stuff.'
'Well, how come Case knows about it if you don't?'
Prof didn't know the answer to that one either. In his consternation, Dave forgot to mention the sofa. He didn't know Stephen Case. The message wasn't blackmail exactly. Might even be construed as a kindness. We have a tape which you might consider extremely embarrassing, in view of what happened soon after it was recorded. If we put out the Black Album, with only half a dozen tracks, we'd need all the extra material we could get. If that album was to be re-recorded, 'On a Bad Day' wouldn't have to be included.
This was what he was saying? Dave stared at the phone as if it might spring off its rest and smash him in the mouth.
You always liked Prof, trusted him. But suppose Prof is in on this, with Case. How else did C
ase track you down?
As if projected on the wall, he saw a soaring building. Fortress of a place. Dark. Forbidding.
Not the Dakota. The Abbey.
The four-wheel-drive Discovery bumping down the track, headlights on, trees and bushes springing up white and naked, Simon in the passenger seat, dazed.
The vehicle leaned alarmingly as Sile Copesake flung it around tight bends. Simon wasn't worried any more; the inevitability of all this was beyond resistance. Anyway, he hated driving; almost everybody was a better driver than he was, and this guy knew the terrain.
'During the war was when I first came here.' Sile had a soft voice, but not quite smooth - a Yorkshire undertow. 'Before you were born.'
He must be older than he looked.
'Evacuee,' Sile said. 'Imagine coming from Sheffield to a place like this. No smoke. No noise, no muck. You never wanted the war to end.'
Simon knew of Sile only by reputation. A grand old man, even in the seventies, which meant he'd have been in his forties at the time. A father figure in rock and blues, in the way of thirty-five-year-old fighter pilots in the war addressed as 'dad'. Used to lead a lot of bands involving musicians younger than him, the old master with apprentices. One of whom had been ...
'You worked with Tom Storey? Look out …'
The headlights had picked up a couple of rabbits scooting for safety at the roadside.
'You really are still a townie, Simon,' Sile said, indulgently slowing down. 'Tom, yeah. Nineteen seventy-two. Got him on the rebound from a band called the Brain Police, named after an old Frank Zappa number. Tom was doing smack at the time. Needed a spot of straightening out.'
'That must have been a challenge.'
'Not really. Big softy, Tom. Wouldn't join the band unless he could bring his roadie. Little guy called Ferret."
'Weasel,' Simon said.
'Was that it? Yeah. We said OK. It was the age of the guitar hero. Obvious Tom was going places. Everybody else was into power chords and lightning runs. Tom was unusually economical. Exquisite timing. Dropped in just the right notes at the right time, like rain from heaven. They used to say Hendrix, Clapton, Beck and young Storey, but it was really Storey and Peter Green. Melodic, lyrical. I tried to get Green when he dropped out of Fleetwood Mac, but it was no go.'
