by Phil Rickman
'Huh?'
'Be no leaves on it either, this time of year. I was just thinking of everybody waking up and looking out their windows and there's poor Russell dangling there. It's horrible, Prof. I never really liked the guy, especially the way he conned us over the tapes and wouldn't lift a finger to stop Tom driving off in the Land Rover. But it's such a lonely death. And yet there's, I don't know, an element of exhibitionism to it. Kind of, screw
you, take a good look, this is what you drove me to.'
'I hate it,' Prof groaned. 'I hate it. I'd rather be producing Van Morrison.'
Then he went quiet.
The coffee came. Moira thanked the kid, poured.
Prof said, 'Tree.'
'Sorry?'
'We were walking along the lawn at the Manor - this was where we saw Russell, he wasn't up yet - and there's this tree, Dave said it was like - the way its branches were - like a man. Then he went kind of shaky, and I said, what's wrong, goose on your grave? Something like that.'
'What did Dave say?'
'He just started going on about how Tom wouldn't come to a place like this on account of it being old.'
'Right.'
'Is this the same tree?"
Moira said, 'Are there many trees at the Manor?'
'Dozens. It's in, like, parkland.'
'Then let's assume it's a different tree, huh, Prof?'
Prof said, 'Barney Gwilliam and now Russell. Both topped themselves.'
'Look. Don't think twice about it. Go. Finish your coffee and get your bags, we'll settle the bill. We'll self-produce, too. Don't worry about a thing.'
'It'll sound - no offence, but it'll sound like crap.'
'Not your problem, Prof. Really. And we'll tell Tom your old mother's been taken sick.'
'Bollocks,' said Prof. 'Bollocks to all that. I'm too old to matter, anyway.'
If he kept saying that all the way to the Abbey he might even convince himself.
Circencester turned out to be a mistake on the part of Wendy in the warehouse. They didn't need their soya sausage shelves topping up until Thursday at least, so Weasel didn't even have to open the back of the van in Circencester.
This meant he didn't find out what he was carrying until he was outside Broadbank's superstore on the less salubrious side of Cheltenham.
Well, how was he to know? There was a thick partition between the cab and the storage area, with only a six-inch square glass pane which he hadn't got round to cleaning yet this year.
'Princess,' he said. 'You'll get me bleeding fired.'
She was crouching like a little puppy between two big cardboard boxes, for warmth probably, this van being partly refrigerated.
'As well as catching your death,' said Weasel, holding out his hand to help her out of there. Jeez, no wonder she'd been so quiet on the way into Stroud. Playing her cards close to her chest, crafty little sod. And they said these kids was simple.
'Your dad, is it? Fought I knew where your dad was and wasn't saying, right?'
Vanessa gave him the full, solemn, I'm-only-a-handicapped-kid-who-can't-be-held-responsible look.
'Yeah, you're breaking my heart,' Weasel said. 'Come on. In the cab. You'll get expelled from that convent, you will. Ninety-seven Hail Marys, if you're very lucky.'
Little bleeder. What was he gonna do now? He cast an eye at the cars in the employees' section, wondering if Broadbank himself was in residence this morning. He maybe wouldn't be adverse to taking her back. Give him another shot at Shelley,
Nah. Nothing big or posh enough out there for Broadbank.
'What we gonna do wiv you then?'
Vanessa was offering no suggestions. He didn't want to take her to Ross. Certainly not to the Abbey. But if he whizzed her back now, by the time he got back to Ross it'd be too late to go check out the Abbey. In daylight, anyway.
'Right.' Lap of the gods job. 'What we'll do is we'll go to a phone box and we'll ring Shelley. See how she wants to handle it.'
'No!'
'Now, listen, Princess, I ain't got time for this '
'Nooooooooo!' Vanessa stood at the' back of the van and screamed at him, which wasn't like her at all.
Then she turned and ran away.
Weasel went after her across the loading bay and into the car park. Vanessa screamed as she ran, and a few people coining out the supermarket with their trolleys started to take notice.
'Shit,' Weasel muttered. All this talk of child-abuse, it wouldn't be long before somebody would get the idea she was escaping from this sinister-looking old hippie who'd been trying lure her into his cab. Besides which, she was faster than him.
'All right!' Weasel shouted. 'You win, Princess, you win!'
Vanessa stopped.
'You can come wiv me and I won't ring Shelley. She'll fink you're at school anyway. You can come wiv me to Ross, but you gotta be a good girl and wear your seatbelt.'
Vanessa grinned and walked back towards the van.
'These kids,' Weasel said to a couple of old ladies who'd been directing heavy-duty suspicion his way. 'Don't get their own way, they show you up summink rotten.'
It's like a bleeding conspiracy, he thought. Looks like the Abbey's out of the question.
He'd think about that when they got to Ross.
'I'm not staying here,' Meryl said. 'And that's final.'
Tom shrugged. 'Up to you. You're a free person. Go home. Go back to old Broadarse, you want to.'
Prof thought Meryl was setting up to strangle him.
They were loading their gear into three cars: Simon's Astra, Moira's BMW and Dave's Fiat. Prof would be travelling with Dave, Tom with Simon, Moira with a couple of guitars.
'I'm telling you,' Tom said. 'Not only are we having no passengers, but there's probably no room to spare there anyway. Simon?'
'I think Tom probably is right,' Simon told Meryl. 'They've been refurbishing the place as fast as they can, but there's a possibility we'll have to share rooms.'
'She'll be sleeping with a man, then.' Meryl nodded towards Moira.
'Can't be ruled out,' Moira said, more than a little curtly.
Prof didn't think she was too fond of Meryl and he could see why. He, too, could see a great deal of sense in not having a woman around who seemed to think that what you might call non-material matters were just a big adventure, an exciting voyage of discovery.
'If I do go back to the Cotswolds,' Meryl said dangerously, 'Shelley's going to know exactly where you are.'
'Only if you tell her, darlin'.' Tom reared menacingly, like one of those giant dinosaurs, a Tyrannosaurus rex. He was probably going to snap her in half.
'Look.' The ever-diplomatic Simon hastily put himself between them. 'I've got an idea. My house is only about a mile from the Abbey. Why don't you stay there? There's always a guest room prepared and I'll arrange for my housekeeper to pop round and show you where everything is. It's quite modern. If you were to stay there, perhaps you could pop in sometime when we're not recording, make sure Tom's OK. Or he could come over to you, if he's in need of ... therapy. How would that be?'
Might as well take it, lady, Prof thought. It's the best offer you're going to get. He'd been secretly rather hoping he'd have to sleep elsewhere. Wondering where the late Russell Hornby had slept. And the late Barney Gwilliam.
The mist had descended around them like ice-cold candy-floss. Prof gazed over to where the holy, crooked mountain was, nothing of it visible now. For the first time it occurred to him that the protective magnetic field around the Skirrid might be the reason he'd had two consecutive nights of restful, dreamless sleep.
Pah. Such crap you got to thinking when the mist came down in the afternoon.
As they climbed into the cars, he heard Meryl saying rather sulkily that she'd follow behind as far as Ystrad Ddu and see what the place was like, not specifying whether she meant the village or the vicarage.
It took no more than twenty minutes to get to Ystrad Ddu, despite the mist being dense around them
the whole way.
Four cars in slow procession, like a funeral cortege, minus the hearse.
'OK, David?'
'Fine.' Dave's eyes were fixed on the car in front, Moira's.
Sure he was fine. They all were.
Even though he couldn't see much of it, Prof sensed a roughening of the landscape. They were moving towards the Black Mountains of North Gwent, which were hardly mountains in comparison with Snowdonia or even the Brecon Beacons but appreciably harder than the placid pastures they'd left behind on the Hereford border.
They stopped in the village, and Simon went with Meryl and Tom into a plain detached house opposite an undistinguished little church. After about twenty minutes, Tom and Simon emerged and Simon nodded briefly to the others.
So that was that sorted out. Prof felt sorry for Meryl, but more sorry for himself.
A hundred yards or so from the edge of the village the road had shrunk to not much more than a lorry's width. The mist was rolling around them like wadding, leaving a dusting of rain on the windscreen.
'You remember this road, David?'
Dave smiled, said nothing. He glanced at the rear-view mirror and Prof, hunched in the front passenger seat, looked round, momentarily imagining there was a third person with them, in the back. He had a sensation like a caterpillar crawling along the back of his neck.
The cold mist was a muffling stillness around the car creating a silence Prof needed to break.
'Could've been a nicer day, David.'
'It's perfect,' Dave said. 'Wouldn't want you to get the wrong impression.'
'Be prepared, eh?'
'Anxious is the word. Be anxious. You'll find it makes you anxious anyway.'
'Right little bloody ray of sunshine you are,' said Prof. 'What are you anxious about?'
Dave didn't reply, but he didn't stop looking at the car in front, containing Moira and a couple of guitars in cases on the back seat, one of them leaning forward, as if it was whispering something in Moira's ear.
Prof's next breath locked in his throat.
It wasn't a guitar; it was another woman.
Wasn't it? Wasn't that another woman, very thin and sharp-featured?
Prof gripped both his knees and squeezed.
Let me out.
Too late now. The cortege was no longer moving and when Prof looked out and up, he saw two lines of enormous, still, grey-robed people hanging over them out of the quivering mist, with their arms linked above their heads.
Not people. Stone arches.
Whatever happens, Prof,' Dave said, 'do try and remember it was your idea to come here.'
VI
Ferret
Three o'clock, almost. Couple of hours' daylight.
Decisions, decisions.
'What we gonna do then?'
'Fetch Daddy,' Vanessa said without any hesitation. Big eyed and dead certain.
Having unloaded all his cargo, Weasel had filled the van with petrol at a service station near the main roundabout at Wilton, outside Ross.
'Just like that, eh?'
The kid had to be feeling isolated. Confused. Messed up. Look at the things that had happened to her since she last saw her old man. Beginning with the crash, two dead neighbours. No, not quite beginning with that - even before then. Vanessa knew something was going down. All that Daddy's coming stuff. How many times had she said that, like a mantra, like it was information being fed to her?
Begging the question: how much like her old man was she? Being the first daughter of a seventh son of a seventh son didn't signify any miracle powers that Weasel knew of. But this was no ordinary kid. She seemed to handle things the doctors and the books and these counselling geezers said was impossible for a Down's child. Annoyed the hell out of Shelley, what the experts said. Shelley was a fine woman who wasn't into playing it by the book, who'd made a point of reading the book and then chucking it away.
Weasel decided he'd play it Shelley's way and chuck away the book.
He swivelled in his driving seat to face the kid. She was sitting, all demure in her brown skirt and jumper, blazer neatly folded on her knee.
'Princess,' Weasel said, 'where is your Daddy?'
'You know, silly,' Vanessa said.
'I don't. I told you I don't. Cross my heart.'
'You do,' Vanessa insisted, contemplating him real seriously through those milk bottle specs.
'Is he wiv Morticia -I mean Meryl. Is he wiv Meryl?'
Vanessa shook her head.
Not good so far. According to Shel, even Meryl had said Tom was with her. Had said she was 'connecting' with him.
'Is he wiv Mr Case? You met Mr Case, didn't you? Nah, shit, you didn't.' This was a useless idea. Maybe he'd take her back, call in a phone-box first and ring Shelley.
Weasel started up the engine. 'We'll find him. Princess. I swear we're gonna find him.'
Just not today. Weasel pulled out into the traffic heading for the M50.
'M ...' Vanessa said, '... oira.'
Weasel hit the brakes, horns blasting him from all sides. He pulled up against the double-whites, set the hazard lights going.
'D'you say Moira?'
Vanessa looked blank.
'Simon,' Weasel said.
At least the kid didn't shake her head nor nothing.
'Dave.'
Vanessa smiled. Why'd she do that? She didn't know any Daves in the village, he was pretty sure of that. And the school was all girls.
Weasel said, 'Er ... Elsie.'
Vanessa shook her head.
'Doris.'
Vanessa looked at him like he was stupid.
'Ruth.'
Vanessa turned away in disgust.
And then he said, like it was just another name:
'Abbey?'
Vanessa pushed her school blazer from her knees to the floor of the van, screaming and squirming like she had a bad stomach ache.
Actually, Prof's first reactions to the Abbey included a fair bit of relief.
What, if he admitted it, had been bugging him more than anything was the thought that the place would immediately reflect his worst dreams.
Yes, those dreams.
The one in particular involving a distressed young woman running through a skeleton of arches, open to the night sky, running hard and fast, her lungs ready to burst with the agony of trying ... trying to fly. And when she failed, when she came to the final arch and a big blank wall, she flung herself at it, sobbing and clawing at the stone. And falling all around her like black rain, was a derisive, discordant chanting - Gregorian gone sour.
In the dream, the arches had been great, soaring hoops of stone, like dinosaur ribs. Whereas these, when you got close, had a squat and rotting feel in the clinging mist. Not pleasant but not awesome either. No wonder the place didn't get many visitors.
A considerable relief, all the same.
'Home from home, Prof?' said Dave, standing in the bit of a courtyard where the cars were parked. He had his white scarf wound around his neck and was clutching a guitar case to his chest as if it was a huge hot-water bottle.
'I've been in worse places, David. I did National Service son, never forget that."
'Where were you? Aden? Malaya?'
'Aldershot,' said Prof. 'Piss-awful place.'
He wished the mist would lift, so he could get a feel of the landscape and the setting, but he supposed it would simply get darker.
'Give it a couple of days,' Dave said. 'You'll grow to love it.'
'You seem chirpy.'
'Hysteria,' said Dave. 'Wait till you see the stairs.'
Two towers were visible from the courtyard, one beyond it looked half-ruined. The other, sprouting from a corner of the yard, had obviously been shortened and partly rebuilt; it had wider slits and a long, Gothic window under the conical, slated roof.
It was Simon, in an old sheepskin jacket and jeans, who led the way into the tower. Like Dave, he was exuding false confidence. It was more convincing from Simon, but it
was still false.
First, they went down some steps into a kind of shallow well, with a big oak door at the bottom. There was a massive great keyhole but the door was unlocked and led into a short passage with two more doors, one closed, the other ajar with a couple of steep steps visible in the salty light from above.
'Studio's through that end door, Prof. Best if we unload our gear first, then you can start to familiarise yourself with the equipment. I don't think you'll have any problems. It's comparatively primitive gear, 24-track, exactly the same as it was in 'eighty.'
'The arthriticky old fingers should be able to cope with that,' said Prof. 'Gordon Bennett! How's anybody supposed to get a suitcase up there?'
He was going to be hard-pressed to get himself up there, the width and steepness of these steps.
'Take it easy.' Simon jammed the door wide. 'Let me take your case.'
'I'm not that old yet, son.' It was a very tight spiral with a low, curving stone roof, a real corkscrew. 'How many steps?'
'About fifty, but you'll only need to make it up a dozen or so. You're on the first floor.'
'How many bloody floors are there?'
'Five, I think, one room on each. It was a hotel for some years, back in the sixties. Good gimmick at first, but I don't suppose anybody stayed here more than once. Keep going; it's steep, but it's not that easy to fall down a spiral staircase.'
'Take your word for it. Shit, me calf muscles are playing up already. This it? This alcove?'
A slit window with cobwebbed glass in it marked the floor, which amounted to a small door in a recess guaranteed to crick Tom Storey's neck every time. The door was ajar; Prof battered it open with his suitcase.
'Won't be throwing too many parties in here.'
Somebody had tried to brighten it up with a coat of yellow emulsion, but Prof's room was essentially very dreary, largely due to the small, recessed, metal-framed window being too high in the far wall to show you anything but clouds and fog. The bed had four rickety posts but no curtains. There was a chair. A wooden partition with a door concealed a washbasin and newish lavatory.
'Good job it's us and not bloody Pink Floyd is all I can say. The other rooms any better?'
