December

by Phil Rickman

  'There is no significance. This must've been how many of the ancient Abbeys began. Just this fellow Walden and a handful of followers and a lot of faith. They throw up a few wooden huts and then go out and raise the money, or apply to Rome or something. There is no great significance.' .

  'Not if you discredit the Aelwyn story, no. Which, on the surface, is what this appears to do. If there was no Abbey there, how could Aelwyn Breuddwydiwr come charging out of the snow with a bunch of armed men on his tail and bang like hell on the great oak door? You don't have great oak doors on sheds.'

  'I'm still not following this, Eddie, and the pensioners from Hirwaun are filing in.'

  'You don't have to, Elwyn. This is my problem. Thank you, boy.'

  Eddie put down the phone, flushed with triumph. Then picked it up again and called Isabel Pugh.

  'You're an accountant,' he said. 'Get out your calculator and do a sum for me. Never could trust my long-division.'

  Lee's mobile home, movie-set size, movie-star luxury, was installed behind the Portakabin canteen. The only drawback, as Lee had pointed out, was having to share it with an office run by a TMM employee called Michelle. She was twenty-two and gorgeous. She had a lot of time for Lee Gibson. He conceded to Dave and Moira, showing them around, that this was not a major drawback.

  Lee said he was fed up of waiting and was going to have a lie down for half an hour on his luxurious movie star's bed.

  Moira and Dave walked back to the Abbey. They'd breakfasted at the canteen around eleven; hung around to wait for Simon and Tom and Prof, none of whom had shown yet.

  'You envy him, Davey?' Moira said, as they strolled back to the Abbey, wraiths in the mist.

  'Who, Lee? I think he envies me,' Dave said. 'I only wish he had cause.'

  'It's no' the time.' Moira said. 'And definitely no' the place. Davey, why'd you keep looking at me?'

  'Just checking you're not an illusion.'

  'Don't lie, huh?' Moira said.

  'I'm not I—'

  'You're playing with the ends of your scarf. Always a bad sign.'

  Through the mist they could see the great stone hoops of the Abbey's nave. It was like a giant gin-trap, Dave thought. All you had to do was tread on the bait, and the Abbey would have you. He felt an urge to pull Moira back, to prevent her going any further. Don't take her, he called silently to the Abbey. Please don't take her.

  'Have you seen something, Davey?'

  'No.'

  'Then what's wrong?'

  'Nothing. Honestly. Everything's fine. Well, fine as it could be under the... I ...'

  'What?'

  'I like your anorak,' Dave said.

  Moira glanced sideways at him. 'C & A's. No big deal.'

  'I haven't seen it before, have I?'

  Moira stopped and stared at him, the mist billowing around her like a toga. 'Davey, what the hell's so significant about my damned anorak? Listen, I'm no' moving another inch until you tell me what this is all about.'

  Dave pushed a hand through his hair. The anorak was black. It had a hood. He was wondering if she'd been wearing it the other night at the Castle Inn when she and Prof had found him.

  When he'd seen something black around her face.

  'Sorry,' he said. 'It's nothing. I'm just making small talk, when I get this close to the Abbey I talk about the first thing that comes into me head. Just until we get inside. Nerves, that's all.'

  And he didn't need to look at her to know she didn't believe word.

  The Abbey arched above them. The tower, with its pointed roof, jutted out of the ruins like a bird of prey on a crag.

  They went directly to the back entrance of the studio, hearing voices from inside. 'Maybe we can make a start late afternoon.' Moira squeezed his arm below the elbow. 'Have a wee warm-up session, hang a few ideas together.'

  There was a crash of cymbals from within. 'Oh dear,' she said. 'He just hates people messing with his drums.'

  '... all we need,' they heard Tom shouting.

  'Just send out for coffee,' Simon said. 'Lots of ...'

  He broke off as Dave pushed the door open, dread welling up.

  '... the hell's this?'

  It was like some tragic, classical group-sculpture. Tom Storey stood in the middle of the studio floor, just beyond Lee's drumkit. Simon crouched to one side, his arms open like a goalkeeper's. Tom was holding up a smaller figure in a dressing gown who seemed to have collapsed into the drums, hurling over two hi-hats, a snare and a pair of deep bongos.

  Simon's hands slid supportively under the dressing-gowned arms. 'Steady, Prof.'

  'Oh ... no.' Dave dropped to his knees, helped Simon lay the sagging body on to the grey carpet.

  'Prof is pissed,' Tom said bluntly.

  'I don't believe this.' Dave looked down into Prof's filmed over eyes. 'Two days at the Castle he doesn't touch a drop, in fact, before we left yesterday, he said, there's not gonna be booze in there, is there? I don't want any booze.'

  'Must've brought some wiv him, all the same.'

  Dave shook his head. Prof grabbed a cymbal stand to haul himself upright and pulled it over on top of him with a clashing of metal. Dave saw Simon wince at the sound.

  'Don't worry Tom.' Prof giggled feebly. 'Thasser name of the game. "Don'... worry ... Tom.'"

  Moira turned away, closed her eyes, clenched both fists at her sides, breathed out viciously.

  'This fucking place.'

  VIII

  Dream Made Flesh

  No lights shone from the ugly yellow house on the hill.

  No smoke stained the morose sky above its chimneys.

  In the winter dusk it stood tasteless and unloved in its neat, shaven, treeless grounds.

  When Martin rang the bell, it tinkled forlornly from room abandoned room.

  And yet she was in.

  And called out, 'Round the back, would you, please?'

  As if she were afraid to answer the front door because the people who entered through front doors were the official people. Police, Mrs Storey. Could we come in?

  She already had the back door open. The kitchen was a dim cave behind her, and she offered no greeting. She'd clearly lost weight. Her face was gaunt, her brass-bell hair dull and tarnished.

  This was a horrible place. Martin wanted to take her away, back to his house which, even without Meryl, was relatively warm and bright, but he knew she wouldn't leave, not even for half an hour.

  In case the phone should ring. In case someone should return.

  'I'm afraid this is all my fault.' He followed her in. 'I'm so terribly sorry.'

  'I've picked up the phone about four times,' Shelley said listlessly. 'To call the police, you know?'

  'It's a possibility we have to consider.'

  'Yes.'

  Inside it was too gloomy to decode the expression on her face. The only gleamings came from the chrome covers on the Aga. He moved towards her across the kitchen.

  'Don't touch me,' Shelley said emptily. 'Please don't touch me now.'

  'I was going to put some lights on.'

  'I don't want lights either.'

  'Shelley ...'He couldn't think what to say, how to cross the gulf. Through the window he could see lights in Larkfield village. It was as if there was a power failure up here.

  'I was thinking I've got nothing left,' Shelley said. 'But perhaps I've always had nothing. Vanessa wasn't mine. Tom was never really mine; he just lived here in the house built to his own peculiar specifications. A fortress, not a home. Even Weasel, with his awful, jagged smile, Weasel was Tom's, like a one-man dog.'

  'You've ...'

  He stopped. The crass old Martin would have said, You've still got your ideas, your flair, your acumen, your business. The business in recession. The business built on Tom's money.

  'I'm irrelevant,' she said. 'That's why I haven't called the police. So they find Vanessa and she's with her father. Who are you? What's your angle? I'm her stepmother. Was her stepmother.'

  He kne
w she didn't want lights because she was crying silently, because her face was streaked. Because, right now, she wasn't good for the Love-Storey corporate image. And he was a potentially important client. And never likely to be anything more important than that.

  He had, it was true, been feeling rather sorry for himself. Deserted by a housekeeper who, in his view, had been rather better than a wife - cooks, caters to all your needs, is watchful and intelligent and makes no emotional demands.

  Perhaps emotional demands were what Meryl had gone in search of. Him too. Perhaps.

  'What I can't understand,' he said. 'If Weasel was so anxious to call you from a phone box when he did ...'

  'Yes, I've thought about all that. He lives for Tom, but he still sees me as his employer and he's in my van. Details like that matter to Weasel.'

  'What about Tom? You're his wife.'

  'Tom's out of control, can't you get inside that yet? Tom responds to influences the rest of us can't bring ourselves to believe in. And when they take over, Tom can't do anything about it. He doesn't want to be ruled by them, which is why he had this house built. But he was never happy here either, and then he was pushed outside again he realised that. The other night, coming to your house, that was the first time Tom had left this place since it was built.'

  'I just had no idea what I was doing.'

  'I persuaded him to go. I fought to get him out. And now I have to accept the consequences. The whole rocky edifice is crumbling away and it's my fault, not yours at all. He used to play his guitar in the night, like a wolf baying in a trap, and I wasn't hearing it. Not really.'

  'I heard. That is, I heard ... about it.'

  'But he was afraid to leave, you see,' Shelley said.

  'Because there were things he knew he'd have to face up to out there? Look, this is no reflection on you whatsoever, but maybe Meryl can bring him round.'

  'If they want each other, they can have each other.'

  'I don't think it's like that,' Martin said. 'In fact, I'm sure it's not. You know what Tom was like with her at the dinner. Oblivious.'

  'I know what he was like after the dinner. I know that something happened between them that made her very keen to find him. Weasel thinks she's in this with Case, to lure Tom out and get him back into the studio.'

  'That's nonsense,' Martin said gently. I can tell you for a fact that they'd never met before that dinner party. And while I don't trust Steve an inch, I do trust Meryl.'

  'I'm sure you do,' Shelley said. 'At least to the point where - as she would say - the spheres collide. And then she goes completely off her head. Sod this, I'm going to call the police. It's been a whole day now. Over a day. I can't stand it any longer.'

  'That has to be your decision,' Martin said.

  'Except there'll be publicity,' Shelley said despairingly. 'I used to work in publicity at Epidemic. I know what'll happen. A missing thirteen-year-old girl? A nationwide police hunt? And Tom Storey? There'll be reporters outside the gate, TV crews. Dirty washing on the line.'

  'Would that be necessary?'

  'You can't find a missing person without telling people to look out for her, can you?'

  'God,' Martin said. 'This is a mess, isn't it? Where are they all?'

  'It's like a black hole, isn't it?' Shelley said, parched-voiced. 'One after the other. Tom and Meryl and Weasel and Vanessa. As if something's sucking them in. As if they're all out of control. That's silly, isn't it?'

  'You can't stay here on your own. Is there a spare bedroom? A settee I could doss down on?'

  'I suppose you don't want to go home to a cold house and no supper.'

  'No,' he admitted. 'I don't. I could always go to a restaurant. I could go to a hotel. But I'd be worrying about you.'

  Suddenly Shelley switched on several spotlights. They all seemed to be pointing at Martin and he threw a hand across his eyes.

  'Wouldn't do any good, would it?' Shelley said. 'The full glare of publicity. It's only when I'm on my own that I almost call the police. Also, I think if you went away now I'd be scared you'd disappear too. And then I really would go insane because there'd be nobody else who even knows what's been happening - let alone why.'

  When his eyes adjusted he saw she was sitting at the kitchen table, both hands inside her hair.

  Black hole?

  Simon had sent them off through the dusk mist to the canteen. Tom and Dave and Moira. Moira hadn't wanted to go. Simon had said, Please, I've had some experience with this. I am a minister.

  Bullshit, and she knew it, he could tell.

  He had Prof in a rock and swivel chair behind the mixing desk. The chair had arms so he couldn't fall out. Simon figured that being in his usual work environment would help. He'd got about two pints of coffee down Prof; mustn't, on any account, let him sleep. Simon switched on all the studio lights. The desk was lit up like New York at night

  'Prof. Talk to me.'

  As soon as the others had gone, he'd been up to Prof's room and searched for bottles. Nothing, and nowhere to hide any.

  He'd taken the liberty of going through Prof's suitcase; he'd had the top off the toilet cistern; he'd even climbed on a chair to reach the high window in case there was a plastic carrier bag hanging outside.

  Clear.

  And then he'd found the pot.

  It was rolled on its side under the bed. A flagon, like a Chianti bottle, with a handle at the neck.

  Bluish glazed pottery. Stamford ware. A baluster jar.

  It stank of wine.

  It stank like Prof's white beard, rusted brown around his mouth. Simon bent to sniff the beard and they both recoiled at once.

  'Geddoff. What you doing? Bloody poofter.'

  'Prof. Where did you get the wine?'

  If you wanted to get discreetly pissed, you'd stick to spirits; you'd hardly try to smuggle in a case of red wine, would you?

  And the baluster jar. It hadn't been there when he'd shown Prof the room, he was sure of it.

  'Prof!'

  'What!'

  'The wine. Tell me where you got the wine.'

  Prof struggled upright, the chair rocking. It would probably make him sick eventually. Simon had a plastic bucket standing by.

  'Where?'

  Prof grinned. 'Room service.'

  And gradually, like the contents of Prof's stomach into the

  bucket, it all came out.

  Prof waking up, he doesn't know when but it's sometime in the night. And he's thirsty. Just plain thirsty, right? Thirsty as in needing liquid. Water, lemonade, nice cup of hot tea.

  The big jar is on the floor at the side of the bed. No, he wasn't aware of it before, which he would have been, 'course he would. Couldn't have been there when he went to bed, else he'd have knocked it over, wouldn't he? 'Course he would.

  It's heavy, this pot. Profs thirst is roaring. He pulls it on the bed, lifts it up to his mouth.

  Beaujolais nouveau it ain't.

  That's what he's thinking. Beaujolais nouveau it ain't. That's all he remembers thinking until he wakes up again with the same raging thirst. Which, considering how bloody cold it is in here, is not exactly normal, is it?

  Feels around by the side of the bed and there it is again.

  Full.

  In which case he couldn't have had more than a sip last time, could he?

  Prof heaves the big jar on to his chest, tips it towards his mouth.

  Remembers nothing else until... well it must be morning. But no more than first light, surely. Headache? Not that he remembers. No, feeling OK, really. Except for the thirst.

  'What did it taste like?' Simon asked.

  'Wonderful,' Prof said, rolling his eyes. 'Didn't seem like the same stuff. Before, it was kind of weak and sour. You got any more?'

  'No.'

  'Came up from the cellar, right? The wine cellar.'

  'This is the wine cellar. Hence the vaulted ceiling. This is where they stored the wine in casks. Imported wine from Bordeaux. Decanted into baluster jars. Th
is was the wine cellar.

  'Now it's a studio. Remember?'

  'No more wine?'

  'No more wine for you.'

  'Shit.' Prof giggled.

  Simon looked down at Prof. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why had nobody told him this guy had a drink problem?

  Like Simon had had a sex problem.

  Whatever was in here, it always homed in on weaknesses.

  He took the plastic bucket upstairs to the little, cold bathroom which shared the first floor with Prof's room. He half-filled the bucket with chilled spring water from the bath and brought it back, with a sponge.

  'Blown it, din' I?' Prof mumbled as Simon mopped his face and his beard. 'Fucked up again.'

  'It was useful, Prof. It was a warning not to relax, not for one moment.'

  'Time is it?'

  'Five-ish.'

  'Morning?'

  'Afternoon, Prof. Evening.'

  'Oh shit, we're losing time. We were gonna record ...'

  'Looks like we won't be recording tonight.'

  He thought, Looks like it doesn't want us to record.

  Yet.

  When the child appeared on the vicarage doorstep, Meryl thought it was a visitation, a phantasm.

  So silent. So still.

  Meryl stood there with the door open, the dark air biting at her cheeks.

  The porch light haloed the small figure.

  Meryl's anger evaporated in the fragrant holiness of the moment.

  This morning she'd driven to Abergavenny to buy more clothes. And toiletries, to supplement the frugal male contents of Simon's bathroom cabinet. Since her return, she'd been feeling increasingly resentful. Stalking the vicarage and doing things abruptly: washing her hair, switching the TV set on and off, walking up the street to the little village shop inside the pub on three separate occasions to buy items which were already on shelves in the larder. And making pot after pot of hot, placating tea.

  Periodically, she'd go and stand at the big picture window and gaze out towards the wind-scoured hills stubbled with bare trees. Knowing that, sooner or later, tonight or tomorrow night, she would go to the Abbey.

  She'd not yet even seen the Abbey, but she'd dreamed of it last night. In the dream, the Abbey had soared marble-white into a starry night sky. The Abbey was magnificently floodlit by its own inner incandescence.