The Secrets of Pain mw-11

by Phil Rickman

  ‘You’re, erm, cookin’? As Danny would say.’

  ‘We need to get the album out before summer.’ Lol had a cautious sip of shandy. ‘It’s not just about me any more.’

  Probably meaning not Danny so much as Prof Levin. Hard times for a producer with a studio and overheads, now that a band could make a perfectly professional album with digital kit in someone’s spare bedroom. She knew Lol was worried about Prof going back on the booze, if only out of boredom.

  ‘And, um…’ Upturning his pencil, letting it slide through his fingers to the pad. ‘I’ve had another approach.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘An agency. Nu-folk stuff – reputable. They could break me into tours, have me headlining middling events next autumn, and…’ Lol leaned back. ‘There we are. Serious money.’

  ‘Oh.’

  With downloads and burn-offs, the profits were in gigs again.

  ‘I said maybe I’d get back to them,’ Lol said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I won’t, obviously.’

  ‘Lol, don’t let-’

  ‘It’s not just that. I mean, it’s not just you.’

  Merrily felt like the stone flags were falling away beneath her chair. That what he was saying was not what he was thinking.

  Lol said, ‘I don’t actually want to be rich. You know that.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Well… be nice, in a way, to be so loaded you could buy out Ward Savitch. But realistically…’ Lol put his hands on his knees, stared down at them. ‘I’ve been handed a second chance, right? So I want things to be different from what they might’ve been if I’d made it first time. Partly because there’s going to be less time. And also… Like, when Prof says, we need more body on this album and why doesn’t he see if Tom Storey’s available, I’m going, no, there’s actually this guy called Danny Thomas who’s an ex-subsistence farmer and isn’t quite as good as Tom Storey, but is good enough…’

  ‘You didn’t tell me that, either. You didn’t tell me Prof wanted to get you Tom Storey.’

  Unlikely to be an idle promise, because Prof had been around a long time and knew these ageing rock gods from way back, and some of them owed him favours. Merrily felt starved. What else hadn’t he told her?

  Lol said, ‘Just we’ve not had that much time to talk lately, have we?’

  ‘Because you’ve been at Danny’s barn night after bloody-You just didn’t want to tell me, did you?’

  ‘You have enough to-’

  ‘So we have separate problems now? We keep our problems to ourselves? We keep them apart? Now you don’t need me to bounce this stuff off because you’ve got Danny?’

  ‘I don’t want a row…’

  ‘Jesus, Lol… you never want a bloody row.’

  Merrily jerked her chair back. What was the matter with her? She liked Danny Thomas. She was glad that Lol was working with a local guy. But was he turning down tours only because he thought it would be incompatible with the life of a woman tied to a parish?

  ‘I like it here,’ Lol said. ‘I like being a guy living in a village where one day you’re playing music, the next you’re doing… something else.’

  He pulled over the lyrics pad, pencilled a circle around something, then pushed it in front of Merrily. She read:

  When life’s become a bitch

  Dig out another ditch

  Find some recovery

  Back in the JCB

  Referencing the times he’d spent helping Gomer Parry. She wasn’t really taking this in. She was thinking, This is a test. It had to happen one day. The Christian thing would be to persuade him to do the tour.

  She saw a man walk into the bar, carrying a black bin liner.

  ‘Look,’ Lol said, ‘I’ve agreed with Barry to do a few more gigs here – at the Swan.’

  ‘And would that be a living?’ Merrily clutched her head. ‘All right, I’m sorry…’

  ‘And maybe something outside in the summer, with more music. Other people.’

  ‘A music festival? In Ledwardine?’

  ‘Too big a word. We’re thinking no more than one day… and a night. Just an idea. Well, Danny’s idea. He has Glastonbury dreams. I was going to see what you thought before we took it any further, because… festivals of any kind haven’t always gone well here, have they? Anyway, it would be useful to have the album finished and mastered and out there, before it happens. If it happens.’

  ‘Does the album have a title yet?’

  ‘ A Message from the Morning.’

  ‘Oh God, I knew that. What’s the matter with me? Lol, look…’ Merrily reached across the table for his hand. ‘Maybe we should grab half a day. Drive over to Wales. Talk about all this. And other things.’

  Lol said, ‘What’s up with Barry?’

  Merrily turned her chair around. Barry was back and the man was holding up the bin liner. Barry was wiping his hands on a towel.

  ‘He’s not happy, Lol.’

  Lol said, ‘Why were you asking him about Syd Spicer?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  The guy put the bin sack on the bar.

  ‘For you, Barry.’

  He was gangly, long-faced, jutting jaw. And not sober. Barry looked up, doing his professional beam.

  ‘Is this roadkill, sir, or did one of you finally learn how to shoot?’

  ‘Dinner.’ The guy slapped the bag on the bar. ‘My dinner for tomorrow, Barry.’

  He wore a camouflage jacket, newish. He had a loose, rubbery mouth.

  ‘I wanna eat it,’ he said.

  Merrily saw Lol look up, frown.

  ‘I thought he’d gone back to… wherever he came from. I thought they’d all gone.’

  ‘Guest of The Court?’

  ‘They love to find bits of lead shot in their dinner,’ Lol said. ‘Real men.’

  ‘Do us a favour, sir,’ Barry said, ‘Take it round the back. Not everybody likes dead game in the bar. Especially when it’s over a month out of season.’

  ‘It never fucking is, landlord!’

  ‘Then it’s probably unfit for human consumption,’ Barry said calmly. ‘Round the back, eh?’

  ‘I need to eat it.’

  ‘We’ll talk about it round the back.’

  ‘I can only thank God Jane’s not here,’ Merrily said.

  She saw Lol wince.

  16

  The Rule

  Halfway across the square, under the amber wash of the fake gas lamps, Jane lost the certainty. Not cold feet exactly, just the need for a second opinion. Why ruin Mum’s night? She hadn’t seen Lol for days.

  She slipped into the shadowy sanctuary of the little oak- pillared market hall, pulled out her mobile and called Eirion’s phone.

  Eirion’s answering service kicked in.

  ‘It’s me,’ Jane said.

  She’d give him two minutes to call back and then walk across to the Swan, see what kind of mood Mum was in. Let the fates decide.

  She was alone under the stone-tiled roof of the market hall which sometimes looked even more ancient than it was, like a prehistoric burial chamber. In her plan of the Ledwardine henge, the market hall was just off-centre, maybe marking a confluence of energies. A fair bit of energy had been expended here, all those shadowy couples exploring each other’s bodies up against the pillars.

  Which made her think about Eirion at university, with all its temptations, although he’d sworn to her…

  Sod it. Jane tucked away her phone and walked across to the Swan, reaching the bottom of the three stone steps just as the door opened. She backed away as someone stumbled out, the porch lamp lighting his face and his slobbery mouth.

  Oh God, no.

  Still here? Weren’t they all supposed to have gone home to their penthouses? How long did these bloody courses go on?

  Still here, still pissed.

  I’ll be seeing you… girlie.

  Bad, bad news. Jane slid into the alley which led to the Swan’s backyard. He might not
even remember her, probably tried it on with a few more women since then, but it wasn’t worth the risk. She stood leaning against the wall, waiting for him to go.

  Obviously not the time to talk to Mum. Too many negative signs.

  The phone shuddered in her pocket. She eased it out of her jeans, moving further into the alley, holding it very tight to her ear.

  ‘I was finishing a curry,’ Eirion said. ‘Some things must never be interrupted. And, before you ask, yes, it was a vegetable curry. Not easy to obtain in this part of Cardiff.’

  ‘Well, that-’ Footsteps, someone grunting. ‘Irene, I’ll have to call you back.’

  ‘Jane-?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She killed the signal, edged a little further against the wall. There was a sigh and a liquid splatter. Steam and stench. G ross. Jane turned away and waited until it was over, expecting him to go once he’d finished, but…

  Damn, damn, damn. He was coming into the alley. Jane moved all the way into the inn yard. There was an old brick toilet block at the end, long out of use. Jane slid around the side of it, stumbling into a pile of rubble.

  Only just making it in time. The kitchen door was opening. A splash of light. Jane saw Dean Wall standing in the doorway, wearing an apron. A local thug, basically, unless he’d changed since she’d been at school with him. Somehow, he’d persuaded Barry to take him on as an assistant chef, which probably meant he was responsible for sweeping the yard. Essentially, only a few years, a degree from the LSE and probably a Swiss bank account separated Dean from Cornel, who was standing on the step, one arm inside a plastic sack.

  ‘Tomorrow’s dinner, mate.’

  Something was pushed at Dean, who went kind of duh, but it was crisply overlaid by Barry’s voice.

  ‘I’m sorry, mate.’

  ‘Don’t apologize, Barry. Just take it.’

  ‘You misunderstand. I told you once, I’m not accepting this. This is the country. There are rules.’

  ‘Wha-?’

  ‘Rules. Take it away.’

  ‘No, mate,’ Cornel said. ‘In the country, there aren’t any fucking rules that can’t be broken.’

  ‘Son, you don’t know anything about the country.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Season ends on February the first, and it’s now very nearly the end of March. That make sense to you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pheasants. The rule.’

  ‘Did I mention pheasants? Did I? ’

  Jane saw white moonlight rippling in the black plastic of a bin liner, bulging. Cornel was holding it up with both hands, something hanging out of it.

  ‘It deserves to be fucking eaten,’ Cornel said. ‘By me. That make sense to you?’

  Barry didn’t move. Cornel pulled the bin liner open at the top and held it out to him. Barry stayed in the doorway, very relaxed-looking, not touching the bag.

  ‘How’d you kill that? You all get together and beat it to death?’

  Jane couldn’t see what it was and didn’t want to. She felt herself going tight with hate.

  Cornel said, ‘You’re really not gonna-?’

  ‘Goodnight, son.’

  Barry at his most no-shit.

  ‘Wha’m I s’posed to do with it?’

  Almost screaming now.

  ‘I should put it back in your car boot, mate, and dispose of it very discreetly.’

  ‘You’re no fun, Barry. You’re no fucking fun.’

  ‘Actually,’ Barry said, ‘this is me at my most fun. You want to see me at my most no fun, you’ll leave that thing behind on these premises. You get where I’m coming from?’

  There was a scary kind of deadness in Barry’s voice. Jane had heard stories about what Barry had been known to do, the odd times it had got rough in the public bar. The yard went momentarily black as the door was shut, and – oh, shit – the mobile started vibrating in Jane’s hip pocket. She was gripping the phone through the denim as Cornel totally lost it, started snarling at the closed door.

  ‘This is not over. It’s not fucking over!’

  Just like the other night. I just want you to know it doesn’t end here. Only losers walked away. Limited repertoire. Tosser. Jane stayed tight between the perimeter wall and the toilet block, trying to breathe slowly in the stale-beery air, not wanting to think how Cornel might react if he found her here, witness to his humiliation. Again.

  The moon showed her Cornel’s foot coming back, maybe to kick the closed door, and then it got confusing.

  ‘Didn’t handle that very well, did we, Cornel?’

  Another voice. Someone had come into the yard from the alley.

  ‘Pick it up, eh?’

  An ashy kind of voice. Not Barry. A bit Brummy.

  ‘I thought you’d gone,’ Cornel said.

  ‘Thought? Yow don’t think, Cornel, that’s the problem. Now pick it up. Take it somewhere and bury it, then go and cry yourself to sleep.’

  Cornel’s voice came back, petulant.

  ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

  ‘Go home any time y’want, mate. No skin off my nose.’

  ‘You’re just a-’

  A movement. Not much of one. A chuckle. Then a short cry, more shock than pain.

  ‘ Uhhh! ’

  ‘Ah, dear, dear, you’re really not ready. Didn’t see that that coming either. Not as hard as we thought, eh? Long way to go, Cornel, still a long way to go, mate.’

  Jane breathed in hard, through her mouth, and the breath dragged in something gritty.

  ‘I’ve told you,’ Cornel said. ‘I’ll pay the extra.’

  ‘It’s not about money. It’s about manhood.’

  An indrawn breath, full of rage, a scuffling, like Cornel was finding his feet. Jane tasted something disgusting, realized she was inhaling a cobweb full of dead flies.

  Cornel was going, ‘You sanctimonious fucking… Awwww…’

  From the yard, a bright squeak of intense agony. Piercing violence lighting up the night like an electric storm, and Jane, choking, clawing at her mouth, was really scared now, sweat creaming her forehead. Trying to meld with the toilet wall, breathing through her nose, holding her jaw rigid, not even daring to spit.

  ‘Come and see me again, look, when your balls drop,’ the guy said.

  This kind of tittering laugh. A sound you’d swear was the guy clapping Cornel on the back in a don’t take it to heart kind of way.

  Departing footsteps, light and casual in the alley, but in the yard there was only retching and then Cornel going, ‘ Shit, shit, shit, shit…’ like he was walking round in circles, while Jane clung to the jagged stones in the toilet wall, her head ballooning with a suffocating nausea.

  ‘…shit, shit, shit…’ from the alleyway now, receding.

  Cornel had gone.

  Jane sprang away from the wall, coughing out the cobweb and the flies, coughing and coughing, wiping her mouth on her sleeve as she went staggering out into the warm smell of new vomit in the yard.

  She was at the top of the alley, where it came out onto the square, when she saw Cornel again.

  He was on his own, dragging the black bin sack across the cobbles like some vagrant. He was moving jerkily, his body arched. Jane saw him stop. She saw him pick up the plastic sack with both hands, his gangly body bending in pain like an insect which had been trodden on.

  Cornel dumped the sack into one of the concrete litter bins on the square, ramming it in hard before walking crookedly away.

  Jane didn’t move until he was long gone and the village centre was unusually deserted in the amber of the fake gas lamps.

  Beyond the glow, gables jutted, like Cornel’s chin, into a cold, windless night sky, and the church steeple was moon-frosted as Jane moved unsteadily across to the concrete bin.

  17

  Get the Drummer Killed

  ‘ You don’t have to take that crap,’ Barry said. ‘There comes a point where you just… you realize you just don’t.’

  H
e’d come back from the kitchens looking dark-faced, angry, and that was rare. A few more customers had come in since, and Marion, the head barmaid, had taken over. Barry had poured himself a Guinness and come to sit with Merrily and Lol.

  ‘Behaving like a servant is one thing. Being treated like one is something else.’

  ‘He’d killed a pheasant?’ Lol said.

  ‘Don’t matter. None of it matters too much now, anyway. When the worst happens, I’m not going to be around.’

  He got up suddenly, unhooked a big black poker, turned over the last big apple log, and the flames were instantly all over it. Barry came and sat down, rubbing soot from his hands.

  ‘The worst?’ Merrily said.

  ‘I apologize.’ Barry drank some Guinness, wiped his lips almost delicately on a white pocket handkerchief. ‘There’s no reason at all for me not to tell you. Savitch is buying the Swan.’

  Pool balls plinked off one another in the Public. Lol put down his pencil.

  ‘When you think about it, it was only a matter of time,’ Barry said.

  ‘I didn’t…’ Lol’s voice was parched. ‘The Swan’s for sale?’

  ‘Way things are now, Laurence, any pub’s for sale. Every day, somewhere in Britain, another one shuts down.’

  Merrily stared into the fire. After Christmas, it had become known that the Black Swan’s elderly owner had handed it over to her son, who ran a building firm. The building trade would revive, but the future for pubs…

  ‘Savitch put in an initial offer last week.’ Barry’s voice was flat. ‘Ridiculously low, and it got turned down, of course. But that was just round one. He’ll be back.’

  ‘Why’s he doing this?’ Lol said. ‘Why not just, you know, live here?’

  ‘He’s a businessman. The place you live, you want it to look like an enterprise, not a loser’s refuge.’

  ‘This can’t happen,’ Lol said.

  ‘It could happen tomorrow, mate, if he doubles his bid. Which I’m sure he can afford to. But I think he’ll wait.’

  ‘What can we do?’ Merrily said.

  ‘Pray?’

  ‘What are his plans, exactly?’