A Cry From Beyond (3 page)

Strong
and independent, she had brought me up single handed following my
father’s unexplained departure twenty odd years before. It’d been a
struggle for her physically and emotionally but she’d come through
with flying colours. As for my absent father, I’d long since given
up all hope of ever seeing him again. For one thing he’d been
pretty ill at the time of his disappearance; for another I really
didn’t want to see him again anyway. As far as I was concerned he
was history from the moment he deserted us.

I was
busy working out with a cigarette and a cup of cappuccino when she
phoned that day to see how her only son was coping with life in the
English countryside. She greeted me warmly and then it was question
time.

“How are
you finding the place, not too cut off I hope?” she asked, straight
to the point as always.

“It’s
okay,” I said, not wanting to make a big deal of it.

“Does
Lennon like it?”

“Lennon’s
got no choice in the matter.”

“I do
hope you’ve made the right decision, John.”

“It’s
absolutely perfect for me.”

“If you
have any problems, promise you’ll call.”

“What
kind of problems could I possibly have in this neck of the woods;
it’s sheer bliss.”

“I’m your
mother, I worry.”

“Well
stop it right now mom, and that’s an order. High Bank Cottage is a
dream. You really must visit and see the place for
yourself.”

“I have
to go, John. I have an appointment in town. Call me later in the
week; tell me how you’re getting on.”

“Okay
mom.”

“Promise
me?”

“I
promise.”

She hung
up.

I called
her straight back.

“You
really don’t like the idea of me being here, do you
mom?”

“It’s
really none of my business, son.”

“But you
don’t, do you?”

“I think
you’ll be lonely.”

“I’m here
to rest. Besides I’ve got Lennon and my work for company. So stop
worrying. In case you’d forgotten, I also happen to know a lot of
people: I dare say I’ll have visitors.”

Mom gave
a little sigh. “That’s what worries me.”

Mike was
the first. He dropped by one weekend on his way up to Manchester
where he was to launch a new band, hailed as the next Oasis. I
prepared for his visit by buying in extra groceries and a couple of
bottles of his favourite wine. I wanted to make him feel at home.
He wasn’t just my business associate; he was also my friend and
mentor. When the chips were down he was one of the few people who’d
stood by me. To put it simply, he’d helped save my miserable life.
I owed him, though he was never going to call up the debt. He
wasn’t the type.

I recall
the weather being incredibly cold with an unseasonal amount of
sunshine that day. The cottage, surrounded by frosty autumnal
countryside, looked like something out of a picture postcard. I
felt good, really good; a sensation denied to me for longer than I
cared to remember: country life seemed to agree with this
particular city kid. Unfortunately, my high spirits only made Mike
suspicious. I guess he still thought of me as a no hope dope head;
the good-looking kid who got lucky, then messed up to become yet
another rock n roll victim.

“You’ve
managed to find yourself a neat little place,” he said climbing out
of the gleaming new Audi he’d recently purchased.

I
acknowledged the compliment with a nod and a smile. “Let me get
your luggage,” I said, going round to the car boot, but Mike waved
me back.

“Sorry
John, I’m afraid it’s a flying visit. I have a breakfast meeting
arranged first thing tomorrow morning. It was dumped on me at the
last minute. I intend travelling up tonight so I can prepare.” He
blew into his cupped hands to ward off the chill in the air. “A
room has been pre-booked at a hotel near the Arena. I hate bloody
hotels, but they can’t be avoided sometimes. Hope you’re not too
put out. Another time maybe....”

“Yeah,
sure,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. I ushered him
inside the cottage and out of the cold.

“Do you
think you’ll stay here for long?” he asked as he stepped into the
hall and wiped his shoes on the mat.

“I’ll
stay for as long as I have to,” I said taking his coat and hanging
it on the wall hook. “I’ve signed on the dotted line, made my down
payment, unpacked my stuff and got hooked up to the internet, so I
guess I’m pretty settled already.”

He nodded
to himself, appraising his surroundings with an air of confidence
gained from a lifetime of successful deals. A big man with a large
appetite for the finer things in life, he had a reputation for
being ruthless when it came to protecting his business interests,
which, despite it all, still included me.

As we
passed into the living room I caught him scrutinising my
appearance, doubtless checking to see that my eyes were focused,
that my hands didn’t quiver. I suspect, given half a chance, he
would’ve rolled up my shirtsleeves to check for puncture marks to
the skin. Despite assurances otherwise, he was convinced I’d fled
out to the sticks for no other purpose than to blow my mind in self
imposed solitude.

“I’m
clean,” I told him earnestly; well, almost, I could’ve
added.

“I never
claimed otherwise,” he replied. He glanced around the room,
appeared to like what he saw, and wandered over to the window
overlooking the expansive rear gardens. Then he was waving a hand,
urging me to join him. “Come here, John, quick, check out the wild
life!”

I went
over and was momentarily lost for words.

Hundreds
of birds, big ones the size of cats, with jet black plumage, like
those I’d seen in the grounds of the derelict farmhouse, occupied
the lawns and circled the sky above. Those in the air reminded me
of vultures hovering over prey. Mike was completely blown away by
the spectacle. “I wonder what kind they are,” he said as if to
himself. And then, as an afterthought, “Do you think they could be
dangerous?”

I didn’t
answer. I was too busy watching.

All at
once those on the ground took flight to join their counterparts in
the sky. They soared regally above the treetops, eventually
disappearing from view. Mike and I looked at each other, bewildered
and awestruck by what we’d just witnessed.

“That was
totally weird,” Mike commented.

I nodded
agreement. “It was as if they were congregating for a reason: like
they’d come along to take a look at the cottage.”

“Or to
check out the new tenant,” Mike added dryly.

I changed
the subject. “How about I show you round the rest of the
house.”

We left
the living room and re-entered the hall, where Mike paused to ask
me how I heard about High Bank.

I told
him about the brochure, but purposely neglected to mention the
dream in which I’d foreseen its arrival, afraid of being
ridiculed.

“Seems
like you dropped lucky,” he said. “This place should be on the lid
of a chocolate box.”

The
cellar door caught his attention.

“What’s
through there?”

I told
him.

He made
to walk over.

“Best
steer clear,” I advised. “The atmosphere in there isn’t exactly
welcoming.”

Mike
frowned and waited for me to elaborate.

“Bad
drains,” I explained.

“In a
cellar: is that possible?”

“Who
knows; I’m not a builder. It’s on my list for the landlord, along
with the faulty kitchen door latch, and the side gate that refuses
to close.” I motioned for him to follow me. “Come on, Mike, there’s
more to this place than a musty old cellar.”

We ended
the guided tour upstairs in the attic room, now a temporary
recording studio. He seemed genuinely impressed by my
ingenuity.

I
explained the set up to him. The room stood right at the top of the
house with a single dormer window overlooking the front yard, and
driveway. The ceiling was high, the walls solid, making for
impressive acoustics. The brains of the studio took the form of a
Yamaha multi-track MD4 recorder with monitor, amp, effects
processor, master recorder, drum machine and various accessories.
It was a few years old now, and a bit antiquated by today’s
standards, but it did the job nonetheless, enabling me to produce
CD quality recordings that I could then pass straight onto the
record company.

Next to
it was a Yamaha DX100 synthesiser, same era and same timeless
quality. It boasted 24 user-programmable memory locations, and an
ability to be linked to sequencers and guitar controllers. Opposite
stood my guitars, the jumbo Gruhn-designed Guild with its solid
spruce top, rosewood sides and back. Beside it stood my old
Rotosound Swing bass, and Charvel Model 4 electric guitar, a
present from Chrysalis Records for achieving a silver disc for a
little ditty I wrote called, “Riding the Sky”. I played Mike a
couple of my latest efforts, which he greeted with cautious
optimism

“Will you
be able to meet the deadline?” he asked referring to my contractual
obligations with my present record company.

“Is the
Pope Catholic?”

He took a
seat, which seemed to sag ever so slightly beneath his
weight.

“Have I
mentioned that Frank Robson from NME is interested in interviewing
you, John?”

“Not that
I recall...” I picked up a guitar and lightly strummed.

“He wants
to call it “Johnny O’Shea, back from the dead!”

I pulled
a face.

“Come
on,” Mike said trying to be encouraging. “It’s a good angle.” He
grinned crookedly. “You have to admit you did sort of die a death
for a while.”

I stopped
strumming and sighed. “The title makes me sound like a bloody
zombie.”

Mike
rolled his eyes, “How many times have I got to tell you, all
publicity is good publicity!”

“Yeah,
right, and I’m Laurence of Arabia!”

“What’s
that supposed to mean?”

I
reminded him of the time damning stories had appeared in the
tabloids claiming I was a coke addict, which to my eternal shame
was true. The publicity killed my image dead as a dodo. Until then
I was seen as whiter than white, a good example to the young
generation—I lost a lot of fans and record sales as a result; my
career nosedived, never to fully recover.

Mike
wisely let the subject drop. Back downstairs in the front room I
poured drinks, a whisky and soda for him, a beer for me. He got
comfortable in one of the armchairs, pulled a sheaf of papers from
his briefcase, thrust them at me and said, “New management
agreement. Sign on the dotted line.”

“You
really think I’m worth it?” I asked.

He
grinned. “I sometimes wonder. Best sign before I change my
mind.”

I did as
he said and handed the document back. Then we toasted our future
success.

“Did I
mention Michelle wants to talk to you about plans for a tour
sometime late next year?” he said. “Doubtless she’ll be in contact
before too long.”

“How is
she?” I asked.

“Pining
for you,” he replied candidly.

I stared
into my glass not knowing what to say. I missed her too, but was
far too stubborn to admit it.

Mike
sipped whisky, then stood and returned to the window through which
we’d seen the birds. Gazing out, he said, “Do you want the good
news, or the bad news?”

“Best
give me the good news.”

“The
birds have gone.”

“And the
bad news is?”

“Someone’s in the garden, wielding an axe.”

At first
I thought Mike was joking, but sure enough there really was someone
out there in the shape of a man of advancing years who was busy
chopping logs.

He turned
out to be the handyman employed to maintain the property. Beanpole
thin, with silvery hair and piercing blue eyes, he introduced
himself as Harold Gentleshaw, “Hal” to his friends, and apologised
for turning up unannounced, explaining that he was unaware the
house had been re-let.

“I’m not
on the phone,” he said apologetically, “so it can be difficult for
Mrs Corbett to get hold of me.”

“It’s
always nice to have company,” I said, in an attempt to make him
feel at ease. “My name is John and this is Mike. Mike is just
visiting.”

He smiled
politely. “Please to meet you both.” He reached out and shook our
hands. His grip was surprisingly firm. He glanced back the way he’d
come, and said, “If you’ve quite finished with me I’ll be getting
on with my work.” With that he wandered off.

I turned
my attention to Mike. “Can I tempt you to stay for a bite to
eat?”

He
glanced at his Rolex and declined. “Best I head off before daylight
fades.”