December (49 page)

      
'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 Case 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.'

      
'They went the same way, though, in the end,' Simon said.
      
'Neurotic, reclusive.'

      
'Yeah, I often wonder if there were other attributes in
common. Talking to God and all that. You talk to God, don't you, Simon? Like a
mate. Heard you exchanging a few words out there on the rock.'

      
It seemed like a long-ago dream. What could he have been
doing, hanging from a tree-root, challenging the Almighty to give him a sign or
let him die?
      
'I'm embarrassed,' Simon said.

      
'Times when we all need to blow,' Sile said. 'Just a little
out of character, in view of the way they talk about you in the village. Very
laid-back, the word is. Not fazed by anything. Maybe a little bit prissy. Must've
been a picnic working with Tom Storey.'

      
'I think we kept each other on the rails,' Simon said. 'In a funny
sort of way.'

      
He closed his eyes. This whole situation was strangely
dreamlike, the coincidence unreal. Divine intervention. He thought, this man -
and maybe God - saved my life. In such circumstances, bewildered, lying deep in
the cleft of rock in alignment with the Skirrid, what could he do but say, sure,
I'll come with you. Wherever you're going.

      
Sile had stopped, switched off the engine. When Simon opened
his eyes, both the headlights and sidelights were out. It was fully dark, no moon.
He couldn't even see Sile Copesake.

      
He didn't move.

      
'You know where we are,' Sile said.

      
'I think so. Don't put the lights on yet. I may get scared and
ask you to take me back.'
      
'If that's what you want.'

      
'Maybe you could tell me what this is all about. You followed
me. You've been asking questions about me in the village. Does everybody know?'

      
'About the Philosopher's Stone? I doubt that.' Sile's voice
was comforting, like talcum powder. 'What you should know, Simon - well, a lot
of things you should know, but we've got plenty of time - is that I'm on the
board of TMM these days.'

      
He let it lie a while. Through the windscreen, Simon saw big
shadows looming like tall trees.

      
'Am I supposed to know where this is leading?'
      
Except that there was a breeze and
trees moved in a breeze and these shadows didn't.

      
Yes, he knew where they were. Too late now for prayer.
      
When God picked you up, he
invariably swung you around and threw you in the deep end.

      
'I've never been back,' he said. 'A man called Eddie Edwards brought
me half-way, but I couldn't go the distance. I saw the place and I chickened
out.'

      
'So why did you come to Ystrad Ddu, Simon?'

      
He really did know the area, didn't he? A stranger would have
pronounced it Istrad Doo. He'd been evacuated
here? Right here?

      
'For my part,' Sile said. 'I've come to face up to my responsibilities.
To you and the others. And to ... this place.'

      
Simon had opened his mouth to speak. The breath seemed to
evaporate in his throat as, with a muffled click, the headlights came on and
the Abbey reared up around them, white on black, in all its jagged, soaring,
Gothic glory.

VIII

Spiritual
Haven Garbage

'... Davey ...?'

      
After Case's carefully-planted landmine had gone up in his
face, he'd stopped the tape to call up Prof. And then sat on the bed a while to
consider his options. Thinking, Options is too soft a word. Options doesn't
include expedients like emigration, suicide.

      
And he'd not been able to think at all beyond that. Been about
to unplug his answering machine, forgetting about the green figure 2 under the
plastic bubble signifying another message.

      
And then, bending down over the plug behind the TV, he'd heard
the machine squawk once, like something trampled on, and in his head, distinct
as a radio time-signal:

      
'...Davey...?'

      
He stared blankly at the answering machine for a moment; it
had nothing else to say, the tape was not turning. He pushed the answer button
again; it coughed up some white noise. Dave threw a mental shrug and left it,
started to close his suitcase. And then

      
'…Davey...?'

      
The suitcase lid sprang up.

      
Dave sat down on the bed. Fourteen years of impenetrable
silence, silence as in frozen out, padded cell, transmission shutdown, and now:

      
'Aw, shit, I still hate these machines.'

      
The little round white plastic speaker crackled in irritation.

      
'Like, what's with this Dave Kite, huh? What kind of name's
that? I don't mean to be offensive, but you're no' exactly a natural predator ...
Dave
Sparrow
, maybe. Jesus, I'm using
up your tape. Nerves, you know? Listen, I ... I think maybe we fucked up in a
big way, Davey. I'm sorry. It was my fault. What can I say about this, except...
Just call me, huh? I'll be kind of in and out of Malcolm's. Kaufmann. I'll ...
Just call me soon, OK, before I start regretting this. OK. Right. Bye, Davey...
Bye.'