Authors: Phil Rickman
You set me up, Donald, you auld bastard, you set me up for this.
She took out the envelope, pale blue Basildon Bond, and the
Duchess watched from her pillows as she slit the top with the thumbnail of her
right hand.
One sheet of paper, folded in two.
The Duchess watched her read the words, two of them, printed
in capitals, each followed by a large question mark.
BREADWINNER?
and
DEATHOAK?
Moira said, voice as dry as
woodash, 'You can't do this. You're a sham, a phoney. You can't con me with
your wee tricks ... you hear me?'
She tried to tighten her lips in defiance, but her mouth had
gone to rubber, like after anaesthetic at the dentist's.
Instead, she struggled to get both hands together around the paper,
gripping her right hand with her left to make it close. She crumpled the paper
in her hands. It crackled as if it was on fire, so loud that she barely heard the
other sound, the silken slithering.
As two pillows slid to the floor and the Duchess, with a sighing
of satin, subsided into the sheets.
Part
Two
I
A
Sob You Could See
Sir Wilfrid, striding
stiffly in his gardening tweeds, led the way to the end of his terrace to offer
up the full horror of the eyesore on the hill.
'And the trees - the few that there
were - they
chopped them down
. Can
you imagine doing that? This is the Cotswolds, heaven's sake. Do they
know
who lives over the valley?'
'You mean the Prince of Wales?'
Sir Wilfrid snorted. 'Do you think
he
should have to see
that
every time he drives up the lane?'
Martin Broadbank, for his sins, chairman of the district
council's environmental health committee, said, 'I'm sure that, on his scale of
monstrous architectural carbuncles, that place wouldn't be terribly noteworthy.
But I see your point.'
The house on the hill was the size of a moderate Victorian
mansion. It had been built, in what, loosely, could be described as the
approved Cotswold style, employing the kind of reconstituted ochre stone used
for council houses, to make them blend in with the traditional village
architecture.
It blended in like a cheeseburger at a vicarage tea. Sir
Wilfrid was right: not a tree of any substance, nor even a trickle of ivy up
the walls. All the other newish houses in the hamlet had been neatly stitched
into the tapestry of the landscape. This one was sliced off from it by a fence
six feet high, slats damn near as thick as railway sleepers.
'Twenty-two years at the D of E.' Sir Wilfrid brushed a dead
leaf from his gardening trousers. 'And one ends up with that on one's skyline.
And at night …'
Martin Broadbank noted the lawns sloping up to the yellow
house, flanking its gravel drive, the grass shaven billiard-table smooth He
counted six tightly clipped dwarf conifers, of the kind you found in your suburban
handkerchief patch. So much for landscaping.
He said carefully, 'I believe he was quite a well-known
musician at one time.'
'Hmph,' said Sir Wilfrid. 'Nobody I've ever heard of. Nobody
the
granddaughter
has even heard of.
Besides, thought all these pop chaps were supposed to be members of the damned Green
Party. Fellow wants to keep nature at bay, hell doesn't he go and live in Battersea?'
'Er ... quite.' Martin Broadbank always felt a trifle uncomfortable
in discussions of this nature; three of his supermarkets had been built in the
face of impassioned protest from local environmentalists. 'But your main
problem is …'
'The horrific noises. My wife feels threatened.'
'How so, Sir Wilfrid?'
'I mean,
she
seems
normal enough, the woman. Runs some sort of healthfood business in Stroud. Him,
we simply never see.
Nobody
ever sees
him. There's an evil-looking little hippie type, lives in a caravan in the
grounds - that's
another
scandalous breach
of planning regs. But, you see, we
hear
the beggar, at night.'
'The hippie?'
'No, no … Storey. Presumably. The most frightful howling and
wailing … dreadful shrill mournful whining, like a sick fox in the woods. And
lights on, all night.
All
night. They
say the man's disturbed, of course. And so, obviously, my wife …'
Martin himself would probably have popped round and invited
them for supper, check these people out. Not Sir Wilfrid's style; only way he'd
communicate, if it ever became unavoidable, was by solicitor's letter.
'And there's the daughter. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying
they should be in
homes
necessarily.
But the way they have her dressed you'd swear they think she's normal.'
'Normal, Sir Wilfrid?'
Sir Wilfrid sniffed. 'Anyway,' he said, 'what does your council
propose to do about them?'
OK. Maybe there was a
rational explanation. Fair enough. No hassle.
The Weasel set off from his caravan, stepping over tree stumps.
Rational? Nah. Rational, bollocks. As Tom would say.
It was cold, the air gnawing at his
sunken cheeks. He pulled down his woollen hat and buttoned his old US Army
combat jacket. Wedged under his left arm was an LP record,
Goat's Head Soup
by the Rolling Stones.
The yellow back wall of the big, boring house loomed over him
like a prison block. It was an ugly fucking house. They could've done better,
Tom and Shelley; you could get yourself a terrific old drum hereabouts for half
what this pile cost. Yeah, yeah, Shelley needed somewhere big, with the office
and the computers and that. And, yeah, the local council had been good with the
grants and stuff, dead keen to promote all this tele-village, home-business
shit.
But it still didn't figure, any more than a lot of things.
And - Weasel sniffed the damp
bonfire smell of autumn - there was still too much
pain
in the air. Left over from last night, maybe, when the great
rainbow of purified pain had arched, throbbing, over the house.
The Weasel had worshipped the electric guitar since the days
when the Stratocaster was just a gleam in Mr Fender's eye. The guitar dragged
out of you what you couldn't otherwise express: pulled the rage out of your
head, the fear out of your guts, the hard longing out of your ... groin.
Turned all this into music. Wielding your axe like Tom Storey
could was like sprouting a new vital organ.
It was a beautiful thing.
But last night the Weasel had been almost cowering in his
caravan, fifty yards behind the house, where it sounded like Tom Storey had cut
open his belly and was slowly unravelling his guts.
It had started normally enough, with Tom playing along with
old Cream and Yardbirds albums, nostalgia time. But then Tom's playing had kind
of reeled away and you didn't hear the records any more, only these slippery
ribbons of pain.
And when you looked out, you'd swear you could see it, hazy
around the rooftop: what Weasel called the rainbow.
Except a rainbow was a pretty thing, and this was all dark colours,
purples and greys: like a sob you could see.
He stopped. He was about six yards from the house. He could
hear voices, not from the house. He looked down across long lawns the size of
three bowling greens and saw the titled geezer that lived in this quaint old
cottage on the edge of the village. He was talking to another, taller guy and
pointing up this way.
Which made the Weasel suspicious and legitimately so: part of
his job was to look out for Tom and Shelley and the kid, Vanessa, and anybody
that might give them hassle.
He watched the two geezers for a minute or so and then turned
back to the house and saw a figure, very still, in the kitchen window, heavy
blonde hair on the shoulders.
Shelley. Standing there, looking out, but not in his
direction. There was a mug of coffee steaming in her hand. She had no expression
on her face. Only tears.
The Weasel thought: That bastard. Don't he realise what he's
doing
to her?
Not the time.
The Weasel wasn't stupid, knew when to back off. He's away
before Shelley could turn and spot him and went round the side of the house to
spy on the two geezers.
She was a really wonderful woman, was Shelley. The Weasel had
long ago given up wondering what hidden qualities Tom possessed that he could've
pulled a chick of this quality and more amazing still - kept her for so many
years. 'Cause it wasn't the money; if it wasn't for Shelley, Tom wouldn't have
no money.
But how much more of this - of Tom - was she going to be able
to take?
See, Tom was getting worse, not better - all too obvious to a
mate who'd known him since they was kids in Bermondsey, back before Tom's old
man died.
OK, it was true, right from the old days, that Tom was the
first to blow his stack. Temperamental, like any great artist. But not like he
was now. Not like some hunted bear, and if you went too close, he'd have your
throat. Not so hung-up he couldn't even confide in the faithful little guy
who'd carried his amps out of the Transit van and into the halls, hunting for power
points, changing plugs by torchlight, procuring dodgy substances or clean
chicks or whatever else was required at any particular time to satisfy whatever
needed satisfying.
The Weasel stood on the edge of the circular drive and looked
down, across the lawns. The two geezers, old Sir Wilf and the younger, taller
one, had pushed off.
He thought: Time I done a bit more nosing around. Go down the
pub tonight, clobber the yokels at pool, find out what the score is with this
Sir Wilf.
But first things first.
Making his meal, before work, the Weasel had come to a decision.
'Go down the house,' he'd told his half-pounder. 'Soon's as I get finished. Get
some answers, find out what's going down. And no bullshit off the big guy. Not
this time.' In the frying pan, the big burger had sizzled its approval.
Wouldn't normally chance his arm like this, prejudice his
position in the Love-Storey set-up. Next to being a temporary roadie for the
Brain Police this was actually the best job he'd ever had, which still surprised
him; he hadn't expected to be able to stick it more than a few weeks, all this
fresh air shit. He might
look
like a
shrivelled hippie - little round shades and grey hair half-way down his back
(despite there not being much on top these days) - but he'd never been able to
grasp the attraction of living in the sticks, communing with nature, getting
your balls frozen off.
But here in his caravan, all connected to the juice, with an electric
heater, a good little sound system with a stack of vintage vinyl, plus a
microwave and a hotplate so's you could make yourself a couple of greasy
half-pounders after a day out delivering healthy shit to wholefood shops and
vegetarian restaurants, well, this was OK, this wasn't half bad, to be quite honest,
feet up in your van, good old stuff on the deck, Cream, Doors, Hendrix.
In fact, it was the late Jimi Hendrix, Weasel's all-time fave
axeman, that had started him thinking.
Weasel stood at the edge of the lawn, lit a fag.
How it happened was like this.
Week or two ago he'd noticed that his fourth copy of Hendrix's
Electric Ladyland
LP (the one with
all the naked chicks on the sleeve) was beginning to show serious signs of becoming
unplayable. So Weasel, still resisting CD - crackles is
life
, man - had wandered down the big house to ask Tom if he could
borrow his copy to transfer to cassette, which would mean he could also play it
in the van as he drove around delivering his consignments of soya sausages and
wholenut goulash.