Authors: Phil Rickman
'The old houses. He's afraid of what he might see in old houses,
that right? Because of the extra layers.'
'I suppose so.' What right did this woman have to pry? 'More
or less.'
'This is what I find strange. What brought this on? I imagine he
hasn't always been like that?'
'No, I ... There's a history.'
'Thought there might be,' Meryl said. 'You got time to tell me,
while Martin's keeping the little girl occupied?'
'I don't...'
'I might be able to help.'
Everybody had been saying that. But how could they?
Round about nine, the phone
awoke Dave Reilly from a murky sleep.
'Dave, it's Bart at Muthah's. You did collect the guitar, didn't
you?'
'The Tak?' Dave's fogged eyes searched the room. 'No, I can't
have.'
'Oh, you
did
.'
'I didn't, pal. It'd be here.' He did another thorough inventory
of the contents of the bedsit - took maybe three seconds. 'I left it in your
office, usual place, in the case, under the desk.'
'Oh, shit,' said Bart. "They didn't take much else.'
'You're kidding.'
'It's insured, though, isn't it? Fire, theft?'
'Do me a favour.' Dave fumbled for his lighter and the packet
of Silk Cut Extra Mild.
'I'm sorry, mate. I'll call the police. See, it wasn't even a
break-in. Some bastard must have stayed inside after we closed.'
'Don't bother,' said Dave. They were so bloody careless at
Muthah Mirth, complete amateurs. 'When did anybody ever get a stolen guitar
back?'
'Can you borrow one for tonight?'
Dave said, 'I don't think I can make it anyway tonight. Something's
come up.'
'Hey. now, we had a deal.'
'Yeah, we also had a deal related to overnight storage of that
guitar.'
'It should have been bloody well insured, Dave.'
Dave said wearily, 'There are some things you can't insure against.'
'You're gonna let me down again?'
'Again?'
'Yes, Dave. Again.'
Shelley stood up. 'I think
I'd like to go home now.'
There was so much more Meryl wanted to ask.
'You've both been very kind,' Shelley said, 'but we can't stay
here. What if... when Tom comes home.'
'That little chap's at the house, surely? And ... Well, Tom
could be anywhere, couldn't he? Where were you from originally, London?'
'He wouldn't go back to London. He'll stay in the area, until he
thinks it's safe.'
'
Well,' said Meryl. 'You
know your husband.'
But
does
she? Meryl
wondered. I was the one shared his vision, not her.
In the vision everybody had been dead, except for Meryl and Tom.
Within a short time, the Tulleys
were
dead. Horribly so.
In the early hours, while Martin was showing Shelley and
Vanessa to their room, Meryl had taken the little man, Beasley, into the
kitchen, got some coffee into him and, out of him, a harrowing description of
the inside of the Tulleys' Daimler. When he'd told her, a bit hesitantly, that
Lady Tulley had been decapitated, a long shiver had coursed through Meryl like
a black waterfall.
It had left her hot and cold. Cold with fear, hot with anticipation.
She had to see him again. The appalling, awesome Tom Storey.
The shaving mirror was
bored with Dave.
The shaving mirror had heard it all before, the same old questions.
Why can't I hold on to a guitar?
Why can't I hold down a relationship?
Why can't I write my own songs any more?
Why can't I direct my life?
Why do I have to shelter under other guys' tragedies?
Why can't I make any real money?
Why am I still living in a bloody
bedsit?
Why do I keep letting people down?
Why me?
Why does it have to be like this?
The mirror was balanced on a glass shelf over the washbasin in
the bedsit. Dave sat on a rickety stool and gazed into it through the smoke from
his cigarette and said why, why, why, until it became almost a mantra, the
mirror clouded with the smoke and his breath.
And after a while
because you're a useless
twat, Dave
, the mirror said in a familiar voice, grinding with irony.
You're physically wasted, emotionally
stunted, spiritually sterile. Completely fuckin' useless
.
Meryl threw on a scarf and
shouldered her black leather shopping bag.
'You're going
shopping
?'
Martin was whispering at the door. 'At a time like this?'
A few yards away Vanessa was inspecting Martin's extensive
landscaped gardens from the terrace. There was some frost on the ground.
'Life has to go on,' Meryl told him. 'Besides, you'll be all right
on your own. That little girl seems to have taken quite shine to you.'
Knowing he'd be wondering to what extent the little girl's
stepmother felt the same way. Martin was a kind man in many respects but would
be the last to reject any possible rewards for his altruism.
Meryl said, 'You know what I'd do, if I were you, Martin? I'd
ring the police before they show up here. They'll be wanting to establish Sir
Wilfrid and Angela's movements leading up to the accident. When they find out
the Storeys and the Tulleys were
both
here ...'
'You're quite right, of course,' said Martin. 'Nothing
suspicious, but rather too coincidental. Be simple enough if Storey hadn't
buggered off. Yes, you're right, good idea. I'll sort things out with the
police. Give them a statement. Keep Shelley well out of it.'
'Of course you will, Martin. And perhaps you could also take
Shelley and Vanessa home and stay with them a while. She'll need someone to
repair that fence and everything.'
'I can't repair fences.'
No one better at it, Meryl thought, remembering last night, Stephen
Case and the Tulleys.
'But you know the people who can,' she said. 'Why don't you make
yourself useful?' A knowing smile. 'Will you be lunching out today, Martin?'
'Why, what have
you
got planned?'
'I was going to take my day off, after I've done the shopping.
If that's all right with you?'
'Would it matter,' said Martin good-humouredly, 'if it
wasn't?'
He'd learned, where Meryl was concerned, never to push
curiousity too far.
Meryl waved to Vanessa and moved swiftly across the frosty
drive to her Peugeot, confidence and determination in every step.
The other thing people got
wrong - these were the people who thought you were bound to be tranquil, serene
and in control - was to equate possessing psychic faculties with being in a permanent
state of spiritual grace.
There was nothing inherently spiritual about the other five
senses, so why should the sixth be a stepping stone to sainthood?
The shaving minor had heard this one, too.
The shaving mirror knew Dave had never wanted to be a saint
anyway.
You are
what you are, pal, the mirror said, a little more kindly. You make of it what you
make of it. Or that's what you think, until you realise all you are is what
other people've made of you. You spend fuckin' years being what people want you
to be. But
sooner or later you've got to
discover what you're supposed to be, yer know? This is like only way you're gonna
live with yourself in the end.
There were layers of white cloud in the mirror now,
condensation upon condensation. Little white clouds which had floated in
through the grimy bathroom window and settled in the mirror with the cigarette
smoke.
A lot of the time what the mirror said was trite. The mirror
was as likely to talk crap as the person looking into it.
And this was the other fallacy. That the messages coming from
the mirror (the crystal, the cards, the tealeaves, the fat lady in a trance)
were full of wisdom and insight.
Sometimes they sounded clever and evocative, like
'Subterranean Homesick Blues'. You were entertained, you were full of admiration.
But were you
enlightened?
Sometimes they were like
deathoak
,
nearly an anagram of The Dakota, but not quite. Were you just too stupid to
work out the significance of that spare T? Was it a cross? Think about it; the
original crosses on which people were crucified often had no top pieces. In
'The Ballad of John and Yoko', Lennon was worried that the way things were
going they were gonna crucify him.
Not both of them. Just him. Crucify
me
. John.
Dave shook his head. You put your mind to it, you could make
anything mean anything. Look at what they'd all done to Nostradamus.
Ultimately, it was a waste of time. The cosmic joker would
lead you by the nose in ever-decreasing circles. Whatever the system was, it
wasn't a system you could beat. What it came down to was: you were better off
leaving it alone. If it would leave you alone.
Somewhere in Dave's head, somewhere beyond reach, the mirror
was still rambling.
... it's like the Beatles. It was great at first.
We were big novelties ... all these educated gits prodding us with their
fuckin' intellects ... 'So fresh, so unspoiled - listen to those delightful rough,
working-class accents.' And we're laughing up our fuckin' sleeves and wheeling
home the money in barrows. But you can only go on like this for so long, this
is the problem, Dave, and then it becomes like an insult to yourself, to what
you could be.
'Yeh. Well,
I
never
wanted to be a professional parody. Never wanted a secondhand life. Wanted to
be a ... you ready for this ...
a
creative person
. Figured I could channel it...
it
... into art. Only it doesn't work like that, you probably know
that now. It doesn't co-operate. It took me a long time to find that out, and
now I can't cut it any more.'
Dave took hold of the mirror, like grabbing someone by the
lapels. 'Money. That's the only reason I ever got involved. I'm just earning enough
to get by. No big gigs, no festivals, no telly. Just a crappy little stage act.
Where's the harm?'
He heard raucous, contemptuous laughter.
'Of course, that was never a problem for you, was it? Bloody
millionaire at twenty-two. People tried to push you into stuff, you told them
to piss off, in public, and everybody loved you for it. You were a
"rebel". And when it came to it you could waffle on about peace and
love and nobody thought you were sanctimonious and holier-than-thou or
anything, because they knew that underneath you were a rebel and a bastard, so
that
was all right.'
He put the mirror back on the shelf but held on to it. 'Money.
That's all. Not guilt. Not even about "On A Bad Day". That was
justified. Ill-timed, I agree. But justified. Definitely no guilt, John.'
No guilt. Sure.
The raucous laughter came again and he realised it was the
phone. Startled, he let the mirror fall into the washbasin, where it didn't
break. He ran both hands through his damp hair and breathed in long and
raggedly.