Authors: Phil Rickman
Damn Eddie Edwards. Was there ever a man who could keep his
word?
The child scurries ahead. Her only concession to the cold has been
to put on the woollen gloves she allowed Meryl to buy for her in Abergavenny.
'Come back, Vanessa! Stay close to me. We could lose each
other so easily in this fog.'
Vanessa glances back over her shoulder. Her enormous glasses
look like saucers in the torchlight. She turns away and hurries on. Seems to
know where she's going, which is more than Meryl does.
The conditions don't worry her greatly; she's a country girl, she's
been out in worse. And alone. And in the dark.
However, in her imagination, from the first she heard of it, the
Abbey has existed in a kind of endless summer, in a night dense not with mist
but with soft, scented spiritual promise.
The very word ... Although
'cathedral' has a soaring splendour, 'Abbey' is the most serene and beautiful
word for spiritual budding. And although everything she's heard lately is suggestive
of the brooding, the sinister and the soiled, she finds it hard to regard it in
this way.
Meryl pats her pockets. What's a dry-cleaning bill against a great
spiritual gesture?
She's examined the Ordnance Survey map and discovered the
Skirrid lies almost due east of the Abbey. In the inside pocket of her coat is
a compass.
She understands from books on Simon's shelves that a great archway
stands at the extreme eastern end of the ruins. What she plans to do is build a
little mound of holy earth directly under the arch so that when the morning sun
rises over the Skirrid and penetrates the mist, its rays will find the mound
and the holy light will find its way to the Abbey's sick, Satanic heart.
Before they leave, she and Vanessa will hold hands and bring down
the blessings of the Spirits and the great archangel whose chapel once crowned
the holy mountain.
The simplicity of the intention warms her briefly. She decides
to explain it to Vanessa, who's still hurrying on ahead.
'Vanessa ... Vanessa!'
She never responds. She always goes her own way. A wilful child.
Or disobedient, depending on how you evaluate your children.
It's all right, though; she can hear the patter of the feet in
her sensible, brown school shoes.
All around her in the freezing fog, clammy as frogspawn, are hunched
shapes of frosted sheep. Sheep will sleep anywhere, in any conditions, their
winter wool heavy with hoar.
It can't be very far; Eddie (damn
him) said this was a shortcut. He said you would suddenly
be
there, surrounded by stones.
'Vanessa. Come on, now.'
The child's footsteps are softer, not so clumpy. Maybe the
path's grassed over.
Meryl can actually see Vanessa's shoes - although not the rest
of her - as they trip along in the glistening mist, such small, light graceful
feet.
And they've stopped. The sound has softened into nothing.
Vanessa, are you all right, my
love?' Perhaps she's fallen.
Vanessa doesn't reply, but
something tells Meryl to switch on her torch.
Which she does, without a thought.
Click.
And in the mist, the small shoes are glowing.
Glowing the most beautiful pastel
shade of blue.
Oh!'
Meryl's breathing is stilled. In this drab landscape,
carelessly straddled by the coarse, promiscuous mist, something extraordinary
is happening.
When it happens, it's
never when or how you expect it.
There's a swish and rustle of silk
and a light laugh which makes Meryl want to join in.
And then, like the opening of a flower, the raw country smells
give way to a heady floral fragrance as if the mist itself is becoming refined
and scented.
A few yards in front of Meryl, the blue shoes glow as softly as
a child's nightlight.
Meryl's lips part and her gloved hands clasp her cheeks.
Oh, my lady.'
IV
Crucifixion
Isabel spins the chair violently
into the bushes as the car screams past, sliding on the bend.
This road isn't wide enough for two
vehicles, even if one's only a wheelchair. It could have killed her.
Do
you care?
Pulling twigs from her hair - she's lost the reindeer hat, damn
it - she thinks, if it'd got me, I'd be on Eddie's list as another December
casualty in the vicinity of the Abbey.
What an indignity!
The chair whinges in protest as she urges it back on the road.
Bloody right I care!
There are lights ahead illuminating a sign:
NO ENTRY
in black on a metal gate which the car has almost crunched.
Isabel switches to manual, wheels
herself closer. A slowly revolving searchlight, beyond the gate, burrows into
the mist and she sees the hook of a stone arch and feels an immediate chill under
her cape, a cold hand cupping her heart.
The searchlight beam fades and
retracts. The arch is gone.
But there's the sound of one hell
of a row going on.
'I want to see Stephen Case,' he demands loudly, 'I want him out
here now.'
The security man regards him with disinterest under the pulled-down
brim of his imitation police hat.
'And who are you, sir, please?'
'My name's Broadbank, I'm a substantial TMM shareholder and I
want to bring my car through these gates
now
.'
'I'm sorry, that's impossible. There's an important session on.
I've got my instructions.'
'And what's your name?' Martin knows night security men never give
their names. He probably has a day-job, too, and a tax situation.
The man hesitates, decides to play safe. 'Look, all right, if
you'll just stay there a minute, I'll see if Mr Case can come out.'
Martin turns to Shelley, 'I don't believe this set-up.'
'Well at least we know we've come
to the right place.' Shelley's bell of blonde hair is tucked into her coat
collar. She looks cold. Martin wants to put an arm around her but doesn't, because
she also looks angry. 'Martin, I don't want to see Tom, I just want Vanessa.
Understood?'
'Don't worry.'
But, unfortunately, when the security man returns, he's sounding
more sure of his ground. 'I'm afraid Mr Case is tied up just now, mate.'
Mate
now, is it?
'Well, you can bloody well
un
tie
him. You've got just one minute to bring him here, or I use my car phone to
summon the police.'
'I doubt if you'd have a signal here, but you could give it a
try.'
'We'll see about that. We'll bloody well...'
Shelley grips his arm: cool it.
As the security man turns away, she calls out, 'Excuse me.
Don't go. Please. We're not trying to cause trouble. We're just looking for a little
girl. Nearly fourteen, but she looks younger. Tom Storey's daughter. I'm ...
I'm Mrs Storey.'
The man returns to the fence,
pushes back his cap.
'Please,' Shelley says. 'She has
Down's Syndrome. You know? A ... a mongol.'
This is a horrible, disparaging word, applied to someone like
Vanessa, but Shelley doesn't have time for any misinterpretation.
'We think she may have come here to
find Tom. I don't think he knows.'
'My sister's youngster's got Down's Syndrome. They're great
kids. Very trusting.'
'Yes. So you see the problem.'
'Only wish I could tell you we'd
seen her, but we've not. Very sorry.'
Martin says, 'What about a little chap, late forties, bit of hippie
type. Known as Weasel. No?'
'No. Unless he's one of the
builders.'
Shelley shakes her head.
'But Mr Storey's definitely here.' He wants to be helpful now.
'You want me to get a message to him?
About
the kid?'
'Thank you,' Shelley says tightly. 'But I don't think we need
to worry him.'
This time Martin does put an arm around her, as she struggles
for composure. They watch the security man walk away. The searchlight briefly
brushes the ancient stonework again and then fades.
They walk slowly back to the car. For once, Martin can't think
what to do. 'Did you believe him?'
'Yes.' Shelley coughs at the cold air, perhaps to choke a sob.
'I believed him. He hasn't seen her.' She raises her eyes to the invisible sky
and sags in Martin's arms. 'Oh ... my ... God.
Nobody's
seen her.'
'That's not right.' A voice out of the swirling darkness. 'I've
seen her.'
The levels are going up and
down like an arse in a blue movie, only less rhythmically.
Prof finds it equally dispiriting. The sound comes at him from
two speaker-racks set horizontally in wooden panelling either side of the
control room window, and he wants to turn it down.
The glass is just a black rectangle, nothing visible on the studio
floor, even though Prof's killed the control room lights, leaving only the
coloured mosaic of the mixing desk. Usually this is exciting, like piloting Concorde
at night His element, the night and the bones and muscles of music.
But music this ain't.
Dave Reilly's not even singing any more, he's talking, kind of,
in a guttural mumble. Prof thinks it must be Welsh - that was Aelwyn's
language, wasn't it? If it's English, there aren't many words he understands.
He can't see as far as Dave's booth. He imagines him sitting
on his amplifier, the McCarthy Dual, the way he likes. He isn't using the amp;
he's playing his Martin guitar, double-miked. If you can call that playing. As
a rule, Dave uses a plectrum; now Prof pictures his fingers tearing at the
strings, like a crow at a carcass in the road.
The noises coming out of that booth sound like the creature's
not dead yet. Gonna be a total write-off. Sheer waste of tape.
A tiny red light moves across the studio, making trails in the
darkness.
Cigarette.
Company.
Moira enters the control room, slides into the spare seat. 'Hi,
Prof, mind if I...?'
'Please do.'
She puts down a coat and a bag; not a flying visit then. He hears
her taking a long, ragged drag on the cigarette. She's on edge; is it any
wonder? Maybe she's wondering what he's wondering: how long can this go on?
'What's happening?' Prof turns down the sound. Not only can't
he understand it, he can't bear to listen to it. 'I mean, this is …'
'Not the kind of stuff you can put out on an album, huh?'
'Not if you want to work again, no. Shall I stop him?'
'I don't know what to say, Prof. It's not what I figured it was
going to be either.'
'Maybe he's just getting something out of his system?'
'Somebody is,' Moira says tersely and pulls on the cigarette. Does
she normally smoke? He doesn't think so.
Prof picks his jacket from the back of the chair, puts it on.
'You find it cold in here, Moira?'
'Yeah. Same out there.'