by Phil Rickman
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 untie 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.'
'Bastards economising on the heating or what?'
'It's cold on those hills,' Moira says enigmatically.
Prof leans over to the radiator pipe. To his surprise, it's hot. Does she mean the cold is coming through Dave?
The idea gives Prof the jitters, even though he knows it isn't possible. 'What's going on, Moira? I mean, is he having some kind of extra-sensory experience? Are people gonna listen to this in fifteen years and go like, wow, that was really ahead of its time?'
'Nobody's gonna hear ii in fifteen years' time. Nobody's gonna hear it tomorrow. We won't make the same mistake again, will we, Prof?'
'That's why you've come in? You think I'm gonna do a Russell?'
She touches his hand. 'I'm sorry. No, I don't.'
Dave's still ripping weird, wounded chords from the guitar; it shouldn't happen to a Martin. They can hear his breathing: irregular, snorting.
'I really don't like this,' Moira says. 'I'm scared to leave him in there and I'm scared to pull him out. He ran out himself on the session ... last time. You know?'
'Yeah, and it's been preying on his mind ever since. Hang on, what's this?'
A
long, deep sigh is issuing from the speakers like steam.
'deathhhhhhhhhh'
'Turn it up!' Moira hisses urgently.
'ooooooooOOOOOAKHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH...'
In an instant of bizarre surrealism, Martin thinks he's looking at a strange, gliding dwarf, a male dwarf with a high voice and a silly Welsh accent.
'I don't want to interfere, but I hate to see you so anxious, see.'
Only when the searchlight swings round does Martin realise he's being addressed by a woman in a wheelchair. Questions like: Who the hell are you? Where did you spring from? are pre-empted by Shelley, who practically pounces on the chair.
'Calm down, come on,' the woman says. 'She's all right, she's fine.'
'Just one moment.' Martin gently eases Shelley's hand from the arm of the wheelchair. 'What's the name of the girl we're talking about?'
The woman in the chair inspects him candidly. 'Vanessa. Satisfied?'
Shelley lifts her head, eyes closed, and clenches both fists by her sides in relief.
Martin says, 'I'm terribly sorry, Mrs ...'
'Isabel Pugh. Not Mrs.'
'I'm Martin Broadbank. Friend of the family. I'm very sorry I doubted you but things have been ... well, pretty difficult actually. Where, er, where exactly is Vanessa now?' Looking round, half-expecting the child to have materialised from the mist.
Isabel Pugh hesitates, produces a wry expression. 'Ah, sod it,' she says. 'You should find her at the new vicarage in Ystrad Ddu. Directly opposite the church. You can be there in a couple of minutes.'
'Thank you.' Martin smiles. 'That sounds safe enough.'
'Well, yes.' Isabel Pugh looks to be in two minds about this. 'It should be. All the same, I should get over there pronto.'
'But she's being looked after?' Shelley stiffens.
'Yes, but I should ... get her away.'
Martin looks at the Pugh woman with curiosity. She's wearing make-up, her hair well-groomed. She's pretty, soft-eyed. She seems intelligent. She seems frightfully apprehensive.
'Just don't ask too many questions,' she says. 'You'll only regret it.'
The fog curls and eddies in strands around her.
Her.
Vanessa has talked of guardian angels; this is Meryl's. Now she knows.
And she's waited so long
to see her.
The crisp rustle of silk. Or taffeta. Swishhhh. Peremptory, a little haughty. The mist parts to let her through. Meryl was wrong. Ghosts can travel. If they sense a kinship with the living.
'We've been through so much together,' Meryl whispers. 'Please let me see your face.'
The frost gleams pale blue on the tumbled stones where she shimmers.
'See, Vanessa. See my friend.'
'No.' Vanessa backs way, the blue light cold in her glasses.
'Not long now.' Moira breathes out smoke. Her body is stiff with tension. 'You got an ashtray?'
'Just chuck it on the floor and stamp on it. What d'you mean, not long?'
'He said Deathoak. This is where it all ends. For Aelwyn, at least. Deathoak's the place of execution.'
'Deathoak's The Dakota,' Prof says. 'Or something. With a spare T.'
'Or a cross,' Moira says suddenly. 'Listen.'
There's a moment of silence, the needles on the meter quivering. Impenetrable darkness beyond the glass panel.
And then, bizarrely, Dave as Lennon comes scything from the speakers.
'... way things are go-win'...' A cackle of crazy laughter.
I'm out of here, Prof thinks, not moving. I'm going to engineer a couple of regular albums made by normal, vicious crack-heads and then I'm gonna retire.
'They'll crucify him,' Moira says breathlessly, fumbling in her bag. 'Oh, God, get him through this.' Prof hears the friction of a match, sees her face in the flaring, anxiety bringing a twitch to her cheek. She pulls her black anorak from the floor, drags it around her shoulders. She's shivering, Prof can feel the vibration from her.
Yeah. It's freezing, all right. He touches the heating pipe again. It's still very hot. This is all wrong; you'd think the water in here would be frozen solid.
'...'s going on, Moira? What's happening? Who's gonna crucify him?' His teeth chattering; he doesn't remember that happening since he was a little kid.
The monks. The monks crucified him. Here. On a tree. Deathoak.'
'I don't get what you ...'
'Here. Can't you feel it?'
The control room door opens.
'Whosat?' Prof yells, nerves leaping in the darkness.
'Bloody hell,' Simon shuts the door behind him. 'It's no cheerier in here, is it?'
'Here?' Prof says to Moira. 'What d'you mean here?'
'You felt the walls?' Simon asks. 'The walls are like ice. Absolutely like ice. Where's it bloody well coming from?'
'Got to end soon,' Moira whispers. 'Got to.'
'Haven't heard a note out of Tom,' Prof says to Simon. 'He still down there?'
'Tom won't leave. In case he's needed.'
'Guy's a hero,' Moira says distantly, and then, 'Ssshh.' Leaning into the speakers. In a thick and sleepy voice, Dave's repeating one of the old verses, like the image is going around and around in his head.
... echoes of slaughter
the wine turns ... to water
the water to ... blood and
the blood back ... to water ...
In the pauses, he's hammering at the bass strings, staccato, 'Nails,' Moira says.
Dave sings the same verse again, cracks in his voice, beating the strings, no rhythm to it. Behind his voice, a swollen roar like the wind, like blood pounding in your ears.
'He's singing to himself,' Moira whispers. 'He's singing to himself while the nails are going in.'
They wanted her to go back with them, Mrs Storey and the kind-eyed man, Martin. He wanted to lift her into the car. They could get the chair in the boot, couldn't they?
The car is long and sleek and reassuring. One of those Jaguar XJ-somethings. These people seem so strong and sane. They could take her away. From the Abbey and the village and the valley. She has money; her mother has the W.I. She could set out on her own, somewhere cheerful and busy, even if it's only Abergavenny.
'No, thank you.' Isabel sighs. 'I'm waiting for my boyfriend.'
Just saying that makes her feel so emotional she has to turn the chair away. She gets an image of Simon, strands of pale falling around his sad, cynical eyes.
She knows Martin can sense her anxiety, wanting to ask her what she's doing here alone on a night like this. She wills him not to.
'Go on.' Isabel makes little shooing motions with her mittened hand. 'Go and get Vanessa, poor dab.'
'Thank you,' Shelley calls back from the car door, 'Thank you so much.'
As the Jaguar rolls away, Isabel returns to the barrier and the lights. The security man gives her a relieved smile. 'Thanks. I don't know where you came from, but thanks. Could have been a problem, that.' Women in wheelchairs are no threat.
'Anything I can do for you?'
'Well, I don't know, see.' Isabel trying to sound all Welsh and defenceless. 'Come up from the village, I have. Stupid, really.'
'Not wise, night like this.'
'Only, a friend of mine, she said Lee Gibson was here, Isabel wriggles about under her woolly cape. 'Seems daft, it does, to you, probably, but I've got nearly all his albums, see.'
Hoping to God she doesn't have to name any of them. Meryl, it was, who spotted Lee Gibson in the Dragon while buying a few things from the shop. All Meryl knew about him was what she'd read in the papers about his affair with some prominent Hollywood actress.
'You want to meet him, eh?'
'Do you really think ...? Oh, all embarrassed, I am, now.'
There's not enough light, she knows, for him to see her dimples turning pink. But he smiles. 'Well, he's around. I've seen him in the canteen. He came out the studio an hour or so ago. I don't think he's gone back.'
The securi
ty man opens the gate and beckons her in.
'You stay here, by the lights, and I'll see if I can find him. You got an album or something for him to sign?'
Isabel nods and shrugs, indicating it's under the cape.
'Give me two minutes.'
'Terrible kind of you,' Isabel mumbles, as the guy strolls away, hands in pockets, in the direction of a low, prefabricated building with warm-looking lamps in its windows. When the door closes behind him, she presses the green button and steers the chair into the blackness beyond the intermittent searchlight, and when he returns to find her gone, he'll simply think she's melted way, overcome by embarrassment.
Now.
Go.
Isabel, breathing faster, brings the bike lamp from under her cape and steers the chair away from the path, away from the prefabricated buildings and the artificial lights.
Across the turf, towards the ruins.
The ruins which ruined her.
Doing it, I am. I'm really doing it.
The nave of the Abbey church is a line of skeletal, frost-rimmed broken arches - less impressive than she remembers. She goes into it, determined not to stop or to think too hard until she reaches the end. Where the final arch connects to the two western towers. With Meryl, she's studied the plan of the Abbey layout in one of Simon's books.
She travels directly down the middle, the bike lamp shining up into the arcade of arches, enfolded in loose, drab drapes of mist.
The nave is floored with frosted grass, where pews and stalls once lined an aisle. Where the high rafters resounded with the gilded echoes of Gregorian chant.
She can almost hear it. She's becoming excited. Whatever Eddie and Simon have said about the monk, Walden, the power of the place can't be denied. The stonework glitters in the lamplight, the rime of frost tinted a delicate strawberry hue.
I'm back.
Rolling down the aisle, Isabel experiences an illusion of speed, as though the chair is feeding from natural electricity, the battery boosted, the wheels going round faster and faster. And the nave is a magic runway and, at the end, the chair will take off, retracting its wheels and soaring blissfully, to the pealing of bells, into the night sky, above the mist, above the pain and the misery, above ...