by Finch, Paul
“Eligatua, proficiscatua,” Luke corrected him.
“Eligatua proficiscatua … that comes from the Latin Mass?”
“Nah.” Luke shook his head. Then, ludicrously – considering that he’d just defied all the laws of chemistry and biology by sobering up so quickly and painlessly – he unscrewed the cap to the JD bottle and took another long swig. “Nah … I’ve never heard that actual phrase, but it’s easy enough to translate.”
There didn’t seem any point in arguing with him. What the hell did we know?
“And it means what again?” Rob asked him.
“One is chosen …” Luke broke off to give a loud hiccough, “… one will go forth.”
6
That night, I dreamt that it was 1978 all over again, and that we were performing at the Free Trade Hall in Manchester. I was aware that it was a dream, but I dug in straight away to enjoy it because the Free Trade Hall in ’78, the third UK venue in our ‘Conquest of the Earth’ tour, had probably seen us – not just Wolfbane, the band, but each one of us as individual musicians – at the apex of our powers.
It was, quite simply, our greatest ever night.
We used all the familiar on-stage effects – trees, mist, chanting monks – and then, later on, a groundbreaking thunder and lightning storm, which many people I spoke to said was almost identical to the real thing. But it was the music that counted. I don’t think we were ever better, before or since, and the audience responded in kind. They went crazy, contributing to an atmosphere that was almost pagan in its idolatry. The heat, the sweat, the hysteria all around us, it was indescribable, and yet, in our quieter, more melodic moments that night, this uncanny hush fell on the house, and a forest of lighter-flames would spring up before us.
Your sodden hair prickled at something like that. Even in eighty degrees of heat, the chills ran down your spine.
Of course, Luke did more to stoke up that atmosphere than anyone else. His performance that night was mesmerising, his vocalisations ranging from breathless purrs, which had the girls in the front row going into conniptions, to a whiskey-soaked battle roar that was enough to send anyone running for cover even without the accompanying barrage of drums and guitars. And of course, he never stood still, but gyrated from one side of the stage to the next, barely stopping to take a breath, always just out of reach of the clawing, clasping hands, though finally – and this really was the defining event of the gig – collapsing full-length into the crowd, to then be lifted and carried like some decadent, reclining god to his altar of sacrifice. None of it was planned, none of it was rehearsed, but we were so carried away with events that we just kept on playing, jamming, improvising, going in and out of frenetic solos, not in the least concerned for Luke’s safety. Afterward, Troy, who’d been watching from the wings, hypnotised by the power of the show, said of that incident that he’d felt his stomach constrict and had wondered what would happen if the raving mob, who by this time had totally overwhelmed Manchester’s infamously strong-armed bouncers, had carried him right down the hall and out through the building’s front doors. Though Luke had later insisted that never once, even during the height of the frenzy, were things out of control. It was a frenzy of adulation, he’d assured us – of worship, of “blistering, uncontrollable love”.
But then, whatever Luke says, there was something else.
And I’ve often wondered about this.
Something about that Free Trade Hall gig was a little darker than most.
Maybe the Free Trade Hall itself.
It was an old building, constructed in the Dickensian era, and it had always had something of a reputation. It is long gone now of course, demolished and built-over, but other bands I’ve conversed with over the years also reported odd sensations in the Free Trade Hall, Manchester; mainly backstage and in the dank rabbit warrens that served as its dressing rooms, but sometimes out in the auditorium as well. Dylan faced astonishing and unexpected hostility there in ’66, while in ’76, the then-unknown Sex Pistols had a similar experience to us, a single concert projecting them to satanic superstardom after scenes of mayhem and wild sexual abandon overtook the entire theatre.
We’d only played there the once, and, as I said, it had been a sensation.
But then – had it ?
What if Luke hadn’t been as much in control during those chaotic moments as he liked to think? What if that mania we’d felt from the audience hadn’t been “blistering, uncontrollable love”?
The building itself had risen out of violence. In 1819, on St. Peter’s Field, a huge meeting of Lancashire cotton folk, who had assembled to hear speeches condemning the injustices of the Corn Laws, was broken up by mounted redcoats, who slaughtered eleven and left four-hundred severely wounded. The ‘Peterloo Massacre’, as it became known, caused a national scandal, and the Free Trade Hall was raised on the same spot during the 1840s partly in commemoration of the event. But other, earlier massacres had also occurred on this site. The Free Trade Hall stood quite close to Castlefield, an area of inner Manchester once occupied by the Roman fort, Mamuciam, which was built by Julius Agricola as part of his northern British campaign. This bastion was an outpost on the Roman road between Chester and Carlisle, and saw off frequent attacks by the Brigantes tribe (so unrelenting were they in their raids that the word ‘brigand’ would later derive from them). The same fortress later became a town, but was burned down and saw its population annihilated, first by heathen Saxons in 429, and later by the Vikings in 870. The Manchester district of Reddish first appears around the time of this second incident, having drawn its name from references in the annals to fields and ditches that were literally red with blood.
You may wonder where all this is leading to. Why reminiscences of a rock gig in the long-ago 1970s, and a social and political history lesson from even earlier ages, may have any relevance to a story about a quiet stately home at the opposite end of the country.
Well, the truth is that I don’t offer these anecdotes as sure-fire proof that terrible events can stir dark forces. But I do wonder about that. I mean, it was nothing unusual that I awoke that second day at Rillington Chase having dreamed about our performance at the Free Trade Hall; I regularly relived our greatest moments in my dreams, probably because these days there were so few of them during waking hours. But isn’t it at least a little bit strange that Luke Hennessey should also wake up, having experienced exactly the same dream, at exactly the same time?
I was on my way down to breakfast when I first heard about this. I felt refreshed and was starting to convince myself that the unusual events of the previous day had been nothing more than feats of an over-excited imagination. That was when I met Luke. He was at the top of the stairs, staring out through a large casement. The very fact that he was up and about at nine-thirty in the morning was remarkable. Less so was his glazed, expression. He was peering through the pane as though seeing something there that really thrilled him. For a second, he wasn’t even aware of me.
I looked out too, but saw only blue sky and the rolling greenery of the manor grounds. The ponderous shape of Lionel went chugging past on a quad bike, drawing behind him a wheelbarrow filled with compost. Luke didn’t seem to see this either.
“Hey,” I finally said. “You with us, or what?”
And only now did he turn to me, and I was startled.
At how good he looked.
Well – at how fleetingly good he looked. Don’t get me wrong; he was still wearing the same clothes from the previous night, and now, as he’d probably slept in them as well, they were even rattier than before. The combined aroma of sweat, cannabis and alcohol still hung over him, his hair was greasy and unkempt, his thin face unshaved and cheesy-white. But for once his eyes were clear and he was smiling beatifically.
“Oh man,” he said. “Remember that gig we played up in Manchester?”
Ice went through me. “We played Manchester lots of times, Luke,” I said slowly.
“Yeah … but only once in
that big old building. The one with the three-tiered seating.”
“The Free Trade Hall,” I said, struggling to get the words out.
His eyes were virtually shining. It was as though he was seeing me, but seeing something beyond me at the same time.
“Remember that gig, man?”
I nodded.
“Was that the moment, or what?”
“It was a good night.”
“I was there again,” he said, “last night.”
“Yeah?”
“Aw, it was only a dream of course, but what a dream. I woke up thinking it had only just happened. I could feel it here.” He thumped his chest. “I mean right here! ”
And before I could say anything else, he’d gone off downstairs, still talking, only now talking to himself.
I tried to rationalise what I’d just seen and heard.
Okay, our experiences hadn’t been exactly the same. I’d just remembered the Free Trade Hall gig as a performance to be proud of, while, by the looks of him, Luke had re-experienced it – the whole thing, drawing every possible feeling of euphoria from it. By the same token, I’d woken up unnerved, as though looking back on that famous concert and now, with the wisdom of age and experience, thinking that something had been amiss – for the first time wondering why it had apparently gone so well, and even if it had gone so well. Luke, on the other hand, was living for the moment all over again; like a junkie, I guess, who’s spent his entire addiction seeking the same joy he felt from his first fix, and suddenly, by sheer good fortune, stumbling across it one last time. I suppose he was just too primal a creature to react any other way than to revel in such a thing. Or maybe I was the one at fault – maybe I was being too negative, had become too much of a cynic to assume that pleasure could come without a price, that something good didn’t always have to have a sinister flipside.
Of course, it was very early in the day for such complex ruminations, so I hurried on downstairs, trying to shake the whole thing from my head, but feeling spooked nevertheless. No, our experiences hadn’t been exactly the same, but they’d been so similar as to rule out simple coincidence. As such, the last thing I wanted over breakfast was yet more weirdness.
Our petit-dejeuner was served in the same majestic room where we’d enjoyed our supper the night before, and consisted of rolls and croissants, eggs, bacon, black puddings and kidneys, all of which were arranged along the sideboard on silver dishes. Mrs. Hacket, resplendent in a pearl blouse and tight black skirt, was on hand to serve. She was in the process of dishing up eggs and toast for Luke, but advised me to take a seat at the table as she’d get round to me very soon. I sat, and, aside from Luke, found myself in company with Joe, Rob, who was still reading the book he’d pilfered from the sitting room, and Troy. There was no sign of Charlie or Barbara. I mentioned this, and was surprised to be told that they’d called a taxi and had gone into Lyndurst for the day.
“For the whole day?”
Troy nodded matter-of-factly. “I told them to take as long as they want. The weather’s still holding. I think you should all enjoy yourselves today. Relax.”
I glanced around, confused. Luke was eating in unusually hearty fashion – which I suppose had to be a good thing – while Rob was absorbed in his book. Mrs. Hacket appeared at my shoulder. I ordered the full English, and turned back to Troy. “But what about the project?”
“It’ll wait.”
“How long for? I mean, how long are we actually going to be here?”
“We all agreed to see the week through.”
“Yeah, but shouldn’t we at least be putting some thought into it by now?”
He shrugged. “Who says we aren’t? You’re soaking this place up, aren’t you? Getting as much inspiration as you can handle.”
Now, at last, I let it get to me. All the oddities we’d come across, all the unexplained incidents, and, more than anything else, all of Troy’s strange, secretive behaviour.
“What’s all this inspiration crap, Troy? We wrote the fucking album in 1975!”
He glanced apprehensively towards Mrs. Hacket. If the housekeeper took offence at my language, she didn’t show it; she didn’t even flinch, but I’d briefly forgotten that she was there, and I wasn’t boorish enough to do the same thing again. She finished serving my breakfast, and strode briskly from the room.
“We wrote Eagle Road in 1975,” I said more quietly. “Why don’t we just pick over that first?”
“We will do,” Troy assured me.
“Have we even got a copy of it here?”
“Of course.”
“Have we got a sound system to play it on? Any of the original music?”
“It’s all in hand.” Troy voice was patient. “But like I said, today you’ve got the day off.”
“Suits me, man.” Luke waved an egg-stained paw. Which was a bit of a laugh actually, as Luke hadn’t had a day on in the last decade.
“Well, I’m happy just to poke around,” Rob said, closing the book and sitting back. “It’s an interesting enough place.”
I couldn’t help feeling a little mystified by that. Up until last night, Rob had been the prime instigator of revolt, and now, suddenly, he was content to go with the flow?
Troy nodded, as if this was a perfectly good plan. “Fill the day any way you want.”
“I might do a bit of writing,” Joe said. He was trying to pen yet another book about his life in the rock business. Even now, I was sure that some publisher would probably snap his hand off – if only he could get more down on paper than ‘Chapter One’.
Troy looked at me as if waiting to hear my plans.
“I haven’t decided what I’m doing yet,” I replied tersely. “In the absence of anything else, I’ll probably go for a walk.”
I hadn’t planned to do that, but I was so surprised that we still weren’t doing any work that I blurted out the first thing that came into my head. The second thing, I kept to myself – it was a reminder that, however much spare time I had today, I was not going anywhere near the Lamuratum.
After breakfast, I made a point of speaking privately to Rob. He was out in the passage when I caught up with him. I had to hurry and grab him by the arm.
“I thought you were the suspicious one?” I said.
He pondered. “Imaginative might be a better word.”
“Oh. So you’ve slept on it and now everything’s okay?”
“No, but …well, I’ve been reading, and well … sometimes I get carried away.”
“What have you been reading?”
He became defensive. If he hadn’t already got the book tucked into the front pocket of his jeans, I’m sure he’d have put it behind his back. “It’s nothing. Just a load of rubbish.”
“This is why you’re going to spend the day reading, is it? Because it’s such a load of rubbish that you need to check it out in full?”
“Rick …” he sighed, “I don’t trust people as a matter of principle. You know that. Not even our own manager. And quite often I’ve been right not to. I’ve helped get us better deals, helped make sure we weren’t being ripped off.”
“So?”
“So that’s it, basically.”
“That’s it?”
“I’ve got a nose for mischief. And it’s done a job for us. I’d like to leave it at that. Because when you start going off into the realms of fantasy, you wonder if you’re starting to lose it.”
“What are you talking about, Rob?”
He set off down the corridor. “Just go and have your walk. I’ll speak to you later.”
“The ‘realms of fantasy’?” I called after him.
Rob walked away. “See you later, Rick.”
7
Whatever my first impressions of Lionel, the big, hulking caretaker, I had to admit that he was a more than capable groundskeeper. The gardens surrounding Rillington Chase were immaculately kept, vast though they were.
I deliberately walked in the opposite direction from the Plant
ation, but even ignoring that region entirely I still found extensive acres to view. The entire park had been laid out in roughly geometric patterns, but it comprised all manner of classical features, from terraced walks, to topiary, to hedge-lined avenues. Here and there I encountered sculptures or fishponds, stone-built grottoes, arbours and benches arranged so as to enjoy scenic vistas; and of course rows of bedding-plants, at this time of year bursting out in their full preponderance of colour. I came to the ornamental lake where Charlie and Barbara had spent a sedate hour or two, and beyond that a row of greenhouses filled with what looked like orchids. Behind these there was stream. Again, this appeared to be man-made; the water clean and gurgling over a bed of chalk-white pebbles. But it was at this point where the estate’s formal artistry seemed to end. A wooden footbridge led over the stream and, on the far side of it, a narrow path wound off into dense stands of trees.
I crossed over. Likely the path was nothing more than a short cut for the grounds-keeper. Possibly it led to the edge of the estate and provided quick, easy access to the main road. But one never knew unless one looked, and in this case one had a considerable amount of time to fill.
I was still thinking about the events of breakfast. Rob’s apparent change of tune was not difficult to understand. He quite often “went off on one”, as he liked to call it, but usually, after a brief period, he would rein himself in and try to see things rationally. It didn’t mean that he wouldn’t come to the same conclusion later, but at this moment he was trying to work out exactly what it was that was bothering him about this place. That left me to do the worrying, which was usually the case. Even in our greatest days, when nothing we did was wrong, I was always the band’s worrier. On most occasions, of course, there actually was something to worry about – be it record sales, tour schedules, personal issues, you name it – whereas here there was just this vague feeling of unease. A feeling not diminished in any way by the object that the overgrown path suddenly brought me to.
It was a church.