December (28 page)

      
Tom was a silent, tense presence for about eight dark, rural miles,
Shelley drove into Broadbank's village. It looked more intimate than Larkfield,
cottages squashed together.

      
'Looks awfully cosy. Don't you think?'

      
'No.'

      
Broadbank had said,

      
About two hundred yards
past the church, you'll see a phone box on your left, in a layby. Almost
opposite that there's a little signpost with Bisley 4 on it. You turn up there
...

      
'Where the fuck we going?'

      
'Only another half mile Tom.'

      
'I hate these little country lanes.'

      
'I know you do, Honey, I know you do.'

      
Deborah.

      
'Wish I'd never fucking ... Gawd, whassat?'
      
'Only a rabbit. It's gone now.
Through the hedge.'

      
Talking to him like you'd talk to a child. Soothing. Oh God, how
long could this go on?

      
After about half a mile,
you'll come to a hairpin bend, and right on the bend you'll see an opening dead
ahead of you. There's no sign, but this is it. Hall Farm.

      
'It's OK, Tom, we're here now.'

      
Changing down to second, hitting the gravel, headlights full on.

      
An avenue of trees, almost leafless now, and at the end of it
was a cluster of lights, warm and mellow. They drove between gateposts with some
sort of birds on them, eagles or owls.

      
'I don't like the look of this,' Tom said. 'You said he'd
built hisself a place.'

      
'I thought he had,' Shelley lied, glad he couldn't see her face.
'It doesn't matter, though, does it?'

      
Conspicuously ancient stone in the headlights.

      
'It's old.' Tom began to bounce on the seat like a huge child.
'It's fucking old.'

      
Whirling on her as she applied the handbrake. 'It's
old
, you lying bitch!'

      
'Tom, it'll be OK. It'll be fine.' Reaching over the back seat
for her coat.

      
'Turn the car. Turn the fucker round. You get me away from
here.'

      
'No. You're not running away this time.'
      
'The hell I'm not.'

      
Tom threw himself at the door like a gorilla in a metal cage.

Vanessa had made Weasel an
omelette, with tomatoes and soya-based cheese-substitute. There was too much
pepper and it was overrdone. Weasel liked his omelettes runny and made with mature
Cheddar.

      
Tucking in at the kitchen table, he told her it was, no
question, the most brilliant omelette he'd ever had in all his life.
      
Vanessa beamed pinkly and asked him
would he like to watch a video.
      
'What you got?'

      
'Eddie Murphy,' Vanessa said. 'I've got to wind it back, though.'

      
'Yeah, great,' Weasel said. 'You like Murphy?'
      
'He's cool,' Vanessa said. She
thought about it some more. Seriously cool.'

      
She was wearing a blue frock, instead of the jeans and sweater.
This was obviously on the basis that you had to dress up if you were
entertaining a guest. She had make-up on: eyeshadow behind the thick-lensed
designer glasses and scarlet lipstick.

      
You wouldn't know, you really wouldn't, Weasel thought admiringly.
He wondered if she'd ever get around to having boyfriends, and if they'd be,
you know, like her, or, well, normal.

      
Aw, Jeez, she
was
normal. She'd never had cause to think otherwise. OK, probably she knew she
wasn't like the other kids at school, but not on account of being
handicapped
or
challenged
or however they put it these days. But because she was
Vanessa
. Special.

      
'Princess,' Weasel wondered, 'was you named after actress,
Vanessa Wossername?'

      
She didn't seem to understand.

      
'Your name. Vanessa.'

      
Vanessa considered this seriously for a few seconds, then she said,
'Daddy gave it me.'

      
'Redgrave!' Weasel remembered. 'Vanessa Redgrave, right?'
      
He pushed back his plate with a
sigh. Triffic, Princess.' Blew her an appreciative kiss. 'Knockout.'

      
Vanessa was looking at him through her big glasses like he was
very thick indeed. 'Van Morrison, silly,' she said. 'I was named after Van
Morrison.'

      
'Oh. Right.' Weasel nodded slowly. 'Obvious when you fink about
it.'

      
'It was a com-plim-ent,' Vanessa said. 'He's a big, fat, rude
man, but Daddy says he's the best. Weasel, would you like coffee, or lager?'

      
'There you are then. Clever Daddy.'

      
'Or Ribena?'

      
'Oh ... er, lager, please, Princess, if you got it. That'd be great.'

      
She brought a can from the fridge, set it down on the kitchen
table for him with a tumbler. It was this low-alcohol stuff the Scotch geezer
plugged on the box.

      
'It's Shelley's lager,' Vanessa said. 'Daddy doesn't drink any
more.'

      
'Very wise.' Weasel was remembering when Daddy had been
through a period of drinking a great deal and also injecting funny stuff into
his arm. Daddy had done the lot in his time. Daddy was well out of it.
(Although, actually, not well at all, and it depended on how you interpreted 'out
of it'.)

      
'He didn't want to go out tonight.' Vanessa sat down at the
table opposite Weasel with a can of diet Tango. 'Shelley had to Put The Arm On
Him.'

      
'Likes a quiet life nowadays, your dad '
      
'He's not quiet at all! He's very
noisy!'

      
'Yeah. Course he is.' You had to say exactly what you meant to
Vanessa. You had to think about how to put it.
      
'He'll be all right, though,' she
said.
      
'Course he will. Princess.'

      
'Because ...' Vanessa leaned across the table and whispered …
the Man with Two Mouths will be looking after him.'
      
Weasel stiffened. 'Say that again?'

Shelley was out of the car
before Tom and dashing round to his side. If she could pull him into the trees
perhaps they could talk this out without making a public scene of it.

      
She'd been really very stupid. Why hadn't she used the
childproof lock? The truth was she'd never bothered to find out how to work it.
Vanessa, even as a kid, would sit there for hours watching the world through
the windows.

      
He was out now, standing swaying like a drunk on the gravel
path in the headlights, his jacket straining over his stomach. Oh God, God,
God, was there no end to this?

      
She approached him warily. In this mood he was quite likely to
lash out, forgetting who she was in his panic.

      
'Tom,' she whispered. 'Come on, Tom. Over here.' Like calling
a frightened puppy.

      
He said hoarsely, 'Gimme.' And advanced out of the headlights
towards her.

      
'Please, Tom. You're a grown man. You're a
big
man. Nobody's going to harm you.'

      
'Shelley, darlin', I'm ain't going in there. No way. You wanna
stay, you stay, it's your party. Just ... Just gimme the keys.'

      
Something walked over her grave, the way he said that.
      
And then more light suddenly gushed
out from the house, followed by quick footsteps on the gravel, and a man was in
the headlights, a sleek man with crinkly hair and a plump, genial face.

      
'Shelley. Hi. You found us. Wonderful.'

      
'Oh,' Shelley said. 'Mr Broadbank. We ... We were just wondering
if we'd come to the right ...

      
Urgently looking around for Tom; he'd gone, vanished. Oh, please...

      
'Martin, for heaven's sake,' Broadbank said heartily. 'Now. Where's
your old man?'

      
Well, actually, Martin,
he was here a moment ago but then he panicked and now he's going to walk all
the way home, unless I follow you into the house and happen to leave the keys
in the car, in which case ...

      
And then Tom was towering over Broadbank in the lurid area
where the headlights and the houselights met.
Oh, Christ, he's going to hit him
. Shelley gripped the handle of
the driver's door, regretting everything. Wishing that Broadbank had never come
into the shop that day. Wishing above all that a big bluff guitarist had never
stumbled into the Epidemic press office on a winter's day fifteen years ago. ('...
that bloody Goff and his Earl Grey and his Lapsang wotsit. Got any PG Tips?')

      
Wishing ...

      
Tom's right hand came down. Shelley's eyes closed.

      
When she opened them, Tom was gripping Broadbank by the upper
arm, as if for support.

      
'Tom ... Tom Storey,' he said gruffly. 'How are ... how are
ya, mate?'

      
He was trying very, very hard.

      
Shelley wanted to cry. Oh God, Tom.

      
Tom didn't look at her once while the faintly bemused Broadbank
was ushering them into the house.

      
Her husband was walking rigidly in the tight jacket, hands by
his sides, the left one trembling.

Vanessa was arranging
chocolate biscuits on a plate.

      
'The Man wiv Two Mouths,' Weasel said. 'You said the Man wiv
Two Mouths.'

      
Vanessa said, 'I like these ones best. They've got orange
cream in the centre.'

      
'Princess, who is the Man wiv Two Mouths?'
      
Weasel was thinking,
I should be there with them. I shouldn't
have let them go on their own. Not with somebody after them.

      
Somebody after them. He didn't know how he knew this, he just
did. Maybe being near Tom made you a bit extra-sensory too. Maybe it rubbed
off.
      
Vanessa said, 'Daddy doesn't like
him.'
      
'He ever come round, Princess? He
come round here when I'm out wiv the van?'

      
'Oh,' said Vanessa. 'He's always around.'
      
'Why don't your daddy like him?'

      
Vanessa thought about this. 'He likes him a bit,' she said.
But he's frightened of him. He doesn't like to see him. Have a biscuit, Weasel.'

      
'Princess, have you seen him? Have you seen this geezer?'
      
Vanessa nodded, turned away from
him, scrambled down from her stool and ran out of the kitchen. He heard her
stomping up the stairs ... Shit, she's taken offence. What'd I say?

      
Weasel went to the door. 'Princess! I'm sorry. Didn't mean to
put the squeeze on yer. Come down, all right?'
      
Silence.

      
'Vanessa! I fought we was gonna watch Eddie Murphy!'
      
No reply.

      
This was difficult. What was he gonna do now? It'd been a big
act of faith on Shelley's part, leaving the kid with Weasel. What was this
gonna look like?

      
Weasel went over to the sink, dunked his glass. What a situation,
eh? With Tom's brains turning to pot-noodle, Shelley had to be on the verge of
booking a cheap-day return to Valium Valley. So what was all this doing to the
kid? Screwing her up good, that was what. If any kid didn't deserve this ...
      
Weasel splashed cold water in his
face.
      
Total Psychic Allergy Syndrome.
Jeez.
      
Couldn't help thinking back to last
week when he'd faced up Tom with the mystery of the missing albums. Tom finally
breaking down, admitting it; soon as somebody snuffed it their albums went
straight in the stove. The implication being that Tom was so thin-skinned - on
the psychic level - that all it took was being exposed to the music of some
geezer what had passed over, hearing it at just the right time ... the wrong
time ... and he'd be off into something.