December (71 page)

      
O most faithful
companion appointed by God to be my guide and protector and forever at my
side... What thanks can I offer you for your faithfulness and love? You watch over
me in sleep. You console me when I'm sad. You lift me up when I fall...

      
She didn't say it very loud, and then she lay down with her
schoolbag as a pillow and her blazer and some dirty old sacks over her. The smell
had reminded her of Weasel and she'd sat up again and put her hands together.

      
And please watch over Weasel, too, and make him better.

      
As she lay down again, she felt a bit worried about this,
perhaps her Guardian Angel wasn't allowed to watch over Weasel as well. Perhaps
she ought to pray to Weasel's Guardian angel. But was she allowed to do that?

      
She must have fallen asleep thinking about this, perhaps for
hours and hours. Now she was awake again and she was hungry and thirsty.

      
She knocked on the glass. 'Weasel!'

      
There were holes in the barn roof and light coming down grey
and misty. She could see Weasel quite clearly. He hadn't moved. He didn't look
too
angry any more. Just sad.

      
If anybody should be angry, it should be her.

      
Weasel had said he was going to find Daddy.

      
What he'd said was, the next time those doors open, Daddy'll be
there.

      
But the doors had never opened except when she'd opened them
herself.

      
It was no way to treat a Princess.

      
She pushed the van doors open and scrambled down and peeped
between the big barn doors to make sure the Bad Man wasn't there.

      
Outside it was very foggy and very cold. Colder than the back
of the van. Vanessa couldn't even see the house. She felt very miserable. The
ground was all muddy and dirty and full of puddles with coloured circles in
them, which was oil. She hated going to the dirty old lavatory again. When she
pulled the chain it made a horrible noise, like the noises Weasel had made when
the Bad Man had gone and there was vegetable soup all over windscreen.

      
Crouching over the dirty lavatory, desperate not to touch it
because of the germs, Vanessa started to say another prayer to her Guardian Angel
and then felt ashamed. He wouldn't want to talk to her in here!
      
Vanessa began to cry.

      
She didn't want to go back to the van. She didn't want to see
poor Weasel again. She wanted to go home. She was very cold.

      
Outside the lavatory, it was so foggy and grey and her glasses
were so misted up with tears that Vanessa almost bumped into the man.

      
Although not really. The man came out of the mist. You
couldn't bump into him. He was one of
those
men.
      
'Grandad,' Vanessa said, relieved.

'I don't know, Eddie,' the
museum curator said, 'you were bad enough when you were at work, all your
awkward questions, but since you retired you've been a complete pain. How can I
explain it? The massacre was 1175, no argument.'

      
'I don't need for you to explain it! All I want is for you to confirm
it, see!'

      
Eddie realised he was yelling down the phone and lowered his
voice. 'I just don't want any mistakes, see, Elwyn.' He consulted his notes.
'Can we go over it one more time?'

      
'Five minutes,' the museum curator said, 'then I've got a
pensioners' club from Hirwaun to show around.'

      
'OK.' Eddie spelled it out, tracing his notes with his finger.

           
De Braose massacre
of Seisyll's people ... 1175.

           
Foundation
work begins on Abaty Ystrad Ddu ... 1177.

      
'But that doesn't mean there was nothing there at all, Eddie.'
      
'No, all it means is there was no
massive great stone edifice, which means the Abbey was probably a bunch of
huts. Or even bloody
tents.
See, these
little anomalies have been at the back of my mind for years, without me realising
the significance.'
      
'There is no significance. This
must've been how many of the ancient Abbeys began. Just this fellow Walden and
a handful of followers and a lot of faith. They throw up a few wooden huts and
then go out and raise the money, or apply to Rome or something. There is no
great significance.' .

      
'Not if you discredit the Aelwyn story, no. Which, on the
surface, is what this appears to do. If there was no Abbey there, how could
Aelwyn Breuddwydiwr come charging out of the snow with a bunch of armed men on
his tail and bang like hell on the great oak door? You don't
have
great oak doors on sheds.'

      
'I'm still not following this, Eddie, and the pensioners from
Hirwaun are filing in.'

      
'You don't have to, Elwyn. This is my problem. Thank you, boy.'

      
Eddie put down the phone, flushed with triumph. Then picked it
up again and called Isabel Pugh.

      
'You're an accountant,' he said. 'Get out your calculator and
do a sum for me. Never could trust my long-division.'

Lee's mobile home, movie-set
size, movie-star luxury, was installed behind the Portakabin canteen. The only
drawback, as Lee had pointed out, was having to share it with an office run by
a TMM employee called Michelle. She was twenty-two and gorgeous. She had a lot of
time for Lee Gibson. He conceded to Dave and Moira, showing them around, that
this was not a
major
drawback.

      
Lee said he was fed up of waiting and was going to have a lie
down for half an hour on his luxurious movie star's bed.

      
Moira and Dave walked back to the Abbey. They'd breakfasted at
the canteen around eleven; hung around to wait for Simon and Tom and Prof, none
of whom had shown yet.

      
'You envy him, Davey?' Moira said, as they strolled back to
the Abbey, wraiths in the mist.

      
'Who, Lee? I think he envies me,' Dave said. 'I only wish he
had cause.'

      
'It's no' the time.' Moira said. 'And definitely no' the
place. Davey, why'd you keep looking at me?'
      
'Just checking you're not an
illusion.'
      
'Don't lie, huh?' Moira said.
      
'I'm not I—'

      
'You're playing with the ends of your scarf. Always a bad sign.'

      
Through the mist they could see the great stone hoops of the
Abbey's nave. It was like a giant gin-trap, Dave thought. All you had to do was
tread on the bait, and the Abbey would have you. He felt an urge to pull Moira
back, to prevent her going any further. Don't take her, he called silently to
the Abbey. Please don't take her.

      
'Have you seen something, Davey?'

      
'No.'

      
'Then what's wrong?'

      
'Nothing. Honestly. Everything's fine. Well, fine as it could
be under the... I ...'
      
'What?'

      
'I like your anorak,' Dave said.

      
Moira glanced sideways at him. 'C & A's. No big deal.'
      
'I haven't seen it before, have I?'

      
Moira stopped and stared at him, the mist billowing around her
like a toga. 'Davey, what the hell's so significant about my damned anorak?
Listen, I'm no' moving another inch until you tell me what this is all about.'

      
Dave pushed a hand through his hair. The anorak was black. It
had a hood. He was wondering if she'd been wearing it the other night at the Castle
Inn when she and Prof had found him.
      
When he'd seen something black
around her face.

      
'Sorry,' he said. 'It's nothing. I'm just making small talk,
when I get this close to the Abbey I talk about the first thing that comes into
me head. Just until we get inside. Nerves, that's all.'

      
And he didn't need to look at her to know she didn't believe word.

      
The Abbey arched above them. The tower, with its pointed roof,
jutted out of the ruins like a bird of prey on a crag.

      
They went directly to the back entrance of the studio, hearing
voices from inside.
 
'Maybe we can make a
start late afternoon.' Moira squeezed his arm below the elbow. 'Have a wee
warm-up session, hang a few ideas together.'
      
There was a crash of cymbals from
within. 'Oh dear,' she said. 'He just hates people messing with his drums.'
      
'... all we need,' they heard Tom
shouting.
      
'Just send out for coffee,' Simon
said. 'Lots of ...'
      
He broke off as Dave pushed the
door open, dread welling up.

      
'... the hell's this?'

      
It was like some tragic, classical group-sculpture. Tom Storey
stood in the middle of the studio floor, just beyond Lee's drumkit. Simon
crouched to one side, his arms open like a goalkeeper's. Tom was holding up a
smaller figure in a dressing gown who seemed to have collapsed into the drums,
hurling over two hi-hats, a snare and a pair of deep bongos.

      
Simon's hands slid supportively under the dressing-gowned arms.
'Steady, Prof.'

      
'Oh ...
no
.' Dave
dropped to his knees, helped Simon lay the sagging body on to the grey carpet.
      
'Prof is pissed,' Tom said bluntly.

      
'I don't believe this.' Dave looked down into Prof's filmed
over eyes. 'Two days at the Castle he doesn't touch a drop, in fact, before we
left yesterday, he said, there's not gonna be booze in there, is there? I don't
want any booze.'

      
'Must've brought some wiv him, all the same.'

      
Dave shook his head. Prof grabbed a cymbal stand to haul
himself upright and pulled it over on top of him with a clashing of metal. Dave
saw Simon wince at the sound.

      
'Don't worry Tom.' Prof giggled feebly. 'Thasser name of the
game. "Don'... worry ... Tom.'"

      
Moira turned away, closed her eyes, clenched both fists at her
sides, breathed out viciously.

      
'This
fucking
place.'

VIII

Dream Made Flesh

No lights shone from the
ugly yellow house on the hill.
      
No smoke stained the morose sky
above its chimneys.
      
In the winter dusk it stood
tasteless and unloved in its neat, shaven, treeless grounds.

      
When Martin rang the bell, it tinkled forlornly from room abandoned
room.
      
And yet she was in.

      
And called out, 'Round the back, would you, please?'
      
As if she were afraid to answer the
front door because the people who entered through front doors were the official
people.
Police, Mrs Storey. Could we come
in?

      
She already had the back door open. The kitchen was a dim cave
behind her, and she offered no greeting. She'd clearly lost weight. Her face
was gaunt, her brass-bell hair dull and tarnished.

      
This was a horrible place. Martin wanted to take her away,
back to his house which, even without Meryl, was relatively warm and bright,
but he knew she wouldn't leave, not even for half an hour.

      
In case the phone should ring. In case someone should return.

      
'I'm afraid this is all my fault.' He followed her in. 'I'm so
terribly sorry.'

      
'I've picked up the phone about four times,' Shelley said
listlessly. 'To call the police, you know?'
      
'It's a possibility we have to
consider.'
      
'Yes.'

      
Inside it was too gloomy to decode the expression on her face.
The only gleamings came from the chrome covers on the Aga. He moved towards her
across the kitchen.

      
'Don't touch me,' Shelley said emptily. 'Please don't touch me
now.'

      
'I was going to put some lights on.'
      
'I don't want lights either.'