December (72 page)

      
'Shelley ...'He couldn't think what to say, how to cross the
gulf. Through the window he could see lights in Larkfield village. It was as if
there was a power failure up here.

      
'I was thinking I've got nothing left,' Shelley said. 'But
perhaps I've always had nothing. Vanessa wasn't mine. Tom was never really
mine; he just lived here in the house built to his own peculiar specifications.
A fortress, not a home. Even Weasel, with his awful, jagged smile, Weasel was
Tom's, like a one-man dog.'
      
'You've ...'

      
He stopped. The crass old Martin would have said, You've still
got your ideas, your flair, your acumen, your
business.
The business in recession. The business built on Tom's money.

      
'I'm irrelevant,' she said. 'That's why I haven't called the
police. So they find Vanessa and she's with her father. Who are you? What's
your angle? I'm her stepmother.
Was
her stepmother.'

      
He knew she didn't want lights because she was crying
silently, because her face was streaked. Because, right now, she wasn't good
for the Love-Storey corporate image. And he was a potentially important client.
And never likely to be anything more important than that.

      
He had, it was true, been feeling rather sorry for
himself
. Deserted by a housekeeper who,
in his view, had been rather better than a wife - cooks, caters to all your
needs, is watchful and intelligent and makes no emotional demands.

      
Perhaps emotional demands were what Meryl had gone in search
of. Him too. Perhaps.

      
'What I can't understand,' he said. 'If Weasel was so anxious to
call you from a phone box when he did ...'

      
'Yes, I've thought about all that. He lives for Tom, but he
still sees me as his employer and he's in my van. Details like that matter to
Weasel.'

      
'What about Tom? You're his wife.'

      
'Tom's out of control, can't you get inside that yet? Tom
responds to influences the rest of us can't bring ourselves to believe in. And
when they take over, Tom can't do anything about it. He doesn't want to be
ruled by them, which is why he had this house built. But he was never happy
here either, and then he was pushed outside again he realised that. The other
night, coming to your house, that was the first time Tom had left this place since
it was built.'
      
'I just had no idea what I was
doing.'

      
'I persuaded him to go. I
fought
to get him out. And now I have to accept the consequences. The whole rocky
edifice is crumbling away and it's my fault, not yours at all. He used to play
his guitar in the night, like a wolf baying in a trap, and I wasn't hearing it.
Not really.'

      
'I heard. That is, I heard ... about it.'

      
'But he was afraid to leave, you see,' Shelley said.

      
'Because there were things he knew he'd have to face up to out
there? Look, this is no reflection on you whatsoever, but maybe Meryl
can
bring him round.'

      
'If they want each other, they can have each other.'

      
'I don't think it's like that,' Martin said. 'In fact, I'm
sure it's not. You know what Tom was like with her at the dinner. Oblivious.'

      
'I know what he was like
after
the dinner. I know that something happened between them that made her very keen
to find him. Weasel thinks she's in this with Case, to lure Tom out and get him
back into the studio.'

      
'That's nonsense,' Martin said gently. I can tell you for a
fact that they'd never met before that dinner party. And while I don't trust
Steve an inch, I do trust Meryl.'

      
'I'm sure you do,' Shelley said. 'At least to the point where
- as she would say - the spheres collide. And then she goes completely off her
head. Sod this, I'm going to call the police. It's been a whole day now. Over a
day. I can't stand it any longer.'

      
'That has to be your decision,' Martin said.

      
'Except there'll be publicity,' Shelley said despairingly. 'I used
to work in publicity at Epidemic. I know what'll happen. A missing
thirteen-year-old girl? A nationwide police hunt? And Tom Storey? There'll be reporters
outside the gate, TV crews. Dirty washing on the line.'

      
'Would that be necessary?'

      
'You can't find a missing person without telling people to look
out for her, can you?'

      
'God,' Martin said. 'This is a mess, isn't it? Where
are
they all?'

      
'It's like a black hole, isn't it?' Shelley said,
parched-voiced. 'One after the other. Tom and Meryl and Weasel and Vanessa. As
if something's sucking them in. As if they're
all
out of control. That's silly, isn't it?'

      
'You can't stay here on your own. Is there a spare bedroom? A
settee I could doss down on?'

      
'I suppose you don't want to go home to a cold house and no supper.'

      
'No,' he admitted. 'I don't. I could always go to a
restaurant. I could go to a hotel. But I'd be worrying about you.'

      
Suddenly Shelley switched on several spotlights. They all
seemed to be pointing at Martin and he threw a hand across his eyes.

      
'Wouldn't do any good, would it?' Shelley said. 'The full
glare of publicity. It's only when I'm on my own that I almost call the police.
Also, I think if you went away now I'd be scared you'd disappear too. And then
I really would go insane because there'd be nobody else who even knows what's
been happening - let alone why.'

      
When his eyes adjusted he saw she was sitting at the kitchen table,
both hands inside her hair.
      
Black hole?

Simon had sent them off
through the dusk mist to the canteen. Tom and Dave and Moira. Moira hadn't
wanted to go. Simon had said, Please, I've had some experience with this. I am
a minister.

      
Bullshit, and she knew it, he could tell.

      
He had Prof in a rock and swivel chair behind the mixing desk.
The chair had arms so he couldn't fall out. Simon figured that being in his
usual work environment would help. He'd got about two pints of coffee down
Prof; mustn't, on any account, let him sleep.
      
Simon
switched on all the studio lights. The desk was lit up like New York at night

      
'Prof. Talk to me.'

      
As soon as the others had gone, he'd been up to Prof's room
and searched for bottles. Nothing, and nowhere to hide any.
      
He'd taken the liberty of going
through Prof's suitcase; he'd had the top off the toilet cistern; he'd even
climbed on a chair to reach the high window in case there was a plastic carrier
bag hanging outside.
      
Clear.

      
And then he'd found the pot.

      
It was rolled on its side under the bed. A flagon, like a
Chianti bottle, with a handle at the neck.
      
Bluish glazed pottery. Stamford
ware. A baluster jar.
      
It stank of wine.

      
It stank like Prof's white beard, rusted brown around his
mouth. Simon bent to sniff the beard and they both recoiled at once.

      
'Geddoff. What you doing? Bloody poofter.'
      
'Prof. Where did you get the wine?'

      
If you wanted to get discreetly pissed, you'd stick to
spirits; you'd hardly try to smuggle in a case of red wine, would you?

      
And the baluster jar. It hadn't been there when he'd shown Prof
the room, he was sure of it.
      
'Prof!'
      
'What!'

      
'The wine. Tell me where you got the wine.'

      
Prof struggled upright, the chair rocking. It would probably
make him sick eventually. Simon had a plastic bucket standing by.

      
'Where?'

      
Prof grinned. 'Room service.'

And gradually, like the
contents of Prof's stomach into the
bucket, it all came out.

Prof waking up, he doesn't
know when but it's sometime in the night. And he's thirsty. Just plain thirsty,
right? Thirsty as in needing liquid. Water, lemonade, nice cup of hot tea.

      
The big jar is on the floor at the side of the bed. No, he
wasn't aware of it before, which he would have been, 'course he would. Couldn't
have been there when he went to bed, else he'd have knocked it over, wouldn't
he? 'Course he would.

      
It's heavy, this pot. Profs thirst is roaring. He pulls it on
the bed, lifts it up to his mouth.

      
Beaujolais nouveau
it ain't.

      
That's what he's thinking.
Beaujolais
nouveau
it ain't. That's all he remembers thinking until he wakes up again
with the same raging thirst. Which, considering how bloody cold it is in here,
is not exactly normal, is it?

      
Feels around by the side of the bed and there it is again.

      
Full.

      
In which case he couldn't have had more than a sip last time, could
he?

      
Prof heaves the big jar on to his chest, tips it towards his mouth.

      
Remembers nothing else until... well it must be morning. But
no more than first light, surely. Headache? Not that he remembers. No, feeling
OK, really. Except for the thirst.

'What did it taste like?'
Simon asked.

      
'Wonderful,' Prof said, rolling his eyes. 'Didn't seem like
the same stuff. Before, it was kind of weak and sour. You got any more?'
      
'No.'

      
'Came up from the cellar, right? The wine cellar.'
      
'This is the wine cellar. Hence the
vaulted ceiling. This is where they stored the wine in casks. Imported wine
from Bordeaux. Decanted into baluster jars. This was the wine cellar.
      
'Now it's a studio. Remember?'
      
'No more wine?'
      
'No more wine for you.'
      
'Shit.' Prof giggled.

      
Simon looked down at Prof. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why had
nobody told him this guy had a drink problem?

      
Like Simon had had a sex problem.

      
Whatever was in here, it always homed in on weaknesses.

      
He took the plastic bucket upstairs to the little, cold
bathroom which shared the first floor with Prof's room. He half-filled the
bucket with chilled spring water from the bath and brought it back, with a
sponge.

      
'Blown it, din' I?' Prof mumbled as Simon mopped his face and
his beard. 'Fucked up again.'

      
'It was useful, Prof. It was a warning not to relax, not for one
moment.'
      
'Time is it?'
      
'Five-ish.'
      
'Morning?'

      
'Afternoon, Prof. Evening.'

      
'Oh shit, we're losing time. We were gonna record ...'

      
'Looks like we won't be recording tonight.'

      
He thought, Looks like it doesn't want us to record.

      
Yet.

When the child appeared on
the vicarage doorstep, Meryl thought it was a visitation, a phantasm.

      
So silent. So still.

      
Meryl stood there with the door open, the dark air biting at her
cheeks.

      
The porch light haloed the small figure.

      
Meryl's anger evaporated in the fragrant holiness of the moment.

      
This morning she'd driven to Abergavenny to buy more clothes.
And toiletries, to supplement the frugal male contents of Simon's bathroom cabinet.
Since her return, she'd been feeling increasingly resentful. Stalking the
vicarage and doing things abruptly: washing her hair, switching the TV set on
and off, walking up the street to the little village shop inside the pub on
three separate occasions to buy items which were already on shelves in the
larder. And making pot after pot of hot, placating tea.