December (91 page)

      
Like, they really think he's gonna sit there with one thin
wooden wall between him and the probably still-smoking remains of the late Dave
Reilly? A stiff? They think he's gonna share a Portakabin with a fucking
stiff
?

      
When he gets back to L.A., he knows, he'll be dining out on
this.

      
(...
Yeah, and the guy's sitting on his amp, mid-session, when - thanks to British
weather and the standards of British workmanship since the buttholes went into
Europe - all this water comes cascading down the fucking wall and the amp
becomes like, an electric chair, and ... whoooosh ... about ten thousand volts
turn this guy's ass into steak tartare.)

      
But meantime, he's gonna keep his distance until the cops have
been and Dave Reilly departs in a body bag. However, no way is he gonna saunter
among the crumbling stones until the morgue wagon hits the trail. He also would
rather not mingle with the bereaved. Which is how Lee and his flashlight have wound
up on the edge of the wood behind the Abbey.

      
Now, in Wales (Lee is still telling the story to the guys back
home) even the goddamn woods are eerie. What's good about life in California
and neighbouring states is that trees know their place and mostly do not
presume to grow weird, bloated branches blistered with frost. And in places
where it's cold, the trees are the kind which are considerate enough not to
shed their green bits.

      
Lee's wondering whether it would be less eerie if he switched
off his flashlight, or whether that would be the fastest way to plunge into a
ravine and break an arm, when the beam finds
      
Eyes.

      
Eyes full of mist and ice.

      
And Lee damn near shits himself. (Like, I was a tad surprised,
you know?) Until he realises these are merely big, thick glasses on the nose of
a little girl, who just stares at him, probably totally stunned at coming across
Lee Gibson
in a small wood in Wales.

      
'Scared the life outa me. What you doing out, night like
this?' Kid's not what you'd call properly dressed for the conditions. School
blazer, for chrissakes. 'You lost? You want me to call up your mom?'

      
The kid says not a word; maybe she's in shock like every other
bastard around here tonight. Lee eventually extends a hand, the kid takes it
and holds on, like she wasn't too sure he
was real. Like, would
you
expect to
find
Lee Gibson
in a Welsh wood at
night and
on foot
?
      
'Where d'you live?'

      
No reply. Lee guides the kid back on to the track. 'Hey, you
can talk to me, you know, I'm not gonna bite. Who's your mom?'

      
This is getting nowhere. Lee puts his flashlight on her, takes
a better look. About twelve, not too tall - kind of dumpy, in fact. Mid-brown
hair, not too much chin ... Hey, man,
something not totally one hundred per cent right here. This kid could be what
d'you call it, used to be mongoloid? Maybe ran away from a home or
some place
like that. The cops will
know

what to do, when they get
here. And, shit, the way things are going, Lee Gibson is not going to be able
to avoid witnessing Reilly's Last Exit in the long, low van.

      
'Let's move, kid. Hey, you like rock music? I do that. I'm a rock
star.'

      
The kid does not seem over-impressed. The kid finally speaks.
      
The kid says her dad's a rock star,
too. And Lee says, 'What?'

      
Couple of minutes later, they arrive back among the lights.
      
No police cars yet. But at least
there's one friendly face in the canteen.

      
'Hey, Sile,' Lee says. 'Look what I found. Kid reckons she's Tom
Storey's daughter.'

      
Sile, sitting on his own behind a cup of black coffee, takes a
good, long, serious look at the kid.

      
'What do you think?' Lee says, chuckling. 'Maybe there a family
resemblance.'

      
'Where d'you find her?'

      
'Down by the wood, across the grass. She was just wandering. Doesn't
make much sense, though, does it? How would Storey's kid get here?'

      
'How indeed?' Sile says thoughtfully. 'Let's get you a drink, luv.
What would you like?'

      
The kid just stands there in the school blazer. Not a movement.

      
'How about a hot chocolate? Then we'll take you to your daddy,
eh?' Sile smiles, obviously likes kids, it's OK, Lee, you can push off now.
I'll deal with this.'

'More like an altar than a
tomb.' Simon stands back, rubbing dust and mould from his hands.
      
'That figures,' Moira says.

      
They've exposed the stone, or as much of it as they can get
at. It's nearly three feet off the ground, which allowed the mixing desk to fit
snugly on top of it. But, because the floor is higher in the control room than
the studio, it probably goes down another foot or so.

      
The stone they can see, with the faded symbols on it Moira thought
was lettering, forms a kind of thick shelf. Simon slips his finger under its
lip. 'If it was cemented down, it isn't any more.'
      
'We can get it off?'
      
'
You
couldn't Moira, but Tom could.'
      
Tom's sweating. He looks, not
happy, but somehow in better health than Moira's ever seen him. Tom Storey
getting to grips with destiny. He gives the stone a tug, grins harshly. 'Piece
of piss.'

      
'OK,' Moira says. 'Go for it.'

      
'Hold on.' Simon holds up a hand. 'I, er ... this is a bit embarrassing.'

      
'Spit it out, Si,' Tom says. 'We ain't got all night.'
      
'I think, before we open it, bearing
in mind what we know of the history of this place, I should say, um, a prayer.'

      
'Shit.' Tom sits on the stone shelf, 'I keep forgetting. Pray
on, mate. Pray on.'

Silly child. Disobedient
child. 'Where have you gone?'
      
Panting, Meryl stops and looks around.

      
Mist and mist and mist. Grey mist, greeny-brown mist and thick
mist where the trees are. No
blue
mist any more.

      
'Oh, my lady ...'
      
Meryl's alone.

      
Has the Lady Bluefoot gone off with Vanessa? Was Vanessa, in
fact, the one to whom the Lady was attracted? Was some secret bond established
between the gentle, scented shade and the strange, other-worldly child during
the night she spent at Hall Farm? Is she - not Meryl - the one whom the Lady
has come all this way to be reunited with?
      
Meryl moans aloud with frustration
and anguish.
      
In the fog, she's become a tragic
figure, cold and alone and betrayed. The fog has shown her the unpalatable
truth: that the whole of her adult life has been a saga of self-deception. All
she ever wanted were links with the Spiritual - a strong mystical dimension, a
sacred source of strength and inspiration.

      
And the source has repeatedly been sealed against her. While people
for whom the whole business is clearly quite abhorrent - people like Tom Storey
- are the chosen ones. Outside the presence of someone like Tom, or even
Vanessa, Meryl is nothing. It's all so crushingly unfair.

      
She doesn't see how she can ever go back to Hall Farm now, to
Martin's kitchen and Martin's bed. It would be meaningless, The Lady Bluefoot
was nothing more than a tease, a
trick.

      
Meryl kneels on the frosty grass, buries her head in her
coat-sleeve and weeps softly. She's left the Abbey behind; there are no
signposts, no pathways. Even the child has deserted her. It's cold and dark,
and the vile fog clings to her like old sins.

      
But then,

                                   
swish

                                                           
to the
right of her.

But this time Meryl refuses
to raise her head from the darkness of her sleeve despite

                       
swish

                                               
to the left of her,
but it will only be old, leaves clustering damply together in the hedgerow. And
even if it's more than this, it will be just another taunt. 'Go away,' Meryl
sobs. 'You don't want me. You don't care about me. You never did care. You're
cold. You're heartless. Go away.'
      
And

                                   
SWISHSHSHSHSHSHSHH

                                   
Directly above her.

                                   
           
And
the scent, lightly floral,
softening the mist, which caresses the back of Meryl's neck, eases her head
gently from the crook of her elbow, and Meryl looks up, the tiny hairs on her
arms prickling. And she looks up, the goosebumps rising. And she looks up, in
the most sacred terror, to where stands the Lady Bluefoot in her gown of light.

'There's not enough light,'
Simon moans. 'Has nobody got a torch?'

      
'Move back,' Moira urges. 'If everybody moves back we ought to
be able to ...'

      
'Can't hold it much longer.' Tom grits his teeth. He's raised
the stone about nine inches.

      
'It's no good.' Moira shakes her head. 'We've got to get the whole
thing off.'

      
'Look, hang on ...' Prof goes down the studio, comes back with
one of the stools. Now he understands, he wants to help all he can. Feels so
bad at thinking they'd gone apeshit, even
Moira. 'Tom, if you can pull it back about three inches ... that's it.'

      
Prof has wedged the aluminium stool in the gap, but the metal
is already starting to bend. 'Sod it.' Simon moves round to where the stool is
collapsing. 'We've probably done half a million quid's worth of damage, we can
go the whole way. Tom, you get that end ...'

      
Together, they push the stone until they've got it standing up.
'What do you reckon?' Simon looks at Tom.

      
'Drop it,' Tom says, and they let go.

      
The huge, ancient stone stands alone for almost a second
before it keels over and smacks down on to the stone of the studio floor with a
force which makes the cymbals shiver and the stone itself divide into a spider
web of cracks before fragmenting in a muffled medieval duststorm.

      
Only Prof sees this happen. The others are staring into the hole.
'What is it?' Simon says eventually.

      
Prof takes a look.

      
It's like a compost heap turned over after a winter of
rotting, except it's dry, and what seem like worms begin to disintegrate when
Simon puts out a forefinger.

      
'Wood.' Moira says, it's the remains of the tree on which
Aelwyn was crucified. The deathoak.'

      
Prof recoils at the smell, which he can't identify. 'How do
you know that?'

      
Moira shrugs, 'I don't. And yet I do. You know?'
      
'How did you know it was under
here? Under the desk?'
      
'Davey. I could hear it in the song
that none of us could understand. It was just like we were ... on top of it. Aelwyn.
The crucifixion. And what Davey said about the oldest music studio in the
world. And what
you
said about the
tape and its effect on you and what happened at the factory where you had it
baked.'

      
Moira brushes dust from her hair. Her face is streaked with
sweat and dirt. 'We might have a few extra faculties between us, but we
couldn't create music that would do all that. When Simon said, why don't we
just trash the place, I just... It had to be the studio itself. It had to be
the Abbey. That make sense to you, as an engineer?'

      
Prof shrugs. 'If a fluorescent light can put a powerful buzz
on to quarter-inch magnetic tape, what's this place likely to do to two-inch
with twenty-four tracks to mess with?' He glances down the hole, doesn't like
it and glances away. 'What the hell have I been mixing on?'

      
Simon says, 'Maybe this - by or under this oak tree - is where
Walden had his vision.'