Phil Rickman - December

Prologue

I

Cemented in Blood

DECEMBER 8, 1980

By the time he makes the doorman's office, hisglasses have come off, and blood and tissue and stuff are emptying urgentlyfrom his mouth.
He falls.

He liesin the blood on the office floor, and he doesn't move. A short while later, twocops are turning him over, real careful, and seeing the blood around the holes- four holes, maybe five. And then they're carrying him, bloody face up, out tothe patrol car, leaving behind these puddles and blotches on the doorman'sfloor.

Normalway of things, these cops wouldn't move a man in such poor condition. The stateof this one, it's clear there's going to be no premium in hanging around for anambulance.

'Thisguy is dying,' one cop says.

Whenthey raised him up, the doorman thought he heard a sound like the snapping ofbones.
It's just after eleven p.m.

Somewhere out there in thenight, Dave hears what he thinks is the snapping of twigs. And the twigs aretalking, crackling out words.
deathoak,

Say the twigs.

Dave's under the swollen branches of some old tree. Not an oaktree. But twigs in the copse are crackling the words, and they come as thisweird rasp on the night wind, and he hears the echo of a barn owl across thevalley, and the owl - he'd swear - is screeching,

death oak.

Between the shadowy mesh ofbare branches and broken stone arches, Dave can see the lights inside theAbbey.

The Abbey is old and ruinous. A glowering heap oftwelfth-century stone, which by day is the raw, wind-soured pink of an oldfarmer's skin. By night - like now - it's mainly black, a jagged and knobblyrearing thing among the wooded border hills flanking the Skirrid, the holymountain of Gwent. Legend says the Skirrid was pulled apart by a massiveseismic shudder at the very moment of Christ's crucifixion.

The shudders inside Dave tonight are not exactly seismic. Buthe wouldn't deny, standing trembling under the dripping tree, that he's comingapart.

In a corner of the ruins, incongruous as a heart inside askeleton, is a stone tower built over the vaults where the monks stored wineimported from France. The studio's down here now, built into the vaults. Aromantic, evocative place to record music. In the daytime. In summer. Maybe.

At night, in winter, forget it.

Tonight, nervy lights were wobbling behind pimply, leadedglass as Dave spun away from the Abbey, hurling himself, sobbing, at the trees,his canvas shoes skidding on the winter-wet lawn. Clamping his hands over hiscars, vibrating them as if he could somehow shake the phrase - death oak - out of his skull.

I can handle it, I candirect it, I can
Ah, but you know you really can't.

See, the problem is, if you're in some way sensitive, thenpeople - the ones who don't think you're a phoney, or misguided or totally outof your tree - have this curious idea that you must be spiritually advanced.Serene. In control.

This means not runningaway.

Well, it's fine for them to talk, the ones who think it's abeautiful gift. They should be here tonight in this holy place.

And we, Dave thinks,should have listened lo Tom Storey.

'What the fuck is this?'

Big Tom from Bermondsey, lead guitar, fearless on the frets,was wedged into the narrow, arched doorway at the top of the steps, roaring ateverybody. Some of it was outrage. Most of it, Dave could tell, was panic.

In the studio, the churchy light, wavering.
About a dozen lighted candles inmetal holders, brass and wooden candlesticks and saucers were spread out,apparently at random, around the whitewashed vault.

In the recording booths, candles burned. Little whitesnow-drop lights glimmered from ledges and amps. Melted wax was oozing down LeeGibson's middle cymbal.

No other light than this. Looked quite cosy, Dave thoughtirrationally. A touch Christmassy.

And then he thought, No, it could be cosy. Somewhere else. Almost anywhere else. Anywhere butthe Abbey of Ystrad Ddu, where it was said that every stone in the walls hadbeen cemented with blood.

He'd followed Lee, Moira and Simon into the studio, and Moirahad stopped at the bottom of the steps and said quietly, 'I don't like this.'And now Tom wouldn't come through the door.

Dave looked at Moira and mouthed a word: joke?
'Well, I'm no' laughing,' Moirasaid out of the side of her mouth.

She was young and moon-pale, wearing a long dark velvet dressand a lustrous silver headband and glowing far brighter, for Dave, than thecandles.

'OK.' Simon St John strolled languidly into the centre of thestudio. 'If whoever did this is listening from anywhere, we're all suitablyterrified, aren't we, Dave?'

'Er ... yeh. Right. Crapping ourselves.' Dave looked at Simonand Simon raised an eyebrow, probably signalling that Dave should remembertonight's motto, which was, Don't Worry Tom.

Dave nodded.

'Come on down, Tom. Come on.' Simon sounding as if he wascalling a dog. 'Nothing to worry about, squire. Nothing sinister. Somebodytaking the piss, that's all.'

Simon, smooth and willowy, had credibility. While it wasacknowledged that Tom was the best musician, he was still a rock musician.Whereas Simon was, er, classically trained, actually. Plus, he waspublic-school educated, a laid-back, well-spoken guy, a calming influence.Serene? Did a good impression, anyway.

Tom looked nervously from side to side, like he was on theedge of a fast road, and then came down, making straight for the metal standwhere his solid-bodied Telecaster guitar sat. He snatched up the Telecaster andstrapped it on, like armour. He was tense as hell.

'Joke, right?' The brash young session drummer, Lee Gibson,had followed Tom down the steps. Lee was not a full member of the band, lackingthe essential qualifications - i.e. he was too close to normal.

Dave began to count the candles, becoming aware of this rich,fatty smell. The candles had been burning a while and dripping. Christmas waswrong; the studio looked like a chapel of rest awaiting a body. Except in achapel of rest, the candles wouldn't be ...

'Black!' Tom let out this hoarse yelp, flattening himselfinstinctively against a wall. 'Fucking things are black! You call that a bleeding joke?'

Dave finished counting. Thirteen. Oh hell.

'Hey, come on, candles can be protective, too,' Moira saiduncertainly.

'Bullshit.' The wavy light was kinder to Moira than to Tom.His eyes were puffy, heavy moustache spread across his mouth like a squashedhedgehog. 'Bullshit!' Clamping hisTelecaster to his gut, its neck angled on a couple of candles like a rifle.

The flames of the two candles, dripping on to adjacent amps,seemed to flare mockingly.

'Brown,' Lee Gibson said. 'They're only dark brown, see?'

Dave peered at one. It looked black enough to him, and itsmelled like a butcher's shop in August. Also - and this wasn't obvious becauseseveral were concealed by the partitions around individual booths - if youstood in the centre of the studio floor, you could see the candles had beenarranged in almost a perfect circle. If this was a wind-up, somebody had goneto a lot of trouble.

Be totally pointless organizing a witch-hunt. This was aresidential recording studio, people coming and going, silent, discreet, likethe medieval monks who'd built the Abbey.

'Fuck's sake, man, they only look black.' Lee had on leather trousers and a moleskin waistcoatover his bare chest, a guy already shaping his own legend. Clearly anxious toget started; this session would be crucial to his career-projection.

Tom regarded him with contempt. 'Thank you, son.' A warningrumble Dave had heard before; he tensed. 'That makes me feel so much better,'Tom said. And then spasmed.