Phil Rickman - The Secrets of Pain

When life’s become a bitch

Dig out another ditch

Find some recovery

Back in the JCB

Referencing the times he’d spent helping Gomer Parry. She wasn’t really taking this in. She was thinking, This is a test. It had to happen one day. The Christian thing would be to persuade him to do the tour.

She saw a man walk into the bar, carrying a black bin liner.

‘Look,’ Lol said, ‘I’ve agreed with Barry to do a few more gigs here – at the Swan.’

‘And would that be a living?’ Merrily clutched her head. ‘All right, I’m sorry…’

‘And maybe something outside in the summer, with more music. Other people.’

‘A music festival? In Ledwardine?’

‘Too big a word. We’re thinking no more than one day… and a night. Just an idea. Well, Danny’s idea. He has Glastonbury dreams. I was going to see what you thought before we took it any further, because… festivals of any kind haven’t always gone well here, have they? Anyway, it would be useful to have the album finished and mastered and out there, before it happens. If it happens.’

‘Does the album have a title yet?’

‘ A Message from the Morning.’

‘Oh God, I knew that. What’s the matter with me? Lol, look…’ Merrily reached across the table for his hand. ‘Maybe we should grab half a day. Drive over to Wales. Talk about all this. And other things.’

Lol said, ‘What’s up with Barry?’

Merrily turned her chair around. Barry was back and the man was holding up the bin liner. Barry was wiping his hands on a towel.

‘He’s not happy, Lol.’

Lol said, ‘Why were you asking him about Syd Spicer?’

‘It’s a long story.’

The guy put the bin sack on the bar.

‘For you, Barry.’

He was gangly, long-faced, jutting jaw. And not sober. Barry looked up, doing his professional beam.

‘Is this roadkill, sir, or did one of you finally learn how to shoot?’

‘Dinner.’ The guy slapped the bag on the bar. ‘My dinner for tomorrow, Barry.’

He wore a camouflage jacket, newish. He had a loose, rubbery mouth.

‘I wanna eat it,’ he said.

Merrily saw Lol look up, frown.

‘I thought he’d gone back to… wherever he came from. I thought they’d all gone.’

‘Guest of The Court?’

‘They love to find bits of lead shot in their dinner,’ Lol said. ‘Real men.’

‘Do us a favour, sir,’ Barry said, ‘Take it round the back. Not everybody likes dead game in the bar. Especially when it’s over a month out of season.’

‘It never fucking is, landlord!’

‘Then it’s probably unfit for human consumption,’ Barry said calmly. ‘Round the back, eh?’

‘I need to eat it.’

‘We’ll talk about it round the back.’

‘I can only thank God Jane’s not here,’ Merrily said.

She saw Lol wince.

Halfway across the square, under the amber wash of the fake gas lamps, Jane lost the certainty. Not cold feet exactly, just the need for a second opinion. Why ruin Mum’s night? She hadn’t seen Lol for days.

She slipped into the shadowy sanctuary of the little oak- pillared market hall, pulled out her mobile and called Eirion’s phone.

Eirion’s answering service kicked in.

‘It’s me,’ Jane said.

She’d give him two minutes to call back and then walk across to the Swan, see what kind of mood Mum was in. Let the fates decide.

She was alone under the stone-tiled roof of the market hall which sometimes looked even more ancient than it was, like a prehistoric burial chamber. In her plan of the Ledwardine henge, the market hall was just off-centre, maybe marking a confluence of energies. A fair bit of energy had been expended here, all those shadowy couples exploring each other’s bodies up against the pillars.

Which made her think about Eirion at university, with all its temptations, although he’d sworn to her…

Sod it. Jane tucked away her phone and walked across to the Swan, reaching the bottom of the three stone steps just as the door opened. She backed away as someone stumbled out, the porch lamp lighting his face and his slobbery mouth.

Oh God, no.

Still here? Weren’t they all supposed to have gone home to their penthouses? How long did these bloody courses go on?

Still here, still pissed.

I’ll be seeing you… girlie.

Bad, bad news. Jane slid into the alley which led to the Swan’s backyard. He might not even remember her, probably tried it on with a few more women since then, but it wasn’t worth the risk. She stood leaning against the wall, waiting for him to go.

Obviously not the time to talk to Mum. Too many negative signs.

The phone shuddered in her pocket. She eased it out of her jeans, moving further into the alley, holding it very tight to her ear.

‘I was finishing a curry,’ Eirion said. ‘Some things must never be interrupted. And, before you ask, yes, it was a vegetable curry. Not easy to obtain in this part of Cardiff.’

‘Well, that-’ Footsteps, someone grunting. ‘Irene, I’ll have to call you back.’

‘Jane-?’

‘Sorry.’

She killed the signal, edged a little further against the wall. There was a sigh and a liquid splatter. Steam and stench. G ross. Jane turned away and waited until it was over, expecting him to go once he’d finished, but…

Damn, damn, damn. He was coming into the alley. Jane moved all the way into the inn yard. There was an old brick toilet block at the end, long out of use. Jane slid around the side of it, stumbling into a pile of rubble.

Only just making it in time. The kitchen door was opening. A splash of light. Jane saw Dean Wall standing in the doorway, wearing an apron. A local thug, basically, unless he’d changed since she’d been at school with him. Somehow, he’d persuaded Barry to take him on as an assistant chef, which probably meant he was responsible for sweeping the yard. Essentially, only a few years, a degree from the LSE and probably a Swiss bank account separated Dean from Cornel, who was standing on the step, one arm inside a plastic sack.

‘Tomorrow’s dinner, mate.’

Something was pushed at Dean, who went kind of duh, but it was crisply overlaid by Barry’s voice.

‘I’m sorry, mate.’

‘Don’t apologize, Barry. Just take it.’

‘You misunderstand. I told you once, I’m not accepting this. This is the country. There are rules.’

‘Wha-?’

‘Rules. Take it away.’

‘No, mate,’ Cornel said. ‘In the country, there aren’t any fucking rules that can’t be broken.’

‘Son, you don’t know anything about the country.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Season ends on February the first, and it’s now very nearly the end of March. That make sense to you?’

‘What?’

‘Pheasants. The rule.’

‘Did I mention pheasants? Did I? ’

Jane saw white moonlight rippling in the black plastic of a bin liner, bulging. Cornel was holding it up with both hands, something hanging out of it.

‘It deserves to be fucking eaten,’ Cornel said. ‘By me. That make sense to you?’

Barry didn’t move. Cornel pulled the bin liner open at the top and held it out to him. Barry stayed in the doorway, very relaxed-looking, not touching the bag.

‘How’d you kill that? You all get together and beat it to death?’

Jane couldn’t see what it was and didn’t want to. She felt herself going tight with hate.

Cornel said, ‘You’re really not gonna-?’

‘Goodnight, son.’

Barry at his most no-shit.

‘Wha’m I s’posed to do with it?’

Almost screaming now.

‘I should put it back in your car boot, mate, and dispose of it very discreetly.’