Elizabeth Hand - Wylding Hall

I found a sheet of paper on the floor. I slid it beneath the dead bird, then slid the bird into my palm.

It didn’t weigh a thing. The feathers were so soft I could scarcely feel them. But when I drew it to my face to get a closer look, the tiny body shifted, and one of its claws pierced my palm.

It was like I’d been pricked by a hot needle. I yelped and dropped the bird back onto the windowsill, then stepped back and waited to see if the bird would move. Maybe it was playing dead.

Finally, I gave up and left. It wasn’t until I took a bath that evening that I saw the skin where its claw had pricked me was swollen, like I’d gotten a splinter. It hurt like hell, so badly I couldn’t play guitar for a week.

Then it burst, like a boil. Eventually it healed, but it left a scar. It still aches sometimes when I play.

Jon

Monday after we played the pub, Tom comes barreling back up to Wylding Hall in his car. I thought someone had died, he was driving so fast. Les had called him with some mad story about Julian and a girl, and Tom was shouting, “Are they dead? Are they dead?”

I had no idea what he was on about — why would they be dead? He stormed into the house, shouting and running upstairs, then down again. We’re all in the kitchen. Les had woken us up, raving on about Julian, but she didn’t tell us she’d rang up Tom. Tom grabbed Ashton first.

“Where’s Julian?”

Ashton looked at Tom like he was raving mad. “Julian? How the hell would I know? Did you look in his room?”

“He’s not there.”

“He probably took a walk then.” Now Ashton is the one with his knickers in a twist. “What’s this about? Why aren’t you in London?”

So, it comes out that Les had rung up Tom at the crack of dawn, woke him and told him Julian had gone missing with a girl from the pub. Ashton just about exploded — he did not like being waked up out of a sound sleep, even at the best of times. He started yelling at Les.

“Are you mad? Why’d you ring Tom? Because Julian took off with some bird? I would, too, if I had you dogging me all the time.”

“And me,” agreed Will. “You’re acting like a mad cow, Les.”

I didn’t weigh in — I felt sorry for Les. And I’m an early riser, so I was already up.

Well, you can imagine what happened next. Lesley fell apart, sobbing and wailing about what a bunch of bastards we all were, how Tom was the only one who cared about what happened to her or the band, and now even he had given up.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Tom snapped. “If I didn’t care, d’you think I’d be here? Christ. Is there any tea?”

“In a flash,” I said.

I made another pot of tea and some toasted cheese sandwiches. I wanted to get out of that room fast. But I knew that everyone would feel better once they got a bit of food in them.

Ashton

Jonno was the one saved the day that time. He was always looking out for everyone — you know, “Cuppa tea, mate?” or sharing his fags if you ran out. In he comes with tea and a tray of sandwiches and a couple of reefers, and we all eat and smoke a bit of weed and everyone starts to feel better. Except for Les, who went up to her room and refused to come down.

Truth is, often Lesley got the fuzzy end of the lollypop. Didn’t get enough credit for the songs she wrote or the arrangements she came up with, didn’t get credit for how much of our live performances she carried. Especially when Julian was around. He overshadowed everyone.

Later, she was the one became a big star. The rest of us might have been forgotten if it wasn’t for Wylding Hall . But we never took Lesley seriously enough.

And we absolutely didn’t take her seriously that morning. I mean, who would have? She was going on about birds flying around inside the house and someone bashing at the walls and Julian being murdered in his bed by that little groupie he’d picked up. But Tom had checked out his room and didn’t see anything strange. After a while, me and Jonno and Will went up, and Julian was gone, Lesley was dead right about that. But we didn’t find anything else.

Will

I just assumed Julian had taken off with the girl. Not for good, just for a stroll in the woods or down to the village. His car hadn’t moved. His room was empty. The bed looked like it’d been slept in. None of us was playing detective, it’s not like we searched for fingerprints or anything like that.

Ashton poked around under the bed — nothing there but old socks and scribbled notes for songs. There were books scattered everywhere, and Jonno started going through them. He was the one thinking most like a police detective. He found a couple of letters from Lesley, love letters, and a letter from Julian’s mum and dad back in Hampstead.

But nothing that might have belonged to the girl, and nothing like a note from Julian saying that he’d gone away. It all looked like he’d just stepped out for a smoke or a walk, the way he did most every morning.

Finally, Ashton threw a pillow at me. “This is a total waste of time,” he said. “He’ll be back for lunch, though if he’s smart about it he won’t bring the girl.” But he never came back.

Tom

I got there around noon. Everyone was in the kitchen, and they all looked out of sorts. I was out of sorts. There was a blowup because Lesley had called me — they never liked me coming down to check on them, and they thought I’d be angry that they’d played a gig at the pub without telling me. I was more concerned that something had happened to Julian. One of the boys said something to Lesley, I don’t remember what, but she flew off in tears. I thought it was best to leave her alone until I could figure out what the hell was going on. There was no sign of Julian, but so what?

“What about this girl, then?” I asked them.

All of a sudden everyone is very quiet. So, that’s the problem , I thought.

No one wants to tell me about her, and when finally Jonno pipes up, all I get is that a young girl had shown up at the pub and come back with Julian.

“Who is she?”

Jonno shrugged. “I have no idea.”

Neither did anyone else.

“What’s her name then?” I asked.

Again, nothing. I was exasperated, but I still wasn’t concerned. Pretty girl shows up, goes home with a musician — where’s the news in that? I was cheesed off about the pub gig, and I reamed them out about that, and then it was over.

Or so I thought.

I didn’t hang around. It was Monday, I’d postponed a meeting with some session musicians, and I needed to get back to London. I had a cup of tea and told them to let me know when Julian returned and to make their peace with Lesley. I told them I’d make room in the calendar for them to come into the studio in two weeks.

It was mid-August by then, and the lease on Wylding Hall only ran to the end of the month. Everything had seemed fine when I’d brought the mobile unit down just a few weeks earlier. Now I was worried that maybe things weren’t so rosy. I wanted to record the album before anyone got ideas about leaving the group.

On the way out to my car, I peeked into Julian’s Morris Minor to see if maybe he’d spent the night there. But it looked exactly as it had when he first arrived at the beginning of the summer.

Ashton

Of course, I blame myself. We all did, and still do. But you never expect something like this to happen, for someone to suddenly disappear without a trace. Every day, I thought he’d show up again. When a week went by and he hadn’t, I assumed he’d taken off with the girl.

I was furious: fucking Julian had scuttled everything. We couldn’t do the studio album without him. That was never on the table — it was inconceivable, then or now, that we could have done Wylding Hall without Julian. His guitar, his voice; all the songs he’d written.