A Cry From Beyond (19 page)

That
evening I dared to watch the regional news on the antiquated
television set that came with the cottage. The story of my arrest
was quite low down on the agenda but it was there, and it was
damning.

“Ex pop
star”, was how the newscaster referred to me. Ex! for chrissakes!
The ruddy nerve!

Film
footage of the incident was shown, including the part where I half
throttled Mr Smooth. The Palin twin gave her account of what
happened with the objectivity of a tin pot dictator passing
sentence on a defeated rebel, using words like “violent”,
“attacked”, “launched”, and worst of all from my perspective,
“psychotic”. The expose was a brilliant case study of character
assassination, I thought hopelessly.

My mother
called the following day.

“You
heard then,” I said.

“I think
the whole world has, son.”

“Sorry to
bring shame on the family name yet again mom.”

“Don’t be
sarcastic.”

“I was
being sincere.”

“You
should leave that blessed cottage John. Leave as soon as you are
able. It’s brought you nothing but trouble.”

“Its
home,” I said stubbornly.

“Your
home is here, if you want it to be.”

“Thanks
mom, that’s nice to know.”

“Is there
anything I can do for you?”

“Other
than regress me to age five so I can start my life again, no,
unfortunately there isn’t.”

“Well,
take care, John. I’m always thinking of you, you know. Is there
anything else you want to discuss?”

“Like
what?”

“I don’t
know. It was just a question.”

“I’m fine
mom. I’ll speak to you again soon.”

I ended
the call and headed directly into the kitchen, where I pulled a
chilled bottle of chardonnay from the fridge, intending to drink
the entire contents. It had been quite a day.

Out
walking Lennon the following morning, I got the uneasy feeling I
was being spied upon. It wasn’t the first time I’d felt this way.
It had been the case since Norris had published his piece about me
in the local rag. At first I thought it was the birds. They seemed
to be everywhere. Then I got to thinking it might be Norris himself
keeping me under surveillance, or that maybe it was another
journalist from some other newspaper. Or maybe it was a simple case
of paranoia? I couldn’t really decide. But then, on the morning of
which I speak, I saw a man loitering near the cottage, (not Norris,
I realised, wrong build). When this man, whoever he was, sensed his
cover was blown, he scarpered into the woods that led to the
outskirts of Ashley, leaving me feeling confused and just a little
unnerved, at the same time hoping he wasn’t some nutcase with a
Chapman complex.

“You’ll
protect me won’t you Lennon,” I said to the retriever, and inwardly
cringed at the terrible irony of those words.

2.

The time
finally arrived when I was forced to contact the estate agent about
the forthcoming auction of my apartment. The bank had foreclosed on
me and it was now simply a matter of time before I knew my fate
financially. Luckily I’d had the foresight to secure High Bank on a
one year fixed lease, and in the process had managed to negotiate a
discount from Mrs Corbett for paying up front. I’d been warned that
the forced sale of the apartment would leave me stony broke,
perhaps bankrupt me. The lease being fully paid up on the cottage
at least meant I would retain a roof over my head, even if the roof
in question was beginning to feel like it belonged to a prison. The
agent gave me the auction date and I recorded it in my diary,
intending to be present when the hammer fell.

CHAPTER TWELVE

It was
drizzling when I hit the outer London suburbs. Before I checked in
at the apartment, which technically speaking remained mine until
the end of the week, I paid a brief visit to Mike’s Regent Street
office, hoping to see Michelle, only to be told that she was tied
up in meetings all day.

Mike was
free however, and more than willing to see me. I took the
opportunity to update him on events at High Bank following his last
visit, including my rather off beat theory about Melinda and Kayla
being spirits of the dear departed. He listened politely to what I
had to say, (rather like a psychiatrist might listen to a patient,
I couldn’t help thinking), but was reluctant to discuss the subject
further. I suspect he was afraid to, given his own traumatic
experience at the cottage. Or perhaps he’d decided in his own mind,
either it hadn’t happened, or that my sanity had finally fallen
fowl of reality. I guess with Mike, we were talking self
preservation here.

“Do you
need any help getting your stuff moved into storage,” he asked,
quickly moving the conversation on.

“Can you
spare some time right now?”

“You ask
a lot,” he said, already rising to his feet.

And so,
with thoughts of High Bank put to one side, at least for the time
being, we jumped into my car and travelled over to the apartment to
begin the onerous task of packing up the remainder of my personal
effects. Time was of the essence. I was expected to vacate the
apartment by Friday, removing myself, my furniture and personal
effects by midday. The removal van was booked first thing in the
morning. Temporary storage had been arranged in advance. The
mortgagee wanted the place empty for the auction, which was
arranged for Saturday afternoon, on site. Packing up was
emotionally and physically tough. Mike sacrificed the whole day,
staying until the job was done. The following morning, as arranged,
my worldly goods were transported away and placed in
storage.

The day
after saw the apartment go under the hammer. In the end I got cold
feet and stayed away from the auction. Witnessing the process would
have achieved nothing. To lose your home is upsetting enough,
without the added drama of witnessing it take place first
hand.

Late that
afternoon I was contacted by the acting estate agent, who informed
me that the place went for the bank’s reserve price, a forced sale
figure in other words, which meant I would have to make up the
shortfall between the sale price and my debt to the bank, even
though the bank was insured against such a loss. Sometimes life
really sucks. I was going to be out of the property market for
quite some time it seemed, unless I got lucky with my music again,
and managed either to clear my outstanding debt or buy a place for
cash.

Friends
from yesteryear helped me drown my sorrows. Key members of my old
band, they were rock and roll diehards who’d started playing during
their teens, having seen music as a passport to untold fame and
wealth. Somewhere along the way the dream faded and reality
inevitably kicked in. Nowadays they relied on session work and
gigging around to pay the bills.

Des Ryan
was a drummer and a hell raiser, with a penchant for big-breasted
blondes. Michelle hated him with a vengeance, claiming he was a bad
influence on me, and she was probably right. Where he led I’d
always tended to follow. Although those days were long gone, or so
I tried to tell myself, he was nevertheless the first person I
called when I knew I’d be in the capital to sort out my affairs. A
case of old habits dying hard, I guess. Des also happened to be a
big fan of the occult. When I told him about the craziness that had
been happening up at High Bank, he was intrigued and keen to see
the place for himself.

The other
members of my old band, Steve Stevens, a bassist and Brent
Fairbrother, a keyboard player of some note, proved rather less
enthusiastic however.

“That
kind of shit gives me the creeps,” Steve maintained as we sat
around a table in an east end pub, drinking beer and smoking
cigarettes. “Personally I don’t know what the fascination
is.”

“It’s all
hokum if you ask me,” Brent commented. “There’s no such thing as
the hereafter. It’s all bollocks.”

Des
fervently disagreed, going so far as to suggest a séance might be
in order. “If there is anything afoot, holding a séance will get to
the bottom of things. If you make contact, you’ll make progress.
Trust me.”

“I don’t
think it’s such a good idea,” I told him. “I’ve heard stories of
people going nuts from dabbling in the occult. Wasn’t there a
famous case of a group of occultists dying when they called on the
dead?”

“You’re
talking about Alistair Crowley,” he said knowledgeably.

“Who is
Alistair Crowley?” Steve asked. He looked to me for guidance, but I
could only shrug in ignorance.

Des came
to the rescue, saying, “He was known as the Beast. He was purported
to be the wickedest man in the world. He and his disciples tried to
raise the god Pan, to their detriment. The venture ended in death
and insanity.”

“Sounds
like the music business,” Steve chipped in.

“What
happened to Crowley?” Brent asked, raising his pint mug to his
lips.

“He
survived,” said Des, “but the story goes he was a broken
man.”

“And you
want to hold a séance knowing that kind of thing can happen?” I
said incredulously.

Des
merely shrugged. “It’s just a story, man. There’s nothing to say it
was due to a supernatural event. They were probably crazy to start
with.” He smiled and winked his eye at me. “Come on John, let’s
give it a try, what do you say? If nothing else, it’ll be a good
excuse for a party.”

“You
don’t understand,” I said, irritated by his offhandedness. “Two
people have gone missing from that cottage, with no
explanation.”

“But
you’ve survived and you’re still living there,” he shot back. “How
do you explain that little conundrum?”

I glanced
around the table and then sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t.”

“How come
you haven’t left?” Steve asked. It was a good question and, truth
be known, one I was unable to answer to my own satisfaction, let
alone anyone else’s.

“I don’t
have anywhere to go,” I answered lamely.

“What
about Michelle,” Des asked.

“She’s
disowned me. It would be difficult for me to leave regardless. The
cops have more or less ordered me to stay put for the time
being.”

“I’m
curious as hell to see this cottage, John,” Des insisted. “Humour
me, why don’t you. Let me spend a night at this latter day Borley
Rectory and make me a happy man?”

I frowned
in bemusement. “What the hell is Borely Rectory?”

“It’s
supposed to be the most haunted house in England,” Des said. He
smiled at me again. “So, can I stay the night or not?”

Against
my better judgment I agreed.

He
insisted on bringing along a couple of bimbo’s for the ride, so to
speak. At first glance they could’ve passed for twins, but that was
due mainly to the bleached hair and figure hugging outfits they
wore. One claimed she’d starred in a couple of skin flicks. The
other, whom Des referred to as Roxy, and who was the slightly
taller of the two, claimed she was a glamour model—which probably
amounted to the same thing—and part time waitress who was in
“development” whatever the hell that meant. I had trouble
remembering their names and came to think of them as Pixie and
Dixie.

They had
no trouble making themselves at home. Having changed out of their
travelling gear into T shirts and track pants, they proceeded to
laze around the place drinking wine and watching daytime
television, with Des in close and intimate attendance at all
times.

“I’m not
so sure this is a good idea,” I told him privately on one of the
rare occasions he was out of their company. He stared at me as if I
was insane and said, “Are you kidding? You’re a young single man
holed up in a remote cottage with two beautiful females, who are
intent on getting sloshed out of their tiny minds and you don’t
think it’s such a good idea? What’s wrong with you John, have you
turned?”

“Don’t be
stupid,” I said, but could think of no rational argument to counter
his comments without admitting I was pining for Michelle, and I
didn’t want to do that for fear of ridicule.

I excused
myself and retreated to the attic room where, I attempted to
compose, but it was hopeless. My thoughts centred entirely on
Michelle. She’d refused to take my calls or respond to my e-mails
or texts. I was desperate to fix things between us, (a case of you
don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone, as Mike had so rightly
said), but I was being denied the opportunity.

And then,
completely out of the blue, the phone rang and it was
her.

“I was
just thinking about you,” I said, almost tripping over my words in
my eagerness to engage her in conversation.

“This is
a business call,” she said sounding disappointingly detached. “Mike
insisted I call you to discuss dates for a possible national tour
next year. I’ll be honest John, I didn’t want to, but Mike more or
less ordered me: said it was my job and I was being unprofessional
in refusing. So, I am being professional.” She proceeded to talk me
through proposed dates and venues for a late autumn tour, which she
said all hung on whether or not I came up with new material of a
standard acceptable to the record company.