The Cure of Souls

After a few minutes, Merrily picked up the phone and called the number Dennis Beckett had given her for the Shelbones, in Dilwyn.

There was no answer.

3 Stock

THE FIRST TIME Lol saw Gerard Stock, he thought the bloke must have some kind of status here, that maybe he was the original owner of the whole place, including the stables and the pigsties.

This was perhaps because Gerard Stock kind of swaggered.

It was not a word Lol recalled ever mentally applying to anyone before. Stock walked like he was shouldering his way through a crowd of people who didn’t matter, to get to somebody who did. This looked odd, because he was all alone on the track which crossed the hay meadow. No bushes, no banks of nettles, no cows; nothing but lush, knee-high grass in a valley smouldering with summer.

It was eleven-thirty in the morning, and Stock was heading their way.

Prof was not glad to see him. ‘The sodding countryside. You get more privacy in Notting Hill. He wants to know who you are. He always has to know who everybody is, the bastard. He’s obviously seen you walking around here and he thinks you might be someone of significance.’

‘Obviously hasn’t noticed my car, then.’

Lol was standing, with a mug of tea and a slice of toast, at the window of the studio anteroom-cum-kitchen, which had once been a pigsty and now possibly looked even more of one.

‘This guy…’ Prof drained his mug, added it to a pile of unwashed crockery beside the sink. ‘I ask myself, should I have to cope with guys like this any more, my time of life? The business is top-heavy with the bastards, always has been. They know everybody – shared spliffs with Jerry Garcia, toured with Dylan, played jew’s harp on the cut that never made it onto Blood on the Tracks… which, of course, is how come their name was tragically omitted from the sleeve. These guys…’ Prof palmed his stubbly white chin. ‘These guys are losers the likes of which I hoped that by moving out here I should never have to encounter again.’

‘So who exactly is he, Prof?’ Lol saw a man who was not that much taller than he was, but wide and powerful. A man swaggering like he owned the place, but not hurrying. A man wanting them to know he was coming.

Prof snorted. ‘For my sins, my nearest neighbour. He lives, with his distressingly younger wife, in a converted hop-kiln somewhere over there where I’ve never been. He walks over here two, three times a week, in case maybe I got Knopfler or Sting hanging out.’

‘A… hop-kiln.’ Lol had fallen asleep thinking of a woman in a hop-yard near a kiln, then had dreamed of her, and then had awoken this morning thinking Did that really happen?

‘Very sought-after, these old kilns, apparently. So how come such a loser is able to buy one? Answer: he didn’t. It was an inheritance, and not even his own. His wife’s uncle left it to them. What kind of man was this uncle to bequeath this leeching bastard to the community?’

‘Nice guy, actually,’ said the man who was sitting on the floor below the window, his back against the whitewashed bricks, mug between his knees. ‘Though he went a little strange, I suppose, before his death.’

Prof turned on him. ‘And you… when you were selling me on this place, did you mention the proximity of this freeloader, this ligger, even once?’

‘You weren’t interested in the neighbours.’ Simon St John, bass-player, cellist and vicar, had known Prof for many more years than Lol had. ‘As long as they don’t have noisy kids or barbecues, you’re never remotely interested in your neighbours.’

‘Life’s too short for neighbours,’ Prof said gruffly. ‘Whatever time I got left, I want to spend it laying down good music in my own place, at my own pace. Is that too much to ask?’ He glared down at Simon. ‘You knew him well, this uncle?’

‘Prof, I buried him.’ Simon lifted pale hair out of his eyes. ‘But before that, he used to come and see us periodically. He was interested in the history of the church. He was interested in most things local.’ He turned to Lol. ‘You’ll see his books in various shops in Bromyard. Local books, full of pictures – photos. Old ones and new ones he took himself, but he did them in sepia, so they looked like old ones. An Illustrated Guide to the Frome Valley, Past and Present and The Hop-grower’s Year. They’re still selling very well. I think Gerard’s quite annoyed because the income from those books was left to another niece.’

‘And all they got was the house,’ said Prof. ‘Poor little bleeders.’

‘Stewart Ash was his name – the uncle,’ Simon said. ‘Good bloke. What happened to him seemed really shocking, obviously, especially in a close community like this. But in my own defence, Prof, I have to say that when I first told you about this place I hadn’t yet met friend Gerard.’

Prof snorted.

‘Both times I called at the kiln – making my initial pastoral visit, as we do – he appeared not to have heard me knocking.’ Simon flicked a wrist. ‘Naturally, I assumed he was of a reclusive disposition. And not exactly a Christian.’

‘Reclusive? Jesus, nah, you were wearing your bloody uniform – no wonder he wasn’t answering the door. The bastard thinks you’re collecting for the organ fund, and he doesn’t have any money, and of course that’s the very last thing these hustlers are ever going to admit – their private capital’s always tied up in some big-deal promotion they can’t tell you about just yet.’

Lol wanted to ask what had happened to the uncle that had so shocked the community, but there wasn’t going to be time for that. He saw Gerard Stock push through the gate, leaving it open behind him, and cross the yard. Stock’s thinning hair was slicked straight back and he had a beard that was red and gold, fading to grey where it was trimmed to a small, thrusting wedge.

And Lol was still not sure what the bloke actually did.

‘See, if there was a whole bunch of neighbours’ – Prof spread his hands – ‘it might not be so bad. But this guy on his own, with the wife at work all day – oh yeah, it might be her inheritance, but she goes to work while he hangs around here, supposedly engaged in renovation but actually pissing the time away and getting in what remains of my hair. I tell you, if you live in the sticks and you have just the one neighbour, it’s like I would imagine being in prison and sharing a cell. As you’ll find out when I go.’

Lol smiled. Prof kept saying when I go like he was expecting imminent death. In fact, he was going to Abbey Road studio to produce the long-awaited fourth solo album by his old friend, the blues-guitar legend Tom Storey. Lol had agreed to mind the studio while Prof was away – knowing this was Prof’s way of forcing him to work on his own solo album, which was not long-awaited, not by anybody.

There was a knock on the back door. Just the one. Prof jabbed his thumb towards the passage.

‘And if you ever do let Stock in here when I’m gone, you don’t permit him to play a chord or touch a knob on that board, that clear? Not for my benefit I’m saying this, but for yours, because if your album eventually starts to sell in any quantity, he’s gonna swear blind he co-produced it. Am I right, Simon?’

Simon rose languidly to his feet. He wore well-faded jeans and a collarless white shirt. ‘You know me, Prof. I must never allow myself to think the worst of people.’

Prof turned to Lol. ‘If it reaches court, this man will be your principal witness. He don’t play bass so good any more, but his God loves him increasingly.’

Simon St John smiled but didn’t reply. Nothing Prof said ever seemed to offend him; he would bend with it, like a willow. Simon had probably not changed much, or put on a pound in weight, in twenty years. He seemed to know exactly who he was and to feel comfortable with that. He made Lol feel unstable and directionless.

‘Aw, just let the bastard in,’ Prof said, resigned. Then he grinned at Lol. ‘I’ll do you the favour of ensuring that he develops no interest in you from the start.’