“He’s no one of consequence.”
“No one of consequence, Oh Few, you do have a good memory. Wasn’t that how I introduced myself to you all those years ago? So much water, so many bridges. Is he for me? I haven’t had one in ages, he doesn’t look in great shape though, what is going on with that beard?”
I want to defend myself but I’m tongue tied.
“No, he’s got fuck all to do with you, leave him be.”
She doesn’t leave me be, she gestures with her hand and suddenly I’m thrown up into the air, suspended about 20 feet off the ground, flailing like a fish out of water.
Few peers up at me. “Is this really necessary?”
“Necessary? Not at all, is it fun though. You were saying …he was just hanging around?” She amuses herself. Stick to the singing honey.
“Look Kate, as great as is it to be in your presence, well you know why I’m here. Can I have it back please? “
”Please? How polite my darling. How very polite.”
“You know the deal.”
“The deal? You mean this?” She produces a small topaz box from underneath her cloak.
“Well, what do I get in return?”
“What do you get? What do you get?? You know what you got – my debt is paid in full, in total, now give me the box.” He tries to stay calm, but his voice is getting high, squeaky. He betrays himself, he always does.
“Nothing’s written down is it Few, is it? No, I think I need one more before I return this.”
One more album, of course. Is your mind addled? I mean the shows at The Apollo were fine but there’s only so long I can trade on past glories. Let’s face it 50 Word For Snow was more 50 Shades Of Shite. And as for Stephen Fry, well really it was all so degrading. I wrote to you then, you never answered. I watched you for days, I was going to take you…but…We were so good together. We could be again. Few, you know you want me, you know it dearheart.”
“Don’t dearheart me you crazy bitch.”
“It doesn’t take long does it Few? You pathetic fool. You are nothing. Nothing! Do as I bid or your precious box is taking a trip down the Styx this evening.” Then “Oh Few, Few” – she’s all beseeching and beguiling now, the real Kate Bush, warm, glowing, she billows down from the alter.
“You had a temper like my jealously
Too hot, too greedy.
How could you leave me?
When I needed to possess you
I hated you. I loved you, too.”
She’s dancing around him. The boy can’t help it, he starts to shimmy and then he joins in
“Ooh, it gets dark! It gets lonely,
on the other side from you.
I pine a lot. I find the lot
falls through without you.
I’m coming back, love.”
He can’t hit the high notes but he’s not doing a bad job – he puts me in mind of a dissolute Meatloaf. I have a great view as the cats begin to circle the pair in a clockwise fashion, it’s quite the spectacle.
They get closer and closer, dancing face to face and now she is whispering to him
“Let me have it.
Let me grab your soul away.
Ooh! Let me have it.
Let me grab your soul away.
You know it’s me Katy”
His lips are brushing hers as …as he makes a grab for his precious, he has it in his hands for a moment but she’s strong, she grabs his shoulders and knees him hard in the bollocks, he collapses, moaning in agony. She snatches the box, the feline devils are jumping on him left, right and centre, clawing at his face.
She’s shouting for Denis, the door of the sacristy opens and he’s beckoning her through, they disappear, the minute she’s out of sight I drop from on high like a delusional chicken. Luckily Few breaks my fall, big fleshy mattress that he is. The cats scatter, he’s in a bad way. Not so lucky for him.
“Jesus fucking Christ that woman is the bane of my life, she is not getting away again, come the fuck on.”
We’re battered, bruised but not finished yet. We pelt after them through the door, there’s a flight of stone steps leading down into the darkness, the roar of water becomes deafening. We hit the bottom and run out onto a narrow rock platform, a ledge by an underground river, a tumbling whirlpool of froth and noise. Kate and Denis are disappearing around a corner of the tunnel up ahead, their wooden boat tumbling on the spray – there’s another figure at the prow, guiding them through the chaos.
We watch the vanishing, helpless to intervene. Broken men. In spirit. In body. Vanquished. Silent. Drowning in the river’s song. We turn to go. As we start to climb the steps, the noise dies suddenly. We look back, the river is becalmed, the surface a perfect mirror, broken only by another boat gliding across from the far bank. There’s a ferryman on board, standing proud. He pulls alongside and pushes up his Stetson. It’s The Belfast Cowboy, Van the Man. Things just got weird. Weirder. I start to laugh, I can’t stop.
Van bows, addressing us gruffly “Few. My Few. The Veedon Fleece is at your service.”
*Catch up on all Too Few’s adventures here –
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