The Lamp of the Wicked by Phil Rickman

taking it all for granted, like he was only collecting a little of what was due to his species after centuries of toil and maltreatment.
    ‘Obviously,’ Moira said, ‘when you’ve been out of it a long time, it’s
bloody
hard – especially on your own.’
    ‘Nearly twenty years. I was just a kid.’
    ‘Good long time for the fear to feed. Which is what fear does. Like I’ve got these ten dates provisionally fixed for the winter, and that’s gonnae start off being an ordeal, no question, even after two and a bit years.’
    Lol turned back into the white room, where Moira Cairns was sipping her tea. His feeling was that the word ‘ordeal’ would not, in Moira’s thesaurus, carry any significant cross-reference to playing live in front of an audience.
    ‘OK, listen now. Laurence…’ She was watching him over her cup. ‘Bottom line:
if
this proposed tour goes ahead, how would
you
feel about being part of that?’
    Lol went hot, then cold.
    ‘Aye, I know. All right, sunshine, don’t panic.’ Moira put down the cup and stood up, this beautiful, scary mature woman in faded Bugs Bunny nightwear. ‘Stay right there. I have to take a pee. You stay right there and consider all your get-out lines. But also… remember how it was last night.’
    This morning was actually the first time he’d been alone with her. Last night in the studio, Prof had been there the whole time and also Simon St John, who was the vicar of Knight’s Frome and played bass and cello. Simon knew Moira Cairns from way back, when they were part of the same band, having its albums engineered, then produced, by Prof Levin. So this was in the way of a reunion, with Lol, the outsider, getting involved because he just happened to be here. Moira’s new album would be the first major-league product of Knight’s Frome Studio, where Prof wanted music to be made at leisure, songs laid down as and when, no pressure on anyone. Timeless.
    Lol couldn’t remember which of them had suggested they should try one of
his
songs – as if Moira didn’t have enough of her own. The idea had just seemed to arise, and they’d wound up re-working his neo-traditional ballad about the changing face of the English village, ‘The Baker’s Lament’. At first Moira was singing, with Lol on guitar. And then – and he wasn’t sure how this had come about, either – Lol had taken over the vocal, Simon St John threading cello through it, sinuous and low-lying like the River Frome, and Moira contriving this incredible harmony.
    Prof had recorded both versions, and it had been, like Moira said, kind of… interesting. Not technically terrific, but there was
something
going on, something organic, something visceral. Something a little wonderful. All those years since Hazey Jane folded, and Lol had felt like part of a band again.
    Of course, it was just for amusement – a dream, a fantasy sequence. Who
wouldn’t
imagine they sounded good, recording with Moira Cairns? Moira, who now lived in seclusion most of the year on the Isle of Skye, coming out to perform only rarely, leaving deep tracks strewn with legends. Moira who had been born half-gypsy in Glasgow. Who was said to be possessed of ‘the sight’. A goddess of folk-rock. The vein of silver in the long black hair – how many pictures had he seen of that? Never before over a Loony Toons T-shirt, of course, but…
    Why should she want to do this for someone she’d only known for a few hours? A favour to Prof? Laying all her hard- won credibility on the line as a favour to Prof? Last night it had seemed magical; now it was merely unreal.
    ‘Tell you what I’m thinking,’ she called from the bathroom. ‘Maybe we should do the one gig, to begin with. Just to see how it goes, yeah?’
    Lol sat down on the edge of the bed.
    Moira said, ‘Sorry, what was that? Couldnae hear with the taps on. See, what’s happening, I’m booked to play somewhere called The Courtyard in Hereford in… I think it’s a week on