For the first time in his life, Tony Wilson understood the significance of asphalt concrete. Tarmac. To the blind or partially sighted, an assured step on a flat reliable surface was the true achievement of human progress, far outweighing the jet engine, penicillin, printed word, flat-pack furniture and New Order’s convergence, through “Everything’s Gone Green”, of disco and rock music. That’s how it seemed to Wilson as he strode, with breath trailing, into the pitch black of the fog-encumbered Cumbria countryside. To be able to walk unimpeded, even if you can’t see a thing, was freedom, pure freedom, and Wilson was thankful for the inventive minds of road pioneer John Loudon McAdam and Tarmac plc founder Edgar somebody or other.
All Wilson needed was a long branch to use as a makeshift cane and he could live in relative bliss, able to deal with hindrance, obstruction or Ray Harryhausen harpies. Darkness was one thing, but fog presented uncertainty. Wilson knew there was a world of branches out there; the trick was to locate one. It shouldn’t have been a difficult undertaking. He simply needed to discover a plantation or grove with a selection of low-reaching, yielding twigs. So, where are all the fucking trees? In the distance, Wilson could hear leaves rattling like Merseybeat tambourines. Branches were there. Surely he would stumble across a fallen arboreal prong at any second and, with instrument procured, wave it victoriously. Then he could embark with confidence towards the crowded metropolis of Carlisle with its police stations, telephones and warm, inviting beds. Factory’s in-house designer Peter Saville was to blame for this predicament, fucking Peter Saville. Was there no limit to his indirect mischief making?
Wilson walked at restricted pace, the drifting meteorological blanket hiding a highly unusual Kremlin Regiment-inspired marching technique, with outstretched feet acting as swinging “feelers”. Not surprisingly, this feet-first radar system wreaked havoc on Wilson’s thighs, so rather than continue goose-stepping, he resumed a normal stride. Increasing his pace and growing in verve, Wilson’s regular thought processes starter to return, largely concerning – as always – money, lost opportunities and impending bills.
As Wilson strode, he castigated himself for not signing The Smiths to Factory Records. The Tube director Gavin Taylor knew the lie of the land – Morrissey & Marr were really going places. The Smith’s second single, “This Charming Man”, had been their breakthrough moment, reaching No.25 two months previously – an incredible result for a band that had only formed a year earlier. Had Wilson gauged the public’s needs so badly? Here he was, attempting to push music towards a metallic future of computers, synthesizers and cold aesthetics, while what the world really wanted was the Sixties’ pop sound repackaged and given a clever-clogs twist. The twist was, Morrissey, Johnny Marr, Andy Rourke and Mike Joyce had managed to disassemble the second-hand sound of their guitar music and transform it into a whole new entity: kitchen-sink cool. It felt new, intensified by Morrissey’s outstanding lyric writing about not having anything to wear and the sun shining out of their behinds. Wilson’s Factory ensemble A Certain Ratio could have fulfilled this role if they weren’t so swayed by calypso rhythms, festival drums and jazz funk. Jazz… ACR were bloody awful; and even worse, they were now managing themselves. They couldn’t even decide who their singer was. Wilson had grown weary of Ratio. Guitarist and trumpeter Martin Moscrop had mentioned to Wilson, “We know we’re shit, but we don’t know why.” It wasn’t a great moment, that; it didn’t instil much pride.
In November, The Smiths had packed out Wilson’s Haçienda nightclub. There were 2,000 people inside the Whitworth Street venue and 2,000 outside, a mass of everyday Mancunians hoping to catch a glimpse of a group that, it seemed, could inspire levels of adulation not seen since Bowie. From nowhere, The Smiths had become more popular than Joy Division/New Order! The Haçienda, meanwhile, was losing not far shy of £50,000 a year, a financial sinkhole that New Order, who were still living in council houses, would have to plug. It was a team effort, after all. They knew Factory wasn’t a normal label. They’d have to play major gigs at arenas, and anyway, as New Order manager Rob Gretton had insisted, having no money kept New Order’s feet firmly on the ground. Being penniless made them successful and edgy, and more able to identify with their increasing fanbase. And it could have been worse. They could all be working with Annie Lennox or Paul Young.
Despite the financial migraine, Factory was strengthening as a concept, securing itself in the public’s consciousness. It was a label on the up, and the Haçienda merely added to Factory’s prestige. As Wilson’s mind idly meandered towards his next project – it had to be a Factory office in New York – he came to a clattering halt. His legs and midriff crashed with unexpected force into a plastic, cage-like structure that, on closer inspection, revealed itself as a level-crossing barrier.
Close by, Wilson discovered a sign – a warning. Out came the lighter.
Red STOP; Green Clear. IF NO LIGHT PHONE SIGNALMAN.
On the decrepit, white-painted wooden board there should have been a glowing red or green bulb but one of the lights had been smashed – lens and bulb in one clean sweep – while the other light was dead. Wilson sidled through a set of narrow wooden gates that stood adjacent to the crossing and, without the safety of visual confirmation, moved forwards, noting, underfoot, that the road surface had raised to accommodate the track. It was a wide crossing, comprising two lines. I’d better not hang about, Wilson conceded, although he fully expected that train services along the West Coast mainline would have been curtailed due to the perilous conditions. But was this the electrified West Coast mainline with its 100mph express trains or merely a minor connection linking Carlisle with nearby coastal towns? Hadn’t Silloth, where Saville would be sipping wine, been hacked from the national network by Beeching’s axe? Wilson smiled without a trace of humour… Oh the irony: he couldn’t locate a branch but may have found a fucking branch line.
Wilson shifted gingerly, only to hear a horrific swooping noise, low-gear engine rattle and metallic clatter, followed by an almighty blast of ear-filling British Rail horn. The fog, a dark muddle seconds earlier, transformed into an inexorable rush of yellow glare. A double-track section of line is a wide space when the distance needs to be covered quickly. Like a startled Superman, Wilson ran then flung himself forward, fist first, and continued at level altitude until his right shoulder felt the jar of a wooden lattice structure – the opposite gate. Amid the din and flashes of illumination, Wilson managed to scramble over the gate’s summit, whereupon he landed hands first, before crumpling in an inglorious heap. The buffer of the diesel multiple unit had missed Wilson’s backside by inches. He’d actually felt the air being sucked from around his midriff. The two-car service groaned into the distance and Wilson knew that he had survived by an arse hair. He had to be more careful! The Tube was visiting the Haçienda in two weeks’ time! His appearance on the programme was key to Factory’s future success.
Wilson rose to his feet and breathed short fiery breaths, composing himself, compartmentalising the anguish of his brush with the 19.35 Carlisle to Workington service. Make sense of it tomorrow, he ordered himself. Praxis explains all: things happen, but you can explain why later. Apart from a slight throb from his shoulder and a scraped knee, Wilson appeared in fairly good working order and would live to tell the tale, no doubt to the wet-eyed sniggers and wheezes of Factory partners Rob Gretton and Alan Erasmus. Having narrowly escaped an abhorrent death, it would have been easy to slide into despair, but Wilson patted away the dust and detritus from his clothing and re-engaged with his survival plan.
But there was a problem.
The smooth asphalt, once the cornerstone of his strategy, had given way to a gravelly mix and Wilson soon realised that his journey might become more precarious before it improved.
The path veered left and narrowed until it was no more than a trail, a countryside amble for adventurous dog owners, cross-country runners and wandering farmhands. In the distance a dog howled, undoubtedly a werewolf, but it offered no more physical threat than a night out in Gretton’s gritty Wythenshawe. Of more apparent concern was the increasing loudness of fast-moving water, perhaps a nearby river or, with a bit of luck, a Jacuzzi showroom. A banjaxing by a train was one thing, but a dunking in an icy brook when the air temperature was hovering in lower single figures was quite another. Wilson’s blood ran cold as he assessed the possible outcome of this frightful evening, of bobbing downstream and arriving, days later, with white bloated body, eyes pecked out by carrion crows, rolling with the frothy surf at Silloth. The sound of rushing water grew shrill and it came as little surprise to discover that the river had broken its banks and submerged the path. Wilson’s feet slapped the watery swell and he was forced to arc around the flood’s extent by traipsing on knotted heath scrub.
Underfoot, the clumpy grass was spongy and intertwined, making movement haphazard and clown-like. Wilson’s route then started to rise in altitude and the water’s tinkling slowly ceased, but with no clear landmark to focus on, Wilson felt, for the first time that evening, completely lost. “Boys, keep off the moors, stick to the roads,” Wilson recalled from An American Werewolf In London. The incline continued at a jaunty angle and with each step Wilson prayed there would be no cliff to tumble down, no sinking bogs and no poacher’s trap that would bite into his shins. As time drifted, the odds of survival seemed to slip. Wilson’s white Nike high-tops were saturated, yet he remained focused, thoughts governed by the expectation of a warm, dry room once the night had revealed its hand. He wondered if the course of events was a sort of karma atom bomb, delivered for his treatment of former Haçienda manager and licensee Howard Jones. “Ginger”, as he was known, had to be removed; the situation had become unworkable – Ginger had run out of ideas. He was a nice guy but he’d been empowered beyond his talents. It was a common theme in Factory. Even so, Wilson would shout and scream at Jones – it was never pretty, never nice and Wilson was not proud of his actions. Maybe the problem was with Wilson himself? Only he could end up lost on a lonely fell with sopping wet feet, ghost trains and mad motorists banging on about Hades.
Thorns tore at Wilson’s flappy combat trousers and his feet squelched. The evening was lurching from terrible to untenable but then, to Wilson’s amazement, an overwhelming sense of possibility suddenly presented itself. Right in front of Wilson’s nose stood a brick wall, approximately 15 feet in height and perfectly climbable if he could secure a footing. There was much scraping along the ancient, hewn brickwork, but there was enough erosion to present small ledges for Wilson’s US trainers to gain purchase. At the top of the wall, there was a two-foot wide platform on which to perch and what seemed to be rusted barbed wire that had given itself to the elements a long time ago. With nothing to view apart from a black void, there was little point remaining in situ.
Before his descent, Wilson took stock: walls were traditionally constructed to ensure the safety of those within. Close by, there would be a dwelling and, inside, warm humans with kind hearts and Breville sandwich toasters. Wilson dangled, then leapt from the wall and waited for the ground to present itself. It duly arrived with a bump, but at least the surface was a ragged grass rather than coarse scrub. Rising to his feet, the fog momentarily evaporated, leaving Wilson with the imposing sight of a mid-sized, castle-like building in the distance with ramparts, a single tower and numerous square-shaped windows. Ivy crisscrossed the brickwork, making the structure practically camouflaged, while within the grounds stood skeletal trees in irregular, stretching poses, their jagged branches erect like lightning strikes – in fact one was almost evil in shape. The dwelling appeared to be a hidden squire’s seat, but most bizarrely, there didn’t seem to be a path or road connecting the building to the outside world. As the fog swept in once again, Wilson was disappointed not to have spotted the illumination of a single light bulb or candle. The owners were obviously out or in bed.
Wilson silently rounded the brickwork in search of an entrance, but before finding a door, he noticed, to his utter dread, a silhouetted figure stooping to gaze into a window. Was this a murdering burglar or the locked-out owner? With trepidation, Wilson inched forward with a raised, friendly hand: “Hello there.”
The figure swung round like a cat being struck with a rolled-up copy of the News Of The World and, with fluid Mancunian accent, replied: “Fuckin’ hell – who’s that?”
Wilson frowned; incredibly he recognised the voice. “Is that Mark… Mark E Smith?”
“Incredible, he-he!” Smith returned. “All the vampires are out tonight – Tony fuckin’ Wilson!”
“Mark, I never thought I’d say it, but it’s a genuine pleasure to see you.”
“How’s it going, Tone?” Smith chuckled.
“To be honest, not fantastic,” Wilson admitted.
“Me neither,” Smith said. “Come and look at this.”
Wilson edged towards the panes. Once his eyes had adjusted to the blackness, he could see a room that was approximately 20 feet by 20 feet that housed a collection of old wooden sideboards and various cobweb-strewn boxes. In the centre of the room, a solitary item of furniture was positioned, a rocking chair that was moving of its own volition, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, and its speed seemed to be slowly increasing.
“Good, innit?” Smith mentioned. “Must be a burglar deterrent that works on a fear level.”
“Extraordinary,” Wilson accepted. “It has to be plugged into the wall, which makes me think that the property has an electrical supply and therefore has residents.”
“You should’ve been a detective,” Smith opined. “Oh look, it’s stopped.”
“Maybe it’s battery operated,” Wilson added, “and the batteries have just packed up. It’s clever though – it’s made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up with a sort of primeval fear. If I wasn’t a lapsed Catholic, I’d say the room was haunted.”
“He-he,” Smith laughed. “I’ll bet ’ouse like this has got a decent liquor cabinet, haunted or not. Let’s go and knock on the door and stretch out by a roaring fire with a quadruple dram. I can reveal what a fuckin’ shitflap of a night I’ve had.”
To emphasise the point, Smith pushed his dentures clear of his gums and held the position until Wilson smiled with unease.