“You’re looking very summery this morning,” I say.

“It’s my new top,” she says delicately.

“I approve.”

“You have an interview with Blast! magazine at eleven.”

“Oh Christ,” I yawn. “Spare me. What for?”

“A profile for your new show, Who’s Gorgeous?“

“Do you think I look good in glossy mags?”

“It’s not for me to say really, Mr Vaughan.”

“Please, Syd, don’t call me Mr Vaughan. Call me Merlin.”

“Okay,” she says, but I know she won’t. She holds back a lot of things, Syd.

“You’d look good,” I say, handing her my glass.

“Thank you.”

“I can picture you in a centrefold.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t mean in a jazzmag – adult-orientated publication, I mean.”

“Okay.”

“Although I’m sure you would look good, startling in fact, not that I would know because I wouldn’t see it as I don’t go in for smut really. But if you did and you told me you were in one, I’d have a look, obviously – just to be nice. I wouldn’t get turned on or anything – not that you wouldn’t turn me on, I’m sure you would, but I’d probably have a quick look with one hand over my face – I mean, both hands over my face. I’d have both hands over my face and get someone else to turn the pages, not that I’d show it to anyone else, of course. I’d ask you to turn the pages for me.”

“I don’t think I’ll be doing any photoshoots anytime soon,” says Syd, heading over to the window and drawing back the curtains. “Your sower is running. Karl will be outside at ten thirty to take you to the Roxbury for your interview.”

“Thanks, Syd.”

“Is there anything I can get you?”

“No thanks, Syd. What’s in that drink anyway?”

“I don’t know. It arrives by courier every morning, courtesy of The Network.”

“You ever try it?”

“Off-limits to the likes of me.”

“I’ll see you later, Syd.”

Syd leaves and I pad into the shower. The water is hard and hot and my mind finds it’s clarity. I dress in my favourite three-piece and stare at myself in the mirror. How long have I been like this?

“I’m a superstar,” I say to my reflection. My reflection smiles back at me, reassuring me of the facts.

At the Roxbury I meet Paul Crapper, whom I recognise from his stint as letter editor on Bunny Bubbles. He was a hack then and he hasn’t gone up in the world. He has soup on his shirt collar.

“Good to see you, Merlin,” he says as we shake and sit down in front of a big poster of myself standing on the set of Who’s Gorgeous?

“No personal questions please,” I say.

“This new show is very interesting,” begins Paul Crapper. “It seems a tad cynical, in my humble opinion.”

“Well, Crapper,” I say, crossing my legs, “humble opinions are, if you’ll forgive me, your stock-in-trade. Who’s Gorgeous? is designed to expose the manipulation of the media in our vile, decadent world. You know, fashion and fascism are similar sounding words.”

“Purely phonetics,” counters Paul Crapper.

“Maybe,” I say. “But think about it. Adolf Hitler had a vision of a super race, all looking exactly the same. That was what he deemed acceptable. Look at fashion; we’re constantly told that we have to be an acceptable weight, made of a consumer-friendly design. Look at you, for example.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I’ll bet you haven’t seen any action in centuries. You’re blobby and pasty, but that’s just you. But we’re told that it’s a handicap. But what about your personality? Doesn’t matter. The damage has been done.”

“I was very much in love once,” say Paul Crapper, loosening his tie.

“What happened?”

“She left me.”

“Of course she did.”

“For Steve the IT guy.”

“Buff sort?”

“Never went through acne.”

“Shame.”

“I often think of looking her up.”

“Good idea, if you want to be a jellyfish.”

“Jellyfish?”

“I’m afraid it’s a world of takeaways and whores for you, Crapper.”

“Can we discuss the show?”

“Certainly.”

“Who are the panel of celebrities?”

“Lawrence Bernstein, legendary songsmith; Titty Roebuck, acclaimed stage actress and Hunter Mintz.”

“Whos Hunter Mintz?”

“I have no idea.”

“Any twists we can tell our readers about?”

“Did you just say ‘readers’?”

“I did. Why?”

“No reason. Anyway, a neat twist is that at no point during the show are the celebrity panel allowed to use the word ‘absolutely’. At the start of each show they will each be given a crib of alternative adverbs to use in it’s place.”

“Ingenious.”

“Absolutely. Well, time’s up, Crapper. It’s been a joy for one of us.”

I stand up and shake his fingernails. As I leave the Roxbury my phone rings and it’s Dr Kaspara.

“Hello, Doc.”

“Merlin,” she says. “We have a little problem…”

]]> http://sweeneytours.wordpress.com/2011/06/03/3-two/feed/ 0 sweeneytours http://sweeneytours.wordpress.com/2011/05/29/3-one/ http://sweeneytours.wordpress.com/2011/05/29/3-one/#comments Sun, 29 May 2011 13:54:33 +0000 Sweeney http://sweeneytours.wordpress.com/?p=478 ]]> “That felt incredible,” I say, making wide eyes at myself in the mirror.
“You’ve exceeded my expectations,” says Dr Kaspara.
I glance at her reflection; she’s perched on my makeup chair just behind me, reading a review of my show in a magazine.
“Why do you sound surprised?” I say.
“Oh, I’m not surprised,” she says. “The appetites of the general public can be efficiently manipulated to suit any taste. But your show has really gone into outer space.”
I start to remove my suit, “I feel amazing. I feel reborn”
“You have been reborn, technically.”
I finish my fruit juice and put on my bathrobe, “I’ll just shower quickly. Then we can go out to dinner.”
“If you like.”
“Ernesto’s?”
“Suitable enough.”
“I’ll get Syd to phone.”
The shower feels great and I allow my adrenaline to subside in the soap and steam. I thought I’d never be able to cope with the fame but I’m well protected by The Network and Dr Kaspara watches over me with maternal affection. I feel physically numb still, but not quite as often. Things that used to be in the back of mind are now no longer to be felt or hidden from. I dress in my favourite black velvet three-piece and I meet Syd to walk with me to the car.
“Can you call Ernesto’s?”
“Already taken care of, Mr Vaughan,” she says, matching my pace.
“Thanks. You saw the Doctor then?”
“She told me to let you know she’ll meet you there.”
“Fine. So what are you doing with yourself, Syd?”
“Visiting my nan.”
“Is she sick?”
“Yes.”
“Give her a photo and I’ll sign it for her.”
“Thanks, Mr Vaughan.”
We reach the back doors where my two minders, Ronan and Eddie are waiting. They get me through the modest crowd of fans who have been patiently waiting for me and I make it into my limo. I sit back and let Karl drive me to the restaurant. I am desperately hungry now and can’t wait to relax in Ernesto’s, which has recently become my favourite place to eat. I’m addicted to chicken pepperoni.
“It’s so delightful to see you again, Mr Vaughan,” says Ernesto, shaking my hand vigorously.
“Watch the fingernails, Ernesto.”
“Please, I have your table.”
I follow Ernesto through the immaculate and glassy restaurant to the usual raised eyebrows and utterances. I sit by the window and look out over the illuminated roof terrace. The time is 9.31pm. I sip red wine slowly and slow my heartbeat down to the gentlest of taps. Four different diners request my autograph and I oblige them. It’s easier to sign my famous name than my real name, which now that everything has changed, I’m not sure I still remember.
Dr Kaspara arrives at 10.19pm. I request a fresh bottle of wine.
“What kept you?” I ask.
“Urgent meeting with The Network,” she says, getting herself comfortable opposite me.
“You seem a little flustered.”
“It’s nothing. It’s just been a long day.”
Our drinks poured, she sits back and seems to relax.
“I want more,” I say.
“More wine?”
“More television time. I want bigger shows.”
“It’s a process, Merlin. Everything is on track.”
“I have ideas.”
“And in due course you’ll be able to put them out there.”
“I don’t have much patience sometimes.”
“The Network have got a new show they want you to do.”
“I want a chat show.”
“In time. They think it’s best if you stay within the game show format for the time being.”
“I feel like I’ve been hosting Great Contenders for centuries.”
“This one you’ll really like.”
“What is it?”
“It’s called Who’s Gorgeous? and it’s a no-holds-barred gameshow where celebrities give personal critiques on the looks and shapes of members of the general public. The contestant with the best verdicts gets the prize, plus they have to release a single, whether they possess any talent or not. The country will lap it up.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“They will if we tell them to.”
We eat and I try and work out this new show in my head. What I really want is a chat show. There are so many people I want to meet. I need to speak to Audrey and tell her I did nothing wrong.
“Why did I feel so close to you?” I say after a while.
“I look after you. I’ve shaped you, watched you grow. It’s only natural.”
“I suppose so.”
“Syd is very fond of you.”
“She is?”
“She’s young though, Merlin. Fresh out of uni.”
“I know.”
“So if you’ve got any ideas along those lines, I need to know so we can get a contingency plan in order. She is an insider, after all.”
“It takes some of the fun out of it.”
“You’re fast becoming our most valuable commodity, Merlin. You need to be ring-fenced.”
“I doubt Syd is the kiss-and-tell type.”
“The scent of money changes people. You should know that.”
Our eyes lock momentarily. I do know that.

A finger lifts my eyelid, “Oh, yes. He’s back with us now.”

A masked face looms into my field of vision, “Welcome back. You’ve had a rather longer intermission than some of our other inpatients. We weren’t quite prepared for the sorry state of your insides.”

“If I’d known,” I say croakily, “I’d have gone for a colonic.”

The masked face steps back, “Let’s get him upright.”

My bed is flipped vertically and three women in masks stand before me. The one in charge removes her mask and examines my body, which I have just realised is completely exposed.

“Well team,” she says, crossing her arms, “have we got our work cut out with this one?”

The one to her right steps forward and prods my waist, “I used to like playing with plasticine when I was little.”

“Take him down and put him in the suit.”

“Do you think he’s ready for the suit, Dr Kaspara?” asked the one to her left.

“There will be only one way to find out,” said Dr Kaspara.

Thirty minutes later I’m tied to a chair having a hell of a lot of make-up applied to my face. Dr Kaspara is sitting in a chair next to me, flicking through a magazine.

“Are you all perverts?” I ask.

Dr Kaspara closes her magazine and turns to face me, “Why do you ask that question?”

“Because if you are,” I say, “I just want you to know that I’m up for absolutely anything.”

“Really.”

“No power tools though. Almost came a cropper with a cropper once.”

“There is nothing of that nature going on,” says Dr Kaspara. “You’re being licked into shape, that’s all.”

“But what for? I’m in pretty good nick.”

“No, you’re not.” Dr Kaspara stands up and heads to the door. “But we all have a place in life. You’ll see.”

I’m left alone with my painters and I decide to close my eyes and relax.

Two hours later I’m sat down in front of a mirror that only reflects my head and I have trouble recognising myself. My hair is darker and plastered down with a severe partin. My complexion is walnut and my teeth are platinum. I even have a Robert Goulet moustache with matching eyebrows. My sideburns have also been reduced an inch a-piece.

“I want my sideburns back,” I say, my mouth temporarily blinding me.

They stand me up and start to dress me in a gold and silver tartan-pattern three piece suit. It seems to be tailored perfectly, right down to the gold cuban heels. Dr Kaspara comes back into the room. Now she is wearing a very elegant purple evening dress. She walks right up to me and hands me a gold bowtie.

“You can put this on yourself,” she says.

I do as she says and then I’m led out behind her down a long corridor. There is something rhythmically soothing in the sound of my cuban heels tapping the floor. At the end of the corridor is a doorway leading to a hall of mirrors. I am positioned on a small, circular two foot high podium and they disappear from the room and leave me surrounded by myself. As we all stare at eachother, I see myself fully for the first time, and I have trouble believing that it’s really me.

The silence is broken suddenly by the echoes of Dr Kaspara’s voice from hidden speakers all around me.

“This is where your new life begins…Your name now and forever more will be Merlin Vaughan, an all-round entertainer with the power to hold television and studio audiences in the palm of your hand. When you talk, people will listen. Whatever you do or say, wherever you go, whoever you lay, it will all be seen as worthy of the public record…Take a look at your image, Merlin. For this is the image that will keep you on every screen and every coffee table in every corner of civilization. You stand on the cusp of a new dawn in which mankind will finally break free of it’s feeling of duty and morality…Your light will show the only true light to the end of this uncertain path…Your true light, Merlin, will show us the way.”

I’m plunged into darkness and silence. I stand there, shivering slightly, my breathing breaking like thunderbolts on a mountain-top. A low humming sound begins and it slowly rises in volume. I think I can hear the murmuring of voices, subdued at first but gathering in volume and number. Somewhere beyond the darkness something is happening. As the ambience grows louder and louder, a vertical shaft of blinding light splits the blackness and I squint. It gets wider until the light surrounds me and I’m met with a deafening roar of cheers and applause. My eyes widen and there I am, alone and on stage before camera crews and an audience of at least a thousand people. Every pair of eyes fixed expectantly on me.

Dr Kaspara appears to my left, behind Camera Three. She crosses her arms and gives me a benign smile.

I face the audience and take a deep breath.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Merlin Vaughan and welcome to the greatest show on Earth…!”

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” comes the cold, controlled voice of Samantha at the other end, “I can hear you.”

“I was hoping to speak to Vicky,” I say. “Is she in the office at all at the moment today?”

“I’m afraid not,” says Samantha, and I can see her now on her second flapjack of the day. “Please feel free to call back later.”

“Wait!” I say excitedly, a few beads of sweat clinging to my eyelash. “This is important. Look, I don’t know how much time I have, and this room I’m in is built at weird angles. I’m hungry and I need a drink and a smoke and some clothes that weren’t modelled on Jeremy Clarkson. I have only this one phonecall – do you understand that? And if it’s going to count for nothing, I think I may as well hold my breath until it’s all over. If she’s there, I’m pleading with you to put her on.”

I hear absolutely nothing on the other end of the line. My acquaintance behind me taps the face of his watch and I try and ignore him.

“Hello?” comes a different voice.

“Vicky?”

“Yes.”

“I’m so glad.”

“I can’t really talk to you now.”

“I have to get out of here, Vicky. Something has gone terribly wrong here. I’m not even sure how long I’ve been incarcerated.”

I hear Vicky switch ears with the phone receiver, “There’s someone here with me at the moment.”

“Who?”

“Gregory.”

“Gregory Gem?”

“We’re going to see Audrey later.”

“I need you to get me out, Vicky. What can you do?”

“I don’t know if I can do anything. They seemed pretty conclusive about everything.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Click.

My acquaintance carefully removes the receiver from my hand and places it back in it’s cradle. We walk back down the puce corridor to my windowless room and I slump on the bed as the door lock slides into place. The large widescreen TV on the far wall starts up with the usual braindead daytime dross and eighties game shows. I press my head back into the pillow and surrender myself once again to Lucky Ladders.

Four hours later, after Every Second Counts has signalled the end of the day’s viewing, the door opens and in comes Inspector Kibber and Sergeant McRae. McRae is carrying a small, square table and another guard is carrying two chairs. The guard leaves the room and my interview begins. Me and Inspector Kibber sit opposite eachother.

“Time is 20.16,” he says to himself. There is no tape recorder.

“What day is it?” I ask.

“Would you call yourself a religious individual?” asks Kibber. He locks his fingers together. His thick moustache has tobacco stains.

“No,” I say. “Not especially.”

“Don’t believe in God, then?”

“No,” I say. “Not especially.”

“Good. A man like God has no business in a place like this.”

“You don’t believe in him?”

“I believe in right and wrong. I am the right and you are the wrong. It’s my duty to make people like you into people like me.”

“Would I have to grow one of those moustaches?”

Kibber starts to smile and McRae lamps me in the side of my head. I lie dazed on the floor, unsure how serious my injury is. McRae puts me back in the chair like a child steadying a ragdoll in a cot.

“Do you think,” says Kibber, “that human beings are there to be exploited?”

“Erm…”

“One word positive or negative answer please.”

“No.”

“Have you ever ridiculed anybody? Ever taken the piss out of anybody?”

“Well, yeh…”

“So your answer is ‘yes’.”

I scratch my forehead and get blood under my fingernail.

McRae hands Kibber a large camera and he points it at me.

“Smile now.”

I try to smile but my head hurts where McRae clumped me.

“Smile.”

“I’m trying. It bloody hurts.”

“Smile or my sergeant will sew your balls to your eyelids.”

I smile, my skull tapdancing all over my brain, and Kibber takes my photograph.  My lips are dry and cracked. Kibber hands the camera back to McRae.

“I’m not a fan of new directives,” sighs Kibber after a few moments, a look of sad contemplation spreading across his face. “Mostly, they smack of desperation. But what do I really know? Thirty six years on the force and they reduce me to some kind of talent scout with muscle. If I had my way, you’d have the National Grid wired up to your shamrock by now. But luckily for you, I don’t get much of a say in these affairs anymore. You’re going into the project.”

“The project?”

“Rehbilitation, after a fashion. You’ll be whisked away from here and given your own shining star. Fifteen minutes to show us what you’re made of. If I had my way, I’d garotte you with a Fulham scarf.”

“I’m confused.”

“I’ll bet. It’ll all become clear.”

Kibber stands up and McRae lifts me off the chair and slings me over his shoulder. I get carried out down the corridor while Kibber strolls behind, his face a mere foot from mine.

“You only get one chance,” he says, ” so make sure you don’t louse it up.”

“Okay,” is all I can say as we turn a corner and go down some stairs. I feel McRae’s hand slide up my leg.

“If I had my way, you’d be filleted and dropped over the white cliffs of Dover.”

“But, luckily for me, you don’t get much of a say in these affairs anymore.”

We stop moving and I feel McRae’s fingers wrap around my groin and it burns. Kibber’s face looms in so close that I can see breadcrumbs in his nasal hair.

“It doesn’t stop me from enjoying myself.”

“Right,” I say.

“Try and be a smart arse and my Sergeant here will have to start lancing your piles for you.”

Kibber grabs my face between two great big hands and lets his tongue run from the bottom to the top of my face. Then McRae carries me through a set of doors, leaving Inspector Kibber behind. I feel McRae’s hand relax and he suddenly drops me into a wheelchair. He straps my extremities in and pushes me up a ramp into the back of a van.  He positions me on the end of two opposing rows of men and women in similar modes of transport. The vn door slams shut and I hear a hand thump the outside hard. The van shakes to life and we drive off. Nobody is saying anything. I think we must drive for about three or four miles straight before the woman opposite me speaks.

“Does anybody know for sure?” she says quietly.

Only myself and another woman visibly respond.

“I mean, about what’s happening here?”

“It’s called ‘the project’ apparently,” I say.

The two women look at me vacantly.

“Must be a series of tests,” I say.

“For biological warfare,” says the other woman.

“That can’t be true,” I say. “Can it?”

“The world is always at war,” she says. “We mustn’t let the people in charge lose face by not having all the latest weapons.”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t make a very good weapon,” I say. “I have trouble finding socks, never mind military installations.”

“I’m Maddie,” says the second woman.

“I’m Annie,” says the first.

The van comes to s sudden stop and I look down at my bonds. The doors open and two orderlies enter and begin giving us injections. As one of them pierces my neck, I think I try and ask her why but I can’t hear my own voice. But I am aware of distant singing somewhere, and I dip my head under the covers to have a look.

   “Well,” I say, clearing my throat, “my best has been the subject of much over praise.”

   Vicky holds out her hand and pulls me to my feet.

   “Where is everyone?” I ask.

   “Called it a night hours ago. You should have done the same.”

   I look at my watch, “It’s quarter past five.”

   “You need to be sober by nine.”

   “What’s happening at nine?” I say, taking a half full glass of red from the little table. I can’t stop shivering.

   “You and Nigel have got a meeting with Gregory Gem.”

   “We have?” I say. It sounds familiar. “This calls for a drink.”

   Vicky grips my hand and drags me out of the winery and into the kitchen.

   “What it calls for,” she says as she puts the kettle on, “is positive action. Apparently Nigel swallowed an incredible amount of pride to talk to this Gem character. I’ve heard about the whole thing.”

   “Hmmm,” I say, taking my seat at the breakfast bar. “I don’t know why he bothered. We’re getting on fine recording the album ourselves.”

   “Not what Nigel says. He said the whole thing will need polishing.”

   “Nigel St Davos needs polishing.”

   Vicky makes us both a coffee and sits down opposite me, “You don’t take very good care of yourself.”

   “This rock and roll lifestyle is hard to maintain if you’re not a regular drug user. It takes all my will power just to uncork a wine bottle.”

   I can feel her watching me sip the scalding hot coffee.

   “I wonder,” she says, “what you’ll do after all this is over.”

   “What do you mean?”

   “Well, you can’t stay at Eiderlands for ever.”

   “I thought I might just drift from town to town, helping to protect poor villagers from ruthless land barons.”

   “Give you a sense of purpose, would it?”

   “You don’t know how long I’ve yearned for a sense of purpose.”

   “ That explains all this.”

   “Maybe. Or maybe I just need something to occupy my time now I’m no longer  high-powered field sales executive.”

   “You always looked so out of place there.”

   I look at her fingers laced through the coffee cup handle, “When are you going to pack it in. It’d not really you either.”

   Vicky shrugs, “I’m not committed to it. The thing is, I don’t really need the money.”

   “That’s just as well.”

   Vicky sits up straight, “I think a shower is in order.”

   “Great,” I say. “I should warn you that I tickle easily.”

   Vicky bundles me into the en suite of the room she has placed herself in on the second floor. I shave and it hurts the way it always hurts when I’m tender. I stumble into the shower and drown myself in the steam, feeling as though I’m going to pass out. At one point I slip to the floor and bring my knees up to my chest. There’s a fuzziness in my head that I can’t clear and my extremities feel numb. After an hour or so I hear the bathroom door open.

   “It doesn’t matter how hard you try,” says Vicky, “you’ll never become a merman.”

   I look up and she’s holding an unfolded towel in front of her.

   “I also blush easily,” I say.

   “In your current state, I’d be surprised if you can do anything easily.”

   “Why don’t we test that theory?” I say, giving her a wink. It takes me two attempts to get out of the shower. Vicky drops the towel on my head and I watch her feet strut back into the bedroom. I roll over on the bathroom floor and drape the warm towel over me like a blanket, gently dabbing myself dry. I stare at the ceiling but the light is too bright so I drag myself into the bedroom where Vicky is laying some clothes out on the bed. She doesn’t look at me.

   “Would you like some talcom powder?” she asks.

   “Not at this time in the morning,” I say. “I’m not Pete Docherty.”

   “I’ve got s suit for you to wear,” she says, holding up a three piece pin stripe number. “Courtesy of Uncle.”

   “I hope you realise that suit is tailored.”

   “It’ll fit you close enough,” she says. “Come on.”

   I turn away from her and dry myself vigorously until my head spins. Vicky walks past me into the bathroom and I walk over to the bed and put on the clothes and as I slip the tie around my neck I begin to feel human again. As I put on a pair of slightly loose black shoes, Vicky leans against the en suite doorframe and folds her arms.

   “You can just about pass for respectable,” she says.

   “Do I look like a sharp-suited businessman?” I say, adjusting the knot of my tie.

   “No,” she says, “but Nigel will be doing all the serious talking, so it doesn’t really matter.”

   “You’re giving me such a confidence boost.”

   “Come on,” she says, “let’s go.”

   “So soon?”

   “It’s a long drive to the smoke,” she says as I follow her along the hallway. “And Nigel’s already left with the demo disc.”

   We take Vicky’s car and coast along the early, mist-soaked lanes. I turn the radio on for ambience.

   “Where are we meeting him?” I say after several miles.

   “At Gregory Gem’s offices.”

   “And where are they?”

   “Soho.”

   “Where else,” I say, slipping my hands deep into my overcoat pockets. I close my eyes for a few moments and just as I think I’m about to drift away I open them suddenly.

   “Shit!” I hiss.

   Vicky glances across to me, “What’s wrong with you?”

   I sit up as far as my seatbelt will allow, “I’ve just had an unpleasant thought…”

   “Oh, I don’t want to know–”

   “About Nigel–”

   “Definitely don’t want to know–”

   “What if he’s done the same thing he did before?”

   “What do you mean?”

   “He’s got the disc. What if he’s had it away on his toes again?”

   “He wouldn’t do that.”

   “How do you know?” I say. “You’ve only just met him.”

   “So have you.”

   I pull out my phone and dial his number. It rings and then goes to his voicemail.

   “Nigel, ring me back when you get this. It’s very important.”

   I hang up and grip the phone tightly. Neither of us say anything for a mile or so.

   “It’ll be okay,” I say quietly. “He’s still driving obviously.”

   “So just relax and stop stressing,” says Vicky, placing a hand on my leg. “Conclusion jumping isn’t a healthy past time. Besides, if Nigel was inclined to pull that number, there are plenty of ways we could–”

   She cuts herself off and slams on the brakes. My head bounces off the passenger window as the car goes into a sharp spin and slides across the damp tarmac towards the hedgerow. The car stops and Vicky jumps out. I shake my head and climb out of the car. Vicky is running to the sports car that is lying on its roof in the dicth on the other side of the road.

   “It’s Nigel’s car,” I hear her say as she bends down to look through the smashed-in windscreen. I rush over and look in the car.

   “He’s not in it,” I say. I scan our surroundings to see if he has been thrown from the car, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

   “Where the hell is he?” says Vicky, her voice shaking with adrenaline. She takes out her phone and dials and I walk down the road  a bit. “Nigel, it’s Vicky. We’re by your car, where are you? Pick up!”

   “Call him again,” I say.

   Vicky redials and I hear Nigel’s ringtone coming from the field. I step through the snicket and tread across the dewy ground until I can Nigel lying crumpled in the grass. I try to speed up and one of my shoes comes off in a pool of brown slush. I reach him and all I cn do is stare down at him, one foot resting on the other.  His phone is resting against his neck. There is blood and some of his limbs don’t seem to be at their normal angles.I hear Vicky come up behind me.

   “Oh, God…” she says, bending down and placing a hand on his shoulder. “He looks dead.”

   She dials 999 and I take a couple of steps back. Strangely, I don’t feel cold anymore.

   “Come on,” I say and nudge him down the stairs.

   When we reach the basement, Roper sees The Sick Driscolls preparing their instruments for the comeback album of Audrey Lee. Ruff looks up from his Gibson and nods at us. Roper waves but Ruff is already back to tuning his B. Nixie Burke, her hair long and dyed white with purple sides is sitting drinking orange juice and checking her pedal board with her toes. Rocky Jones is standing, bass slung at his side, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. And Henwood is eating a full English breakfast off his snare drum, while tapping his crash cymbal.

   “What time are we starting?” asks Ruff.

   “Whenever Audrey arrives,” I say, searching my pockets for cigarettes.

   “Rocky,” says Ruff, “give our host a tab.”

   Rocky Jones throws a packet of cigarettes and they bounce off my chest. As I’m picking them up, I hear footsteps behind me and we all look up to see Audrey coming down the stairs followed by Kenny and Nigel St Davos. She looks nervous but her eyes are blazing with excitement. She looks at the band, nodding uncertainly.

   “This is them, The Sick Bristols?”

   “Driscolls…” corrects Ruff sternly.

   I clap my hands together and then light my cigarette, “Right! What do we do now?”

   Nigel steps forward and wanders around the band, “We’ll run through the songs. The recording equipment won’t be here for another few hours. “

   He takes a bag from his shoulder and takes out sheets of paper that he hands to Ruff and the band.

   “What are these?” says Ruff.

   “The songs from the album,” says Nigel. “Fourteen in all.”

   “I’m not sure the Driscolls sound is going to match some of these.”

   I look at Henwood and Rocky who are looking wholly unimpressed.

   “Come on,” I say. “Just give it a try. What’s the first one?”

   Nigel checks his copies, ” ‘I Can’t Ever Keep From Crying’.”

   “Come on then,” sighs Ruff and flashes me with a less-than-impressed grimace.

   The band prepare themselves in a loose circle, Henwood shovelling the last bacon into his mouth and adjusting his stool. Audrey walks slowly over to the microphone and puts one delicate hand around the stand. Ruff counts in and the band starts up, mid tempo and bluesy. Nigel and I focus our attention on Audrey, who has her eyes tightly closed. Even though I’m unfamiliar with the song, I realise the exact moment when she misses her cue. She starts to tremble and just as I think she is about to fall, Kenny bolts over and catches her. He guides her to the old armchair in the corner and eases her into it. The band stop playing and as far as Ruff is concerned, everything is completely my fault.

   “I’m sorry,” says Audrey, “I’m so sorry.”

   I walk over and kneel in front of her, “What’s the matter? You haven’t forgotten the words, have you?”

   “I don’t think I can do it for real,”  she says. “Maybe I’ve been pretending for too long.”

   “Are we doing this or what?” says Ruff.

   “Just give us a minute,” I say.

   Audrey shakes her head, “I’m sorry.”

   Ruff takes his guitar off and stamps his feet all the way up the stairs. Henwood and Rocky follow him. Nixie picks up her orange juice and says nothing. Audrey sits still, hands clasped together in her lap.

   “It feels too raw,” she says.

   “Audrey,” says Nigel from behind me, “maybe this was a bad idea after all.”

   He turns and leaves the basement. I look around and see Roper squatting on the floor, looking sad.

   “What’s the matter with you?” I say.

   Roper looks up at me, “That was a beautiful song,” he said.

   “Oh, what do you know?” I snap. “You lost your cherry to ‘Yes Sir, I Can Boogie’.”

   “Seminal,” says Murray.

   “Something like that,” I say.

   I stand up and decide to go outside into the grounds and get some fresh air. I get halfway up when Nixie starts playing  ‘I Can’t Ever Keep From Crying’ again on her guitar. The sound she is making sends a shiver through my whole body. I stop but don’t turn around, just listening to the notes and the chords. And then I hear Audrey’s voice in the microphone.

   “‘ I’ve got no time to say farewell, my love

     I’ve got no time to say goodbye

     We’ve crossed too many streets at different times

     To know your heart’s no longer mine

     Baby I can’t ever keep from crying

     Oh, these tears keep rollin’ down

     I can’t help myself , can’t  forget about you

     When you’re the only love I’ve found…’”

   I see Nigel at the top of the stairs, his brow deeply furrowed. He comes back down quietly and stands next to me, listening to a voice from his past. I go upstairs and find Ruff sitting on the wide, carpeted staircase smoking a cigarette.

   “What do you think?” I say, sitting down next to him.

   Ruff shrugs and takes a drag, “I wouldn’t kick her out of bed–”

   “The music.”

   Ruff sighs, “There might be something there we can work with.”

   I smile and go through the kitchen where Rocky is sitting reading a comic and Henwood has his head jammed in the fridge, and step into the winery. I run a finger along several rows of bottles before selecting a red. I pick up a corkscrew from the little table and open up as Roper comes in.

   “Oh no,” he says, going white, “you’ve found the stash.”

   I pick up a couple of glasses and pour us a drink, “They won’t notice a couple of bottles disappear.”

   “Are we talking about a couple of bottles?”

   “Get that down you,” I say, thrusting a glass into his hand. “You need it more than I do.”

   We have a drink and sit at the table.

   “How long will all this take?” he asks after a few moments.

   “I don’t know,” I say. “But Audrey’s found her inner groove at least. That’s a good sign.”

   Roper nods and frowns, “I wouldn’t kick her out of–”

   I hear Ruff calling me and go through to the hallway. He is standing in the doorway.

   “What’s up?” I say.

   “Car coming.”

   I take a look and see a little hatchback cruising up the drive. It parks up on the other side of the gravel and out steps Vicky. She sees us and smiles. I wave without thinking.

   “You know her?” asks Ruff.

   I nod have a drink as she approaches.

   “Is that the family cellar you’re depleting?” she asks.

   “Family?” I say.

   “It was quite a surprise when my cousin Gussie called me out of the blue to moan about her boyfriend and your name came up.” She gives me a peck on the cheek and we follow her into the hall. She listens intently and folds her arms, tapping her elbow with her fingers. “Do I want to know what you’re up to?”

   “Gussie is your cousin?” is all I can say.

   “I’m afraid so,” she says. “Haven’t seen her for years, though.”

   “We’re making a record.”

   “Of course you are.”

   Vicky goes into the basement and we follow. She stands next to Nigel on the stairs and listens to the music Audrey and Nixie are making. They stop and Audrey looks up at us and seeing the unknown face she suddenly looks nervous. Vicky turns to me.

   “We’d better leave them to it, then.”

   I go for a walk with Vicky through the upstairs of the house.

   “When was the last time you were here?” I ask.

   “My early teens,” she replies. “My parents don’t really get on with Gussie’s. She must be a very understanding girlfriend to allow this.”

   “Trust me, her boyfriend is paying for it.”

   Vicky stops outside a door at the end of the third floor corridor.

   “What’s in here?” I ask.

   “This was my room when I came to stay.”

   “You going in, then?”

   Vicky tries the door and it opens. The room is medium sized and empty. No furniture, no carpet or curtains; but a nice line in expensive looking dust and cobwebs. And a musty odour that any high street tramp would kill for.

   “They didn’t like you very much, did they,” I say as we step inside.

   “Strange,” she says, looking through the window. “I thought it would bring back some memories.”

   “Who needs memories,” I say, leaning against the wall, finishing my wine.

   “Especially when you can’t remember them,” says Vicky, turning to look at me.

   “Can you harmonise?” I ask.

   “That depends on the song you’re singing,” she says and comes up close. “What song are you singing?”

   “One with too many verses,” I say, staring into my glass.

   “Well then,” says Vicky as she turns to leave the room, “you’d better hurry up and get to the chorus.”

   “What,” says Molly as she stamps her feet on the pavement to keep warm, “never?”

   “That’s right,” I say and flick my cigarette on to the road.

   “So where are you storing all your stuff?”

   I hadn’t actually thought about that.

   “To hell with it all,” I say.

   Molly laughs, “There is no way that you are serious.”

   “Why not? All I need is what I have right here and right now. It’s just stuff. That place holds many memories that are just too heavy to take with me.”

   “I’m surprised you have any memories at all, the states you get in.”

   Despite the deeply unsettling fact that I now own precious little, I’m actually feeling strangely liberated.

   “Of course,” says Molly, “it wouldn’t sound so silly if it weren’t for the fact that you don’t technically have to vacate the property until the end of the month.”

   “If I don’t do it now,” I say, “I never will.”

   “At least until the end of the month.”

   “Okay,” I sigh and look at my watch. “You seeing VD tonight?”

   She slaps my arm, “Don’t call him that. Anyway, yes I am. But only to break his heart.”

   “Finally,” I say. I’ve never met Virtual Dean but I find the very thought of him nauseating.

   “Yeh, well…there is someone else…”

   “Already? Nice work. Who?”

   “I’ll tell you another time. Here comes your ride.”

   Vance’s van pulls up sharply and the passenger side wheels bump up onto the pavement. He waves from behind the steering wheel and we wave back. I turn to Molly.

   “Right,” I say. “This is where I leave you.”

   “Hope it all works out,” she says, and I see some genuine concern and affection in there somewhere. Molly turns and walks away down the street and I jump into the van. Vance slams on the accelerator and we rattle off up the road.

   “What’s the hurry?” I say as I struggle with my seatbelt.

   “Sorry,” says Vance. “Not much time. I’ve got an urgent errand to run after I drop you off. I’m taking Century Shaggers out to a concert tonight.”

   My seatbelt clicks into place and we drive at breakneck speed straight over to Roper’s place and he comes to the door. He looks terrible.

   “You’re asking a lot of me,” he says nervously. He looks worn out and scared. “I don’t think I can take much more. Gussie’s insatiable.”

   I put my hands on his shoulders and give him a little shake, “You’re doing it for a far greater good, Bernard Justin Roper. Remember that.”

   “I’ve got loin burn.”

   “Everyone’s got loin burn.”

   He nods, although he’s clearly not sure why. He hands me the keys and the alarm codes to Gussie’s parents’ country retreat and then Vance and I are off once again in the Sherpa van. I’m excited. Audrey called me and told me that Nigel had spoken to her and convinced her to go along with my idea. It might just be falling into place. As we drive into the country towards an uncertain future, Vance regales me with a selection of classic tales from his murky past; the time he ate a hornet sandwich for a bet, for instance, and the time he  ran a  twenty-four hour lighthouse. Although I think the one where he lost to Bear Grylls in a swearing competition is probably the one I’ll fondly look back on most  in years to come.

   As I do up my trousers, I feel a pair of hands suddenly grip my shoulders and yank me backwards. I slip on the floor and go flailing back into the cubicle directly behind me, the space between my shoulder blades making heavy contact with the toilet seat. As I’m struggling to get to my feet I see Kenny, clutching a dripping toilet brush with both hands, coming straight at me. I kick out wildly with my left leg and my foot catches  him square  in the chest. My foot gets lodged inside his elbow and we both lose our balance and fall in a heap. Then I’m on him. We wrestle for a few moments like drunken puppies, each of us trying to commandeer the disgusting toilet brush. Then I manage to twist his arm and stick it right in his face. He struggles to get free but I’m too heavy for him. I throw the brush behind me into the cubicle and hear it make a splash. Then I stand up, out of breath and out of shape. I start dragging Kenny by his shirt collar towards the door but give up halfway and let him drop.

   “Was that your idea, Audrey?” I say.

   Audrey looks up from her brandy alexander and appears genuinely surprised to see me standing there.

   “What idea?” she says quietly.

   “To have your poodle try and give me a makeover with a toilet brush.”

   “Kenny? Where is he?” Audrey displays the mildest of concerns.

   “Sticking his head in a bucket of bleach, if he’s got any sense.”

   “I told you he’s quite over-protective sometimes.”

   “Especially where I’m concerned.”

   “Not really; you should see the way he is around Sidney.”

   “Who’s Sidney?”

   “My ex-husband. My sole financial benefactor in this grubby world.”

   “Listen, Audrey,” I say, “I just had to see you. I’m sorry for the way things turned out.”

   “Maybe I should be mad,” she says, twirling her almost empty glass. “But I’m not. I know you went to some trouble for me and it was all for my benefit. You’ve got a good heart.”

   “Hardly,” I laugh. “I just don’t have anything else to do right now.”

   Audrey’s eyes narrow behind her drink and I look away. I take a deep breath and go for it.

   “Audrey, I’ve had an idea…”

   I wait for her to cut me off, but she just sits back and waits for me to continue.

   “…I know a mate who’s got a band, you see…”

   Still no rebuttal  from the other side of the table.

   “…I think we should rerecord your album.”

   Audrey says nothing for a full two minutes and I try and avoid her stare. Eventually she sighs, leans forward and places a hand on mine.

   “You’re very sweet for thinking so much of me,” she says. “But this lady has sung all her blues.”

   Audrey stands up, kisses me on the cheek and leaves. I don’t turn around and watch her go this time. Instead, I go to the bar and order myself a double vodka and tonic and drink it slowly. I see Kenny at the end of the bar, hair all slicked back across his button-sized head and he sees me, but he doesn’t come over. He leaves and I have another drink. It is at this point that I have another, probably ill-advised, idea.

   My cab pulls up outside the gates and I press the intercom buzzer. I stick my face in front of the little video monitor eye.

   “Yes?” comes the voice.

   “I need to talk to you urgently,” I say, smiling hopefully into the camera.

   “I think I’ve had enough drama, don’t you?”

   “Five minutes,” I say. “After that, call the police if you want. I don’t care.”

   There is a pause and the gates swing slowly open. I walk up to the front door just as it opens and lets a warm light  loose across the driveway.

   “Thanks,” I say. “I really appreciate it.”

   “Say your piece,” says Nigel, keeping his distance.

   “Okay,” I say. “I get it that we didn’t meet or part on the best terms–”

   “That’s putting it mildly.”

   “I’ve had this idea and I need your help.”

   “Audrey?” he says, leaning against the door frame. I nod and look him square in the eye. He walks into the house but doesn’t close the door so I follow him. I find him in the lounge, warming himself by the fireplace.

   “I know this band,” I continue, “and I’m pretty sure they’re prepared to help.”

   “Help to do what, exactly?”

   “Record her lost album.”

   Nigel stares down at his slippers and rocks back and fore on his heels. Then he pours us both a brandy from his globe drinks cabinet. “You know how ludicrous that sounds, don’t you?”

   “I do,” I reply, taking my glass.

   “What have I done to deserve a place in this masterplan?”

   “Well,” I say, taking a big mouthful, “I need you to talk to Audrey and convince her. I think there’s a chance she’d listen to you.”

   Nigel laughs, “Oh, really!”

   “It’s worth a try, don’t you think?”

   Nigel looks at his watch and then finishes his brandy. I get the message.

   “Five minutes?”

   Nigel nods and I finish my drink and leave.

   I’m shivering when I get back to the flat and there are messages on my answerphone.

   “Hey, it’s Murray! Pick up the phone, you drunken bugger. You’ll never guess who I had sex with last–”

   I skip to the next message.

   “Ruth here, just checking you’re still alive and unwell–”

   Next.

   “I’m sorry if I was off with you earlier; I’m just not used to this attention after all this time. I don’t know how to respond to it all. Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I do appreciate everything that you’ve tried to do for me, however unconventional your methods might have been. I’m sorry, but I have to go now. There’s someone at my door. Kisses.”

   I open a bottle of red and lie on the sofa. I’ve slowly come to a grinding halt. Two thirds of  a bottle later my eyelids are bearing down on me.

   I barely notice the phone ringing.

   I sigh and watch him wipe froth from his mouth with the back of his hand. He doesn’t seem to want to elaborate on that.

   “So that’s it?” I say. “‘Get stuffed’?”

   “What else do you want me to say?”

   “I want you to say that you’ll think about it.”

   Ruff shakes his head and places his hands firmly on his knees. “Listen, there’s nothing to talk about. The band is going places. Europe was amazing. You know what? I didn’t score gear once out there, didn’t even attempt to. Know why? I was on such a bloody great high from the second we left Dover, and I haven’t come back down to Earth until just now. The very day I get back to England I get a phonecall from my old friend asking me if I want to go for a drink. Great, I think, I haven’t really seen anyone outside of the band in months. But do you ask me how the tour went? No. Do you give me the congratulations I deserve for sticking at something I believe in rather than sitting on my backside? Not a chance. No, the first thing I hear out of your mouth, after I’ve bought the drinks, is ‘I need a favour off you urgently, can I use your band for a few weeks?’. Thanks, pal.”

   “Look,” I say, feeling really wound up. “I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think it was important, but it is so I have. By the way, how was the tour?”

   Ruff shakes his head in disbelief. I’m not handling any of this very well, I see that now. I stare at the pub carpet and play footsie with the wonky table leg.

   “Okay,” I say after a while, “truth is I know this singer who was around for a little while in the late sixties. I wanted to help her get her old unreleased recordings back but they don’t exist anymore. So, I came up with an alternative idea that sounded great at the time.”

   “Which is?” says Ruff as he pulls a packet of tobacco from his back pocket.

   “Re-record the old recordings,” I say, realising it doesn’t sound like such a hot idea once I’ve said it out loud.

   Ruff is still shaking his head and rolling a cigarette, “That’s a stupid idea. Do you realise just how impractical that would be? It’d cost too much money. Money you don’t have , according to Murray.”

   That big mouth…

   “Well,” I say, feeling that sudden flush of red in my cheeks begin to subside, “I thought maybe you and the band would do it as a favour…”

   “Oh, I see,” says Ruff. “That’s charming, that is. We’ve been on the road for ten bleedin’ weeks and now you want us to record a charity single for some old shitter. Has she promised you a bunk-up if you make her feel like a star once more?”

   “Fine,” I say, downing my pint and pulling on my overcoat. “Don’t help. I suppose I should have known better.”

   “Come on,” says Ruff, scratching his head. “I’m a little tired.”

   “No, no, I get it. I suppose if it was Dr Fox asking, you’d be all over him.”

   “Dr F–??”

   “Forget it, I’m going. I’ll find another way to make this happen for her. Audrey Lee will have her day.”

   I turn and march out of the pub, nearly tripping over a bar stool as I go. I shouldn’t have stood up that quickly, my equilibrium is all over the place.

   As I exit into daylight, I hear Ruff shout, “Hey!”

   I stop and turn, not really wanting to look at him, so I look at the pint in his hand instead.

   “I’ve heard of Audrey Lee,” he says, placing his glass on the window ledge and lighting his roll-up.

   “Yeh?”

   “Yeh. And I know that song she sung. It’s one of Nixie’s favourites. Decent tune.”

   “Right,” I say. “Didn’t think she’d be in to that kind of thing.”

   Ruff smiles, “She also likes Biohazard, Yes and Matt Monro. Don’t tell her I told you about Yes.”

   “Right.”

   “So you’re in with a chance with old Audrey Lee.”

   “It’s not like that.”

   “Whatever,” says Ruff and drinks his pint. “I’ll talk to them. Give me a couple of days, okay?”

   “Yeh,” I say and he goes back inside. I feel relieved, recharged, happy, but mostly very pathetic.

   “So,” says Murray as he brings in two mugs of slop, “what are you going to do now?”

   “Lie here on this sofa and get as numb as I possibly can on plonk,” I say. “It would appear it’s the only thing I can guide towards a logical conclusion.”

   “I don’t know what you were thinking, anyway,” chuckles Murray into his coffee.

   “What do you mean?”

   “That old singer. You trying to be her Brian Epstein in shining armour.”

   I get up and grab a bottle of red from my depleted wine rack.

   “So this is your next move? To stay in this flat and get hammered?”

   “No,” I say as I scan the letter. “I’m being evicted.”

   “Evicted? Why?”

   “Apparently I haven’t paid any rent for the past three months.”

   I screw up the letter and throw it at the television.

   “You didn’t know?”

   “No.”

   “What are you going to do?”

   “Sell a kidney.”

   “Good idea,” says Murray. “£1.50 should see you alright.”

   “Well, I’ll sell both of them, then,” I say as I take a slug of wine.

   “You should have joined Ruff’s band when he asked you.”

   “Forget it,” I say. “Forget everything.”

   “They’re back in London tomorrow,” says Murray, stretching his legs and picking the letter up off the floor. “You two are friends. He might be able to help you out, even if it’s just being a roadie or drug mule or something.”

   “The last thing I want to do is be in a band. I’m embarrassing myself enough off stage, I don’t need to be doing it on stage aswell…”

   I sit bolt upright and put the wine carefully on the table. Murray looks at me.

   “What is it?”

   “Bloody hell, that’s it!” I say.

   “What is?”

   I grab Murray by the shoulders and give him a big, wine soaked smacker on the cheek.

   “Oi!” says Murray, checking to see if anyone’s staring at us through the fourth floor window.

   “I’ve just had an amazing idea,” I say. I can’t keep still.

   “I’m having trouble generating the sme amount of enthusiasm.”

   I stand still and try and explain my idea, but the words won’t take shape in my mouth.

   “Trust me,” I say eventually. “This is superb.”

   Murray shakes his head, “I think maybe I should just shoot you now with a tranquiliser gun.”

   “Where we’re going,” I say as I head to the front door, “we won’t need tranquiliser guns.”