“Your company,” scoffs Dylan. “You have no idea who your fucking company is.”
“Is that right?” I say, smiling. “Enlighten me.”
“The company you keep,” he says, grabbing the back of my head and pulling my face close to his. “They’re a very big company.”
“Good,” I say. “That’s always a good sign.”
Dylan smiles, then notices something to his right. We both turn to see Laurie standing in the living room. Dylan yells, as if he’s seen a giant spider. Laurie jumps, taking a step back.
“Laurie, this is Dylan,” I say, calmly, trying to reassure her. “He plays guitar in my band. His hobbies are drug-taking and random visits. He sometimes reads the newspaper.”
“Hi,” says Laurie, meekly.
Dylan’s persona softens and he takes a deep breath. “Hi, I’m Dylan. You must be Jack’s company.”
“We’re neighbours,” smiles Laurie.
Dylan gives me a knowing glance. “Well it’s very nice to meet you,” he says.
“I was just teaching Laurie how to play ‘It Ain’t Me Babe’,” I say.
Dylan visibly stiffens, his tentatively poised mask of charm slipping. “Teaching her how to… play?” he asks.
“Yeah, just a few chords.”
Dylan leans close to my face and whispers. “So this is who takes the reins, huh? Guitar duties? My replacement is a fucking teenager?”
“She’s actually twenty,” I smile.
Dylan’s face turns red. “Is that right?” he asks me. Then he turns to Laurie, asking with more aggression, “Is that right?”
I wink reassuringly at Laurie.
“Yes,” says Laurie. “Jack’s been showing me all your songs so I can join the band.”
Dylan gives a nod of acceptance, as if he’s been expecting this revelation for some time. He keeps nodding as he heads for the apartment door, still holding my scotch.
“Goodbye, Dylan,” I say, as he opens the door.
He turns to me, with hurt in his eyes. “I loved you, man. We really had something. We had chemistry.”
“I know, I know,” I say, with mock guilt. “But Laurie has prettier eyes than you.”
Dylan looks over at Laurie, who just smirks. Dylan nods again and keeps nodding. “Well, I hope her fucking eyes can play the five-minute guitar solo in ‘Nantucket Sleighride’, because that little devil looks like she’d struggle with her times tables.”
“You don’t mean that, Dylan, you’re just being bitter,” I say, waving him out the door.
He looks at me for a moment, his eyeballs bloodshot and bleary. “Well,” he replies, as if his next comment will bring him some form of triumph, “at least I don’t have a midget in my elevator.” He slams the door.
I walk over and hug Laurie, to make sure she’s ok.
“Dylan seemed a little loose,” she smiles.
“He has episodes,” I shrug. “A whole extended series of episodes. Too much money, too much spare time. He sits around while I write the songs. He doesn’t know what to do with himself.”
“You need a haircut,” says Laurie, changing the subject. She grabs the end of my hair, which is now down near my shoulder. Dark and greasy. I don’t wash it enough.
“Am I looking a little ragged?”
“Just a little,” she says. “And your stubble scratches my face.”
“Stop kissing me then.”
A luxury car picks me up from inside my building’s underground carpark and drives across town to Martin Brannagh’s place. It’s been less than a week since the McCarthy Awards after party. By now Brannagh’s various staff will have returned his apartment to the comfort of its sterility, disinfecting every surface.
My chauffeur drops me outside Brannagh’s building. I walk quickly across the footpath and a doorman allows me into the vast foyer. A security officer then escorts me in the elevator to the top floor. When the doors open into Brannagh’s apartment he is standing, waiting for me.
Dressed in a crisp, white suit over a collared, blue pinstripe shirt, Brannagh’s tanned, ancient face lights up in welcome. He opens his arms.
“My favourite rock star,” he smiles, pulling me into a hug.
“Marty, how the hell are ya?” I say, my question partly muffled by his shoulder.
He pulls away and looks into my face, keeping his hands on my shoulders. “I’m good, kiddo. How are you? You ok? You been getting enough sleep?”
“Sure,” I reply. “Plenty.”
Brannagh starts leading me across his apartment, towards his grand dining table. He keeps an arm around my shoulder.
“That’s good to hear, Jack. Very good to hear,” says Brannagh, before adding, “but I bet you didn’t get much sleep after my party the other night.” He fixes me a grin.
“Oh, um, yeah. That was a big one,” I reply.
“You left here with Natalie, didn’t you?” he probes.
“Yes, I did. We moved on to a nightclub. You know, a change of scene.”
“Sure, sure,” says Brannagh, nodding. “Somewhere with a bit of privacy, eh?”
“I suppose. She’s a very nice girl,” I say, diplomatically.
“Oh, she’s a real treasure,” says Brannagh, as we reach the table. He pulls out one of the heavy, metallic chairs and I sit down. He reaches for the adjacent chair and takes his seat at the head of the table.
Over in the kitchen a male chef is preparing food. Tall, young and tanned. A brunette waitress with olive skin and dark eyes stands, smiling patiently with an empty bar tray balanced on one hand.
“Two elixirs,” calls Brannagh to the waitress, with a casual wave of his hand. Then to me he says, “I heard officers went through a nightclub while you were there. They had porcines?”
“Three of them,” I reply. “Or maybe just one. My vision was a little blurry.”
Brannagh nods. “Did they search you?”
“No, I wasn’t searched. The porcines bailed me up in the bathroom.”
“But you… would have been carrying something, yes?”
I pause for a moment, not sure what to say. I hadn’t spared much thought for how unusual the porcines’ behaviour was in the Durté bathroom. “I think so.”
The waitress puts our drinks down in front of us. Brannagh smiles and thanks her.
“Well, Jack. I’ve never come face to face with one of these sniffer pigs, but from what I hear they’re pretty accurate. Unfairly so.”
“Yeah, normally. Maybe they were sick. Blocked nose. Pigs must get sick too.”
“Seems miraculous,” says Brannagh. He then lifts his drink in toast. “Thank you for coming over this evening. To your continued success. Salut.”
“Salut,” I reply.
We lightly chink glasses and take a sip of our respective beverages.
“There’s a few things I wanted to talk to you about tonight,” says Brannagh.
“Shoot,” I say.
“Firstly, I wanted to have a quick discussion about this horrible situation with the missing girls.”
“Ah,” I reply, nodding. “Horrible.”
“As you probably know, I’ve demanded that the promoter increase security at every show. Not just inside the venues but around them too. Near bus stops, train stations. We’re creating parking areas specifically for parents to pick up their children.”
“Sounds good,” I say. “An increased presence is important.”
“Definitely,” replies Brannagh. “Also, without encroaching on your onstage mood, it might be good for you to start mentioning at the concerts that everyone needs to keep an eye on their friends. An eye on each other. Promote awareness of the situation.”
“We haven’t publicly acknowledged that there is a situation here,” I say. “The link with Big Bang Theory is purely circumstantial.”
“But public pressure is building. We need to look like we care. We do care. Don’t we?”
“Yes,” I say. “We care. I care.”
Brannagh nods in
agreement and sips his elixir.
“Until the situation is sorted, the responsible thing to do might be to stop playing shows altogether,” I say.
Brannagh swallows a little too quickly and coughs. “Let’s not go too far,” he says, clearing his throat. “People should be allowed the opportunity to hear your music in a live setting.”
“Sure,” I say.
“After all, we’re not certain there’s any link between the missing girls and your concerts.”
“No,” I agree. “We shouldn’t be too hasty.”
“But we should acknowledge the situation,” nods Brannagh, before adding, “have you seen the pictures of the missing girls?”
“A few,” I reply. “In the paper.”
“None of them are familiar to you?”
“No, not really,” I lie.
“I see,” says Brannagh, still nodding. He’s studying me with his eyes and it makes me uncomfortable.
“If I do recognise one of them, you’ll be the first know,” I say with a reassuring smile.
“Excellent,” replies Brannagh.
“Doesn’t one of the missing women work at our record label?” I inquire.
“Yes, but the woman they’re talking about is not missing. She’s simply on holiday. I’ve explained to the authorities that she’s on a remote safari. Uncontactable by phone but certain to return,” says Brannagh.
“Well, there’s really nothing to worry about. Girls run away sometimes. All coincidence,” I say.
“I couldn’t agree more,” says Brannagh. “My main concern is that all this will distract you from your music. I wouldn’t deem that acceptable.”
“Thank you.”
“The second thing I want to discuss is one of the newer groups on our label. More recent members of the family.”
“Yeah?” I say, guessing to whom he is referring.
“The Known Associates,” says Brannagh, delicately. “Have you heard their music yet?”
“Bits and pieces.”
“They’ve got something special. Great sound. An amazing look. Big Bang Theory has been a big influence on them.”
“Really? That’s grand,” I say.
“Definitely,” agrees Brannagh, adding, “they’re working on their second record at the moment.”
“Nice,” I say.
“The boys are in the studio, writing and recording.”
I nod and sip on my elixir.
“I wanted to ask, how would you feel about joining them in the studio and doing some work with them?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Well, perhaps you could collaborate? Work on their production. Give them some direction with their songwriting.”
I’m not sure whether to tell Brannagh how much I dislike The Known Associates. They’re blatantly ripping off Big Bang Theory’s sound and image. Riding our coattails. Brannagh certainly encourages them to do so. Since I’m already riding the coattails of other songwriters, The Known Associates adds even more dead weight to a weighty situation. I can’t show them how to write songs. I don’t know how.
Endurance was a big record label before I came along, but my band has become the biggest meal ticket of Brannagh’s career. He’d love to have a second Big Bang Theory in his stable. Two horses drawing the carriage.
“Can I think about it?” I ask.
“Sure,” he replies, “of course. I don’t want it to impede on your own music. I just thought I should bring it up with you. To gauge you’re reaction.”
“Well, I apologise if my response is hard to gauge.”
“It’s fine, really. Take your time. Talk about it with your other band members.”
“Sure. I will.”
“I also wanted to sound out the possibility of The Known Associates perhaps opening for you guys on your next tour. They’re the perfect support band for Big Bang Theory.”
“Yeah,” I shrug. “No problem. Why not. They’d be perfect.”
“Grand,” says Brannagh.
We both sip our elixirs, before he calls to the kitchen, “Could you bring out the first course soon? Something to build the appetite?”
The chef nods and smiles, continuing to chop and stir the various pots and coloured lumps of food in front of him.
“And two more of these drinks!” says Brannagh, swallowing the last mouthful from his glass.
I pick up my glass and quickly gulp it down, so as to keep up with him. Two more drinks are brought to us by the waitress. She spares me the hint of a smile as she makes eye contact.
“So, I have two more things I want to talk to you about and then we can get on with our evening,” says Brannagh.
“No problem,” I say, lifting my new glass. “I’m all ears.”
“All ears. That’s funny,” smiles Brannagh. “You have some odd expressions.”
“I like to innovate,” I reply.
Brannagh chuckles, then continues. “I know you’ve been under a lot of stress lately, particularly with this whole missing girls thing.”
“Well, yeah, maybe,” I shrug.
“I wanted to offer you Godiva for a couple of weeks. There’s nothing like it. Breathing the fresh air up there. It’s the perfect getaway. It’d be just you and the forest. No traffic noise. You could really focus on some new music and unwind.”
“Wow, that’s a cool idea. That could be really… good,” I reply.
“You’d be very isolated, but it would be great for you. I go up there to settle myself when things are too hectic and it always puts me back on course.”
I don’t mind Brannagh’s suggestion. Godiva is a spectacular residence and it’s at a high altitude and surrounded by nature. Spending some time there might be a good way to lay low and extricate myself from society for a little while. With no parties to go to, it might allow me to detox too.
“Marty, I’d love to. It’s a seriously tempting suggestion.”
“The studio is just as you left it, so you could throw down some recordings and work on new material,” says Brannagh. He gives me an encouraging expression, lifting his tone slightly. He wants me to write more chart-topping, million-selling records for him.
“You know me, Marty. Rubber arms. Easy to twist.”
“Good,” he smiles, then reaches into his inner jacket pocket and produces two thick, dark brown cigars.
“Cigarro?” he offers. “We should head outside before the first course.”
“Sure.”
On the balcony, the city stretches out below us. I twist the end from my cigar and Brannagh lights it for me.
“They want to write a biography of you,” says Brannagh, putting a flame to his own cigar.
“They?” I ask.
“A publisher. A big one. They want it to be an official biography. Something that will once and for all explain who you are.”
“Does Amelia know about this? I haven’t heard anything from her.”
“No, she doesn’t know. I’m friends with one of the leaders at the publisher. He has asked me directly. I’d really prefer it if no one else knows about this.”
“Marty, I don’t know if I can keep it from Amelia. She’s my confidant. In making a decision, I’d want to hear her advice.”
“Of course,” smiles Brannagh, tapping me reassuringly on the shoulder. “But it might be best not to say anything until an official offer comes through. This is all just a hypothetical right now.”
“Of course,” I smile, and puff on the cigar.
“A lot of people out there would like to know more about you.”
“I’m sure,” I reply.
“You know that a lot of my friends in the cinematic business ask me to convince you to get into acting. Amelia gets sent quite a few scripts.”
“Yes, she tells me.”
“Nothing has been of interest?”
“I don’t have an interest in acting right now,” I reply. “I’m not a good actor.”
Marty chuckles. “Well, you wouldn’t have to be. We
can get something written for you. Something that suits you and your personality.”
“I’ll think about it, but I’d rather focus on my music. I need to be unoccupied when a song comes to me. I need to be able to write it down straight away.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Brannagh says.
There’s a pause while we both take a puff on our cigars, the rich smoke filling my mouth before I shoot a grey plume into the night air.
“What’s your earliest memory, Jack? Do you remember being a child?”
“Bits and pieces,” I say. “It’s a blur.”
“So you can’t remember who your father is?”
“No, I don’t,” I say. “I believe I was abandoned.”
“So who raised you? Someone must have fed you and taken care of you until you could be independent.”
I stop and puff on the cigar again, looking out at the city. There are neon grids of lights far below. I wonder whether it’s easier to jump. The questions will never end. The more vague I am, the more people think I’m hiding something.
“I just don’t remember,” I shrug. “I have a memory of a presence standing over me. Some kind of protective entity. Someone taking care of me. But in my mind’s eye they don’t have a face. Or a sex. The only thing I’m certain of is that I’ve been alone most of my life, right up until I taught myself to play music.”
“Yes,” nods Brannagh, “yours is truly an amazing story.”
“Well, you do what you can. You know… to survive.”
“It’s almost as if someone brought you to us,” says Brannagh.
“Someone?” I ask.
Brannagh smiles and I’m unable to read his expression. It’s a pained smile.
“Jack, I’m afraid I’ve been deceitful,” says Brannagh, hesitantly.
“Oh?” I ask.
He reaches into his inner jacket pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. “I did some investigating recently,” he says, still choosing his words with delicacy.
“What kind?”
“Genetic.”
A familiar weight appears in the pit of my stomach. I stay silent, taking a long drag on my cigar.
“I acquired some of your DNA last week. I thought maybe I could help provide you with some answers about your past.”
“Right,” I say. “That’s very… nice of you?” I offer. I consider lifting Brannagh and dropping him over the balcony. I could tell his chef and waitress that he threw himself.
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