He turned and pushed his way towards the bar. He really didn’t want to think about the island, not when he had been feeling so upbeat, but it kept popping into his head unbidden. It didn’t help that Miles kept sending him letters. Alex had never had seen Miles as the letter-writing type, but since Angel Cay there had been regular missives, each one sending Alex into a cold sweat, dreading news of a police investigation or some threat to keep quiet. They had been perfectly innocuous and chatty, however, talking about Miles’ new life in Oxford, even inviting Alex down during Hilary term, whatever that was, as if nothing had ever happened. He had no intention of taking up that particular offer.
He bought a pint of snakebite and went to stand at the back. He liked it there. He preferred to stay out of the way and watch the competition, noting their instruments and amps, how they played a certain riff or how a song was put together.
‘Good, in’t he?’
Alex turned his head to see a good-looking boy with dirty blond hair that fell over his ears.
‘What? Who?’
‘The singer.’
‘Yeah, he’s good.’
‘Great set so far. Lucky fuckers. If there’s A and R in the audience tonight, I bet they get snapped up.’
Alex shrugged. Their songs were great, but he thought he could improve them.
In Alex’s dream band, everything would be perfect. He’d spent so long planning it in his head, he just knew it would work. And all arrogance aside, he knew the songs he had written were every bit as good as Verve’s; in fact, he suspected they were better.
The lad next to him smiled cynically. ‘So you’re in a band then?’
Alex shook his head. ‘Not yet. I’m not even sure I want to. I kinda want to do my own stuff.’ He wondered why he was saying all this to a complete stranger, but the truth was he needed to tell someone what he was thinking or he would explode.
‘Solo stuff, eh?’ said the boy, nodding to the stage. ‘It’d be pretty fucking lonely up there.’
‘Lonely?’ frowned Alex. ‘I never really looked at it that way.’
On stage, the band thundered to a halt amid cheers and whistles.
‘Listen, d’you fancy going for a pint at the Briton’s Protection?’ asked the blond boy. ‘They’ve got a decent jukebox and maybe a lock-in if we’re lucky.’
Alex hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Why not?
The boy was called Jez and he was in his third year at Manchester Polytechnic studying graphics, although he was originally from Blackpool. Within minutes of settling into a cracked red-vinyl booth in the pub, Jez was boasting that his older brother Graham had been in a ‘big’ New Romantic band called Bichon Frise who had been slated to support Duran Duran before Graham had got tonsillitis and had to pull out. Alex suppressed a smile; to Jez, his brother’s war stories of touring were full of glamour and adventure, but they didn’t begin to touch Alex’s experiences of paradise islands, ski chalets and private jets. But then that isn’t real life, he reminded himself. This is.
‘So what d’ya play?’ asked Jez finally.
‘Guitar, bass, piano mainly,’ said Alex nonchalantly, sipping his drink.
Jez laughed. ‘Mainly? What are you? A fucking musical genius?’
Remembering the all-or-nothing attitude of the singer earlier that night, Alex just shrugged. ‘It has been said.’
Jez nodded. ‘Fancy a jam with us lot?’ He nodded towards the door as two more lads swaggered in, both wearing worn suede jackets like his. ‘These pair are in my band, Year Zero. Alex, meet Pete and Gavin. Alex here is a musical genius,’ he said with a smirk.
‘Excellent,’ said Pete, pushing his ginger hair out of his eyes. ‘When are you joining us?’
‘Am I getting sacked and I don’t know about it?’ asked Gavin.
‘Not you, spastic. Greg. We’re hardly going to fire you when you’ve got a car, are we?’
‘Hang on, Greg’s leaving the band?’
Jez looked weary and superior. ‘I’m going to ask him to reconsider his career choices.’ He turned to Alex. ‘Greg never shows up for rehearsal. As far as I’m concerned, you’re either in or you’re out.’
Pete fixed Alex with a stare. ‘You interested?’
‘Maybe.’ He shrugged, but inside he was doing cartwheels. Here was a bunch of cool-looking Manchester-based indie kids who were asking him to join their band. Yes, they could be useless, but they certainly seemed committed, which was half the battle – and they had a car, too!
Alex ordered another snakebite, and as they talked about music, twelve-inches they had bought recently, brilliant gigs they’d been to, swapping secrets about musical discoveries, trying to outdo one another, he felt a little piece of him come back to life. Yes, this is where I want to be, he thought. Right here.
‘Come on,’ said Jez, slapping the table.‘Let’s have another round.’
Alex looked at his watch with alarm. The last train to Macclesfield left in ten minutes; if he sprinted, he might just make it.
‘I’d better get off,’ he said, getting up.
‘Lightweight,’ jeered Gavin.
‘Got to get back to Macc,’ said Alex.
‘Come back to ours,’ said Jez. ‘You can always crash on the sofa. We can’t let you leave the city before you’ve sampled Gav’s home brew.’
Alex shrugged. What did he have to get back for really?
They continued chatting and arguing about music as they caught the night bus back to the band’s student house, a huge orange semi-detached Victorian villa in Fallowfield, a standard student let with swirly carpet and mismatched sagging furniture. He noticed a dark open doorway leading off the living room.
‘What’s going on there?’ he asked. Someone had stuck dozens of cardboard egg boxes on the back of the door.
‘Soundproofing, mate,’ said Pete. ‘The birds in the flat upstairs keep phoning our landlord. One more strike and we’re out.’
Gav smiled. ‘Which isn’t going to happen since Jez banged one of the girls.’
Jez shrugged modestly. ‘A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.’
He beckoned to Alex and disappeared through the dark doorway. ‘Come on, I’ll show you the nerve centre.’
Alex followed him down a flight of narrow steps into a damp cellar lit by a single bulb. ‘Wow!’ he said. There was barely room to stand up, but every available inch of floor space had been crammed with musical gear. They’d obviously gone to quite a bit of trouble with makeshift soundproofing using old mattresses. Unfortunately, they’d become damp and the room smelt of mildew, mixed with the heavier aromas of cigarettes and sweat.
Jez inhaled dramatically. ‘Can’t you smell it? The scent of rock.’ He picked up a guitar and shoved it into Alex’s chest. ‘Greg’s guitar. He won’t mind,’ he said.
‘Come on then, genius,’ said Pete eagerly. ‘Let’s hear what you’ve got.’
Alex looked at the ceiling dubiously.‘Shit, Jez,’ he said.‘It’s twelve thirty. What about those girls upstairs?’
‘Don’t think they’re in. Didn’t see a light on, anyway.’
‘OK,’ said Alex, plugging the guitar in; he’d had too many snakebites to care much anyway. ‘Why don’t you play me one of your songs and I’ll jump in when I can?’
‘Let’s do “Blood Money”,’ said Jez.
They launched into a raw rock ’n’ roll jam, sort of like ‘Diamond Dogs’ meets ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’. It had an interesting groove, but it wasn’t very sophisticated; Alex had no trouble keeping up with the changes, and as his confidence grew, he laid a melody over the rhythm that completely transformed the song. From the grins on the band’s faces when they finally ground to a halt, they had been pleased with his performance. Alex wished he could say the same. Gavin was a solid bass player and Pete kept the beat, but from a creative point of view the rhythm section was a desert and Alex could see he would struggle to get much more out of them. Jez was more interesting; his songs were derivative and
his voice a bit thin, but he had a huge amount of charisma and Alex thought he’d be an arresting frontman. He was filled with a bubbling excitement. Together, this band had swagger and energy and above all potential. They could be great.
‘So what do you think . . .’
The rest of his words were drowned by a loud banging coming from upstairs.
‘Oh shit,’ muttered Jez, running up the stairs. They all put down their instruments and trooped sheepishly upstairs. Jez was standing at the door talking to a girl, or rather listening as she shouted. She was pretty, with dark red hair that hung messily over her shoulders in a Snoopy nightdress that skimmed the top of her thighs. She stopped her tirade as the other boys peeked around the door and firmly crossed her arms across her chest.
‘All right, Emma?’ said Gavin with a cheeky smile.
The girl frowned heavily. ‘No I am not. It’s one o’clock in the bloody morning.’
‘Is that the time?’ said Jez with a wide grin. Alex could see that his charm was cutting no ice with Emma. Either she wasn’t the one he had had sex with, or else she was and he had somehow pissed her off afterwards. Alex thought the latter was most likely.
‘First thing in the morning I am calling the landlord,’ said Emma to Jez. ‘We’ve warned you a million times, but if you insist on behaving like an ignorant, selfish bastard, I won’t lose any sleep if you’re chucked out on to the street.’
Alex couldn’t help chuckling and Emma rounded on him angrily.
‘I’m glad you find it funny. Remind me to ask you how funny it is when you’re rehearsing out of a cardbox box in Rusholme.’
‘Look, I’m sorry. We all are.’ Alex smiled. ‘But the muse came and we had to answer the call.’
Emma didn’t smile, but even when she frowned, Alex thought she was pretty. Even in that ridiculous nightie.
‘Come in for a beer,’ he said. ‘Come on, Snoopy, you know you want to.’
She pursed her lips but a half-smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. ‘Even if you weren’t a bunch of shits, I couldn’t,’ she sighed. ‘I’ve got an essay due in on Monday and I have to do some work in the morning.’
Emboldened by the snakebite, Alex sank to his knees and clasped his hands together. ‘Please stay, we’ll write a song about you.’
Emma looked down at him. Her face was still serious, but Alex could see she was fighting hard not to laugh.
‘Who are you anyway?’ she said.
‘Alex, Alex Doyle,’ he said, getting to his feet.
‘Well listen to me, Alex Doyle,’ said Emma. ‘As soon as I close this door I don’t want to hear so much as a single note. Do we understand each other?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘All right then,’ she said and turned away, but Alex saw the grin spreading on her face.
‘You sweet-talking son of a bitch.’ Jez whistled admiringly.
‘It was the snakebite talking,’ said Alex.
Jez handed him another can. ‘Well let it talk, brother,’ he said, as they all flopped down on the sagging sofas.
‘Listen, Alex, were you being serious about not wanting to be in a band? From what we saw downstairs, I think that would be a waste.’ Pete nodded seriously. ‘If you came on board with us, we’d have a right laugh.’ Jez popped the ring-pull on his can. ‘Together we’ll conquer the world!’ Pete and Gavin hooted in agreement.
Alex hesitated for a moment, then held up his can. ‘Well then, count me in.’
The other three glanced at each other, then leapt at Alex, squashing him into the creaking sofa, yelling and spraying him with beer, until they heard a loud thumping coming from the floor above. Grinning, Alex pushed them off and wiped the beer from his face.
He’d heard that Manchester was the place to be.
He had a feeling that from tonight, life was finally going to get better.
14
May 1991
Grace sprinted for the line. Lunging forward, dipping her shoulders, she shot across, her feet and arms pumping in perfect harmony. Looking up, she saw the time on the scoreboard – a new world record! Her feet thudded to a stop and she leant forward, resting her hands on her knees. As she came to the end of a run, she liked to imagine herself in the final lap of a big race to push herself just that bit harder. Silly, but effective.
Grace’s arms were slimmer, her tanned legs more defined and shapely from a month of morning runs along the sand of Four Mile Beach, Port Douglas’ longest stretch of sand. Any last hint of puppy fat had been rubbed away by a bout of food poisoning in Thailand, swiftly followed by the healthy living she had taken up in Australia. Although it was the Queensland winter, and not yet eight in the morning, it was already twenty degrees, and drops of sweat were running down her face. Enough for today, she thought, flopping down on to the soft sand where the headland rose, curving away to spray-dashed rocks.
She looked out towards the Coral Sea, twinkling silver in the morning light. Over the horizon it blended with the Pacific Ocean, and beyond that was South America, over six thousand miles away. She allowed herself a smile as she reflected that she was as far away from London as it was possible to be without going to the moon. That, of course, was part of the appeal of Australia. Not the only one, of course: she loved the weather, the ‘no worries’ attitude; she even loved the way that while she was greeting a new day with a jog along the beach, in England it was still yesterday. She was separated by time and space – and that was just fine with Grace. She had been out of London nine months and had no plans to return, despite telling her parents that she just wanted a gap year after her degree and before she joined Ash Corp. And, yes, she was sad about not starting her MA at Oxford, but it was worth it.
Brushing the sand off her legs, she returned to the whitewashed clapboard cottage she called home.
‘God, you weren’t out for a run again, were you?’ asked Caro, her flatmate, as Grace came down after her shower.
Caro’s short platinum hair was sticking up at all angles and she was sitting hunched over a cup of coffee. The previous night they’d both been out to the Cross Arms hotel, the white colonial edifice on the esplanade, but Grace had left her friend surrounded by men and half-empty bottles; no surprise she was feeling rough.
‘You should have come with me,’ smiled Grace. ‘That would have blown the cobwebs away.’
‘Some guy with a nose ring did that for me.’ Caro smirked. ‘Dan? Stan? Dunno, but he just left.’
‘So that was the noise in the middle of the night. I thought it was a pack of dingoes.’
Grace had met Caro, a Kiwi from a small town in the South Island, in her first week in Thailand, when they were both staying in a small backpackers’ flop-house in Krabi. She was as streetwise as an alley-cat with a knack for seeking out all the coolest places to be. Instantly admiring Caro’s carefree attitude, Grace joined her on the boat to Koh Phi Phi, going on to Bali, Australia’s Sunshine Coast, finally washing up on the tropical shore of northern Queensland.
Reluctantly, Caro made herself presentable and they both left the house to head into the town. Ten years ago, Port Douglas had been a sleepy fishing village full of locals and the occasional backpacker, but the construction of a large glossy marina a few years before had brought yachts, and with them came upmarket hotel groups, and smart restaurants. The two girls had spent the last four months working on the Highlander, a sixty-foot catamaran that transported tourists to the Low Isles, a group of small sandbanks thirty miles to the east where they could snorkel and dive.
‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ Caro said as they walked down Macrossan Street, the main thoroughfare sprinkled with cafés and surf-style clothes shops.
‘What?’
‘I’m thinking of moving on,’ she said.
‘You’re joking.’
‘It’s getting too touristy around here,’ she said, crinkling up her nose. ‘And I’m not sure how many more prawn buffets I can serve up on the Highlander. I’m supposed to be a vegetarian,
fer Chrissakes.’
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