Oh, yeah. We listen. Martin plays us this tape of a demo of some ditty called How Do You Do It. Definite Top Ten material for somebody, he says significantly. Gerry and the Pacemakers are already interested but I’ll give you first refusal. And Eppy nods beside him through the glass. It’s like watching Sooty and bloody Sweep in there. So Ringo smashes a cymbal and Stu tries to tune his bass and George goes over to help and I look at Paul and Paul looks at me.
“It’s a decent tune, John,” Paul says.
“You’re kidding. It’s a heap of shit.”
Eppy tuts through the glass. Now John.
And so it goes. Me, I grab me Rickenbacker and walk out the fucking studio. There’s a boozer round the corner. London prices are a joke but I sink one pint and then another, waiting for someone to come and say, You’re so right John. But Paul don’t come. Eppy don’t come either even though I thought it was me of all the lads that he was after. After the third pint, I’m fucking glad. The haircuts, the suits, and now playing tunes that belong in the bloody adverts. It’s all gone too far.
And there it was. John Quits The Beatles in some local snotrag called Merseybeat the week after before I’ve had a chance to change me mind. And after that I’ve got me pride. When I saw Paul down Victoria Street a couple a months later yer could tell the single was doing well just by his bloody walk. Said Hi John, yer know it’s not too late and God knows how Merseybeat got hold of the story. He said it as though he and Eppy hadn’t jumped at the chance to dump me and make sure everybody knew. There was Macca putting on the charm the way he always did when he was in a tight situation. I told him to stuff it where the fucking sun don’t shine. And that was that. I stomped off down ye street, had a cup of tea in Littlewoods. Walked out on Cynthia and the kid. Formed me own band. Did a few gigs. Bolloxed up me life good and proper.
And here we have the Beatles, still gigging, nearly a full house here at the NEC, almost as big as Phil Collins or the Bee Gees. Paul does his old thumbs up routine between songs. Awwrright. He’s a real rock a roll dude, him and George play their own solos just like Dire Straights. The music drifts from the poppy older stuff to the druggy middle stuff back to the poppy later stuff. Things We Said Today. Good Day Sun Shine. Dizzy Miss Lizzy. Jet. They even do How Do You Do It. No sign of Love Me Do, of course. That never got recorded, although I’ll bet they could do me harmonica riff on ye synthesizer as easy as shit. It all sounds smooth and tight and sweetly nostalgic, just the way it would on the Sony music centre back at home after Snodgrass has loosened his tie from a hard day watching Tracy wriggle her ass over the fax machine in Accounts. The pretty lights flash, the dry ice fumes, but the spaceship never quite takes off. Me, I shout for Maxwell’s Silver Hammer, and in a sudden wave of silence, it seems like Paul actually hears. He squints down at the front row and grins for a moment like he understands the joke. Then the lights dim to purple and Paul sits down at ye piano, gives the seat a little tug just the way he used to when he was practising on his Dad’s old upright in the parlour at home. Plays the opening chords of Let It Be. I look around me and several thousand flames are held up. It’s a forest of candles, and Jesus it’s a beautiful song. There’s a lump in me throat, God help me. For a moment, it feels like everyone here is close to touching the dream.
The moment lasts for longer than it decently should. Right through No More Lonely Nights until Hey Judi peters out like something half-finished and the band kick into Lady Madonna, which has a thundering bass riff even though Stu is still picking up his Fender. And the fucking stage starts to revolve. Me, I’ve had enough.
Cal looks at me as I stand up. She’s bopping along like a Tracy. I mouth the word the word Bog and point to me crotch. She nods. Either she’s given up worrying about the Doctor doing a runner or she don’t care. Fact is, the booze has wrung me dry and I’ve got me a headache coming. I stumble me way up the aisles. The music pushes me along. He really is gonna do C Moon. Makes yer want to piss just hearing it.
The lav is deliciously quiet. White tiles and some poor geezer in grey mopping up the piss. The Doctor straddles the porcelain. It takes about a minute’s concentration to get a decent flow. Maybe this is what getting old is all about. I wonder if superstars like Macca have the same problem, but I doubt it. Probably pay some geezer to go for them, and oh, Kevin, can yer manage a good dump for me while yer’re there? Once it starts, the flow keeps up for a long time. Gets boring. I flush down ye stray hair, dismantle ye cigarette butt, look at the grouting on the tiles, stare around. The guy with the mop is leaning on it, watching me.
“Must be a real groove in here,” I say.
“Oh, no,” he laughs. “Don’t get the wrong idea.”
I give percy a shake and zip up. The last spurt still runs down me bloody leg. Bet that don’t happen to Paul either.
The wrong idea? The guy’s got the plump face of a thirty year old choirboy. Pity poor Eppy ain’t still alive, he’d be in his fucking element.
“I think all queers should be shot,” fat choirboy assures me.
“Well, seeing it from your perspective...” The Doctor starts to back away. This guy’s out-weirding me without even trying.
“What’s the concert like?”
The music comes around the corner as a grey echo, drowned in the smell of piss and disinfectant. “It’s mostly shit, what do yer expect?”
“Yeah,” he nods. His accent is funny. I think it’s some bastard kind of Brummy until I suddenly realise he’s American. “They sold out, didn’t they?”
“The Beatles never sold in.”
“Bloody hypocrites. All that money going to waste.”
Some other guy comes in, stares at us as he wees. Gives his leg a shake, walks out again. Choirboy and I stand in stupid silence. It’s one of them situations yer find yerself in. But anyone who thinks that The Beatles are crap can’t be all bad.
“You used to be in the Beatles, didn’t you?”
I stare at him. No one’s recognised me just from me face in years. I’ve got me glasses on, me specially grey and wrinkled disguise.
“Oh, I’ve read all about the Beatles,” he assures me, giving his mop a twirl.
I’ve half a mind to say, If yer’re that interested give me the fucking mop and yer can have me seat, but there’s something about him that I wouldn’t trust next to Cal.
“Hey,” he smiles. “Listen in there. Sounds like they’re doing the encore.”
Which of course is Yesterday, like Oh deary me, we left it out by accident from the main show and thought we would just pop it in here. Not a dry seat in the bloody house.
Choirboy’s still grinning at me. I see he’s got a paperback in the pocket of his overall. Catcher In The Rye. “There’ll be a big rush in a minute,” he says. “More mess for me to clean up. Even Jesus wouldn’t like this job.”
“Then why do yer do it? The pay can’t be spectacular.”
“Well, this is just casual work. I’ll probably quit after tonight.”
“Yeah, pal. I know all about casual work.”
“But this is interesting, gets you into places. I like to be near to the stars. I need to see how bad they are.” He cracks that grin a little wider. “Tell me,” he says, “what’s Paul really like?”
“How the fuck should I know? I haven’t see the guy in nearly thirty years. But, there’s...there’s some do on afterwards...he’s asked me and me bird to come along. Yer know, for old times I guess.” Jesus, John, who are yer trying to impress?
“Oh,” he says, “and where’s that taking place? I sometimes look in, you know. The security’s round here’s a joke. Last week, I was that close to Madonna.” He demonstrates the distance with his broom.
Cal’s got the invites in her handybag, but I can picture them clear enough. I’ve got a great memory for crap. They’re all scrolled like it’s a wedding and there’s a signed pass tacked on the back just to make it official. Admit two, The Excelsior, Meriden. Boogie on down, and I bet the Lord Mayor’s coming. And to
morrow it’s Reading. I mean, do these guys paarrty every night?
Choirboy grins. “It’s here at the Metropole, right?”
“Oh, yeah, the Metropole.” I saw the neon on the way in. “That’s the place just outside? Saves the bastards having to walk too far.” I scratch me head. “Well maybe I’ll see yer there. And just let me know if yer have any trouble at all getting in, right?”
“Right on.” He holds out his hand. I don’t bother to shake it—and it’s not simply because this guy cleans bogs. I don’t want him near me, and I somehow I don’t want him near Paul or the others either. He’s a fruitcase, and I feel briefly and absurdly pleased with meself that I’ve sent him off to ye wrong hotel.
I give him a wave and head on out ye bog. In the aircraft hanger, music’s still playing. Let’s all get up and dance to a song de da de da de dum de dum. Snodgrass and Tracy are trying to be enthusiastic so they can tell everyone how great it was in the office tomorrow. I wander down the aisles, wondering if it might be easier not to meet up with Cal. On reflection, this seems as good a place as any to duck out of her life. Do the cunt a favour. After all, she deserves it. And to be honest, I really don’t fancy explaining to Kevin where all his money went. He’s a big lad, is our Kev. Useful, like.
The music stops. The crowd claps like they’re really not sure whether they want any more and Paul raises an unnecessary arm to still them.
“Hey, one more song then we’ll let yer go,” he says with probably unintentional irony. I doubt if they know what the fuck is going on up there in Mission Control.
He puts down his Gibson and a roadie hands him something silver. Stu’s grinning like a skull. He even wanders within spitting distance of the front of the stage. A matchstick figure, I can see he looks the way Keith Richards would have done if he really hadn’t taken care of himself. He nods to George. George picks up a twelve string.
“This one’s for an old friend,” Paul says.
The session musicians are looking at each other like What the fuck’s going on? Could this really be an unrehearsed moment? Seems unlikely, but then Paul muffs the count in on a swift four/four beat. There’s nervous laughter amongst the Fab Fearsome, silence in the auditorium. Then again. One. Two. Three. And.
Macca puts the harmonica to his lips. Plays me riff. Love Me Do. Oh, yeah. I really can’t believe it. The audience are looking a bit bemused, but probably reckon it’s just something from the new LP that’s stacked by the yard out in the foyer and no one’s bothered to buy. The song’s over quickly. Them kind of songs always were. Me, I’m crying.
The End. Finis, like they say in cartoon. Ye Beatles give a wave and duck off stage. I get swept back in the rush to get to ye doors. I hear snatches of, Doesn’t he look old, They never knew how to rock, Absolutely brilliant, and How much did you pay the babysitter? I wipe the snot off on me sleeve and look around. Cal catches hold of me by the largely unpatronised tee shirt stall before I have a chance to see her coming.
“What did you think?”
“A load of shit,” I say, hoping she won’t notice I’ve been crying.
She smiles. “Is that all you can manage, John? That must mean you liked it.”
Touche, Monsieur Pussycat. “Truth is, I could need a drink.”
“Well, let’s get down the Excelsior. You can meet your old mates and get as pissed as you like.”
She glides me out towards the door. Me feet feel like they’re on rollers. And there’s me chauffeur pal with the boy scout uniform.
People stare at us as he opens the door like we’re George Michael. Pity he don’t salute, but still, I’d look a right pillock trying to squirm me way away from a pretty woman and the back seat of a Jag.
The car pulls slowly through the crowds. I do me wave like I’m the Queen Mum although the old bint’s probably too hip to be seen at a Beatles concert. Turns out there’s a special exit for us VIPS. I mean, rock and roll. It’s just a few minutes drive, me mate up front tells us.
Cal settles back. “This is the life.”
“Call this life?”
“Might as well make the most of it, John.”
“Oh, yeah. I bet you get taken in this kind of limo all the time. Blowjobs in the back seat. It’s what pays, right?” I bite me lip and look out the window. Jesus, I’m starting to cry again.
“Why do you say things like that John?”
“Because I’m a bastard. I mean, you of all people must know about bastards having to put up with Steve.”
Cal laughed. “You called him Steve!”
I really must be going ta bits. “Yeah, well I must have puked up me wits over that lay by.”
“Anyway,” she touches me arm. “Call him whatever you like. I took your advice this evening. Told him where to stuff it.”
I look carefully at her face. She obviously ain’t kidding, but I can’t see any bruises. “And what about the money I nicked?”
“Well, that’s not a problem for me, is it? I simply told him the truth, that it was you.” She smiled. “Come on, John. I’d almost believe you were frightened of him. He’s just some bloke. He’s got another girl he’s after anyway, the other side of town and good luck to her.”
“So it’s just you and me is it, Cal. Cosy, like. Don’t expect me to sort out yer customers for yer.”
“I’m getting too old for that, John. It costs you more than they pay. Maybe I’ll do more work at the NEC. Of course, you’ll have to start paying your sodding rent.”
I hear meself say, “I think there’s a vacancy coming up in the NEC Gents. How about that for a funky job for Doctor Winston? At least you get to sweep the shit up there rather than having to stuff it into envelopes.”
“What are you talking about, John?”
“Forget it. Maybe I’ll explain in the morning. You’ve got influence there, haven’t you?”
“I’ll help you get a job, if that’s what you’re trying to say.”
I lookouta ye window. The houses streaming past, yellow widows, where ye Snodgrasses who weren’t at the concert are chomping pipe and slippers whilst the wife makes spaniel eyes. The kids tucked upstairs in pink and blue rooms that smell of Persil and Playdough. Me, I’m just the guy who used to be in a halfway-famous band before they were anybody. I got me no book club subscription, I got me no life so clean yer could eat yer bloody dinner off it. Of course, I still got me rebellion, oh yeah, I got me that, and all it amounts to is cadging cigs off Cal and lifting packets of Cheesy Wotsits from the bargain bin in Kwicksave when Doris and Tracy ain’t looking. Oh, yeah, rebellion. The milkman shouts at me when I go near his float in case The Mad Old Git nicks another bottle.
I can remember when we used to stand up and face the crowd, do all them songs I’ve forgotten how to play. When Paul still knew how to rock. When Stu was half an artist, dreamy and scary at the same time. When George was just a neat kid behind a huge guitar, lying about his age. When Ringo was funny and the beat went on forever. Down the smoggily lit stairways and greasy tunnels, along burrows and byways where the cheesy reek of the bogs hit yer like a wall. Then the booze was free afterwards and the girls would gather round, press softly against yer arm as they smiled. Their boyfriends would mutter at the bar but you knew they were afraid of yer. Knew they could sense the power of the music that carried off the stage. Jesus, the girls were as sweet as the rain in those grey cities, the shining streets, the forest wharves, the dark doorways where there was laughter in the dripping brick-paved night. And sleeping afterwards, yer head spinning from the booze and the wakeups and the downers, taking turns on that stained mattress with the cinema below booming in yer head and the music still pouring through. Diving down into carousel dreams.
Oh, the beat went on alright. Used to think it would carry up into daylight and the real air, touch the eyes and ears of the pretty dreamers, even make Snodgrass stirs a little in his slumbers, take the shine off the Sierra, make him look up at the angels in the sky once in a while, or even just down at the shit on the
pavement.
“Well, here we are,” Cal says.
Oh, yeah. Some hotel. Out in the pretty pretty. Trees and lights across a fucking lake. The boy scout opens the door for me and Cal. Unsteady on me pins, I take a breath, then have me a good retching cough. The air out here reeks of roses or something, like one of them expensive bog fresheners that Cal sprays around when our Kev’s had a dump.
“Hey.” Cal holds out the crook of her arm. “Aren’t you going to escort me in?”
“Let’s wait here.”
There are other cars pulling up, some old git dressed like he’s the Duke of Wellington standing at the doors. Straight ahead to the Clarendon Suite, Sir, he smooths greyly to the passing suits. I suppose these must be record industry types. And then there’s this bigger car than the rest starts to pull up. It just goes on and on, like one of them gags in Tom and Jerry. Everyone steps back like it’s the Pope. Instead, turns out it’s just The Beatles. They blink around in the darkness like mad owls, dressed in them ridiculous loose cotton suits that Clapton always looks such a prat in. Lawyers tremble around them like little fish. Paul pauses to give a motorcycle policeman his autograph, flashes the famous Macca grin. Some guy in a suit who looks like the hotel manager shakes hands with Stu. Rock and roll. I mean, this is what we were always fighting for. The Beatles don’t register the good Doctor before they head inside, but maybe that’s because he’s taken three steps back into the toilet freshener darkness.
“What are we waiting for?” Cal asks as the rest of the rubbernecks drift in.
“This isn’t easy, Cal.”
“Who said anything about easy?”
I give the Duke of Wellington a salute as he holds ye door open.
“Straight ahead to the Clarendon Suite, Sir.”
“Hey,” I tell him, “I used to be Beatle John.”
“Stop mucking about, John.” Cal does her Kenneth Williams impression, then gets all serious. “This is important. Just forget about the past and let’s concentrate on the rest of your life. All you have to say to Paul is Hello. He’s a decent guy. And I’m sure that the rest of them haven’t changed as much as you imagine.”
Nowhere: Volume II of the Collected Short Stories and Novellas of Ian R. MacLeod Page 14