I knew I had to do different things; I was happy I’d written different kinds of TV programmes. But that’s only one kind of writing. Could I ever break out of this self-imposed creative ghetto? Did I even want to? Would anyone in the Midlands miss my shit jokes, or would they be so distracted by the adverts that they wouldn’t even notice? I fashioned a week’s worth of Evening Brummies into a pillow and went to the sofa in the corner for a lie-down. It was hot in the office. Stuffy. I…
*
This is a dream:
Druids Heath. I’d recognise it anywhere. (There have been one too many instances of me waking up here. It sounds improbable, I know, but the estate is right on the very edge of the city, and if you fall asleep on the number 50 bus to Moseley and, well, go past Moseley, this is where you end up. And it’s not, alas, somewhere you would particularly want to end up at 2 a.m. It’s not 2 a.m. now though; it’s more like 2 p.m.)
Two men are walking over. One in a tweed suit, and one in trousers and a shirt. The tweed suit speaks first.
‘I say, you’re here as well, Donald.’
‘I don’t know if he recognises you, Mr Benedetti.’
‘Of course he does.’
‘Rocaster and Benedetti. What are you two doing here?’
‘We’ve been thinking about madness, Donald,’ said Rocaster, rolling his shirt sleeves up. It was warm. Benedetti pulled out a pipe and began stuffing it. ‘Madness. Lot of it here in Brum.’
‘I never was sure about that pipe,’ I said. ‘Too much of an affectation, I reckon.’
Rocaster said, ‘I agree.’
Benedetti looked stung. ‘Hand me a lighter.’ Rocaster did.
Benedetti puffed and spoke. ‘Walk with us, Donald.’
Sunlight refracted, a surreal haze, a toasty glow, a starling staring. I looked at the bird. It opened its beak and chirruped, ‘Hi there!’
Benedetti, Rocaster and muggins set off across the field, blistering yellow with buttercups. The starling fluttered behind us. Then we crossed into one white with daisies; next, one painted pea green with grass. No crops grew here – the heath was badly drained.
‘I’m sure you know Druids Heath,’ said Rocaster. I could make out the serpentine line of the edge of the houses and flats, where they merged into the bucolic beauty of the countryside. The estate boundary ran hard up against the city council’s boundary, a wonky wall of development at the very edge of the city limits, the very arse of Birmingham.
‘What is sanity?’ Benedetti turned to me. ‘Well? What is it? A day in the country probably, some fishing or sailing perhaps, a picnic, a beach, oaks and lakes, and spits and cliffs…’
‘…a pub lunch, a cricket match, a burn up on the A34!’ offered Rocaster.
‘And where does madness come from? Madness comes from an urban environment you have to tame. I pull the lead tight…’ Benedetti made an aggressive yanking gesture as if tugging a wayward setter.
‘And I send the city in the right direction,’ added Rocaster.
Benedetti swept his hand towards the fourteen slate-grey tower blocks rising from the heathside. ‘I’m very proud of planning estates like these, of changing good old Brummagem for the better. However, the point can’t be ignored – seeing as we’re here to speak frankly to you, Donald, rather than being on the telly – that we are driving people… crackers. I certainly never meant to. But all you have to do is look at the evidence. Look at this block up here – a young mother hurled self and babe in arms to a double death. Several more the same at Castle Bromwich, Chelmsley Wood, Newtown. Not what I expected. Not what I expected at all. But maybe I should have expected it. Madness all over the city, suicides all over the city. High buildings, towers, car parks – being used as… killing platforms. Yes… maybe I should have expected it. I’m only human though.’
‘Ah, you’re not really you. I created you. You’re played by an actor.’
‘I’m not played by an actor now, Donald; at this point I’m speaking as myself. No one’s written my lines for me. You’ve not written these lines for me to speak them, have you?’
‘Someone’s written your lines. You can’t just speak by yourself.’
Benedetti’s eyes bulged. ‘Well… now, maybe you have a point there. Someone probably has written my lines. A writer who’s outside of this little tête-à-tête. And that same writer has probably written your lines as well, Donald. You think you’re speaking your own lines, but you’re simply not. Think about it. How could you be? How could any of us be? Who writes you, Donald – who writes your part?’
‘No one is controlling me.’
‘Everyone’s controlled in some way, Donald. I’m afraid to have to tell you that you’re just a character in… I’d say, a novel.’
I scoffed. ‘Not me! No novel here, this is real.’
‘And everyone in the city, for instance, is a character in… what’s essentially my novel, in my plan, in my city. In my city plan.’
‘In your fictional city and your fictional plan, because you’re not real. Unlike me.’
‘Come, come. Fictional maybe, but this scene is real enough to you now.’
Benedetti pinched my arm.
‘Ow!’
‘Forget the hand of the writer controlling you for a minute, forget that young chap trying to write his novel, forget that chap sat at home in his cold room bashing out words on his typewriter, forget that elaborate double reality we exist in. My point, if you’ll let me get it out, is that I’ve planned everything and perhaps I can see now that I’ve over-planned everything. Perhaps I’ve created a world where people behave strangely because they’re… becoming atomised.’
‘I don’t believe it. We’re creating… a brave new world.’ Rocaster seemed hurt. ‘All these homes for people. The very best… for everyone. This is the welfare state, right here.’
Benedetti made like a batsman at the crease, sweeping Rocaster’s reasoning behind for a boundary. ‘Our cricket fan doesn’t believe it. But I’ll say he’s wrong. Grids of streets, mass clearances, underpasses, remapping, rethinking, rebuilding, pouring, bricking up, bricking in, grassing over, concreting over, levels and piazzas, stairwells and towers, floors gone wrong, walls that aren’t straight, flimsy pieces of a strange whole. I wonder sometimes. I really wonder. Of course, these are very personal concerns. I feel the city squeezing in on me. I think I hate the city, Donald. I need the country. The city is sick, a sick child. I operate on it, but it’s so sick. I think the city has done something to me. I don’t know. Do you know? Do you feel this? I saw you trying to kill yourself, Donald. I saw you try to jump off the Mids TV Tower and then the BT Tower. You wanted to die. You must be a victim too?’
‘I have had moments of… well, let’s say, feeling detached.’
‘I knew you must have. Rocaster has too, haven’t you, Rocaster? Remember when I found you up that crane? In your underpants?’
‘I remember, Mr Benedetti. That was most embarrassing.’
I laughed.
‘Something funny, Donald?’
‘Well, I wrote that. I remember that episode of Big Plans. Maybe it was funny, after all. I’ve been too hard on myself.’
‘Now you come to mention it, I remember that episode too. That was the one when I ended up having a Jimmy Riddle on those blasted builders, wasn’t it? Good work, Donald; that was a well written slice of slapstick.’ Benedetti turned and stared at me. ‘But Donald, I think you need to really get your satirical juices going now. I think you need to show what a madhouse we’ve built. I think we need to do something about it. Something big.’
‘One minute,’ I said. I spied a red hoarding above a plate-glass window and a door – it said Chu Chinese. The rest of the shops in the row seemed empty or closed.
‘What are you up to?’ huffed Benedetti.
‘I need to do something.’ I walked over to the Chinese restaurant and pushed the door. I turned round as I entered to see Benedetti and Rocaster bundling in after me, and I sighed.
‘Nothing for me,’ sneered Benedetti.
The old woman serving at the counter looked familiar.
‘Mrs Chu. I didn’t know you had a place here as well. I thought it was just in Snow Hill Station?’
‘Yes, we have two outlets.’
‘I wanted to ask you… about the blonde woman. From my dreams.’
‘I know. You find her in Berlin.’ Mrs Chu paused for a second then ducked back into the kitchen.
‘Thanks, Mrs Chu.’ I was glad to have this titbit. I turned to the other two, who were eyeing up the paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling. ‘We’re done now, thanks.’
Rocaster looked crestfallen. ‘I thought we were getting some food? I’ll just buy a couple of lagers then.’ Rocaster took some beers from the fridge and left a crisp note on the counter.
We exited the shop and the three of us strode across a bleak square, towards one of the tower blocks. The two of them seemed to be shepherding me towards this particular building. It leered at me.
‘Let’s go inside,’ said Rocaster.
‘I agree,’ said Benedetti.
I wasn’t convinced. We entered one of the tower blocks and waited for a lift.
‘System built,’ said Rocaster, smashing his arm against a wall. His elbow went clean into the plasterboard and he had to yank it out. ‘Pile of shit really. Poured-on-site concrete gets such a bad name from this kind of tat. Now that was really the stuff. It’s so bloody solid. How a building should be. Jowly, fisty. What was it they started calling those kinds of buildings? Brutalist. Wonderful.’
‘But this is cheap rubbish, isn’t it?’ agreed Benedetti. ‘We had to get the maximum number of homes built. Tough choices.’
The lift pinged as it reached the ground floor. We squeezed into the silver sarcophagus. It smelled acrid and sweaty. The lift jolted and rose slowly. No one spoke. Benedetti removed his pipe and tobacco from his trouser pocket and commenced tamping.
The lift doors opened at the top floor and we walked up a flight of fire escape steps to the roof. There was no wind, just sun and a view of meadows, houses and tower blocks spread in front of me. ‘Do you want to jump off this building and kill yourself, Donald?’ said Benedetti. ‘Your chance to be with your wife. I hear she liked our programme. She was a Big Plans fan, wasn’t she? Seem to remember meeting her once. At a pub.’
‘She was.’
‘And then the buggers upstairs at your television station had to axe us. I wasn’t enamoured by that carry-on, let me tell you.’
‘What can you do?’
‘They’re swine. The bosses of Mids TV don’t know their arses from their elbows. How dare they cancel us? That Mackenzie – absolute rotter. Mids TV is a rotters’ club.’
Rocaster produced a beer from a pocket. ‘Dutch courage?’
I shook my head. I took a walk to the edge of the concrete cliff and peered over. My stomach felt weak; my legs jellied up under me. It didn’t look at all appealing. Not like before. I didn’t want to die anymore.
‘Donald, old chap…’
I turned round. Rocaster swigged the beer. Benedetti advanced towards me, pipe dangling from the left side of his closed mouth. The next second was a blur. I felt his hands shove me in the chest. I fell backwards off the edge of the building and began plummeting to the ground. I woke at the split second that I pancaked into the…
*
Still no one in the office when I woke up. I dragged myself up from the sofa, logged in to my computer, my eyes bleary and crusty. Emails ordinarily leave me cold. And for the past few months I’ve scarcely been bothered with the small talk and the tiny acts of grace that glue us together. But today was different. Today there was an email at the top of my inbox from Charlie Sullivan.
FROM: Charlie Sullivan
TO: Donald
Hi Don
Hope you don’t mind me getting in touch again.
I heard on the grapevine yesterday about Belinda. I’m so sorry. It’s awful. I also heard yesterday about the programme you guys are making in her memory. I think it sounds just perfect. We’d be happy to let you have any songs for it, or even write a new one – if you needed any. I know how much ‘Elizabeth Anderson’ meant to Bel, so if you want it it’s yours, of course.
I also had this thought about writing a song about the Central Library in Brum. I wondered what the place might sound like, how you could bring it alive in music. Well, it’s just an idea! Tell me what you reckon, pal?
We’re going to be on tour in the UK. I’ll be back from LA for a week if you fancy a pint in the Bride of Bescot? Save me from drinking all that piss-weak beer they have out here. Let me know when’s good, Don.
Cheers mate
Charlie
31
2001
‘What time are they on?’
‘Nine.’
‘I’m so excited!’
‘Me too.’
‘And it’s here, in this building. In Priory Square. This might be the best concert of my life.’
‘You sound like a teenage girl.’
‘That’s exactly how I feel. I can’t believe you managed to get us backstage passes too.’
‘I try.’
‘Was it Bob?’
‘It was Bob. He knows everyone in Birmingham. He got friendly with Charlie when they did the songs on Hail To The Brummies. It’s funny; even though I remember the songs being amazing, I don’t remember talking to the band very much when we were working on that. I think I was too caught up in writing that script.’
‘It was good. Your best.’ Bel hugged me tight. ‘I cried.’
‘I love to make you cry. It’s a change from making you laugh. Something rare.’
‘Maybe we could become friends with The Rationalists now too? Like Bob. Is he here?’
‘He is. Somewhere. We’ll meet up with him later. He’s just got a mobile phone. Now we can always find him, wherever the hell he’s disappeared off to. In theory.’
‘But you haven’t got a mobile yet?’
‘No, maybe I should. I could call you all the time.’
‘Wow! A man with a car AND a mobile phone. That would be something.’
Bel sipped her gin and tonic and seemed lost in thought. The room was like an oven; the sweat and breath and pheromones of the crowd created an artificial rainforest of damp, Brazilian heat. The chittering of a thousand people pecked at my ears. The crowd was a swollen mass, a lump of love, a group of people who all felt and thought the same thing. It was reassuring to be part of a clan, to be here to share an experience. The thought of hearing the songs I loved, played loudly, here, in person, made my spine tingle. I’m sure the same was true of everyone. I looked up at the black stage. What would it feel like to stand up there, in this venue, in front of all these people, them listening to your music?
‘Why do we love music so fucking much?’ I said in Bel’s ear.
She snickered like a teenager. ‘Music takes you to a place immediately; it’s an instant hit. You hear that song and it’s… bang, like a drug. I sometimes wondered when I was younger why people didn’t give a shit about architecture, even about art. But they all loved music. Everyone loves music. It’s because music has that instant power. You don’t need to think about it or study it. A song is three minutes and it gets you. Under your skin. In your heart. And you experience it in this communal way, even if you’re home alone, listening to a record; you know there are other people around the world doing the same thing. But when you hear it live – a band or a DJ, right up there – it’s magical. Art and architecture and literature take longer to fire up your synapses, but music is a rocket.’
‘You’re right. But my God, it can make you sad too, can’t it? It can take you back in time.’
‘My little Donald! What music makes you sad? What makes you think of all those girls you lusted after who wouldn’t kiss you? Is it The Rationalists? I bet
it is. All those girls at university… no handjobs for poor Donald.’
I shook my head in mock annoyance. She continued, ‘You’re right though. Wow, some songs… it’s like you’re being murdered slowly and gently, isn’t it? You hear those chords and, that’s it, you’re in that sad place too.’
A snippet of electronic music began, like the sound of computers larking around together in a playground. The Rationalists’ intro track. Images started to bubble on a screen behind the stage. Views of Birmingham, projected, sepia, nostalgic. Modern buildings. Roundabouts. Squares. Landmarks. Places we all knew intimately. Places where we’d all got pissed and some of us had kissed others of us. Brummies United. The crowd started to cheer wildly. We all cheered. Even me.
‘I’m excited!’ I could feel Bel’s tongue tickling my ear.
‘Me too.’
She gripped my arm very tightly and began to jump up and down on the spot.
32
2008
Catford. A bit of a shithole to be honest, but Belinda fell in love with some of the buildings round here. Eros House was her favourite, and on that point I was, perhaps, finally beginning to see what she had appreciated. It was an incredible hulk, even more domineering than I remembered – but strangely handsome. I’d kissed Bel here, in the rain, in the smog, in the fading dusk, among the traffic fumes, among the fag fumes, between tossing ten-pence pieces to beggars; a little perplexed as always about ‘why’ and ‘where’, but always ready to be led by her, to respond to her desires. After this, she’d begged me to take her up to the Catford Centre car park, and on the roof we found a corner and we had sex and then drank cider from cans. Someone was living one floor down, between a car and a rubbish skip. I wondered if it would be me one day. These odd spaces that are the preserve of people with no place felt like home. The guy residing in this car park had his books to keep him company. There were paperbacks everywhere. Not like Brum’s subway-dwellers. The molemen of Paradise and Masshouse Circuses weren’t such big readers.
The Wall in the Head Page 20