Scabby Queen

by Kirstin Innes

  ‘Oh wow, do you know each other? I mean, I bet everyone knows each other down here, don’t they? You all seem to. In this pub, at least. It’s like living in a wee village, but you’re in this pure massive city.’ Shiv’s accent thickened in her gullet in the presence of another Scot.

  Clio cleared her throat.

  ‘Mm. Pete brought me here to this very bar, years ago, when my single came out. For an article. Same table, I think. Good optics, you said – right, Pete? “Let’s sit here where everyone can see us.”’

  Pete coughed. The other men seemed to be looking away.

  ‘So this is Shiv here’s tour of victory, eh? Because you’re Roger from the NME, aren’t you?’ She pointed across the table at the other journalist. ‘And you must be from the record company. I mean, sorry darling, but you stand out a mile. It’s nice to see that the traditions are still being preserved. Taking the new pop princess out for a public crowning, getting her nice and drunk and malleable, writing the pieces up afterwards. Yeah, I think I’ll sit in for this one, boys, if you don’t mind. We go way back, me and this girl here, so I fancy keeping a wee eye on her tonight.’

  Shiv felt her stomach turn. It was as though her mother had turned up at the school gates and tried to wash her face with a spat-on hanky. You had to show these guys you were cool and this wasn’t cool at all. And God, she could handle herself just fine. But, still, this was Clio Campbell.

  ‘Nah nah, Clio, pal. Everything’s fine. This is all just friends hanging out, isn’t it, guys? They’re great, these guys. Here, Ed—’ She flicked a hand at the record-company guy, feeling in command. ‘Ed will get us a couple more pints of snakebite, won’t you? And you can tell me what you’re doing here, in this pub of all places!’

  The two journalists pressed themselves into the wall of the booth, kept their eyes on the table.

  ‘I was just meeting a guy – do you know Norman from the Fannies, yeah? – friend of his, new band, he wants someone to do some backing vocals. But he’s late. I don’t usually come here – bit scenestery for me these days.’

  ‘So you live down here? I’m thinking of moving – we all are, the band. I mean, what the fuck is there back home? We’re staying in Glasgow in the dump near the college we stopped going to, but we’re hardly there. What’s the point, eh? I want a flat on Camden fucking High Street, right in the middle of this!’

  ‘I’m actually staying in Brixton. In a squat, would you believe? With a brilliant bunch of people. I like it much better round there. You’re actually living in a real area with a real, diverse mix of folk, not just white music-industry blobs in their twenties. No offence, gents – although I don’t think you’re even technically in your thirties any more, are you, Pete?’

  Roger from the NME snorted. ‘Brixton? Good fucking luck, sweetheart. You wouldn’t catch me in that shithole without a Kevlar vest.’

  ‘I know, Roger. One of the area’s many attractions.’

  Clio raised the pint that had been set at her elbow in his direction. Shiv wasn’t sure what to do. There was some sort of undercurrent pulsing out from the older woman, a weird fizzing electricity, even though her smile was quite pleasant. She could tell it was making the men uncomfortable but she couldn’t name it.

  ‘The folk I’m living with are working in the underground,’ Clio said. ‘Campaigners. People who’ve really dropped out of the rat race and aren’t just slumming it for a couple of years. Trying to make a difference. It all just feels a lot more important than – this. I don’t know if it could possibly make sense to you just now, Shiv, when all this –’ she gestured around the bar, its shabby walls and peeling paint ‘– is amazing and new. I know how you feel, I really do. But I suspect some day you’ll understand what I’m getting at.’

  ‘So, those who can’t go to Brixton, eh?’ Pete seemed to be speaking to the ceiling, but everyone heard him.

  Shiv thought the best thing to do was probably change the subject. She had no idea what was going on but they were all beginning to spoil her buzz, and she was pretty sure she needed these guys on side. She kind of wished Clio would just go, but she was sipping her drink very slowly.

  ‘You’re still making music, though? If you’re doing backing vocals? Oh my God, we should totally work together. Ed, Ed, can you set that up? I mean, you have no idea what a beautiful voice Clio has.’

  ‘Yeah, he probably can’t remember back that long ago,’ Pete said.

  ‘I mean, if I could sing one-tenth as well as Clio, I’d just – God, we could have really used a voice like yours in the studio.’

  ‘Hey, don’t you be hard on yourself, babe,’ Roger from the NME muttered, pressing his leg into hers as he rubbed her back. ‘You’ve got star power. The real thing. Don’t underestimate yourself, or other people’s jealousy of that.’

  ‘All seriousness though, Clio,’ Pete said, ‘I’ve been really enjoying the guest spots you’ve been doing. That Primal Scream one. Made the song. Made the EP. Took them somewhere else entirely. Using your talents sparingly but well, eh?’

  ‘Thanks.’ It snipped out of the corner of Clio’s mouth, but she seemed mollified. Shiv was grateful to him, decided to run with it.

  ‘Yeah, I mean, you don’t have to be releasing new work all the time, do you? It would get exhausting. I mean, I want to take a great big break after we finish this tour. You know, maybe a year. Maybe more.’

  Ed giggled. ‘Hah, well. We’ll talk about that later, eh?’ He offered her another cigarette. She’d forgotten he was still there.

  Shiv began to tune the conversation out as each of the men tried to grab for her attention, the names dropping faster and faster. Ed disappeared at one point and returned with the bass player from Sleeper, who he said he simply had to introduce Shiv to; not to be outdone, Roger took her off to meet Donna from Elastica, who was trying to play pool and didn’t seem interested in either of them.

  When they returned to the table, Roger’s hand steering her gently, one finger picking at the waistband of her skirt, Ed had melted into the background somewhere and Pete and Clio were locked in conversation, neither smiling.

  ‘Yeah well, you know where I am, sweetheart, and you know what I could do for you,’ he snapped, chucking a business card on the table in front of her. ‘Shiv, it’s been a pleasure, and I’ll definitely arrange another session next week for the article, all right. All yours, Roger.’ He raised his middle finger at his colleague as he left.

  ‘Well, girls, just you and me, eh?’ Roger said.

  ‘Shiv could do with another drink, Roger,’ said Clio, smoothly, turning a beautiful smile on him. ‘Could you oblige? There’s a boy.’

  They sat there, for a second, as Roger’s skinny frame was swallowed by a mass of bodies. Then Clio reached across the table and grabbed her wrist. Up close, Shiv could see her make-up was running into the cracks around her eyes, and her tongue was stained purple and white.

  ‘Listen, doll. I’m clearly cramping your style, so I’m going to head off now. I am. I just want to tell you something first. Don’t laugh it off, OK – consider this a wee gift from your fairy godmother, who’s been there and done this so you don’t have to.’

  Shiv was really wishing the whole thing would stop. Ed was waving to get her attention from another table. Clio’s chipped fingernails were digging into her palm, pupils bulging like an old witch delivering an ineffectual curse.

  ‘Just give me one minute, OK? Don’t fuck them. That’s all it is. Don’t fuck any of them. Any of the men sitting at this table tonight, any of the men like them. Don’t do it unless you want to, and you really fancy them, and you’re in control of the situation. Right now, this evening, even though they’re trying to make you think you are, you’re not in control. You only have power here while you keep your legs closed. It sounds fucking sexist, but that’s because this is a fucking sexist shark pool we’re swimming in. They’ll put your beautiful face on their magazines, but the second they’ve had you they’ll chuck you aside. And
they’re not discreet, either. OK? Whatever you end up doing this evening, make sure that record-company berk gets you a taxi on expenses back to your hotel. By yourself. Promise me that.’

  Shiv breathed in. It was a disappointment. This ranting madwoman was not the Clio Campbell who had squeezed her hand in Ullapool and promised her she could be whatever she wanted to be.

  ‘Listen, thanks, but I’ll be fine. I’m a tough cookie and I can handle myself. Yeah?’ She pointed over at Ed’s new table. ‘I’d probably better go.’

  ‘Gotcha. Good luck out there, wee Siobhan. Stay safe.’

  Shiv tried to shrug the experience off, but it had soured the whole night. She couldn’t look at Roger from the NME without blushing, and without seeing how unattractive he was, really. No, she didn’t fancy him, so why should he be allowed to slip his hand up her skirt and trace his fingers across her tights? She wriggled away and away from him, eventually going off to hide in the cubicle for a while, flicking a full wrap between her fingers. He’d gone when she came back. As the music got louder, she watched the shifting faces around the table, mostly from bands she’d admired or at least read about before she’d arrived here, and couldn’t be bothered trying to work out what they were saying. They all seemed to have the same accent, sliding posher and posher the louder they got. She tapped Ed on the arm.

  ‘Listen, pal, I think I’d probably like to go home now. Been a long week. Could you get me a taxi? I don’t really know where I’m going, and I don’t want to get lost.’

  Never quite off the job, Ed snapped to attention.

  ‘Absolutely. Absolutely, sweetheart. Just let me get my jacket. Back in a sec, folks. Here we go.’

  Stepping out into frozen air was refreshing after the Marlboro fug of the pub, even if Shiv’s denim jacket wasn’t anywhere near warm enough for the weather. Ed noticed her shivering and insisted on throwing his mint-new parka round her shoulders. They walked round the side of the bar towards the high street, the air full of late-night yowling and the same songs drifting out of other doorways. As they reached the bottle bins from the pub, a sharp smell of something human and rotten rising from them, Shiv heard a sort of rhythmic groaning. Ed chuckled, nervously.

  ‘Someone’s having fun, eh? Ha ha. Heh.’

  Behind the biggest bin, thanks to a nearby street light, Shiv could just make out a man’s face, his mouth open and his eyes closed. It took her a second to realize it was Pete, and that his fingers were tangled into a mass of red curly hair moving up and down at his waist. Shiv turned her face away and felt very very far from home indeed.

  Glasgow, 2017

  Up on the little stage, as she plugged in the guitar and strummed a few notes, and the drunks at the front whooped, she took stock of the room through her fringe. There were fewer people than she’d thought at first, really, and it wasn’t what she’d call a beautiful crowd. Clio was flitting between groups, barely settling, and Siobhan wondered how many of these dear, dear friends she was really at her ease with.

  ‘Hello everyone. I’m Siobhan.’

  ‘We know!’ bellowed Clio, from the middle of the room.

  Siobhan stuck her tongue out.

  ‘Now, Clio asked me to perform a particular song, and while I hate to disappoint the birthday girl, there’s something else I think I need to sing tonight. This song is called “Seraphim” …’

  As expected, the crowd started cheering. Siobhan waited for the noise to fade slightly and leaned back into the microphone.

  ‘And I’ve not really said this in public, but I actually wrote this song when I was about twenty, a very long time ago now, and I was just a wee lass beginning to negotiate my way through the big bad world of the music industry. There was a musician, a female musician, who’d been through all that a few years before me, and she might not remember it, but one night she appeared in a bar like my fairy godmother, and gave me some very good advice that would see me through some of the rougher times. This is a song about sisterhood, about women looking out for each other, and it feels right that I’m singing it in tribute to the woman who inspired it. Happy birthday, Clio.’

  ‘Seraphim’ was usually a harder, driving number, benefiting a lot from a heavy bassline and a violent beat. She’d never really done it acoustic, and she stumbled a few times slowing it down. Not her finest performance by a long shot, but Clio, pushing through the crowd and hugging her, didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘Is that true? Is that true? You bad bitch. Is that true?’

  Siobhan nodded, breathed in perfume and felt a bit fraudulent. She hadn’t thought of the origins of that song in years until tonight; it had become its own thing completely separate from Clio. It reminded her of that perfect sunset performance at Glastonbury, feeling Daisy kick inside her to the thrum as the crowd screamed; she almost wished she’d kept it for herself now.

  Clio was restless, snatched or distracted away from her side almost immediately. As she tried to cut her way back across to the people she knew, a small man tapped her on the shoulder.

  ‘Great set, Shiv. Really.’

  ‘Och, it was just the one song.’

  ‘I mean it. Really interesting to hear the origins of that one, too.’

  He had a soft voice and his balding scalp was damp with the heat, the hair brushed over it sweaty. She wondered why he didn’t take his leather jacket off.

  ‘So, is there anything else in the pipeline?’

  ‘I’m sorry? Do I—?’

  ‘Um. Neil Munro? From the Standard? We’ve met. I’ve interviewed you quite a few times over the years?’

  Nothing, but she let her eyes do slow recognition.

  ‘Of course! I’m so sorry. I’m actually slightly face-blind; do you know that? Well, you do now!’

  ‘Not to worry, not to worry. Listen, can I buy you a drink?’

  He’d already placed a hand on her back and steered her towards the bar, she noticed.

  ‘Oh no, no, please—’

  ‘Go on.’ He winked, and it was awful. ‘Glass of wine? G&T? The first time we met you were drinking pints of lager, but I suspect your tastes have changed.’

  As she waited, helpless and stuck by obligation at the side of the bar, she noticed a young woman trying to work up the nerve to approach. Usually Siobhan tried to avoid these sorts of encounters, as her fans tended to be painfully earnest, but she could use a buffer right now, so she smiled in what she hoped was an encouraging way. The woman simpered, blushed, then began to move forward, arriving just as Neil made his way back from the bar with her drink.

  ‘I just wanted to say that that was amazing,’ the woman said. She was probably in her late twenties, heavy, with frizzy hair dyed badly purple and a nose ring. She spoke in almost a monotone.

  ‘That song is everything to me. Everything. I can’t tell you. You wouldn’t believe it. And then to find out that one of my favourite songs is actually about one of my favourite people. It means – you have no idea. I mean, I think you’ve literally changed my life tonight.’

  Well, you brought this on yourself, Siobhan thought, as Neil inserted himself into the conversation.

  ‘Gin and tonic. It’s Harris gin. Nice bottle. I don’t know anything about gin, me.’

  Siobhan smiled her thanks at him, and then patted the woman on the arm.

  ‘I’m so glad you told me that. It means a lot to me too. Neil, this is – oh! I haven’t asked your name.’

  ‘Verity. I’m a very big fan of – actually, no, I don’t think the word fan really covers it. I don’t want you to think I’m one of those silly girls who scream nonsense at the concerts. I’m not. I’m more than – I mean, when I was growing up, you were basically my idol.’

  Neil had raised an eyebrow at her, but Siobhan was in full Princess Diana mode, gracious and smiling, gently adjusting the weight on her feet to ease herself away from him.

  ‘Did I get the order right?’ he asked, pointing at the drink, as though Verity wasn’t there.

  ‘It’s always good
to hear that what we do has reached someone, Verity. Thank you. Tell me about yourself – how do you know Clio?’

  ‘I started following her on Twitter after she was talking about her depression because I also suffer from depression –’ (‘No kidding,’ Neil muttered, in Siobhan’s ear) ‘– and I found her very inspiring. And she took the time to respond to me, and we got into conversation, and she’s been just a huge part of my life this last year. I’ve never met her before tonight, though, so I felt a bit nervous about coming. I’ve come all the way from Manchester for tonight, you know. But it’s been amazing, there are loads of people I’ve spoken to on Twitter here and it’s a very supportive environment. And I can’t believe I’m actually talking to you.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s always great to meet your heroes,’ said Neil, looking at her for the first time. ‘I felt like this when I got to interview Bowie, you know?’

  ‘David Bowie was really a problematic person,’ said Verity. ‘There are a lot of issues relating to his treatment of teenage groupies, his flirtation with fascist iconography, and his appropriation of queer identity.’

  ‘David Bowie was a fucking genius.’ Neil’s face got redder.

  ‘Of course you would think that. Old white men love other old white men.’ The girl was so fabulously blunt Siobhan thought she might kiss her. Instead, she grabbed each of their hands in turn for a quick squeeze.

  ‘Listen, guys, I’m just going to pop to the loo, OK? I’ll leave you two to fight this one out.’ She had never moved faster in heels.

  About an hour later, as the conversation she was in drifted to a natural halt – there was only so much you could say to people you didn’t really know that well – Siobhan began to gather her things. Coat on, guitar picked up from behind the tiny sound booth, and she scanned the room for Clio, who was leaning against the bar, looking tired.

  ‘You’re not going? No no no, you’re not going. We’re going to TALK. I never see you. We’re going to talk.’

  The words slurred; the insistence of a melancholy drunk. Siobhan found herself shunted into a booth and they crashed their stiletto-weary limbs down together on a sticky leather seat.