The Calling

by Jane Goodall

  ‘You doing a gig in Highgate?’

  ‘Any day now. Keep your ears open — the word’ll get around. But what we need is an indoor venue. So what I’m thinking is — why don’t we move into here? That’d wake the place up a bit, wouldn’t it?’ He looked around, ostentatiously craning his scrawny neck. ‘This could be quite a gratifying audience for the Suddens. I mean, look at em. The kipper ties and two-tone shoes brigade. Just my sort of clientele. The men of the future. Do you ever think about that? England’s future? Do you? What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Nick.’

  ‘Where you from, Nick? Jamaica? There used to be a joke about that. “My girlfriend works in a strip joint. Jamaica?” That’s the kind of joke I was brought up on. Which explains a lot really — about this brain-dead country, I mean. So tell me, where do you come from?’

  Aidan kept his face nice and straight. ‘Notting Hill.’

  Flak sucked in his breath dramatically. ‘Nasty. Trouble brewing there. Cops to the one side of you, National Front to the other, and White Riot gearing up to cut through the middle. No more fun up that way, mate, believe me. You a Rasta?’

  Aidan broke into a wide grin. ‘Well, kill me dead! How d’you come to a conclusion like that, man?’

  ‘What’s your act then?’

  ‘Depends what the people want. You want Rasta, I can do Rasta. Next year, mind, is 1977.’ Aidan wagged a finger. ‘Apocalypse happenin, so it’s all gonna be scaredom and crow flies. I do vocals and guitar. I’ll do you a demo, any time.’

  ‘People have a habit of saying that to me,’ Flak responded lazily. ‘Even the birds around here.’

  As Logan returned with the drinks Flak swivelled round to address him. ‘You know, when you told me you like to hang out in this place I thought you must be joking. That was my original conclusion. I never seen anything so piss-weak as that last little demonstration.’

  ‘Well, seems you like it too!’ There was an edge of sleaze in Logan’s smile. He’d had too much to drink, and was way off his guard. Aidan felt distinctly uncomfortable for the guy as he expanded back into his chair, barely drawing the line at a nudge-nudge wink-wink as he went on. ‘It’s not about their pyrotechnic skills, man.’ He drew curvy lines in the air, then raised his whisky glass in salute before drinking.

  ‘That cloak,’ said Flak, raising the volume to public address level again, ‘is a dead giveaway. It’s a fire blanket, see. No genuine flamer would include a fire blanket in the act.’

  ‘I bet you’d like to teach her a thing or two,’ said Logan.

  23

  It was one o’clock by the time Logan made his exit from the Hot Stepper and all the available girls had gone, but somehow he didn’t feel quite ready to call it quits. He was getting used to the nocturnal lifestyle in these parts, where this was peak hour and the day generally ended somewhere between three and four in the morning. As he approached the Cloisters, the mangy apartment block where he’d taken a three-month lease, there were lights on in the upper floors.

  This was the time when the dealers did their rounds and the kids who’d managed to lay their hands on some cash graduated from amphetamine pills to the serious stuff. Of course the same thing happened in parts of New York and San Francisco, but there was a different kind of vibe here — a level of anger that was toxic. Logan decided to write his weekly column immediately, while Flak’s talk was buzzing in his head. Someone needed to ring the alarm bells about the Suddens and if the British music press were too blind to see what was going on under their noses, why not go for a scoop?

  He sat at his desk and uncovered the typewriter.

  Here in London they’re not used to the summer. It only hits them once in five years or so and when it does they go apeshit. They call it the dog days and there’s a lot of snarling and yelping happening around the music scene. All that pent up craziness the Brits normally keep behind closed doors is spilling out on the King’s Road. It’s a brain fever festival, free for all and especially the most talentless.

  Talent is out of style here. Style means ripped gear held together with safety pins, and the one that yells loudest gets to hold the mike. The sensation groups of the season are the Sex Pistols, the Clash and Sudden Deff, but it’s the Suddens you want to watch out for. Believe me, the Suddens are coming, but what are they coming with?

  Well, for a start — crazy faces. On stage they wear leather hoods with zips across the mouth, or rubber Halloween masks created by some guy in a basement who thinks he’s William Blake. Tyger, tyger, burning bright, in the forests of the night — yes, that William Blake. The one who wanted to build the holy city on England’s green and pleasant land.

  Lyricist and lead stuntman Flak (aka Garry Flaxman) of Sudden Deff has a different agenda:

  Bam barn barn to this barn nation

  Barn barn barn to this abomination

  I am the spokesman for the UK

  I sharpened up my spoke and this is what I say

  Barn barn barn. Stick it up.

  Stick it up the UK

  Where the morons all come out to play

  Where the boredom kills you every day

  Stick your spoke in the wheel

  Turn your future into something real

  Sudden Deff is your best friend

  When you live in this fUKing pleasant land

  It kinda sets your teeth on edge when you hear them belt this stuff out through a distorting amplifier with black leather masks over their heads. I don’t know about the morons, but I tell you, right here it’s a playground for swastika-wearing anarchists and kids who think Charlie Manson and Max ‘the Walker’ Tremlay are heroes of a dawning age. Sure looks different from the age of Aquarius. The cult of the Suddens is promoted in a new fanzine called Yeller, where you can see the future: slashed with razors, stuck with pins and bound in chains.

  Logan flexed his fingers and stretched back in his chair. He felt good. He’d never written a piece so fast — according to his watch it was just shy of two. Four hundred words in forty-five minutes. If he could make that his batting average he’d be able to multiply his commissions, maybe get on the payroll at one of the bigger magazines that paid decent accommodation expenses. The scoop would do it, but he needed something more to go on than Kaiser’s ravings.

  His four hundred word limit had run out before he got started on the stuff about the Highgate concerts. Okay. So that was for his next column, where he was going to nail the story. Logan stretched again and decided it was time for bed.

  *

  Aidan stood in the middle of the room, hands plunged in his jacket pockets, wondering what to do with himself. Right now it was a strictly physical problem. The choices were: sit in the wooden chair by the wooden table, lie on the metal bed and listen to the springs complaining — or stay where he was. He went over and picked up the phone, thinking it would be good to hear a voice. Preferably a female voice. He dialled his sister’s number.

  ‘Keisha?’

  ‘Ade! What are you doing? Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘You gone to bed?’

  ‘No. I’m waiting up for Dan.’ Keisha gave a theatrical sigh.

  ‘Don’t cabbies ever get day duty?’

  ‘I doubt it. Not in London.’

  ‘Or maybe only if they’re white?’ Keisha mixed a laugh with a smoker’s cough. ‘Anyway, what’s up?’

  ‘Nothing. Just felt like a check-in. You said you’d keep an eye on Cindy for me.’

  ‘It’s okay, Ade. No one’s raced her off just yet. I had her on the phone a coupla hours ago, botherin me about what you was up to because you haven’t phoned her. I’m gonna have to charge you two fees if it carries on like this. Double time after midnight.’

  ‘I can’t call her for a while.’

  ‘Well that’s a cute message. You want me to deliver that? I might need a crash helmet.’

  ‘Look, Keisha — I have to rethink this thing with Cindy. I want her to be all right, but maybe I’m not cut o
ut for the steady life.’

  ‘Well that you will most definitely have to tell her yourself.’

  ‘Don’t tell her anything — except I’m on an assignment.’

  ‘So where are you exactly?’

  ‘Can’t tell you, Keisha. But I’m having a real fun time.’

  There was silence for a while as they both hung on to the connection.

  ‘Hey, Ade — ’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You’re not getting into anything dangerous, are ya?’

  ‘I’m totally fine,’ he said.

  ‘Liar. You know what, brother? When people start ringing up to check their family’s okay, it means they’re supposed to be watching their own back. Sure sign something’s made them jumpy. Am I right, or am I right?’

  ‘You’re always right, Keisha. But then, like you said, I’m a liar, in’t I?’

  ‘Go to bed, Aidan. And make sure your door’s locked.’

  ‘You too, sis. Goodnight.’

  *

  After the Triangle fiasco at least a dozen people found their way back to Lots Road and now they were lying zonked out all over the furniture. It was a pretty grotty scene, especially since the bloke who’d cut his foot insisted on bleeding all over the couch and wouldn’t let anyone bandage it. Now he was lying on his stomach in a state of total oblivion so Zig had managed to wrap an old t-shirt around it, bound with masking tape.

  ‘If we have to throw him out,’ she said, ‘at least he should be able to walk on it.’

  Sharon didn’t have any particular wish to throw people out, because she felt a lot safer in a crowd — even if they were mostly unconscious and likely to stay that way for the next ten hours. She’d been looking for an opportunity to talk to Zig, but in a way she’d also been putting it off. Well, now was the time. She grabbed Zig by the arm.

  ‘I have to tell you something.’

  Zig pulled away, her eyes hazy from the stuff she’d been taking. ‘Not now. I need to chill.’

  ‘Now,’ said Sharon decisively. ‘In here.’ She opened the door of the mattress room, half expecting to see the stranger again. Instead, she found Flak, sitting on one of the mattresses smoking, with the cat curled up beside him.

  ‘When did you turn up?’ Sharon glared at him.

  ‘On the planet? Twenty-two years ago.’

  ‘You know what I mean. How come you’re here? You were supposed to be at the Triangle.’

  He looked up and stared at her — or rather through her — with wide blank eyes. ‘Oh, was I? I must have thought better of it, mustn’t I?’

  ‘Wait!’ Sharon grabbed Zig again as she was about to wander off, and shut the door on the three of them. ‘I want to ask Flak something.’ He dragged on the cigarette, ignoring her.

  ‘I want to ask you what Sol was doing here this afternoon.’

  ‘What!’ Zig exploded.

  ‘Wait,’ Sharon said. ‘Just hold it, will you? I’ve been trying to talk to you all evening. Basically, I was in here — looking in that mirror there — and I saw him behind me.’

  Zig cut in. ‘How do you know it was him?’

  ‘Because of the way the cat went for him, to start with. And because he’s not like anyone else I’ve seen. You wouldn’t forget his face, would you?’

  ‘He looks like the Angel Raphael,’ Flak spoke in a falsetto voice. ‘Or is it the Angel of Deff?’

  ‘He wouldn’t talk to me.’ Sharon was addressing Zig, now. ‘Look, if I could have got him to stay, I would’ve. You know I would. I tried to tell him you were going demented looking for him but he just went.’

  ‘Went where?’

  ‘I saw him go down into the basement.’

  Zig flung the door open and thundered down the stairs.

  ‘Get the light!’ she yelled, as she pulled at the trapdoor.

  Sharon grabbed the torch and followed, but they found the door of the workshop padlocked just like before. Zig threw herself against it, crying and swearing, refusing all attempts to be coaxed back up into the house. There was nothing for it but to leave her there for the time being, so Sharon went back to confront Flak.

  ‘Seems to be a bit of a game of hide and seek around that workshop downstairs and I think you should let us in on it, since we live here.’

  ‘Who’s “us’’?’

  ‘Me and Zig.’

  ‘You want to play hide and seek?’

  ‘I don’t want to play anything. I’m asking you what’s going on.’

  ‘With what in particular?’

  ‘With Sol.’

  ‘Ah, Sol.’ Flak fell backwards onto the mattress and woke the cat, which hissed and stalked off to find another bed. ‘Which Sol are we talking about? You see, Sol is what you might call a collector. Collects personalities. So let’s say he’s managed to acquire something new in that line ... it might be keeping him a bit busy.’

  ‘Sounds to me like he’s off his head.’

  ‘Or his face. But again, see — which face? Some people only have one face and they don’t even know how to use it, so it dies before they do and they go around wearing a sort of a deff mask. You noticed that? I’d say a life mask is preferable, wouldn’t you? Got to keep the flame burning.’

  Flak struck a match, held it up high above his head and let it drop on the mattress. Sharon reached over to put it out, but he pushed her away and cupped his hand around the smoking patch. ‘That’ll just burn through now, if it can’t get the air. Fire has to have air. It has to breathe.’ He struck another match, and another, tossing them up in the air, then blowing them out as they came down.

  ‘But not too much air,’ he said. ‘So that’s it, really, in the end. Those are the two alternatives in this sodding country. Suffocation or hot air. England’s Glory.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Matches. England’s Glory, they’re called, or used to be, with a little Union Jack on the box. Soon it’ll be hard to get hold of these.’ He rattled the matchbox. ‘They’ve discontinued them for some reason. All you’ll be able to get is Redheads, with Bryant and May on the box. But I prefer to strike a light from England’s Glory, somehow. It appeals to me. That’s going to be the name of my next show. Would you like to be in it?’

  Sharon didn’t reply.

  ‘Haven’t you heard of the offer you can’t refuse? I’m offering you a job,’ he said. ‘I need an assistant.’

  24

  Gareth leant across the cafe table, gesturing with a creamy spoon.

  ‘Trouble with you, Briony, is you’re all hung up about what’s true and what isn’t. Can’t you see some things are appealing just because they bear no resemblance to reality?’

  Briony was studying a postcard of the beach at Aberystwyth, where they’d just been walking. The card was a 1930s drawing that showed tanned people in bathing suits cavorting about on the yellow sand or running into the frothy blue waves. Gareth had bought a dozen like this, to send to all their friends.

  ‘You should be able to prosecute someone under the Trades Descriptions Act for this,’ she said. ‘Stay there. I want to do an experiment.’

  She snatched up the Polaroid camera and ran out. A couple of minutes later she was back, waving the rapidly drying photograph. ‘There!’ She put it on the table beside the postcard.

  ‘Just a minute. That’s my camera, that is! Strictly for taking naked pictures of you. Fifty pence a print’s a bit steep for a snapshot of a grimy old beach, isn’t it?’

  ‘So you admit it’s a grimy old beach?’

  The photo showed granite-blackened sand, grey sky and a swirling sea that promised to be freezing cold, even at the height of summer.

  ‘I’d never admit anything of the sort,’ said Gareth, smirking. ‘It’s part of my childhood landscape. Strictly for viewing through rose-coloured lenses. Now if you don’t want to write these, I will.’ He flipped over one of the cards and pretended to scribble as he spoke. ‘Dear Alan, Having a lovely time. The sky is blue, the beach is golden and I never expected a poli
cewoman would be so good in bed.’

  Briony yelped and made a grab for the pen, but he caught her arm, turned it over and began kissing the inside of her wrist in a way that started to cause a whole lot of muscles to weaken.

  ‘At least part of that’s true,’ he said. ‘Come back to the hotel with me, Inspector Williams.’

  ‘It’s a bed and breakfast. They don’t expect you to be hanging around in the mornings while they’re trying to clean the rooms.’

  ‘Wasn’t hanging around that I had in mind, exactly. Well if we got to behave ourselves, I suppose we’d better have some more coffee, hadn’t we?’

  ‘I’ll see to that. You get the papers.’

  She signed to the waitress, and watched Gareth as he sprung over a chair that was in his path. He was a different person from the self-effacing bloke she’d met a couple of years ago in an Oxford bar. He moved quicker, stood straighter, smiled more. Was that really because of her? It was funny to think you could have that effect on someone. Perhaps he thought the same when he looked at her.

  The waitress, a bored teenager with a fresh, pretty face, scribbled the order while staring out of the window and didn’t give Briony so much as a glance. The teenagers around here seemed like a different generation from those in London. Apart from getting a bit pissed in the pub on a Friday night, the young people of Aber didn’t have much scope for wild experiment. London was like a great big playground for that age group — but it was also becoming a dangerous playground. Best not to think about that. Not while she was on holiday. She’d be back in the thick of it soon enough and so would Gareth. What if some chic Parisian girl took a fancy to him, for the spring in his step and the apologetic smile and the quiet Welsh voice?

  Here he was again, but his mood seemed to have changed along with hers. The step was more of a trudge than a spring.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ He dumped a thick pile of newspapers onto the table. ‘Just that this lot reminds me of work. Only four more days, Bry.’