Touchstone Season One- Complete Box Set

by Andy Conway

  “You after him too?” Lorna Foster shrugged, laughing at herself.

  “What?”

  “Martyn.”

  “What? No. God, no!”

  “Kinda spoiled it for me there, kiddo,” Lorna said, in a kooky American accent. Her voice was sort of squeaky: a kind voice; a little bit mumsy, even though she was a teenager. She saw Rachel’s dumbfounded face. “Soz. I thought you were one of his groupies.”

  “What do you mean, spoiled it for you?”

  Lorna Foster sighed and chuckled. “I was about to make my move, then you knocked him off his feet. Next thing I know he’s in the Gents with you and Countess Dracula.”

  “Esther Parker.”

  Lorna Foster squinted. “Sounds familiar. Do I know her?”

  Rachel groaned. She’d not only shoved Martyn into Esther’s arms; she’s done it at the exact moment her future mother was making her move on him.

  “They knew each other as kids, apparently,” Rachel said. “You too?”

  “Oh,” said Lorna. “God. Yeah. I think so.”

  Rachel remembered the alley, in 1966. Martyn in his shorts and tank top. Little Esther Parker. She had warned Martyn away from her, tried to scare him. It had probably worked. But that was in a timeline where Lorna Foster had never been born, because her mother had thrown herself in front of a train. Rachel had gone to 1959 to stop that, so there was another 1966, where Lorna Foster had been born, where Rachel hadn’t whispered in Martyn’s ear about how Esther Parker had spiders inside her.

  Was that right?

  She didn’t know anymore. All she could do now was befriend Lorna Foster and somehow get Esther Parker out of the picture.

  “I’m Rachel,” she said, stepping forward with her hand held out.

  Lorna Foster shook it. “I’m Lorna,” she said. “You’ve got a suitcase.”

  Rachel nodded. “That Esther Parker’s a bitch.”

  Lorna Foster grinned. They both wiped their eyes and then agreed to go back inside and see the band.

  Rachel squeezed to the side, her back to the wall, the suitcase between her feet, and was pleased that Lorna stayed beside her.

  The band were introduced as Tango Decade and Rachel laughed. Was that the name her father had told her? She thought it was something different. They were a moody four-piece, Martyn playing bass. He and the drummer seemed the least glamorous of the band, the most normal, the least cut out for stardom. The keyboardist and the singer weren’t exactly cut out for stardom either, but you could tell they really thought they were. They gave off waves of desperate fake fame.

  Lorna dashed off to dance to a couple of songs but always came back to Rachel’s side. She even squeezed her arm at one particularly exciting moment, when Martyn gave a four-bar slap bass solo.

  Rachel tried not to laugh. She didn’t know whether it looked ridiculous because the band were rubbish or because it was her dad up there.

  They were still playing when Lorna signalled to Rachel that she was going. Rachel followed her out to the landing.

  “Why are you going?”

  “It’s ten-thirty. Got to get to town for the last bus home.”

  Rachel tried to compute that. The last bus home was at eleven? “Where do you live?”

  “Winson Green. I know, the other side of town. I really need to get a flat in Moseley or something.”

  Winson Green. Of course. The canal cottage. Rachel remembered it from childhood. They’d lived there for a few years, after her mum had died, before finding a house in Moseley again. A few years when they’d had no money.

  “It was great meeting you, though. Might see you again? At the next one?”

  Lorna was hovering, not wanting to leave.

  “Listen,” said Rachel. “I’ve got a flat in Moseley village. Why don’t you stay the night?”

  Lorna wavered. “Ooh, I dunno. I’d have to call my mum. She’d be worried.”

  “Fine. Call her. We can watch the rest of the gig and you can stay at mine.”

  “Really? You sure? I mean, you hardly know me.”

  “I feel like I do, though.”

  Lorna nodded and smiled. “I feel that too. It’s weird, isn’t it?”

  “I guess we’re meant to be friends,” said Rachel.

  Lorna hugged her suddenly and it took Rachel’s breath away. Her mother’s hug. The thing she’d wanted most of all.

  She tried not to let it show on her face.

  — 11 —

  NICK FENWICK FISHED his notebook from his canvas holdall and opened it to a fresh graph-paper page. The same indulgent thrill as always. Each new page a pristine green-lined graph, eager to be tattooed with grey facts from his 2B pencil.

  There was something of the ritual about it. He was a high priest of History, communing with the mysterious, nebulous spirit world of lost time, transmuting it to the pages of his book; making it corporeal.

  The other students didn’t understand this; didn’t think like this. Which was why he worked alone.

  Autumn leaves crunched under his brown suede shoes and crackled like fire.

  He copied everything he could read from the gravestone, the names, the dates, even the epitaphs, in case they might provide a clue that would become useful, once later research added flesh to the bones. It would be a potentially successful study technique, one he might one day teach: to take the bare facts of a life from a random gravestone and use that seed of information to grow a detailed, multi-branched biography.

  He wrote down the details from a few gravestones in case one field of enquiry drew an early blank, in which case he might switch to an alternative without having to return to graveyard.

  He wrote quickly, his fingers stiffening with the cold. The fingerless gloves weren’t helping much. He pulled his blue plaid scarf tighter around his neck and shivered in his grey box jacket. He needed an overcoat of some kind. Perhaps an oversize one from one of the stalls at the Rag Market. A lot of students were wearing them, he’d noticed.

  He flexed his fingers and cupped them to his face, blowing hard to warm them through.

  Then he was blown off his feet by the explosion.

  He didn’t notice dropping his notebook till later. And it was only after he’d picked himself up, dizzy, disorientated, that he remembered there had been an explosion at first, and only seconds later an aftershock, a wave of energy that hit him and knocked him off his feet. It was like a hurricane or a tornado that raged for just a few seconds.

  He staggered to his feet and looked around for the source of the explosion and wondered for a terrified second if they had dropped the bomb. Could this be the nuclear holocaust everyone feared? Had the Russians made a nuclear strike?

  An explosion followed by a nuclear wind.

  He should Duck and Cover.

  But no, it was the flash you saw first. The blinding flash of light, followed by the explosion, and then the hurricane.

  There had been no flash of light. They hadn’t dropped the bomb.

  He glanced around. The explosion had come from the lower part of the graveyard. He headed there, walking at first, then breaking into a run, wondering if he should be running in the other direction entirely.

  A body on the ground.

  A man lying by one of the gravestones. Almost as if he fell from the sky. Young, in his early twenties, blonde, but rough looking, unshaven, red eyed.

  Nick rushed to him. He was alive.

  “What happened? Are you all right?”

  The man awoke, blinking, incredulous, groaning. Nick could see no evidence of the explosion: no smoke, no fire, no damage.

  “Where is this?” said the man.

  Nick went to answer but the words froze in his throat. What did he mean? Moseley? Birmingham? St. Mary’s? Had he lost his memory? Bomb victims sometimes suffered temporary amnesia. He’d read that somewhere.

  “The touchstone,” the man said.

  What was a touchstone? What was he talking about? “I heard an explosion. It knocked me
off my feet. Are you hurt?”

  The man shook his head, tried to get to his feet, fell back.

  “Stay still. You might have broken something. Was it a bomb?”

  The man shook his head and muttered with venom the word, “Rachel.”

  Nick had a sudden fear. Was he some IRA terrorist, making a bomb and blowing himself up? He’d heard of such things happening. But there was no evidence of any explosion; only what he’d heard and felt.

  “What year is this?” the man said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “What year, for God’s sake!”

  Nick got to his feet, stepped back. “Look. Is this a joke?” He scanned the surroundings for sign of a secret camera. That bloke with the white hair was about to walk up and announce he was on Candid Camera. “This isn’t funny, mate.”

  The man jumped up, almost fell, reached out for him. Nick held him up.

  “I’m not joking,” he said. “What year is it?”

  Nick felt sudden irritation flood him. He shoved the man away. “Get off me!”

  He turned and stormed up the overgrown path to the top end of the graveyard, and shouted back, “It’s 1980. Very funny! Idiot!”

  He snatched his holdall up, his notebook and pencil, and marched off, heading for the lychgate exit. Before he rounded the church, he glanced back.

  The man was pulling open the wrought-iron gate and heading for the alley that led to the village green.

  — 12 —

  MARTYN WOKE WITH A foot in his face. He shifted on the sofa, pain shooting through his back and straight to his temples. Hungover. Sunlight streaming through the bare window. He was on the landing sofa. The landing with the window that had no curtains. It was kind of strange to have a sofa on a landing, but it was obviously one the landlord had left over and had dumped it there, meaning to get rid of it one day. It had always been useful as a place for band members to crash out. Sometimes they sat out there because it was a nice place to sit.

  There was a foot in his face.

  A bare foot. A woman’s. He sat up and followed the trail to the other end of the sofa, where a mass of blonde hair peeked out from under the grey army blanket draped over their two bodies.

  Esther, he remembered. Esther Parker.

  He lifted the blanket up. They were both fully clothed. He remembered now: they’d all crashed back at Mark’s flat and Esther had tagged along. A few more drinks and a bit of loud music and they’d all found somewhere to sleep, Esther sharing the sofa with him.

  “Morning.”

  Paul trudged through to the lounge in a fog of indifference. A blast of music from there, Glen already commandeering the stereo: Japan’s In Vogue. Martyn eased himself out of the sofa and climbed over her. She carried on sleeping.

  Glen was rolling a cigarette on the coffee table, between a mass of beer cans. It looked like someone had emptied a bin right out onto the table.

  “What’s Ingrid Pitt doing on our sofa,” he sneered, without looking up.

  “It’s not our sofa; it’s Mark’s.”

  Martyn knew what this was. Glen wasn’t against girls coming back to stay the night with the band, as long as they slept with him, the singer. When they spent the night with Martyn, the bass player, he would develop principles. There was a pecking order in bands and he should know his place.

  Mark came out of the kitchen, which was more of a cupboard, and announced in a John Foxx voice, “I’m sorryyyy. There’s noooothing in the refrigeraaaator. Only two eeeeeeggs.”

  Martyn giggled. He and Mark had started talking in their John Foxx voice almost as soon as they’d sat down and listened to the Metamatic album for the first time. It sounded like a robot being condescending and was funniest the more mundane the subject matter.

  “How much did we make last night?” Martyn asked.

  “Twenty quid,” said Paul, who was playing air keyboard on the edge of the coffee table and flopping his fringe in and out of his eyes.

  “Fiver each,” said Glen. “Minus a loaf of bread. Who’s going for it?”

  “Minus what I’m owed still,” said Martyn.

  “I’ll sort that out with Wegs,” snapped Glen. “There are overheads they’re disputing. Leave it with me.”

  Martyn looked at Paul, who didn’t seem to have heard. Mark just shrugged from the kitchen door.

  “Yeah, we could do with knowing what these overheads are.”

  “I’ll sort it out,” said Glen. “They’re trying to pull a fast one.”

  Martyn looked from face to face, wondering when any of the others would back him up against Glen’s wall of nonsense.

  “Well let’s go round and get it. Tonight.”

  “Sure,” said Glen. “He’ll be there tonight.”

  Martyn nodded. He hadn’t expected that. Glen had been distracting him for weeks about the money he was owed, but now he seemed fine about it. Maybe he’d actually get it. Fifty quid would lift a huge weight from his shoulders. Glen worked for some fly-by-night promotions company in Digbeth who, like Glen, all talked big schemes and taking-over-the-world bravado, but never got round to doing anything they said they’d do. They’d hired out a disused block of old factory space for the band to rehearse and Martyn had paid the money from his paltry redundancy payout at Smith’s Forgings.

  “We should talk about the names,” said Paul.

  “Yeah,” said Glen.

  “There’s no laaaard,” said Mark. “I could fry them in butteeeer.”

  “What names?” asked Martyn. What had they concocted between them now?

  “Your name,” said Glen.

  “Could I fry them in butteeeer?”

  “What do you mean, my name?”

  “You need a name,” said Paul.

  “I’ve got a name, thanks.”

  “But there’s only a wok. No frying paaaaan.”

  “We’ve all got cool names,” said Glen, licking his roll-up and popping it in his mouth. “And you haven’t.”

  “Martyn Hines,” said Paul, as if it tasted of lemon. “Needs something a bit more...”

  “Electronic?” said Mark, hopefully. He was standing at the kitchen door with the wok in his hand, viewing it with suspicion.

  “You see we’ve got a singer called Glen Grey,” said Glen. “A keyboardist called Paul Nuevo, a drummer called Mark Haze, with a zed...”

  Mark smiled at this, absurdly pleased that his surname of Hayes had translated so effortlessly to something that sounded ‘a bit electronic’.

  “And then we’ve got a bass player called Martyn Hines,” said Glen. “Can you see the odd one out there?”

  The door opened and Esther walked in, barefoot, clutching her cape around herself. They all turned to watch her, like some exotic alien who’d landed in their midst.

  “Morning guys,” she said, squinting, plonking herself on the sofa between Martyn and Glen. She spied his pouch of Old Holborn and Rizlas. “Oh, do you mind?”

  Glen bristled but nodded. He’d almost sucked the life out of his own roll-up with three puffs.

  “I’ve got it,” said Paul. “What about Martyn Heinz — with a zed?”

  “With a zed?”

  “Aitch-eeh-eye-en-zed. Heinz. Is it too nazi? Joy Division’s guitarist’s called Bernard Albrecht. You like Joy Division.”

  “I might as well call myself Martyn Heil.”

  “It sounds like a tin of beans, anyway,” said Glen. “What about Martyn H-Bomb?”

  “Or Martian Hides.”

  “Martian Hides?”

  “Yeah. It’s futuristic,” said Paul.

  “Can you fry eggs in a wok? With butter?” asked Mark, looking at Esther.

  She lit her roll-up and shrugged.

  “I know,” said Glen. “M.H.”

  They all deadpanned him. Even Mark.

  “Just M.H. It’s mysterious.”

  “It’s stupid.”

  “No, mate. It makes you a mystery. Like a secret agent or something.”

  �
��It’s not even a name!”

  “Are we finding Martyn a stage name?” Esther asked.

  “Yes, said Glen, not looking at her. “His real name’s rubbish.”

  “True,” she said. “You need a stage name. Martyn Hines sounds like a rugby player.”

  Glen looked at her now, beaming that she was on his side. “Exactly!”

  “I am a rugby player.”

  “But you need to sound like a bass player,” said Paul.

  “A bass player in the best new futurist band in the UK,” said Glen.

  “I thought we were electronic, not futurist?” said Mark.

  “Look, can we talk about something important, like how we get my money back from Wegs?”

  Glen moved for the record player now the side had finished. “We’ll get the money back. Leave it with me.” He slid Quiet Life back in its inner sleeve and put it to one side, going through a pile of albums splayed on the carpet.

  “Always the one siiiiide,” said Mark, lapsing into his John Foxx voice again. “Never boooooth.”

  “What next? Ooh, here we go!” Glen lifted up the bright orange sleeve of David Bowie’s Low. “Which side?”

  “Side A!”

  “Side 1!”

  “First side!”

  “B-side, I think,” said Glen. He put the needle to it and the haunting dirge of Warszawa filled the room.

  “Great. Really cheerful,” said Martyn.

  Esther shared a look with him and nodded to the door. Martyn felt a thrill of excitement quicken inside him.

  “We’re off,” he said.

  “I’ll get my shoes,” she said.

  “Not staying for breakfast?” asked Mark, still holding the wok.

  “I’ll pass,” said Esther. “Do you guys need a rehearsal space or something?”

  “Yeah,” said Martyn. “We’re being fleeced by the place we were using. Glen’s sorting it all out, though.”

  “I know a place,” she said. “On campus. Aston. Part of the Arts Lab. I could book it for you.”

  They band looked to each other and waited for Glen’s approval.

  “Sounds interesting.”