Please Don't Stop The Music

by Jane Lovering

  ‘Making sure that when that stupid woman comes back she can’t find anything to complain about.’ Rosie peeled off a rubber glove and rubbed a streaming eye. ‘She told me I had to clean this place from top to bottom.’

  ‘She what?’

  Jason, wisely, put the kettle on. Rosie slumped down on the edge of the table. ‘She looked everywhere, Jem, it was awful. Even in my wardrobe. She found some old biscuits that I’d left in the cupboard that had gone all soggy – you know I don’t like those horrible ones with the coconut in …and she said … she said …’

  ‘She said the place was unfit to house a baby.’ Jason had to finish for her.

  ‘Hang on. The social worker said that?’ I sat next to Rosie. ‘That the place was unfit?’

  Rosie just nodded. She seemed numb but that might have been the fumes, the place smelled so strongly of chlorine that we could have used the kitchen to purify water. I put an arm around her.

  Upstairs Harry let out a wail. ‘I’ll go,’ Jason said. ‘You make the tea, Jem. And there had better be biscuits, I’m warnin’ you now.’

  I waited until he left then gave Rosie a squeeze. ‘Rosie, I don’t want to make you feel like an idiot but you did ask for ID, didn’t you?’

  She paused half-way to pushing her hair up onto her head. ‘What?’

  ‘I have never in my life heard of a social worker calling in like this, no prior contact or anything, and telling you to clean your house. I mean there’s no problem with Harry is there? Even the doctor said he was extraordinarily healthy –’

  ‘You mean, she might not have been real?’ Rosie looked around at the gently steaming bucket and the bleachy condensation running down the walls. ‘That I’ve done all this for nothing?’

  ‘It’s just a bit odd, that’s all. Social workers are normally pretty laid back about things unless they think a child is in actual danger, which Harry isn’t. So I take it you didn’t ask for ID?’

  ‘She said she was … oh, Jem, I’ve been a nutjob again, haven’t I?’

  Jason, coming back in, met my eye over Rosie’s head and mouthed, ‘Saskia’. I nodded.

  ‘I think you’ve been deliberately fooled. Someone’s idea of a sick joke, maybe?’ Jason raised his eyebrows.

  Rosie let out a huge breath. ‘God. You’re right of course. She didn’t even offer me any ID and she looked a bit – skinny for a social worker.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I don’t think they all look like King Kong you know.’

  ‘And I thought it was funny, her wanting to look through the cupboards. I – God, Jem, you’re brilliant.’

  ‘Just doing my job, ma’am.’ I tipped an imaginary hat.

  ‘And look at it this way, you won’t have to clean this place again for years.’ Jason passed Harry over to his mother. ‘Think of the time you’ve saved yourself.’

  ‘It doesn’t really work like that, Jason.’ Rosie cuddled Harry to her. ‘So. In recognition of my being such a total moron I suppose I ought to cook you dinner, Jem.’

  Over her head Jason mouthed ‘Thank you, God.’ Rosie went on. ‘You are such a good friend, Jemima.’

  Jason raised an eyebrow behind her back. I felt a wash of such shame that my cheeks must have coloured. How could I have thought that it would be so easy to leave? I looked at the walls, at the hallucinogenic pattern on the old lino, smelled the musty cooked-in smells underlying the bleach. Why couldn’t I just settle here?

  Then Rosie’s words hit me. Good friend. Oh, my God. Of course …

  Chapter Fourteen

  It wasn’t the volume of the music that made my head ring, it was the insistent bass. It echoed through me like a second heart beat and rendered everything in the club dreamlike, although that could have been the barely-there lighting. I bought myself a drink and held it in front of me like a glass wall, lounging awkwardly against a pillar and scanning the dance floor.

  Opposite the bar was the DJ booth surrounded by girls looking available. Its glass was tinted and the music was continuous so I couldn’t tell if the DJ was there. I wished I’d brought Jason. He might be a complete plonker, but he had the knack of looking at ease anywhere and it might have stopped me looking like a woman in search of a man. Which I was, but it was a particular man, not any of these designer-clad guys, with their smooth taste in shirts and their labels flapping.

  I began to sidle around the walls heading for the far side of the club. Hidden speakers vibrated my lungs with volume and the perpetual techno-trance music scraped across my nerve endings. Finally I reached the DJ booth and looked in from behind, at the back of a blond man in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. He swivelled so I could see he had an earpiece in, and his eyes closed and was singing to something that bore no resemblance to the beat that was pumping out onto the dance floor. Two burly black men with radios stood either side and a rope barrier prevented the peasants from gaining entry.

  ‘Excuse me.’ I approached one of them, yelling above the music. ‘Could I speak to the DJ, please?’

  Dark eyes focussed on my face. I gave my winningest smile, lots of teeth and lips.

  ‘Whatcha want?’

  ‘A request?’ I had no idea whether DJ’s still played requests. I’d been out of circulation too long.

  A grunt and the bodyguard folded his arms in front of his body, settling himself further into the floor. ‘He dun’t do requests.’

  Now I really wished I’d brought Jason. He knew the etiquette for situations like this. Well, maybe etiquette was too strong a word, perhaps violence was a better term. ‘I only want to have a word with him.’

  Another grunt. ‘Join the queue.’ A vast head nodded towards the girls, still stationary-jogging, although not one breast moved between the lot of them.

  This was stupid. I hadn’t paid fifteen pounds to come in here and then another seven-fifty for a weak vodka only to be told I had to get behind a bunch of teenagers. I waited until the guard had switched back into resting mode then ducked under the rope and banged on the glass wall. ‘Oy, Zafe!’

  Three sets of eyes instantly focused my way and two extremely large sets of arms came bearing down on me, grabbed me none too gently and started to drag me backwards, heels skittering out from beneath me. Inside his booth the DJ was already losing interest, sliding back under his music again. I did the only thing a girl down on the floor surrounded by enormous men could do. I lifted the hem of my top and flashed my boobs.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell,’ one of the bodyguards exclaimed. ‘That’s all we need. Put ’em away love, nobody’s interested.’

  But someone was. Perhaps it was because I’d taken the precaution of writing ‘Baz needs your help’ in eye pencil right across my breasts, with my nipples standing in for ‘e’s.

  * * *

  Zafe sat on an empty beer crate while I squatted uncomfortably on a broken stool in a tiny office at the back of the club. He lit a cigarette.

  ‘You do know I’ve got absolutely no reason to tell you anything?’ He blew smoke. ‘That bastard dropped us all in the shit back in Philly.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But you were friends once. And honestly, Zafe, you can’t feel nearly as badly about him as he does about himself. You should have seen him when he found out the band was reforming.’

  Zafe shrugged. His shoulders had filled out considerably since his days in Willow Down, in the pictures he’d looked almost fragile, now he looked like a rugby player. Still as blond, though, and with those same beautiful cat-like eyes. ‘Yeah, well.’ He sounded almost ashamed. ‘I’m still not convinced that’s a great move but the management … hey, not your problem.’ Another puff of smoke. ‘So, you’re what? Baz’s new woman?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not.’ I cupped my hands around my knees to stop the stool rocking. ‘He’s a friend, that’s all.’

  Sapphire eyes slithered across my chest, now properly covered once more. ‘Hell of a length to go to for a friend, flashing your 36Ds at the whole club,’ he said dryly. Another mouthful of smo
ke threatened to obscure the single bare bulb swinging from the low ceiling. Money clearly all went on front of house. ‘Look love, Baz was brilliant back in the day. Best lead I ever played with. But he was – how can I put it? Erratic. Bit fond of the old marching powder, know what I mean? Just before we went to the States on that final tour he took three months out getting his head straight, cleaning up his act, all that kinda thing. But when we got out there – it was like he just lost it. One night he’s playing like he’s got the devil himself in his soul and the next – pow, he’s outta there so fast the band didn’t know he’d gone ’til next day. Woke up and he’s not on the tour bus, he’s not with some girl, he’s just …’ Zafe broke off and rubbed at his arms as though something had walked over his skin under his pale jacket. ‘Bastard,’ he finished.

  ‘Where did he go?’

  He pulled a face. ‘Dunno. Didn’t even know he was back in York until you just told me. He’s not been in touch. No calls, nothing. I tried …’ He broke off and sucked hard on the cigarette for a moment. ‘I was his friend and he wouldn’t talk to me about what was going off in his life. Shut me out. Wouldn’t take my calls, nothing. I went everywhere I could think of, hung out in some of our old dives, all his favourite places, no-one knew a thing, no-one had seen him. Knocked on more doors than a Jehovah’s Witness that year.’

  ‘Is there anywhere you can think of that he might have run to?’ I was gripping my hands tighter around my knees, could feel my nails digging under my kneecaps.

  ‘You tried the house, right?’

  ‘There was no-one in.’

  Zafe shook his hair, clearing his fringe from his eyes. He wore it differently now, long at the front but spiky-short at the back, like he had his expression on the wrong side of his head. ‘OK. You know his family?’

  ‘No, like I said, I’m just a friend.’ Ben had never talked about his family. Never really talked about anything close to him unless I’d forced him. I shivered. He was more like me than I’d realised.

  ‘Ma and sister live in Vancouver.’

  ‘Canada?’ I was horrified by the snatching panic at the thought that Ben might be that far away.

  ‘Well done. Yeah.’ Zafe maintained the dry tone in his voice. ‘His dad died, they emigrated. All kicked off just as we started up the band so Baz stayed over here. Bought them a place. Put all his earnings into property, all that didn’t go up his nose.’

  ‘You think he might be in Canada?’

  A considered pause. Zafe narrowed his eyes at me through the smoke. ‘You sure you’re not some journo after the inside story? Everyone wants to know what happened to the great Baz Davies.’ He lowered his head. ‘Including me,’ he finished quietly. ‘Though … five years, it’s a long time, I guess most people wouldn’t even recognise him now. And the ones that do … phht.’ He flicked ash onto the floor and stirred at it with a heel. ‘No-one cares any more. Old news.’

  ‘So, even if I were a journalist, you’d help me?’

  ‘Nah. If you’re a journo you can make it up.’ Those blue, blue eyes fixed on me. ‘So, can you prove you’re not?’

  I held up my open hands. ‘How do I prove a negative?’

  Zafe stood up and ground out the cigarette stub with the toe of his leather boots, forcing it to a smear on the concrete. ‘You been in the house?’

  ‘Ben’s? Yes, once. But only the hall with all those weird tiles. Oh, and the big room with the sofas. The room with the speakers set up. We went to an opening together and we had a drink in there before we left.’ I had to look up at Zafe as he paced around the cheerless cuboid room. He had a loose way of walking, as though his joints were attached by elastic to his body.

  ‘OK then. If you are a journo, you’re one Baz trusts. He doesn’t let any old hack into his place.’ He tapped another cigarette from his pocket and lit it. ‘What?’

  ‘You. Chain smoking. Something you picked up on tour?’

  ‘Among other habits.’ Zafe Rafale smiled for the first time and I saw why he had all those fans. ‘Yeah. So. You’re a friend of our Baz’s, I believe that now. And he ran out on you. Making a bit of a habit of this, isn’t he? Never used to run.’ His eyes were inward-looking now, scanning his thoughts. ‘Remember this one time, we’d be about fourteen, fifteen. We’re at this disco effort, school, youth club, can’t remember where. Anyway Baz had his eye on this girl, fancied her for months, he goes up to her and says, “You want to dance?” And this tart she eyes him up and down and kind of sneers, you know, in his face? Then she goes, “I’m not that desperate.” And Baz, cool as Sweden, looks at her and goes, “Nah, but I am.” Amazing. That’s Baz. Cool.’

  ‘So what happened between then and now? Why is he so – broken?’

  Zafe blew smoke upwards. The ceiling was almost invisible now. ‘You tell me. I’ve gone through it all in my head, over and over; was it the drugs, was it some girl. Tell you something, it must have been one hell of a problem, ’cos if you’d asked me before, I’d have said he’d sooner have eaten the tour bus than quit.’ He glanced at the Rolex on his wrist under a rolled-up shirt cuff. ‘Look, I’ve got to play a set in ten. Got a pen?’ From a pocket I managed to assemble a biro and a scrap of paper. Zafe scribbled quickly, an almost incomprehensible series of squiggles. ‘This was always where he went when we had time off.’ He then caught hold of my arm when I went to slip the paper back into my pocket. ‘If you find him tell him – shit, I don’t know. Tell him I miss him. That’s all.’

  * * *

  ‘I think it’s a seven.’ Rosie spoke more definitely than I’d heard her speak for weeks. Since she’d had Harry her edges seemed to have worn thin, as though she blended with things more. It made her fuzzier, less inclined to say what she thought, as though she distrusted even her own opinions. ‘Seven, Moor Road.’

  ‘I thought it was a nine. “Nine, Main Road”.’ I turned the paper upside down in case a change of perspective made things clearer.

  Jason, who was watching Harry kicking nappy-free on the lawn, piped up. ‘It’s Robin Hood’s Bay, total population twelve and four fishing boats. It’s hardly going to be difficult, is it?’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t want to be found.’

  ‘Then he won’t be there, will he?’ Jason stooped and picked Harry up. Rosie taped shut the box of cards she’d just filled and removed her son from Jason’s slightly sticky grasp.

  ‘I am aware that we usually get more sense from the pig in next-door’s field, but Jason’s right,’ she said. ‘All you can do is try. Then maybe you’ll feel better.’

  I stared at her. ‘You’re very perky all of a sudden. Yesterday you were half-way to having Harry adopted, today you’re like Miss Agony Column.’

  ‘Yeah, Rosie’s got a date,’ Jason supplied. ‘Wiv a man. Least I’m guessing it’s a bloke, I don’t reckon our Rosie swings the same way as you do, Jem, ’less she’s like, bi.’ He licked his lips. ‘And if she is, can I watch?’

  I stared at Rosie. ‘I wondered about the hair and the frock. So you’ve got yourself a date have you? You lucky cow.’

  Self-consciously Rosie smoothed down the front of her pink dress. It set off her dark curls a treat with the way they slithered onto her silky shoulders. ‘It’s not … you know, a bit … Snow White?’

  Jason snorted. ‘Snow White? You? More like Mucky Slush.’

  Rosie gave a twirl and Harry chuckled in her arms. ‘Will you babysit, Jem? I should be back by midnight. If I’m not, there’s some bottles made up in the fridge.’

  ‘So there’s a chance you might – you know, sleep over?’

  Rosie waggled her eyebrows at me. ‘You’re getting as bad as Jason.’

  ‘Whoa, come on. Look at how much experience I’ve got over our Jem,’ Jason complained. ‘Anyhow I don’t think she’s experienced at anything. Know wot I mean?’

  I took the proffered Harry. ‘Still not a virgin, Jase.’ Knowing that he was trying to wind me up, to goad me into talking about myself.

  ‘Will
be soon, if you don’t get cracking. You wanna borrow the batmobile to go looking for your man tomorrow?’ He shook his car keys in my face. ‘You can dart him through the window, crate him up, bring him back ’ere, no questions asked. I won’t even worry about any stains on the seats.’

  ‘Saskia’s coming over to pick up this first batch of cards.’ Rosie quite rightly ignored Jason. ‘They’re all packed up and ready to go. Right, I’m off, I’ll see you later.’

  Jason and I stared at each other. ‘Your man not coming to pick you up?’ I asked as Harry wound his chubby little fists into my hair. ‘That’s a bit mean.’

  ‘No he – he has to work. I’m meeting him in town. Bus leaves in ten minutes. Bye!’

  Rosie strode, high-heeled and preened, off towards the stop in the middle of the village and Jason gave me a jab in the arm.

  ‘You know wot? I reckon this bloke ain’t on the level. “Working” my arse, only bleeding married, in’t he?’

  ‘Rosie’s not stupid, Jase.’ I headed towards the cottage. ‘And she’s got Harry to think about. She’s not going to go shagging around with married guys with a three-month-old baby waiting at home, is she?’

  ‘She might,’ Jason answered, trotting alongside me. ‘If it was Harry’s dad.’

  I stopped dead. ‘You think?’

  ‘Come on, Jem, don’t tell me you’ve never wondered? Think about it, if he’s available then why ain’t Rosie and he all cosied up in some kinda advert-idyll?’

  ‘Maybe they treasure their independence.’

  ‘Wot, like I used to treasure sleeping in the back of me car and dragging the whole of British Rail from place to place when I was trying to get commissioned? Yeah, that’ll be right, Jem. Rosie loves living here and working flat out for the Mistress of Pain.’

  ‘Talk of the devil …’

  The huge black 4×4 was back, parking outside the cottage with Saskia in the passenger seat and Alex driving.

  ‘Hello, Jemima. And Harry. Gosh, a bare bottom, well, nappies are so expensive these days, aren’t they? Of course I used terries for Oscar, so much kinder to the skin.’