Convictions

by Julie Morrigan

  The camera framed what was little more than a raised platform, the focus of attention. As dusk settled, the road crew set up gear quickly and efficiently, the practised choreography of the men in black conjuring a wall of sound out of the gloomy depths.

  With the lighting rig yet to be turned on, the activity on stage was shadow play. Alex made out the band moving quietly and without fuss to their spots. The crowd saw them too and thundered encouragement, eager for the show to begin. Paul Scott got behind his drum kit and tested cymbals and pedals. Colin Carson plugged in his guitar and took up his position near the drum riser. Three tall figures, two wearing guitars that they plugged in when they were in position, strode out further towards the front of the stage. Andy Airey, the singer, was centre stage with bass player Tom Watson to his right and lead guitarist Johnny Burns to the left.

  They looked at each other and despite the poor light Alex could have sworn she saw them grin. Then Paul Scott rapped his sticks together to the count of four, the lights flashed on and the crowd roared as the band crashed in, bass, rhythm guitar and drums pounding out a hermetic pile-driving riff. Johnny Burns’s guitar screamed into life, pouring notes as sweet as the Devil’s lies into the depths of the night skies, spurring bodies into motion as the crowd began to dance. Right on cue, one of the best blues wailers in the business opened his throat and let out a primal scream that pierced the heavens as Andy Airey, delighted by the ecstatic greeting they’d received, launched heart and soul into the first number.

  Alex put her beer down; she had chills, the hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end. This was the earliest available footage of Heartbreaker, showing the band just as they were breaking big. There were live albums available and they were powerful, raw, but seeing them play, even on screen, was something else. It took little effort for her to imagine herself there, dancing in the moonlight, the heady scent of a summer’s night in her nostrils, head filled with rhythm and riff. No wonder they’d grown to be so successful. They were incredible, even at this distance. It had to be nearer thirty than twenty years since this gig had been filmed, despite which she reckoned they could give a number of today’s so-called supergroups a run for their money.

  She watched, rapt, for the next two and a half hours as the band ran through their set, throwing in blues and rock ‘n’ roll standards alongside their own material, then played a series of encores. They seemed reluctant to leave the stage; the crowd was certainly reluctant to let them go. As the final number came to an end, credits rolled over images of a band that had played its heart out, musicians slick with sweat and wreathed in smiles. It ended with a shot of Johnny Burns, one hand on the neck of his guitar, the other punching the air in a salute to the crowd.

  Alex punched the button on the remote, then sat back in her chair and stared at the blank screen. She had been a fan of Heartbreaker for as long as she could remember, but felt like she was discovering them all over again every time she watched the footage of the Robson’s Farm gig. She felt a familiar pang of regret that she had never seen them play live. Wondered not for the first time if the fabled lost tapes were real and if they would ever turn up. Stirring herself, she straightened the room and turned off lamps and equipment, then headed for bed. She had a busy day ahead of her. In the morning she was jumping on a train to London to attend a job interview, an interview she really wanted to be successful in. If she landed the job, she would be working with Johnny Burns on a book about his life, his music and Heartbreaker.

  Chapter 2

  Two months earlier

  Johnny Burns was in the office of his manager, Dan Cross. A ‘best of’ double album of remastered Heartbreaker material plus a couple of previously unreleased tracks was ready for release. The album was called Labour of Love, a title Johnny hated but had been outvoted on.

  ‘I’ll need you all to get involved in promoting this,’ Dan was saying. ‘You’ll have to put yourselves about.’

  Johnny’s heart sank. He had been sceptical about the album anyway, had been talked into it by Dan, and his old bandmates Paul Scott and Colin Carson. Now this. ‘You know I just like a quiet life these days, mate.’

  ‘Even so, you’re going to have to get into town for a while to do some work. All of you. Especially you.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ Johnny knew from experience that there would be dates already set, deals already made.

  ‘First off, there’s a big launch party at Crawdaddy. That’s planned for February the fourteenth. Valentine’s day, Heartbreaker, Labour of Love. You see the connection.’

  ‘It’s not exactly subtle.’ Johnny was surprised some especially talented little marketing pixie hadn’t suggested the surviving band members wear hearts on their sleeves, or something equally inspired. They should pick on Dan for a change, he reckoned, he was practically one of the band anyway. He imagined him in a shiny shirt covered in padded hearts, pictured a bright red heart-shaped hat on Dan’s head while he was about it. He felt the corners of his mouth start to twitch and blinked to clear the image as he tuned back in to what Dan was saying.

  ‘… the press. Music press principally, but you’ll have to talk to the other buggers as well.’

  ‘I hate the press.’

  ‘They love you.’

  ‘Of course they do. That’s why they’ve been so kind to me over the years.’

  Dan rubbed his eyes. ‘They haven’t been too bad, mate. There’ve been a couple of times they gave us a rough ride, but whatever any of it might have meant to us, it was just another job to them. We were fair game.’

  ‘You’re forgetting what the bastards did to me when I died.’

  ‘The story was that you didn’t, if you remember.’

  ‘I was trying to get my life back together. They took pictures of Nicci and the kids and God knows what else. We’d split up by then, it was nothing to do with them.’ Johnny raised his chin, challenging Dan; Dan remained impassive. Johnny ran his hands through his hair, recognising the inevitable when it stared him in the face. ‘Bare minimum, promise me.’

  ‘I’ll email you a schedule. There are some straightforward promo interviews set up and a couple of the mags want to do profiles of the band. Bit of history, remind the youngsters of who influenced the people they listen to, you know the sort of stuff.’ Johnny nodded. ‘Melody Maker wants to do a big feature on you. Come to the house, look round, do an in-depth interview. They want to hear about what you’re working on now and talk about your plans for the future, to balance out all the stuff from the past.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Johnny—’

  ‘I’m not doing it.’

  ‘Listen—’

  ‘You listen. General stuff about the band is one thing, but I’m not letting them into my life. No fucking way, Dan. No.’

  ‘Okay then, think about this. If you don’t talk to them, they’ll write the feature anyway. You know they will. If you talk to them, they’ll be more … onside.’ He winced, anticipating Johnny’s reaction.

  ‘“Onside?” Fucking “onside?”’ Johnny spat the words out, angry and irritated. ‘When did you start talking like that? You come from North London, not fucking LA.’

  ‘Look, I need you to do this. You owe it to the band.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘There’s something else. I want you to think about writing an autobiography. We’ll get you a good ghostwriter, put it out as your story, as told by you.’

  ‘Are you not listening to a word of what I’m saying to you? No.’

  ‘Johnny, people are interested. I’ve had a lot of enquiries over the years and it’ll kick off again with the release of the album. The time’s right. If we don’t do it, someone else will.’

  ‘Goodbye, Dan.’ Johnny grabbed his coat, put his collar up and strode out into the cold, winter afternoon.

  ***

  Over the next couple of weeks Paul and Colin went to work on him and Johnny realised how much they wanted to do all the promotional stuff for the album. Colin in particular m
issed the kind of attention he’d had in the band’s heyday. This was a chance for him to remind people of who he was and what he had been a part of.

  ‘One last shot, mate, for Heartbreaker. What do you say?’ he said to Johnny.

  So Johnny eventually agreed. ‘But the first time some dipshit journo asks me about my star sign or my favourite fucking colour, I’m out of there.’

  Colin grinned. ‘It’s a more discerning bunch we’ve got lined up, don’t worry. Besides,’ he teased, ‘Leo and blue. Dan’s already emailed that sort of shit over to them.’

  ***

  At the Valentine’s Day launch party at Crawdaddy Records, Johnny and Dan Cross were holed up in a corner near the bar. The place was busy and buzzing, the promise of free booze enough to draw a good crowd of music journalists, Crawdaddy execs and other musicians. The new album was playing and people seemed almost universally to be ignoring it, a fact that wouldn’t stop at least some of them from basing a review purely on that hearing.

  ‘Do you remember I mentioned to you about doing a book?’ Dan was saying.

  Johnny swirled Jack Daniel’s round in the glass he was holding, kept his eyes down and his voice even. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Well, a mate of mine in publishing has tipped me the wink that his company is considering a proposal for a new Heartbreaker book. They really want to do it, they feel the time is right.’ Dan looked at Johnny. ‘Nothing like the two that are already out; a real, honest account, talking about the history, the music, the influences, the impact. They want to tell the true story of the band, from start to finish.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘They would rather do a book with you. If you don’t agree, then they’ll do the other one. We’re lucky to have been given the option, Johnny. They could have just gone ahead anyway.’

  ‘They wouldn’t make as much money.’

  ‘They would make enough, believe me. The fans are clamouring for something new.’

  ‘The fans are checking their retirement funds and debating a property abroad.’

  Dan smiled. ‘Some of them, maybe. Others are deciding what GCSEs to do, or what university to study at, or who they want to work for, or how many kids to have. The album has created fresh interest in the band, as well. The back catalogue is flying out of the shops. We’re expecting Rescued to chart again.’

  Johnny ran a hand through his hair. ‘Why can’t people leave us in peace?’

  ‘Because they want to know. If you tell your story your way, you’ve got control. If you don’t, someone else will, and they’ll have control.’ Dan put his hand on Johnny’s arm. ‘Look, mate, people are going to be digging up your past whatever happens. Wouldn’t you rather have a hand on the shovel?’

  ‘Christ, Dan, this is blackmail.’

  Dan held his tongue. Johnny, paced, fretted and fumed, but there really was no choice, when all was said and done.

  ‘Okay,’ he said eventually, ‘I’ll do it.’

  Dan breathed a sigh of relief. Having the project in Johnny’s hands meant more to him than he could say.

  ‘But there are conditions,’ Johnny said. ‘I want total control over content, I want a watertight contract, and I want a good writer, not some fucking hatchet man with a pen who doesn’t get the music.’

  ‘Sounds fair enough,’ said Dan.

  ‘In fact,’ said Johnny, thinking on his feet, ‘I want to choose the writer. You sort out a bunch of candidates and Colin, Paul and I will interview them and pick the one we want to work with.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s—’

  ‘That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.’

  ***

  ‘I’ve never interviewed anybody before, have you?’ asked Colin Carson the following week. He, Paul Scott and Johnny were drinking in the George and Dragon, Johnny’s local.

  Paul shrugged. ‘Not really. Not properly.’

  ‘I’ve never had a proper job interview, either.’ He laughed. ‘Come to think of it, I’ve never had a proper job.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Johnny. ‘It’s our show, we can do what the hell we like.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, mate,’ said Paul. ‘Trouble is, we don’t know where to start.’

  ‘We start by making a list of what we want in our pet monkey with a keyboard.’

  ‘Well, we don’t want anybody boring,’ said Colin. ‘And nobody religious, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Johnny, speaking as he wrote the words down, ‘must not be boring or religious.’

  ‘They need to know about music,’ said Paul. ‘Our sort of music, not the shite that’s in the charts. And they have to like it.’

  ‘Must like rock and blues,’ said Johnny, writing.

  ‘And they have to be able to hold a drink,’ said Colin, as Gerry Edwards, the landlord, set a tray of drinks on the table. ‘We don’t want some teetotal tosser turning their nose up at us.’

  ‘Good call,’ said Johnny, adding that to his list.

  ‘How the hell are you going to find out in an interview if somebody can hold his drink?’ said Paul. ‘If they twig it matters, they’ll just say they can.’

  Colin grinned. ‘We’ll hold the interviews in a hotel and get pissed with them on the night. That way we get to see them in action. Nowhere to hide.’

  Paul laughed. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said.

  ‘What are you lot up to?’ asked Gerry.

  ‘We’re interviewing writers, Ger,’ said Colin. ‘We need somebody to write a book about the band.’

  Gerry looked at Johnny and raised an eyebrow. Johnny rolled his eyes. ‘It’s not my idea, mate,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t think it would be.’ Gerry loaded the empties onto the tray. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘How many names is Dan getting?’ asked Paul.

  ‘He’s aiming for about half a dozen,’ said Johnny.

  ‘No problem, then. We’ll book a hotel in town, bus them in and put them up.’

  Johnny nodded. ‘We can interview them in the afternoon, then socialise in the evening.’

  ‘Do we get them all in together on the same day?’ asked Paul.

  ‘No,’ said Colin. ‘Twos or threes. We need to be able to get a proper look at them.’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea, but it’ll take longer. What’ll Dan say about that? I got the impression he wanted things done sharpish.’

  ‘Leave Dan to me,’ said Johnny. ‘This is important, it takes as long as it takes.’ And the longer it takes, the better, he thought but didn’t say.

  Chapter 3

  The interview

  The instructions had specified ‘casual dress’ so Alex had worn one. There was another writer present, John Egan, and he and the band were in jeans, although Dan Cross, their manager, wore a suit. He seemed to be trying to organise proceedings, but was failing as the band took over and did their own thing. The whole affair teetered on the brink of chaos, albeit of the good-natured kind. Alex was having a great time: even if she didn’t get the job, meeting the surviving members of her favourite band was a trip.

  The first exercise was a music quiz, something Alex hadn’t anticipated but thoroughly enjoyed. John Egan was less pleased. He wore a blank look for the majority of the time and his answer sheet showed a lot of empty spaces.

  ‘God Almighty, I wasn’t expecting that,’ he muttered to Alex afterwards. ‘I like music, but I had no idea who most of that lot were. Mind you, you seemed to do all right.’

  ‘Yes, it’s my kind of stuff,’ she said. ‘Why, who do you like?’

  ‘Bit of Beyoncé, Coldplay for the heavier stuff.’

  She didn’t get the chance to respond as they were called into their first interviews. Alex was in with Paul Scott and Colin Carson, and John Egan was with Johnny Burns and Dan Cross. Afterwards they would swap, so they all got a chance to talk.

  Her first interview was more of a friendly chat about music, sussing out what she knew and who she listened to. The second one with John
ny and Dan was a little more structured, a little more serious. She told them about the projects she had completed so far, books she had written, people she had worked for.

  ‘We anticipate whoever gets the job will be working with me for a month or so,’ said Johnny. ‘I should think you’d get back home at weekends if you wanted to, but would being away from home for so long be a problem?’

  ‘Well, no, but I normally—’

  ‘I gather from others we’ve spoken to that our approach with this is a little different,’ said Johnny. ‘Rather than work in one short, intensive burst, I want to limit the writer’s time with me to a couple of hours a day tops. That’s all I can really spare. That’s why I need someone who’ll stay nearby for a period of time.’

  ‘Well, it’s an unusual approach, but you’re the boss,’ said Alex.

  ‘So that wouldn’t be a problem?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Not any more, she thought. In fact, it might be better all-round if I’m away from home for a while.

  ‘We’re keen to get the project underway. How soon could you start?’ asked Dan.

  ‘Actually, I’m going on holiday next week.’

  ‘How long for?’

  ‘Just a week. Is that a problem?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ said Johnny, shooting Dan a look. ‘And you’ll probably need a week or so after that to get sorted out, won’t you?’

  ‘A day or two would do,’ said Alex.

  ‘But longer would be better, bearing in mind you’ll be away for a while afterwards,’ said Johnny. ‘Right?’

  ‘Okay, thanks, Alex.’ Dan looked at his watch. It was almost five o’clock. He stood up and shook her hand. ‘See you in the bar at six.’

  ***

  Alex was awake but had her eyes tightly closed. A bright light was searing her eyelids, showing her amoebas that swam through the red sea of her vision. She felt shaky, dry-mouthed and disorientated, and John Bonham’s evil twin was rampaging around in her skull with a bass drum and a mallet.