Hound Dog

by Richard Blandford

  I’m just working them through a routine for ‘A Mess of Blues’ when I shiver involuntarily. It’s Eddie. I feel him watching us before I see him, trundling towards us in his little buggy. Not waiting for the song to end, he buzzes straight up and stops in front of us, waving at us like he’s royalty in his carriage. ‘Well, hello boys!’ he squeals. ‘How absolutely lovely to see you again.’

  ‘Awwright,’ says the Fatman.

  Eddie skips off his buggy and gives them both long lingering kisses on their cheeks. He turns to me as they wipe off his spittle behind his back, exchanging worried glances with each other. ‘So, dear boy,’ says Eddie to me, ‘how are rehearsals going? Do you think you’re going to be just utterly spectacular for tomorrow evening?’

  ‘Oh, definitely, Eddie. No doubt about it.’

  ‘Good, good, wonderful. Boys,’ he says, turning back to Gayboy and Fats, ‘I do hope you know how grateful I am to you for giving up your time and energies at such short notice. Is the financial arrangement satisfactory?’

  ‘Financial arrangement?’ asks the Fatman.

  ‘Why, yes, of course.’ Both of them look at him blankly. ‘Don’t tell me he hasn’t told you! Boys, boys, I’m willing to give you seven thousand pounds each for your trouble. Why did you not tell them? They must have been thinking we’d kidnapped them or something. You’ve put me in a very bad light!’ He glares at me in a way I used to see often, years ago.

  ‘I’m sorry, Eddie,’ I say, ‘it must have slipped my mind.’

  ‘Yes, well, we can’t all just be walking around forgetting things, can we, or the world would just be a big mess, with aeroplanes dropping out of the sky and whatnot. Anyhow, I shall leave you to it. Practice makes perfect, don’t they say?’ He scootles off on his buggy, leaving me with the two boys, who look at each other, mouthing the words, ‘Seven grand. Seven fucking grand…’

  Next thing I know, they’re whooping like bloody Americans, giving each other high-fives and complicated handshakes they’re obviously making up on the spot. Soon Gaylord is doing handstands and the Fatman is dancing a stupid fatty dance. When they break into a rendition of ‘Money, Honey’ by Elvis fucking Presley, I feel it’s only right to give both of them a slap.

  ‘What’s that for?’ whines the Fatman.

  ‘You know what for, being an irritating fat cunt, that’s what for. Now we’re getting back to work.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ says Gayboy, ‘I just want to raise something here. Wouldn‘t I be right in saying that Eddie only gave you three grand for doing this gig?’

  ‘What I’m being paid is none of your fucking business. Back to work.’

  ‘No, it was definitely three grand. I remember ’cos I was there.’

  ‘Look, stop fucking about. We’re getting on with rehearsing, or—’

  ‘Or what?’ says the Gaylord. ‘You’ll have us beaten up? I don’t think so. Seeing as Eddie’s paying fourteen grand for our services, he’s not going to have us done over is he?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says the Fatlad, ‘we’ll do the gig, don’t worry, and we’ll rehearse to all hours, but you may as well be nice to us, ’cos you’ve got nothing to back up your big mouth. Now you treat us with respect, which means no calling us names like Gaylord and Fatso, and you’ll get a lot of hard work out of us. Deal?’ They’re right. The moment when I had any genuine power over them passed as soon as they agreed to do the gig.

  Now we’re all in it together.

  ‘OK,’ I say, quietly. ‘Right, back to work. If that’s all right with you fine gentlemen, that is.’

  And so we carry on, well into the evening. By the time we’ve finished, we’re as tight as we’ll ever be, and may even stand a chance in hell of actually entertaining someone. Eddie himself has disappeared again, but his staff lay on a pretty huge spread for the three of us. It’s bloody torture biting my tongue as Gayboy and the Fatman get me worked up at the dining table, I suspect on purpose, with their fucking stupid conversations and constant bloody singing, but after we’ve eaten I finally get a chance of some peace when they discover Eddie’s giant telly.

  ‘Fuck me,’ says the Fatman, ‘it’s massive!’

  ‘We should definitely watch something on this,’ says Gayboy. ‘Do you reckon Eddie’s got Star Wars?’

  ‘No he hasn’t got fucking Star Wars,’ I say, the first time I’ve sworn at the little shit in hours. ‘What he’s got are some of the finest examples of cinema as an art form.’

  ‘So why hasn’t he got Star Wars then?’ says Fatboy. ‘That’s the best film ever made.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you broaden your horizons for once and watch something with a bit of class? Take this for instance, Les Enfants du Paradis. It says here it’s the best French film ever. And look, there’s a clown on the cover, which means it’ll be funny.’

  ‘That’s not a clown,’ says the Gayster as I show them the box, ‘it’s a mime.’

  ‘OK, it’s a mime, but that’s not important. What matters is that we should watch it and actually spend our time on something good for once.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ says Fats, ‘we’ll watch it, if that’s what you want to do.’

  Twenty minutes in, Gaylord’s hitting Fatty in the head with a cushion. Every time he does so, the Fatman says ‘Meep.’ They think this is fucking hilarious.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ I scream at the pair of them, ‘if you’re not going to watch the film, go somewhere else.’

  They look at each other for a second. Then the Fatman says to Gayboy, ‘Do you fancy a pillow fight?’

  ‘Yaaaay!’ screams the Gayster, waving his arms in the air as Fatboy chases him out the room and up the stairs.

  I settle down to watch the rest of the film. It’s funny, I’ve never really watched anything like this before, and I’m not honestly expecting it to mean anything to me at all, but it does. As I get drawn into the story, I realise that in many ways, the situation in the film is very similar to my own in regards to Coreen, who’s been weighing on my mind quite a lot these past couple of days. You see, it’s set in olden times, back in the seventeenth century, or thereabouts, and it’s about this bloke who’s a mime, like those saddos you see in city centres sometimes who pretend to get out of a box or be pulled along by a rope or get stuck in a lift, when in fact there’s nothing there and they’re just wasting everybody’s time. But the bloke in this, he’s really good at it and he can mime all sorts of stuff, not just boxes, ropes and sliding doors. So anyway, he falls for this bird who’s a bit of a prozzer and hangs out with criminals. He has a chance to shag her, but he bottles it, and she ends up marrying this rich bloke she doesn‘t really love. Meanwhile, the mime becomes a big star, and marries this boring bird who he’s not really keen on, but he ends up having a family with. But then the first bird comes back, and they still don’t end up together, but his wife runs off with the kids anyway, and by the end of the film, nobody’s with anybody at all and nobody’s happy.

  And I suppose it’s a bit like that with me and Coreen. I love her, but I’m not with her. She’s with Johnny, who’s obviously a lot richer than me, but she’s not happy. OK, I’m not thick enough to think that she’s in love with me, but she could be if we got to spend more time together. Not that that’s going to happen, I suppose, with Johnny keeping her chained to his liver-spotted dick. So that means my love for her must be doomed, and that makes me feel pretty fucking miserable. I believe the correct word is ‘forlorn’. But then, she said she’d look me up, didn’t she? At a stretch, that could be taken to mean she wants to spend some time with me. But then birds say all sorts of crazy shit they don’t mean. Probably just said it to wind me up. Bitch. Of course, I don’t mean that. It would just be easier for me if I did, that’s all.

  After all the rehearsing, eating and fancy film-watching, I’m pretty beat and go to bed at one, which is early for me. Sleep comes easily. It doesn’t last. I’m woken by the strange sensation that I am not alone in the bed. I can feel
another body’s heat wrapped around me under the sheets, and a hand holding mine. Someone’s warm breath blows on my neck, and it smells of spirits and cigars. Oh, god, oh Jesus Christ, I realise as I wake up fully, it can only be Eddie.

  I open my eyes. It’s still dark. I try to turn myself over, but I can’t. He’s pinned me to the bed, pressing down on my arms and legs with all his weight. I can’t tell if he’s asleep or not, but he’s fully clothed. I can even feel his shoes with my foot. ‘Eddie?’ I ask, feeling a very real sense of dread. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘My boy,’ he mumbles, ‘my dear boy.’ He’s very drunk, I realise.

  ‘Are you OK, Eddie? Do you want me to help put you to bed?’

  ‘My boy. My lovely, precious boy.’ He runs his hand through my hair, and then he kisses my neck and cheek.

  ‘Eddie, don’t do that. Please.’

  ‘My boy, you’re so beautiful. Let me kiss you, you beautiful angel.’

  He kisses me on the lips, running his tongue over them.

  ‘Why won’t you let me kiss you?’ he pouts. ‘Am I not good enough for you? Don’t you know who I am? I made you, you bastard!’ For a second I’m sure he’s going to turn violent, and even though he’s pretty old, he’s in good shape, but his tensed muscles soon relax as he sinks further into me and the bed.

  ‘It’s not that, Eddie,’ I say to him, ‘I’m just not… like you, that’s all.’

  He’s silent for a few seconds, then says, ‘No, no, you’re not. Of course you’re not. You won’t let me down will you? You’ll be a star tomorrow for me won’t you? You’ll be an angel for your Eddie, won’t you, my boy?’

  ‘Of course. I won’t let you down.’

  ‘You’re a good boy. I love you, you know.’ He begins to sob.

  ‘Eddie, what’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m old. I’m old, and I’m ugly, and I’m fat. I’m going to die by myself. You know, I must have fucked a million boys, but I never let any of them stay. None of them would have wanted to stay anyway. And now I’m going to die. I’m going to die without ever having been loved.’

  ‘You’re not going to die, Eddie,’ I say, cradling his head for reasons I can’t quite explain. ‘You’ve got years to go yet.’

  ‘My dear boy. I’ve got cancer. I am going to be dying very soon. And I can look back on my life and say, without any doubt, none of it’s been worthwhile. Not the money, not the sex, none of it. It’s all been a total fucking waste of time.’ He cries softly to himself while I run my hand over his head and soothe him to sleep. Despite his weight pressing down on me, I somehow fall back to sleep myself, until I’m woken in the early morning for just a minute by the opening and closing of the door. I see that I’m alone again in the room and go back to sleep.

  Chapter 26

  Eddie’s not around when I get up Friday morning, and there’s still no sign of him the rest of the day. We do a bit more rehearsing, but mostly lounge around until about six o’clock when we’re bundled into the limo to be taken up to London. Unfortunately, it’s not Dave driving us, so I have to sit in the back with the pair of them. They start singing Elvis songs as per fucking usual, but I hit on an unusual tactic in order to shut them up. I actually engage them in conversation. Not to make things too painful, the subject I settle on is myself.

  ‘So was there a lot in the papers about me then?’ I ask.

  ‘Quite a lot, yeah,’ replies the Fatty. ‘They dragged it out a bit, I guess because people found it so funny that an Elvis impersonator would kick the crap out of someone who‘s pretending to be Buddy Holly. You putting him in a coma, people didn’t find that so funny, but still… when they investigated your last known movements and it turned out that you’d got your todger out in a social club while dressed as Elvis and pretending to be Jesus, they couldn’t get enough of that.’

  ‘Hasn’t gone down well in the Elvis fan community though,’ chips in Gaylord. ‘The general consensus is that you’ve brought Elvis into disrepute through association, and made a laughing stock of the profession of Elvis tribute artist.’

  ‘Yeah, ’cos they really needed my help on that one.’

  ‘There is a minority opinion, however, on the militant fringes of Elvis fandom, that you only gave that bloke what was coming to him for liking Buddy over Elvis. However, this is, I stress, a stance taken by a tiny number of Elvis extremists, who advocate a policy of total Elvis separatism away from the mainstream of general rock ’n’ roll appreciation.’

  ‘Where the fuck do you get this shit from?’

  ‘The Internet mostly,’ says the Fatman. ‘In fact, thanks to Elvis message boards and chat rooms, you’re being discussed all over the world, from South Africa to New Zealand, even Memphis itself.’

  ‘Fame at last,’ I say. ‘Maybe I should go on tour.’

  ‘If you did, you’d be arrested,’ says Gayboy. ‘You should just be hoping there are no undercover policemen there tonight. Otherwise, you’re fucked.’

  ‘Yes, thank you for bringing that to my attention, as if I didn‘t have enough to worry about already.’

  ‘Well, you’re going to be caught eventually aren’t you,’ the Gayster says. ‘Unless you spend the rest of your life in Eddie’s garden, you’re not going to get away with it.’

  ‘Look, you gaylord, if I ever have a vacancy for a nagging voice inside my head that points out my every mistake, I’ll let you know. Until then, shut the fuck up!’

  ‘Don’t call me Gaylord. If you fucking call me that again, I won’t go on stage tonight.’

  ‘If you don’t go on stage tonight, you’ll be using disabled parking spaces for the rest of your life and you know it. Don’t make idle threats, you fucking gay cock.’

  ‘Lads, lads,’ says Fatso, ‘let’s keep it civil, shall we, for all our sakes.’

  ‘Ah shut it, Fatboy,’ I say under my breath, but I know I can‘t take it any further. There’s an awkward silence for a few minutes, which the Fatty breaks by bursting into ‘You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me’. I can see there’s no point in even trying to stop him, and by the time he’s on the second line, the Gayster’s joined in too. It’s not that long a journey though, and I only have to endure their rendition of the entire second side of Elvis’s That’s the Way It Is album before we arrive in Soho, at the back door of Eddie’s Trunk Club. A goon we’ve never seen before waits for us outside, and unsmilingly grunts at our arrival before bundling us in. It’s not that nice in the back, it’s cold, no carpeting and the paint’s peeling. And there’s a funny smell, sickly sweet. I can’t explain it, but it just makes me think that something’s wrong. It’s particularly strong as we pass the dressing room.

  The unsmiling goon unlocks a door. ‘Wait in here,’ he says, ‘toilet’s that way. Don’t go anywhere else.’

  We walk into the lounge. It’s OK. At least it’s got heating and a carpet, and an old brown three-piece suite. Makes me think of a dentist’s waiting room. They’ve even laid out a finger buffet for us in there, along with a crate of beer. Nervously, the three of us sit down. I pull the crate of beer towards me and throw them a can each. No one says anything. Fatty takes a swig of the cheap supermarket beer and belches. I’m about to swat him round the head, when unexpectedly, he says, ‘I’m quite looking forward to this actually.’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ says Gaylord. ‘It’ll be good to do the old act one last time, and really do it properly. You know, you are loads better than us, at least when you put your mind to it.’

  ‘Yeah, boss, you’re the best,’ says the Fatman.

  I’m so taken back by their unexpected appreciation, I don’t know what to say. A couple of weeks ago I’d have just told them they were pointing out the fucking obvious, but I know that’s not good enough now. ‘Thanks, lads,’ is what I do say, after a moment’s thought.

  There’s a knock on the door. It swings open, and a friendly face appears. It’s Dave.

  ‘Hi, guys,’ he says, beaming. ‘Just thought I’d wish you good luck for tonight.�
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  ‘Thanks, Dave,’ I say.

  ‘That’s OK, I can’t wait. Listen, if you want to pop out and have a bit of a soundcheck, now would be a good time to do it.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s an idea.’

  ‘OK, just follow me. I’ll see if I can round up the sound guy we’ve found for you.’

  Dave leads us down the cold corridor, past the dressing room and into the club. I can see a platform for dancing in the centre of the room, as well as a few smaller podiums throughout. At the side are alcoves, I should imagine for more intimate shows. The place is empty save for a few cleaners, wiping down the tables and the poles, and a couple of goons, stalking the place with their mobile phones. The club itself looks oddly clinical with the lights up. It’s all chrome and leather padding. Funny to think in just a few hours’ time, women will be showing their crotches to strange men here. Then I have a horrible thought. ‘Uh, Dave,’ I say, ‘where is it we’ll be performing exactly?’

  ‘Well, up there of course.’ He points to the main pole-dancing stage. It would have to be, wouldn’t it, yet another of Eddie’s little jokes. Oh well, there’s no way we’re getting out of it, I think to myself, so with resignation I pull myself up, the pair of them following behind. I see myself in the mirrored floor, caged in by the maze of poles around me. ‘Fuck me,’ says the Fatman, ‘we don’t have to strip do we?’

  ‘Only if someone stuffs money in your trousers.’

  Dave brings in the soundman, a big ball of denim and hair who sets up a couple of microphones on the stage. We give him our CDs full of backing music and do a run through of ‘Burning Love’.

  ‘Was that all right?’ I ask Dave.

  ‘Magic, mate, magic,’ he says.

  We go back to the lounge and eat the canapés and get pissed. We must be in there for hours before it’s even time to get changed. By that point I’m rationing the beers as the Gayster is losing his coordination. I also fit in several visits to the lav to sort myself out. For my nerves, you understand. After a while we can hear the party starting. Banging techno is playing loudly, and making the base of my skull throb.