On the Shore Road, Steve hopped onto a bus to take him into the city centre. Aside from the type of quizzical looks his Mod appearance usually attracted, no-one on the bus seemed to notice how jittery he was. His heart was racing but anxiety helped focus his mind. He had to get out of Belfast but where was he going to go? He had a cousin he was close to in Edinburgh but he was married with three kids one of whom was severely disabled so he couldn’t imagine he’d be welcomed with open arms there. There was his mate Tim who’d immigrated to Toronto but the air fare would wipe out half his savings. But at least tonight he’d be able to stay with Johnny Bell, one of his Mod associates who put on a low-key 60s night upstairs at The Garrick Bar on the last Sunday of every month. Johnny had a decent-sized flat in the bohemian area around Queen’s University in the south side of the city. Nice and civilised and not the sort of place that he’d be likely to bump into Trevor and Donzo.
Steve got off the bus at the City Hall and when he arrived at The Garrick, there were about a dozen of the usual suspects trying to out-do each other in 60s retro style. Wee Davy looked pretty sharp in his blue three-button mohair suit set off with a paisley scarf and a French crop haircut. There were a couple of heavily-made-up girls with Mary Quant hairstyles and skimpy psychedelic-patterned dresses but they were a little too podgy to carry the look off with much success.
Johnny was behind the decks playing Georgie Fame’s Somebody Stole My Thunder and with the kind of lean frame that best suits Mod fashion, he looked the coolest of the bunch with a dark green cashmere polo-neck and a haircut modelled on Jeff Beck in 1968. He beckoned Steve to come over and join him and hugged him as the tune blasted out and a smattering of Mods shuffled nonchalantly around the dance-floor.
‘Jesus Steve, how are ye hombre?’ said Johnny. ‘I heard all about Doug. The whole crew are really shook up about it. Ye missed a wee announcement I made earlier. I know it might not mean much but I just dedicated tonight to him. The girls have been bawling their eyes out, so they have.’
The tender concern in Johnny’s eyes made Steve feel like crying himself but he needed to keep it together.
‘I’m all the better for seein’ you mate… can’t face being in the house alone tonight so hope its okay if I crash at yours.’
Johnny hugged him again.
‘Nae bother amigo… it’s the least I can do.’
Steve let Johnny get on with his DJ duties and spent the rest of the night in a corner at the back, cradling his Guinness as each of the Mods took turns to come over and offer their condolences. The place filled out with students and random drinkers and as the dancing intensified to the sound of The Spencer Davis Group’s I’m a Man, Steve felt numb to the hubbub around him. Wee Davy was the last to come over and talk to him. He was always buzzing on some substance or another but his heart was in the right place.
‘Stevie boy, I know you’ve heard it all tonight mate but I just wanted to tell ya that I thought Doug was a top man. See when I was skint, the fella would always stand me drinks all night… and he was great crack, so he was. I know he was yer best mucker ‘n all, must be hard to get yer head around… how are ye bearin’ up, kid?’
Steve patted Davy’s shoulder affectionately.
‘It’s kind of you to ask Davy and I’m not bein’ funny but I’m really tired of talkin’ about how I’m feelin’. C’mon mate, tell us how you’ve been. What have ye been up to lately?’
‘Ach just the same stuff, Steve. Still workin’ in that shop in the arcade that sells the second-hand retro gear. Best crack I’ve had lately was the other weekend. Me and my girl went over for a Mod bash in Brighton. I tell ye what, its fuckin’ cracker over there, so it is. It’s a bit like how you imagine the 60s… folk bein’ dead cool ‘n friendly ‘n all. But you’ll never guess what, mate. I was at this wee basement place near the seafront and I coulda sworn I saw that wee girl you went out with, Jeanie. The one that did a disappearin’ act on ye, yeah? I said hello when she walked past but she just blanked me. But I swear, Steve, I would bet my whole fuckin’ record collection that it was her.’
And with that, Steve knew his escape destination.
5
Steve only managed to get a few hours sleep on Johnny’s sofa and at around eight, he could hear his host putting on the kettle in the kitchen.
‘Can I have brew, Johnny boy?’ he shouted. ‘White, one sugar.’
‘Was makin’ ye one anyway,’ replied Johnny. ‘Got a wee fry on the go too.’
‘Happy days!’ said Steve, before the irony of the statement sunk in.
He went through to sit at Johnny’s kitchen table and a plate of bacon, egg, sausage, mushrooms, potato bread and soda bread was put in front of him accompanied by a steaming mug of tea. It looked wonderful and it was some comfort to Steve that his appetite hadn’t been affected by his woes. ‘Boy ye could represent Ulster in the eatin’ Olympics, son’, his ma used to say.
‘So, what’s the plan, Steve? Takin’ the day off work? I’m sure they’d understand if ye do. Ye gotta do what’s best for you at a time like this… be gentle with yerself n’ all.’
Johnny’s kind sincerity acted like a truth drug on Steve.
‘Thing is, mate, I gotta get the fuck outta Belfast.’
‘Ye what?’
Steve gave Johnny the low-down on Trevor and Donzo and the Brighton escape plan, hoping that his friend’s common sense might provide a clear eye on his predicament.
‘Fuckin’ hell Steve, if it was anyone but Trevor McCann I’d go straight to the peelers but I can see where yer comin’ from… there’s a good reason why that fat psycho bastard is still roamin’ free. Fuck, remember yer man who started slabberin’ to the papers about Trevor sellin’ smack to his son…. I saw that poor fucker in his wheelchair around Corn Market the other day…’
‘Aye Johnny, and he’s upped the ante from knee-cappings and sellin’ class As with this particular felony, wouldn’t ye say?’
Steve mopped up some egg yolk with the last bit of potato bread and wolfed it down while Johnny poured him another cup of tea.
‘So Johnny, I’ve got if figured out. I’ll go to the doc’s this mornin’ and get signed off work for a couple of months and that’ll buy me a bit o’ time. He put me on Prozac when I got maself into a state about Jeanie fuckin’ off on me so he’s already got me down as a sensitive wee soul. I can clear out my savings – that’ll give me twelve hundred quid cash to keep me goin’. Once I’ve done that, I’ll be on the flight to Gatwick and then it’s straight to sunny Brighton for Stevie boy.’
‘What about the peelers, Steve? Have they not talked to you yet? Will they not start thinkin’ there’s somethin’ fishy goin’ on if ye just disappear like this?’
‘Listen mate, if I start worryin’ about the peelers it’ll do my head in but I’m not gonna be stupid about it either. I won’t be usin’ my cash card any more so beyond maybe sussin’ out that I’ve flown to Gatwick, they won’t be able to trace where I am and I’ll just get maself a new mobile when I hit Brighton.’
‘Aye Steve but if they want to, they’ll make it their business to catch up with you eventually.’
Steve finished his tea and started fiddling with his chunky silver identity bracelet.
‘Look Johnny, if they ever get houl’ o’me, I reckon I’ll be able to deal with it… I haven’t fuckin’ done anythin’ so what’s the worst they can do? I’ll just say I needed to get away to get my head showered or somethin’. But if Trevor ever gets houl’ o’ me, that’s a whole different ball game.’
Johnny lifted the empty plates and put them in the sink.
‘Guess ye gotta go with yer instinct Steve but why Brighton? I know ye love Quadrophenia ‘n all but is that a good enough reason?’
‘As good a reason as any, mate… not to mention the fact that Wee Davy swore blind that he saw Jeanie when he was over there on a weekender a wee while back.’
‘Listen, Steve. I think you’ve got enough on your plate without bringin�
� Jeanie into the equation. I mean, Wee Davy says more than his prayers. He’s so off his nut half the time that he was probably hallucinatin’… sees some cute girl with bobbed hair and jumps to the conclusion that it’s Jeanie… fella’s a fuckin’ wingnut.’
‘He sounded pretty convinced to me.’
‘That’s as may be, Steve and I never wanted to say anythin’ before ‘cos I knew you were cracked-up on her but I’ll tell ye now… I know she was gorgeous ‘n all but there was just a vibe I got off her that creeped me out… I always thought that girl was bad news… really bad news.’
6
Steve arrived at George Best Belfast City Airport with an hour to spare before his 5.40pm flight. A screen played clips of Best in his heyday on a continuous loop. ‘So what would you do if you were in my shoes, Geordie?’ wondered Steve. ‘I know. You’d start workin’ yer charm on the first sexy blonde you met and offer to share some vino with her on the flight. She’d fall for your little-boy-lost routine and want to look after you… she might even be loaded and let ye take refuge in her penthouse flat… champagne breakfasts every mornin’ and sex on tap…save ye all the bother of tryin’ to make yer way in some strange town...’
In the check-in queue, he clocked a foxy, posh-looking 30-something blonde in a pencil skirt which made the most of her nicely-shaped backside. Their eyes briefly met and he smiled at her but she shot him back a look that said ‘don’t even think about it, loser.’
‘Brighton it is, then,’ decided Steve.
After an uneventful flight during which he was stuck between two chubby business men comparing the nightly rates of upmarket hotels they’d stayed in, Steve arrived at London Gatwick.
The Gatwick to Brighton train was mainly filled with weary, defeated-looking commuters but in the seat facing him were a couple of lads he took to be students. One had opted for the dishevelled, floppy-haired indie look while the other had shoulder-length dreadlocks, a lip-ring and a Free Tibet t-shirt. The indie-looking kid looked impressed by Steve’s style.
‘Excuse me, mate. Just wondering where you got those boots from. They really look the business.’
Steve had a shiny pair of black Chelsea boots that went well with his check-toothed hipster trousers. He smiled at the compliment.
‘Got ‘em off Ebay, mate… only a tenner. So what’s the crack with you lads? On yer way to Brighton then?’
‘Yeah,’ said the dreadlocked one. ‘Had a bit of a mental one partying in London with mates and just getting back to reality now… we should probably start looking for a summer job now that term’s over.’
‘So you’re Irish, yeah?’ asked the indie kid.
‘Aye, that’s right’
‘Cool!’
Steve liked that. He hadn’t even had to do anything and he was already deemed ‘cool’ just by virtue of being Irish. For the rest of the journey, the students were hanging on Steve’s every word, with any minor witticism that he delivered in his thick Ulster brogue being greeted with howls of laughter. It looked like Brighton was going to be a doddle.
7
Steve arrived in Brighton with two basic tips from the students ringing in his ears. ‘Avoid West Street, mate, especially at weekends… it’s full of lairy dickheads. And see the pubs right next to the station? Don’t bother, they’re crap. Just go down Trafalgar Street and head to the Albert ... it’s only a minute’s walk away’.
The second piece of advice immediately seemed very sound to Steve. There, immortalised in a mural on the side of the pub was his hero, George Best. ‘This is my destiny calling,’ he thought.
For a Monday night, the place was pretty busy, filled with a ragged, genial-looking assortment of art students, old rockers and booze-hounds. While the juke-box played the opening riff of Tin Soldier, his favourite Small Faces tune, Steve felt a life-affirming buzz, sat himself down on a bar stool and tried to get the attention of the tattooed, peroxide blonde barmaid. Next to him, there was a skinny, hollow-cheeked dude with an unruly mop of collar-length brown hair who wouldn’t have looked out of place at a psychedelic rave-up in 1967. He was intently mouthing the lyrics of the tune while nursing an empty glass. So could this really be Brighton; the carefree land of kindred spirits that Steve always dreamt it might be? He caught the barmaid’s eye.
‘Pint of Guinness please luv and whatever this fella here’s havin’.’
The recipient of his generosity turned and smiled at him. He looked like he’d had a few but was still keeping it together.
‘Cheers boss… don’t I know you? We do a gig together one night or something?’
‘Nah mate, it’s just that anyone who appreciates Tin Soldier is alright by me. I’m Steve by the way… pleased to meet ye.’ Steve shook his hand.
‘Likewise, boss. I’m Bobby. You’re a Belfast Boy yeah? Would know that accent anywhere. So, don’t tell me… George Best was the Messiah and Gloria by Them blows the fuck out of anything by English ponces like The Beatles or The Stones …’
‘Spot on, Bobby. You’re a smart lad.’
‘… and let’s not forget that the sweat of Belfast shipyard workers built the mighty Titanic and that your lot were the unsung pioneers of the 17th century who crossed the Atlantic, made Tennessee their own, formed the back-bone of the American revolutionary army and invented country music…’
‘Not too keen on the oul’ country music so let’s leave that bit out,’ laughed Steve. ‘How the fuck do ye know that stuff?’
‘My old man was from Belfast, boss… grew up on all the myths and legends.’
‘He sounds like a wise and enlightened fella… here’s to yer da, cheers!’
Steve clinked glasses with his new companion and drained his glass. All the stuff he’d heard about English Guinness tasting inferior proved untrue and the agreeable atmosphere in the pub put him in a drinking mood.
‘Two more pints please, luv.’
From his stool, Steve could see through to another seated area behind the bar and his heart raced as he saw the slender back of a girl with a sleek black bob and striped t-shirt. He was about to blurt out something but when the girl turned around, although she was quite a looker of similar height and build, she wasn’t Jeanie.
Bobby noticed Steve’s sudden change in demeanour.
‘You alright boss? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Yeah, something like that… more a case of mistaken identity.’
Bobby looked bemused but didn’t pursue the matter any further.
‘So what brings you to Brighton?’
Steve gestured to their surroundings.
‘I wanted a bit o’ this, mate. I’ve always heard that Brighton’s a tolerant place… I know the tourists are flocking to Belfast ‘n all but this is more my kinda town… sort o’ place where ye might bump into folk who know the lyrics to Tin Soldier and where ye don’t get any hassle if ye choose to dress differently to every other spidey wanker.’
‘Spidey? Whaddya mean, boss?’
‘Sorry mate… I think ye say chavvy over here, don’t ye?’
‘Well I grew up in a dodgy estate in Hackney so I can’t say I’m in a position to look down on the rougher elements but the clobber that you see some of the youth wearing these days, it’s diabolical… ‘orrible white trainers, tracksuit bottoms, hoodies and baseball caps… shocking.’
‘Too fuckin’ right… just ‘cos ye grow up poor, shouldn’t mean that ye don’t have any class.’
The pair clinked glasses again and continued chatting. Bobby told Steve how he made a few quid as a musician doing pub gigs with a soul covers band but when that kind of employment was thin on the ground, he’d turn his hand to anything… labouring, painting and decorating… whatever it took to get by. Steve decided to keep schtum about his real reasons for coming to Brighton. It would make life simpler if he just said that he fancied being in a happening seaside town for the summer. After getting another round of pints in, Bobby gave Steve a mischievous look.
‘Hey boss,�
�� he whispered. ‘If you fancy making a night of it, you could have a dab of this and we could go to this club I know… a lot of the art school chicks go there… they play a lot of trendy indie shit but the totty makes up for it.’
Bobby quickly opened his palm and showed Steve an open bag of white crystallised powder.
‘MDMA yeah?’
‘The very thing… its quite pokey though, so go easy.’
Steve had a glance around to make sure that he was being discreet, licked his right index finger, dipped it into the bag and then quickly put the substance in his mouth.
Towards the end of his pint, Steve felt the drug kick in as The Byrds’s Mr, Tambourine Man blasted out of the jukebox. The colour of his companion’s shirt now seemed the bluest of any blue Steve could imagine and the euphoric chemical rush seemed to obliterate all the dreadful events of the weekend. The music, which Steve loved anyway, suddenly seemed even more magical and profound.
‘Fuckin’ hell Bobby, I’m flyin’.’
‘You said it, boss… so let’s get outta here and fly on down to The Joint to check out the talent.’
8
If Steve had thought the Albert was agreeable, he found The Joint even more so. Having checked in his holdall at the cloakroom, he followed Bobby down a spiral staircase into a dimly-lit basement decorated with kitsch, vaguely erotic murals. The venue was rammed with good-looking scenesters making shapes to a tune Steve quite liked called Jerk it Out by The Caesars. Steve reckoned it wasn’t a patch on the original 60s stuff but it was a pretty decent pastiche. It certainly provided a worthy excuse for joining in with the dancing.
Steve felt such a big emotional connection with music that he was an effortlessly graceful dancer. While a lot of his Mod friends in Belfast would stiffly and self-consciously try to ape dance moves that they’d seen in old episodes of Ready Steady Go from the 60s, Steve just let his body respond to the groove of the tune and would almost glide around the dance floor, with a beatific smile on his face.
Die Hard Mod Page 2