Even in the face of the vindictive provocation, Danny vainly tried to impress his dad. “The band have got a big gig tomorrow. I’m practising for that,” he offered. Looking for the slightest shred of fatherly approval.
Leaning on the doorframe, breathing heavily, Danny’s candidness was met with a disparaging guffaw. “You and yer little boyband mates playing one of them fuckin’ gay bars in town? Load of shite I bet youse are!”
Staring hard at the drunk and wheezing incarnation of his father, “That’s right! You fuckin’ tell me how shite I am. What a disgrace I am. How I’ll never amount to fuck all.” His breath quickened. Surprising himself by his outburst. “Well you’ll fuckin’ see. I’m gonna make it with this band. And you won’t see me for fuckin’ dust, you sad old cunt!”
Smack. Lightning fast. His father’s fist caught him on the left temple. Reeling from the punch but not wishing to show any weakness despite the tears that had started to well, Danny said softly, “Yeah that’s right. That’s the answer. Just fuck off and leave me alone. I’ll be gone before you know it…”
His father – as ever – seemed shocked at his violent capabilities and now stood in the doorway with a look of remorse on his face. The monster in him seemed to be dispelled as soon as the violence had been meted out.
Closing the bedroom door, Danny looked in the small bedroom mirror positioned off-centre above a chest of drawers. A thin drip of blood was easing its way from an inch-long cut, right over his thick brown eyebrow. Tracing a lean finger down the bloody line, he rubbed his finger against his tongue. Staring himself down in the mirror and dabbing at the cut with a tissue. “We will fuckin’ make it. Big time!” he mouthed to himself.
Chapter 15
A beer garden kind of evening. Having spent most of the day in the studio, Johnny felt that a pint was very much in order. Flirting a quick text message out to Mark and Chris, he was delighted to receive an instant response from Mark –
‘Mr H, read my mind. Love a few. Printers at 6 bells?’
With Claire away on a hen party/spa day, he’d have time to himself and there was nothing better than a quiet few pints and then home clutching whatever take-out food he fancied. Put the world to rights and all that, he thought.
Selecting a faded denim shirt, cargo shorts and a pair of scuffed white Adidas Superstars, Johnny felt as carefree as he had been in ages. The appointment with the doctors was looming later the following week, but for now that could wait.
Shades, wallet and keys gathered up, he headed to the Printers hoping that the beer garden wasn’t already heaving. Arriving on time, he saw Mark had already got two pints of lager and secured a prime slice of beer garden real estate.
“Mr Harrison. How the very devil are you?” Mark offered up cheerily.
“All good. All good man. How’ve you been? Let off the leash on a Saturday. You must have been a good boy!” replied Johnny before drinking deeply, sighing at the bite of the cold alcohol.
“Jenny’s away at her mum’s. Taken one of the kids and Barney’s at his mates on a sleepover. So, I’m all yours!” beamed Mark.
A couple of hours of relaxed, good natured bonhomie together with a steady flow of strong lager lead to an easy flow of idle chatter. The seldom seen Manchester sunshine had brought a decent crowd out.
As Mark went off to catch last orders, Johnny leant back on the wooden table, stretching his legs out on front of him. Looking up, two girls in their early twenties asked if the table was fully taken. Dressed in denim shorts, strappy summery tops and towering wedged platform sandals - more suited for stumbling between bars in some Mediterranean hotspot, leaving a trail of Sambuca shot glasses and drooling young males in their wake than in a quiet South Manchester suburb.
“I’m waiting on my mate. He’s at the bar. Don’t mind us though.”
“Nah you’re alright mate. We’ll wait ‘til you’ve gone.”
“Suit yourselves,” he replied casually. “And mind you don’t fall off them shoes. Casualty will be packed tonight the number of shoes like that I’ve seen.”
Turning as quickly as their shoes would permit, Johnny’s generosity was met by a not out of earshot cackle. “He’s old enough to be your dad. And what a cheeky twat about my shoes!”
Laughing to himself, and thinking, Bacardi Breezers, so much to answer for, Johnny turned back to face the table just as Mark returned with the pints and two whisky chasers.
Glad that the two girls had elected not to sit at their table, Johnny lowered his voice slightly, leaning forward. “Have I told you about Claire wanting kids now?” He exhaled deeply. “She thought she was pregnant the other week and has decided that we’re going to the docs to have all the tests…”
Looking at his friend for all the instant answers that a long-standing drinking partner should provide, he went on, “Didn’t you go through all that bollocks when you and Jenny wanted to start a family? Looked at IVF and that…”
Mark raised his eyebrows at the unexpected change in nature of the conversation. “’Kin ’ell mate. Good luck with that. We went for the initial chat and tests, but I then fired the proverbial Death Star shot and we never looked back. Big relief as the IVF sounded bloody hard work. And expensive!” Knocking his JD back, he said, “I didn’t know you were that keen?”
Sighing deeply, Johnny said, “I don’t know mate. It’s what Claire wants. I’m not averse to the idea. But fuck. I’m forty. As much as I’m not on the scrap heap, I never wanted to be ‘old Dad’.” Rubbing a hand across his face and pushing the sunglasses up to the top of his head, he let out an exasperated breath. “I’ve no real choice. Suppose I’ll just see what the tests throw up and go from there…”
Nodding profusely, Mark said, “I wouldn’t worry about that, loads of people having kids in their forties these days. Just go for the consultation and tests. That’s all you can do, mate. Just tread carefully would be my advice.” Lifting his glass, he continued, “Anyhow you’ve not mentioned this band to me in ages. What’s the score?”
With the conversation having turned to his favourite subject, Johnny reached for the spirits glass and chinned the JD in one, savouring the tang of the ice as it melted on his tongue.
“It’s all happening, man. Been working with them for about six months now. They’re in the studio recording some tracks. Had them working hard for a few months. Rehearsing and writing and that.”
“You are taking this seriously!” He sounded almost surprised. “I’ve not seen you in a while. What with working away and the kids. I just didn’t think you’d bother after all your initial bluster.”
“And why not?” Johnny said defensively.
A little too defensively.
“Fucking good opportunity like this. I’d be mad not to go for it!”
“Because—” questioned Mark, the multiple pints now negating his ability to articulate a reasoned objection. “I dunno. I suppose.” Hesitating before his final salvo. “Because these things are always longshots.”
“Of course they fucking are!” His voice rose. “But when they are this fuckin’ good it increases chances ten-fold. No, fuck that. A hundred-fold. They are that fucking good!”
Mark was taken aback at Johnny’s impassioned outburst. “What’s the big plan then? If they’re that great, why stick with you? Why not get somebody, like, someone professional?”
Snorting with derision, Johnny said, “Yeah thanks for that. Listen,” he dropped his voice down a notch, “I’ve put money into them so that counts for a lot, doesn’t it?”
“Fuck me mate. How much?” Mark whistled between his teeth.
“Keep this to yourself. But I’m in for about ten grand already.” He paused for the inevitable judgemental comment.
“FUCK ME! That’s a lot of dough mate. You sure about all this?” said Mark, shaking his head.
“Balls to the cash. I could have lost the fuckin’ lot if I’d listened to some cunt of a financial adviser and stuck it in stocks and shares!” He gulped bac
k a mouthful from his pint. “Anyhow. It’s been spent now, so we’ll see…”
“Okay, let’s say this band make it, are you gonna jack your job an—”
Johnny interjected snappishly. “Course I fucking am! Why wouldn’t I? Stick with a job I hate for another ten years or so for a big company that doesn’t give a fuck about me. And then get binned off cos your face doesn’t fit when you hit 50. Fuck that.”
Deliberating over his words. “It’s a bit mid-life crisis isn’t it, y’know. It would have been a lot easier to spunk the cash on a sports car. That Ford Mustang you’ve always banged on about? At least you’d have something to show for it.”
Johnny slammed his pint glass down, clearly irked. “A MID-LIFE CRISIS! FUCK OFF!”
Johnny’s outburst startled the occupants of the neighbouring tables who all stopped to listen to his tirade, smothering smirks.
“You honestly think that. FOR FUCK’S SAKE MATE!”
“Sorry Johnny bu-”
Cutting Mark off curtly, and still at a free-for-all volume, Johnny continued. “WHAT’S THE WORST THAT CAN HAPPEN? I LOSE SOME CASH? OR THEY RECORD THEIR SONGS. GET A RECORD DEAL. GET FAMOUS. DRINK THEMSELVES DAFT AND BACK AGAIN. TAKE DRUGS. FUCK THAT. TAKE A SHIT LOAD OF DRUGS. FUCK SOME RIDICULOUSLY ATTRACTIVE AND OBLIGING GIRLS. START ACTING LIKE TWATS. FALL OUT WITH EACH OTHER OVER MUSICAL DIFFERENCES THAT DON’T EVEN FUCKING EXIST. START WEARING LEATHER TROUSERS. HOPE THAT NOBODY DIES. SPLIT UP. THEN DO A REUNION IN TEN FUCKIN’ YEARS TIME. THAT’S IT. THE END. OH, AND HOPE THEY DON’T TRY AND TURN INTO THE NEXT COLDPLAY!” He took a deep breath. “Happy now?”
Full of beery bravado, a lad in his late teens, sporting an overly gelled spiky haircut, complete with shaved tramlines, snorted into his bottle of Smirnoff Ice. “What a twat!”
Not appreciating the eavesdropper’s contribution, Johnny turned and snapped. “Oy! Parrot head. Fuck off and mind your own fucking business!”
“Alright mate! I was only messing. Keep your hair on,” the gawky teen mumbled back
“Fuck sake Johnny. I didn’t mean to nark you,” Mark said, putting a placating hand on Johnny’s arm.
“Yeah yeah, I know. But fuck, I thought you of all people would take me seriously,” he said, taking deep breaths and still glaring at the parrot-headed youth who was now hurriedly drinking up.
“Listen mate, if you’ve invested that much cash, then you must be serious. I had no idea. Fuck me. What does Claire think?”
“What do you think? She doesn’t know. It’s the money I inherited, I should have told her from the off. But y’know. It’d have never happened.” His words trailed off.
Wide eyed. “She doesn’t know? Fuck! That’s going to be some conversation.”
“Yeah well, I’ll cross that bridge. Don’t suppose she’ll complain too loudly when I start earning some proper cash.” Looking at his friend and half-regretting his outburst. “They’ve got a gig in town next month. Come down. See how good they are. Then you’ll get it.”
“We good?” asked Mark.
“We’re good but you’re paying for the kebabs now. A mid-life crisis. Cheeky fucker! A mid-life opportunity is what this is…”
Chapter 16
“You’ve not forgotten about later, have you, babe? Half five at the doctor’s.”
“I’ve put loose boxers on especially. I’ll see you later. I won’t be late. Honest.”
Trepidation was already starting to sink in.
But first a fix of studio-time…
***
“Let’s get back to work,” said Dean - before again hacking into his hand. Sounding like a broken tractor engine.
“Consider myself told,” Mikee smiled and with four strides was back in the live room and positioning himself behind his kit.
“That’s the attitude,” said Dean approvingly, “says he doesn’t need a click track either. I love his confidence.”
The rest of them then reconvened – minus Danny who disappeared for yet another fix of carcinogens – to the rec room.
“This is going to be fuckin’ brilliant,” whispered Dom.
Laughing, Jamie replied, “You don’t need to whisper bro, it’s soundproofed in there!”
“Yeah, yeah, I knew that,” Dom replied defensively, “but it is. This is gonna be amazing for us.” Standing as Danny returned, “I’m going to sit in with Dean again, see what he does and that…”
Danny bounded back into the room, “How’s he doing? Does it sound the business?” Snapping his bony fingers together, “Fuckin’ buzzin’ about this me!”
Sitting down on the battered leather sofa, facing Jamie and Johnny, the bass player was a whirlwind of unbridled excitement. Nervous tension coursing through him, “Anyhow, y’know when we crack it, make it big, what yer gonna spend yer first money on?” Wide eyed with the thought of this prospect, Danny nodded his head enthusiastically. “I had the chat with Mikee, and he said full tattoo sleeves. Proper decent ones. They’ll look the business on him. Not for me, I’m too skinny.” Pointing at Jamie, “What about you then man?”
Tilting his head to one side, Jamie looked at Danny, “I don’t know man, I’ve not really thought about it. Y’know, a few grand and I’d spend it on guitars and pedals, new top-class amp. Bit of nice clobber. And send our mum on holiday. She’s not had one in years. Can’t even remember the last time.”
Smiling to himself, Johnny was as ever, intrigued by chats of this nature.
Then turning the question back to Danny, “So what about you then?”
Rubbing the bridge of his nose, just at the point where the distinct crook started. A serious look passed across his face.” Don’t fuckin’ laugh. But I’d get this fuckin’ nose sorted out.” Looking beseechingly across at Johnny and Jamie, and half-expecting uncontrolled laughter, Danny narrowed his eyes. “You don’t think it’s funny then? Y’know an ugly little skinny twat like me bothered by how I look.”
Still nothing.
“Come on, say something!”
As ever finding just the right words, Jamie leant forward, placing a hand on Danny’s bouncing knee, “Don’t talk about yourself like that. But if that’s what you wanted, then you go for it.” His hand stopped Danny’s constant motion, “Just do me one favour.”
Looking intrigued, Danny frowned slightly, “Go on then J. One favour.”
Grinning his charismatic smile. “Yeah. Don’t go taking a picture of Michael Jackson to the surgeon!”
“Haha, you wanker! Imagine how fuckin’ funny that’d be! Going from this Gonzo beak to a fucked up little button nose that kept dropping off!” Falling to his side on the sofa, fits of laughter shook through his skinny frame. Sitting up after a good twenty seconds laughter, he wiped tears away from his eyes. Composing himself, “I’m serious though, just a little tweak and I’d be happy. I won’t miss the odd inch or so that’s for fuckin’ sure…”
Enjoying the moment, Johnny leaned into Jamie conspiratorially, and in a soto voce voice from behind his cupped hand, “And before you know it, he’ll be getting collagen in his lips, bit of shaping work to his chin, cheekbones…”
Nodding in agreement, “I think you’re right. Slippery slope isn’t it?”
Fortunately, Danny took the routine in the way it had been intended, “Yeah and some arse cheek implants, get sick of it when birds tell me I’ve no arse.”
“That’s his first royalties cheque taken care of then isn’t it?” grinned Johnny.
Looking up at Johnny, Danny - clicking his Bic lighter on and off repeatedly. “And what about you Mr Manager? Bit of Botox wouldn’t go amiss.” Nodding at Johnny, “Them wrinkles will only get worse. And there’s crow’s feet starting.” Pulling at his own eyes, Dan stretched his face out in a faded Hollywood-starlet facelift manner.
Far from taking offence, Johnny smiled back, enjoying the camaraderie, “Not me. Grow old disgracefully.” Running a hand through his hair, “However young Daniel, if this starts to disappear, I’m getting straight on to the syr
up shop and getting me a wig!”
Smacking his thighs in delight, “Haha! Imagine him with a fuckin’ daft wig! Proper twat!” Snapping his fingers together frenziedly.
“All sorted then aren’t we, tattoos, nose job, a wig. It’s only Jamie that’s going to spend his money wisely!”
Returning from the Studio room, Dom looked around the small rec room, “You all having a top time then?” as he took in the good-natured vibes.
Jamie - deadpanning and pointing over at Johnny. “You know that’s a wig that he wears don’t you bro?”
Looking at Jamie, and Johnny in turn, and with a look of confused perplexity, “Really? Fuck off! He doesn’t?” Staring hard at Johnny, examining his hairline for any tell-tale signs of a seam. “He better fuckin’ not! I don’t want our manager being some daft twat with a wig!”
“Oh charming!” Johnny replied, his tone laden with sarcasm. “Give it a tug and see!”
“Isn’t it called grooming when you ask young boys to give you a tug?” Jamie enquired mock seriously.
“Right you shower of piss taking twats, I’m off. Work hard and I’ll catch you later.”
“Laters man,” said Jamie, and as Johnny reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard Dom ask, “It’s not a wig is it, it doesn’t look like one….”
***
A week’s hard graft had seen the band nail the four tracks with a dedication that had surpassed Johnny’s expectations. His daily updates from Dean meant his unwavering belief in the band was never questioned.
“Okay lads. We’ve got all four tracks down. We can now look at mixing them. Add some overdubs and just have a play about with them,” said Dean, leaning back on the tall swivel stool as the band listened intently. “I’m gonna level with you. Even before we finish ’em off they are really fuckin’ good. As good as I have heard in,” blowing his cheeks out, “well, in fuckin’ ages.”
The pride swelled within the band. The mandatory fist bumps and nods were exchanged.
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