by Tim Thornton
“Erm … I think so, yes.”
“Why?”
Damn! Why did I say yes? What the hell do I say now?
“Why?”
“Yes, why?” he repeats quietly.
“Erm … because I wrote a letter to Lance Webster.”
“That’s one way o’ describing it,” remarks Stan. Glaswegian accent.
“Erm … how else could you describe it?”
Stan sniggers and shakes his head disparagingly.
“Mr. Beresford,” continues Malcolm, “we are here because our associate Mr. Webster wishes to illustrate to you how seriously he views his privacy and safety.”
“Okay.”
“Given the contents of your communication to Mr. Webster, am I to understand that you have some knowledge of his life, and his former musical career?”
“Um … yes.”
“You may therefore remember a couple of incidents, ten or so years ago, where the attentions of certain … ah …”
“Fans?” I suggest.
“Tha’s a polite way o’ putting it,” remarks Stan again. I’m already getting a little tired of his useless interjections.
“The attentions of certain members of the public,” Malcolm resumes, “reached the point where the police had to be involved.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Good. You will therefore understand, I hope, that Mr. Webster never wishes matters to escalate to that point again.”
I exhale, thinking hard. Are they really so worried about me? What the hell could I do?
“We wish you to know that, if he feels that his privacy and safety are being threatened, Mr. Webster will not hesitate to take immediate action.”
I hold up my hands in submission. “Listen, guys—I wasn’t planning to threaten either of those things. You really don’t need to worry about me.”
“Tha’s not the impression we got,” Stan comments.
“But … come on, the guy is an ex-internationally famous rock star! He must get letters from fans? Occasionally?”
Malcolm nods slowly.
“Letters from fans, yes. Hand-delivered letters that say what yours did, no. Well, not anymore.”
“What the hell did it say?”
Both men gape at me for a good few seconds.
“You wrote the fuckin’ thing!”
“Yes,” I concur desperately, “but … um … what particular part are you referring to?”
“Fuck’s sake, which bit de y’ think?”
“Well, I …”
“It’s fuckin’ obvious what sorta shite he mighta felt just a bit threatened by, don’t ye think? Ya wee wanker.”
Polly leaps across the room.
“Right—I’m sorry, but you have absolutely no right to talk to Clive like that.”
“Oh yeah? Ah’m not the one doin’ the fuckin’ stalkin’, love.”
“Ah, I think you’ll find there’s a very specific legal definition of stalking,” improvises Polly, “one that whatever Clive is supposed to have done, or written, he still lies some considerable distance from.”
“And ya think we give a fuck about that, do ye?”
“All right, calm it down,” instructs Malcolm. “We’re not accusing anyone of anything. We’re here on a purely preventative mission. This situation is really very simple, Mr. Beresford. Whatever you’re doing, or are trying to do, that concerns Mr. Webster—cease it. With immediate effect.”
There is silence. I’m hoping Polly doesn’t say “Or what?,” or similar. She doesn’t. Perhaps because, like me, she doesn’t really want to know. I’m not sure what they do to miscreants in the crustie-verse. Tie them to a chair and play them Ozric Tentacles records for twelve hours, maybe. Either way, I realise that it’s probably over. All of it.
I show them out. As I shut the front door, it finally hits me.
“I knew it,” I smile, as I turn back to Polly. “Me and Alan beat them at pool. Ninety-one, in that pub next to the Dome in Tufnell Park. The Magpies were playing a secret gig there. I knew it! We fucking slaughtered them as well.”
Polly glares at me from behind weary eyes.
“Clive, I never thought you’d hear me say this …”
“What?”
“For God’s sake, will you grow up!”
She storms off to her bedroom.
I agree. I should. But how?
SUGGESTED LISTENING: The Young Knives, Voices of Animals and Men (Transgressive, 2006)
I was kind of famous,
I guess
So, you might be wondering whether my Visit from the Roadies has successfully thwarted my Webster-based ambitions. To answer this, let me quote a few minutes from a phone conversation I had with Alan sometime on Monday morning. I was at work, balanced on the edge of a desk in our new office (crap still all over the place, Internet not yet working, not enough chairs to go round); Alan was somewhere on the A505 between Baldock and Royston (Bluetooth headset, BP garage coffee, suit jacket hanging in the back).
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” Alan noted.
“Thank you.”
“I’m fucking deadly serious, man. You’re heading for a major catastrophe. Except … you quite enjoy all this, don’t you? It’s like a game. It makes your life more interesting.”
“Maybe,” I mumbled, watching one of the plainer secretaries feed a wodge of paper into the shredder.
“But it won’t be a game when these cunts end up putting you in hospital. Where I shall not be visiting you.”
“Oh, Alan, I’m not entirely sure that they’ll …”
“I am! Of course they will! He’s not going to just call the police, Clive—he hates the police. By sending these berks round he’s fucking … blatantly demonstrating that he does not intend to involve the law.”
I grunted vague acknowledgement.
“For God’s sake, mate—just do as they say.”
He’s right, of course. There’s something terribly exciting about being perceived as a threat. Particularly being someone only ever viewed as threatening by the pint he’s about to consume. Nonetheless, I have no desire for a lengthy and painful visit to the Homerton Hospital, so I agree, for the time being, to shelve my plans; although it must be said, these currently consist of very little.
My world rumbles along in its uneventful way until Wednesday, when an appreciably more peculiar afternoon commences with the arrival of a text message while I’m en route for the two-’til-ten shift. Despite being something of a text-message sceptic (try saying that with a mouthful of porridge), I must admit they are occasionally quite useful. For example, to inform someone that you’re running late. Or to tell your mum something really quick when you don’t want the inconvenience of actually speaking to her. Or so that, more than a week afterward, a vet you have dated can send you the following:
Hi Clive, hope u r good. Just 2 say ur friend’s cat died yesterday. Maybe u should find another way of communicating with him. See u around X
I’m not entirely sure why she’s chosen to do this. It must be against all sorts of vet-to-customer privacy ethics and suchlike. Naturally I wasn’t expecting to ever hear from her again, so it’s a relatively nice surprise, despite the news being bad. I’m pretty certain the message has no hidden depths, but I pause for a moment before replying. See, the thing about texting is there’s no way of gauging humour, or sarcasm, or warmth, or anything, because everyone’s so concerned about fitting it all into a single 160-character message. But then, what else could be said about the situation? There’s an X—which is something, I suppose. My bus has reached Spitalfields by the time I decide on a response, then I dice with blunder by attempting to write the thing while walking along the busy lunchtime streets. I get halfway through (“Thanks, good of u 2 let me know! Hope u r well, sorry again about the oth—”), when I am confronted by the sight of Michael, my boss, charging down the opposite side of the road, people frantically darting out of his way. The strange thing is, this will actually be the last time I see him. Alth
ough I don’t realise it until two minutes later, when I arrive at the office to be informed by Ron that my services are no longer required.
“Your performance has sunk to an intolerable level,” he states impassively.
We are standing by the entrance to the room which houses the electricity generator, for God’s sake; I mean, it’s an open-plan office, finding a private place is hard, but I’d like to think my three years with the company deserve slightly better than this.
“Your monthly figures are the second poorest in the firm,” he continues, proffering a coloured spreadsheet. “The only employee below you is Natasha Reynolds, and she’s only here two days per week. Robert Warren and Suzie Oakley are both above you, and they left the company two weeks ago.”
I remain silent, wondering how I can possibly fight back, or if it’s even worth it. I know for a fact Rob Warren used to mess around with the figures, but now may not be the time to open that particular can of worms.
“These statistics in isolation would warrant a warning but, combined with Saturday’s vehicle debacle, I can no longer support your presence in this organisation.”
I frown and play with my fingernails. He’s using “I” a lot. Ron has always disliked me, you see—I’m not quite sure why—while Michael, absence of emotion aside, has occasionally divulged that he considers my genial presence “good for morale.” A naïve thought enters my head: that Ron could be seizing the opportunity to give me the boot while Michael’s off at a meeting (a bit like in Schindler’s List when Ben Kingsley gets carted off while Liam Neeson is shagging some floozy—well, sort of).
“And what about Michael?” I enquire.
Ron widens his eyes. “What do you mean, ‘What about Michael?’”
“What does Michael think about my, um, presence in this organisation?”
“Michael and I have agreed that the example you set, as a senior member of staff, has become detrimental to the fortunes of the company.”
Wow. Threatening and detrimental, all in the same week.
I could say a lot of things. I could tell him I spend almost half my time fixing the phone network when it fucks up, or ordering stationery when the secretaries have (again) forgotten, or showing new staff how the credit checks are done. I could mention Rob Warren’s statistical adjustments, or John Barrow swearing at customers on the evening shifts, or Anita Stopford running her mail-order clothing business from the office at the weekends. Or I could go all sentimental, remind him I’ve been with them from almost the beginning, that I once went without wages for three weeks when a big payment didn’t come through, assure him I’ll pull my socks up if he gives me one last chance. But I don’t. Partly because I know it won’t make any difference, partly because I no longer give a shit. But mostly because he’s given me a month’s notice, a month they’ll pay me for, which I don’t have to work. In fact, I can go now.
In spite of this pleasing detail, Ron’s news leaves me in something of a daze. I shuffle out the door, not stopping to say goodbye to anyone, and wander back towards Liverpool Street in the sunshine. It’s times like this when I like to pretend I’m acting in the film of my own life; things always seem better that way. I grab a coffee from a roadside vendor, just as Dustin Hoffman might do in New York, before drifting back home across Central Park. I amble along Bishopsgate, smiling at all the City workers as they hurry back from lunch, knowing I am on my way home, like Kevin Spacey, never to return to his coma-inducing, soul-destroying excuse for a job. And then I gaze out at the various landmarks and skyscrapers as my train weaves its way through the rough, northern part of the city—as perhaps Leonardo DiCaprio would do, while trying to avoid phone calls from the police or the Irish mafia. That’s the thing about films. The romance of these images is uncomplicated, compelling. What you never see is Hoffman being asked for change as he comes out of the litter-strewn station, or Spacey getting home and opening his gargantuan credit-card bill, or DiCaprio finding a teetering pile of washing-up, no washing-up liquid, and no change in his pocket to buy more. It’s at this point that I start to worry. And when I start to worry, there’s only one place to go.
As you may have surmised by now, I have the most appalling willpower when it comes to drinking. Sometimes it borders on the ludicrous. I remember one Sunday I woke up feeling pretty miserable, and as the day progressed it struck me that I could attempt to make myself feel happier by not having a drink that day—give the liver and brain a break. This notion instantly cheered me up, lifting the proverbial dark cloud. I suddenly felt free from the, shall we say, shackles of alcohol. In fact, I felt so elated that I decided to celebrate by having a few beers.
So it comes as no particular surprise that the first thing I decide to do after today’s blow—no, let’s be optimistic: today’s life challenge—is go to the pub. Most of my life is one long search for an excuse to go to the pub. Not to get drunk, you understand, not to drown my sorrows in an irrational pool of nasty lager, but often to simply give myself a few quiet moments to ponder this crazy series of balls-ups we call an existence. As Billy Idol once sang, “Let’s sink another drink, ’cos it’ll give me time to think.”
On these occasions there’s always a particular boozer I choose. It’s the nearest one to the flat. It’s carpeted, generally old-fashioned and plays no music, thus ensuring maximum mental concentration. I love it. My ex-girlfriend detested it. Oh well. She doesn’t need to put up with that one any longer.
I wander in and settle myself at the bar. It’s quarter to three in the afternoon. There’s an elderly bloke in the corner nursing a bitter. There’s a younger guy a few stools up from me, reading a paper. That’s it. Apart from the pub’s spaniel, who is flat out on the hearth. Oh, and the barman. From whom I order a London Pride.
I take a sip.
Silence.
It feels good.
I feel good.
Strangely okay.
There may be trouble ahead … but while there’s—
“Oh, hello.”
Someone’s addressing me.
“Hi. You’re the guy from the vet’s. Right?”
Please don’t be Lance Webster. Please don’t be Lance Webster.
“Sorry, don’t mean to disturb.”
It’s Lance Webster.
He’s having a Guinness and reading the Independent.
In my local.
His local.
Ah.
“No, that’s … fine,” I manage to articulate, eyeing him unsteadily. The Square, Harlow, 1990, shorter hair now, etc.
“Still working there?”
“Where?”
“At the vet’s?”
“Me? Uh … no. Not anymore. It was only … you know. Temporary.”
“Ah. Right.”
Conversation. Conversation might be an idea at this point.
“Your, um …”
He raises his eyebrows.
“Your cat. I was sorry to hear …”
“Oh,” he shrugs. “She was old.”
“Yeah.”
“So where are you working now?”
Me. He’s asking me.
“Well … actually … nowhere, really. I lost it. My main job. This morning.”
Here we go with his goddam narrowing-the-eyes thing again. Mouth slightly open. Puts me right off what I’m saying. One day I’m going to figure it out. It’s as though I’m saying something a bit odd, or as if a fly’s landed on my forehead.
“This morning?” he repeats.
“Yeah!” I grin, barely able to believe it myself.
“Shit,” he says. “That’s a nuisance.”
“Yeah. Well—no, actually. I hated it.”
“Okay,” he laughs. “So what are you going to do now?”
This is too odd. He’s interviewing me.
I sigh. “Dunno. That’s why I’m in here, I suppose. Give it some thought.”
“What are you interested in?”
It’s weird; although the man asking me this question is ce
rtainly one of my top ten human beings in the known universe—the name I still immediately offer in answer to those stupid “if you could be stuck in a lift with anyone” things—I have a strong desire to say, “Why on earth do you want to know?” or even, “What are you, a bloody careers advisor?”
But I resist.
“Um … well,” I ponder. What am I interested in? Not music. Can’t say music. Then he’ll know that I know who he is. Which I don’t want.
“Writing,” I settle on.
“You a writer?”
“Well … yeah. I have been. I mean, I am. Sort of.”
Christ, this is sounding believable.
“What sort of thing do you write about?”
Ah. Another obstacle approaching. Can’t say music. Then he might figure out who I am. Which I want even less.
“Well, I er … I write novels. Or I try to. Don’t always finish.”
“Funny that. I tried to write a novel once. Didn’t finish either,” he smiles.
Ha. You tried to act too, and that was also a dismal failure.
“So … er,” I begin, “what was yours about?”
He grins and takes a sip of his Guinness. I’ve done it. Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve asked Lance Webster my first question. Is it about the night of 12 August 1995? No. Is it about Gloria Feathers? No. Does it have anything to do with bloody music at all? No.
But it’s a start.
So he tells me.
He tells me this story about four people who wake up one morning with a magical power, like they can move objects around with their minds. None of them has the foggiest where it’s come from. One freaks out and hides. One goes out and robs banks. One destroys stuff. One ignores it and hopes it goes away. They’ve got it because these aliens have come to earth to try and acquire fuel for their dying planet, but they’ve fucked up and accidentally given their special power to these morons. It’s really a social comedy, he says, but for some reason people always think it sounds like science fiction. I can’t imagine why that would be. I think it sounds utterly preposterous. But I don’t tell him that. Instead I feign interest.
“How come you stopped writing it?”
“Because I’m lazy. I got as far as I could get without having to do a load of research.”