Hater

by David Moody

  The crowd doesn’t like it. For a few seconds there’s been an uneasy quiet but now the audience is beginning to turn. People are shouting out insults and there’s a slow hand clap starting. I’ve got no idea what’s wrong. It makes me feel nervous. Just wish something would happen . . .

  I think he’s about to walk off. Swill takes a couple of steps back and then stops. Now he’s taken hold of his guitar and he’s swung it around his head so that it’s no longer hanging around his neck. He’s standing still again now, looking around the stage, oblivious to the jeers and shouts from the hundreds of people who are staring at him and yelling at him to get on with it and start playing. Cush starts to approach him and now Swill moves. He suddenly bursts into life and moves quickly and unexpectedly to his left. Holding the guitar by its neck he swings it around again, now gripping it like a weapon. He lunges toward Simmonds, the lead guitarist, and swings the instrument round once more, catching him full on the side of his head. Simmonds tried to lift his hand to block the blow but the attack was so quick and unexpected that he wasn’t able to properly defend himself. The force of the impact has sent him reeling back into the drum kit, clutching his jaw. But that’s not the end of it. Swill is standing over him now and he’s started smashing the guitar down on him again and again. Bloody hell, he’s hitting him so hard that the wooden instrument has begun to splinter and smash. I don’t understand. Maybe they had an argument before they came on stage or something like that? This guy has always made a big deal out of the fact that he’s a pacifist. Now look at him! What the hell did Simmonds do to deserve this? McGuire is trying to separate them now . . .

  The audience is starting to turn nasty. We’ve stood together and watched in disbelief but now people are starting to react to what they’re seeing. Many of the people right down at the front are trying to push their way out, a small minority are cheering on the violence and are trying to get closer, chanting “Swill, Swill . . .” and, egging him on. Most of us are just standing there staring at the stage. I look up again and I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. Swill is standing center stage again now, swinging a metal microphone stand around in a wide arc. Simmonds is flat on his back in what’s left of the drum kit and he’s not moving. McGuire’s crawling across the stage on his hands and knees, trying to get to him. Now two roadies have rushed Swill. One of them catches the full force of a swipe with the mike stand right across his chest, the other dives and wraps himself around the musician’s waist and tries to grapple him down. Swill’s having none of it. He kicks and punches him off and tries to scramble away. He trips over the monitors and disappears down into the dark pit between the stage and the security barriers. There’s a wail of feedback that sounds like a scream.

  Lost him.

  Can’t see him.

  Suddenly he appears again. He’s pushed his way out through the barriers and is running into the crowd. His MAG T-shirt is ripped and now hangs around his neck like a rag. The audience reacts with a strange mixture of fear and adulation. Some people run away from him, others run toward him.

  “Let’s go,” Lizzie shouts to me.

  “What?”

  “I want to go,” she says again. “Now, Danny, please. I want to go.”

  People are starting to try and move away from the stage area in large numbers. The houselights come up and everyone’s speed suddenly seems to increase now that they can see where they’re going. We’re pushed and jostled toward the exits by shocked and frightened people crisscrossing in every direction, trying to get away from the trouble before it gets any worse. In the middle of the hall the fighting starts to look like a full-fledged riot. I can’t see what’s happened to Swill but scores of fans who are either pissed or stoned or who just enjoy a good fight have dived into the middle of the chaos with their fists flying.

  There’s already a bottleneck forming where the bulk of the crowd is struggling to get out of the venue. I grab Lizzie’s hand and pull her toward the nearest exit. We’re surrounded by people and our speed reduces to a painfully slow shuffle. A mass of huge, shaven-headed security guards push their way into the hall through another door to our left. I’m not sure whether they’re here to try and stop the fighting or just to join in. I don’t want to wait around to find out.

  Through the double doors, down a short, steep, stone staircase, and we finally push our way out onto the street. It’s pouring with rain and there are people everywhere running in all directions.

  I have no idea what just happened in there.

  “You okay?” I ask Lizzie. She nods. She looks shocked and scared.

  “I’m all right,” she answers. “I just want to go home.”

  I grab her hand tighter still and pull her through the bemused crowds. Some people are hanging around the front of the venue but most seem to be leaving. I’m really fucking angry but I’m trying not to show it. That’s just typical of how things seem to be working out for me at the moment. Why does everything have to be so difficult? I just wanted to relax and switch off and enjoy myself for once, but what happens? A longtime musical hero loses all his credibility and fucks up my first night out with Liz in months. Fucking typical. Bloody prima donna.

  We slip down a side street and run back to the car.

  SATURDAY

  5

  HALF PAST SIX AND the alarm clock wakes me up with its usual grating groan. I reach out and fumble around in the darkness to switch it off. I have to think for a minute to try and remember what day it is. Do I have to get up? I’m sure it’s Saturday and I just forgot to cancel the alarm. I lie still for a second and try and work back through yesterday and last night. I can remember another dull day at the office with Tina Murray taking me into one of the interview rooms and ripping into me because of my attitude. I remember the gig and the fight and running away from the venue. Christ, what exactly did happen there last night? Doesn’t matter now. All that’s important is that it’s Saturday and I don’t have to get up and go to work.

  I roll over onto my side and put my arm around Lizzie. She seemed happier yesterday than she has been for a while. It did us both good to get out and spend some time together. Shame it had to end the way it did. When we got back to the flat I had to drive Harry home. After that we opened a couple of cans of beer and sat in front of the TV watching a dumb action film, numbing our brains.

  I shuffle a little closer to Liz and then wait for her to react. When she doesn’t respond I move a little closer again and press myself up tight against her. We never seem to have a chance to be intimate these days. Long gone are the times when we could be free and jump into bed at the drop of a hat. These days there’s always something to do or someone to look after first. Having kids has changed everything. I wish I’d been allowed to borrow someone else’s for a while before we had our own. I never appreciated just how much having children can screw up your previously simple and uncomplicated life.

  I can feel Lizzie’s skin through the cloth of her pajamas. She feels beautifully soft and warm. If it wasn’t so early I might take a chance and try and slip my hand inside her top. Sometimes, if I’m careful and gentle enough, a move like that might start something. At this time of the day, though, she’s more likely to kick me than caress me. But I can remember a time a couple of weeks back when we were both in the kitchen. She’d brushed up against me while I was standing at the sink doing the washing up. I stopped and turned around and she just looked at me like she does sometimes. I kissed her and I couldn’t help myself. I grabbed her with wet hands and pushed her back onto the table. She took off her top and . . .

  “I want my breakfast, Daddy,” Ellis pipes up from somewhere in the darkness at the side of the bed. Christ, she scared me half to death. I had no idea she was there. My suddenly semiformed erection quickly droops back down to nothing.

  “It’s too early,” I mumble. “Go back to bed.”

  “I’m hungry, Daddy,” she says, undeterred.

  “In a bit.”

  “I’m hungry now. I can’t
wait.”

  “Later.”

  “Now,” she demands with more force and insistence in her voice than I would ever have expected from a four and a half year old. She’s not going anywhere. I’ll have to try a different tack.

  “Why don’t you get into bed with Mummy and me for a while, sweetheart,” I suggest hopefully, quickly giving up all thoughts of sex. “We’ll get up and get your breakfast in a few minutes.” An hour or so with Ellis in the bed seems a much better option than getting up now. I expect a little resistance but, to my surprise, she agrees. She drags herself up onto the bed, steps over my head, and then wriggles between Lizzie and me. Christ her feet are cold. Lizzie angrily mumbles something unintelligible when they touch her.

  Thirty seconds of silence and she starts on me again.

  “I want toast please, Daddy,” she says. I have to give her her due, she might be irritating but at least she’s polite.

  “In a minute,” I yawn, rolling over onto my side again, grabbing back some duvet and twisting and contorting my body to avoid contact with her icy feet. “Let’s just stay in bed for a little longer, shall we . . . ?”

  She agrees but she talks. And she talks. And she keeps talking. I screw my eyes shut and pull the duvet over my head.

  I managed to last another twenty minutes with Ellis in bed before admitting defeat and getting up. I’m in the kitchen now waiting for the kettle to boil. We’re both dressed and Ellis has had her breakfast but she’s still talking nonstop about nothing in particular. Lizzie’s still in bed. She could sleep through anything. Wish I could.

  It’s freezing cold in here. This flat is impossible to heat. I think it’s so cold because the rest of the building is virtually empty. We’re on the left-hand side of the ground floor and all the warmth that our old-fashioned heating system generates just rises up and disappears into the empty flats above us. I’ve even thought about trying to get us moved upstairs to see if that makes any difference.

  I grab my drink and a bowl of cereal and sit down in front of the TV. There’s nothing on worth watching; crappy cartoons, cookery and lifestyle programs, and loud, intelligence-insulting kids shows are all I can find. I settle on the news but even the headlines are boring this morning (an outbreak of violence in the capital, a sex scandal involving a politician and his nephew, more warnings about climate change, and a celebrity death). I’ll wait for the sports headlines. They’re usually on just before the hour.

  Christ, all the kids are out of bed now. Why do they have to get up so early? We have to drag them out of their beds when it’s a school day. They’ve only been up for a couple of minutes and I can already hear Ed and Josh fighting over something. I close my eyes and wait for them to start on me. It’s only a matter of time . . .

  “I want to watch Channel 22,” Ed says as he storms into the room. Does his entire life revolve around TV?

  “I’m watching this,” I answer quickly, annoyed that I’ve been disturbed.

  “With your eyes shut?” he sneers in an irritating tone which makes me want to slap him.

  “Yes, with my eyes shut,” I sneer back. “I’m waiting to watch something.”

  “I really need to watch Channel 22, Dad,” he whines.

  “Watch it in your room,” I suggest sensibly. We bought Ed a TV last Christmas. He hardly uses the damn thing.

  “I can’t get Channel 22 in there.”

  “Sorry, son, I’m watching this. You can change the channel when it’s finished.”

  “That’s not fair,” he yells at me. “I never get to watch any of my programs.”

  Little shit. He seems to spend all of his time in front of the box. How often do I get a turn? It’s my TV and I can watch what I like, when I like. I don’t know why but I find myself trying to justify watching a five minute program to my eight-year-old son.

  “You’re always watching TV. It’s all I ever see you do.”

  “No it isn’t. It’s not fair, you never let me watch what I want.”

  I can hear the sports-bulletin theme music playing. I open my eyes. Ed’s standing directly between me and the TV screen.

  “Look, this is only on for five minutes. Let me watch it then you can have your channel on.”

  “It’s my turn to choose,” Ellis pipes up. I didn’t even know she was in here. That’s twice she’s done that to me today.

  “No it isn’t,” Ed shouts. “I’m watching my channel next.”

  “But you’ve got your own TV. I haven’t got one. That’s not fair, is it Daddy?”

  “It’s just tough. I asked first.”

  “I asked Mummy last night. She said I could watch what I wanted to this morning. She said that . . .”

  “Will you both just shut up!” I yell, loud enough for the people in the flat on the top floor to hear. I hold my head in my hands in despair. Through the gaps between my fingers I can see the TV screen. The sports reporter is in full flow but I can’t hear a damn word she’s saying.

  “Tell her, Dad,” Ed barks again, not about to let it drop. “I’m watching my channel next.”

  “No you’re not. Mummy said that I could . . .”

  “I don’t care, Dad said that . . .”

  “Shut up!” I snap. “For crying out loud, will you both just shut up.”

  “She started it,” Ed whines.

  “No, he started it,” Ellis whines back, and so it goes on . . .

  That’s it. The brief sports bulletin is over. Waste of bloody time. Less than five minutes was all I wanted. Was that too much to ask? I get up and switch off the television and for a single blissful moment the flat is completely silent.

  “If I can’t watch it, no one can,” I tell them both.

  For another second they just stare at me in stunned silence. Then they turn.

  “That’s not fair,” Ed screams, his face flushed red with anger. “You can’t do that.”

  “I just did, now shut up.”

  The room is suddenly filled with more noise than ever as they both protest at the same time. It’s loud enough to bring Josh waddling in. He starts screaming just because the other two are. I ignore the lot of them. I push past them all and storm through the flat to the bathroom. I sit down on the toilet. The lock on the door is broken and I have to push my foot against it to keep it closed and to keep the kids out.

  “Dad, will you tell him,” Ed shouts from just outside the bathroom. Christ, is there no escape? What do I have to do to get some peace and quiet? “Dad, Josh is messing with the remote control.”

  I can’t bring myself to answer. I know he knows I’m in here but I just can’t bring myself to speak to him. I push my foot a little harder against the door as Ed tries to push his way in from the other side.

  “Dad . . . Dad, I know you’re in there . . .”

  I let my head loll back on my shoulders and I look up at the ceiling. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the window. It’s pretty small but we’re on the ground floor and I reckon I could squeeze through if I really tried.

  Jesus Christ, what am I thinking?

  Am I seriously considering trying to escape from my own house through the toilet window? Bloody hell, there has to be more to life than this.

  iii

  CHRIS SPENCER HAD BEEN laying the drive in Beechwood Avenue for almost a day and a half and the job was almost finished. It was a cash-in-hand job on the side for Jackie, a friend of a friend of his girlfriend. He’d started digging out and laying the foundation first thing yesterday morning and now, Saturday lunchtime, he was two-thirds of the way through putting down the block paving. It was hard, physical work and he was on his own today after being let down by his brother who, for a few pounds, usually helped him out with jobs like this. It was a cold day but at least it was dry now. It had been raining earlier and he’d started to wonder whether all the effort and the loss of his usual Saturday morning lie-in would be worth the wad of cash he was hoping to shove in his back pocket.

  The wheelbarrow was empty again. Tired a
nd hungry he stood up and brushed the sand off his knees, ready to fetch another load of paving bricks. A couple more hours hard work, he thought, and that would be everything but the edging stones done. He pushed the barrow over toward the half-empty pallet on the grass verge at the side of the road. His calculations had been just about spot-on, he smiled to himself. He’d quoted Jackie for two and a half pallets of bricks but it looked like the job was only going to need two. He’d shove the rest of the bricks in the back of the van and use them on the next job. It wasn’t much of a saving but it all helped. It was all profit.

  He was halfway through filling the barrow when the motorbike pulled up beside him. It was a huge, powerful thing with a wide exhaust and an impossibly loud engine. He’d heard it approaching from the bottom of the hill. Must be Jackie’s son, he thought. She’d said something about him coming over to see her this afternoon. He glanced up and nodded an acknowledgment to the rider as he parked his machine and rested it on the kickstand. The leather-clad figure flicked back his visor and took off his helmet.