“So you were listening.”
“No, I’ve just got good ears. I never ruined them at those loud rock shows, like you boys.”
“What?” he shouted, cupping his ear.
They both laughed at their comfortable understanding of each other.
“I’m thinking of going up North for a trip. Drop in on old Barry. I’ll get Freddie to drive me up, tell him we’re giving the Jag a run.”
“Hope you know what you’re doing, stirring the pot.”
CHAPTER 13
TWA Flight from Los Angeles to London – Sunday
Madeleine woke to that eternal hum of plane engines, and the gray morning light of the British Isles greeted her as she slid up the window cover. In her comfortable first class seat she’d managed to sleep since draining her dinner wine and now she cocked her ear for the first sounds of breakfast coming from the galley.
She’d dreamed for hours about the past. Only the last two minutes probably, but it seemed like an eternity as images jockeyed with memories, newspaper photos burned into her mind as if she’d witnessed them herself. Pete and Barry crammed into the back of a chauffeur driven car, still cheerfully waving to fans, not ready for the bad news to come. Another grainy photo, of the two boys being taken away in a police car, manacled, Pete’s blurred grin still on show, Barry’s head bowed, already beaten.
She’d also flashed on one of herself, rushing away from the cameras, long hair flying horizontally along with her scarf, big dark glasses, her young mouth clenched into a grim line. She’d stared for days at this picture of herself, took it as a symbol of her downfall. It was when the depression started, and she turned to the only comfort available to her. Heroin had been an adventure, now it became a crutch for her existence. She took it furtively at first, while she and Pete struggled to maintain their love affair but Pete was eventually disgusted by her obvious degradation, so she slipped away to die quietly somewhere dark and secret. A place where her famous face meant nothing, and she didn’t have to be bright and charming.
In the following few weeks when she realized she was pregnant, Madeleine hid at her grandmother’s cottage, forced to break from the drugs and allow the baby girl to arrive in good health. The loneliness of the cold rocky shoreline matched her pain. She pushed herself into utter misery and wrote down all her angry hopeless thoughts into piles of lined exercise books, hoping it wasn’t true that the human fetus hears and absorbs what’s going on outside of the womb.
CHAPTER 14
Griffin’s Place
Griffin sat back in his deepest chair, the tiny lights and dark corners of his cavern surrounding him in a rare time of comfortable solitude. He finished mixing a cocktail of marijuana buds, and expertly rolled a joint, leaned back and inhaled with satisfaction, a tender smile on his face. Youth, innocence and mischief mingled in his expression, and peace seemed near at hand as the door burst open, revealing full daylight outside, and Juno thumping down the stairs. She flopped down in a chair as if it were home and put her hand out for the joint, taking a deep angry drag on it.
“So who were those women?”
Griffin took a profound breath as if patient and exasperated at the same time.
“Those two young ladies are in the business and could be helpful to my work. Why do you always get in the way when I have important contacts to take care of?”
“I didn’t get in the way. I left, but you hardly noticed. And who’s the English woman? She had a familiar face.”
“Oh?”
“You didn’t notice? Come on.”
“They were both English. Names don’t matter.”
Juno sat there tightly wound and seething. Clearly this was routine.
“Do these business ladies know you have a wife?”
“Oh, I have a wife? Not exactly my preference. I’m still waiting for the divorce you keep postponing.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Lennie, you get what you want out of this arrangement, you always have. Speaking of which…”
“You’re bogarting.”
She passed him the joint, and picked up her bag. With a hard look at Griffin, she opened it, took out a piece of paper, unfolded it and made as if to hand it to him. As Griffin reached over for the check she pulled it away, smiling, and put it back in her bag. Then Juno calmly unbuttoned her shirt and started to strip off the rest of her clothes, starting with the bra that unveiled her breasts, full and firm, her whole body surprisingly erotic.
She stood proudly, and Griffin pushed past her, closed and bolted the door, came back and took hold of her breasts, squeezing and rolling them as he pressed hard against her, moved his hands down to envelop her buttocks and planted a deep throated kiss on her mouth. They were hot and completely naked in seconds, fucking each other, vigorous and noisy.
CHAPTER 15
Ann’s Apartment, West Hollywood
Ann walked into her room and went straight to the answering machine, classic working girl style, starting to do other things as well as listen, but was stopped in her actions by the sound of Griffin’s gruff rolling diatribe. From the resigned look on her face it was clearly not the first message in this tone she’d heard on her machine.
“Ann, I appeal to your warm heart, a woman who loves cats, you couldn’t be so cruel, your silence is offending me. You hung up. No-one hangs up on me. No-one. What could I have done to turn you into a stranger? I would never hurt you. Nothing I have ever done was meant to hurt you. I know you want to talk to me. Please talk to me. Er, well, I guess you’re not there. You know what you should do, Ann.”
Ann shook her head as she waited for the next message.
“Ann, it’s the Mad one. Here’s my number, back in London… Got your message at the hotel, well you know that. Need to talk to you too.”
Ann put everything down and picked up a pen, rewinding over the message to check the phone number, dialing it immediately. To her relief Madeleine’s distinctive voice took over after one ring.
“Oh, Madeleine, it’s Ann. I’m relieved to find you in. I was getting neurotic over this Mister X thing.”
“Me too. You speak first.”
“Well, I was worried because I never thought of insisting you keep this to yourself, especially not tell Pete or anyone in that circle, because there’s that story on Griffin I never got round to telling you. He was involved in the murder, or seemed to be, of a very close friend, he’s never recovered from the shock…”
“Well, I’m in the shit then.”
“You didn’t.”
“Yes, I told Pete, couldn’t help myself. But thank God he wasn’t remotely interested. That’s how he feels about his scandalous past, but you’ll have to tell me more now you’ve started.”
“His friend was shot to death when Griffin’s car was hijacked. He went overboard with his guilt as well as the grief, as if he were convinced it was his fault. It didn’t make sense at the time. It was very late at night, they’d been editing some music video, and Griffin was taking Billy home because his car wouldn’t start, but he was sleepy so Billy was at the wheel. They were cornered by two cars in the middle of a dark street, one of the men just shot Billy in the head and dragged him out. Griffin made a run for it and the car was found the next day.”
“I know what you’re going to say.”
“It suddenly struck me now you’ve told me who he really is that Griffin was the intended victim. This guy worked with him, in front of the cameras that Griffin hid behind.”
“You think the people Griffin’s hiding from tracked him down but got the wrong guy?”
“Yes. And it explains the mystery. Why he cracked up when it happened, not just mourning the loss of his friend, but paranoid with fear most likely because he knew it was meant for him, and he couldn’t tell anybody, let alone the law. And that’s why he took off like a coward and left Billy behind. When he saw they’d taken the car he called the police and went back there, but it was too late for Billy, and the mystery was why they left Griffin as a witness. He felt such rem
orse he took to the bottle on top of the coke and became a recluse after the funeral. He’s obsessed.”
“Oh-oh. I don’t like the sound of that. You’re worried that if word gets out, he’s in danger of getting whacked for real this time?”
“How nicely you put it.”
“Have you talked to him yet?”
“Not exactly. The last two days have become a bit crazy with him. It started okay because I just pretended you’d said nothing, but he got all worked up with the usual aids, obviously didn’t get any sleep, and hit me with two weird phone calls in a row so I hung up on him, and I’m being persecuted for that. But I can read between his lines now. He’s frightened. If his cover’s blown he’s got something to be scared about.”
“We’re safe. I didn’t tell Pete a thing, didn’t mention you either. But we do have to calm him down. Tell you what. This is my idea. Call him as if nothing’s happened, say you just had a call from me, blah blah blah and I gave you a message for him. Say, ‘She says remember that bit of old gossip you told her? Well, she promises not to tell anyone.’ Then you’ve got to convince the guy that this means nothing to you, nor do you care. Try it.”
“It’s good. I’ll put that into effect immediately. Before he starts his next round of nocturnal paranoid anxiety. I’ve never seen a frantic Griffin. Imagine living like that, poor man. It’s the kind of life a coyote must have.”
“Old Wiley Coyote. He can handle it. Just get him off your back with the same con he works on you and everyone else. He’ll never know. Pete’s forgotten it already, he’s such a selfish sod since he got rich and famous again, it doesn’t matter anymore. And now I can get back to my joyous life of promoting the CD. You’ll see me in Los Angeles pretty soon when it’s released there. Just let’s stay well away from Him next time.”
“You bet. I’m already easing away from him. He hates losing someone he didn’t choose to excommunicate. And now I’m a friend of the stars again, in his eyes, he likes to show me off. He doesn’t remember my Tarquin connection because he never met me then, and my name has changed, so that’s a relief too.”
“He’s probably forgotten Tarquin anyway. He was just a support player, one of the club denizens, a stepping stone for King Leo. The big fish were his focus. Who would he have got busted next if there hadn’t been such a hullabaloo in the papers? So are you going to be alright now? Will you call me if you have any drama and need help? You can just call this number, I pick up messages from anywhere. Good girl.”
***
Ann took a huge breath and relaxed her shoulders after she put the phone down. Next stop was the fridge and an opened Chardonnay. She sank into a corner of the sofa, legs up, toes flicking off shoes, mind fully elsewhere.
She was working out how she could research the missing years in Griffin’s life. She knew his real name from the book written about The Veils, and she had seen a different one on his telephone bill, which she had accepted as his own. Griffin was so obviously an appropriate mythical image he had chosen for himself to have some power in the club performance world.
She needed to check out the office computer, see what it was capable of. Better still, go straight to the publisher’s system, it had to be top notch in the field of research. On her second glass she felt confident enough to call Griffin and got the instant pick up, snappy response she knew indicated a bad mood.
“Hey, Griffin, it’s Ann, what kind of message was that? Don’t you understand deadlines? You know I have a serious job at the magazine, why do you take everything so personally?”
“You know I’m a sensitive person, Ann.”
Griffin’s self pitiful response hung in the air like an accusation and made her sigh.
“Oh, I also just got a call from Madeleine, she wanted me to know she was back in London and she had a message for you.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t ask me to explain what she meant, she said tell your friend that remember that bit of gossip he told me, I guarantee I won’t repeat it. What does that mean Griffin?”
“Ah, well, just some sort of barbed joke about someone we used to know. Nothing really. Nothing.” He let out a deep sigh. “Well, okay. Look I’ve got some people here, and…”
“It’s okay, Griffin, I must get to sleep. I’ll call you very soon. We’ll talk.”
Ann bounced back into the couch again and laughed with relief. It felt like a smooth ending, and she was pleased to see her affection for the man was dissolving. That was an improvement. She finished off the glass of wine and decided not to drink another one but go straight to bed and sleep.
CHAPTER 16
Barry’s House, Whitley Bay
Carol and Barry were slumped at their kitchen table unit on vinyl chairs with matching tablecloth in a pale green mock tartan design, nicely coordinated with the teapot, cups and servers. Barry stirred his tea repetitively. Carol sipped at hers, lips pursed, eyelids blinking rapidly. She glanced up.
“I’m sick and tired of this, Barry.”
“What about me? Howja think I feel?”
“I know how you feel. Don’t you think I heard all about it enough for years and years? Over and over with your bloody vendetta. You wore me out. I can’t start it up all over again.”
“It’s about you, then, is it? Poor you. Poor Miss Florence Fucking Nightingale. Didn’t you get anything out of it? Look around. You did quite nice out of nursing this brain dead drunken rocker.”
Barry stopped stirring, then quickly reached over and laid the hot spoon on the back of her hand.
“Ouch! You stupid git.”
Barry cracked up, laughed and jigged around in his chair.
“Grow up.”
“Maybe it’s impossible for me to grow up. Ever thought of that? Could it be psychologically possible that I am forever caught in the warped mind of a juvenile jailbird. Eh?”
“I’m glad you’re suddenly finding it funny. I haven’t had any sleep for two nights in a row with your neurotic depression, and now you’re trying to be humorous about it. What do you actually want, Barry?”
“Dunno.”
“Come on, let’s go upstairs, I’ll give your back a rub, relax you.”
Barry sat stonily. He needed to be persuaded. Carol was used to this. She got up and walked over behind him, starting to gently knead his knotted shoulders. He shrugged along with it, starting to melt a bit, then he felt for one of her hands and nodded towards upstairs.
CHAPTER 17
It was late gray afternoon when Carol woke up.
Her skillful hands had once again nursed Barry from tight shoulders to grunting orgasms and now he lay there beside her, eyes closed, fast asleep and certainly devoid of anxious thoughts for a short window of time. Carol gazed at him with resignation and other mixed emotions. She eased herself off her elbow, rubbing the stiffness out of it, and lay back on the pillow with a deep sigh.
Yes, she thought, I did alright. If you see this life as suburban Shangri La and not the end of the road, as she did. Her main regret was not having kids, therefore no grandchildren. That was bleak to her. They had argued about it so many times in the past, until the day she looked in the mirror and knew it was getting too late and thanked God for it, knowing Barry represented all the babies she’d ever know in her life to come.
By the time she’d accepted her lack of choices, the sadness of life had settled over her like a veil. She was profoundly lonely. There was no-one she could really talk to. Barry was his own planet and couldn’t contemplate the invasion of someone else’s thoughts. They exchanged facts about meals, the weather and constantly talked about what they did and what they watched on television. There was not much silence between then, but there wasn’t any discussion.
That’s what Carol missed. She wondered if she’d imagined it, worked hard at remembering. Yes, it was true, she had experienced that kind of conversation where you say something to a friend, and that person hears you and asks you to tell them more, so you elaborate on your thought, you e
xtend the observation you made when you noticed something and your friend answers you and takes up the topic and you are both engaged in something that opens your mind, and it sings. Your mind sings. It’s like brain adrenaline. It’s called talking. Carol knew you couldn’t just make it happen.
They had some neighbors who were friends, but they just cheerily exchanged the facts just like she and Barry. Not one mention of feelings, nuances of thoughts. Where would this dotty analysis lead her, Carol wondered. Maybe she should get a shrink of her own, someone to listen.
The nice butcher sometimes seemed like he’d be open to a bit of philosophy. She made a point of always going to his old fashioned little shop for meat and sausages, and bypassed that section in the supermarket. But one time Ray seemed to perk up his maleness at her interest in his chatter, and she backed away. She was afraid he had confused her bright-eyed eager enjoyment of his wit as a come on. Oh no, she couldn’t allow that. Imagine if Barry caught a whiff there was a man she had even noticed. It would unleash the violent crybaby Carol had worked so hard to tame.
She kept away from the best pork bangers in the neighborhood for months so she could start with a clean slate, and settle the disappointment she felt at losing that little lift she’d always felt, being flirted with over the raw dead flesh. It was during that time that Carol saw the old film Brief Encounter on the bedroom television and cried bitterly, sobbing loud and free, knowing Barry was in noisy soccerland downstairs, sated on her best steak and kidney pie, shouting at the players and knocking back the beer.
That night was a turning point for Carol. That’s when she realized what was over, what was left, and how to make the most of what she had. She blessed her guardian angels for the timing. Her niece’s wedding was the following week, so Carol gave herself a complete makeover. Hair to toes, new dress, shoes and all. The stunning effect of her look and her apparent success in life as seen in the eyes of her older sister was the magic touch. She felt much better. Carol’s relatives always remembered Barry as the legendary rock and roll star, proud of having him in the family. He had a ball singing old blues numbers round the piano at the wedding party, and everyone envied her.
The Acid King Page 5