Gabriel stared out across the ocean, waves cresting in the sprawling gray mass.
“Keeps the press off my back. Only Barry knows the truth.” He raised a hand. “Well, Barry … and now you.”
“But … what does this have to do with Mum’s notebook?”
Gabriel swallowed, hard.
“There’s something else I need to tell you. Something not even Barry knows.”
I dropped his hand. My brain was spinning, a mass of tangled threads, knotted like vines, and nothing made sense yet. I needed answers, and all I had were more questions.
“My parents,” continued Gabriel, “they didn’t leave me much. They didn’t have much. But Dad left me this one thing, after he was gone, a CD for some band he was in. It was him and three other guys, though we’d never met them or seen them play. I only know their names because they’re written in the album sleeve: Harry, Owen, Kit, Jermaine. Under that, it says, ‘All songs by Harry West’ … and the rest of it’s blank.
“When I was a bit older, I started listening to the album … and I liked it. I hated him for what he’d done, but something about his music, it spoke to me. I listened to it every night.”
Gabriel bent down and picked up a stone from the dirt. He rubbed at it with his finger.
“I was a quiet kid, but I was angry. When I was old enough, I started hanging out in town, mostly with the other foster kids, and getting into trouble. Just roaming around, shoplifting, smashing things up.
“Then, when I turned thirteen, this old lady started coming round the care home every Wednesday night. She used to read stories to the kids, and play piano on this knackered upright they had”—for a brief moment, he smiled—“and when I heard the sound, it reminded me of my dad’s album. I asked her to teach me, and she did, every week, just a few chords here and there. After that, I sat in every night, writing.
“I’d sit at the piano, writing music, and sometimes I’d mix a few of Dad’s lyrics in with my own. It was childish, but I thought … I thought if I used his words in my songs, then—”
“He’d never really be gone.”
Gabriel tossed the stone over the cliff edge.
“Dumb, really.”
I watched the stone plummet, in a curved arc, toward the water.
“That doesn’t sound dumb to me,” I said.
“I suppose some people might say I was stealing, but those words were the only thing my dad ever gave me. He owed them to me.”
Gabriel’s jaw shifted slowly from side to side.
He turned back to me and shrugged.
“So … point is, the words in my songs, some of them aren’t mine.” He looked at the notebook, still clutched in his hand, and passed it back to me. “The lyrics in that book, they all come from this obscure nineties band called Little Boy Blue.”
As I was slipping the book back into my bag, the name suddenly sank in. My eyes widened.
“What did you say?”
“Little Boy Blue. That’s what they were called.”
I put my hands on top of my head. I almost felt like laughing.
“Little … Boy Blue…”
Gabriel tried to catch my attention.
“What? What is it?”
“My mum … She was a groupie?”
I knew exactly what Aimee would say, if she were here.
Like mother, like daughter.
“What are you talking about?”
I looked out toward the horizon, shaking my head.
“I am such an idiot.”
A confused smile played on Gabriel’s face.
“What do you mean?”
“I have this photo of Mum at home, from like, 1998, wearing a Little Boy Blue T-shirt. That’s why she filled her book with those lyrics. She was just a really huge fan.”
Was this why Dad had fobbed me off with the story about the nursery rhyme? Because admitting his wife was obsessed with some rock band was just too … embarrassing?
“Hey,” said Gabriel with a laugh, “at least they had some fans.” Then his smile faded. “At least my dad did something right.”
A light rain was beginning to fall. I peered at my feet, remembering why I’d started this conversation in the first place, and decided I might as well come clean.
“When I heard your lyrics, and they matched the ones in Mum’s book … I thought … God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this. It’s stupid.” I closed my eyes. “I thought you were writings songs about me.”
For a while, Gabriel said nothing. I began to blush.
“That’s not stupid.”
“Yeah, right.”
I kicked at the grass.
“It’s not,” he insisted, taking my hand again. “It’s kind of beautiful.”
“Gabe, seriously.”
“I mean it.”
We gazed at each other, fingers entwined. Gabriel’s hair twinkled with dots of rain.
“I have one last question, then.”
Gabriel cocked his head at me. I waited a moment, picturing him beside that stage in Brighton, with his back to me, singing to himself. Singing my song.
“That song you were singing, backstage in Brighton. Your warm-up song.”
“‘Cat’s in the Cradle’?”
“That’s where the band name comes from, isn’t it? It’s in the lyrics.”
Gabriel nodded.
“I think so. It would make a lot of sense.”
Something else was starting to make sense, too. Me, sitting in the back of the car, fading in and out of sleep, with Mum in the passenger seat and Dad driving. “Cat’s in the Cradle” playing on the stereo.
No wonder she was obsessed with that song.
“D’you know that feeling,” said Gabriel suddenly, “when you hear a song from your childhood, and it kind of … haunts you?”
I felt a murmur under my skin. I knew the feeling exactly.
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“And it stirs all these memories inside you, like … deep inside you. Memories that normally stay buried, and only come out when you hear this one particular song…?”
The motorway, the falling rain. Orange lights on the window.
“And straightaway you get a picture in your mind. Like, for me, when I hear ‘Cat’s in the Cradle,’ I’m with my dad, and we’re running around on an empty beach, kicking a ball to each other. My dad’s so tall he blocks out the sun, and I don’t even know if it’s a real memory or not, but when I hear that song, I feel … safe.”
Out at sea, waves broke on icy waters.
“… Does that make sense?”
I couldn’t speak. I just nodded, lost in his eyes.
“That feeling, Charlie Brown … that’s what I feel when I’m with you. That’s what I feel. In my gut.”
A burning heat was filling me up inside. I wanted to fall into his arms so intensely, my bones ached.
“Gabe…”
I shivered as the rain picked up, and Gabriel pulled me into him, shielding me from the cold. He looked deep into my eyes, and my limbs felt weak, like disappearing sand.
“How are you doing this?” I said.
Gabriel searched my face, those dark locks of hair quivering in the wind.
“Doing what?” he asked, passing a hand along my cheek and round to the back of my head, his fingers sliding into my hair. My whole body prickled in response.
“It feels like you’re looking inside me.”
Though the air had turned bitter, I could feel his warmth, and his weight, against me, and it felt like my nerve endings were on fire. The sound of our breathing became the sound of crashing waves, and the rain lashed harder, and his lips drifted toward mine.
“Hey, Gabriel.”
We broke apart at the intrusion of a gruff, boozy voice. A silhouetted man was standing a few meters away from us, dressed in one of those big parka jackets with the hood up. Behind him, a second car was parked next to Gabriel’s, headlights on, indicator ticking.
“How’s it g
oing, pal?”
Gabriel’s arm moved instinctively in front of me, grazing my stomach.
“Look, if you want an autograph or anything, this is my afternoon off, so…”
The man stepped forward into the glow from his headlights. The yellowish light washed over him, revealing pinhole eyes and a mean, stubble-flecked face.
It was Paul Morgan. From The Record.
“I was hoping we could have a little chat,” he said, nudging a cigarette from a crumpled packet.
“Who are you?” demanded Gabriel, straining to see the man’s face in the dying light. The sun had disappeared, and we had barely noticed. “Are you press?”
“You should pay more attention, Gabriel. I’ve been trying to talk to you all week, but your people never cut me a break.”
He slipped a lighter from his pocket.
“Did you follow us here?” said Gabriel assertively, but I could hear an unusual tone in his voice. It sounded like fear.
“It’s a free country, mate,” said Paul, lighting his cigarette. He sucked a long, indulgent draw, and the tip danced orange in the darkness. “But since we’re here, I’ve got a few questions.” He looked straight at Gabriel. “About your parents, actually.”
Gabriel stepped forward.
“Leave us alone.”
“I’ve been trying to pin you down for a while,” Paul continued, flicking ash on to the ground. “I’ve been looking into your history, kid, and something doesn’t add up.”
He paused for a few seconds, his voice replaced by the rhythmic wash of the sea and the steady tick-tick of his car indicator.
“Fancy telling me about it?”
“I’m not talking to you about anyth—”
“Your dad,” said Paul, calmly. “Tell me about your dad.”
Gabriel opened his arms.
“What about him?”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, and if you don’t leave us alo—”
“You’ll do what, exactly?” interrupted Paul. “Call the police? This is public property.”
He blew out a plume of smoke, and it corkscrewed into the air.
“Not easy to get an appointment with you, West, I’ll tell you that,” he continued casually. “You haven’t been outside without security in, oh, I dunno. Weeks.”
Gabriel straightened, his hands forming into fists.
“How long have you been following me?”
“Bottom line is, I’ve got a juicy lead on the world’s hottest pop star, and you don’t want me poking around your closet looking for God-knows-what. I mean, think of your little fans.” He looked at me when he said this. “The groupies.”
“This is ridiculous,” scoffed Gabriel, taking my hand and leading us back toward the car. “You should get a proper job.”
Flicking his half-finished cigarette to the ground, Paul stepped directly into our path, forcing us to stop. He was close enough now that I could smell the smoke on his breath.
“Don’t mess me around,” he said in a low voice. “I know you’re hiding something, and I’ll find out sooner or later so you might as well talk.”
Gabriel took a step toward him until they were almost face-to-face.
“I’m not scared of you.”
“Maybe not,” Paul replied, with a shrug. “But she is.”
A dart of fear pierced my chest. Paul was looking at me now, over Gabriel’s shoulder. He smiled, parked another cigarette in his mouth, and flicked repeatedly at his lighter, which kept snuffing out in the wind.
As he was looking down, Gabriel charged at him.
Taken by surprise, Paul called out in shock and stumbled back onto the hood of his car. Gabriel clamped an arm across his neck and pinned him.
“If you touch her, I’ll kill you. Don’t think I won’t.”
Paul, though he was clearly losing the fight, seemed to be laughing.
“Calm down, West! You’re not bloody Spider-Man.”
Gabriel drew back his fist to hit him, and Paul held both hands up in surrender.
“OK, OK, let’s just chill out here for a minute…”
Hesitantly, Gabriel dropped his fist and stepped back from the car. Paul stood up again, straightening his crumpled clothes.
“This is my number,” he said, placing a business card on top of a nearby fence post. “When you decide to talk, gimme a ring. We can go for a nice beer, just us boys. Bear in mind, though”—he spotted his lit cigarette in the grass and stubbed it out with a tattered boot—“if you don’t talk, I’ll publish it anyway. Your call.”
He leered at me.
“Catch you later, precious.”
Then he walked backward onto the gravel, opened his car door, dropped inside, and skidded in reverse out of the car park.
* * *
“What the hell, Gabe?”
We were back on the open road, wipers swooshing, fat black raindrops slapping against the windshield. Gabriel hadn’t spoken since leaving the cliff side.
“Why is that guy following you around? Do you think he heard our conversation?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
The outline of his face was just visible in the light from the dashboard, a silvery-white glow kissing the contours of his cheekbones. His eyes were dark spaces.
“Talk to me. Please.” I was still clutching the edge of my seat. “And slow down.”
Gabriel exhaled and switched down a gear.
“People like that, they spend their entire lives digging up dirt. They’re pathetic.”
I felt the urge to touch him, to lay a hand on his. His fingers twitched on his thigh, as if he knew what I was thinking.
“Maybe … maybe it wouldn’t be such a big deal if everyone found out. About your parents, I mean?”
We passed through a silent cliff-side hamlet. A cluster of tiny houses were huddled together for warmth, yellow lamps glowing in their windows. Gabriel was looking straight ahead, one finger tapping the steering wheel.
“I just want one little piece of me to stay private, y’know? People expect you to give up everything just because you’re famous, but I won’t give them this.” He stared out of the window. “You probably wouldn’t understand that.”
I studied the back of Gabriel’s head as he gazed out the window. The light was almost gone now, the ocean vast and unforgiving in the distance.
“Actually, these days … I kind of do.”
This drew Gabriel’s gaze back inside the car, and the whites of his eyes flashed like diamonds in the dark. I folded my bare arms across my chest, my skin still cool from the cliff side.
“Sorry, Charlie … I should have thought…”
We sat in silence as the winding coastal road took us ever nearer the town. I thought about Paul Morgan, watching us on the cliff edge. The smoke in his clothes; the strange, moist click in his voice.
“Gabriel.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What are you going to do about that journalist?”
“I don’t need to do anything. He’s bluffing.”
I chewed on my thumbnail.
“Maybe you should just talk to him, like he said. Then he’ll go away.”
“That’s not the point.” We passed back into town, the hotel rising up above the rooftops, grand and solemn on the cliff edge. “I don’t want the whole world perving over my life story, and I won’t be bullied by scum like that.”
Gabriel meant what he said, I was sure of that. But as I watched him navigate the empty streets, the beams from our headlamps spotlighting the tarmac, I couldn’t help but wonder: did he really have a choice?
* * *
“We need to get inside, before they find us.”
Gabriel had parked outside the hotel and was leading me by the hand through the lobby.
“Evening, Mr. West,” said the girl behind reception. Gabriel nodded back and, as he guided me toward the lift, I watched her pick up the phone with one eye trained
on us.
The lift door pinged, and we stepped inside.
“I think that girl was phoning someone about you, Ga—”
“I know. They’ll be waiting for me. Listen…” He hit the button for the third floor and turned to face me. “You mean a lot to me, Charlie Brown.”
His eyes were fixed on mine, almost glowing in the dim light.
“Me too,” I said, as the gears of the lift clunked into motion.
“You’re the only person I’ve met since joining this band who really sees me…”
He moved closer, placing one hand in the small of my back, and pulled me toward him. Our chests met, and I fell into him, holding his arms tight to keep my balance. The lift reached the third floor, and there was a loud knock on the door.
“Damn, that’s my security.”
“Gabriel, you in there?” came a voice from the corridor. Gabriel didn’t answer, and there was the sound of a muffled conversation, then another hard knock.
“Gabe, buddy, seriously. Open the door.”
Gabriel slammed on the door-hold button, and didn’t let go.
“I can’t put it into words, Charlie, but … we’re connected. I knew it the first moment I saw you.”
I didn’t need to say anything back. I didn’t need to speak a single word. Because I knew, with all of my heart, that he was right.
And then he pressed me up against the wall of the lift, his hand on the side of my face, fingers in my hair, and kissed me.
And I lost all sense of where I was, and where I’d been, and what any of this meant, and I was weightless and terrified and broken all at once, and I wanted him like a fever, like a sickness, all things rushing, all things bright.
Suddenly, Gabriel pulled away from me, leaving me gripping the handrail, my heart thumping wildly. The lift doors had opened to reveal two massive security guards on the other side.
“You’re in trouble, man,” one said, as Gabriel staggered out into the corridor. “Barry wants your head on a plate.”
24
The following morning, Fire&Lights’ manager Barry King paid Gabriel a private visit. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t take any prisoners.
“Are you trying to push my buttons, Gabe?” came the gravelly voice from inside Gabriel’s hotel room. Standing in the corridor, I waited for Gabriel to respond, but all I could hear through the closed door was his television, yapping away in the corner.
Songs About a Girl Page 21