‘Sixteen years later, it’s easier to look back on the actual music we made, rather than the madness that went on around it. Tell you the truth, there were a time when I never wanted to hear a fuckin’ note of it ever again. But now that I have, sat down with Lynton and gone over the whole of the back catalogue, I have to admit it…I’m fuckin’ proud of us.’
More Mick Greer humming through the printer, still more of him to come. All the fan sites I could find – and most of them were appalling goth rubbish – had posted up old NME articles written by the cunt, with Granger’s photos to go with them. Oh dear. Granger went ballistic when he found out people had been stealing his images. As soon as I let him know what www.thedarkside.org, www.childrenofthenight.com and www.thebatcave.co.uk had been up to behind his back it would be a darker night in Gotham City than any of them could possibly have imagined.
Then I could just casually mention the infringement of Greer’s copyright too, get him into the conversation, find out what the bastard was up to these days.
It was getting on for ten o’clock when the key in the front door brought me back from Vincent Smith’s world.
Louise stood framed in the hall light. Black wool coat with Astrakhan collar, black gloves, black wool trousers and black high-heeled boots. Thick black hair cut into the style of her namesake, her lookalike, Lulu Brookes. Her lips were red. Her eyes were narrow. She looked like one of the evil queens from the Disney movies, the ones with poisoned apples in their handbags.
‘H-hello, darling,’ I tried to sound cheerful. ‘Been anywhere nice?’
Louise’s glittering green eyes took in the scene.
Her fat bastard boyfriend in a dishevelled suit he’d obviously slept in, sitting red-eyed among a paper mountain that spilled from the desk to the floor, a similarly towering ashtray, a coffee cup with rings around it and cornflakes all over the toffee shop.
Her red nails tapped on the doorframe. The shutters came down in her eyes. ‘Anywhere,’ she finally said, ‘would be nice compared to here.’
‘Darling,’ I stood up and went to walk towards her, catching my foot in the flex from the fan heater and diving headfirst into the carpet, spilling cornflakes and print-outs like dandruff as I went down.
Louise shut her eyes like it was a monumental effort of will for her not to start screaming.
I stared up at her from the carpet, prostrate at her feet. Started to laugh, laugh hysterically at the stupidity of it all, trying to stagger back upright as I did so, clutching at the side of my chair. Hoping my stupid laughter would somehow reach out to her, explain to her that I was sorry, so sorry, for everything that I’d done wrong, for all the late nights and trips away and showbiz parties while she stayed in alone, with her books. Sorry for all the times I’d staggered in drunk and broken things, for the time I tried to take my cowboy boots off and fell through the window, for the time she found my friend Christophe asleep in the bath when she tried to get ready for work in the morning. Sorry for all the money I spent on drinking and trying to impress other people who were not her, for the fact that ten years after I so grandly announced I was going to be a writer I had got only so far as leaving a shitty second-hand paper shop for a regular gig on a low-selling gentleman’s monthly. Sorry for the fact I once had the most glamorous, mysterious woman at our school and now I ignored her and dreaded seeing her and preferred the company of ageing photographers and vanished goths. Sorry for all the things I couldn’t say and all the lies I told instead.
Sorry that I existed.
The ice maiden’s eyelids slowly rose on her hard, cold, emerald eyes.
‘You’re fucking pathetic, Eddie,’ she pronounced, letting each word drop like dead leaves on dirty flagstones. She didn’t say anything more. Just turned on her heel towards the bedroom, slamming the door behind her so loudly my coffee cup jumped off the desk to join me in splinters on the floor.
Another night on another sofa, dreaming of a vanished rock star, and how he could save me.
5
Oh You Silly Thing
June 1977
‘What you got there then, Kevin?’
Kevin Holme nearly dropped the bass drum he had been carrying into the school hall.
Lounging against the side of the wall by all the massive food bins storing leftovers to be taken away for pigswill, was Stevie Mullin. Stevie Mullin looking like he’d come in from a different planet. Wearing a leather jacket and a T-shirt all ripped up and then pulled back together with safety pins. Drainpipe jeans with luminous yellow socks and black, thick-soled brothel creepers. A padlock holding a bike chain around his neck. His hair all up in spikes. Stevie Mullin looking harder than even he had looked before. Smoking a fag on school grounds.
Kevin’s eyes darted around, looking for teacher.
‘What you doing with that, Kevin?’ Stevie nodded at the kit, almost bigger than the awkward boy holding it.
Old Tucker already in the school hall, helping all the other kids to set up their gear. Not even looking round and noticing.
Kevin could feel his heart beating as Stevie slouched off the wall and started towards him, with a slow, menacing, bow-legged swagger.
‘You play that, do you?’ Stevie was still smiling as he got near enough to blow his fag smoke into Speccy Kevin’s face, watch him go red and start stammering: ‘Wh-wh-what’s it to you, Mullin?’ Kevin’s voice was only just breaking and veered from high-pitched to low to comedic effect.
‘I’m interested in music, me,’ Stevie told him. ‘Especially in drummers.’ He circled around his prey like a panther. ‘So that’s what you get up to behind Dunton’s back, eh? Playing drums in school band? You any good at it, Kevin?’
Kevin looked like he was going to shit himself. ‘Look, Mullin, I’ve got to go in,’ he sounded like a girl, pleading. ‘They’ll notice.’
‘All right, Kevin,’ Stevie said amiably. ‘I’ve got a detention to go to myself.’ He blew another line of smoke into Kevin’s face, dropped the butt of his cigarette and ground it out slowly, like he didn’t care if anyone saw.
Walked off just as casually. Speccy Kevin blinked, took off his glasses and rubbed them on his pullover. By the time he’d put them back on, Mullin had disappeared. As if he’d never been there in the first place.
Kevin couldn’t concentrate on band practice that night. He got shouted at three times for not coming in at the right moment, and then, most mortifyingly, playing the wrong part entirely.
‘Something wrong with you, lad?’ enquired Old Tucker, the music teacher, normally a genial duffer but not one to tolerate any sort of mucking about. ‘Been getting enough sleep, have you? Eh? Well, will you do us the pleasure of joining the rest of us then?’
The hall resounded with laughter, all eyes fixed on Kevin.
His face burned bright red and his palms were sweaty. His sticks felt big and clumsy in his hands. What he was thinking was: ‘Is Mullin going to get me when Gary’s not around?’
He’d never wanted to join Dunton’s gang in the first place, but he didn’t have much choice. As their next-door neighbour he’d grown up playing with Gary, his brothers Darren and Keith and their little sister Mandy. Their mums went to bingo and Beverley races together. Their dads to the Working Men’s Club and to see Rovers, sometimes taking the boys along if they’d kept enough cash back that week. Kevin didn’t have any brothers or sisters of his own, so he’d been unofficially adopted by that lot.
All the Duntons had called Kevin ‘Brains’ ever since he got his first glasses when he was seven. He didn’t just look like the Thunderbirds puppet, he was the cleverest out of all of them. By the time they reached North Hull High, it was a given that Kevin would do all Gary and his mates’ homework in return for the honour of being protected by them. Knowing he was too soft to be of any use in a fight, they used him instead as their lookout and scapegoat. More than once Kevin had taken the blame for something one of the others had done, especially if it meant them avoiding the cane or suspension. It did his reputation
with the other kids no harm.
Kevin would rather have just been left alone but at least, the way things were, he was safe. At school and at home. Playing his drums was the only thing Kevin ever got to do that he really enjoyed. Gary had called him a puff for it, mind, but in an affectionate way. He let him get on with it. Gary weren’t all that bad, really.
Stevie Mullin, on the other hand, was a mad bugger in a league all of his own. Darren and Keith Dunton could handle theirselves all right, but the Mullin boys were mental, had a reputation for it. And as for their dad…Their dad drove boats into Finnish trawlers in the middle of the North Sea.
It didn’t bear thinking about. If Stevie was after him, Gary or no Gary, Kevin was really in trouble.
Like the rest of the school orchestra, Kevin was supposed to be polishing up on his repertoire for the end of term concert in three weeks’ time. Tucker, who’d fought in Normandy in the war, still had a thing about the Big Band classics of his youth. He’d had them all learning Glenn Miller – ‘In The Mood’, ‘Chatanooga Choo-Choo’, ‘Moonlight Serenade’ – all that old-style stuff. Though it were right different to the stuff Gary and his mates listened to, all that Pink Floyd and Deep Purple, Kevin liked it, liked the way it really did swing. He’d learned to use brushes for the first time to get that shuffling sound, had really impressed Old Tucker both by his dedication and his natural ability.
But tonight, he was all over the place, staring into space, not concentrating and in turn, putting the others off. The rehearsal was a shambles.
‘You sure there’s nowt wrong, lad?’ Tucker asked him gently as Kevin packed up his kit. Because there were so many bits to it, he was always the last to leave. Tonight he seemed to be taking even longer than usual over unscrewing everything and putting it all into its cases.
Kevin Holme had reached puberty later than most boys in his year, looked younger, with his specs and his puppy fat and his still smooth face. Tucker knew the crowd he hung about with, but he knew at heart that Kevin wasn’t the same as them. He hoped that this one’s talent for music might see him go a bit further than the trawlers or the docks, the likely careers of most he taught.
‘No, sir, honest,’ Kevin’s voice came out high and shrill.
‘Shall I give you a hand with that?’ Tucker took the cymbal stand that Kevin was wavering over and began unscrewing the cymbal for him, lest the lad eviscerate himself with all his dithering.
Kevin stood hopelessly as Tucker effortlessly dismantled the rest of the kit and stowed it in its cases. His eyes kept flicking up to the big clock that hung above the stage, the hands creeping around to a quarter-to-six. He had already deliberately made himself as late as possible, but would it be late enough? The question came out of his mouth before he could stop himself: ‘Sir, what time does detention end?’
‘Detention?’ One of Tucker’s bushy white eyebrows shot upwards. ‘Detention ends at five o’clock sharp, son. You waiting for someone? You’re a bit late if you are.’
‘No, sir,’ Kevin avoided the teacher’s eyes, but the way his shoulders slumped indicated his relief.
Tucker didn’t press it any further. ‘Right, let’s put this lot away.’ He lifted up a case and was pleased to see the little lad smile back at him.
After they’d lugged the kit back to the music room and locked it all up, Kevin had reassured himself. They’d walked across the playground twice and there had been no sign of Stevie Mullin hanging by the swill bins, or anywhere else. Mindful of the sports hall incident, Kevin had glanced up there too, but couldn’t see anyone crouched on top of the building, nothing but seagulls up there, wheeling across the sky.
The caretaker was waiting to lock the gates as Kevin left for home. Only, out of the shadow of the kindly music teacher, without Gary and the others around, he suddenly felt vulnerable again. Kevin looked left and then right before he started down the road.
All he could see was an old boy out walking his dog, a gaggle of biddies in nylon overalls gossiping outside the corner shop and a couple of bains doing wheelies in the road.
Kevin walked quickly, looking around him every time he took a corner. It was a humid night and overcast, the sky a dreary grey, but the closeness of the atmosphere making him sweat. He tugged at his school tie, trying to loosen it, but only managing to tighten the knot. His bag of books felt heavy on his shoulder, the monkey boots he’d got his mum to buy ’cos Gary’s lot all had them chafed at his ankles, making his stride uncomfortably slow.
Kevin navigated the little sidestreets that took him onto the Beverley Road as if caught in a bad dream, spooking at every gang of little kids running out of an alleyway, every dog barking up at a gate. All the time he was humming to himself, almost without realising, humming to keep his spirits up the song they had just been practising: ‘In The Mood’.
Once he got to top of Road, he felt safer again. The constant, heavy traffic reassured him, as did the amount of people walking back from work in the city centre and mums pushing prams, the chip shops that had just opened for the evening and their comforting smells of fresh hot batter and frying fish. It were too busy here, Kevin rationalised, for Mullin to jump him. And only a little bit further down Road was his turn off for home, his road, effectively the Duntons’ road, Davis Close. Stevie wouldn’t do owt there either.
The chippy smells made his stomach rumble. Normally, Kevin would have eaten by now, even on a normal night’s band practice. He was half an hour later than usual and hoped his dinner wasn’t too burned in the oven where his mum would have left it for him. Thursday night were a good one, usually his favourite week night – band practice followed by sausage and mash and Mum’s thick onion gravy. Just thinking about it, he could almost taste it.
He was tasting it as he turned left onto West Street, tasting it as he swung around the corner for Davis Close, the corner where two tall fir trees stood and from behind them out jumped: Stevie Mullin.
‘All right, Kevin?’
‘Whaaa!’ Kevin recoiled backwards, his face white with shock.
Stevie Mullin here, on the end of his road.
‘Eh up, lad,’ the spiky-haired, grinning mug moving in on him fast, amusement glittering in the staring eyes. ‘Just wanted to finish our talk. You know, about you bein’ a drummer?’
‘Whaaa!’ shaking Kevin repeated, his hungry stomach lurching into sick fear.
As Stevie continued to walk towards him, he found himself backed up against a garage wall. The fir trees gave cover from the Davis Close side of the road. Nobody could see them.
‘Well, what it is like,’ smiling Stevie looming over him now, ‘is we need a drummer. For band we’re startin’. And I thought about you, straight off. Only thing is,’ he turned his head and smiled in the direction of the firs, ‘young Lynton here’s going to take a bit of convincing.’
Kevin followed the direction of Stevie’s stare, and to his horror, saw another shape emerge from the deadly shade of the trees.
A long, dark, sinuous shape. Only somehow different to the last time Kevin saw him. Lynton Powell with his hair shaved into a flat top, wearing a long drape jacket and a white shirt and skinny black tie. Lynton Powell no longer cowering scared in the playground but looking as hard and weird as Stevie did.
Staring at him with jet-black eyes that bored right through his skull.
Kevin felt his bowels loosen, strained to keep his sphincter tight.
‘Lynton feels you owe him an apology,’ Stevie continued. ‘For what you and your mate Cunton were saying to him.’
‘I-I-weren’t saying it!’ Kevin stared with pleading eyes from one to the other of his captors. ‘Honest, I said nowt. It were all Gary and Lee. I were just lookout for ’em. I didn’t like what they were saying, honest I didn’t…’
Which was actually true. Kevin had cringed inside at their monkey jokes. It were like when people called him ‘four-eyes’ and ‘speccy swot’, but worse. It were just bloody cruel.
Stevie tutted. ‘I can’t hear an
apology there, can you, Lynton?’
They moved in closer on him, so close that he could smell the mixture of sweet cider and tobacco on Stevie’s breath.
‘I’m sorry they said it, they shouldn’t have.’
Lynton saw the smaller boy’s eyes fill up with tears, knew it would only be seconds before he dissolved completely. ‘I’m sorry I helped them,’ his voice cracked and snot blew out of his nose.
Lynton put his hand on Stevie’s shoulder, muttered, ‘S’ enough, bro,’ and stepped back a pace. Stevie did likewise, cocked his head to one side as he watched Kevin wipe his nose on his sleeve.
‘All right, Kevin, so Cunton makes you do his bidding. We know you’re not really from same side of trough as he is. And you won’t have to worry about his lot any more. From now on, you’ll be with us.’
‘Worry?’ Tears were streaming down Kevin’s round face now. ‘Worry? Gary lives next door to us. What d’you expect us to do? I can’t…’
But Kevin couldn’t go on with the sentence. Overwhelmed by tears, he crumpled up into a heap, crouching on the pavement, torn between the fear of Dunton and the fear of these two figures of nightmare.
Lynton crouched down beside him, put a hand on his shoulder.
He looked up at Stevie, who was trying his best to suppress a grin as he rocked on his heels, surveying the damage he’d done. Said: ‘Be cool, Stevie. He won’t be no use to us if he’s gonna be like this.’
Kevin had clamped his arms around his bowed head.
‘Listen,’ Lynton said to him softly, ‘you won’t have to tell Gary nothing. And we won’t tell him neither. You like playin’ the drums, don’t you, Kevin? You like being in the school band?’
Kevin continued to bury his head somewhere between his knees. But Lynton thought he saw a nodding movement.
‘OK, so come in with us, you can be in a band the whole time. It’s the holidays soon, we can start then. Don’t worry about nothing until school is over.’
‘That’s right,’ Stevie added boastfully. ‘Me and Lynton are still at songwriting stage ourselves right now. Once we’ve writ ’em, we can learn ’em together. We can start first day of holidays.’
The Singer Page 5