The Singer

by Cathi Unsworth

  The phone was cut off with a shrill BEEEEEEEP.

  Next message: ‘Ach, shite, fuckin’ heel. Wha’ I was sayin’ was – Eddie, are youze there? Wha—’ BEEEEEEP.

  ‘Jesus,’ I shook my head, thinking, has someone given my phone number to an old wino from Arlington House for a joke? ‘Sorry,’ I said to Lou. ‘I’ve no idea who this…’

  The next message cut through my sentence with a clarity missing from the others. ‘Eddie, eh, this is Robin Leith. You’ve heard of us, eh?’

  ‘Holy shit!’ I exclaimed.

  Louise put her finger down on the stop button. ‘You mean you do know this moron?’

  ‘Yes, er no, I mean I know who he is. He’s someone I need to speak to for the book. Shit, let it play back!’

  ‘Why should I even be surprised? I’ll leave you to it then.’ She gave a sigh of disgust, pressed play and stalked back to the kitchen to noisily unpack the shopping.

  But I was transfixed by the voice on the tape. It was poised somewhere between intoxication and menace. ‘If youze ah thinkin’ ah talkin’ about Sylvana, youze come tur me first. Ah wanna meet with you, eh…’ There was a moment of crackling silence before the voice resumed. ‘Wha’s today? Thursday, aye. Reet, Eddie, ah want you to meet us…’ BEEEEEEP.

  ‘Fuck!’ I exploded. ‘Fuck, fuck fuck—’

  ‘Sunday, Eddie, ah want yous to meet us ahn Sunday. One o’clock in the Devonshire Arms. Thash Camdun Town. Yuh know it, eh? See youze then, Eddie.’

  END OF MESSAGES.

  I was stunned. Robin Leith. The man Tony Stevens had described as a ‘cripple’ – alternately, a ‘stalker’ in Mick Greer’s testimony. Who had told him? How had he tracked me down? And when?

  ‘Lou-Lou?’ I moved tentatively towards the kitchen. ‘Did you say you were in when he called?’

  Louise was sorting stuff into the fridge. She didn’t turn round. ‘Not when he left those messages, but he must have tried calling back in the evening. I thought it was a dirty phone call.’

  She slammed the door shut and turned round. ‘Just heavy breathing on the line so I put the phone down on them. Then it rang again almost immediately and I was about to switch it over to the fax and burn their ears out when it spoke. Or should I say it mumbled. It was that voice all right, but I couldn’t make head nor tail of it, so I hung up and then put the fax on. He didn’t try it a fourth time.’

  ‘God, I’m sorry, darling, you should have said.’

  She sniffed. ‘I just assumed it was some random loony.’

  ‘Well, believe it or not, he’s someone I need to talk to,’ I told her. ‘For the book. His story’s really important.’

  Which was what I kept repeating to myself as I slouched down to the Devonshire to meet him.

  Granger was due back that night, but that was too late, and he didn’t have the kind of mobile you could call in America. I knew he hadn’t given Robin Leith my home phone number, but I desperately wanted to ask him who he thought could have done it. As far as I knew, only a handful of people knew we were doing the book, and none of them were friends of his. Still, there was one thing for certain – gossip travels fast in a small world. And the faces of the early eighties new-wave scene were a pretty exclusive club these days.

  I’d spent most of the past two days finding out everything I could about Leith, Sylvana and Mood Violet, which included a couple of battered old albums salvaged from the bargain bins in the second-hand record shops along Inverness Street. They both had artfully blurred covers, blue and pink dreamscapes with little arcs of fairy lights and the shadowy silhouettes of a band in motion. The inside sleeves, replete with incomprehensible lyrics, had small band portraits in them.

  On both, Sylvana was gorgeous – huge green eyes, deep red hair and matching Clara Bow lips. It was hard to reconcile those angelic features with the acid comments Gavin and Stevens had made about her. The music itself was like some dreamy electronic lullaby and she sung her Edward Lear lyrics in a voice as pure and ethereal as her face. Not only could I see where Vincent Smith was coming from, but I really had to commend him. You couldn’t not want to give that one. Maybe Granger and Stevens were both secretly gay.

  Still, they both said she had sent Leith round the bend, and those phone messages did nothing to disprove the fact. I’d played them back again so I could tape them on my dictaphone, and shuddered at how belligerently wasted he sounded. You’d imagine some hulking great Rangers fan waving a broken bottle on the other end of that voice. But from his picture at least, Leith looked like a frail, skinny bloke, with a carrotty crimped wedge haircut that didn’t do much to enchance his pasty face. You could still see the acne on his temples.

  Don’t think I could blame her for running off with Vincent either.

  The Devonshire Arms as well, that was a funny one. And not as in amusing.

  It was a Goth Heritage Site of Olde Camden Towne, with a bloody great plaque on the outside of it proclaiming: Goth/Alternative Venue and a jaw-dropping painting of a vampire woman’s face on a spider’s body to illustrate the point.

  Was Leith taking the piss? Did he realise I lived in Camden and wanted to put me through the exquisite torture of being seen going into this shithole? Or was he, like those sad old gits at the Red Lion, trying to keep his past in limbo by drinking in the same pub as the children of his original fans?

  Whatever it was, I was taking certain precautions with Leith. Because I wasn’t sure whether he was going to talk to me or try and do me over for besmirching the memory of his precious Sylvana, I had arranged back-up. Christophe was going to be in the pub from half twelve, so that when he saw me come in he could keep an eye on proceedings from across the room. Leith might know who I was, but he sure as hell didn’t know Christophe, and Christophe – half Romany, six foot two and dressed like Henry Hill – was not the sort of person you’d want to find out about the hard way. In the ten years I’d known him, he’d only lost one fight, and that was to some ju-jitsu master who’d kicked out one of his front teeth. To reproach himself for his lack of attention to detail, Christophe had never had that tooth replaced. With him at my back I had no reason to feel nervous.

  I walked through Sainsbury’s car park, which came out practically at the Devonshire’s door. That way, I hoped, no one would see me go in there.

  I looked at my imitation Tag Heuer watch before I went in. It was five to one. I had no fucking idea what Robin Leith was going to look like now, but it was safe to assume he was probably going to be the oldest person in the room.

  Sunday lunch in the house of heathens was a sight to behold. The place was heaving with Euro goths, wobbling on top of twelveinch wedge boots with bloody great armour-plating all up the front of them. Every spare inch of their faces had been pierced, bolted and chained, and crowning glories of red, black, fuchsia or canary-yellow mohawks and spikes burst out over deathly faces of uniform blank gormlessness. Marilyn Manson was grinding out of the jukebox, moaning on about the beautiful people in a way that, in that moment, transcended irony.

  Above the spiky heads, I could just make out Christophe standing at the bar, looking like he should have changed his name to Pissed Off. He was reading The News of the Screws and drinking a pint. Wearing a camel-hair coat and a fedora, his neat little goatee trimmed to a strip between his lower lip and his chin. When he saw me, he raised one eyebrow and subtly nodded to the dimmest corner of the room.

  With porridge face and staring eyes, Leith looked like some golem who had sat in these shadows for twenty years, purposefully avoiding all daylight. Time had not filled him out at all, instead he was skinnier still, and as I neared his table, the acne scars and hollow cheeks became more visible. His hair had been cropped back to a number three, and great patches of white had spread amongst the carrots.

  He was wrapped in a black crombie and he rocked slightly back and forth as he stared out of the window with hooded, watery blue eyes. An untouched pint of Guinness sat before him on the table, a packet of rolling tobacc
o, skins and a box of matches beside it.

  I cleared my throat and his head snapped round, his eyes seeming to take a few seconds to focus.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said to him, ‘are you Robin?’

  His eyes were so pale they were almost translucent.

  He looked me up and down, raised a roll-up to his lips, sparked it up slowly and inhaled. ‘Eddie,’ he said softly, indicating the chair opposite with the merest tilt of his head. ‘Ah see you got the message.’

  There was a curious stillness, like dead air around him. He was a man who had waited so long already he could sit here for another eternity before telling me what he really wanted. So I resisted the urge to ask how the hell he got my number, and smiled encouragingly instead.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ I asked.

  Leith looked at me as if I was some kind of fool and did another one of his almost imperceptible nods towards his brimming glass. ‘Ah’ve got one.’

  ‘Right. Ah…I’ll just get myself one then. Won’t be a minute.’

  I dived into the space by Christophe’s elbow, my back towards the decomposing goth spectre. Looking ahead, I muttered: ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

  Christophe concurred. ‘Looks like a right fucking nightmare.’

  ‘Thanks for this,’ I told him, leaving another pint on the bar in front of him and taking my own back to Leith’s table.

  He was looking out of the window again, but the gaze was seeing far beyond the remit of Sainsbury’s car park.

  I fumbled into my seat, pulling my fags and lighter out of the pocket as I did so. Leith continued to stare into space. So I took a long gulp of lager and lit up myself, wondering how to begin this conversation.

  ‘S’pose yer wonderin’ how ah came by yer number, eh?’ my companion growled, not moving.

  ‘Er, well, yes I did wonder,’ I admitted, trying not to sound too perturbed about it. ‘Do we have a mutual friend?’

  He swivelled his head round to look at me.

  ‘Well, ah have plenty to wonder about mahself,’ he told me, and nodded to himself. ‘Like, wha’ are youze up teh? Young guy like you. Wha’ de youze know about anything, eh?’

  Anger flared in those watery eyes. I held my hands up, palms open.

  ‘Look, I don’t understand…’

  ‘Nah.’ Leith shook his head vigorously. ‘That’s obvious. Youz dunnae understand shite. Take a look around youze,’ he swung his arm around wildly. ‘Look at all these wee gobshites fuckin’ twenty years outta date. Ahsh just a funny wee fashion to all of youze, eh? And youze,’ he jabbed a grimy fingernail right under my nose. ‘Youze wannin’ to make some money outta all this, eh? Thash why youz writin’ this book? Youze wanna make some money outta my girul?’

  He practically screamed this last sentence, flecks of spittle flying from his rubbery, toothless mouth. Not that anyone noticed above the industrial jackhammer noise thumping out of the jukebox.

  Jesus Christ, I thought, he is a fucking Grade A berserker. But he’d sussed me out in a second – that’s why he’d brought me to this bloody awful goth pub. The thought sent a small tremor of fear up my spine.

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ I said, surprising even myself with the calmness of my voice. ‘I’m not trying to exploit anyone at all. I’m actually trying to find out the truth…’

  This made him laugh and it was not a pleasant sound. ‘The truth, aye, that’s a good one. Wha’ truth would that be then, eh?’

  ‘Your side of the story,’ I tried to encourage him. ‘You know what effect Vincent had on Sylvana. Everyone I’ve spoken to so far has painted her as the villain, but they’re all people who had their own investments in him succeeding. You could be a vital counterpoint to those accusations. You could tell them what she was really like.’

  A good point well made, I thought, but Leith just carried on laughing, as if he couldn’t believe what I was saying.

  ‘Well, don’t you even want to put the record straight?’ I battled on. ‘I presumed that’s why you got in touch with me?’

  ‘Och, dear, that’s wha’ youze presumed, is it?’ he cackled, stressing the word in a mockery of my accent and virtually clutching his sides with glee.

  I looked at his smug, sneering face and the fear started to transmute into anger.

  ‘OK, you tell me,’ I snapped. ‘How did you get my number and why did you ask me to meet you when you obviously only want to sit here and insult me? Just a way of getting your jollies, is it?’

  ‘Nae, is no.’ Leith’s countenance suddenly turned to stone. He leaned forward, clutching his coat around him like the wings of a big, greasy crow and hissed. ‘Ah’m deadly serious, pal. Youze goes proddin’ around amongst the deed like this an’ don’ be surprised a what springs up outta the coffin.’

  I slowly wiped off the saliva he’d just sprayed across my face.

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ I asked.

  This made him smile again. ‘Ach Eddie,’ he tilted his head to one side, ‘are youze gonna start throwin’ yer toys outta yer pram now?’

  I groaned aloud. I should have known better than to respond to this weirdo. It steadily dawned on me that no matter how he got my number, if I hadn’t have shown up today, he wouldn’t have even known it was the right one.

  Fools rush in and all that.

  ‘Do you actually have anything of interest to say to me?’ I asked wearily.

  ‘Yeah,’ he smiled. ‘I knew Sylvana and youze didnae. That means youze have nae right wha’soever to write abou’ her. Ah’ve asked youze here so’s ah could suss out wha’ type of guy you really are – no’ that there’s much hope with any of youze journalist types, youze all the same. And frankly, Eddie, ah don’ really like wha’ ah see. But ah’m gonnae ask youze once nicely. Stop writin’ this book. The worruld doesnae need to know any more about the stupid mistake mah lass made with tha’ big prick Smith. Storp glorifyin’ that bastid an’ let her rest in peace. Otherwise I won’t let you, d’yuh ken, pal?’

  I was starting to get the picture.

  ‘Now I know that is youze number,’ he continued, ‘an’ I know what youze look like. Soon enough I’ll know where you live. Ah’m pretty sure you wouldnae want me to be makin’ regular visits, eh?’

  I stood up, heart hammering, red fog coming down. I wanted to pound this prick into the pavement right then and there, but that was probably exactly what he wanted. He did look like he thrived on pain.

  ‘You know, Robin,’ I said to him instead, ‘everyone told me you were a fuck-up and a nutter but I thought no, I’m not going to take their word for it, I’m sure he has his own story and it’s a story worth hearing. Well, how wrong I was. You are a nutter. God, what a fucking nightmare it must be, living in your head.’ I grimaced sarcastically. ‘Tatty bye then, Robin. Let me know if you ever make it back to the real world.’

  Before I slammed out of the door, I looked over at Christophe who had moved closer to our table, obviously noting things weren’t turning out well. He caught my eye and nodded.

  Outside I walked up Kentish Town Road as fast as my legs would carry me. My hands were clenching and unclenching and I was grinding my teeth, hissing a stream of expletives under my breath. Fear and rage combined – rage that I had been duped so easily by such a lowlife; fear that he would carry out his home invasion threat and Louise would get caught in the crossfire.

  I wondered if this was part of the prick’s plan too, get me to leave in a huff and lead him straight back to my door. A C2 bus was pulling into the stop in front of me. Without looking back to check, I made a dash for it and swung myself on board.

  As I moved down the aisle I looked out of the window just in time to clock us passing Robin Leith, halfway between the pub and the bus stop. For a second our eyes met and I feverishly hoped he’d noted I was going in the direction of Hampstead Heath.

  A few paces back, Christophe was walking behind him.

  Jesus Christ, I thought, falling into a seat. This was supposed to be easy. A
few lunches with some middle-aged musicians, how much trouble can that get you into?

  I rode the C2 all the way up to the Heath, where I got off and headed up into the wilds, stomping against the wind through the thick grass until I was on top of the hill from where you can see the whole of London spread out before you. Horrible day though it was, there were still people up there, jolly Hampstead types flying kites with their kids and walking their Weimaraners, so I didn’t bother to take in the panorama, just kept on walking, getting as far away from them as possible. The weather matched my mood: a dismal symphony of thundering grey storm clouds whipped across the sky by a spiteful north-easterly wind.

  I must have spent a couple of hours up there, trying to work out what the fuck I was going to tell Louise if that nutter ever did turn up on our doorstep, when my mobile started vibrating in my pocket, pulling me back to reality.

  I took care of that thing for you the text read and I smiled. Christophe was using our Goodfellas code. I’m in the Stanley now if you fancy a decent drink.

  This was more heartening still. I made my way back to civilisation and grabbed the first cab I could find.

  11

  The Flesh isWilling

  October 1977

  ‘I hear you’ve got yourself a band, Stevie. A punk band, am I right?’ Don Dawson smiled across his desk, revealing a row of pointed teeth that reminded Stevie of a shark. A shark with a lot of gold fillings.

  ‘Well, aye, I have,’ Stevie shrugged. ‘But we’ve only been goin’ a few months. We’ve only just got ourselves a singer…’

  Dawson chuckled, relaxing back into his leather chair. ‘Thought that was what it were all about, Stevie lad, just pick up some instruments and gerron a stage. You don’t need to practise owt, do you? I didn’t think you young ’uns cared if it sounded shite? I thought—’ he blew three smoke rings out of his cigar and firmly eyeballed his youthful charge ‘—it were all about the attitude.’

  This room was all about the attitude all right. This was Dawson’s inner sanctum, the room at the top of Hull’s biggest nightclub, the Ocean Rooms, and everything about it spoke of the man’s progress in the world.