Chinaski

by Frances Vick

  The girl he’d brought looked faintly familiar. A real punk girl with multi coloured dreadlocks, torn up tights, the whole deal, and Peter was impressed despite not finding her very attractive. She looked quite extreme, not like the compliant and very young girls that Carl sometimes brought with him to rehearsal. She looked like she might have something to say for herself, she might even stand up to Carl. Then, when he heard her voice, he remembered her.

  She’d been at his school – two years above, so she must be old by now, like 20, 21 or something. She’d been one of the Rich Bitch Jolly Hockey Sticks crowd. It was weird, looking at her now, and remembering her smug little face on awards day, it was hard to put the two images together. What was her name? Claire? No. Catherine. Oh, she says it’s Lydia now. What? Oh. Oh yeah. And he remembered the whole Catherine ‘the Cunt’ Hunt scenario now, and the special assembly about verbal bullying. Oh well, let her call herself whatever she wants. She looks alright now, give her a chance. And so he busied himself making Lydia feel comfortable, asking her questions, making her tea, offering compliments, all activity designed to eat up the silence emanating from Carl.

  The bassists were all late. They only really needed to see one of them – John, the one Carl had met at DiscKings. Peter suspected that the others were just window dressing to make Lydia see this as a serious event. She probably didn’t know that they’d played with pretty much every bassist in the city and that Carl had driven them all away. Lydia was slightly ridiculous, with her self conscious steely glare and her notebook, as if she was somehow the judge. But then, maybe Carl had told her that to get her here. Maybe he cared about her opinion. There was a first time for everything. When John arrived, he was given the demo, told to play along with the basslines, and things quickly moved onto the chore of ignoring whatever weird shit Dom said, while appearing to agree with him.

  By the dubious virtue of staying alive since 1977, he had become a scene fixture, respected, sometimes deferred to. There hadn’t been many gigs by many bands in the city that he hadn’t appeared at, first hunched at the bar, and then eventually, if the occasion warranted, unleashing his arthritic, disquieting pogo. There were a few people who claimed to remember him in his youth, or to have definite facts about him. He’d been a friend of David Bowie. He’d been in prison for murder. Or GBH. Or arson. He’d been a rent boy. He was psychic. He’d been in an asylum for ten years. The only facts Peter knew about Dom were those that Carl had told him, which was to say not much. Carl liked secrets and secretive people, and he took Dom along with him everywhere – like a toothless Jiminy Cricket.

  As soon as he arrived, John had obviously picked up quickly that it was best not to question Dom’s presence. He made every appearance of understanding what he said, and as a result now had Carl’s full attention. But poor Lydia looked lost, and so Peter did what he always did with Carl’s side-lined women, and tried to take her mind off it.

  They talked about Deep Focus, about how long she’d been involved with them, about her career before that, about her ambitions. Lydia was one of those people who took it for granted that you wanted to know all about her, and Peter was used to that, used to not being asked any questions in return. He easily slipped into the role of eager acolyte; it made people comfortable and it meant he didn’t have to think much. While she spoke he kept half an eye on Carl and John who seemed to be getting on well, John was letting himself be lectured and was making the appropriate responses. Who knew? Perhaps they’d have a bassist for longer than a few weeks. Then she asked who their vocalist was. Had Carl really told her so little? How long had they been seeing each other?

  “Carl. That’s Carl.”

  She said something absurd: “But he’s so shy!” And Peter had to take time to calibrate his response. He said something about Carl changing on stage, about being charismatic, but she still looked sceptical, carried on with a lot of stuff about how unconfident Carl was, and how she’d spent so much time trying to boost his confidence.

  “Perhaps,” her voice was quite loud now, but it had a musing quality that made Peter think that she didn’t mean to be overheard, “perhaps he’s a little self conscious because I’m here. It may be that he doesn’t want to, I don’t know, let me down or something.”

  He hoped Carl wasn’t hearing this; it was verging on impertinence – Carl didn’t enjoy being told what he was like. Peter headed her off into talking about Deep Focus again.

  “If you wanted to help us out, I mean, if it wouldn’t put you out, maybe you could pass the demo on to Deep Focus? I mean, you have the contacts.”

  And naturally Lydia was jumping all over it. Not only would she do that, she’d ensure studio time for a better demo, she’d see to it personally. Her voice got even louder – now she wanted to be heard, Peter guessed – and John and Carl were forced to pay attention. She looked significantly at Carl and smiled, and Carl mustered a smile back. He’s sick of this girl, thought Peter. He’s sick of this girl already. And I don’t blame him.

  Throughout the rest of the evening, though, Peter’s certainty wavered. Either Carl was a better actor than he thought, or in a weird way he really did like her. She was vehement, humourless, a bit pompous, and she made Peter tired, but there was a weird energy about her, she could get things done, you could feel it. She knew what she was talking about. That plummy voice might be at odds with the dreadlocks and the torn clothes, but she knew music, and she appeared to know the industry. She was protective of Carl, he noticed, and she had some power over him. When she told him to take his pills, he took his pills. When she questioned if he should have another beer, he put the can back. For all Carl played on it, there was something genuinely vulnerable about him.

  When everyone left, and Peter was alone, he felt that something had been accomplished, that they were on their way.

  A few days later Carl called him to say that he’d approached Deep Focus, they loved the demo, and Mason had booked studio time for the next week. And Peter needed to sort out his clothes, no more rugby tops.

  * * *

  It had been a year or so since Peter had visited Deep Focus. Since Chinaski had signed to DCG, there hadn’t been a lot of time to keep up with old acquaintances, and besides, going back to see Ian and Freida would have seemed...odd. Like visiting your foster parents, or your old English teacher. And anyway, they were Carl’s people really. But today Peter wanted to be with Carl’s people, not fans, not girlfriends, not hangers on. Ian and Freida were Carl’s family; it seemed appropriate to be with them.

  The converted mill looked the same, if a little sprucer. There weren’t as many vans parked at the side and no-one was hanging around the entrance. Expecting the front door to be propped open with a box of flyers, Peter was surprised to see a new intercom system, and when he pressed the buzzer, a female voice asked his name.

  Walking up the familiar stairs, with the owner of the unfamiliar voice, Peter at first hoped that she wouldn’t ask how he was. After three flights of stairs worth of lack of sympathy though, he was aggrieved that she hadn’t said anything to him at all. She was a pretty, open faced girl with smooth brown hair in a no nonsense pony tail. Too many girls were shaving their hair off nowadays, Peter thought. It was unattractive, off-putting. She was a little too self possessed though. It wouldn’t kill her to admit she knew who he was. Compared to any bands she must know, bands stuck on Deep Focus, Peter was famous. He was a famous person in a famous band, whose famous best friend had just died. It made him feel like crying. “How is Ian, I suppose he’s taken it hard?” he prompted eventually.

  She made a tiny noise, a vocalised shrug, and steered him round some boxes of t-shirts blocking the corridor.

  Peter prompted again, he couldn’t help himself, “It’s been a tough day...” No response. “A really tough day.” Nothing. Really, this was horrible. “You’ve heard about it?”

  The girl looked at him politely, giving nothing away.

  “Carl Howell died. Carl, you know, from Chinaski. They fo
und him dead yesterday. I mean, not they, the band. I’m in the band, I was his best friend.” Nothing still, just the gaze, “I mean the ambulance people found him.”

  She murmured something about watching his step around a puddle of water on the floor.

  Was she fucking retarded? Really, was there something wrong with her? Angry tears pricked Peter’s eyes and when they came to Ian’s door he didn’t look at her or say goodbye. Bitch.

  The office was in its usual turmoil. Coffee mugs tottered on pillars of CDs, t-shirts spilled out of boxes, ashtrays overflowed. Beer mats had been stuck under the short leg of the desk. The only thing different was a big new computer, pristine and incongruous. Ian creased his face at the instruction manual.

  “Fred thinks it’s time we used all this stuff. Computers. Says we can’t be left behind.” He tapped a key hopefully, and frowned. “I don’t get them. You?”

  Peter shook his head and took a seat. Was Ian going to pretend nothing had happened too? The room was silent. Peter stared at his knees and heard a sigh from Ian.

  “How are you bearing up, Pete?” and Peter was so grateful that he was being cared about that he almost forgave the Pete thing. No-one called him Pete, except Ian. He wasn’t a Pete. Never had been. As he opened his mouth to answer, the tears came at last. They’d been leaking all day, but he hadn’t let go of it all, and now he found he couldn’t stop. The tears poured down his face, slowed a little through the day’s growth of beard, and dripped onto his t-shirt and knees. His meaty shoulders heaved with the effort of release. He gripped his forearms, his finger nails leaving little white half moon scars, rolling under the onslaught, until it exhausted itself, gradually, messily.

  Ian was close to him, crouching down in front of him, with a box of tissues. Peter shuddered out the last of the tears and took one, along with the offered cigarette. They smoked in silence until Freida came in.

  She had aged in the last year. Deep lines led from her nose to her chin and the frizzy red hair showed grey at the sides. She drifted into the room with none of her usual bustle and hilarity, and didn’t comfort Peter, but stood near him frozen. Ian got up to put his arm around her and usher her into a chair, and then stood awkwardly, silent.

  Freida tried to smile. “Poor Ian can’t deal with me. But I can’t seem to pull myself together. You know. His father came over, he was the one who called us. Then he came over because he said –” she choked a little, “he said we sounded kind and he wanted to thank us for what we did for his boy. He brought flowers and stayed for an hour. He did most of the comforting to tell the truth. I must have been dreadful to be with. He was very – kind. Very. Not what I expected.”

  “I never thought his dad was that bad. It was Miriam, she was the bad one,” said Peter.

  “Oh, Fred has a thing about bad fathers,” Ian’s tone was teasing, but he stopped when he saw Freida’s grim face. “He said that the funeral is set after the post mortem.”

  “There’s a post mortem? Like an autopsy?” Peter felt sick.

  Ian nodded, kept his voice low, as if to keep it from Freida, as if she couldn’t hear what he was saying right next to her. “There has to be. Unexplained death.”

  And Peter realised suddenly that he hadn’t thought about that at all. Carl’s dead, Bob had said, and that was all Peter had taken in. Carl’s dead. Deal with that. There wasn’t enough mental bandwidth to ask or absorb why. He didn’t even remember if Bob had told him anything. Just where he was found. That was all Peter remembered. How weird, he thought, not to have asked. How strange of me. And he thought suddenly of Chris Harris. He hadn’t asked either.

  Ian was speaking, “...because he was so young they have to consider, you know, that he did it himself.” Peter felt rather than saw Freida’s stricken face.

  “But he wouldn’t have done that. He had no reason to, I mean, he was withdrawn, but he would, you know, shut down sometimes. It didn’t mean anything, you know, serious.”

  Ian was silent and Peter pressed on, “I mean there was no note or anything. No? Nothing bad had happened. It was all good. Everything was going well.”

  Ian spread his hands and shrugged slightly, “We’ll find out I suppose.”

  Freida was staring at Ian as if she hated him. “You’re being casual. You’re being casual about it.”

  “I’m not being casual. I’m just not falling apart, that’s all. There’s no point in falling apart –” Ian rocked uncomfortably on his heels and smiled his tic-like smile.

  “I think about the poor boy lying in that room for days on end, and no-one bothering, no-one trying to find him...no-one caring –” Freida was crying now. “And I think I didn’t try to find him! I didn’t think to look either.”

  “Fred, you didn’t even know he was missing. You hadn’t seen him in nearly a year. Just, really, try to be logical about it.”

  “I can’t be logical! It’s shocking to be logical now, when he’s dead, surely, Ian? There’s nothing logical about him dying like that.” Her voice was shrill now, and mascara no-one knew she wore puddled in the bags under her eyes, “You can say that because you didn’t like him and you didn’t care! Say what you like, because I know it’s true, you didn’t care about him the way I did, the way people ought to have done –” and she flurried away as Ian tried to hug her, hugging herself tight instead, rocking, gasping. It was the first argument they’d had in ten years.

  “It’s a tough day Pete. I....look I know it’s been tough for you too, but I think Fred needs to be alone, or, you know, just with me.” Ian wore the terrible, supplicating smile of a helpless man. And then the smile disappeared as the sharp end of a CD case hit him in the temple, and another on his shoulder.

  Freida was shouting that she wanted him out of the office, that she didn’t want to be with him, that she wanted to be with Peter and only Peter, because at least he knew what she was talking about. She barged Ian out and bolted the door behind him with shaking hands. Turning back to Peter, with the mascara drying around her eyes and her red grizzled hair standing on end, she looked like a mad woman.

  “Did you know where he was? Was he hiding from us?” Her eyes were unfocussed.

  “I didn’t know. I don’t know.”

  “Why was he hiding away? Was he depressed? Could we have helped? Have you seen Lydia?”

  It was one of Freida’s conceits that everyone she liked, liked each other. Everyone played nicely together, was invited to each other’s parties, as if they were in primary school, and she was the kindly head teacher.

  “I called Lydia. I called a lot of people. To let them know. Someone had to –” Peter waited for sympathy, acknowledgment, but Freida was too distracted.

  “I suppose Bob called you after he called us. Oh God, it must have been so hard for him! Calling up all these people he didn’t know, giving them that terrible news. I can’t imagine how difficult that would have been. Can you?”

  “Yes.”

  Again, Freida didn’t hear him. She began heaving folders out of drawers, knocking an ashtray over, spilling water as she slapped them onto the desk, one after the other.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Photos. Pictures. Look! These!” A folder full of Chinaski, clippings and photos taken around the office and on tour, like a scrapbook kept by a proud mother. “There’s everything in here, letters too. We can go through it and see –” She stumbled on her words.

  “See what?”

  “See. If. See if. There’s something we missed. If there’s something in here that tells us something, why –” and she sat down suddenly, broken and small on the swivel chair. Some of the pictures slid out onto her lap, and from there to the floor. Peter bent to pick them up.

  Black and white shots that they’d rejected for the first album’s inner sleeve, each of them self consciously posed, uncomfortable, and, oh, they all looked so impossibly young. Such soft babies. So anxious, so excited. Portentous shots in an industrial landscape. All army boots and combats and fish
eye lenses. It was embarrassing. It was almost sweet. And there, in the corner of one photo, a woman’s hand reaching out to smooth Carl’s hair back from his forehead. Carl’s forehead was creased with annoyance – at the wind? At Lydia’s hand? Was he annoyed with her as early as that? And here, one of Chris Harris’ articles:

  NME

  May 1990.

  A Modest Proposal from Chris Harris

  Loyal readers have noted my virtual obsession with Chinaski over the last few millennia. I am also cognisant of the fact that my hyperbole has its own gravitational pull – Planet Harris attracts haters and lovers indiscriminately (for what is an enemy but a friend you haven’t taught to love you?) and misunderstanding has been swirling about my head like so much cosmic dust. My mailbag runneth over with your dirty little missives, most of which err on the side of concern. You say to me “Chris, why Chinaski?” You pull on my ragged coat tails and ask me to tell you why, why why?

  Well, this is your lucky day. Strap yourself in and lend me your ears. When “Shattered” was released on Deep Focus, I said then that it was a work of rare genius. A superlative album, something of beauty with a cast iron fragility at its heart. If Iggy Pop, Kurt Cobain and Twiggy fashioned a perfect sex doll, it would be Carl Howell. I myself, in the early weeks of my burgeoning obsession, felt discomforted by the inescapable fact that the singer was – undoubtedly – a pretty boy. The face alone could launch a thousand releases (so to speak). A pretty boy with a voice of whispering gravel and the doe eyed charm of an animal in a trap. And then I began to pay attention to the music.