by Frances Vick
And this is what he was thinking as he strode up to the steps of the court, earphones in, hat pulled low. That’s what he thought as he dashed past the crowd outside, skirted a sodden sleeping bag and shouldered past a cameraman. That’s what he thought as he felt someone grasp his arm and jerk out the earphone. Then he heard Dom say, “Why no note? Answer me that? Ask them that.”
“Hi Dom,” Peter smiled, still walking, but Dom held onto him with surprising strength.
“Why no note? Eh? Not enough pills in his system to kill him. So got to be suicide, right?” Dom’s eyes were dim and he smelled. “Murder! That’s right, I said it. Now you say it, now. To them.”
Peter tried to free himself, but his arm wasn’t going anywhere. “Come on Dom, really? I mean, you said it yourself that it was written in the stars that he was going to go, you told me so.”
“Didn’t say when or how though, did I? Nothing about that, couldn’t tell it. But I’ve been down the library. Researching –”
“How about Chris Harris’ book, the one you’re helping him with? Perhaps he’d like to hear all this, and he can, you know, put it in the book. Get it out there.”
But Dom wasn’t so far gone that he’d fall for that. He chuckled, leaned close and spoke low in his ear, “That’s a cover-up, that book, and you know it. If it happens, which I doubt. No. No. I’ve got my own book. Here.” Peter felt paper being shoved into his pocket. “Read that and then tell me you still believe the shit they’re saying.”
The clock struck and even though he didn’t have to be in court for another half an hour, he gently told Dom that he had to go, he was going to be late. As he walked up the steps he heard Dom saying, “You’re on the side of the angels! You’ll stand up for the boy!”
Peter hung around the smoking area inside the building, avoiding the doors, keeping out of Dom’s sight. He tried to make some sense of the papers he’d given him. It was a thin book – a pamphlet really, badly photocopied and stapled together by a shaky hand. Inky photos of Carl had been reproduced at the bottom of each page, like dirty thumb prints, and above, a series of bullet points:
Where was the lucky coin he kept on him at all times?
What lucky coin? thought Peter. Carl didn’t have a lucky coin. No-one has a lucky coin. He sighed.
Why hasn’t his grandmother been interviewed? Why has she been kept out of sight?
Because she’s a mad old lady and you can’t rely on anything she’s likely to say? Peter had met her once or twice and she’d been gaga then. God knows what she’d be like now.
Why were there grass stains on his clothes?
Ok, that might be a bit weird. But not worth building a whole conspiracy about.
The autopsy report mentions scars and bruising. How did he get bruised? Who was he running from when he got covered in grass stains? Did they hurt him and ask his grandmother to cover up the crime?
Yes, thought Peter. That’s what happened. He was chased through suburban undergrowth by someone intent on beating him up and forcing him to swallow his own medication. That same murderer then persuaded an old woman to leave her own relative rotting in her flat, and then deliberately leave a tap on in the bathroom, in order to make the neighbours call the landlord, who called the plumber, who discovered the body. Easy. Perhaps the plumber was in on it too. And the neighbours. Peter flicked ahead but there was no mention of this, just more astrology charts, portentous quotes from the Book of Revelation and a handwritten poem Dom claimed Carl had dictated to him. It was all madness. It was all depressing. But still he put it carefully in his pocket when he was finished. It didn’t seem right somehow to leave such heartfelt stuff on a bench, where anyone could read it, laugh at it and throw it away.
The court was running late. He kicked his heels against the bottom of the bench, smoked too many cigarettes, walked around before worrying about getting lost and missing being called in. It was deathly quiet inside; the heavy doors kept most of the noise out. Very occasionally, the wind would blow some chant his way: the kids outside were working themselves up. There must be a TV camera there now.
After waiting for nearly an hour, he heard the unsteady click of heels on the tiles, accompanied by a familiar voice and mantra, “...Grace and dignity...grace and dignity,” and Miriam appeared around the corner, leaning heavily on Kathleen. At first it seemed that she was overcome with grief, unable to stand under it, but he soon saw that she was incredibly drunk. Her ankles buckled painfully and Kathleen was struggling to keep her upright. Peter offered his arm and together they pulled her onto a bench, arranging her limbs to prevent her from falling off.
“What a day, what a day!” Kathleen said brightly, kicking off her shoes.
“Did she go in like that?” Peter asked.
“Her? Oh no. They wouldn’t let her in like that. Though to be fair she wasn’t like that when we arrived. She’d had a few, but she wasn’t, you know, like this.” She brushed some hair away from Miriam’s cheek. “Here, budge up. I’ve got her feet in my way.” She took off her jacket, folded it up and placed Miriam’s head tenderly on it. “Poor cow. I can’t blame her really. No mother should have to go through this, even if, you know, they weren’t such a great mother.” Kathleen shivered and accepted Peter’s offered coat, “Learned some manners I see? Well, I don’t mind if I do, just to take the chill off. No, she’d had a few just to be able to get here. I said to her, why do you even need to go? But of course she’d have to. I would, if it was one of my girls. But she must have brought a bottle with her, kept nipping to the loo, and by the time it all started, well. Look at the state of her. They were very good, said they’d give me half an hour to sober her up, but I’m not a miracle worker – thank you,” she took one of Peter’s cigarettes and accepted a light, “I’m not a miracle worker, I said to him, the judge. And he laughed, well, not laughed, they can’t laugh, I mean smiled. Understanding. Yes.” She craned her neck and nodded at the door. “There was quite a party out there when we arrived, did you see that?”
“I tried to ignore it. I saw some signs.”
“Well, they were all shouting and pushing when we arrived. One of them grabbed her, Miriam, and was saying all this rubbish, all this ‘fight for your son, justice, blah blah’ and Miriam got scared, spooked. Thought they’d turn on her. And I said to her, ‘Miriam’ I said, ‘Miriam, you might not have been the best mother in the world, but you can hold your head up and say that you tried. And if he killed himself, well, that’s nothing to do with you, no matter what people are saying’. But, you know, you can only help some people as much as they want to be helped.” She slipped on her shoes and ground out the cigarette onto the floor with one pointed toe.
Peter heard his name called, got up awkwardly and gestured for his coat.
“Can I take a few more of your ciggies while I’m waiting for her to come round?” Kathleen asked and without waiting for a reply she fished into the pockets, coming up with Dom’s pamphlet. “What’s this? Oh. Oh this, yes, we got one too. Well I did, Miriam chucked hers. Quite interesting. He has a point.”
“I think it’s bullshit.”
“Well,” she handed him his coat with one brisk movement, “Time will tell. I’ll take the rest of the packet, eh? There’s only seven or eight left, and God knows I could be waiting a long time.” Miriam, as if in response, let out a loud snore and tried to turn over on the bench. “Steady, steady, don’t break your neck. Grace and dignity.” Kathleen shoved her further towards the top of the bench, left a hovering hand over her hip to make sure she didn’t fall off, and, sighing, lit another cigarette. Peter realised she’d taken his lighter too, but didn’t have the courage to ask for it back.
Inside the court it was all beige walls, screwed down chairs and strip lighting. He’d been told by his solicitor that anyone could show up but he didn’t see anyone he recognised. It was very quiet as he read out his prepared statement. He heard his last words echo, and glanced around again. Surely there must be someone here – Lydia?
Chris was still abroad, but had they asked him for a statement? In any case, what statement could be made? How many times could a court hear the same empty sentences: ‘I hadn’t seen him for a while’, ‘He often disappeared for a few days’, ‘We weren’t really close anymore’, ‘I don’t know how he felt’. In any case, Peter made his statement, was asked a few perfunctory questions – the same questions he’d been practising with his solicitor – gave answers that demanded no further questions, and was told he could leave. A pager went off and the coroner glared.
As he was shrugging on his coat outside the court, the owner of the pager knocked into him, apologised, and broke into a run as his pager went off again. Peter looked for Kathleen to retrieve his cigarettes, but there was only a little pile of ash on the floor to mark where she’d been. Far off down the corridor he could hear a loud conversation, an argument? No, one-sided, on the phone.
“And when? Fuck. No, no, I’m still at the Chinaski thing. I know, totally. I agree. This is massive. Is Chris there? Shall I do it this end then? I mean I’m here anyway. OK. OK. No, I can be there in an hour if I try, I might be able to get some local colour stuff here too, though – statements. Yeah. OK. OK.”
Peter dawdled by the door, looking for any lost cigarettes that might still be in his pocket. The man with the pager came towards him, and as Peter asked him for a cigarette, he said, “Peter? The drummer?”
“Yes.”
“Press. I saw you in there. Heard the news? Can I get a statement?”
“No. Take what I said in there.”
“No, not on that. Did you not hear? I would’ve thought you’d hear before us – Kurt Cobain’s dead. Shot.” He waited, expecting a big reaction, didn’t get it, and so continued, “Shot himself in the head. Brutal. You knew him right?”
“Well. I met him.”
“Lucky for me I’m here, I’ve got someone who actually knew the guy! OK, can you give me a reaction, on the spot, from the gut, you know.”
“Not really, I mean, it’s –”
The journalist was exasperated, peevish, “It’s pretty big fucking news. Puts all this –” he gestured towards the courts, “– into perspective. Blowing your head off beats ODing on epilepsy pills any day.”
Peter winced. “Don’t get nasty about it.”
The journalist scowled at him and threw open the doors, a few cameras took his photo, thinking he might be someone important.
“Kurt Cobain just died!” he announced to the small crowd, and Peter heard a flurry of excitement, some gasps, some wails. The cameras turned to the Chinaski fans, stunned and crying. “It’s obviously a shock, but can you give me your reaction?”
A frail looking girl gasped out the words, “He was so important. Nirvana were like our Beatles, he was like our John Lennon. I can’t believe it!”
Peter stepped outside into the sudden noise of photographers, the sudden bursts of lights. His cigarette was burning unevenly and smoke drifted into his left eye, making it water suddenly. As he winced and rubbed it there was a flurry of camera shutters, quick, loud, like beating wings, and on the third page of the eight-page special on Kurt Cobain’s death in Melody Maker the next day, there he was, fixed for all time with a caption – ‘Friend Peter Hamilton wipes away tears after hearing the news’.
Attracted by the activity, more people soon collected around the door of the court. The girls in Dom’s little prayer circle ditched their Justice for Carl banners and turned instead, tearfully, to the cameras. They hugged each other, vying to describe their grief. Dom tried to shout over them with his own cracked chant – something about murder, something about Carl – but he wasn’t powerful enough. On the evening news you could just see his ragged profile over one girl’s shoulder, holding a sign turned away from the camera. A few people watching thought he looked a little old to be a Nirvana fan. But then, Kurt Cobain touched so many lives, was such an icon, would be so missed. It was a sad day.
Later that night, after issuing an official statement via DCG, after taking a phone call from John in India (“Weird, weird shit. It’s even made the news over here. It’s like Kennedy was shot or something. I haven’t paid for a drink all night.”), Peter looked at the nearly empty vodka bottle in front of him and thought, ‘I’m free’. Perhaps he could start another band now, something more – oh fuck it just say it – something more friendly, more amenable, more...more him. Chinaski had been Carl’s band, always. But Peter could put that behind him, he could play guitar now too. Why not? What was to stop him?
That night he dreamed that he was walking up the stairs to Freida and Ian’s office at Deep Focus, but when he opened the door it was pitch black and freezing. He groped for the light switch, felt frost on his fingertips, could see his breath billowing. It wasn’t Freida’s office, but Peter’s own rehearsal room, the one in his parents’ basement, and everything was covered in that fine frost. Peter saw that the window was open, the wind was howling through the gap and tried to shut it, but, struggling, finally realised that the sash had been broken and the pulley system cut. In his dream he fell asleep, waking up shaking on the old broken sofa, facing his first drum kit. It was dark now, except for an anglepoise light in the corner, and underneath the light was Carl. Carl with his back to the room, hunched, his head at an unnatural angle, grass stains on his socks. And Peter felt dread as he found himself moving towards him, he heard the sound of his own pumping blood and he knew, with a dreadful certainty, that once that pounding stopped, Carl would turn to look at him. He tried to shout, but, as so often happens in dreams, no sound escaped his lips. The pounding got louder and louder. He was close enough now to touch Carl’s frozen shoulder, to feel for a pulse, but the thought of touching him was horrifying. Carl’s head twitched suddenly, drops of dark blood splattered onto the floor beside him and Peter screamed, screamed, screamed himself awake.
23
The Evening Chronicle
Friday 8 April 1994.
Howell Inquest Records Open Verdict
Carl Howell, singer with the band Chinaski, died of an overdose of epilepsy and anti-depressant medication, combined with excessive alcohol consumption, an inquest has heard. Howell, 24, was over three times over the drink drive limit and had taken more than five times the recommended dosage of Epilim and Prozac.
The inquest, which took place today, has recorded the singer’s death as an open verdict.
Howell was found at his grandmother’s flat in August last year by neighbours. He had been dead for more than three days.
The court returned an open verdict after hearing that the family had had no concerns over his mental state, no suicide note was found and there were no suspicious circumstances.
His father told Bridgeton Coronor’s Court: “He was a talented boy who came from a loving family. He showed no sign of distress or depression the last times I saw him. How and why this happened is a complete mystery to me.”
His mother had to be escorted from the court after becoming distressed.
The court heard that Howell was in the habit of disappearing for days at a time. When asked if he had been concerned, his band mate, Peter Hamilton, said: “This wasn’t the first time he’d gone off without telling anybody. I just assumed that it was just like all the other times, and that he needed some time on his own. Nobody expected this.”
Howell had been recently prescribed Prozac, to help him combat anxiety and depression, the court heard. His doctor, Dr Ben Biskind, told the court that Mr Howell was aware that mixing either his anti-depressants or his epilepsy medication with alcohol was unwise. “We had a talk about it, and he assured me that he didn’t drink anyway because of the Epilim. I had no reason to doubt him.”
Howell’s grandmother, May, was the last person known to have seen him alive, but she was unable to attend the hearing or give a statement for health reasons.
The court was briefly suspended when a fan burst in on proceedings. A 48-year-old male was arrested and later released without charge.
&
nbsp; 24
A year or so later, Peter ran into Sean at a party. By now, Sean was in demand as a photographer, and had just come back from documenting Lollapalooza. The portraits of Courtney Love he’d taken to accompany Chris Harris’ recent exclusive interview had been well received, getting him fashion commissions and a Vanity Fair spread that Chris was planning to do on the OJ Simpson case. Sean was Chris’ preferred photographer nowadays, and they thrived together.
Peter’s new band was also attracting the right kind of attention – TV spots on some of the less frivolous music shows, talk of a Mercury nomination. Interviewers still sometimes asked him about Carl, but it was becoming rarer.
It was one of those parties where everyone knows half of the people in the room, so there isn’t much motivation to mingle. They hedged about each other for an hour or so, exchanging a nod, but probably neither of them would have bothered to talk to the other had they not found themselves in the same dull, braying group for longer than was comfortable.
Peter congratulated Sean on the Courtney Love portraits. Sean told a series of amusing, but obviously well-used stories about the difficulties of working with her, but when he’d finished, he looked unhappy, edgy, and there was an awkward pause. Peter thought about calling it quits and going to the bar, but Sean spoke suddenly,
“I’m sorry about the book. The Chinaski book? I’m sorry about that. It just – things, events just seemed to take over. The Nirvana thing, you know. And all the rest of it. Chris has been so busy. Really.” A look of irritation crossed his face, “But I don’t have to make excuses for Chris. We were all depending on him to make it happen, and it’s not my fault if it hasn’t. I am sorry though. It might be too late now. I mean, you have other stuff going on, we’re really busy – I mean. I mean, we’ve probably missed the boat on it, you know what I mean?” He looked miserably at his boots. He looked so miserable that Peter felt like being magnanimous. In truth he’d practically forgotten about the book idea. Sean was right, they had all had a lot of other things to think about, the book had fallen by the wayside, and perhaps that was a good thing in the long run – stopped them being tethered to the past. On the other hand – well, Sean didn’t know that Peter had written the idea off, had forgotten about it. And if Sean didn’t know, then Chris wouldn’t either. Peter felt a strong need to make Sean, and by extension, Chris, feel guilty.