by Mark Dawson
‘Feels so good to be on stage again. Best fix there is.’ He tokes on an enormous spliff, slumps against the wall and exhales a long jet. He’s taken off his sopping shirt. You can count his ribs against the drum-skin flesh of his chest.
‘Like I said, I thought it was great, you were great.’
He hands the spliff to me. I suck in a lungful and let it out through my nose.
‘I would’ve liked to sing some of the old songs,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t being precious or anything, but you know how I couldn’t.’
I do know. The Dahlias had got an injunction preventing him from playing the old songs - tonight that seems gratuitously spiteful. I reassure him again that the concert was a success but I can almost hear the reviewers sharpening their pencils.
Brian heads off for the toilets, and the Dork sidles over. He’s been talking to the record company staff, shuttling between them with his little jokes and anecdotes… Badmouthing me, promoting himself - don’t think I don’t know.
‘Quite a concert,’ he says.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.
‘Davey invited me. I met him at the party on Sunday.
We had lunch on Monday.’
‘We had lunch today.’
‘I know,’ he says.
‘How?’
‘I suggested it to him. He said he wasn’t altogether happy with the way things are going, so I said he ought to take you out and talk to you about it. It’s better than doing it over the phone, isn’t it?’
I can’t believe this. ‘Why don’t you just piss off.’
‘As it happens I do have to go back to the office. There’re some things I need to do. Anthea’s got me running about all over the place.’
It’s late. I can’t even begin to imagine what could be so pressing that he has to go back to the office to do it now. He gives me a mocking little wave as he leaves, his coat slung over one arm.
IS THERE A LAWYER IN THE HOUSE?
It’s only as I’m leaning against the damp black-painted walls, busying myself with a bottle of beer from the rider, that I remember Rachel. I curse and check my watch: 10.30.
I remember the last call I made on my mobile was to the restaurant to book the table. I just need to press redial and ask to speak to Rachel, apologize and explain what’s happening. She seems professional enough, she’ll understand: sometimes the client has to come first.
I take out my mobile. The batteries are dead.
If I got a cab now I could still be in Spitalfields, in time if the traffic isn’t too bad. I’m searching for my overcoat, ready to leave, when Davey bustles over. ‘Where’s Oliver?’
‘Oliver?’
‘Dawkins, from your office. Have you seen him?’
‘He’s probably gone home. This isn’t really his scene. He’s a bit of a wallflower, between you and me. In fact, I don’t think he enjoyed the concert all that much.’
‘Then you’ll have to do. Come on.’
His tone is urgent. Something’s happened. It must be Brian. I get a picture of him slumped in a cubicle with his back against the cistern, sliced wrists throbbing with blood or a fatal syringe quivering in his arm. He did look depressed when he wandered away, but I thought he was just coming down from the coke and was on his way to reload.
I start to jog, overtaking Davey.
It’s not what I was expecting. The men’s room is a squalid affair, unfinished either through artistic design or basic slovenliness. Blocking the path from the urinals to the door is a man dressed in a charcoal-grey three-piece and pricey shoes that don’t belong on the urine-soaked concrete. He’s facing the nest of cubicles, one of which is closed.
‘I can wait out here all night if I have to,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you deal with this sensibly. It’d be better if you just came out.’
He’s holding a large white envelope in one hand and a mobile in the other.
‘I’m not doing anything without my lawyer.’
‘Your lawyer’s not here.’
‘He’s coming. My manager’s gone to get him.’
‘This really is very silly, Mr Fey. Why don’t you just come out?’
‘You just wanna give me more papers - and I don’t want them.’
‘It’d be easier-’
‘Just leave me alone.’
Davey turns to me and shrugs in a deal-with-it gesture. Given his current dissatisfaction with the performance of my duties, and his obvious preference that the Dork should deal with the problem, this might be a chance to impress him with my legal ability.
I clear my throat and step further into the room. ‘What’s going on?’
‘None of your business,’ the man says curtly.
‘If that’s Mr Fey in there, I’m his solicitor. I’d say that makes it my business, wouldn’t you?’
He swings around. Now I have his attention.
‘Are you authorized to accept service on his behalf?’
‘Am I authorized to accept service?’ I call out to Brian.
‘Urn, would that be a good or bad thing?’ Brian asks.
‘It’d be convenient.’
I’d also prefer it if the band’s lawyers were not given the opportunity to gather evidence of Brian’s coke habit. Because I know that’s what he’s doing in there; he’s hardly using the facilities for their intended purpose, is he?
Brian: ‘I guess so, then. I mean, if you think it’s OK.’
‘Well?’ says the man. ‘Serve away.’
He hands me the envelope. ‘I’m serving you with details of a Sale Order brought against your client’s properties. As of now, my client is now authorized to enter your client’s premises for the purposes of offering them for immediate sale.’ He fiddles with his mobile and waits as a call connects. ‘I’m going to instruct the locksmiths to change the locks now. Good evening.’
And he leaves.
‘What’d all that mean?’ Davey hisses in a voice only I can hear. ‘The stuff about his properties?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘But not good?’
‘Not good.’
‘Explain!’
‘The band have persuaded the court they should be entitled to sell Brian’s flats. So they don’t technically belong to him any more.’
‘Has he gone?’ Brian calls. The top of his head pokes above the top of the cubicle.
‘He’s gone,’ Davey says. ‘It’s safe.’
Davey looks at me sternly and puts a finger to his lips. ‘Not a word,’ he says. No doubt he wants to break the news to Brian himself. The toilet flushes redundantly - and Brian reappears. His nostrils are an irritated red.
‘I feel so stupid,’ he says helplessly. ‘I didn’t know what else to do.’
THE KING OF SCHMOOZE
Later, sitting with Brian on a plum-coloured sofa at the after-show party. I’m seething: Dawkins has come back. He’s sliming all over Davey. Whatever he needed to do in the office for Anthea Turner didn’t take long. Now he’s all friendly gestures and big toothy smiles. Every now and again he book-ends Davey’s comments with peals of phoney laughter.
‘You see that guy?’ Brian says. He points at the Dork with the neck of his bottle.
I nod.
‘He came over to me earlier - when you were in the gents - and asked if I was happy with the work you were doing for me. Said he works in the same office as you. He says he might be put on the case soon.’
‘He said that?’
‘Something like that. Is he helping you out or something?’
‘What’d you say?’
‘That I was well happy and that I didn’t think we needed anyone else.’
I could kiss him. ‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘I don’t think he likes you very much.’
‘Be fair to say the feeling’s mutual.’
ANSWERPHONE
Much later:
I get home. A message on the answerphone. The blinking red light fills me with a mixture of joy and nervous anticipat
ion. I’ve been like this ever since Hannah left.
I hit PLAY:
‘Daniel, I’m really sorry to bother you at home like this but I’d like to talk to you again about our conversations.’
It’s the reporter, Dolan.
‘Something’s come up that I think might interest you. You remember what I was telling you about the other day? Could you give me a call? I’ll give you my mobile number and I want you to call me anytime, night or day, OK? It could be really big. Sorry to be so vague, but I don’t really want to just leave this as an answerphone message. And remember: discretion absolutely guaranteed. The number you need is-’
I stab erase before he gets any of the digits out.
ANY PORT IN A STORM
Can’t sleep. My head won’t switch off: I can’t stop thinking about, Hannah, about Rachel, about Brian, about work.
I thought there was some Valium in the bathroom cabinet but all I could find was a bottle of Hannah’s herbal relaxants. I took six of them two hours ago. They’ve had no effect, except to make me feel nauseous.
I’m still trying to sleep when the intercom buzzes.
The glowing red digits on the clock radio show 3.30. I was hoping to catch at least five hours’ sleep so I could report to the office at eight, ready to do battle with the work I need to finish. I’m going to be busy tomorrow.
The intercom buzzes again. I don’t get out of bed. It buzzes more insistently. I fumble for the lamp, knock over the pint of water I left unfinished on the bedside table, curse, and shuffle into the hall:
‘Who is it?’ I ask into the intercom.
‘It’s me.’
‘Brian?’
His voice sounds dulled and weary.
I slump forward, forehead pressed against the wall. ‘It’s 3.30, Brian.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ he says. ‘Sorry about that.’
This must be a bad dream. Ignoring it might make it go away.
‘Can I come in?’ Brian asks. ‘It’s kind of snowing out here.’
I look out of the small window in the hallway; a heavy fall is wafting through the orange streetlight. I buzz the lock and let him up.
He looks terrible. He’s still wearing the same clothes from the concert. They smell of dry ice, reefer and sweat. He doesn’t have a coat and is shivering uncontrollably. I give him a spare blanket to wrap around his shoulders and put the kettle on.
‘You want some toast?’
‘That’d be nice. Got a bad case of the munchies.’
I clear away enough debris from the sofa and chairs to uncover two places to sit. Brian slouches down on the sofa. I make a pot of black coffee and pour him a mug. He looks like he could use it.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ I say.
‘It’s freezing in here.’
‘My boiler broke down,’ I lie. I’m not going to admit to Brian that I’ve been disconnected for not paying my bill. I still have some pride.
‘I really appreciate this. Didn’t know where else to go.’
‘Where’d you get my address?’
‘I called your office and said it was an emergency. The night porter gave it to me.’
The surrealism isn’t lost on me. Here I am: dressing gown over my boxer shorts, and Hannah’s fluffy cartoon slippers on my feet. Slumped out on my sofa is the ex-lead singer of one of the most famous bands of the eighties. I used to dance to his songs at the sixth-form disco.
‘Well, it’s not a problem,’ I say, handing him a plate of toast and dropping into an armchair.
He warms his hands around the coffee mug. ‘What’s happened?’ I ask.
He explains. Brian had returned to his flat after the concert to find the locks were changed. He glimpsed removal men locking up their transit van and driving off with his few bits of remaining furniture. The band is moving fast. They’ve probably already had the sales particulars and advertising boards prepared, ready to offer the property to the market first thing in the morning. They might even have a buyer lined up.
‘I looked in through the letter box,’ he says. ‘I could see a couple of people inside but they wouldn’t answer the door. I made a bit of a fuss. In the end someone called the police and they told me I had to go away. I tried to check into a hotel but all my cards have been cancelled. I couldn’t get cash out of the machines either. So I got the night bus over here.’
‘Where’s Davey?’
‘He left just after you did. I don’t know where he lives. I mean, I hardly even know the guy.’ Brian leans back on the sofa and scrubs at his forehead. ‘Oh man, what am I supposed to do?’
‘Look, it’s too late to worry about that now,’ I say. ‘We’ll think about it in the morning.’
‘I haven’t got anywhere to go,’ he says.
‘You can crash here.’
‘Really?’
‘Sure. No problem. I’ve got a spare room you can use.’
The room was once intended to be my study but I never got around to sorting it out, so I use it for storage now. There’s a folding bed somewhere amidst the junk - I think.
‘Never thought I’d get into such a mess,’ he says as I refill his mug. He looks pale and drawn, his eye shadow running like tears. I realize how thin he really is: his wrists, his ankles, even his neck, they’re all as slender as sticks. And, for the first time, he looks old.
‘It’ll sort itself out,’ I say. ‘And things always look better in the morning.’
AN EXTRACT FROM SCOTT DOLAN’S GUEST LIST
Martin Valentine has expressed fears that ex-bandmate Brian Fey is suffering from mental illness.
‘We were worried even before we decided to split,’ he told MTV. ‘And I’ve heard his behaviour’s been really erratic lately.’
Martin also suggested that Brian’s well-reported drug hell might not yet be behind him. ‘He was still doing a lot of drugs the last time I saw him,’ Martin said. ‘I just hope he’s got it all under control.’
Fey yesterday assaulted a journo at the offices of music rag the NME. Fey’s ex-colleague in the Dahlias, John French, was found dead on Sunday.
THURSDAY
THE STAR IN THE SPARE ROOM
I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The welt on one side of my face has settled into a livid bruise, but the signs of healing are evident. I got only about three hours’ sleep. My eyes are ringed with fatigue and red- and brown-coloured bags bulge out beneath them. I’ve occasionally felt better.
I listlessly run the iron over a shirt, find a pair of cuff-links and pull on the spare suit I picked up from dry cleaning a couple of days ago. It’s only as I’m eating a bowl of cereal and watching chatty breakfast TV that I remember my visit from Brian last night.
The door to the spare room is still closed. I mute the television and press my ear against it, but I can’t hear anything. I didn’t hear him leave, but my eventual sleep at last was probably deep enough not to have noticed. Rather than opening the spare-room door to check, I find a pen and paper from the mess on the floor and leave him a note.
Dear Brian, I begin, feeling absurd to be penning something so mundane to someone like him. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Apologies for the mess. I’ll call Davey as soon as I get to the office, to tell him what’s happening. Daniel.
But I’m not ready for work yet. I need something to kick-start the day. I find a bottle of cherry schnapps I bought during a holiday to Bavaria, years ago. It’ll have to do. I take it into the lounge and pour myself a glass.
Nelson jumps up onto the sofa next to me and settles down on my lap.
A CRITICAL REVIEW
I buy a paper outside the tube station and unfold it as my train rattles through bleak drizzle into the city. The snow outside is slushy and grey. I scan the pages for news. There’s a review of Brian’s concert last night.
Brian Fey - London, LA2
Let’s be honest about this:
Brian ain’t much of a name for a rock god. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t soun
d right. Axl, yes. Ozzy, hell yes. My God - even Bruce is better than Brian… But if only that was the only thing that didn’t sound right about the first solo concert of ex-Dahlias’ frontman Brian Fey. Whilst we’re being honest, try this: Brian Fey sucks. His solo album, Songs from a Twisted Youth (aka The Album Nobody Owns), is full of maudlin rock balladry and petulant stabs in the direction of his ex-bandmates, and while his God-awful compositions can be tarted up in the studio by a decent producer, when he actually knocks them out live the fact that he can’t write/ sing/play for toffee is painfully obvious. By the end of the evening even the die-hard Dahlias, who were distraught at the jettisoning of their idol, would have to admit the band knew what they were doing. Brian Fey - in his pomp one of the best rawk voices of the 80S - has lost it. The moshpit didn’t mosh. They were too stupefied with boredom to care. Brian Fey’s like a loveable but somewhat mangy family pooch that’s just had a stroke - someone, please, put him out of his misery.
Ouch.
I wonder whether this reviewer has private health insurance?
THE POLICE MAKE A BREAKTHROUGH
I struggle out of the tube and continue reading on the escalator as it carries me towards the surface. The lead story on the front page updates the investigation into John French’s death. The police are conducting a detailed investigation into his final weeks in the hope of finding clues. They’ve examined his telephone statements and recent mail. They’ve interviewed the other members of the band, and his neighbours in the usually peaceful Mayfair street where he lived. They believe French was being stalked immediately before his death. Neighbours have reported a car parked outside his house for hours, its chain-smoking occupant leaving a pile of dog-ends on the snowy pavement before he left. The police have invited this person to come forward, believing he could assist them with their inquiries.