Nature and Necessity

by Tariq Goddard

  Once at the bar with a pint in hand he looked round for signs of friendly life, and to his manifest relief, there were plenty. Walking towards him, excitedly, was the ugly waster he had adopted as a disciple when, in another frame of mind altogether, a celebratory joint was what the moment had called for. For quite different reasons, the same drug would still be most welcome, and rising to his full height, Jazzy did his best to look master of his movements, smiling to himself as if having remembered something wildly amusing.

  ‘This is the top lad I was talking about,’ gushed the boy to a companion who had followed him over to Jazzy, somewhat too readily. The man was Jazzy’s age, wore a heavy centre-parting that was on its way to becoming long hair, and a stretched smile at odds with his gnarled, pocked face.

  ‘How do you do, I’m Adrian,’ he offered, his voice plummy for the location, ‘but you can call me Ade, everyone else does. I heard you play in a band, sing, is that right? That’s exactly what I came north to form you see, a band. I was at Leeds, at the uni, and it was all a bit gothic if you know what I mean. I want something more Seventies, natural, a bit more “All Right Now”, like in the Levis ad, you know the one I mean?’

  ‘Ade plays keyboards,’ offered the boy, ‘he’s fuckin’ ace, like that Jean Michel whatsit! The French bloke with the shades, you know.’

  ‘This is a bit of a classic way for a group to meet for the first time, isn’t it?’ continued Ade, reaching ahead of himself, ‘I can imagine us all looking back on this evening, in the future, when we’re asked questions about how we first came to together to do such great things as a band, you know, a retrospective on our career…’

  ‘Save that for later,’ Jazzy interjected, worried that he would lose his train of thought if he heard any more chunter. ‘What’s your name again?’ he asked the younger one.

  ‘Nigel.’

  ‘Well Nige, did you fetch the weed? You know, you went home for it, remember? You got any on you now?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s all in here!’ the boy patted a knapsack that Jazzy had not noticed. ‘With loads of other stuff. I got the works here, hash, pills, whizz.’

  ‘No, just weed, let’s go back to your seats,’ continued Jazzy. ‘Me hands are freezing, no good for rolling, you think you can skin one up? There’s a good lad.’

  ‘What, in here?’

  ‘Yeah, why not, it’s a shithole, no one will mind. Under the table, nice and shifty like.’

  The boy looked to Ade for a second opinion. Ade nodded with some urgency, either impressed with Jazzy’s gumption or having decided that it was a small enough initiation to undergo for a prospective lead vocalist.

  ‘So are you still with your group, or are things on a bit of a freeze at the moment, I didn’t get the name of the band either, but Nigel tells me you were big in the States and that you used to play with Billy Duffy of the Cult. Is that a fact? I used to really dig them.’

  ‘Duffy? That dick?’ sneered Jazzy, not really interested in pursuing this line, but stuck with having to make the best of it. ‘He’s a poodle, we chucked him out and his curlers; I fucking hate all that hair metal, you know what I mean? Fucking posers.’

  ‘What, you chucked him out of The Cult? So you’re still with them? But isn’t he?’

  ‘No, not the fucking Cult! Hell Sanctuary, the band he was in before them, he played guitar for us but I told him to knock off all that rock-star crap or piss off. Had to chuck him out in the end, didn’t I?’ Jazzy could hear his words slur, not that it mattered with company that at better times he could have done without. ‘And The Cult, Astbury and that lot, they were the only ones who would take the dick, once I was through with him.’

  ‘Hate Sanctuary, yes, I think I heard of them, it definitely rings a bell. What the hell happened to you guys anyway, one minute you were big and the next…?’

  Jazzy examined his new companion, a posh plonker he could basically say anything to, none of it would make any difference, they would both talk shit at each other and then never see one other again. ‘We became Hate Bastard, and Hate Bastard became Hell Bastard, and that became Sperm Sanctuary, and Sperm Sanctuary, they became Sperm Yard, who became Fuck Claw, that became Fuck Hammer, and the Hammer are who I’m with now. Got it, or do I have to write it down for you?’ Jazzy winked at Nigel who appeared to be transferring his allegiance back to him, Ade’s questions slowing down a fast time.

  ‘Wow, yeah, that’s quite an evolution for you guys. And what about the rest of the band, you didn’t say, where are they now?’

  ‘In the States, touring, coast to coast, with a bit of the midwest, and some of that deep south thrown in too. You know, a proper national tour.’

  ‘Right. Why, if you don’t mind me asking, aren’t you with them? They can’t be much cop without their lead vocalist!’

  ‘I had to stay here, didn’t I?’ responded Jazzy, a touch of aggression in his reply, ‘To look after me sick mam, right? Me dad shipped out, the wanker. Why are you asking so many questions anyway, eh? Who gave you the right to be Columbo, eh? We’ve got a way of doing things round here, it’s called minding your own business, right?’

  ‘My apologies, I’m sorry, I only wanted to know what your situation currently was because I want to form a band. And like I said, I’ve been finding it a bit difficult to get all the parts together.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yeah, and I could tell you why too,’ said Jazzy poking his finger into Ade’s pigeon chest, ‘because folk round here are going to think you’re a southern wannabe who doesn’t know a Leo Fender from a Les Paul, got me? Coming up here and asking all these stupid questions. What do you expect? You’re lucky you haven’t had your head kicked in.’

  If it was Jazzy’s intention to give offence it was obvious he had failed, even in this modest goal. ‘That’s it! That’s exactly it!’ cried Ade with the fervour of one saved. ‘That’s the exact reason why I need someone like you to help inspire me and get things going in the right direction, why I’m in here tonight! Really, I can’t believe it, I’ve been waiting for someone to say what you’ve just said all my life, really, this is just too serendipitous…’

  ‘Is that joint ready yet?’ Jazzy asked Nigel, the three of them having managed to retire to a corner table, despite Jazzy dragging his leg behind him like a smashed post.

  ‘Yeah, it’s in front of you boss.’

  ‘Champion.’

  Jazzy looked down and made eyes at the joint, thick as a cigar, lying procumbent on his beer mat, an uncomplicated joy to behold. Trying to stylishly flick it up to his mouth, the doobie fell through his fingers, causing him to scramble about on the floor, and in so doing, reveal the full desperateness of his condition. Eventually, after having nearly lifted the table up with his head, and lost the company a round of drinks, Jazzy allowed his prospective band mate to rescue it for him.

  ‘That’s it, now spark up the bastard.’

  ‘What, in here? Shouldn’t we go outside? It’s a lovely evening,’ replied Ade, striking a slightly flirtatious note that Jazzy was not too far gone to notice.

  ‘No one will fucking care, this is Elmo’s, right? Folk come in here to die. Get on with it yah poof. No offence to your kind meant, like.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Here I go, there, you have first bang.’

  For the next few minutes Jazzy was only conscious of the hashish he was able to suck safely and hold in his system without choking, the talking continuing at a lively pace with only his occasional interjection mildly affirming that he was still there. Slowly Jazzy grew aware of a shifting onus away from band talk to more abstract planes, Nigel laughing automatically at anything Ade uttered, the beauty of it being that if Jazzy had not been much interested in them before, he really did not give a fuck now. Filtering them both out he closed his eyes and was drifting into Jill’s arms when he was bought up with a jolt, an unbearably life-like vision of his mother sat next to him shaking her head had materialised without warning.
Resisting her gaze, for Jazzy feared he would hear her voice next, he began to hum, which acted as a cue for the conversation to grow ever louder, though not loud enough to silence Petula’s summery of his prospects, stated in a crystal-clear staccato. ‘Not all our lives are equally important because we don’t all treat life equally importantly.’ These words, still horribly relevant, were first uttered in her Volvo as she collected him from Smeekdales, the last school he had been expelled from, twenty years earlier. Jazzy balked: he had to get out of that car!

  ‘No MUM!’ he blurted, knocking another pint away and reaching for Ade’s face.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Ade laughed nervously, pushing away Jazzy’s trembling grip. ‘Not when I last looked mate. I think you’ll need to go home to find her, she’s not here,’ he smirked, and took the joint gently out of Jazzy’s hand. ‘You just need to slow down a bit, you seem a bit wound up about something.’

  Jazzy peered into the shark-blue eyes of his maternal predator to discover Ade’s instead, their patient accommodation light years away from Petula’s inquisitorial pointedness.

  ‘I wasn’t talking to you lot,’ Jazzy replied, reminding himself that they could see nothing of what was in his mind, and that it was as well not to let them know they were bedded in with a lunatic, plagued by visions of his mater. ‘Just getting shit mixed up, is all. Been on it all day, haven’t I? Anyway, sorry.’

  Apparently satisfied with this, Ade continued, ‘No seriously, artists, writers, musicians, basically people like us, we’re the kings of existence, I mean, there are money men out there who long to be us, but not many of us that long to be them, right? Well okay, we could use their money but we don’t want to be them in any other way do we? I mean listen to this’ – Ade pointed up to the speaker above the table – ‘who wouldn’t swap a million quid of a yuppie’s earnings to play the axe like that!’

  Jazzy knew it was pointless to answer, he had said similar things himself, in a mood identical to his companion. The music sounded like a fair attempt to live heroically; it was the same song he’d heard earlier, striding out of the lavatory that afternoon, before his relationship to hope had suffered its latest cognitive setback. Now the forceful riffing was a diminished thing, of less interest than the hat he’d thrown away, which begged the question whether his disenchantment lay in his auditory cortex or with the hackneyed playing itself. Dope always did this to him, and for a moment Jazzy felt exhausted by it all: the insights that were not really insights, the answers that were questions, and the questions that were always the same ones as before.

  They were interrupted by the hollowed-out pensioner who had bought him a pint earlier barging into their table, a concerned look on his face. ‘The landlord is calling the Police, you can’t smoke that waccy baccy in here lads, best make a run for it! I heard him only just now say he’d call them.’

  ‘Whooah there! Do you know how many fewer people this kills than the booze you imbibe so freely?’ retaliated Ade, pointing to the smoked-out stub. ‘I can tell you the statistics if you like. You’d be shocked by what they prove.’

  ‘That’s not the point you silly bastard, they’ve called the Police,’ cried Nigel, panicking, ‘Me mam will disown me if I’m sent to Borstal! We’ve got to get out of here. Now!’

  ‘Bollocks has anyone called the police,’ growled Jazzy with Pretorian calm, pleased by the intrusion, ‘he said he would call the police, didn’t he, the landlord? I heard him only just now too, heard him say what he has millions of times before, that he would call the police, but he hasn’t and won’t, just like he never has all the other times. And I’ll tell you why. Because once they start poking round in here they’ll find a lot of other stuff he doesn’t want them to. Like his whole money-laundering operation right? That’s correct friend, this place, this entire town, is run on the black, you got me? The black economy right, you ever hear of that? He’s full of shit that landlord, and the only people who believe him are those that want to. Like you mate. You want to join our conversation? Ask nicely, and don’t come talking shit that could get you smacked if the wrong man heard you; aye, it could happen. If you want us to say thank you, or owe you a favour, forget it. There are smarter ways of doing things, you know what I mean? Acting all weak and pissing yourself is just fake, see?’

  The old man, even in the dark, looked hurt, inspiring Jazzy’s Churchillian flourish, ‘“I lied on behalf of truth, and acted falsely because of sincerity,” you know who said that? Me old mam. Bet you didn’t think I could say things like that. You know what it means? It means that even if you come across as phoney, your heart might still be in the right place. So take that look off your face, no offence meant, right? Here, pull up a pew. All friends again.’

  The old man’s cheeks seemed to stiffen, and bending down with creaky dignity, so his bristles rested against Jazzy’s own, he gasped, ‘Living is a frail thing; each of us has to live with his own version, lad. You mind how you go, you got the same problems as me, I can see them written large; you need help.’ Defiantly he hobbled back across the room without giving Jazzy time to put his arm round his shoulder and make friends, as he was now disposed to do.

  ‘Arrogant dick,’ Jazzy said to himself. ‘Any of that joint left?’

  ‘Fuck, that were weird, well freaky,’ muttered Nigel, and started laughing, nervously with relief, at first, and then succumbing to a tide of titters that found everything funny, Ade joining in once he saw things the same way, and Jazzy so reluctantly that it could hardly count as mirth. The old man’s rejection was nothing next to the recognition that he was obsessed, absolutely and without salvation, by his mother, and to what end? To sit here knowing he had failed her again without the strength to rectify his latest mistake, one that could still be faced down by simply walking across the road and facing Noah.

  ‘Freaky, man, well freaky!’

  ‘Who was that guy?’

  ‘I dunno. But he were mad! Can’t believe I took it seriously; the filth, like they’d care what goes on here!’

  ‘Yeah!’ chortled Ade, ‘Absolutely spot on, oh my days! It’s all mad when you look at it! My absolute favourite expression, sums it all up for me, “it only hurts when I laugh!”’

  Jazzy was finding the opposite to be the case; for him it hurt nearly all the time. Like the others he was unable to take anything seriously, without seeing anything in the least funny about not doing so. Listening, speaking and believing were all equally ridiculous in principle. There was a pin-prick of satisfaction to be found in knowing this, though nowhere near enough to compensate for its truth. As long as he was afraid, he would never be free. Communal canned laughter would not change that.

  ‘Cheer up chicken, it may never happen!’

  Jazzy scraped his chair away from the others and the table, Ade quickly rising and steadying its back so as to stop him from rocking over.

  ‘Let me go will you? Who asked you to be my fucking mate?’

  ‘Hang on, there’s no need for that…’

  ‘Just leave me alone, will you! The pair of you, leave me be! What are you, gay?’

  For a second Ade and Nigel struck a worried note, glancing at each other carefully, before doubling up helplessly with yet more giggling.

  ‘Bloody hell mate, no offence, but you’ve got to admit, you’re bloody hilarious!’ cried Ade, banging the table, the snot streaming down his face, ‘I thought you were really upset there, for a second!’

  The greatest deflation of all was that Jazzy knew he would return to his normal everydayness again and all this vividity and self-honesty would count for nothing. Sat there, pissed, stoned, detached and furious, a brooding testament to the inevitability of Petula’s predictions.

  ‘Yeah, whatever, I like to give folk a good time,’ he murmured, half covering his face. It was all he could do to hold back the tears, and he was glad that Spider was not there to comfort him, again, as even her kindnesses were coloured by his mother’s rank disapproval of their union. Petula had made much of warni
ng him that the worst thing he could do in life was make a poor relationship, which would ruin him forever, and by his own count he had made at least two: with little Jill to show he could have a girl that attractive and with Spider to prove that beauty was only skin-deep. In both instances, the first mistake and then the reaction to it, the person had not been as important as the point he wanted to make; but to whom? Petula, of course, first, last and always, Petula.

  Ignoring the cackles of his companions Jazzy drew up to the table again and drained the remainder of Ade’s pint. He still missed Jill with a disorientating savagery. To begin with he hoped her departure would follow the pattern of their previous quarrels, where each would find they were as unhappy alone as they were together, and that if their togetherness was no more than the sum of their combined individual unhappiness, at least they did not have to endure it alone. That was not to be. After her letter, Jill vanished as completely as one who had never been. Dawn calls to her parents’ house, painstaking surveillance of nearby haunts, and messages on local radio, all failed to winkle her out of whatever parallel universe she had melted into, forcing him to acknowledge that she really did not want to be found this time. His failure gave him an incentive to try and hate her a bit more, dwelling on all she had inflicted on him, loudly protesting that her replacement was thrice the woman she was, none of which addressed his need for her sharp little tits, so much tastier than Spider’s loyal and supportive cumulus sacks. Jazzy clutched his chest; absence made the heart lose weight, and he genuinely doubted whether he had it in him to get up, leave the pub, find his way to the van, and return home without stopping at a lay-by for a Jill-related wank.

  Blind as a fist he rose, then quickly sat down again, waiting until the room had at least become shadows and shapes, rather than fateful blackness, before embarking on his flight. Moving his lips silently he mouthed, ‘Please God let me see.’