"There was someone in ere askin about you lot a few weeks ago."
Elaine froze and Dee's legs dropped down against the bar. "Who?"
"A bloke, bit younger than me. Local."
"New York accent?" asked Wallet.
"Definitely New York. Asking all sorts of questions about your past, the years you were away from everything." It would have been such an innocuous statement at any other time, but at that moment it landed on the bar like a verbal grenade.
"Did he know who you were?" said Elaine. She and Dee were readying to head downstairs.
"Everyone knows who I am," said Almer. "The guy who used to be in the band with the two who used to be in Toten Herzen. He must have known."
Dee jumped down from her seat and left without speaking. Elaine came round to Wallet. "You wait here. Ask Almer about the plan." She patted her ex-colleague on the back.
"The plan?" said Wallet.
"They haven't told you?"
Elaine was off, pushing through the crowded floor space with a determined and confrontational straightening of her shoulders. "They don't tell me anything, Almer," said Wallet. "I will have a pint after all."
22 (June)
Ian Gillan was ready to go down below, to the inferno. But there were no fires raging underneath Almer's bar. Bare brick walls, a flight of timber steps, a few empty barrels lying around and cables. Long heavy duty cables. Before Scavinio could see her, he could hear her. A gentle aimless strumming on a guitar, a brief flurry of notes, then strumming again. He paused for a moment to recognise a pattern to the doodling; was it a troubled sound, peaceful, searching? He couldn't tell, but as the basement floor opened out before him he saw a range of guitars on stands, a drum kit, Marshalls, and in front of it all, Susan sitting on a simple wooden chair, playing, not the Flying V, but some Fender-type cutaway. From the sound it made he guessed Ibanez and he was right.
He wondered what it would sound like in this closed underground space if she suddenly let go and played it full throttle, full bloodied.
"You found me," she said without looking up. Scavinio grabbed another chair, pulled it close and sat down.
"I could hear you three blocks away."
"Really?" She could see he didn't mean it. "So what's bothering you, Tom? Why the dramatic text and the oh so many questions routine?"
Scavinio pulled his face and let the strumming guitar fill a long long pause. "Curiosity finally got the better of me," he said. Susan nodded. "It isn't that long ago everything made sense, but then Sheila became sick and the questions started."
"So this is about your wife?"
"No, not necessarily. But the first wave of questions started gathering back then. Why her? In a world like this why was she chosen to suffer like that? A beautiful, friendly, loving, caring, sweet natured woman. Why her? You start to question everything and what you took for granted isn't the familiar state of affairs you thought it was."
"And it took you how long to come to this conclusion?" Susan's eyes would look up at Scavinio from underneath her dark, angular eyebrows diving in towards the top of her nose. Her mouth waiting as if another word was on its way and the ever present tips of those canines, two passive reminders of who she was.
"On their own I'd just dismiss them as part of life, part of the great conundrum, but then when you least expect it you get a call and your name is part of the conversation. You'd expect everything to be seen in context, but surprisingly, instead of the unbelievable being shown for what it is, it doesn't seem so unbelievable after all because everything has become unbelievable." Scavinio's weight pushed back into the chair as he laughed. "I mean, your age, your appearance, your teeth. Someone might get the wrong impression and start to believe all this shit." He wasn't sure if he was getting through yet. He'd be at the end of the road when the music stops, but the strumming continued. "When you walked into the room for that meeting did you not ask yourselves why no one talked about your age and how you look?"
"No."
"Okay. It might not be important to you and that's fine if you have your own reasons for being there, but they didn't ask because they don't care. Their minds were already made up. You're a hoax, put together by Rob and to be honest, quite well executed. That's what they were thinking, but when I got the call I was at a place where I was ready to believe anything. If ordinary life doesn't make sense any more what difference do four vampires make?"
The music stopped. Susan searched the space between her and Scavinio and found something. A new riff, a new melody rolling around and around.
"I have other issues to deal with and I'm trying to find a way of trusting you four or at least understanding what you are. In a few days time we might all walk away and never see each other again, but I don't want that."
Susan didn't appear to want that either. The music softened until it was barely audible. Her face was preparing for some display of emotion. She was a beautiful woman with features that couldn't possibly contain the number of stories and experiences she should have accumulated in sixty years. Scavinio whispered, "Did you kill Torque Rez and Mike Flambor?" Now he was straining to hear the music, but it was still there, drifting with the answer that Susan wasn't ready to offer. She turned away and started playing louder.
"Before you came over here," Scavinio continued, "there was Mike Gannon. He was an asshole nobody liked. I can see that one. The other four: they were tipped off by Micky Redwall in 1977 that something was going to happen to you? Is that true?" Susan nodded. "And they didn't tell the police or warn you that you're own manager was up to something."
She shook her head.
"Mike and Torque? They took me aside and mentioned Dee, getting rid of her?"
"And what did you say?"
"I didn't see it myself. No Dee, no band."
"They take one of us, we take three of them."
"Three?" Scavinio waited for the other name, but Susan carried on playing. "I saw your medical reports."
"We're in pretty good shape, don't you think? Considering our age."
"Better shape than me. You know we can all help each other here, but before I can trust you, you have to trust me."
"I can trust you."
"There is one other question that's been bugging me. In 1977, what the fuck were the four of you doing in coffins in a tomb in Highgate Cemetery?" Scavinio casually crossed his legs ready for another obtuse explanation.
"You think it's unusual four vampires sleeping in a tomb?"
Scavinio grinned.
"It's a long story. I promise I'll tell you that one some other time."
Scavinio leaned forward close to the neck of the guitar. Susan's fingers were long, delicate, gentle on the strings as they flowed up and down the notes. "Just give me a sign, a hint, one way or another who you really are and I promise I won't ask any more questions." Susan paused on middle C, holding the note with a slight vibrato whilst she considered his request. Scavinio knew the rest of the band were in the room. He sat up to look around and the three of them were standing and sitting on the steps.
"Give us a moment, Tom," said Susan and handed the guitar to him. He could smell her perfume on it as she walked away.
-
On the roof of the building that contained Almer's bar Toten Herzen gathered for a meeting. Against New York's rooftops they waited for Susan's briefing, but they already knew what she was going to ask.
"Do we tell him?"
"We can't do this without a manager we can trust," said Rene.
"What does he know?" Elaine was the only one pacing around the rooftop.
"He knows pretty much everything. He's done his homework, as you'd expect, but he's trying to make sense of it all. You can almost see him arguing with himself over his conclusions. Unavoidable conclusions."
"Is he ready for the truth?" Rene asked.
"I don't know," said Susan. "His wife's at death's door. She could go any day now. My concern is he's gonna ask us to save her life."
"What? Turn
her?" Dee wasn't expecting this scenario. "We're not here to provide some kind of homoeopathy."
"I don't know for sure he'll ask, but it's a possibility."
"It's a possibility," said Elaine, "but it's also his responsibility if he asks. If he asks."
"He might not ask," said Susan. "He might turn himself inside out wondering whether to make that decision, but yeah, you're right. That's his call."
"But we still need a manager," said Rene. Susan agreed.
The decision would be another step along the plan, a big step. There was little further progress to be made until this one significant decision could be made.
"We make this decision now and we can get out of New York," Elaine said. And that was the clincher.
-
Scavinio was still in the basement, sat in the same chair and lost in his own nostalgia as he tried to play the notes from his favourite songs, but all he could manage were a few careful arpeggios. "Not exactly Eruption is it, Tom." Susan's hand pulled the guitar away from him. The four band members came around in front of him and they started to look like they meant business. Without hearing anything other than the original recordings Scavinio felt this was a band who lived and breathed music. They had that desire he had seen in the bands who came into his guitar shop, a disregard for the hoops and puzzles of the industry, the money games and accountancy tricks, the fancy pants deals and convoluted licenses. They didn't give a fuck for the new three sixty degree deals and sponsorship scams, the monetizing fandangos and affiliated corporate mind games that led in one direction: the bottom line of the hedge funds and vulture capitalists. Standing there were four people who could and would spit on Todd Moonaj's business plan, take Linda Macvie's marketing horseshit and feed it back to her one spoonful at a time, and he hoped, in vain, that they had lectured Mike Flambor and Torque Rez on the historic importance of Carnegie Hall before tearing their insignificant heads off.
"Come here." Susan held out her hand. It was freezing; the chill from it ran along Scavinio's arm and engulfed his body. Out of nowhere his guitar shop appeared, the lights still on inside, a few customers visible inspecting the racks of Fenders, Gibsons, Epiphones and BC Rich models new in, still made in America before the production lines halted and shifted out to the far east. Inside the store the smell of wood hit him in the face and the warmth of the electric lights was a relief. There was a hushed background chatter occasionally interrupted by the hysterical squeal of a bum note. It made Scavinio laugh to hear that again. Eventually he saw himself, explaining the settings on a Marshall amp that was way beyond the thirty dollars the kid had to spend. He pointed out more affordable models that would do the same job, or at least make a good fist of doing the same job until the kid was earning Eddie van Halen's salary and he could come back for the real thing. Behind them the door opened and a little bit of the dark street outside peeked in. Scavinio should have closed up for the evening ten minutes ago, but he never threw people out. There was always the risk of another and another desperate young hopeful slipping in when he was wanting to slip out. Tonight was no exception and in walked a young woman. Tall, lean, silver skinned with black hair like liquid jet. The recognition was instant. She gazed around. Scavinio noticed her, but was still preoccupied with the kid and the amp. They acknowledged each other with a brief nod and she continued to look over the Gibsons. She took a price tag in her hand.
"I wanted to see what mine was worth," said Susan softly.
"I knew it was you," said Scavinio. "When you walked into the meeting room. I was ninety nine per cent sure, but this. This seals it. You look at the Firebirds and Explorers and then leave." And she did. Two more minutes and the girl was gone.
"We came to see Almer. The first time we'd been to New York and we wanted to make sure he was doing okay. I saw the shop and thought, that place looks cool. Scavinio's Guitar Shop. You don't forget a name like that, Tom."
Scavinio rubbed his eye and swallowed heavily. "The other kid bought the amp, but I don't know if he ever got his Marshall."
"We can hope, Tom."
Back in the basement Rene was sat behind his kit, Dee and Elaine were trying to familiarise themselves with the strange bass and guitar Almer had left out for them. Seeing Scavinio back in the real world they started to play the opening bars of New York, New York. Dee stepped forward to the microphone and began a breathy Monroesque version of the lyrics that made Scavinio's knees weaken! "Start spreading the news. . . ."
Rene clattered his cymbals and started a simple two four beat, the band broke into the theme tune to the Munsters. "This is who we are, Mr Tom," shouted Dee. "Ha haah!"
"Can you play something real," Scavinio said.
"We don't do requests, sir, we aint no tribute band," said Dee. And Susan played the final notes of Any Old Iron. "We's a rock n roll band, mister."
"You should know that by now, Mr Tom," said Susan playing an expectant series of notes. "You know who we are. . . ." The volume grew louder. "And now you know what we are. . . ." and louder. "Fuck it, Tom, fuck everything, fuck the world, fuck life, fuck the beginning and the end, Tom. FUCK IT ALL."
-
The volume went through the roof as the band launched into one of their own songs. The sonic boom vibrated every panel in the bar, higher frequencies shaking the glasses and the prints. The floor thudded with the bass notes hammering their way upwards and the kick drum sending a shock wave through every skull that was still in the building. Almer looked at Wallet who looked at Almer. Both men waited for the missile to come through the floorboards at any minute. Their grins were a mile wide and not the only ones in the bar as the other drinkers started to howl and yell, arms up, fists gripped with the devil's horns out for the first time that evening. And the charge continued, every freight train coming in from Grand Central, every Airbus landing at Kennedy Airport, every vehicle in the city revving its six cylinder engine, every nerve and fibre of New York unleashed in a single cacophony of visceral noise. Almer lost all sense of shame and started playing his air guitar like a demon, accompanied by air drummers, air conductors, shakers, jumpers, headbangers, nutters. The whole place was a blur of stupidity, a dancing wreck, chairs went through the air, tables flipped over. The bar top was lost amongst people clambering to get on top of it, and down below in the inferno the sound continued, relentless, intense, bass heavy, unstoppable; for ten minutes Bonham on 11th was on the verge of collapse, shaken to bits by the aural battery and the combined weight of a bar full of crazed rockers hearing their lives played out with no sense of control or restraint. A joyous ten minutes they thought they'd never hear again this side of Armageddon. The four horsemen could fuck off and take their trumpets with them. The end of the world would sound like this.
23 (June)
Tuesday was always a long day for Todd Moonaj. He knew Mondays were terrible because they followed on from the relative relaxation of the weekends. But his Mondays were so bad they tainted and violated his Tuesdays as well, which wasn't supposed to happen. Moonaj's week only really began to settle by Wednesday before the bedlam of Thursday and Friday began when everyone was trying to contact him before the weekend arrived.
So Tuesday was finally over and about to surrender to the evening before grinding to a halt when Moonaj took a call from Mike Tindall asking if they could meet for a quick beer on the way home. Gregg's Loco was usually a quiet bar at seven pm Tuesday so they both rolled up to a table and sighed audibly as they sat down. Tindall couldn't help laughing.
"We sound like old men, Todd."
"We are old men," said Moonaj."Old before our time."
Tindall opened up his smartphone. "If only we could be vampires. We got the medical reports through this afternoon for our delightful friends from Europe."
"Go on, humour me. Are they as clinically dead as they claim to be?"
"Far from it. The staff at Crendale Medical Clinic are wondering now if their test procedures are correct. They're not sure how four people their age can be so healthy. Some
of the headline details, and this applies to all four of them: 20/05 vision."
"Is that good?" asked Moonaj.
"Well, let's say a bird of prey would be proud of that. Hearing range 12 hertz to 30 thousand hertz."
"Bird of prey?"
"It's okay. Not exactly in the same range as a vampire bat, but for a human it's going beyond the normal limits. The ability to hear low decibel sound raised a few eyebrows. Then blood sugar, 72 mg/dl, haemoglobin A1c 3%, blood pH 7.4. Here's a strange thing: everyone's blood produced exactly the same results, like they had a fifty gallon drum of the stuff and injected themselves with it. Rene's blood is the same as the girl's, which is just plain wrong."
"Okay so, he's a woman . . . with a beard. . . ."
"And testicles," added Tindall. "What else? At rest oxygen consumption 245 mL/min, on the treadmill oxygen saturation remained at rest levels of 99% which is better than a drug-free Olympic athlete."
"Better than a drugged up Olympic athlete, I think. Do they ride for any cycling teams? Maybe we should get them in the Tour de France this year."
"Your not taking this seriously, Todd," sang Tindall. "BMI range 21, cholesterol 95."
"Fuck me, even I know that's low."
"Could account for them being so aggressive all the time. Like I say the clinic's checking their procedures because they think there are errors in these figures. I mean LDL cholesterol 3 mg. That can't be right, even for a healthy person. Let alone four sixty year olds."
"Oh, not that old bullshit again. Mike, they are not in their sixties."
"Birth certificates say they are."
"We can't say that for certain. The certificates could be faked."
"National Health Service in the UK supplied the data and matched their National Insurance numbers."
We Are Toten Herzen (TotenUniverse Book 1) Page 15