The rest of the kingdom slept whilst I fantasized about travelling back into yesteryear to vanquish my many regrets. I rewrote the script scene by bloody scene until melodrama transformed into romcom. The defining moments played out on the ceiling of my bedroom as if my psyche had become a high-definition film projector:
“Wisteria Blues (She Been Dancing with the Wrong Guy)” dissipates into the heavy gymnasium air. Lana, etc. are lined up like bowling pins under the flashing neon exit sign, but I’m a gutter ball rolling towards relative obscurity. Moments later Becky’s proud eyes light up as I storm the alley and embrace her with the force of a tsunami. “Thank you for being you, gorgeous.” She wonders what’s come over me as I refuse to let go. We’ve already planned our nuptials by the time she scampers off into the night.
Scene two. I stop Lincoln in his tracks. “The kicker’s just a prop. You’re our bloody anchor and we need you here.” Lincoln winks. He knows I’m the leader of this outfit for a reason. Ollie calls him a fanny as he deposits his keys back into the pocket of his cargo shorts. No matter. We gather in a circle and stack our mitts into a pile at its center. One…Two…Three…Rip Churchill! Frankie Shū’s Ballroom explodes with the opening crunch of “Gutter Minx” and we all live to rock n’ roll another day.
My bonce miraculously finds its way out of my arsehole. I treat Skeffington as a mate rather than some sort of Sith Lord perpetually plotting my overthrow. We continue to write masterpieces together without all the ego sodding it up. My paranoia dissolves because we’re in it together. Rip Churchill endures on account of our enduring partnership.
I inform brother that his squeeze is a two-timing slag to spare him the shame. He beats me to death with a sledgehammer while Cicero videotapes. Sod off. I couldn’t bloody wait for Tuesday night.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
The customary niceties had already been exchanged. “It’s unlikely that you’ll ever be the bass player for Rip Churchill again. We’ve both got to accept it. But it doesn’t have to be all or nothing.”
“What does that mean exactly?” Hard living had long ago snaffled away his lightheartedness. Survival became much more important.
“I want you to join us on the upcoming tour as part of our crew. I’ll pay you out of my own bloody share if I must. What do you think?”
“Are you serious? I’d bloody love it.” I could feel his gratitude seeping through the telephone receiver. It was the long overdue break he needed to turn it all around.
“I’m sorry it’s taken so long, Frisby.”
“Better late than never, Churchill.” Nobody had called me Churchill since before Lincoln’s tragic demise all those years before. Perhaps things would never be the same, but that didn’t mean they needed to stay broken. “I won’t let you down.”
“I know that, brother.”
***
The catharsis that followed my weekend long funk prompted yours truly to patch some of the more prominent holes in the hull of my sinking ship. I wrote Becky a mostly earnest farewell note during my lunch break on Monday. I simply couldn’t allow my foolish exploits be the last word on our association.
Dearest Becky,
I’m a complete fucking disaster. You obviously deserve better. Someday I might be worthy of your affections. Perhaps then we can be part of each other’s rock n’ roll fantasies. You’re the best, Becky, and I shall never forget you or the things you’ve done for me.
Please don’t write back because I’m still just a twit.
Always,
Me
The initial draft set forth a mostly honest explanation for the scandalous events at Captain Corver’s Wine & Spirits, but I’d decided it was too self-serving. Vengeance probably wasn’t the best excuse for snogging with another bird anyway. I dropped the note in the post on Monday afternoon with a heavy heart.
I left a handful of messages on Frisby’s mobile but received no response. I finally called the landline and his mum answered. She was all doom and gloom as Frisby had apparently stormed off the weekend before and neglected to return. She feared for his well-being, especially since he’d been washing down anti-depressants with brown liquor. Bloody hell. I certainly wasn’t capable of dragging anybody away from the brink of self-destruction, but I left one final urgent message on his mobile for good measure. Rip Churchill needs you. It’s not too late. Blah, blah, blah.
I also wanted to telephone Skeffington to sort out our differences, without appearing too desperate. My preference would’ve been to approach him with Frisby by my side, brandishing his bass guitar like a bloody howitzer. Regrettably, Frisby remained MIA. That left only one other bloke with the gravitas necessary to wrangle me up some much needed leverage: Mr. Denim himself.
“When are you coming back? It’s not the same without you.”
The warmth of Cletus’ words eluded me on account of paranoia. “So you’ve been practicing with the new lineup then?”
“We’ve had a few rehearsals. But we’re really in a holding pattern. Nobody wants to do gigs without you.”
“Nobody, eh? What about Donnie and Mickey?”
“What about em?”
“Are they worth a damn?”
“Listen, they’re not Lincoln and Frisby, man. But that ship has sailed, right? Lincoln’s gone. Frisby’s gone bonkers.”
“Have you heard from Frisby? I’ve called him twenty times, but he won’t respond. I want him back in the bloody band as of yesterday.”
“Slow down.” His tone became rather grave. “I just want him back on terra firma. You’ve no idea the shape he’s in. I saw him the other night. He’s living with one of Ollie’s mates in Crouch End. Real dive. He invited me over just to borrow some quid. I tried to get him to go home, but he wouldn’t bite.”
“Bloody hell. How can you just go on playing without him, especially with The Tight Fitz fattening up your ranks?”
“Sod off. I miss my mates every day. I’ve known Lincoln since I was six years old. Frisby? We’ve been bandmates for as long as I’ve been playing the guitar. You’ve known them for what? A few bloody months? Don’t insult me with that shite, alright?”
“Right. Sure. I just…”
“They’re not coming back. Suck it up, make nice with Skeffington, and let’s see how far Rip Churchill can go.”
New holes had sprouted along the hull of my ship faster than I could patch up the old ones. The deserted island upon which I’d sought refuge seemed to be shrinking. A dinghy and a lifejacket had just washed up on its narrow shore courtesy of Cletus. Regrettably, two words spray painted in blood red on the dinghy’s side caught my eye: Sell Out.
CHAPTER SIXTY
The smell of boeuf bourguignon tickled my konk as I paced back and forth in my bedroom. Any moment the doorbell would chime and Shirley Weller would cross the threshold into our mostly spotless abode. Mother prepared for her arrival as if Lady Diana herself was zipping in from paradise for a bite. Fine china. Granny’s crystal. Gooseberry tarts.
I gazed in the mirror and inhaled deeply before mum summoned me to the living room. Her expression immediately betrayed her displeasure with my rather casual appearance. Faded blue jeans. T-Shirt. Bedhead. No matter. There were other more pressing concerns on her mind.
“I know we’ve been building this dinner up. Probably way too much really. And I can imagine that you might feel a bit left out.” Bloody hell. If only she knew a quarter of the truth. “But I promise that one day you’ll bring a lovely young lady home for supper and I’ll do just the same for you, alright?” She gave me a peck on the bonce before scurrying back into the kitchen to save the puff pastries from burning. I appreciated mum’s gesture even though I’d never bring a bird anywhere near Il Duce or his spawn.
A few minutes later the doorbell rang. My ticker raced on account of a mix of nerves and exhilaration. Brother bolted to the front door dressed like some sort of choirboy from Uptight Alley. Mom and dad followed close behind. I hovered near the living room door and listened to th
e initial introductions from afar. Then I heard my cue. “Where’s your brother?”
“I don’t know, mum. I thought I heard him skulking around somewhere.” Brother couldn’t help but play dirty. Sod off. I pranced into the foyer with the joie de vivre of a young Robert Plant.
Shirley Weller’s recognition was immediate and her expression ghastly. “You’re the Shirley Weller? Wow. Nice to see you again.” She nodded awkwardly as her shoulders rolled forward ever so slightly. Brother looked puzzled as he caught a tiny whiff of something unsettling. No matter. Mum swept it under the rug when she ushered us into the living room for some mostly harmless conversation before supper.
Shirley repeatedly shot me looks of confusion and despair. I winked and smirked reassuringly in response. I also let her catch me peeking at her glorious legs on more than one occasion. Our little game seemed to intrigue her more than the dull conversation falling flat at our feet.
Dinner. Brother rambled on about his prospects for university in between enormous bites of boeuf. Shirley listened politely but we’d secretly begun playing footsy under the table. This bird was way too much woman for brother. Mum finally interrupted the proceedings. “Shirley, I apologize. We’ve barely given you a chance to say two words. Tell me, what do you for fun?”
“I bet she likes rock n’ roll.” I’d spoken out of turn for the sake of sport. Brother looked at me with incredulity brimming from his hateful eyes.
“I’m a big fan of music. All kinds really. I also like sports, dancing…all that kind of stuff.” Shirley didn’t appreciate the white hot spot light and quickly began needling her supper. Regrettably, dad seized the opportunity to begin a horribly dull conversation about the World Cup. Shirley feigned interest for the sake of appearances as I awaited more opportunities to stir the pot.
Fast forward. We found ourselves alone in the kitchen for a moment as the others cleared dishes. Shirley hustled over to me in search of answers. “What the hell is going on? This is so awkward.”
“I know. I’m mortified.”
“Oh, really? Cause you don’t seem mortified. You seem like your rather enjoying this.”
“Poppycock. That stiff is my big brother.” Brother suddenly entered from our rear with a stack of dirty dishes. Shirley practically leapt from my side and it didn’t go unnoticed. Brother wasn’t quite suspicious yet, but he certainly seemed disjointed. No matter. Things were about to get much worse.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Dessert was a mostly civilized affair. Even I behaved on account of mum’s exceptional tart-making talents. Shirley still appeared mostly fidgety as she waited for the other shoe to drop. I had no intention of revealing anything to anyone of course. I intended only to plant the seeds of sabotage into paranoid minds.
Bloody hell. I couldn’t of requested a more fitting end to the festivities. Brother stood up like a chivalrous wanker and tapped his spoon against the side of his teacup. He gazed at Shirley for a moment before tumbling arse-first over a cliff. “Shirley, I know we’ve only been dating for a short while, but it feels a lot longer. I really like spending time with you. We have so many things in common…”
“Love of Tetley’s for one.” I sniggered but no one else seemed amused.
“And you’re just great. A real winner. Anyhow, I’d like to give you something.” Mum smiled from ear to ear because she thought the whole spectacle was extraordinarily romantic. I smiled from ear to ear because I knew it was all a horrible sham.
Brother reached into the pocket of his blue blazer and pulled out his varsity football pin. Shirley looked like she might chuck up. “May I?” Brother motioned towards her upper chest.
“Of course. That’d be lovely.” Her B-movie acting skills managed to fool the peanut gallery. I shot up from my chair as if I was going to put paid to the charade and save brother from this deceitful slag. Shirley looked horrified. Not so fast. I simply strolled off to the lavy while brother pinned his sweetheart.
A few moments later we were once again gathered in the foyer. Everyone exchanged pleasantries as Shirley inched her way towards freedom. I brazenly leaned in towards her ear and whispered ever so softly: “Sonny Boyd Wheeler will be back at Captain Corver’s tomorrow night. See you there.”
“Do you mind?” Brother scowled as he pulled Shirley away. “I’m sorry, Shirley. My brother’s a misfit. No decorum.” Shirley smiled, endured one last wave of farewells, and scuttled off to her car.
“What a wonderful evening. She’s a lovely girl.” Mum patted brother on his shoulder.
“She reminds me of a young Brigitte Bardot.” Dad would’ve been infinitely less complimentary if he knew that I’d already been all over her.
“I just knew you’d like her.” Brother soaked up the attention like a purring Himalayan. He seemed genuinely smitten. Poor sap. His mostly one-sided devotion to Shirley Weller would make the fall that much sweeter.
I was keenly aware that brother would come after me with the fury of Cerberus when he learned the truth, and that Shirley wouldn’t be able to keep up the charade for long. I’d already begun formulating a plan to secure my safety. No matter. If I had to endure a beating on account of being the better man then I’d do so with enormous satisfaction.
Mum and dad were in the kitchen continuing to bask in the afterglow of the evening’s festivities. Dad probably got lucky on account of it. I dragged the garbage out to the side of the house. Brother cornered me upon my return and wagged his finger in front of my mug. “I don’t know why you were acting like such a twerp tonight but Shirley thinks you’re a freak. Do us all a favor and stop being a sodding weirdo.”
His insecurity only whetted my appetite for the main course.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
These encounters seemed so simple when we first started out. Somehow we’d transformed into uptight businessmen, however. Our handlers frantically liaised until all of the necessaries had been reduced to three or four lines on a calendar request. Time. Date. Location. Pastry/latte preferences. We’d show up like bloody automatons, argue for thirty minutes, and return to our limos bitter and unsatisfied.
No matter. I marched into the spacious conference room with a clarity that had eluded me for nearly a decade. Skeffington looked up from his scone and acknowledged my arrival with a nod. I flopped into the plush leather office chair directly across from him.
“I suppose we’re just waiting for Shogun then.”
“I told him not to come, Skeffington. I hope that’s alright.”
“That depends.” I couldn’t fault him for his guarded approach to our dealings since Shogun routinely mediated our rows as the only genuine adult in the room.
“Well, let me set the tone then.” I took a deep breath while recalling my final rehearsal with Becky. “I’m sorry for having been a thorn in this band’s side for so bloody long. It’s over. I want us to be a great rock n’ roll band again.”
“That’s awfully pie in the sky. And your conditions?” Skeffington remained stiff as a plank.
“My conditions are simple. Frisby…” Skeffington looked as if he wanted to reach across the conference table and strangle me. “Frisby joins the crew for our upcoming tour and receives a hearty wage for doing so.”
“Is that all?” The skepticism in his response was outperformed by a youthful tone that suggested we might’ve finally reached a legitimate breakthrough.
“No. You’re not getting off that easy.” I’d temporarily rolled back his expectations for the sake of one final flourish. “I’m filling notebooks again, Skeffington. I’ve got things turned around and I feel like a bloody sprog. Four brand new songs are inches away from being ready. Really great ones. But I want you to help me finish them. Shoulder to shoulder. Just like the old days.”
Skeffington casually took a bite of his scone before pulling out his mobile device. “Have your people get in touch with mine, mate. We’ll get something on the calendar.” Skeffington smiled warmly before reclining in his chair. “Maybe we can get Fri
sby on stage for a song or two. I’m sure he’d like that.”
***
The two days that followed passed without fanfare. Sonny Boyd Wheeler’s encore performance at Captain Corver’s was mostly uninspired. I’d done the bare minimum to carry the other lads over the finish line. Nothing more. Nothing less. Shirley Weller failed to make an appearance. Surprise. Surprise. I felt certain she’d crack at any moment, especially since she consorted with brother nearly every day at jock camp. My blood pressure spiked when brother limped through the door each evening in anticipation of the barbaric and unbridled retribution he’d surely unspool. He remained blissfully ignorant, however. Twas a double-edged sword of course.
Then came Friday night.
I snatched a fizzy from the fridge and offered to help mum prepare supper. She seemed chuffed at the kindly gesture. My modus operandi was slightly more sinister: Brother would be home any minute and it felt safer to be within mum’s gravitational pull. Boom. I knew the moment the front door slammed shut that revenge had been exacted. Adrenaline rushed through me just as vigorously as angst. Brother stomped into the kitchen with Cicero trailing directly behind him.
“Can I have a word with you, little brother?” He did a mostly poor job of hiding his fury from mum.
“It’ll have to wait. I’m peeling potatoes.” I gave mum’s arm a luvvly-jubbly little squeeze.
“I’m certain mum can do without it.” I feared mum might innocently feed me to the wolves since she hadn’t a clue as to what had transpired. “Come on.”
“No. No. I’m afraid it will have to wait. We’re busy playing chef.” Brilliant. She’d knowingly folded me under her wing to protect me from the would-be goons who sought my destruction. I felt extraordinarily close to mum at that moment.
“Ok, mum. I guess it’ll just have to wait until after dinner.” Brother mouthed something slightly more graphic the instant mum turned towards the oven: “You’re dead.”
Broken Birdie Chirpin Page 14