Snodgrass and Other Illusions: The Best Short Stories of Ian R. MacLeod

by Ian R. MacLeod

  The music comes around the corner as a grey echo, drowned in the smell of piss and disinfectant. “It’s mostly shit, what do yer expect?”

  “Yeah,” he nods. His accent is funny. I think it’s some bastard kind of Brummy until I suddenly realise he’s American. “They sold out, didn’t they?”

  “The Beatles never sold in.”

  “Bloody hypocrites. All that money going to waste.”

  Some other guy comes in, stares at us as he wees. Gives his leg a shake, walks out again. Choirboy and I stand in stupid silence. It’s one of them situations yer find yerself in. But anyone who thinks that The Beatles are crap can’t be all bad.

  “You used to be in the Beatles, didn’t you?”

  I stare at him. No one’s recognised me just from me face in years. I’ve got me glasses on, me specially grey and wrinkled disguise.

  “Oh, I’ve read all about the Beatles,” he assures me, giving his mop a twirl.

  I’ve half a mind to say, If yer’re that interested give me the fucking mop and yer can have me seat, but there’s something about him that I wouldn’t trust next to Cal.

  “Hey,” he smiles. “Listen in there. Sounds like they’re doing the encore.”

  Which of course is Yesterday, like Oh deary me, we left it out by accident from the main show and thought we would just pop it in here. Not a dry seat in the bloody house.

  Choirboy’s still grinning at me. I see he’s got a paperback in the pocket of his overall. Catcher In The Rye. “There’ll be a big rush in a minute,” he says. “More mess for me to clean up. Even Jesus wouldn’t like this job.”

  “Then why do yer do it? The pay can’t be spectacular.”

  “Well, this is just casual work. I’ll probably quit after tonight.”

  “Yeah, pal. I know all about casual work.”

  “But this is interesting, gets you into places. I like to be near to the stars. I need to see how bad they are.” He cracks that grin a little wider. “Tell me,” he says, “what’s Paul really like?”

  “How the fuck should I know? I haven’t see the guy in nearly thirty years. But, there’s…there’s some do on afterwards…he’s asked me and me bird to come along. Yer know, for old times I guess.” Jesus, John, who are yer trying to impress?

  “Oh,” he says, “and where’s that taking place? I sometimes look in, you know. The security’s round here’s a joke. Last week, I was that close to Madonna.” He demonstrates the distance with his broom.

  Cal’s got the invites in her handybag, but I can picture them clear enough. I’ve got a great memory for crap. They’re all scrolled like it’s a wedding and there’s a signed pass tacked on the back just to make it official. Admit two, The Excelsior, Meriden. Boogie on down, and I bet the Lord Mayor’s coming. And tomorrow it’s Reading. I mean, do these guys paarrty every night?

  Choirboy grins. “It’s here at the Metropole, right?”

  “Oh, yeah, the Metropole.” I saw the neon on the way in. “That’s the place just outside? Saves the bastards having to walk too far.” I scratch me head. “Well maybe I’ll see yer there. And just let me know if yer have any trouble at all getting in, right?”

  “Right on.” He holds out his hand. I don’t bother to shake it—and it’s not simply because this guy cleans bogs. I don’t want him near me, and I somehow I don’t want him near Paul or the others either. He’s a fruitcase, and I feel briefly and absurdly pleased with meself that I’ve sent him off to ye wrong hotel.

  I give him a wave and head on out ye bog. In the aircraft hanger, music’s still playing. Let’s all get up and dance to a song de da de da de dum de dum. Snodgrass and Tracy are trying to be enthusiastic so they can tell everyone how great it was in the office tomorrow. I wander down the aisles, wondering if it might be easier not to meet up with Cal. On reflection, this seems as good a place as any to duck out of her life. Do the cunt a favour. After all, she deserves it. And to be honest, I really don’t fancy explaining to Kevin where all his money went. He’s a big lad, is our Kev. Useful, like.

  The music stops. The crowd claps like they’re really not sure whether they want any more and Paul raises an unnecessary arm to still them.

  “Hey, one more song then we’ll let yer go,” he says with probably unintentional irony. I doubt if they know what the fuck is going on up there in Mission Control.

  He puts down his Gibson and a roadie hands him something silver. Stu’s grinning like a skull. He even wanders within spitting distance of the front of the stage. A matchstick figure, I can see he looks the way Keith Richards would have done if he really hadn’t taken care of himself. He nods to George. George picks up a twelve string.

  “This one’s for an old friend,” Paul says.

  The session musicians are looking at each other like What the fuck’s going on? Could this really be an unrehearsed moment? Seems unlikely, but then Paul muffs the count in on a swift four/four beat. There’s nervous laughter amongst the Fab Fearsome, silence in the auditorium. Then again. One. Two. Three. And.

  Macca puts the harmonica to his lips. Plays me riff. Love Me Do. Oh, yeah. I really can’t believe it. The audience are looking a bit bemused, but probably reckon it’s just something from the new LP that’s stacked by the yard out in the foyer and no one’s bothered to buy. The song’s over quickly. Them kind of songs always were. Me, I’m crying.

  The End. Finis, like they say in cartoon. Ye Beatles give a wave and duck off stage. I get swept back in the rush to get to ye doors. I hear snatches of, Doesn’t he look old, They never knew how to rock, Absolutely brilliant, and How much did you pay the babysitter? I wipe the snot off on me sleeve and look around. Cal catches hold of me by the largely unpatronised tee shirt stall before I have a chance to see her coming.

  “What did you think?”

  “A load of shit,” I say, hoping she won’t notice I’ve been crying.

  She smiles. “Is that all you can manage, John? That must mean you liked it.”

  Touché, Monsieur Pussycat. “Truth is, I could need a drink.”

  “Well, let’s get down the Excelsior. You can meet your old mates and get as pissed as you like.”

  She glides me out towards the door. Me feet feel like they’re on rollers. And there’s me chauffeur pal with the boy scout uniform. People stare at us as he opens the door like we’re George Michael. Pity he don’t salute, but still, I’d look a right pillock trying to squirm me way away from a pretty woman and the back seat of a Jag.

  The car pulls slowly through the crowds. I do me wave like I’m the Queen Mum although the old bint’s probably too hip to be seen at a Beatles concert. Turns out there’s a special exit for us VIPS. I mean, rock and roll. It’s just a few minutes drive, me mate up front tells us.

  Cal settles back. “This is the life.”

  “Call this life?”

  “Might as well make the most of it, John.”

  “Oh, yeah. I bet you get taken in this kind of limo all the time. Blowjobs in the back seat. It’s what pays, right?” I bite me lip and look out the window. Jesus, I’m starting to cry again.

  “Why do you say things like that John?”

  “Because I’m a bastard. I mean, you of all people must know about bastards having to put up with Steve.”

  Cal laughed. “You called him Steve!”

  I really must be going ta bits. “Yeah, well I must have puked up me wits over that lay by.”

  “Anyway,” she touches me arm. “Call him whatever you like. I took your advice this evening. Told him where to stuff it.”

  I look carefully at her face. She obviously ain’t kidding, but I can’t see any bruises. “And what about the money I nicked?”

  “Well, that’s not a problem for me, is it? I simply told him the truth, that it was you.” She smiled. “Come on, John. I’d almost believe you were frightened of him. He’s just some bloke. He’s got another girl he’s after anyway, the other side of town and good luck to her.”

  “So it’s just you
and me is it, Cal. Cosy, like. Don’t expect me to sort out yer customers for yer.”

  “I’m getting too old for that, John. It costs you more than they pay. Maybe I’ll do more work at the NEC. Of course, you’ll have to start paying your sodding rent.”

  I hear meself say, “I think there’s a vacancy coming up in the NEC Gents. How about that for a funky job for Doctor Winston? At least you get to sweep the shit up there rather than having to stuff it into envelopes.”

  “What are you talking about, John?”

  “Forget it. Maybe I’ll explain in the morning. You’ve got influence there, haven’t you?”

  “I’ll help you get a job, if that’s what you’re trying to say.”

  I lookouta ye window. The houses streaming past, yellow widows, where ye Snodgrasses who weren’t at the concert are chomping pipe and slippers whilst the wife makes spaniel eyes. The kids tucked upstairs in pink and blue rooms that smell of Persil and Playdough. Me, I’m just the guy who used to be in a halfway-famous band before they were anybody. I got me no book club subscription, I got me no life so clean yer could eat yer bloody dinner off it. Of course, I still got me rebellion, oh yeah, I got me that, and all it amounts to is cadging cigs off Cal and lifting packets of Cheesy Wotsits from the bargain bin in Kwick Save when Doris and Tracy ain’t looking. Oh, yeah, rebellion. The milkman shouts at me when I go near his float in case The Mad Old Git nicks another bottle.

  I can remember when we used to stand up and face the crowd, do all them songs I’ve forgotten how to play. When Paul still knew how to rock. When Stu was half an artist, dreamy and scary at the same time. When George was just a neat kid behind a huge guitar, lying about his age. When Ringo was funny and the beat went on forever. Down the smoggily lit stairways and greasy tunnels, along burrows and byways where the cheesy reek of the bogs hit yer like a wall. Then the booze was free afterwards and the girls would gather round, press softly against yer arm as they smiled. Their boyfriends would mutter at the bar but you knew they were afraid of yer. Knew they could sense the power of the music that carried off the stage. Jesus, the girls were as sweet as the rain in those grey cities, the shining streets, the forest wharves, the dark doorways where there was laughter in the dripping brick-paved night. And sleeping afterwards, yer head spinning from the booze and the wakeups and the downers, taking turns on that stained mattress with the cinema below booming in yer head and the music still pouring through. Diving down into carousel dreams.

  Oh, the beat went on alright. Used to think it would carry up into daylight and the real air, touch the eyes and ears of the pretty dreamers, even make Snodgrass stir a little in his slumbers, take the shine off the Sierra, make him look up at the angels in the sky once in a while, or even just down at the shit on the pavement.

  “Well, here we are,” Cal says.

  Oh, yeah. Some hotel. Out in the pretty pretty. Trees and lights across a fucking lake. The boy scout opens the door for me and Cal. Unsteady on me pins, I take a breath, then have me a good retching cough. The air out here reeks of roses or something, like one of them expensive bog fresheners that Cal sprays around when our Kev’s had a dump.

  “Hey.” Cal holds out the crook of her arm. “Aren’t you going to escort me in?”

  “Let’s wait here.”

  There are other cars pulling up, some old git dressed like he’s the Duke of Wellington standing at the doors. Straight ahead to the Clarendon Suite, Sir, he smooths greyly to the passing suits. I suppose these must be record industry types. And then there’s this bigger car than the rest starts to pull up. It just goes on and on, like one of them gags in Tom and Jerry. Everyone steps back like it’s the Pope. Instead, turns out it’s just The Beatles. They blink around in the darkness like mad owls, dressed in them ridiculous loose cotton suits that Clapton always looks such a prat in. Lawyers tremble around them like little fish. Paul pauses to give a motorcycle policeman his autograph, flashes the famous Macca grin. Some guy in a suit who looks like the hotel manager shakes hands with Stu. Rock and roll. I mean, this is what we were always fighting for. The Beatles don’t register the good Doctor before they head inside, but maybe that’s because he’s taken three steps back into the toilet freshener darkness.

  “What are we waiting for?” Cal asks as the rest of the rubbernecks drift in.

  “This isn’t easy, Cal.”

  “Who said anything about easy?”

  I give the Duke of Wellington a salute as he holds ye door open.

  “Straight ahead to the Clarendon Suite, Sir.”

  “Hey,” I tell him, “I used to be Beatle John.”

  “Stop mucking about, John.” Cal does her Kenneth Williams impression, then gets all serious. “This is important. Just forget about the past and let’s concentrate on the rest of your life. All you have to say to Paul is Hello. He’s a decent guy. And I’m sure that the rest of them haven’t changed as much as you imagine.”

  Cal wheels me in. The hotel lobby looks like a hotel lobby. The Tracy at reception gives me a cutglass smile. Catch a glimpse of meself in the mirror and unbelievably I really don’t look too bad. Must be slipping.

  “Jesus, Cal. I need a smoke.”

  “Here.” She rumbles in me pocket, produces Kevin’s Rothmans. “I suppose you want a bloody light.”

  All the expensive fish are drifting by. Some bint in an evening dress so low at the back that you can see the crack of her arse puts her arm on this Snodgrass and gives him a peck on the cheek. That was delightful, darrling, she purrs. She really does.

  “I mean a real smoke Cal. Haven’t you got some blow?” I make a lunge for her handbag.

  “Bloody hell, John,” she whispers, looking close to loosing her cool. She pushes something into my hand. “Have it outside, if you must. Share it with the bloody doorman.”

  “Thanks Cal.” I give her a peck on the cheek and she looks at me oddly. “I’ll never forget.”

  “Forget what?” she asks as I back towards the door. Then she begins to understand. But the Duke holds the door open for me and already I’m out in the forest night air.

  The door swings back, then open again. The hotel lights fan out across the grass. I look back. There’s some figure.

  “Hey, John!”

  It’s a guy’s voice, not Cal’s after all. Sounds almost Liverpool.

  “Hey, wait a minute! Can’t we just talk?”

  The voice rings in silence.

  “John! It’s me!”

  Paul’s walking into the darkness towards me. He’s holding out his hand. I stumble against chrome. The big cars are all around. Then I’m kicking white stripes down the road. Turns to gravel underfoot and I can see blue sea, a white beach steaming after the warm rain, a place where a woman is waiting and the bells jingle between her breasts. Just close your eyes and you’re there.

  Me throat me legs me head hurts. But there’s a gated side road here that leads off through trees and scuffing the dirt at the end of a field to some big houses that nod and sway with the sleepy night.

  I risk a look behind. Everything is peaceful. There’s no one around. Snodgrass is dreaming. Stars upon the rooftops, and the Sierra’s in the drive. Trees and privet, lawns neat as velvet. Just some suburban road at the back of the hotel. People living their lives.

  I catch me breath, and start to run again.

  Afterword

  As a writer, failed artists have always been of greater interest to me than successful ones; there’s so much more to write about. Outsiders, as well—people who’ve pushed or driven themselves beyond the edge. Then there’s music, which probably means at least as much to me as literature.

  My sister was the Beatles fan in our family, and I’ve never had that much time for John Lennon’s solo stuff. Still, there’s no denying Lennon’s slightly twisted brilliance, and I read Albert Goldman’s biography—generally regarded as a hatchet job, although still written with some regard for its subject—with great enjoyment. The idea of Lennon not being in the Beatles,
or rather opting out of the band just as their career took off, appealed to me. There are, of course, many real examples of people who left bands just before they became big, and I’d always thought it must leave an odd kind of legacy. So near, and yet so far…I hesitated then, until I shared my idea for a John Lennon story with my wife; the thing just seemed too daft. “Why not have John Lennon living in Birmingham, and working in the civil service?” she said. “That’s what you did…”

  As I write this, I’ve also had the interesting experience of being on-set to see this story twisted, transformed, changed—however you care to put it—into a another medium as a planned feature for Sky Playhouse. Once a story is done with, I honestly don’t feel that it belongs to me in any deeply personal sense. The things I wanted to say have been said, the battle has been lost or won. Still, the production has been a labour of love for those involved, and it looks as if they’ve done a witty and intelligent job. Interestingly, David Quantick who wrote the script and the people at the production company are all far bigger Beatles fans than I am. I think we all agreed when we talked about it that only someone who was dealing with this twentieth century icon from a slightly sideways and distanced direction would have had the nerve to do what I’ve done to John.

  The Master Miller’s Tale

  THERE ARE ONLY RUINS left now on Burlish Hill, a rough circle of stones. The track which once curved up from the village of Stagsby in the valley below is little more than an indentation in the grass, and the sails of the mill which once turned there are forgotten. Time has moved on, and lives have moved with it. Only the wind remains.

  Once, the Westovers were millers. They belonged to their mill as much as it belonged to them, and Burlish Hill was so strongly associated with their trade that the words mill and hill grew blurred in the local dialect until the two became the same. Hill was mill and mill was hill, and one or other of the Westovers, either father or son, was in charge of those turning sails, and that was all the people of Stagsby, and all the workers in the surrounding farms and smallholdings, cared to know. The mill itself, with its four sides of sloped, slatted wood, weather-bleached and limed until they were almost paler than its sails, was of the type known as a post mill. Its upper body, shoulders, middle and skirts, turned about a central pivot from a squat, stone lower floor to meet whichever wind prevailed. There was a tower mill at Alford, and there were overshot water mills at Lough and Screamby, but Burlish Mill on Burlish Hill had long served its purpose. You might get better rates further afield, but balanced against that had to be the extra journey time, and the tolls on the roads, and the fact that this was Stagsby, and the Westovers had been the millers here for as long as anyone could remember. Generation on generation, the Westovers re-cemented this relationship by marrying the daughters of the farmers who drove their carts up Burlish Hill, whilst any spare Westovers took to labouring some of the many thousands of acres which the mill surveyed. The Westovers were pale-faced men with sandy hair, plump arms and close-set eyes which, in their near-translucence, seemed to have absorbed something of the sky of their hilltop home. They went bald early—people joked that the winds had blown away their hair—and worked hard, and characteristically saved their breath and said little, and saved their energies for their work.