Sam's Song

by Hannah Howe

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I drove to Radio Rhoose and parked in the radio station car park. It was late afternoon and, in keeping with recent afternoons, the dark clouds were rolling in. I watched the first drops of rain fall on my windscreen, then brushed them away with my windscreen wipers. Moments later the rain became more persistent and I settled back to gaze through the rain-streaked glass. I was waiting for Drake Jolley and fifteen minutes later, he duly arrived driving a bright red sports car, a vintage Alfa Romeo. Immediately I wondered how a local disc jockey could afford such an expensive car. Maybe cars were his hobby and he saved all his pennies in a glass jar. Or maybe Lady Diamond subsidized him...

  I jumped out of my Mini, pulled the hood of my cagoule over my head and ran across the car park. My ankle held up well and caused only minor discomfort.

  With rain dripping off my nose, I smiled at Drake Jolley. “I’d like a word, if I may.”

  Drake held up his raincoat, covering his head and shoulders. After the initial frown, there was a wide, white-toothed grin of recognition. “The triangle, right?”

  I held up an imaginary triangle and struck it with my right hand. “Ting.”

  “Sure, babe, step into my office and we can have a chat.”

  Like a gentleman, Drake held the door open for me and we entered the foyer. We shook the raindrops from our coats, then Drake said ‘good evening’ to the receptionist before escorting me up a flight of stairs to his cramped, but homely, office. The office contained a standard pine desk, a low leather chair, a computer, a telephone and a wall of nondescript filing cabinets. Paperwork littered the desk, along with CDs, newspapers and a personal organiser. I spied a framed picture of a four-year-old boy, a youngster with Drake’s high cheekbones and sleek ebony skin; I looked, but couldn’t see a picture of a girlfriend or wife. Then my eyes wandered over to the walls. They were plastered with music posters, some featuring modern bands, others advertising 1970s gigs by the likes of van der Graaf Generator, Lindisfarne, Genesis and David Bowie.

  “Excuse the mess,” Drake apologised, running a hand over his desk, “I know a lot of people don’t like mess, but personally I find that chaos fires my creativity.”

  “You’re a creative person?”

  Drake nodded while shuffling some of the papers into reasonable order, fashioning a vacant space on his desk. “I put a lot of creativity into my shows. It’s not just about spinning the discs, you know.” He sat on his swivel chair, opened a drawer in his desk and removed a can of soft drink. He offered the drink to me but, politely, I declined. While sitting back in his chair and pulling the ring on the can, he asked, “What music are you into? Who do you like to listen to? Maybe I could play you a dedication?”

  I perched on the edge of Drake’s desk, on the space he’d cleared for me. “I like mid-sixties to mid-seventies.”

  Drake nodded while nudging his large, black, horn-rimmed spectacles to the bridge of his nose. “You’re into the classics.”

  I nodded.

  “That’s cool. I dig that decade too. When you think of it, the 1960s and 1970s were the creative high point of popular music, a bit like the Renaissance with painting. I mean, you had Chuck Berry, Clarence ‘Frogman’ Henry, Sam Cooke, Ray Charles...”

  “Don’t forget the Beatles, the Stones, Dylan, the Beach Boys...”

  “Yeah. And the Everly Brothers, Solomon King and Jimi Hendrix. Hey,” he smiled at me, his dark eyes huge behind his horn-rimmed glasses, “you’re cool. I had you down as a bit of a dyke originally, but you’re a fun chick.” He reached out, placed a hand above my knee, and started to caress my thigh.

  “But the fun stops here.” Gently, I removed his hand then stood, leaning my shoulder against the wall, near the door. “I want to ask you some questions about Mansetree House.”

  Drake leaned back in his chair. He swivelled from side-to-side, his eyes staring vacantly at his desk. “What questions?”

  “You went there this afternoon.”

  “Sure,” he shrugged. “I DJ for Lady Fiona, at her private parties.”

  I leaned forward and stared into Drake’s eyes. “I know what goes on at those parties.”

  Drake tensed. He gave me a long, wary, sideways look, then busied himself with the flotsam on his desk.

  With my penetrating stare still in place, I continued, “I don’t want to drag your name into this, if I can help it, so I was hoping that you might help me fill in a few gaps, complete the picture, shift the focus on to the main players, if you know what I mean.”

  “What do you know?” he asked cautiously, looking up from his desk to meet my gaze.

  “Enough,” I smiled enigmatically.

  He ran a thoughtful hand over his shaved head, then cupped his chin, caressing his fine goatee beard. He pointed a finger in my general direction. His fingers were thick, his fingernails square and flat, and neatly manicured. “If you know enough then why don’t you go to the police?”

  “Because I don’t want innocent people to get hurt. And I’d like to believe that you’re innocent.”

  “I am,” he insisted, regaining his confidence and self-belief. “I go to Mansetree House to DJ at the parties. My involvement begins and ends there.”

  “But what about the others?” I asked.

  He shrugged, then sipped his drink while leaning back in his chair. “Ask them.”

  “I will. But I need to make sure that I’m talking to the right people, I need some names.”

  Drake shook his head. He gulped his drink.

  “Why not?” I persisted.

  “Because my life wouldn’t be worth a broken forty-five.” He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk, entwining his fingers. He looked up at me, over the bridge made by his fingers. “Do you know who you’re dealing with, the connections these people have?”

  “Organised crime?” I guessed.

  He smiled and shook his head. “This goes well beyond organised crime. This is about people in power, in authority. If they get a sniff of what you’re doing, they’ll burn you.”

  “Like they burned T.P. McGill?”

  “Don’t you hear what I’m saying?” Drake became annoyed. He swept his hand over his desk, pushing some of the papers on to the floor. “You pursue this, they’ll kill you. What is this to you?”

  “My job,” I replied succinctly.

  “And it’s worth getting killed for?”

  I shrugged. “It’s all I have.”

  “That’s sad.” He gave me a pitiful look, a pitiful look combined with a sneer. “The only thing you’ve got to live for is a job that will kill you. That’s sad.”

  When expressed in such stark, harsh terms I suppose my life could appear cold and empty. Yet when the agency was going well I felt fulfilled, satisfied. Though there were moments when I longed to be loved, to share stories with a companion, to share the pleasures of sex, to share the minutiae of everyday life. Suddenly, I felt depressed, as though a dark, thundery raincloud were hovering over my head.

  “Love Hurts.”

  “What?” Drake frowned.

  “You said you’d play a track for me. Play ‘Love Hurts’.”

  “Sure,” he shrugged while making a note in his personal organiser. “Which version?”

  “You choose.” I put my hand on the door handle and left his office.

  A moment later, Drake caught up with me in the corridor. As we walked to my car, he urged, “Drop it, babe, for all our sakes.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” He stood in front of me, blocking my exit from the radio station, his face imploring, his eyes pleading.

  “Because I need to prove something to myself, something to him.”

  “Who?”

  “My father. I need to prove to him that he was wrong and that I am worthy and that I am not a waste of space.” I brushed past Drake and walked out into the early eve
ning rain. The rain soaked my hair, but I was in a bad mood and I didn’t care. Over my shoulder, I yelled, “Play ‘Love Hurts’. And play the whole track; don’t fade it at the end.”