Power Ride

by J. L. O'Rourke

  “Sad, but true,” Jo agreed.

  “I mean it!” Danny was still in full flight. “The bastard's fired!”

  “No he isn't.” Avi was adamant.

  “Yes he bloody well is.”

  “The decision isn't yours to make,” Avi stated categorically.

  “Avi's right.” Mike stepped forwards. “You may be the frontman, Danny, but you don't make the decisions. Musically, sure, you pretty much get it your own way but only because you're the one doing the vocals, but business decisions - no way, mate - you get your opinion listened to, you may even get a vote, but if you think you get any say in who goes and who stays, read that precious contract of yours again, mate.”

  Mike had now moved from beside Danny's chair to stand in front of it, shoulder to shoulder with Avi who continued the explanation.

  “In your contract’s small print you will find that ‘Charlotte Jane’ is a legal entity consisting of myself, Mike here, Pete Branston, now resident in Australia but still receiving his cut, and,” he paused for dramatic effect, “Kester Simmons.” Avi bestowed on Danny a beatific smile. “You can't fire Kit, Danny, he's your boss.”

  Jo nudged Kelly and unsuccessfully stifled a giggle. Jo always loved a show-down and she was thoroughly enjoying this one.

  “Isn't Avi wonderful when he's being masterful,” she whispered sarcastically. “He's normally so busy being deferential and polite I thought he was a mousy little wimp.”

  “That is not a nice way to consider your relatives,” Kelly admonished.

  “Maybe not but, come on now, it's fairly accurate.”

  Kelly answered with a non-committal shrug.

  Danny eyed Avi, Mike and Kit in icy silence. Kit, surprisingly, made the first move to break the deadlock.

  “I'm sorry, Danny.” He looked genuinely contrite and even Jo and Kelly, from the other side of the room, could see he was shaking. “Look... um...,” he wrung his hands in distraction. “I know you must all be pretty pissed off with me at the moment... um... I know I'm messing things up real bad. I'm really sorry.” Kit's breath was erratic and it was obvious he was fighting to hold back his distress. “Look... um... I promise I won't make any more trouble. Honestly, Danny, I'll stay out of your way, I promise. I don't want to ruin the tour.”

  “No, you're damn right you won't ruin the tour. I won't let you,” Danny said after a long moment's contemplation. “All right, since it looks like I have no choice, let's agree on one thing. I don't want to see you, I don't want to hear you. You just keep your nose clean, shut up and play the drums. And, by God, you'd better do that well or, boss or no boss, you won't see the end of the tour.”

  Kit didn't argue. His whole body was reacting to the shock of what he had done. Nauseous and shaking uncontrollably, he took refuge where he knew he was on safe ground - behind his drums; the visually impressive array of black-lacquered maple and shining metal creating an effective fortress wall between him and the rest of the world.

  “Come on!” Danny ordered. He dabbed at the wound on his head for a final time then thrust the coffee and blood soaked handkerchief back into Mike's unresponsive hand. “Let's get back to work!”

  Sarah, clutching her baby tightly, grabbed for both her bag and her husband.

  “I think I'll leave,” she whispered in Mike's ear. “Good luck. Avi,” she pulled her friend aside. “Can you manage Kit?”

  “Yeah,” Avi nodded.

  “Call me if you need me. Any time.”

  “Yeah. Thanks. Sorry you got caught in the middle of that.”

  “Don't worry.” She patted him reassuringly on the arm. “I see worse at the office. Bye.” Sarah slipped away.

  Avi, like the others, took up his stage position although the atmosphere was unnaturally quiet. Danny gave the order for the song and the count down, Kit and Kelly opened with a rhythm section introduction and the day's rehearsal restarted. For an hour the rehearsal ran remarkably smoothly, considering the studied calm under which everyone was performing. However, just when the icy atmosphere began to thaw, Mike's amplifier screeched into feedback and exploded in a puff of black smoke.

  “Hell!” Mike jumped involuntarily then hurriedly began unplugging his guitar and flicking off power switches.

  Danny, muttering oaths under his breath, propped his own guitar on its stand and hurried over. He whipped a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and in a few minutes had the amplifier apart and the damaged part identified.

  “You're lucky. It's not a serious problem,” he said to a relieved Mike. “Here, take a look.”

  Mike took his turn peering into the amplifier's insides then pronounced his judgment.

  “You're right. Can we fix it now?”

  “Now? No. I don't have the part. But, what the hell, it's been a bitch of a day anyway. Let's call it quits. I'll go into town and get what I need and come back later and fix the thing. She'll be right by tomorrow.”

  Mike had to concede that Danny knew what he was doing. He had paid his dues as a roadie and could be relied on to fix any piece of equipment that broke down. Even if he was a creep!

  “Okay!” Mike straightened up to face the others. “That's it. She's history for the day. Wind it up!”

  His announcement was greeted with sighs of gratitude.

  “Yeah, forget it, you guys,” Danny agreed. “We can't do any more till I've fixed this heap of shit.” He kicked the amplifier.

  “Hey!” Mike expostulated. “That heap of shit happens to be mine!”

  “You want to fix it then?” Danny retorted petulantly.

  “Doesn't bother me.” Mike called his bluff.

  “Huh!”

  Mike's calling of the bluff was correct. Danny wasn't about to give up even the smallest chance to look important. The little man took another hurried look inside the workings of the amplifier then made ready to leave. However, unable to resist having the final say, he turned in the doorway.

  “Today was okay but I want some real action out of you lot again tomorrow. Time is running out. Reynolds, I'm still not happy with that riff in ‘Pieces’. I don't care what your arguments are, I want it back the way Gary played it. Pronto!”

  Kelly shrugged in resignation but said nothing.

  “Livingstone!” Danny continued. “A word of warning. In advance. Tomorrow might be Friday but I don't give a damn about your religious sensibilities right now. We're rehearsing late tomorrow, and I mean well into the evening, and we'll be rehearsing all day Saturday, whether you like it or not! That goes for you, too, Greenwood.”

  “Hey, don't lump me with him!” Jo protested. “I don't give a stuff. Just 'cos he's super-conservative, doesn't mean we all are. I gave it up for pizzas.”

  “Good.” Danny's tone dripped with sarcasm. “Then we can expect your full attention on the music, can't we? Simmons.” He swept Kit, who was still cowering behind his drums, with a look of disgust. “No, to hell with you! I don't want to talk to you, you're scum!”

  Having delivered what he considered to be a suitably impressive exit line, Danny exited. Only then was Kit game enough to come out of his self-imposed exile. He checked his watch.

  “Hey, do you guys want to come into the house for a coffee, or something, before you go?”

  There was a general murmuring and shrugging of shoulders before Jo answered.

  “Yeah, why not? I want another look at those ridiculous photos. Lead the way.”

  Again there was generalised movement as each musician unplugged and packed away their instruments. Mike looked at Danny's Gibson, still resting on its stand.

  “Should I pack it up, or kick it to death?” He laughed maliciously.

  “Turn off the amp and leave it where it is,” Avi advised, although his tone was cold. “It's his bloody problem.”

  “Yeah,” Kit agreed. “Whatever we do with it will be wrong, so leave the stuffing thing where it is.”

  “Oh!” Mike sounded as if he had hoped they would back his request to damage the instrument,
although his grin belied his tone. “Yeah, I guess we can't blame the guitar for the faults of its owner.”

  “Which are many,” concluded Avi.

  “Only one, I would have thought,” interposed Kit.

  “Only one?” Avi queried.

  “Yeah. He breathes.”

  Instruments safely packed away, the five band members left the workshop, pausing in the garden while Kit turned the giant key which locked the heavy tongue-in-groove door, and filed into the cottage where they strewed themselves over various pieces of furniture. Kit remained in the kitchen, making coffee. His inputs into the conversation seemed chirpy enough although nobody failed to notice, as he delivered the coffee, that his hands still trembled. Kit returned to the kitchen, fetched coffee for himself and Avi, placed the fine china cups carefully onto coasters then made himself comfortable on the floor at Avi's feet. Kelly, who had not been inside the house until earlier that morning, looked around admiringly.

  “You have a fine collection of antiques, Kester. I would not have considered that as a side of your character.”

  Kit laughed but offered no explanation.

  “Yeah, there's something I've been meaning to ask you,” said Jo. “I thought about it the other day. You've got all this antique stuff in here that you're really fussy about. You know, polish, coasters, the full nine yards. And yet, out in the workshop there's that other table, which is also obviously just as valuable, and you stick those bloody great boots of yours up on it. What gives?”

  Kit laughed again.

  “You're all wrong. It's not antique, none of it.” He paused, thinking. “Well, yeah, I suppose Granddad's stuff is antique by now, I don't know. That table in the workshop's a piece of junk, Jo. It's a practise piece. I made it when I was ten years old. If it falls apart I'll just make another one. It doesn't mean a thing. This stuff, though,” he indicated vaguely around the room, “it's different. Most of this was made by Granddad. Oh, I did make that nest of tables and a couple of the chairs there,” he pointed to the dining suite. “That was a combined effort.”

  Jo stared at Kit unbelievingly.

  “You made these? All by yourself? You're joking?”

  “Nah! I mean... um... no, I'm not joking, yes I made them. Um... well... I made some of them, the things Granddad didn't. Um,” Kit floundered. “I'm a cabinet maker. Like... um... I'm qualified. Granddad was a cabinet maker, so when they figured I was too scrambled to stay at school, Granddad took me on as an apprentice.” He stopped short, his face flushing red.

  “I'm impressed,” said Jo. “You never told me that,” she levelled at Avi.

  “You never asked.”

  “So, what other hidden talents do you have?” Jo asked Kit.

  “None.”

  “Over there,” cut in Avi. “In the cabinet.” He directed their attention to a glass-fronted cabinet almost hidden in the front corner of the room. Jo walked over to investigate.

  “Wow!” she exclaimed. “Did you make all of these as well?”

  “Yeah.”

  Kelly joined Jo to admire the fine collection of delicately made military models - figures, tanks and armoured cars - which lined the cabinet's shelves.

  “See the one in the middle of the third shelf,” Avi called over his shoulder. “He won the national competition with that last year.”

  “I'm impressed,” repeated Jo as she and Kelly returned to their chairs. “Kit, you amaze me.”

  “Well, I'm glad I impress someone,” Kit replied. He sighed deeply. “Oh hell! What's going to happen about this bloody tour?”

  Mike sipped his coffee.

  “Good question.”

  “I think we grin and bear it,” said Kelly. “I don't think we have much of a choice.”

  “He's got to go.” Mike sounded tired but determined.

  “Who? Me?” Kit's head shot up.

  “No. Danny. I've had enough. There's got to be a way to get rid of him.”

  “Before the tour?” Jo wasn't impressed.

  Mike spread his hands wide in appeal.

  “That would be nice, but probably not. Avi, how tight is that contract of his? How can we get out of it?”

  “We can't,” Avi shook his head. “It's locked up. Watertight. Until after the release of the next single. So we have two choices. We survive the tour as best we can then release that single as fast as is humanly possible, or we pray for an act of divine intervention.”

  “I'll settle for a lawyer's opinion on his contract,” Mike replied.

  “I've had one.” Avi caught their attention. “Oh yeah,” he continued, acknowledging their expressions of surprise, “you lot are way behind. I had a guts full of Danny Gordon months ago. I showed the contract to a colleague of mine who lectures at the university law faculty. I'm sorry, guys, that contract was written up by an expert. We can sack Danny if he's musically incompetent, which he isn't, but we can't sack him just for being an obnoxious prick.”

  “Damn!" said Mike.

  “Get rid of him or I'll kill the bastard.”

  Kit's statement was delivered very softly but with undeniable finality. He stared up at them from his position on the floor, his blue eyes flashing, his mouth set in a half-smile. Jo noticed his hands were rock steady.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Hey, take it easy, Kit.”

  Avi slid forwards in his chair and placed his hands reassuringly on Kit's shoulders. Kit turned his face up, meeting Avi's look of concern with a return stare that was wild but somehow disconnected. Avi strengthened his grip on Kit's bony frame and gradually the wildness retreated, to be replaced again by distressed shaking.

  “You didn't mean that, did you?” Avi asked softly.

  Kit shook his head.

  “I don't know. I think Dr Phillips is right. I won't make the tour. I'm sorry. I can't cope with this any more.”

  He subsided to rest his head on Avi's knee. Avi stroked Kit's hair to calm him, his eyes beseeching support from the others who remained still, not knowing the right moves and not wishing to make the wrong ones. Avi gently extricated himself from under Kit's head, which slumped even lower to rest on the seat of the chair, and stood up.

  “Hang in there a minute,” he reassured Kit before striding to the kitchen where he pulled open a cupboard door and snatched up a pill bottle.

  Avi muttered an oath when he realised the bottle was empty, then reached for a second, similar bottle. It contained one capsule. Avi muttered another oath, glaring at the bottles as if it was their fault they were empty. He strode back into the lounge, held the offending bottles aloft and demanded of Kit.

  “Is this it, then? Is this all you've got left?”

  Kit looked up vaguely.

  “Yeah.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nah.” Kit's head fell back onto the chair.

  “Shit!”

  Avi marched over to the oak sideboard and snatched up the telephone. He skimmed quickly through the personalised numbers in the phone's memory and hit the dial button.

  “Gabriel Simmons, please,” he snapped crisply to the receptionist who answered.

  “I'm sorry,” the female voice replied. “Dr Simmons is not on duty at the moment. Can anyone else help?”

  Avi didn't bother to answer, merely slammed down the phone and repeated the procedure with a different number. This time a male voice answered.

  “Gabriel?” Avi demanded.

  “Yes. Who is this?” The voice at the other end was brisk and businesslike.

  “Avi Livingstone,” Avi supplied.

  “Oh.” The reply denoted recognition, if not approval.

  “It's about Kit's drugs,” Avi explained.

  “What about them?”

  “How come he hasn't got any? Look, Kit's having a really bad time. He's stressed out about as far as he can go and now I find he's got one scungy lithium tablet left and no emergency sedatives! How come?”

  “Calm down, Avi.” Gabriel Simmons sounded bored. “You sound as
if you need the sedatives more than Kester.”

  “Don't duck-shove the issue.” Avi was angry. “You're his bloody doctor, why hasn't Kit got enough medication?”

  Gabriel remained controlled. “I am not prepared to discuss this over the telephone.”

  “Then are you prepared to phone the chemist with a prescription? You phone it in, I'll pick it up.”

  “No, I am not prepared to do that at all. I'm sorry, Avi, but there are issues here which you are obviously not aware of, but which, I repeat, I am not prepared to discuss over the phone. However, I will compromise. I will be heading into work shortly. I was aware that Kester would be out of lithium tablets by tomorrow and I had intended bringing him some when I come off duty tomorrow morning. But, if it is bothering you that much, I will stop off on my way into work. In the meantime, I would suggest you stop being so emotional, Avi. You will not be helping the situation. Goodbye.”

  Avi slammed the phone down, frustrated. He wandered disconsolately back to his chair, moved Kit so he could sit down, then manhandled Kit into a position where he could massage the drummer's shoulders in the hope that the contact would act as some sort of palliative.

  “I hate to make this day any worse,” ventured Mike, “but there's still the police. Are we still going to report these funny phone calls?”

  “We have to.” Avi stole a quick look down at Kit. “Sorry, mate, there isn't really a choice.”

  “I'll do it,” Mike volunteered.

  “Thanks.”

  Mike's venture on the telephone was more successful than Avi's had been. After being passed through several switchboards, he was finally connected to a youthful-sounding constable who was even more helpful when he realised he was dealing with a member of ‘Charlotte Jane’. He said his name was Constable Merata, apologised profusely for the police staffing shortages which left him unable to call round, and politely requested Mike and the others to come into the Central Police Station where he would be only too happy to deal with their complaint personally.

  “No problem,” Mike reported to the others. “We do have to front up to HQ, though,” he said in a fake upper class British accent, adding a mock salute for effect. “It appears they are too short-staffed to send any cars out unless we are being robbed and murdered at this precise moment.”