Swan Song

by Tom Butler

  Even as James revised, Wes had been busy getting somebody he knew to tweak recordings, and he had sent off numerous demo tapes. On the day of James’s last exam, Wes got a phone call from a record executive at River Road Recordings in Nottingham requesting a meeting. He and his team had particularly liked “Let’s Get Close” and “Living It Up” and were keen to put faces to the names and check out any back catalogue of work.

  ‘You’re not serious,’ James reacted, when told. ‘You are kidding me.’

  Wes exploited the situation and began metaphorically beating his chest.

  ‘I knew we had something. I kept telling Liz until she got quite annoyed about it.’

  James reminded himself of her contribution to “Living It Up” and wondered if she’d be accompanying them to Nottingham next week. That would seem all too bizarre if she did.

  ‘That’s incredible. So cool. Who are these people? What did they say? What do we wear?’

  So many questions. Suddenly, James was on one the clouds that sometimes inhabited his world.

  ‘I could go in the new jeans Sylvia got me for my birthday or wear my shredded ones. What do you think?’

  ‘Don’t you own a three-piece suit and tie?’ Wes asked, deliberately winding him up. ‘Jeans will be fine. If it was me, I’d choose the new ones.’

  James wasn’t really listening. He was up in the imaginary clouds, flying away. This was a million times better than having to sit through those awful, mind-numbing exams.

  ‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ he said to no one in particular.

  ‘It’s a start,’ Wes shrugged, trying to bring him back to earth. ‘A move in the right direction.’

  James immediately thought about Noah. They were getting on better than ever before, but might such positive news for one of them break the spell they seemed to be under. It might be wise to tone down the euphoria, he concluded.

  But it was hard not to show it, especially now as the wretched O levels were dispensed with, at least until August when the results were announced.

  Long before then, he hoped there would be something to celebrate. Thousands of demo tapes were listened to and mostly rejected. Wes had first-hand experience of it. But a meeting with a record executive was like an interview with god. A favourable impression had been made. Time was money and nobody would be wanting to waste either.

  ‘I must tell Mary. And Sylvia, and…just everybody,’ James babbled.

  ‘Of course, you must,’ Wes conceded.

  Likewise, he couldn’t hold back from wanting to tell Liz the news. It might mean new chapters in their lives. A new beginning.

  It certainly merited a drink down the pub for the grown-ups later that evening whilst James, Mary, Luke and Clare demolished a pizza of their liking each, ordered as a treat by Phillip and delivered by motorbike. It was a party atmosphere, the four of them forming a makeshift band and playing anything that resembled an instrument. The incidental mess they all created with empty pizza boxes, pretend drums and the like wasn’t quite what Sylvia desired on her return, but she fought away the instinct to complain and simply smiled instead, rather expecting Phillip to interpret the signs and clear up after them, thus sparing his wife from any extra, early morning chores.

  With exams for him over, James at last relaxed. The following weekend he spent a lot of time at the Crowley’s, manfully perfecting and rehearsing their songs so as to leave nothing to chance. By Wednesday, the nerves were back, and Liz did take the day off work to accompany James and her husband to Nottingham.

  ‘Come in. Sit down. Let me arrange you a drink; only tea or coffee, I’m afraid,’ said the young, enthusiastic record executive who went under the uninspiring name of Kevin. ‘We should also be able to rustle up some biscuits,’ he added, deliberately looking at James.

  ‘Thank you,’ Wes said, speaking up for all of them.

  The room they had been taken to was pretty cramped and the lighting was drab, but there was nothing to suppose the studio was anything but efficient. Wes had already noted the modern music making equipment and photos of a few famous faces who had recorded there. In his own experiences, these places weren’t built with comfort in mind; time slots were tight, and amateurish patrons were none too welcome. He had preached this to James on the way, suggesting he “own up now” if he had any doubts or felt that nerves might hinder his performance.

  A pretty girl with bright red hair and pink lipstick brought them beverages and smiled widely at James. She even sat down and took an active part in the interview. The executive introduced her.

  ‘This is Eva, my assistant. I’d be nothing without her. She has a hunch about you, so I thought we’d better get you in.’

  It sounded intriguing.

  ‘A hunch?’ Wes asked.

  ‘Well, call it intuition. Eva has a really good ear.’

  Wes sensed there might be friction between Kevin and the girl and that maybe it was she who had championed James based on what she had heard with her ‘good ear’.

  She kept the smiles coming, but it was her boss who did all the talking.

  ‘So, James, you’re sixteen, and you want to be more famous than your brother?’ he asked, clearly having done his homework.

  James nodded and Wes spoke for him.

  ‘It’s not a competition, they both have music in their veins. They’re both talented kids, and James deserves a break.’

  ‘Quite,’ Kevin said, not giving it too much thought. ‘We always do what we can to bring out talent. That’s what pays the wages at the end of the day.’

  Eva grimaced a little when he mentioned wages, and Wes imagined that too might be an issue between them, though only to be discussed behind closed doors.

  ‘James will earn you plenty if you let him,’ Liz piped up, holding a teacup in both hands.

  Kevin and Eva simultaneously smiled at her, and Kevin continued to address James.

  ‘What we always do is give you a rigorous sound check first. It helps us get to know you and enables us to get everything spot on. Are you okay with that, James?’

  Another nod was forthcoming. It didn’t merit anything more. Although ready to combat any nerves, he couldn’t help but feel apprehensive. It wasn’t every day you were escorted into a sound studio with a chance you would be cutting a disc that very day.

  To get sound levels, James sang a section of “Living it up” and soon raked in a collective thumbs-up from the recording staff. Wes, sitting at a piano to accompany him, had never heard him sing or sound better. His voice was changing for the better. It had a new depth to it. A quality that was hard to define.

  The biggest smile of all belonged to Eva who sat alongside Kevin, grinning from ear to ear. She was obviously good at hunches even though her boss wasn’t swinging from the roof in adulation yet. Another person smiling was Liz who had a vested interest in the song. Whether it was a bit too Eurovision or not there was no mistaking it had such a catchy chorus. It was uplifting and infectious.

  “Let’s get close” sounded every bit as good and took only three takes to perfect. Kevin said he was torn between the two songs but leant towards the latter as it was a strong powerful ballad with a haunting melody. Eva dithered but eventually concurred with him which seemed some kind of a breakthrough.

  While James then played around with some other songs and kept the ever-smiling Eva entertained, Wes and Kevin talked about the logistics involved in producing and marketing the record and matters relating to money. Liz hovered between the two and marvelled at how well a sixteen-year-old had conducted himself in a pressure environment and how proud Mary should feel, not to mention the Proudlock clan. She also gave Noah some thought and wondered if envy might erase the good vibes between the brothers, only too aware that Noah was perhaps becoming too complacent with the discovery of fame and not at all handling the seriousness attached to the role of being a parent sometime soon.

  Outside the studio, and with a tear in her eye, she hugged James and her husband at t
he same time, all three invigorated by the occasion.

  ‘I think that went remarkably well,’ Wes bristled. ‘Here’s to a long and prosperous association.’

  ‘Hard to imagine we’re in the presence of a recording artist,’ Liz purred, giving James a second, separate hug.

  ‘Wake me up, I’m dreaming,’ James said as he stepped onto another cloud.

  News circulated quickly, and James worried himself silly that his back would break with all the slapping it got during the next, hectic week. Melissa Murray had sent him a bespoke leather guitar strap she had been presented with at some music award ceremony, hoping it would help make him his first million. A phone call to America had been gleefully received by Aunt Jaclyn, so proud that James was following in Noah’s footsteps. A deputation from his school, led by his music teacher wished him much fame and fortune, keen that he remember his time there and name drop to boost their ranking in the educational league table.

  There were cards and sentiments from friends and neighbours, a radio interview on BBC Leicester, Facebook tributes and offers from endorsement seeking local stores and businesses. River Road Recording confirmed a release date for “Let’s Get Close” and said pre-release hype was suggesting an immediate chart entry. This gave James the shakes to go with all the bruises, and he could perhaps, now, see why Noah hadn’t rushed himself back into the limelight and was happy ‘chilling out’.

  Unbeknown to Noah, there were storms of indecision gathering in the Murray household as the previously supportive Melissa was now realising that one of the musically gifted Swan brothers was losing the plot. And she didn’t mean James, of course.

  Assisted by pompous Twitters and Facebook messages that told the doubters where to go in four letter tirades, Noah had completely alienated Jed who was of a mind that his head had suffered damage in the knife attack and not his abdomen. Calls from Melissa to Noah to help straighten him out had gone unanswered and Joe, normally an ally, had fared no better. A meeting had been hastily arranged for last week, but Noah hadn’t shown and a re-scheduling for tomorrow was deemed make or break for Noah.

  Sylvia’s radar had picked up on the imminent crisis, and she had travelled with Phillip to confront him at a house in Measham where he had been staying with friends of Sinead. There was nothing going on behind his back he told them and nothing to concern them. Everything was cool. He would deal with it. They left, feeling like Noah was hiding from something and sure that he needed help. But not the sort they could give. His life was fragmenting. He was heading in too many different directions. There was, indeed a crisis.

  But one he hadn’t made himself aware of.

  ******

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The following day, a meeting did take place but without Noah. He preferred instead to post a contentious message to Jed and Melissa Murray on twitter telling them to stop playing games which naturally went down like a lead balloon. He didn’t exactly explain what he meant by playing games though Jed hazarded a guess it referred to the rumours about him being ditched by the band, which had now become a reality.

  A brazen Noah had told Sylvia and Phillip yesterday that they had nothing to worry about. That everything was under control, and he would deal with it. Although still deeply concerned, they had been gullible enough to believe he would sort things out with regards to Hooded Eye and thus end any spurious speculation. But he had done nothing of the sort and, in effect, had forced Jed Murray’s hand. Noah was out and the highly motivated Greg Summers, shelving his solo career, was in. There would be no going back once the decision had been made.

  Noah’s next twitter to Jed was in the form of a threat. To kill him. It was only words, of course, but disturbing all the same. Certainly distressing enough for brother James when he heard about it, reminding him all too easily of the hatred he had once seen in Noah’s eyes prior to the bottle throwing incident and the headaches endured thereafter. After their reconciliation and his own securing of a recording contract, this was not what James wanted. Once again, something inside Noah’s head had failed him. It was akin to a madness. Something he might need professional help with, to overcome the demons.

  ‘What will he do? Is there anything we can do or say to make him see sense?’

  Sylvia asked, a paper tissue at the ready as she knew she was about to cry.

  James, Mary and Phillip were all staring blankly back at her. Mary had already cried, and her eyes were still wet with tears.

  ‘Why would he be so stupid,’ she pondered, questioning Noah’s motives. ‘It’s all he ever wanted to do, and now he’s thrown it away.’

  ‘Search me,’ James replied. ‘I gave up understanding him a long time ago. He never does anything straightforward.’

  Nobody offered up any theories or excuses. But Phillip served up some sympathy.

  ‘It has to be said that a lot’s gone on in his life of late. The funeral, getting stabbed, then there’s Sinead and the baby…’ he philosophised.

  Sylvia had had similar thoughts. It was one of the reasons they had gone to see Noah in Measham. But he had soft-soaped them and even laughed at the notion that his place in the band was at risk.

  ‘Maybe it’s all become too much for him. It might explain why he failed to pick up on all the plotting going on behind his back,’ she lamented.

  ‘It can’t have been an easy decision to make,’ her husband retorted, sitting squarely on the fence again. ‘The band has huge commitments to fulfil. Noah should have talked to Jed instead of hiding himself away. He’s brought this upon himself. I do feel for him in a way, but something had to be done for the good of the band.’

  ‘I think the whole thing stinks,’ James reacted, clamming up again no sooner had he said it, Mary staring at him in total dismay.

  The family had the uncanny ability to rally around itself whenever a crisis arose. But this was perhaps something beyond its reinforced framework. Sylvia wasn’t a quitter, and she was all too aware Noah had alienated himself before. There was only so much she and the others could do to help him. If indeed he wanted them to, which seemed questionable.

  He had eventually forced Jed’s hand with his inaction, leaving him with little option but to make the change. Had the band been more mainstream and not on the edge of a major breakthrough it might have needed more time and careful consideration before coming to a decision. In Jed’s own words, Noah Swan had been through the sort of terrible ordeal that could unhinge the sanest of people and leave everlasting mental and physical scars. With the combined strength of the rest of the band behind him, and Melissa especially, he had tried hard to make Noah’s transition back to normality as bearable as possible. Alas, to no great effect. And no way had he expected to be taking such a crucial decision and ducking the bullets that were bound to be heading in his direction from those who opposed it.

  The official announcement merited only a line or two in the press, and periodicals with one local radio station lengthening its coverage to a small feature about, the now official new band member Greg Summers. In a brief interview, he was asked if filling Noah’s shoes would be at all hard. With typical bluster, he said it was a challenge, but he was the man for the job. He sounded sickly sweet when he said it and, though Melissa had warmed to him, she could still be found cringing long after she heard it on the air as it was being broadcasted.

  The man for the job certainly impressed. He had fitted the band like a comfortable shoe, his smooth vocals exceeding expectations and giving Hooded Eye a new dynamic. Not remotely like Noah, he could be loud, brash and flamboyant, but he was also keen to point out that in no way did he want to undermine Melissa’s role as the figurehead. Their voices, blending like coffee and cream gave the band more definition, and if they were now less raw and unrefined, nobody seemed to mind. It did worry Joe a little that they had perhaps lost some of their edge, but he couldn’t deny that they had become wholesome and unashamedly polished. At the request of the record company, they had squeezed in some extra gigs, mos
tly at small venues spanning the East Midlands and out as far as Cambridge, hoping to disprove that they were just a college-campus band and showcasing the new versatility that Jed had championed when persuading Greg to become a permanent fixture. It was beginning to look like the difficult decision had been the right one for all concerned. And there now seemed no major repercussions.

  Whilst it did seem as though life was standing still for Noah as he watched the baby inside Sinead grow, James had been overly active with school term drawing to a close, spending much of his free time improving his guitar skills and creating more and more songs. The release date for “Let’s Get Close” had been put back a month or too and was now scheduled for early September, to be preceded by an intense promotional tirade aimed at drumming up advance sales. With a growing catalogue of songs to choose from, preparations for an album were also in the ascendancy with early, less frenzied promotional work by the recording company already gathering momentum. This meant meetings and much deliberation, always, of course with Wes in tow.

  For Sylvia, there was both joy and sadness in equal measures for her two foster sons. She was somewhat mad with Melissa Murray and her father, and neither would be a welcome guest in her home after what she called ‘shabby treatment’. Why Jed had not given Noah more time, she would never understand. Whilst aware he was a businessman and Hooded Eye was on the cusp of becoming a major commodity, he could have shown more compassion. A knife had killed his mother and another had almost taken his life too. It was cruel, but as Phillip had often pointed out, there was no sentiment in business. It would not, however, make her feel any less bitter towards the Murrays. If it came to a contest, she would only ever be on Noah’s side. She couldn’t be expected to lean any other way.

  On the day of James’s O Level results, which happened to coincide with one of the hottest days of the year, Sylvia was admonishing him for the clothes he had chosen to go down to school in to collect his brown envelope.

  ‘You can’t look like nobody owns you,’ she groaned, wanting him to show some pride. It was rare for him not to make an effort to look at least half-decent. On this occasion, he saw no point.