by Terry Tyler
"Dave," she said, and reached out to hold his hand for a moment. "I think you've forgotten something."
"What?"
"I'm with Max."
He smiled. "Yeah, but you're not with Max like we were together, are you? You don't live together, you haven't got a son together. You're not in love with him, I know you're not. I know you, too, Janice. I mean, Max is a great bloke, I bet he really looks after you and makes you feel dead safe and all that, but you're not in love with him, not like you're in love with me."
"Was in love with you, Dave," she said. "You're wrong. Dave, I'm sorry, you're wrong. I am in love with Max. And no, not because he looks after me and makes me feel dead safe - though yes, he does those things, too - but because I just am. In love with him."
"But not like you were in love with me," Dave said; there was an air of desperation about him, she thought, though it made her feel sad, not triumphant; she'd never imagined this day would actually come.
"No, not like I was in love with you," she said. "Love is different at different times in your life, I suppose. But I'm really, truly in love with him. We're - we're going to get married."
Dave looked as though someone had punched him; he slumped back onto the sofa. "Married?"
"Yes. You know, that thing people do when they want to spend the rest of their lives together." Janice couldn't help it; that bit did make her feel just a little bit smug. How hard it was not to add the words 'so there!' Dave had never talked about getting married, not once.
"Kids?" Dave said, as if he was so shocked he could only speak in monosyllables. Quite effective, really.
"Probably, in the future. Not too far into it, if you must know. Give it a year or so."
"What if I said I'd marry you? As soon as you like?"
"It's too late, Dave."
He stared at her. "Max - he's not adopting Harley."
"Of course he's not. Don't be ridiculous. You're Harley's father, he'd never try to take that away from you."
"Big of him."
"Oh, come on, don't be like that," said Janice. "Max is brilliant with Harley, but he'd never try to take your place."
Dave sighed. "Yeah, I know." He drank down the rest of his lager, and put the glass on the table. "Tell me something."
"What?"
"If you weren't with Max, would you have had me back?"
She closed her eyes. "It's impossible to say. You're talking about a hypothetical situation. I don't know what I'd do in one of those, because I'm not in it." And I don't want to know, she thought. She had a feeling that, given time, she might have allowed him back, yes. And then, one day, she would have got hurt, all over again. Probably next time Alison Swan rode back into town. Thank God for Max. He'd saved her life.
Dave stood up. "Think I'll walk home," he said. He looked around the room. "I always thought this would be my home again, one day."
"Well, it won't be ours, not for much longer. We're going to move out to Marsham to live at Max's, probably during Harley's summer holidays."
"Yes. Of course. Of course you are. It'll be funny, though, won't it, thinking of some other people living here."
"Mm."
"I'll get off then," Dave said, picking up his leather jacket.
When she showed him out, he looked back at her. "You seem different, now, Jan. When I think about you, when I first met you. You seem completely different."
She smiled. "I've grown up."
"Yeah." He shrugged, and smiled. "Bollocks to that, eh?"
They both laughed, and then he reached for her and they hugged. She watched him as he walked down the road. As he got to the end of the close, he turned to wave. Just then, Max's car rounded the corner; Dave waved to him, too. And then he was gone.
***
The final of Raw Talent was to take place at the end of May, and would be a fight to the death for a singer songwriter called Danny Coldham, a three girl vocal harmony group called Athena - and Melodie Joy.
Already, the show's publicists were worried. Danny Coldham was predicted to win, but it was Melodie who was getting the column inches in the entertainment and gossip columns of the tabloid press (mostly due to her antics in nightclubs with a couple of lesser known footballers), however much they tried to push the other contestants.
"This was supposed to be a show with a bit of sophistication, to bring forth a worthy artiste with some musical expertise," complained Rachel Mackie, the show's researcher, when she brought forth the results from the opinion poll she'd run the day before. "What if she wins? Come on, can't we fix it so that Danny does?"
"Another comment like that and you're down the road," said Ed Campion. "If the public wants Melodie Joy, then that's what the public shall have."
"She's going to be a star," said Glenn Hunter, A&R man. "We're signing her, whatever happens."
"I don't want her at Serendipity," said Shelley Mayes, the festival organiser. "Danny or Athena, but not that silly little scrubber."
"Oh, she won't win," said Glenn. "The voting public are mostly youngish and female, and they're going to vote for Danny, because he's hot, or for Athena, because they want to be like them, but they won't vote for Melodie. She's only collected half the votes they have, hasn't she, Ed? She only got into the final by the skin of her teeth. But she's the one who's going to make it. She's the star of the show. I reckon she's got at least one fifteen minutes' worth going for her. You listen to one who knows!"
***
In July, back in Fennington St Mary, a heavily pregnant girl called Kerry accepted a cup of tea from her mother, and eased herself into a comfortable position on the settee.
"It's good to see you, Mum," she said, "we've certainly got a bit to catch up on, ain't we?"
"I'll say!" said her mother. "So, Jeremy Kyle it is, then?"
"That's right," said Kerry. "First week in August, they've put it forward. They rang me the other day. I said to them, I said, you'd better get us on soon, 'cause they reckon I might be early and I don't want to run the risk of going into labour on national television, do I?"
"Yeah, I have to say, you look enormous for six and a half months. Mind you, I was massive when I was carrying you." Her mother laughed, and sipped her tea. "I bet that Shane Cowley got the fright of his life when your Uncle Patrick turned up at his front door."
"Yeah, well, it wasn't hard, was it? I mean, how many Bon Jovi tribute bands are there likely to be in Spalding?" She spat the word out, and laughed. "Me Uncle Pat warned him, didn't he? Right back when I first found out I'd fallen, I made sure of that, 'cause I had a feeling he was going to try and duck out of it. But Uncle Patrick, he went round his flat and he said to him, he said, don't you think you can dodge your responsibilities, or you'll have me to deal with!"
Both women laughed.
"Yeah, stronger people than him have broken under a threat like that from our Patrick!" said her mother. "Was it that Ritchie who told you where he was?" She fiddled with her hair. "I quite fancy him."
"You're wasting your time there; Shane reckons he's gay. No, it was the other one. Dave. Caught him up The Romany when he was pissed, made him feel bad about the baby; he's got a little 'un of his own, you see."
Her mother sat up, and dusted her hands together. "Well, Jeremy Kyle will sort him out. He'll make him step up to the plate."
"What does that mean, step up to the plate? They always say it on Jeremy."
"Dunno. I think it means, like, pay your maintenance, and that. So you're sure he'll actually turn up?"
Kerry laughed. "You bet. Uncle Patrick's seen to that."
"I bet he's cacking his self!" said her mother. Then she looked over at her daughter, narrowing her eyes. "Your bump has made your tatt look different, hasn't it?" said her mother.
Kerry peered down at the blue and green trail of ivy across her stomach, which loomed large, smooth and round from the hem of her cropped t-shirt. "Mm. I thought it looked quite classy before, but I'm not quite sure, now. Think I'd better cover it up when I'm on
Jeremy."
"Poor old Shane," said her mum, and grinned.
Kerry's lips drew into a firm line. "Poor old Shane nothing. Shouldn't have told me he loved me, should he."
Her mother narrowed her eyes.
"Did he, though? Did he actually say that?"
Kerry shrugged her shoulders. "Well, no. Not exactly. He said I was lovely, though, and that's sort of the same thing, isn't it? Either way, he kept coming back for more, after I'd said I loved him, so that gave me the impression he was, like, serious, you know what I mean? Otherwise I wouldn't have thought of having a baby to him." She crossed one leg over the other, with some difficulty, and studied her foot. "I need to get some new trainers before we go on Jeremy."
"Your Uncle Darren can still get those knock-offs. Nike, the lot."
"That's good. Tell him I want a pair. Size five. Well, you've got to look your best if you're going on national television, haven't you?"
***
In Spalding, Shane's girlfriend Cecilia was pacing up and down the room.
"The Jeremy Kyle Show! I don't believe it! It's the pits of the earth! Why the hell didn't you tell me about all this before?"
Shane admired her neat white t-shirt and shorts clad figure pacing up and down the polished floorboards of the living room, her long golden hair lit up by the sun shining through the window. He reached up and handed her a spliff, which she brushed away.
"Calm down, love," he said, "it'll be all right."
"All right? Are you insane? My boyfriend, in my brother's band, being accused in public of getting some gormless little chav pregnant and then abandoning her? How great do you think that's going to make me look?"
"Don't tell anyone it's on, then," said Shane. "They'll all be at work, won't they, anyway, all your friends, when it's televised. Anyway, I shall go out there in full Bon Jovi regalia, scared of nothing!" He laughed, sat back on the leather couch, and blew a smoke ring, watching it rise and disintegrate into the air, lit up by a shaft of sunlight. "Cecilia, love, even if anyone does see it, it's all publicity for the band, isn't it? Look at bloody Melodie - she isn't doing so bad, is she? And you ought to hear the things they say about her!"
"Are you sure this baby is even yours?"
Shane sighed. "Oh, yes. She hadn't slept with anyone else for ages, she said; I dunno, I believe her, I don't know why. She forgot to take her pill on Christmas morning because she was hungover. She said - well, she said she was happy about it because she fell in love with me, like, as soon as she saw me." He grimaced, and held his hands up. "What can I do?"
Cecilia walked over to him and curled herself onto his lap. "Just as long as you don't suddenly decide you ought to stick by her, or something daft like that."
Shane kissed her. "Now why would I ever want anyone else when I've got a babe like you, eh? The show'll be a hoot, anyway." He laughed again. "Bring it on!"
In his mind, he crossed his fingers. He thought he'd escaped; Cecilia's offer of a new home in a new town couldn't have come at a better time, and he hadn't wanted to jeopardise that by leading her to believe that he'd accepted not out of a desperate need to be with her, but out of necessity. She knew nothing of Uncle Patrick's threats.
Landing the guitarist spot in Bad Medicine had been a double edged sword, though, for sure. On the one hand, all he'd ever wanted to do was play in a successful Bon Jovi tribute band - they were even getting the odd London gig - but if he hadn't been playing in the bloody pub round the corner on that fateful night, that nut job Uncle Patrick would never have found him. Goodness knows how he discovered he played in a band in Spalding; anyone could have told him, he supposed. Fennington St Mary was a small town. But someone must have opened their mouth; one of his family, Dave or Ritchie. It only took one person to tell one other person in confidence, who in turn told someone else -
He wasn't too worried, though. He'd do the Jeremy Kyle show because he didn't fancy getting his face carved up, and then, as soon as he got something sorted, he'd disappear again. Find another girl, another town. Another Bon Jovi tribute band - after a few months, anyway. And this time he wouldn't tell a soul, not 'til the coast was clear and Kerry had hooked up with some other poor sap. Hell, he didn't want to have to be responsible, for the rest of his life, for some kid he'd never wanted to have. Some kid who would arrive in this world with an ASBO instead of a birth certificate, if Kerry's family were anything to go by.
Well, Shane Cowley always landed on the balls of his feet, didn't he? No reason why he shouldn't continue to do so.
He wouldn't have minded any of it, the running around and hiding, moving away from home, if it hadn't been for one thing, though. He really, really missed Dave.
The girls, the bands, everything, it was all replaceable - he didn't even mind not seeing his family, that much - but you only had one best mate, didn't you?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
June 2009 ~ A Year Later
Chris 'Boz' Boswell often thought about Dave, and Shane, and Ritchie, and the fun days of Thor, and he missed them. Okay, they hadn't made any money to speak of, but he hadn't expected to - they'd had some laughs, though, and the music had been a breath of fresh air.
It was a damn sight better than what he was doing now, anyway.
Genital Warthog's big comeback had made a damp squib look like New Year's Eve in Times Square.
The tour had been abandoned half way through. Unfortunately, they hadn't realised that the passing of a quarter of a century might have marked a change in the musical tastes of their former fans. Yes, there were the die-hards, the nostalgia trippers, but they weren't enough to support a whole tour. Genital Warthog became just Warthog, playing local pubs, and then, when that was not much of a success, either, they became The Warthogs, playing stuff like 'Living next door to Alice' at wedding discos, club houses on caravan sites. Alice, Alice, who the fuck is Alice? Boz thought if he had to shout that out once more his head would fall off. He was right back where he started, before he'd met Dave and the lads.
Waiting to go on, one evening, he started scrolling, idly, through the contacts in his phone. He still had Dave's number. Perhaps he'd give him a call some time, see what he was up to.
Sharing a flat in Gateshead with his dad sucked, big style. Be good to nip back to Fennington some time, anyway, to see Dave and Ritchie. Yeah, he might just do that.
***
Shane Cowley's life had changed in way he had never thought possible.
The summer before had not been the easiest of times.
The Jeremy Kyle show had loomed ahead, and Cecilia fretted about it every day. It was, indeed, the pits of the earth, but, as Shane tried to reassure her, he'd only agreed to it in order to please Kerry and her family.
In truth, he was a lot more worried than he'd admitted to Cecilia. Still loath to reveal to her the real reason he'd agreed to take part, he'd discussed the whole delicate matter with his Uncle Vic.
"Sounds like you need to get this Patrick fella off your back, and sharpish, I agree," Vic had said, "especially now he knows where you live. Yeah, I know of him; not the sort of character you want to upset, I have to say. I'll tell you what he did to this bloke who - no, I'd better not, on second thoughts. But - look, have you ever watched that Kyle show? I have, our Gail sticks it on in the mornings when she's bottling up. Half the little trollops who go on there have been putting it about all over the place. What you want to do, laddie, is demand a DNA test. That's what they all do on there. Make sure this nipper is yours before you sign your life away, know what I mean?"
Shane consulted Uncle Vic's solicitor, and a legal missive was despatched forthwith, to confirm that Shane Cowley refused to attend the show until the child had come into the world, at which point he would be happy to have the results revealed upon national television, if that was what Kerry and her family deemed appropriate.
Thus, on a bright day in September, 2008, Shane had bounced onto the stage, blonde curls flowing, in full Bon Jovi tribute band regalia, a gladiat
or into the auditorium, to both cheers and boos from the baying crowd.
He sat down, in the chair placed a good distance from Kerry, and tried not to look at her, or her trout-faced battle-axe of a mother. He could feel them both shooting laser beam stares of hatred at him.
Shane was polite, and amenable, and when the man himself, Mr Kyle, as Uncle Vic had suggested he address him, suggested that he should have 'put something on the end of it', he replied that Kerry had told him she was on the pill, until revealing that she'd missed one. Yes, of course he'd heard of safe sex, but he didn't sleep around, and Kerry certainly didn't seem like that sort of girl, either - well, did she? Hey, hadn't she told Mr Kyle, only ten minutes ago, that she was a hundred and ten per cent sure it was his, because she hadn't slept with anyone else for a year? He acknowledged that he'd been irresponsible, that he shouldn't have run off, and said that of course, yes, he would be a man, grow some, step up to the plate, and anything else that might be required of him, should he be proven to be the father of her child.
In order to build suspense for mums at home and unemployed people up and down the country, however, another player had to be brought to the stage before the test results could be revealed.
Uncle Patrick.
The heavily set, tattooed ogre of the drama marched on, amid cheers and fanfare. Without acknowledging his niece or, indeed, his host, he lumbered straight over to Shane, called him a *bleep* useless waste of *bleep* space, shook his fist and turned puce in the face. He then swivelled round to the studio audience and shouted that this long haired *bleep* was nothing but a *bleep* fairy who thought he was some sort of *bleep* Casanova, and if he knew what was *bleep* good for him he would *bleep* step up to the *bleep* mark before he got his *bleep* face punched in.
Uncle Patrick was forcibly removed by the Kyle heavies, and the audience was calmed by the ever reasonable presence of the show's star.
