by Kevin Brooks
‘Yeah.’
‘Excited?’
‘Well, yeah …’
He looked at me. ‘But?’
‘I don’t know … I mean, it’s great and everything, obviously … but there’s just a couple of things about it that are bothering me.’
‘Like what?’
We were sitting on the wooden bench at the side of the path where we’d sat together the last time we were here. Over to our right, half hidden behind some tall trees, I could just make out the tower of the derelict chapel. As I gazed over at it, remembering that night with William, a pigeon broke out from the eaves of the chapel, flew a ragged arc round the tower, then returned to where it had come from.
I looked at William. ‘Do you watch Top of the Pops?’
‘Well, yeah, I’ve seen it … I mean, I don’t make a point of watching it or anything –’
‘Did you know they have rules about who can be on it?’
‘What kind of rules?’
‘Well, you have to have a single in the Top 20, for a start. And the single has to be climbing the charts, not going down …’ I looked at him. ‘Do you see what I’m saying?’
He nodded. ‘Our single isn’t in the Top 20.’
‘Exactly. It’s not even out until Friday …’ I frowned at him. ‘What are you smiling about?’
He laughed quietly. ‘I heard Curtis talking to Jake last night … Curtis couldn’t understand it either. He just didn’t get why they’d want a band like Naked on the show at all.’
‘Well, yeah,’ I said. ‘That’s what I thought too. I mean, we’re not a “pop” band, are we? We just don’t belong on Top of the Pops.’
William smiled again. ‘Well, apparently, Jake knows this girl who used to go out with a guy who’s got something to do with booking the bands for Top of the Pops, and she told Jake that there was supposed to be an American band coming over to do the show this week, but they had some kind of problem getting visas or something … I think it was something to do with drug convictions. Anyway, they had to pull out, and Jake found out about it, and then … well, he didn’t go into any details, but it sounded to me like this girl told Jake that she knew something about the Top of the Pops guy, something personal that he’d do almost anything to keep quiet, and that, for the right price, she could get just about anyone on the show.’
‘By blackmailing her ex-boyfriend?’
‘Basically, yeah.’
‘So Jake paid her?’
William nodded. ‘I think so.’
‘How much?’
‘No idea.’
I shook my head. ‘Well, at least that explains it …’
‘Yep.’
I looked at William. ‘It’s a bit kind of shabby though, don’t you think?’
‘Shabby?’
‘Dirty, shady … you know what I mean.’
He nodded. ‘Well, yeah … I suppose so. But it’s just business, you know, the same as any other business. Business is always dirty.’
‘So it doesn’t bother you?’
‘Nope. Does it bother you?’
‘I don’t really know, to be honest …’ I shrugged. ‘And I don’t suppose it matters anyway, does it? I mean, even if it did bother me, there’s not much I can do about it, is there?’
He grinned at me. ‘You could go on strike, refuse to appear –’
I smiled. ‘And you’d support me, of course.’
‘Of course. We could picket the show together, you know … we could stand outside the Top of the Pops studio with placards and everything, singing protest songs –’
‘Here we go again,’ I sighed.
‘What?’
‘You.’
‘What about me?’
‘Nothing,’ I said, smiling. ‘Just you.’
The other thing that had been bothering me about doing Top of the Pops was the effect that it might have on William. All kinds of people watched Top of the Pops, including – quite possibly – the kind of people that William didn’t want to be seen by. And I remembered him telling me before that if things started getting any bigger for us, he might have to consider leaving the band … and things didn’t get much bigger than Top of the Pops.
‘I know we joked about it before,’ I said to him. ‘You know, all that stuff about disguising yourself by wearing make-up and everything … but it’s not a joke now, is it? It’s real.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
He smiled. ‘I don’t see why I can’t wear make-up. I mean, Curtis does –’
‘He wears a bit of eye-liner, that’s all.’
‘I’ve seen him in lipstick too.’
‘Yeah, but –’
‘Don’t you think I’d look good in make-up?’
‘Come on, William,’ I said sternly. ‘This is serious … if the IRA are still after Nancy –’
‘They won’t recognize me,’ he said, his smile quickly fading.
‘Why not?’
‘Well, firstly, like I said before, I’ve changed a lot since I left Belfast. I was just a kid then … I look completely different now. And secondly, when we’re on Top of the Pops the cameraman’s not going to be concentrating on me, is he?’
‘I suppose not … I mean, they do tend to focus on the singer –’
‘It’s you they’ll be focusing on.’
‘What?’
He laughed. ‘Come on, Lili, you know what Top of the Pops is like … the cameraman spends most of the time looking up pretty girls’ skirts –’
‘Yeah, but –’
‘And you’re not only a very pretty girl, but you’re also in the band … so, yeah, they might stick the camera on Curtis now and then, but most of the time it’s going to be all over you.’ He grinned. ‘Me and Stan won’t get so much as a look-in. Trust me, they’re not going to waste any time filming us.’
‘But what if –?’
‘And thirdly,’ he said, holding up a finger to let me know that he hadn’t quite finished yet. ‘Just in case they do happen to point the camera at me …’ He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pair of sunglasses. ‘What do you think?’ he said, putting them on.
I couldn’t help laughing.
‘What?’ he said indignantly.
‘Nothing …’ I giggled again. ‘Yeah, you look really cool in those …’
He smiled. ‘I’ve got a hat too.’
‘A hat?’
‘Yeah, a trilby … like the one Van Morrison wears.’
‘Who?’
‘Van Morrison … don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Van the Man. He’s a legend in Belfast –’
‘Does he wear sunglasses too?’
‘Yeah, as a matter of fact he does.’
‘Well,’ I said, smiling. ‘That’s OK then.’
He grinned. ‘I’m glad you think so.’
‘Let me try them on,’ I said, reaching out for his glasses.
‘No,’ he said, playfully leaning away from me.
‘Why not?’
‘Get your own.’
I lunged across the bench, making a grab for the glasses, but William was too quick for me, scooting out of reach across the bench. I looked at him for a moment, both of us smiling, and then I lunged again, this time really flinging myself at him, but he saw that coming too, and in a flash he was on his feet and looking down at me as I sprawled like an idiot across the bench.
I looked up at him.
He smiled.
‘You’d better start running,’ I said.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah …’
‘You think you can catch me?’
‘I know I can catch you.’
He smiled again, shaking his head …
And I leapt off the bench …
And we ran through the wildness of the cemet
ery together, whooping and laughing like children.
36
Wednesday, 22 September 1976 … the date is seared into my memory. The Top of the Pops recording was scheduled to start at four o’clock, and we’d arranged to meet at the warehouse at two, giving us plenty of time to load up all the gear and drive across London to the BBC studios at Lime Grove.
‘When we get there,’ Jake had explained, ‘you’ll be allocated a time to set up the gear and run through the song, and then, when they’re ready, they’ll call you back for the actual recording.’
‘But we’re only miming, yeah?’ Curtis said.
‘Right.’
‘None of it’s live.’
Jake shook his head. ‘All you’ve got to do is open your mouth at the right time and make sure you look good.’
When I got to the warehouse, at around one forty-five, Curtis and Jake were already there, and Chief and Stan turned up in the van about five minutes later. As we started to load up the gear, I found myself glancing up and down the road all the time, looking out for William. I had no reason to be worried – he wasn’t even late yet – but there was just something … I didn’t know what it was … but something didn’t feel right. It was the kind of feeling you get when you’re waiting for someone, and you keep trying to imagine them turning up – because somewhere, in some primitive part of your mind, you actually think you can make it happen simply by imagining it – and sometimes you just know that they’re going to be here any minute, but other times, no matter how hard you try to imagine it, you just know that you’re not going to see them …
That’s how it was for me that day.
I just knew.
Deep down …
I knew.
But I wasn’t going to admit it. Not to myself, not to anyone.
‘He’d better be here soon,’ Curtis said to me, lifting an amp into the back of the van.
‘He’ll be here, don’t worry.’
‘I am worried.’
‘Well, don’t be.’
Twenty minutes later, with the van all loaded up and still no sign of William, Curtis had had enough.
‘Well?’ he said to me.
‘Well what?’
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Christ, he’s your fucking boyfriend, Lili.’
‘I don’t own him.’
‘Well, maybe you should.’
‘Look, just give him another five minutes, OK? I’m sure he’ll be here –’
‘No.’
‘Come on, Curtis –’
‘I told him, if he ever missed another gig, no matter what, he’d be out.’
‘Yeah, but –’
‘We have to go,’ he said, looking at his watch.
‘All right, but let’s just call round at his flat on the way –’
‘No.’
‘It’s not far –’
‘I said no.’
‘But what if he’s ill or something?’
‘If he’s not well enough to get here, he’s no good to us, is he? And, besides, we don’t actually need him anyway. We’re miming. We can mime perfectly well without him.’
‘But he might need us. I mean, maybe he had an accident on the way here, maybe he got hit by a car –’
‘Yeah, and maybe he’s just one big fuck-up. Have you ever thought of that?’
I looked at Curtis, trying to think of something to say, but my head and my heart were empty.
‘Come on,’ he said wearily. ‘Get in the van. We’re going.’
I didn’t really think that William was ill, or that he’d had an accident, I just thought … well, that was the thing. I didn’t really know what I thought. All I could think of was that he’d either been lying to me the day before, just pretending that he wasn’t worried about being recognized, and that he’d never had any intention of appearing on Top of the Pops, or that he’d had second thoughts about it and changed his mind … he’d realized that it was a risk after all, and he’d decided not to take that risk.
I didn’t want to believe that he’d lied to me.
If he’d lied to me about that, then everything else could have been a lie too – all the joking, the fun, all the seriousness … all false.
No … I couldn’t believe that.
I didn’t believe it.
And if he’d had second thoughts … well, he would have told me, wouldn’t he? He would have told me …
Wouldn’t he?
And, besides, the last time I’d seen him – when we’d left the meeting at the warehouse the day before – there was nothing remotely doubtful about him at all. I could still picture him – walking with me to the tube station, smiling at me, kissing me, saying goodbye … see you tomorrow …
‘Don’t forget your sunglasses,’ I’d said.
And he’d laughed …
No, he hadn’t been worried about a thing.
Had he?
No …
He’d been fine.
Which meant …?
What?
Why wasn’t William here? Where the hell was he?
The only thing I could think of, the only thing that made any sense – and at the same time scared me to death – was that he was with the men from Derry.
There was a lot of waiting around to do when we got to the BBC studios. We had to wait to get in while they checked who we were, we had to wait around in the dressing room until they were ready for us to set up our gear and rehearse the recording, and then we had to wait for ages while all the other bands went through the same routine …
And it wasn’t as if it was a particularly pleasant place to be either. In fact, as far as I was concerned, it was distinctly unpleasant. The studio itself was really small, for a start – much smaller than it appeared on TV – and it was so much tackier than it looked on TV too. There was no glamour to it whatsoever – no excitement, no magic – it was all just plywood and plastic, and miles of black cables, and big tinny cameras lumbering all over the place while dozens of slightly dazed teenagers were herded around by officious middle-aged men with beards and clipboards and head sets …
And Tony Blackburn in an awful cream suit …
And the dancers …
And the other bands …
God … the other bands.
The Wurzels were there – a novelty band, fat old men dressed up as West Country bumpkins who sang songs about cider and combine harvesters. And a band called Smokie – very white suits and very long hair. And Rod Stewart was there too, I seem to recall, and a singer called Kiki Dee, and the Drifters, and another old sixties band called Manfred Mann …
The whole thing was totally unreal.
It was like some kind of music-hall nightmare.
Curtis couldn’t stand it, and as soon as we’d finished our rehearsal he went off with Jake and the other two in search of a bar.
‘Are you coming?’ he asked me, just before they left the dressing room.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Oh, come on, Lili … don’t be like that.’
‘Like what?’ I said coolly.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I know you’re pissed off about Billy –’
‘His name’s not Billy,’ I snapped. ‘OK? It’s William … his name’s William.’
‘Yeah, all right …’ Curtis said, taken aback by my sudden outburst. ‘I was only –’
‘Just go, Curtis, all right? Just fuck off and leave me alone.’
6.46 p.m… . the time is seared into my memory. I was alone in the dressing room. The Wurzels had just left to record their performance, and the long-haired man who’d been trying to chat me up for the last five minutes – I had no idea who he was – had finally given up and had gone off to ‘get some chow’. So I was on my own, alone in the silence.
Except it wasn’t very silent.
From the studio next door, I could hear the muffled awfulness of the Wurzels record – I am a cider drinker … – and the sound of people dancing and pretending to enjoy themselves … and from outside in the corridor, I could hear people talking about schedules and ratings and contracts … and from a small television mounted on the wall of the dressing room, I could hear the background babble of BBC regional news – human-interest stories, something about a car park, news of another train strike …
I could hear it all, drifting and droning all around me …
But I couldn’t hear it.
As I sat there, staring at the floor, thinking about William, all I could hear was the saddened silence inside my head … the empty sound of hope. I didn’t care where William was any more. I didn’t care why he wasn’t here, or who he was with, or what he was doing … all I cared about, the only thing that mattered, was that he was OK. Anything else, everything else, was irrelevant.
Just be OK, I kept telling him.
All right?
I don’t care about anything else.
Just be OK.
Please.
Just be …
I’m not sure what it was that made me look up at the television then – maybe it was something the presenter said, something that meant something to me … or maybe it was just the sudden change in the tone of her voice … I don’t know. But when I looked up and saw the picture on the screen …
I just knew.
Immediately.
I just knew that William wasn’t OK.
It was just a gut-feeling at first, a terrible shocking emptiness that I didn’t really understand, because for a moment or two I didn’t really know what I was looking at or what it meant. It was the kind of image I’d seen so many times before on the TV screen: a pile of smoking rubble, smouldering debris, the fire-blackened wreck of a still-burning car … police vehicles, ambulances, flashing lights, news reporters …
A scene of devastation.
A bomb blast.
Another terrorist attack somewhere …
But this wasn’t just somewhere, I suddenly realized. This was under a railway bridge, at the end of a grubby little backstreet lined with dilapidated houses, and in the background I could see a patch of wasteground …
‘No …’ I muttered, hurrying over to turn up the volume on the TV. ‘No … please, God … no …’
