Remix

by Lexi Revellian

  The journey back was slower, once I got to the outskirts of London. Round about the Cromwell Road I was hardly moving. I flicked through the station presets on my van’s ropey old radio; Abba, Mozart, weather and an advert telling me I could get rich playing the stock market. As if. I switched it off.

  I started thinking about Ric Kealey. He’d become the biggest, most sensational rock star ever, back in the days when I was at art college. Not my sort of music, but you couldn’t help knowing about him. He was everywhere, and as far as the tabloids were concerned The Voices and their lead singer were the best thing since Princess Diana. Whatever they did made the front page. They were huge; they supplied the soundtrack to a whole generation’s yearning, exaltation and dreams.

  I decided to look Ric Kealey up on the internet when I got home, and see if he really did look like Joe.

  Since it was Sunday I grilled some bacon and treated myself to a BLT for lunch. I made a pot of tea (weird of me I know, since the Good Lord gave us teabags, but I think it tastes better). I took it on a tray out to the terrace, put it on the table, fetched my laptop and curled up in comfort on my new sofa under the big cream parasol. The sun shone, a gentle breeze blew, the blackbird sang. Perfect.

  I googled Ric Kealey, and went to Wikipedia. The page went on for ever. Only one picture, of him with a guitar while he was still at school, looking solemn, his face with the soft curves of adolescence, hair flopping over his eyes. He started the band when he was sixteen or so. In the photograph he didn’t look much like Joe. His mother was an actress, mainly on television – not a household name, but quite successful, in work most of the time. I realized she’d been in a sitcom I watched as a child called Better the Devil. His parents split up when he was small, he went to boarding school at seven, excelled at music from an early age…

  I had a swig of tea, a mouthful of sandwich, and scrolled down, looking at the subtitles. The Voices In My Head (band), Early Fame, Musical Influences, Kealey/Orr songwriting partnership, Drugs and Alcohol, Conflict, Relationship with the Press… I stopped there and clicked on the link to The Voices In My Head. There were a couple of photos of the band members, one early one before they got Jeff Pike as their drummer, and a black and white poster with them all in dark glasses looking morose, as if earning squillions every year was no laughing matter. I returned to Google and clicked Images.

  Loads of pictures; Ric Kealey in colour, in black and white, tiny at Wembley Stadium, close-up so his features filled the frame, fake Andy Warhol silk-screen multiples of his face, Ric playing his guitar, singing, smoking a cigarette, making a V-sign at the paparazzi, on stage with fans reaching for him, full face, profile…and all of them looking very like Joe. Very like Joe indeed.

  It couldn’t be him, though.

  I went to Youtube and typed Ric Kealey in the box, and selected the only song whose title I remembered. A grainy postcard-size rectangle showed The Voices on top of a tall building; London, since I could see the Eye in the background. A big flat space, with random bits of air conditioning systems, lifts, satellite masts and fire escapes sticking up here and there. The camera panned in close on the drummer. A heavy, throbbing drumbeat. Stirring. I turned up the sound. The camera moved to Ric Kealey as he struck the first, arrogant chord on his guitar. Every hair on my skin stood up. I suddenly understood why they were mega-successful. He began to sing into the microphone, intensely, as though he was alone, completely ignoring the camera crew filming him. I watched, transfixed, to the end of the song. Ric glanced across to the bass guitarist, and smiled.

  I sat back, heart thumping. Youtube offered a replay, or another of The Voices’ hits. I didn’t need a replay. I knew now that Ric was Joe, beyond any doubt at all.

  Which was very odd, as Ric Kealey died three years ago.

  Chapter

  3

  *

  Back to Wikipedia. I scrolled down to Kealey’s Death.

  ‘Reportedly, Kealey had been drinking heavily and had resumed illegal drugs use in the weeks before his death. Friends said this was a reaction to his arrest on suspicion of the murder of fellow band member Bryan Orr, although before this he was allegedly depressed by the prospect of the band splitting up, and the effect this might have on sales of The Voices’ most recent album, Fluke. (In fact, Fluke went on to out-sell every album the band had made except for Random Voices.) He had been released on bail of two million pounds the previous week. On 15th April, one day after his twenty-seventh birthday, Kealey went to the house of his manager/agent Phil Sharott, in Cookham on the River Thames near Maidenhead…’

  Maidenhead! He must have been going to see him after I dropped him off…

  ‘…and without his permission or knowledge took off in Sharott’s Cessna aeroplane. Kealey had been taking flying lessons, but was as yet unqualified. He headed to the coast. A witness on a yacht reported seeing the aircraft crash in deep water to the west of the coast of France. “Its engine cut out and it went into the sea. It sank really fast. I didn’t see anyone parachute from it before it crashed, and no one swam away, though of course I had a good look for survivors.” The witness was able to pick up various parts of the plane, which confirmed its identity. The body of the plane was never recovered. Theories about the death abound. It is widely assumed that Kealey committed suicide, since the aeroplane did not have sufficient fuel to reach land in the direction in which it was headed. However, bearing in mind his lack of flying experience, and the fact that he was most likely under the influence of drugs and/or drink, it may also have been a tragic accident.

  ‘The Orr murder case was closed. The police issued a statement saying they were not looking for anyone else in connection with the murder.’

  I considered the implications of this. I had spent the morning alone with a man the police believed guilty of murder. He hadn’t seemed like a murderer to me, but then murderers, when not actually murdering people, probably did act as normally as anyone else. Feeling hunger, needing a pee, befriending stray dogs.

  I hoped he wasn’t intending to kill the agent. Perhaps I should ring Phil Sharott and warn him? How could I do that without him thinking I was a nutter?

  Or I could ring the police… A moment’s reflection made me aware this was not an option. I might as well tell them I’d spotted Elvis working down the chip shop. They’d think I was out of my mind if I only told them I’d let an intruder into my home, fed him, then driven him to Maidenhead. I had no proof my visitor was Ric Kealey, and I didn’t know where he was now. Would they send policemen to warn the agent of a possible visit from a dead rock star on my say so? I couldn’t see it happening. I read on.

  ‘Kealey’s death at the age of twenty-seven makes him the sixth and latest member of the notorious 27 Club, or Forever 27 Club as it is sometimes known, a popular culture name for a group of influential rock and blues musicians who all died at the age of 27, sometimes under mysterious circumstances.’

  I looked it up. Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, and Ric Kealey.

  Ric Kealey’s page again. Conspiracy Theories After Kealey’s Death.

  ‘Many fans refuse to believe Kealey is dead, their conviction fuelled by the fact that his body was never found. The website Ric Kealey Lives promotes the theory the plane crash was set up in order for him to escape the murder trial, and that he was spirited away by friends, had plastic surgery to make him unrecognisable, and is now living abroad. In spite of the alleged surgery, fans have claimed sightings in Australia, South Africa, India, Mexico and Chile.

  ‘Alternative theories maintain he is dead, but the fatality occurred during a botched attempt to fake his own death; that he was murdered by the real murderer of Bryan Orr, in order to cover the killer’s tracks; that his death was part of a suicide pact, to which there are clues in the last album made by the band; and even that on his last solo flight he was abducted by aliens.’

  I reached for my sandwich and finished it, then drank my tea, barely registering that it was
stone cold. Like most people, I’ve always scoffed at conspiracy theories. NASA faked the moon landings, shape-shifting lizard-people run the world, Di and Dodi died as the result of a fiendish plot hatched by florists…yeah, right. I’d now stumbled on proof that one conspiracy theory, at least, contained some truth.

  Unless Ric Kealey was recognized and the whole thing got in the papers, it seemed unlikely I’d ever discover anything else about it. Frustrating. But then, if I’d spotted him, surely other people, fans, would too?

  ‘Kealey’s estate was inherited by his one surviving relative, his older sister Paula Sharott, who died in a car accident two years after her brother at the age of thirty-six. On her death the estate passed to her…’

  My mobile rang. Must change that ring tone.

  “Hallo?”

  “Caz.” It was James. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, why shouldn’t I be?”

  “It’s just you haven’t rung me up for a while and asked me to do something for you, like fix your laptop or lift a horse up the stairs. This isn’t like you.”

  “Huh! Cheek. Maybe I’ve found someone else with brain and muscles to be my willing slave.”

  “Fat chance. No one else is crazy about you like I am.”

  This is James’s little joke. I’ve known him since we were both tiny, and we went to the same primary school. We’re like brother and sister. We get on really well, and see quite a lot of each other, but that’s all there is to it. He’s got a girlfriend called Posy; she seems nice, but I haven’t got much in common with her. She lives in Cambridge, so James is at a loose end during the week. It was unusual for him to ring on a Sunday.

  “Well, maybe if you came round Thursday evening I could line up some heavy lifting, and cook you spaghetti as a reward.”

  “That’s the best offer I’m likely to get all week. I’ll bring a bottle. Seven thirty-ish?”

  “Great. See you then.”

  “Bye, Caz.”

  “Bye.”

  I took my laptop and crockery indoors, and decided not to waste the whole afternoon researching Ric Kealey, tempted though I was. Feeling sensible and virtuous, I went to the workshop to dapple a horse instead, to help pay off the bank loan.

  Chapter

  4

  *

  It rained Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, but Thursday was back to the sort of weather one feels entitled to in June. I was pleased. If we ate outside, James could admire my new sofa.

  The doorbell rang at 7.30. James is punctual to a fault, so much so that I start worrying if he’s ten minutes late. His tousled fair hair and pleasant profile were immediately recognisable on the tiny black and white entry phone screen. He always reminds me of a blond teddy bear – but a nice-looking teddy bear you can rely on.

  “Hi, come on up,” I said, and pressed the key button. I heard the buzz of the lock release, and saw him push the door open.

  Some of my less fit visitors have to sit down when they reach the flat, puffing and fanning themselves, but although he works long hours in a bank, James is in good shape. He plays rugby at weekends – his nose is askew from an early rugby incident – badminton, and tennis in summer. He tried to get me to play tennis a few years ago, though I’ve never been able to hit a ball in my life. He kept saying I’d love it, it wouldn’t be anything like it was at school, I should give it a go. Eventually I gave in, and my single game of tennis in front of a group of his mates from work is one of my most embarrassing memories ever. “God, you were right, you really can’t hit a ball,” he’d said, and taken me to the bar to console me.

  “Hi Caz.” He kissed my cheek and handed me a bottle of wine. “You’re looking terrific. I don’t know why I say that, you always do. What’s that you’re playing?”

  “Fluke. D’you like The Voices?”

  “They’re okay.” He took off his jacket and tie, stretched and undid the top buttons of his shirt. He’s the only friend I’ve got who wears a suit on a daily basis. “Wouldn’t have thought they were your sort of thing, though.”

  Now if I was going to tell anyone about the strange materialization of Ric Kealey on my rooftop, it would be James. I can tell him most things, I suppose because I’ve known him so long. But I didn’t. He might think I was wrong, and it was just someone who looked like him; or he might get all serious and try to persuade me to go to the police. And I still hadn’t worked out what I thought about the whole thing…

  I turned off the CD player, opened the wine and poured two glasses, handed James his, picked up a bowl of salted cashews and led him outside. I’d laid the table out there before his arrival. James went over to the sofa.

  “This is new. Very nice.” He sat down. “I thought you were economizing?”

  “I am. This is absolutely the last thing I’m buying for the flat. It is now officially perfect in every way. And all I have to do is live on tins of sardines for a few years, and never go out anywhere, or have a haircut, or buy any new clothes until I’ve paid for it.”

  “It’s not sardines tonight, is it? I’m sure spaghetti was mentioned.”

  “Just for you, James, I’m pushing the boat out. Spaghetti Carbonara with a side salad.”

  “Great.” He slipped off his shoes and swung his legs on to the sofa, lying back where Ric Kealey had lain. He breathed deeply. “Mmm, this is the life. I had a stinker of a day.”

  “You can recover while I cook the meal. I’ll let you off peeling duties for once.”

  His eyes followed me as I turned. “Not affording hairdressers is good. I like your hair the way it is, right down your back.”

  I went inside and got started.

  London hasn’t been dark since World War Two ended. James and I sat on after dinner as the twilight faded and city lights appeared. Faint noises of revellers in the bars of Hoxton Square drifted up to us, making my roof feel snug and intimate. I’d just made coffee (“Bloody hell, Caz, what’s this? Generic instant coffee? Not even Gold Blend?”) when the doorbell rang. It was past eleven. I went to the entry phone to see who it was.

  Ric Kealey, his hair different…my heart banged in my chest.

  “Hi.” I could hear my voice sounding wary.

  “Caz, can I come in?”

  “What for?”

  “There’s something I want to ask you.”

  I paused. “Okay, but I can’t be too long. I’ve got a friend here. Hang on, I’ll come down.”

  I didn’t press the buzzer to let him in. James was looking at me enquiringly.

  “It’s this guy…I’m just going down to see him. I won’t be long. There’s half a bottle of Metaxa in the cupboard, help yourself.”

  I turned on the showroom spots and opened the door. At first all I could see was an enormous bunch of flowers; the scent of roses, lilies, and freesia wafted in. He put them into my arms, then held out a twenty-pound note, and did the smile.

  I stood in the doorway and stared at him. He was transformed. His hair was bleached a pale blond, and professionally cut in a spiky style. He wore a white tee shirt and black designer jeans, leather belt, red Converses and a leather jacket slung over one shoulder. He looked amazing. Spectacular. If he walked down a street he’d turn every female head. In stark contrast to the last time we’d met, everything about him looked expensive.

  I glanced at the dog beside him, half-expecting him to have had a makeover too, to be washed, fluffed up and trimmed. He wagged his tail at me. He was unchanged, except that he now wore a smart collar with studs.

  I took the money from Ric’s hand, and pocketed it, speechless.

  He made a move forward. “Can I come in?”

  I stayed where I was in the doorway. “I know who you are.”

  His eyes narrowed. There was a pause. “Ah. And that would be…?”

  “The late Ric Kealey.”

  Another pause, while he considered denying it, and decided not to. “Fuck.”

  We stood there, looking at each other.

  “Can I come in anyway
?”

  I moved aside and he walked past me and sat on the black leather sofa like he owned it, occupying the maximum amount of space the way men do, the dog at his feet. I put the flowers on my desk and sat behind it. For some reason, this made me feel more in control of the situation. I broke the silence.

  “I’ll have to call the police. You’re wanted for murder.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t know. That’s one of the things I came back to find out.”

  “Like in one of those corny whodunits where the innocent man tracks down the real killer, all the while being chased by the police who think he’s the murderer? Like The Fugitive or something?”

  He glared at me. “Yes.”

  “And in order to achieve this, you’ve made yourself look as conspicuous and eye-catching as possible, so anyone seeing you will know immediately you’re a rock star, and sooner or later work out who you are? Why don’t you just wear a sign round your neck saying Look At Me?”

  “Yeah, well, I couldn’t walk around like I was. Anyway, I changed my hair colour.”

  “Oh yes, like rock stars never do that. Celebrities change their hair all the time. Look at David Beckham. People still know who he is. You’re crazy. And why didn’t you stay with your agent? That’s where you were going, wasn’t it?”

  “He’s away. He’ll be back at the weekend.”

  “Does he know you’re alive?”

  “Yes…” He was going to say more, then didn’t.

  “Where did you get the money for all this?”

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re like the sodding Spanish Inquisition, Caz, you know that? I sold my Rolex. I got my hair done, bought the clothes, and stayed at a hotel for a few days. Not a flash hotel, either. I didn’t go out. But people kept staring at me. Even the Romanian chambermaid asked for my autograph, I think so she could find out who I was. And I ran out of money.”