The Doubleman

by Christopher Koch

  ‘Don’t whistle yet, Pat. Whistle later.’

  The whistling stopped immediately.

  When we stood in the dim, deserted foyer of the glass high-rise in Miller Street, the silence continued. We waited for the lift, looking up at the glowing light that had come on above the blank steel doors — thus avoiding looking at each other. Nobody spoke.

  But inside the lift, as we went up to the twentieth floor, speech and eye contact could no longer be avoided. We all looked mutely at each other at first, as though trying to solve something, or to invent a fresh remark. But I suspected that the others had already exchanged every possible notion about Slade and Phil Brown that could be thought of. Only Patrick and Katrin smiled; Brian was expressionless, leaning against the wall in his denim jacket and jeans, examining a thumbnail; and Darcy was white to a degree that startled me; despite myself, I almost felt sorry for him.

  Fame, real fame, was waiting: the greatest trip of all; the human sea that would offer its worship to the Rymers at last. Transported to the great northern world by the unknown Roy Slade, they’d be raised into an ozonosphere of power that few could ever know. Darcy had overcome every obstacle; the only one left was me. There were beads of sweat on his upper lip which he wiped away now with a handkerchief.

  Brian was the one who finally spoke, voicing my thoughts in the car. ‘Funny time for a meeting. If Slade’s so bloody keen on us, why didn’t he make it during working hours?’

  Darcy answered, licking his lips. ‘You’re getting it wrong, mate. It’s because Slade’s so keen on us that he wants to see us now. Phil Brown told me that he wanted to have the time to really get to know us.’ For the first time, he grinned; but it was a strained grin. He elbowed Brian in the ribs, while winking at Katrin. Me he ignored. ‘Don’t worry,’ he told them. ‘We’re there.’ But the attempt at his old certainty badly lacked conviction. Even the expensive new suede jacket he wore didn’t seem to create an aura of confidence.

  We came through twin glass doors lettered IRC, and found ourselves in a deserted, carpeted reception area, dimly lit by an expensive, ceramic-based lamp on a low table. The overhead lights were off. There were the usual potted palms, low leather chairs, and a long desk on which stood a large typewriter and three phones. A closed teak door carried a plate saying: Artist and Repertoire Manager. The silence was unpromising, and I think we all wondered whether anyone was here.

  Head cocked, Darcy knocked on the door. It opened almost immediately, and a man I guessed to be Phil Brown, the manager, stood smiling at us all with an air of celebration. ‘The Rymers!’ he said, as though announcing the group to themselves: his voice had a deliberately cultivated boom. ‘Great that you’re here. Great.’ He was tall, around forty, and dressed in one of those white Filipino shirts that seem all frills, like some eighteenth-century garment. But the head set on top of it was that of a smalltown businessman or salesman: jowly, with short-cut mousy hair and heavy-framed spectacles. He had a salesman’s warmth — a warmth no doubt helped along by the large glass of whisky he held — and there was a fleeting boyishness about his mouth, which seemed to stay innocently open, whether smiling or not. Near-sighted blue eyes peered at us through their glasses. When they came to me, his hand shot out. ‘You must be Richard,’ he said. ‘Mr Katrin, eh? Good to meet you.’

  As we all crowded through the door, his arm was about my shoulders. If he wanted to win me over, he’d made a bad start.

  The office resembled a medium-sized theatre foyer, and was dimly-lit by strategically-placed standard lamps. The potted palms continued, and the overhead lights had been turned off in here too, as though for seduction. At the far end, plate-glass windows with their venetians up framed clear night sky and a scatter of distant lights across the Harbour. Pictures of recording stars could be made out on the teak veneer walls. A cluster of bottles stood on a small bar with a black Formica top. There was a suitably huge desk, empty except for telephones and small ornaments, set beside a record player and tape deck in which important little red lights burned. Armchairs and a sofa, covered in heavy, bone-coloured fabric, were clustered around a giant coffee table on which stood glasses, an ice-bucket, a ceramic ashtray the size of a hub-cap, and a copy of the Rymers’ LP, lying grandly on display. There was soft music in the room: the voices of Katrin and Brian were singing ‘Lady Isabel and the Elf Knight’.

  I was still watching Darcy; he looked about him with the air of a man who had come home after long exile, and said nothing, his fingers unconsciously opening and closing: gently, as though sifting something precious. It was the most unfeigned and prayerful look of pleasure I ever saw him wear.

  ‘Take the weight off your feet,’ Phil Brown said, and waved at the chairs. It was only now that we caught sight of the man lying on the sofa.

  In the instant that we did so, he raised himself from it in a single sinuous movement and bounced lightly on to his feet in front of us, smiling alertly, his soft, well-cared-for hands held in front of him somewhat in the manner of a man doing karate. He was about thirty-five, not tall, and inclined to plumpness; he had very thick black hair, side-parted, that bounced as he bounced. He was wearing the trousers of a black, pin-striped suit that was plainly of good quality, a grey-and-white striped business shirt, startling red braces, and a bow tie of the same colour. The jacket of the suit was lying on the arm of the sofa.

  ‘Pardon me having a little kip. It’s been a long day,’ he said. ‘Hello; I’m Roy Slade. So you’re the Rymers. What a pleasure.’ In contrast to Brown’s heavily spurious geniality, this was a voice of compelling warmth — manufactured or not. It was a rapid voice, and seemed to be neutral Southern English at first; but as you listened, traces of a working-class London accent crept in. Both hands stayed extended as he moved from one to the other of us, enabling him to shake hands while at the same time gripping one’s elbow. He waited for no introductions, and Phil Brown watched his chief’s progress with respectful admiration.

  ‘I know you all from the sleeve of your LP, of course. Katrin, that photograph doesn’t show how beautiful you are. We’ll do better than that for your London release.’ When he came to me, the smile remained just as warm, and he examined my face closely. ‘You must be Richard Miller. I have to congratulate you, Richard. You’ve launched an extraordinary group. Now we have to decide where they go from here — yes?’

  Without waiting for an answer he whirled, crossed to one of the armchairs and threw himself into it, smiling up at us all. He seemed to move twice as quickly as other people. ‘Let’s talk,’ he said; and suddenly there was a note of authority.

  ‘I’ll get drinks,’ Brown murmured, and swayed away to the bar.

  Katrin and I sat side by side on the couch; she smiled at me briefly, but said nothing. Darcy, Brian and Patrick took armchairs on the other side of the coffee table, close to Roy Slade.

  For a moment there was silence, as Slade looked deliberately from one face to another. ‘In my business,’ he said, ‘there’s a lot of bullshit. But I never bullshit the artists I’m going to put on our books, right? They can manufacture plenty of that for themselves.’

  Only Patrick laughed: it was a sort of snigger. Katrin sat watching Slade pleasantly; Darcy smiled as though already acquainted with what Slade was leading up to; Brian remained without expression, sprawled in his chair, sipping the whisky Brown had handed him.

  ‘I’ll come right to the point,’ Slade said. ‘This is a great group, not like any other. I’ve listened to your tapes and looked at clips from the show for a number of hours that might surprise you. I like the group’s originality, and the unusual material and presentation. And its greatest commercial attraction is Brian and Katrin.’ He looked at them with solemn deliberateness. ‘You two are a great duo.’ He paused, looking down into his drink, then raised his head abruptly. ‘I understand the group wants real commercial success,’ he said.

  ‘Dead right, Roy,’ Darcy said. ‘That’s why we’re here.’ His grin was meant to be ingratiati
ng, but the effect was spoiled by a nerve jumping in his cheek. He was sitting forward with his hands clasped between his knees: a posture of near-supplication I’d never seen him adopt before.

  Slade looked at him. ‘Okay,’ he said. His voice had become brisk. ‘Here’s the deal. Most of the fairy ballads have to go. So does a lot of the trad folk music.’

  He smiled from face to face, while we stared.

  Why?’ This came from Brian; he was squinting at Slade through the smoke of a cigarette, still lying back in his chair.

  ‘I’ll tell you why, squire. Because although you and a minority audience might like this material, and although I might like it, the mass audience will be switched off by it.’ He laughed suddenly, looking at our faces, and spoke in a tone that was both soothing and ebullient, as though dealing with children. ‘Don’t look downcast, folks! I’m not saying throw it all out — I’m saying modify, for that great big audience. And I’ve got ideas for exciting new material that’s right up your street. Are you willing to look at that with an open mind?’

  There was silence again; then Brian said: ‘Sweeten ourselves up like Peter, Paul and Mary — is that what you mean?’

  Slade looked at him. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. Peter, Paul and Mary are a fantastic group — they’re on top of the world, and you should be so lucky. Do you have any problems with that, Brian?’ He had light grey eyes, contrasting with the dark hair, and they had suddenly become hard and unwinking.

  Brian returned his stare, his lazy posture unchanged; he drew on his cigarette and simply didn’t answer.

  Softly, Katrin told Slade: ‘I don’t think that should be a problem — as long as the new material suits us.’

  But now Brian finally answered Slade. ‘Let’s just say Peter, Paul and Mary aren’t my kind of music,’ he said.

  Slade raised his eyebrows; then he turned to Phil Brown. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘What have we got here, Phil? A purist? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.’

  ‘No, no Roy,’ Brown said. His open mouth had an anxious shape, now. ‘Brian’s just got to explore the possibilities,’ he said. ‘This boy is a very special singer.’

  I looked at Darcy. His upper lip was still sweating, and the nerve in his cheek was jumping again. He had fixed Brian with a look of pure malevolence that Slade couldn’t see, his hands gripped between his knees, his shoulders near his ears. I felt exquisite embarrassment as I saw Phil Brown take this in. Then Darcy stood up, slightly crouched, his hands in front of him as though holding something, and turned to Slade with a painful smile.

  ‘Look Roy, you don’t need to worry about Brian. It just takes Brian time to digest things. When we take a closer look at what you’re proposing, I’m sure we’ll work it all out.’

  Everyone was uneasy now, looking at Darcy; everyone except Brian, who smiled into his drink. It seemed to be a smile of sardonic amusement. The extreme pallor of Darcy’s face, and his strained frown as he stood in front of Slade, bent like a servant, had begun to make this a scene of humiliation I wanted not to witness. But Slade ignored Darcy; he continued to look at Brian.

  ‘Is that right Brian? Will we work it out?’ His voice had become softer, more conciliatory, and very definitely East End. ‘I hope so, squire. You’re a terrific musician — and I’d like you to know what you might be throwing away. Because I do have to get this sorted out, don’t I?’ He looked pleasantly at the rest of us, before continuing. ‘What my firm is prepared to offer the Rymers is the full treatment. I mean not just a British LP, but appearances on the BBC, and a concert tour. I believe you’re that good. And we’ll be aiming to get a single on the charts. You do see what all that means, don’t you? You do know what I’m talking about?’ His voice had become caressing.

  It was Katrin who answered. ‘Of course we know. You don’t have to bully us, Roy.’ She was still smiling at him, but her eyes were no longer warm.

  He looked at her in surprise; then he burst out laughing, turning to me. ‘You’ve got a tough little lady here, Richard. And she knows what’s what.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Brian will be all right,’ Katrin told Slade softly. ‘He has to see that what you want us to do will suit him — any musician needs to know that.’ She looked at Brian. ‘Isn’t that right, Brian?’

  Brian shrugged, and looked at Slade. ‘I reckon it has to be,’ he said, ‘if she says so.’ He grinned; it was as though he’d spoken about his wife.

  Slade sat back, and looked bland. ‘Good,’ he said heartily. ‘Then we know where we are.’ He leaned across, picked up the jacket he’d left on the couch, and drew out a typed sheet of paper; as he began to unfold it, sitting back again, it fell from his hands to the carpet.

  Instantly, Darcy had stooped to pick it up, his rump upthrust. It was a surprisingly broad rump for so thin a man, and he reminded me more forcibly than ever of a goat. I cringed for him; I had never seen him so reduced. He seemed to grovel, as he handed the paper to Slade.

  ‘Thanks Darcy.’ Slade took it, then handed it back to him. ‘Actually, I’d like you to look at this — you and Brian and Katrin. It’s a list of the sort of material I want you to think about doing.’

  Darcy sat down, eagerly studying the page, and Slade’s smile was turned on me.

  ‘You haven’t said much, Richard. I know you and Darcy did a lot to create the image of the Rymers. Will it bother you to see them take a new direction?’

  ‘It won’t really concern me,’ I said. ‘I won’t be there.’

  Katrin turned to look at me, and Darcy’s white face jerked up from the page. ‘You mean you’re not coming to London?’ Slade asked.

  ‘Of course he’s coming,’ Katrin said. She put down her gin-tonic on the table.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ I told Slade. ‘I have a job here, you see.’

  ‘Your wife may be away a very long time,’ Slade said. ‘Have you faced that?’

  ‘He’ll come,’ Darcy said. ‘He’s involved with the group as much as I am.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. I was talking only to Darcy. ‘What would I do over there? Carry the bags?’

  ‘But if you don’t go,’ Phil Brown put in, ‘will Katrin go? We have to be clear about this — there’s no group without her.’ He was fidgeting nervously with his glass, and shooting sideways glances at Slade.

  There was a silence, and now it was my turn to stand up. ‘That’s for Katrin to decide,’ I said. ‘And now if you’ll excuse me I’m going to take a taxi home. You people will have a lot more to discuss.’

  They all stared at me as though seeing me for the first time, and nobody said anything. I wasn’t looking at Katrin.

  The phone by the bed rang at about eleven-thirty. Katrin hadn’t yet come home, and I was lying awake with the light out.

  ‘Dick?’

  It was Darcy’s voice; I suppose I should have expected it. Uttering the single syllable of my name, it had a different intensity than ever before, and was filled with threat. It sent a thrill of purely physical alarm through me, in spite of myself.

  ‘We have to talk,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no point,’ I said. ‘My position won’t change, Darcy. Besides, I’ve gone to bed.’

  ‘Waiting for Katrin, are y’? I don’t reckon she’ll come home tonight.’ He was jeering under his breath, and at the same time holding in check an ecstasy of pure rage: an unpleasant sound.

  ‘Good night, Darcy.’

  ‘Wait, you shit.’ The breathy voice was both urgent and threatening. ‘You’d better not hang up, and you’d better listen. I’m calling from the Hasty Tasty. I’m on my own. Get yourself around here in the next ten minutes. Don’t even think about saying no, Dick, or if your marriage isn’t finished already, it will be when I’ve talked to Katrin. You know what I’m talking about mate, don’t you? Do you hear what I’m saying? I’m talking about Deirdre.’

  All was as usual, in the Hasty Tasty.

  The jukebox was playing ‘House of the Rising Sun’, and under the h
igh pink ceiling, the sailors, rockers and prostitutes spilled out of the booths with an eternal air. I’d kept Burr waiting twenty minutes and it was now near midnight. It was always close to midnight in the Hasty: the inmates, although they gave an illusion of coming and going, were constantly here, I thought, their din drowning the music. we never closed. The small man in the cook’s hat made hamburgers in the window for ever.

  A deep loathing that resembled nausea filled me. Why on earth did Darcy still use the Hasty as a rendezvous? He could afford the most expensive places around the Cross, now. Moving between the booths, catching sight of him hunched motionless over a coffee with his back to me, still in the handsome brown suede jacket, I decided it was because he actually preferred the place; it suited him here.

  When I slid into the seat facing him, I found that he had Pipsqueak beside him. He had said he was alone; but perhaps Pipsqueak didn’t count. Or perhaps he thought of her as a sort of familiar.

  We sat in silence for a moment, simply looking at each other. His face was set and frowning, and looked even more pale and pinched than it had done in the IRC office; he wore his schoolmasterly glasses. He gave no explanation for Pipsqueak’s presence, and behaved as though she weren’t here. She was wearing her usual black shirt and wooden beads, and her skin appeared greyish in the underwater light. Her bleached eyes were still unfocused; she was stoned as usual. She looked at me blindly and briefly, twitching her nose like a rabbit, and I doubted whether she saw me properly. On the jukebox now, the Beatles were singing ‘Yesterday’, and in the booth opposite ours, the same grey-haired derelict I’d seen before was accompanying them with his metal teaspoons, drumming away in his frantic private bubble. And I thought of those temperate hells in the visions of Swedenborg, which were not imposed on their inhabitants but sought out by them, since the damned wanted only to be there: in foul and frowning houses where they lusted and quarrelled eternally; in lanes filled with ordure, where they preyed and marauded without cease.