Hunting for Crows

by Iain Cameron

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘I don’t know what it means,’ Danielle said, her face displaying a puzzled expression. ‘Even if Dad was drunk and moved them to take a look at something, he would still put them back in the correct order before he went to bed.’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘Now,’ her daughter said, hands on her hips. ‘If you did manage to find the blue book all by yourself, how were you going to get one of these pictures down? I don’t know which one is hiding the safe, but they’re both big beasts.’

  ‘Now you mention it, they do look rather big.’ She slapped her daughter on the arm. ‘Good job you’re here. I’ll get a chair.’

  She held the chair while Danielle climbed up and tried to unhook the painting. It was a simple enough job to do with a small painting, but even with arms outstretched and gripping both sides, she was finding it awkward to manoeuvre.

  Somehow she managed to free it, and passed the painting to Emily. They were being careful not to damage it, but like all the items in the cupboards upstairs, she would not be taking them with her and if they couldn’t find a buyer, they would be junked.

  Danielle stepped down to catch her breath. The safe could be seen now. Emily always knew it was there but never had cause to open it. Pete told her he kept private things in there and didn’t want her looking, but she was never tempted, even if she could have manhandled the big paintings by herself. In his will, Pete didn’t leave the business to her, but to their daughter and so she was hoping the safe contained something of value to tide her over until the house was sold.

  Emily flicked through the blue book and found the code. Danielle climbed up again, and turned the dial on the front of the safe based on her promptings. With a cry of ‘Ta dah,’ from her daughter, the door opened. She reached inside.

  ‘It’s nothing but a load of papers and Dad’s passport,’ she said as she flicked though the pile she had extracted.

  ‘Pass them down.’

  Emily looked through the papers and found the divorce papers, deeds for the house and other documents relating to the business.

  ‘Is there anything else in there?’

  Danielle dipped her hand inside once again. ‘Nope, it’s now officially empty. It’s a big safe for not a lot of stuff.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s empty?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. I’m an ‘A’ level student and not a ten-year-old kid. You look disappointed. What were you expecting, diamonds and gold?’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Bristol 1989

  Derek Crow tumbled out of bed and fell on the floor with a thump. He loved touring but hated how he couldn’t remember which bed he crawled into the previous night and whether it butted up against the wall or not. This one obviously didn’t.

  He looked at the girl occupying the other side of the bed through bloodshot eyes. She looked fast asleep, just as well as he didn’t look or feel his best this morning. God knows how many pints of ale and vodkas and coke he’d downed, and then they smoked some weed Eric brought back from Germany.

  The gig they did last night at the Colston Hall in Bristol was up there in the top five of Crazy Crow gigs, but borne out of yet another big argument between Eric and Danny. Their constant bickering got on his nerves but if it ever had a positive side, last night was it. They played many songs from the new album and while sometimes playing new material often went down like a lead balloon, as the fans came to hear the old favourites, last night they loved it. They shouted and screamed out the lyrics, giving Danny a special thrill as he’d penned a couple of them.

  He left sleeping beauty to her slumber and wandered down to the restaurant to satisfy his strong craving for food. Unlike the other members of the band, Barry possessed an iron constitution and no matter what he got up to the previous evening, he could always make it down for breakfast. Sure enough, when he walked through the reception area, he found Barry in a quiet corner, enjoying a cup of post-breakfast coffee and reading a newspaper.

  ‘Morning bro,’ Barry said looking up as he approached.

  ‘Morning Barry, how are you?’ he said slumping into the seat. ‘In fact, don’t answer that as I saw you neck down a couple of pints before you headed upstairs with a gorgeous bird with long black hair.’

  ‘I’d rather spend the night shagging a lass like her than getting drunk like you lot. Plus, it means I feel a lot better for it in the morning.’

  ‘I can’t argue with you there.’

  Derek called over a passing member of the hotel staff. She was aged around nineteen with her hair scraped back in a severe pony-tail revealing a pretty, unblemished face. It was a good job Barry was stuck behind a table, as she looked his type.

  ‘Can I order a coffee tray like his, and is there any breakfast food left?’

  ‘Oh my God. You’re the singer from the band I saw last night, the Crazy Crows. Can I just say, you guys are bloody brilliant? My friend Melissa and me had the best night watching a band we’ve had in years. She’ll be thrilled and jealous as hell when she finds out I’ve met you.’

  For the last five years, he could stand naked like a mannequin in a shop window in Oxford Street and nobody would bat an eyelid. A combination of releasing a well-received album, their fourth, and playing as many gigs as their promoter could book, had elevated them onto a whole new plane.

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it. You’ll need proof to show to your friend.’

  She nodded with enthusiasm. ‘You could use my notebook.’

  ‘Nah, you want something more personal.’ He looked over at his brother. ‘C’mon Barry, sign that clean napkin.’ He signed it and passed it over and Derek did the same. In seconds, it disappeared into a pocket of her apron.

  ‘Thanks a lot. Now what would you like? I could get you a sandwich.’

  ‘How about a toasted sandwich?’

  ‘Can do. Would you like bacon, ham or fried egg?’

  ‘One bacon and one egg and a couple of rounds of toast as well, I’m starving.’

  ‘Coming up,’ she said as she turned away and rushed off, not so much to assuage his ravenous hunger but to alert the other restaurant staff as to their presence, and to hide the napkin in her locker.

  ‘I fear the days of sitting unnoticed in the corner of a place like this are coming to an end,’ Barry said. ‘Are you ready for it?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said as he helped himself to the remaining nuts in Barry’s little bowl. ‘Is anybody?’

  ‘I like not being recognised, not being pestered by autograph hunters and folks with their bloody flashing cameras.’

  He crunched the nuts. The first few bites tasted of toothpaste, his earlier attempt to get rid of the shitty quagmire in his mouth, and like a slow intro, the sharp, salty flavour came crashing through.

  ‘I guess we’ll all need to get used to it. In a way, it’s what we’ve all signed up for.’

  ‘Aye, maybe you’re right. Can I talk to you about last night?’

  ‘What, was your performance in the sack not up to its usual high standard? Has she made a complaint about you to hotel management?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, there’s fuck all wrong wi’ me or my tackle. I’m talking about the concert.’

  Here we go again. Barry could be a bit of an old woman and at times Derek thought him unsuited to playing in a rock band and touring, as he wanted to nit-pick every performance, reminding him too much of the production manager in the meat packing factory where he used to work. Derek, you sang out of tune there; Eric never plays the same riff twice; Pete hits the snare too hard. It sounded like a scratched record, the needle jumping back, time after time to the same part of the song.

  Relief came ten minutes later when the food arrived, as he didn’t need to look at his brother and feign interest. Fame did have its compensations as the plate was crammed with food. Between two slices of thick, toasted bread he could see numerous rashers of bacon, a fried egg between two more, and at the side, a couple of sausages,
hash browns and dollop of baked beans. To crown it all, a little bowl of tomato sauce.

  ‘That stuff will set you up for the day,’ Barry said, ‘or give you a bloody coronary.’

  ‘I’m too young to die,’ he said tucking in. ‘I’ll take the first one.’

  *

  Sometime after midday, the rest of the band appeared and shuffled towards a large people carrier. Last night, the roadies had packed all the equipment and taken it to a storage facility in South London. Now, with a four-day gap in the touring schedule, they headed to a house in Dorset rented by their manager Frannie Copeland, in the hope they could come up with some ideas for the next album, and to indulge in some much needed R&R.

  It was a peaceful journey, with those who hadn’t made breakfast dozing, only capable of making stupid comments, and those with food in their bellies awake and enjoying the green, rolling countryside. The house wasn’t far, seventy-odd miles, and Derek took the wheel. Barry offered to do it but he had a well-deserved reputation for lapses in concentration, his mind elsewhere, compiling a list of all the women he’d rogered in the last week or thinking up another entry for his ‘on the road’ rock diary.

  They arrived at the holiday house around three o’clock in the afternoon, and in tribute to Frannie’s organisational abilities and his largesse with their money, a local shop had delivered four boxes of groceries, including loads of booze.

  It was only a short break, not enough time to go home, although only Pete was married, but plenty of time to catch up on sleep and to do some song writing. At the back of Frannie’s mind, it was an attempt to try and cool the animosity between Eric and Danny, free from the pressures of concerts and away from easy access to coke and weed, drugs that were making Eric paranoid and unpredictable.

  The house lay a couple of miles outside Weymouth at Osmington Mills, a large family place with six bedrooms and a massive country kitchen. They used the spare bedroom to store all the equipment they’d brought with them: three acoustic guitars, a couple of practice amps, and bongo drums so Pete could play without sticks.

  If he asked one of their fans to use one word to describe Barry, they would call him, ‘solid’ or ‘dependable’, or if he asked Eric, ‘boring.’ In his mind, Barry was ‘cohesive.’ He acted as the band’s peacemaker, a man who did what he could to keep things together, and while everyone else went off for a kip, he cooked the evening meal.

  By eight, everyone was milling around, drinking beers and chatting. Thirty minutes later and around the big table in the spacious kitchen, they all tucked into the cook’s speciality, Spag Bol with a little twist. It contained chilli and peppers, plenty of each.

  ‘Fuck me it’s hot,’ Eric said after incautiously scooping a large dollop into his mouth. ‘Pass me the water. I think I’m gonna melt.’

  Derek raised a wine glass. ‘Fellas, a toast.’

  ‘What are we celebrating?’ Eric said. ‘You making your way through a full concert after playing all the right chords?’

  ‘Listen to you, Mr ad-libber over there,’ Pete said. ‘The amount of times I have to pull you out of a hole when you lose your place in a song.’

  ‘Listen fellas,’ Derek said, still holding his glass aloft and banging a knife on the table to quieten them. ‘I spoke to Frannie while you lot were still in bed…’ He paused.

  ‘He told me he’s seen the latest NME album chart.’

  He looked around at each of the expectant faces.

  ‘Our new album, number four if anyone’s counting…’

  ‘Get on with it, Crow,’ Eric shouted.

  ‘Our new album, Black Saturday has shot into the album charts…’

  They banged their cutlery and glasses on the table and whooped.

  ‘Wait for it, boys, at number seventeen.’

  A big cheer rang through the rafters.

  ‘Fuck me,’ Eric said, ‘we’ve made it at last.’

  ‘The trick now,’ Danny said, ‘is to find a way to stay there.’

  ‘What do you know rookie? You’ve only played with a couple of two-bit outfits who were lucky to get a gig above a pub.’

  Derek could sense an argument brewing so he said, ‘Does anybody know if Fast Eddie got hold of the new kit we ordered?’

  ‘I’m still waiting for a new hi-hat,’ Pete said. ‘The last one got bent at the gig in London.’

  ‘I need a new phaser pedal,’ Eric said, ‘as that new roadie, Bill whatshisname broke my old one. I don’t think I’ve seen a replacement yet.’

  ‘You could still play with the broken one, Eric,’ Barry said, ‘no one would know the difference.’

  ‘Fellas, fellas,’ Derek said. ‘Knock it off. It’s the first night, let’s see if we can behave for once.’

  ‘I’ll get you back later, young Crow,’ Eric said, an evil glint in his eye.

  They talked equipment for a few minutes when Pete, who often didn’t say much in these get-togethers as they were loud and raucous said, ‘I’ve written a new song.’

  ‘Great news, Pete,’ Derek said. ‘Where is it? Did you bring it with you?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Let’s get the gear,’ Eric said, ‘and give it a try out.’

  ‘Maybe we should tidy up first,’ Barry said, ‘if you all wanna eat in here in the morning.’

  ‘Fuck that for a game of soldiers,’ Eric said, ‘I’m getting my guitar.’

  They brought the gear into the living room, a large space which occupied about a third of the ground floor, but the acoustics were crap, the soft furnishings soaking up the sound, deadening it. It was a surprise to hear Pete had written a song, but he shocked them all by playing the melody on the baby grand piano, kindly left by the owners for their use. His playing was basic but he did enough for them to hear the tune, and once Danny had listened to it a few times, he took over.

  Somebody picked up the wine bottles from the table and brought them over and with glasses re-filled, they got down to the serious business of adapting the song for the band, as it was a good song and fitted well into their existing repertoire. There were plenty of examples of drummer-singers, like Ringo, who did the occasional turn for the Beatles, and Don Henley, who sang on most of the Eagles’ big hits, but Pete was a lousy singer and didn’t sound good, even in his own bathroom, so Derek didn’t ask him.

  They worked until two in the morning, alternating between Pete’s new song and one Derek had brought with him. It ended up being a terrific session, as everyone concentrated on their work and nobody sniped at one another or zoned out due to drugs. The number of empty beer cans and wine bottles lying around the lounge suggested booze played a large part in the creativity, and when someone suggested a walk on the beach to clear their heads, they all trooped outside.

  The narrow route to the beach took them past several houses set back from the road, all shrouded in darkness, the occupants safely tucked up in bed. It ended at a car park overlooking the cliff, and beside it stood a quaint old pub, The Smugglers Inn.

  The path down to the shore felt steep and loose rocks made it slippery underfoot, but they were all so pissed it wouldn’t hurt even if they did fall. With only the glow of the moon the beach looked spectacular, with a long line of golden sand, the cliffs towering above, dark and mysterious, and the sea twinkling and moving with the restlessness of the planets, making a leisurely plopping noise, increasing in volume the lower they went.

  ‘I’m glad I don’t live around here, Pete,’ Derek said after they removed shoes and socks and walked barefoot across the sand.

  ‘Why? Don’t you like the country and all this peace and quiet?’

  ‘I like it fine, but my songs would start to sound like Victorian love poems; I keep thinking of lines like ‘The majestic power of the sea’ and the ‘Foreboding shadow of the cliffs.’’

  ‘Hey fellas,’ Eric shouted from a distance away, ‘there’s a boat over there. Who fancies a sail?’

  ‘Not me, I hate the bloody water,’ Derek shouted back.

 
; ‘Pete, how about you?’

  ‘No, I’m staying here. I don’t fancy getting wet.’

  ‘See ya, you couple of sissies.’

  Derek sat down in the sand and Pete dropped down beside him. He dipped into the bag he’d carried down from the house and handed Pete a beer, taking one for himself. He sipped the beer while chatting to Pete and watching the three stooges walk along a small stone pier.

  Close to the end and impossible to see clearly against the dark shadow of the pier, they tottered down steps, which from their position looked as if they were walking on air; beer fumes maybe, but air? No way. At the bottom of the steps, they faffed around with the boat for a couple of minutes before Eric and Danny climbed in. Barry loosened the rope, jumped in beside them, and with much shouting and giggling the three men in a boat set off.

  Derek didn’t know if Eric was a keen sailor, as he couldn’t recall him ever mentioning it, but if the way he handled the oar was any indication, his nautical knowledge had long been forgotten or was buried under too many dead brain cells. The strain of concentrating and peering into a murky seascape with a beer-sizzled brain left him tired. He screwed the beer can into the sand to make sure it didn’t fall over, laid back and shut his eyes. It felt so peaceful lying there, the warm breeze wafting his face with the gentleness of silk, the somnolent effect of the lapping waves and the comfortable feel of the sand, slowly moulding to his shape.

  He dozed off and it took a couple of prods from Pete to rouse him.

  ‘Yeah?’ he said sitting up and rubbing his eyes. ‘What is it? Are we going back to the house?’

  ‘I think something’s wrong.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  Pete nodded towards the water. ‘Out there, the lads in the boat. I heard a lot of shouting and screeching.’

  Derek found it hard to focus; the booze, the poor light, and his fuzzy brain conspiring against logical thought. A few minutes later he saw the boat, Barry rowing and Eric sitting at the bow. Gone was the boisterousness of earlier, and the lack of activity inside the boat spoke volumes.