by David Bowker
Yet Rawhead was all gentle manly grace as Nikki leaned forward to hug him. As she bent forward, he inhaled the booze on her breath and glimpsed one of her tiny girlish breasts.
The black funeral pyre that was Rawhead’s heart began to smolder.
“I’ll phone him, shall I? Let me phone him. Come in for a minute.”
He stepped into the bright bourgeois hall, catching sight of himself in a long oval mirror. His eyes gleamed madly, as if he’d taken acid or seen the kingdom of heaven. He turned away, watching her make the phone call. Predictably, Billy’s mobile was switched off. Rawhead thanked Nikki and moved toward the door.
“You could always wait,” she said.
“No. Like you say, Billy could be all day. I’d just be in your way.”
“I’m not doing anything,” she said. Ever.
He stood there, pretending to consider it.
When what she was proposing was exactly what he had in mind.
* * *
Rawhead insisted on opening the champagne. It was colder than a Salvation Army bed. Nikki got dressed and they sipped Taittinger together in the vast living room. While they were chatting, a deliveryman called at the house to drop off a parcel. Nikki opened it in front of Rawhead. It was full of paperback books.
“Oh,” said Nikki. “It’s Billy’s latest. I’d forgotten all about it.”
She passed a copy to Rawhead. The title was “Not Dead, but Creeping.” Like all Billy’s books, it had a bad cover—a corpse crawling on all fours through a graveyard. “I didn’t know he had a book coming out,” said Rawhead.
“Yeah. He wrote that soon after Maddy was born. I think he got an advance of about two thousand for it.”
Nikki watched Rawhead leafing through the book.
“You actually read those things?”
“Yeah,” said Rawhead. “I think Billy’s a great writer.”
She looked at him sideways, as if there must be something wrong with him. His face suddenly registered mild shock. “Have you seen this?”
“What?”
He took the book over to her. On page 3, there was a dedication: TO STEVE ELLIS, FRIEND AND BROTHER.
Nikki was delighted. “Hey! How about that? You got a birthday present. Take that copy away with you. Happy bloody birthday.”
Rawhead nodded and sat down. For a long time he browsed through the paperback, his face dark and intense.
“How old are you?” said Nikki eventually. “Same age as Billy?”
“I think so,” he said.
She thought he was joking. “How do you mean?”
“My mother abandoned me when I was small.” He said this cheerfully, without a trace of self-pity.
Nikki didn’t know what to say.
“I was adopted when I was thirteen, and my mum and dad chose today as my birthday. I don’t know when my real birthday is. My real mum was a chronic alcoholic, you see. One day was very much like the next to her.”
“I know the feeling,” said Nikki.
Rawhead nodded, his eyes taking in the suburban decor, two goldfish swimming forlornly in a huge bowl, the framed wedding photo above the fireplace.
“Did you ever know your father?” she asked him.
“He was probably some wino who traded a sip from his meths bottle for a fuck. And, believe me, if you’d seen my mother, you’d realize the wino was getting the raw end of the deal.”
Nikki looked at him for a long time. “That’s sad, Steve.”
“Is it?” He smiled. “I wouldn’t change anything about my life.”
“I think I’d change practically everything about mine,” she said. “Apart from Maddy.”
“You and Billy are having problems,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
She nodded. “It’s hard, living with a person all the time. After a while, you stop noticing the good things and just home in on the faults. When I met Billy, we were both art students. He was Modigliani; I was Frida Kahlo. Except better. We were going to be the greatest painters ever born. But somehow, I got sidetracked. Billy ended up with a writing career. I ended up with nothing.”
Rawhead looked around him. “Not bad for nothing.”
Her eyes shone with anger. He realized she was probably drunker than she looked. “You think I wanted to live in a house like this? Surrounded by right-wing pricks who toast the queen before every meal?”
“Billy isn’t like that.”
“Billy’s hardly ever here.” She pointed to a National Trust magazine on the coffee table. “Look at that. We could have supported a charity for the homeless, a charity that feeds children in Africa. And what do we do? We become members of a charity that helps aristocratic scroungers to keep their country mansions. And get this: joining was Billy’s idea.”
Rawhead shook his head in sincere disapproval. He had occasionally fantasized about killing every member of the National Trust.
“So OK. I live in a big house. But I feel I’m living the wrong life,” said Nikki. “With the wrong person.” She looked at him. Her eyes dark and huge, full of fear and desire.
Fear and desire will destroy the world.
“Er, maybe I should go,” said Rawhead. Knowing that if he left now, she would keep thinking about him.
He saw her flinch as if he’d slapped her. “We haven’t finished the champagne.”
He waited awhile, holding the paperback against his chest. “Billy’s my best friend. And I don’t much care for the thoughts that are running through my mind.”
She leaned toward him. “You can’t help having thoughts. Thoughts only become a problem if you act on them.”
“No, I’ll go,” he said. “I think I should.”
She followed him out into the hall. Disappointed, vaguely thwarted. At the door, she threw her arms around him. “Will you come back?”
He shrugged. “When’s a good time?”
“Any time that Billy isn’t here.”
Before he left, she wrote her mobile-phone number on his hand.
* * *
That night, a concert in aid of the Sunny Bunny Trust was held at Diva. The concert was followed by an auction. The worst of Manchester’s comedians and recording artistes had turned up to perform for nothing. In addition to his role as master of ceremonies, Little Malc sang a song he’d written especially for the occasion:
“Have a care for the children of tomorrow
Give them a future that they will not be denied
They may be crippled, but keep them free from sorrow
They may be colored, but they still have their pride.…”
Little Malc was so moved by his own lyrics that he wept during the song. So did many members of the audience, albeit for different reasons.
Mercifully, Rawhead wasn’t there to witness this disgraceful performance. He was on the door with Brando.
“But I don’t understand,” said Brando. “I thought I was just promoted.”
“This is your last night on the door,” promised Rawhead.
Halfway through the charity gala, a battered Daimler stopped outside the club. The Medina brothers got out. Tonight, they were alone.
“OK,” said Rawhead. “You know what to do?”
Brando nodded.
Chris Medina got out of the car first, raising his left leg and farting like a horse. Then his brother appeared, laughing and complaining about the smell. Rawhead stepped out into their path. “Sorry, sir. Tonight it’s invitation only.”
Chris thought it was a joke. “Yeah. And I’m Cinderella.”
“That’s right,” said Keith. He nodded at Brando. “And if we don’t leave on the stroke of midnight, that nigger’s suit turns back into a grass skirt.”
They pressed forward. Rawhead pushed them back. Now Keith was standing at his little brother’s side.
“Hey. Who’re you fucking touching?” demanded Chris. “Hands off, you fucking pleb.”
Rawhead stood firm.
“Acting the big man, are you?” said Keith. “You
couldn’t take my three-year-old kid.”
“Just show me your invitations,” said Rawhead calmly.
“Oh, grow up, you cunt,” said Chris.
“We don’t need no spacko invite,” added his brother. “We rule fucking Salford.”
“But this isn’t Salford,” said Rawhead patiently.
“Bring me Sirus. Now,” demanded Keith. “I want to talk to him.”
“He’s in hospital,” said Brando.
“Who asked you?” said Chris.
“Yeah? Who asked you?” echoed Keith. “You fucking chimp.”
“Good night, gentlemen,” said Rawhead with an air of finality.
Chris was about to take a swing when he glanced to his left, saw a police car slowly approaching. Instead, he got out his mobile to call back his driver.
“I don’t blame nigger boy,” said Keith Medina, looking directly at Rawhead, “because no way would he have thought of this all by himself. So that just leaves you.” He leaned forward and with laudable accuracy spit on Rawhead’s left shoe. “You are fucking dead, my friend.”
Nine
That evening, all in fond discourse was spent,
When the sad lover to his chamber went,
To think on what had past, to grieve and repent
—“THE DEJECTED LOVER,” GEORGE CRABBE (1754–1832)
Billy fully intended to abandon his TV series. He really did. He longed to be an artist again and write just for himself and his only fans, Rawhead and the ghosts of other dead artists.
All television had going for it was large audiences. Nobody reads novels, but at least a novelist only has one editor to contend with. It seemed to Billy that in television the writer was accorded no respect. He was like the poor peasant who grows the food but is not invited to the feast.
In a television script meeting, everyone except the writer had a better idea. Before a script exists, no TV executive alive has the faintest idea how to write it. But when the writer has delivered the first draft, virtually any dimwit who happens to be walking past the producer’s office is invited in to comment on the writer’s script and scribble all over it with red ink.
Yet the evening after the disastrous meeting, Billy logged onto his computer and found five e-mails waiting for him. Two of the messages invited him to enlarge his penis, one invited him to lick a fat girl today, the fourth was from a credit card company, and the fifth was from his agent, Fatty Potts.
Thought you should know that George Leica phoned. Brad Pitt didn’t like the book; Nicole says she’s too busy. George says we shouldn’t be downhearted, it’s early days yet.
Best Wishes,
Fatty.
The message contained an underlying hopelessness that made Billy’s cheeks burn. His stomach churned as he felt his Hollywood dreams receding. Two percent. That was what George had told him. Only 2 percent of published novels get optioned by movie companies. Of the books optioned, only 2 percent ever turn into films. It was always going to be a long shot. But Billy had believed, truly believed, that his dreams of fame and riches were about to be fulfilled. Hadn’t God given him talent for a reason? Not just to bring light and meaning into a wretched world, but to make Billy rich. Having kept his beloved son, William Edwin Dye, waiting for so long, surely the creator would get his act together this time?
Now Billy saw the truth. The Lord wasn’t rooting for him. God didn’t even know who he was. To God, Billy was just another of those nasty little talking monkeys that he’d invented for a joke, one rainy afternoon in heaven.
* * *
This was how Billy ended up occupying a suite high in the Malmaison hotel, gazing down on a dirty brown river and miles of derelict buildings when he should have been writing. He had a house in Prestbury with a big fat mortgage that he’d stupidly believed would be paid off this year when Brad Pitt said yes to the part of hell’s emissary in the movie of Unholier than Thou.
A day before, in Billy’s imagination, Brad Pitt had invited him to his beach home in Malibu. In reality, Brad may not have owned a home in Malibu. But in Billy’s fantasy he did. Billy had played with Brad’s children and shared his ice-cream cone while they discussed their next project. In the fantasy, Brad had laughed wildly at one of Billy’s jokes. Then he had placed his hand on Billy’s shoulder and said, “Man, you are like the brother I never had.”
Today Billy was no brother to Brad. He was not even an insignificant boring cousin whom Brad had never particularly liked. In Brad’s personal universe, Billy was nothing. Brad Pitt, the handsome, talented fucker, thought Billy’s work was shit. Furthermore, if Billy had been able to get hold of Brad at that moment, he would have given him a damned good kicking.
Suddenly the TV series about gangsters looked like Billy’s sole source of income. His fifth novel, Not Dead but Creeping, was about to be published, hardly a cause for celebration. People weren’t exactly going to be queuing round the block for a signed copy.
Once again, Billy’s dreams had turned to shit. It was like climbing the tree of life only to find a waiting noose.
His suite was like a gilded prison cell. With its modernistic arty decor, the hotel seemed to be pretending it wasn’t in Manchester. Billy wasn’t fooled.
As a child, he’d sometimes visited the printing works in Ardwick that his dad managed. The building stank of ink and rats and commanded a panoramic view of poverty and desolation. The Malmaison, for all its charm, overlooked a similar landscape. It was like staying overnight in his dad’s printing works, this time with room service.
Billy phoned Reception to ask what the nearby river was called, but no one knew. The worst thing was, no one offered to find out.
“Is it the Cuntington Canal?” Billy asked the assistant manager.
“I honestly couldn’t say, sir.”
In the distance lay the railway station. Late at night, Billy heard the trains rattling in on the wind. Drunks shouted and sang in the street below.
It was lonely in Billy’s tower. Rain spattered the windows in sad little spurts.
Because someone else was paying, Billy ordered the most expensive items on room service. Prime Scottish sirloin with pommes frites, accompanied by icy cold Perrier-Jouët. Vanilla rice pudding and a glass of aged Calvados. Then a box of chocolate truffles.
One by one, he squashed the chocolates against the bathroom mirror. This was Billy’s idea of trashing a hotel room.
He sat down to write. This is what he typed:
INT. BONEHEAD’S HOUSE. NIGHT.
JOHNNY, clutching a knife, descends the steps leading to the dark cellar. The cellar door is shut. JOHNNY stands beside the door and listens. From within, the sound of manic laughter. JOHNNY reaches for the door handle and turns it with agonizing slowness. The laughter continues. JOHNNY pushes the door open, afraid of what he might be about to see.
Golden light shines on JOHNNY’s face. His fear turns to amazement. Inside the cellar, a pleasant little party is in progress. A dozen people, including BEASTLY, THE SURGEON, and TERRY THE POLICEMAN are sitting on comfortable sofas, sipping wine. The laughter comes from Johnny’s missing publisher, DAN PERRY, who is eating a giant cream cake. In the center of the room stands BONEHEAD, juggling with oranges. At the sight of JOHNNY, everyone falls silent. Only BONEHEAD, who continues to juggle, seems unconcerned.
BONEHEAD
Hi, John. Get yourself a drink, will you? I’ve got my hands full, here.
JOHNNY
But …
BONEHEAD
Yeah?
JOHNNY
All these people …
BONEHEAD
What about ’em?
JOHNNY
Well … they’re alive!
The onlookers laugh and nod.
BONEHEAD
(Mildly exasparated)
Of course they’re alive. What do you take me for?
JOHNNY
A murderer?
More laughter. TERRY THE POLICEMAN comes up to pat BONEHEAD’s arm.
/> TERRY
There’s something you should know about this man … this man …
(Emotional)
… this man is a saint.
The others applaud. BONEHEAD looks bashful.
BONEHEAD
Hey, folks … just because I like saving lives doesn’t make me special.
Little Malc kept phoning Chef, asking for a meeting.
“What about?” demanded Chef.
“I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“Tell me now,” said Chef. “Then I’ll know whether it’s worth going out of the door for.”
“It’s worth it.”
“What is it, then?”
“Meet me and I’ll fucking tell you.”
Chef didn’t care for the way Little Malc sounded. A bit pushy. More confident than usual. “What?… What is it?… No, let me guess. Your balls have finally dropped. You’re pregnant with Tony Bennett’s love child.”
“I just want to talk to you. Face-to-face. That’s what business associates are supposed to do, isn’t it?”
“Stop fucking around. If you want something, tell me what it is and I’ll think about it.”
“It’s business.”
“What kind of business?”
“The kind of business you don’t fucking discuss over the fucking phone.”
* * *
Chef kept putting him off, but Little Malc was persistent, phoning every day until the big man caved in.
They met in the Moroccan at lunchtime, sitting down together in the back room where the private parties were held. Chef was flanked by the Philosopher and Average. Average was a thick-limbed ex-biker with long hair, rings, and amulets. His real name was Andrew Aspin, but they called him Average because he looked like a bear. Not Yogi Bear, who was smarter than the average bear. This guy was strictly average, hence his name.
Little Malc turned up with a big, solemn tool whom he introduced as Stoker.
Chef had already heard about this Stoker guy from the Medinas, who wanted an example to be made of him. They said he’d insulted them. Either Chef made him pay or they’d do it themselves. All Stoker had done, as far as Chef could tell, was bar the Medinas entry to the club. It wasn’t enough to maim a guy for.
