Club27

by Karl Bourdiec

  Club27

  Karl Bourdiec

  Copyright © 2017 Karl Bourdiec

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:

  ISBN-13:

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Prelude

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  A thank you note.

  About the author

  Sign up for karl bourdiec's Mailing List

  Prelude

  ‘Thank you, good night,’ Bishop waved to the crowd. Good bye to the people. Slicking back his too long hair, it bounced back into place which almost covered one of his eyes.

  The home town gigs were always the best. Cameron thought wondering through the halls and pathways calved from sound equipment. You knew people who knew you in school would be in the audience. People like Collin Tolchard, the big prick. He’d be there, telling women he went to school with the great Cameron Bishop. He kicked his oversized shoes off. They looked like space boots, if space boots, were red and covered in dirt with snapped laces. Bishop was rich but the shoes were part of his look, with his baggy jeans and black tees and over shirts.

  The cuffs of his pants crawled along the floor behind him. Cameron grabbed a bottle of water pulled a huge sip from it,

  ‘Hey Chris,’ Bishop pointed at Chris with the two fingers which were loose when holding his bottle. Chris was a stage manager, Bishop crossed his name out from the note pad in his head. It wasn’t needed now.

  Chris mumbled something under his breath, it began with a C and rhymed with hunt. Chris waved anyway. Not waving to rock stars was a sin in their eyes, they considered themselves gods. The stage their Olympus, a city in the clouds made up of amps and cables.

  There was more high fiving, it was that kind of road trip, one where people were a little handsy. If it wasn’t a high five it was something else. A hug, that French style kiss, when you kiss the other person’s cheek. Bishop wasn’t the kissing type, not mime kissing, he’d hug anybody. high five more than that, but if he was kissing. It was deep, and would leave both people involved with thick red tracks of lipstick around their mouths like drawn on clown faces.

  The scribbles. One night only, back and town 01.17.94.

  A huge poster told Bishop the date as he walked past a few changing rooms, each one filled with giggles of girls. The bubbles of some un-imageable drug being concocted, or concentrated in each living area. Spike, the drummer, heard yelling from a room. Although he yelled with such force it could have come from each room, all at once.

  Bishop looked at the print off, of the poster.

  ‘Who did this!’ Bishop crowed, nobody had noticed a simple error.

  ‘Get Jerry, get the manager. Get that fucker here now!’ a small man ran along. He was a wee little man, in certain lights his suit looked green, these lights seemed to follow him. Jerry was a yank, a loud one, the type which doesn’t seem to be able to control the volume of his voice.

  ‘What’s up Cam?’ Cameron hated being called Cam. Jerry knew this and used it to belittle him, although nobody would be littler than Jerry.

  ‘Can you tell me what’s wrong with this poster.’ They both stood looking at the poster as if they expected it to move. Posters don’t move.

  ‘The name’s not big enough.’ When Jerry spoke, you could never tell where the question mark would sit.

  ‘No that’s not it.’ There was a sudden calmness in Bishops voice. This wasn’t good, since Cameron went clean when his voice went soft and calm he was preparing to explode. As if he was saving his energy up like a huge battery.

  ‘It’s the date.’ Bishop suggested.

  ‘The date?’

  ‘It’s wrong.’ Bishop said relaxed. Jerry had found himself a little light, as if each of his pockets had been filled with some super light gas.

  ‘You’ve wrote it American. No bloody wonder nobody was here.’ Now Jerry pressed against the glass which held the poster in place.

  ‘Does month, date, then year actually make sense? No, it doesn’t nobody says Jan the seventeenth. Do they?’ Bishop used Jerry’s face to smudge the glass which covered the date so it was almost indisputable.

  Then Jerry fell, he landed on his feet like a cat, and much like one he scurried off in silence with haste.

  Bishop wasn’t given Jerry credit. It was far from nobody, half of Arbeia was there, and Arbeia was a town which thought it was a city.

  Cameron walked on, Jerry ran around in circles behind him like a cockroach when you shine a torch on it. At the end of the hall of cables and unused amps a room sat. A simple wooden door, the cheap type all back stages had, being doors got trashed as quick as TV’s in this environment. A small silver sign read C. Bishop, Mr. C Bishop pushed at the door.

  ‘Oh, come on, that’s incredibly unhygienic.’ Lots of people had filled up Bishops lounge area. Nude skin filled the room until the center seemed like a huge blob. White powder lay in straight train tracks on the table.

  ‘Sorry Cameron, my room was full.’

  ‘Carry on spike, I’ll go for a drive.’ Bishop pulled the door behind him, smelling at the thick perfumes in the air. Is favorite fragrance of forty percent alcohol and A class drugs. Although drugs didn’t have a smell they had a sense. A sense which filled the people with such powerful emotions. They poured from their bodies and into the room.

  Bishop was with the common people now, he wanted to do what the common people did. He got in his little red sports car. The one he’d fell in love with when watching a cheesy movie about kids being ill and skipping school. The point of the film had almost washed over him, all he recalled was partying on a flat and having a red sports car.

  Cameron rounded street after street, revving at red lights, blasting through greens. After a few miles, his choice had surfaced in the back of mind, thinking of his friends, the people he knew in this town. A stock check in his head, the little yellow note pad in his mind.

  The three-legged lamb was a shit hole of a pub, it was cramp and smelled of old dish rags. They bought slightly off brand and out of date beers from local corner shops. It was perfect for Bishop, this was what the rock and roll life style was about.

  ‘Hey up, its Mr fucking big shot Bishop aren’t it.’ A large man in his late twenties who seemed too young to own a pub. He tugged on his off shoot of a beard, a long thin branch of hair which seemed to fall from his bottom lip.

  ‘Gilly!’ Cameron yelled they hugged, although it was much easier to hug Cameron than Gilly. Even with Bishops long arms.

  Cameron grabbed a seat in the corner of the pub, although most of the pub made of corners. Bishop found this particular seat which almost surrounded him with walls. Hiding him from the normal bar keeps.

  Gilly chatted to a few people around the place as he pulled pints. An old man who had sat in a chair so much it had started to take the shape of him. Caught Gill in a conversation which looked deep to Bishop. They were too far away to be heard and the noise of the bar muted them well. A young girl just a few years older than the legal age to be in this pub, popped out of a side room. She mumbled something to Gilly. Bishop tried to read her lips, but got to preoccupied by how her lips looked and moved.

  Cameron shifted around in his chair, trying to find a pose which made him look the coolest. He trie
d a few, finally settling on a pose from a magazine interview he’d done in ninety-two. The girl was coming over, she stepped one foot crossing over the other like women do on cat walks. It was like a TV advert for beer. The girl held the pint between finger and thumb. Holding her other hand under the pint catching the drips of liquid that had tippled from the sides. Between her teeth was a beer mat. Her top lip waterfalled over the top, the were a rosy red as if she’d just applied a fresh coat of lipstick.

  ‘Hey, you come here often?’ Cameron crossed his legs and put his arms over the back of wall couch pubs always have. The girl mumbled something, Bishop was unclear what. She mumbled it again. Which was the point Bishop pulled the beer mat from her mouth.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Could you get this?’

  ‘Oh, yeah sure.’ Bishop threw the small piece of card on the table where it spun. The girl put beer down on the card which stopped it spinning and sucked up all the excess pint.

  ‘I work here.’ The girl said.

  ‘What?’ Bishop asked confused.

  ‘You asked if I come here often, I work here.’ She wiped her hands on her piney.

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘So, the great Cameron Bishop?’

  ‘You know my band?’ he asked.

  ‘Nope, Gilly just won’t shut up about you.’

  ‘Liz!’ Gilly yelled.

  ‘My names Liz.’ She said to Cameron, ignoring Gilly’s yelling.

  ‘Cameron.’ Cameron put his hand out to shake.

  ‘I know.’ Liz replied, turning to head back to the bar.

  The night went on, as most nights did, time tended to do that. Liz popped over once or twice. Sometimes with nuts or with pints, but most of the time she only brought her great smile. Handing over Bishops drink with a new coaster. Cameron had cultivated enough coasters by the time some of the lights had been turned off.

  ‘Bishop I’m locking up, I can’t let you stay man, I’m on my last strike before I lose my license.’ Gilly spoke. Clicking the lock into place on the street entrance of the three-legged lamb. Liz stepped out of the side room. She was putting on her oversized puffer jacket, pulling it tight. Although it was the summer this small town got very cold at night, everybody blamed the sea breeze. Bishop blamed the lack of people at night, people kept you warm. Even if you didn’t touch them, them just being their warmed you from the inside out.

  ‘You can come with me if you like.’ Liz adjusted her long hair, being it had caught itself in the back of her jacket.

  ‘Em, sure. Where too?’ Bishop asked, Gilly just shook his head and unclicked the door lock he had been fiddling with.

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘I’ve been drinking all night. You’ll have to drive.’ Bishop wasn’t a mad man, just an idiot, he was only irresponsible with his own life, not others.

  ‘We won’t have to drive. I live upstairs.’

  ‘Gilly lives upstairs.’

  ‘Actually. me and my lass just got a nice little house by the old beach, overlooking the dragon.’ Gilly explained. Opening the door. The Dragon was a small park right on the beach, not a nice park, more of a large patch of grass people played football on. When it wasn’t used as an over flow car park.

  Bishop and Liz left, leaving Gilly alone in a silent, dark and a little shitty pub.

  ‘I’m going to sell this place.’ Gilly murmured to himself before flipping chairs over.

  A dark and dingy room sat above the Three-legged lamb. It smelled of beer and cheap spirits. Which made their way through the roof and then soaked their way into the carpet. So, each step spat up the smell of the pub below. Cameron hit the light switch as Liz was a little preoccupied with Bishops mouth.

  ‘They don’t work.’ She spoke out of a free inch on the left of her mouth. Coming up for air she scattered a few tealights and lit them quickly.

  This is the point as a writer I feel the need to take a break, maybe have a coffee or a drink. I suppose a coffee is a drink. If you’d like to read about what Liz and Cameron got up to over the next hour. Go to your local library. Seek out an older looking lady, probably called Sandra. she will lead you to a room which is protected by a beaded curtain.

  An hour passed, a very sweaty hour, with lots of panting and flesh touching flesh. Liz had fallen into a pretty deep sleep, the ones nobody wants to wake from, not dead just exhausted. She rolled onto her side. Pulling the blanket from Bishop, if you could call it a blanket, it was more a bath towel with a duvet set on it.

  With gentle movement Cameron pulled himself from the bed feeding his feet into his jean. Which pulled up without noise. Scurrying around on the floor he grabbed his old tee shirt, throwing it on he left.

  A small yellow square had been stuck to front door of Liz’s room. It looked like Gilly’s hand writing and addressed to Cameron. With flickering eyes, he read it with intense speed. Something in his gut dropped three or four inches and landed where his pecker sat.

  These feelings are harder to explain then you’d expect. The idea that with in two words you know what the note says and that because of eight words on a piece of paper your world will never be the same.

  The note read simply “Bishop, Ronnie’s at your house, it sounded urgent.” Within seconds the note was floating down to earth. It’s odd how something so small and light could carry such waited information.

  Bishop jumped into his car. His blood was pumping so fast the alcohol had cleared its way through his system. The sex helped with that, the fear which span his blood into a cyclone helped more.

  The engine started and Cameron pushed hard onto the pedals. The car screeching away from the old Three-legged lamb. The drive seemed to last forever. Houses blowing past his ears. There was little time for him to replace the hood to his car. The cold night chilled his ears, making them red and tender. Giving him a ringing in the eardrum like he’d never felt before. It was an intense pain which made him wiggle his finger in his ear every few minutes to try and remove the sharp stab.

  Each mile felt like a million, why did he have to buy a home on the out skirts of the town? He thought to himself. At the time he considered it the best idea. It meant when he wasn’t n tour each drive into town was a long one, a gentle Sunday stroll. Now it was simply an annoying distance in such an emergency.

  Cameron’s car came to a screeching holt. Brown dust spat from the rocks below his tires. Those brown rocks all nice houses used to cover their parking area. It drew brown splashes up the side of his Ferrari making the fresh red the colour of a scab. Running up the stairs Bishops red skate shoes loosened, almost losing one of them on the climb.

  ‘Ronnie!’ Bishop yelled thinking the worse. This wasn’t the first-time Ronnie had done something like this. Both Ronnie and Cameron had gone through AA together. For Cameron it had worked, if he kept away from situations which could enable him. Cameron was clean, Ronnie on the other hand was mixed success. Like Bishop, if he stayed away from drugs he didn’t find the need to take them. Unlike Bishop, he enjoyed the situation that came with drugs, he’d relapse constantly. This would put him on huge downward spirals, after gigs normally.

  ‘What you watching?’ Bishop asked flatly as if he were talking to a stray dog or cat.

  ‘Tom and Jerry.’ Ronnie answered, it was Tom and Jerry. Bishop had a vast collection of VHS tapes. A massive collection of movies, but most of it was old cartoons. Tom and Jerry, Scooby Doo, that weird back to the future cartoon they made.

  Bishop stepped in his living room, although chairs were scattered around. nice chairs, big chairs. Ronnie sat on the floor, a striped teal rug, Ronnie with his long hair, one side shaved down to his scalp.

  Cross legged like a child Ronnie held a large tub of ice cream in his right. He fed himself large scoops, it had melted a little dripping back into the tub.

  In Ronnie’s left hand. A revolver lay, Bishop recognised the gun instantly. It was his, he’d got it, he’d like to have said he got it for protection, when really he’d got it to protect everybody e
lse from him.

  ‘Put it down man.’ Bishop stepped forward.

  ‘But I’m eating it.’ Ronnie shook the spoon at Bishop.

  ‘You know I don’t mean that.’

  ‘Oh this.’ The gun was lifted on his finger where it hung like a pocket watch.

  ‘I’m just holding it for you.’ Ronnie continued.

  ‘You’ve just held onto it before. Remember, you shot three mirrors out, that roadie lost a finger.’

  ‘It was his little finger.’ Ronnie answered.

  ‘A finger is a finger man.’ Bishop moved closer, a little too close. Ronnie’s hand shot up to the side of his head, gun included.

  ‘Ronnie no, stop this, Ronnie.’ Bishop spoke to Ronnie like he was his pet, Ronnie oddly had gotten used to this, it almost had become a common situation.

  He scooped another huge spoon full of ice-cream into his mouth.

  ‘I’ve had a thing for ice-cream, when I tried to quit last time. I think it’s the sugar. Did you have that? You have a stupid amount of ice-cream, so I guess you know what I mean.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’ Bishop tried to inch enough to start to take the gun from Ronnie.

  ‘Come on man, pass it here.’ Ronnie didn’t

  The ringing wouldn’t stop. The cold hadn’t helped, but now the ringing was huge as if Bishop had placed his head inside a bell. The world was red now, his face was wet and the world had gone red, the ringing would clear from his mind. It made it difficult to think and sometimes it made it hard to even stand straight.

  He moved gently, more a stumble then walking, Ronnie lay on the floor, he didn’t move.

  Bishop needed ice-cream, ice-cream was what he needed. He tumbled from his door, a few minutes’ walk from here was a small corner shop, this is what he needed, they would have ice-cream, ice-cream was what he needed.

  Nobody is around at two a.m. not a sole walks the street then, other than mad men.

  A rock star walks into a shop the beginning of a terrible joke. The small bell rings above the door as it always did, Cameron Bishop wonders through the small gaps between the produce. Pulling his way through to the freezers.

  A small woman, eye’s much larger than her head should hold stood behind the counter. Three small buckets of ice-cream were dropped in front of her. One of them rolled around a little on her mat which told of the great deals the store had on this week, most of it covered great deals on beers and ciders. Bishop had taken note of these deals to tell Gilly, Gilly would buy half the stock to stock his bar.