“Useless, fucking, wanker!”
“Why don’t you just shout that a bit louder so the whole hotel can hear?” Dane snaps. “For God’s sake stop whining and use your noodle. We need to put our heads together and think. We’ve less than two hours. How are we going to fix this?”
“We can try and blag it,” I say, “Tell Graham Callahan that Knox is sick with food poisoning or something.”
“Chancy, though it’s an option for explaining his absence. It’s not a solution though.”
“If we attempt to play without him, it’s going to sound fucking weird,” Joel remarks.
“So if we’re going to perform we need someone to stand in for Knox. Any suggestions? And I mean decent suggestions. The guy from Bulldozer’s dire, and in any case, they’re all crashed out with hang-overs. They were mixing vodka and champagne last night, and I saw their vocalist in the gents’ lining up coke chasers.”
“Dave Twist can’t go more than a few hours without doing a few lines,” I say. He’s been like that since Bulldozer first appeared on the scene. “What about the two opening bands from last night. Anyone know them? I don’t. I’m not sure I could even pick them out of a line up, let alone tell you who plays what, or if they’re any good, and sadly I don’t have Lemmy’s number to see if he fancies rising from the grave to help us out.”
“What about Flea’s?” Dane fires straight back. “Or Les Claypool’s. I mean one of them has to be free on a Sunday morning.”
I make a point of retrieving my phone from the counter and scrolling through my contacts list. “Sorry,” I apologise, having failed to find what we were looking for.
“Joel?” Dane prompts him. “You got any great suggestions?”
I look across at Joel and I know he’s just itching to say Loveday’s name. Thankfully, even he has sense enough to realise that Dane will just laugh in his face, probably prior to thumping him. It’s why Joel was seeking my support with the idea first, because Dane’s not going to welcome any sort of association with Bitch Slap.
“We could attempt to alter something or write something new that doesn’t require a bass guitar,” he suggests.
I nod. The idea has merit, and maybe if this was a Sunday afternoon, there was no pressure on us, and we’d all had a decent amount of sleep we’d manage to pull that cat out of the bag. In our present state of grogginess, we’ve zero chance of producing anything ear-worthy.
I shake my head. “There’s not time. Let’s not even pretend.”
Dane agrees. “Then we’re just going to have to roll with the food poisoning excuse and hope that Bitch Slap fuck up, guys.”
“Why would they?” Joel moans. He scratches at his mop of curly hair and gets his fingers stuck in the tangles. “Oh, fuck it! What about their bass-player? Can’t we poach her?”
“To battle against herself?” Dane stops short of calling him an idiot, but the twists and wrinkles in his expression get the message across just fine. “Why would she even consider it? Assuming it wasn’t a stupid idea anyway, and we’d actually want anything to do with her?”
Joel purses his lips and looks at me. “Why don’t you ask your brother, since he’s the one fucking her.”
“Joel!”
“Nate?” Dane rounds on me like a prize fighter. “Since when? Is that why you’re frickin nude?”
I ward Dane’s approach off with my arms. “She helped me get Knox in the bath.”
“You mean she knows he’s in this state?” He stomps around in the tiny space for a moment, apparently speechless. “We can forget using the food poisoning excuse then. Jessie’s going to make sure Callahan knows the truth. She’s probably on the phone to the tabloids already.”
“I hardly think they’d be interested.” We’re a virtually unknown group from the west country, newspaper readers aren’t going to give a shit that our bass-player smokes weed. In any case, you’re making the assumption that Loveday’s told Jessie. She won’t have done.”
I believe that with every fibre of my being, but Dane’s green eyes flair bright with scepticism.
“She won’t.”
“Ever consider that Loveday might have just screwed you to put you off guard?” my baby brother asks.
“His head’s not screwed on well enough for rational thought.” Joel heads out into the bedroom. The creak of a set of mattress springs, tells me he’s crashed out on one of the beds. Getting a few minutes rest seems like a sensible plan given there no longer seems to be any advantage to be gained in staying up.
I stand too, intending to follow.
“You fucked Loveday?” Dane says, through pursed lips. He blocks the exit with his body. “I suppose that explains why you have felt tip all over your arse.”
“It’s my theme tune.” I turn so that I can inspect the writing in the mirror, rather than attempt to wrestle my way past Dane. What I see reflected causes my jaw to slacken and my mouth to fall open.
“What is it?” Dane asks, brows furrowing in response to my astonishment.
She said it was my theme, that she’d heard it while I was inside of her. It is my rhythm. The damned one I’ve been searching for. It’s the missing bass-line to TL:DR written on my arse in purple ink.
It doesn’t matter if we perform for Graham Callahan anymore because we finally have our bargaining chip.
I look at Dane, and he looks at me.
“We’re sorted,” I say. “The song’s complete. It’s all gonna work out.”
-15-
Nathaniel Darke
Despite technically being six minutes early, we’re still the last to enter the function room, which looks even sadder in daylight than it did post show. As we cross the carpet, the same miasma of beer and damp, topped off with a hint of beeswax wafts up my nostrils.
We look pretty grungy this morning, Dane, Joel and I, all having pulled on whatever was to hand out of our bags. If Callahan’s looking for polished professionals, we’re already doomed, because it’s relaxed fit jeans and geeky T-shirts all round.
Speaking of the man, Callahan and his two assistants are seated before the stage in a line like we’re auditioning for a talent show. I almost expect him to have a megaphone so he can holler up at us, and yell, “Next!” The guy has definitely been watching too much Saturday evening reality TV. It begs the question, what sort of trial is he going to spring on us if we make it through to the next round? Boot camp recording studio in Borneo, maybe?
Bitch Slap are looking decidedly more sophisticated. They’ve turned up in their performance gear of leather, lace and expensive perfume. They’re currently positioned to the right of the stage, so we form up on the left, and I do my best not to stare across at them. It’s difficult not to seek out Loveday, though, given my heart gives such a kick when I think of her. No one has ever turned my world upside down in one night in quite the way that she’s done, and she doesn’t even know it.
If it wasn’t for her, I’d be contemplating slitting my wrists right about now.
I rub my tired eyes. Loveday has covered the effects of her late night with smoky eyeshadow and a coating of blood red lipstick. The colour makes me think of sex, of her down on her knees with her mouth wrapped around my cock and the lips, of her swollen cunt right after she’d come all over my face.
When I get a chance, I want to thank her in a way that makes her flush that colour all over.
Jessie notices me looking and glowers back. Although, she wears that frown so often, I’m beginning to think her scrunched-up pout is actually her resting expression.
If only this feud between her and Dane could be set aside, and we could all shake hands and wish one another luck. Just because the pair of them can’t get a handle on their emotions, shouldn’t mean that the rest of us have to suffer.
“Don’t even think of it,” Dane warns, when I put one foot forward. “Don’t think about her. Don’t go near her. Get it together.”
“I am together.” At least mostly, as much as my tired brain will allow.<
br />
“I need to speak to her at some point,” I say.
Dane shakes his head. “You don’t have shit to say to her. Not a goddamned thing.”
We’ve been over this particular point umpteen times in the last hour. Dane’s positive we need to keep the fact that TL:DR will include Loveday’s bass-line super quiet. He’s afraid that Bitch Slap will lay claim to the song, whereas my insides are knotted over the idea that by not telling her, we’re stealing her intellectual property. Just because the tune was written on my skin, doesn’t grant me licence to use it, or make it my possession.
And I’m no thief.
Besides, why would I screw someone whose friendship I value like that? Given what one night with her has produced, I’m more than a little eager to see what we can create when we’re not pressed for time.
“Nice of you to join us, boys.” Graham Callahan casts a weary glance at his watch. “I’d assume we’re ready to begin, but you appear to be missing someone. You were a foursome last night, I believe?”
“Yes,” I agree. “We are.”
“Knox. They’re missing Knox,” I hear Jessie’s mega whisper from across the room. I’m just praying Loveday hasn’t said anything about Knox to her. I cross my fingers and offer up a silent plea to whichever supernatural being might be listening.
“And is Mr. Knox joining us?” Callahan asks. He taps his pen impatiently against his knee.
“No.”
The pen stops mid-arch. “He’s not coming?” His beetle black gaze bores into me.
“He can’t come. He has food poisoning.” How glibly the lie rolls off my tongue. There’s a talent I totally knew I had, getting an unexpected airing. I haven’t had much cause to lie since I left school. “He’s spent the last four hours heaving. We can’t even get him out of the bathroom, let alone down here and on stage. Sorry,” I apologise, lifting my shoulders in a sheepish shrug. Threaded with truth, that’s the way to make it plausible.
“What do we do?” One of Callahan’s assistants asks.
“What’s the policy?” enquires the second.
“They’ve made the effort.”
“He can’t help it if he’s sick.”
“And what was it that caused this sudden affliction?” Callahan silences them both. I’m sure he’s heard a thousand million excuses in his time. “Too much booze, perhaps?”
“A prawn cocktail, we think.” I look to the boys for back-up, and they nod. Knox loves seafood. He’s always on the beach, eating vinegar soaked muscles out of a paper cup, or else trying to force feed the rest of us calamari curry, so it’s not too far-fetched that he might have happened upon a few dodgy shrimps and got a bellyache. We’ve all done it, just like everyone’s had burning ring after a take-away madras.
“I see. And when do you envisage Mr. Knox being well again?”
“I’m not sure. Twenty-four to forty-eight hours, maybe?”
Callahan purses his lips and sighs through his nose. He turns his head away from us. I really hope that’s not a dismissal.
“Ladies, perhaps you can start us off.”
OK, relief unknots a few of my majorly tensed muscles. It sounds as if we’re expected to stick around a bit longer at least.
Jessie leers at us as Bitch Slap climbs onto the stage.
“What have you got for me?” Callahan asks.
“Our crowd pleaser from last night.” Jessie takes the central mic, relegating the band’s real talent to the wings. I’m astonished and unsurprised all at once. Jess has some serious ego on her. Loveday ought to be the one singing. Her voice is far more arresting. I watch her ready her instrument. A Fender not too dissimilar the one Knox favours, but with Jazz pickups in place of a humbucker. She’s looking pretty today—hair a shiny mass of buttery gold strands—for all that she’s being forced into the shadows to make way for Jessie’s sour-grapes ranting. That’s what this song is, even with its catchy tune and thundering chorus. It’s essentially a two-fingered salute at my brother.
It’s a stupid, stupid choice.
Callahan stops listening half-way through and starts shaking his head. At least he allows them to finish rather than bellowing “Stop!”
“Interesting,” he says at the close, which we all know is a polite way of saying it was shite. “But I don’t think it’s quite what I’m looking for.”
“Why not?” Jessie demands, anyone else would just accept his word as gospel, but she’s got to prove she’s tough and doesn’t take shit lying down.
“It’s not a commercial sound, Ms. Lyn.”
“Yeah, but we have other songs.”
“That you chose not to present.”
A tremor of rage rolls through her angular frame. “We could do another one. It’s not a problem.”
“No. I’ve heard enough.” It’s impressive how placid and calm, Callahan keeps his voice.
“Well, they haven’t got anything at all,” Jessie barks, failing to realise that she’s doing more harm than good with her shouting.
Callahan turns back to us. “Is that right boys? You don’t have anything?”
“We’ve plenty,” Joel replies, stepping forward. “But we need Knox for it to sound right. We’re sorry we can’t play for you this morning, Mr. Callahan. Truly sorry. If he was here, then…yeah…absolutely.”
Joel lays it on a little thick, but it does the job. Both assistants produce Filofaxes, and start meticulously scouring through dates for an empty time slot.
“There’s Thursday at the studio,” the dark-haired one says. “It’d mean sending a boat to collect them though.”
Callahan shakes his head. “We’re going to need the place on lock down. That’s not a good time.”
“Or Manchester the following week.”
“Then there’s nothing after that until November.”
“Unless they can make it across to Sweden,” pipes the bespectacled one.
Even I think Sweden’s a bit far to go for an audition. All right, the distance isn’t so much the problem, as getting there. We’re not exactly loaded, the four of us.
“I’ll play,” Loveday says, her voice ringing out strong over the muttering of the two assistants. Her words silence everyone, and cause every head to turn towards her, mine so fast it actually hurts.
“I beg your pardon?” Callahan says.
She steps forward to the front of the stage, up to the microphone, so that her statement is clearly heard. “I’ll play bass for them, so that they can audition for you.”
“Lowdy,” Jessie protests. “What the fuck? What are you doing?”
“Giving them a chance. We’d never have had one if it wasn’t for them being here, and I don’t want them to miss out because of some stupid twist of fate.”
“That’s Dane’s band you’re talking about. The last thing we want is for them to get a gig supporting Black Halo.”
“No, it’s just the last thing you want. I hope they get it. I hope they succeed and that they’re just as big as Black Halo one day.”
“You fucking turncoat.” Jessie backhands her across the face. The slap’s excruciating sharpness, as it’s amplified the mic, makes me wince. “We’re through. You’re out. Bitch Slap doesn’t need you.”
Loveday simply straightens herself and levels a withering look at Jessie. “I’m not sure I need it.”
“Yeah, well…” Jessie turns on her pointy heels and stomps off, sounding like a psychotic race horse. Ivy throws Loveday an apologetic smile, but then follows.
“I really didn’t fancy going on tour,” she remarks to Callahan on the way past, prompting a bark of laughter from her former band mate.
Pride swells in my chest when I turn back to Loveday. There are tears swelling in her eyes, but she finds a smile for me and one for Dane when he hops onto the stage beside her.
“Do you know any of our tracks?” he asks. I’m impressed he’s focussed on practicalities and not enjoying the opportunity to gloat over Jessie making a tit of herself.
&nbs
p; I climb up beside them, and Joel follows at my heels.
“Actually, there’s one I bet she knows,” I say.
Dane swirls round. For a second I think he’s going to punch me, in fact he swings, but then seems to change his mind and claps me on the back instead. “Are you insane?” he says between gritted teeth.
“She’s offering, Dane. Look what she’s just given up for us. I refuse to be a bastard about this. Besides, we need him—” I nod at Graham Callahan. “—to hear this. You heard the two ladies, his diary’s pretty chocka. It makes far more sense to do this now.”
“Except, we’ve never played with her, and we’ve never done this song with the bass section.”
“It’ll be fine, honest. I’ve jammed with her. She’s good, Dane. She’s fucking good.”
“Far better than Knox,” Joel adds, settling behind the drum kit. “And she doesn’t have a prawn habit.”
He’s walking a dangerous line with that remark, but thankfully Callahan doesn’t seem to hear it.
“Is this acceptable to you,” I ask our trio of judges.
“Sure,” Callahan waves a hand, then brings it down on his chunky thigh. “Fire away.”
“You all right?” I ask, returning to Loveday. “I’m sorry if it’s screwed things up for you with Jessie.” I incline my head in the direction her band mates have just run.
“It’s all right. I knew she’d freak, and she’d already threatened to give me the chop for consorting with you. So, what’s this song you want me to play? Have you got music?”
I bow my head to focus on my toes a moment. “You know the notes you wrote on my arse? You said you’d remember them. Can you remember them?”
She chuckles. “Course.”
“Then play them. Weave them around Dane’s lead. You’ll know how they fit.” I trust her because this song is now as much a part of her as it is a part of me. It’s a melody we created together. Later, I know I’ll have to explain things to her, I can see the questions right there in her eyes, but for now, I collect my Gretsch and position the mic.
“This is a new track,” I tell Graham Callahan. “It might lack a little polish, but I hope you’ll forgive that under the circumstances. I present Too Long: Didn’t Read.”
Crazy Love Page 12
