by Mark Timlin
‘Nice work,’ I said, as Pam came back with a tray, put it on the table next to Tony, and poured out four glasses of wine.
I asked if I could smoke, and Tony nodded and I lit a cigarette.
‘So can we look at the photos?’ he said.
Dawn got the envelope out of her bag and passed it over to him. As she did so, the cat snorted, opened its eyes, then closed them again.
Pam Taffler pulled up a chair next to her husband’s, and switched on the Anglepoise lamp that stood on the corner of the table, and pulled it close to the photographs. I saw the light catch the dull surface of the top one, and it flared in my eyes, and I looked away. Dawn continued to stroke the sleeping cat’s head, and I sipped at my wine, and looked past her out of the window over the view of Shepherd’s Bush and beyond. A plane with its navigation lights twinkling was making its descent into Heathrow and I could just hear through the double-glazed windows the sound of its engines as they were throttled back to slow the aircraft down.
You could tell straight away that the Tafflers had been together a long time. The way they spoke, finishing each other’s sentences, searching through their minds for shared memories. Almost telepathically. I envied them. Whatever they’d been through in the last twenty-five-odd years, they’d been through together. I did envy them. I’d never had that, and I looked at Dawn again, and wondered how long we’d have together, and whether or not we’d ever learn enough about each other to be able to finish sentences like they could.
Pam got up again, and fetched a large magnifying glass from a drawer in a bureau that was covered with yellowing copies of Melody Maker.
‘Jesus,’ said Tony. ‘Look at this one, Pam. Isn’t that the… ? You know the place. Down by where Biba’s used to be. That restaurant.’
‘No,’ said Pam. ‘It’s Gino’s in the King’s Road. I recognize those lights.’
‘Are you sure? I could have sworn…’
‘I know it is. We went there to a wedding reception. That bloke who used to be in that band. You remember. He married my friend Gillian.’
‘The Glitter Band?’
‘No. Before that. Andy Fairweather-Low’s band.’
‘Amen Corner.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Yes I remember. Course it is. And who’s that with Jay Harrison?’
‘Who, him?’ Pam stabbed her finger on to the photo.
‘No, her. With the headband.’
‘She looks familiar,’ said Pam. ‘Wasn’t she a groupie?’
‘Probably,’ said Tony. ‘It’ll come back to me.’
And it did. Plus lots of other names from the past. Some vaguely familiar, and others that meant nothing to me, but obviously quite a lot to the Tafflers. For over an hour they were lost in reminiscences as Dawn and I sat and drank our wine, and I smoked, and Dawn stroked the cat.
Tony Taffler made notes on a pad as they went. It seemed most of the faces had vanished. Died, either by their own hands or through various accidents or diseases. The mortality rate for the group of people photographed was high. Individuals who had lived fast, died young, and left corpses in various degrees of attractiveness.
When they got to the last photo in the pile, Tony said, ‘Christ!’
I looked up sharply at the tone in his voice, and Pam gave him a bemused stare through her specs. ‘What?’ she said.
Tony pointed at the photo. ‘Look who’s there.’
‘Where?’ said Pam.
‘There. In the front with Harrison. All over him like a dirty shirt.’
I stood up and looked over their shoulders. The photo had been taken in someone’s flat. It looked like a party was going on. Jay Harrison and Kim Major were at the front of the photograph. Harrison looked awful. Fat and dissipated with long greasy hair curling over his face. Kim looked better, but not much. Draped over Harrison’s shoulder was a tall, well-built geezer with long, flowing hair, a flower-patterned shirt and jeans. Next to Kim stood a much shorter man. Fat, with a sort of Nehru jacket buttoned tightly across his chest. A whole coterie of grinning idiots holding glasses or joints or both were behind the star and his girlfriend and their two chums. Each face brightly lit by the flash that had been used.
‘Him?’ I said, pointing at the long-haired bloke.
‘That’s right,’ replied Tony. ‘Remember him, Pam?’
I looked down at her face, and she shook her head.
‘You should,’ said Tony with a grin. ‘He came round enough times when we were living in Notting Hill. He grew a beard.’
She shook her head again.
‘Julius Rose,’ Tony said triumphantly. ‘He used to do a bit of dope dealing. Do you remember now?’
‘Is that Julius Rose?’ asked Pam, with astonishment in her voice.
‘Course it is.’
‘Crikey, he put on some weight.’
‘He did. And next to Kim is…’ Tony Taffler screwed up his face in concentration. ‘That geezer that Julius was webbed up with all the time. A slimy little git. Always trying it on for a few bob. Bill… Billy… Billy Sanger… No. Sayer. That’s it. Billy Sayer.’
‘I remember,’ said Pam. ‘I loathed him.’
‘Who didn’t?’ said Tony. ‘I never knew what Julius saw in him.’
‘Julius Rose. Who would believe it?’ said Pam.
‘What kind of drugs?’ I asked.
Tony pulled a face. ‘Nothing serious. A little hash. Grass. Acid. Small time.’
‘They all look pretty matey there,’ I said.
‘Don’t they just,’ agreed Tony. ‘Maybe Julius just gave Jay a suppository.’ And he smiled.
‘God, but it was a long time ago,’ said Pam. ‘I wonder whatever happened to him?’
‘I know exactly what happened to him,’ said Tony. ‘I saw him last week. Didn’t I tell you?’
‘No. You saw him? Where?’ said Pam.
‘I’m sure I told you,’ said Tony, then shook his head. ‘It was when I went round to Jenny and Peter’s place. They’ve got satellite TV. Julius Rose was on.’
‘On what?’
Tony grinned. ‘You’ll never guess. I was sure I told you. How could I have forgotten? He’s an evangelist with his own show. Brother Julius. I nearly pissed myself.’
‘What was the name of the show?’ I asked. If ‘show’ is how you describe a religious programme. But from what little I’d seen of television evangelism in the past, that’s exactly how I’d describe one. Come on down. Or come on up and meet thy maker.
Tony screwed up his face as he thought. ‘Redemption Cometh,’ he said. ‘I think that was what it was called.’
Perfect, I thought. Cometh on down. ‘Catchy,’ I said. ‘And the name of the church? Do you remember?’
He screwed up his face again, then shook his head. ‘No. But it was quite a mouthful.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ said Pam.
‘Sorry, I forgot,’ replied Tony.
‘How could you forget something like that?’
‘Sorry,’ he said again. ‘No one’s perfect.’
‘What channel is it on?’ I asked.
‘One of the Astra channels,’ said Tony. ‘It’s on every night at seven apparently.’
‘I’ll check it out,’ I said.
‘They gave an address for the place at the end. For sending donations and stuff, you know. I think they’re very big on donations. They’d have to be if Julius Rose was involved. He was always very big on donations even in the old days. It was in one of those squares at the back of Notting Hill Gate…’ He hesitated as he thought.
‘Powis Square?’ said Pam helpfully.
‘No. The other side of Westbourne Grove. You know.’
‘Leinster Square.’
‘No.’
‘Pembridge.’
‘Tha
t’s the one.’
‘Well done,’ I said.
‘There you go, Nick. I know where at least one of this lot is,’ and he tapped the photos. ‘And here are some other names. But I’ve no idea where to locate the ones that are still alive.’ He passed over the pad that he’d been making notes on.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’ve been a big help.’
‘If I track any of the others down, I’ll be in touch,’ he said.
‘Thanks again,’ I said.
‘All part of the Taffler service.’
‘And send the bill to Kennedy-Sloane,’ I told him.
‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ said Tony Taffler.
We sat around for another hour or so, finishing off the wine we’d brought, and another bottle Pam found in the fridge, until about ten, when Dawn and I left and she drove the pair of us home.
‘Any good?’ she asked on the way.
I shrugged from the passenger side of the seat. ‘Who knows?’ I replied, ‘but it’s a start. All we need now is someone with a satellite dish so that we can catch the show. Then we’ll pay Brother Julius a visit.’
‘Think he’ll know anything?’
‘We’ll never know unless we ask.’
‘That’s true.’
‘So do you know anyone?’
‘Anyone, who?’
‘With a satellite dish,’ I said patiently.
‘Tracey’s all cabled up where she lives.’
‘I bet she is.’
Dawn looked over and put out her tongue. ‘No, I mean she gets all the satellite channels.’
‘Great,’ I said to Dawn. ‘Give her a ring when we get back and we can pop round tomorrow evening for a glass of wine and a little redemption on the box.’
16
But like many of the best-laid plans of mice and men, it didn’t work out quite like that.
At around ten the next morning, as I was finishing a slice of toast spread with apricot conserve and a cup of freshly brewed coffee, and listening to Albert King on the CD player, the phone went. It was one of Dawn’s records. And say what you like about my wife, she has unimpeachable taste in music. If you can’t get that sort of thing right, then the relationship is probably doomed from the beginning. Albert was doing his ‘Born Under a Bad Sign’, when the dog and bone went. Maybe I should have taken it as an omen. I turned down the sound with the remote and fielded the call.
‘Nick Sharman,’ I said.
‘Nick. Good. Just the man.’ It was Chris Kennedy-Sloane. I recognized his voice straight off.
‘Well, as you were calling me, that’s hardly surprising, Chris. What’s up?’ I said.
‘I need you to do a job for me.’
‘I am doing a job for you, sort of. Remember?’
Dawn looked at me from where she was standing by the sink, rinsing off a plate, and raised one eyebrow quizzically. I shrugged back like I didn’t know what was going on, and I didn’t.
‘No. Another job,’ said Kennedy-Sloane.
‘Blimey,’ I said. ‘Such riches of opportunity. What is it?’
‘Are you busy tonight?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I am. I was going to take Dawn to watch some TV round at a friend’s, then catch a Chinese nosh on the way home.’
‘Am I paying you a grand a day to watch TV?’
‘You’re not paying me a grand a day to do anything. It’s a long story, Chris, trust me.’
‘Christ on a bicycle, Nick, I never know half of what you’re talking about.’
‘That’s the secret of my success.’
‘Can’t you watch TV another night? I need you this evening.’
‘I didn’t know you cared.’
‘No jokes, Nick. This is serious.’
I lit a Silk Cut.
‘You remember Angela?’ he asked. ‘I brought her to your wedding reception.’
‘Who could forget?’ I asked back.
‘And you know that The Virgin Mary is in town?’
‘Have you told the Pope?’ I said.
‘I said no jokes, Nick. You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?’
Course I did. The Virgin Mary. The hottest recording act right about then. Hornier than Madonna. Sexier than Cher. Younger than either of them. Her managers and producers had taken the Memphis horns and layered them on top of a Tamla Motown rhythm section, segued in a sample of a John Bonham drum solo, sweetened the mix with strings from the Love Unlimited Orchestra under the direction of Barry White, and multi-tracked the Virgin’s voice over the whole thing. And what did they get? A load of hit records, and videos, and films, and books, and T-shirts, and every other kind of merchandise you could decently shake a stick at, and some you couldn’t. That’s what they got, and I know that my daughter and her friends loved her.
‘I know who you’re talking about,’ I said.
‘She’s doing a special concert tonight for charity at the Astoria in Charing Cross Road. She’s brought over her whole show. The complete Rhythm Review. Just about everyone in the world is going to be there…’
‘It’ll be a bit of a tight squeeze, won’t it?’ I interrupted.
He ignored me and went on. ‘And Angela’s got a pair of invitations, and I can’t take her. I’ve got to go out of town. Some last-minute family business has come up, and I can’t get out of it.’
He was probably strangling his granny for her BT shares, I thought, but kept shtoom.
‘So?’ I said.
‘Will you escort her?’
I looked at Dawn, who was busy putting clean crockery in the cupboard. ‘Do what?’ I said.
‘You heard. You’ve got a tuxedo, haven’t you? I want you looking smart.’
‘As a matter of fact, no. We don’t get a lot of call for them round Tulse Hill way.’
‘So you’ve got plenty of time to get up to Young’s or Moss Bros and hire one. I’ll pay.’
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I’m grateful that you thought of me for the job. But…’
‘But what?’
‘But. You know. I’ve only been married for just over a week…’
All of a sudden, Dawn was taking much more of an interest in the conversation that I was having than she had previously.
‘I’m asking you to take Angela to a reception. Not run away to Gretna Green with her,’ said Kennedy-Sloane.
‘Sure, but…’
‘You’re full of “buts” this morning, Nick. This is not like you. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were acting like a henpecked husband. I never thought I’d see you under the cosh –’
That did it. ‘How much?’ I interrupted.
‘How much, what?’
‘How much are you going to pay for my services tonight?’
‘Well, I thought a favour, maybe.’
‘Bollocks, Chris. The going rate for me now is a grand a day. Remember? You just told me.’
I heard him swallow.
‘Take it or leave it,’ I said.
‘But I only want you for the evening.’
I thought about it. ‘A monkey then.’
‘Five hundred quid.’
‘Your grasp of the vernacular is impeccable,’ I told him. ‘Plus expenses of course.’
‘OK. You got it. A limo will pick you up at six-thirty. I’ve booked a table at the Savoy Grill for dinner at a quarter to eight. The gig starts at eleven. The limo driver will have Angela’s address. She’s got the invitations. Hire a soup and fish. And take care of her. This is a big night. Loads of publicity. Make sure she gets her photo taken. I’m trusting you, Nick.’
‘No problem, Chris,’ I said. ‘Thanks for thinking of me,’ and I put down the phone.
Dawn was back by the sink, tapping the heel of one shoe. Now the fun could really begin.
‘Dawn…’ I said.
‘What?’
‘You remember Angela? The model that Chris brought to the wedding reception.’
‘What? That long skinny tart with the big eyes for every man in the room?’
I couldn’t have put it better myself. ‘That’s the one,’ I said.
‘What about her?’
I explained, and saw Dawn’s eyes get slittier with every word.
‘You want to go out with her?’ she said when I’d finished.
‘No. It’s a job. Worth five hundred quid.’
‘But you still have to spend the night with her?’
‘I wouldn’t put it like that exactly…’
‘Then how would you put it?’
‘I escort her to dinner, to the do. Make sure she gets maximum publicity. Then take her home. End of story.’
‘It’s a stitch-up. I saw the way she looked at you.’
‘She looked at every geezer like that.’
‘So?’
I shrugged. ‘So it’s a job. Puts food on the table and petrol in the motors.’
‘So you’re going to do it?’
‘Not if you’re totally against it.’
‘I am.’
‘I’ve said I’ll do it now.’
‘And you can’t let your old mate down, now can you?’
‘He got me the Harrison job. I owe him one.’
‘All right,’ she said, and every word dripped with icicles. ‘Take the slag out. But if I think for a minute that you’ve laid one finger on her, I’ll kill the pair of you. And you know I mean it.’
The scary thing was that I did.
I got up and went over and held her tight. I knew what the trouble was. I knew that she remembered her first husband leaving the house with their daughter for the short drive down to where his parents were going to babysit while Dawn went to work. I knew that she remembered the copper coming to tell her that she’d never see either of them again after the van that her husband was driving was crushed in a pile-up. Not even to identify the bodies, the injuries were so bad. And I knew that she remembered the bad years after. Years of booze and drugs and loveless sex. Living without trust in a world of pain, and being knocked back and used at every turn. About crying so much from loss that she thought her eyes would turn white. I could feel her trembling as I held her, and without speaking I tried to let her know that I knew as much about pain and hurt as she did. And that I’d die before I inflicted any more of it on her.
