The Song Never Dies

by Neil Richards

  “Not a holiday went by without dad filming us all on this,” she said. “We’ve got hours and hours of the stuff.”

  “You must show me one day,” said Jack.

  “No way,” said Sarah. “Me aged fifteen? Not a pretty sight. Braces!”

  Jack saw her press play and the big TV screen flickered into life.

  “Here we go,” said Sarah.

  Jack sat back in the sofa and watched the screen.

  It was real home video stuff. The band on tour. Hand held, badly lit, sometimes the camera spinning wildly, sometimes static for minutes on end, as if just left standing on a hotel table or a tour bus seat.

  But, for all that, it was powerful, vivid.

  And all the characters that he and Sarah had now met, looking so young and so outrageous in their 90s rock star clothes.

  “This in the States?” said Sarah.

  “Looks like it,” said Jack. “Midwest somewhere, I think.”

  “They look so young.”

  “Should have seen me then,” said Jack.

  “Film star looks, hmm?”

  “Boxer’s nose and bags under my eyes.”

  More scenes flickered by. There was backstage footage — the guys goofing around. Diners in small towns, fans queuing for autographs.

  Lauren putting her makeup on, turning and smiling to camera.

  Other women now appearing, sharing the bus rides.

  Then gone.

  Impromptu jamming sessions in truck-stop parking lots.

  Then …

  “New York,” said Jack.

  He recognised East Village street corners filmed through the tour bus windows.

  Still so gritty back then.

  “Maybe we’ll see you, Jack,” said Sarah.

  “Keep a look-out,” said Jack. “I was still in uniform.”

  Then a jump. He watched the screen now showing the band running around the Sheep Meadow, playing in Central Park, mock-fighting for the camera.

  Another cut. Then the Staten Island Ferry, pointing at the Statue of Liberty.

  “Just like normal tourists,” said Sarah.

  “Hmm,” said Jack. “How much tape left?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  Maybe this is all we get, thought Jack. Maybe Alex King was just reliving happier times.

  And then.

  The Chelsea Hotel exterior.

  Focussing on the plaques honouring the hotel’s famous guests.

  Arthur C. Clarke. Brendan Behan. Sid Vicious.

  Jack sat up.

  The rat-run of stairs and corridors.

  A dismal bedroom.

  The Chelsea was never a place for luxury.

  Then Jack watched as Carlton Flame suddenly loomed into frame, as if he was picking up the camera.

  The image swung round and pointed towards a bathroom door.

  Jack saw Sarah punch up the volume.

  As the camera moved towards the door, a guitar and a voice could just be heard, the song now clearer, echoing from within the bathroom.

  The Song that Never Dies …

  The camera moved further — and there was Alex King, sitting on the edge of the bath, guitar on lap, strumming the ballad.

  Not just a few chords, or the odd line, but unmistakeably the song, formed, recognisable.

  The camera lingered on Alex, then abruptly swung back into the bedroom — where a young Nick Taylor sat on the double bed, smoking, listening.

  Listening and nodding to the music.

  Alex asked a question …

  “Whatcha think?”

  Then Nick answered …

  “It’s ok. If you like that kind of thing. But it ain’t goin’ in our set, Alex …”

  The screen went blank, then cut to what was clearly a party somewhere.

  Jack turned to Sarah.

  “Wow,” she said.

  “Wow, indeed,” said Jack.

  “So that’s the proof,” said Sarah.

  “Beats a CD,” said Jack.

  He turned back to the screen. The party was still going on — in some wild club, from the look of the lights and bar.

  People dancing, drinking, sprawled on sofas together.

  The guys in the band at the heart of it.

  Jack watched them all, feeling himself drawn back into the New York of those times.

  Then he saw something.

  “Pause the tape a second.”

  Sarah picked up the camera, pressed a button.

  The action froze.

  Jack got up from the sofa and walked over to the TV, knelt down.

  “See the guy heading out of frame?” he said, pointing.

  “Looks like Will,” said Sarah.

  “Now look at the couple on the sofa,” he said. “And press play …”

  The image moved again. The camera seemed to linger on the man and the woman with their faces locked in the flickering light.

  And locked in a kiss, oblivious to the camera.

  “Well waddya know,” said Sarah. “That’s Lauren, isn’t it?”

  “Yep,” said Jack. “And Chris Wickes. And they’re not playing solitaire.”

  As Jack watched, the tape suddenly ended and the screen went blank.

  “Remember you said you thought Lauren was lying about what she did that night?” said Jack.

  “Soon as I mentioned Chris Wickes — it was like I’d set off an alarm.”

  “So what if she and Chris decided to take a trip down memory lane — down by the pool house?”

  “And saw something they shouldn’t …” said Sarah. “So what do we do now?”

  “We make a plan,” said Jack. “We do this right — and I think the pieces will fall just where we want them.”

  16. Love Never Dies

  Sarah went to the bay window of her parents’ sitting room and peered out at the drive.

  “Any sign?” Jack said.

  Sarah turned back to him.

  “No. Maybe she won’t come.”

  Jack looked away, brow furrowed.

  “I think she will. On the phone she sounded glad when I suggested she meet us here rather than at her home.”

  “No chance of her husband coming back, hmm?”

  “Right. Or nosey neighbours. I have noticed that you villagers do like to check up on everyone’s coming and goings.”

  Sarah smiled at that. “You ‘villagers’. I thought you were one of us.”

  Jack laughed. “Of course. Though I think some of the village elders would say that the full transformation process takes more than a few years.”

  Then — from behind her — Sarah heard the sound of car wheels kicking up the gravel of the driveway.

  A push of the curtain to one side. To see the silver Vauxhall — Lauren’s car — pull up to the house.

  “She’s here,” Sarah said.

  Lauren hesitated inside the car for a few moments. Then the driver’s door popped open and Lauren came out, clutching her handbag tight as if might protect her.

  She stopped to look up at the house.

  No mansion, at least by Cotswold standards. But so much more the type of home someone like Lauren probably wished she lived in.

  Then — and Sarah could only imagine what the woman must be thinking — she let the curtain fall back in place and waited for the drummer’s wife to come to the door.

  *

  Sarah’s mum was totally gracious, fetching more tea, another cup and saucer, and more of Huffington’s best while Lauren sat on the edge of the small leather wingback chair, her dad’s favourite.

  The woman looked as if a stiff breeze could blow her off her perch.

  And when Helen left, it was time to start.

  Jack offered to take the lead. And as tough as Sarah knew Jack could be, questioning, interrogating …

  She also knew he could be careful, discrete.

  Sensitive in a way that could be surprising.

  Disarming.

  To match Lauren’s pose, Jack put down his
cup and leaned forward, clasping his hands together.

  A quick look and nod to Sarah.

  “Lauren, we asked you here because we want to talk to you about that night.”

  The woman was quick to respond. “B-but we talked about all that. Sarah here, and I, we—”

  Jack nodded. “I understand.” Then, after a pause. “Really. But we’ve learned something … seen something, we want to show you.”

  Then with added significance.

  “Something we didn’t know.”

  Sarah walked over to the video camera, the ancient tape cued to just the right spot.

  They only wanted her to see one thing.

  “It will be a crap shoot,” Jack had told Sarah before they called Lauren. “No telling whether she will talk or go stone quiet.”

  Sarah leaned down to turn the video on, but not before another glance at Lauren, her eyes wide, not knowing what was coming.

  But the apprehension, fear in her eyes … was something that filled the room.

  The video began.

  In moments, they could all watch Lauren, Chris Wickes.

  Lost to each other while Will was away.

  Just the two of them, captured by a sneaky video camera.

  The two of them.

  As it must have been the other night.

  *

  For a moment — when Sarah stopped the video — Lauren said nothing.

  Then, summoning up all the defiance she could, her protective purse squarely in her lap, “That was the past. Decades ago.”

  Sarah looked at Jack.

  This might be the very thing they feared. Lauren would say nothing.

  “Yes, Lauren. Long time ago. But that night when Alex King died … there was a time … when two people were off on their own.”

  Lauren had already begun shaking her head.

  “You, Chris. Off by yourselves, weren’t you? And maybe the years — what’s the expression — melted away?”

  “You don’t know that. Y-you don’t know anything.”

  Now it was time for Jack’s gamble. More of hunch, despite the bit of evidence they had.

  “If you were away from the party. Outside taking a walk. You could have seen someone go to the pool house.”

  Jack’s voice was low, as if this was so hard for him to do.

  He looked at Sarah. “We know that someone went in there, Lauren. We have the evidence.”

  Lauren started shaking her head. “You don’t think, can’t think that I—”

  Jack’s clasped hands sprung free, open, as if calming troubled waters …

  “No. Not you.” A deep breath now. Sarah wanted to hold the woman at that point.

  This had to be so scary for her.

  Jack continued. “But you could have … seen someone else.”

  Now Sarah took steps towards her.

  “That’s all we care about, Lauren. What you saw.” Then — as reassuring as she could be — “nothing else.”

  Lauren, Sarah thought, probably imagining her life in the village, a sleepy life of struggle and family … of so many quickly cooked meals and endless bills.

  But still, despite whatever she and Chris did out in the gardens of Kingfishers, a life.

  That life, endangered.

  “Nothing else but that.”

  Lauren opened her mouth, as if she might again mount a protest, to claim that she had done nothing, seen nothing …

  But on the screen — the video, freeze framed, flickering in the way old videos did — remained locked on a young Lauren and Chris wrapped in each other’s arms.

  Then it was Lauren’s turn to take a breath.

  Deep, as if she had been holding in the words for too long and — despite her fear — it might be a relief to finally speak the truth.

  “Right. Yes. I was out there.” She fired a look at Sarah, maybe concerned that she was being judged.

  Though Sarah was long past that.

  In Jack’s world, which had become her world, judgements had no place.

  Then the woman turned back to Jack, who sat still, listening.

  “The two of us, out there. The old days, you know they were exciting.” Another breath. “He was exciting. And I’d had a bit too much … You know …”

  Jack again nodded, as if it all made perfect sense.

  “The lot of them, the band, with their bickering, arguing over money.” Lauren shook her head. “The years, I suppose, ‘melting away’ for them as well as they started their fighting. While me, and Chris … we …”

  She stopped.

  Sarah wondered whether Jack would have to push her a bit more.

  To get what they really wanted to know.

  Finally Lauren sat as upright as possible. “And, when Chris went back in — going first, you know, to make things look alright — I did see someone go down to the pool house.”

  Sarah put an arm on the woman’s shoulder. Lauren turned and looked up at her.

  “I didn’t mean nothing; by not saying anything, not telling you. But if I had, I’d have to say where I was, who I was with, and my Will — he’s put up with a lot, and, and—”

  “I understand,” Jack said.

  The words so simple yet — Sarah could feel — so calming to the woman.

  And then finally — “So, yes. I saw who went in there after Alex.”

  She looked up at Sarah again, then to Jack.

  “How Alex wasn’t alone …”

  And with the truth coming out, Lauren started crying, the burden falling away, and now probably layered with terrible guilt.

  She popped open her handbag and dug out a tiny packet of tissues.

  Amidst the sobs, Jack and Sarah merely listened.

  17. While the Band Plays On

  Jack peered out the windows of The Ploughman’s second floor. Even with the bevelled glass making all outside look blurry, more like an impressionistic painting, he could still make out the amazing crowds of people.

  Alan had wisely called in for support from other villages, with a half dozen police officers trying to manage the huge — and still growing — crowd.

  Carlton Flame had also sprung for some rented security, burly guys with folded arms like ham hocks.

  As usual — the crowd waited for the band to begin.

  Jack turned back to Sarah.

  “Think it’s time for the show …”

  She nodded. “Look at all this — pretty over the top, Jack, hmm? Even for an opera fan.”

  Jack looked at Carlton Flame.

  The agent had set up a mixing board on the small upstairs bar. On either side of the bar, two giant flat screens were mounted on the wall, probably for when this room got the spill-over crowd from downstairs on a big match day.

  Now, one screen showed a shot of the band members up here, all noodling with their instruments, while the other screen was locked on the centre microphone stand, awaiting the star attraction.

  Who — so far — was nowhere to be seen.

  He watched Nick pull out a cigarette, then talk to their agent now turned producer.

  A man of many talents …

  Who — outside of Alan Rivers — was one of the few that knew the real plan for the concert soon to begin.

  “Carlton, bit more bloody bottom and volume, mate? This isn’t a church we’re performing in.”

  Jack saw Chris Wickes grin at that, while he continued to pick out bits and pieces of melodies on his guitar.

  In the back, at a full drum set, Will was doing the odd roll here and there. With his short hair and collared shirt, the drummer looked like he had walked into the wrong band.

  The look was anything but rock and roll …

  But his drum rolls … smooth, staccato.

  Jack turned to Sarah. “Gonna be something,” he said.

  “You sure? No sign of the singer,” she said.

  The Ploughman’s had a backroom both here and on the ground floor. Presumably mega-star Sarinda was doing what every rock star appar
ently loves to do …

  Make the audience wait.

  Then Jack nodded in the direction of Lauren, standing off to the side, almost plastered against the wall.

  She had made brief eye contact with Jack. A small smile. She had told them both that — difficult as it might be — she was ready to do her part.

  To tell the truth.

  But would she?

  “Think Lauren’s going to be alright?” Jack asked.

  Sarah looked in the other direction. “Not sure. I mean, to do what she has to do. To admit what she has to admit? I—”

  Then, with the singer still not there, Nick took a step towards the microphone on the left.

  It was starting.

  “This one is for Alex!” His voice boomed.

  He turned back to the others, head bobbing, counting …

  “One, two, three …”

  Then, from the back, Will started a drum roll as if driving Napoleon’s troops on their march towards Mother Russia, gathering strength, speed, cymbals crashing, bass drum kicking in, once, then again …

  Whatever you might say, Jack thought, Will, still had –

  The word?

  – his chops.

  And then Nick started a windmill move with his right arm, not yet touching his guitar strings — a move that would do Pete Townsend proud. Until he finally slashed across the soundboard of his electric guitar and released a chord that made the Ploughman’s feel like an earthquake just hit.

  *

  Sarah leaned into Jack.

  “I know this one. Big hit of theirs.”

  Jack wished he had put some earplugs in. Too much of this and his hearing, already not the best, could take a hit.

  “Yeah?”

  “‘Rage Against the Night.’”

  Jack nodded. But they were playing the song with no one singing.

  Maybe, Jack thought, as a tribute to Alex?

  Already they had the upstairs crowd’s heads bopping.

  And Will’s steady, powerful drumming keeping the screaming guitars together.

  Even without a singer, the band was killing.

  Jack looked at Sarah, also nodding in time, perhaps taken back to when she was so much younger and listened to Lizard when she and they were young.

  The song soared to a crescendo.

  Talk about operatic, Jack thought.

  And with a final roll of the snare drum and one last crashing chord left to echo … it ended.