by Lesley Jones
“No Haley, I don’t,” he told her, opening his eyes and looking down at her.
“But ... I thought you might ...”
“Get your fucking hands off me.”
She stood up and turned from him to look first at me, then at Rocco, sitting on the bed.
“Well, you’re no fun, Sean McCarthy. Let’s see if some of what I have here loosens you up a bit.”
She unscrews the pink tube and just like Rocco did at the bar, she pulls out a small plastic bag full of charlie and shakes it in the air.
Rocco pressed play on the boom box and suddenly, Paul Hardcastle’s ‘19’ began blasting out the speakers.
“On your back, Haley. Serve it up properly, just like I showed you.”
Without a word, Haley was back on the coffee table, tipping the contents of the packet through her cleavage, as far down as her belly button and then over each of her nipples.
“Come and get it, boys,” she said with a giggle.
The music got louder as I looked across to Maca. He looked fucked, and I mean wasted.
“Last hit of the day,” I said.
He gave me a small nod before we both moved to either side of her and started snorting the coke from her tits, cleavage, and belly. I watched as she grabbed at Maca’s hair, trying to kiss him, but he pulled away and crawled over to the bed. She started asking me to fuck her, but I stuck my dick in her mouth and let her suck me off instead. I can’t even remember if I came.
Then she was gone. Maca was lying face down across my bed and Rocco was nowhere in sight. I could hear the Rah Band singing about clouds across the moon and I instantly thought of Georgia. She loved that song. Ever since we were little kids―whenever we went away, whether it be abroad, or just to my parents’ caravan in Clacton, G always had to have a holiday song―a song that would remind her of our time there, and that song had been played everywhere we went when she was with us that past week. G had loved it and declared it her holiday song, the song that would always remind her of Spain.
The image of my beautiful smiling sister punched into my heart like a fist wielding blade. What the fuck was I thinking? I sat on the end of the bed and held my head in my hands, letting the guilt wash over me. She could never know about Maca being in the same room with Haley, and she could never know that I instigated the whole thing.
I’m not sure what was in those last few lines we snorted, but it couldn’t have been cocaine. Maca had passed out cold, and I was starting to feel sleepy too. That drug usually had me going for hours, feeling like I could take on the world, not dizzy and disoriented like I was feeling then.
Sounds became fuzzy while images seemed to bend and look distorted. I looked up, thinking I I could hear screaming, but I wasn’t really sure; it could’ve been laughter, I didn’t know. Noises faded in and out, and all concept of time was lost to me.
There was movement all around us, but it was fractured and disjointed. My name was being said and my face was being slapped, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t focus.
The next thing I remember very clearly was throwing up in the foot well of a car and someone shouting in a foreign language. Not being able to move my arms was the only cognitive thought I could process before I drifted off again.
I had no sense of the time over which the following events played out. I later learnt it was only a period of just over 48 hours.
I woke up alone in a cell as a tray of food was slid through a hatch.
I shouted and screamed, asking for someone to tell me what the fuck was going on, but I was shouted back at in return, only in French.
I was taken to an interview room where I was told by a policeman wearing a very crumpled suit and about three days’ worth of stubble on his chin, that I had been accused of rape.
I was taken back to my cell where I tried to get my shit together. For the past six or so weeks, I’d taken some kind of drug, at least once a day. My body and my brain were reacting to the substance abuse it’d been enduring and the lack of its daily fix. I was hot, cold, and I couldn’t stop vomiting. The shaking and shivering was unbearable.
I wasn’t an addict, but my system has become somewhat used to its daily fix, and it was gonna take me at least a few days to get myself straight.
Lennon arrived with another bloke I later learnt was from the label.
I’d never seen Len so angry in my life. He punched me hard on the chin, but then he demanded that I have access to a doctor. I was hooked up to a drip and given another blanket, but once again, I was left alone to try and work out what the fuck had happened.
I slept for what felt like a very long time, finally waking to the sound of the drip bleeping because the bag of saline being pumped into me was empty.
Apparently, I’d been taken to a hospital. I had no recollection of how I got there or how long ago I’d been moved.
Len arrived with my dad and a lawyer, then everything was explained to me. Haley White had accused Maca and me of raping her. My first thought was of G.
What did I do ... What the fuck did I do to her, to Maca, to the band?
I told the lawyer, who’d now been joined by the police, everything I could remember.
I wasn’t a good person. I wasn’t a good friend or brother, but I was not a fucking rapist either.
Again, the concept of time was alien to me. I was allowed to leave the hospital. I didn’t go back to the hotel we were staying in because we’d been kicked out and had to go somewhere else.
Finally, I got my head around the fact that it was Friday.
I was silent in the car as my dad ranted and threatened all kinds of physical violence to me, Maca, Rocco, even Haley.
Lennon explained that the band would be practising for a few hours during the day and we’d be expected to perform that night and the next in Paris, as our shows were sell-outs. His tone told me he was pissed off and not to be argued with.
My dad and Len entered the hotel room in front of me, and the instant my eyes met Maca’s, who was lying back on the bed with his hands behind his head, he flew from the bed, coming right for me.
Maca was one of life’s most laid back people. He always looked for the good in everyone and found the positive in any negative situation. He could fight, but he rarely did; it just wasn’t his nature. He was the opposite of George and her fiery temper, but in that moment, he looked like he wanted to kill me.
“You cunt! What the fuck did you get us into?” My dad grabbed him, pinning both of his arms to his sides.
“What did you do? Did you set me up for that?” He actually tried to fight my dad. Yeah, we laughed about that over the years a lot.
Maca, being the skinny fucker he was, wriggled his way out of my dad’s grip and made another move towards me. Lennon stepped between us, but he swung around him and landed a punch on the side of my head. My dad grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around, and lamps my dad on the chin.
The room falls silent. Maca just punched Frank Layton.
“Shit,” my uncle Fin said. He was sitting, unnoticed by me, in an armchair in the corner.
“I’ll give you that one, son,” my dad said to Maca, “but I’m telling you now, you need to calm the fuck down.”
Sean’s breathing was heavy when he turned back around to me to say, “Get the fuck away from me. I can’t be near you right now.”
I didn’t say a word. I mean, what could I say? He didn’t even know the half of it, and yet he still knew I was to blame for what we’d been accused of.
CHAPTER THREE
2014
I read over the words that I’ve typed a few more times, pouring myself another drink in between. I think what I’ve written is the truth, but in all honesty, so much of that night and what happened afterwards are a blur, so I really can’t be sure.
The only part of it I know for sure as the absolute truth is that it was all my fault.
I continue reading...
1985
After playing our Paris concerts
Friday and Saturday night, we finally got home to my parents’ house in the early hours of Sunday morning.
The flight home was made in almost complete silence. Maca chatted with my dad on the plane, but he’d barely spoken a word to me since we’d been released by the police. Despite our lack of communication, our performances during the last two nights of our shows had been pretty spectacular.
Lennon, Billy, and Tom, weren’t speaking to me or Maca. Maca wasn’t speaking to me, and I wasn’t speaking to anyone, but the anger, emotion, and frustrations of those last few days’ events had everyone performing at their unbelievable best. The crowds were insane and the label and promoters were over the moon.
When we walked into my mum and Dad’s house, my mum was curled into my dad’s armchair, while George and Jimmie were sleeping at each end of the sofa.
I pulled out a stool at the kitchen work top and sat, looking at everyone in the living room.
Maca knelt down next to a sleeping Georgia and kissed her gently. I held my breath as her eyes fluttered open, my heart feeling like it had actually stopped as she backed away from him, getting as far into the corner of the sofa as her skinny frame would allow.
For a few seconds, her face crumbled and I thought she was going to cry from the hurt I’d caused, so obvious in her expression. Maca closed his eyes and I heard him whisper, “Georgia, I’m so sorry.”
I closed my eyes as the room swayed. I needed to put everything right, but I had no idea where to start. When I opened my eyes, both my parents were looking at me, but I couldn’t meet their concerned stares.
Georgia stood and gave a cuddle to my dad and Len. Totally ignoring me, she said, “Well, now you’re all home safe, I’m going to bed. Night.”
“Georgia, wait.” I could hear the absolute panic in Maca’s voice as he told her that they needed to talk, and I almost choked on the guilt that was rising higher in my chest. Why didn’t I feel it that night? Why did I think that what they had was so unimportant?
I slipped out through the laundry and into the back garden to smoke a cigarette, shutting out the sound of Maca asking my dad’s permission to go up to G’s room.
As I headed back in through the laundry door, my mum’s house phone started ringing. “Leave it!” Len shouted as I went to pick it up. I held my hands up in surrender to show him I wasn’t gonna touch it and watched my dad pick up the extension in the living room.
“Frank Layton,” he answered with the kind of authority that only my dad could at three in the morning, especially after the few days we’d just experienced.
He stayed silent for a few seconds, then his brown eyes slid to meet mine as I walked from the kitchen towards the sofa, where Jim and Len were sitting.
“Excuse me?” my dad said into the phone. I watched as he pressed his left hand, palm down, to his forehead and dragged it down his face. My heart was beating so hard, it jolted everything inside of my belly and I felt like I was about to throw up.
The phone was suddenly ripped from its cord, flying across the room, bouncing off of the work top I was sitting at earlier. “You fucker! You stupid, stupid fucker!” my dad roars. “You let someone take photos?” He took a step towards me, my mum and Len jumping up between us. Jimmie turned and looked up at me with her mouth hanging open and shook her head.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, boy? Did I teach you nothing? There’s photos ... evidence, Marley, of you and that other skinny prick upstairs, snorting charlie off that little cunts tits and she’s sold them to the fucking papers.”
Jimmie stood and smacked me across the face. I flinched, but I didn’t actually feel any pain. Aside from the guilt, I’m numb.
“Th―this is too much, Marls. This is gonna kill your sister,” Jimmie said quietly. “I hope you two are fucking proud of yourselves.” She sobbed through gritted teeth, then turned and started heading towards the stairs.
“Don’t tell her, Jim,” I pleaded, reaching out and grabbing her arm. “Please, don’t tell her.”
I’d managed not to cry so far, but the thought of my sister seeing pictures of what we were doing and with who ... fuck! I couldn’t control my lip from trembling, just thinking about what it would do to her.
“Get your fucking hands off her,” Lennon yelled, knocking my hand from Jimmie’s arm.
“Are you gonna tell her Marls? Are you gonna go up there and tell George that there are pictures?” Len asked me.
“Well, someone needs to. The papers will be out in the next few hours, so she’s gonna find out, one way or another,” my dad informed us.
Jimmie drew in a breath and headed up the stairs, Len following.
There was shouting. My dad, then my mum, rushed up the stairs next while I stood there alone for a few moments, too much of a coward to go and face my little sister.
When I got to her room, my dad was shouting at Maca to get out of our house, while my mum was trying to calm him down. Jimmie was screaming at Maca, and all the while, George just sat on her bed, tears rolling down her cheeks.
She was too young for all this. She was sixteen, but in that moment, she looked like a little girl of about ten; frightened, bewildered, and overwhelmed with what was going on around her, and it was all my doing.
What could I do to make it better?
I was an eighteen-year-old kid, living in a grown-up world and I’d made a fuck up of adult proportions.
I could barely breathe. I’d never felt as alone as I did in that moment. I simply stood in G’s bedroom doorway and sobbed.
Len dragged Maca out, kicking and screaming past me and finally, my eyes landed on hers. She’d been broken, and I swore to myself that I would never fuck up like that again.
Oh, how little did I know!
CHAPTER FOUR
1985
The following days were a frantic mess. Georgia didn’t leave her room, Maca wouldn’t stop ringing the house or knocking at the door, eventually deciding to sit outside all day in his car because Dad wouldn’t let him near my sister. Then the press arrived, along with the fans, and I couldn’t leave the house without them chasing me up the street.
Georgia had a week of exams and had to be escorted to and from school. I went up to her room with an apology all prepared in my head, but she just closed the door in my face without saying a word.
That Thursday, we flew off to Sweden for the last two shows on the European leg of our tour. They were a complete sell out. Kombat Rock celebrated with a massive after-party on the final night, but we got on a plane and flew home in silence. Billy and Tom had their girlfriends with them while Lennon, Maca, and I were alone, none of us talking to each other, or anyone else.
We got a much-needed break from each other the following week. Maca rang the house a couple of times for G, but Dad threatened to string him up by the balls with the phone cord if he didn’t stop. I went to stay with my uncle Fin for a few days, as it was so hard being at home. The press were still hanging about outside, George still wouldn’t speak to me, and then there was the guilt. Fuck, so much guilt it was eating me up. Watching Maca withdraw was bad enough, but standing in my sister’s doorway, listening to her cry herself to sleep at night, just about broke my heart. She wasn’t just dealing with the split from Maca. The fuckers at the newspapers had written some god-awful things about her, all of it bullshit. My parents had kept a lot from her, but the bitches at school took great pleasure in filling her in on what they were saying. Then there were the pyscho fans with their constant phone calls and hate mail, but one day came the blow that really broke her―a padded envelope full of dog shit, wrapped in a plastic bag. It arrived with a note...
For breaking Maca’s heart, you little slut.
We hope the rest of your life is full of dog shit!
I was in my bedroom when she must’ve opened it. I ran to her room when I heard my mum shouting, reaching it at the same time as my dad got to the top of the stairs. G just sat on her bed, tears rolling down her face, her blue eyes wide as she looked bet
ween my mum and Dad.
“Why?” she cried. “Why? What did I do? I was a good girlfriend. I loved him―I loved him so fucking much!”
“Oh Georgia,” my mum cried.
“Why do they hate me, mum? He fucked up, not me.” She turned her eyes to me. “You ... you and him. You did this but it’s me they hate. Why?” She cried even harder.
“Go downstairs, get Len on the phone. The label needs to put something in place. I’m not having this. I’m not fucking having it,” my dad speaks through clenched teeth as I watched mum rock Georgia in her arms.
“Move your fucking arse, boy, before I kick it down them stairs,” he shouted.
The following day, we were all at the record label, listening to the final cut of the album. It was releasing Monday, and our UK leg of the tour started off on Wednesday at the Palais on Shepherd’s Bush Road. It wasn’t a particularly large venue, but over the years, Maca and I had seen a lot of our favourite bands play there, including my all-time favourite bands like The Clash, The Jam, and we’d even managed to get in to see The Sex Pistols when we far too young.
Watching The Clash perform ‘(White Man) In Hammersmith Palais’ is a memory that would always stay with me. It’s the reason my son is called Joe.
Maca’s eye caught mine as our meeting winded down. We were all heading over to the BBC shortly to do an interview to be aired on Sunday, and then to Capitol Radio for a live interview.
“Can we talk?” he asked me with a slight tilt of his head, which I’d assumed meant that he didn’t want to do it in front of everyone.
Len watched our interaction and steered everyone out of the room, leaving me to face my best mate. My mouth was suddenly dry and my insides were not happy.
“Whatever issues you two have got going on, you need to get them sorted. Next week is the biggest in the history of this band. It’s what we’ve all worked so hard for all these years, and I’m not letting the fallout from your fuck up affect the rest of us. Say what you’ve gotta say to each other and let’s move on. I love you both, but could happily bang your heads together right now.” Len looked between both of us, then left the room, calling out, “Sort it out, children. The limo leaves in fifteen minutes.”
