How long did my birthday party last in that tatty mold-smelling red-velvet cellar before the scavenging liggers arrived, cawing over the booze they stole, screeching and cackling at us, the barbarians? How long was it before one of them abused the wrong soldier in our little army, and bang-bang it went? Not long, believe me. Then there were cracked noses, plum-black eyes, split lips swelling fat in an instant over sharp-chipped teeth, and the shrill screams of speed-skinny harridans egging on their leathery men-folk to try and “fuck that bitch up.” That bitch stood as the maelstrom rolled around her in a sparkle of broken glass and the red stitch of blood, and thought, ah, enough. So that bitch—which was me, of course, naturally—picked up a tall bar stool and, raising it overhead, smashed the great mirror by the bar into a blossom of shards so I wouldn’t have to see my reflection backdropped by that screeching mess.
Then it went quiet, and all you could hear was breathing and a fella coughing where he’d been whacked in the gut. And the mangy jackals slunk off as the bouncers—late as ever—bulked into the room and tried to get lairy and failed, no one having the energy left to take them seriously.
And I went to the bar manager and said I was sorry for breaking his expensive-looking glass, and he said I hadn’t.
So I said, no, it was me, I’ll pay for it, fair’s fair, somewhat nervous though, as I was mortally skint as usual.
And he said, no, it wasn’t you.
But it was, I said. It was.
No, he said, it wasn’t, you didn’t do it, it’s nothing; you’re famous, we all know you, people like you don’t have to pay for what you do.
And an abyss opened up in front of me that reeked sulphurous of what I could become, of what was in me that rubbed its corrupted hands together and murmured about fame, power, and hubris, which would be the end of freedom and the death of my spirit, and I knew too that a million wan-nabes would think me the biggest fool living for not pricking my thumb pronto and signing on the dotted line. So I threw some money on the bar—without doubt not enough—and walked out of that shabby shithole, my pretty golden bootclogs crunching the broken mirror-glass, and I felt a great disgust at the sorry, sordid smallness of the sellout offered me. For if I was going to trade my immortal soul, brothers and sisters, would it be for the entrée to crap clubs and pathetic parties in a slutty run-down frazzle of a city in a small island off the coast of Europe? Oh, I think not, I really think not, as it goes. Only the universe would be enough to satisfy my desire, and I’m still working on that.
So we left London and returned to Bradford double-quick before we had time to think too hard. We rented another stone house terraced on the slopes of our crazy secret city’s hills and breathed the good air with profound relief and paid Mr. Suleiman what we owed, and more, and he said he knew we’d come back one day and we all shook hands, straight up. Then we set ourselves to write our own histories in songs and stories, make our own testaments in paintings and books, which we have done and are still doing and will do forever and ever, amen; stronger and stronger, brighter and brighter. And I’m grateful I saw what I saw when I did, before I was blinded by habit and despair, like so many I know who are lost now, beyond recall.
Twenty years have passed since that night, and I ask myself what it really was we all hated most about our sojourn in the Great Wen. What was the grit in the pearl in the oyster, the time-bomb ticking heart of it? I’ve heard all the stories of loneliness and fear, of self-harm and suicide, of madness and addiction, from others who finally limped home to lick their wounds—but it wasn’t any of that for us. No. What finally, finally finished us with London wasn’t the corruption or the scandals, nothing so interesting, nothing so bold, nothing so grand.
Sic transit gloria mundi—so passes away the glory of the world.
London, that braggart capital, passes away without glory, you see. Without greatness, without any kind of joy, without passion or fire or beauty. In the end, you see, London was such a pathetic bloody disappointment.
And you know what? It still is.
That’s all.
NEW ROSE
BY JOHN WILLIAMS
New Cross
Years ago Mac had read this interview with a British soul singer whose career had had its share of ups and downs. The guy was asked whether he felt he’d been a success. “Well,” he said, “I’ve never had to go back to mini-cabbing.” It was a line that came into Mac’s head quite regularly these days as he delivered a fare to the Academy or hung around the office playing cards with Kemal, the night controller.
Not that Mac minded cabbing particularly. There were a lot worse things to do, he was well aware. And it fit pretty well with his lifestyle. Not just the working at night but the fact that you could drop it just like that when something better came along. Though it was a bit of a while since something better had come along. It had been three months since he’d finished a stint road managing for the Lords—a bunch of re-formed Aussie punks he’d known from back in the day. And it had been a good six months since anyone had asked Mac to get his own band back on the road. Mac had been in one of the original class-of-’76 punk bands but one that had somehow missed out on becoming legendary. They had a bit of a following in Italy, and most of the places that used to be Yugoslavia, but that was about it.
Five a.m. a call came in for a trip to the airport, Heathrow. Kemal looked over at Mac, who sighed then nodded. It was 7:15 by the time he made it home, a council maisonette in Gospel Oak. Jackie was just getting up, making some tea and yelling at the kids, teenagers now both of them, to get themselves out of bed.
“Hey,” he said flopping down on the couch, absolutely knackered.
“Hey yourself,” said Jackie.
“Good time last night?” Jackie had been out with a couple of mates from the school.
“Yeah,” said Jackie, “nice. Listen, there was a message for you when I got in. From someone called Etheridge. Wants you to call him. Sounds like it might be a job. Etheridge, why does that name ring a bell?”
“Used to manage Ross, you remember?”
Jackie pulled a face. “Oh, him.”
“Yeah,” said Mac, “him. He’s doing all right these days, has his own label and management company. Did he leave a number?”
“Yeah, by the phone.”
“Right,” said Mac, stretching and heading for bed. “I’ll call him later.”
“So,” said Jackie at teatime, her turn to sit on the couch looking knackered, after a day spent looking after special-needs kids at the school. “What did he want, this Etheridge?”
“Ah, he wants me to talk to someone.”
“Oh yeah, any particular someone?”
“Yeah, someone he wants to do a gig, and he’s heard I’m the man who might be able to talk this someone into doing one, or at least sober him up enough to get him on stage.”
“Oh Christ,” said Jackie, “not bloody Luke.”
“Yeah,” said Mac, “bloody Luke is exactly who he wants. It’s this label’s twenty-fifth anniversary and they’re having a whole series of gigs to celebrate and they really want Luke to be there, as he was the guy who started it all for them. There’s some decent wedge in it for me and all, if I can get him on stage.”
Jackie shook her head. “Well, just as long as you don’t bring him round here again. Not after last time. Not if he’s still drinking.”
“Oh,” said Mac, “it’s a pretty safe bet he’s still doing that.”
Luke North was another old-timer, another feller who went all the way back to ’76/’77, had played all the same speed-driven, gob-drenched gigs as Mac. Only Luke’s crew had found favor with the all-important John Peel on the radio, and a bit of a cult had grown up around them over the years. Every decade or so a new band would come along and say their heroes were Luke and his mob, and then there’d be a feature in the NME about his dissolute genius or whatever.
All that dissolute genius stuff sounds fine when you read about it in the paper, of course. It tends to be a b
it different when you get up close, though. The truth of it was that Luke was a fuck-up, and one who had the knack of fuck-ing up anyone who came in his orbit. But to be fair, he had charm, charisma even, and, given that Mac wasn’t planning on sharing his life with the bloke, he’d always got on with him okay. They’d been close for a while right back at the beginning, drifted apart as you do, then become mates again after they’d both been touring Slovenia at the same time a few years back, both of them at a low ebb. Since then, Luke would call up once a month or so and they’d go out, have a drink or whatever.
A few times Mac had brought him back to Gospel Oak but Jackie wasn’t too keen. Said she sort of liked him, you know, she could see what the attraction was, but there was something about him that creeped her out. Mac hadn’t really known what she meant till the last time he’d come round. He’d been really drunk, maybe something else going on as well. He hadn’t eaten a thing, stubbed his fags out in the food, all that kind of shit which was bad enough, but this time Mac had really known what Jackie meant. There was something—not evil, that was overstating it—but rotten, something definitely rotten coming off him. And since then, that was three, four months ago, Mac had only seen him once.
But apparently that was more than anyone else had done, and if Etheridge was going to pay him a grand “consulting fee” just for getting him on stage, well, Mac was in no position to turn it down.
Calls to the couple of numbers he had for Luke proved fruitless, so Mac decided to cruise around a few of his known haunts in between fares. A run down to Soho gave him a chance to check out the Colony and the French; Luke liked those old-school boho hangouts. No sign of him though, which wasn’t much of a surprise, no doubt Etheridge would have found him already if he was hanging around Soho. Same went for Camden Town. Mac checked the Good Mixer and the Dublin Castle just in case, but once again no sign, nothing but Japanese tourists hoping for a glimpse of someone who used to be in Blur. This was ridiculous, Mac decided, there had to be a million drinking holes in London and the odds of finding Luke at random were next to zero. Even if he was in a pub at all and not crashed out in some flat in Walthamstow or Peckham or God knows where else.
He’d just about given up on the idea when a fare took him to London Bridge station and he had a bit of an inspiration. Years ago, Luke had a kid with a woman who ran a pub just down the way. Well, she hadn’t run a pub back then, but she did now. Luke had taken him in there a year or so back. He was from Bermondsey, was Luke, originally. Over the years, he’d become all international rock and roll, but scratch deep enough and there was a bit of barrow boy lurking in there. And for years, when he was starting out, he’d had this girlfriend who came from the same background as he, London Irish, Linda her name was.
The pub was tucked underneath the railway line, a real basic boozer with a pool table and jukebox and bunch of old fellers sitting at the bar.
Linda was playing darts when Mac walked in. She was a tall woman, what you’d call handsome rather than pretty, chestnut hair and good bones, looked like she could sort you out herself, no problem, if you started any trouble. He waited till she finished her turn, then said hello.
“All right, darlin’?” he said, and she looked at him uncertainly for a second, then broke out a big smile, came over, and hugged him. Women liked Mac, always had, he was big and solid and he kept his troubles to himself. Plus, in this particular case, there was a little bit of history. It was a long time ago, so long ago that Mac had kind of forgotten it till he felt her arms around him, but once, must be twenty years ago, they’d had a bit of a night. Nothing serious, just a bit of a laugh when Luke had been driving her crazy.
“So,” she said, leading him over toward the bar, “what brings you down this way?”
“Well,” said Mac, “pleasure of your company, of course.”
“Oh, aye?” said Linda, and gave him a bit of a look, one that said she didn’t believe him for a moment, but she’d let it slide for now. “So how’s the family?”
“Good. Growing up, you know. How’s your boy?”
Linda shook her head. “In prison.”
“Oh,” said Mac, who wasn’t inclined to rush to judgement, he’d done his own time in his wild youth. “Anything serious?”
Linda scrunched her face up. “Not really, just some E’s and intent to supply.”
“What? They sent him down for that?” He looked at Linda, saw the little shake of her head. “Oh, not a first offense then.”
“No,” said Linda, “not exactly.” Then she mustered up a bit of a smile. “Like father, like son, eh?”
“Yeah, well,” said Mac, “he was always a bit of a boy, your Luke, that’s for sure. You seen him recently?” Felt like a bit a bastard slipping that in.
“Luke? Yeah, now and again, you know how he is.” She paused, took a slug of the drink she had on the bar. Could just be Coke, though Mac wouldn’t have bet on it. “You know what I used to think, back when?”
“No,” said Mac, remembering her back then, a sharp girl in a ra-ra skirt, worked as a barmaid in the Cambridge. Ha, funny to think of it, but she was the only one of them who had managed to advance her career in the meantime, barmaid to landlady definitely had the edge on punk rocker to punk rock revivalist and part-time cabbie.
“I used to think you two were like twins. Like Luke was the good one and you were the evil one.”
“Me?” said Mac, affecting an expression of mock outrage. “Evil?”
“Well,” said Linda, “you had just come out of Strangeways when I first met you.”
Mac shook his head. It was true. The band he’d been in, in Manchester, they were all proper little hooligans, got all their equipment by robbing music shops. Nothing subtle either. Just a brick through the window in the middle of the night and leg it with whatever you could carry. It was no wonder he’d ended up inside.
Linda carried on. “Then later on I thought I’d got it arse backwards, you were the good one and I’d picked the evil one.”
Mac just looked at her, didn’t say anything. The business they were in, you didn’t play by the usual rules. You were in a band, no one expected you to behave properly. A woman went out with you, it was taken as read there’d be others. At least when you went on tour. Had Luke been worse than him? He didn’t really know. He’d never really been one for judging other people. Certainly not back then.
“I chucked him in the end, you know. Well, of course you know. I just got tired of it. And I thought about you now and again. How I should have chosen someone like you.”
Mac shook his head, started to say something, “You don’t know …”
Linda waved his words away. “Yeah, I know. I realized it last time I saw you. A year or two back, when Luke brought you here. I saw you both then and I realized you were the same, just blokes. You just want what you want, all of you.”
Mac had a sudden urge to protest. Was he the same as Luke these days? He didn’t like to think so. Since he’d been with Jackie, god, getting on twenty years, he’d been a reformed character, responsible.
Well, up to a point. He’d tried to be responsible, he’d give himself that, but there were plenty of times he’d failed, plenty of times he’d strayed. Slovenia, where he’d met up with Luke again, that was a case in point all right. This girl called Anja. Yeah, Linda was close enough to the truth of it. Though he kind of hoped there was a sliver of difference in there somewhere, like the gap between Labour and Tory or something, tiny but just big enough to breathe in.
“So,” he said “you know where I might find my evil twin?”
Linda leaned forward reached out a hand and took hold of Mac’s chin, turned his face till he was looking right at her, and she at him. “See what I mean?” she said. Then she laughed and let him go and said, “Dunno, exactly, but you could try New Cross. He’s got a new girlfriend, she’s at Goldsmiths there.”
“A student?”
“No, a bloody lecturer. What d’you think? Course she’s a student. You t
hink some grown woman’s going to take Luke on?”
Mac put his hands up in surrender, then leaned forward and gave Linda a quick kiss right on the lips before heading back out to the car, where he could hear Kemal squawking on the radio.
“Hey,” he said, “calm down man. Look, I’m going off the radar now for a couple of hours, but I’ll work through till morning. All right?”
He switched the radio off before he could hear Kemal’s no doubt outraged reply and headed for New Cross.
Jesus Christ, Mac remembered when New Cross was a nice quiet place to drink, basically dead as anything with a bunch of big old Irish boozers. Now it was like a dank and ugly version of Faliraki, all-disco pubs with bouncers on the outside and liquored-up sixteen-year-olds on the inside. He’d tried Walpole’s, the New Cross Inn, and Goldsmiths. No sign of Luke. He tried the Marquis of Granby, which was a slight improvement, a standard dodgy South London Irish boozer where you could at least hear yourself think. Tired and thirsty, he drank a quick pint of Guinness, tried to remember where else there was to drink in this neck of the woods, and was struck by an unwelcome thought. Luke had always been a Millwall fan.
Reluctantly he dragged himself back out to the car and drove round some back streets that had done a pretty good job of escaping gentrification till he got to the Duke of Albany. He’d been there once with Luke for a lunchtime pre-match session. Hardcore wasn’t the word.
From a distance it looked as if it had closed down. The sign had fallen down and most of the letters of the pub’s name had gone missing. But there was a light showing behind those windows that weren’t blacked out, and Mac sighed and headed on in. He was rewarded by the sight of a dozen or so hard cases giving him the eye, England flags all over the place, and a carpet that immediately attached itself to his feet. He had a quick look round. No sign of Luke. The locals didn’t seem to appreciate his interest. Still, Mac knew exactly how to handle these situations these days.
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