The Singer

by Cathi Unsworth

  ‘Did you just say—’ ventured Vince, clutching his sides and trying to get his breath back ‘—you’ve got a band?’

  ‘Aye,’ nodded Stevie. ‘We’re not bad neither. We’ve been practising all summer. Only trouble is, we’ve not got a singer.’

  ‘Well,’ smiled Vince, ‘you have now.’

  Lynton and Kevin reviewed this new prospect with a mixture of horror and awe. Lynton couldn’t quite believe the mad bastard was still with Stevie. He agreed with Terry and Barry – Vince should have been deposited in a lay-by somewhere far from here. That bloody face and all his gibbering about Elvis Presley had made Lynton shudder. The last thing he expected was to see this vision of mad badness swaggering into their rehearsal room, laughing and joking with Stevie with an ease that suggested the two of them had been friends for years.

  With his finely tuned instinct for personal danger, Kevin regarded Vince with mute terror. Vince said he was eighteen and had left school already, but he looked much older than they did, much more knowing. And the way he had passed his eyes over the little drummer reminded Kevin too much of the expression on Dunton’s face when a new boy turned up at school. Like he couldn’t wait to get on with the torture.

  From the moment they’d assembled in the garage, on Stevie’s orders later that afternoon, it was as if Vince had taken over, assumed the gig was his before he’d even sung a note. Worse still, Stevie didn’t even seem to have noticed.

  Instead he was boasting to his new friend about how they’d taught themselves a few cover versions over the summer – ‘Anarchy’, ‘New Rose’ by The Damned and Link Wray’s instrumental ‘Rumble’. Vince decided instantly that demolishing Dave Vanian would be the best way of demonstrating his skill.

  Doesn’t want to measure himself up against Johnny, thought Lynton, tuning up his bass. Kevin was so nervous it had taken him forever to set up his kit, crashing around all fingers and thumbs, dropping cymbals left, right and centre. Lynton had helped him in the end, then sullenly wired up their only vocal mic, while Vince and Stevie jawed on about the gig last night, oblivious to their discomfort.

  ‘All right, you ready?’ Stevie slung his guitar around his neck.

  ‘Yeah,’ Kevin’s voice came out high and shrill, making Vince snigger.

  Lynton just nodded. I’ll show that freak, he thought. Bet he knows nothing about music.

  ‘New Rose’ had an explosive intro anyhow, drums, bass and guitar all crashing in together, and the moment the three of them got going it was like a shower of sparks went up. Stevie nailed that subverted rockabilly riff the way a surfer catches a wave. Kevin drummed faster than he’d ever managed before, drummed like his life depended on it. Lynton felt hairs standing up on the back of his neck as his fingers flew up the fretboard, finding the notes as if of their own volition.

  Then Vince grabbed hold of the mic, swung it backwards and let rip a deep, almost yowling voice. That it wasn’t entirely pleasant on the ear wasn’t the point. From the moment his fingers touched the mic, Vince Smith looked like a star. He moved that microphone back and forth with a louche magnificence, like a hellbound punk Gene Vincent, already caught in the spotlight’s glare. It didn’t seem like he knew most of the words, or maybe he was just making up couplets that amused him more. But there was an aura about him that was electrifying. You couldn’t stop staring at him.

  Jesus, thought Lynton, that freak is showing me. And then he had to smile as his heart filled up with the rush – the four corners had touched and magic had come forth. They actually sounded like a band.

  That three minutes was the best noise they had yet to make together. When it was over, they stared at each other, almost shocked by what they’d done.

  ‘Oooh ’eck.’ A flushed Stevie looked round at his bright-eyed companions. ‘Was that really us? Shall we do that one again and prove it?’

  They spent another two hours messing around in Lynton’s garage that day. They went through what they knew, what they’d been working on and tried to put a few of their own tunes together with Vince’s own lyrics.

  Vince already had a lot of these to spare. He kept them on him at all times, scribbled down on a tiny girl’s notepad he kept in the arm pocket of his leather jacket. As he explained to the others, he’d been looking for a band for quite some time. He’d enrolled for an art foundation course at Doncaster College, thinking he’d meet some like-minded people there. But, oh no, they were all pretentious middle-class wankers playing at being punks. Not like this. This was off the streets, real working-class rage. This was the real thing.

  Without even Stevie realising, Vince’s voice had gone back to a thick Yorkshire brogue now. ‘What d’they call you?’ he asked.

  ‘We thought about Dead City, ’cos that’s what Hull is, d’you know what I mean?’ Stevie shrugged. ‘But that’s the nearest we’ve got to a name we all liked.’

  Vince frowned. ‘Yeah. Sounds a bit depressing, mind. Reckon we should have a name with a bit more mystery to it.’

  Lynton and Kevin exchanged rolled-eye glances. ‘Yeah?’ Lynton growled. ‘Like what?’

  ‘I was reading this book,’ Vince smiled at him, ‘that gave me an idea. It’s called Wise Blood. It’s about a preacher who doesn’t believe in worshipping Jesus so he forms the Church Without Christ. You might like to borrow it some time,’ he raised one eyebrow slowly, laughter lines deepening at the corner of his mouth. ‘I think you might like it, Lynton.’

  Vince seemed to enjoy the look of confusion that passed across the bass player’s face, but he didn’t push it. ‘Anyway,’ he continued. ‘This preacher, he meets this country hick who he thinks has got wise blood. I like the idea of wise blood. Like, the music’s in our blood, we bring it out of us when we play together. Blood brothers, you know what I mean? We should call ourselves after it. Call ourselves…Blood Truth.’

  ‘Blood Truth?’ Stevie swilled it around his mouth like he was testing wine. ‘Sounds fuckin’ weird all right. What d’you reckon, Lynton?’

  Lynton had at first thought that Vince was taking the piss out of him with all this Church Without Christ bollocks, like he’d figured out something about him that the others didn’t know. But the Blood Truth thing he could really understand. That’s what it felt like when they played together.

  Still, he remained suspicious. He’d recognised that look in Vince’s eye as well as Kevin had.

  ‘It’s good,’ he nodded. ‘What about you, Kevin?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ squeaked the drummer, dropping his eyes to the floor. ‘Whatever you think.’

  ‘Right,’ said Vince, pleased with his first victory. ‘That’s that then. Blood Truth we are. Anyone fancy drinking to that?’

  ‘Just one thing,’ Lynton cut in. ‘How can you be in our band if you live in Donny? I mean, this is our rehearsal space, we’re all set up here, so we ain’t coming to you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. My girlfriend’s got a car,’ Vince said airily. ‘You tell me when you want me,’ he looked pointedly at Stevie, ‘and I’ll be there. Now then, about this drink…’

  Stevie went willingly off to the pub with him, leaving Lynton and Kevin to clear everything away.

  ‘He were a bit mad, weren’t he?’ understated Kevin when they were alone, not sure if Lynton would agree with him or not.

  ‘You are not wrong there,’ Lynton nodded. ‘Not wrong at all.’

  ‘What did he do to his head?’

  Lynton grimaced. ‘Apparently, he run into Sid Vicious’s bass. I’m not sure if it did enough damage, though.’

  Kevin giggled.

  ‘Thing is, though,’ Lynton had to admit, ‘he is good. It’s like…’ he spread his arms, tried to explain how he felt to Kevin. ‘You never wanted to be in a band with us, did you? We had to force you. Then, soon as you was, you was brilliant. We all played together and it was like…something special, you know what I mean?’

  Kevin nodded. He did know.

  ‘And now, this mad Vince comes along,
and I don’t want to play with him neither. I’m gettin’ bad vibes from him. But Stevie forces me. And then the same thing happens again. He is good, seriously good. It felt good playing with him. He was right about it being in our blood.’

  Lynton’s eyes beseeched Kevin to agree. He smiled sadly in reply. ‘Guess we’re stuck with him then, aren’t we?’

  Lynton smiled. ‘Guess we are.’

  Kevin walked home across the city, lost in thought. Lynton had been right, he hadn’t wanted to be in a band at first, especially not with those two. But now that he was, now that he did know Lynton and Stevie and what they could achieve together, he didn’t want to give it up. Despite their obvious differences, the three of them had grown strangely close over the past five weeks. For the first time in his life, and because of his talents, Kevin had actually been treated like an equal. His opinion had counted; he was a vital part of something good.

  The four weeks Dunton and his family had spent in their caravan in Brid had helped a lot too. Kevin hadn’t seen Gary for so long now that he had almost dared to imagine a life without him.

  But now, he had a horrible feeling that with the arrival of Vince, his fleeting happiness, like the summer holidays themselves, was coming to an end. A feeling that only intensified when he rounded the corner of Davis Close. It was almost dark and people were starting to switch their lights on. The Duntons’ car was back in their drive. Every light in their house was ablaze. Even as he walked towards his own front door, Kevin caught sight of Gary through the living-room window.

  Dunton appeared to have grown another foot over the past month. His bumfluff moustache was now fully formed into a thick, bristling band and his hair had been fuzzed into a Kevin Keegan perm. He appeared to be demonstrating newfound strength to go with his height by holding Barney Lee in a headlock. Wearing a Leeds United football shirt, he looked like a genuine hooligan.

  Kevin shrank away up his own garden path. But at that moment, Dunton saw him, dropped Barney and looked at him with a puzzled expression. Then he smiled – top lip curling, more like a sneer – and beckoned him to come round the side of the house.

  Heart sinking, Kevin turned and tramped towards the Duntons’ front door just as Gary pulled it open.

  Dunton looked down at him, feigning amusement, while something deadlier played in his eyes.

  ‘What’s all this then, Kevin?’ He reached forward and rubbed a big sweaty hand through Kevin’s first feeble attempts to make his hair stand up a bit. ‘You look like one of those punk-rocker dickheads. That’s not like you, is it? Anyone would think you’d been hanging out with Paddies—’ Dunton’s eyes narrowed, into evil little slits ‘—or even worse, nignogs. Get a load of this, Barney,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Come and look what’s happened to Kevin.’

  Then he turned back to Kevin and hissed: ‘I don’t know what you think you’ve been up to while we was away. But it looks to me like you need sorting out…’

  Lynton kept the fear away until all the lights were turned out. Then, alone in his bed, Vince’s words pushed their way unwelcomely back into his head. ‘The Church Without Christ…you’d like that, Lynton.’

  ‘No,’ Lynton turned, pulling his bedsheets over his head, ‘get out of my head.’

  But it was hot and sweaty in Lynton’s bedroom, even with the window open. He had never been the easiest of sleepers and tonight presented the perfect conditions for rampant insomnia. ‘Church Without Christ, Lynton. Church Without Christ.’

  His hand burrowed under his pillow, finding the little leather Bible he kept there. The only thing his real mother had left for him when she’d gave him away. Because of this, he had always happily accompanied his foster parents to church, thinking that it was what she had wanted for him. Because of this, he feared evil. Feared Vince’s casual blasphemy had more behind it than just punk posing. In daylight hours the thought would have been stupid, could have been brushed aside. But alone in his room at midnight, that taunting took on a new dimension, the words twisted into accusations. ‘Church Without Christ, Lynton. That’s what you want.’

  ‘No!’ he gripped the book tightly to his chest, started mouthing the words to The Lord’s Prayer at the same time thinking: I am not going to be evil, I am not going to be turned, I do love you, Jesus.

  Repeating it over and over, every time the mocking voice made a comeback, threatened to drown him out. Over and over, sweating and afraid in the oppressive darkness. I love you, Jesus, love you, Jesus, love you.

  It wasn’t until he heard the first birds singing just before dawn that Lynton fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Stevie turned his key in the door as quietly as he could and stole into the hallway. It was ten o’clock and he’d left Vince heading in the direction of the station to catch the last train home. Dawdled his way back through the streets, avoiding going past any of the pubs where the old man was likely to be, the exhilaration of the past two days fading into a knot of dread, tight in his stomach.

  The old man was home. Stevie had slammed the door in his Ma’s face. Now he was going to get it.

  He took his shoes off on the corner of his street, wanting nothing to give him away. The place was eerily deserted, like every house knew and was silently watching him, catching their breath, waiting for the storm to break.

  The TV was on loud, as usual, covering his tentative steps in the darkness. Stevie had made all of two silent steps up the stairs when the living-room door flung open and the great hulk of his father appeared in the harsh electric light.

  ‘What d’you think you’re doing there, Steven, sneakin’ off like a thief in the night?’ His voice was soft but his eyes were hard, the overture to a rage.

  Stevie froze, said nothing. His father snapped the hall light on.

  ‘Will you take a look at that!’ he exclaimed, eyes sweeping up and down his son’s artfully distressed appearance. ‘What in the name of God have you been doin’ while I’ve been out breaking my back for you? You turning queer, son, is that what it is? Is that what makes you think you can treat your own mother like dirt?’ His voice was rising now, prodding at Stevie like a jabbing finger and he walked towards his errant son, balling his right hand into a fist. ‘Have you got a tongue in your head, Steven? I asked you a question.’

  ‘No, Da…’ Stevie started.

  His mother slunk silently through the living-room door, placed an arm on his father’s shoulder, her eyes round with worry.

  ‘Leave it, love,’ she whispered. ‘We can talk about it in morning.’

  ‘I’m not leaving anything,’ he stated. He shook the hand off, continued to stare at Stevie, his face flushed, a vein pumping hard on his temple.

  ‘D’you know what I think? I think you’re taking the piss, son. What kind of people have you been bringing into my house, Steven? What kind of heathens have you been entertaining behind my back?’

  ‘I’ve not, Da…’ Stevie heard himself croak, knowing that was precisely the wrong thing to say.

  ‘You what, son? What are you saying to me? You didn’t have anyone here? That’s not what your mother’s told me, Steven. She distinctly heard two of yous running out of here this morning, slamming the door in her face. So you’re calling your mother a liar now, are you?’

  ‘N-no…’ Stevie stared for a second more into those mad, bulging eyes, then tried to make a run for it. He got to the top of the stairs before his father’s fist connected to the side of his head and a shower of stars exploded before his eyes.

  ‘Are you calling your mother a liar?’ Screamed into his ear. ‘Are you, son?’

  His sister Gracie waking up, crying.

  ‘Are you?’

  His mother pulling at his father’s legs, trying to get him off him, sobbing: ‘Please don’t hurt him, please…’

  Sparks in his eyes and red pain hammering down across his head, his shoulders, his arms where he tried to protect himself. Crying ‘No, no, no, no, no, no, no.’

  The end of the summer holidays.r />
  The start of Blood Truth.

  10

  Steps Through the Unmarked Door

  January 2002

  I was halfway through Kevin’s transcript when Louise got home from work, dropping her black leather handbag and a Sainsbury’s carrier of food down on the kitchen table with a concentration-shattering bang.

  ‘Eddie,’ she turned round and stared at me. ‘We’ve been getting weird phone calls.’

  ‘What?’ I pulled my mini-earphones out of my lugholes.

  ‘Weird phone calls,’ she repeated, lips pursed. ‘While you were out yesterday someone left a constant stream of drivel on the answerphone. I don’t know if you’ve bothered to listen but I can’t understand a word of it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise…’ With her usual accuracy, Louise had pinpointed the first time in months I hadn’t instantly played back my messages once I’d got in. Probably because I had been so full of triumph after my encounter with Kevin Holme, my feet had somehow taken me from Camden tube up to the top of Inverness Street, to where Christophe worked in Joe’s Jump-Jive Shack. We’d got talking and ended up celebrating my book deal over a few jars in the Spread Eagle. It was the first time we’d seen each other properly all year, after all. So I’d got back late when Louise was already asleep. Then today I’d just got up wanting to get back to it, and after a leisurely 2pm breakfast I had. With Granger still out of the country, I guess I hadn’t expected anything important to come in.

  Trust some loony to catch out my first act of transgression in 2002.

  Louise’s red fingernail hovered over the playback button. ‘Do you understand a word of this?’

  The voice was slurred, with a thick Scottish accent. But having had more experience listening to incoherent drunks than Lou, I could just about make out what he was saying.

  ‘Ah’m lookin’ for an, ahm, Eddie? Uh, Eddie B-brack…nell? Eddie Brack-nell. Ah’ve go’ somethin’ furr youze…’