The Singer

by Cathi Unsworth

  Sylvana shrugged. ‘Probably working an angle. Finding someone with an in to Dave.’

  The two had found a fairly decent position by now, about halfway down the auditorium to the left of the stage, where they could get a view over the heads of the biggest guys who’d be rucking down the front the moment The Damned came on without getting dragged into their mêlée. It would be a pity to lose this spot, but those Soft Boys weren’t getting any better.

  Still, for the moment, most people remained seated.

  ‘I knew I should have gone,’ Helen sighed. ‘I’m not going to get through any more of this bollocks without a beer and that’s for sure.’

  She cricked her neck and surveyed the room. Packed as it was, Donna wouldn’t have been too hard to find under any circumstances. But it looked from here as if they were going to be left drinkless, and Helen fancied their chances of resolving that even less after this lot came offstage.

  ‘Look, will you be all right here if I go?’ Helen couldn’t help feeling protective over her little Sylvana.

  ‘Sure,’ her companion nodded enthusiastically, wide eyes shining. ‘You’ll find me again OK, won’t you?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘But here, Helen, let me give you the money.’

  Helen rolled her eyes.

  ‘You already paid for us to be here…’

  ‘Take it anyway!’ Sylvana pressed a roll of notes into Helen’s lace-gloved hand. ‘And don’t give me any of that “charity” crap, OK?’

  ‘If your mother could hear you now,’ said Helen, then winked and turned towards the bar.

  It was a sea of spiky hair and leather that she had to wade through, and her eyesight was not the best. But by the time she’d managed to elbow her way through to being served she still hadn’t seen where bloody Donna had got to. Best not buy her a drink then, she reasoned, especially as two pints are much easier to carry than three.

  The Soft Boys were coming offstage. It was all Helen could do to keep the contents in the two plastic glasses she’d been given while she dodged her way back through what seemed like an army of thirsty ghouls heading straight for her. It obviously wasn’t just she and Sylvana who’d been unimpressed with the support. Coins, bottles and bog rolls were being lobbed at the now empty stage. Cries of ‘Come on then!’, ‘Why are we waiting?’ and ‘Where’s the Captain?’ filled the air. As she edged her way nervously down the left-hand side of the stage, Helen saw a huge punk rocker trying to pull up one of the seats.

  She couldn’t see if Sylvana was where she’d left her, because by now everyone was stood up, shouting for the band to come on. Moving out of their seats, into the aisles, pushing towards the stage. A line of red-faced bouncers was trying to keep everybody back, but Helen could feel that momentum building. Wishing she had worn her specs, she whirled around on the spot, trying to catch a glimpse of Sylvana’s red hair, getting pushed and jostled on both sides. Bloody hell, this was impossible!

  The seat, ripped free of its moorings, flew in a graceful arc over her head.

  ‘Come on, you wankers!’ someone screamed down her earhole.

  ‘Hey, Helen.’ A hand suddenly gripped her elbow. ‘Over here!’

  Sylvana had taken cover in a Fire Escape door in a recess of the aisle. And she wasn’t alone. She had two men with her.

  A tall, skinny guy with a thick fringe of red hair and his stockier, shorter companion who had black spiky hair and a round, smiling face.

  ‘This is Robin,’ Sylvana was making the introductions, indicating the fringe, ‘and this is, er…’

  ‘Allie,’ said the smiley-faced punker, nodding vigorously.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Helen, and actually she was. There was something about his face she liked.

  ‘The guys thought we might be a bit safer over here,’ Sylvana added, shouting to be heard over the noise. ‘I think things might get a little out of hand tonight.’

  Helen nodded, took a sip of beer, noted that Allie’s eyes were still flickering back and forth between the stage and herself.

  ‘Don’t suppose you saw Donna anywhere?’ Sylvana continued.

  ‘Don’t suppose I did. She must have found her backstage pass all right. Anyway, who are these two?’

  ‘Oh,’ Sylvana smiled demurely. ‘Just some guys in the protection racket. Came to look after little ole me while I was on my own in this dreadful place.’

  They cackled together into their beers. ‘I can’t understand their accents but they are kinda cute though, hey?’ Sylvana winked. ‘I thought you would dig that Italian-looking one.’

  Helen nodded, a wry smile forming. ‘Not, bad, not bad at all…’

  They turned back to their new friends.

  ‘Did you say you were in a band, Robin?’ Sylvana asked the fringe.

  ‘I’m trying to get somethin’ together,’ he said. ‘But I really need a singer. Me and Allie here, we’re good enough at makin’ the tunes but singin’, no way. We sound like two asthmatic auld bastids who’ve been too long at the sauce.’

  ‘I love your accent,’ said Sylvana, though she couldn’t quite understand what he’d actually said.

  ‘Can you sing?’ he asked her.

  Just then a little fellow in a flat cap slipped by the side of them towards the front of the stage.

  ‘Robin,’ Allie dug him in the ribs, ‘Rat Scabies just walked past.’

  Four heads turned towards the stage, and as they did the lights went down and a huge cheer erupted, along with another couple of seats flying skywards.

  Sensible, wearing a white dress and a dog collar, walked up to his mic and made the announcement: ‘This is the end of punk!’

  The bouncers were overpowered as a huge surge of people rushed towards the stage, and almost as a reflex, Robin and Allie found themselves pulling the girls behind them, covering the doorway with their bodies. It might have been punk rock and all, but they were good Catholic boys.

  ‘Guys,’ Sylvie suggested, ‘when the coast is clear, I don’t mind moving back a bit.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Helen agreed. As she peered out from under Allie’s armpit, her eyes travelled around the stage and came to a halt at the right-hand side. She may not have had her glasses on, but she could take this sight in well enough. Lounging by the side of the curtain, draped all over a punk rocker in a leather jacket, white spiky hair and shades was Donna.

  The punk rocker had his hand on her leg. Donna had her eyes on Dave Vanian.

  She’d found her backstage pass all right.

  The end of punk was a riot worthy of the original Peasants’ Revolt. Virtually every seat in the Rainbow’s auditorium was wrenched from its moorings and hurled towards the stage. Their blood up, the hardcore down the front wouldn’t even listen to Vanian’s admonishments to calm down. Gradually, Helen, Sylvana and their new-found friends edged their way backwards to the bar where they were out of the range of flying furniture. All the same, it was a pretty awesome spectacle to behold.

  Rat Scabies climbed up onto the stage and the set continued with two drummers and then Lol Coxhill added to the frenzy with his honking sax, nicely choreographing the carnage below. They played The Beatles’ ‘Help’ like they really meant it. Sensible walked off. He came back on naked and they played an encore, ‘Feel Alright’.

  But all the way through, Helen was watching Donna as much as the band. Her pass provider seemed to have fallen under a spell; he could hardly take his eyes off her to concentrate on the gig. What would become of him once Donna was where she wanted to be? One thing she could feel sure of – they wouldn’t be seeing her again tonight.

  Which was a major relief. Everyone was getting on really well here, and Helen just knew that if Donna was to turn up now, that would be the end of that. No cosy foursomes if she could help it. Only Donna could possibly be the centre of attention.

  Helen said a silent prayer of thanks for whoever the bloke with the white spiky hair was. And he did seem familiar from somewhere, she just couldn’t
quite think where.

  Suddenly it was over. The house lights came up and the bouncers pushed the peasants out of the venue as quickly and as forcefully as they could. Blue lights spilled onto the pavement outside from waiting panda cars. As they piled out onto the streets, Helen saw the massive punk rocker who’d launched the first chair getting bundled into the back of one, loudly protesting both his innocence and opinion of the great British police force.

  It was so cold outside compared to in, steam was coming off people’s backs. Helen shrugged her way back into her fur coat.

  ‘Which way you headed?’ Allie asked her, as the human tide eddied around them, between the tube across the way and the line of bus stops on Seven Sisters Road.

  ‘South Ken,’ Helen shouted. She wondered if she should ask him to come back. He’d looked after her really well all night, acted like a real gent, without slobbering all over her or even acting like he had a right to. Helen hadn’t met anyone she liked so much since she’d moved to London.

  Allie looked impressed. ‘They got a chippy there then?’ he asked.

  Helen laughed and put on a posh voice. ‘Whatever do you mean, a chippy?’ She pretended to stick her nose up at the very suggestion.

  Allie’s smile broadened and his eyes twinkled in the streetlight. Helen felt a sudden strange feeling that she had found her way home. ‘You haven’t tried my famous fried egg sandwiches yet,’ she told him. ‘You’ll never want chips again.’

  It was pretty bloody late, but they made the last tube back west, rammed into a carriage with the rest of the punk hordes, laughing and singing along with the rest of the carriage. Good job the city gents were long in their beds.

  Helen and Allie swung from the hand rails, laughing and accidentally-on-purpose falling into each other’s arms each time the train stopped in a station. Standing to the side of the doors, Sylvana fitted snugly into the crook of Robin’s arm, looking as if she’d never really been anywhere else. They looked good together, Helen thought. Robin was one of those guys who wasn’t so much handsome as really cool, like he was happy inside his own skin. He had a really tender expression when he looked at Sylvana too. God, things went so much smoother without bloody Donna around.

  ‘What yer thinking?’ Allie broke into Helen’s reverie.

  She quickly thought of something different. ‘Do you think that really was the end of punk?’ she asked him. That was a bit of a depressing thought too. She’d had such a good time in London since she got here, caught up in a wave of excitement, new bands forming every week, new styles of clothes to wear, new clubs, everything happening in a giddy rush, everyone joining in. She didn’t like the sudden idea that this train full of happy extroverts was heading nowhere.

  Allie smiled. ‘Maybe. Maybe it’s about time, eh? It wasn’t supposed to last for ever you know, that’s the beauty of it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s like a forest fire. Unless the dead wood burns, the new shoots won’t come through, dy’ken? Punk burned down everything that was old and shite and reactionary. Cleared the wood. Now somethin’ new can grow out of it. Somethin’ even better.’

  Helen liked this idea. ‘You reckon?’ she asked cockily.

  ‘Aye, I do,’ he replied with a wide grin. ‘You stick with me, kid. I’ll show you.’

  13

  Shadowplay

  January 2002

  Christophe was smiling as I walked into the Lord Stanley. He’d managed to commandeer the leather armchairs by the fire and in front of him, on the table, a tumbler of crushed ice and whisky glowed by the light of the flames. He was staring into the grate as he pulled on a cigarette, hat tipped back on his head, expression almost beatific. With the smoke swirling around him, he looked as if he should have a pair of horns poking out from under his hat brim.

  I, on the other had, felt like screaming.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked, falling into the chair opposite.

  Christophe turned his head slowly, exhaling blue smoke. ‘Like I said, I took care of that thing for you.’ The sparks from the fire were mirrored in his hazel eyes.

  ‘You look like you could do with a drink, mate. Where d’you get to anyway?’

  ‘Hampstead Heath,’ I spluttered. ‘Look, what exactly do you mean—’

  ‘Whisky do you?’ Christophe stood up and reached for his wallet. ‘Or brandy? Must have been fucking freezing up on the Heath.’

  He moved towards the bar and I tried to calm down, pulling my cigarettes out of my pocket and lighting up with shaking fingers.

  ‘Get that down yer,’ Christophe plonked a glass that must have contained at least a double down in front of me. ‘And don’t worry, Eddie. You know your problem? You worry too much.’

  I necked the amber liquid, enjoying its burn as it raced down the back of my throat.

  ‘But you saw the guy,’ I said, as I set the glass down half empty. ‘He was a fucking nutter. And he threatened to come round my house. What’s Louise going to say if he turns up on the fucking doorstep? What if he goes after her…’

  Christophe smiled and waved his hand as if swatting away an annoying barfly. ‘And like I said, don’t worry. I sussed it out for you. He ain’t hard. He’s nothing. He won’t be bothering you again, believe me.’

  ‘So you had a word with him then?’ My hands closed back round the glass, desperate for another swig.

  ‘Yeah, Eddie,’ he nodded. ‘I put him straight.’

  I guzzled the rest of the whisky down, almost slamming the empty tumbler back on the table.

  ‘Feel better now?’ Christophe sounded as if he were asking a four-year-old who had just fallen over in the playground.

  ‘Y-yeah, thanks,’ I wiped a hand across my mouth, decided I had to pull myself together. ‘Like you said, it was cold on the Heath. Think I’ll have another one. You?’

  ‘Ring-a-ding.’ Christophe held up his own glass. ‘That’s more like it.’

  After another couple of those, and a few pints to steady things down, Robin Leith began to recede into memory, as if he had only been a bad dream. Christophe suggested that I should go home at about seven, so Louise wouldn’t be worried about where I had got to and I wouldn’t be too drunk to get my story straight. It was bloody thoughtful of him, as if he hadn’t done enough for me already. We walked back down the lengthy slope of Camden Road together, and he said goodbye on the corner of Royal College Street, which was his turning home and virtually my doorstep.

  ‘Honestly,’ he said, clapping his arm round my shoulder. ‘You still worrying, ain’t you? That chancy bastard’s not coming anywhere near you. I promise you.’

  ‘Thanks, Christophe. I really do appreciate it.’

  ‘I know you do, mate. But it’s nothing. Laters.’

  ‘Laters.’

  All the same, I thought, as I turned my key in the door, this is pretty bad. Here I am, only two weeks after I had been so full of New Year’s resolutions, getting ready to lie to Louise again – and not only that, it feels vastly more natural than telling her the truth.

  But, I reasoned with myself as I climbed the stairs, it was for her own good, really. She’d only get upset if she knew Leith really was a mental stalker.

  Louise was sitting on the sofa with a bowl of carrot sticks and a bottle of really expensive looking red wine in front of her, watching À bout de souffle. If she was upset about something, she didn’t look it.

  ‘How was the freak?’ she asked, without turning her head.

  ‘Just that,’ I said heartily, sliding out of my coat and hanging it up on the door. ‘A freak. Totally wasted and a total waste of time.’

  Hopefully, I went into the kitchen for a wine glass and then sat down next to her. ‘That looks good…’ I reached for the bottle.

  ‘You smell like you’ve had enough cheap stuff already,’ Louise sniffed, and then finally looked my way.

  ‘So how did it get our number?’

  ‘Ah, um, Tony Stevens gave it to him.’ I almost forgot
what I was supposed to say then. The wine glugged noisily into my glass. ‘He probably thought he was doing me a favour, but the guy was fucking useless. I’m surprised he still remembered his own name.’

  ‘So what were you doing all this time?’

  ‘Well,’ I shrugged. ‘I had to let him talk. Let him get it all out of his system. Not that I’m going to use any of it.’

  ‘I see. Eddie the Good Samaritan. Always there for the poor and needy,’ she sighed and reached for a carrot stick. Poised it in front of her mouth and then said: ‘Don’t suppose you’ve eaten, have you?’

  ‘Er, no, I didn’t give it much thought.’

  ‘There’s a pizza in the fridge. You can get on with it while I watch what’s left of this movie.’

  So that appeared to be that. Full of pepperoni and delicious wine, it should have been easy to drift off to sleep that night. But I couldn’t.

  Instead I lay there, watching the arc of car headlights travel across the ceiling, listening to the usual midnight ravings echoing up from the street. Louise seemed happy enough with my explanation. But what was I going to tell Gavin?

  Should I tell him anything? It would be pretty embarrassing to admit the way things turned out and now that Christophe had got involved maybe it was better not to say anything at all. But then, how would I ever find out how Leith got our number? What if Louise brought it up and I hadn’t told him? How would he feel about that? And what if Christophe was wrong – the way Leith had acted in that pub, it didn’t seem like he was going to give up easily. What had Christophe actually said to him that made him so sure?

  The thoughts churned over in my mind like the red contents of my stomach. I don’t think I drifted off until right before Louise’s alarm announced that it was seven o’clock. Funnily enough though, once she had to get up and I didn’t, I slept through to midday like a baby.

  It was another grim, grey day in the hood when I finally got out of bed. I took a quick shower, wrapped myself up in my dressing gown and surveyed Camden Road from my window as I nibbled on my toast.

  Across the road, a group of teenage boys were cycling down the pavement on bikes designed for their younger brothers, six abreast, pedalling as slowly as they possibly could without falling over. They all wore the same uniform – sweatshirts with hoods pulled down low, baseball caps rammed down over the top so it was impossible to see their faces. Children brought up in front of the CCTV.