The Singer

by Cathi Unsworth

  Inside, the fear that Vince’s disappearance would send him back there, snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. That the world of tour buses and recording studios, riotous fans and fawning journalists would fade away into the fog like the road behind him; that in the end, that was all that was really fit for the likes of him.

  ‘You got any tapes?’ he asked Lynton, slumped in the seat beside him, staring out of the window at the flat, monotonous land. ‘I can’t listen to this shit any more.’

  Lynton nodded languorously and reached down to pick up the army surplus bag at his feet. There was a clicking of plastic as he foraged amongst the tapes. ‘Here,’ he said finally, selecting one and sticking it into the machine.

  A mournful, brooding trumpet note coiled up through the air like cigarette smoke, blending in perfectly with the bleakness of their surroundings.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Steve.

  ‘Kind of Blue,’, Lynton said, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes.

  ‘Oh.’ Steve realised, as he took the turning back into Hessle, Lynton was finally playing him Miles. ‘Yeah. That makes sense.’

  They took the train from Calais to Gare du Nord, watched the sun go down in a molten pink sky and saw Paris appear out of the darkness in a fairy tale of lights.

  ‘Wow,’ Sylvana breathed. ‘It’s so beautiful.’

  Although she was less sure of that when they left the grand environs of the station and turned out onto the main road. The buildings here slouched alongside the pavement in dark huddles, eyeing them through baleful yellow slits of windows, as if loitering with intent. There was that strange atmosphere of menace that always lingers outside major termini, along with the opportunist hawkers, fly-by-night cab drivers, pickpockets and streetwalkers.

  People jabbered at them in harsh voices as they passed: dirty, broken-looking people with pinpoint eyes, bad teeth and folds of wrinkled skin. Even with Vince so tall and purposeful beside her, Sylvana wondered whether it would have been wiser to go straight to the cab rank.

  Worse still, this road seemed to lead to an even more dangerous place. To a world of peep shows and sex shops, lit up in gaudy neon, where lank young men in leather jackets barked out leering words that even without her schoolgirl French she fully understood. A street where drunk men lurched suddenly out of dark doorways and staggered across their paths, where tired-looking women gazed out of windows with glassy eyes.

  Sylvana was tired now, her feet were aching and the cold was biting into her. Even though Vince was carrying her suitcase, with his own army kit bag slung casually over his shoulder as if it weighed nothing, the thought that they so obviously looked like tourists in a place like this, in a place like Times Square for Chrissakes, started to terrify her.

  Where were they going? Why was he taking her here? This wasn’t part of her romantic plans.

  As if he could read her mind, Vince squeezed her hand reassuringly, said: ‘Not much further now.’

  Sylvana’s stomach dropped. Had he booked them into some flea pit above a strip joint?

  But almost as soon as the words left his mouth, they seemed to come out of the den of prostitutes and thieves. Their path rose upwards and into streets of elegant white houses with little bars and cafés tucked underneath them; the atmosphere of sickness and menace disappeared like a puff of smoke, leaving behind the enticing, magical Paris she had expected to see.

  From one of the cafés, the sound of a saxophone lingered on the air, along with the reassuring blur of conversation. They came into a square and up above of them, bathed in floodlights, was the most beautiful white church she had ever seen, crowning the top of the hill.

  Vince stopped. ‘The Sacré Coeur,’ he said, staring up at it and then back down at her, his eyes alight with excitement. ‘The Sacred Heart. What could be more romantic than that, eh?’

  Relief and fatigue washed over her. ‘Oh, Vince,’ she said. ‘I was worried back there. I thought you were taking us the wrong way…’

  He put his arm around her shoulders, squeezed her close. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise it would be quite such a colourful journey. That was the famous Pigalle – it’s only like Soho, really. I don’t think they bother you if you’re not an obvious mark, but I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, trying to banish the faint anxiety that still fluttered in the corner of her mind at his easygoing approach to their personal safety. This place they had ended up in was perfect, after all, and it wasn’t his fault what they had to walk through to get there. How could she doubt him?

  ‘I’m just a bit tired and cold, I guess. Is our hotel very far?’

  Vince smiled, and swept his arm to the left. ‘No,’ he said, pointing to the handsome white building on the corner, his eyes dancing in the streetlights, the curve of a smile on his lips. ‘It’s right here.’

  There were two witnesses at Vince and Sylvana’s wedding: Tony Stevens and a tall Australian called Gavin Granger, who took some commemorative snaps for them as they got in the Cadillac Tony had hired. They’d arrived the night before and up until that moment, Sylvana had just about forgotten that walk through Pigalle and how it had made her feel.

  They had had the most incredible week until then. They had walked all around the city each day, drinking in all its sights, from the Louvre to Notre Dame to the Musée Gustave Moreau. They drank cocktails in L’Hotel where Oscar Wilde uttered his famous last line about the wallpaper and combed the flea markets to buy outfits for their big day. Vincent chose a vintage tuxedo and a blood-red shirt; Sylvana found an antique velvet dress in exactly the same colour, with a beautiful white lace collar. Miraculously, it fitted her like a glove. The old lady she bought it from said in her faltering English that many people had tried it before but none were petite enough to wear it; but it looked like it had been waiting for Sylvana to come for it all along.

  At night they had walked along the Seine, finding Left Bank cafés to pretend to be Existentialists in, or, nearer to their hotel, little jazz bars in Montmartre that looked like they hadn’t changed since the 1930s. Vince knew so much about the history of the place. He knew where Picasso had lived, where Zola had written his masterpieces, from which he could quote, where André Breton had begun his joke on the art world. He was so inspiring that already they had written lyrics to about ten songs together.

  But he was so spiritual too. Every morning Vince went up to the Sacré Coeur to light a candle. Sylvana had never known very much about the Roman Catholic faith before, but Vincent told her that every candle lit was a prayer of love, and he was getting all the angels on their side so that, although they were getting married in a register office, God would still be happy.

  ‘Mazel tov!’ she said to that.

  But when they got back to the hotel to find the two men waiting for them, she felt inexplicably awkward. These were two of Vincent’s best friends, but they seemed very cool towards her, very aloof. She had one drink with them to attempt some form of conversation, but when they continually ignored her, talked over her head to each other and Vincent, she decided that there was one wedding rule she was going to keep.

  ‘I think I should leave you guys to it,’ she announced, when Vincent suggested another round. ‘Isn’t it tradition for you to have a stag night anyway?’

  Vincent looked puzzled. ‘You sure, darling?’

  He looked so beautiful with his hair falling forwards slightly over his eyes that her heart ached to have to leave his side. But it was enough for her that tomorrow they would be man and wife. Let these rude bastards have him for a few hours, they were never gonna get what she was.

  ‘Course I am, honey.’ She looked around at the other two; saw the expressions of relief writ large on their features. ‘You all enjoy yourselves. I want to take a long bath so I can look my best for you tomorrow.’

  And she leaned over and gave him a long, lingering kiss, enjoying the curdled expressions of the other two when she opened her eyes ag
ain. She supposed she was going to have to get used to this kind of jealous behaviour. It obviously came with the territory of a man like Vincent.

  In fact, she had enjoyed spending a long evening pampering herself and going to bed early. Thoughful Vincent hadn’t even woken her up when he got back in, whatever time that was. No, there was nothing that anyone could do to take away her joy on her big day.

  Not the low whispers and sarcastic expressions of her witnesses before the ceremony. Not the fact that Vincent was so nervous that he dropped the ring as he went to put it on her finger and had to scrabble around on the floor for a minute to retrieve it. Not even that afterwards they all had to go and have dinner together, paid for by Tony, before he and his surly sidekick got their plane home. That Tony’s last words were a pointed reminder about the album Vince had to come home to make, how he’d be seeing him very soon.

  Because now she was officially Mrs Vincent Smith. Or to use his full family name, which he didn’t like to but she found secretly thrilling, Mrs Vincent D’Arch Smith. Nothing else mattered.

  And Vincent seemed to have a new gleam in his eye the moment they were alone. He took her hand and ushered her back upstairs to their room, singing ‘Love Me Tender’ in his best Elvis baritone as they went.

  Four hours and two bottles of champagne later, she felt just about spent, satiated on love and drowsy with drink. She was just about asleep, when she felt him nudge her arm gently.

  ‘Darling,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t go to sleep yet. I’ve got something very special for us to try.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Sylvana fluttered her eyelids open.

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve ever done this before, but I promise you this is going to make you feel better than you’ve ever felt before. Better than you ever thought possible.’

  ‘Mmmm.’ Sylvana shut her eyes, trying to imagine what that could be. She thought they had just about gone through everything that made her feel that way.

  But when he didn’t make a move towards her, she opened her eyes again and saw Vincent sitting on the end of the bed, fashioning some kind of joint from one of his cigarettes and a packet of white powder.

  She blinked, sat up and tried to work out what he was doing.

  ‘This,’ he said, turning back to her and firing the fat cigarette up with his Zippo, ‘is going to make you see even more colours than usual.’

  He inhaled and an extremely beatific smile spread across his face. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured, passing it over to her. ‘You try.’

  ‘What is it?’ Sylvana looked at the joint as if he was holding out a poisonous snake.

  ‘It’s powdered dreams, honey. No need to be afraid.’

  Is it opium, she thought? Or some fancy French thing she’d never heard of? Sylvana was woozy with drink already; she’d never been able to handle it well. And drugs were another country. She had never taken more than a quick draw on a reefer, had always declined the wraps of speed that used to go around on the Mood Violet tour van to stop Allie from falling asleep at the wheel. She knew drugs were part of the industry, but she’d always been afraid of them. Not that she’d ever ventured to the Lower East Side or anything, but she knew New York had been a city awash with heroin zombies when she’d left, a dark, lawless place.

  But she took it anyway. If he thought she would like it, then at least she would give it a try. Still warm with love, she put it to her lips and inhaled.

  The tobacco burned the back of her throat, making her cough, but she didn’t feel any other sensation. Not then, anyway. Without saying anything, she passed it back to her new husband, who took it from her like he was receiving some holy sacrament. With every puff, his body relaxed, sprawled out across the lovely French bed, his expression became more and more dreamy.

  The second time she took a puff, it was as if all the strength had suddenly drained out of her arms. Her vision went a cloudy yellow and she felt a surge of overwhelming nausea.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she said, staggering to her feet, shoving the offending cigarette back into Vincent’s hand.

  ‘What’s wrong, darling?’ he said, with the same, silly smile plastered all over his face.

  She couldn’t stop to tell him. She only just blundered across the room in time to get to the toilet and heave the contents of Tony’s wedding dinner down the porcelain. Her body spasmed as she did, as if someone was kicking her hard in the stomach. She tasted the steak frites and fish soup all over again as it poured out of her like a foul fountain, cold sweat breaking out on her forehead, her arms full of pins and needles.

  Then Vince was behind her, stroking her back, holding back her hair from her face.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ he whispered. ‘It happens like this sometimes, the first time. But you’ll be OK.’

  For one second, Sylvana’s mind spiralled back to that bedroom in Leicester, Robin screaming obscenities into her face. Then she blanked it out. No. This couldn’t be happening to her again. Another huge spasm pushed a brown, partially digested stew out of her mouth and into the toilet bowl, flecked the side of her mouth that she’d painted with such care only hours before.

  ‘There, there,’ Vincent flushed the loo, pulled off some toilet paper and gently dabbed around her mouth. ‘Here, my baby.’ He ran a flannel under the cold tap, put it over her forehead.

  She retched again and again until finally, only an acrid line of saliva came out. She’d got rid of everything, but still her stomach lurched against her, trying to force out the poison that was now inside her blood. Stars danced in front of her eyes.

  This was not how it was supposed to be. But so began Sylvana’s married life.

  29

  Miss the Girl

  May 2002

  Gavin’s reaction to my interview with Pascal was not exactly what I’d expected. I’d rushed straight over to show him the print-outs and discuss what the detective had said, thinking he’d be wired by the revelations – the thought that we might actually be on Vincent’s trail at last.

  Instead, he listened to me blurting it all out in silence, then got up and started to walk up and down the room. The revelations had clearly shocked him. He kept shaking his head saying: ‘Donald Dawson, eh?’ or ‘Seville? Tchuch!’ stroking his chin and staring out of the window into his garden. My print-outs flapped in his hand. Ocassionally he stopped circling the room like a caged tiger and stared at them, only to shake his head and resume his troubled pacing once more.

  I wondered what kind of internal conversation he was having with himself, because it was deep enough to block me out entirely, almost as if I had ceased to exist.

  ‘Well,’ I eventually said to him. ‘Do you think the old boy’s onto something, then?’

  ‘Hmmm?’ Gavin came round slowly, as if he had been dreaming with his eyes open. ‘Shit, sorry, mate. I was miles away. What did you say?’

  ‘Are you feeling OK?’ I asked him.

  He shook his head. ‘Not really, mate. I feel a bit weird, to tell you the truth.’

  He walked over to the fridge and pulled himself out a beer. Cracked it open and took a gulp.

  ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Sorry, mate, d’you want one too?’

  ‘Ah, OK,’ I said and he passed one over.

  ‘Did it upset you, hearing all that stuff about Vince?’

  Gavin sat down opposite me, screwing his face up into a frown. ‘I don’t know if upset is the right word. Unnerved is maybe better.’ He shook his head again. ‘Or unsettled, perhaps. I guess what it is, is, I’d kinda got used to the idea that Vince was dead and I accepted it. Now, after all these years, this old guy has got me thinking that maybe it’s not true.’

  He looked up at me, spreading his fingers as he spoke. ‘Maybe he isn’t dead. Maybe he has been hanging around in Tangiers or Casablanca for all this time, playing at being a gangster with his little Turkish mate. This Pascal’s got him pegged pretty good, considering he never met the guy.’

  ‘That’s his job, I suppose,’ I said, lighting a Marl
boro and imagining Vince in a smoky bar, with a big ceiling fan whirling over his head, listening to the pianist playing one of his songs. A jazz version of ‘The King of Nothing’ – that would be something.

  ‘So now I’m thinking, what if we actually find him?’ Gavin’s eyes were pained. ‘I mean…I dunno. It’s a big what if, but…’

  ‘It would be pretty amazing,’ I hedged. I didn’t want to upset him by saying how great it would be for the book.

  ‘Yeah,’ he winced. ‘Amazing, but also…pretty painful, I guess, in a lot of ways.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ I nodded, trying to look at it from his point of view. ‘There’s a lot of questions you’d want him to answer…’

  ‘And what if he never wanted to be found? I mean, if he is alive, he’s done his best to appear dead this past twenty years. He obviously never wanted to come back. Shit, I dunno. What if we find him and it’s the last thing he wants? I mean,’ Gavin put his head in his hands and rubbed his forehead, ‘from what the guy was saying, Christ knows what kinda shit he’s got himself into over the years.’

  He tortured himself like this for about another hour and I probably wasn’t too much help. Although I did my best to assure him that if Vince had stayed lost for this long, he’d probably stay lost for ever, I was already thinking the opposite. Hoping the opposite. But I didn’t want to appear mercenary.

  ‘I mean,’ I said, ‘they never found that Richie Manic, did they?’ It was the best argument I could think of.

  ‘No,’ Gavin agreed, ‘but that’s because he jumped off the Severn Bridge.’

  Quite possibly, that was true. But I soldiered on. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘do you fancy a drink? Maybe a stroll down the ‘Bello would do you good, get some fresh air?’