by Frances Vick
The art critic returned to his natural size and smiled indulgently, “I think what we have here, you’re right, is a very self conscious mode of expression that carries with it the idea of truthful reflection – it insists on the Platonic ideal, of fame, of beauty. But the manner of presentation is...problematic. It’s a dissatisfying show in many ways. One yearns for the borders to be erased, for the icons to become one with us – the creators, in a very real sense, of the image so carefully contrived.”
The presenter nodded. The ex-MP looked blank and the bishop shoved more crisps at his mouth.
Chris Harris looked long and hard into the camera again, grinned, and shouted, “Bollocks!”
The bishop scattered crisps onto the studio floor, the ex MP smirked, while the art critic and the presenter shouted. Chris leaned both elbows on the bar, laughing.
Across the country, teenagers gasped across phone lines. Parents were brusquely told to shut up, and the volume of hundreds of TVs was turned up to the max. John called Peter in from the kitchen. Freida stood still with the henna drying on her fingers like clay. Lydia, for once, ignored her mother’s disapproval and carried on watching, rapt.
“I really think –” began the presenter.
“– really no need for –” huffed the art critic.
“Are we recording this?” John asked Peter.
“– having the balls to come out and say it –” Chris was saying as a camera dipped in and out of focus, “...no relevance at all. None of them had the sense to die early.”
The presenter smirked, “Wasn’t Jim Morrison 27?”
“No-one can be that fat at 27.”
The bishop tittered and nodded into his goiter.
“And so youth is the only barometer for iconography? Is that what you’re saying? Because that’s specious in the extreme.” The art critic jabbed his finger in Chris’ face.
Chris slowly and deliberately got hold of the fingers and placed them firmly back on the critic’s lap, “You will keep your fucking hands to yourself,” he hissed, too low for the microphone to catch.
All across the country people asked, “What did he say? What did he say?” The art critic turned white, then red. Chris Harris dropped the smile, leaned back and began: “It’s not the mere fact of youth. It’s talent, it’s having balls, it’s being arrogant enough to be different in situations that make being different dangerous. In fact, and I stand by this, the earlier you die, the purer you are. Jim Morrison, bloated and balding and dying in the bath. John Lennon, spouting peace and the simple life and at the same time holed up in a millionaire’s pad shooting smack. If he’d been shot earlier, he may still have been relevant. The real value lies in not disappointing your audience. You owe them your best. James Dean did it right. Syd Barrett had the sense to go mad and get far away from the public gaze. They owe it to us, because we are the fame makers, and we have the right to take fame away. What an exhibition like this does is rob us of that right. All these tired faces of people we’re told we should respect and emulate, dying under the pressure. If they had any respect for themselves they would have killed themselves while they still had integrity, not expect us to do it for them.”
“I don’t like this,” muttered Lydia to herself.
“What the fuck is he saying?” asked John.
“Oh this is reprehensible,” cried the bishop.
“It is what it is,” said Chris, and shrugged.
“And what about Carl Howard? Hmmm? The singer who just died? You were his champion, no? Are you still?” The art critic looked venomous, victorious.
“Oh that’s low,” murmured Freida, as Lydia froze, as Peter nervously lit a cigarette.
There was a pause, long enough for the presenter to begin to interject, but Chris cut her off. Bug-eyed, suddenly lurching off his stool, he pressed his face close to the art critic.
“His name was Carl Howell. Not Carl Howard. Jesus you’re old.” And then, to camera “Yes! Yes! If he had to die, then it was probably the right time to die. Maybe a year too early. People have already killed themselves in response to his death – did you know that? Now that’s dedication. That’s the kind of veneration that sterile dilettantes like you will never understand!”
“Leaving aside the tastelessness of your remark, are you really saying that immortality rests on something as simple as dying young? Doesn’t a legacy rest on a body of work?” The art critic struggled to keep his voice steady.
Chris smiled, but his hands shook. “It rests on good bone structure, a loyal fan base and the kind of charisma that can’t be exposed to age.”
The presenter smirked, “And how old are you, Mr Harris?”
Chris smirked back, “A fuck of a lot younger than you.”
There was the sound of splintered glass; the camera lurched to the left and the ex-MP came into view, beer stains on his trousers, advancing on Chris, insisting he apologise. Chris stood his ground, laughing, eventually mock cowering behind a bar stool, as the floor manager grabbed the ex-MP by his meaty elbow and led him backstage. The presenter was making an ad hoc apology to the wrong camera, while Chris advanced slowly to the right one, making sure his t-shirt was in full view the whole time, humming Ride of the Valkyries.
“– Oh this is a bloody shambles –” shouted the bishop as the screen went black.
As soon as the red light blinked off, Chris Harris stopped humming, buttoned his jacket and strode off to the green room.
“Might have picked up your viewing figures there,” he threw over his shoulder.
The floor manager was struggling to keep up with him and leaned forward to grab his arm and slow him down, “You fucked up my show you wanker!”
“Oh no. I goosed it up a little, that’s all. I put a few volts through it. You’re fucking welcome.” Chris shook him off, passed the presenter on the way, taking time to squeeze the slightly crêpey flesh above her elbow, “Bloody good work, there. Well controlled.”
He made straight for the pay phones in the entrance hall. “Sean? I have a proposal for you. Fuck the article, how’d you like to do a book?”
21
As Chris had predicted, the show made the headlines. The same shot of him walking towards the camera in his Chinaski t-shirt and calling John Lennon a smackhead played on TV again and again, and Chinaski fans felt victorious. Chris Harris had stood up for Carl, for all of them! And on TV too! In some dim way the confusion and derision of their parents had been refuted – look, he’s on the telly, and he’s old too, maybe 30, or even older! And even he gets it, he understands what’s been taken from us, what we’ve lost. You had John Lennon, who we all secretly knew was a dick, but we have Carl Howell! And he’ll never get old, never disappoint us! Very few tried to remember what exactly Chris had said about Carl, they just remembered that he was defending him, standing up for him. More than a few kids wrote down their own version of it in their diaries that night. More than a few argued passionately and relentlessly with their parents over breakfast the next day. No, he wasn’t drunk! No it wasn’t cynical! No it wasn’t just attention seeking! No. No! He had been the only honest person there. Chris Harris was a fucking hero, and yes I’ll say fucking if I want! No I don’t want any more cereal! Headphones jammed in ears, bags angrily swung, doors slammed and parental eyebrows raised all across the country.
The Chinaski logo was carved into benches, carefully drawn on school bags in preparation for the next term, daubed on bus stops. Sales of the album spiked and the single climbed higher and higher in the charts. Newspapers tried in vain to find out the names of the people who had killed themselves. Someone always knew someone who knew someone who knew them, but actual facts were out of reach. It was just known, that’s all. It was just known that that girl in Yorkshire, or Leicester or maybe Liverpool had hung herself. That that boy in London, or Manchester, or Brighton had ODd. Two girls had a suicide pact and one clung to life in intensive care in Sheffield, or Derby. Peter had been taken to hospital with life threatening injuries.
So had Carl’s ex. And everyone knew that Carl had been killed. Everyone knew that Carl had killed himself. Everyone knew that Carl had a disease that took him before his time.
* * *
It was no surprise that, when the post mortem report came out the next day, it satisfied no-one. There were no injuries indicating violence. There was no note pointing to suicide. There wasn’t enough Valproate in his system to kill him, although given the length of time the body had gone undiscovered, this couldn’t be said for sure. There were trace elements of cocaine in his hair but none in his stomach, and the rest of his stomach contents gave sketchy information, bar the fact that Carl was not – despite his claims to the contrary – a vegetarian. Nobody seemed to know how long he’d been at his grandmother’s house, if he arrived with anyone, if he ever left. Carl had died, apparently suddenly, peacefully, and for no reason at all. And so there would be an inquest.
Peter woke up to a phone call from their manager asking for his reaction to give to the press. The first thing he thought of doing was asking what Chris thought, but he knew that that would seem weird, so he begged off, saying he’d call back when he’d woken up and had time to think. Then he lit a cigarette and called Chris, who was engaged. He tried again with the same result. Frustrated almost to tears he forced himself to make some coffee before trying again, but now the phone rang into empty space. Chris didn’t have an answering machine.
Peter was panicked. He had no idea what to say, he had no idea what his feelings were. Carl, the fact of Carl as a real person, had become increasingly out of his reach and hazy. It seemed months, years ago now, that he’d heard Bob’s strained voice, giving him the news. An ocean of events had happened since, and Carl had been left on an island while Peter was carried out by the current.
He thought about calling his parents but knew he wouldn’t be able to explain why he felt like he needed help expressing grief; they’d think him cold, freakish. He and John had an unspoken pact not to discuss Carl at all. He called Chris again, got no answer. Finally, he called back the manager and told him to say whatever he thought was appropriate. Leave it to him. It’s his job.
Later, he saw the papers. Chris Harris and Carl shared the headlines:
Pop Journo sick slur.
Chris Harris of music magazine NME shocked fans in a sick outburst yesterday, branding singer Carl Howell of teenage faves Chinaski a ‘sad figure’.
Tragic Howell died aged just 24, apparently of natural causes. When called for a statement, Chris Harris – real name Charles Transcombe-Harris – laid into his former friend:
“I think it’s a great pity that he didn’t kill himself,” heartless Harris said, “it’s better to go out with a bang than a whimper. It’s a sad figure who doesn’t choose the manner of their death, and how they’ll be remembered.”
Sick
Harris, who just hours before shocked the nation with his four letter outburst on Near Dark, has angered friends and fans. Says Chinaski fan Wendy Jenks:
“I think it’s sick. We will have to wait for the results of the inquest before we understand exactly how and why Carl died. In the meantime we should think about his family and how they feel at a time like this.”
Harris has been unavailable to comment since, but NME have provided us with this statement:
“Chris Harris is a colourful member of our team, and as such occasionally courts controversy. He is, and always will be a champion of Chinaski and Carl Howell and eagerly looks forward to the full facts of this tragedy being uncovered. He insists that the comments attributed to him have been taken out of context.”
* * *
The weather broke on the day of the funeral. It had been uncommonly hot, sultry and close all week, but now the clouds darkened and the coppery smell of rain was in the air. By mid morning the first enormous drops fell onto the sizzling pavements, driving up at angles against the sides of buildings and spattering onto windows, suddenly loud.
At Miriam’s house, quick witted women made sandwiches and phone calls, while Miriam sat on her bed upstairs, like a big broken doll. Kathleen jammed shoes onto her unresisting feet, keeping up a monologue, a behavioural mantra: “...We will have grace and dignity. Grace and dignity. We will take it in stages, hmmm? We’ll go slowly to the door –” Miriam whimpered and shook her head. “– OK we will open our eyes. We will stand up,” and when Miriam blinked slowly, “Oh Miriam, Miriam, lovely, I can’t do this on my own!” and she started again, “We will have dignity. We will walk to the door. We will thank people for coming...”
Downstairs Bob sat neatly on the settee with his hat held tightly on his lap, his shined shoes square on the floor. He was so still you couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead. Once or twice, when Miriam shouted upstairs, he raised his eyes, looked to the staircase, but didn’t move.
By eleven o’clock people started arriving. Kathleen’s two daughters were on door duty, and they led each new arrival through to the living room where Bob would get up, his knees creaking, shake their hands, accept condolences, and then sit down again without saying a word. Kathleen, neat and trim in black, trotted down the stairs now and again to welcome people, supervise the food preparations and whisper to Bob, and soon the house was full of relatives, real and imagined. Freida and Ian arrived and hovered by the door, not seeing anyone they knew but Bob, who didn’t look at them. Peter arrived in his father’s suit, accidentally walking in with Lydia, who looked like a cancer victim with her newly shaved head and sudden gauntness.
From early morning, fans had started to congregate outside, mostly girls, mostly silent and respectful, waiting for the funeral cars. Huddling together under umbrellas, some held flowers, others cameras. One or two had homemade signs in their bags. When the hearse was spotted moving slowly down the street, and they saw the coffin in the back with ‘SON’ picked out in white carnations, they began to mutter and wail. That sound was the first thing that let the people in the house know that the time had come. Upstairs, Kathleen twitched the net curtains, sighed, and turned to Miriam.
“Time to go, lovely.”
Downstairs, Bob bolted up from the settee and put his hat on with a trembling hand. Everyone in the room took their cue from him and stood up in turn, all conversation stopping, making the noise from outside seem louder. They could hear Kathleen’s light step on the stairs, accompanied by Miriam’s unwilling, dragging footsteps, and when the door opened, Bob moved forward, without looking at her, and offered his arm. They made their way to the waiting car, Kathleen leaning in with an umbrella. The sound of the rain and the crowd almost masked her hissed instructions, “...Grace and dignity...” as Miriam saw the coffin, the crowd, the unctuous undertaker and her face fell apart.
The rest of the guests dashed untidily to their cars to avoid the rain, but Peter and Lydia were kept back by Kathleen’s daughters.
“You’re both coming in one of the cars with us. Mum says.”
Peter and Lydia looked at each other. They both had the same thought – how can I stop this person making me feel even worse? – and they both took a ready poured whiskey from one of the trays in the kitchen.
“How are you Peter?” Lydia said finally and Peter found that he couldn’t talk, that he was crying. And he felt immensely relieved that something had unfrozen in him enough to make him feel something; something more appropriate than dread anyway. He said the words in his head, ‘Carl’s dead. Carl died. I’m at his funeral’, and he found that this helped the tears continue. And now Lydia was crying too, in the same ugly way as Miriam. She tried to catch hold of him, hug him, but Peter managed to move away without looking like he’d done it deliberately. How horrible! How horrible, he thought, that I can do that now. Looking at Lydia coming apart in front of him, he thought sadly, she feels what I ought to. How horrible! She feels what they feel outside. Why? Why her and not me? Is she for real? Am I the only honest person here? But then he remembered forcing the tears to carry on. No. No. I’m the cold one. He pulled her close to catc
h whatever it was she felt, so he wouldn’t have to go through the funeral being such a freak. Lydia slobbered on his shirt, smearing mascara and didn’t stop crying until Kathleen came back and pulled them apart, “Grace and dignity! This can’t be a bloody mess!”
They were hustled into a car with Kathleen, her daughters, and a large woman with a smear of salad cream on one black cuff. “Carl’s Aunty Cora,” said Kathleen. Aunty Cora grunted and stared heavily out of the window at the crowd, at the cameras.
“He did well for himself. Famous.” She nodded approvingly at a crying girl holding a sign saying ‘We LOVE YOU Carl!’.
Kathleen cranked a window and blew smoke out of the gap. “I just hope they don’t make a nuisance of themselves. It took me two hours to get Miriam out of bed and into her girdle. Any scene will kill her.”
Aunty Cora shifted and peered at Lydia. “I met you. Before. Somewhere.”
“You met her at my party, Cora.”
“Yes. Yes. Nice of you to show up. More than any of the others have. Sluts.”
Kathleen’s teenagers smirked and kicked ankles while Lydia choked into tears again. Kathleen fixed Cora with her fearsome glare.
“Keep it nice, Cora, or I’ll dump your fat carcass out that door.”
Cora cackled, nudged the nearest teenager, “She’s a one, your mum!”
“I am. Yes. And we will have no nastiness, nothing like that. Nothing nasty about the boy.” She flicked the cigarette butt out of the window and immediately lit another, brushing ash off her dress with great dignity.
The rain came down in great grey sheets. Landmarks passed in muddy daubs. Conversation stalled and they all smoked distractedly. Peter saw Lydia furtively take some kind of pill and close her eyes tight, taking deep breaths.
Eventually they entered what looked like a tunnel, and came to a sudden halt. Sickly light came in from the outside, and when Kathleen pushed the door open it banged into something soft but unyielding. She eased out of the tiny gap and almost immediately sat back down again, shocked.
