Ghost MacIndoe

by Jonathan Buckley

  ‘Short-term answer, Dave, that’s all,’ said Mick. ‘We all agreed we’d ask Monty. Can’t let a bit of nerves beat us. Let’s see if this gets us going.’

  ‘Got a better idea?’ Billy asked Dave. ‘If you have, let’s hear it.’

  Dave put his hands on his hips and looked askance at Alexander. ‘No,’ he replied heavily. ‘I don’t have a better idea.’

  So Alexander retreated to the kitchen, where he drew the curtains because someone was standing at a window in the flat above the estate agent’s. This will come to nothing, he told himself as the record started again, and he closed his eyes to release a voice that was not his and yet was no one else’s, as if he were an instrument played by another’s breath.

  24. Mitchell

  Most of their bookings were for Friday evenings, and it was on a Friday that they played in a pub that was close to Charlton House, as Alexander would remember, and had all its windowframes painted black. At the rear of the pub, between the fire escape and the lines of empty barrels, there was a black door on which ‘The Playroom’ was written within the bands of a rainbow. Inside, the flock-patterned wallpaper on the walls of the corridor had been covered in black paint, which had made the plumes and bouquets of flock as rough as brick.

  Halfway down the corridor a second black door opened into the narrow back room, where the publican was stacking crates behind the bar. He had the girth of a wrestler and wore a black T-shirt that rode up over his belly when he straightened.

  ‘Afternoon,’ said Dave Gordon.

  ‘A Stones fan, I presume?’ Gareth called out from behind him.

  The publican regarded Dave with morose irritation. ‘You what?’ he muttered.

  ‘We’re the band,’ explained Mick Radford.

  ‘Oh,’ said the publican dully, wiping his hands on his T-shirt.

  ‘The Park Rangers,’ said Dave.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the publican. ‘I didn’t think you was Jehovah’s Witnesses.’

  ‘That’s the Sunday job,’ said Gareth.

  The publican screwed a towel into a ball and lobbed it through a hatch below the inverted whisky bottles. ‘He your John Lennon?’ he asked Mick.

  ‘Sort of,’ said Dave. ‘He’s the smart-arse, but he plays bass.’

  ‘I’m Ringo,’ said Mick, holding out a hand. ‘Otherwise known as Mick Radford.’

  ‘Steve, the boss,’ the publican responded, reaching over the bar. ‘You’re on at half seven. Break at half eight. Then nine till ten. Cash as agreed, when you’re done. And two pints on the house, each of you. That’s where you play.’ He pointed to the end of the room, where two spotlights were bolted to an iron pole, above a rectangle of bare floorboards. Around the row of electrical sockets on the far wall someone had drawn a ring of chalk, indicated with a chalk arrow and the words ‘The Juice’. A sour smell of old dishcloths rose from the lino.

  ‘All right if we get unloaded now? Do a quick sound check?’ Mick asked Steve.

  ‘Sure. Go ahead.’

  ‘Welcome to the Shea Stadium,’ grumbled Dave Gordon, as he led them back out to the car park.

  At seven-thirty the only other person in the room was the publican’s son, who had been put in charge of the bar and stood stroking his knuckles as he surveyed the place, as if stoking a grievance against the people who should have been there. Two girls in identical pink minidresses, with identical belts made of huge silver loops, were the first to turn up. Arm in arm they came through the door, took two steps into the room, conferred, and walked across to the bar, their heads down as though huddling against a freezing wind. The girls went to a table against the side wall, where they hunched over their cigarettes and whispered to each other, mouth to ear, until half a dozen boys, each with a drink in his hand, came in to see what was happening, and the girls stopped talking. The boys turned, but were pushed back into the room by a group of couples whose arrival Mick heralded with the ‘Bits and Pieces’ drum roll. Dave grabbed the microphone from Alexander. ‘Hang around,’ he shouted, through a shriek of feedback. ‘We’re South London’s finest, I’m telling you. We’re bloody hot. Hotter than Old Nick’s arse.’ The publican’s son chewed the nail of a thumb. One of the two girls clapped and whistled as Alexander sang the first line of ‘Sweet Marie’, the song Dave had written for a French girl he said he’d met one night in Dover, who was known to the others as Sweet Mirage.

  After four or five songs all the chairs were taken and the door to the corridor seemed to be opening every few seconds. Through the hatch Alexander could see people leaving the front bar to come and listen. As they were about to start the last song of the first set, a boy in a mauve shirt sat down at the front table and folded his arms as if considering a verdict that would make or break the band, though he looked no older than twenty. ‘Yeah, that was a day,’ sang Alexander. ‘C’mon, I’ll take you away,’ he cried, roughening his voice in a way he had learned from Eric Burden. ‘Babe, let’s do it again,’ he yelled, and then the door opened again and he glimpsed hair the colour of Megan’s at the opposite end of the room. He shielded his eyes from the spotlight’s glare, but all he could see clearly were the plates of cigarette smoke that floated in the shaft of white light. In the shadows, faces looked at him like dolls. Everything he saw was the colour of smoke. Staring at the boards in front of his feet, Alexander missed his cue for the last verse.

  When he went to the bar to collect their drinks, Megan was standing there. Behind her, propped on his arms, with one leg extended and the other crossed over it at the ankle, was a man with a Buddy Holly hairstyle and long sideburns that tapered. His jacket was burgundy velvet, and he wore, askew, a thick velvet tie of the same colour. He was perhaps ten years older than Megan. ‘This is Mitchell,’ said Megan, stepping aside to present him. ‘Mitchell, this is Alexander.’

  Having taken a drag on his cigarette, Mitchell gave a low wave with the hand that held it. He nodded as he looked at Alexander, as though recalling something that Megan had said about him and judging it to be true.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Alexander.

  ‘Likewise,’ replied Mitchell, and then there was a pause.

  ‘You’re good,’ said Megan. ‘They’re good, aren’t they, Mitch?’

  ‘Sure,’ Mitchell conceded. ‘You write your own stuff?’

  ‘The guitarists do,’ said Alexander. ‘How did you know we were here?’ he asked Megan.

  She explained that they had driven past his shop the previous night and seen the flyer in the window. As she spoke, Mitchell put a hand on her waist, and watched the caressing motion of his fingers, as if nobody else were there.

  ‘I didn’t realise you were back,’ Alexander remarked.

  ‘Spur of the moment,’ she said. ‘Dad seemed low.’

  ‘Seemed OK last week,’ said Alexander.

  ‘Yes, he’s OK, I suppose. Up and down, you know.’ She took hold of Mitchell’s hand and stopped it.

  ‘You know the old man, then?’ Mitchell enquired.

  ‘I told you he did,’ said Megan.

  ‘Must have slipped my mind,’ Mitchell replied airily.

  ‘I know him,’ Alexander confirmed.

  ‘Rare privilege,’ said Mitchell. ‘I’ve yet to have the honour,’ he said. ‘Deemed inappropriate at the present moment. I don’t know whether to be flattered or not. Rival for the daughter’s affections, perhaps.’

  ‘Nothing to do with that,’ said Megan tersely, looking at Alexander.

  ‘No?’ replied Mitchell.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So one day I’ll get my admission ticket, eh?’ said Mitchell, quickly tickling her ribs.

  From a flickering of Megan’s eyes, Alexander knew that Mitchell would never meet Mr Beckwith. ‘I’d better get back to the lads,’ he said to Mitchell. ‘Talk later?’

  ‘Later,’ said Mitchell, making a gunslinger’s draw with his hand.

  The second set began badly and did not improve. Under Megan’s gaze he heard himself singing about
things he had never done and would never do, in a voice that was faked. Removed from himself, he forgot whole lines, came in on the wrong beat, was too quiet or too loud. The guitars sounded clangorous as scraped steel lids. The drums were like a hammering on hollow doors. He almost talked his way through the final song. The two girls in pink applauded with their hands above their heads.

  Afterwards they went through to the front bar, where Megan and Mitchell were waiting. ‘I thought it worked. What did you think, love?’ Mick asked Megan before Alexander could introduce her. ‘Speaking the words like they was poetry. Makes you sound sincere I think.’

  ‘It was interesting,’ said Megan. ‘I’m Megan, by the way. And this is Mitchell.’

  ‘How do,’ said Mick, and Mitchell greeted them all with a wave identical to the one he had given Alexander.

  ‘Shambles, if you ask me,’ said Dave. ‘Utter bloody shambles after half-time.’

  ‘It was fine,’ said Megan.

  ‘Wasn’t how it was meant to be,’ said Gareth.

  ‘You wouldn’t have known,’ Megan assured them.

  ‘Making it up as we went along, some of us,’ Dave complained.

  Billy fetched the drinks, and then Mitchell laid his arms along the back of his and Megan’s seat, in the manner of a host relaxing with his guests, and asked: ‘So, how are you guys doing? Making a few bob?’

  ‘We do all right,’ Gareth told him.

  ‘Lots of gigs like this,’ Mitchell speculated.

  ‘Wouldn’t say lots,’ Mick replied.

  ‘But all in places like this,’ said Mitchell. ‘Nothing more ambitious.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Dave, cleaning a fingernail with his plectrum.

  ‘Building our following,’ said Gareth.

  ‘No sign of anything bigger?’ asked Mitchell.

  ‘Some bloke said he’d have a word with another bloke who knew a bloke who worked for some label or other,’ said Dave.

  ‘Never turned up, though,’ added Billy.

  Mitchell singled out Dave for his attention. He leaned forward, drawing smoke noisily through his teeth. ‘Could be doing better, I’d have said. You’ve got talent. You can play.’

  ‘Why thank you, kind sir,’ said Dave.

  ‘But you’re not going anywhere without some changes, I can tell you that. For one thing, the shirts are a mistake. Round necks, white cotton, makes you look like dentists. Get rid of the shirts. Burn the shirts.’

  ‘And then?’ prompted Gareth.

  ‘Some of your songs are good, OK? But this earthy old R&B stuff is getting stale. Pink Floyd, Hendrix, drugs – that’s the way things are going.’

  ‘Thanks, Mitchell,’ said Mick. ‘We’d noticed.’

  Mitchell shifted nearer to Dave; he rested his elbows on the table and his chin on his thumbs. ‘Guys, can I be absolutely straight here?’ he asked earnestly. He gave Alexander a glance that might have been taken as a request for Alexander’s permission to disclose a secret shared only by the two of them.

  ‘Down the line, Mitch,’ said Mick.

  ‘What I’m about to say may seem strange,’ Mitchell warned.

  ‘Can’t be stranger than Mick after six pints,’ said Gareth.

  Mitchell turned his cigarette and regarded it as though it were a fine figurine. ‘I think – and I know it’s only one view, but hear me out – that you need to think about the impression your front man makes. No offence, Alexander,’ he added, raising his hands in appeasement.

  ‘What, Alec?’ Billy exclaimed. ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘He had an off night. We all do,’ said Mick.

  ‘That’s not what I mean,’ said Mitchell.

  ‘He’s the best thing they’ve got going for them,’ Megan interrupted. ‘No offence, boys.’

  ‘None taken,’ said Gareth.

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ asked Mick.

  ‘Yeah. What’s the problem?’ Billy demanded. ‘I’ve heard plenty worse. Plenty worse than him sell millions.’

  ‘Not arguing with that,’ said Mitchell calmly.

  ‘He can sing better than Jagger,’ Billy insisted.

  ‘I’m not arguing with you. It’s a decent voice. More than decent. But that isn’t the point. Singing isn’t what it’s about. Jagger’s big because of the way he looks, not the way he sings.’

  ‘You what?’ said Mick indignantly. ‘Al’s miles better looking.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Exactly what?’

  ‘Well, perhaps he’s too much.’ He smiled at Alexander as if to offer him the gift of his honesty.

  ‘How d’you mean, too much? The girls really go for him.’

  ‘Too bloody right,’ said Gareth.

  ‘Look,’ said Mitchell, ‘this is how it works, as I see it. It’s about how you look, OK, but it’s not about being good-looking. Jagger’s no looker, but he really appeals to both camps, and that’s the essence of it. The girls want to have Jagger, and the boys want to be Jagger – those that don’t want to have him too. But your boy, he’s too much for the guys. The girl vote, he’s got that. But the girls don’t buy the records. The girls don’t do the deals. It’s the boys you’ve got to impress. The boys want to be Mick Jagger. He can kid himself he’s the same as Mick Jagger. But no bloke’s going to be like Alexander here without major surgery. And he’s too nice. He’s obviously a nice boy. A really nice boy. But Jagger isn’t nice. Lennon isn’t nice, not really. Roger Daltry isn’t nice. Cliff’s nice, but that’s not the same thing.’

  ‘It’s not, and neither’s Mick Jagger,’ objected Megan. ‘They don’t want a five-year plan for stardom.’

  ‘No, but –’ began Mitchell.

  ‘They don’t need a Brian Epstein.’

  ‘She’s right. We’re a pub band, Mitch,’ said Mick. ‘Thanks for the advice, but that’s all we are. We’re not out to be anything big. More money we could handle, but we’re not the next Stones.’

  ‘We’re going down in a blaze of obscurity,’ Dave declared.

  ‘OK,’ said Mitchell, with a disavowing shrug. ‘No more to be said. It struck me, that’s all, when you were playing. Just a thought.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Mick. ‘Give us something to think about.’

  ‘OK,’ said Mitchell. ‘I liked your stuff. But, you know –’

  ‘Yes. It’s OK.’

  ‘I was impressed,’ said Mitchell.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Mick.

  There was a silence, then a few minutes of broken chat, which lasted until Mitchell, having drained his glass, looked at his watch and said that it was time to leave. ‘Right, guys. It was good. But got to hit the road.’

  As if he were observing some peculiar social ritual, Gareth watched Mitchell helping Megan with her jacket. ‘What do you do, Mitchell?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m at art college,’ Mitchell replied.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Teaching. Painting. Why?’

  ‘Just wondering. No reason. Idle curiosity.’

  ‘Drive carefully,’ said Mick, drilling his cigarette butt into the ashtray.

  ‘Got to make a call,’ said Mitchell to Megan, and he kissed her and hooked her arm. ‘Catch you again some time,’ he told Dave.

  ‘Look forward to it,’ Dave replied.

  ‘Bye, Megan,’ Mick called out.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mimed to them behind Mitchell’s back. With a jerk of her head she beckoned Alexander.

  ‘Bye, Megan,’ repeated Dave and Gareth and Billy in chorus.

  Alexander followed Mitchell and Megan along the corridor. Under the lamp by the back door Mitchell turned to him. ‘Don’t take any of that stuff the wrong way, will you?’ Mitchell urged, seemingly oblivious to Alexander’s indifference. ‘You’re a good band. All of you. I mean that. I was being a bit controversial. Force of habit,’ he admitted, winking at Alexander and patting his shoulder. ‘See you again, I hope,’ he said. He flipped his collar up and hunched his shoulders, though the night was mild, and he
crossed the gravel car park to the phone box. He struck a match on the concrete bollard beside the box and cupped the flame for a few seconds before lowering his cigarette to it. He looked, Alexander thought, like a B-movie spy.

  ‘Not pleased, is he?’ Alexander remarked to Megan.

  ‘About what?’ she asked. They walked towards the car.

  ‘About being banned from the house.’

  ‘Banned is a bit strong,’ she said. Ambling towards the car, Megan scuffed the gravel with each stride, as she used to do when she was a child, when she was bored.

  ‘But he’s not at all pleased.’

  ‘He’s not. But it’s not what he thinks, Eck,’ said Megan. She glanced towards the phone box. In the dowdy light of the cubicle, Mitchell was gesticulating as he talked, as if demonstrating a repertoire of argumentative poses.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Alexander replied.

  ‘No. Dad’s got his ways. It’s not easy.’

  ‘I know. But Mitchell’s not going to pass the screen test, is he?’

  Megan bumped her elbow against his side. ‘Don’t be smug, Eck,’ she told him.

  ‘I’m not being smug,’ he protested. ‘But he’s not, is he?’ he asked, and he heard the tone of his voice change, as if of its own volition.

  ‘He’s an intelligent person. Whatever he may say,’ she laughed. ‘But,’ she continued, then stopped, and Alexander waited. ‘He likes the sound of his own voice too much sometimes.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘And he wants me to marry him,’ added Megan, casually, but with an incredulous widening of her eyes. She slipped her bag from her shoulder and fumbled for the key. ‘Can’t see a damned thing,’ she said, and she looked up at the sky, where the upper half of a half-moon, as Alexander would always remember, stood up like a sail in a flow of starling-coloured cloud. Holding it wide open, Megan tilted the mouth of her bag towards the light of the phone box. ‘But I am not getting married, Eck,’ she said, squinting into the bag.

  ‘On principle?’ he would have asked, but Mitchell had finished his call. ‘See you, Mitchell,’ he called. ‘See you,’ he said to Megan, and he returned to the back door, from where he watched the tail lights of their car shrink and then vanish at the junction. Dejection was rising within him, but he seemed to feel no jealousy. It was as though Mitchell had been nothing more than the means by which Megan had been brought into the evening and then removed. He stared at the place where the scarlet lights had disappeared, and then he went inside.