Death of a Rock Star: A Boy in the Band Novella

by Frost, NJ

  In our funeral attire Darcey and I make an odd looking couple. I look like a fucking rogue banker, who hasn’t slept for weeks and Darcey, well she looks like Darcey. Unapologetic and unflinching in her punkiness. With her heavy war paint, slashed tights and huge boots she looks like she’s fixing for a fight. Which I suppose she is – with her emotions.

  Darcey doesn’t meet my eye as she hands me a bottle of Jack. She looks about as haunted as I feel.

  “One for the road?” She’s jittery, and the anxiety is radiating off her. It seems that the unshakable Darcey Walters is nervous too.

  I force a smile before taking a couple of huge swigs. The welcome burn does little to settle the strange tilt and sway of this day.

  Maybe for most addicts alcohol is a trigger, that first slippery step on the road to relapse, but alcohol has never been my undoing. Getting wasted and getting high have always been such different beasts for me. I’ve never really seen them as being symptomatic of each other. Maybe I’m in denial, but since Jamie’s death I’ve managed to stay on the straight and narrow as far as the harder stuff is concerned. The bag of gear from Viper is still untouched. I haven’t even had a little dabble, which is pretty fucking impressive considering the circumstances. My liver has taken a battering, and I’ve sneaked the odd bit weed here and there, but that’s it.

  The gear stashed in the inside breast pocket of my jacket has almost become a talisman. A touchstone. At any point I could crack, but every moment that I don’t gives me a little more strength, a little more belief in my willpower. I suspect that today will be make-or-break for me.

  I take out my hipflask and shakily fill it before I pass the bottle back to Darcey. She takes a long pull and feigns a wince and cough. It’s all an act. I know the moisture in her eyes has fuck all to do with the Jack.

  “Let’s fucking do this.” She says too brightly, trying to detract from the tell-tale tears sparking in her stormy grey eyes.

  My makeup is done, my mask of indifference just about in place. Only if you look very, very closely, do you see the cracks there. I see them, and I know Bernie does too. I can’t hide from her.

  She’s busy pinning up my hair, but she keeps looking up, shooting me concerned looks. She’s being so gentle it makes my heart hurt.

  “You mind?” I ask, picking up the pack of cigarettes in front of me. She gestures for me to go ahead.

  Bernie hates smoking. She hates me smoking. She pretty much hates everything about the way I live my life, but she doesn’t judge. In the three years since we forged our unlikely friendship, she’s become like a sister to me. Or what I’ve always imagined a sister would be like. The truth of the matter is, without her, without Dent and his family, I’d have no one. No one who really gives a shit.

  Jamie gave a shit, but he needed too much, loved too deeply. I’ve always had a problem with being loved, even at the best of times, and Jamie’s love was so intense it was terrifying. Being everything to someone like him was way too much pressure for someone as broken and flawed as me. There was never going to be a happy ending.

  My hands are shaking so badly the fucking lighter won’t catch. I toss it back down in frustration.

  “Here let me.” Bernie offers.

  I take a deep drag at the steady flame that she holds up in front of my face, and the cool nicotine rush hits me. Steadies me.

  As she eases the last couple of hairpins into place, Bernie fixes me with a troubled gaze.

  “You sure you don’t want me to come?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She doesn’t look convinced. But I can’t admit that I’m not fine, that I’m seriously considering doing a runner. I can’t tell her that the thought of the funeral is twisting my heart so badly it feels like it’s going to give up. The whole business has me horribly on edge. I feel haunted by memories of another funeral that I don’t want stirred up.

  I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to remember… but the face looking back at me in the mirror morphs into that of my sixteen year old self. The empty, hopeless eyes lost in that other girl’s face are unmistakably mine. I wish I could tell her that things get better. But the truth of the matter is they don’t. People let you down. They hurt you. They leave you. They die.

  There are so few exceptions. But I’d like to hope that Bernie is one of them. As though on instinct, she wraps her arms around me and squeezes me tight. She loves so selflessly and without fear, it’s humbling. I don’t know why she bothers with a hopeless, damaged stray like me.

  “I’m here for you Sylvie,” she whispers, “always.”

  I want to believe those words. I really do. But I find it so hard to accept that her affection is unconditional and that it doesn’t have to be earned. That it won’t be lost with a wrong word or thoughtless action. I’m hoping there’ll come a day when I don’t have to keep reminding myself that the people who do care for me, are everything my mother is not.

  “You’ll get through this – for him.” She says solemnly.

  “I…” I take a shaky breath. I wish I could sound more convincing, more resolute, “…I’ll try.”

  And I will try. For him.

  I stand at the back of Union Church watching the last of the familiar and not so familiar faces trickle inside and squeeze themselves into the pews. Darcey is doing a reading, so she’s right down at the front. She understands my reason for not wanting to be trapped there with her. The congregation is so tightly packed in. Showbiz types are interspersed with the Joe Bloggs no-names. It’s an interesting mix, bringing together two very disparate spheres of Jamie’s life. I see faces I recognise from art school, from the telly, from the tabloids, from the music business. They’re all here. This send-off is the hottest ticket in town, and it kind of sickens me a little, but I guess it’s necessary. The fans and the media camped outside expect nothing less for the fallen bad boy of rock.

  Simms from Jamie’s band is playing the organ. He must have been given carte blanch to play whatever grabs him. The mood it’s creating is suitably anarchic. We’ve already had Lou Reed, The Doors, Nirvana, Arcade Fire, Kings of Leon. He’s onto The Stones now; You Can’t Always Get What You Want. I wonder if anybody else is getting the irony. I’m guessing that song selection is not just coincidence, that Simms was also party to the Sylvie Smith debacle. I’d have liked to have seen her squirm through this song. But she’s not here yet, which is a little surprising.

  I’ve been trying to convince myself that I’m not on pins to see her, that I’m not interested, but who am I kidding? My tie feels like it’s choking me. My McQueen suit feels like a strait-jacket and every cell of my body is on high alert. But I don’t feel the change in the air when she walks in. I see her though, and that’s enough. I’m bowled over. She looks like a fucking supermodel, in a black dress that’s way too demure for her killer body, but just tempting enough. The tight sheath ends just below her knee and with Jamie’s leather jacket over it she looks like a sexy school teacher gone bad. Her arse is a thing of beauty, but it’s those endless legs I need to see more of… Stripped bare. Wrapped. Around. Me. I mentally slap myself. What the hell am I thinking? I am truly fucking despicable. This is my best friend’s ex that I’m having wholly inappropriate thoughts about. This is his funeral. She’s still wearing his jacket, which makes me think she’s still his, and anyway, I made a promise. One I fully intend on keeping.

  She takes the last remaining seat on the pew directly in front of me. The guy who has been saving her seat puts his arm around her and pulls her close. He kisses her hair. He’s old enough to be her fucking father for pity’s sake! I don’t blame the old dog though. If she was sitting next to me, I’d have a hard time keeping my hands off her too. Then I realise that I recognise him. It’s Alex Denton, head of Artemis records. I guess he must be her boss, but there’s an intimacy between them that suggests more.

  Being this close to her is torture. I should move, but I can’t. I feel frozen in that crazy
fucking light of hers, like soon-to-be road kill. Her long dark hair is contained thank God, all twisted and knotted at the nape of her neck, but as she bows her head that soft curve is calling out to my lips. They’re aching to settle there. So badly.

  I’m oddly relieved when the funeral procession appears at the door of the church. Simms is playing Time to Pretend by MGMT. He’s nothing if not subtle. It feels so wrong and yet so completely right. Half the people here won’t know the song, get the druggie reference, but for those who do the irony will be bittersweet. I notice Sylvie and Alex Denton exchange a look.

  The pallbearers pause for a moment right by Sylvie, and I see her body react. She visibly tenses and recoils. The coffin, up close, has a similar effect on me. My decision to turn down the offer of being one of those pallbearers now seems like a wise one.

  Why I feel so freaked by the coffin I don’t know. I think it’s the harsh finality of it. It’s pretty fucking weird to imagine someone so larger than life reduced to the contents of such a nondescript box. It seems so conventional, so not Jamie at all. His spirit was epic, too vast for this church even. It’s long gone – moved onto a bigger and better party.

  As the coffin makes its way down the central aisle a strange hush gathers over the congregation, there are a couple of strangled sobs that sound just horrible. I notice that Sylvie is sitting utterly rigid. She looks sprung tight like she about to snap.

  Before the coffin has even reached the front, Sylvie puts her mouth to Denton’s ear. I see him pivot to give her a concerned look, but she whispers something shaking her head and then slinks out of her seat. Her gaze never leaves the floor as she rushes past me, but the spark of tears is unmissable. Her face etched with utter distress. Everything about her tense energy screams panic. I know that feeling. I’ve battled it often enough myself.

  With her departure, everything feels even darker, more hopeless. The walls feel like they’re closing in. My £100 tie gets tighter around my throat. I take the hipflask out of my jacket pocket and take a huge swig, but even as it warms my throat I know the Jack will barely take the edge off.

  The vicar starts his patter.

  “We’re gathered here today to remember and celebrate the life of Jamie...”

  I have very little time for organised religion. I get why some people need it, the comfort it gives them, but it’s not for me and it wasn’t for Jamie either. Which begs the question, why are we all here? And not on some fucking crazy bender, scattering his ashes from a mega yacht off the coast of Ibiza. That’s what he would have wanted – a great big glorious orgy of a send-off. Not so parent or elderly relative friendly I guess. So here we all are, going through the empty motions, with a guy who never even met Jamie trying to sum up his life in PC sound bytes. Trying not to offend, or state the obvious, or address the huge fucking elephant in the church.

  Instead of the wishy washy banalities that are being spouted, Jamie’s eulogy should really go something like this,

  Jamie Grimes. Mad man, genius, lover, artist, nihilist… too fucking beautiful and too fucked up for this world. The. Fucking. End.

  There should be lots of crazy pyro shit, an empty spotlight fading to black. The curtain should fall and we should all just go and get wankered.

  I finger the small plastic bag in the inside pocket of my suit jacket.

  That’s what I’m going to do. Right now.

  I haven’t felt such an unbearable crush of panic in a long time. Not since the day of my Dad’s funeral. That emptiness of having no one to catch you when you fall is a heavy burden to bear. I’m not really sure why I’m feeling it now. Jamie was beautiful and brilliant, but he wasn’t safe. Far from it. He led an explosion of an existence. He lit my heart up like a nuclear blast, and he annihilated it with that same force. In the aftershock of his going, I should feel a sense of peace, of calm, of things settling. I should be making snow angels in the fallout. Instead, I’m running. Panicking and running.

  The fucking Paps are out here in force, watching through their brutal lenses, hoping to catch some celeb pain and tragedy to peddle to the masses to make them feel better about their shitty little lives. They’re not really interested in me though. Jamie and I somehow managed to keep our relationship under the radar. Working so closely together was the perfect cover. I was always just the label girl. They were far more interested in Jamie’s relationship with drugs and with his ex-bandmate Niko.

  My phone buzzes. A text from Denton.

  Dent: You okay?

  Me: I will be. Going for a quick drink then heading home. Need to be alone

  Dent: You know where I am…

  Me: xx

  I warned Dent not to come after me and bless him, he didn’t make a scene. I just need space. Room to breathe. My heart is racing wildly. I can’t let anyone see me like this. Falling apart.

  As soon as I’m out of the Paps’ range I light up a cigarette. It’s a struggle. My hands are shaking so badly. Then I open my clutch bag and take out the blister pack of Xanax I found in Jamie’s bathroom last night. I press out one of the blue pills. I remember them chilling him out when he was in one of his blind panics. I need not to feel. I need to still this panic, right now. I press out another and drop the pills down the back of my throat. I try to swallow them dry, but they stick in my throat. I need a drink.

  There’s a shabby old pub a few minutes down the road, just off the beaten track. It’s perfect. I don’t think any of the funeral party will be gracing this place with their presence. I’m starting to feel a little calmer as I swing through the door, even though I’m so completely out of place in my Versace dress. The old geezer bartender raises his eyebrows at me when I order a pint. The pills feel like they’re still caught in my throat, tantalising me with the promise of their mind numbing narcotics. To give the barman something else to raise his eyebrows about, I order two large whisky chasers.

  I drink fast and hard and then order more.

  A cool numbness is running through my veins. It suddenly feels like I’ve drank every drop of alcohol in this place. Usually I don’t like being so out of control. I’m always careful to stay one drink shy of losing it. Right now I couldn’t give a flying fuck. I want to feel nothing. Blackness starts to wrap itself around me, but it’s not filled with nightmares and regrets, it’s blissful and completely empty. I let it take me. I’m standing on a cliff edge with my back to the drop. I lean further and further back and then let myself fall.

  Call it fate. Call it serendipity. Call it what you will. I still do a fucking double take when I notice Sylvie Smith slumped over in the corner of the pub as I raise my drink to my lips. What on earth is she doing here, in a dive like this? She looks slaughtered. How can she have got in such a state so fast? It’s what, just over half an hour since she fled the church? Her arms are folded beneath her face on the table. That beautiful swirl of hair, that tempting curve of her neck, that image glaring at me from the back of Jamie’s jacket are calling to me and yet telling me to run. I let my eyes feast on her. She’s like a fucking homing beacon to me. I’m drawn to her against my will, against all reason. It’s such a fucking cliché.

  I know that the universe is having a huge laugh at my expense right now. It feels as though I’m being tested here. Like Jamie has a hand in this from the other side, or wherever he is right now, like he’s tempting me and waiting for me to fuck up and betray him.

  Sylvie looks in a bad way though. She’s pretty much out cold. I can’t ignore her. I can’t leave her like this. I have to do the right thing. I knock back my drink.

  My heart is hammering in my chest as I approach her. I feel like a fucking pathetic teenager, about to ask the girl of his dreams out on a date – a girl who’s a million miles out of my league. This girl is virtually unconscious, get a grip Blake!

  I sit down beside her, and she moves slightly, raising her eyes to me but not her head.

  Holy fucking shit! Up close those eyes are breath-taking. They are a warm golden brown, the colour o
f honey. Even in her completely wrecked state they seem to be lit from within. It’s like I’m looking at the sun through them. The pain and sadness there are tempered by a vacant look I know all too well. She’s taken something. Fuck!

  “Are you okay?” I finally manage to ask. My voice comes out all forced and nervous. What the fuck? Girls don’t make me nervous. Ever.

  She holds my gaze, a slight crease forming between her brows. She looks almost puzzled.

  “Did you take something?” I try.

  She closes her eyes, and it’s like the room goes a million shades darker.

  My heart is still hammering like crazy. I reach out and brush a stray hair from her face. My hand lingers there, over her. Up close her scent washes over me. It’s musky and dark and sends my mind off to dark places. Dark places where I can be with her.

  “Hey. Can you sit up?” I say, nudging and shaking her slightly.

  She lifts her head like it weighs a ton, and then she attempts to sit up. I help to lift her and lean her back against the stale upholstery of the booth seat. Her head is turned to me, and she’s squinting and blinking like she’s trying to clear her vision.

  “What did you take?” I ask again.

  She murmurs something that sounds like Xanax.

  “How much have you drunk?”

  Her eyes drift over to the empty glasses on the table. A pint glass and a shot glass. I pick up the shot glass and sniff it. Whisky. Cheap shit too.

  “How much Xanax?”

  “My bag.” She mumbles.

  Her bag is on the seat beside her. She glances down at it and then back at me. I reach down for it and she gives me a barely perceptible nod. I open it, and my heart almost stops. There amongst her girly shit is a folded up note, addressed to her in Jamie’s handwriting… on yellow legal paper. I know what that means. I try to ignore it, but to say my interest is piqued is an understatement. I look up at her, and she’s watching me through narrowed lids. I’m guessing it’s the effect of the Xanax though, not suspicion. She has no fucking clue who I am, or who I was to Jamie. Does she? I take out the sheet of pills. There’s two gone.