Tim Thornton

by The Alternative Hero (v5)

  “Sorry, where are you going?” the official asks, pointing at me.

  The whole terminal seems to screech to a halt.

  “New York!” I beam, waving my boarding pass and risking a familial hand on the toddler’s head. “With this lot!”

  “Okay,” she smiles.

  Phew! Good old Uncle Clive. We’re all one big, crazy holidaying family. We rush past the poor bastards snaking round the queuing fences and reach the X-ray belt in no time, where the nice man studies my passport and boarding pass and rods me through. My shoulder bag goes onto the belt, jacket goes in the tray. I skip through the metal detector and … I’ve done it. Three minutes. Fuck. It worked. I can breathe again.

  And not before bloody time, because my phone is ringing. It’s him.

  “All right, all right, I’m here,” I puff. “Where are you?”

  “The Bistro, at the back.”

  “Do they serve coffee?”

  “Of course. Get your arse over here—I’m leaving in an hour.”

  “An hour!” I yell, but he’s hung up already.

  Okay. So he’s an impatient rock star again. Fun lies ahead.

  I worm my way through the quagmire of shops, overpriced fooderies, tables, chairs and people, finally spotting the place he’s at. I can see him in there, face wrapped in his damn shades, sitting at a table next to a frosted window. I’m sure he’s seen me, but he’s not smiling. I clear my throat, put my phone on silent and stride over.

  “That was a very long ten minutes,” he begins.

  “Have you seen the bloody queue?”

  “No,” he says. “I’m in first class.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “Hey. That doesn’t stop my flight from being delayed by five fucking hours.”

  “Five hours? Who the hell are you flying with?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  He puts his newspaper away while I order my coffee. Once the waitress has departed he sits back, folding his arms.

  “So.”

  “So,” I reply, in a slightly more hesitant, questioning tone. His next statement is a curveball.

  “You’ve been dreaming about me.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “That’s what it says here,” he explains, extracting a wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket. “‘Dear Lance, I’ve been dreaming about you.’”

  “Oh, God,” I gasp, the penny dropping.

  “‘I feel you are looking for vindication,’” he continues, one of his crafty smiles forming, “‘and I can help you.’”

  “Just give me that bloody thing, will you?”

  “Ah, na-na-na-na … not so fast, writer boy,” he commands, whipping the note out of my reach as I try to grab it. Bastard. He is enjoying this.

  “So you kept it, then,” I blush.

  “Course I kept it. I keep everything. What do you think ‘Disposal’ is all about?”

  “Hmm, yeah,” I nod, trawling through the lyric section of the old cranium. “‘I’ve got expanding cupboard space, for every word, every kiss, every punch in the face…’”

  “Well done,” he says, either impressed or being sarcastic, I can’t really tell with his shades on.

  “I’m afraid I’m a bit of a fan,” I venture, rather pitifully.

  “Oh, I know that,” he smiles, looking at the wretched letter again. “‘Thieving Magpies ruled my life and I hung on your every note but then you left. I need to know why, then I can move on.’ I’ve got to say, Mr. Clive, after all your harping about grammar and sentence structure, yours is simply appalling in this letter.”

  “I was very drunk.”

  “I should hope so. You’ve even misspelled Thieving Magpies. Didn’t they teach you, I before E?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Oh, please. The one thing I will not tolerate from you today is pathetic apology. You did what you did, and it got you here.”

  “Uh, yes. Via two hundred quid for a single to New York.”

  “New York? Bloody hell, was that the cheapest ticket you could get?”

  “Yeah, but don’t worry. I’m assuming it’s all going to be worth it.”

  “Dunno,” he muses, playing with the saltcellar. “It’s my life, so I’ve never found any of it particularly enthralling.”

  “Right,” I consider, dredging up another lyric. “‘When the blinds are drawn and you can’t see me, secretly engaged in some boring activity.’”

  “Aw, man … stop it! You’re freaking me out now.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You know the bloody solo album well, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. Underrated.”

  “Underrated, overrated?”

  I prick up my ears at the title of a feature from Definitely Not. He can’t know about that, surely? Must be a coincidence. I study his face, but I can’t interpret anything with those stupid glasses he’s got on.

  “Sorry, could you take your shades off, please?”

  “No.”

  “Ah.”

  “You never know,” he deadpans, leaning in, “I might get recognised. Come on, time’s ticking by. We’d better get on with it.”

  “Yep. Well, I’m ready to listen.”

  “Oh, are you, indeed? Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Beresford. Before I tell you a damn thing, I want you to tell me something.”

  “Uh?”

  He brandishes my letter again.

  “What on earth do you mean by this? ‘I know of the unspoken love between you and Gloria. It’s there—’ spelt T-H-E-I-R, by the way—‘in your lyrics.’”

  “I wrote that?”

  “You did.”

  Holy poo. I buy myself a few seconds by glancing around the restaurant.

  “Please take note,” he comments politely, peering above his sunglasses for a moment, “a response along the lines of ‘Dunno, I was pissed’ will result in immediate termination of this interview.”

  “Which one, mine or yours?”

  “Ha!” he laughs, genuinely. “Both.”

  With majestically good timing, my coffee arrives. Lance gazes up at the waitress while she pours, grinning at her in a slightly peculiar manner. She leaves without looking at him.

  “No, she doesn’t know I was a rock star,” he sighs. “This country has gone to ruin, eh, Clive? Oh, sorry … you were telling me about Gloria.”

  “Uh, yeah. Well … I always had a theory about you and Gloria. Everyone always said that you were shagging. Or, I mean, that you were romantically …”

  “Romantically shagging. Yeah, I get it.”

  “Yeah. But me and Alan … that’s Alan my friend, the one I sort of named myself after … we knew you weren’t. Dunno how. Just a feeling. But we also knew you wanted to, or at least, that one of you wanted to.”

  “Hmm … right?”

  “But that for whatever reason, it never happened. You had … um … other girlfriends, and she, well … she did whatever.”

  He’s frowning. I can tell that much, through the thick black plastic.

  “It’s funny,” he says, “I always had a theory that you’d be more eloquent than this, in person.”

  “Sorry. I get a bit tongue-tied when I’m talking … you know this.”

  “I meant you as Clive.”

  “It’s the same. I only write well. I had a dreadful stammer ’til I was thirteen.”

  “Ha. That makes two of us.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Anyway, you were saying. So, what made you think all this? My lyrics?”

  “Yeah. I mean the obvious one is ‘This Is What You Wanted’ … ‘The animals are fighting. They race around the building site, pretending it’s exciting’—that’s the building site opposite Gloria’s flat in Belsize Park. ‘The candles and balloons are out, but it is not my birthday’—that’s Camden Palace decorating the venue for Gloria’s birthday, but getting the wrong date. Then there’s—”

  “Wait, stop. How do you know all this?”

  “We were there!”
<
br />   “At her flat?”

  “No, I mean … Alan and I were indie fans for years, which basically meant we hung out in Camden for years. You get to know where people live eventually. I knew where you lived … uh, not in a stalkerish way, of course.”

  “Of course not,” he glares, tapping my letter.

  “Er … anyway. Then that line ‘Another silent victory, but I’m still uninvited … I’ll fight it out another year, convince myself I like it’—That’s Gloria, sort of lurking in the background, but never being … um … invited into your life, kinda thing, and fighting it out, as in, she’ll keep being friends with you and the band but she’s not really enjoying herself and it starts affecting her, in quite a bad way, which is what you meant in that interview when you said, ‘That was the start of everything going a bit wrong.’”

  He’s silent. I stand and look over his glasses, just to check he’s not fallen asleep.

  “And there’s others … um …” I delve into my bag and pull out Alan’s scrapbook. “There was this one time we went to a Pearl Jam show at Brixton, and Gloria was there in the bar looking pretty ill, really … She had one of her punk T-shirts on. We remember all this ’cos Alan managed to get a photo of me with her in the background. Might even still be in here …”

  I’m flicking through the scrapbook for the particular date. Lance leans forward to look.

  “Quite a piece of work,” he offers.

  “Ha, yes. Alan’s, not mine, I’m afraid. Here we are.”

  A double-page spread devoted to the gig in question has a small colour photo glued to the right-hand side. A smiling, long-haired me in a Flaming Lips top fills most of the frame, but Gloria’s impossibly skinny figure is unmistakable amid a crowd by the bar. Her white ripped T-shirt bears the characters “F=W+M.” Lance sees this, then gasps and sits back, his hand in front of his mouth.

  “We thought about what the letters meant for ages, after the photo was developed,” I explain, “but the only conclusion we could make was ‘Fuck Webster and McBriar.’ Then you wrote that ‘Bells Around the Ankles’ song and we knew we’d got it right.”

  Webster looks shocked and I consider stopping, but hell—he asked for it. “Make sure you lay it on really thick,” as Billy Flushing said.

  “Those lyrics: ‘There in your white uniform, cursing him and cursing her.’”

  “Okay, that’ll do,” he snaps.

  “Sorry. I told you I was a fan.”

  At last, he takes his sunglasses off. There are tears in his eyes.

  “Remember when we were sitting in the café of that toy museum, and I told you I was a selfish bastard, or something?”

  “Uh, yes. I think you said you were a stuck-up, inconsiderate wanker.”

  “Oh, even better, thank you. Well, I wasn’t exaggerating. I dunno … it took me a while, but I now realise that it’s hard, when you’re that young, to be famous. It ain’t natural. It all goes to your head. Even if you seem to be one of those people who handle it well … you’re not really. Something’s going to give somewhere, sometime. If it’s not drugs, it’s booze, and if it’s not booze, it’s … well.”

  “Well … what?”

  He exhales and looks at his watch.

  “I suppose I’d better tell you the whole thing. Hadn’t I.”

  SUGGESTED LISTENING: deus, Worst Case Scenario (Island, 1994)

  I can’t reach you

  anymore

  You know how it is sometimes.

  When you’re headlining a festival. Not Reading or Glastonbury, like any normal band would; they’d been bagsed already by a couple of Beatles cover bands, some hairy old grungers from way back and (I mean, really) the singer from The Sugarcubes. So you’re left with Aylesbury Doesn’t trip off the tongue, does it? Aylesbury “We’re headlining Aylesbury,” you mention to people. “Oh, yeah?” you half expect them to reply. “Who’s doing the other nights? Steeleye Span? Wishbone Ash? Landscape? Racey?”

  But anyway. You wake to the sound of the phone ringing, climb across what you initially think is your guitar but actually turns out to be your girlfriend, and answer.

  “Yeah?”

  “Lance.”

  “What?”

  “Fancy coming for some breakfast?”

  It’s Martin, your unpredictable guitarist.

  “What time is it?”

  “Eight.”

  “Fuck’s sake. What time are we being picked up?”

  “Ten.”

  You ponder the breakfast option for a moment. It’s a good Dutch hotel: strong coffee, cheese, cold meats, fruit salad, maybe a bit of smoked fish, scrambled egg, crispy bacon and those crazy little frankfurters. All of which you normally enjoy … in bed.

  “Nah, I’m gonna ring for it.”

  “No, but I need to talk to you.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No.”

  You glumly climb into some jeans. Predictably unpredictable. But last time Martin wanted to “talk” it was nothing more than him suddenly deciding he wanted to swap guitar parts in the bridge of “The Cool and the Crooks”—so it comes as some surprise a few minutes later to find yourself being told, while he calmly spoons yoghurt and banana into his gob, that he wishes to leave the band.

  “When?”

  “Soon as this leg of the tour’s over.”

  Although you’ve often rehearsed receiving this particular bombshell from one of the others, and even considered dropping it yourself once or twice, hearing it for real is a totally different barrel of ale and your stomach is instantly bombarded by a blast of the most ferocious adrenaline.

  “Who else have you told?”

  “No one.”

  “Really no one, or Bob no one?”

  “Really no one. And I’d appreciate if you’d keep it that way, for now.”

  “Uh … yeah, sure,” you reply breathlessly, gazing around the grand hotel dining hall. A few groups of businesspeople. Some weekending couples. A girl who’s been giving you the eye and obviously knows who you are. You picture strolling up to her, sitting down and announcing, “Hi. Do you know, you’ve just been watching Thieving Magpies split up?” As chat-up lines go, it’d be quite a winner.

  Because ultimately, that’s what it will mean. Yes, Martin could be replaced for live work, but the prospect of producing new material without his calming influence over the frequently squabbling Dan and Craig is unattractive in the extreme.

  “Shit,” is all you can say, followed by a very long pause. Martin painstakingly clears up every last drop of yoghurt from his bowl, then wipes his mouth thoroughly on the starched white napkin. He’s always loved his hotel breakfasts, has Martin. Especially in the early days. With no food in his fridge at home, arriving at a foreign hotel with breakfast included was almost better than getting paid.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me the obvious?” he enquires, raising you from memories of rosier times.

  “I can’t think of anything obvious.”

  “I’ll give you a clue,” he frowns, leaning in. “It’s one word. It begins with W, ends in Y and has an H in the middle.”

  “All right, less of the fucking sarcasm, man. I’m in slight shock here.”

  “No, but it’s just like you to not even care.”

  “Hang on. Is this about me?”

  “That’s part of it. I can’t reach you anymore, Lance. Neither can Dan and Craig.”

  “What’s the other part?”

  “I wanna move abroad. It’s … it’s getting too much. In England. I need a break. I don’t want to raise my kids in London.”

  You’re doing your best to consider the now ex-guitarist’s words, but you can’t keep your eyes off the girl across the room. She’s a peach. She’s also poured a glass of champagne for herself, and appears to have placed an empty glass opposite her, suggestively. Nice breakfast. She winks … or was that just your imagination.

  “Lance? Are you even fucking listening to me?”

  “Yes, yes. You’re mo
ving abroad.”

  “I can’t take another cycle of this shit. Album, tour, album, tour. It’s driving me insane.”

  “You don’t mind the cash, though.”

  “I knew you’d say that.”

  The girl has now been joined by her man. What a little tease.

  “I haven’t been happy in time,” Martin continues. “Not that you’ve noticed.”

  “Well, I have been kinda busy …”

  “That’s right, you have. In your bedroom.”

  “No, Martin. I’ve been writing the fucking songs that keep us afloat, in case it’s passed you by.”

  “As we all have.”

  “Yeah, but …” God damn it. You drum your fingers on the tablecloth, thrilled to be having this conversation again. You should have taken Bob’s advice years ago, insisted on a greater share of the song-writing credit; made the others realise how small their input actually is. But that would only mean more arguments.

  “And I’ve been dealing with the Gloria thing,” you venture.

  “The Gloria thing,” Martin leers, “is mainly your fault.”

  “Fuck you, wanker!” you shout, suddenly jumping up. “You can fucking go anytime you like; we’ll cope.”

  You storm out of the dining room, everyone’s gaze following you. Then, just for the hell of it, you walk back to the girl’s table and smile at her boyfriend.

  “Oh, sorry to disturb. Before you arrived just now? Your woman was fully flirting with me.”

  You stride out, chuckling at the protestations and threats that ensue.

  Back in your room, Katie has risen. She’s doing her makeup, a time she always looks her best, her long, dark hair cascading over her tanned shoulders.

  “You okay?” she asks, and you consider telling her the news. Instead, you open the minibar, knock back two Jack Daniel’s miniatures in a row and artlessly fuck her on the hotel-room floor.

  It doesn’t matter how much money you’re being paid; travelling with the band is always a dreadful experience. It was fun when you were eighteen, but now that your late twenties are kicking in you’d prefer a method of getting about better suited to a man of your standing. Like: private plane. Or helicopter. Or even a nice, big, private car—anything that doesn’t entail smelling Dan Winston’s farts or pretending to laugh at the road crew’s interminable “humour.” It’s enough to drive you to drink—which, funnily enough, it has. Anyone wanting reasons for why any rock star flew off the rails need only spend a couple of days on the road with a band. Of course, it would be a lot better if BFM were providing adequate tour support—but that’s a conversation for another day.