by Greg Kihn
Brian watched the Pep Boy’s peckers burn. For some reason, he was fascinated with the trick. Maybe, he thought, in a weird way, that his own wiener was on fire.
“Bloody brilliant!” Brian said after a hearty laugh.
Johnny, Moe, and Dave, the real English Pep Boys kept trying to see how far they could push Brian. They were lazy and their work was terrible. Brian quickly became fed up.
The initial Frank Thorogood quote of eleven thousand pounds for the work on Cotchford Farm was way off, and the new price was close to ridiculous. Brian felt sure he was being ripped off. It only got worse.
The workers’ daily presence became menacing. They took over the pool area, drinking and carousing. When Brian showed his face to check on the progress of the work, they made jokes and laughed at his skinny body and long effeminate hair.
Clovis saw what was happening and gave them a piece of his mind, demanding that they get back to work or get fired.
Frank soon became a problem himself, having moved into the flat over the garage. He turned Brian’s beloved Poohville into his own private party zone. Soon the workers started inviting girls over, and nothing got done.
Frank Thorogood was thuggish and domineering and didn’t seem to like Brian. He disrespected him every chance he got. When Brian asked a question, he was usually given a flippant answer. Work progressed at a snail’s pace. Just because Tom Keylock worked for the Stones, and he hired Frank, Frank thought he was immune to criticism.
Brian complained, but Frank laughed at him. Frank began to order Brian around. Anna Wohlin complained that the “cowboys” Frank hired were entirely unprofessional and had to go. She didn’t want them around the house. Neither did a now visibly pregnant Erlene, whose apprehension about protecting Brian had reached a fever pitch.
Bobby experienced it every time he made the drive from London and saw that nothing had progressed from the time before. Bobby joined the chorus of people who feared and/or disliked Frank Thorogood and his workers.
Clovis and Bobby had both volunteered to fire Frank, acting as Brian’s spokesmen. But for some reason, Brian’s intimidation froze him and he did nothing. Besides, Brian knew it would mean nothing to Frank unless it came from him. Brian had to be the man. He had to grow up and face the truth.
Frank worked for Tom Keykock, who worked for the Stones. They all worked for the Stones. Even the checks for Mrs. Hallet, the housekeeper, were issued by the Rolling Stones office in London. Did Brian feel some sort of misplaced loyalty?
Tension at Cotchford Farm mounted.
Clovis worked in the studio room with Brian and seldom came out. Unlike Frank, his work progressed nicely. He’d rewired the control room and installed a patch bay so he could plug any device into any input. He brought in a beautiful Ampex 16-track recorder and several dozen of the big two-inch tape boxes.
Brian spent hours talking to Clovis. Clovis loved to hear about the old days of British blues. Brian’s mood improved when he recalled those days.
Brian pontificated freely. “That was the beauty of the early Stones. We just didn’t give a shit. We were so audacious. I recently saw the old video of us doing ‘Little Red Rooster’ on the TV show Ready, Steady, Go! There I am playing these time-honored slide guitar riffs, right out of Howlin’ Wolf, and I’m playing them on an ultra modern-looking white Vox Phantom teardrop guitar! It’s almost sacrilegious! And Keith is playing a cheesy Harmony Sovereign acoustic twelve-string! With cheap pickups! Mick is faking my harmonica parts from the record! And, to make matters worse, it’s our first English number one and it’s a song about a fuckin’ chicken, man! What other group could do that?”
Clovis and Brian laughed until their sides hurt. It was times like this when Clovis thought Brian could actually be happy and content.
“When we appeared on the TV show Shindig! in America, we insisted that Howlin’ Wolf be on the bill with us. It caused quite a ruckus because the producers wanted only young white acts. Somehow, I don’t know how he did this, but Mick had lied to them saying that Howlin’ Wolf was in fact young white group from Chicago. You can imagine their consternation when in walks this six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-ninety pound black guy. By that time, it was too late to book another act. I got to introduce him.”
Brian watched Clovis work, slowly and methodically. Clovis took his time and enjoyed his work. They often talked about music and the amazing things they’d seen: Reverend Julius Cheeks, Ravi Shankar, Otis Redding, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, and the Master Musicians of Joujouka. It was music he would never forget. Lifetime music. Brian’s already vast musical horizons shined like a Hawaiian sunset.
Clovis instructed Brian to order an expensive twenty-four-track Neve console. They awaited its arrival. Rupert Neve had designed it himself with an eye to keeping it compact to fit in unusual spaces.
Frank wandered into the control room looking for Brian. It was Frank’s style to creep into a room and listen before making his presence known. He could see Brian and Clovis talking quietly on the other side of the double glass but he couldn’t hear what they were saying due to the soundproofing.
Frank watched their mouths move. Curiosity got the best of him. Frank knew enough about the studio to turn on the talk back button so he could eavesdrop. He slid the level of the microphones up and listened through the overhead speakers.
When Clovis asked Brian how he was going to pay for the Neve console, whether it would be a Rolling Stones check or a personal one. Brian looked surprised.
“Cash, my dear boy,” he said.
Clovis did a double take. “Cash? That’s over twenty grand, Brian. Who keeps that kind of money around the house?”
Brian grinned. “I do.”
“Are you serious?”
In the control room, Frank Thorogood stood at attention. He’d been listening to every word they said.
Cash? Did he say cash? Frank’s ears pricked up. He leaned closer to the monitor speakers so he could hear every word.
Brian smiled. “Absolutely. I have over a hundred grand in cash hidden in this house: English pounds, Swiss francs, and American dollars.”
Frank almost lost his cool. His heart thumped and the sound of his blood pumping in his ears nearly drowned out Brian’s words. A hundred grand? Hidden in this house, but where?
Clovis’s jaw dropped. “Come on, that’s not only stupid, it’s dangerous. If anybody knew about that money, they would kill you for it.”
“Relax. Nobody knows.”
“Relax? Jesus, Brian! How can you sleep with that much money hanging around? We need to go to the local bank and deposit it all straightaway.”
Brian sighed. “Clovis, my man. Let me explain something to you. The English tax rate for millionaires is insanely harsh; eighty-three percent for earned income and ninety-eight percent for unearned income. Ninety-eight percent! That’s outrageous. They’d be all over me. As cash, that money is obviously worth a whole lot more.”
“But …”
“I’m the only one who knows where it is.”
Clovis had seen Brian’s bedroom. He knew Brian kept stacks of cash on a nightstand next to his bed. It looked to be thousands of pounds. Clovis had warned Brian to never leave large amounts of cash in the open. It was too much of a temptation.
If the Pep Boys ever found out about that money, Brian would have some real trouble.
Renee and Skully drove past Cotchford Farm several times. They studied the grounds. Renee got out of the car and snuck behind the house to the pool area. She saw the floodlights and where they would illuminate. She studied the site lines. She hid in the bushes and watched some people she didn’t know cavorting and drinking beer around the swimming pool.
She returned to car with her report. “There’s a bunch of guys I don’t know hanging out by the pool.”
“It’s probably the workers Frank Thorogood hired.”
“Okay, let’s get back to town.”
Renee watched the tranquil country house slip into the hundred-acre wood as they drove away.
Renee said, “Is that really the house of the guy who wrote Winnie-the-Pooh?”
“Yes. A. A. Milne moved here in 1925. He owned it for a long time. That’s why it’s so special.”
Renee snorted. “Now that we’re here, it doesn’t seem like such a big deal.”
Smithson Photographic Developing Labs was the type of hip young darkroom technology lab Bobby was looking for. They specialized in jobs other developers wouldn’t attempt.
“These are super-dark exposures,” Bobby explained. “They’re going to need help.”
The guy in the white lab coat sniffed. “What was your light source?”
“Candles. Dozens of them.”
His right eyebrow arched up. “And what exactly are you shooting?”
Bobby told the guy what kind of film and camera he used. “I was shooting Tri-X, ASA 400.”
“Did you have the lens open all the way?”
“Yes, but it was only fifty millimeters.”
“Hmmm, I see. What was the line of site here?”
“Over a guy’s shoulder into an antique mirror.”
The white lab coat shook his head. “I don’t know, man. What were you shooting, ghosts?”
Bobby nodded. “That’s right. Can you help me?”
“Of course I can! I’m the best. I’ll squeeze every available photon of light out of these exposures. I’ll have to push the film a little, that means I’ll leave it in the developer a little longer. Give me until Friday and I’ll see what I can do.”
When Bobby returned on Friday, the prints were ready. The guy in white lab coat was excited to show him. Bobby inspected the prints.
“It was a challenge, but I think I captured what you wanted to see. Most of the time, it was this face, with flickering candlelight, but at one point it wavers and other faces appear. It happens so fast that the eye doesn’t catch it, but the lens does. You were shooting bursts of exposure at top speed. It caught everything. Look.”
Bobby stared at the series of prints.
“Is that Brian Jones?” Bobby momentarily forgot that Brian Jones was one of the most famous icons of rock and roll and a face known to millions.
“Yes, it is.”
“I thought so. Examine please.”
In the first print, Brian’s face is plainly visible. In the next, Brian’s face appears to waver. In the next, it becomes cloudy and indistinct. In the next print, another face, a girl’s face is plainly visible. A girl’s face—and Bobby recognized it.
Eleanor Rigby! The face of infinite sadness. How could it be possible? There’s no connection. Her slender white fingers against the other side of the mirror as she appeared to touch her fingertips to the glass.
In the next print, Eleanor Rigby’s face becomes cloudy and morphs into a new face, a beautiful face, a face he knew. It was clearly visible in the next print. Claudine Jillian, just as she appeared at Brian’s party in what seemed like a hundred years ago. She too seemed to reach out to touch the glass. What did they all want to say?
The lab guy held the next-to-last print in his white-gloved hand. He hesitated before handing it to Bobby.
“I just want to know, how did you do this?”
Bobby took it and looked at the picture. It showed Brian flying through the air like Superman with his hair blowing in the wind. Flying like Superman? He almost appeared to have some kind of superhero costume on. He was up in the nighttime sky, arms outstretched, with windblown hair. From the point of view of the photograph, he was suspended in the air with a canopy of stars behind him. The full moon hung over his shoulder. Rather than being shrouded in shadow, Brian was well lit against the night sky.
“It was all shot through the antique mirror.”
“You mean these images are … supernatural?”
Bobby looked at the lab guy with a curious look on his face. “Yeah, I guess they are. Is this all of it?”
He handed Bobby a contact sheet with about twenty shots of Brian’s crazed face when he turned around unexpectedly during the mirror gazing. Bobby had fired off about four shots in surprise. Brian looked absolutely mad.
“Those are the only exposures to have anything other than Brian’s face. There are over one hundred and twenty-six exposures exactly like it if you want me to print them all.”
Some of the images were blurry and indistinct but they were there.
Proof that scrying was real. Proof of a lot of things. Proof that dead girls from different centuries could still exist on the other side of the looking glass? And why were they all trying to get touch with Brian? Proof that Brian had so much sex appeal he could pull chicks from the other side? Bobby’s mind reeled.
He wouldn’t have believed any of it if he hadn’t seen the pictures with his own eyes. These images were real. They existed. They reflected light. The camera doesn’t lie.
“Were you shooting an album cover? You know, in 3-D, like Satanic Majesties Request?”
“No.”
“Because that one of him flying is definitely the album cover shot.”
Bobby started at the bizarre photograph and wondered what it meant. He put the print out of sight in the envelope with the others.
Bobby paid for the prints and ordered a second set to be sent to be delivered to Cotchford.
Erlene was almost hysterical. She woke up in the middle of the night in their bedroom at Cotchford Farm howling from a nightmare.
“Tell Brian not to go near the water!” she shouted in her slumber.
Clovis, sleeping next to her, woke up. She grabbed him and shook his shoulder.
“Get up! Tell Brian to stay away from water!”
“In the morning, hon …”
“Now! Get up and tell him now!”
Rather than argue about it, Clovis got out of bed. He put on his robe and went Brian’s master bedroom. He tapped on the door, but there was no answer.
Clovis eased the door open and tiptoed into the room. Anna Wohlin was asleep in the bed and Brian was sitting up, surrounded by lit candles, gazing into that cursed ancient mirror.
“Brian?”
There was no response.
“Ahh, Brian. Excuse me?”
Still no response. He was in a trance.
“Brian! Wake up!”
Brian roused himself. “What? What’s going on?”
“It’s me, Clovis!”
“Clovis, dear boy, what could you possibly want at this hour?”
“It’s my wife.”
“Erlene? Is she all right?”
“Yes, well not exactly, she woke up screaming just now. She was screaming for you to stay away from the water. She insisted I get up and tell you right now.”
“Water? You mean the ocean? Stay away from the ocean?”
“That’s all she said.”
Brian looked at Clovis without blinking for several seconds. “Thanks for delivering the message. Tell Erlene I understand.”
Clovis hesitated. Was that it?
“That’s it,” said Brian. “Go back to your room now. Erlene knows you did your job.”
“She does?”
Brian nodded. “Go back to bed, Clovis. You’ll find Erlene is already asleep.”
Clovis saw the Moroccan mirror and all the candles. He looked back at Brian “Have you been mirror gazing again?”
Brian just stared at Clovis without answering. His eyes seemed to glow in the dark.
“Nothing to worry about, old chap. Just a little meditation.”
Chapter Twenty-One
When Blue Turns to Gray
“The rich fag,” Marty the part-
time day laborer said. “Fuckin’ rock star, he doesn’t deserve all this.”
The other laborers looked on, bemused. Yes, Brian was a pain in the ass, but as long as he kept paying them, they were happy. Marty, however, seemed to have genuine animosity.
Frank had hired the extra man to assist in the heavy lifting. No one knew much about Marty. He just showed up one day. He was a hulking presence, bigger than the other workers. And rude.
Clovis took Frank aside and said, “Look, Brian doesn’t like the new guy you hired. I want you to get rid of him.”
“Since when do you give the orders around here?”
Clovis snapped. “Since Brian hired me.”
“You’re not the boss of me. I work for the Stones.”
“But Brian’s no longer part of the Stones.”
“Piss off.”
Clovis shouted. “Look, you’re really starting to make me mad. I don’t like your attitude, Thorogood. I’ve noticed the way you push Brian around. He’s in a vulnerable state right now. You’re taking advantage of him. And I know you’ve been charging everything that comes into this house to Brian’s account, ripping him off left and right. You’ve overcharged for everything. Don’t think that Brian is unaware of this.”
Frank sneered, “What are you gonna do about it?”
“Fire you and all your goons.”
“That’ll be the day.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Frank,” Clovis growled. “Or I’ll crack your cranium.”
Frank reacted with a grunt. He wasn’t used to being threatened with physical harm by a smaller man. But Clovis was fearless. When Frank turned his back, Clovis smacked the back of his head with his open palm. Frank reacted by pitching forward and almost losing his balance.
“You fucker!” Frank cursed. He lunged at Clovis. Clovis stepped aside.
“Go ahead, hit me, you piece of shit! It’ll be the end of your career working for the Stones. I’ll tell Keylock, and you’ll be gone. I’ll say I discovered you were stealing Brian blind and you attacked me.”
Frank unclenched his fists.
Clovis chuckled. “That’s the difference between me and you, Frank. You talk about shit. I do shit. Don’t ever turn your back on me. I’m from Baltimore.”
