by Greg Kihn
“You punk!” Frank snarled. “I’ll ruin you.”
Clovis said, “You don’t scare me, Frank. I’ve faced down tougher guys than you. I got your number.”
Frank walked away fuming.
John Lennon arrived at Cotchford Farm early in the afternoon and went right to work. Yoko was with him as always. John had his guitar and a notebook with him. He was determined to write a song with Brian.
They went into the studio and kicked around ideas for several hours. Brian always stayed close to the blues, something he felt comfortable with.
Clovis engineered the demo. They had no recording console yet, so Clovis improvised using a six-channel monitor board. He got a kick out of working with John and Brian. Late in the day, John came up with something that sounded like a cross between the Stones and the Beatles. It was a straight-ahead Chuck Berry–style rocker with pithy lyrics, the kind John loved to write. He mixed in his social commentary and observation, and mixed up with a spicy gumbo of peppery guitar riffs. John loved the creative process, and never got tired to writing songs. His wit never deserted him.
The diminutive Yoko never said a word. She stood next to John looking as fragile as an ivory figurine.
John strummed the chords. “The working title is ‘Go to the Mountains.’ I got the idea for it on the drive down from London.”
John and Brian bashed out a drum track, and they built on it. John laid down the rhythm guitar part, and Brian played bass. It all came together like magic, the same way it did for the Beatles and the Stones. Denny Laine from the Moody Blues showed up and played a great lead part. And then they all had tea.
“We’re gonna form a supergroup,” John said. “I can get Jimi Hendrix, Clapton, Steve Winwood, you name it. Bob Dylan even called. We’ll be the number-one group in the world.”
“That sounds like fun,” Brian said. “Are you sure you want to do it?”
“Shit, yeah! We need to send a message. Everybody takes us for granted, like it’s their trip and they’re just letting us in on it. Well, I’ve got news—it’s our trip. It’s always been our trip.
“Think of it. We’d be a very dangerous group. Imagine the loss of revenue and jobs if I quit the Beatles, or if Jimi left the Experience, or the Stones broke up? There’s a whole lot of money involved.”
Brian smiled. “I just want to play something I like.”
They worked on the song all day until Brian got bored and wanted to do something else.
Brian played a demo for a song he recorded with Nicky Hopkins on piano called “Travelin’ Man.” It rocked like the best Stones tracks, but it wasn’t the Stones, it was Brian. That was the difference nobody had ever heard.
When the day was over, John and Yoko stayed over in one of the guest rooms. Brian called everyone he knew to tell them about the new song he’d written with John. They’d plan to finish it in the morning before John drove back to London.
There was no doubt that a new song written by John Lennon and Brian Jones would gain instant attention. Especially when the demo rocked. This little piece of tape would definitely shake ’em up in London, Brian was sure.
Brian Jones went to bed that night feeling secure about his career for the first time in a long time. Thank God for friends like John Lennon, Dust Bin Bob, and Clovis.
Frank Thorogood stood in the center of the house and slowly pivoted around.
Frank’s mind was working overtime. If I was going to hide that much money, where would I put it?
He’d already pulled a few boards here and there, in places where there might room between the walls. He knew where there might be hiding places throughout the house. He tried not to be too obvious.
Frank thought he knew about Brian’s secret places, places where he hid his stash and few hundred quid. But where was the mother lode?
Little by little, Frank dismantled the house, looking for the money to no avail. He tried to keep it secret, but keeping secrets at Cotchford Farm was damn near impossible. There were too many people around.
Brian’s paranoia, never to be outdone, noticed it first. “Why is Frank taking everything apart?”
“He says he’s inspecting the wiring.” Clovis checked to see if they were being listened to through the windows or anywhere else. When the coast was clear, he dropped his voice. “Checking the wiring, my ass! It’s like he’s looking for something.”
“Like what?”
Clovis gave Brian a wink. “Keep your voice down.”
“You don’t think … ?”
“Stop! Don’t even say it. We don’t know that.”
Brian shook his head. “There’s no way.”
Anna Wohlin came out of the kitchen with a tray of drinks.
Clovis said, “In America, we’ve got an old saying. If it walks like a duck and it talks like a duck, it’s a duck.”
John got up and left the next day without finishing the song. He promised to come back the first chance he got to finish it with Brian. They hugged and John drove away.
A few hours later, Alexis Korner, the father of the British blues scene, drove through the garden gate. He and Brian were very old friends. He stayed all day and they played music for hours.
Brian’s healing began and ended with music. He gained strength from it. Playing the blues with Alexis was therapeutic. Any time he had to himself, he spent secretly gazing into the mirror. His headaches grew each day and the gazing soothed him.
Clovis was there to witness every note. As chief engineer of Brian’s home studio, he saw it all. He knew when Brian was inspired, he could tell. He could also tell when he was bored or unenthusiastic. It was all in how he played. Those last few days had been prime vintage Brian.
Clovis hadn’t planned on getting this close to Brian; after all he was just a friend of Dust Bin Bob, a second stringer from East Baltimore Street. Brian could be toxic to those around him. Clovis knew he had to be careful.
Erlene was in her third trimester. Clovis’s baby grew inside her like an angry bear cub in a tote sack. Her mood swings had been as discernible as barometer readings. She was due a doctor’s visit in London.
Cricket motored down to Cotchford Farm to take her while Bobby was on a buying trip in Paris. He was only going to be gone for a couple of days. Cricket planned to spend the time with Erlene.
Erlene looked forward to moving back to Baltimore right after the baby was born. Cricket had only allowed Bobby time to help Brian. But now that Brian was ensconced in Cotchford Farm, he seemed to be improving.
Cotchford Farm had changed Brian. His health was returning; his skin had some color. He stopped taking drugs, at least for the time being. He ran with his gaggle of dogs every day and took long walks along the private lane alongside his house.
“I’m never gonna leave this place,” he told anyone who’d care to listen. “I’m staying here the rest of my life.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Misadventure
Cricket took Erlene to her doctor’s appointment in London. Dust Bin Bob stayed in Paris and visited an old friend, Johnny Hallyday, who had started out in the “French Elvis” in the fifties and had grown to be an international superstar. He had first met Hallyday when the Beatles played Olympia hall in Paris. They had become close friends over the years, and Bobby never missed an opportunity to see him whenever he was in the City of Lights. To make matters even more interesting, Johnny had a penchant for antiques and Paris was full of them. Johnny seemed to know every antique dealer in the city. They visited several shops in the Saint-Germain quarter and had lunch at an outdoor cafe.
Dust Bin Bob had suggested Jimi Hendrix as an opening act for Johnny’s French tour, and even though Jimi upstaged him and stole the show, Johnny Hallyday was forever known as the man who introduced Jimi Hendrix to France. Johnny was currently riding the Paris Top Ten with a cover version of “Hey Joe” in French.
“So tell me, how is our friend, Brian?”
“Brian? He’s getting better. He loves his new country house.”
Johnny watched a Parisian girl, probably a fashion model, saunter past them. She pretended not to notice him.
Bobby said, “This is such a great city, but the tax rates are insane for a Frenchman. Over ninety-five percent? It’s like England, according to Brian. How can you live here?”
Hallyday laughed. “How can I live in Paris you ask? Look, I am a Frenchman. I love fine food. I love fine wine. I love to fuck. Where else would I live?”
Brian and Clovis worked in the studio while Anna Wohlin prepared lunch in the kitchen. It was an absolutely beautiful day. The pollen count was a little high, but Brian only suffered slight discomfort.
Brian strummed a guitar and called out from the studio. “What a fantastic day! I feel great!”
Frank and the Pep Boys were supposed to putting up a white picket fence today. Brian had been requesting it for weeks, but Frank had ignored him. The pieces to the fence were strewn across the front lawn, but the workers were nowhere to be seen.
Brian looked out the front window at the pieces of fence scattered around.
“Can’t they even put up a lousy fence? That’s it! I’ve had it with this lot.”
Erlene and Cricket drove along the pleasant country roads of Sussex. Erlene kept shifting in her seat. She couldn’t get comfortable.
“I’m as fat as a lungfish,” Erlene said. “You want to talk about water retention? I’m a blimp.”
“It’ll all be over soon,” Cricket said. “And we can get back to our lives.”
“Oh my God!”
“What is it?”
Erlene had a terrified look on her face.
“We left Brian all alone!”
“No we didn’t. Clovis is with him in the studio. Relax, everything’s fine.”
“Why did I just think that?”
“I don’t know. You’re so jumpy lately.”
“I just want to get this baby out of me.”
“Don’t worry, Erlene. I’m sure the baby feels the same way. We’ve got bigger fish to fry. Try to forget about Brian.”
“I can’t!”
“Honey, you are one wound-up puppy. Why are you so concerned about Brian?”
“Because … because … I don’t know.”
Erlene was sweating and confused.
“Let’s get you checked out and get you back to Cotchford Farm where you can stare at Brian all day if you want.”
“Water …”
“Yeah, yeah, and you can keep him out of the bathtub while you’re at it.”
Brian opened the telegram from Germany as soon as it reached him. He read it and howled with delight.
“It’s the Neve console! It’s being shipped today!”
Clovis grabbed the paper from Brian’s hand and read it himself. Brian was right. Clovis skimmed the page.
“Blah, blah, blah … Brian Jones … blah, blah … Cotchford Farm. Should arrive by special rail delivery to Hartfield on or about the afternoon of July 3.”
Clovis handed the telegram back to Brian.
“I’ve got to go into town and rent a truck and some helpers.”
“How about the Pep Boys? Frank could no doubt spare a few.”
“Very funny, Brian.”
After lunch, Clovis drove into town and rented a step van and a dolly. He hired a big moving guy named Doug to help him move the freight.
They had to wait for the stationmaster to return from his break to get the necessary paperwork to release the freight.
To kill some time, they went into the local establishment known as the Haywaggon and consumed several pints of beer and handfuls of stale pretzels.
Skully and Renee drove past Cotchford. It looked quiet.
“You think he’s in there?” Renee asked.
“I know he’s in there. I’ve been watching this place for days.”
Skully looked through a pair of small binoculars. He was all business.
“The key is waiting for the right moment. There’s sure to be a time when he’s alone outside and that’s when we move.”
Skully handed the binoculars to Renee. She looked though them as he explained the plan.
“As soon as it gets dark, we’ll take our positions. I have a place to hide the car, so we can park and creep up on the house via the rear garden. They’ll never see us coming.”
Skully breathed in violently through his nose, held it, then let it out.
“I feel so alive at times like this.”
“I know what you mean.” Renee said, “I’m tingling all over. Brian Jones will belong to me, and only me … for all eternity.”
“It’s too bad you can’t mount him on your wall like a trophy.”
“I’m going to take his soul.”
“But you can never tell anyone.”
“Shhhhhh! Someone’s coming!”
“Lay down on the seat and kiss me. If we act like we’re making out, they won’t notice us. Come on, hurry up!”
Someone walked right past the car, looked inside, saw Renee and Skully making out like mad, and just kept on going. The faces of the lovers were not visible, and the identity of the passerby was not known, either.
As soon as the coast was clear, Skully drove to the hiding place he’d found for the car. It was a place where the car could pull off the road and disappear behind some foliage. They waited.
Bobby returned to his room at the Georges V Hotel in Paris. It was the same hotel the Beatles stayed in when they first played there. In fact, Dust Bin Bob was in the very room in which John Lennon had first learned that their record had reached number one in America and they were going to play The Ed Sullivan Show.
The phone blinked. There were a half-dozen frantic messages from Suki Potier, Brian’s former girlfriend who now lived in Paris. He called back the number on the message.
“Allo?”
“Suki? This is Robert Dingle. You know, Dust Bin Bob?”
Her voice was like music.
“Ah yes, Dust Bin Bob!”
“What is it? You sounded upset. What’s the problem?”
“I’m worried about Brian. He’s been calling me two or three times a day for the past few days, and last time he said he was in some kind of danger. Says he’s being watched … followed even. I’m scared.”
Bobby’s voice was reassuring.
“Come on, you know how he likes to exaggerate. I was just there a few days ago and Brian was as happy as I’ve ever seen him.”
“When are you going back?”
“I’ll be flying back in the morning. I’ll see him tomorrow.”
“Can you check up on him for me? Find out what is wrong?”
“Of course, Suki. My friend Clovis is with him now. We’ve been sort of keeping an eye on Brian, but I’m telling you, there’s nothing to worry about. He’s fine.”
“I heard he has a new girlfriend.”
“Yes, Anna Wohlin. She’s a Swedish dancer. Very sweet girl. She takes good care of him.”
“Good. At least he’s happy.”
“Anna is very nice. You should come down to Cotchford Farm and see for yourself.”
Suki’s French accent made everyday phrases sound exotic. He could understand why Brian seemed to exclusively date foreign women. German, French, Swedish—their accents were intoxicating.
“What’s all this about an ancient magic mirror? He told me he bought it in Morocco. Is it really magic?”
“Brion Gysin says it is. He says it’s a thousand years old and has powers. It belonged to a long line of shamans. The last one just died, and Brian bought it from his estate. It was Brian’s idea to try the esoteric art of mirror gazing. I wouldn’t put too much s
tock in it.”
“I don’t like Brian playing around with magic. He tends to become obsessed with things. It scares me.”
“I’ve been trying to get the damn thing away from him, but he hides it.”
“I’ll come over and help you steal it.”
As soon as Suki hung up, Bobby was overcome with a desire to get back to Cocthford Farm. Something inside, maybe a premonition, maybe a wave of paranoia, sent off strong warning signals in his head. Nervous, he stood and looked out the window. It was still early in the evening. He couldn’t relax. Suddenly, Bobby was sure he had to get back to Brian. He didn’t know why, but the urge to leave had become overwhelming. He called the concierge and had him book a flight leaving tonight. Bobby packed and called a cab.
Some powerful force was drawing him back to Cotchford, back to Brian. He couldn’t concentrate on anything else.
Brian gazed into the mirror again. He’d been doing it all afternoon. The mirror pacified him. It cooled his brow when he felt angry. He had a relationship with the mirror now. It was his portal into another world. Brian’s addictive personality embraced the mirror like it was a new kind of dope, and in a way it was. The only time Brian felt content now was when he was gazing into the mirror. His head felt light. His blood pressure dropped. His heartbeat slowed. All the little aches and pains vanished like after a good stiff drink. Scrying occupied more and more of his time, but he kept it all hidden from the others. If they knew the power of the mirror, they’d try to take it away from me, I just know it.
The migraine headaches that he’d been developing for the past few weeks only went away while he was gazing into the mirror. In the mirror, everything was all right. He wondered if Nostradamus had headaches.
Brian couldn’t wait for the photographic prints from London to arrive. Several weeks had passed since their return from Morocco. Since Brian relied on other people to do most of his work, some things took forever. Bobby dragged his feet. He disliked the mirror, and the pictures he had taken creeped him out.
Bobby had to find the right lab and the right developer to process the prints. He’d been turned down by the first four labs he approached. It took time to find the right one, and it took them extra time to customize the processing.
