Subpoena Colada

by Mark Dawson

  ‘I needed that,’ I admit to Brian.

  ‘Thought you might,’ Brian says. ‘Back to my place for some lunch?’

  It’s a little early for lunch but I figure they won’t be expecting me back at the office for a while. The hearing should have taken longer than five minutes. I’m also of the strong suspicion that Brian’s lunch will be of the liquid variety, spiced with exotic and illegal powders. This is an attractive proposition.

  ‘Why not?’ I say.

  MEMORIES OF THE BLACK DAHLIAS

  1990. Jessica Williams and me, riding the ghost train at the fairground that pitched up every year on the promenade. Sixteen years old and never been kissed. The tang of sea salt in the air, lazy evening heat, her hand in mine. ‘Love Me and Leave me to Bleed’, the Dahlias’ massive summer hit, came over the stereo, just audible in the hot darkness over the bored screams of the others on the ride. I leaned across and pressed my lips to hers.

  1992. My first week at University. The Freshers’ Ball, too much drink, my first ever E, dancing all night and now covered in sweat. Back at my Hall of Residence room, lying on the hard mattress, Eleanor Morton lying next to me. The graphic equaliser on my cheap Aiwa stereo the only light in the room, glowing green and red in time with the music. The Dahlias, again, but this time a classic cut: ‘Heart of Darkness’. Eleanor dragged painted nails downwards as Brian’s wretched vocals played out.

  1995. Summer, hot and dry, a late evening sitting on the wooden decking of a pub near London Bridge, where I’d met Hannah for drinks after work. A cool breeze blowing in off the water. We both sat with our feet dangling in the cold water, watching matchbox traffic crawl along the opposite bank, and ice-cream scoops of cloud blowing overhead. I remember the smell of warm wood, her menthol cigarettes, sharp diesel fumes from pleasure boats bobbing by, her perfume. The Dahlias were playing, I forget the track. We drank until we were both pleasantly oiled and then she took me back to her flat. There was no discussion: it was understood.

  She had a poster of Brian on the wall. That settled it. She was perfect.

  MOODSWING

  I call my secretary, Elizabeth, as Brian’s chauffeur drives us towards his apartment.

  ‘How’d it go?’ she asks. Elizabeth is studying law at night school and is always interested in my cases. With a couple of weeks’ training she could do my job for me. I would then happily take her place in the cube farm and answer the phone for her all day.

  ‘So-so,’ I say: ‘Any messages?’

  ‘Miss Wilson called. She wants to know how you’re getting on with the work for tomorrow.’

  ‘How’d she sound?’

  ‘Agitated,’ she says delicately.

  ‘What’d you say to her?’

  ‘That you’d call her back.’

  ‘Could you call her for me? Tell her I’m busy or something. Tell her I’m in court. Tell her I’ll call her when I get back.’ I ring off.

  The driver aims the car through the Rotherhithe tunnel. Brian is agitated as we swoop under the river towards the Isle of Dogs, chain-smoking his way through a packet of menthol cigarettes. His mood has changed.

  ‘They didn’t even want to speak to me - again,’ he says forlornly, tossing a dog-end out of the open window. It splashes red sparks against the retreating wall behind us. ‘I tried, but they wouldn’t have it.’

  ‘They’re probably just upset about John.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Come on, man, you saw them. They won’t talk to me - not even now. I mean, especially after John, you’d think they’d want to sort this fucking mess out.’ He rubs at a bloodshot eye.

  ‘I’m sure it’s not personal- their solicitor will have told them not to have any contact with you. I’d say the same thing if I was advising them.’

  ‘It’s like they think they’ve got a monopoly on grief or something,’ Brian says. ‘Jesus, I’ve got more reason to be upset than any of them.’

  ‘Give it time,’ I say, just throwing out those platitudes.

  As the car bounds up and out of the darkness, he turns to me and says, ‘We were friends for twenty years. Twenty years and then it comes to this.’

  ‘Litigation is war,’ I say, feeling super-transatlantic. ‘That’s the way the game is played.’

  (Listen to me! Jeez. Look how easily this noxious flimflam slips out. You try and insulate yourself against the business-speak that gets zapped around the office, but you can’t keep it all out; some of it X-rays through the defences and seeps into your bones.)

  LIFESTYLES OF THE RICH AND FAMOUS, PART II

  We pull up outside Brian’s apartment. He has the entire top floor in a converted red-brick warehouse. I wouldn’t even like to guess how much a place like this must cost. Too much, anyway.

  I’ve been there once before: a party just after I started to work on the case, to celebrate the end of the recording sessions for his new solo album. I was nervous and already drunk by the time I got there, so I can’t remember much of it now. The party was on a wide terrace above the penthouse; trance music pumping out from enormous bass bins, chairs and tables loutishly thrown into the leaden waters of the Thames below, me with my legs dangling over the roof watching them bob away on the sluggish current. There were drugs. Lots of drugs. I remember: semi-famous musos and showbiz folk and a feeling of insubstantiality, frothiness, everyone else two-dimensional, almost transparent.

  ‘You’ve got visitors,’ the concierge says.

  Brian asks who.

  ‘I didn’t recognize them, sir. They said they’d wait for you upstairs, outside your flat.’

  ‘Probably fans,’ Brian says to me with a faux-embarrassed smile; he’s secretly pleased by such attention. ‘They track me down now and again. Sometimes they manage to slip past security. I’ll sign whatever they want me to sign, then we can get something to drink, OK?’

  THINGS START TO UNRAVEL

  The four men waiting outside Brian’s flat don’t look like fans. Three are dressed in matching blue overalls and the other is in a tatty grey suit. There are two goods trolleys propped up against the wall. They look like delivery men.

  ‘Hello,’ Brian says. ‘I don’t think I’ve ordered anything, have I?’

  ‘We’re not here for a delivery,’ says the man in the bad suit. ‘It’s the opposite, actually. I’m the sheriff’s assistant, south London district. We’re here to confiscate the items in your flat, further to this Order.’

  He waves a clutch of documents in front of us.

  Brian looks baffled. ‘What are you talking about?’ Then, to me: ‘What’s going on?’

  With a brusque, ‘I’m a solicitor,’ I take the documents from the sheriff. It’s a writ of fieri facias, enabling the band to confiscate and sell all of Brian’s stuff. Everything in it seems to be in order.

  It was just a matter of time before they decided to get personal; this is about as personal as it gets. An order for the confiscation and sale of goods that pale in value compared to the debt only achieves one thing: you let the debtor know you’re going to ruin him. It’s a slap in the face. Pushing for bankruptcy is usually the natural complement. It’s standard tactics: I’ve done it more times than I care to remember.

  ‘The band are enforcing their judgment against you,’ I explain. ‘The sheriff’s people can take your things and sell them.’

  ‘We’ve clamped your cars in the basement,’ the sheriff adds. ‘But we’d like you to confirm we’ve got the right ones before we put them on the back of the low-loader. Black Porsche and red Ferrari, isn’t it? Maybe you’d go down with my colleague and check them? Once you’ve let us in?’

  Brian looks at me helplessly.

  We could just refuse to open the door. The sheriff doesn’t have the power to break it down, so he’d have to camp out in the corridor until Brian tried to go inside. But I’m figuring a Mexican stand-off with a bailiff and his goons is probably the last thing Brian needs right now, especially since the other side could just go to court for an order to break into the
flat. Why prolong things? It’s not going to help. They’ve already got the cars. Just get it over with.

  ‘Let them in,’ I say. ‘Then go down and check the cars. I’ll keep an eye on things while they’re up here.’

  CLEANED OUT

  After much sweaty work, the sheriff’s crew has cleared out Brian’s flat. Gone: his furniture, his televisions, his stereos, the pictures on the walls, even his light fittings, crockery and cutlery. An enormous original canvas by Derek Jarman was carefully removed from the wall and maneuvered through the door. Small items were packed into wooden cargo boxes and stacked into bigger crates. They reversed two large white Luton vans up outside the front entrance and ferried everything down the fire escape and into them. They were practiced and efficient, and for the most part we watched impotently as they went about their work. A small crowd gathered to watch.

  Brian wore a dazed expression on his face. I knew what he was feeling because I’ve seen it before. Losing in court means little in real terms; the judgment is just another piece of paper in a sea of legal papers. It’s only when your personal things get confiscated that the severity of the mess you’re in comes home to roost.

  Seeing your sofa manhandled out the door hits you like a punch in the gut. It’s reality-check time.

  The flat has been reduced to dusty wooden floorboards and whitewashed walls. All signs of habitation have been removed. Brian’s cars have been backed onto a truck and driven off to a pound somewhere. They’ll be advertised in the trade papers and sold to a dealer for half their list prices. Brian has been left with the absolute bare minimum: his bed, some clothes, a few plates, the fridge and its contents.

  And still they haven’t finished. We’re standing in what’s left of the lounge. The sheriff is sizing up a wall of framed silver and gold discs the Dahlias received in the eighties.

  ‘Come on, guys,’ I say, seeing Brian’s face fall even further. ‘You don’t need those.’

  ‘Might be worth something,’ the sheriff muses. His crew nod docile agreement.

  ‘Only to him,’ I suggest, pointing at Brian. ‘Sentimental value. No one else’s going to want them.’

  ‘They’re not real gold and silver,’ Brian adds disconsolately.

  ‘Might be right,’ the sheriff says, ‘but I’ve got instructions to take everything that’s not screwed down. Very particular, they were.’

  They unhook the framed discs roughly and slot them into a case, leaving clean white squares on the dusty wall where they used to be.

  MINIMALISM

  ‘That’s not something you see every day,’ Brian says, putting on a brave face. His flat is an empty, lifeless shell.

  I press a smile I’m not feeling onto my face.

  ‘I didn’t know they could do that,’ Brian says. ‘What happens to it all now? My stuff?’

  ‘It’ll get auctioned.’

  ‘Cheap?’

  ‘Won’t make half of what it’s really worth.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ Brian sighs. He moves over to the bar and forces a smile himself. He fetches a bottle of whisky and two glasses from beneath the counter. ‘At least they didn’t take my booze. I could use something to steady my nerves. I mean, just look at this.’ He holds up his hands: they’re shaking.

  ‘Good idea,’ I agree.

  ‘Want one too?’

  ‘Love one.’

  He pours out two generous measures.

  ‘Brian, look, we really need to talk about the case. I was meaning to bring it up yesterday. There’re some things I need to explain to you. Important things: like what happened today, for example.’

  ‘Here,’ he says, handing me one of the glasses. We both sit on the floor, leaning up against a wall.

  ‘It’s partly my fault. I mean, I should’ve told you before…’

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he says. ‘I had some cheese in the fridge. It’s probably still there. I could fix some sandwiches or something? Might even have frozen pizza. I know I’ve got a tub of Ben & Jerry’s.’

  ‘Brian…’

  He’s not listening. He’s distracted - it’s hardly surprising. I tell him I’m not all that hungry. He wanders over to the window. It’s as big as a cinema screen and offers a view of the listless river and, over the turn of brown water, the blister of the Millennium Dome.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’ he says.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. I put my best game face on: the one I use to try and persuade clients that I’m competent to answer their complex legal queries.

  ‘What do you think of the Dahlias now, without me? Their new album?’

  ‘It’s, um, interesting,’ I say hesitantly. ‘I’ve heard it. In a shop, or the radio. I mean I didn’t actually buy a copy.’

  ‘But you prefer our old stuff?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘The old stuff is, well, classic, special.’

  ‘And John?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘What was his singing like?’

  The truth is I think John French’s vocals are great.

  Technically, as a singer, his voice was better than Brian’s - better range, more power, more versatility - but I’ve got so many memories invested in the songs that Brian sang. Looking at him now - nervous, expectant - I can see it’s time for a diplomatic lie.

  ‘OK-ish. But you can tell he hadn’t sung much before.’

  ‘I’m glad you think that. I was beginning to doubt myself.’

  ‘Come on…’

  ‘No, listen to this.’ He takes out a piece of scrunched-up paper from his pocket. ‘"Brian Fey’s new material is the nostalgic whining of an 80s brat who refuses to grow up." Or this: "While the Black Dahlias have pushed the envelope once again with new singer John French, Brian Fey has produced the sort of album only a mother could like."’

  ‘They’re just reviews. Ignore them.’

  ‘I know they are, but they all add up. And then compare them with what they’ve been saying about John. It gets me down.’

  ‘Its just opinion…’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it all,’ he says, tapping a finger against the review. ‘Fame, celebrity - all of it. And the more I think about it, the more I’m sure that people want their stars to fail, to be miserable, just like them. They don’t want heroes; what they want is to see you fall.’

  I try to lighten the mood but it’s no use. We morosely finish our drinks before Brian walks me to the front door. He tells me it wasn’t that long ago that it was usual to have five or six fans camped outside in the hope they’d catch a glimpse of him leaving the building or, in their wildest dreams, at the window unawares. They don’t come any more, he says. He misses them.

  ‘I miss being famous,’ he says. ‘I mean, really famous. It’s the little things: the money, getting a good table at Quaglino’s, getting laid when I want to, you know? The usual stuff.’

  He smiles a rueful smile. I wonder whether this is tongue-in-cheek.

  I watch Brian through the back window of the taxi as we pull away. He’s standing, hands in pockets, leaning up against the front door of the expensive warehouse conversion where he now has an empty, dead flat. And he won’t even have that soon.

  He turns, notices me, and smiles.

  APOLOGIES

  I get back during the lunch hour. The office is almost deserted.

  Cohen is out. I close the door of the office, remove the phone from its cradle and pour myself a plastic cupful of superplonk from the two-litre carton I got at Tesco’s last week. It’s warm, and tastes as cheap as it should, but I need to take the edge off the afternoon. I munch on a cream-cheese and bacon bagel from Prêt. By recent standards this is a nutritious and filling meal.

  My office suffers from the same lack of order as my home. The desk is covered with stacks of papers: contracts I’m supposed to have analyzed, pleadings I’m supposed to have drafted. These stacks are weighed down by several half-finished cans of full-sugar, full caffeine Coke and numerous folders and binders. Junk.

  I
toss the bagel into the bin. Last night with Rachel is worrying me. Too many occasions lately when I’ve been unable to remember the ends of evenings. I hope I haven’t disgraced myself. I’ve already checked the computer for flame-mails: none. I tap out a message:

  From: Tate, Daniel

  To: Delgardo, Rachel

  Subject: I hope…

  … last night wasn’t too excruciating. When did we leave? Trying to patch together events - may have had slightly too much to drink.

  A million apologies,

  Dan

  HUNTING HANNAH

  Since Cohen is out I decide to try and make indirect contact with Hannah. I need to speak with her.

  I thumb through the old-fashioned Rolodex she gave me as a wry birthday present last year. She said it was something to do with me selling out. She used to call me a corporate lackey, and never really understood that this was what I actually wanted to do. She couldn’t reconcile my ambitions with her more artistic temperament. I find the details for her agent, tap the numbers into the phone and wait for the call to connect.

  ‘Suzy Pugh,’ says her agent. ‘Hello?’

  ‘I’m calling about one of your clients,’ I say. ‘Hannah Wilde. I was wondering if you had an address for her.’

  ‘We don’t give out our clients’ addresses to strangers over the telephone,’ she answers haughtily. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s just that, um…’ Flash: ‘I’d like to set up an interview with her.’ .

  ‘Which magazine do you work for?’

  ‘I’m f-f-freelance?’

  ‘If you can prove you’ve been commissioned to write a piece, then we might be able to have a conversation about this. Until then, don’t bother - I’m rather busy. Goodbye.’