Subpoena Colada

by Mark Dawson

  Trish goes through the list of things she now wants included in the contracts. It’s all vanilla stuff: the kind of things I would’ve put in as a matter of course. This whole session is pointless.

  ‘Bor-ing,’ Mooch yawns.

  ‘Yeah,’ agrees Scooter. ‘Do we have to be here?’

  I feel like concurring with them.

  ‘Yes, you do,’ snaps Trish. ‘This is important.’

  ‘We’d rather just leave this to the lawyers,’ Bam Bam says, stacking his scorn on the final word.

  ‘I know what you’d rather do,’ says Trish, ‘but you’re not managing the band. I am.’

  ‘But we’re supposed to be a punk band,’ whines Mooch. ‘We’re supposed to be doing crazy stuff, not sitting in the trailer listening to this kind of bullshit. We’re supposed to be swearing on teatime TV shows, and shit.’

  Trish angles a fearsome glare in his direction. ‘That’s enough,’ she barks. They pipe down like chided schoolboys. I’m left feeling mildly depressed at the state of the British music industry; they really don’t make them like they used to.

  ‘Now,’ Trish moves on, addressing Wilson again. ‘You promised you’d be able to give me a little preliminary advice, and that’d be helpful. I told the board I’d report to them before we leave.’

  Wilson shifts uncomfortably. ‘Would you mind if I delayed that until tomorrow? I don’t want to advise you until I’m absolutely sure of the facts.’

  ‘The facts are pretty simple, Victoria,’ Trish says disdainfully. ‘And, anyway, we won’t be in the country tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Wilson apologizes awkwardly. ‘I forgot about that. And I know the facts are simple, but, if it’s all the same, I think I’d still rather wait. I want to make sure whatever I tell you is absolutely correct. I could give you a call?’

  Trish fidgets with annoyance. ‘I have to say,’ she says, ‘that this isn’t at all what I’ve come to expect of White Hunter.’

  A DRESSING DOWN

  Wilson and I are in the back of a taxi, heading back to the office.

  ‘You were late,’ snaps Wilson. Her voice is quivering with fury. ‘Fifty minutes late!’

  ‘Forty actually,’ I correct, then wish I hadn’t when she aims an ultra-high-beam death stare at me. ‘I was lunching with a client. Brian Fey’s manager-’

  ‘You knew we had an appointment. You should’ve rearranged. You made me look amateurish.’

  ‘Plus I didn’t know the meeting was supposed to be here. I thought it was at the office. I had to get a cab. It was late. The traffic was heavy, it took us ages, and-’

  ‘What do you mean you didn’t know?’ she seethes. ‘I asked Dawkins to tell you the venue had changed.’

  A cold knot forms in my gut.

  ‘You told him?’

  ‘Your secretary was at lunch and I bumped into Oliver when I tried to find you myself. He was in your office, so I asked him to pass on the message.’

  Would the Dork deliberately withhold information to make sure I was late, to make me look bad? Of course he would. But what’s the point of telling Wilson that? She loves Dawkins - bad-mouthing him will only upset her more.

  And what was he doing in my office?

  ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘But that’s the least of it,’ she continues. ‘Where was the briefing note? I told you it was essential.’

  ‘It disappeared.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It disappeared. It was on my desk - then it wasn’t.’

  She shakes her head disdainfully. ‘You’re in enough trouble already. Don’t make it worse by insulting my intelligence. We’re not talking about late homework here. This could be a disciplinary matter.’

  ‘My secretary put it on my desk. It wasn’t there when I arrived back from my lunch. And someone deleted it from the file server.’

  ‘Quite apart from being unlikely, that’s also completely irrelevant. If you’d done the work when I asked you to, none of this would’ve happened.’

  I sigh; time to cut my losses. ‘You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No. Sorry is not good enough - not this time. Call my secretary and arrange a meeting so we can discuss what’s happened here. I’m thinking very seriously about giving you a formal warning.’

  A formal warning. That would be getting off lightly. ‘And in the meantime I want that marketing agreement and the recording contract drawn up and on my desk tomorrow morning. I won’t hear any more excuses this time, Tate. This is your last chance. Don’t - do not - mess it up.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  She stares ahead for thirty seconds, boring a hole into the cabby’s neck.

  ‘And there’s another thing,’ she says. ‘It’s a little delicate.’

  ‘Delicate?’

  ‘I understand you’ve been drinking in the office.’

  Silence.

  ‘Is that true?’

  I don’t know what to say. So I say nothing.

  ‘Put a stop to it. If you’ve got a problem with stress or something, go and see a doctor. The firm won’t tolerate drinking in the office. Is that understood?’

  I nod dumbly.

  EXTRACT FROM THE MUSIC PRESS

  Following the MASSIVE success of THE BLACK DAHLIAS’ new album - The Human Condition - the band have announced plans for a 100-date, greatest hits world tour. They plan to take in cities on four continents in a five-month trip they say will be their most ambitious to date. And in a HUGE surprise, band-members MARTIN and DAMON unveiled their replacement for the late, great JOHN FRENCH: American heart-throb SEAN DARBO.

  ‘I’ve always been a huge fan of the DAHLIAS,’ Darbo said. ‘When Marty asked me if I’d like to stand in on the tour, it took like half a second to say yes.’

  Martin said, ‘When we were thinking about a singer Sean’s name just leapt out at us. He’s not here to replace John - no one could ever do that - but we think he’ll give our old stuff a fresh new sound.’

  ‘We’re really looking forward to getting into rehearsals with him,’ concurred Damon.

  TAKING STOCK

  I fix myself a strong black coffee to try and clear my head.

  Trouble on every side. Davey hates me. Wilson hates me. Wilson thinks I’ve got a drinking problem. I’ve got a mountain of work to do, and only so much time to do it in. Deadlines are piling up. I haven’t begun to draft Haines’s witness statement for Renwick. I’m not even sure I can find the stomach to get around to that.

  EMAIL

  There’s an email waiting for me. It’s been sent to Cohen too; he’s scrolling down it and chuckling to himself. I zoom the cursor over to it and double-click:

  From: Hunter, Charles

  To: Dawkins, Oliver; Cohen, David; Tate, Daniel; Lewis, Caroline

  Cc: Partners (London Office)

  Subject: Partnership

  As you know, the death of Miles Mackay has led to an opening in the partnership. All four of you have been nominated for the partnership. Unfortunately there is only room for one person to be made up this year and so, in the interests of fairness and to ensure that the right candidate is selected, we would like to invite you each to give a short presentation to the partnership council setting out your respective cases. My secretary will email you individually with an appointment in due course.

  ‘This is it,’ Cohen says, reaching for his paper knife. ‘Now I have to kill you.’

  ‘Save yourself for the Dork.’

  ‘I’d probably enjoy that more,’ he admits.

  ‘Is that knife blunt?’ I ask.

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  LAST CHANCE SALOON

  I scoop an armful of papers off my desk to clear a space. Elizabeth makes a photocopy of Dawkins’ precedent marketing agreement. I hunker down to my task.

  To my surprise, perhaps buffeted by a following wind of panic, I make decent progress. This is good; the success even makes me enthused
. I scribble my amendments on the photocopied sheets and Elizabeth collects them, one page at a time, and types them up. By the time 5.30 comes around, I’m halfway through my first draft and, fortified by multiple caffeine fixes, I’m even relishing the task at hand.

  ‘Shall I stay late?’ Elizabeth asks.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘I should be able to finish the amendments this evening and then you can type them up tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Don’t work too hard.’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  A VISIT FROM THE COMPETITION

  Dawkins comes over. ‘How’s it going?’

  There’s no point in bothering with pleasantries. ‘Why didn’t you pass on the message from Wilson this afternoon?’

  ‘What message?’ says the Dork innocently.

  ‘About the change to my meeting?’

  ‘Oh God,’ he says, slapping his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘It must’ve slipped my mind. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You devious little fuckwit.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, Tate,’ he says. ‘These things happen. I’ve been busy. I forgot.’

  ‘Look, what do you want? I’m busy.’

  ‘Is my precedent helping?’

  ‘Not really,’ I lie. I’m not about to tell him I’d be lost without it.

  ‘When do you have to have it finished?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I reply tersely.

  ‘Well, glad to have been of service,’ he says. ‘But I’ve got to dash. I’ve got dinner with Anthea Turner tonight. Don’t want to be late.’

  RACHEL

  Rachel calls at six.

  ‘Any ideas for tonight?’ she asks.

  ‘I thought I’d surprise you,’ I fib. I’d forgotten about dinner.

  ‘What time do you want to go?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ve got some things to finish off. How’s eight sound?’

  ‘I suppose I could find something to keep me busy until then.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s no problem. Call me when you’re ready to go.’

  ANOTHER FORGOTTEN APPOINTMENT

  The office slowly empties and by 7.30 mine is the only room still lit. I’ve managed to carve out a solid two hours of quality work. The agreement is almost ready. It’s even looking good.

  I’m beginning to remember why it was that I used to love law so much.

  I’m doodling on a scrap of paper, mustering up the energy for a final blitz, when the telephone rings.

  ‘Where are you?’

  It’s Brian. Laughter and the sound of partying in the background. I hear a guitar being strummed.

  I’d forgotten: tonight is Brian’s concert and I promised him I’d go.

  ‘I’m in the office,’ I say. ‘I was just finishing up and then I was gonna come over.’

  ‘Fine,’ Brian says. ‘I’m on stage in an hour. I’ve left a ticket on the door for you.’

  I’ve nearly finished the first draft and, now I come to think of it, I’m feeling tired. My best work today is behind me; staying longer won’t accomplish anything. I should call it a night, go to the concert and arrange to meet Rachel as soon as Brian’s finished his set. Then get in early tomorrow morning to finish off.

  I call Rachel and explain.

  ‘Could we do a late dinner instead?’

  ‘Sure.’

  We arrange to meet at a little Italian I know down in Spitalfields - the kind of intimate place she won’t be able to help falling in love with - at 10.

  PRE-GIG NERVES

  A modest crowd is loitering outside the doors to the venue. I feel a minor flush of importance when security confirms my name is on the guest list and ushers me inside.

  Brian is picking at the strings of an acoustic guitar in his dressing room. I recognize the melody from one of the Dahlias’ early hits.

  ‘What’s the crowd like?’ he asks.

  ‘Not too bad,’ I reply. ‘Quite a few.’

  ‘Tonight’s so important,’ he says. The veins on his neck are standing out like cords. I recognize the symptoms: he’s all coked up. ‘Oh, man, I’m actually feeling nervous.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ I say.

  ‘Look, my hands are shaking - can you believe that? For a little concert like this?’

  ‘You’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ he says, as if repeating this will make it true.

  There’s a small pile of coke on the inside of a lid from a McDonalds’ soft drink and Brian takes a long sniff through a straw. He offers the coke to me. I feel I ought to decline. But I am tired and perhaps a little pick-me-up might be just what the doctor ordered. It couldn’t hurt, could it? Just a quick toot. I accept the straw.

  Soon I’m feeling immeasurably better.

  Brian plucks out something I don’t recognize - one of his new tunes. Gradually the session musicians arrive. No one talks - none of them knows each other - and everyone is fixated with their own image, their own neurosis. They look like eighties throwbacks, identikit rockers: Iggy or Ozzy or Alice or Slash. Brian does some scales and reminds me of the Dahlias. I wonder if they’ll be in the audience tonight? Probably not.

  Davey walks in.

  ‘Ready to go?’ Davey asks. He doesn’t acknowledge me.

  ‘Born ready.’

  ‘Good-sized crowd outside,’ Davey reports. Brian is winding himself up.

  ‘I’ll prove them wrong. I’ll show them who was the driving force in that fucking band.’

  ‘You were, Brian. It was all you. We know that, right? Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say awkwardly, realizing that I’m being tapped up for moral support. ‘You’re going to be completely amazing.’

  ‘I’m . .. going… to… be… amazing,’ shouts Brian, slapping the heel of his hand against his head with each syllable.

  Just as Brian shrieks out that he can’t find his leather jacket, Oliver Dawkins creeps uncertainly into the room. He looks nervous and out of place. I’ve no idea who could have invited him here but then, as Davey disengages from our group and goes to greet him, the picture becomes clearer. I find myself digging nails into the fleshy heel of my hand and clenching my teeth. The Dork sees me and the uncertainty washes from his face. It’s replaced by a sly, knowing smile.

  I watch the concert from the wings. The grey mass of the crowd bulges upwards in a darkness underscored by the blinding glare of the spotlights aimed down from the roof. I’m troubled by a vague feeling of unease as Brian performs his new songs, none of them really any good, the feeling gradually taking on shape and form until I realize the source: he looks out of place without the rest of the Dahlias behind him. I wonder if this solo career was really such a good idea after all. Maybe he might have been better advised to just retreat and lick his wounds. I can’t help the feeling that he’s taken things further than they were naturally meant to go. Like a prize-fighter fighting on after his punch has gone.

  ‘There’re a lot of people outside,’ Brian squawks out. (There aren’t any - I checked.) ‘I think you should tell them what we’re doing in here.’

  The crowd lets out a slightly self-conscious holler, quickly choked back. They’re too old for this, and they know it. I wince.

  He cuts into a collection of covers: a hard-rocking ‘Sweet Dreams’ by the Eurhythmics, ‘Master and Servant’ by Depeche Mode, a strictly-by-the-numbers version of Hendrix’s ‘Purple Haze’. The crowd tightens in recognition. The dancing spreads a few rows further back. Half of the crowd are dancing, the other half standing arms crossed, foot-tapping, head-nodding. There’s an undercurrent of agitated expectation.

  Brian prowls across the front of the stage, goes offstage to do more coke, kicks the microphone stand, thrusts his hips, launches himself in a mad stage dive as his final encore fades out. An upsprouting of hands emerges to support him. He sinks down into the sweaty quicksand of the crowd.

  As the house lights are brought up, a puzzled murmur passes through the hall. A few shout fo
r more. Surely there’s a final, final encore? There are so many songs he hasn’t played. When they realize that this really is the end, the atmosphere takes on a harder, restive edge.

  I figure it out: they were expecting Brian to reprise some of the Dahlias’ material. This is confirmed when the title of the band’s most famous hit rises up in a ragged chant. There is a volley of boos as the PA announces the show is over. Brighter lights snap on and the doors open.

  Brian is retrieved from the crowd by a wedge of yellow-shirred security. The crowd parts politely for them, almost apologetically. It’s hard not to contrast this with the scenes of bedlam from the Dahlias’ infamous tours of earlier years, when Brian pulled fans to safety as the surge threatened to crush them against the railings, and security drenched the moshpit with fire hoses. A notorious film recorded a stage dive he took in Rio; the crowd ripped his clothes away and left him near-naked by the time he was dragged out.

  The fervour from those who were once dedicated enough to risk injury in the moshpit has been eroded, replaced with a more mature, sensible appreciation. Three words spring to mind: impending middle age. Brian’s audience is growing older but I doubt he’s mature enough to have noticed, let alone adapt to it.

  Would he even want to? He still wants to be the subversive kid, but the benchmarks have shifted without him noticing. What was subversive in the eighties is conventional today. No one bats an eyelid now at a boy dressed in leather and rubber. Addictions are commonplace, even required. Mainlining is mainstream. Perhaps he remained insulated within the band. Maybe together they could have ridden their reputation through this transition. Other bands have managed it. But on his own Brian looks vulnerable and confused.

  He looks almost sheepish as he is led backstage.

  HONESTY IS NOT THE BEST POLICY

  ‘How’d it go?’ he asks me. ‘Honestly?’

  He seems so earnest, so delicate, the truth seems unnecessarily cruel. ‘Fabulous,’ I say. ‘Like nothing’s changed at all.’