by Mark Dawson
A heavy silence.
‘What did you just say?’ Sean takes a step towards us.
‘You heard.’
‘I want to hear it again.’
‘I called you a whore.’
I nervously look for the photographers. Thankfully, they all appear to be distracted by some glamourpuss or other. I take Brian’s shoulder and start to tug him gently away. I can feel the muscles in his arm stiffening.
‘Take it easy,’ I say.
‘Something else before you go,’ Alex says. ‘Just so you know, we’ve got better ideas out of Sean in two days than we ever got out of you. In fact I’m not sure we ever got any ideas out of you at all. And your new album - we’ve heard it. You suck, Brian, face it.’
Brian starts to answer but the words choke back in his throat. Nothing comes.
‘And now,’ Martin says, ‘if you don’t mind, we’re grieving. If it’s not too much to ask we’d like you to just fuck off now.’
Brian wrenches his arm free of my grip. Before I can reach out to hold him back he launches himself at Martin. They collide, Brian’s bony shoulder driving into Martin’s stomach before they both end up on the ground, wrapped around each other. The other mourners instantly stop their conversations to stare over at us. The members of Spandau Ballet gape in amazement. Vince Clarke and Andy Bell gawp. A heavy silence settles over the grounds of the cemetery; somewhere a crow squawks.
Brian draws back his fist and strikes Martin full in the face. Blood splashes down onto the snow. The rest of the band seem too stunned - or afraid - to move. Brian punches Martin again, harder. He has his hands around his throat. I slip my arms underneath his shoulders and yank him away.
‘Get off him,’ I gasp.
Sean jumps at us. With me pressing his arms to his sides, Brian can’t defend himself. Sean pulls his arm back and punches Brian hard on the bridge of his nose. Brian’s neck cracks back and his head slams into my chin. We both hit the deck. There’s a lot more blood.
I remember a photo I once saw in Hello!. Sean Darbo, dressed in a loose white jacket, attacking a piece of wood, the photo’s caption:
BLACK BELT SEAN HITS RING TO UNWIND.
Damon and Alex have formed a barrier in front of Martin. He’s spitting out bloodied teeth. Sean stands over us, fists cocked, ready for more.
‘Come on, then,’ Brian hollers at him, panting hard, struggling against my loosening grip.
‘You want some more?’
‘This isn’t going to help you,’ I hiss at Brian. ‘Calm down.’
‘You fucking moron,’ Alex says. ‘You never learn. It’s always violence with you, isn’t it?’
Martin has been helped to his feet. His mouth is a mess, two teeth missing.
‘I wish I could say this was the first time,’ he says thickly, a trail of intermingled blood and spit running down his chin. ‘You’re an animal. You ought to be locked up.’
Brian strains against my arms, but I’ve linked my fingers again and he can’t unclasp them. ‘Take it easy,’ I repeat. I rise to my haunches, then upright, and yank him back a couple of steps.
‘Get him out of here,’ Alex says to me, ‘before we have you both arrested.’
‘Let’s go,’ I say quietly to Brian. ‘You don’t want to get into any more trouble.’
‘Don’t think about showing your face around here again,’ Sean warns. He hawks noisily, and then spits full in Brian’s face. ‘Loser.’
MORE REMORSE
We slipped around to the back of the church after that. I was worried the police might have been called, or that someone from the press might have got a picture. Once we were out of sight, Brian’s tenuous grip on his composure faltered, then failed. I could see he was really upset as soon as I pulled him off Martin. He was clenching his teeth to stop his face quivering and his eyes had misted over. Out of sight of the others, the tears started to fall freely again. The knuckles of his right hand were cut and bleeding from Martin’s teeth, and his nose was a mess after Sean’s punch. He used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe away the blood and spit and tears from his face.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a dead tone. ‘What happened?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
I didn’t know what to say to that.
He added, ‘I hate myself.’
Now he’s headed off into town. He said he had something he had to do urgently and that he would call me later, that he would want to see me tonight.
I’m just about to leave when Alex and Damon beckon me over.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ I apologize nervously. ‘He’s really upset about John. He’s not himself.’
‘Yes, he is,’ Alex says. ‘That’s exactly the Brian I remember.’
‘We haven’t got anything against you,’ Damon says. ‘You’re just doing your job. We know that.’
‘He tell you where he was last Sunday?’ Alex asks without preamble.
‘Who, Brian?’ I say, perplexed. They both nod. ‘No, and I haven’t asked.’
‘You might want to,’ Damon suggests. ‘Just a bit of advice.’
‘You don’t think he knows anything about John, surely?’
‘Let’s just say he took John’s success badly. He gatecrashed one of our signings and made a bit of a fuss. It was obvious he was jealous, and Brian’s got what you might call a volatile personality.’
‘We’ve known him for years,’ Alex adds. ‘We know what he’s like.’
‘Jealous?’
‘We’re not saying anything,’ Alex says. ‘Just that maybe you ought to ask him where he was last week, OK?’
AN INTERVIEW WITH SCOTT DOLAN
As I’m walking out the crematorium, towards the main road, a black-suited mourner detaches from the crowd and jogs over to join me.
‘Danny,’ he calls. His voice is familiar. I’ve heard it half a dozen times on the telephone.
Not now.
Scott Dolan is tall and stringy, with red hair tied back in a ponytail that reaches down to between his shoulder-blades. He looks uncomfortable in his suit and his choice of footwear, a pair of scuffed eight-eye DMs, looks like a petty act of mutiny.
‘Not again,’ I groan.
‘Danny,’ he says, extending a long thin hand. ‘Scott Dolan from Extravaganza. Great to meet you at last.’
I don’t take his hand. He tries to disguise the snub by smoothing out his rumpled jacket.
‘I only just got here,’ he says. ‘Did I miss anything?’ Brian’s been lucky. I can just imagine tomorrow’s front pages if his assault on Martin had been caught on camera. The police would have pulled him in double-quick.
‘I told you already. I’ve got nothing to say to you. Don’t call me in the office. Don’t call me at home. Please stop bothering me.’
I start walking, more quickly.
‘Just a moment of your time,’ he says, trotting to catch up with me. ‘Please.’
‘Look - what is it?’
I swivel to face him. This gives him the opening he was looking for. He edges in front of me, subtly blocking my way out to the road.
‘You know what I want. I want to talk to you about Brian Fey.’
‘For the last bloody time, I’ve got nothing to say to you. I can’t say anything to you.’
I side-step him and continue walking even more briskly towards the road. He matches my pace and falls in alongside.
‘How about this, Danny? You know I told you that we were close to digging up some interesting information on Brian?’
‘You mentioned it.’
‘Well - look, slow down - I’ve got it with me. Here.’
Dolan pulls a brown manila envelope from inside his jacket. He hands it to me.
‘What is it?’
There was an incident in California ten years ago. The band was in the US on their world tour. The one that stopped halfway through for no reason, remember? It got covered up by the label, but we’ve managed to get hold of the police report. That’s a
copy of it there.’
‘And?’
‘Just read it - and then call me. You’ve got my number.’
I try to hand the envelope back to him. He refuses to take it.
‘Look, I’m doing you a favour. And if you don’t take this away and look at it I’m going to use it in the story tomorrow. If you humour me I’ll hold the story back a couple of days so you have a chance to think about it. I might even make sure that this never comes to the public’s attention.’
‘I still won’t have anything to say.’ I keep walking. I flag down a passing cab and get inside.
‘Danny, please.’
He pulls the half-open window further down. ‘Look, Danny - just remember my offer’s on the table, OK? Read that report and call me. I’ll buy you lunch. We’ll talk.’
SOME THINGS I DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT BRIAN FEY
Later, as the cab comes to a halt in heavy traffic, waiting for the lights ahead to change, I can’t resist sliding a finger inside the envelope and tearing it open. I take out a collection of photocopied documents. It looks like a criminal report. The front sheet bears a stamp: Davis County Police Department, California.
A police mugshot of Brian. The shot was taken ten years ago before the drugs had really left their mark and wasted him. One eye is half-closed and a bruise has formed around the socket. I turn the papers over and flick through them again, from the start.
The lights change and we edge slowly forward as I start to read.
Brian was arrested for a serious assault after officers were called to a waterfront hotel in San Francisco. The police had been alerted by other guests at the hotel, who had become concerned at an increasingly heated altercation taking place on the balcony of the room above them, two floors up. Brian was arguing with another man, and the guests witnessed their argument turn violent. There were raised voices and a punch was thrown. I assume from the mugshot that it had landed on Brian’s face. Tests conducted at the scene indicated that both participants in the argument were intoxicated. Both of them were later charged with possession of cocaine, marijuana, and various drug paraphernalia. All charges were subsequently dropped although the reason for that was unclear.
The other man then lost his balance and fell backwards against the rail of the balcony. The rail itself was in need of repair and unable to hold his weight. The man fell, landing on a grass verge next to the swimming pool. He suffered a broken leg, a broken pelvis, and four cracked ribs. He was lucky to survive, but the ground had been softened by several days of rain. Usually, it would have been as dry and unforgiving as concrete. In usual circumstances, he would have been dead.
This other guy was John French.
I check the date on the front page of the report: 1986 - the start of the Black Dahlias’ year off.
I remember: the band claimed they were tired from all the touring and needed some time to recuperate. There was also talk of burn-out and frayed nerves. The rest of their world tour was cancelled, and no one heard anything from them for months. Then they came back with a multi-platinum album, like they’d never even been away.
Now the reason for the absence is obvious. Not a matter of choice but of necessity: it was forced upon them. French needed time to recover from what Brian had done to him.
I stop the taxi. We’re nowhere near the office but I need a walk.
Dolan claimed that the report had been suppressed - no wonder. The record company must have moved heaven and earth to make sure the newspapers never got wind of it. I’m guessing French was persuaded not to press charges, for the good of the band. They were all coining it in back then, and it would have been stupidity to upset things.
Now I know Brian has a history of violence.
I know he hasn’t conquered it. I’ve twice seen him lose control in the last two days.
And John French is dead. And the police still haven’t ruled out foul play.
I try to put it all out of my mind. This isn’t something I want to think about right now.
I make my way along the quiet residential streets I’ve wandered into towards the noise and bustle of a main road. A taxi approaches with its amber light lit. I half raise my arm and then drop it, just as the cabby slows down. As he slows he gives me an exaggerated shrug of enquiry: what do I want?
An idea: I ask him to take me to Hackney and the studio where they film Skin Trade. If Hannah did call this morning, then she won’t mind me stopping by to pay her a visit. And I need to talk to someone.
SKIN TRADE
The studio has been built inside an old converted warehouse. I’ve been here once before, when Hannah originally got the part. Its cavernous space has been sub-divided by thin wooden screens to fashion a dozen locations that recur throughout the series: rooms, offices, a bar, a catwalk. The roof leaks in places and the concrete floor is half an inch deep with water. Vandals have broken the windows and one wall is blackened with soot. The sets, sheltered within the bright arc of the klieg lights, shiver inside the vastness of this space.
I make my way into the loading bay that runs alongside the main body of the building. There are three big trailers parked up on one side of the bay.
I walk forward assertively. A security guard looks up from a newspaper and blocks my path.
‘I’m here to see Hannah Wilde,’ I announce confidently.
‘That so?’
‘My name’s Daniel, She knows me. Could you tell her I’m here, please.’
The guard shakes his head. ‘Can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘No shooting today. The cast are doing press interviews in town.’
‘You know where?’
‘At the Sanderson, I think.’
‘Cheers,’ I say.
VINCENT HAINES MEETS HIS PRESS
I taxi into town and blag my way into the Sanderson by telling the receptionist that I’m Vincent Haines’s lawyer and that I have urgent legal business. I’m shown through into a suite of conference rooms filled with the ladies and gentlemen of the press, the crowd expertly handled by a crack corps of publicists. A table has been placed at the far end of the room and on it has been arranged a nest of microphones and wires. Bright TV lights shine onto the table and promotional posters of the show have been fastened to the wall behind. Vincent Haines is sitting next to an attractive redhead whom I recognize as one of the other ‘models’ from the show, and an anonymous man in a black polo neck whom I assume to be a publicist. Vincent and the girl are fielding questions from the hacks. There’s no sign of Hannah.
‘Tell us about the perks and price of fame, Vincent,’ asks an attractive reporter with a notepad.
‘The price? You can’t sleep with all of them,’ Vincent replies with a libidinous wink.
‘That’s a joke,’ adds the publicist, with a half-panicked laugh.
‘What’s happening with Defence of the Badge?’ asks another reporter. ‘I heard you might be getting sued in the States for dropping out.’
Haines spits out, ‘I can’t believe what those two-bit-’
‘No questions on anything other than Skin Trade, please,’ the publicist interrupts hastily, a pacifying hand on Haines’s arm. ‘Vincent would love to talk about Badge, but I believe the correct phrase is sub judice. We’ll leave it to the lawyers.’
‘Vinny,’ says someone else, ‘what’s all this stuff about you and Hannah Wilde?’
Haines calms down. ‘I’m gonna plead the fifth on that one too, guys,’ he says with a shit-eating grin.
‘Let’s just say Vinny and Hannah have been getting on really well, lately, and leave it at that,’ the publicity guy smirks suggestively, perhaps sensing a useful angle to land some column inches in tomorrow’s papers.
‘Yeah,’ Haines adds, catching the drift, ‘we’ve been enjoying working together.’
A prurient sniggering goes up - I clench my teeth to prevent an unfortunate outburst.
The questions continue for thirty minutes, Haines’s answers monitored hawkishly by the
publicist throughout.
During the conference, Haines excuses himself on three occasions to visit the men’s room; the good news about his ‘successful’ stint in rehab - the question clearly planted by his PR team - is given the lie by the manifest purpose of these absences. I’m reminded of a visit to another of these events: a down-at-heel Brit-pack movie star we were acting for handed a reporter his bowl of pot and asked him to pick out the stems and seeds, while proclaiming it felt great to be clean. Haines might not be quite so blatant, but the red crescents around his nostrils leave no one in any doubt what he’s been getting up to.
As we file out, an attractive girl wearing a Skin Trade T-shirt offers me a bag full of novelty items bearing the show’s logo. I take it.
‘I’m Vincent Haines’s lawyer,’ I say. ‘Do you think you could tell him I’m here? I need to speak to him.’
‘Wait here,’ she smiles, and heads towards the door through which Haines exited.
LOSING IT
I’m shown through into the room where Haines is finishing off a one-on-one interview with a reporter from a national daily. She’s pretty, and Haines is unashamedly hitting on her. The interview is as rigidly policed as the press conference was; gentle questions are lobbed at the charming, handsome star, who obliges by fielding them with pre-scripted answers of wit and esprit.
Haines leans over to plant a kiss on the reporter’s cheek when her final question has been answered. The reporter is followed out of the room by the publicity guy. For the moment, Haines and I are alone.
‘Dude,’ he says. ‘Thanks for seeing me.’
We shake hands. ‘No problem. What’s up? You got more questions?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘something like that.’
‘No problem. I could get the caterers to fix us up with a couple of cheeseburgers or something. How’s that sound?’
‘Sounds perfect,’ I say, feigning a friendly smile.
‘Take a seat,’ he offers.
‘I’m fine standing,’ I say.
‘Suit yourself, man. Can I get you a beer? Something stronger?’
