by Mark Dawson
He smiles, looks embarrassed. ‘How’s this for crazy? That couple dropped the charges against us. I didn’t tell you earlier.’
‘What couple?’
‘The flat we broke into? Well, the one I broke into. Turns out they’re both big Dahlias fans. All I had to do was sign a couple of albums for them. They said it was obviously a misunderstanding, and if I paid for the damage to be fixed they’d forget it ever happened. I go ages to find someone who remembers me and then find those two like that.’
‘Yeah, weird,’ I say dubiously. ‘Look, Brian, unless there’s anything else I’ve got to be going.’
He subtly moves until he has angled himself in front of me. ‘I want to say sorry. I feel awful about earlier.’
I say, ‘Yeah, well,’ nervous to be around him again.
‘Please?’ he says. ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’
Reluctantly, I nod. As I chug away on another bottle, nervously stripping the label, he explains.
BRIAN’S CONFESSION
‘I’m sorry about losing my temper. I’ve been on edge this last week - Jesus, even longer than that, months and everything’s been happening at once. You know? And then I found out this afternoon how badly the new album’s doing. I mean, really bad - I think I’m going to get dropped. And I’m not using any of this as an excuse. I’m just explaining. So, anyway, I’ve checked myself into anger-management courses again for the New Year. I’m gonna give them a real try this time.’
‘Look - that’s great, Brian,’ I say. ‘Just get whatever it is off your chest so I can go.’
He takes a long breath. ‘You were right about John,’ he admits.
I falter, ‘How do you mean?’
‘I did see him - just after he died.’
‘You were in his house?’
He nods. ‘The door was open and I went inside.’
‘Why?’
‘I needed to talk to him and he wouldn’t speak to me.’
‘Why not?’
‘He made me promise that I wouldn’t get in touch. He said it wasn’t possible, not any more.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, you’ve lost me.’ I put down my beer and step around him. ‘And I have to go.’
He grabs my wrist and looks straight into my eyes. ‘John and me were seeing each other.’
‘What?’
‘I’m gay, Daniel. So was he.’
Every other noise in the room is silenced for me. My mind is an empty white space. I look at him. He smiles sadly. I fumble for words. All I can manage is, ‘What?’
‘We were a couple.’
‘No way.’
He nods.
‘No fucking way.’
‘Ten years.’
‘What… what about all the girls? You were always with gorgeous women. All the pictures, the stories in the papers? Both of you.’
‘None of that was real. It was just something we did. I mean, we couldn’t’ve come out in the eighties. Can you imagine what it would’ve been like for us? We’re weren’t exactly Erasure or Bronski Beat, were we? We would have been crucified. It would’ve been the end of us.’
‘But you were married-’
‘And divorced. Look, I was confused about myself. I thought maybe if I got married I’d be able to straighten out, you know, cure myself. Jesus - I know that’s complete bollocks, I know, but I had a really Catholic upbringing. It’s taken me a long time to accept what I am, to get over the guilt. There’s been a lot of guilt.’
‘No, I don’t believe it-’
‘No one else knows about us. Well, I think Giovanni maybe suspects, but I know for a fact none of the band knows. We always kept things very quiet. All the arguments we had, we always said they were because of "creative differences" - rather than the boy one of us had found the other with. And you mustn’t say anything, either. I promised John I’d never speak about it.’
‘Fuck, I… what happened?’
‘We split up when John found out one of the tabloids was about to do an expose and out him. Someone from Extravaganza, I think. There was a rumour they had photos of him at Heaven with his tongue down some bimbo’s throat. John was terrified.’
‘Of what?’
‘He thought if he got outted, that’d be the end of his career - the end of the band. He didn’t have a very high opinion of the people who bought our stuff. He had this idea they wouldn’t buy anything of ours if they knew two of us were queer. I don’t know - these days? Maybe we would’ve gotten away with it. Fuck it, it might even have helped. Music was the most important thing in his life, more important than everything, including me as it turned out. So he finished with me, made me swear I’d never tell anyone about us, and started putting across this bullshit hetero image. And now, if you believe what Martin said, it looks like it was John who pushed me out of the band, too. You know, get me out of the way, avoid temptation, guilt, all that shit.’
‘But what about what’s-his-name - the guy with the Spanish name?’
‘Giovanni? He’s Italian, actually. John never could resist good-looking foreign boys. And we had an open relationship. Well, he did. I calmed down after I had a close shave with a guy I didn’t know was a junkie, but I didn’t mind him messing around every now and again so long as he was careful. It was the only way I could keep him. Gio’s been on the scene for a couple of years.’
‘I had no idea.’
‘Of course you didn’t. No one does.’
Brian orders a couple of whiskies and hands one to me.
‘I couldn’t get over him as easy as he got over me. Couldn’t stop thinking about him. Every time he was on TV it was fucking murder. Just like with you and your girlfriend - I told you we had more in common than you thought, didn’t I? And then, when I got dumped out of the band, I couldn’t understand how John could just stand by and let it happen like he did. But Martin was right. .. fuck, I don’t know what to think, it’s possible. John was ruthless when it came to his career.’
I’m struggling to take this all in. I neck the whisky and ask the barman for another two.
‘So that’s why you kept the money?’
‘Partly,’ he shrugged. ‘It wasn’t the money itself. I just didn’t want them to be able to get rid of me quietly, without a fuss.’
I have to tell him about taking the money.
‘Look, I know I should’ve said something sooner about me being outside his house that night. I wish I had, but I was scared - I didn’t know what people would think. I was worried everyone would jump to the wrong conclusion, especially if it came out that we used to be together.’
‘I did,’ I admit quietly.
‘So last Sunday - I’d been waiting outside all afternoon. From midday or something, just sitting in my car smoking and drinking. It came to five-thirty and I realized I couldn’t stay there all night - I had the party to get to and I didn’t want to be late again. I’m always late. So I got out of the car and went up to the front door. I must’ve smoked another three fags up there before I found the guts to ring the bell. And then when there was no answer and I tried knocking on the door, it just opened as soon as I touched it. I couldn’t understand it - no one had come and gone while I’d been waiting there. It was only later - days later - that I remembered I’d left for maybe ten minutes so I could use the toilet in a garage on the main road, and get another bottle of gin. Whoever it was who forgot to close the door must’ve gone in or come out while I was gone. So I didn’t see anything.
‘I pushed the door open and went inside. I’d been there before, used to live there almost, so I knew my way around. I called out but there was no answer. I looked upstairs but there was no sign of anyone around. But I knew he was in there - I’d seen him at the window, and I’d called him and left a message on his answerphone. I thought he’d just been ignoring me as usual. So I went through into the hall at the back of the house - I thought maybe he was in the garden or something.’
He puts his hand through his hair and raises his chin
to me.
‘John had tied this rope to the top of the banister and then tied the other end round his neck. He was hanging, this chair tipped over beneath him, he must’ve kicked it over or something. He was just swinging there. His face was purple and the rope had cut into his neck. It was fucking horrible.’
His hair falls before his face. ‘Why did he do it?’
‘Specifically? Don’t know. But he was always really sensitive and he could get really self-destructive when he was depressed. He used to cut himself with razors like Richey Edwards - remember? The whole thing with the papers had terrified him. He hated himself for being gay. It took me years to accept it but, I don’t know, I don’t think he ever really did. A picture of him with his tongue down some boy’s throat in all the Sunday papers? That on its own would be enough for him to top himself. And if I know John, the pressure of taking over from me was probably getting to him, too. The new album just ready to come out, no one knowing how the fans and the critics were going to react… I’m sure that had something to do with it.’
‘Maybe he felt guilty? About what happened to you?’ Brian shakes his head and smiles’ ruefully.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ he says. ‘I could see it hadn’t happened long ago - he was still warm to the touch. I think I must’ve fainted, because the next thing I know I’m on the floor feeling really lightheaded, with a cut and blood on my head. And then I panicked - big-time. I’d never even seen a dead body before. I suddenly had this blinding flash - if anyone found me like this, with John’s body, him dead up there - still warm - I knew what they’d think. I mean, everyone knew we’d been having squabbles. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that I must’ve killed him because I was pissed off about the band binning me, losing the court case, my new record getting slated, everyone loving his vocals on their album, everything. Then made it look like it was suicide - very clever, Brian, very clever. And then if the fact we were a couple ever came out, people would think it was some jealous crime of passion. Me upset about getting dumped for Giovanni or something. John was hardly in a position to explain what’d really happened, was he? So I panicked, I completely lost it. I got out of the house as quickly as I could, got into my car and just took off. I drove onto the M25 and just drove, for miles, pointing the car in the same direction and driving around London until I was almost out of gas. I was just thinking: working out how bad it would look for me if people knew I’d been there.
‘Eventually I chilled out. I called Carmen and Lisa, arranged for them to come to the party with us, made sure they’d back me up, say I was with them earlier. They were both totally out of it when I picked them up. They’d been smoking weed all afternoon - couldn’t remember a thing. It worked; when the police asked them yesterday, they did me proud. They couldn’t be sure about the times, couldn’t remember what time they were with me, but they were vague enough to give the police some serious doubts that it could’ve been me. I feel bad about dragging them in but what else could I do?’
‘What about the suitcases in my spare room? I thought you were going to make a run for it.’
‘That’s just our things. I packed them last night when you were asleep. I was going to take Lisa’s over to the hotel this morning, and I was probably going to move in with her after I’d seen you next. But then the police arrested me - threw my timing off a bit.’
‘Someone sent me a tape from John French’s answering machine,’ I say slowly. ‘You were laying into him on it - threatening him.’
He smiles another sad smile. ‘Me,’ he confesses. ‘I sent it to you.’
‘You sent it?’
‘After the funeral. I felt so guilty. You know, seeing the others there, seeing how upset everyone was, then losing my temper again and hitting Marty. And I thought - this is all my fault. All of it. If John and me hadn’t argued. If I could’ve been bothered to try during our last tour, and kept clean, maybe it wouldn’t have flopped like it did. If I hadn’t OD’d and fucked up the recording of the last album, maybe things would’ve been better. And the worst bit - if I’d told John how much I loved him, maybe he would’ve found the strength to get through the bad publicity he thought was going to come our way.’
‘But the tape? I don’t understand…’
‘It was when I realized what a mess I was in - stuck in that hallway with John dead, swinging on that fucking rope - I remembered I’d been ringing him up constantly for the last couple of weeks. I wanted us to get back together and I was mad at him for not sticking up for me when they threw me out of the band. And I was usually out of my head when I called him; my messages were all pretty angry. Well, you’ve heard them now, so you know.’ I nod. ‘I thought unless I got the tape and got rid of it, people would come to the wrong conclusion. So I went over to his machine and took it.
‘And then after the funeral, when I was feeling like such a selfish bastard, I just had to get rid of it - I had to. I’d been carrying it around in my pocket all week and it suddenly felt like it was red hot. I know that’s crazy. So I got out of my head before I could think about it too much, and took it to your office. I thought you’d know better than me what to do with it. I was feeling so low - I think I half-wanted you to send it to the police and just be done with it. Let them decide what to do with me. I was feeling so bad - so awful - I just wanted to be punished. That was the only way I thought I could make it up to everyone that I’d let down. I don’t think I can explain it any better than that.’
‘And the money you bailed me out with last night?’
‘It’s like I said: an account I’d forgotten about. I still get royalties from some adverts I did in the eighties. Quite a bit of cash actually. The bank wrote to me because I hadn’t touched the cash for ages. I just used that.’
‘I thought-’
‘I know what it looks like,’ he breaks in with a wry smile of understanding. ‘The cash taken from John’s? You thought it was his money I used. I killed him and pinched it. I probably would’ve thought the same thing myself. You haven’t heard the news yet, then?’
‘What news?’
‘Giovanni got arrested this afternoon. They found the money at his flat. He’s confessed that John gave it to him, apparently. That stuff with the papers about John being outted? Gio knew how much John wanted to keep it quiet, so he decided- he’d take advantage. Little fucker was blackmailing him. He said he’d spill everything unless John paid him to keep his mouth shut. Ten grand was his price.’
I stand there quietly after he’s finished, not quite sure what to say.
I should apologize, but the only thought running through my head is I’ve got to get back to the office and stop the answerphone tape from going to the police. ‘I’m just going to go to the toilet,’ I say. I feel sick again.
‘I’ll be here,’ he promises.
THE CHANGING OF THE GUARD
By the time I return, Brian has been surrounded by the heavily made-up members of Monster Munch.
‘Hey, Scooter,’ Bam Bam says. ‘It’s the law. Better behave.’
‘Scooter’s only seventeen,’ Mooch tells me. ‘He’s not allowed to drink.’
They laugh. ‘How about this?’ Scooter taunts, holding up a transparent freezer bag full of white powder. ‘Am I allowed to do this?’
‘Shouldn’t you be in Japan?’ I say.
‘Cancelled,’ Mooch says. ‘Nips wouldn’t pay us what we’re worth.’
‘Not enough lollipops in the rider?’ Brian suggests.
‘Not enough sherbet, man,’ Scooter corrects, tapping the bag.
‘We were just saying how we all loved the Black Dahlias,’ Bam Bam says, his tone suggesting the contrary. ‘They were, like, a big-time major influence on us.’
‘And Brian was, you know, one of the best vocalists of 1984,’ Mooch adds.
‘Although he did kind of lose it after that,’ Scooter chips in.
‘And, course, he sucks now,’ Bam Bam suggests. ‘Shame he got chucked out of the Dahlias, wasn’t it?’
<
br /> Mooch nods, ‘But it’s hardly like Paul McCartney leaving the Beatles.’
‘Or not even like Geri leaving the Spices.’
They laugh raucously. I’m waiting for Brian to explode, that now all-too-familiar incandescence surely about to flare. It doesn’t happen. He’s leaning back against the bar with an expression of mild, paternal amusement. ‘Shouldn’t you boys be getting off to bed?’ he says. ‘It’s a school day tomorrow.’
They exchange puzzled, disconcerted looks; perhaps they were hoping for more from Brian Fey, the infamous hothead.
‘Before you go, boys,’ says Brian, ‘a bit of advice from someone who knows: you’re flavour of the month now but it won’t last. You’ll get dumped, just like everybody else does. Eventually you’ll find out that fifteen minutes of fame just means another fifty years of emptiness. Just bear it in mind.’
Their faces change from perplexed to bewildered, as if Brian was addressing them in Swahili. ‘Come on,’ says Mooch, ‘let’s go. My loser visa’s about to expire.’
‘Better people to talk to than a washed-up wannabe and a fucking lawyer.’
‘Ex-lawyer,’ I correct, indignantly.
As I watch them leave - slapping high-fives and touching fists like they were some expatriate white boys from the ‘hood - I compare them with Brian, leaning on the bar with a faraway expression. I come to the conclusion that it’s better to be a has-been than a never-was, or a never-will-be. Monster Munch will eventually share a page with the other processed bands that have filled the charts recently; Brian was the real deal.
Brian goes to the bar for more beer. I’m going to wait for him to return and I’m going to tell him what I’ve done, and then go and stop that letter from being sent.
RACHEL AND OLIVER
When Brian doesn’t return I skirt the periphery of the dancefloor to look for him. I haven’t seen Cohen although he probably wouldn’t come to something like this. I don’t blame him. Drunken secretaries are staggering around to the ephemeral pop being played by Bruno Brookes, one of the firm’s clients, some of them linking hands to form floor-clearing wedges. I steer well clear.
