Fatal Choices

by Anne Morgellyn

  ‘Mr Tree!’ I called.

  The chauffeur put himself between us, pushing me away from Zeb Tree as he came up the alleyway.

  ‘It’s about Drew Joffey,’ I shouted. ‘He’s dead. I just wanted to let you know.’

  Tree stopped and turned to face me: ‘Drew’s dead?’

  ‘You were in a band together once. I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘Come up.’

  The security man sprang to attention.

  ‘She’s with me.’

  I followed him across the foyer past awestruck couriers, holding their helmets. Zeb Tree ignored them all. We rode up in the lift to the fourth floor. He didn’t look at me or ask me anything, so I kept quiet. People never say much in lifts, not strangers anyway. Maybe he was thinking about Drew.

  Ignoring the striking redhead in the outer office, he showed me into his office. Gold discs and statuettes in reinforced vitrines. On the walls were pictures of the stars Tree had created. They looked happy and golden.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, motioning to a leather sofa in the corner. He went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a shot of Jack Daniel’s. ‘Want one of these?’

  ‘Why not?’

  He handed me the drink and sat opposite me in one of those leather director’s chairs that always look to me as though they’re going to collapse. Tree was a big man. His hair was still long and very thick, framing his face in a tumble of gilt-coloured curls. He looked like Milton’s Satan just after he fell out of heaven, not less than archangel ruined. I had a poster of Zeb Tree on my bedroom wall when I was about fourteen. I wondered if he still sang.

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘November, or thereabouts.’

  ‘You haven’t told me your name.’

  ‘You didn’t ask for it,’ I said pertly. ‘I’m Louise Androssoff-Moon.’

  ‘That’s some moniker.’

  ‘I met Drew in Geneva. I can give you the edited version or the full Monty.’

  ‘I want everything.’

  I told him about the Charon Clinic, the aborted attempt in my stolen car, and my refusal to give Drew the money to try again. I told him about the morgue in Montreux and the poor broken body, and about the ashes stored at Byrne & Co in Camden Town. He topped his glass up several times before I finished. Tears glistened on his bronzed face, the face of a fallen angel.

  ‘Why didn’t he come to me? We were mates, were more than that – we were like brothers. We shared a place together in – where was it? – Belsize Lane. We used to take it in turns to bring a woman back. There was only one bed: he was out, I was in. I was out, he was in. We wrote all our material there. We jammed, tripped, got laid. And I tell you,’ he reached for the bottle again. ‘I tell you, Lulu ...’

  ‘Louise.’

  ‘Whatever. Those days were the best days of my fucking life. Why didn’t he come to me?’

  ‘I don’t know. You got famous. He ended up as a sessions musician.’

  ‘Yeah, I know he was pissed off with me. He said I nicked his material, that was after he’d left the band. He split us up. I can’t remember why it was really, it wasn’t the music it must have been some bird. None of them’s worth it. None of them’s worth a fuck.’

  I could see that he was one over the eight now. He had probably started early.

  ‘Would you like his ashes?’ I can’t find anyone to take them.’

  ‘Give Cerys your contacts. She’s out there.’

  His expression kept changing, as though he was remembering – good times, bad times, my bad news – heaven. I thought I had better leave him to it. I gave the redhead my mobile number and made my way out of the building. Drew was not amongst the music legends displayed on Zeb Tree’s walls, but he was on YouTube. I went home and trawled through videos of Tim Buckley and other rock and blues bands of the era which Drew might have supported. Here and there, I caught a glimpse of someone who might have been him, a shadowy figure in the background, bent over a guitar. The images were blurry. I had no idea if the guitar was a Strat or some other make. I wondered who had bought his guitar and if it was still in Paris.

  Zeb Tree got in touch with me the following morning. He was perfectly sober and business-like. I told him where he could collect the ashes and he said he’d send a bike for them.

  ‘There’s his jacket too, and his watch and rucksack.’

  ‘They can flog them on Camden Market. I only want the ashes. I’ve been thinking about it all night, thinking about where to put them. I was going to take him on a road tour, you know, scatter them in places where we’d gigged. But that would mean splitting him up, and I don’t think that’s right. So I’m taking him to Barbados when I fly out there next week. I’ve got a boat there and I’ll take Drew out and let him go. The sound-system’s mega. I’ll play all his best music, give him a proper send off. It’s the closest he’ll get to paradise.’

  ‘Mr Tree, I’m hoping to start a fund for people like Drew – destitute people without family or friends who have no peaceful place to die if they become terminally ill. Would you be able to contribute?’

  There was a silence. I thought we’d lost the connection.

  ‘Mr Tree?

  ‘I’m still here.’

  ‘Drew said he never got many royalties for all the recordings he did. It’s a good way to remember him.’

  Another silence, then: ‘Let me know when you’ve got it set up and I’ll chip in.’

  ‘I need money to set it up – pledges. I’m also approaching Lord Stockyard.’

  ‘He’s worth fucking billions.’

  ‘Indeed, and so are you.’

  Coda

  Chas and Nicky were with me at the opening of the Drubin Hospice. Zeb Tree unveiled the plaque in a blaze of flashbulbs and camera phones. In the front rank with us and the local bigwigs were Lord Stockyard and his seven year old grandson who rolled his eyes at Nicky when anybody made a speech. Lord Stockyard came into the fund with the brilliant idea of buying a dilapidated nursing home and renovating it to take destitute patients in need of palliative care. There were plans afoot to open more hospices in empty nursing homes and asylums all over the country. I was born in a nursing home. My uncle spent the large part of his childhood in one when he was suffering from TB. They don’t exist anymore, apart from a few exclusive ones, well beyond the means of ordinary people. Lord Stockyard was pleased to support the project, subject to the usual checks and approvals. He had matched Zeb Tree’s input, and the Drubin Trust kicked off with pledges worth over ten million, many from the City canaries. I had to swallow my prejudice and write to them all with grateful thanks. As a director of the new charity – Zeb Tree and Lord Stockyard were the joint patrons – I planned to sound out the hedge funds and private investment companies now bankrolling parts of the NHS. After all, we were the Big Society now.

  To the fund, Chas and I, as Nicky’s trustees, had contributed £40,000 of Buz’s legacy. Our boy was well set up; he wouldn’t miss the money, and there was in any case enough left to pay for his education in Switzerland or anywhere else. I felt that Buz would have approved, and that through this donation, the hospice was part of him too. I would tell Nicky the whole story when he was older. I didn’t think he’d mind, if he grew up into the man I hoped he would be. He loved Buz.

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