by Max Frick
surely decorate the halls and walls of private collectors. Or Hard Rock Cafes and the like, where, beside such iconic artefacts as a pair of John Lennon’s John Lennon glasses and a Jimi Hendrix guitar, they will ignite the reminiscences of diners, who over their steaks or burgers will wistfully recall the giddy, all too fleeting days of their youth. And, who knows, maybe Tony himself will one day be among those diners, years from now, when the hectic pace of his current high life has slowed, as it must, to a totter. At some presentation dinner in his honour, perhaps, or a lifetime achievement luncheon. Where, amid the fawning praise and idle chatter, the chinking of cutlery on plates and the clinking of glasses raised to him, he too might allow himself a rare moment of quiet retrospection. Letting all the fuss and din fade into silence around him, as he absently picks at his chips, he'll gaze fondly up at an image of his much younger self, scarcely troubling to quell his swelling heart or suppress the proud tear that is sure to well in his eye.
He again leans casually back in his chair, and calmly scans the crowd, with eye and ear, for only those journalists asking the most pertinent questions. He allows as he does so a naturally authoritative air to temporarily triumph over his yet more natural star magnetism. This ensures that even the most ardent of his devotees, however impatiently, and however much they may push and shove and jostle each other, keeps, until directed otherwise, a respectful distance from himself.
The journalists, in their desire to directly participate in what must surely be the music news event of at least the last decade, collectively resemble a class of eager-eyed primary school children, who raise their hands as high as they can to attract the teacher’s attention, each desperately trying to out raise the hands in front of them, waggling their little fingers, begging to be picked.
‘Tony did you really kill him?’
‘Tony did you really rape him?’
‘Tony did you really eat his face?’
Tony, however, steadfastly ignores these muckrakers, whose aim it is in life to amass wealth and nothing else by littering with scandal and deceit the column inches of their inconsequential ‘news’ papers. He is utterly unfazed by their dogged persistence, and continues his search undaunted for a more serious and reputable individual.
His eye comes finally to rest on just such a journalist standing quietly near the back of the crowd. He is somewhat detached from its main body and his compound expression of embarrassment at, disdain for and disappointment in the near bloodlust of his counterparts is the precise manifestation of Tony’s own innermost feelings. He knows instantly that this is his man. He can tell at a glance that here stands a like-minded professional who knows categorically that it is all about the music and not at all about any peripheral behaviour, good, bad or otherwise.
First, with an emperor-like raising of his hand, Tony hushes the crowd; then, pointing over its many heads, he gives a regal nod in the direction of this particular reporter by way of inviting forth his question (two more photographs sure to fetch substantial monetary reward for their takers). The man thanks Tony, with a respectful nod of his own, and, after a preparatory clearing of his throat, raises his head and asks:
‘A wee cup of tea, son?’
The question, put not in the measured, professional tones expected by Tony, but in a woman’s voice, shrill and aged, seemed to come from elsewhere, and it entered his consciousness on an altogether different plain. He furrowed his brow. This whirlwind, whistle stop tour of the world’s biggest and most prestigious record stores had evidently left him a lot more tired than he’d allowed himself to admit. His brow remained furrowed and he focused hard: fans vie with fans, journalists, etc. Paparazzi with cameras in place of guns. Undignified furore. Sustained battery. Flash! Flash! Flash! A confident king on his throne. Drako with a bold flourish. Sea to shining sea. Fawning praise, idle chatter, swelling hearts and tears. An emperor-like hushing of the crowd. Regal nod and... The man thanks Tony, with a respectful nod of his own, and, after a preparatory clearing of his throat, raises his head and asks:
‘I’m sayin, son, would you like a wee cup of tea? You’re away in a wee world of your own there.’
The crowd evaporated in an instant, and there in its place, representing stark reality, stood a bespectacled, wizened-looking pensioner. The sight of her there, and in particular her attire – a standard Asda issue light-green tunic, with the sleeves gamely rolled up despite her years – painfully reminded Tony of how far he’d actually travelled and he deflated visibly. She, however, continued to lean on the handle of her broom, peering out saintly-faced from behind it in near servile anticipation of his response.
A surly grunt and a shake of his head was all the response he could muster.
‘No? Are you sure now? It’ll be an awful long day for you, sittin there all on your own.’
Her voice had a gravelly quality (no doubt from smoking at least forty cigarettes a day) that sounded for all the world to Tony like salt being rubbed, however inadvertently, into a wound. He smiled a wan, joyless, indulgent smile.
‘I’m fine,’ he said.
‘Are you somebody famous, then?’ the woman pried, hardly waiting for him to finish his last answer. ‘I doubt you must be, if your supposed to be signin records, eh?’
“Supposed to be.” There was that gravelly sound again.
The reference was to a chalkboard propped against the front of Tony’s desk, which she scrutinised through the upper half of her bi-focal lenses. It had been borrowed for its purpose from Asda’s own Red Balloon café and the faint ghost of recently erased lettering – advertising such daily staples as fish, chips, peas, bread and butter with a choice of tea or coffee for two-ninety-nine; or a “build your own breakfast” special, with any eight breakfast items for two pound fifty – could still be made out beneath what was written there now:
IN STORE TODAY
DRAKO!!!
SIGNING COPIES OF HIS
FABULOUS DEBUT SINGLE
“DEBASER”
FROM 12.30pm
The woman was back to peering.
‘I’m sayin, son, are you somebody famous?’
Tony patiently twirled the fat magic marker in his fingers, tapping it, now lid, now base, lightly on the desktop.
‘My name’s been mentioned once or twice in the papers,’ he muttered darkly, never lifting his head, remembering with some embarrassment, not entirely unmingled with a certain malevolent satisfaction, his actions of “that night”.
‘Aye,’ said the woman, ‘I thought you must be. Some of the younger ones on the tills there must’ve recognised you. I could see them pointin and whisperin and what not. Drako? Is that your name?’
She pronounced it Drahko.
‘It’s Drako,’ said Tony, pronouncing it correctly. ‘Aye.’
‘And you’ve got a song in the charts then?’
‘Em...’
‘Drako?’ repeated the woman. ‘I must mind and ask my grand weans if they’ve heard of you. No doubt they will have, mind you. They know all the latest pop stars. Anyway, son, I’d better be gettin on with my work. Are you sure you’ll not change your mind about that wee cup of tea? That’s only comin on three o’clock the now. It’ll help to break the day up for you... No? Well, if you do change your mind just give me a shout. I’m always here or hereabouts. Margaret’s my name. Just ask for Margaret.’
She tap-tapped the nametag on her chest and off to work she went, sweeping under the shelves and the feet of the shoppers browsing them with exaggerated vim and vigour, stopping as often as not to prattle cheerily away to anyone around her who’d listen, before disappearing into ready meals, soup and canned fish.
Tony, alone again, fell to rueful brooding.
3
The day before the morning after, a rare day indeed. A rogue cloud in an otherwise uniformly blue sky passed languorously from the sun, allowing its brilliant rays to whiten a million window panes and lighten as many moods, and bedeck with dazzling diamonds the windscreens and contours of even the mo
st clapped-out old banger; and its radiance to filter unhindered through the living room window of Billy Wilson's new town apartment, gradually illuminating the scene therein. The brightness steadily, almost imperceptibly intensifying, as the introduction to a song or piece of music might steadily rise in volume until... Shoulders back and feet wide apart, lip curled and furrowed brow, now frenziedly strumming the jeans pocket of a low-slung air guitar, now wildly beating with his fists the taut skin-air of a fanciful drum kit, Tony Drake stood vehemently spitting half lyrics and wrong lyrics, a screeching, faltering travesty of the melodious, accomplished, jangling, unvarnished, ironic, fun filled, throwaway, timeless, three-minute, soul-cleansing surf-punk now booming out of either speaker on the wall behind him.
‘WAVE OF MUTILATION!’ he roared. ‘I FUCKIN LOVE THIS SONG!’
Dooly, lying over by the door, wearily hove his sad-eyed and angular head up from outstretched forepaws and sonorously barked an additional bass-line
‘HOWF! HOWFHOWF!’
With each bark his loose lips flapped and fluttered, and a hanging string of saliva, seemingly made of elastic, bounced and swung dramatically beneath his lower jaw. Warily his thin strip of a tail thump-thumped on the carpet, meek percussion, scarcely audible in the din.
Billy, ensconsed, recumbent and cross-legged, in his armchair - heel to floor, arse to the edge, arms on arms, chin
