by Max Frick
to reduce Tony’s rambling, shambolic, impassioned diatribe to a much simpler, much less esoteric form. This he now set about doing by re-iterating what he considered to be its salient points.
‘So...’
To better deliver his defence he attempted to sit up, but, try as he might, found that only his heels lifted and fell, lifted and fell, off and onto the carpet. So he, one at a time, drew in his feet and, with all his diminished strength, pushed and heaved and writhed himself upright.
‘...So...’
Raising an unwieldy, unsteady hand, he extended, as best he could, an emphatic forefinger.
‘...So I know...nothingaboutmusic... I’m just...playingatbeing...a rock star... I’m... I’m a...flash in the...panwho’s...onlyinitforthefame...’
Neither his benumbed features, unable to contort themselves into the appropriate expression, nor his lumbering, debilitated vocals, sounding by now like a forty-five being played at thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty-one, conveyed any trace of the indignation he was nevertheless striving to camouflage.
‘...I’m a...shameless pub...licityseeker...with less...lessselfrespect...than a...thanacommon...acommonprostitute...'
His head was now lolling uncontrollably and his finger, like a grotesque conductor’s baton, wavered erratically in front of it.
‘...Millions...of fans...are...simple...are simple...are simple-y...wrongaboutme... And... I’m... nothing... but...’
And now it wavered less erratically in front of his chest. And now less still over his crotch. It seemed, as it fell, to be drawing his eyelids, with the same faltering motion, down with it.
‘...I’m...’
Tony, like a victorious boxer, looked on disparagingly at the reelings and rollings of his nigh unconscious opponent.
‘...nothing...’
Ryan’s head flopped forward for the last time, nodded slightly and was still. His hand had come to rest on his lap and that forefinger, only ever semi-erect to begin with, slowly wilted.
With hindsight (a luxury never again to be afforded him) Ryan might have wished that he had chosen his words with a little more care, destined, as they were, to be his last. But he wasn’t dead yet. No. For the time being at least he was merely fast, merely very fast, asleep.
22
‘Cunts,’ muttered Tony bitterly under his breath.
Nothing.
‘Cunts,’ he muttered again, more vehemently now.
Nothing.
‘Cunts,’ he muttered a third time, more vehemently still.
Still nothing.
Billy, of course, had never not been aware that these embittered utterances were intentionally loud enough for him to overhear, and so he ignored them completely, striving to remain comfortable in his armchair, where, in the prolonged absence of a television, he was re-reading an old, dog-eared and sepia coloured paperback.
‘I’ll fuckin show them!’ Tony went on. ‘I’ll start a real fuckin band!’.
Billy continued to read his book.
‘A real fuckin band with real fuckin people!’
Billy pretended to continue to read his book.
‘A real fuckin band with real fuckin people playin real fuckin music!’
Billy continued to pretend to continue to read his book.
‘Ho!’ shouted Tony, now unmistakeably over his breath. ‘Who do we know that can play the guitar?’
Under his own breath, Billy shook his head and, raising his eyes from the pages of his book, stared resignedly over it at the space where the television used to be.
‘Em, I don’t know,’ he shrugged. ‘Nobody?’
‘I do,’ said Tony.
‘You do what?’ countered Billy. ‘You do play the guitar?’
‘Nope,’ replied Tony succinctly. ‘I do know someone who does.’
Billy shifted uneasily in his armchair.
‘Oh, aye?’ he ventured, more boldly than he intended. ‘Who?’
Tony was already smiling.
‘You,’ he said.
‘No I don’t,’ Billy lied.
But Tony was still smiling.
‘Well, there's a guitar under your bed,’ he said.
‘Fuck sake!’ said Billy.
‘Are you sayin you've never played it? Is that what you’re sayin?’
Through gritted teeth, Billy wasn't saying anything.
‘Because,’ Tony went on, ‘you’re the only one livin here and, eh, that thing looks pretty well played to me.’
He lit the now completed joint he had been building all the while and casually tossed the lighter back onto the coffee table. Leaning smugly back on the couch he sent a plume of thin grey smoke drifting calmly toward the ceiling.
‘Cunt,’ muttered Billy bitterly under his breath, and taking up his book once more, tried his hardest to look as though he was reading it.
‘So that’s the guitar sorted then,’ said Tony. ‘Now who do we know that can play the drums?’
Pabs it was who heeded the call and he took to the task with relish, not only readily agreeing toplaythe drums in Tony's band but also refusing to let the lack of an actual drum kit in any way dampen his enthusiasm.
‘Not a problem, big man,’ he was saying as he rummaged through the inmost recesses of Billy’s kitchen cupboards. ‘All we need is this basin and one or two of these big-ish pots.’
Kicking aside bottles and cans, Pabs cleared a sizeable space on the living room floor...
‘Jesus, boys, did you never maybe think about tidyin this place up a wee bit?’
...and fussily positioned there the items he had found: a pot, upside down, either side of the upside down basin. The basin itself he propped up at one end on two discarded pizza boxes so that it sloped slightly towards him; this, he confidently assured Tony, would greatly enliven the sound. For the drumsticks two differently sized wooden spoons were thinly wrapped at the bowls in torn strips of dishcloth, and the finishing touch was a pot lid, tied by its handle to a long piece of string, which he hung like a high-hat from the light fitting.
Taking a step back, he proudly admired his handiwork.
‘There you go, big man,’ he said. ‘Not too shabby, even if I do say so myself. That old boy scouts trainin never ceases to come in handy, eh?’
‘They taught you how to build drums in the boy scouts?’ said Tony.
‘They taught me a great many things,’ said Pabs. ‘A great many. Be prepared and all that. I was only really in it for about a month, but that was long enough to get the gist.’
‘And did they teach you how to play the drums as well?’
‘Prepare to be dazzled, big man. Prepare to be dazzled.’
Pabs sat himself down cross-legged on the floor, and with surprisingly impressive dexterity he rattled the receptacles in turn; and this makeshift drum kit, which had taken him a mere five minutes to construct, sounded exactly, but exactly, like a couple of old pots and a basin being hit with two wooden spoons wrapped in dish cloths.
It was good enough for Tony.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’ll go and bring the tape recorder and we’ll get started.’
Billy, who was grudgingly tweeking and plucking the tuning pegs and strings of his guitar, waited until Tony had left the room before casting Pabs a concerned look.
‘You don’t actually think he stands any chance of being any kind of successful with this, do you?’ he said.
Pabs shot a furtive look at the door and lowered his voice to a whisper.
‘Of course not, Billy,’ he said. ‘Of course not. The drums are made out of pots for a start. But, listen, the big man’s been through the wringer lately, what with one thing and another, made a wee bit of a tit of himself by all accounts, so, you know, it’ll not hurt us to humour him for once, eh?’
Billy shrugged.
‘I suppose so,’ he said.
‘And anyway,’ Pabs continued, ‘you know what he’s like. He’ll never shut up about it till he gets his own way, so we might as well get it over and done with.’<
br />
Tony returned with the tape recorder, an old, rectangular, top-loader with six long buttons out front like the keys on a piano. Neither Pabs nor Billy said a word. Setting it down on the arm of the couch, he re-wound the cassette inside ready for the forthcoming recording.
‘Okay, boys,’ he said. ‘This one’s called Sniffin Glue Till My Face Goes Blue. Billy, you know it already. Pabs, fast and hard, right? Now, with a song like this we’re goin for one continuous take. Makes it a bit more real. Everybody happy with that?’
‘Oh, aye, Drakes, man,’ said Pabs. ‘We’re as happy as pigs in shite. That right, Billy?’
‘Whatever, aye,’ shrugged Billy.
‘Right, then,’ said Tony, ‘I’ll count us in like this, look: three...’
Holding up three fingers he soundlessly mouthed the word.
‘...Two...’
He held up two fingers.
‘...One...’
‘Can you not just count normally?’ interrupted Billy.
‘I am countin normally.’
‘Aye, but could you not just say, like, "three, two, one" out loud and we’ll start? It might be a bit quicker.’
‘I suppose I could,’ said Tony, ‘aye. But I’m fuckin doin it like this. All right?’
‘All right,’ said Billy, displaying a palm. ‘Might’ve been a bit quicker, that's all.’
‘Boys, boys,’ interjected Pabs.
And Tony began again.
‘Three...’
Fingers.
‘...Two...’
Fingers (defiantly directed at Billy).
‘...One...’
Finger (the middle one, even more defiantly directed at Billy).
‘...And...’
He simultaneously pressed the play and record buttons on the tape deck.
Over eager as always Pabs came in too early, beating the tin-pot drum kit for all that he was worth. Tony was quick to join him, bellowing his tortured vocals into an
