‘You pissed a lot of people off, James. You were playing the rock star.’
‘Well of course I was, Bernie, that was my job, wasn’t it?’
‘You took it a bit too far.’
And James thought, ‘Did I?’ He remembered drinking and smoking a lot. He remembered staying up late and having bad sex with plump girls whose names he didn’t ask. He remembered a messy thing with Alice, who was about sixteen and came on to him like a tank with lips. Maybe he should have resisted, and the three-in-a-bed-video with Alice and her friend … Brigitte? Brenda? Brian? And given his time again, he wouldn’t have slipped the video on instead of ‘Life on Earth’ on the tour bus, but by that time Alice was coked up to the eyeballs from about 10 a.m. onward and needed help, which she wouldn’t have got if Bernie hadn’t seen her burning her candles at both ends, so to speak, in glorious Technicolor.
Bernie was, thankfully, thinking of something else. ‘We knew we were in trouble when you tried to rename the band James Buchan and Dog in a Tuba.’
‘Well, other bands were doing it.’
‘Who?’
James’s mind went blank. ‘Herman’s Hermits?’ He smiled.
Bernie stared at him in disbelief and then burst out laughing.
‘You silly sod, Jimmy. Why don’t you forget the band thing, mate, and get yourself a job?’
‘I would Bern, I really would, but the band was all I was ever any good at.’
‘Yeah, well football was all that George Best was any good at, but he had to stop playing, didn’t he?’
‘Well yes he did, but you can’t play football when you’re pissed, whereas you can sing. Look around you Bern; they’re all getting back together—Blancmange, Dollar, Heaven 17, and the Psychedelic Furs …’
‘They’re not, are they?’
‘I think they might be. I saw a poster.’
‘Thought they’d stayed in the U.S.’
‘Even Tears for Fears are talking again.’
‘Really? I thought those boys hated each other.’
‘They probably did, but you know, the band is bigger than the sum of its parts, isn’t that what you used to say? ABC, Culture Club, Bananarama — they’re playing big places, Bern, that’s got to be good money. Just think about it, that’s all I’m asking.’
‘Did I ever tell you about me and the Banana girls, James?’
‘Yes mate, yes you did. But if you want to buy me another drink you can tell me again.’
Consequently, driving back from Bernie’s, James felt something close to excited. Bernie wasn’t exactly on board. But he wasn’t so far off as to require a yacht and a strong wind to reach. Of course James knew persuading the others would be difficult. They hated him, especially Gary Guitar. But that kind of inter-band animosity had kept some of the greatest musical combos in pop history at the cutting edge. Anyway, he was pretty sure he’d be able to talk them round. He always had in the past. All except Michael, anyway.
But the further north he drove the, more miserable he became. It wasn’t simply the thought of moving further away from what was most interesting him at the moment, getting the band together, it was also the realisation that he was going home to an empty house. That and the possibility that debt collectors might be hiding behind the hedge. By the time the M11 turned into the A11 he was almost depressed, and by the time he stopped outside his house, the only thing stopping him from turning round and heading south again was the fact he was really hungry. And that he didn’t have anywhere to go in the south.
The first thing he did when he got into the cottage was to turn all the lights on. He hated the place dark and, as he hated the place quiet too, he put a Police CD on. The answer machine was flashing but, given the number of people he owed money to, it always was. In fact he had got to the stage where he was almost reassured by the flashing, demonstrating as it did that the phone hadn’t been cut off. He ignored it and headed for the kitchen. The fridge was virtually empty, just some tomato puree, mustard, and half a pint of stale milk. He checked the cupboards: a tin of lentils bought by Julie for a curry she never made and a packet of custard that had been there since before he moved in. He put his hand in his pocket: £1.32. No takeaway then. They certainly wouldn’t take a cheque again.
He wanted to phone Julie. Mostly to see if she’d lend him some money. She might, if she felt a bit guilty about leaving him. But she hadn’t left her number. He could call Michael, but he didn’t really want to yet, not just to borrow money anyway. Of course if Michael had phoned him while he was away, then returning his call would be OK. But Michael never called. James hadn’t noticed that until now.
He sighed. He decided he’d check the answer machine, just in case. He pressed the button and walked back toward the kitchen, secure in the knowledge that it wouldn’t be Camelot telling him he had won the lottery. The first message was from his accountant, who appeared to be dropping the thin veneer of professionalism and was being rude now. The next caller rang off without leaving a message and the third had nothing to do with money.
‘Mr Buchan, this is Police Sergeant Doyle. I’m afraid there has been an accident involving a friend of yours, Ms Julie Eden. We are having trouble locating any family, and according to our records her last known address is with you. Local officers have been round but you may be away. When you get this message, please phone us on the following number … .’
James froze for a moment. What kind of accident? How serious? He should phone, and he would. But he didn’t, not straight away. He paced up and down in front of his lucky poster, thinking. Why were they phoning him? Did Julie ask them to? He couldn’t see it. He felt confused, surprised, but—and this didn’t occur to him immediately—not much else. He picked up the phone. He paused. And then he phoned Michael.
When Michael answered, James waited, he wasn’t exactly sure what to say. In the background he could hear music; he couldn’t place it. ‘What’s that you’re listening to, Mikey?’
‘Er, Magic Numbers.’
‘Is it new?’
‘Not that new. Good though.’
‘Oh. I’m, er, listening to the Police.’
‘Righto. Thanks for letting me know.’
‘Yeah sorry, Mikey, I’m in a state of shock, Julie’s had an accident. I just got back from visiting Bernie—he says hi—and there’s a message saying Julie has been hurt …’
Silence.
‘Mikey … Mikey?’
‘How hurt?’ Michael had forgotten how to breathe.
‘I don’t know, there’s a number I need to call, but I called you first. I thought you might want to come over.’
‘Right, but she was going to London.’
‘I know,’ said James.
‘I’ll be right over. You call and get details and we’ll go down.’
‘Down where?’
‘To London.’
‘Right. Well I’ve only just got back …’
‘Are you going to call?’ snapped Michael.
‘Of course I am, she was my girlfriend, wasn’t she? But we have split up, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, I heard. Look Jim, do you want me to call the bloody number?’
‘No no, I’ll do it, you come over and we’ll take it from there. OK?’
‘OK.’ And Michael hung up. He felt cold, his hands especially. He sat down, putting his hands under his legs and for a moment felt like a schoolboy waiting to see the headmaster—not that he had any real sense of himself—then he stood straight up again. He had, while he waited for Julie to come back, begun to get a sense of her as ‘significant.’ He had wondered about her in a way he hadn’t wondered about anyone in a while and he had even caught himself feeling embarrassed by the fact that he was so excited.
And now he couldn’t remember what her mouth looked like, her lips, or the noise she made when she laughed. He could remember the shape of her in that skirt and he could remember how he felt at the coffee shop; enthralled, young, uncertain. This wasn’t fair, it
hadn’t even started yet.
He grabbed his jacket and drove over to James’s cottage. He didn’t have much petrol but decided not to stop yet. He needed information first; he needed to know how bad it was even though deep down he felt he already knew. James was waiting at the door when Michael knocked.
‘Not good, Mikey, apparently she was in a car accident in the East End. She’s in a coma, has been for two days.’
‘Where?’
‘St. Francis, in London.’
‘OK, I’m going down there.’
‘Me too,’ said James without thinking.
The two men looked at each other. Michael considered speaking; he thought about saying something, anything, about how he felt about Julie but he didn’t have the energy. James spoke instead.
‘Well, just because we aren’t together, it doesn’t mean I don’t care. I mean you care, don’t you, and you’re not together or anything … are you?’
Michael looked at James. He was trying to see the place where James kept his concern for others. It wasn’t something he had ever come across before, nor was it a place he believed in now.
‘No,’ he paused. There was no time for this. ‘I’ll need to get petrol.’
‘It’s OK, we can take my car,’ said James, and he went inside to grab his coat. He turned off the Police and the lights, and felt a massive sense of relief when he closed the door and headed back outside.
They began the drive in silence, Michael biting his lip and staring out of the window; James wondering what it was he was supposed to be feeling. Increasingly uncomfortable with the silence, he finally broke and said, ‘Do you mind putting some music on? Helps me drive.’
Michael pressed the play button on the car tape and ‘Don’t You Want Me Baby’ beeped out. It made Michael jump a little. ‘Quite popular again I understand,’ ventured James.
Michael was looking at the endless black row of trees that lined the A11, wondering how much variation existed in the word ‘coma’: could there be some comas that were less bad than other comas? He’d heard stories of people staying in comas for years and then emerging unscathed.
‘Mikey? Mikey?’
‘Hmm, sorry …’
‘What sort of music do you listen to these days?’
‘Er … I don’t know Jim, whatever’s on I suppose. It doesn’t mean much to me anymore.’
‘Really? You used to know all the new bands before they’d even formed, mate. What happened?’
‘I grew up, or at least out of it.’ He paused. ‘Did they say anything else?’
‘Who?’
‘The hospital. When you called.’
‘No, just that she was in a coma and had had an accident and that the next forty-eight hours were very important.’
‘You didn’t tell me that before—why are they important? Do they think she may come round? Is there a better chance of her being OK if she gets through the next forty-eight hours? What?’
‘I don’t know, Mike. You know what hospitals are like; they are always vague. I think it’s in case you sue them if they say something that doesn’t happen.’
‘I don’t know anything about hospitals,’ said Michael quietly. And he went back to staring out of the window. The trees were gone and now there were just empty grey fields for as far as he could see. The empty space surprised him.
James, meanwhile, was trying to decide what to feel. He knew he should feel something, more important he knew he should be showing Michael that he felt something, but he wasn’t sure what it was. So instead he said: ‘A lot of the bands from the 80s are touring again, you know.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Human League, ABC, Culture Club.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Pulling in the crowds too, apparently.’
‘Well I suppose lots of people like to revisit their youth,’ said Michael without thinking.
‘But not you, eh?’
Silence. They came to a well-lit road and the empty space began to fill again. Michael could see the fields dip into the distance, and then more trees, this time not in lines but rather a forest of thin saplings. He wondered what it would be like to be in there, lost and cold and frightened. Better than being here now.
‘Mikey?’
‘Yes? Er, sorry no, not me.’
‘You never miss the good old days?’
He didn’t. In truth he couldn’t really remember them. He felt he should, as everyone should, but he couldn’t. Not the real things, not the way he felt or the things he believed or what distinguished one day from another. He remembered events—getting laid, cutting their first single—but not the life. Maybe that was his problem, he was never really that much in touch with things. Too many books, too many records, too much talk about nothing. ‘No Jim, I don’t. They weren’t all that good, I guess. Or at least, I was always hoping for something more. Doesn’t everyone?’
And they drove on in silence, listening—or not—to hits from the 80s. The road broadened past Cambridge, it seemed to turn orange, and James drove faster. Michael assumed it was to get there quicker.
Finally, James said, ‘Mikey, about you and Julie.’
Michael sighed.
‘It’s all right, I’m not hassling,’ said James. ‘It’s just I was wondering, how long has it been …?’
‘It hasn’t,’ said Michael. ‘There is nothing going on, not really. But I wish … I really like her, Jim.’
‘Yeah, well so do I,’ said James defensively.
‘No Jim,’ said Michael, turning to face him for the first time since Norwich. ‘I really like her.’
18
James and Michael arrived at the hospital just before six. James’s immediate concern was finding money for the pay and display; he mumbled something about not having change, so Michael went to the machine and sorted it out. He handed James the ticket. Up to eight hours! That’s not a hospital visit, thought James, that’s a short holiday.
Michael set off for the main entrance to the hospital, James struggling to keep up.
The hospital felt strangely like a shopping centre. There were a couple of shops, one of which appeared to be selling clothes. Who comes to hospital for new trousers? There was a choice of cafés, a sweet shop, a magazine stand. Michael half expected a cheese counter. Julie was in Intensive Care, which was near Nightingale ward on the second floor and, according to the security man at the front desk, could be found by following a blue line along the corridor floor. Michael hurried on.
Further inside, down the main corridor toward the lift, the building stopped pretending to be anything other than a hospital. It was the smell at first: a mix of urine and cheap disinfectant. After that it was the staff, everyone was wearing a uniform. And finally it was the austerity. The corridor was sparse, the lift functional, and the blue line that they had to follow was fading and chipped. The further he went, the faster he moved.
When they got to the ward James stood back so that Michael could ask the nurse at the desk where Julie was. This was partly because James wasn’t comfortable among sick people, he always worried that he might say or do something inappropriate like accidentally pull out an important tube or sit on a dialysis machine and break it. But it was also partly because James didn’t want to give anyone the idea that he was still involved with Julie. He wasn’t. She had left and that was fine. If she needed a kidney or somewhere to live with wheelchair access, then that was not really his problem any more.
He needn’t have worried; Michael apparently wanted to be involved. James couldn’t hear exactly what he and the nurse were saying, but he caught the words ‘coma,’ ‘forty-eight hours,’ ‘friend,’ and ‘over there.’ James followed Michael’s gaze to a bed in the corner of a bay of four, a bed surrounded by bits of equipment and tubes. James immediately imagined himself becoming entangled in the tubes and stepped backward. Michael, however, took a deep breath and walked with the nurse to the bedside. After a moment James followed.
Julie was white and lifeless-lookin
g with green rings round her eyes and a tube coming out of her mouth. Beside her sat a shaven-headed woman who glanced up at Michael as he stared at Julie.
‘Are you the singer?’ asked the bald girl.
Michael shook his head. ‘I’m a friend,’ he whispered.
‘I’m the singer,’ said James. The woman turned round, looked him up and down, turned away and sneered. ‘Of course you are.’
Michael must have stood at the side of the bed staring at the bloodless, sallow Julie for nearly five minutes; he didn’t move. Finally the woman sitting beside Julie looked up at him and saw that he was crying. ‘I’m Lynne,’ she said.
‘Was it you she was coming to visit?’ sniffed Michael.
‘Yes. Was it you she was going back for?’
Michael couldn’t even nod properly.
‘I’ll get some coffee,’ she said. Her face softened as she added, ‘You keep guard.’
She ignored James completely, which might have offended him if he had been planning to stay, but he wasn’t. Being here didn’t feel right and he had found that time seemed to stand still in hospitals: he’d only been here for five minutes but it felt like days. The question was, should he say anything or just slip out? He decided he’d have to say something, if only because he needed directions to Gary’s house. And with the ‘friend’ out of the way this seemed the moment.
‘Mikey … Mikey … I’m sorry mate, I don’t think I can handle this, seeing her like this, I didn’t realise it would be so … so … hard.’
Silence.
‘I think maybe I’ll just go out for a while, OK?’
Michael nodded.
‘Actually, come to think of it maybe I’ll go see Gary Guitar … You wouldn’t know how I’d get there, would you?’
19
Less than sixty feet from Julie, Ellie sat holding Gabriel’s hand, while Moira sat on a chair in the corner as she had done all afternoon.
‘Do you know,’ said Ellie quietly, ‘he’s been a right pain to live with for the last six months or so, maybe more: irritable, sarcastic, positively misanthropic. The only time I even saw a glimpse of the bloke I moved in with was when we would go out at the weekend for a drive to the coast, or a wander round the park or something, and after a few crap attempts to have a conversation about anything we would settle on wondering what it would be like to be parents. You know, where do you stand on boys’ names today? If we had a child would we stay in London? Could you imagine teaching him or her to swim or read or play football or whatever? He was fine then, Mr Bloody Chatty. The rest of the time … I didn’t know how we were staying together.’
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