by Liz Nugent
Her mouth turned to a sneer. ‘I don’t know, maybe I tell you because you don’t deserve any good news. Did you ever think about that?’
‘Why not? I didn’t want to know about Paul dying. I had nightmares for months, but you sat on the end of my bed and told me all about it. He was Brian’s friend, why didn’t you tell Brian? You told William and Brian when you got that TV job and when you won fifty pounds in the sweepstakes. And when we’re going on holidays, I always find out last. It’s not fair.’
She glided out of the room. Maybe that was the old woman’s gift to me. Bad news.
I went to the front door. William was sitting on a wall at the end of the cul-de-sac in his denim jacket, even though it was really warm and sunny, talking to two girls. Brian was kicking a ball against the garage door. I felt a familiar knot in my stomach. I went upstairs to my room, which faced out on to the woods behind our house. In the time it had taken me to climb the stairs, a dark cloud had appeared over the woods. I shut the curtains and got into bed and prayed that Mum could be unraped and that she wasn’t the witch. I was so confused it felt like my head would burst. I had prayed and prayed for Mum to stop having sex with other men – maybe this rape was God’s punishment. Maybe she would be faithful to my dad now.
That year, I got heavily involved in reading the newspapers and watching current affairs programmes. Perhaps because of Mum, I got sort of addicted to bad news. I prayed to God that the IRA would stop bombing people and that Britain and Ireland could be friends, and that the Ford factory in Cork would reopen so that all those men could keep their jobs.
There was one news story that dominated the media completely. Every night, I saw reports from Ethiopia of starving children. Their hollow bellies and their stick-like limbs were shocking to look at. The flies that gathered in the corners of their enormous eyes horrified and disgusted me. I started going to Mass every day and then to confession twice a week. The guilt of not being able to help these children was more than I could take. I bought everyone in the family a copy of the Band Aid single for Christmas and any money I had left over I sent to charities. The children still died in their thousands. God wasn’t listening any more. He didn’t care what I did. I was stuck with the woman in the woods.
When Dad started to get sick and God did nothing to help, I stopped believing in him. God didn’t rape Mum either. Jack Gogan did.
17
1995
When I was a kid, I had never dreamed of being famous. Even though Dad always said I was creative and that I had an enquiring mind, I had wanted to be a postman. It seemed like such a straightforward and useful job. Other kids wanted to be footballers and astronauts, but I wanted something that had a route and a routine. Mum had laughed when I told her that and said I’d be lucky if the Post Office would take me.
Now, at the age of twenty-four, I was a rock star. Well, more of a pop star, I suppose. The only difference really is the age and gender of your fans. My fans were mostly teenage girls, instead of older guys. The touring and recording schedules are more or less the same. But pop stars apparently don’t throw TV sets out of windows (I tried once, but the flex was welded to the wall) or do hard drugs (I had done them all).
I had everything I could possibly want: fame and fortune, TV appearances, adoring fans, more money than I could spend, world travel, sex on tap, antipsychotic medication and an on-call psychiatrist for when things got bad. But that spring, everything was good. I felt strong and stable and everyone said I was at the top of my game. Though everyone always said that when I was at the bottom too. There weren’t many people I could rely on to tell me the truth.
I was playing five nights in Paris at the Palais Omnisports and had three rest days there before we flew on to Zurich. It was a great opportunity to catch up with Brian. He had gone to live in Paris soon after Susan and Will got married the year before. We had been closer to each other than to Will because we shared a room when we were kids, but since my career had taken off, I had seen very little of him. After he got his arts degree, he couldn’t decide what he wanted to do, so he did a Higher Diploma in education. He was now teaching English in some exclusive lycée. I envied his anonymity, though his lifestyle would bore me to tears. I think he must have picked up on that because during the eight days I was in Paris, he bizarrely quit his job in the school to work in a restaurant. He said it was more fun and more social. I didn’t get why he’d go from a well-paid job to a badly paid one, particularly when he was always so obsessed with money, but he didn’t want to discuss it.
I was staying at the Lutetia. I wanted to show off a bit. I think he was glad to see that I was healthy then. A few Coca-Colas and a box of patisserie delicacies after a show was the most damage I was doing to myself at that time.
Brian was not especially well dressed and didn’t appear to be looking after himself. When I introduced him to people as my brother, they were surprised. ‘You don’t look alike at all!’ they said. The three of us were always different, and by now I had been styled and costumed in such a way that I was no longer in control of my own image. But I was happy to let others make those decisions for me. My long hair had been cropped and highlighted and my teeth were whitened, but they described the ‘look’ they wanted to achieve as ‘scruffy chic’. If anyone had known the effort and money it took to look like I’d just rolled out of bed, they would have laughed. I went to the gym for an hour every day and to weekly sunbed sessions so that in the section of the show where the dancing girls ripped my shirt off, I would be both toned and tanned. I could tell Brian thought all this was ridiculous. I thought it was ridiculous too, but Sean, my manager, said that image was everything and it was working for me, so I didn’t argue.
‘You look good,’ Brian said. ‘Well, weird, you know? But healthy. How’s the head?’ That was Brian’s way of enquiring after my mental health.
‘Good,’ I said, and it was true. I was sleeping for full nights and there were no longer any tiny visitors in my dreams. I hadn’t told anyone about that. It was impossible to explain.
Before he quit the teaching gig, Brian brought along a gang of his students to one of my shows. Afterwards, one of them tried to get into the limo with us back to the hotel. Brian was aggressive in telling her to get out of the car. But I was used to these little girls being obsessed with me and told him to be cool.
Brian didn’t invite me to his flat. He said it was small and poky and there wasn’t room to swing a cat. But another evening, towards the end of my stay, he took me to the restaurant, La Saucisserie, where he had just started working. He was really excited about introducing me to the owner, Conrad. When I met him, Brian asked, ‘Who does he remind you of?’ and I looked at Conrad while he grinned at me, and there was something familiar about him, but I couldn’t guess who Brian was talking about.
‘Paul!’ said Brian, and I realized immediately that he was talking about our cousin who died from leukaemia as a child. I felt a flutter of unease in my chest and a shadow crossed my vision. It was true. Conrad looked exactly like Paul might have looked if he had lived.
Conrad had invited the paparazzi so we couldn’t eat in peace, and it wasn’t long before the place was surrounded by teenage girls. The restaurant was an eccentric, fashionable place in the sixth arrondissement. Conrad kept slapping Brian on the back and making me pose for photographs with them. He was warm and friendly and extremely camp.
Immediately after dinner, I called my driver to get us out of there. We went back to the hotel and ordered crème brûlée on room service. Brian was looking at my wardrobes of clothes and shoes. I told him to take anything he wanted and I watched as he helped himself to silk jackets, woollen coats, shoes, waistcoats, hats and even unopened packets of socks. Pretty much anything he could carry.
The thing about Brian is that he was never really grateful. No matter what I ever did for him, however much I bought him, it was never enough for him to say thank you. It bugged me, but it wasn’t something I could ever say, except to my t
herapist. Dr Shroeder wondered why I needed gratitude for things I was able to offer without any sacrifice of my own, but it was still good manners to say thank you.
Then it struck me that there was something I could do for him that might improve his life. Brian had never really had a girlfriend. There were girls who were friends and maybe they occasionally hooked up, but there was never anyone really special.
I fell in love every couple of weeks but then the tour moved on and another girl would show up. In the early days, I’d had a kind of secret relationship with Sean’s sister, but Sean was my manager and it seemed like a betrayal. Every time I came back to Dublin, I caught up with Sarah, but after my last breakdown she’d kept her distance and I couldn’t really blame her. Still, I could always ‘get’ girls. I don’t think Brian could. He never had much confidence. It was singing that gave me confidence, but Brian was a teacher-turned-waiter and I think he felt he should be doing better.
My therapist warned me about offering charity, but I decided to get Brian a job on the tour. I could swing it so he could be the merchandising manager, selling posters and T-shirts and CDs. It would be easy. There were loads of women working on the tour and I was sure some of them would see nailing my brother as a result.
The next day, I offered him the job in a discreet café he had led me to. He was horribly offended. ‘Seriously? You want me to sell your tacky, overpriced merch to teenagers?’
I was taken aback. ‘But, Brian, you’ll be making proper money and you’ll get to travel. We can hang out a bit.’
‘I’m managing fine by myself, thanks.’
‘Really? On a kitchen porter’s salary? They must pay you well.’
He looked away and fiddled with his watch. ‘And, what, you’re going to fire the guy who currently does the merch to make room for your brother? How’s he going to feel about that?’
The ‘guy’ who was currently doing the merchandising and marketing was a tall, beautiful German twenty-three-year-old law graduate called Gilda who I slept with on a regular basis, but it was clear she wanted to have a proper relationship and having her hanging around at after-show parties every night made me a little uncomfortable. I could arrange for her to be paid off. I would let Sean handle it. I wouldn’t even have to see her. It seemed like an obvious solution.
‘Don’t worry about that. The crews on these tours move from show to show all the time. It will be fine.’
‘Fuck you, Luke, I’m not a bloody charity case.’
‘I’m offering you a job. You’ll have to work. Brian, seriously, think about it! Think about the girls!’ I winked.
‘Jesus Christ, Luke, listen to yourself. You’re offering me your leftovers. I’ve already been second best. This is a fucking insult.’ He pushed back his chair and stormed out, assuming, as always, that I’d pay the bill.
I was upset. I’d only been trying to help Brian and he threw it back in my face without ever thanking me for all I’d already done for him. I hit the hotel bar that afternoon and drank more than I should, letting my guard down. Models, or possibly prostitutes, came out of nowhere and I was buying them shots and champagne, and things got messy. Late in the evening, I decided to confront Brian. I got my driver to take me to his restaurant, to find out where he was living. A surly maître d’, recognizing my drunkenness, reluctantly gave me an address where I could find Brian.
It wasn’t at all what I expected. Brian’s building was, like most of Paris, in the Haussmann style, on Place de l‘Estrapade, where each apartment took up one wide floor. How could he afford this? I pressed the buzzer and a voice I didn’t recognize came over the intercom. I was unsure if this was the right place so tentatively asked for Brian Drumm. I was wearily told to take the elevator to the second floor while the door unlocked automatically. I stepped into a high-ceilinged atrium with an old-fashioned caged lift in front of me. Nervous of such contraptions because of all the old films I’d seen, I took the adjacent stairs.
The door to the apartment was ajar and I was surprised to see Conrad standing there in a silk robe.
‘Entrez!’ he said and then called Brian’s name. ‘Brian! Ton frère est là!’
I sat down on an opulent velvet sofa, peering at the chandelier high above me. Brian appeared, red in the face, half dressed. He muttered something to Conrad, who disappeared down the same corridor from where he had just emerged.
‘What are you doing here, Luke? It’s after midnight!’
‘Do you live here? I thought you said your place was tiny? This is a palace compared to what I was expecting.’ The cogs in my brain turned. ‘You live here … with Conrad?’
‘Shut up. He’s just putting me up for a few nights, that’s all.’
‘In the same bedroom?’
‘I’m not gay.’
‘Christ, Brian, there’s nothing to be ashamed of –’
‘I’m not fucking gay.’ He whispered it. Presumably because it would be news to Conrad.
‘But you’re flat-sharing a mansion apartment with your queer boss?’
He hung his head then went to a crystal decanter on an elaborate sideboard and filled two glasses.
‘You don’t know anything about me. I had to leave Ireland in a hurry –’
‘But why? Money? You never came to me –’
‘You never offered. But money wasn’t why I left. When I arrived here, I landed on my feet at the lycée, but last week there was trouble … with a student …’
‘Jesus, Brian, did you hit him? What happened? Why didn’t you tell me?’
His eyes glazed over and he said nothing for a few moments.
‘I’m the family joke, the loser, the one without a glittering career in the media. I don’t want your help. I’m just staying here … until I can raise the rent to get a place of my own, on my own. You could lend me –’
‘You’re a rent boy, but you’re not gay?’
‘It’s not like that. For fuck’s sake, Luke! I swear I’m not gay. I dream of meeting a woman like … I don’t know.’
Brian broke down in sobs then and, as drunk as I was, I knew I couldn’t leave him in this place with Conrad. Not that I blamed Conrad. It didn’t seem like Brian had been forced to do anything.
‘Where’s your passport? Tell Conrad you’re coming with me. Pack your bags, okay?’
‘I … People can’t find out about this, Luke.’
‘I’m not going to tell anyone, am I?’
‘I mean, the trouble at the school …’
‘I’m not going to say anything. You haven’t even told me what the problem was.’
‘Maybe not when you’re well, but what happens when you have the next breakdown and you say all kinds of crazy shit?’
I know that Brian didn’t mean to be hurtful, but I really didn’t need a reminder of my past difficulties from my ‘straight’ brother who was fucking another man for rent and God knows what else.
‘People don’t believe anything I say when I have an episode. You have nothing to worry about.’
When we got back to my suite in the Lutetia, Brian and I got properly drunk together.
‘It’s all Will’s fault.’
‘What is?’ I asked.
‘Everything. Will always gets what he wants.’
I could make no further sense of what Brian was talking about.
Two days later, Brian was selling my merchandise at the Hallenstadion in Zurich. He never said thank you. But he got laid regularly, according to the crew. All girls. I’ll never understand how Brian could sell himself like that. My therapist won’t discuss Brian’s issues with me and Brian refused to see him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. It was just a bad patch,’ was all he would say.
18
1988
I was in my first year of engineering at UCD. College was not what I thought it would be like. Will was in his final year and was house-sharing with some friends while working as an usher in a cinema to pay his rent. Brian and I lived at home though we finally had our own b
edrooms. He and Will were both doing arts degrees. Mum said the only reason I got into engineering was because I studied instead of having a social life as I had no friends. I think she was proud, though, because she boasted about it to Auntie Peggy. Brian and Will weren’t particularly impressed by my high grades in the Leaving Cert. They didn’t notice me much. They said I was a square and a dork.
At college, I expected more of the same. I’d keep myself to myself and be ignored and just get on with things. But college was far less restrictive than school. There was no uniform and I could grow my hair as long as I liked. I wore jeans every day and my combat jacket and the stripy jumper that Auntie Peggy knitted me. There were girls everywhere. Tall and elegant ones, cute and chubby ones, funny ones, serious ones – all types. They liked me. They thought I was funny. They said I was great, but I was way too shy to make a move on any of them. For the first time in my life, I was part of a gang. I had friends.
Some older guys wanted to hang out with us too. They were in a band and we all went to the garage of one of their houses to listen. They played songs they’d written themselves. It was really exciting to hear them. The girls asked me if I knew any songs. I knew a few songs, but my voice was high. I knew if I sang in front of them they’d laugh at me, so I practised at home in the bathroom with my battery-operated tape recorder when everyone was out.
One night, I was invited to a party at one of the girls’ houses. Sarah’s parents were away. Her brother, Sean, was one of the older guitar players. I didn’t drink much back then. I’d sip a beer to be social, but I didn’t really like the taste of it. Brian and Will had been getting wasted regularly since schooldays, and I could never understand why they’d want to drink so much when it repeatedly made them sick and act weird.
On this night, Sarah had made a bowl of punch. It tasted like fruit juice and I drank a lot of it until, eventually, I started to feel good and warm inside. Sean was strumming the guitar and the room was full of hash smoke. Sarah was sitting at my feet on the floor and Carrie was plaiting my hair. Everyone took it in turns singing songs and for ages I said no, but then I realized that maybe I was better than some of the people who’d sung before me, and the booze had given me a little bit of confidence. I agreed to sing a song, but on condition that I could pull my jumper over my head while doing it. Everyone laughed, but they weren’t laughing at me. It was a great feeling. They really wanted me to be good.
