Skiving an ideal life in a weary world

Skiver
By
Jake Kilbride

Prologue

'Benny if that putty in your hands explodes will it kill us straight away or will it just be an agonising slow death?'
'Don't worry Jimmy you won't feel a fucking thing, at least I don't think you will, nobody has ever survived a blast that I could ask.'
'Let's just get the fuck on with it or I'll give you both a slow agonising death.'
'Tell this shithouse to stop shaking and start shoving those wires into the Semtex, before I murder him.'
'God, have you ever had an idea when you've had a few, and you thought nobody would call you on it and you wish you'd left it at that? Here's our drunken idea, plan or desperate shot in the dark if you will, robbing a bank. I know what you're thinking how seventies fucking Sweeney Todd Regan and Carter re run on ITV. Well yeah it's all that and less I suppose, but what do you do when a psychopath makes you an offer you cannot refuse?'
'Oh sorry, let me introduce myself and my fellow bank robbers. I'm Stuart Mills older brother of Tony Mills don't worry you'll meet Tony later on. Ten years later on to be precise. I and my associates are soon to be the joint owners and licensees of the hottest joint in Benton Locke The Liberty Nightclub. To my right is Benny Fields or to give him his full title Lance Corporal Benjamin Fields of The 5th Brigade Royal Engineers. The guy trying not to shake is Jimmy Fox part time student of computer science at Benton Locke Technical College and full time hacker of computers.
How did it come to this you might ask robbing a bank in this day and age?
There's not going to be any money in the safe I hear you say? Well let me preface this by stating that my cohorts and I are robbing the dough from a fucking thieving cunt called Malcolm Neilson. Malcolm runs a private bank that does a neat line in hiding large amounts of drug money in his safe for a guy called Mickey Fingers Phelan right under the laws noses. Now Mickey is not a guy to be fucked with, but it has come to pass that fucking with Mickey is exactly what Malcolm Neilson is intending to do. He has taken it upon himself unilaterally like, to bump Mickey Phelan's bank charges up by ten percent and is withholding the money until payment is made.
Now Mickey being a totally unreasonable and nasty cunt has said get fucked and as any self respecting villain would has put a contract out on the aforementioned Mr Neilson. Of course if you've guessed that it's us that are going to collect that bounty you'd be wrong we're not murderers, well except Benny who blows the shit out of people for a living but that doesn't count. We're here tonight to withdraw Mickey's money for him plus interest. So for that task I've assembled Cross Green Academies class of 2004 finest three rogues. In return the honourable Mr Phelan will sign over the lease for The Liberty Nightclub to the three of us for the next ten years. A good deal I think you'll agree seeing as the three of us don't have a pot to piss in.
So I think that pretty much covers why three men in balaclavas are standing outside probably one of the largest safes in England with a case of semtex strapped to the door, shaking like shiteing dogs.
'Jimmy just attach the phone to the two wires then get the fuck back I'll do the rest.'
'Which wires you dozy bollox there's three sticking out of the rucksack?'
'The red and the yellow one, stick ' em in the back of the phone.'
'There isn't a fucking yellow one, for fucks sake.'
'Oh yeah, sorry changed it for Green, my lucky colour.'
'Jesus Benny are you trying to kill us, seriously? Right done it'
'Stu you got the mobile ready to go?'
'Affirmative, in my skyrocket.'
'Let's get out of here then because it's showtime.'
At this point you may be thinking that we'll be heading back in to the tunnel it's taken us three months to dig back to the shop we rented two doors down to wait. We're not in the fucking sixties man. Our resident computer guru Jimmy Fox hacked in to the banks security system this very evening, which was pretty small beer he said mainly on account of the fact that nobody in their right mind would steal from Mickey Phelan unless Mickey told them to. Got the door open and then its good old school blowing the safe open and away we go.
As a collective we head back outside the bank and find the biggest wall possible to hide behind which in this case is the delivery bay at Morrisons. The banks about 50 metres away but we can still see it.
'Pass us the moby man.'
Like a well oiled machine I pass Benny the mobile phone we're going to use to detonate the explosives in case you were wondering. Benny dials a number....nothing.
'What the fuck....'
I don't get to finish my sentence as there is a colossal explosion that knocks the three of us off our feet, Jimmy is holding his ears he's laughing or is he crying Benny is up on his feet and already heading back towards the bank. Alarms are going off everywhere, the din is monumental I try to shout something to Benny but he doesn't hear me. When we reach the wreckage of the vault the fucking big hole surrounding it is ablaze. We each produce our gas masks a nice touch I thought and very considerate of the British Army to supply them. Jimmy has calculated that each of our bags will hold three hundred grand and a bit making it a cool million. It takes us five minutes to load up and then we're gone. Out on the street we can hear the sirens of the emergency services the banks now well ablaze as we load up the van, OK so it's not Ocean's Eleven but we did block all the entrance roads with stolen cars we're not complete amateurs, should give us enough time for a quick getaway. Drop the cash off and back to our new home at The Liberty for last orders.

Dole Queue Dreamer

"Get out of bed Tony. It's eight thirty you've got to sign on today so don't be smoking pot will you?" I can hear her laughing as she closes the bedroom door. Me, I'm face down arse up handcuffed to the bed again, 50 shades of shite all through the night, whoever invented mummy porn I'd like to tie them up and give them a good beating. If I don't slip these handcuffs soon I'll piss myself again just like last time, one-time I only just made it to the bog before I shit myself. I'd learnt my lesson after that one though and I've taken the precaution of taping a key to the headboard, I loosen the manacles and head to the toilet, close thing. I need some weed.
This is my favourite time of the day, the unbridled joy of the first joint of the day served up with a few killer tunes courtesy of Archie Bebop, morning, afternoon and evening DJ on Radio Anon. It's as close to heaven as it gets <for a> benefits scrounger like me. My anticipation for the sweet weed is building; I shuffle about the bedroom trying to quell my cravings. I hate these mornings when I end up in the same household Time Zone as Emma. Hers is the morning routine of the automaton. It begins with a pressing of office suit, putting on her office face with her old mate Max factor and his sidekick the implacable Rimmel of London, this routine is so regimented that I know it's eight o'clock when she brushes her teeth, eight fifteen when she's on the toilet, number one three minutes, number two seven minutes. It's always eight thirty on the nose when she finally fox off.
Under the bed then for my emergency stash, knowing Emma, drugs Tsar to rock legend Tony Mills, will have flushed my regular supply down the bog when I was bombed last night. I light the long white joint and inhale its intoxicating loveliness deeply into my lungs. I cough like a diesel engine on a cold morning. The cough's getting worse which is a fucking bind since we've got a gig this weekend. "Drinking in the last chance saloon" the fly posters read, catchy you might say. Benny's idea on account of our band the Red Souls' promise to split if we aren't discovered this time. Not strictly true, I made a promise to Emma that I'd split the group if we didn't get discovered this time. My vocal chords feel like they're coated in concrete.
The Gig is on this Saturday at The Liberty, a large white elephant of a public house set smack bang in the middle of Echo Park. My brother Stuart owns it. Hence Drinking in The Last Chance Saloon. He's persuaded a record company exec, or should I say he's bribed a record company exec to come and have a look at us. It's hardly Shea Stadium but where else is there to play? Everywhere we used to play has shut down been tinned up or demolished. The Liberty serves the Coffin Dodgers and the unemployable locals till five, bored teens and students till closing, fighting is mandatory. The place stinks of piss and is always one weeks unpaid brewery bill away from shutting its doors for good. The Red Souls are its resident band, shit, we are the only band that dares play there. I'm almost hard with excitement and it's only Monday.
We've got to get signed. The Rockumentary running in my head demands it. The first part of our rock 'n' roll Odyssey the part where the band play shitty school discos for acne ravaged teens, with no equipment and fuck all money for the privilege is over, finito. Part two will be epic, the chance discovery by the A&R man from the cool indie label, followed by a meteoric rise to stardom, stadium tours, hookers, drugs, tax problems, rehab, the possible death of our drummer and the inevitable ageing comeback tour. Some bands had to make it to the Promised Land, why not the Red Souls? Maybe one of the reasons is, we're lazy bastards who don't practice our craft enough. That's why today, in lieu of my million pounds royalty cheque I will be forced to present myself to the Gestapo at the Benton Locke Jobcentre, to sign on for the pittance state affords the unemployed.
There's a clatter in the hall as an oversized mail dump is forced through the letterbox. I move listlessly from the bed into the hall, a shallow pile of brown and white envelopes nestle behind the door. Flicking through the inevitable rejection letters from last week's job applications, I feel a fleeting sense of gratitude. This clutch of envelopes represents the few kind souls who had the decency to reply to my weekly corporate begging letters, ninety percent of the twats didn't even bother. I sift out the rejection letters which I routinely destroy before Emma, life coach to rock legend Tony Mills sees them. Two identical envelopes catch my eye both bear the postmark of Old Carr University the Gateway to success the stamp says. This was a gateway I'd obviously missed on my way to the dole queue. Looking at the crisp white envelopes in my hand I feel oddly sentimental for that bastion of failure. I'd met Emma at Old Carr University four years ago when she was studying for her business management degree, job guaranteed, me I was studying for a humanities degree, dole guaranteed. Once opened, the envelope reveals two invitations to the Old Carr annual alumni ball. An event I'd managed to swerve for the last four years, this year would be no different.
The highlights of my days as the student Prince of Primark were, in no particular order; drinking cheap liquor by the gallon, this gave me the courage to play my guitar badly for the daddy's girls in the student union bar. Trying but failing miserably to lose my virginity to one of them, any of them. Losing my virginity to Carol, my old babysitter, a red head cougar who smelt of fags and fake Chanel round the back of the flares nightclub after a colossal Tequila session in our student flat. We had to hide the next day as somebody had shit in the bath and Mr Khan the landlord had called the police to report it. The best nights though were jamming in The Liberty with a beaten up acoustic guitar, playing half learned songs for hours with a thousand drunken encores. Oh and meeting and falling in love with Emma nearly forgot that one. What wonderful carefree times there were, nostalgia as they say ain't what used to be, a sudden yearning for such recent events, reminds me of how shit my current life is. I tear up both invitations and throw them in the bin. I don't need an Old Carr reunion to remind me that twenty eight thousand pounds of debt was all I had to show for three years of tossing it off.
Emma was the poster girl of the campus business community back then; worshipped by the business droids on her course they hung out in the up market coffee shops around campus. These herds of grey suited mummy's boys basking in their natural habitat, talking loudly over each other in their fucking stateless accents. Where did these people come from exactly? They weren't Jocks or Geordies or Scousers, did they have their own village where they were manufactured, a production line for middle management androids? As nerds didn't rule the world back then they were easy to ignore.
Our unlikely relationship started, as relationships often do, by chance. I decided early one Friday afternoon to bunk off a lecture on Immanuel Kant to pursue my own categorical imperative of trying to beat the lunchtime rush at the pub. My favourite shortcut would take me through the business faculty straight out and in to the taproom of the Fountain Pub. Entering the usually empty classroom I saw that today it wasn't; empty, that is. Instead, there was a solitary desk in the middle and behind the desk was Emma. I stopped and stood gawping as a child might on seeing Father Christmas in the flesh, she looked immaculate in a sharp blue business suit with black patent leather shoes. Her hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, her face was bright but serious her dark brown eyes burned with the passion of a zealot. Her bright red lips were puckered in concentration, it took her a couple of seconds to realise I was there. She looked up from the pad she had been making notes on and I froze I was smitten, was it love at first sight? Who knows, it's an overused cliché any way. Right from the word go she was assessing me, her robot mind running its algorithms; she pursed her lips as if trying to decide something crucial then she spoke.
"Are you here for the survey?" Emma shot the question at me; her professional speaking voice caught me off guard. I mumbled.
'Errrrr...' I hesitated and thought about heading for the door, my lager would be getting cold. This girl was outside my league that was clear to me. A decision had to be made; as usual my Dick triumphed over my brain.
'Yeah... What's it about?' I tried not to sound desperate, but times had been lean in the loving department since Carol the overripe babysitter had played my pink oboe. My lager top would have to wait.
'Just marketing for a business model, a couple of short questions nothing too demanding.' As the room was empty barring the two of us, I guessed that business was slow that day.
'Okay' I took my seat facing Emma, as she bent to make notes on a pad I smelt a waft of her perfume the odour was sweet and sensuous, like it was part of her not added. I stared at the top of her head while she made notes, my barely post-adolescent mind began to speculate on what exactly she was wearing underneath her tightly wrapped business suit. She looks so well scrubbed and clean, unlike some of the women in my group who smelt like musty dog baskets, swore like docker's and drank like Irish navvies. It had never even occurred to me to find out exactly what they wore under their clothes.
'I'll need some personal details before we start."
"Name?" I thought about giving a fake name something heroic and dynamic like Dirk Pounder, my porn name, should I be lucky enough to require one.
"Tony Mills."
"Age?"
"Twenty."
"Really... You look a lot older, must be the stress of education."
"Yeah metaphysics really takes it out of you and the burden of existentialism well, you know how it is."
"So what is it then?"
"Twenty, I'm only twenty."
Emma continued to fill in the boring admin crap; in this pause age anxiety had been added to my ever-growing catalogue of trivial things to worry about. It crashed the top ten straight in at number two just behind my number one trivial thing to worry about the size of my Dick causing my lack of action in the sack.
"Okay let's get started. Where do you get your information on current events?"
"I'm not interested in mainstream news per se; it's all filtered according to the political bias of the media. I can get all the news I need from Plato and Aristotle."
"Sorry Tony that doesn't fit the paradigm, is it the Internet, TV?"
"Just say the Internet then."
"Would you say that the current government is doing a good job?"
"No, nothing ever changes due to the capitalist hegemony of the elite."
"Rather cynical for such young man, don't you think?" She smiled.
It had been awhile since I'd tried out my highbrow socio-political act, I usually reserved it for upmarket females who I secretly wanted to love me for my mind as well as my body preferably both at once. But this girl was having none of it. Still, God loves a trier. After she made some more notes she looked up at me with her captivating Brown eyes which fixed me with a gaze that looked like a question. There was a pause as if she was waiting for me to ask her something. When I didn't, she ended the conversation abruptly.
"Okay Tony that's it thanks for your time."
"That's it?" I sounded incredulous which give away my disappointment at this turn of events.
"Yes we like to keep them brief, bite-size research it's all the rage at Harvard. We'll be doing another next week can put you down for slot?"
As an agnostic I thanked my maybe God silently under my breath and tried to be cool.
"Yeah that would be cool."
It took me a further seven weeks of inane questioning in the same classroom at the same time to pluck up courage to ask her for a date. The rest as they say is history, but like history what starts out good usually ends up bad, take Henry VIII six wives and his Willie drops off. Nature is a cruel mistress.
After Uni Emma had walked straight into a job at Nielsen Securities, the largest investment bank in the North of England. It was owned by her old horsey polo chum and sometimes boyfriend Mr David Neilson, that she took the job against my wishes, pretty much goes without saying. It was all a bit too cosy for my taste; as usual Emma just ignored my protestations and did it anyway.
After Uni, I'd drifted. I decided to put off taking my place in the rat race for a couple of months, which quickly turned into six months and all too quickly had turned into a year. All my energy I'd saved by not working went into my music; I wrote songs and played them every waking hour in the hope that the Red Souls would make it. Me and banana fingers Benny Fields formed the Red Souls after my other band the Split Level Cookers of Crack had well, split. Our singer Baz Lavin had cited musical differences as the cause of the Split Level Cookers of Crack's demise or as Baz as had put it 'I'm tired of playing the same old covers shit and trying to be heard over your fucking screeching guitar.' The drummer left with him to join the Dingo Flapjacks leaving me as a reluctant solo artist. I didn't give a fuck about the split as Baz, had the onstage presence of an amoeba and the vocal range of an air raid siren. Anyway the real reason Baz wanted to leave was his jealousy at the attention I got from girls at our gigs. Only that week we'd nearly come to blows on stage when a girl that Baz fancied ran on stage straight past him to plant a kiss on my lips. Baz kind of took this as an affront to his manhood and rushed me right there on stage, DJ the bands resident groupie spotted the danger before I did and reached out her hand to trip the onrushing Baz up. He landed facedown on the deck where he lay unconscious for the best part of a minute. DJ, never a big fan of Baz nearly pissed herself laughing; it was the end of Baz Lavin and Split-Level Cookers of Crack.
I was at the musical crossroads and the devil had my balls in a vice. I didn't want to continue to play the same tired old covers to bored unappreciative teenagers who wouldn't know their Hendrix from High School Musical. So it was fuck you and goodbye Mr Baz Lavin and your whiny nasal vocals, time to move on. I decided on the spot that I would take over vocals. I posted a want ad in The Liberty for a guitarist; "Must be in to The Doors, Velvet Underground and Nirvana and do Beatles stuff as well". The Beatles numbers were as much as I could manage back then because the chords were easy. The other bands were thrown in for their musical credibility, my reasoning behind it, if our new axe man had even heard of the holy trinity of bands I've mentioned, then he couldn't possibly be as much of a talentless wanker as Baz Lavin.
Two weeks passed without any response and I was getting twitchy. As I was gonna be singer I thought it might be practical to practice my pouting and strutting in front of my bedroom mirror, I was just in the middle of an air guitar solo when Benny Fields called. He said he was an old school friend of Stewart's just got back into town he was staying at The Liberty where he'd seen my ad. I asked the usual shit what bands he was into, what were his musical influences? He told me that he was into the holy trinity of bands I'd mentioned. His favourite tracks in no particular order were Riders on the storm, Heroin, Venus in furs, Sunday morning. Every group worth listening to had a favourite Velvet Underground track mine was Waiting For My Man on account of every drug dealer I'd ever dealt with sounded like the guy in the song. I wanted to meet Benny but it might be awkward with him being a mate of Stewart's what if he was shit and I had to tell him so. A simple solution sprung to mind I could get bombed on weed then if he couldn't play I wouldn't give a shit one way or the other. I told him to be round at my place at 1 o'clock the next day, I remember he asked me whether I meant 1 o'clock in the morning on 1 o'clock in the afternoon. Assuming he was joking I said whichever suited him at 1 o'clock in the morning Benny Fields turned up on my doorstep. He knocked so loud on the door to that student flats I was staying in that it woke the whole place. I quickly squat my spliff fearing a police raid. When I went out onto the top of the landing to see what all the commotion was I spotted the colossal frame of Benny Fields trying to hold himself upright on the banister at the bottom of the steps. In his hand was a large white supermarket carrier bag which looked like it was weighing him down considerably. Benny was staring at all the faces who'd come to see what this giant wanted, nobody questioned him. Eventually he caught my eye and I beckoned him to come up. He thought he was talking but really he was shouting when he called up to me I looked at the other faces looking at me and I suddenly had the urge to get off the landing. Benny began his ascent of the stairs five long minutes later he plonked himself down in front of me.
First impressions Benny looked like a darts player, if the smiling Buddha was ever tempted to the oche. His face was old and weathered, he had a long wispy beard that hung in a single strand from his chin he must have been at least six foot four. I guessed from his hooked nose and olive skins that his ancestors might have once resided somewhere near the Aegean Sea. But it was his eyes that struck me hard and alert on guard despite the booze, flicking around the room assessing the immediate situation. He reached into his considerable carrier bag and pulled out two tins of lager, he thrust one at me which I took. There was a sudden noise outside, Benny got up off the chair and went to the window where he stood looking outside for the best part of five minutes. Then he returned to his seat as if nothing had happened he offered no explanation for his odd behaviour.
"Dutch courage?" I asked.
"I don't know that one." Benny laughed out loud.
"What about twist and shout?" Benny asked if he could borrow the acoustic guitar sat at the side of the couch he picked up the battered old banjo and bashed out a raucous version of the Beatles classic.
After a minute or so of listening, I got him to quiet down a touch my neighbours were probably sticking pins in my voodoo dolls bollocks at that very moment. I persuaded Benny instead into an acoustic rendition of yesterday with my vocal accompaniment. It was a bit rough arsed, I put this down to the booze. With a bit of coaching from me he might be lead guitarist material. His image makeover would have to be fucking epic I'd let DJ handle that one. Benny chugged on his blue can and shot me an expectant look. All of a sudden I felt like judge on a shit TV talent show. Was it a yes from me? Let's see, Benny is never going to be this pretty boy teenage fodder for the pocket money market he was too old for starters. It didn't really matter as I could replace him later with some eye candy for the prepubescent teenagers. The band needed a body straight away if only to help out with the diesel for my dads clapped out transit. There wasn't any discernible disadvantage to this collaboration that is if this new guitarist adhered to a few ground rules.
"Okay Benny you're in just a few band rules, I write the songs and compose the music, on top of that I negotiate the record deals, how does that sound?"
"Hang on a minute Tony, what if our songs are shit? Or you sell the rights to our back catalogue for a fiver what then?"
"Well...er... In that case we can compromise, it's a valid point." I was stunned I hadn't expected such a robust rebuttal of my master plan, but it was early days I'd just have to grind him down.
"Okay Benny welcome to the band."
"What we called?"
"The Split Level Cookers of Crack."
"Hahahaha get fucked, sounds like some hippie pile of shite." Benny laughed loudly.
This irked me as I'd come up with the name and was rather proud of its play on words and edgy reference to drug use, I'd fought hard with Baz to get the band to accept it, I wasn't going to stand for this disrespect.
'Well genius, have you got anything better?'
'Better than that crap, yeah... I have.'
'Well, let's hear it.'
'OK try this...what about The Weevils?'
I was just taking a swig of beer as Benny announced this idea; I spat most of it back over the tin.
'What the fuck is a Weevil?'
'Hear me out....I haven't just pulled this stuff from my arse....Tony. We... er...we... do a lot of Beatles stuff don't we?'
'Yeah... and ... so...what?'
'A weevil's a kind of Beatle right....... and....and..... so your audience start...... making a connection....get it?'
'mmmm... you might have something there....we might be better with a new name.'
'You know it makes sense.' Benny raised his can.
I re-lit my spliff and took a drag, mulling over the idea of us becoming The Weevils while Benny barrelled around the flat, drunkenly trying to put some music on the microwave. My mind fast forwarded to our future band when we would be at the height of our success being interviewed by the music press and the standard lazy journo question arrives; where did you get the bands name from? I pictured me sat at the side of Benny like a fucking dummy, letting him take all the credit while I seethed inwardly, thinking about the tracks I'd written for our last number one album. I needed to think, but my brain was cabbaged from the pot. It was getting to the tipping point of the evening when I usually fell over on the couch bombed. Benny now had the drunkards thousand yard stare, it would be a close run thing which one of us passed out first. Benny looked like he was struggling to formulate a strategy for getting off the couch. Then he shouted.
'What are the bands politics?'
'What?'
'What do we stand for....you know....?' Benny trailed off.
'You know....er....anti establishment...and that bollocks.' I'd always been a leftie due to Dad's lifelong association with the Labour Party. I was on the side of downtrodden masses; my father had been a trade union activist and a Labour Councillor. I'd written some protest songs, but Baz Lavin wouldn't sing them 'Nobody does protest songs anymore' that was Baz Lavin's mantra. I was angry alright I just couldn't tell you what I was angry about; it was about time that anger had a voice. Better than that, anger, like sex sold albums. Then a pot induced flash of inspiration hit me through the mist of smoke, I found a way to rescue my credibility.
'We lean to the left.... like Labour and that shit. But nobody does protest songs anymore.' I spoke matter of fact.
'That's OK by me ..I can't stand the Tories.....pompous bastards. Anyway what about The Clash? They did protest songs worked OK for them.' Benny slurred.
'Yeah well OK The Clash, but it was different times back then it seemed like everyone was protesting about something, like legalising pot or saving the Whales or Nuclear War. Maybe there's not so much left to protest about?'
'So what you're saying is..if I'm getting this straight, that all these problems have gone away...poooof?' Benny waved his hand upwards to signify all the problems disappearing up through the roof. He was now staring at me out of one eye.
'No I er... just think that nobody wants to hear about it anymore. No market for songs about disaffected yoof and urban decay, it's all been done.' I only knew this because the only record producer I'd dealt with to date had told me so. When I'd asked him how he thought our Reds Under The Bed EP might do.
'I'm no expert mate but it's never stopped me giving my opinion.' Benny was pointing his can at me now. 'That's the biggest load of bollocks I've ever heard. There's never been a fucking better time to write protest songs...because guess what... there's even more to protest about.' Benny sat back in the chair pleased with his insightful comment. There was a pause for thought as the booze and pot had collectively slowed our cognitive processes to a crawl.
'Hey....what about..... The Red Souls. You know like in rubber sole, that album by you know?' I said.
'Genius....I can't see a single flaw in that one man. ' Benny raised his can and promptly fell off the couch.
I thought back to that night Benny Field passed out on his floor with a can in his hand, he never spilled a drop. The Red Souls were born that very night. We picked up a new drummer the following week a guy called Trash Cans McGinty, DJ our new keyboard player had met him at The Sound Factory, she texted me to tell me she had spotted a shit hot drummer and she'd asked him flat out if he wanted to join The Red Souls? DJ being DJ had used all her feminine charm on him, he joined up that night. She was right, not only was he an outstanding drummer but I quickly realised his other unique selling point for his sudden entry to the band was the seemingly endless supply of drugs he carried, which I as lead singer and band leader was quick to take advantage of.
We practiced and we practiced, in between playing in The Liberty for the price of a pint. Benny and me wrote protest songs after his impassioned defence of them. Benny usually drunk on cheap wine would accompany my lyrics I'd written, some of which I'd only wrote that day usually on the bog. I taped these early sessions for posterity me and Benny, not me on the bog; I couldn't listen to them now, without cringing. .
We got the gig at The Liberty because Stuart agreed to let us play there as long as we didn't want paying. By the time our residency at The Liberty had begun The Red Souls had a small but dedicated following. DJ had been the chief groupie of The Split Level Cookers of Crack. We'd been friends since junior school playing kiss catch in the playground, hide the sausage in our teens; our friendship had endured throughout High School, we formed a duet in the sixth form DJ played keyboards me electric guitar. Our early attempts at music were painful at best at worst they were just awful.
After school DJ studied Fashion Design at a posh University in London but homesickness soon overwhelmed her, as an antidote to her lonely nights in the smoke she kept me on the phone for hours interrogating me for any gossip or news of old classmates. She talked endlessly of forming a band with the two of us in it. I knew I only had to say the word and she would be back home in a breath, I didn't want offer hope where there was none. I was certain I wanted to be a musician; I just hadn't decided then if I wanted to be in a band. DJ eventually came home of her own volition after an unsuccessful unpaid internship with a fashion house in London, she confided in me that the fashion world wasn't a good fit for her, too superficial for a northern girl like her.
The fashion industries loss was The Red Souls' gain, she set to work on building an image for our future band. When The Split Level Cookers of Crack spluttered to a halt she almost cried with joy, she' d made me promise that she'd be in any new band. A promise I'd kept. Under DJs stylish guidance we invented a tortured poet persona for me. Jet black hair, androgynous looks and woollen cardigans, were the visual backdrop for my stirring political message, student unions reverberated to the sound of our first EP the Red's under your bed. Me, I figured success was just around the corner, it was only a matter of time before fame and fortune came a knocking. It just needed to get its fucking skates on as the band were flat broke and my last line of credit with our main backer Emma, was temporarily suspended or to put it in Emma's terms no more till you pay the last lot back. Philistine.
The Red Souls had flirted briefly with fame when Radio Anon the unofficial Old Carr campus radio station had played Reds under the bed round the clock on its release. Radio Anon late night DJ Archie Bebop was a legend of the underground airwaves. Hero to the lefties of Old Carr's political elite Archie Bebop had gained this legendary status amongst the disaffected of Benton Locke's student body by running regular exposes on the exploits of fat cat corporations and crooked businessmen who he believed ran Benton Locke. In his time he had exposed corrupt council officials, rogue traders, embezzlers and the odd drug dealer for good measure. The main target of Archie's ire was my nemesis Mr David Neilson whom he called the devils stockbroker. As recently as last week he'd accused Neilson of planning to fund another project for another African despot dictator 'His profit their pain.' He called it. Archie it seemed coined these slogans just for Neilson. Emma had once told me that Neilson was most displeased that The Red Souls were getting so much airplay on a station run by a disreputable purveyor of lies. Me, I took it as a compliment.
Wild Rumours circulated on Campus that Archie Bebop had links to Anonymous that his information on Neilson came via hackers who had bypassed the banks security, it was also said his Radio broadcasts contained coded messages for local members of the Anonymous collective directing them to their next targets. Neilson accused him in the local press of being behind a series of internet attacks against his business interests. Archie had never denied it. Neilson had expressed his suspicions to Emma of possible links between The Red Souls and Archie Bebop. Me and Emma often argued when she had once again chosen to defend Neilson's reputation after another of Archie's late night attacks on his integrity. She'd called the Radio Station one night, telling Archie in an impassioned voice that Neilson was a visionary and a shrewd businessman. Archie had replied to her that overwhelming evidence said otherwise, he went on to say Neilson was a chancer at best, at worst a despotic thief. He'd then asked Emma if Neilson was there in bed beside her? After that night she never listened again. She tried to stop me listening as some kind of gesture of solidarity with her, but I didn't. I was never happier than when old Bebop was ripping into Neilson on his late night show. Emma later confided in me when she was drunk that Neilson had a private detective solely dedicated to finding Archie Bebop and closing Radio Anon down. He hadn't succeeded to date, nobody had. Archie had a motto, a kind of catch phrase he often uttered to his night time callers, talking about freedom is one thing, defending it is another. It inspired me to write Leopards Spots a song about poverty in the UK.
I thought about ringing Benny, talking about the upcoming gig would usually cheer me up. Then thought twice about it, Benny had only that week got a job packing endless cardboard boxes with CD's and Books from a huge conveyor belt. The warehouse he worked in was about half a mile long. It stood on the old Churchill's steel works site, on one side of it was my old school St Jude's, on the other the cemetery where my granny Beryl is buried. Granny Beryl was a former pupil at St Jude's and worked as a typist in the offices at Churchill's after the war.
I now had four hours to kill before it was time to start tea for Emma. Most days I spent an hour preparing food for Emma, I had to earn my keep, Emma had said so. I was no master chef but I prided myself that I could rustle up food from the five continents, three years at college spent drooling over cooking programs on boring afternoon television, watching Jamie, Delia and Heston chop, griddle and drizzle had taught me many a trick in the kitchen. Of course I did the shopping, it gave me some relief from the crushing boredom of my days, I usually got to buy pretty much what I wanted, so long as it didn't exceed Emma's budget. Any extra that I could squeeze out of her budget went on weed and baccy.
It wasn't shopping day today and funds were low, not even enough in my pocket for a pint. I need to get out of here, anywhere will do as long as it's not this flat. A cold snap had moved in from the Atlantic according to the weatherman on the TV. I jam my hands deep into my empty pockets and walk, directionless, thinking of places I could go where I wouldn't be alone. On days like these, loneliness is my enemy; too much time alone to think without the comfort of a spliff could destroy the immunity I'd built up to my current circumstances. Days were always a little chirpier with a few illicit substances inside me. The need for mood altering escapism started after my first few months of unemployment, right around the time when friends and family became experts on what type of job I should be doing by now. Without prompting, they would offer career counselling. There sudden unannounced outbursts were like a form of tourettes.' Why don't you be a chef Tony? You're good at cooking or 'Why don't you be a teacher? You've got qualifications.' I knew they meant well it wasn't malicious, but it added to the burden. It was like they were saying you don't seem to be trying hard enough to find work, let us tell you what to do. I'd started to avoid them; I just couldn't face another well meaning inquisitor saying 'Have you got a job yet?'
I think of escape constantly, of fleeing to a better life. But I'm not sure if a better one exists or what I would do if I ever found one or is existence just fucking meaningless? Did Neilson have a better life? Of course he fucking did, because his money could buy him one and Emma too. There was no respite for me, the gnawing insecurity and anxiety of the jobless plagued my days and nights. Everything has suffered, my guitar riffs are shit, I play like I've got concrete fingers, I write piss poor lyrics that Benny throws straight in the bin. Food tastes shit, I can't find a good book to read, my body aches so I can't sleep, and worst of all, I can't get an erection. Oh the ignominy of my failure in the bedroom, is only matched by Emma's attempts to reassure me that it doesn't matter, I'd get over it she'd said ....once I found a job. That's how the working population wants it you aren't supposed to enjoy yourself if you're a benefits scrounger.
I'd wandered about a mile in a semi conscious state when I find myself at the bottom of Echo Avenue. Like a guided walkway in an airport, my legs have carried me to The Liberty Public House. A sanctuary of sorts smack bang in the middle of Echo Park, there was just one obstacle between me and two hours of peace in front of the pub telly, my brother Stuart will be expecting me. I pass through Echo Parks large Green Gates standing to the side is The Liberty. I pop my head into the taproom, Stuart is sat on his favourite spot at the bar where he often gives his political speeches from, he's wearing his black donkey jacket over his hi vis vest a peaked cap that covers his bald patch it reads 'Retired and Loving It' across the front. Stuart rarely leaves the pub. I'd tried unsuccessfully to organise trips and social events in order to involve him in something, anything but the bloody pub. He refused saying he wasn't the socialising type. I've often heard him say to anyone who'll listen; it's his choice if he wants to piss his life away. Friends and colleagues speculate on what motivates him to get out of bed on a morning, it isn't his vices; he doesn't smoke, golf, fish or play bingo. He just sits like The Buddha in his spot the centre of his universe watching the horse racing and day time TV fulfilling his role as unofficial park keeper for Echo Park's owner, Benton Locke's premier gangster Mickey Phelan. It takes him a minute to realise I'm there.
'Alright Stuart?' He turns his face, his ruddy complexion not unlike an expression of embarrassment, a bye product of all the burst blood vessels in his cheeks.
'How's your tart doing?' He gives a wry smile exposing briefly a crooked row of piano teeth. 'Yeah good thanks.'
That was the pleasant part of the conversation at an end. I wait for the inevitable. It arrives as expected.
'When are you going to get a decent woman? You've been living together long enough to know you're not right for each other.'
'Look Stuart I know Emma's not your favourite girl in the world, but give it a rest.'
Emma often referred to Stuart as that loony leftie brother of yours he never forgave her when she went to work for Neilson against my wishes, he'd begged me to kick her in to touch he told me I could live rent free at the pub if I came back.
'If it's a life of contentment you want Tony, you won't get it with Emma you mark my words. You know, you'd be better off with DJ.' Stuart says.
'How so?'
'Because brother she gives a shit about ya, and if you're not careful she'll be gone.'
'Maybe your right, if we get a contract from this record company guy, then I'll have me pick of the women.'
'Yeah fucking right, you need to stop dreaming and get yourself a job. There's no money in music these days anyhow.'
I feel deflated. Stuart has managed to piss on my chips again, he rarely criticises me but he equally never encourages me either. But come the day when I'm famous I will stick two fingers right under his big red nose.
'Any truth in the rumour then that they're going to close the park? Payback time, Benny had said one of his council mates had heard it from someone in the know, the old tried and tested baseless rumour should cover it.
'Where did you hear that shit, boy?' Hooked him, now gently reel him in.
'Archie Bebop on Radio Anon mentioned it on his show the other night.' Another lie, I know that the thought of someone taking away the park and the pub the two loves of his life will get his attention.
'You don't listen to that bollocks do ya? That Archie Bebop guy doesn't know his arse from his elbow. Nobody is shutting this park boy because I'm not going to let them.'
'Yeah, how you gonna stop them? Don't tell me you're gonna turn into a tree hugging hippie, love and peace man.'
'Ye cheeky pup, I was never a hippy I was a Mod and proud of it. Our gang used to rule this park no hippy would dare to set foot in it. To answer your impertinent question, I'll just turn it into a nature reserve, a Royal Park.'
'Simple as that then? Just move a few Dinosaur's on to the park, get the Queen out to have a butcher's at the Triceratops's running free around the kids playground, job's a good un.'
'Pretty much or I'll just bribe some politician that usually does the trick.'
'What happens if the Tories get in, it's not long now to the local council elections? We could be talking about a compulsory purchase order.' Another scare tactic from me just to seal the deal.
'Then we're fucked, I'll be out of a job the park will shut and they'll blow the shit from under it, looking for gas.'
'I never said anything about gas Stuart. Where'd you hear that? Maybe there was some truth in the rumour after all.
'Nothing..you know just rumours you hear when you stand at a bar all day.' He sounds evasive like he isn't telling the whole tale here. I let it slide.
One of the punters shouts across the bar 'How do you manage to stay in here till the early hours, without getting pissed?' Stuart had never made it to bed till Dawn for as long as I could remember.
'I've a strong constitution boy.' One cool fucker our Stuart, a tough lad as a kid and a bit of a ladies man in his teens. The front room was off limits for most of my childhood on account of his momentous shagging sessions in there when Dad was out at the club. He's mellowed a bit since he took over at The Liberty. Rumour has it he got the cash to buy the pub from Benton Locke's premier gangster Mickey Phelan, who in turn had robbed it from old man Neilson's bank. Neilson senior had perished in the aftermath of a fire caused by an explosion when the bank was robbed ten years ago this very week, nobody was ever caught. No surprise really, nobody talked if Mickey was involved. If I were Stuart I don't think I'd want to owe Mickey any money, there would definitely be penalties for default. Mickey quotes his APR in percentages alright, the percentage of your body he might chop off if you fail to meet repayments.
DJ would be home soon and I could pop round hers for my ego massaging. I watch the racing on telly for a bit Stuart has the winner 'Bound and Gagged' in the three fifteen he buys me a Double Whiskey which I down in one, I'm about to make my excuses and leave, when Benny walks in. He doesn't acknowledge anyone in the bar instead he checks every nook and cranny before taking a seat by the door, he looks anxious. He sits with his back to the bar staring out of the window, Stuart nods to me to go see if he's OK. I approach him from behind and tap him on the shoulder. In one movement he grabs my arm and spins round pushing me to the floor with the palm of his hand. I don't have time to react before he is stood over me, his large hands reach down grabbing me by the throat. I start to gag and panic trying to wriggle free but I'm stuck. I kick out at him but he won't loosen his grip on my throat. Then he's not there anymore his grip has gone and my brother is shouting at him as three bodies pin him to the floor. I rise slowly coughing I catch sight of Benny lying beneath three bodies his eyes are blank like he's in a trance. He doesn't recognise me, I stagger out the door of the pub into the car park. I rub my neck it's really sore. I'm breathing erratically and shaking uncontrollably. I don't wait around for an encore I need to sit down and have a spliff.