THE IMAGES

TUESDAY - DECEMBER 28TH 1976
DANBRAY - NEWTOWN : EARLY EVENING
The big white Sawbones van sat in front of the Harris’s house, almost illuminating the gloom of winter’s early evening light. Clumps of fading snow still spotted the front garden and drive as revealed by the yawning houselights. It had been there for some time now - its valuable load had long ago been laboriously removed and transported to its new permanent home deep in the basement bowels of the residence. Monday afternoon and evening had been a communal effort to modify the section furthest from the living room location beneath the Harris family home. Harris, Macklin and even Mr Harris had invested, time, sweat and brainpower into converting the one time storage room from a large, heavy bricked echo chamber into a smaller, but reasonably soundproofed, sonic bomb shelter where they could rehearse without causing too much discomfort to Mr and Mrs Harris and no-one in the neighbourhood would know that musical subversives were chipping away at the foundations of their immediate environment on their way to global domination. Another perspective was that the band of friends were now free to make a lot of noise without having to worry about the same consequences and inhibitions they would have faced in, say, Sto’s family garage. It was essential that the environment was constructed before the new equipment arrived, simply hauling it in and down the narrow steps to the basement cellar was time consuming enough without taking into consideration the physical layout and distribution it required.
Both Rosser and Harris were relieved to have DJ and Ronnie there to help with the grunt work but much more importantly to assist in the technical side of things - even showing where the little mass of cardiod microphones should be placed to ensure their recordings would give a decent overall sound balance that wasn’t merely going to reflect whoever made the loudest noise. It all took longer than any of them had estimated, had either Bill or Harris realised this fact they would have expected their three partners in crime to be with them instead of letting them enjoy the festive holiday atmosphere they, themselves, were only aware of as seconds, minutes and hours disappearing on a clock face. When it was finally finished it looked quite spectacular and had been organised so as to leave adequate room for five and perhaps up to seven musicians to move about without feeling like they were trapped in some matchbox in Lilliput. All that was required now was for the individuals to fine tune their own equipment and to add suitable decoration here and there. It had been expensive and consumed the majority of the money raised from the dance but they had got a bargain thanks to Bill’s eagle eyed assessment of a good deal on the horizon and The Sawbones intercession on their behalf. They had enough gear to do decent sized pubs and venues of commensurate size that ‘Salvation’ had played before they became Slik. It was a good start for their band.
Harris’s room was still filled with the joy of Christmas decorations and provided a pleasantly haunting environment for them all to have sandwiches, tea and cake as dispensed by Mrs Harris, who wouldn’t let the Sawbones newcomers leave without some form of repast… and when that hospitality had been consumed it was Harris and Rosser who insisted on a brief celebratory drink with DJ and Ronnie.
Bill and Harris sat on the sofa as DJ was offered the black chair of honour while Ronnie took pleasure in examining some of Harris’s photographic books - seated at the little desk by the door. They cracked open another round of beers but DJ refused any spirits as he was driving on the return leg of the mission.
“So, Danny, you pulled Jane?” Harris asked with a little curiosity, sipping his vodka.
“Just a lucky guy in a lucky world!” DJ replied. “She’s pretty fabulous, well read and great company!”
Ronnie, on hearing this, looked back at his comrade suspiciously. “Only you would miss the main point, DJ!”
“What’s that?” he asked, baffled.
The rest of them just laughed and DJ gazed about with more than a
hint of irritation and anger.
“What?” DJ demanded again.
Slurping another swallow, Ronnie tore his eyes off the Helmut Newton book, looked at his friend and realised that he was genuinely seeing something that was somewhat unusual in his behaviour. He tried not to laugh before he spoke.
“She’s a bit of a shag-pump, brother! Are you the only one missing that fact?”
Bill and Harris nodded quite enthusiastically.
“Fuck off, Ron! I think she’s really…”
“Nice?” Bill and Harris said patronisingly at the same time, slapping hands as they revelled in their own imbecility and finishing with a dopey, “Oh - ooooh!”
The dark eyes tightened and DJ laughed self consciously. “Well, she is… nice!”
Ronnie smiled and mimed being a fly fisherman, flicking a rod back and casting off before moving to jam a finger into his mouth and pull his face around while the pair on the couch laughed.
“I think you’re hooked, Danny boy! Haven’t seen that look before - not with any of the pretties you’ve snapped up at the gigs!”
With a little nod of the head DJ let them have their fun, he knew what he thought and that was all that mattered.
“So, young Harris… how come you bailed on the party - it was a fucking rager!” Ronnie inquired.
Harris rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. “Too many potential nightmares were going to be there, dude, it was calling out to be avoided!”
Bill elbowed him. “You mean too many ex’s gathering like a fucking storm in the one small area. Like if everyone in China jumped up at the same time, the shock wave would tilt the world… well, there were enough there to tilt the building!”
The guys laughed and made inquiring faces.
Harris adopted the look of tolerance a parent lavishes on a wayward, simple minded child as he gazed back at them, preparing to speak and then simply shaking his head in sad despair. The boys laughed at his discomfort.
DJ nodded to Bill. “Anything happen with you and that girl, the Japanese looking bint? She seemed like a hard nut to crack! No surprise though… very, very pretty - probably gets to pick and choose her partners - so, did you blindfold her guide dog to get to her?”
All but Bill enjoyed the wave of laughter - enjoying it even less as Harris interrupted.
“You mean our good pal hasn’t shared the wealth yet? Well, allow me to fill you in - apparently octopus man ended up with tied tentacles at the party, no flumpie fondling that night, maybe she let him kiss her hand but… he did get another date, didn’t you, my little Droogie? Did you have fun at Penny’s… oh no, wait, we forgot the problem didn’t we?”
“There’s always one with Rosser’s women - and I mean apart from having to pick up their pension for them!” Ronnie cackled, finishing his beer.
Harris smiled and nodded back. “So right, Ronno! But… a very important ‘but’ here, Wild Bill’s off chasing a creature who’s probably one of the very few who’ll definitely keep him completely in his place without effort - leaving him pining with desire and making plans for storming the castle… forgetting a much bigger problem lurking over the horizon like a dark cloud! It seems he forgot to inform his current bit of gimp that she had been superseded… so Hogmanay is going to be so much fun - which one gets to be with the Mainman? Or are you gonna do a ‘From Russia With Love’ thing, with you as Bond letting the two wild gypsy girls fight it out for your affections and not so tender boinking technique?”
Rosser’s colourful Anglo-Saxon response was drowned by the hoots of laughter and derogatory comments they felt duty bound to lavish in graphic detail. It took a while for the sounds of the ‘Revolver’ album to be heard in the background again - when they realised McCartney was passionately imploring his affections to some girl that he’d ‘Got To Get You Into My Life’… they once again fell about at Bill’s expense. It took a while for order to return.
With another swallow, DJ finished his beer and placed the empty can in the bin, quickly checking his watch. “So are you guys coming up our way for New Year? We’re throwing a big bash in the Woodside Hall, just off the Great Western Road for a couple of hundred close friends - might be something satisfactory for you, Mr H!”
Harris raised his hand and shook his head. “Sto wants us to do it at this end of the world - having a bash at his place! So many parties - so little time! But thank you muchly, deffo for the next one though - if you let us know when you’re green for go! And on that subject, DJ, is Lady Jane going to be in attendance?”
Bill nudged him with an amused grin. “I like that, Lady Jane… hanging out with me is making you smart, Harris!”
“Yup, smart as a brick from you!”
Ronnie grinned as he leaned forward. “Tell the boys, DJ, tell them if you’ll definitely be at our own party for the Bells…”
The other two were puzzled.
With a flash of the evil eye to Ronnie, DJ nodded humbly. “Not dead sure yet, I’m still waiting to…”
“Find out what Jane wants to do!” the rest of them chanted together and guffawed the same way.
“Real funny, guys! But I don’t think Morecambe and Wise have anything to worry about yet!” Danny chuckled. “I might be there for the Bells and I might be with Jane to see seventy seven in before heading over. But young Ron definitely will be as he has managed to secure a real life, fully working version of your photo book subject matter - hence his sudden interest in High Art!”
“Do tell, Ronno!” Harris asked.
“Well, she’s not quite as tall as these Helmut Newton pretties but that’s the only differential - Yup, Young Ron pulled some primo model at the after dance bash!”
“Jammy sod!” Rosser grinned with a head shake. “He was spreading himself all over this cutie like a virus and, she must be a bit simple, she was thrilled by him. Saw him playing at a couple of gigs and thought he was a brilliant guitarist and very… ‘shiny’ did she say?”
“Hey, she knows a real string bender when she sees one!” Ronnie laughed with a little glow of pride.
“Well, some kind of ‘bender’!” Bill chipped back.
“Lucky we need you in the band to carry the gear coz the only way your little cutie pie could enjoy your guitar playing was if she goes deaf!”
Harris clapped his hands. “That’s bizarre, Ronnie, coz I assumed she’d have to be blind to let him get as close up as he’s been!”
“Hardy - Har - Har! Pinky and bloody Perky ride again!” Bill girned as DJ tugged a Kleenex from the box on the shelf and flopped it over to him.
With this final act, DJ stood up. “That’s our cue to make tracks, men! You happy enough with the gear then and everything?”
Bill and Harris smiled. “Totally!” they said in harmony again.
The Sawbones men smiled at the neat double act.
“Okay, we’re off. Look forward to catching up soon, guys - especially you, JH, can see where Rosser’s started developing some style from at last!” DJ laughed, ruffling Bill’s hair as the victim gritted his teeth threateningly
“That’d be good, let Tom-Tom and Andy know we were all asking after them! Our deepest thanks to all concerned over the gear deal.” Harris said pulling cash from his skin tight bleached jeans. “And here’s fifty greens - personal money for you and the other boys to get a drink to see in seventy seven!”
Ronnie smiled and DJ slapped his outstretched hand. “No - you squared up for the hire and bunged us extra at the dance, bringing the gear down is our thanks!”
Bill looked at Harris reflecting each other’s thoughts.
“Sorry men, executive decision’s been made - you take the cash or die, simple choice!” Harris threatened. “We’d never have scored the PA and other bits at that price on the street… even on a wobbly - and you spent the afternoon lugging it down and helping us set up the basement as a rehearsal and recording room… then say ‘no’ to our money? Sounds like they’re insulting us, Bill!”
“Pissing on us, more like - take the fucking money… we’ll soon get something else out of you!”
“Good one, Bill… ‘One day, and this day may never come, I may come to you for a favour!’ Been dying to do my Marlon Brando for ages!” Harris laughed for a moment before simply nodding and emphatically saying, “Please!”
Ronnie looked at DJ again but this time he simply nodded and let Harris put it into his hand.
“Thanks, boys! Tom-Tom and Andy will also appreciate it - cheers! Remember, when you want to do a bit of recording… like when you manage to get good one day… I’ll owe you a hand! Okay?”
“Totally!” Harris and Rosser harmonised.
“Or if you need some work done on that Japanese Jalopy of yours, JH, just have a whizz up to the garage and we’ll sort you at an ‘in house’ price!” Ronnie added before nodding to Rosser. “Can’t make you the same offer Bill, you can hardly handle your end of the Telecaster - never mind letting you get behind the wheel of a car!”
“You wish, mitten fingers! Unlike Clapton, they don’t call you ‘Slowhand’ for nothing!” Rosser replied, giving him the finger smugly and ducking behind Harris as Ronnie moved forward.
Harris turned to Bill, “These two degenerates might be our future - how scary is that?”
Rosser simply shuddered with over exaggerated horror.
“Hey Danny, we’d better split, tick tock… We’ve still got to get those cars fixed up tonight and I need to finish early enough to catch Maria! …and these two glimmer twins are starting to give me the fear now!” Ronnie laughed.
Harris walked them out to their van and gratefully shook their hands. “Thanks again, chaps - appreciate all your help. Drive carefully and we’ll catch up soon!”
Ronnie grinned, “Look forward to it - nice books as well, thanks for the browse!”
DJ nodded to Harris, “You need a hand with anything, just give me the word… only don’t nick Rosser permanently - it took too long to train the little geek the Sawbones way as it is!”
“I never take someone else’s property, Danny, so it’s a deal!” Harris smiled and watched the doors slam.
The van’s red lights moved along the Harris drive and disappeared into the dark of evening. Harris grinned and stood in the chill night air, enjoying the sense they were no longer playing at being a band and actually becoming one - finally things were going well and the future was looking bright… it was an alarming thought!

Harris passed a can of beer to Bill and topped up his vodka before he sat down on the black chair with his own glass in hand. The sound of ‘Jobriath’ played as no more than a background as they waited for the others to arrive.
“Thanks, Jonn, and good work done by all, eh?”
“Well snagged, Bill!” Harris grinned as their glasses clinked. “To us all!”
“So, is there any cash left after paying for the gear and the guys?”
“Little bit, it’s all in the book - check for yourself, why?”
“No reason, just wanted to know if Palmer was going to be spending time doing the accounts all night, looking to find another missing twenty five and a half pence!”
Harris laughed. “Mhic’s just careful with money, Sport!”
“Yeah, like Elvis is liberal with food!” he giggled in response and puffed his face like a bullfrog.
“Did you have something in mind?”
“If we got another reel to reel we could multi track down to cassette, link them up?”
“Good idea, but we’d need to get some kind of synchroniser to tie them in for cueing and that’d cost a fortune… way out of our reach. In fact we’d be better off getting an old Tascam or Revox if we had the cash - which we don’t, I might add… there’s about enough left for a couple of decent meals for the lot of us!”
“Not the way Stoker and Palmer eat, if we had enough to pay for their nosh bill then we could just buy the Revox!”
“That’s fucking low, Bill - totally accurate, but so fucking low! Speaking of Mr Stoker, and not speaking of the Biafran Famine his gluttony caused, did you hear that he and Hellen are no more?”
“Really? News to me, howcum?”
“Didn’t say, just they had parted company because she was…”
“…getting to be a drag?”
“Let’s do the rest of this by telepathy, Bill… I’m thinking of an image, are you getting it yet?”
Rosser grinned, “Well, it’s female, isn’t it?”
“Correcto! Again… she’s…?”
“One of a million in your head, Harris?”
“No. Petite and dark haired?”
Bill grinned, “Oh, yeah, coming through loud and clear!”
“Concentrate now, take your time, really focus because we’re looking to the future here. What are you seeing?”
There was a moment’s silence between them as Rosser’s eyes were shut and he adjusted his trousers. “These are getting tight now!”
“Cheap Hotel trousers or are you porking out, Bill?”
Rosser’s eyes opened angrily, “Well, it’s not the porking out thing, so… Cheap Hotel? What do you mean?”
“No Ballroom, Dude!”
Rosser rolled his eyes, “You spoiled the Tina moment there. Shhhhh!”
Harris watched as he closed his eyes once more.
“Right, Bill, back to the future, concentrate very hard. What are you seeing?”
Rosser’s face became a disgusting grin, “Happiness! Lots of it!”
Harris clapped his hands right against Bill’s ear, making him jump and stare in wide eyed shock!
“You dick!” he shouted in response, clutching his ear and holding a dumb laugh back. “I was enjoying that before you so rudely interrupted my own episode of ‘Timeslip’!”
“Yeah, well tune back into reality FM! If you think you’re gonna nail Tina… then become the new Barbara Cartland, Sport, because you’ll both be experts in fiction. You have absolutely no chance of ever nailing that girl - as you would put it. Even though rumour has it that she doesn’t own a single pair of knickers, not one!”
“Really?” Bill asked with a grin just this side of imprisonable offence.
“As I live and breathe, unfortunately no-one can verify the rumour because she wouldn’t even let her doctor near her. You have no fucking chance and I just had to put you in the picture… for your own good. Your time with Tina will be spent on the ‘White Knuckle, River Rapids Thrill Ride’ - ‘Wildman’!” Harris laughed sadistically.
“How the fuck would you know? Was she the support act to Moira?”
“Oooooh! Kitty Kat want some milk? Hang on - Listen, can you hear it? It’s her, calling from a long way off! Listen, far in the distance… The drums, the sound of distant drums - the drums, beating - beating and sending their message… Bill, Bill, I’m waiting for you, waiting in the heat, I need you, I need you to, to… to bring some fucking milk so that you’ll be good for something because you’re never gonna get the chance to road test me.”
“Time will tell, time will tell! Actually, we had a very pleasant evening at Penny’s - it’s some place!”
“Isn’t it?”
“How do you know?”
“Lived in Milngavie, passed it nearly every day, knew a girl who used to live there - dropped Penny off there… need any more?”
“No, not really. But it is amazing, beautifully kitted out… mind boggling stereo - really magnificent for Sabbath’s ‘Paranoid’!”
Harris laughed and kicked Rosser’s leg.
“Are you telling me that Penny has the bad taste to own a Black Sabbath album?”
“Well, no, but it would’ve sounded great on it! She did have the bad taste to invite that Gopogossum from the dance though! Wasn’t impressed by him too much!”
“Which Gopogossum was that? The girl’s dance card was pretty heavily filled.”
“Public school Pratt, all floppy hair and ‘I like the new Bay City Rollers album, their reinterpretation of ‘I Only Want To Be With You!’ shows just how much they’ve developed into a really good pop act and how far they are from being teenybop fodder’ - Jeeze! I told him to go out and buy the new ‘Quo’ single, ‘Wild Side of Life’, and he could listen to an act that had developed themselves for over ten years not ten minutes!”
“Quo - that was your best piece of ammunition to combat his critique… Quo?”
“Quo are good, ‘heeds doon and intae it!’ Yeah, Quo - better than BCR, shit Mhic’s little sister buys their records!”
“Mary? No chance!”
“No, not Mary… who’s really turning out pretty fine, I might add, but the only thing is…”
“…It’d be like fucking Palmer with tits?”
“Hah, you must be psychic! Yeah… no, not Mary, little Pauline - she just loves them, but at least there’s an excuse for her, she’s only thirteen and she doesn’t know any better yet! No excuse for Tony, or ‘I prefer Anthony when I’m with the boys’. Fucking ‘Rollers, where’ll they be in ten years time? What’ll you say to them in the future?…”
Harris nodded as they spoke together, “Fish supper, pie supper and two bags of chips, pronto!”
They laughed at their own witty premonition of the BCR band members’ futures, pausing only to ascertain if the other would forget to say…
“…And wash your hands first!”
They laughed more at their synchronicity than the uncharitable insult to the talented and multi million selling combo.
“So, young Bill, he didn’t like Quo, goes to public school and prefers to be called Anthony… I’m getting the impression he wasn’t a big hit with you!”
Bill laughed, “Not just me! Shot himself in the foot when Penny put that bloody John Miles album you like so much on, saying how cool he was and there was hardly a track that wasn’t amazing! Tina and her bopping their little heads every moment it was on with their, ‘Oh, isn’t he handsome?’ and ‘Beautiful piano playing’ and ‘Isn’t he dreamy?’ as they drooled over the cover, ‘Like a modern James Dean’ and then cackling like infants as they whispered sweet nothings to each other. Only bloody moment I felt any pity for the bleeding Mutie because they played the fucker to death and then he chips up with ‘Hmmm, it’s a bit derivative, isn’t it?’ The girls just looked at one another and didn’t say a word, but from that moment on, Tony’s ass was grass - just waiting to be mown! Even I hate the bloody thing, I wish whoever gave her it knew the pain and suffering they caused!”
Harris fell about laughing!
“Harris, you evil bastard. Why didn’t you get her the Quo album for Christmas?”
“Good taste and consideration?”
“Tasteless gitt! Now this was only about ten-ish and Tina and I were going to push off well before the last train to give them some playtime together but Penny held Tina down every time she went to get off the sofa, just so Anthony would have to leave before he could wrap his eager little mitts on Penny’s very nice body!”
“You’re kidding!”
“No, no, no, no, no! By this time we had missed our train, of course, and I’m thinking I can just about pay for a Tina taxi but I’m gonna end up walking from Glasgow or Milngavie unless Penny comes up with a plan that lets me move up from midfield! So, she apologises about making us miss the train but says she’s so grateful, yak, yak, yak, and she’ll pay for our taxis home or…”
“Again. . . you’re kidding!”
“Nope… ‘why don’t you stay over, have a couple of drinks, a bite to eat, listen to some music’ and, of course, I’m dancing about under the table until she says ‘Tina can sleep in my room and you can have the guest bedroom, Bill!’ Next thing they’re giggling like bloody infants again and some bugger’s strapped me down with lead boots. Only made worse when Tina looks over and says, in front of Penny as well, ‘Bill, surely you didn’t think you’d won the pools, did you? Wasn’t your party experience enough of a lesson?’ and the little shits fall about with the chuckles and then play that rotten fucking John Miles album again - bloody torture… double bloody torture because later I’m trying to doze off knowing her father wasn’t coming back and the two of them are probably wriggling about naked in Penny’s room while I’m… I’m…”
“On the substitute bench?”
“Very nice, Harris… you wouldn’t have done any better in my place!”
Harris just raised his eyebrows.
“Get fucked, Jonn!”
“Might have, one way or another - maybe even both ways - but I wouldn’t have been on the subs bench! They would have felt they could trust me to be in the same bed as their hot, pulsing, lithe, young naked bodies without the sense of Yorkshire Ripper like menace you would have brought to the proceedings. Now, if you too were a John Miles fan…”
“Die like a rat in a trap, you bloody sod!”
“Told you - only ‘White Knuckle’ thrills for you there… but speaking of rats! Now Moira, different kettle of fish, you might have had a chance there as she has been known to let her virtue slip every now and then… or so it is said!” Harris offered, personally amused by returning to the topic of Moira as Jobriath’s ‘Street Corner Love’ played out in a poor American interpretation of the great Bowie.
Bill didn’t pick up on the audio joke and nodded his head, “Said by Stevie, at the party, for one - a lot of noise going down behind closed doors there!”
“Why, was he begging to get away already?”
“Don’t think so, looked like he was in lurve! Well, right up until she was in the throes of heavenly pleasure groaning away with ‘Yes, more baby more. uh huh, right there ooh oooh oooooh, yes yes yes - do me, Harris!’ Think the pleasure ran out for Stevie a shade at that point!”
“Amusing, quite amusing, no matter how false your tale is, Mr Rosser, but a little humorous none the less! I’m not her favourite person, I was told that for some time after the medication that drew me to her wore off and I shed her like a snake sheds its skin, it was said that whenever Moira went to the ladies to tinkle she never used to say ‘Excuse me, girls, just off to the loo!’ but, apparently used to say ‘Excuse me girls, I’m off for a quick Harris’! So she might have said ‘Do me in Paris!’ but not, very not, ‘Do me, Harris’!”
Bill laughed, “I like that, must use it, ‘I’m off for a Harris!’ It’s good, actually! And speaking of which… I’m off for a Harris!”
Rosser was laughing enthusiastically as he went out the door, until his friend called after him.
“Bill, get used to holding that thing when you’re taking a Harris, coz it’s as close as you’ll get to any personal pleasure on the Tina front!”
Harris fell back on the chair laughing as Bill silently cursed him with a grin - Harris always had to have the last word… the same word Bill was thinking of as he relieved himself, wishing he’d been quick enough to reply ‘Harris Off!’ But, then, the world was always so much clearer when you had time for hindsight.

DANBRAY - HIGH STREET : EARLY EVENING
The winter darkness and the slushy residue hung over the streets of Danbray and the warm illumination of the ‘Dolphin’ chip shop was already somewhere back in the forgotten past as they trudged along the road, steam rising into the cool air from the opened brown bags. Sto’s eyes followed the shapely form of a pretty, raven haired woman in her early thirties as she exited ‘Boots’ and smiled to him sweetly. Taking no interest in those events, Mhic was cramming a large piece of steaming haddock into his mouth as they walked along the High Street leading along to Main Street
“I see your employer’s Business Club colleague had the world’s worst Christmas present this year”
“What do you mean?” Mhic asked with a puzzled look.
“That accountant guy, Harvey, the one who was always telling Fudge Fingers Hall to expand and capitalise on the falling economy!”
“Right, Tom Harvey? Nice enough guy, for an accountant, what about him?”
“Do you never watch the local news or read the papers?”
“Why would I?”
“Yeah, takes up too much ‘Michelle Time’, doesn’t it? Anyway, seems he got pissed up on the cliffs and… doink, fell like the economy, two hundred and fifty foot stock market crash. Needed blotting paper to gather the bits up! Don’t think they even got enough for the funeral on Thursday!”
“Fuck, really?”
“Well, yeah, not the blotting paper thing, obviously… think they used those little nets you get when you’re a kid for snagging tadpoles!”
“You know, Sto, you really are all heart!”
Sto nodded and crammed some more chips into his face. “So I’ve heard, or actually… Not all heart!” he paused to laugh and inadvertently spat some of the half chewed food before him as he chuckled, “Half meat and half heart… half heart? Half hearted, gettit?”
“Yeah, rib tickling! Say it, Sto, don’t spray it - that’s just a waste of food. There’s starving kids in Africa that would die for the chance to eat the amount of food you splutter out!”
“Well, they’re welcome to it, I’m not gonna eat it off the ground, am I?”
“Are you sure?”
“Tee hee, Palmer! I eat to live, not live to eat like some people I could mention!”
Mhic shrugged and forced a handful of salty chips into his mouth when he suddenly remembered what he wanted to ask Sto earlier, at the same time as he found these chips a little too hot, making nothing but cascading chips blast out from his mouth instead of the words he had been trying to enunciate. Sto frowned as they stopped to avoid the hot flying splatter.
“Starving kids in Africa, Mhic? Maybe you want to scoop that up and send it over, by the steam rising from it they should still be warm by the time they get there!”
His friend chewed furiously, clearing his mouth and filling in the space by waving his hand aimlessly about as they both walked around the steaming potato pieces. Sto looked suspiciously and slipped another, manageable chunk into his mouth as they walked past the broken wall near Carrick Lane.
“It’s a film, no, a book… how many words?” Sto asked grinning and chewing as Mhic merely rolled his eyes in response while his jaws speedily masticated the food and finally swallowed as if it were some chore he was being forced to undertake.
“Just pace yourself, Mhic, there’s still enough time to finish it all before we get to Harris’s place, you know!”
“You’re a knob, Sto, I could’ve choked if anything you said was ever remotely funny. Maybe you should remember that eating’s a dangerous job!”
“Not as dangerous as working for Fudge Fingers Hall!” Sto laughed.
“Oh, Sto, I’m eating here, I don’t want to think of those words!”
“Probably feel just like half chewed fish in your mouth! Licking them to get your wages - Cadbury specials!”
“Fuck off!” Mhic said in irritation, spraying another chunk of food ahead of them and making Sto begin to laugh.
“Starving - fucking - children… remember?” he said cramming some more food into his own mouth and giggling, then feeling it become a laughter jag as Mhic’s disgusted eyes locked on him silently.
The glee on Mhic’s face as his friend began to choke was appalling because he did nothing to help, even when Sto was clearly in trouble and sizeable pieces were flying out like meteors from his opened mouth - now gaping wide like a fish out of water. The only thing Mhic did was look down and shake his head patiently before delivering his line.
“The amount you just ejected could have fed a small third world country, Sto! So remember that, next time you tell me about the ‘starving fucking children’!”
But his friend was troubled very little by his associate’s one-upped-quipmanship, although he was troubled by his own breathing… or, more importantly, his lack of it. With eyes that began to fill with cloudy residue, Sto gazed unbelieving as his friend stopped to watch the choking performance of asphyxiation, almost panicking until Mhic thumped him harshly on the back and an amalgamation of semi masticated fish and chips blasted forth in a huge congealed blob. Sto gasped for air as Mhic flopped against the wall laughing hard and definitely not eating until the hilarity was completed. Finally Sto took another deep breath and looked over.
“Don’t say it - just don’t! God… because that was bad - I could’ve died there. What a waste, you could feed the world with that. Half my dinner splattered in the bloody slush!”
Mhic’s eyes were radiant with amusement but he said nothing, he didn’t have to, he just kept sending mental waves of ‘starving bloody children’!
“Are you done, Sto, can I get back to what I wanted to say yet?”
“Don’t care - I could’ve died there, what would you have said then?”
“‘Glutton chokes to death’ rivals headline for ‘Dog bites man’?”
Sto’s eyes narrowed to slits of death as he looked at Mhic while they walked onto the Newtown road. They remained silent for a minute or so, finishing their food.
“Right, what is it, Mhic, what’s so important?” Sto asked.
Mhic finished off the last few flakes of food, chewed, swallowed, wiped his hands on the chip paper and carelessly tossed it away.
“The starving kids can have that as well!” the copper haired youth sniggered.
“Was that it, Mhic, the big finale? Was that your punch line? You could get a job writing for Mike Yarwood, that was every bit as pish as his scriptwriters… he’ll end up on the dole at this rate, mark my words… on - the - dole!”
Mhic just ignored him and licked his lips clear before beginning his tale.
“Have you spoken to Dave since Christmas, Sto?”
“Never even spoke to him on Christmas, gave him a call and that jissom bag that claims to be his father just said he wasn’t in, didn’t know where he was, didn’t know when he’d be back and then hung up on me. Rotten bastard never even said ‘Merry Christmas’, thought I’d dialled Charles Dickens and Scrooge was picking up for him. Haven’t heard anything since - you?”
“Not a word, I was going to ask you if he met up with Pam over Christmas… any ideas?”
“What about?”
“Fuck me - Pam and Dave, did they meet up on Christmas?”
“No idea, why?” Sto inquired as he crushed up the food wrapping and dropped it at his feet.
“Just odd, that’s all.”
“Hang on, Mhic, wasn’t she going to Edinburgh or something and Dave was going to be in holiday hell for the day with Super-Dad?”
“That’s what I thought and then what’s his face, the dumpy little Gonk with the glasses and the hair… what’s his name? You know who I mean!”
“Do I? Tell me, then! Do you mean Captain Mainwaring out of Dad’s Army?”
Mhic rolled his eyes. “From school, from school, kind of anonymous character - what is his name?”
“He won’t have one if he’s anonymous, will he?” Sto smirked, pleased to have tossed a line Mhic would usually have pedantically picked up on.
“I didn’t say ‘he’ was anonymous, I said ‘anonymous character’… there’s a difference you know!”
“Don’t care!”
“God, what is his name?”
“I - don’t - know! Just get on with the story before we get incredibly old and just die before I hear the really important part… I take it there is an important part? Because so far it’s been pretty shit!”
“Christ, I’ve forgotten half the spasmos from school already, stays out Dave’s way!”
“Are we still playing ‘guess the name of the person you can’t remember and don’t know the name of anyway’?”
“Why didn’t you bring your car, Sto? I’ve just thought of that. Why are we having to walk about in the cold?”
Sto rolled his eyes and puffed.
“One, I’m going to have a drink and will not risk drink-driving in my newborn!”
“But you don’t mind if the car belongs to someone else?”
“Obviously! Can I go on?”
“Is this going to be a long answer?”
“You’re making it longer by the minute every time you add silly questions and comments!”
“Go on!” Mhic shouted.
“Thank you! And, two… it’ll be very cold tonight!”
“What?”
“It’ll be very cold tonight!”
“Does it have the flu or something - so what?”
“What happens when it’s cold?”
“Are you going to be like this when we’re playing giant American Football Stadiums? Interrupting the One - Two - Three - Four intros with these bizarre asides? Because I don’t think it’ll help develop a huge audience, Sto!”
“Dick! When it’s cold… when it is cold - it gets icy in winter and…”
“Who cares, why aren’t we sitting in your warm car right now and out the fucking cold that you’re telling me about as if I’m fucking retarded?”
“Because I don’t want to see my newborn splattered all over some fucking wall in the middle of Danbray like that wanker on Boxing Day - that’s why we’re walking!”
“Peter Torrence, that’s it, that’s the name! You know who I mean, Peter Torrence, not bad looking sister, Peter Torrence. Yes!”
“The sister, she’s Peter Torrence, like with ‘the snip’ or something? Shit, wait till I tell the guys back in school - no fucking wonder you chased that name! Jesus, how the fuck could anyone do that, just snip the sausage roll and flush it down the toilet? When? When was this?”
“When was what, Sto? What are you talking about - people getting ‘the snip’… which some people really feel they have to do, by the way, and it doesn’t make them Charlie Manson for dumping their gonads… just means they have to sit down to pee! Anyway, who’s had the snip?”
“Peter Torrence!”
“Really - since this morning?”
“You told me ‘Peter Torrence, not bad looking sister’ - he to she, right?”
“Are you on drugs?”
“What if I was, I wouldn’t be Charlie Manson either, would I? I’d still be me, wouldn’t I?”
Mhic shook his head in wonder about whether Sto gave any thought to the Charlie Manson and drugs connection as Harris’s gates loomed ahead along the road.
“Right, Peter Torrence is a guy in school, hasn’t had the snip as far as I know and was in the shop today buying the ELO single ‘Living Thing’, which is crap - as an aside, and he told me that Pam was at the Hellenford Marina dance on Christmas night!”
“I thought she was supposed to be in Edinburgh?”
“Exactly - at last! And so again I say… I don’t know why Dave bothers with her, just don’t get it!”
Sto glanced over with a twisted look to his face.
“Were you at the dance, Mhic?
“Yes, Yes I was at the dance but you looked too stoned to remember that - so yes, I was at the dance… so what?”
“She was red fucking hot! You must be the only one who didn’t notice!”
“I noticed, Sto!”
“Just not too much, eh? Too much time spent gazing into Michelle’s beautiful eyes like limpid pools in an azure sky!”
Mhic frowned as they entered the Harris drive. “Get fucked, Sto!”
“You’re like an old married man, already!”
“Does that mean you and Hellen have parted company?”
“Well, actually… yeah, she was getting to be a drag!”
Mhic shook his head and rang the doorbell, desperately glad to be ready to rehearse.

DANBRAY - NEWTOWN : EVENING
The telephone was ringing, reflecting the twinkling Christmas lights in the Harris hallway, as the front doorbell rang its oblique two toned chime. Harris lifted the receiver as Mrs Harris went to the door and admitted the familiar faces that quickly slipped in and deliberately lingered inside the doorway, waiting.
“Psychic Hotline - Did you know you dialled a wrong number, but don’t go away… we can help!”
Pause
Just a little further away from Harris, Sto put his hand out to Mhic, “Told you he’d changed the answer machine!”
“Hey, how are you?”
Pause
Mhic’s forehead scrunched up, “What’s the hand for?”
“Yeah, I heard about it on Sunday night on the local news. Sorry to hear it.”
Pause
Sto’s hand, flipped up and down in reply.
“Tried ringing you a few times.”
Pause
Mhic stood back as if Stoker had become contaminated, a look of horror on his face as he waited for the rest of the seizure to kick in.
“You’re with her?”
Pause
Stoker moved forward, his hand flipping up and down much more frantically.
“How is she?”
Pause
Mhic looked about, relieved Mrs Harris had left them to make their own way to Harris’s room and was not subject to this deranged behaviour that was irrational even for Sto.
“And the rest of the family?”
Pause
With his back against the wall, Mhic could do nothing but flatten himself back as much as possible as the drummer began to resemble a drooling beggar on the streets of Bombay in some Kipling tale.
“What about you?”
Pause
Sto’s face was pressing into Mhic’s now, so close he thought the maniac was going to kiss him… it wasn’t an appealing thought. Sto just started to snap the fingers of his other hand and then point to the flipping hand.
“I thought all the problems had been worked out?”
Pause
Sto just kept repeating the same pattern again and again, snapping the fingers and pointing to the ever flipping other hand. Mhic was transfixed and he dreaded to imagine what Harris would be thinking.
“What went wrong?”
Pause
With some reluctance he asked the question. “What, Sto? What is it?”
“Can’t say I blame him, in a way, but it was stupid, a total waste!”
Pause
Sto still said nothing but simply began to rub the palm of the flipping hand with the back of the other hand’s fingers.
“Are you serious?”
Pause
Mhic began to shake his head at the bizarre behaviour.
“You’d be as well jumping off the same cliff Harvey fell from.”
Pause
Sto continued to rub and flip.
“What?”
Pause
Mhic continued to shake his head.
“Are you sure about that? There’s no mistake?”
Pause
Sto’s face girned closer to Mhic who now began to head nod more violently.
“No, don’t - I’ll deal with it. When’s the funeral?”
Pause
Both maniacs now refused to speak.
“What time Thursday?”
Pause
Both maniacs allowed their actions to become more frantic.
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
Pause
Rosser popped his head out the door.
“Give her my sympathies.”
Pause
Rosser watched the two maniacs, One flipping his hand and rubbing it with the back of his other hand while his hostage was pressed against the wall with his head shaking from side to side.
“Don’t worry about that, I’ll sort it out.”
Pause
Rosser was utterly baffled - he was expecting Macklin.
“You can’t do that, it’ll just make things worse for her!”
Pause
The maniacs now took it in turns to make the ridiculous gestures.
“Think about it for a minute!”
Pause
Rosser shrugged and turned away - it hadn’t been Macklin. He wondered where he was.
“Exactly. I know it’s hard!”
Pause
The two mime artists changed emphasis as Mhic’s head shaking became the more violent and drove Sto’s face back.
“That’s not what he would have wanted, in his own way he was trying to make things better!”
Pause
Rosser waited just long enough to wonder if they could phone Macklin, perhaps something had happened… but there again it might have simply been down to the fact that the trains were running late or something.
“It’s too late now.”
Pause
The doorbell rang again and Mrs Harris walked into the hallway and didn’t turn a hair to anything taking place, simply went to the door and let Dave in with a smile.
“Yeah, I’ll do that and meet you tomorrow.”
Pause
Mrs Harris walked back to the living room wondering if the boys wanted some tea now or whether to wait until later when they had a chance to catch up again.
“Are you sure you know where?”
Pause
Rosser saw Macklin appear and stare open mouthed at the ridiculous scene as the two mime maniacs just kept moving each other back and forward and repeating those ridiculous gestures.
“And you’ve checked that? Absolutely certain?”
Pause
Rosser shrugged and turned away - it was Macklin after all.
“I hope you’re right.”
Pause
Dave moved back a bit to the wall and slithered past the danger, waving silently to Harris as he passed - obviously not wanting to disturb his telephone call.
“Well... that’s about it - Sorry!”
Pause
Dave slipped into Harris’s room with only a glance at the two mentally incapacitated mime artists.
“There’s no need for you to do anything, you’ve got more important issues to deal with just now!”
Pause
The door to Harris’s room closed leaving Harris on the phone and the silent maniacs doing whatever it was they were doing.
“Later, ‘bye!”
Pause
Harris put the phone down and appreciated not being disturbed during the call, then he went back into his room and closed the door.
The maniacs stopped. Mhic felt dizzy and irritated, he’d had enough, everyone had clearly had enough and he pushed his face into Sto’s face, the face of the creature who was still making this incomprehensible begging gesture.
“What, what, what, what, what, what, what,? What is it, Sto?” Mhic hissed quietly with an aggression.
“Why didn’t you just ask like that - properly, at the start? You lost the bet - I was right and you were wrong, pay up!”
“What bet, Sto?”
“The bet that Harris would have changed what he says when he picks up the phone - his answermachine, remember, in the chip shop, the bet? I won and you lost - pay up!”
Mhic was completely unaware of any conversation even resembling what Sto had said!
“How much Sto?”
“Ten pence!”
Mhic rolled his eyes and placed the shiny coin in the outstretched hand, walking off to the bedroom thinking how he’d have paid a hundred times that just to have the last four minutes of his life back as he closed the door.
Sto’s face was a picture of glee as he swaggered down to Harris’s room where the four other madmen were awaiting the one who towered monolithically above them. Sto entered the room and then there were five.

DANBRAY - CARNFIELD : EVENING
Cindy Smith walked down the shabby street with short, determined steps. Her eyes drifted around the untidy council tenements. Ancient, ugly buildings that were cold and grey - anachronisms in her eyes and modern era. Tiny Christmas trees lit up sitting room windows with almost predictable variation. She weaved her way through the clumps of ugly slush, haphazardly left so as to create an obstacle course. Tonight it was cold and the cumbersome bags she carried were heavier than usual. Her eyes revealed the anger which consumed her, the indignity of having had to work all day in a bloody clock factory, sticking hands on smiling faces and then having to collect a couple of huge bags full of messages. He sat at home doing nothing, while she - she, who had to earn the money for them to live - wasted herself... dying, day by day in that damned gargantuan industrial shed.
Her red patent leather coat caught the bright lights of the small corner shop which proclaimed that it was only four days to the New Year. Without looking at the shop she increased her pace, anxious to get out of this biting wind. As she passed the ‘Pine Trees’ pub on the corner she tried to close her senses to the powerful smell of booze which seemed to slither out the doors and hang in the air like a toxic gas. She prided herself on not using the local shop and certainly not the pub any more as it reminded her of where she met Freddie. In fact she rarely mixed with any of the people in the area now, she disliked the smell of defeat which it seemed they all reeked of - she swore that she was not going to end up like them.
An occasional car passed causing a syrupy, slushy sound as the wheels slithered along the road. This was her street, the street she lived in. It was exactly the same as all the others round about, they all stood back to back like rows of plastic soldiers in a war game. There was a strange atmosphere to the area, for her it was sordid and unpleasant - full of dead ends. But to the others who lived there, it was bristling with a sense of community - their roots were there and that was where their children would grow theirs.
The girl passed under the dull white light of the old street lamps, appearing and disappearing into the shadows. There was a pride in her manner, each step was taken with a certain dignity. She was tall and strongly built, her body mature and captivating, or once was at any rate. Black trousers trailed beneath the coat, the ends wet from dragging in the slush, and sparkling black platforms precariously picked their way along the darkened street. Her face clearly showed that she was glad that another working day was over.
The once bright eyes looked tired, their hazel hue now dulled to a faint lustre. Her tiny nose glowed red with the cold and periodically she sniffed, unable to use the hands which carried their titanic burden.
As she approached the entrance to her house her pink tongue darted out, wetting the chilled lips which betrayed a hint of dark red lipstick across an almost pubescent fullness. Her face held a youthful innocence to it, being just a little rounded with a child-like beauty that became so many women and, in contrast, her black beauty spot added a womanly maturity which didn’t entirely fit her. The close was black again, light bulbs were the favourite victims of vandals - especially round here. Enveloped by the darkness, she struggled carefully to the door, placing the bags down only long enough to utilise the key. She removed her black scarf from her neck before she crossed the threshold of her house. Cindy shook her head, feeling the tingle as her hair once again tasted fresh air. The dark hair which had once been such an attractive commodity and so slickly beautiful in its’ long flow, was now shorter and almost shapeless - typical of her attitude to life.
The sounds of the blaring television was thumping out the closing music to ‘Nationwide’ and it told her that ‘He’ was still sitting in front of it. Without speaking to him, she walked through to the kitchen, taking only a cursory glance at him. How she wished that he took more of an interest in his appearance. All he ever did was sit around the house, go to the pub or sign on at the unemployment office - anything but look for a job. Why should he, though? She was there to earn them money and do all the housework. Freddie was good for nothing - oh, but he had made her pregnant. He preferred to call it ‘getting her up the stick’, very funny until they were forced to get married by family politics.
Cindy cursed the day she met him and, even worse, the day she let him have the pleasure of her body - just a stupid young girl thinking a loud thug was a glamorous catch. After the miscarriage, a mere eight weeks or so following the hideous Registry Office wedding ceremony, she was free of the shackles of the poor, never to be born, child. An unfortunate fall down stairs was the attributed cause… but she knew the truth even if no-one else did. Again she looked out at him, smiling darkly as she thought how he had later tried to seduce her - never again would that swine enter her body... her punishment for the fact that she could never again conceive. Barely twenty years old and totally trapped in a daily routine of abject torture, she thought, looking into the mirror. It hurt to think that her looks were slipping - but at least she was in better shape than the twenty four years of human waste that sat in front of the burning fire, waiting for its food.
Cindy Smith faced the mirror again, looked deep at her still lovely face, and swore that she would find the way out of all this - somehow. A year and a half of marriage to Freddie Smith had felt like a thousand years of agonising torture, inhabiting the land of the damned. She gazed into her own child-like eyes and watched the reflections of herself mutely squirming to get out. A hard, determined smile crossed her face… it was almost a new year and she was going to escape - no matter what the cost, nor how she got there.

DANBRAY - NEWTOWN : EVENING
The new rehearsal - recording room was smaller than it was before the soundproofing was implemented and further insulated by the types of walls that were made when walls were built to last. The insulation filled ceiling now hid the joists that supported the floor above - Harris’s room. It was just high enough to allow the tallest of them, Dave, to stand erect, so it was more than adequate for the rest of them. Sto’s white pearl, Premier drum kit, with the word ‘Proto’ written in lipstick on the front of the kick drum, sat in the centre at the back wall. To its’ left, Macklin’s huge new bass cabinets and old Fender amp - to its’ right, stood Mhic’s Orange amp on top of a large Marshall bass cabinet that lay behind his Roland keyboard and right beside a short stand where his gold Selmer Saxophone rested. Mirrored opposite Mhic and Dave’s equipment stood Rosser and Harris’s amps - a 100 Watt Marshall Amplifier on a two by fifteen Marshall cabinet for Bill and a Peavey 50 Watt Combo for Harris. Between the two guitarists stood the smaller, H / H 16 channel mixing desk, the old two track, reel to reel with its own 8 channel mini mixer to deal with the recording microphones secreted around the room, and the Bose PA amp which was loud enough for rehearsals not to require its two 500 Watt power amp conduits. The half dozen small but powerful Bose PA speakers were scattered in each corner and the midway point of the room. The 6 microphones and their heavy cables were all neatly set up and cabling pegged away from the floor except for the trails that led from the three mic stands that stood adrift around the middle of the room.
Illumination came from either two fluorescent strip lights, one behind the drum zone and one behind the PA zone or from the four bulb socket points of one in each corner - these being the preferred medium when clarity of lighting was less important than atmosphere as each of them emitted a different colour of light, Red, Blue, Green and Yellow.
The multi coloured shadows from the full illumination rendered the five youths in a variety of strange hues, tones and shadows as each one of them was preoccupied with their own temporary problems.
Stoker pulled at a cymbal stand, adjusting and readjusting it to finally locate the point of perfect reach. His faded T-shirt swayed above his tattered and frayed green jeans as he also struggled to get a Japanese ‘Nipon’ headband over his mane of hair. A nonsensical smile played around his lips as he seated himself on the drumstool, tapping little hi-hat triplets experimentally behind the white Pearl five piece drum kit.
In black shirt and jeans, Mhic was fine tuning his saxophone reed and resetting the microphone stand that spawned two mics, although his only adjustment tended to be the mid height one to pick up the sax. He ignored everything but the throaty rasp of his Selmer.
Bill’s shirt was left open, revealing his hairy chest as he adjusted the sound on the Marshall, finding that the old, battered, white Fender Stratocaster he would use with Proto, as opposed to the Yellow Telecaster he played performing with Sawbones, would take a little time to fine tune to a point of acceptability. Bill hardly seemed to notice that there was anyone else in the room.
Dave, in black jumper and jeans, was quietly tuning the black Yamaha bass with the little electronic tuner, his back to everyone and lost in concentration, not unlike his colleague in the diametrically opposite corner.
Soon Harris was just handing the other guitar tuner to Rosser before slinking back in the white and blue cheesecloth shirt devoid of buttons and merely tied at the waist above the old jeans which had now become his favourites - purely through seniority as opposed to affection. The natural wood, Ibanez Les Paul hung, headstock down, pointing to the floor like some burned our Vietnam veteran using guitars to kill instead of guns.
It was a random anarchy of sound and everyone was taking the time to make as many points of fine tuning now, rather than later, when all they would want to do was play and keep playing. It was crucial to get this environment adjusted to the point of perfection for each and every one of them, honed for their own personal use and happiness - they were going to spend a lot of time here in the future. The woodchip panelled walls hid the brickwork and left space for them to daub graffiti, stick up posters, photos, song information - anything they required… but such trivialities were for the future, when they had the sense that the room had become theirs as much as they had become the room’s.
Harris’s cat peered round the second door portal which was still ajar, and served as yet another noise buffer, at this point having finally overcome the natural caution to flee from the strange noise and intruders it would usually have demanded. Samantha merely peeked her nose in and, unimpressed, turned about, flicked her tail and left - only prepared to return when the rehearsal room had once again become vacant… then she would investigate thoroughly, especially the old wooden chairs scattered about the room - she liked the scent of wood.
The mic stands were now placed in positions their users deemed suitable, wires sprawling across the floor like giant worms from the neat running clips along the walls. There was plenty of kick in the PA system and sonically the volume required to induce feedback from the mics was much more than they could stand in the enclosed environment - so that even the most irritating problem that may have been anticipated had been circumvented by the sheer luck of the acoustics in tandem with DJ and Ronnie’s suggested structure.
Although each of them found it strange to be in the environment they had created and owned as opposed to the usual rehearsal studios, where you paid a couple of quid an hour to rent some shit gear with a really bad PA and a carpet that always - absolutely without exception - always stuck to your feet and stunk of the stench left by the previous occupants… they just looked as if they had been doing this all their lives. Cigarette smoke was already drifting lazily throughout the enclosed space, highlighting the shafts of coloured light as Mhic, Dave and Sto puffed away now that they were approaching the end of their intricate procedures of personal environmental adjustment. Bill opened a can of beer before tossing the others over, no-one dropped them… Harris drank his can of Coke and then took a swig of the Vodka and orange - he didn’t drink beer, tea, coffee, milk or water… never, only ‘Garvie’s of Milngavie’ carbonated fluids, Coke, fresh orange juice, spirits, champagne and very occasionally wine - and he was religious about it, like a priest.
When they were all finally ready, it was somewhere near eight o’clock and the fluorescents were extinguished - it had already taken over an hour just to get ready to begin, but it looked as if even the last adjustments had been tuned to the point where any flaws would only be apparent from the rehearsal itself. Harris, guitar slung down again, made sure each and every one of them had a drink in their hand - either beer or spirits - before he ceremonially and wordlessly unrolled the first of the many decorations that would grace their walls. With a grin he unrolled the centre page pinup from the pages of an old copy of ‘Jackie’ and pinned the image of a College clad Slik right above the mixer desk in perverse tribute to the source of their equipment... to a hail of laughter and sneers as each and every one of them drank to the Glasgow band. The amusement was enhanced as Mhic vamped the chords of ‘Forever and Ever’ joined by Sto’s kickdrum and cymbals as Rosser and Harris shared a sick glance and eyebrow flick as they moved to their mics and began to say the words... ‘As it was in the beginning, then so should it end…’ joined by Dave’s resonant bass which enhanced the slow intro before the guitars kicked in as they mugged into a verse and chorus of ‘Forever and Ever’ until the laughter became so intense they all deteriorated to just playing all the flats. It was Sto who took control.
“Let’s get to work!” he shouted before doing his impressive impersonation of Keith Moon obliterating his kit in a resonant thunder of multi rhythm thumping.
“Needles in the Camel’s Eye?” Harris pitched but Rosser and Macklin were already kicking the Eno tune out before the sentence was completed. Thick notes from Dave’s bass slotted in to Stoker’s drumming, together laying a steady rhythm for Mhic. Suddenly Harris’s eyes flashed a smile, his hand sliced up and down chopping out sharp chords with mechanical precision interlacing Rosser’s own distorted sustained beat as Dave led the vocals off followed in matching time and pitched harmony by Bill and Harris - only being joined by Sto and Mhic’s voices on the chorus.
The air was electric and Harris wondered if he was the only one who felt the tingle rip through him but the eyes of the others locked to the mics clearly answered the unspoken question. Dave’s fingers worked the thick bass strings, suddenly looking like the cool Pistols bass player, Glen Matlock, as he became a freer man than he tended to be in the trappings of his everyday life. Bill began kicking out counterpoint rhythms to Harris’s structure, grinning to each other as it started to come toward the solo section nodding from one to the other to take the honours. Harris’s fuzzed lead cut through them like a WW2 searchlight seeking an invader as his fingers slithered up and down the fretboard as though it were greased. Mhic’s left hand kept the chord structure, following Dave’s rhythmic fluidity as his right hand danced through a series of sparkling, pointed melodies while Sto stretched the solo section out by some tight breaks and doubled up rhythms that were never on the vinyl original. Bill slipped into lead mode as Harris grinned in an unconsciously delighted glee at how everything sounded when everyone played the music they had often rehearsed with a vicious and intense fire. Each moment they played was reflected in the happiness of their faces because, for now, whatever personal problems or achievements their lives were composed of, the only thing that mattered was what they were doing!
Their faces voiced their satisfaction as they cut through each song, Each time they went on, their aggression and violence bubbled higher, for what they sometimes lacked in musicianship they more than compensated for with enthusiasm and naked energy. They warmed themselves up with a host of covers they loved and had played time and again but somehow it had never sounded like this. The ‘Proto’ boys drifted through The New York Dolls ‘Trash’, Be Bop Deluxe ‘Third Floor Heaven’, David Bowie’s ‘Watch That Man’, The Doors ‘Light My Fire’, Mick Ronson ‘Leave My Heart Alone’, Cockney Rebel’s ‘Make Me Smile’, The Velvets ‘Sweet Jane’, The Yardbirds ‘Shapes Of Things’, The Sex Pistols ‘I Wanna Be Me’ and Eno’s ‘Third Uncle’ - sometimes doing them two or three times to get it right and make it sound ‘bang on’ so they could have a good take of every song recorded for posterity.
By the time they took a break around nine, their glistening sweat was like a reward to them, a sign of their hard work. Together they had fought their way through their own reinterpretation of song after song, but nothing of their own yet… Harris and Rosser knew their songs weren’t ready until they were suitably warmed up. It was loud but all the levels were finally adjusted and now absolutely balanced for the old reel to reel captured their every flaw and triumph, preserved for evidence later. Smoke from Dave and Mhic’s cancer stick habit filled the room as they chained their way through almost two packs of smokes with Sto’s assistance, and the dominant smell of boozy sweat went unnoticed by them. The sounds of their music at its loudest had carried up into the room above but certainly not annoying enough to disturb Mr and Mrs Harris, thus ensuring their tenancy. The ‘Proto’ boys were here to stay.

DANBRAY - TOWN CENTRE : NIGHT
The ugly concrete Town Centre was very quiet and almost completely empty, save for the occasional pedestrian taking a short cut to the High Street or using it as a return route from the same. There was nothing open here and no reason for anyone to be here except as a transit zone as they passed from one place to another. The expensive and, at one time, intricate fountain which once spurted an eternal, illuminated cascade of sparkling water, stood silently, long discontinued and waiting in vain to be destroyed or entirely rebuilt by its’ masters. Bright orbs lit the large central section of the empty looking arena. Over by the post office, the clock glowed onto the square, hands lazily crawling round its moronic face in a repetitive task that it had never failed in.
Although Danbray usually exuded the lingering sense of it, only at night did it actually take on the actual atmosphere of a graveyard. Its’ serenity and sterility were almost tangible, a predominating life force to control the night-time.
The figure waited on the perimeter of the open space, lurking in the dimness and feeling the chill of the cold night air sinking deep into his bones even through the leather jacket. Furneaux stood within the shadows which fell in front of the fruit shop, his thin, hard body moved and writhed continually, not just to maintain his circulation but in the constant mobility that was an intrinsic part of him because he never seemed to rest.
It was as though his body had been composed from a variety of mismatched spare parts, a broad chest stuck upon a spindly set of hips, small stocky legs standing offset, long dangling arms which hung limply and a head that looked as if it were carved sandstone.
He stood quietly and unhappily, waiting for something or someone, just shifting from foot to foot and glancing around himself nervously. Occasionally the echoed sound of a passing bus distracted him, sometimes even the odd staggering drunk aroused his interest for a moment, but little else. There was something more he was looking for, there was a definite purpose in his manner apparent even from his constant checking of the cheap, black-faced timepiece a friend had supplied many years ago, when he was younger and happier.
Almost soundlessly the two robotic figures walked in his direction, initially seeming not to notice him. They walked in exact synchronisation and appeared to be just like ‘Siamese Twins’, conjoined at the arms. Furneaux mentally groaned and fell back against the wall, ridiculously trying to appear casual in circumstances which could only be seen as suspicious. They stopped in front of him and remained silent for a short time.
The first, the closest to him, spoke.
“Furny, isn’t it?”
The boy looked up at the man’s flat hat, bound with a black and white checked band.
“It’s Furneaux.” he said to the first robot.
The man ignored his comment, “We want to talk to you, Furny. Round here, we’ve something to show you.”
Furneaux stood solidly for a moment, indecisive and looking to see who else was around. The second one pushed him firmly. They walked silently along the pedestrian pathway past the cold and empty shops at the edge of the little commercial strip, moving round and on to the back of the shops - the two faceless twins sandwiching the boy. The loading area behind the shops was devoid of any animation and even quieter than the empty town centre but Furneaux was reluctant to acknowledge it as deathly quiet - he’d had more than enough of that word in the past few days. Piles of grey-black snow lay in neatly gathered piles that sat well clear of the back door access to the shops. The cul-de-sac was littered with empty cardboard boxes and bags of rubbish.
The first stopped at a dark enclosure about halfway down, “This’ll do, here.”
The other one of them seemed to smile but Furneaux couldn’t tell in the dim light. Again the first one spoke, a deep rich voice that blended well with the blandness of his navy blue uniform. “We’ve been told that you’ve been misbehaving again - unofficially, of course, people don’t like to ‘shop’ on mates. But it seems that it was you and your dead pal who turned over the Sports shop last month.”
Furneaux looked up at him, a mixture of fear and anger in his eyes, “Come on! I was through all this down at the station ages ago. I had an alibi and I’ve been cleared - assisted with inquiries as you might say. I don’t know who did it but I know it wasn’t me - so maybe I’ll just go, eh?”
The second one closed in on him. “Don’t interrupt, sonny!” he bit the words out mechanically with an almost bored tone to his voice.
The first man nodded and continued unabashed. “Now it’s not that we dislike free enterprise that much, but it was on our patch - and that’s a serious mistake. It really takes too long to get hardcore evidence and means a lot of stupid paperwork for us, so we’re going to do some crime prevention procedures here. Hopefully you’ll be less inclined to commit crime after our lecture.”
The youth started to move off, “Hey, look…” he began.
Suddenly the second figure moved. A black leather fist sunk deep into Furneaux’s stomach folding him like a paper doll until another hand stopped the collapse to unwillingly straighten him up. Again the fist smashed into him, pounding his kidneys with a measured force and precise aim designed to incapacitate and inflict pain. The boy moaned loudly and involuntarily. The first man pulled him up by the untidy mane of matted hair, once again straightening him whereupon a knee promptly thudded forcefully into Furneaux’s groin, viciously seeking to cause pain and easily overachieving its aim.
“I shouldn’t really be doing this,” the first one said, obviously pleased to hear the sound of his own voice again, “…but it’s all part of the job.” He pulled his fist back with deliberation and then threw it into the boy’s face, feeling the nose briefly flatten beneath the blow. The insensate body fell to the ground quietly, eyes turned towards them.
“Mind your step in future, son, or you’ll be teamed up with that other waste of space that’s out of our hair now… because they’ll have to dredge the river for you!” one of them said.
Furneaux’s hand moved as if reaching for something in the gutter. A heavy boot crushed it, the thick rubber sole sinking deep into the frail flesh and fracturing flimsy bone. The second one crouched down and whispered so only the victim, and not his partner, could hear it.
“Time for you to move on to pastures new, it’s bad enough that you and that other thieving little rat have disturbed important people with your crimes but now you’re associating with the Fallowhill scum - You’re wasting your time waiting for them, because we had to advise them to trot off back to their pigsty earlier on. Go and soil your own area, stay away from places where normal people want to go about their business in perfect peace. Find somewhere else to live or stay right off our patch, we’ve got enough to do chasing real criminals instead of irritating little squirts like you. Consider yourself warned, Furneaux. There won’t be another warning for you, you’ll be going to jail and even your old step-father would like to see that. Next time - there won’t be a next time! ‘Evening all!”
Furneaux had no idea what he was talking about and the only thing that rang clear was that even with the utter tragedy of losing the best friend he’d had, and when he was so low in his life that he thought things just couldn’t get any worse - life kicks you in the nuts and shows you how wrong you can be by actually making it worse. For a moment he wasn’t sure what was more sickening, the pain blitzing through his system, inducing an inability to move properly, or the notion that those Fallowhill bastards were clearly looking for him and making it sound like everyone is super pally.
With great difficulty he rolled over and saw the two dark clad men in the distance, completely indistinguishable from behind, just wandering off without so much as even looking back. The boy’s eyes followed them with the same naked hate which was inherent within him from birth. His hate for those corrupt pigs was even stronger than the pain which racked his body, but the fear from the misinformation was rising. Now it looked as if they would be looking for him to find out what he knew - he had to get some help from somewhere and he only had two places left that he could go for that. He had to get back to Liz because his meet clearly wasn’t happening and then tomorrow, go and beg for help from the last place left to him - even though all his favours were long burned out!
The justice men now disappeared round the side of the building again and he lay still, trying to recover. It had been another very bad day - and he sincerely hoped that tomorrow wasn’t going to be worse.

GLASGOW - THE SOUTHSIDE : NIGHT
Somewhere in part of South Glasgow’s bedsitland, a small white Mazda Coupe silently glided along a road packed with cars and flanked on either side by four storey buildings which had stood for well over a hundred years. The vehicle gently drew up outside a large plain building and expertly backed into a tight space. The 8 track cartridge sound of ‘The Moody Blues’ played serenely and Gerard DeFries smiled widely at the beautiful young girl beside him. The girl herself knew what was on his mind, in fact she knew much more about him than he thought. Her eyes took him in all at once. He was clearly attractive, almost a stereotypically classic ‘smoothie’. His light brown hair was neatly cut in the latest fashion, striding the line of being not too short and not too long. The droopy moustache and long sideburns gave him an appealing, mature look, even if it did hark back to the early seventies when it was a popular style for University Lecturers in Sociology or Politics. To the pretty girl he was just an average guy, average for her at any rate - she preferred performers, musicians or actors... something with a little intensity. When she considered Gerard she noted that there was nothing really charismatic about him and certainly no fire to him. His general appearance struck her as a triumph of style over content, but that wasn’t really the primary issue in this liaison. Undoubtedly, he might have been pretty faceless but he might be of assistance in her almost stationary career. The dark eyed girl glanced out the side window, wondering how he had managed to establish the wide ranging contacts he had… pure luck she supposed, the same as most things in life - but sometimes one could give fate a helping hand.
Gerard sat looking very relaxed behind the wheel of the modern sports car, a long cigarette in his small hand. His eyes were the conduit for the mind which visually ravaged her, drinking in the smooth body draped in light blue silk and exploring further with the lingering of his x-ray glance. The clean smile stretched even wider as he thought how good his chances were with her. These young hopefuls were always easy, sure-fire hits when aiming to score.
The girl’s dark blue crystalline eyes looked into his, amusedly noting how his eyes actually looked like the camera lenses from which he made his living - perhaps professions, too, are like the old fallacy of dogs looking like their masters. Mercifully, he made no obvious move towards her and, with some relief, she mentally shrugged. Trying not to be too blatant, but still quite anxious to leave the smooth photographer whom she desperately hoped could be giving her the break she needed, the girl began her bid to escape the confinement.
She spoke gently, elegantly and in a friendly manner.
“Well, Gerard, thanks for a lovely evening and dinner!”
Quickly, as a mere token gesture born of her sense of impending escape, she leaned over about to kiss his cheek.
He shook his head in a jerky gesture, pulling his head back and vainly flicking his hair from his eyes.
“I thought I might come up for a while?” the man suggested with a tone that was extremely matter-of-fact, as if it was a foregone conclusion and mere formality to be verbalised. His eyes were demanding and, conversely, his face reflected a look that was almost pleading.
“Hah, I don’t really think..”
He interrupted her without apology, “Oh, that’s a pity! I thought we could have discussed getting you some more work in greater depth. There’s a piece I’m doing shortly on Contemporary Scottish Designers… just a little piece for ‘Vogue’, a very good session and excellent exposure for the… ‘right’ girl. I mean, admittedly, it’s not a huge piece - but it is splendid, high profile material!”
He looked her over confidently, almost bored with this type of thing himself now - he was much keener on cultivating the growing connections he was making outside the industry - in the more diverse areas some of his colleagues had opened doors to.
For a moment he felt a creeping boredom arising mentally, the girl was very, very pretty but certainly in her early twenties and there was no challenge or excitement there, these women knew the game and had usually been round the block a few times unlike the younger, naive girls with their fresh and sometimes unsullied flesh, because they were both a challenge and a perverse gratification.
“Well, Maria?” he asked staring into the pale flesh which gaped through her loosely buttoned blouse.
With a flicker of irritation the girl relented and merely nodded.
“Come on, let’s go.” she eventually sighed, dropping her tacky air of respectability. Stepping out the car she laughed to herself at how predictable all these type of guys were - and how predictably pathetic too… she didn’t anticipate any burning personal gratification from this tiresome tryst. The cold night air chilled her flesh and made her smile as she likened it to the lizard like touch she expected to endure for a while - but in life sometimes you had to make sacrifices for the greater good. The car door slammed behind her and licks of icy cold rain splashed down like tears, as if lamenting the way that a girl had to act to get anywhere in life when there were more doors closing than opening. He walked by her side, up the small flight of steps and she responded on automatic, already thinking about the weekend when she could actually enjoy herself without little slugs like this slobbering over her body.
The huge front door closed with a soft thud and the two disappeared into the confines of the big grey building - consumed!

DANBRAY - NEWTOWN : NIGHT
No longer were words or signs necessary to the five possessed youths playing with the speed of a runaway train. Smoke still hung in clouds and wisps at random, close to the ceiling that barely allowed Dave to stand erect, while cans, bottles and glasses gazed up at them open mouthed. It was the third time they were doing ‘Burning up’ and the first time someone hadn’t messed it up.
Macklin’s mouth held as though zipped too tightly, fingers pumping out fat, flat notes with a fluid precision. Jerkily, Harris hopped about, one moment limp and then tense, twisting elsewhere. He looked down at the six bands of steel, ignoring the flicks of blood which were sprayed all over the blonde whiteness of the guitar. His dark eyes drank in the room and thrived on the tension and electric buzz which was flowing through them all. He and Rosser shouted the chorus with a hate that was almost frightening.
Sto’s sweat filled face was a sketch of concentration. To him there was really no-one else in the room - there was only the speeding riff which threatened to accelerate to infinity and he had to follow, no matter what. His eyes saw the darkly scowling Harris and his blonde electric lover harmonise like demented twins, but his mind was unable to assimilate the sight. There was no Palmer, uncharacteristically grinning, falling, laughing, dropping notes, missing a beat, saving a mistake - none of this, to Stoker there were only figures fighting against him and he had to do as well as them.
Rosser skated to Harris, muttering something into his ear and smiling when the other nodded in agreement, the two then screaming something incoherent into the mic at the middle eight, like non-words but the voices in tune and pleasant sounding - dreamlike.
Palmer felt it was a dream, he was too light headed to actually be part of this, therefore it must be an illusion - but a really loud one. His face cracked a smile as he watched Rosser, posing, jerking and straining to go further, beyond his bounds of capability - Mhic admired it. They hammered out their own material time and again until they secured a version they thought they might be able to listen to without being appalled.
Now it was usually Rosser or Harris who announced what to try each time, ‘Tokyo Calling’, ‘Technological Beauty’, ‘Heaven Knows’, ‘The Hanging Man’, ‘Look Alive’ and ‘Forever’ being pounded out repeatedly. They only had seven songs and they were far from finished, definitely a long way from being presentable as far as their standards were concerned - but there were no templates of trusty vinyl to refer to here, they were all drifting through unknown territory with only their wits and skill to keep them afloat.
Bill and Dave stood together, pulsing, pounding and kicking the gears of the loose tune into a higher, more driving shift. Harris joined them, lording over his burning guitar, dominated by him and yet working unyieldingly with him. Harris’s fingers worked round Rosser’s distorted rhythm riff, sliding in and out of the fifths.
They drove as one man, thrusting and thumping, biting at every turn - straining to reach an unseen and unimaginable plateau, a level of self satisfaction they were unlikely to achieve. They needed no audience to follow in rapture as they played on into the night - satisfied and yet still seeking more of the same pleasure with each tick of the clock’s hands.

A82 : LATE NIGHT
Lennie Mann sped along the slushy, wet city roads at a smooth 45 MPH. The spits of freezing rain lay on his thick afro style, hardly penetrating it, his dark face reflected a malevolent grin as it flashed like a neon sign periodically whenever it passed under the yellow influence of the street lights. The bite of the chill wind on his face and the pull it made on his hair pleased Mann, as did the bucking of petty British laws demanding a crash helmet.
The silver bike ate the road up with controlled power, each revolution of the wheel begging to go faster. Mann’s new Electra Glide was an ex-fuzz machine imported from the USA like himself, with higher standards and capabilities than the ones off the factory line. Once again he drove out toward the incomplete flyover which ran across the busy dual carriageway to Danbray.
‘Rogan’s Folly’, as it was called by the locals, held a morbid fascination for Mann. Here was the only challenge he had not yet overcome, and it was always here that he was drawn back to since he bypassed the Midlands after leaving London and moved right on to Glasgow where old associates were now building a significant little empire… and he liked building empires because their Caesars often fell long before the Republics they governed.
It seemed like a good idea to come somewhere he didn’t have to go back to zero and make contacts - they were already in place and all he had to supply were his skills and talent… the ambition came free! So far, nothing had been much of a challenge, except for ‘The Gap’, as he called it. ‘Rogan’s Folly’, colloquially named because the projected flyover and accompanying road system had been abandoned inexplicably when Phillip Rogan, the head of ‘Alpine Ltd’, a very sizeable construction company, had mysteriously disappeared without trace. Rumours and speculations were rife, especially as vast sums of money were missing and despite lengthy investigations, no trace of the man or his money had been discovered to date. With the company’s funds in disarray and Receivers called in, it was only a matter of time until all pending projects were either re-tendered or abandoned completely due to funding issues. And so it was with ‘The Gap’, it too had become a skeleton of modern times, just lingering on in an economically decaying wasteland.
There was only one way to access the flyover and that was to follow the old ‘B802’ road that vaguely preceded the A82 dual carriageway, long before traffic demanded new roadways, from there a farm road suddenly led to a chunk of road which was the beginning of a long, gentle gradient for about five hundred yards steadily rising until it flattened out briefly and led to the large supporting towers that faced each other with nothing connecting them in between.
Mann stopped at the hill leading up to ‘The Gap’. Only the virile purring of his cycle and the noise of passing vehicles in the distance could be heard. Once more he stared at the roadway, trying to probe it so deeply that he could become part of it. His headlight exposed its whiteness making it appear naked. To either side of him the uncultivated land lay wasted, one side strewn with the remnants of construction site leftovers and on the other it had devolved back to arable land once more. But it was this road that was the important thing to him. The silver bike rolled forward to the space which looked down on the dual carriageway below, easily passing through the consistently vandalised fence which had once been erected to prevent anyone going over the edge. Mann looked across the chasm, the distance, in a matter like this, was not determinable it real terms, all he knew was that it spanned the gap between life and death.
Contemptuously he turned and raced the bike down to level ground, he paused for a few seconds and then spun the bike back towards the gap. He revved the cycle violently and threw the clutch out, hopping through the gears in quick succession. The needle shot to seventy, eighty, but still not fast enough in the short distance. Mann pulled on the brakes jarringly, stopping the cycle easily before the edge.
He stood astride the machine, gazing across to the other side - unable to reach it. He had been beaten again. Without expression he left the flyover leaving only tyretracks to prove his presence. The bike roared off, reflecting his anger, and was swallowed by the blandness of the night.

DANBRAY - NEWTOWN : LATE NIGHT
Alone again, Harris stood amidst the wreckage of the evening. A single red light glowed from the corner, drawing everything into long shadows. There was now a stale, musty smell hanging in the air and his hair was still damp at the ends, forming small tails of strands which adhered to him haphazardly. With a flick of the wrist he doused the light and retired upstairs, leaving the door open to ventilate the sweaty rehearsal room.
Minutes later he drew the dark blue glass to his lips, hearing the echo of the rough lumps of ice collide within the ocean of Smirnoff ‘Blue Label’ vodka. Its taste left him unaffected but cleared his mouth of the strange dryness which lingered long after his exertions. His deep, hazel eyes reflected his exhaustion as he glanced round the freshness of his room. The reel to reel, already transported upstairs, sat to the left of the stereo system, running into the auxiliary input as it simultaneously was recorded to cassette and poured out through the four speakers scattered within his bedroom.
The taped efforts of their work rolled on. All the faults and unbalances were caught and reproduced in almost frightening clarity on the sterile brown, ferric tape. To Harris it was these which stood out before all else, easily unnoticed in the heat of the moment. The cover versions were fine, healthy warped interpretations that sometimes were damn near unrecognisable as having any bearing on the original - but that was how reinterpretation should be. Harris’s prime concern was their own material, the seven songs that were to be the building block to greatness - the flaws in these gems actually hurt! And yet there was something, a vague and indefinable something which stood out from the junk. ‘Burning Up’, ‘Tokyo Calling’ and ‘Forever’ just dodged being great in the last run of the rehearsal, but it was enough to want to make them better - create something new to escape from the hideously cliched music they had all been listening to for years and were force fed on the radio day in and day out. Their music should be something that parents hated and their peers adored… an elite beginning, some kind of musical revolution. The elements were there, a deconstructionist’s approach to music - but it was only the bare and raw strands of a being which demanded cultivation.
He drained the glass and lay back on the settee, staring wide eyed at the ceiling. There was an odd sensation of satisfaction coursing through his veins. The large black boxes on the wall poured out their raw message until the tape slithered out the play reel and continued rolling with an ugly repetitious flick, unaware that one of its’ contributors had fallen into a brief, peaceful repose.

DANBRAY : LATE NIGHT - EARLY MORNING
It was long after midnight and the dark figure stood in the vandalised phone box, jingling the loose change in his hand. His eyes flickered round everywhere, checking for solitude and prying ears before picking up the phone, wiping the earpiece on his jeans and then dialling. The ringing tone began and he took a deep breath.
“Yeah?”
“Mr Monaghen?”
“Yeah - what?”
“Have you lost something recently?”
“Who is this?”
“A friend!”
“Do I know you?”
“Doubt it.”
“What do you want?”
“To give you your property back.”
“What property?”
“A key!”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing - for me!”
“What do you want?”
“I send your key back, whatever it’s for…”
“Maybe I don’t need it now.”
“Then I’ll just dump it, sorry to have bothered you… ‘bye!”
“Wait… Hold on, just wait, let’s talk - hypothetically, if I do still want this back - what do you want?”
“To get someone out of bother.”
“I’m listening!”
“I send your key back, by recorded delivery, and you send some money to someone.”
“I knew you wanted something!”
“Right - but not for me!”
“Who?”
“The address will be in with the key - they don’t know anything about this and don’t even know me.”
“You’re at it.”
“I’d have to be pretty stupid then, wouldn’t I? Because all you do is get the key back, stiff out on paying the cash, go to the address and sweat the info out of them to get my name… then nail me, right?”
“What if I get it back and stiff you anyway?”
“Then you’d be the lying scumfuck people say you are instead of the gangster who keeps his word that I have reason to believe you are.”
“How much money?”
“That’s down to you, you know what this key’s worth - I don’t know anything about it! But it’d be nice if it was enough for this person to get far away from this place and start a new life - whatever you think is fair, I’m not a blackmailer, just helping all concerned - oiling the wheels, so to speak.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it!”
“Fine - send it!”
“I want to hear you give me your word about the money if I send the key.”
“What? I say ‘Scout’s Honour’ and I’ll do it because I’m an honest crook?”
“I know for a fact you’ve kept your word before when you didn’t have to.”
“How do you know?”
“Reliable sources - it doesn’t matter who.”
“Fine, I give you my word if you send the key then I’ll send enough money for someone to get a new start - okay?”
“Thank you, that’s all I wanted to hear - I’ll send the key tomorrow.”
“Fine! But if I learn you were the one that took this key, I’ll find you and you’ll die hard.”
“Then I’ve nothing to lose sleep over, it came into my possession by chance and I got in touch with you and not the police. I’ve been straight with you and if you try to find me there’s not much I can do about that.”
“And you don’t know anything about who took this or why?”
“I have my suspicions.”
“And they are…?”
“That isn’t part of our deal is it?
“What else do you want?”
“Nothing - I don’t want anything from you, Mr Monaghen, except that you keep your word.”
“I told you I would.”
“Then we’re all done, aren’t we?”
“I suppose so… but what if I sent some extra money for you, would that encourage you to share your ‘suspicions’?”
“I told you - I don’t want anything from you except you keep your word on the deal we made… I don’t want a penny of your money - nothing!”
“What’s your game?”
“I’m not playing a game - just helping a dead man rest easier, that’s all!”
“Are you telling me the fucker who nicked this key is dead?”
“I’m not telling you anything, why would it matter who took it?”
“It matters for my peace of mind, for security - it matters! I need to know who was behind this… that’s a lot more important than the key. Listen, just tell me what you want for yourself, our deal still stands! What do you need… Money? Drugs? Women? What?”
“I told you, there’s nothing you have that I want, except that you…”
“…Live up to the deal, I’ve got that! Listen, why don’t we meet up face to face? Come down to the office tomorrow and…”
“Absolutely no chance!”
“Who took the key?”
“Like I said, I don’t want anything from you but you can have what I know for nothing! A sign of good faith as a favour from me to you!”
“So I’m in your debt?”
“Only if you feel you are, because I’m not asking you for anything.”
“You’re a smart bastard… who took the key in your opinion?”
“Have you been dealing with the people from Fallowhill?”
“What do you know about deals with Fallowhill?”
“I don’t know anything about the deals, you’re telling me!”
“Are you sure about this?”
“I believe the people behind this were from there - so that’s where you should be looking. I don’t know anything about the who, what, where or why…but it sounds like you do!”
“I owe you one, ‘Friend’, send me the key!”
The phone went dead and the figure in the call box dropped the receiver back on its cradle, checked around him, and left.