Devil Music - Chapter 2 (continued)
“Scuse me,” I say, as I push
past him, “But I've got to see Doug. See you round,
uh…”
He repeats his name but the words
evaporate into the air like spit off a hot iron. It doesn't
matter where she went, it was just a kick in the head, seeing
her like that…
I stumble back towards the stage. I need
to find Doug, tell him UA don't know their arses from a hole in
the ground. I didn't know you were a Hawkwind fan. And they say
they put a man on the moon…
I make my way past the usual stern-faced
roadies trying to look busy and on into the dressing room, but
he's not there. Just the band, god help us, surrounded by the
usual fuckin space cadets and grovellers you always get
backstage, whatever the gig. Some of them bother to beam down
long enough to say hi, most of them completely ignore me. Good.
I'm not in the mood to glad-hand cunts tonight.
I notice she's not there either, though,
and start to feel better, and then worse. Both at the same
time. Was she lying? Or is she already on her knees somewhere
in the back of the van? I don't know and I don't want to know.
Nothing plus nothing equals nothing, that's the bottom line.
And I've already got enough material for a double-album, do you
know what I'm saying?
Some loony tune in a tricorn hat passes me
a joint and I try starting a conversation with Lemmy, who I
know from his days as a humper for Jimi. Lemmy's one of the few
musos I don't mind having a bit of a chinwag with. He's as up
his own arse as any of 'em, but at least he's a fuckin laugh.
And he's honest, which is rare, let's face it, whatever tune
you play.
But as soon as I get close it's obvious
he's right out of the game. He just stares through me, propped
up on a chair by the wall like a ventriloquist's dummy, minus
the hand up his jacksy.
“I want whatever he's on,” I
quip to no-one in particular and no-one in particular responds.
All except for Nik, the sax player and
resident peace-love bore, who comes over and immediately goes
into one about some benefit gig the band are doing and whether
I'd like to “contribute to the cause” by maybe
inviting Mitch or Noel along.
“Leave it out, Nik,” I feel
like saying. “I couldn't give a toss what Mitch or Noel
do. It was the organ-grinder I worked for, not his fuckin
monkeys…”
Instead, I find myself nodding my head and
smiling as I struggle to summon the requisite right-on
response.
“Listen, man,” I say weakly,
“you know me, I'm cool. Power to the people, you know
what I'm saying?”
But it's a bum note and he looks at me
quizzically through his Catweazle beard.
“What I mean,” I say, reaching
down into the barrel, “is that I really dig where you're
coming from. Always have done, man, right from the very
beginning. I just need to find Doug, talk a bit of turkey. D'ya
know what I'm saying?”
But Nik's stopped listening. A common
enough trait amongst his breed: so busy trying to save the
world they utterly fail to grasp the misery they are inflicting
on the poor bastard right in front of them. Instead, the far
out cunt launches into another interminable spiel about some
other lost cause looking for a hand-out. It's like watching
Stars On Sunday. You want to swing your foot through the
screen… FUCK OFF, YOU CUNT! CAN'T YOU SEE I'M NOT
INTERESTED!
I eventually play the old 'need to piss'
card and manage to get away before I completely lose it. My
hair hurts and I feel sick from the insides out. I must find
Doug, get the old show on the road. That's the bottom line.
Then head off down the lost and lonely highway…
I go into the dressing room bogs, sidle
into one of the cubicles and lock the door behind me. It's not
like you have to hide your stash from Hawkwind - shit, there's
probably enough gear flying round the dressing room to send us
all to jail til 1984! - but you have to retain a modicum of
cool when it comes to the wise old Chinaman. Some get
completely hysterical at the very mention of his name. Others
are wont to lose their virginity. Either way, you end up taking
responsibility for a lot of shit you didn't bargain for when
all you really wanted to do was get hi hi hi.
I carefully take the little polythene bag
out of my underpants, where I've stashed it, and do my funky
thing. I'm just savouring the burn when I hear the outer door
open as someone comes in for a piss. I decide to wait till
they've gone. I put the toilet seat down and rest my wearies. I
can't hack these fuckin comedowns the way I used to. That's why
I need the gear. Nothing else works. Not like it used to.
Somebody should change the record…
It was actually her sixteenth birthday, so
strictly speaking we could do what we wanted. But I still felt
like a pervert as I put the coins in the Johnny machine. Like
someone would say something if they saw me.
We had been to the pictures to see the new
James Bond and now, on the way home, we had stopped at the pub
for a drink. It wasn't something we normally did, but it wasn't
a drink we were after. It was the Johnny machine in the Gents.
I had spotted it the last time I'd been in there at Christmas
with Frank, when we both got completely rat-arsed. I was so bad
I had to spend the night at his place. My parents would have
bloody killed me if they'd seen me like that. The next day I
could hardly remember a thing beyond the first few pints. But
I'd seen the Johnny machine and I remembered that all
right…
I couldn't bring myself to ask for them at
the chemist's. The old girl behind the counter knew me, for
god's sake. And the bloke in the barber's shop was one of those
flash, know-all wankers that would definitely have taken the
mickey. There was just no way…
A machine, though, that would be all
right, I thought. So I bought the drinks and settled her down
at a table by the wall, then legged it to the bogs. I had to
take my time though cos there was some bloke in there. He must
have had a dong like a bloody elephant's cos he stood there
pissing for hours. I thought he was never going to stop. My own
dong was more like a mouse's as I stood there with it in my
hands waiting. He kept looking at me. Then, at last, he
stopped, shook for what seemed like another age, then zipped up
and walked out, the door banging shut behind him.
Hally-bloody-looyah. As soon as he was
gone, I went straight to the machine. A shilling-and-sixpence
for a packet-of-three. Would three be enough? What was normal?
I found three sixpences and put them in…
It felt like the whole pub was watching me
as I came back to the table.
“Well?” she said, her voice
much too loud. “Did you get them?”
I looked at her, stunned. “Not
here!” I hissed.
“Where then?” she giggled.
“Drink up, let's go…” I
looked at her. Didn't she bloody know anything?
We got back to my parents' place and after
saying hello to my mum in the front room we went upstairs. I
put 'Sherry' by the Four Seasons on, which I knew she liked.
Then I drew the curtains and sat on the bed, waiting.
I had shown her the packet-of-three on the
walk home, thinking she'd be pleased, or at least admire my
courage. But instead she'd stopped teasing me and gone a bit
quiet. It seemed to bring it all home to her. Now we were
actually in my room, I wondered if she still wanted to do it.
“You don't have to, you know, if you
don't want to. I'm not trying to force you.”
“I know,” she said.
“What then?”
“It's just…”
She stood there, looking down and picking
at her red nail polish.
“What?”
“Nothing…”
Christ. I took a deep breath.
“What is it?” I said again, as
kindly and understandingly as I could. “What's the
matter, baby girl?”
“I don't know,” she said.
“What if… what if I get pregnant?”
I breathed out. Was that all?
“That's what these are for,” I
said, showing her the packet again.
“I know, but what if something goes
wrong?”
Wrong? What could go wrong? She didn't
want to do it.
“Look, it's all right. If you don't
want to do it, it's fine, all right?”
“No,” she said, avoiding my
eyes. “I want to. It's just…”
“What?”
“You'll laugh.”
No, I wouldn't. “What, for god's
sake?” I couldn't disguise the irritation any longer. If
she didn't want to do it, why didn't she just say so?
“Tell me. What is it?”
She sat down on the bed at last and looked
at me.
“What if you don't love me…
afterwards?”
“What?”
“What if you don't love me
afterwards? That's what they say happens, that they only love
you until they get what they want. Then they go off you and
look for someone else…”
She was mad. She must have been.
“Liz,” I said, relieved.
“Liz, baby girl of my dreams…” I reached for
her. “Don't you know I have never loved anyone or
anything like I love you? I couldn't stop loving you if I
tried. If anything, this will only make me love you even more!
I want me and my little baby girl to be together forever, don't
you know anything? Forever and ever and ever…”
“I love you, too,” she said
and started to cry.
Her sobs were so loud I thought mum would
hear. I put my arms round her and squeezed her tight.
“Liz,” I said, “ssshhhh!
Come on now, you're just being silly. I love you and you love
me, that should make us happy, not sad…”
“I know,” she said.
“But…”
“But what, baby girl?”
“What if it doesn't? What if it just
makes us more sad?”
Ifs, buts, whats… people are full of
'em. Music biz people, especially. Proven fact.
I force my eyelids back open and take in
the grey, graffitied door, the thin shiny paper hanging
forlornly from the bog roll, the pools of piss on the tiled
floor beneath my feet. But it still takes a few seconds to
adjust; to force myself to accept that this is the world I'm
actually in now, not the other one. That dreams - bottom line -
are only dreams. continue reading
