Devil Music - Chapter 3 (continued)
“Look,” I say, when I've
recovered, “just tell him I've been working on an idea,
OK? Something new. A new take on things. Something… I
don't know… something I'll tell him about when I see him,
OK?”
“Oh yes, and what might that be? The
Beatles reforming, are they?”
“Fee… mercy,
please.”
“All right, all right. But I'm
leaving in ten minutes so you better be on your way this time,
OK?”
“OK. And Fee…”
“Yes?”
“The eagle has landed.”
She exhales. “If you say so,
Joe.”
“And Fee?”
“What?”
“Don't ever change,
babe…”
She hangs up. What's the matter with her
then? Since when did a glorified groupie like that stop taking
a joke?
There's only one thing for it. I find my
jacket and search the pockets for the little packet of charlie.
But when I open it I see I've only got a smidgen left. Bummer.
I push a hand through my hair… knots, tangles… and
details of the previous night's debauchery drift back to
me…
Those fuckin little Welsh wankers, and me,
like a cunt, spooning it out under the table at Tramp like
there was no tomorrow. OK, so there is no tomorrow, but that's
what happens when you're only half there. You break all your
own rules and end up regretting it the next morning. Lately, it
seems like more and more of my mornings have been filled with
regrets. Or in this case, evenings… you know what I'm
saying.
I stand there with the open packet in my
hands, staring into it, willing it to grow larger. Enough for a
couple of smallish ones, I decide. Or one really good one.
Major fuckin bummer. Then I remember the speed. Nothing crazy:
just some dexies, but they'll do it. None of that street shit,
either. The yellow prescribed stuff. Harley Street's finest.
Good old Dr. Jewel…
I take the large family-size jar out from
where I've hidden it in the hollow statue of Buddha and shake
out four or five of the little yellow devils. I down them with
a glug of warm water from the bathroom tap, then glance at the
toilet and think about a shit. I decide against it. In my gig,
you find yourself sitting in a lot of fancy restaurants but I
can't remember the last time I actually ate a proper meal.
Mainly, I use food as decoration; something to play with while
I'm having a drink and a smoke (and a few crafty lines in the
bog). And anyway, my piles have been playing up again. If I
start straining them now I wont be able to walk again.
No. A quick piss, a quick jump in the
shower, throw a bit of Brut round the shop and that'll be me.
Ready to rock and roll!
I come out of the shower feeling no better
and grab a Mars Bar off the bedside table, which I scoff as I
try and find some clean threads. But everything is dirty.
Everything. I must get a washing machine, or a woman that comes
round or something. I used to go to the laundrette down the
road but these days, I don't know, man, I just can't seem to
get it together. Too busy thinking 'bout my baby…
One thing I have always got, though: clean
drawers. I just rip open another packet of Marks and Sparks
Y-fronts and slip on a new pair. Buy 'em in bulk: rule number
one with all such necessities. Socks, though, that's a major
fuckin hassle. I go to the huge pile of unwashed sweaties in
the corner of the wardrobe and idly pick at the bunch, holding
them up to my nose and discarding them until I find two that
don't pong quite as bad as the others. I squirt a bit of Brut
over them and put them on. Different colours, but so what? I
can always wear the cowboy boots today.
I search for a T-shirt... Luck - a fairly
clean one. It's got the words 'Jesus Shaves' on it and a
picture of Jesus smoking a joint. Hilarious. I put it on. All
my jeans are fucked though and there is no option but to go for
the red Oxford bags. I reluctantly slip them on and take a look
in the mirror. Not bad, actually. Not bad at all. But they must
have stretched since I last wore them because they don't fit
tight round the waist anymore. I have to find my thick Army
& Navy utility belt and use that to hold 'em up. It doesn't
matter. You wont see it under my new jacket anyway: a gold
three-quarter-length coat in the same style as Adam Faith's in
Budgie. Twenty quid from Kenny market and now everyone at the
office wants one. You should hear them go on about it...
I fuckin love Budgie, it's one of the few
TV programmes I still watch. He's every two-bob musician I've
ever worked with: the same simple-minded attempt each episode
to find the easy way out; the same masochistic urge to
prostrate himself before The Man. The same sort of clueless,
romantic, born-to-lose cunt, in other words, that I have to
deal with every day, spot 'em coming a mile off. But at least
this one makes me laugh. And I don't have to pick up the tab
for him the next day…
On my way out the door I grab a cold Coke
from the fridge, then shake another handful of dexies out of
Buddha and get them down. Just to be on the safe side. By the
time I'm in the car though, the first lot have started to kick
in - the advance guard - and I feel almost human again. To
prove it, I let out an enormous black fart that almost rips my
arse in two. The Kracken awakes! Then I roll down the window
and start the car…
I use the drive in to think it over. What
I need is time. Time to really get my head round this thing.
Stop fuckin around with second-raters like the Heroes and start
spending more of my precious you-know-what on the real deal:
putting this kid straight. Good and proper.
But God's not known for his patience, not
at a hundred grand in the hole. If I can't come up with an
answer to this kid thing right now, today, then I need to come
up with something else. Some diversionary tactics, maybe.
Anything to keep the fucker off my back until I can get to the
bottom of this thing once and for all. Either that or die
trying. Because this kid, man, he is starting to get to me. Big
time...
It's gone seven by the time the old 'tina
trundles into Wardour Street. I've been thinking about getting
some flash new wheels again. I've got my eye on this moody, red
1959 Jaguar XK150 this cat I know says he'd be willing to part
with. A big, red, throbbing pussy magnet, I kid you not. But
that would mean having to find a new place to live as well. A
fuckin Jag in Ladbroke Grove? You might as well hang a sign
round your neck: FUCK ME - I'M A CUNT!
I wouldn't mind moving, as it 'appens,
guys and gals. But to where? The middle of town is still too
expensive even on my kind of bread and Camden's almost as bad
as the Grove come the weekend. I thought about St. John's Wood
or West Hampstead. Somewhere poncey like that. But those places
are so uptight I might as well hang another sign round my neck:
BUST ME - I'M A DRUGGY!
I wouldn't touch the East End with yours
and anywhere south of the river is obviously out of the
question. That just leaves the suburbs and the suburbs will
still be there when I'm ready for my pipe and slippers, do you
read me, Captain?
Of course, if the kid would just get up
off his golden arse and do what the fuck I tell him, that would
all change overnight. Then I could have the Jag and the pad in
Piccadilly. I could have what the fuck I wanted. So could he.
But he wont, the golden-bollocked little tart. He just wont. No
fuckin way, hozay…
God is just getting ready to leave as I
walk through the glass swing-doors. He screws up his eyes as he
sees me. “What's this, the night shift?”
“Felix, I'm so sorry. I've been up
to my arse all day…” I pause, waiting for him to
interrupt me.
“And?” he says, snapping his
briefcase shut.
“And, you know…I'm sorry I
wasn't here earlier but…well, maybe it was for the
best.”
“Yeah? How d'ya make that
out?”
“I think I've finally found a way we
can make this kid thing happen.”
I wait for a response but he doesn't even
flinch. He's pissed off at me. OK. But since when did God stop
wanting to hear about a sure-fire hit?
“Felix? Did you hear me?” I
smile. “I said, I think I've got it - by Jove!”
“Really? Well, it's a pity you
didn't have it here a bit fuckin earlier.”
I stand there, waiting for the punch line
but it doesn't come. He wants me to beg for it. Him and his
weekly fuckin meeting.
“How d'ya mean?” I say, the
smile still stuck to my face like egg.
“I mean,” he says, puffing
himself up, “I've had a fuckin dog of a day and now I'm
ready to fuck off home…”
“Of course, of course. I just
thought you'd wanna know, that's all.”
He looks at me. “Right now, Joey, I
don't wanna know nothin' - capeech?”
“Right on, right on. Non problemo.
It can wait till tomorrow, yeah?”
“Tomorrow?” he says, coldly.
“Well, let's see. Tomorrow is Friday, which means in the
morning I'm going to get my cock sucked by that baldy fuckin
midget that manages the Heroes. One appearance on the box and
it changes everything. He thinks. Then in the afternoon, I'm
taking Mrs Goldman to Paris to see the new Elton show. It's her
birthday and she fuckin loves her Elton John. I've told her
he's a woof but that just seems to make her love him even more.
Don't ask me why. She's a woman. She probably don't know
herself…”
He stands there scratching at his balls
distractedly, looking past me.
“I see,” I say, then wish I'd
kept my gob shut.
“Do you? Do you really?” he
says, snapping out if it. “Well, see this: I am back in
here on Monday, and by then I expect to hear what the first
single is going to be and when we can set a release
date.”
“How d'ya mean?”
“July or August would do,” he
continues briskly. “It'll be the summer hols, so you
better make it a smoocher or something else that'll go down
well with the Butlin's crowd. It's up to you. But whatever it
is, you better make it fast - capeech?”
But for once, I'm not sure that I do.
“Are we talking about the kid?”
God walks over until he is standing right
in front of me, blocking out the light. We're about the same
height but right now he looks like a giant coming down the
beanstalk.
He leans over and puts his fat, giant's
face into mine until our noses are almost touching. “What
do you think?” he says, breathing on me. Cigarettes and
alcohol and… something else.
He stands there looming over me, watching
me choke on the fumes. He eventually allows our eyes to unlock,
then does up his coat and pushes past me.
He pauses at the door and gives me a last
look. “You're a fuckin mess, do you know that?”
I glance down at myself. I think I look
quite together, actually. But I feel his eyes upon me,
weighing, judging, discarding…continue
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