Gang Of Losers

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  By the time Theo had reached the top of Box hill he was exhausted. He must have walked at least six miles today.

  The nearest pub was the Hare and Hounds at the top of Pickwick Road, at least another mile away. He sat down on the same park bench he had sat on earlier and noticed that his drumstick was still there. Should he take it with him? Probably not if he was going to a pub.

  There was a phone box on the other side of the road so he crossed over and called home. He told his mum that he was having tea at Pete's house and that he would be going to the White Hart after, so he would see her in the morning. Then he phoned Pete and arranged to meet him at 9pm at the White Hart. He then started the walk to the Hare and Hounds.

  When he arrived, there was only a smattering of other drinkers. His usual technique of ordering booze was to look as busy as possible whilst ordering his drink. Theo assumed that this made him look older, as grown-ups were always busy. To this end he'd rifle through his wallet as he ordered, or write something on a scrap of paper. Today however, he was without props. There was a newspaper on the bar, so he flipped it over to the sports pages (which he had no interest in) and pretended to read. He heard the barman come his way, so he looked up and said "Pint of Fosters and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps please" and then looked back down at the paper as matter-of-factly as he could. His heart raced momentarily, but then he heard the barman walk away followed by the familiar sound of a pint being poured.

  He paid for his drink and sat down at one of the many empty tables. He lit up a fag and took a long swig from his pint. Beer in one hand, cigarette in the other - the perfection of a Friday night

  He had an hour or so to kill before he was due to meet Pete, and now he began to worry that he might bump into August or Tom or Sophie (or indeed any of the other hangers-on from the attic practice sessions). Would word of his meltdown have travelled to Lyncombe already? This wasn't a very appealing prospect, so he took another long swig to try to forget it. He was just about to go back to the bar when a full pint glass slammed down on the table in front of him.

  "That's my fucking shirt!"

  Theo looked up to see his brother staring down at him.

  "Oh hi Jon." Theo replied, trying to sound as upbeat as possible. "Yeah, sorry about that, I was going to ask if I could borrow it but..." he trailed off, not quite knowing how to finish the sentence in a convincing manner.

  "Yeah sure. And what about that Clash album? You haven't returned that yet either have you?"

  "Um..." Theo felt tears well in his eyes, so to stave off another blubbing fit he took a final swig of his pint. This seemed to do the trick, so he offered an apology and asked his brother if he would like a drink. Jon motioned towards his completely full pint and said "No thanks."

  Theo went to the bar and came back with another pint and two packs of crisps. He offered one to Jon. Both brothers opened their crisps.

  "Look," Jon began "I don't mind you borrowing my stuff, but just ask first okay? And don't go in my room when I'm not there. That shirt looks a right state."

  It was true, the arms were creased where they had been rolled up, and there was the occasional wet patch where his wiped tears had yet to dry. Jon took a sip from his pint and Theo did the same.

  "You waiting for Pete?" he asked.

  "Meeting him later" replied Theo.

  "What you doing here then?"

  "Same as you I guess."

  "Fair enough. How's it going with August?"

  "Oh" replied Theo, "Umm, not so well."

  And then he told his brother everything. He told him about the Crass gig, he told him about the lyrics written on the train, he told him about the melody that came to him on his bike, he told him about the home demo (which impressed Jon no end), he told him about today's practice session, about how well the song went down, about how August denied any knowledge of the demo and finally he told him that he had got a little bit upset.

  Jon looked at him glumly. He knew from past experience that Theo's version of 'a little upset' usually meant a crying fit.

  "Oh" he replied, "sorry to hear that."

  The two brothers took long swigs from their pints.

  "So" Jon began "August played this song - the Dead White Sky - at today's practice session?"

  "Yes" Theo replied.

  "And you wrote the music?"

  "Yes"

  "And it went down really well? Better than any of the other songs?"

  "Yes"

  "And you wrote the music?"

  Hadn't he already asked this? "Yes."

  "And it went down really well? Better than any of the other songs?"

  He had definitely asked this one before. "Yes!" Theo replied, looking puzzled.

  "Okay." His brother ran his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath. "Let's take stock."

  Stock, thought Theo, that word again.

  "What I'm trying to get at," his brother continued "is that perhaps there are some positives that we can take away here. Okay, so August ripped off your song, but that doesn't alter the fact that you wrote it, or that it's probably their best song, judging from the reaction it got. If you can write music that good once, you can do it again can't you? Sod Wells, you can do it all by yourself."

  Jon had a point of course. The music was his, he did write it! Jon's summation of events encouraged him. He offered his brother a drink again, and now that his glass was empty, he accepted.

  Theo didn't know that much about his brother. It wasn't that he disliked Jon; it was more that he found his brother's unswerving certainty about everything rather intimidating. Conversations with him always seemed to get distilled to statements of fact, all of which Theo was uncertain of. Theo made things up as he went along, his horizons constantly changing depending on the blows or caresses that life offered him.

  Right now the caress that life offered was a full pint of Fosters. The booze made Theo surer of things and his brother less so, and they found mutual ground where they could relax in each other's company. More crisps and more beer.

  Keen to dispel the momentary silence that had sprung up, Theo asked "How is the T-shirt business going?"

  "Oh that." Jon had just started a business with a friend from art school making T-shirts with huge screen prints of Hollywood stars like Marlon Brando and Marilyn Monroe on them. They printed them in his friend's garage. "We've sold a few to a stall in Kensington Market and I'm trying to get a meeting with the bloke who runs Paradise Garage. Early days."

  "Well good luck with it. You coming to the White Hart later? That band I used to play in are on."

  "Cheers pal, but I'm off into Bath, probably end up at Moles."

  "Say hi to the place for me."

  "Will do."

  With that, Jon stood up and took a final swig from his pint. "Don't worry too much about this August thing. These things happen in show business. Just remember, you wrote that music; that's the positive to take away here."

  "Will do Jon."

  "And whatever you do, stick to your guns."

  Theo watched his brother put his jacket on and leave the pub. Stick to your guns! He laughed to himself. He had never heard that expression before.

  -

  Now pleasantly inebriated, Theo walked to the White Hart via the fountain. Better to face people sooner rather than later. Pete and the others were there but were just leaving for the pub. No one seemed to know about the day's events, or at least no one let on. They walked towards the White Hart, and Theo noticed Tom ahead of him with a couple of guys he didn't recognize. He slowed the pace by asking if anyone had a spare ciggie.

  The pub was packed with the traditional mix of old and young, punks and rockers, teachers and pupils. Theo and his friends got a table and talked the usual crap. He wanted to tell Pete about the day's events - to get his sympathy, his support, his understanding. But not in front of everyone else. He would have to wait until they were alone.

  After a while they all fil
ed through to the back room to watch the band. The Executives had yet to take the stage, but their equipment was already there. The new drummer had a pretty decent set-up: a four-piece Gretch Renown kit in glittering cherry red with Zildjian cymbals. 'The Executives' was painted in a thin sans-serif typeface on the bass drum. They took the stage to mild applause. Shirts with thin ties, grey flannel trousers and loafers. The singer talked to the keyboard player momentarily, his back to the crowd (how rude thought Theo). Then he turned round and spoke into the mic: "Hi there, we are The Executives. Everybody having a good time?"

  A muted response from the crowd, although Theo did hear someone say "I was", which made him laugh.

  They kicked into their first track. Theo was gratified to see that the new drummer was pretty dire. His wrists seemed stiff when he played and he hit the cymbals far too hard. He also faced the drum he was hitting as if he had to give it his full attention in case he missed. After the paradiddle incident from earlier today, Theo's confidence in his drumming abilities had taken a dive, but this amateurish display went some way to restoring it.

  Now he paid attention to the rest of the band: the vocalist-cum-bass player was as ordinary as he remembered, so he turned instead to the rhythm guitarist. He seemed to be using only bar chords. His playing had a clear, crisp sound that appealed to him. If this guy can get by just using bar chords, why not me? The first song ended and was greeted by more muted applause. Theo took this opportunity to excuse himself from his friend, saying he was going to the loo. As he turned to leave, he saw Tom immediately behind him, a smile on his face.

  "Right Theo?" he said as he passed.

  "Yeah, not bad. You?"

  But he didn't wait for a response; instead he headed to the bar and bought himself another pint. He stood at the exact location where he had first spotted Martine, standing by the toilets with her gum-chewing friend. She wasn't there now though. Was she at home, or out with some new guy? He thought about phoning her but could not remember all the digits to her number.

  He sipped his pint and got some change for the fag machine. He stocked up on Consulates and headed back to the bar. Tom was walking towards him through the crowded smoky room but before he could think how to avoid him, Pete came and stood next to him.

  "I thought you were going to the toilet, cheeky sod."

  "Sorry, changed my mind."

  This was as good a time as any, so he told Pete everything: the Crass gig; the lyrics on the train; the bike-induced melody; the home three-track demo (Pete too was impressed); the triumphant debut of Dead White Sky; and finally August's disavowal of his contribution.

  Pete did indeed offer his sympathy, his support and understanding, He then asked if this meant that he was now out of X-Tradition. This was something that Theo had not thought about directly. He hoped not, but then again how could he go on?

  "Dunno I suppose it's up to August really. I guess I need to have a chat with him."

  "Hmmm, it's all very odd" continued Pete. "Doesn't sound like August at all, I mean he's such a pleasant chap. Maybe he just forgot he heard it."

  "Eh?" Theo did not follow. How could you forget something like that?

  "Well he's been caning those joints a helluva lot recently. Maybe he was so stoned or drunk that he completely forgot that he'd listened to the demo. Then when he came to write some music for the lyrics, he subconsciously used yours."

  This scenario hadn't occurred to Theo. "But doesn't dope make you paranoid, not forgetful?" he asked.

  "Can't remember. Ha ha. No, both I'm pretty sure."

  This did make some sense. August looked way out of it half the time; a haze of marijuana smoke followed him like the dirt around Pig Pen in the Peanuts comics. So maybe August's betrayal was an unwitting one. The thought buoyed Theo, and made the prospect of conciliation more likely. He slapped Pete on the shoulder by way of thanks, and they went back to the gig room to watch the rest of The Executive's set.