Chapter Thirty
Theo's bus approached Bath from the east, heading along the London Road with the Snow Hill flats so hated by Rick Ingham on the right. Once past Snow Hill, the bus headed up London Street and then came to a fork in the road, with The Paragon on the right and Walcot Street to the left. The Hat & Feather sits at the top of Walcot Street, to the left as you pass. Theo rang the bell and the bus stopped just outside the Hilton hotel - another of the 1970s disasters that Rick believed had ruined his city.
Theo headed back up Walcot Street, his bladder now bursting. He passed a couple of pubs - The Saracen's Head and The Bell - but both looked packed to the rafters, so instead he looked for a quiet place to take a slash. Just before the Hat & Feather was a chapel set back slightly from the rest of the street. A path made from large limestone slabs lead from the street to the chapel itself, with a small overgrown graveyard spreading out around it. Beyond the graveyard was a fallow field that stretched down to the river below. In the seventies, there used to be summer festivals and adventure playgrounds on these fields, but the council had put a stop to all that.
The front door to the chapel was wide open and light streamed from it. Theo could make out perhaps twenty or so people milling around just inside the door. He walked towards the chapel to take a look. At the back of the chapel was a stage filled with musical equipment: a mic stand, a keyboard, an acoustic and electric guitar, a couple of small black boxes on stands which Theo assumed to be synthesisers, but no drum kit. Nothing seemed to be happening, so he found a dark corner of the graveyard away from any streetlights and relieved himself.
When he had finished, he headed back towards the pathway and saw two silhouettes walking towards him. As they passed, one of them said "There should be more people than that. I put up tons of fucking posters."
The other guy didn't respond. Theo stopped and watched as the two entered the chapel and made their way through the apparently too-small crowd onto the stage. Been there, done that, thought Theo.
Now he was only a short distance from The Hat & Feather. In need of ammunition, he took out a Consulate and sparked it up. His reticence at entering this notorious pub was off-set by his desire for a pint. There were several dogs on strings sniffing around the entrance and he could hear a pounding dub bassline coming from within. But now an unexpected wave of confidence came over him: this was just another pub on just another Saturday night. This is what I do. So he pushed the door open and was met by a wall of leather jackets and dreadlocks. Smoke billowed out, and the bassline almost buckled his knees. Undeterred, he edged in sideways, one hand outstretched in front of him. He lightly tapped the nearest leather jacket and it moved begrudgingly to let him pass. Thus he made his way in, towards where he assumed the bar to be. Left a bit, right a bit, squeeze, nudge, apologize, dodge, breathe in, straighten up, shuffle onwards. He kept an eye out for August's lanky form, but would he even be able to spot his leather jacket amongst all of the others? Would he be able to spot his Mohican amongst all the others?
Finally, there it was: the bar; surrounded at least three rows deep by spiked, shaved and bleached men and women, all dressed in black, dressed in black. Suddenly Theo felt very conspicuous in his beige jacket, cravat and Breton top. But it was a good type of conspicuous; he suddenly hated the darkness and the gloom of the black leather jackets. He wanted brightness and he wanted colour. He wanted sunflowers.
Once established at the cramped bar, his next task was to get served. The bar staff seemed to be exclusively female and exclusively young. In his experience, younger bar staff are more likely to refuse you than older ones. To the older ones, everyone looks underage, so they more or less just check at random. Sometimes you're lucky, sometimes you're not. But the younger ones take it as a challenge to spot the underage drinkers. He summoned his best game and smiled eagerly at the first barmaid to look his way. She leant towards him and he yelled over the pounding music "Pint of Fosters please". The barmaid looked at her colleague who shrugged her shoulders and nodded. He got his pint.
Now fully armed, he surveyed the packed pub. There was no sign of August, Tom or any of the other X-Tradition crew. The pub's rear car park was where drug dealing took place, so he decided to see if he could find August there. He squeezed through the crowd, expertly dodging any threats to his pint. Once outside he found hungry dogs, empty beer crates, dustbins, a few random smokers but no August. Then he heard another source of sound, competing with the pounding from the Hat & Feather. It must be coming from that gig at the Walcot chapel. Intrigued, Theo headed over, pint in hand.
The door to the chapel was still open, so he watched standing on the flagstones outside. There were just the two musicians on stage; one singing and playing an acoustic guitar, the other at a keyboard. A projector cast the words 'AMBIENT PLEASURES' across the back wall of the chapel, and there were a couple of Greek-style statues on plinths either side of the stage. The impenetrable song they were playing came to an end and was met with a polite smattering of applause. The singer checked the tuning of his guitar while the other guy moved from the keyboard and picked up the electric guitar.
Another slow turgid song followed. The audience didn't seem to be getting into it, with several leaving or just milling chatting amongst themselves. Theo was about to head back to the Hat & feather when the guitarist suddenly put down his guitar and reached for a violin, played a brief solo between verses and then went back to the guitar. Impressed by this virtuoso display, Theo decided to stay and made his way into the chapel.
He walked towards the front of the sparse crowd and watched the duo perform. The singer looked to be in his mid-twenties and wore glasses and had long straight blond hair. He wore a dark green boiler suit and seemed to be singing something about the cold Siberian wind. His eyes remained closed when he sang. How were the audience meant to connect with him if his eyes are closed?
Next he turned his attention to the other guy. This was much more like it. He stood bolt upright and totally still, the only movement coming from his fingers as they worked their way up and down the fretboard, adding layers of melody to the singers languid vocal. He stared blankly into the middle distance, only occasionally making jerky movements, presumably to negotiate a tricky chord change. Theo was transfixed by his appearance: he had incredibly short hair, almost as if it had been shaved off and then grown out a bit. This gave him a severe, drawn look. The haircut reminded him of a kid at school a couple of years ago who had to have his head shaved because of lice. Theo doubted if this guy had lice, so why on earth would he give himself such a severe haircut? Especially as he seemed to be quite handsome otherwise? Maybe he was an ex-skinhead, growing his hair out. Next Theo studied his clothing: a blue denim shirt open to the waist, with a white t-shirt underneath. The t-shirt seemed to have a watercolour sketch of a conductor leading an orchestra. Above the image he made out a few letters, which after a while he worked out said "Bath Music & Arts Festival 1982". The ampersand had been made to look like a musical staff.
The guy put his guitar down as the song came to an end. Even less applause than last time. Theo shook his head, partly in appreciation of this multi-instrumentalist with the concentration camp haircut, and partly at the direness of the material he had to play along to.
He began to worry that he had wasted too much time with Ambient Pleasures and should head back to the Hat & Feather to continue his August-hunting.
Once inside the pub again, he battled his way through the masses to the bar and ordered another pint. He looked around and this time saw someone he recognised: Sophie. His heart raced; if she was here, then so was August! Emboldened by the four cans of Holsten, the litre of white wine and now two pints of Fosters, he moved across the packed pub and tapped her on the shoulder. She looked round with a smile on her face, one that quickly disappeared when she saw him.
"Oh hi," she said in a rather resigned manner - one that Theo had grown used to.
"Hi there." He replied, determined to remain upbeat. "
Just wondering if August is about?"
"He's gone on holiday with his parents to their house in Tuscany."
"Oh." Theo felt deflated. "How long for?"
"Two weeks. Why?"
Two weeks. No August for two weeks. "Oh, no reason." Theo's eyes began to feel hot, a precursor to tears.
Sophie's attitude seemed to change, and she turned fully to face him. "Can I give him a message? I was going to phone him tomorrow?"
"Oh, not to worry. Just say hi I guess."
He could feel the tears in his eyes, so to detract attention from them he reached in to his jacket pocket and pulled out his Consulates. Sophie asked for one, and Theo lit them both. She took a deep drag and then leant towards him:
"I liked your demo of that nuclear war song by the way."
Theo's eyes widened and gravity left him once more. For some reason his hand jerked suddenly and his cigarette narrowly missed Sophie's bare arm.
"Sorry. You mean The Dead White Sky? You know it was mine?"
"Sure. We played the tape. Sounded really good."
A wave of relief fell over him, and he wanted to hug Sophie so much. Then he felt his bottom lip go. Before she could see him cry, he excused himself and headed out the door. Once outside he wiped the tears from his eyes and took a long drag of his Consulate. So the fucker knows it's mine, Theo thought to himself, Now what? Go back and talk to her again in a minute and try and figure out the lie of the land.
To give himself some breathing space, he headed over to the chapel and stood at the back, watching the audience watch the band. It was hard to pigeon-hole the sound that Ambient Pleasures was making. 'Experimental' might be a good word to use. There were lots of spoken words and intricate flights of musical fancy. But nothing Theo could really latch on to. Another song finished to more lacklustre applause. The band took off their instruments and walked off stage. Theo took this as a signal to wander back to the pub. The evening was now fully dark and the air had cooled. He decided to stay in the graveyard until he'd finished his cigarette.
After a couple of minutes, a shaven-headed figure walked out of the chapel and leant against the gravestone next to Theo. The guy lit up a fag. Feeling upbeat after Sophie's revelation, Theo sparked up a conversation:
"Are there any instruments you don't play?"
The guy jumped in shock and looked towards Theo.
"Oh hi," he managed to say. "Didn't see you there." A long silence followed and Theo assumed that he was ignoring the question. But then he said "Well I don't play any wind instruments."
This was said in such a matter-of-fact way that Theo assumed the guy had missed his playful tone. "Oh right. So how did the gig go?"
"You didn't catch any of it? Okay I guess. Pretty abysmal turnout though."
"You didn't put up enough posters, obviously."
The guy looked at him again, not quite knowing how to react.
"Sorry" Theo continued, "I overheard a conversation you were having with your band-mate earlier on."
"Oh. It's his band really. He writes all the so-called songs. He just hires me for these gigs to be his back-up band."
"Doesn't sound much like fun." But before the guy had a chance to answer, a voice shouted from the chapel:
"Oi, dickhead, you gonna help or what?"
"Coming!" came the reply in a sing-song voice. The guy stubbed out his cigarette and started to head back to the chapel.
"What a charmer," said Theo. The guy smiled and off he went.
Now in need of another piss, Theo headed back to the Hat & Feather and made his way through the crowd to the bogs. He waited for a stall to become available, as he didn't like to pee in the urinals. Once finished, he made his way back into to the pub and headed towards where he and Sophie last chatted. But she was no longer there, of course, of course. He circled the pub looking for her. He checked round the back and waited outside the women's bogs, but after ten minutes or so had to resign himself to the fact that she had gone.
He queued up at the bar, watching the punks, goths and crusties, all laughing and smoking and dressed in black, dressed in black. He looked down at this beige jacket and Breton top, still pleased with the brightness and the colour of his chosen outfit. Then he thought of Jon, running around the house shouting "FINALLY" when Theo asked if he could borrow this top. Sarcastic sod. He thought of the pint they shared last Friday, and how much fun they had. Maybe they could do that again soon?
What expression had Jon used when Theo told him all about August and the mix-up over the song? Stick to your guns. That was it, stick to your guns! The expression made Theo think of that famous Warhol painting of Elvis dressed in cowboy gear, revolver at the ready. Stick to your guns!
And then Theo understood fully what this meant: that he would never be happy just being a drummer for hire. He needed to be the gunslinger, the one calling the shots. But he needed help; he needed people who knew what they were doing. People who knew about keys and chords and middle eighths and how to tune a fucking guitar.
He needed a guitar-playing, violin-wielding keyboardist.
He gulped hastily at his pint and put the glass down. He made his way as quickly as he could through the crammed pub: left a bit, right a bit, squeeze, nudge, apologize, dodge, breath in, straighten up, shuffle along. Finally he made it to the exit.
He ran the short distance to the chapel, but as he approached he could already see he was too late. The chapel was dark, the large oak door already locked. Surprising how quickly a band can pack up when there is no drum kit. Then he heard an engine start and looked up towards the street to see a white transit van chugging to life. He ran towards it, but the van moved away with surprising speed and tore away down Walcot Street. Theo gave chase, but the van was lucky with the lights and sped away towards the High Street, and then drove out of view completely. By the time he had run as far as the Hilton Hotel, Theo knew that he has missed his chance; that he wouldn't be able to catch the van, that he wouldn't be able to ask that guitar-playing, violin-wielding keyboardist if he would like to join his band. If he would like to be in Gang of Losers.
Out of breath, Theo turned back towards The Hat & Feather. He passed Schwartz Brothers take-away and decided that he was hungry. He ordered a quarter pound cheeseburger with extra garlic mayonnaise and a portion of fries with extra blue cheese sauce. He ate his meal as he walked slowly towards the pub. By the time he reached the Hat & Feather he had polished off the burger and half the fries. Feeling full, he tipped the remaining fries on the pavement to the side of the pub and watched as a couple of be-stringed dogs tucked in. Were dogs allowed fries? He wasn't sure. Would their stomachs balloon up, or was that sheep? Deciding not to wait around to find out, he made his way back into the pub.
He was still hoping to find Sophie, although he knew in his heart of hearts that she had long gone. The bell rang for last orders, so Theo headed to the bar as quickly as he could. He checked his pockets and he had enough for another pint. Once purchased, he leant on the sticky, butt-strewn bar and watched as the place started to empty. The house lights came on and only then did his thoughts turn to how he might get home. He had forgotten to make a note of what time the last bus was. The station was at the other end of town, and would take an age to get to, but he knew that the Lyncombe bus went through Walcot Street on its way out of Bath, so if he was lucky he might be able to flag it down. He took his pint with him as he left the Hat & Feather and crossed the road to the bus stop.
The night was cloudless and there was just enough moonlight to read the timetable without too much squinting. On a Saturday, the last bus from this stop was eleven-o-four. Theo looked at his watch: ten fifty eight. Perfect!
He checked his pocket for change, and had somewhere between 50p and a pound, hopefully enough for a single ticket. He sat down on the pavement, his back against the wall, and sparked up the last of his Consulates.
Had this evening been a successful one? Clearly he had not been able to meet up with August, and would have t
o wait at least another two weeks before having the chance to do so. But he had the next best thing: an admission from August's girlfriend that he had indeed written the music to The Dead White Sky. For now, this felt like enough. It gave him the ammunition he needed to progress with his own vision, his own band. He was no longer prepared to be just the best drummer in Wiltshire (or any other county for that matter); he was going to be a frontman, the leader of Gang of Losers. But he needed other musicians, and he needed an organised musical brain to translate the music in his head to the outside world.
How would he find that guy? That guitar-playing, violin-wielding, keyboardist? The one who didn't play any wind instruments? All he knew about him was that he played in a band called Ambient Pleasures, and that there were posters promoting tonight's gig (although apparently not enough of them) all around Bath. Maybe these posters would have some contact information on them, or perhaps a list of other dates they were playing. Or maybe he could phone the chapel that hosted tonight's gig. Would the number be in the Yellow Pages? Was it actually a chapel, or just a concert venue these days? He had no idea. He didn't know where to start.
He was about to go over the road to the chapel to see if he could find any clues when he saw the bright lights of the A31 heading towards him. He got to his feet, took his change from his pockets in preparation and stuck his arm out to hail the bus.
It came to a stop and Theo got on, slurring his destination to the driver. He managed to pay the exact fare and wandered down the bus only to be called back because he hadn't taken his ticket. He apologized, took it, and made his way back down the bus, looking for a seat as he went. He walked all the way to the back but the bus was full so he walked to the front again, wobbling slightly from side to side as it started to move. He was in luck - there was an empty seat near the front that he must have missed in the confusion with the ticket. It was a 'priority seat' reserved for the elderly, disabled or those with push chairs. But there didn't seem to be any of those about, so Theo took it. Instead of facing to the front, the seat faced sideways, presumably to make it easier for the less fortunate to manoeuvre. Once seated, he stared blankly ahead, then focused, and realized he was staring directly into the eyes of Martine.
"Right Theo?"
That undeniably pretty face was looking right at him, her mouth upturned in an alluring smilee. He said nothing in response, but he could feel his cheeks beginning to redden. He was about to assess whether her appearance was good or bad news; whether it heralded a chance to get back together with her, to end the day with the radiant heat of her body next to his, when he saw a stonewashed denim arm place itself around her shoulders. Only then did he realize she was not alone. Theo looked to Martine's left and saw the guy from the Steal Guitars gig. Not an old school friend then. He stared at Theo for a second and then suppressed a giggle. With this, Martine started to giggle too. Not knowing what else to do, Theo stood up and walked to the front of the bus. He addressed the driver quietly and steadily, his slurred speech from earlier seemingly disappeared. "Would it be possible to get off the bus now please?"
"Sorry pal, I'm not allowed to stop between stops. Won't be long though, the next stop is by the garage on the London Road."
"Oh right. Thanks." Theo chose not to think about Martine, or the "Right Theo?" or the guy with the stonewash denim jacket, or the giggling. Instead he thought about getting off the bus and walking. Walking walking walking, one foot in front of the other, like he did that day at August's house. One foot in front of the other. That's how you do it! Yes, one foot in front of the other. You don't need to think about anything else...
But these avoiding tactics did not work very well in the cramped and sweaty conditions of the night bus back to Lyncombe, especially when he could hear Martine and her new boyfriend chuckling loudly from only a few feet away. He closed his eyes tightly. He knew that tears were starting to form.
He took a deep breath. The bus had stopped in a queue of traffic. The driver was tutting quietly to himself. Theo was now feeling claustrophobic and desperate to get off: "Um, are you sure I can't just nip off..."
"Can't do it," came the reply. "I get a bollocking from the boss if it gets back to him. Local residents complain you see."
"Oh right." More chuckling from behind. But then he had an idea: he recalled Pete mentioning something about a taxi driver refusing to pick him up once because he looked like he was about to vomit. Assuming that the bus driver would not want to end his shift clearing puke off the bus, he tried his luck: "Sorry, but I think I'm gonna be sick. I just had a burger with blue cheese sauce and I think it was a bit off..."
The bus driver looked at him and shook his head. With that the doors opened and he was free. He stood on the pavement and watched as the bus drove off, Martine holding his gaze as it did so.
His anger, his disappointment, his humiliation needed to be off-loaded very very quickly. He started to walk, looking for a perfect surface to bury his fist into. And after a few paces there it was - the bus timetable at the stop he would have disembarked at, had he not invented his vomit ruse. The timetable was attached to a lamppost and was at the perfect height. First checking that there were no passers-by, he pulled his arm back and then let fly at full speed. His fist piled into the timetable, bending its plastic covering and rebounding slightly off its hardboard backing. Satisfied with the loud fwap! that the punch created, but disappointed with the low level of pain it delivered, he again pulled his arm back and let the timetable have another blast. More pain this time, but with a slightly duller sound (his first had presumably damaged the plastic somehow). Now in the swing of things, he pulled back for another go, not noticing that his second punch had dislodged the timetable and caused it to swivel by ninety degrees or so, exposing the post itself as well as the sharp metal ties used to attach it.
Theo drove his fist in again, and instead of meeting the flat plastic of his previous assaults, his fist pummelled the lamppost itself. His hand buckled at the impact and its back brushed against one of the metal ties, causing a gash in the skin. He pulled his hand back in shock and looked at the damage - the knuckles were torn, the resulting blood appearing black in the moonlight. Standard-issue for Theo and nothing too much to worry about. But the gash looked more problematic: blood was trickling at some pace down his hand and congregating on his watch strap, and then dripping to the ground.
He watched as a small puddle of blood formed on the floor. Now what was he meant to do? He wished he was at home so he could just say to his mum "Er, I think I may have just..." and she would see the cut and instantly know what to do. But he was a long way from Lyncombe now.
The hospital in Bath was on the west side of the city, a long walk from his current location. But he wasn't even sure if this injury warranted a hospital visit. So he reached for a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wrapped it around his hand, keeping it in place by balling the hand into a fist. Using his other hand, he checked both pockets for change - all that remained was coppers and a couple of 5p coins. Not enough to get another bus home, let alone a taxi.
Theo was not sure of the exact distance from Bath to Lyncombe, but he estimated it to be about ten miles. A friend of his from school had once walked it and said it took him just over three hours. So he set his mind to walking, and put one foot in front of the other, expertly not thinking about his throbbing hand or his ex-girlfriend and her new, older-looking boyfriend.
He walked past the antiques shops on London Street and then down onto the London Road. The fish and chip shop was doing good business, and a burger van also had a large queue of post-pub revellers looking for something to soak up the alcohol. He passed the Longacre Tavern, a pub popular with the local Afro-Caribbean community. He could hear loud reggae music coming from within. Chances are there was a lock-in going on. Buses passed at regular intervals, but he had no idea where they went. Some of them might travel along the A4 and take him some of the way home. If he had any money that is.
The London Road l
ed on to Batheaston High Street. Chemists, grocers, pubs, cafes. All closed, all silent. As Theo passed the pub, he noticed a couple of pint glasses on a wooden table outside. He checked them for viability but one was empty and the other had a cigarette butt floating in it. He moved on. The High Street petered out and became a narrow suburban street. He checked his injured hand; the handkerchief seemed to be containing the blood so he assumed that all was well. It wasn't really hurting either. Good job he didn't embarrass himself by going to the hospital.
After a couple of hundred yards the street joined the A4. He had probably walked just over a mile already. The streetlights were further apart and he had to rely more on the bright moonlight to see where he was going. A roadside sign informed him he was now entering Wiltshire.
He was beginning to need the toilet again. There was a side road just in front of him, so he followed it until he found a gap in the hedgerow and took a piss looking out over a moonlit wheat field. He re-joined the A4, and kept walking. He looked at his watch: it was now twelve forty-five. His parents would be fast asleep, and he'd be in bed by the time they came to check on him in the morning.
When he reached the outskirts of Box, his legs were beginning to tire. The first pub to greet him as he entered the village was The Bear. It faced the main street and had a car park to the side. At the rear was a generous beer garden with plenty of tables and chairs. Beyond the beer garden was a village green, with a rugby field and children's play area. Theo stopped at the pub and looked in through a window. All was quiet inside - no signs of a lock-in here. But looking at all those beer pumps lined up along the bar made thirsty. He looked around to check that no one was coming, and made his way through the car park to the beer garden at the rear.
He was in luck. An uncleared table offered up a half pint glass containing clear liquid and a slice of lemon - presumably a gin and tonic, and a nearly full pint of what looked like bitter. He double-checked each drink for cigarette butts, sat down at the wooden table and took a swig of the beer. A bit flat, but apart from that perfectly okay. Now all he needed was a Consulate to go with it. He gingerly reached into his breast pocket, being careful not to further damage his hand, but there was nothing there. Did he leave the packet at the Hat & Feather? Did he smoke them all and throw the pack away? Did he give them to Sophie? He couldn't remember. He had his lighter though. So he scoured the ground for cigarettes and found a half-smoked Marlboro. He tore off the blackened stub to reveal fresh tobacco and lit it. He took a deep drag and exhaled, watching the grey smoke disappear into the night air.
Then he noticed that there was scaffolding all the way up the side of the pub, and rows of neatly stacked slate tiles just outside the entrance to the toilets. A new roof was in the offing, clearly. Theo and his friends never missed an opportunity to climb scaffolding late at night, especially after a few beers. So he took a couple more drags from the cigarette and a couple more swigs from the beer and looked for a way up. All ladders to the first floor platform had been removed, so he jumped as high as he could and managed to grab a pipe at platform level. His battered hand complained briefly, but the excitement of the climb pushed it to the back of his mind. He pulled himself up and stood on the platform. He remained motionless for a moment, in case he had disturbed anyone. No lights came on, so he continued. He located the ladder up to the next platform and climbed until he got to the roof.
Once there he could see that the roof was definitely in need of repair: several of the slates were cracked or missing completely, revealing the weather-beaten woodwork underneath. There was an open skylight just in front of him, and it was near enough for Theo to peer over and see what was below: some kind of storeroom. He leant over on to the roof and reached for the open window. He reckoned he should be able to squeeze himself in. But then a moment of clarity came over him. Why would he want to go in? What's the best that could happen? He'd sneak down to the bar and pour himself a beer? Would that even be possible? Don't landlords lock the pumps or something when the bar is closed to stop people like him from nicking the booze? And the worst case scenario would be that the landlord would call 999 and Theo would turn up at home in the back of a police car.
So instead he walked along the platform to the rear of the building and looked out across the playing fields beyond the beer garden. The moon was still bright and he could see shadows cast by trees at the side of the rugby field. Beyond the trees stood a row of houses. A light came on in one of the upstairs rooms. Someone going to the loo. Or maybe this was a nightshift worker starting their day. Theo mused that the secret to life was to be the one going to bed at this time, not the one getting up.
He looked down at his injured hand. He was used to the pain from his knuckles - the punching of inanimate objects had become something all too common-place recently. But the more focused pain from the back of his hand was giving him cause for concern. The handkerchief covering his cut was now completely sodden with blood. He carefully unwrapped it and looked at the centimetre-long gash. He clenched his fist and watched as a small spurt of blood arced towards him and landed on his beige jacket, missing his brother's Breton top by a fraction. Then he started to really worry. Shouldn't it have stopped bleeding by now? Doesn't blood clot after a while? He knew he was not a haemophiliac, so it gradually dawned on him that the wound must be serious, that he must have clipped an artery. He looked down at his feet and saw dark spots dotted around the scaffolding planks. Good God, he was leaving a trail! Would future generations be able to retrace his steps by following the faded blood spots on the ground?
He turned the handkerchief over and reapplied it to his hand, keeping it in place with his clenched fingers. He was now over half way through his journey home, and he decided he would worry about the cut once he got home. He may have to wake his parents up and get them to drive him to the hospital. What excuse could he use this time? Maybe he could just say he got picked on by some older kids and had fought back. Perhaps one of them pulled a switch-blade on him. That was the sort of thing that happened to teenage kids wasn't it?
He started to feel the cold and pulled his collar up against the breeze. He made his way down the scaffolding and continued his journey.
Once out of Box, he began the steady ascent of Box Hill. Determined to keep his mind off his dripping hand, he thought of his fledgling songwriting efforts, and what he'd be able to actually offer the guy from Ambient Pleasures if he were able to find him. He was pleased with some of what he had written thus far: The Dead White Sky music obviously, and the tune for Something Happened was half-decent. And Enough Money sounded upbeat and commercial - the sort of thing he could imagine hearing on Radio 1. And maybe his lyrics weren't really that bad. After all, aren't the charts full of stuff like She's my jeans and t-shirt girl/ She knows just how to rule my world? Who actually listens to the lyrics to pop songs anyway?
But what about his attempts to write a song about Van Gogh? He couldn't be so flippant about that - the lyrics would have to be genuine, true and above all original - no mean feat with Don McLean in the world.
Although not particularly steep, Box hill came after four or five miles of solid walking, so Theo found it heavy going. He took several stops and watched the occasional car or taxi zoom by. As he climbed, more and more of the view of the valley came in to view. He had never seen it bathed in moonlight like this before. The normally green fields and hedgerows were now blue and black, and the farmhouses dotted over the hills were all in silhouette. As he climbed further still he began to see Box below him, slate roofs gleaming in the moonlight, and beyond that the twinkling orange lights of Bath.
After another hour he reached the top of the hill, and suddenly feeling feint, sat at the bench overlooking the valley. He could feel his blood pounding through his arteries, and daren't look at his hand in case it told him something he did not wish to know. To take his mind off his troubling physical state, he looked around for his drumstick he had left here yesterday. No sign of it anywhere. Maybe some kid had picke
d it up, felt its weight and its power and was currently badgering his parents for a drum kit. More drummers in the world, multiplying, multiplying.
He looked for the Colerne water tower but it took a while to make it out in this light. He thought of it turning into a mushroom cloud and the sky turning white, and then cracking. The end of the world.
But the end of the world was not a comforting thought - especially with a bloody hand - so instead he thought of Adrianne, that chocolate-skinned beauty from the churchyard. The girl with the smile and the pedal-pushers - Neek Ayward yes? Was she back in Italy now, or still here? Wherever she was, she was probably asleep. And he imagined her lying in bed, dark skin against thin white sheets... And Laura? What about her? Would she be asleep too? He thought of her cosy in pyjamas, maybe a couple of teddy bears in there with her. Sleep well Adrianne, sleep well Laura. He daren't think of Martine; he knew she wouldn't be alone.
Feeling revived, he stood up and started to walk. The road flattened out and then sloped gradually downhill. His pace quickened. He walked past the Copenacre MOD site where his dad worked. There was a security guard on duty at the front gate. Theo nodded but the guard didn't nod back, but held his gaze as he passed.
After another ten minutes he had reached the Hare & Hounds. Needing another piss, he made his way into the car park and slashed up against a wall, thinking of the miserable Australian barman as he did so. Now all he had to do was walk the last five minutes home. He looked at his blood-soaked watch: three am. He reached his front gate with his key already in hand, and inserted it as quietly as he could into the lock. The door opened and he entered the warm hallway. All lights were off.
Conscious that his hand should be his first priority, he tiptoed to the bathroom and carefully unwrapped the handkerchief. The flow of blood seemed to have stalled, much to his relief. He opened the bathroom cabinet and looked for the first aid kit. He located a plaster and roll of bandage, and applied them as deftly as he could. He watched the bandage for a minute or so, and when no blood seeped to the surface, he assumed he was over the worst.
In need of sustenance after his long journey, he tiptoed to the kitchen and made himself a bowl of corn flakes. Once finished, he made himself another. He listened out in case his midnight meal had woken anyone, but all was quiet.
Do houses enjoy this silence, Theo wondered. Do they rejoice when their inhabitants go to bed? Do they relish the peace and quiet after all that talking, laughing, slamming, clattering, drumming? Maybe those creaks you hear in the night are just the house breathing a sigh of relief.
Once he'd finished the second bowl of cereal he made his way up the stairs to his bedroom. As he passed Jon's room he noticed that the door was ajar. He stopped to listen and heard his older brother snoring. He was about to continue when he heard a second sound; a lighter, gentler snore ebbing and flowing in tandem with the first. Intrigued, he pushed the door gently and peered in. Jon's bed was directly in line with the door and he could see his brother on his side, one arm dangling over the side of the bed. He was covered by a white sheet. Lying next to him was a girl, also on her side, back to back with Jon. She was completely naked. Moonlight streamed into the room, and her long slender legs looked a bluey-white. He imagined this girl was Adrianne, his Italian admirer. Now it was his turn to admire her. He stared for as long as he dared, and then quietly pulled the door shut. When he reached his room, he turned on his angle-poise lamp and dug out the now well-worn Observer magazine. He leafed through to the volleyball playing women and studied their tanned athletic legs. Would they too look bluey-white in this moonlight? He turned off the light to find out but couldn't see anything. Besides, he knew that he would not be able to reach satisfaction with so much alcohol coursing through his veins.
He put Eddie Cochran's Greatest Hits on the bedside record player and got undressed. He slid into bed, with his bandaged hand outside the sheets resting on his stomach. He stared at the ceiling. But even though it was the middle of the night, and even though he had walked mile upon mile and drank pint after pint, he still could not sleep. Even Eddie could not soothe him. There was a pounding in his heart and he did not know why.
By the time 'Three Steps to Heaven' came on, Theo knew that trying to sleep was pointless. He got up, opened the window and leant out. The air was still warm and the street deathly quiet. Perfect conditions for a Consulate. If he had one that is.
Absentmindedly he looked down at his bandaged hand, pleased to see that no more blood had escaped. But he couldn't just leave it at that; he had to check it of course, of course. So he unwrapped the bandage and looked at his pale, distorted hand. The pattern of the bandage had already left an imprint on the skin. To double-check that the wound was improving, he clenched his fist again. No spurt of blood this time. But this confirmation wasn't enough. Recklessness pushed him onwards and he squeezed the wrist of the injured hand with his other and watched as blood spurted upwards once more. He jerked his wrist to the side, the arc of blood narrowly missing him. He watched as the blood fell downwards to the limestone slabs of the front garden. Perhaps that wasn't such a good idea after all. He started to feel faint again, and realized for the first time that it may be linked to loss of blood. Before he could process this information fully the desire for sleep hit him like a juggernaut, but he could not move. Instead he watched the blood - his blood - drip drip down to the ground below. How very foolish he had been.
Before making the gargantuan effort to move to the bed, he looked out at the deserted street once more. The moon seemed to have disappeared and the bluey-blackness of earlier had been replaced by a warmer hue. He looked to the east and saw the source of this new light: at the horizon were the beginnings of the dawn; the sky brimming with orange, purple and pink. Then, the sun began its slow ascent: a huge red mass, gradually infiltrating the sky. With it came a transformation: the previous gentle tones replaced by a dark, deep, blood red.
And then Theo knew that he had his Van Gogh song: he imagined Vincent alone, his head in his hands, mortally wounded by his rejection as a painter; his rejection as a lover. The artist was consumed with violent rage and the sky above him drips with blood, creating a torrent that washes everything away. Theo has already written the music for this song. Now all he has to do is alter the lyrics. The Dead White Sky becomes The Blood Red Sky and the song is no longer about nuclear war, it is about the moment that Vincent realises that there is only one way out.
Theo closed the sash window and sat at his desk. He reached for a sheet of paper and began to write.
Three Months Later
Theo is smoking a Consulate and studying the poster for Gang of Losers' first gig. It is pinned to the notice board outside The White Hart. The date at the bottom of the poster is today's: 3rd November 1983.
On balance, he is pleased with the poster. Originally he had hoped to make it full colour but that would have been far too expensive. The poster itself features a black and white photographic recreation of Van Gogh's famous 'Room At Arles' painting. Theo had rearranged his own bedroom for the shoot and had taken the photograph himself, using his brother's Canon SLR (he made sure to ask first). He found a wicker chair the same as the one in the painting from Junktion in Bath. In a deviation from the original source material, an acoustic guitar leans up against the wicker chair, and the band's logo appears top right of the poster, above the bed. There are two splashes of colour: the logo is green, and the body of the guitar is yellow. Theo added these touches himself using Indian ink. It took him an entire evening to paint the thirty posters he'd had printed.
He liked the wicker chair so much that he decided to put it on stage, and it is there now, Laura's acoustic guitar leaning against it, just like in the poster.
He feels a hand on his shoulder and looks around. "We're on in ten minutes Theo." Alan smiles at him.
He thanks his band-mate for the information and watches as he heads back into the pub, leads dangling from his back pockets.
It had taken him some
time to track Alan down. His first course of action had been to look for more Ambient Pleasures posters in Bath. He located them quickly enough, but they contained no information except the solitary gig date and venue location. Next he went to the Walcot chapel, scene of the gig, and found it to be hosting an exhibition by a local artist. He obtained a contact number for the chapel owners from the artist, but when he phoned them, they had no details for the band at all.
Theo was on the verge of giving up. He wracked his brains for any other details from the meeting in the chapel graveyard. And then something began to niggle: why did this guitar-playing, violin-wielding keyboardist seem so amenable when his band-mate called him a "dickhead"? Surely he should have been offended, or at least disgruntled. Theo replayed the moment in his mind:
"Oi, dickhead, you gonna help or what?"
"Coming!" came the reply in that sing-song voice. Why so chirpy? Then Theo wondered if he might have misheard. Maybe his band-mate hadn't called out 'dickhead' after all; maybe it was something like dickhead. The more he thought about it, the more it sounded like 'Dicken', and Dicken was a name, wasn't it? He looked in the local phone book, but found no listings. Undaunted, he went to Bath and scoured the city for a phone box with an intact directory and again checked for the name. And there was one entry of course, of course: Mr & Mrs R Dicken, Sion Hill, Bath 317___. So he put a coin in the box and dialled. When it was answered he said "Hi can I speak to the Dicken from Ambient Pleasures please?" The voice on the other end asked him to hang on a moment, and then another, younger voice came on the line.
"Hello?"
"Hi. My name is Theo Hanlon, we met in the graveyard last Friday. Do you want to be in a band with me? We're called Gang of Losers."
A momentary pause, and then the answer: "Yes, very much."
They met up the next day outside the Walcot chapel, the only landmark they both knew. Theo arrived with another homemade demo in his jacket pocket. This one contained four songs: the instrumental and still un-named Dream Song; 'Something Happened'; 'Enough Money' and 'The Blood Red Sky'. He had written 'Gang of Losers' and his phone number on the spine of the cassette case. Alan agreed to listen to it and to call Theo later that day if he liked what he heard. Once back at home, Theo sat on the stairs willing the phone to ring until finally, at eight thirty that evening, it did. He picked it up and a voice on the other end said, "Your songs only have three chords in them. But they are pretty good."
With that endorsement, Theo set about recruiting the rest of his band. Pete proved to be an able drummer and Theo let him have his drums 'on permanent loan' on the understanding that Theo could go round to his house whenever he felt the need to play them. It seemed fitting that Pete should be in the band, seeing as he gave Theo the idea for the name. And of course, Pete had that large attic area perfect for practice sessions. After X-Tradition imploded, Theo was able to recruit Tom on bass, whose position in Downward Spiral had already been filled. Laura joined on acoustic guitar, which she played in tandem with Theo's electric sky blue Strat. The Strat and the acoustic together created a unique sound that was to become their signature.
Laura's presence in the band thrilled and troubled Theo in equal measure. His main motive for asking her was to keep her close, with a view to asking her out. But now she was a bandmate, and he panicked that he had complicated the situation unnecessarily. And because nothing was ever clear cut for Theo, he couldn't quite get the image of that pristine, elegant and above all deeply-tanned Italian exchange student out of his mind. The postcard with her scribbled address was hidden in his bottom drawer, guarded by the sky blue strat, (which he still had to buy a stand for). One time, he got as far as buying a postcard and writing "Dear Adrianne, I wonder if you recall the day we met. You told me I reminded you of a certain lead singer..."
He so wanted to tell her that he was a lead singer now.
And what would he give to see that Benetton-ed body out of its impeccable clothing? Theo tried not to think too much about that.
What had been her parting words to him? "I like your style." Yes, that was it, I like your style! Theo thinks this is one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to him. A girl like that would be good to have around too.
-
That Friday evening in August when Theo had written his Van Gogh song had culminated with a trip to the hospital after all. He hadn't been as quiet as he thought when he got home, and his drunken movements around the house had woken his parents up instantly. They lay in bed quietly chuckling to themselves as Theo staggered around the house, bumping into this, knocking over that. "We thought you'd brought a bloody rhinosaurus home with you!" his father had said. They listened as Theo made his way to his bedroom, and were just dozing off when they heard his window being opened. This had alarmed Roger, who got out of bed and sneaked to Theo's door to find him quietly staring out the window, an imaginary cigarette in his hand. When Theo moved to close the window, Roger nipped back to his room without being noticed. It was only when they heard a large whump! a few minutes later that they went back to investigate. They found Theo sprawled on the floor, blood seeping from his wound. For a moment Sylvie thought he had attempted suicide, but a quick slap to the face soon revived him, and he was able to tell his parents what had happened (more or less).
They drove him to the hospital in Chippenham where he was diagnosed with dehydration (and being very drunk). He was hooked up to a drip and kept in for observation for twenty four hours. He had lost a fair amount of blood, and the gash to his hand needed stitches. He had nicked the superficial palmar arch. Since that day he had not felt the need to punch anything.
-
Now that Theo considers himself to be a songwriter, and not just a drummer, he tries to write something every day. Sometimes it's just a melody or a couple of lines of lyrics which he will give to Alan to work on; sometimes it is a complete song. He writes about betrayal, about loneliness, about longing, about insecurity, about sex. About Adrianne and the way she smiled at him. About anything, as long as it's something that has affected him personally. The moment he tries to write about wider issues or themes, he loses his touch and it comes out sounding false. He seems to be the opposite of August Wells in this regard.
Within two months, Gang of Losers had twelve original songs. It proved difficult to pigeonhole the type of music that they created. On one level it was very simple, with each song containing only four or five of the 'Johnny Ramone chords'. But the chords are only the framework that the melody is built around, and Theo had an unnerving knack of creating melody. And with his voice, and the sky blue strat and acoustic guitar firing on all cylinders, the effect was impressive. Jon told Theo that they sounded like the lovechild of the Ramones and Simon & Garfunkel - compliment that Theo would take any day. Neither Theo nor Alan could think of any lyrics to accompany Theo's dream music, so Alan suggested that they just make it an instrumental, and now they will use it as their set closer.
Once Theo had plucked up the nerve to tell his parents about the new direction his life seemed to be taking, they were wholly supportive. He assured them that drumming was still very much a part of his life and that all that money spent on kit, all those car journeys, all that packing and unpacking, all that noise was not in vain - it had given him a vital grounding in the basics of music, and he was now building his way up. Besides, he could always go back to drumming if all else failed.
Sylvie helped her son in his efforts to learn to sing. She found a singing tutor via the local Gilbert & Sullivan society; a retired music teacher who gave lessons for a fiver a go. His mum told him that there was a certain inevitability to his becoming a singer, as he had always sung quietly to himself as he wandered around the house. Theo said that he hadn't noticed doing this, to which Sylvie rolled her eyes and said "Oh Theo..."
His singing tutor, Mrs Cossins, told him his voice was a light tenor with a soft and open tone. Powerful but with a smooth resonant touch. But even with this kind encouragement, Theo found it difficu
lt to sing in front of other people, so the early song demos had to be produced with Alan providing Theo with a backing tape of a song, and then Theo adding the vocal in the privacy of his own bedroom. He then gave the resulting tapes to his band mates to learn. When Laura said "Wow! Is that really you?" it gave him the confidence he needed to take the next step and sing in front of the rest of the band. From then, it seemed only a small step to performing in public.
Alan's musical and technical proficiency had enabled the band to create a near-professional sounding 4-track demo. Its quality led to Theo doing something he now considers to have been foolish, something that has been troubling him all week. So convinced was he of their demo's brilliance, that he made a copy, put it in a jiffy bag along with a brief note, wrote 'F.A.O. Simon Hughes' on it, packed the jiffy bag in his rucksack and took the bus to Bath. He then walked to the top of Lansdown Hill, and after a few wrong turns located the sprawling farmhouse he and Rick had sold to the renowned record producer back in the summer. There were no signs of life; maybe Hughes hadn't even moved in yet. Undaunted, Theo walked briskly to the front door, and before he had time to think about it, pushed the jiffy bag through the letter box.
Would Simon Hughes like the demo? And if he did, would he remember who Theo was? Probably not. Oh well, there was nothing he could do about it now.
-
Theo stubs out his cigarette and looks up and down the High Street - all is quiet. It's warm for a November evening, so he unzips his US army bomber jacket and feels the cool breeze on his black t-shirt.
He managed to track down this dream jacket on a trip to Flip in London with Alan and Pete. When Theo found the jacket crammed on a rail between two biker jackets, he practically leapt on it. Luckily it was the right size and he purchased it immediately. It cost a whopping £60, and he had to borrow £20 from Pete to buy it (which he has yet to repay). But he was right: he does feel invincible in it.
He looks at his watch. He is due on stage in five minutes. He glances at his poster one last time. He thinks of the fun they had re-creating Vincent's room. Pete and Laura helped him move all the furniture out of his room to take up the carpet to expose the floorboards underneath, and Pete made a hardboard surround in the same style as Vincent's bed that was then placed around Theo's. All in all, the effect was pretty convincing.
Since his first and only attempt at oil painting, in that abandoned and overgrown allotment, Theo has put his plans to follow in Van Gogh's artistic footsteps on hold. Although his art teacher was impressed with the vitality of his series of sketches of rural labour, he agreed that not everyone could make the step to oils quite as easily as they'd like.
The poster next to theirs looks amateurish in comparison. It is for a band called The Wallflowers - August Wells' latest incarnation, formed after the implosion of X-Tradition. Their first gig is scheduled for next Friday. At least August didn't have the nerve to copy Theo's original logo. Instead he has gone for a more predictable image of a wall with the band's name spray-painted on it. A single rose grows out from a crack to the right of the name. Below is a photo of the band: August is the most prominent. He wears a white shirt unbuttoned to reveal his chest. Of the three other members of the band, he only recognizes the tall, looming figure of the drug dealing, paradiddling drummer, who stands at the back dwarfing his band mates.
Theo has not spoken to August since their bust-up over The Dead White Sky. All Theo knows is that The Wallflowers music is apparently very mainstream and that the name for the band was blatantly stolen from him. Maybe this is something else that August has managed to forget. He wonders if The Wallflowers will include The Dead White Sky in their set. He suspects not if their direction is now more mainstream. But on the other hand, Theo's version of the song was the most mainstream thing about X-Tradition. If August wants to use his version of the song in his Wallflowers set, so be it. It won't stop Theo using his.
A shaved head pops out of the saloon bar. "We're on in one minute. What are you still doing out here? You won't need that jacket on by the way; it's fucking boiling in here."
But Theo doesn't care if it's hot. He is wearing his jacket no matter what.
He lights up another Consulate and heads indoors. Alan was right: it is hot. And the place is looking decidedly busy. Are all these people here to see us, or just to have a drink? As he walks through the pub to the stage in the back room, he notices a lanky figure with tanned skin and hair pulled back into a ponytail: August Wells of course, of course. They make eye contact but Theo looks away instantly. He can't think about August now; he can't think about his old life as the drummer, the kid at the back of the stage. The kid who could be replaced.
He walks onto the stage and takes the mic in his hands. "Good evening. We are Gang of Losers."
Pete clicks his drumsticks together four times and the first song begins.
THE END
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