 
DEBASER

By Max Frick

Copyright 2013 Maximillian Frick

Smashwords Edition

*****

I find myself always torn between two beliefs: the belief that life should be better than it is, and the belief that when it looks better it is really worse – Graham Greene

Our dignity is in direct proportion to our passion – John Ruskin

1

Framed in the doorway he cursed his trembling fingers as they tried, ineptly, to re-button his fly. He felt sick. The pounding in his head was virtually indistinguishable from the pounding of the music. Through fractionally open, sleep encrusted eyes he glimpsed the carnage. The grey light of morning, intruding through the bare window, had lent the room a lurid veneer, and the grim reality of the situation forced itself upon his attention.

Last night the drugs – more, and more varied than he was used to – had tinted hard fact (their depraved behaviour and its horrific conclusion) with an innocuous shade of fiction. Beneath the half-light of a solitary light bulb – still burning but ineffectual now – it had all seemed different, funny even.

'DEBASER!' screamed the music accusingly. 'DEE-BASER!' it screamed again.

A number of unwelcome sensations were battling for supremacy inside his throbbing chest, welling up and receding, before welling up again more violently. Vague anxiety, the usual victor on mornings such as these, had, on this particular morning, been ousted by dread and panic while despair, biding its time, looked on.

He pressed his hands to his forehead, pushing the palms firmly into his eyes.

'Think!'

Above the din of the music he could hear Dooly whining, by the front door at the other end of the room. The dog's distressed ululations – desperate, pleading – seemed to accurately vocalise his own inner turmoil, and they affected him as the heart-rending strains of a violin might.

'Poor cunt. Must be starvin by now. Just wants to go home. '

He took as deep a breath as his fearful condition would allow.

'Come on, Billy, think! Should wake him up. Make him deal with it. Fuckin psycho! Right! First things first. Switch off that music.'

He took a few timid sidesteps along the back wall, hardly daring to look where he was going. For there, beneath the window, lay the source of his anguish.

Half crouching, with no small effort, he reached out a quivering hand and blindly fingered the front of the CD player. To better orientate his wandering fingers he risked a quick glance over and away and... Click.

'Oh, fuck!'

Outside, the diminutive twitterings of some few birds provided a cheerful counterpoint to Dooly's baleful whining. But their cheerfulness could do nothing to lighten the mood in the room, only serving to bring out in bold relief the full horror of the situation. And it was even more horrific than Billy had first thought: as a result of that quick glance he had made a bewildering, grisly discovery. His sufferings were cranked up to hitherto unknown levels and a tidal wave of nausea coursed implacably through his body. The bile rose to his throat. He rested the palm of a hand against the wall to steady himself and his stomach made a fist. Its contents surged upwards through his trembling frame and were forcibly deposited, with a splash, onto the carpet.

The gestural equivalent, in humans, to the note of hopefulness that Billy suddenly detected in the heightened pitch of Dooly's whining would be the raising of eyebrows. He lowered his. Somebody in the stairwell! He listened apprehensively. Footsteps! Dooly's tail wagged uncontrollably and an involuntary series of expectant yelps emanated from the depths of his animated body. Was someone at the door? He strained to hear, not daring to breathe. Silence. He raised his head slightly. Footsteps, next landing. He released his quivering breath. Neighbours only. But still Dooly... The front door swung vigorously inwards as though dealt a powerful kick by the sole of a heavy boot. It rebounded off the inner wall (leaving a handle-sized piece of wallpaper embedded in the plaster) and swung back towards its assailant. It was halted by a firm hand. Billy, had jolted violently at the noise and instinctively spun to face the intruders, whereupon he had lost his balance and fallen back against the wall. He now found himself staring into the eyes of a somewhat disconcerted policeman, while another younger officer attempted to keep a gathering of nosy neighbours from rubbernecking ghoulishly into the room. The dog, free at last, snaked sharply round the door-jamb and fled through the curious assembly.

That was the last straw. Billy quite simply could not possibly feel any lower than he did at that moment. Then his foot slipped and he dropped arse first into the puddle of tepid vomit. A few drops squirted out at either side of him, splashing his bare forearms. He leaned his head, wearily, back against the wall and even allowed himself an ironic half-smile. His capacity for suffering had, in a few hellish minutes, been utterly exhausted and his captors, who now held his fate entirely in their hands, had, paradoxically, afforded him a sense of release. Even the dampness of the sick, as it seeped through the seat of his jeans to warm his clammy skin, was mildly comforting to him.

With his heroic entrance the policeman had no doubt intended to arouse the admiration of the onlookers, not least that of his second in command (he could have knocked after all), but the scene that greeted him had unmanned him more than a little and he now strove to superimpose the unflappable demeanour of a world-weary paperback detective over his obvious agitation. The appropriate attire – a careworn suit, say, and a shirt casually unbuttoned at the neck, no tie, and of course an overcoat – might have better enabled him to achieve this effect than did the navy-blue uniform that his lowly position as beat bobby called for him to wear.

The neighbours were eager to condemn. The wrought-iron banisters lent a metallic resonance to the cacophonic clamour of damning voices now ringing from top to bottom through the cold concrete stairwell.

'I'm never piggin done bangin up at them! Comin and goin at all hours, loud music day and night!'

'That's if you can call it music! It's just noise!'

'Aye, that's right! And the language! Always effin and blindin!'

'It was quiet before that other one moved in, but now...!'

'Last night I heard them shoutin "cut off his effin head! Cut off his effin head!"'

'Well, I'm not surprised it's came to this. If you live like animals, sooner or later you become animals!'

Finally, after a few false starts, the second policeman managed to intervene, telling them, in patient tones, to go and wait at home and someone would come around to take their statements later. Reluctantly they dispersed, nodding and shaking their heads emphatically, each in sympathy with the grievances of the other, and the young officer stepped inside to join his colleague, closing the door behind him.

He too was unmanned by the scene he encountered and had to swallow hard to keep from retching. His superior, who had since regained his composure, fixed him with a stern if hypocritical stare. They then proceeded to scan the room.

It was a typically small living room, longer than it was broad and sparsely furnished. The eyes of both officers were immediately drawn to the far right-hand corner of it. There - at the base of a life-size cardboard figure with its arms raised (of the type a record or video store might use for promotional purposes, though only the white back was visible) - lay the bloodied corpse of a young man. It was partially obscured from view, at one end of a couch, by the couch itself and also by what appeared to be a curtain, complete with curtain rail, draped haphazardly across the midriff. While his junior partner remained transfixed, the more experienced officer got on with the task at hand.

It was abundantly clear to him that what they were dealing with here was two age-old but distinct struggles. The first, and least important of these, was man's struggle to conquer himself, to raise himself above the level of the beast. A struggle evidently given up some time ago, if he were to judge by the squalor that now confronted them. Broken bottles and beer cans, drained to the dregs and crushed, before being tossed casually hither and thither, formed no small part of the garbage that thickly cluttered the floor. At the foot of a threadbare sunken armchair and the couch, long-ignored dinner plates and takeaway food containers were left carelessly lying and capricious summer flies, disappearing and reappearing, fitfully partook of the furred blue-green remnants of what had once been food and now - to the flies, at least - was again. This aspect of the room, while surely in breach of some council/tenant agreement, did not constitute a crime, and was testament only to the bacchanalian slovenliness of the flat's youthful occupants. In this respect it was perhaps no different to the houses of other young men in the district upon whom the officer had had reason to call in the course of his duties.

It was to the second struggle (by far the more serious), and anything that may be connected with it, that he now turned his attention. This was one individual's struggle for survival, another battle, as he could plainly see, sadly lost.

Blood, chilling in its ubiquitousness, tainted everything. It heavily stained the carpet in several places. The armchair cushion and back were also stained, and crude red handprints, reminiscent of a child's schoolroom artwork, were daubed on either arm. Smears of blood were clearly visible on the couch too, and from a splatter low on the wall, beside a CD player at the back of the room, thick dark drops had trickled down and extended left and right along the skirting.

In the near left-hand corner, still connected to the mains, a television, exposing its scant innards, was lying smashed screen upwards behind its stand. Again spots of blood flecked the wall beside it and traces were discernible on the jagged corners of the broken grey glass.

The officer paused, scarcely able to envision the savagery that had occurred here.

Immediately in front of him a small upturned table had spilled its contents onto the floor. Various pharmacological agents – powder, pills and resin – both within and without small resealable clear plastic bags, were mingled with assorted related paraphernalia – cigarette papers, cigarettes, lighters and loose tobacco. An upside down ashtray half covered a credit card – a platinum American Express credit card – and the officer, flicking the ashtray aside with the toe of his boot, cocked his head for a better look. 'R. Watson' read the signature.

'Hmm?'

And then, of course, there were the two probable perpetrators. Suspect number one was absent-mindedly tracing random patterns with his finger in what looked from here like vomit, while suspect number two lay sound asleep foetus-like on the couch with his hands tucked contentedly between his thighs. Blood liberally stained the clothing, and smeared the skin, of both young men.

On the floor beyond the armchair was an old-fashioned Polaroid camera, angular and ungainly, and one, two... six photographs. The elder constable gave his subordinate a nudge, and, with blatant disregard for copybook procedure, despatched him to retrieve one of them. This brought the young policeman within close proximity to his first dead body and he could not resist a closer look. At first he seemed puzzled, narrowing his eyes as though he were not quite sure what it was that he was looking at. His eyes suddenly widened. The shocking realisation blanched his rosy cheeks. Quickly snatching up a photograph he returned it with trembling hand to his superior, who, curios to know, yet none too keen to see, what had so disturbed his underling, took a moment to study it.

It appeared to show, in washed out colour, an unlawful sexual act taking place between two partially dressed males. The dominant male (clearly identifiable from his clothing as suspect number two) was kneeling behind his seemingly unconscious "partner" (presumably the deceased, vaguely familiar) who, positioned on all fours, was having his head pulled roughly upwards and backwards by the hair.

'Sir', ventured the young policeman. 'I think you should take a look at the body. But brace yourself!'

And this, with a degree of outward composure bordering on suavity, and a far higher degree of inner trepidation, his mentor now did.

With a sweep of his foot he scraped aside an assortment of litter from the right shoulder of the corpse and crouched before it. At a swish of his hand flies, like a flock of startled birds, took off, and frantically described figures of eight low above their carrion. A swish back scattered them further.

It, he, lay unseeing, eyes staring ceiling-wards. The left arm was trapped beneath its, his back, the right, palm-upwards by his side. His trousers had been pulled down and were gathered in folds, unfastened, around the calves; the legs were crossed at the ankles. He was not wearing any underwear. A puddle of thick, dark, coagulating blood, that had spilled from a deep gash in the head, now formed a sort of thin pillow beneath it. The officer had seen instantly the cause of his colleague's distress and the same strong feelings of perturbation gripped him now (though he was determined not to let them show). Part of the face was missing. The mouth hung open slightly and the whole right cheek, from just below the eye socket down to the lower jaw bone, and from the nose back to the ear, had been torn off. Raw flesh hung in ragged shreds around the dark cavity, and two half rows of top and bottom teeth, yellowing towards the molars, were exposed.

As he affected to coolly examine the body...

'Extensive bruising, mm-hmm. Possible fractured skull, ah-ha. Are those teeth marks?'

...the officer was all the while racking his brain for some light-hearted, flippant remark that would, he thought, corroborate his outward calm; something glib and wholly inappropriate, of the type that springs so readily to the minds of his fictional counterparts under similar circumstances. None was forthcoming and he retreated to his original position at the door, where he rejoined his companion, took a moment to compose himself and began to question the suspect.

'Okay, son, what's your name?'

'Billy. Billy Wilson.'

'Okay, Billy, what's through the back there?'

The officer nodded towards the doorway at the back of the room.

'Em, two bedrooms and a bathroom.'

'Is there anybody in there?'

'No.'

'And through there?' he said, nodding towards the door to his left. 'Kitchen, right?'

'Aye.'

'Is there anybody in there?'

'No.'

'Okay. Now, who's this?'

With a flick of his head this time the officer indicated the couch.

'Tony. Tony Drake. Do you want me to wake him up for you?'

The officer paused.

'I'll ask the questions son. He's fine where he is for the time being. And who's that?'

Another flick indicated the body.

'Ryan Watson.'

The officer paused again, this time to scrutinize the face of his interviewee.

'Don't mess about, son! You're in a lot of trouble here. Who is that?'

'It's Ryan Watson.'

'It's Ryan Watson?'

'Aye.'

'Thee Ryan Watson?'

'Aye.'

'The Ryan Watson who's currently topping the charts with "Just One Of The Lads", his fourth consecutive number one single, as a solo artist?'

'Aye.'

The junior officer leaned in towards his superior and stated in a half-whisper that he, Watson, was thought to have been abducted from the local discotheque late last night.

'Okaayyy! And where's the rest of his face?'

'I honestly don't know.'

The officer, silent now, continued to stare at the suspect for a moment, then switched his gaze towards the body. Perhaps he was weighing the truth of the young man's statements. Or perhaps he was vainly trying to reconcile the image of the pop star - so energetic, so full of fun and mischief as he sang and danced in his music videos \- with the wretched, lifeless, mutilated form before him.

'Oh, my god! This could be it! This could be the one that gets me noticed! I'd better get this next bit right in case the papers want to quote me verbatim. Okay, I need a strong opening to set the tone – "Right Billy, listen to me..." – That's good. I like that. Now, be stylish – "Bombsite, slaughterhouse, you and sleeping beauty here" – nice! Right, mention the facts – the neighbours, the photographs – but don't let them impede the rhythm. Then, dramatic finish – "I think, you'd better..." Perfect!'

He turned back to the suspect.

'Right, Billy, listen to me. Your flat looks like a cross between a bombsite and a slaughterhouse; there are enough drugs on the floor to put you and sleeping beauty here away for a considerable period of time; your neighbours are queuing up to testify against you, and I'm holding in my hand photographic evidence of enforced homosexual intercourse, while the victim, who just happens to be one of our most famous and highest earning celebrities, lies beneath your window, bloodied and battered to death, partially naked, with half of his face eaten away. I think you'd better tell me, in your own words, just exactly what happened here!'

2

Fans vie with fans, journalists with journalists, journalists jostle fans and vice versa. Curious record buyers, attracted by such an undignified furore, are more than content to stand tiptoe on its fringes, peering over the heads of the feverish rabble to try to catch a glimpse of its focus. But it is the paparazzi – bloody-minded mercenaries, modern day bounty hunters with cameras in place of guns – who fight hardest for pole position. Their liberal use of high elbows and shunting shoulders turns the very front of the crowd into the spit and image of a mosh pit at the hardest of hard rock concerts. From their cameras a sustained battery of brilliant white flashes, though themselves instantaneous, captures the star for posterity in a strobe-like succession of attitudes: now, leaning casually back in his chair and of thoughtful mien, as at one as a king on his throne; now, first with one hand, then with both, clasping warmly, reassuringly, across the desk in front of him, the trembling hand of a flustered admirer; and now, with a fat magic marker poised an inch or two above a copy of his own CD, looking inquiringly up at that admirer for the name or names of the autographee, before lowering his head to write, signing with a flourish, in that bold, flowing hand of his, his own name – known now to all and sundry, from sea to shining sea – Drako. Photographs that will be ruthlessly auctioned off to the highest bidders and tomorrow adorn in full colour the covers and pages of the world's popular press. And at a later date, in more artistic black and white, the self same photographs will surely decorate the halls and walls of private collectors. Or Hard Rock Cafes and the like, where, beside such iconic artefacts as a pair of John Lennon's John Lennon glasses and a Jimi Hendrix guitar, they will ignite the reminiscences of diners, who over their steaks or burgers will wistfully recall the giddy, all too fleeting days of their youth. And, who knows, maybe Tony himself will one day be among those diners, years from now, when the hectic pace of his current high life has slowed, as it must, to a totter. At some presentation dinner in his honour, perhaps, or a lifetime achievement luncheon. Where, amid the fawning praise and idle chatter, the chinking of cutlery on plates and the clinking of glasses raised to him, he too might allow himself a rare moment of quiet retrospection. Letting all the fuss and din fade into silence around him, as he absently picks at his chips, he'll gaze fondly up at an image of his much younger self, scarcely troubling to quell his swelling heart or suppress the proud tear that is sure to well in his eye.

He again leans casually back in his chair, and calmly scans the crowd, with eye and ear, for only those journalists asking the most pertinent questions. He allows as he does so a naturally authoritative air to temporarily triumph over his yet more natural star magnetism. This ensures that even the most ardent of his devotees, however impatiently, and however much they may push and shove and jostle each other, keeps, until directed otherwise, a respectful distance from himself.

The journalists, in their desire to directly participate in what must surely be the music news event of at least the last decade, collectively resemble a class of eager-eyed primary school children, who raise their hands as high as they can to attract the teacher's attention, each desperately trying to out raise the hands in front of them, waggling their little fingers, begging to be picked.

'Tony did you really kill him?'

'Tony did you really rape him?'

'Tony did you really eat his face?'

Tony, however, steadfastly ignores these muckrakers, whose aim it is in life to amass wealth and nothing else by littering with scandal and deceit the column inches of their inconsequential 'news' papers. He is utterly unfazed by their dogged persistence, and continues his search undaunted for a more serious and reputable individual.

His eye comes finally to rest on just such a journalist standing quietly near the back of the crowd. He is somewhat detached from its main body and his compound expression of embarrassment at, disdain for and disappointment in the near bloodlust of his counterparts is the precise manifestation of Tony's own innermost feelings. He knows instantly that this is his man. He can tell at a glance that here stands a like-minded professional who knows categorically that it is all about the music and not at all about any peripheral behaviour, good, bad or otherwise.

First, with an emperor-like raising of his hand, Tony hushes the crowd; then, pointing over its many heads, he gives a regal nod in the direction of this particular reporter by way of inviting forth his question (two more photographs sure to fetch substantial monetary reward for their takers). The man thanks Tony, with a respectful nod of his own, and, after a preparatory clearing of his throat, raises his head and asks:

'A wee cup of tea, son?'

The question, put not in the measured, professional tones expected by Tony, but in a woman's voice, shrill and aged, seemed to come from elsewhere, and it entered his consciousness on an altogether different plain. He furrowed his brow. This whirlwind, whistle stop tour of the world's biggest and most prestigious record stores had evidently left him a lot more tired than he'd allowed himself to admit. His brow remained furrowed and he focused hard: fans vie with fans, journalists, etc. Paparazzi with cameras in place of guns. Undignified furore. Sustained battery. Flash! Flash! Flash! A confident king on his throne. Drako with a bold flourish. Sea to shining sea. Fawning praise, idle chatter, swelling hearts and tears. An emperor-like hushing of the crowd. Regal nod and... The man thanks Tony, with a respectful nod of his own, and, after a preparatory clearing of his throat, raises his head and asks:

'I'm sayin, son, would you like a wee cup of tea? You're away in a wee world of your own there.'

The crowd evaporated in an instant, and there in its place, representing stark reality, stood a bespectacled, wizened-looking pensioner. The sight of her there, and in particular her attire – a standard Asda issue light-green tunic, with the sleeves gamely rolled up despite her years – painfully reminded Tony of how far he'd actually travelled and he deflated visibly. She, however, continued to lean on the handle of her broom, peering out saintly-faced from behind it in near servile anticipation of his response.

A surly grunt and a shake of his head was all the response he could muster.

'No? Are you sure now? It'll be an awful long day for you, sittin there all on your own.'

Her voice had a gravelly quality (no doubt from smoking at least forty cigarettes a day) that sounded for all the world to Tony like salt being rubbed, however inadvertently, into a wound. He smiled a wan, joyless, indulgent smile.

'I'm fine,' he said.

'Are you somebody famous, then?' the woman pried, hardly waiting for him to finish his last answer. 'I doubt you must be, if your supposed to be signin records, eh?'

"Supposed to be." There was that gravelly sound again.

The reference was to a chalkboard propped against the front of Tony's desk, which she scrutinised through the upper half of her bi-focal lenses. It had been borrowed for its purpose from Asda's own Red Balloon café and the faint ghost of recently erased lettering – advertising such daily staples as fish, chips, peas, bread and butter with a choice of tea or coffee for two-ninety-nine; or a "build your own breakfast" special, with any eight breakfast items for two pound fifty – could still be made out beneath what was written there now:

IN STORE TODAY

DRAKO!!!

SIGNING COPIES OF HIS

FABULOUS DEBUT SINGLE

"DEBASER"

FROM 12.30pm

The woman was back to peering.

'I'm sayin, son, are you somebody famous?'

Tony patiently twirled the fat magic marker in his fingers, tapping it, now lid, now base, lightly on the desktop.

'My name's been mentioned once or twice in the papers,' he muttered darkly, never lifting his head, remembering with some embarrassment, not entirely unmingled with a certain malevolent satisfaction, his actions of "that night".

'Aye,' said the woman, 'I thought you must be. Some of the younger ones on the tills there must've recognised you. I could see them pointin and whisperin and what not. Drako? Is that your name?'

She pronounced it Drahko.

'It's Drako,' said Tony, pronouncing it correctly. 'Aye.'

'And you've got a song in the charts then?'

'Em...'

'Drako?' repeated the woman. 'I must mind and ask my grand weans if they've heard of you. No doubt they will have, mind you. They know all the latest pop stars. Anyway, son, I'd better be gettin on with my work. Are you sure you'll not change your mind about that wee cup of tea? That's only comin on three o'clock the now. It'll help to break the day up for you... No? Well, if you do change your mind just give me a shout. I'm always here or hereabouts. Margaret's my name. Just ask for Margaret.'

She tap-tapped the nametag on her chest and off to work she went, sweeping under the shelves and the feet of the shoppers browsing them with exaggerated vim and vigour, stopping as often as not to prattle cheerily away to anyone around her who'd listen, before disappearing into ready meals, soup and canned fish.

Tony, alone again, fell to rueful brooding.

3

The day before the morning after, a rare day indeed. A rogue cloud in an otherwise uniformly blue sky passed languorously from the sun, allowing its brilliant rays to whiten a million window panes and lighten as many moods, and bedeck with dazzling diamonds the windscreens and contours of even the most clapped-out old banger; and its radiance to filter unhindered through the living room window of Billy Wilson's new town apartment, gradually illuminating the scene therein. The brightness steadily, almost imperceptibly intensifying, as the introduction to a song or piece of music might steadily rise in volume until... Shoulders back and feet wide apart, lip curled and furrowed brow, now frenziedly strumming the jeans pocket of a low-slung air guitar, now wildly beating with his fists the taut skin-air of a fanciful drum kit, Tony Drake stood vehemently spitting half lyrics and wrong lyrics, a screeching, faltering travesty of the melodious, accomplished, jangling, unvarnished, ironic, fun filled, throwaway, timeless, three-minute, soul-cleansing surf-punk now booming out of either speaker on the wall behind him.

'WAVE OF MUTILATION!' he roared. 'I FUCKIN LOVE THIS SONG!'

Dooly, lying over by the door, wearily hove his sad-eyed and angular head up from outstretched forepaws and sonorously barked an additional bass-line

'HOWF! HOWFHOWF!'

With each bark his loose lips flapped and fluttered, and a hanging string of saliva, seemingly made of elastic, bounced and swung dramatically beneath his lower jaw. Warily his thin strip of a tail thump-thumped on the carpet, meek percussion, scarcely audible in the din.

Billy, ensconsed, recumbent and cross-legged, in his armchair - heel to floor, arse to the edge, arms on arms, chin to chest - stared idly at the flickering television screen.

In an instant Tony was adance and, oh, what a mover!. He did the blitzkrieg bop, the cretin hop, the mashed potato and the twist; the hucklebuck and the Jacques Tati; the mambo, the rumba and the stomp. A hybrid, bastardised amalgamation of all of these took him limbs flailing over every available inch of the floor. He was utterly lost in the music. He immersed himself in it and it flowed all around him. There was no longer any blood in his veins. He had had a complete transfusion. Someone, some beneficent god, had taken his blood and replaced it with song, and it was being pumped right through him, from his head to his toes, by his pounding heart. He vanished into it as though it were a portal to another world, a better world, a world wherein his every utterance, his every action, was understood. A world where he felt he truly belonged.

Billy, ensconced, recumbent and cross-legged, in his armchair - heel to floor, arse to the edge, arms on arms, chin to chest - stared idly at the flickering television screen.

'HOWFHOWFHOWF! HOWF! HOWF!'

'NEVER MIND THE FUCKIN TELLY! FEEL THE FUCKIN MUSIC, MAN!' Screamed Tony, and a fencer's lunge – quick in, quick back – procured for him the television remote control that was lying naively unguarded on the small table between the armchair and the couch.

At the tail-end of a backwards shuffle, all the while antagonisingly wagging his booty, he flick-kicked forward a trailing right foot, swung it back over a pivotal left, spun, and thumb to 'stand-by' blackened the flickering screen.

Up now and four on the floor, perhaps sensing tension, Dooly had expanded his repertoire to include a low growl, that thin strip of a tail now perfectly still.

'GrrHOWF! GrrHOWF! HOWF!'

Billy, beleaguered, ensconced recumbent and cross-legged in his armchair - heel to floor, arse to the edge, arms on arms, head back - stared patiently at the wall above the blackened television screen.

'You're upsettin the dog with your dancin,' he muttered, sitting himself upright.

'I'M WHAT?' Shouted Tony, dancing.

'YOU'RE UPSETTIN THE DOG, MAN!' Repeated Billy.

'AM I FUCK! I'M ONLY UPSETTIN YOU. THE DOG'S FINE. AREN'T YOU, PAL? YOU'RE FINE, AREN'T YOU, EH?'

'GrrrHOWF! GrrHOWF! Grrr!'

'JUST WANTS TO DANCE. DON'T YOU, BIG MAN, EH? JUST WANT TO DANCE? COME ON THEN, HUP! HUP! COME ON, HUP!'

Dooly remained grounded, growling a firm refusal.

Tony, undeterred, stooped to conquer, and the beast, snarling now, was hand reared by the forelegs and raised to the level of the man.

'Fuckin hell, you're a heavy big bastard!'

'HE'LL GO FOR YOU!' Shouted Billy. 'Serve you fuckin right, as well.'

'NO HE WON'T. HE LOVES HIS UNCLE TONY. DON'T YOU, PAL? YOU LOVE YOUR UNCLE TONY, DON'T YOU, EH?'

Beneath a leathery nose lips twitched and powerful teeth were bared.

'I'M TELLIN YOU, MAN, YOU BETTER PUT HIM DOWN! HE'S GOIN TO BITE YOU!'

Heedless, reckless, Tony moved in closer. He positioned a weighty paw on each of his shoulders, placed the palm of a hand either side of a sleek-coated ribcage and, animal and man face to face, a grotesque waltz ensued.

That was it for Billy. He was up out of his chair and striding boldly across the floor, purposeful, resolute, determined to switch off the music. Without so much as a gentleman's excuse me, Tony pushed away his dance partner, hurdled onto the couch and sprang off at the other end, landing hard, to block Billy's way and wag a forbidding finger at his frustrated adversary.

Billy, embittered, tightly gripped the chair-back with his right hook.

An angry duo of sharp, broom-handle knocks sounding up through the floor from the ceiling of the flat below (no you can't, no you can't) was immediately answered with a defiant trio of dull, sole-heel thuds sent down from above by Tony (yes I can, yes I can, yes I can).

Once again four on the floor, Dooly had excitedly reprised his bass-line.

'HOWFHOWF! HOWFHOWFHOWF! HOWF!'

'DOOLY!' snapped Billy.

And the dog, after meekly barking a diminuendo, slunk quietly back to the door, where he lay croup between hams, lapping woundedly at his manhandled forelegs. Billy relaxed his grip.

'Come on,' he said. 'We should make a move anyway.'

'Are we takin him?' Asked Tony, pointing at the dog.

'Aye.'

'Will he even fit in the car?'

'I'm not takin the car. We're walkin.'

'We're walkin? What, all the way up to Pabs's?'

'Aye.'

Tony stared for a bit out of the window, as though walking the route in his mind.

'All right,' he said finally. 'But wait until this song's finished.'

4

Anthony Drake (no middle name), was born in a burgeoning Scottish new town, in the winter of nineteen-seventy, the second son of a welder father and an over-protective mother. He received a rudimentary education at the local comprehensive school, choosing to leave at the age of sixteen. After an irresolvable quarrel with his father, over his disappointing grades and refusal to continue with schooling, Drake left home to embark upon a succession of pointless and low paid jobs, each ending in redundancy or dismissal. An increasing fascination with the town's underworld – a world of drug misuse and hard drinking – led to a brief spell in prison, at the age of twenty, for Actual Bodily Harm. On his release, vowing to change his ways, he set himself up in business as a window cleaner, but his inherent lack of discipline and acumen doomed the enterprise to failure almost before it had begun.

Drake's bitterness, augmented by the factory work he was forced to take as a result of his failure, effected a resumption of his old habits, and he began to seek in music – which he would later describe as 'about the only fuckin thing that makes life here worth livin' – affirmation of his erratic existence. Once again drifting from job to job, brimming with the fury of the unjustly oppressed and bemoaning the lack of opportunity in his home town, Drake turned his thoughts to foreign travel. And with this in mind he gave up his current job, having saved a small amount of money, and moved in, just for a week or two until the details were finalised, with William Wilson, a friend of a friend.

Wilson, of whom what little is known scarcely merits recounting, led an ordinary life notable only for its lack of events. Two years older than Drake he possessed little of his fiery passion. After leaving school at seventeen he took up an apprenticeship with a local electronics firm, where he remained, more or less contentedly, for over ten years. His position within the firm, which he never sought to advance, afforded him those of the mod cons he deemed necessary for a relatively comfortable existence, an existence that he seldom troubled to question. At the time of drake's arrival, however, he was, through no fault of his own, unemployed, a state of affairs he bore with customary lack of concern, resolving to live off his savings until necessity once again prompted him to action. In short, Wilson was a young man who had worn out many a good pair of shoes on the path of least resistance.

By the summer of ninety-seven, when the events herein related occur, Wilson had reluctantly allowed Drake's initial week or two to stretch to a little under six months. Their co-existence was a prolonged battle of wills.

Drake scorned Wilson's anything-for-a-quiet-life attitude as that of a coward masquerading as indifference.

Wilson in turn viewed Drake's angry defiance of convention as nothing more than the tantrums of a spoiled child.

Drake was the obstreperous houseguest.

Wilson the long-suffering host.

Drake bored Wilson.

Wilson irritated Drake.

Separate, it is extremely doubtful whether Drake or Wilson would ever have been brought to the world's attention, but together their unparalleled infamy, like that of Wilson's namesake before them, was indeed bruited to the uttermost regions of the globe; though not so much by the indignant winds as by the whirling tempest of the media:

KIDNAPPED! BEATEN! RAPED! KILLED! EATEN!

THE TRAGIC FATE OF OUR MOST BELOVED CELEBRITY

FINE YOUNG CANNIBALS!

THUGS DEVOUR SUPERSTAR RYAN

DRUG FRENZY LEADS TO FACE-OFF!

HERO COP TELLS HIS STORY. EXCLUSIVE

5

He should have walked away.

The minute he first clapped eyes on the record company's MD or CO or CEO (or whatever high-sounding job title he had appended to his name – Steve, Steve Thompson – with embarrassing self-importance during the introductory handshake) he should have upped and walked away.

An effervescent secretary, prim and industrious, had greeted him on his arrival and accompanied him in the lift up to Mr Thompson's office on the top floor. The man himself was 'on a call' when they had entered. He acknowledged Tony with a half-nod from behind a plush wooden desk, pointed pistol-like to the chair at the other side of it and went on with his call.

'...Yes, Don, yes. I'm perfectly well aware of that, but he no longer fits the framework... No, on a personal level I'm very fond of him, but professionally he's dead wood... Be that as it may, Don, he's very lucky at this juncture to be working in the business at all... Don, market forces dictate my actions and that particular market is in decline... No can do, my friend. No can do. I have to consider my margins...'

The secretary had left them to it and from in front of the desk, behind a deferential expression, Tony cast a critical eye over Steve Steve. He was seated in a high-backed, soft-leather swivel chair, pushed out a bit from the desk, wearing an immaculately tailored three-piece pinstriped suit with perfectly co-ordinated collar and tie. His left ankle was resting on his right knee and he was gently gyrating this way and that as he listened (mainly to himself) and spoke.

'...C'est la vie, Don, c'est la vie. I can't afford to care. The music business is a business like any other. He was initially given a three-month window in which to structure a suitable package and utterly failed to deliver. I can't justify throwing good money after bad, funding the dubious lifestyles of has-beens and idlers. It's time to cut him loose...'

The raising of the phone to his ear had pulled the sleeve of his jacket back from his shirt cuff to reveal an over sized pearl cufflink where a button would've sufficed, while the three tortoise-shell buttons on his waistcoat curved neatly and evenly over a replete stomach. His hair was slick and his shoes highly polished. He couldn't have been more than thirty-five.

'...Now that, Don, sounds like an interesting proposition. Let me see...da-da da da...'

He leaned forward and tapped a few keys on his computer.

'...Hmm,' he said. 'Da-da da da da da...'

And in order to think on his feet, he actually got up out of his chair and began, not pacing, exactly, but strolling to and fro behind it.

'...Da-da da da. Factor in the retail component. Da-da da da da da...'

In mid stroll he swept the front of his jacket back behind his hip and casually slipped his free hand into his trouser pocket, halting before the middle one of three large arched windows to gaze ankle deep in thought out over the rooftops of his city. The 'winder' on his heavy-duty platinum wristwatch caught on the pocket's rim preventing his hand from going any deeper inside.

'...Okay, Don, offer him three percent less than industry standard on a take it or leave it basis. If he baulks at it up the ante... No, cap it at one percent. I don't shit pound sterling. I want him on the books, Don, but not at any price...'

Nor was it difficult for Tony to imagine the complete range of his extracurricular activities: rolling into the clubhouse car park in some model of sports convertible, a leisurely elbow resting atop the driver's door; lifting his kitbag and clubs out of the boot; teeing off on the front nine with the clubhouse as backdrop, in sunshade, slacks and a light Pringle roll-neck, adjusting and re-adjusting his grip and stance before, club head still skywards, following the ball with an anticipatory gaze as it sails through the air down the fairway. Or afterwards in the self-same clubhouse, ensconced in a buffed brown leather, Chesterfield style armchair, sipping at a brandy, periodically swirling it gently round the wall of the glass; or smoking a fat cigar, sucking and blowing at one end while lighting the other, turning it, turning it, turning it as he did so, releasing ever enlarging puffs of smoke from the corners of his mouth.

'...For sure, Don, for sure. And, Don, let me know the upshot asap. All going well I want a press release Tuesday. Now, was there anything else? ...Ah, that, I'm afraid, will have to wait for some other time, my friend. I have a young man here right now who, if we strike while the iron's hot and employ the correct strategy, could well turn out to be the next big thing... Okay, Don. Okay. Chow.'

He snapped shut his phone and turning back towards Tony extended a cordial, confident, unapologetic hand.

Pinching the creases of his trousers, drawing the legs up an inch or two, he again sat himself down, and it would have come as no surprise to Tony if he'd swung first one foot then another up onto the desk and proceeded to get down to brass tacks cross legged and lolling in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head.

'Tea? Coffee? Water?' he asked instead, indicating the telephone on his desk.

'No, no thanks,' replied Tony.

'A real drink perhaps?'

He opened a door in the desk and produced a small decanter and two brandy glasses.

Tony suppressed a despairing shake of his head to maintain his passable impression of respectful politeness.

'Eh, no, no thanks,' he said again.

Wheeling his chair in closer to the desk, Steve Steve poured himself a brandy, and swirling it gently round the wall of the glass, gazed upwards over Tony's head to where an array of framed gold and silver discs adorned the office wall.

' "Drako",' he said musingly. 'I like that. It's got a certain ring to it. I think I can work with that.'

He was again looking at Tony.

'Tony,' he said. 'Let me tell you why you're here.'

And, after savouring a sip of his drink, he had gone on to outline his proposal.

'You, my friend,' he said, again pointing pistol-like, this time directly at Tony. 'You, my friend, are a very hot property. A very hot property! Your exploits have caused quite a stir within the industry. "Tony Drake" is thee name on everybody's lips. Granted, not everyone is singing your praises exactly. In fact almost to a man they condemn your actions. But universal condemnation is, in my experience, every bit as lucrative as universal adoration. And that, in corporate terms, makes you, Tony, a very viable project. Now, I would like to make it known at this juncture that whatever you did or did not do to Ryan Watson, whatever the truth of the matter, it's of no interest to me primarily as a businessman. There is no place in modern business for the... shall we say... the morally impeccable. My principal concern, in fact my only concern, is how best to capitalise on the resultant controversy. There are two routes to success in music, Tony: the first is to spend a great deal of time and money promoting your acts to the level of household name. The second, by far the quickest and most cost effective, is to take an existing household name and provide him with a saleable product. You, my friend, are an existing household name!

'Now, according to the newspapers, you were listening to a particular song on that night. An old song called Debaser, by a band called the Pixies? Am I right? So I've taken the liberty of having the boys downstairs chase up a copy. Not bad. Not bad. A little too 'alternative' for my own taste, but that's merely a personal opinion and of no importance here. It pays in this business, Tony, to have an ear, to have several ears, to the ground at all times, to keep abreast of current trends, and detailed analysis shows that the market for exactly this type of alternative music is once again in the ascendant. In fact, leaving 'pop' out of the equation – bread and butter to industry moguls like myself and by far and away the dominant force in the modern market place, accounting for forty-three percent of all records sold – alternative music, with a pretty impressive eighteen-point-two percent market share, rising at a steady two-point-four percent over the last two years, is now second only to 'techno', in all its various forms, genres and sub-genres, with a share of nineteen-point-six percent. All of which means, in layman's terms, Tony, that there's a handsome profit to be made if we act quickly. The thriving market coupled with your widespread notoriety is a sure fire recipe for instant fame and fortune, my friend.

'Now, as we speak, the legal department are busy securing the rights to what those boys in the Hollywood hills refer to these days as a re-imagining, a cover version, in vulgar parlance, of Debaser. And I want you, Tony, to be the front man, the lead singer. And when I say want I mean need, my friend. Need! Without you the song is worthless to me. But with your name behind it the sky, as they say, is the limit. How do you like the sound of that?'

Tony, inexplicably cowed by this interview-esque situation, was sitting upright with his hands almost obediently clasped on his lap, and could only shrug his thumbs while blankly nodding and bobbing his head in no determinate direction. Steve Steve took this as a yes.

'Good,' he went on. 'Now, in this business, Tony, as in any other, speed is of the essence, so I've had the contracts drawn up, to be signed forthwith, and we'll set a completion date for the whole package two days hence. On conclusion of our meeting in here I'll have my secretary escort you downstairs to the studio to lay down the vocals, due for completion by close of business today, leaving the boys in production a small window in which to tweak and polish the music. Meanwhile I myself will personally schedule a series of project specific interviews for you with one or two of the more prominent music journals, to inform the record buying public of your imminent arrival.

'Now, irregardless of whoever the real Tony Drake may or may not be, I suggest, for want of a better word, that in both the vocals and in the interviews you venture to live up to the public's perception of you as an angry young man. We must give the people, not what they want per se, but what they will certainly expect based on what they've read about you in the papers. And what they'll expect, Tony, is anger, real anger. Raw emotion. Passion...'

He was talking upwards now, over Tony's head, as though searching for just the right word among the gold and silver discs on the wall.

'...They'll expect... da-da da da da da... defiance...!'

He snapped his fingers at this mot juste and for the last time pointed pistol-like at Tony.

'...Defiance, and statistics will bear me out on this point, is a perennial favourite with the record buying public and therefore a very valuable commodity. The only question now, my friend, is can you deliver?'

He pushed his chair back from the desk, flung his left ankle up onto his right knee, and Tony found himself caught in the glare of an uber-smug, no-nonsense, super-serious, business-like stare.

There was no doubt about it, he should have upped and walked away.

6

All Tony was saying was:

'What's the point of buyin a house like that when you can get one with the same amount of rooms, in the same area, for a fuckin quarter of the price?'

'They're nicer,' argued Billy.

'Nicer! You'd pay four times the price for nicer?'

'Why not? If you can afford it.'

'But that's my whole fuckin point!' asserted Tony heatedly. 'They don't build these houses for cunts that can afford them. They build them for cunts that'll happily mortgage themselves up to the fuckin eyeballs for the rest of their natural lives, just so they can act all fuckin la-dee-da and pretend to be livin whatever hoity-fuckin-toity "lifestyle" it is they've seen advertised on the telly!'

Billy shrugged.

'They keep buildin them,' he said. 'So people must keep buyin them.'

'Oh, they keep fuckin buyin them all right! I'm not sayin they don't buy them. I'm sayin they can't fuckin afford them. Half the cunts livin here are probably payin their mortgages with money they get from rentin out their ex-council houses at twice the normal rent. I'm tellin you, man, any cunt that can comfortably afford to live in one of these houses'll be away livin beyond their means in some nicer fuckin area!'

They were down by the river en-route to Pabs's. A service bridge that they were passing led over to a cluster of privately owned detached houses, recently built on the site of an old factory and tucked neatly into the belly of an s-bend. Their red-tiled gable roofs were all that could be seen of them over the tall hedges and high wooden fence that served to reinforce their seclusion. Tony was piqued at the sight of yet another 'exclusive' development, but it was Billy's stubborn refusal to acquiesce in his condemnation of it that was really beginning to rile him.

For Billy's part, his uncharacteristic obstinacy stemmed not from any great strength of feeling on the subject but was largely attributable to an incident that had occurred earlier, just as they were about to leave the flat. Through a carelessly opened front door (carelessly opened by Tony) Dooly had escaped, and evading grabbing hands (Billy's) had fled down the stairs and been let out of the main door by an incoming neighbour. Tony had watched mirthfully from the kitchen window as Dooly galloped along the path below, with Billy, silently fuming, in tepid pursuit. He, Dooly, had not been difficult to locate, pining – surprise, surprise – at his own front door. But it was Tony's unrepentant 'not my dog' attitude that had led to Billy's current mood, not the fact that he'd allowed him to escape in the first place, and definitely nothing to do with any new houses.

'I don't see anythin wrong with them,' shrugged Billy.

'I don't see anythin wrong with them,' mocked Tony. 'No, you fuckin wouldn't, would you!'

They were walking along a footpath that closely followed the windings of the river on a narrow tract of greenbelt land. Tree roots, like swollen veins, bulged beneath the soft tarmac. The river at its widest was no more than the skim of a stone from bank to bank and at its calmer parts the trees seemed to cast their quivering reflections deep into the water, but in truth they lay flat on its surface and nothing but their colour distinguished them from mere shadows. Tony was brooding in front at a pace befitting his temper; Billy, despite himself, lengthened his stride to keep up; while Dooly, sniffing curiously here and there at the edges of the grass, padded amiably alongside them on his lead, his shoulder blades alternately rising and falling and the tip of his up-curled tail autonomously flicking the air.

'Can you not let him off the lead down here?' asked Tony irritably.

'Nope,' said Billy.

'So what the fuck did we come this way for, then?'

'To take him for a walk. There's too many other dogs around. He might start fightin.'

'Aye, right!'

'What?'

'Fightin.'

'What?'

'It's because he'll run away again and you don't know how to control him.'

It was a pleasant enough spot, the river, but it was no countryside ramble. Up where they had just come from, the foremost rows of the district's row-housing stood sunning their roughcast facades in a long broken line that rose and fell with the undulations of the land. And behind those foremost rows the rooftops of the next few rows were visible. And behind those next few rows countless other rows of houses and flats can be seen, from some higher vantage point, ranging back in a maze-like formation, row after row, facing this way and that, one close beside the next and each much the same, if not exactly the same, as its neighbour; to where, in the middle distance, the square factories and tall chimneys of the industrial estate, starkly outlined against the vague blue hills, encroach upon the approach roads of the smaller outlying towns and villages. A higher vantage point still, would reveal this district to be no more than the northeast quarter in a vast suburban panorama, almost symmetrically sectioned by the river flowing from west to east and a north bound/south bound dual carriageway. A typical new town landscape, then, and a typical new town: ahistoric (of course) and wholly devoid of distinguishing characteristics, except for maybe its excessively high crime and suicide rates and the Asda, Europe's largest supermarket.

Ahead of them stood the prosaic concrete and steel structure of the dual carriageway bridge with its grey pillars and girders, and the monotonous sound of motors motoring to and from it, invisible but clearly audible atop the steep banking at the other side of the river, all but drowned out any birdsong or frog chorus and the leisurely flowing of the river itself.

They were about to enter the picnic area (a quaint wooden signpost would have informed them of this had it not been burned to a charcoal stump by vandals shortly after its erection). A patch of grass roughly the size of a school football pitch, the picnic area was liberally sprinkled with daisies, dandelions and - today, at least - people. Above the discordant medley of chattering voices, the barking of dogs and the 'sharps and trebles' of excited children the mawkish strains of the latest chart topping pop song drifted to Tony's eardrums and darkened his mood still further.

'Who the fuck's inflictin this shite on us?' he growled, casting around for its source.

In the first third of the park a game of five-a-sides (using, of course, jumpers for goalposts) had either finished or reached half-time, and the players, mostly of school age, were sitting around on the grass, breathing heavily and passing among themselves two or three bottles of water, from which, invariably, they drank a bit and poured some over their heads. Baseball hats were removed and became fans, and football tops, peeled off, were utilised as towels to wipe the sweat from their faces.

'That's some fuckin size of a dog you've got there!' shouted an older man, perhaps the father of one of the players, alone standing among the rest. 'Does he want a game? We could use him as the goals, ha ha!'

And he glanced around the group for approval.

Tony stopped, the opportunity having presented itself for a spot of good natured badinage; an exchange of drolleries; a light-hearted rally, perfectly in keeping with the weather, that would instil in both parties a feeling of camaraderie and earn them as well the respectful admiration of the boys.

'Who the fuck are you talkin to? Ya fuckin prick!' he retorted, causing acute embarrassment, mingled with fear, to constrict the heart, wither the muscles and burn the skin of the man, who, nevertheless, still stood there laughing.

Billy promptly came to his rescue and hustled Tony along.

'Come on, man,' he reasoned. 'The guy was only jokin!'

In the rest of the park people sat around wooden picnic tables (those that had not yet been burned to the ground) drinking and smoking and keeping their wayward children from straying too near the river by repeatedly NOT FUCKING TELLING THEM AGAIN. Dotted around on the grass colourful sunbathers lay or sat on towels or blankets, sometimes neither, listening to personal stereos or idly flicking the glaring pages of glossy magazines, sometimes both. And while the braver among them dared to bare their feet, or allow a tantalising glimpse of milk-white shins beneath rolled up trouser legs, most were content to swelter fully clothed, unwilling to reveal an ounce more flesh than was necessary for a facial tan, lest it be construed, by their neighbour or whoever, as a superfluous ounce, falling outwith accepted standards; standards decreed by the very magazines that they were currently reading.

Billy sought to lighten Tony's mood by directing his attention towards the back of the park. There, a corpulent fifty-something, having unashamedly shed all but her big knickers (off-white and slightly darker in hue than her livid skin), sat with ten-to-two feet and her legs outstretched, leaning back resting on her palms. Her large loose face was raised towards the sun, while almost everything else, from her puckered wattles down to her fleshly maw, tended in the other direction.

Tony couldn't but relent.

'Fuck me!' he exclaimed. 'A waist is a terrible thing to mind, right enough, eh?'

And he was on the verge of shouting – 'Good for you, Missus!' – when some primal reflex contorted his features into an artless expression of undisguised loathing. He had just located the source of the music.

A loyal subject to even the most destructive of his ruling passions, Tony drank in the scene before him and savoured his rising anger.

Near the very centre of the park, at either end of a tartan picnic blanket, two optimally bronzed cosmetic cosmopolites, and their dog, were actually 'enjoying' a picnic. An array of dainty dishes, neatly arranged on the blanket, encircled the picnic's centrepiece – a silver ice bucket from which the neck of a green bottle protruded, resting urbanely against the rim.

The girl, striking 'mermaid on a rock', was wearing a floral-print sarong of yellow on pale-blue with matching pale-blue tankini. A pair of barely-there kitten-heeled mules completed the ensemble, and the sun burnished to a translucent (fools-) gold the feathered ends of her ultra-luxurious, hyper-shiny, frizz-tamed, glide-through, volume-enhanced, re-hydrated, style-savvy, ice-latte, natural-looking hair, which was swept back from her forehead and held in place by a pair of azure-lensed black plastic sunglasses.

The guy, in open-fronted, short-sleeved, light cotton shirt and three-quarter length white utility pants, was crouching 'foremost footballer in a team photo'. His black hair, well gelled, seemed to be moulded from the same material as his (and her) sunglasses, which, worn on his forehead, were at least nearer their rightful place. A thin pair of neatly cropped and tapered sideburns pointed downwards and inwards over a stubbled jaw to where a very small triangular beard nestled between his bottom lip and chin dimple.

Clearly it was all about looks with these people.

She furtively looked at the other sunbathers, but only to see whether any of them were looking at her. And if they were, or whenever she thought they were – which was often, for she lived her life under the imagined gaze of other people – she would flash her boyfriend a smile that purported to contain behind it a world of contentment and satisfaction and happiness, yet it neither came from anywhere deep inside nor did it radiate outwards, but originated on her lips and stayed there, like a two-dimensional reproduction of how she thought happiness was supposed to look.

He looked frequently at himself, at a bicep, perhaps, or from one well defined hirsute pectoral to the other, at his crotch or the position of his feet, and his satisfaction at what he saw shone like love-light in his eyes and told in the assuredness of his movements – chiefly, picking an olive, say, or a piece of cheese from one or other of the dainty dishes and popping it lovingly into the mouth of the girl.

Their dog, a tiny toy poodle perched ornately atop the closed lid of an actual wicker hamper, looked moochingly back and forth between pick and pop like some petite, candy floss-haired tennis umpire, in ribbons and bows, yip-yip-yipping.

'Does Chantelle want some?' the girl could be heard to say, in a babyish voice, possibly her own. 'Does chantelle want some?'

Preoccupied with the spectacle, Tony had ceased to hear the music, but the bogus sentiment of its chorus, issuing from the miniature speakers of a de-personalised personal stereo soon recaptured his attention.

I've suffered, rode the fashions and the fads

But one thing will remain

I will always stay the same

Just one of the lads

Just one of the lads

Just one of the lads

'Just one of the lads?' he echoed incredulously. 'Just one of the fuckin lads? When the fuck were any of these cunts ever "just one of the lads"? I mean, look at these cunts! Fuckin look at them! These are exactly the type of cunts I'm talkin about! Who the fuck do they think they are? No, wait. Who the fuck do they think we think they are? That's the fuckin real question! Check out their sun bed tans, man! We've only had one day of sun and they're vernear fuckin orange!'

Billy walked on.

'Fuckin posin cunts!' continued Tony. 'All their best gear on to come and sit here! And look! They've got a fuckin wicker hamper, for fuck sake!'

Billy reluctantly stopped.

'They're not botherin anybody,' he said.

'Not botherin anybody? How are they not botherin anybody? Look at that cunt's beard! That's got to be botherin people! And that wee dog looks like it's been brought along deliberately just to annoy cunts! Who else do you see havin a fuckin picnic down here?'

'Yip yip yip,' went the poodle.

'Does Chantelle want some?' Said the girl.

'And what the fuck does he keep feedin her for? Can she not fuckin feed herself?'

'That's love for you, I suppose,' said Billy. 'come on, let's go.'

'Fuck off! Love! Love's got fuck all to do with it! That's just a big fuckin act! I'm tellin you, man, the world's full of cunts like this these days, pretendin to be happy, pretendin to be successful, pretendin this, pretendin that. Nobody gives a fuck anymore about actually bein anything, as long as they can look like whatever it is they wanted to fuckin be in the first place! Listen to that song! Prime fuckin example! About two weeks ago that cunt was a fuckin backin dancer in a boy band, and now, after gettin a few tattoos and a well fuckin publicised drug 'habit', he's been re-fuckin-born as a bona fide rock star! Surprise, sur-fuckin-prise, at the exact same time as indie music or alternative music or whatever you want to call it just happens to be makin a comeback! And nobody bats a fuckin eyelid! Every cunt just accepts it! To cunts like these cunts here he's the real fuckin thing! And like I say, the world's full of cunts like these these days. Does that not fuckin annoy you?'

'Em, not really, no.'

'Yip yip yip,' went the poodle.

'But fuckin look at them, man!'

'HOWF HOWF HOWF,' went Dooly.

'How about you try not lookin at them?'

Dooly had spotted the poodle.

'No, fuck that! They want to be looked at, so I'm goin to look at them! That's what they fuckin live for! Comin here all dressed up with their poncy fuckin picnic! Make a few cunts jealous and go home happy, that's a successful day for them. It's all about bein seen. But I'm tellin you, man, they've got fuck all more than you or me! If they had half the money they want us to think they've got they wouldn't be sittin fuckin here! Fuckin posin cunts!'

Just then, a stray ball from the five-a-sides that had now resumed came rolling off the grass near to where they stood, bobbled over the path, rolled down the banking into the river and stopped, floating at the water's edge, bobbing lightly on the ripples.

'Pass the ball back, will you, mate?' shouted one of the players, a different one.

'Are you goin to get that for them?' asked Billy.

'Me?' said Tony. 'Am I fuck! Fuckin Cheeky cunts.'

Inwardly, Billy shook his head.

'Here,' he said wearily. 'Hold him a minute, then.'

Tony had to smile, or rather he had to try not to smile, as Billy handed him Dooly's lead and went to fetch the ball. He looked at Dooly. Then he looked at the poodle. He looked at Dooly, then he looked at the poodle. He looked at Dooly looking at the poodle. Then he looked at the hand that was holding Dooly's lead, and simply let go. Or, rather, he didn't simply let go, he actually pulled the lead a bit tighter first, and then let go, and Dooly shot off after the poodle like a whippet from a trap. Or at least as much like a whippet from a trap as his considerable size would allow. Chantelle turned tail and sprung from her podium in panic, a manoeuvre that somewhat perplexed the young couple, until a Great Dane crashed through their picnic.

The poodle darted ahead on nippy little legs, yip-yip-yipping as her nose-cone rent the air and the jet-stream swept tail-wards her ribbon ends and ears. Dooly bounded after her at a graceless gallop, howf-howf-howfing as the strap handle of his lead slap-slapped him on the back. Together they circled picnic tables, jumped over sunbathers, ran rings round the five-a-sides, raced up towards the houses, turned down towards the river, jumped back over sunbathers, re-circled picnic tables and slalomed through trees before careering back towards the young couple, whereupon the poodle gambolled, from no inconsiderable distance, into the unready arms of its owner (the guy) who, stooped, had been waiting to snatch her up out of harms way.

It is by no means certain, had he not been slightly off balance, that he would have stood his ground, faced, as he was, with a Great Dane growing rapidly towards him – pink tongue flailing, chamois leather ears beating like wings, eyes fixed firmly on its quarry. A scream, a yelp, a yip, a crash and a groan were heard in quick succession, as a leaping Dooly sent him reeling backwards over the already ruined picnic, where he fell heavily onto its centrepiece, still clutching the poodle to his chest.

'Holy fuck!' exclaimed a wide-eyed Tony, and he caught hold of Billy's arm. 'Wait!'

The guy tried to get up, but a sharp pain somewhere, made manifest in a grimace, forced him to remain where he was. The poodle lapped happily at his face, and her tail, sticking straight up, wagged briskly. The girl looked on horrified as Dooly righted himself with a shake and carried on regardless.

He gave a preliminary sniff at the poodle's hindquarters while the poodle snapped and yipped over both shoulders. Then, stepping a tentative forepaw up onto the supine guy's ribcage, he draped the other paw loosely over the poodle's tiny back. The poodle seemed to relax, perhaps now sensing that her life was not after all in danger. Finally, trampling plates and sandwiches underfoot, Dooly awkwardly walked his hind legs a few steps closer to his fore and, visibly excited – in the pink, you might say – he began, albeit sheepishly (needs must when the devil drives, decorum takes a back seat), to turn a once pleasant picnic into a rather beastly affair.

'AH HA HA!' roared Tony, pointing. 'FUCKIN CHECK HIM OUT, MAN! HE'S SHAGGIN MID-AIR! YOU COULD DRIVE A FUCKIN BUS THROUGH THERE!'

The couple were irate. The guy slapped and pushed and kicked and shouted as much as his discomfort would allow (Dooly paid no attention), while the language that spewed from the mouth of the girl was hardly befitting a lady of her standing (Dooly never missed a stroke). A furious invective of 'cunts', 'fucks' and 'bastards' – replacing what in times past would have been cries of 'You brute! You brute!' – brought Dooly's towering performance to the laughter-filled attention of the whole park (he neither rose to nor shrank from the occasion). And it was all set to music.

I've been up, I've been down

I've been a fool, I've been a clown

'DOES CHANTELLE WANT SOME?' shouted Tony in a mock babyish voice. 'DOES CHANTELLE WANT SOME? AH HAHA!'

Billy ambled embarrassedly over and, quietly mumbling his apologies, dragged Dooly away.

'What's wrong with your face?' asked Tony on his returm. 'It was just a fuckin laugh, man! Serves the cunts right! Come on, we'll go along this way. I'll show you where I used to sniff glue.'

7

The path turned and sloped up towards the houses. Continuing straight ahead Tony led them onto a narrow dirt track that snaked between knee-high grass, reeds and rushes along the very edge of the riverbank. At broad, scooping swipes of his hand clouds of midges dispersed, before reforming behind them. Dooly, in the middle, sniffed searchingly from side to side at dock leaves and ferns and the bases of trees.

The thick branch of a sycamore barred the entrance to a secluded bower. It jutted straight out across the path from low on the trunk, angled upwards at an elbow and bifurcated. Its leaves fanned out and swooped back towards the river, the foremost dipping their tips in the cool, khaki water. A discarded shopping trolley lay submerged on its side and green riverweed, clinging to its rusting frame, streamed out current-wise. Tony motioned Billy to stop, took half a step backwards, leaning back slightly too, strode forcefully forward and leapt up onto the branch, dropping down at the other side. A triangle of startled ducklings skimming out across the water from beneath the bank sent Dooly into a frenzy. Billy calmed him and ducked under.

The bower was airy and shaded, almost tranquil. The dual carriageway bridge was only partially visible through the dark foliage of the trees, and the houses were completely hidden behind a spinney of young firs growing at the top of a grassy slope. A little further on, the end of a grey concrete drainage pipe, that ran underground down from the houses, lay in a fissure and stuck out from the bank, and the soothing, natural sound of water flowing into water for once replaced the harsh, harried sound of the cars. The grass at their feet was littered with pinecones and needles, dried husks and the decaying remnants of last year's leaves.

'Fuckin hell,' said Tony, glancing around him and kicking lightly at a circle of charred stones, the boundary wall of a cold, black campfire. 'I've not been here for ages. It's changed a bit. Nobody ever used to come here. Just us. In fact, back then hardly anybody used to come down to the river at all. It was just a fuckin wasteland. This was before they tried to turn it into a fuckin holiday resort with all the picnic benches and shite. That tar path was just mud. You'd maybe get the odd dog walker or that but they would never dare to venture along this far. And these fir trees weren't here either. They must've planted them to make it look a wee bit more scenic from the houses. That was all just jaggies and weeds.'

He back-rolled an empty buckfast bottle up onto his instep and flicked it high and long. Its green glass glimmered and flashed through slender, shifting sunbeams as it arced its way twisting and spinning towards the drainage pipe. He sat himself down on the grass slope, remembering.

'Oh, man!' he said. 'The halucinations you used to get down here!'

Billy, realising that this could take a while, also sat down, on a large moss covered boulder, and stared resignedly at a lone cluster of bluebells growing at the edge of the firs:

'Their bowed heads glowed in soft focus... Their luminous heads glowed in soft focus... Their lustreless heads, humbly bowed, luminously glowed in...'

Dooly lay in the grass at his feet, quick panting. He yawned a great drawbridge yawn that curled his tongue, strained his eyes and rose in pitch to a squeak, then resumed panting.

Tony went on talking.

'We would lie here all day and night with fuckin glue bags stuck to our faces. Get ourselves into a right fuckin mess. But I'm tellin you, man, you used to see some mad stuff! I've seen fuckin UFOs...fuckin zombies...pterodactyls flyin over the trees, gravestones poppin up out of the ground. I've even seen the devil, man, risin up out of the river right in front of me. A mate of mine at the time swore it was fuckin Santa Claus but to me it was the devil. I could see his horns and everythin, man, as clear as I can fuckin see you! There was no tellin what might happen. You couldn't control it. It controlled you. See that tree there?'

'...Their lustreless heads, "bowed in humble guise", glowed in soft focus, yet with an almost ultra-violet...'

'HO! See that fuckin tree there?'

Billy looked over his shoulder. An old alder grew at a steep angle out over the water.

'I ended up up that one time,' Tony went on. 'Totally fuckin fucked, man! And I fell off it into the river. Go and see what I could've fell onto. I could've fuckin killed myself!'

Billy again looked over his shoulder, and nodded.

'Go and see!' urged Tony. 'Look over the edge.'

'It's all right, said Billy. I'll take your word for it.'

'You're not still in the huff are you?'

'I never was in the huff.'

'So go and fuckin see what I could've fell onto.'

'Boulders.'

'What?'

'Is it boulders?'

'Go and fuckin see!'

Reluctantly, Billy raised himself, and Dooly sprang alertly to his side. He sauntered over to the tree and took a perfunctory look beneath it. Boulders.

'I could've fuckin killed myself,' continued Tony. 'Luckily for me it'd been rainin and the river was up.'

Something moving in the grass, stirred by a gentle breeze, caught Dooly's eye and Billy allowed himself to be pulled towards it. Tony lay back with his hands clasped behind his head, talking to the sky.

'Every cunt had to wade in and drag me out. They all thought I was dead. Point is, I knew fuck all about any of it! Not-a-fuckin-clue what was goin on! As far as I was concerned I was on this gorgeous wee desert island the whole time. I can still see it now: me sittin on the golden sand, under a palm tree, waves lappin at my feet, tropical sunshine, the lot... Ho! Are you even fuckin listenin to me?'

He had sat back up.

'Aye I'm listenin,' said Billy. 'I'm just tryin to... Dooly!'

Dooly had seized his prey, an old polythene bag, and was chewing on it playfully. Flicking his head up and to the side he continually altered his grip on it, growling and snarling and keeping it just out of Billy's reach. Then, dropping it for the taking, he would stand waiting, poised, and Billy would try to grab it before it was quickly snatched up and chewed on some more.

Tony again began to speak then paused, staring wistfully into the middle distance, digging deep for the words, the exact words, that would precisely convey to Billy what he had felt in those days: veracity, authenticity, validity; the absolute certainty that there was nowhere else you would rather be and nothing else you would rather be doing; rebelliousness, escape, the thrill of notoriety; how the 'real' world had not existed for him then, and how he'd scorned, from the lofty heights of his self-imposed exemption from it, the petty pleasures and concerns that absorbed the public at large.

Without adjusting his gaze he forlornly shook his head.

'They were the best fuckin days of my life!' he said.

'So, what did you stop for?'

'I had to get a fuckin job, didn't I? And anyway, as usual, cunts ruined it by tryin to cash in. Shops started sellin glue sniffin kits and it made the news. The police clamped right down. It was becomin near impossible to buy glue anywhere. WHOA! WHOA! WHOA! Don't throw that away!'

Billy had eventually wrestled the polythene bag from Dooly. It was shrivelled looking and opaque, its bottom half yellowish and stiff. He was holding it high out of the rearing dog's reach, about to hurl it into the river.

Tony rose quickly and took it from him.

'Ha ha!' he laughed. 'A fuckin glue bag!'

And as he held it, this replica of a relic from a bygone age, as he held it reverently by the corner and stared at it proudly, as though it were something born of him, was that a defiant note in his voice as he said 'this town'll never change', alike in tone and sentiment to 'come and have a go if you think you're hard enough'.

He tossed it over his shoulder.

'Come on,' he said. 'We'll cut through here.'

Billy almost winced as Tony, unseeing, lifted a foot up above the bluebells, and brought it down – oh! – just the other side of them. Then Dooly ploughed straight through them and they went up through the trees.

8

The same secretary, or perhaps a different one cut from the same Stepfordian mould, was summoned by Steve Steve via the desk telephone and instructed to show Tony down to the recording studio, where he was left in the capable hands of 'Chris, with a K' one of the 'boys' in production.

Kris was as skinny as a rake, tall and haggard looking. The lines on his face told of a misspent youth and an even misser-spent middle age, and the heavy bags under his tired, if unrepentant eyes suggested that he had no intention of spending any more wisely now that his twighlight years were just around the corner. In matters of style he was a yesterday's man, or even the day before yesterday's. His thin, grey-blond hair was still tied back in a ponytail and his shirt – a silky/satiny looking violet or lilac creation – could not have been any more garish if it were fashioned entirely out of neon strip lighting. It was wide open at the neck, revealing a smattering of grey chest hair, and tucked in at the waist, billowing out over a studded leather belt that hung slant-wise like a gun belt on his hips. A pair of black leather drainpipe trousers emphasised the lankiness of his legs, the pointedness of his Chelsea boots and the fact that he still considered himself a bit of a ladies man. He was holding a rolled-up cigarette in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

Before ushering Tony into the studio, he directed a lingering, lecherous, lascivious look up and down the retreating back of the secretary and hissed:

'Aaassss on thahat!'

No sooner had Tony stepped inside the studio than a camera, mounted like a bazooka on a shoulder of its enthusiastic young operator, was thrust lens first into his face. He instinctively stood his ground, giving first the camera, then the operator, via his one remaining eye, a threatening, questioning stare.

'Oh, yeah,' drawled Kris, coming in and closing the door behind him. 'That's Jeremy, the department apprentice. He's in charge of the video. Just try and pretend he's not here.'

'Video?' thought Tony.

'What video?' he queried.

Kris took a draw on his roll-up.

'Basically,' he said, 'it'll be sort of a fly on the wall type deal. We'll film whatever happens in here today and then edit the 'best bits' together with archive footage of, you know, general urban decay: street violence, riots, that type of thing.'

A cigarette-handed air quotes at 'best bits', along with the jaded, almost sarcastic tone of voice was definitely offensive to Tony, but he had other things on his mind.

'What, the song and the video all in one day?' he said.

'More or less,' replied Kris. 'It's all fairly standard.'

'Aw, is it, aye? And, eh, he's an apprentice, you say?'

But Kris seemed not to notice his concern.

'Yeah,' he said, turning from Tony. 'But like I say, just try and pretend he's not here.'

The studio, after the near vulgar opulence of Steve Steve's penthouse office, was relatively small and work-like, not unlike a workman's bothy. It was even hung here and there with pages torn from porn mags and the odd Playboy calendar. Situated somewhere in the basement of the building it was simply a room...

'Mate, come on, eh?'

The camera was still a bit too up close and personal for Tony's liking and he renewed his threatening stare. Jeremy backstepped a pace or two.

...it was simply a room divided into two halves by a glass partition, separating a soundproofed singing area, or booth – the smaller of the two halves – from the area they were standing in now. This half of the room was dominated by a large, elaborate looking mixing desk – a bewildering array of dials and knobs and switches and faders and displays. The other half, hardly big enough to hold a band, appeared to contain little more than a mic on a mic stand, a song sheet on a stand of its own beside it and a pair of headphones, hung by their connecting band over the neck of the mic stand.

Kris set down his coffee cup and, placing the cigarette loosely between his lips for safekeeping, took a seat at the desk and went about readying it for Tony's performance.

Holding an earphone to one ear only, as if listening for the sea, he turned the dials, flicked the switches and pushed up and pulled down the faders, all in a humdrum, offhand, blasé manner, as though he'd done it so many times before that it had become second nature to him; like a line worker in a factory who's been tightening the same screws or soldering the same component day in, day out, day in, day out for so long now that he need no longer give it even a moment's thought. But if, like the factory worker, Kris had no great love for the work itself, unlike him he derived a great deal of pride from being in this particular line of work. He was only too well aware that to most people his job was a glamorous one, and it was this aspect of it – not the money it paid, which was probably very good, nor the freedom it allowed him to be 'his own man' (a dissolute lifestyle and unconventional dress sense were, as far as his employers, and even Kris himself, were concerned, an essential and inseparable part of the artistic temperament) – it was this glamorous aspect of it, though he would never admit to it, that he prized above all else. And he would shamelessly use it to good effect: preying on impressionable young girls in bars or at parties, manufacturing opportunities to oh so casually mention that he was 'in music' or 'in the music biz', knowing full well that whenever he did, their ears would prick up and their eyes brighten, before he would regale them with tales of the stars he had met and made. And it was through their eyes that he had eventually come to see himself, and share their high opinion of his station in life, long since forgetting or regretting his own fruitless aspirations to stardom.

Even his humdrum, offhandedness as he readied the mixing desk was a little overdone, as though he knew that his mastery of such a technical piece of equipment couldn't but impress someone like Tony, and to play it down was bound to impress him all the more.

'Eh, will there be a band comin in?' Tony asked.

Kris shook his head.

'Nah,' he said, still listening to the sea and making a few minor adjustments to the positions of the faders. 'Not necessary at the minute. This baby's got everything we need for now. Maybe if you hit 'the big time' (again offensive air quotes) the gaffer'll splash some cash on a few session boys to back you up at any live gigs that might come your way. But for the time being it's just the three of us. Or four, to be more precise.'

And, setting down the headphones, he stood up, patting the mixing desk as you would a horse, before embarking on a guided tour, such as it was, of the studio and offering a brief explanation of the recording process.

Taking up his coffee cup he sauntered into the sound booth beckoning Tony to follow. Jeremy darted in just ahead of Tony and, turning, filmed his entrance.

'This,' said Kris, taking another draw of his cigarette, 'is the recording booth. Basically, you'll be in here singing and I'll be at the other side of the glass piping the music through to you from the desk. The song sheet here's in case you forget the words, but only use it as a prompt. Don't read off it if you don't have to. Makes things less natural. And with this type of song we'll be going for one continuous take. Again, keeps it a bit more real. Now, to save time today we're using the original music but a new arrangement will be added later to, you know, modernise it a bit and bring it a bit more up to date. Once we're all set up I'll give you a few more pointers and we'll get started.'

He took a drink of his coffee.

'Any questions so far?'

Tony, sceptical to say the least with the whole workaday, time-is-money approach to the process up till now, did have one question, but try as he might he couldn't muster the courage to ask it, lest his worst fears be realised:

'Eh, what exactly do you mean by "modernise"?'

9

Sites are cleared, foundations laid, great iron frameworks constructed and glazed; individuals swept aside as the multiples move in: department stores, superstores, mega stores, chain stores, 'in shapes like their own selves hideously multiplied'; tailor made (entirely the wrong metaphor) to suit a model community mapped, measured and classified; a community first homogenised, then analysed, then re-divided; divided into 'affinity groups with similar demographic and lifestyle attributes' (a modern cousin of the stereotype); divided by age, sex, race, social class, disposable income, dietary habits, but never divided into parts so small as to once again become unwieldy individuals. The 'buyer behaviour' of each group is monitored-stroke-manipulated by corporate ladies and gentlemen – alike as so many peas in a pod – trained to identify-stroke-create 'market trends' and reason inductively therefrom (what's sauce for the goose is sauce for a whole gaggle of ganders). Such a trend having been identified-stroke-created the machinery of emulation and replication is set in motion and makes this noise: sameness and repetition, sameness and repetition; widespread distribution, vigorous promotion, shelves are stacked and garment rails hung with whichever cut, colour, style, model or name (particularly the name) will, for a very limited period, be the raison'd'etre of the Jones's and their infuriatingly imitative neighbours.

Here, today, Saturday, a substantial percentage of the fifty-thousand-plus 'profiled population' – predominantly white, both genders, all age groups, with a mean disposable income considerably lower than the national average and a standardised mortality rate considerably higher (owing, no doubt, to high fat, low food convenience diets, cigarettes and alcohol) – from the twenty-four-thousand-two-hundred-and-forty-three...forty-four...forty-five...households, covering a 'designated market area' of some ten square miles and beyond, were, by exhibiting an extensive range of 'purchase behaviour characteristics', fulfilling 'predicted market potential' and contributing to a success story that will, in the form of statistical data collected and collated, make for pleasant reading back at head office. And as success, like land, must be built upon, databases are surveyed, comparable locations selected 'off the peg', geo-demographical analyses made; sites are cleared, foundations laid, great iron frameworks constructed and glazed...

The dual carriageway bridge was quite a bit behind them and Billy and Tony were walking through one of several car parks that surround the shopping centre in the very heart of the town. Cars, in a variety of colours, were being loaded with the bagged contents of shopping trolleys, while others, cautiously doing laps, awaited more convenient parking spaces than the few currently available. Painted high up on the white wall of the Asda superstore, just below the name itself, bold green block capitals, running almost the entire length of the building, declared 'OPEN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS'. Lower down, at about head height beside the entrance (and Tony was proudly pointing it out to Billy) a much smaller sign read: 'On the advice of Lothian and borders police this store will now be closed between the hours of 2am and 5am on Fridays and Saturdays'

Billy stopped.

'I'm just goin to nip in here and get him some dog food,' he said.

'What, now?' said Tony. 'Can you not get it on the way back?'

'Well, we're here now, so... I might forget on the way back.'

'Aye, all right, then. Give me him.'

Billy hesitated.

'Eh, no... No, forget it. I'll get him somethin later.'

'What? I'm not goin to let him go in a fuckin car park!'

'No, it's all right. I'll get him somethin later.'

'Suit yourself, man. Come on, we'll cut through the centre.'

'We can't,' said Billy, indicating the dog again. 'Not with him.'

The sliding glass doors, closing behind the people in front of them, obligingly re-parted on their approach. No smoking, no dogs and no cameras slid to their left; no rollerblading, no skateboarding and no cycling to their right and they entered, over a gridiron floor mat and through a welcome blast of cooling air, a preliminary vestibule, before a second pair of sliding glass doors obligingly re-parted, allowing them to pass into the hustle and bustle of the main shopping area.

Despite the multiform lighting and its manifold reflections in the gleaming surfaces and highly polished fixtures and fittings, as well as the natural light filtering in through the structured glass and steel roof, it was dimmer in here than outside, and while their eyes were taking a second to adjust, the noise immediately encompassed them.

The sounds, in general, echoed those of the picnic area (less the barking of dogs), but here, owing to the acoustics of the building and the far greater number of people, they were amplified and multiplied and took on a resonant bass quality. The excited cries of those wayward children, as now they ran and slid on the faux-marble floor, were this time countered by the stifled reproofs of harassed mothers, too laden with shopping bags to be any effective deterrent (the volume only of their words was suppressed, not the anger that gave rise to them). Even the music was the same.

I've been up, I've been down

I've been a fool, I've been a clown

I've done things that other men...

'Not this fuckin song again!' growled Tony, pained and pointing upwards. 'Cunt thinks he's a fuckin rock'n'roll star and they're playin his stuff in shoppin centres like lift music!'

An avenue of glass-fronted shops extended straight ahead of them and another to their right. Tony turned right.

'Em, would it not be better,' said Billy, 'if we just went straight through?'

'What are you fuckin worryin about? We'll just take a wee wander round. Nobody's goin to bother us.'

They carved a path through the interweaving throng of shoppers. As people passed close by, particles of conversation, like DNA samples from which an expert or even a diligent amateur might construct a life, rose into clarity and faded out again behind them, to rejoin the indistinct thrum of voices. Syncopated dance beats emanated from wide shop doorways beneath names writ large and illuminated. In spot lit window displays similar if not identical mannequins were wearing similar if not identical summer fashions. And in electrical goods stores synchronised televisions, banked high, were all tuned to the same channel.

While Billy anxiously kept his eyes peeled for any sign of possible confrontation ahead, Dooly was attracting puzzled stares from people sure that dogs weren't allowed in here, and this or that audacious child or inquisitive toddler would occasionally allow the palm of an outstretched hand to plane along his sleek back, or the tips of their little fingers to undulate over his ribcage.

'Every song this cunt ever does gets to number one!' said Tony, still pained and again pointing upwards. 'How?'

Billy allowed himself to be drawn.

'Because people buy them?' he said.

'Aye. But why do they fuckin buy them?'

'Em...because they like them?'

'Because they like them? No, not because they fuckin like them! It's because they're fuckin stupid!'

The forcefulness with which Tony spoke these words undoubtedly captured the strength of his feelings, but he seemed to be completely unaware that the words themselves were a less than accurate translation of those feelings. Billy tried hard not to look bemused.

'How the fuck would they know what they fuckin like?' continued Tony.

Billy tried harder not to look bemused.

'Every cunt's doin everythin these days just because every cunt else is doin it!'

Billy tried harder not to look bemuseder.

'Eh, right,' he said. 'But I still don't get why people would buy the records if they don't really like them.'

'Neither do I, man,' said Tony. 'Neither do I. But, sadly, they do.'

They turned left into another avenue of shops.

'What was your first record?' asked Tony.

'Why?'

'What why? I'm just fuckin askin.'

'It was either "Promises" by the Buzzcocks, or Queen "Don't Stop Me Now". I can never remember, so it depends who I'm talkin to.'

'You're talkin to me.'

'Buzzcocks.'

'Poofs!'

'All right, Quee... Forget it.'

They strode on in silence.Tony, initially self-satisfied, grew impatient to be asked the same question. Billy, sensing his impatience, didn't ask it. On they strode, rash vanity snapping at the heels of Tony's proud restraint. Billy redoubled his resolve. They turned left again then right into a final avenue of shops and by now Tony's pent up resentment was desperately seeking a release.

'All people do in this fuckin town is shop!' he snapped.

'Em', said Billy, 'maybe it just seems like that because we're in a shopping centre.'

'Em, no,' mocked Tony. 'It fuckin is like that. There's fuck all else to do here. The place is like a ghost town after all the shops've shut. The only cunts on the streets are gangs of young guys bored out of their minds and pissed up on Bucky. It's a fuckin disgrace that a town this size doesn't even have a town centre!'

'Em,' said Billy again, 'we're in the town centre.'

'Exactly, man! Fuckin shops! I mean a proper town centre. Somewhere you can go for a bit of fuckin nightlife. There's one fuckin disco in this whole town! Does that not strike you as ridiculous?'

He seemed to be awaiting an answer.

'Are you askin me?' asked Billy.

'Aye, I'm fuckin askin you.'

'Well, I suppose it...'

'And they had the perfect opportunity to build us a proper town centre, a proper main street, when they were doin this place up. They even built the fuckin street! That fuckin "Boulevard" out there, or there, or wherever the fuck it is.' He gesticulated wildly in several different directions. 'A big long wide street bang in the middle of town. But do they build pubs or clubs on it? Do they fuck! A couple of fuckin banks and insurance companies, a load of fuckin offices, the arse end of Safeways and a petrol station! And a new fuckin multi-storey car park! It's fuckin shameful, man. That's all cunts think about these days! Fuckin business!'

The splashings of a decorative fountain could be said to mimic those of the river, and Dooly, possibly fooled into thinking he was still outside, stopped to cock his leg against the thin trunk of a ficus, planted beside it in a bed of small pebbles (its dark green waxen leaves had caught the glare of the lighting and taken on the artificial look of their surroundings).

'My fuckin sentiments exactly, big man,' said Tony.

Billy tugged Dooly sharply onwards, towards the sliding glass doors of the exit, and had just allowed himself to relax a little when, three shop fronts from that exit, he caught sight of the window display of the local HMV. Tony, of course, had seen it also and was now stood directly in front of it.

'See what I fuckin mean?' he said, indicating it with a palm. 'Case in fuckin point!'

As usual, pride of place had been given to those acts who were currently shifting the most 'units', or whose record companies had the highest marketing budgets (which often amounts to the same thing), and on this particular day that meant Ryan Watson. Standing against a background of countless copies of his latest album, 'Back To My Roots', and t-shirts and posters all featuring the self-same image, was a life-size cardboard cut-out of the star himself, arms held aloft in a gesture of victory and his chin held high, wearing a football top of indeterminate allegiance and an expression of mock pride as though he'd just scored a goal. His trousers were down around his ankles and his modesty (entirely the wrong word) was preserved by a pair of purple paisley patterned y-fronts. The image was no doubt meant to be ironic, a jocular nod towards 'lad culture', or, at least, some advertising executive's conception of it. But something in the face, the merest suggestion of a smirk, or perhaps just a glint in the eyes, belied the intended effect, and the threefold impression given was of an actor playing rock star playing Jack-the-lad; a bad actor, lacking in sensibility and too complacent to lose himself in either role. Something of the star's real personality shone through, an egocentricity, an undeniable smugness that no amount of self-deprecation could ever efface. But even this may be a mask, a screen that hid (he thought), from everyone but himself, the truth – never voiced but heard loud and clear over the fawning praises of money making yes-men – that he was nothing more than a fraudster and a charlatan.

Billy steeled himself for the inevitable tirade, and was surprised when Tony, saying only 'cunt!', walked over to the Woolworth's opposite and began flicking through a rack of magazines just inside the door.

'These are all the fuckin same!'

'I'll wait outside,' said Billy.

'Excuse me, guys. Excuse me,' said a faint voice in the crowd, unheard by either.

'Two seconds, man,' said Tony. 'I'm just comin.'

'I'll wait outside,' said Billy again.

'Excuse me, guys. Excuse me,' repeated the voice, nearer now but scarcely any louder.

'I mean, look at them, man! They're all exactly the fuckin same!'

Billy made to go.

Suddenly, from directly behind them, a voice, striving towards authority but broken in places and carrying absolutely no conviction, said:

'Excuse me, guys. Excuse me. I'm sorry, but you're not allowed dogs in the centre. I'm goin to have to ask you to leave.'

10

Tony was already smiling when he, and Billy, turned to face it. Before them, somewhere very close to the last place he wanted to be, stood a young security guard. Tony eyed him up and down, shook his head and turned back to the magazines.

He was tall and skinny. His dark curly hair, unwashed, unbrushed and unruly, was every bit as greasy as his inflamed and crusty skin, and his protruding top teeth made his thin face and pointed chin look thinner and more pointed still. He was wearing an ill-fitting light-grey uniform that failed to cover his bony wrists, his white socks and his complete lack of confidence. Strips of a darker grey fabric that ran up the outside seams of his trousers, and from his shirt cuffs to its epaulettes, made him look more like a bandsman than any sort of an officer at all.

'I'm goin to have to ask you to leave,' he repeated, addressing the end of the request to Billy's feet.

'We are leavin, mate,' said Billy jovially. 'We're just goin right now.'

'Em, I'm sorry', said the boy, again trying and again failing to maintain eye contact. 'I'm goin to have to ask you to go out the way you came in.'

Billy remained jovial.

'The way we came in?' he said, stepping back from Woolworth's doorway to let people flow freely in and out. 'Can we not just go out this way?'

'That's what they said,' shrugged the boy.

'But you could let us go this way, eh?' pressed Billy. 'Nobody'll notice.'

'Em, I'm sorry, but they told me to tell you you had to go out the way you came in. They said if I let you through , everybody would be bringin dogs through. I'm sorry.'

Billy looked beyond the boy for 'they' while Tony continued to flick.

'Mate, trust me,' he said. 'It really would be better for you if you just let us go out this way.'

'I can't,' said the boy to the floor. 'I'm sorry.'

'All right,' said Billy, raising a palm in a gesture of surrender. 'I tried.'

And Tony took his cue.

Turning from the magazine rack he stepped out from the doorway, and approaching the young security guard, browbeat him menacingly. He read the ID tag that was crocodile clipped to the boy's shirt pocket, and, after an excruciating pause, said calmly:

'John, mate, can I ask you a question? Who's in charge of the music in this place?'

John's agitation had visibly increased.

'Em... I, em... I don't know,' he said nervously, rubbing the palms of his hands on the back of his hips and looking up and around for the music. 'I'm just supposed to ask you to leave.'

'Do us a favour, mate, will you? Go and see if you can find out, and get them to change this fuckin song. A man in your position must be able to pull a few strings, eh?'

'Em... It's only my first day,' said John. 'And I'm just supposed to ask you to leave.'

'Aye, mate, we've established that. And he's already told you, we are leavin. Do you like this song, John? Is that it? Is this your favourite song?'

'Em... No... I mean, I don't... I'm not really into music.'

'No? So what are you into, John? I'll bet it's computers.'

'Computers.'

'What a fuckin surprise! Well, you better watch you don't ruin your eyes, eh? What with that and all the wankin somebody like you must do. Last thing you need is to be wearin glasses.'

Tony caught Billy's arm.

'Where are you goin, man?' he said. 'The boy's goin to let us out this way. Aren't you, mate?'

John was looking at the floor again and still rubbing his hips.

'Em...' he said. 'They said that...'

'Never fuckin mind them, John! Where the fuck are they? Shitein theirselves in some office somewhere, watchin your performance on CCTV, no doubt. You're the man on the scene, John. You're the man that's got to deal with the situation. Look, mate, come and take a seat a minute and let me give you the benefit of my wisdom, eh?'

John was led, with a fatherly arm, to a slatted wooden bench that stood back to back with another in the middle of the avenue. A couple of office workers, tucking into sandwiches from their laps, shifted along to make room and he was sat down beside them. Tony attempted to casually lean himself, cross-legged, against a cylindrical metal bin standing at John's end of the bench, but was discomposed, and quickly recomposed, when it rocked backwards on its base beneath his weight. He gave it a dark look (which seemed, curiously, to brighten when he once again caught sight of the HMV window display) and instead lifted the sole of a foot onto the arm of the bench and leaned wrists crossed on his upraised knee.

'Right, John,' he said, indicating the magazine rack in Woolworth's, 'what do you see there?'

John raised his eyes and quickly lowered them again.

'Em, Woolworth's,' he said.

'Aye, John,' said Tony wearily. 'Just inside the door, mate.'

'Em...magazines?'

'That's right, John. Magazines. Now, how many do you think are there?'

'Em... I don't know. Quite a few?'

Tony paused.

'Quite a few!' he repeated. 'Right. I'll tell you what, John, why don't we count them, eh? Now, how many in the top row? Just that rack there, mind.

Doubt as to Tony's seriousness caused John to smile.

'Fuck sake, mate!' said Tony. 'Don't tell me you can't count!'

'Eh, no... I mean, aye... I, eh...'

'Come on, then!'

John raised his head, and nodding it a little, turned it slightly from left to right. His lips were moving.

'Seventeen?' he said.

'Seventeen. Right. And how many down?'

'Em...six,' said John, counting downwards then not re-raising his eyes.

'Six. Right. So that's what...? Ninety-odd magazines, John. Lets say a hundred. A hundred magazines a month, on that one rack alone. That's twelve hundred magazines a year, John! Twelve hundred magazines all tellin you what to wear or how to cut your hair or what fuckin make-up to buy. All tellin you what to fuckin eat or what exercises to do or how to have better sex – although that'll not affect you – and all fuckin tellin you that if you do what they tell you your life'll be a hundred times better than it is! What do you fuckin make of that, John?'

'Em...'

'Quite a lot of fuckin advice to follow, is it not? I mean, surely it can't all be useful, eh?'

'Em...'

'And the sad fact is, John, that in most cases, and definitely in yours, none of it is. Do you see what I'm gettin at?'

'Em...'

'Right, say for example you went into fuckin Versace or whatever, and say you bought the most expensive suit in the place, do these magazines really expect us to believe that it would make any kind of a difference to your sad life? Because like I say, mate, the fact is that no matter how much the suit cost, or how fuckin in fashion it is, you're always just goin to be a spectacularly ugly cunt in a nice suit. Now do you see what I mean?'

John was silent. Feet and wheels passed by in both directions.

At the other end of the bench, one of the office workers, an upright woman, feeling duty bound to interfere, was straining to get a good look at this, this bully over the respective napes of her colleague and the young security guard.

'You leave that boy alone, you!' she suddenly blurted. 'Why don't you pick on someone your own size?'

In the blink of an eye – both eyes, in fact – her colleague lost his appetite. Billy, now leaning against Woolworth's window, lowered his head inhaling deeply. John sat perfectly still. An announcement over the public address system interrupted the music to respectfully remind shoppers that this retail park has a no smoking policy and that designated smoking areas can be found in the various cafeterias and also in the food court, thank you! But never, not even for a second, was one single syllable of the vituperative barrage of insults that Tony was unrestrainedly hurling at the wide-eyed and speechless woman drowned out by its sunny tones. Reiterating the sentiment of a wilfully insolent look, he ranted unchecked, utterly mindless of his surroundings. Billy burned, Dooly barked, John sat perfectly still, and passers-by, circumventing the benches, took a sudden and excessive interest in the shop windows of whichever side of the avenue they happened to be on. As the music resumed, his barrage ended, but the insolent look remained, and while the woman choked with rage he turned it towards her companion, keen for some chivalrous retort. But that gentleman was hastily re-wrapping what remained of his sandwich and ushering his colleague away.

Tony changed legs.

'Point is, John, it's exactly the same with the uniform. Listen, mate, I did a wee stint in the security business myself, and, if you don't mind me sayin, you don't exactly exude authority. You can't just stick on a fuckin uniform and hope that cunts'll respect it. It doesn't work like that. Particularly not that fuckin uniform. You've got to make them respect you. But that doesn't mean you should go steamin into situations actin all confident either, not if you're heart's not in it. You'll just get fuckin laughed at. Especially with your build, eh? No, John, mate, it's got to come from in here.' He thumped his chest. 'In here, John! You've got to be sincere. That's the only way you stand any chance of connectin with the people and gettin them to fuckin listen. It's horses for courses, mate. Every situation's different. But in this game you've got to be sincere. Don't let your uniform do the talkin. That's your fuckin job. Just because you look like a security guard, or a band leader, or whatever the fuck it is you look like, doesn't mean you're a security guard. Do you see what I'm sayin?'

John, after giving it some thought, answered timidly.

'I think so,' he said, attempting a sideways glance up at Tony. 'Em, is it the clothes don't make the man?'

Billy let out a snigger, delighted that John had innocently reduced Tony's eloquent tutorial to a clichéd aphorism.

'Aye, not quite, mate,' said Tony moodily, lifting his foot down off the bench arm. 'Not quite.'

He eased a cigarette packet from out of his jeans pocket, flipped back the lid, drew out a cigarette, popped it into his mouth and lit it.

John leapt up from the bench.

'You can't smoke in here!' he cautioned excitedly. 'You're not allowed to smoke in here!'

Tony coolly exhaled a lungful of thin grey smoke.

'John, man,' he said, 'for fuck sake, relax! You're more like a fuckin insecurity guard. What did we just talk about?'

'I know,' said John. 'But I still have to try and do my job.'

'Well, I hate to be the one to tell you, mate, but maybe you're in the wrong business, eh? You're too fuckin nervous. That's how you get all your plooks. You need to learn to calm down, take it easy, man. Now, listen, will you do me a favour?'

'Em...'

'I was goin to go and get myself an NME before you came along, but I can't now seen as I've just lit a fag. And he can't go because he's holdin the dog. So, will you do me a favour and nip in and get it for me, eh? We'll be waitin outside.'

John was back to staring at the floor.

'Em,' he said, 'I'm not supposed to, eh... I'm supposed to be workin. And it's eczema.'

'You are workin, John. Did you not hear what I said? We'll wait outside. You're gettin rid of us, mate. That's what you were told to do, is it not? Fuck sake, man! Don't tell me you're deaf as well.'

'No, but... You were supposed to...'

'Horses for courses, John, mate. Horses for courses. Do you really want to be standin here for another ten minutes talkin to me?'

'Em, no, but... You'll really wait outside?'

'Aye, mate, of course. But that door there, though. Deal?'

John sighed.

'Aye,' he said. 'All right, then.'

The cigarette hung from Tony's lips. Hunching his shoulders, and creasing his brow against the rising smoke, he fished a crumpled five-pound note from his pocket and handed it to John.

'Now,' he said, drawing on the cigarette and using it to point with, ' an NME, mind, and I want all the fuckin change back! Don't be buyin any ten pence mixtures or anythin, eh?'

And John, watching his own feet this time, walked wearily into Woolworth's.

Tony turned smugly to Billy.

'What the fuck's wrong with your face?' he said. 'I'm only tryin to fuckin help the boy! He'll have a lot worse than me to deal with in this job.'

'I never said anythin,' said Billy, turning to leave.

'Where the fuck are you goin?'

'What? I thought we were waitin outside.'

'Aye, right,' said Tony. 'Don't be fuckin daft!'

After a few minutes, John, obediently clutching the folded newspaper, came shuffling out of the shop, dark eyed and muttering under his breath, brooding, no doubt, on thoughts of sweet revenge. On finding he'd been duped he sagged visibly, for Tony and Billy were sitting on the bench, with Dooly lying half underneath it between them.

Tony took a last draw on his cigarette, flicked the smoking dout among the passing feet and took the paper, which John was now handing him, along with his change. Leaning back to pocket the latter he said:

'Cheers, John, mate. You're all right, you know! But listen, you shouldn't let cunts like me push you around, eh? You need to toughen up a wee bit. And your mates up there in that office? Couldn't've done the job any better than you, let me assure you. So don't be fuckin worryin about what they're goin to say, right?'

John nodded compliantly.

Billy, followed by Dooly, stood up ready to leave. Tony made himself comfortable and flicked open the folded paper with his thumbs. His visage darkened instantly.

'YOU MUST BE FUCKIN JOKIN!' he cried. 'LOOK AT FUCKIN THAT!'

And he turned the cover towards Billy.

Beside the witty headline 'Ryan Gigs' was a headshot of Ryan Watson, doing his damnedest to 'keep it real' but achieving only the affected seriousness of a daytime soap opera actor. A sub-heading read: 'Star goes back to his roots with a string of low-key club dates'.

'LOW-KEY FUCKIN GIGS!' Bawled Tony. 'BACK TO HIS FUCKIN ROOTS! WHAT FUCKIN ROOTS? I'm tellin you, man: when real bands were cartin their fuckin stuff round tiny venues tryin to scratch a livin, this cunt was probably bein driven between dancin lessons and auditions by his fuckin ma'!'

He stood up and posted the re-folded paper straight into the bin beside him.

'Let's fuckin go,' he said, striding on ahead of Billy to join the tapering and compacting horde of shoppers filing out through the sliding glass doors. 'Get me the fuck up to Pabs's!'

11

Tony was given a minute or two, while Kris finished his coffee and cigarette, to familiarise himself with the lyrics. But a cursory glance at the song sheet confirmed that they were familiar enough already. He knew this song better than anybody, had grown up with it, learned it off by heart a long time ago. Even the bits with that foreign sounding name no longer gave him any trouble.

From behind the glass Kris, silently cupping and re-cupping his hands over his ears, seemed to be signalling to Tony that it was now time for him to put on the headphones. So lifting them from off the microphone he did as instructed, clapping them over his head, and Kris's electrophonic voice came sounding through.

'Can you hear me okay?' it said.

Tony nodded, and then leaning tentatively into the mic, all but tapping on it first, said:

'Eh, aye.'

'Okay, Tony,' said Kris's voice. 'In a minute I'll start feeding you through the music. Now, when it's getting near the end of the intro I'll count you in like this, look: Three...'

He soundlessly mouthed the word, holding up three fingers behind the glass.

'...Two...'

He was holding up two fingers.

'...One...'

Only one remained.

'...And...'

Slowly, he drew back his hand, with that one finger still extended, before again bringing it forward to point through the glass at Tony.

'...And you come in with the opening line. Okay?'

Tony again nodded, and again leaning into the microphone said:

'Aye, sure. No problem. Aye.'

Before giving Kris a confident thumbs up.

The first take (there were nineteen in all) didn't even make it past the intro.

No sooner had the music reached his headphones than Tony was filled with it body and soul. It was curling his lip, pulling back his shoulders and widening his stance when suddenly it stopped. Already lost in its familiar rumblings and janglings he'd forgotten all about Kris's countdown and completely missed his cue. Behind the glass Kris gave a mystified shrug.

Take two:

On this one Tony came in on time, but as soon as he did so, Jeremy, who had been allowed to remain in the booth with him, and who was until now crouching quietly off to one side, sprang up, and, possibly trying to get a close up of Tony's reverberating larynx, once again practically shoved the camera halfway down his throat.

'For fuck sake, man!' shrugged Tony. 'I thought he was supposed to be a fuckin fly on the wall.'

Take three:

Jeremy, as best he could in a room of this size, now kept his distance, but his very presence in it was a distraction to Tony. And it didn't help that he flitted here, there and everywhere around it filming him from every possible angle: one minute he'd be standing right there in front of him, camera pointing directly at his face, and the next he'd be conspicuous by his absence, lurking somewhere behind him. Or he'd hover around filming him from one side before crouching along between the microphone and the glass to pop up and film him from the other. Such movements couldn't but catch Tony's eye. His concentration inevitably waned and they hadn't got far before he lost his place and the lyrics trailed off to a murmur.

'One more time from the top,' drawled Kris.

Takes four and five:

See above.

'You better get him fuckin out of here!'

For take six Jeremy was removed and thereafter had to content himself filming the remainder of the video from the other side of the glass, over Kris's shoulder. But still things did not go smoothly and Tony began to lose patience.

As far as he was concerned he was doing nothing wrong, but nevertheless he was accused of everything from coming in too early or too late, to singing too high, or too low, or too fast, or too slow, or flat. He was told at one point to curb his enthusiasm because apparently it carried him too far from the microphone, so that his singing became echoey and distant, but on other takes his performance would be too wooden for Kris's liking because he was trying his hardest to stand still. But more often than not the music would be stopped for no apparent reason whatsoever – Kris, safely behind that glass, simultaneously shaking his head and wafting his bony hand in a cutting gesture to and fro across his throat so that his fingernails were practically grazing that big Adam's apple of his – and they'd have to start again from the beginning.

'One more time from the top.'

'One more time from the top.'

'One more time from the top.'

Finally, though, On take eighteen, they somehow managed to make it right to the end, and Tony, soaked with sweat and breathing heavily after giving it his absolute all, was glowering over the microphone at Kris in anticipation of his judgement, defying him, daring him, almost willing him to find fault with that one. The remainder of the music played out in his ears and was at last replaced by silence, save for the rising and falling of his own now bated breath. Kris looked thoughtful, rolling himself another cigarette, and all in good time his voice came sounding through the headphones:

'Nah,' it droned. 'I'm just not feeling it. Lets try it one more time from the top.'

And that's when Tony lost his temper.

But even then it's not as if anything was damaged beyond repair. He knew before he even threw it that the light metal of the music stand was never going to trouble the thick glass of the partition. And the microphone was easily enough fixed again.

Kris lit his cigarette and shook out the match, before saying evenly:

'Now, that's exactly the kind of passion I'm looking for. If we can bottle that, son, we've got a hit on our hands. So, whenever you're ready...'

The nineteenth take was a wrap and three days later Tony was called back in to hear, and see, the finished product.

Only to find that his worst fears had indeed been realised.

12

'Anarchy In The UK.'

'What?'

'Anarchy In The UK,' repeated Tony. 'That was my first record.'

'Eh, right,' said Billy. 'Em...good for you.'

Tony chapped the door.

Dooly, alerted by the familiar noise, filled the stairwell with excited barking.

'Dooly!' snapped Billy. 'It's not your door. Your on the outside.'

'Who is it?' asked a wary, disembodied voice from the inside.

'HOWF! HOWFHOWF! HOWF!'

'Who?' said the voice.

'It's me,' said Tony.

'Drako?' said the voice, spirited now. 'Is that you?'

'Aye, it's me. Open the door.'

'Was that you barkin?'

'Just open the fuckin door, will you?'

A key turned in the mortise lock and the deadbolt retracted. Higher up the flush bolt was drawn back. Higher still the knob was turned twice on the Yale. And finally the safety chain was unhooked from its catch. The door was pulled to and the spirit endowed with actual bodily form - a startlingly naked, wiry form scarcely able to contain it.

At once a rangy arm shot out to vigorously shake hands.

'Drako, man! How's it goin? How's it goin? And Billy, as well! How you doin, mate? Good to see you! And who's your lady friend, eh? Hello big stranger. Christ almighty, quite literally every man and his dog turnin up at my door this weekend. Come in, boys. Come in. I'll catch my fuckin death standin here!'

Tony, sticking close to the doorjamb as he passed into the hallway, dubiously eyed Pabs's unkempt hair and whatnot.

'Em,' he said, 'did we wake you up, mate?'

'Not a chance, mate! Not a chance! I've been up for about three days now! I'm goin for the new world record. Totally fuckin racin, man! Medication's what you need, right enough, eh? Marathon man, man, that's me. I keep waitin to hit the wall but there's no sign of it so far. Not even any wind resistance. I'm just cruisin through thin air at a hell of a pace! Breathin a wee bit heavily, mind, and sweatin a fair deal but that's to be expected, eh? Come in, Billy, man. Come in. make yourself at home.'

Billy was pulled over the threshold by Dooly.

'All right, Peter?' he said.

'I'm tip top, Billy boy! Absolutely tip top! Never better, man, in fact! Call me Pabs, will you? We don't stand on ceremony in these parts. Truth to tell, mate, so good do I feel, that I'm even a wee bit scared to go out sometimes in case a bus or a fuckin lorry puts an end to me. I've never known a feeling like it in all my livelong days. Two for a tenner, eh? Ha ha!'

'Ecstasy, is it?'

'Oh, aye, man! Oh, aye! And then some! A wee bit of this, a wee bit of that, a wee bit of everything, in fact. Och, in real life I'm only fair to middlin, but I'm hardly ever there, know what I mean? I'll leave you to bolt that door behind you, eh? I'll catch my fuckin death standin here!'

And he darted spryly up the hall.

Seemingly enlivened by the thrill of the new, Dooly came straining through the living room door, eagerly dragging Billy behind him.

'Well, hello again, big man!' gushed Pabs, crouching to greet him. 'And what's your name, eh? What's your name?'

'Careful, there,' said Tony. 'He's as randy as fuck. He tried to shag a poodle earlier. Billy had a stonner watchin.'

'He doesn't bite, Billy, does he? Probably swallows you whole, eh? I didn't even know you had a dog, man. Dalmatian, right? Big, though.'

'He's a Great Dane,' said Billy. 'But he's not mine. He's my ma's. I'm just watchin him for the weekend.'

Tony walked around the couch to the window.

'It's a bit fuckin dark in here, is it not?' he said. 'You're missin a lovely day out there, Pabs, mate. Look.'

He drew open – one one way, the other the other – the curtains, and sunlight brightened the room in two stages.

'Ah, Jesus, Drako!' said Pabs, squinting. 'What you doin, man? I've not seen daylight for ages. Suddenly I feel very, you know, vulnerable. A wee bit, em, over exposed, eh?'

'Well maybe,' said Tony, 'if you went and put some fuckin clothes on, you might feel, you know, a wee bit, em, less exposed, eh?'

Pabs stood tall.

'Aw, what's the matter, Drako? Does my nakedness embarrass you? Does seein me in the way God intended make you feel a wee bit uncomfortable? It's all nature's bounty, mate. Nothin to be ashamed of.'

'It's nature's fun-size bounty I'm lookin at, mate,' said Tony. 'Not exactly anythin to be proud of either.'

He sat himself down on the couch, scanning the table in front of him, lifting up magazines and looking underneath.

'Mind if I do the damage, man?' he asked.

Crouching again, Pabs was being bowled arse over heel by Dooly's ebullient clambering.

'No, man... Whoa! Jesus! No, go right ahead. I thought you'd never... Ah ha ha! Whoa! Not there, big man! Not there! I Thought you'd never ask. My hands are somebody else's the now. Numb, you know? Can't seem to... Ah ha ha! Tickly! I Can't seem to get to grips with the intricacies, eh? Christ, Billy, he's a wee bit handy with the old tongue, is he not?'

'He must be hungry,' said Billy. 'He can probably taste the salt on you.'

Tony was sifting through a small mess of paper and loose tobacco, the debris of Pabs's previous endeavours.

'You'll have to give me the necessary, mate,' he said. 'I'm all out.'

'Help yourself, man,' said Pabs. 'There should be a bit... Ah ha ha! There should be a bit there somewhere.'

'I don't see it,' said Tony, once more scanning the table.

Pabs pointed up from the floor.

'Wait,' he said. 'Check that wee table there, Billy. I think I might've... Argh, Jesus! He just licked inside my mouth! You big slobbery bastard! You're supposed to be Danish not fuckin French!'

Billy, leaning across the chair beside him, found a small piece of hashish behind an ashtray on the table. He picked it up and tossed it to Tony. Tony pointed back towards the table.

'Pass us the skins as well,' he said. 'And the ashtray, will you?'

Once in full possession of the necessary he set about doing the damage. With veteran dexterity he licked, stuck, licked, stuck, filled, burned, crumbled; burned, crumbled, rolled, licked, stuck; ripped, rolled, poked and twisted; and smoothed, between thumb and fingers, an exemplary completed joint.

Pabs, meanwhile, had scrambled crabwise but backwards away from Dooly and was standing yeugh-faced and breathless, wiping himself down with his hands.

'Here,' said Tony, and he courteously threw the finished joint towards him.

It sailed, like an imperfect paper dart, through the air, hit him on the chest and fell to the floor. It was hastily trampled and twisted, beneath the ball of a bare right foot, back to its constituent parts.

'Jesus, Drako!' cried Pabs. 'Mind the carpet, eh? What you tryin to do, man? Set the place on fire?'

Tony raised a tolerant eyebrow.

'Em, Pabs,' he said, 'it wasn't lit, mate.'

'I mean, fuck sake! Try and be a bit more... What?'

'It wasn't lit, mate,' repeated Tony. 'I was givin it to you for first toke.'

Slowly, expectantly, Pabs lifted his foot.

'Oh!' he said. 'Sorry, man. I thought you had... I doubt you'd get a draw out of it now, eh? Ha ha! Tell you what, you build another one and I'll go and get you what you came for. Grab a seat, Billy, mate. Just throw all that shite onto the floor. And you can let him off the lead if you like. He'll not get up to much in here. Now, what did you come for, by the way?'

'Four grams and an ounce,' said Tony, again licking and sticking.

'Four grams and an ounce,' repeated Pabs. 'Right. Billy?'

'That's for the two of us,' said Billy.

'Right. Four grams and an ounce. Right. Right back.'

Dooly, unclipped, went sniffing round the room. Billy, gathering together the jumble of clothes on the chair, set them on the floor beside it and sat down. Tony stood up, poking and twisting, walked around the couch to the window and opened it. Dooly sniffed the change of air. In the kitchen, cupboards were being opened and closed, and the soft suck of the fridge door was heard.

'Know what I like about this place?' said Tony. 'Most of the cunts livin here are on the fuckin dole.'

He bit the twisted end off the new joint and spat it into the street below, popped the joint into his mouth and lit it, all the while surveying, with an unfavourable expression, the mock-urbane façade of the block of flats opposite. With its pitched roof and dormer windows, bay windows and porches, it was itself a mirror image of this block.

'The council sold off these flats, right, to some fuckin private developer. Every cunt that lived here was moved out and the place was totally renovated. They tried to turn it into some fuckin "desirable area" with their pointy roofs and fancy windows and porches and all that shite. But nobody wanted to pay the prices they were chargin. Not to live here. So the developer was forced to take all the old tenants back again, because they get their fuckin rent paid for them by the dole. They're the only cunts that can afford it. So essentially it's still the same fuckin place it always was, no matter what the fuck it looks like!'

Pabs came back in, holding an upside down box of Kellog's Coco Pops, ripped open at the bottom, which was now the top.

'Coco Pops,' he said. 'But I've not got any milk, though.'

Billy and Tony exchanged questioning looks.

'Em... What?' said Tony.

'Coco Pops,' repeated Pabs. 'It's all I've got in. But I've not got any milk, though. Do you think he'd eat them dry?'

Billy cottoned on.

'Oh, right, for him,' he said, indicating Dooly. 'No, don't worry about it, man. I'll get him somethin later.'

'Em, Pabs, mate?' said Tony.

'Aye?' said Pabs.

'Drugs?' said Tony.

'Aye,' said Pabs. 'Don't mind if I do, man. Don't mind if I do. Don't be throwin it at me this time, but. I'll come over and get it. Give me a second til I...'

'Em, Pabs, mate?' said Tony.

'Aye?' said Pabs.

'I meant you were supposed to be gettin our drugs.'

'Oh, right, aye. Ha ha! Right. Aye. I knew I went out there for somethin, eh? What was it again? Four ounces and what?'

'Fuck sake, Pabs, man! I only told you two fuckin seconds ago!'

'I know, man. I know. But my eggs are totally scrambled, eh? Three whole days I've been up for! And I've had a million different orders to try and remember, what with everybody stockin up for the gi...'

'Four grams and an ounce,' interrupted Tony.

'Four grams and an ounce,' repeated Pabs. 'Right. Aye. Right. Right back.'

Dooly dogged his footsteps out the door.

Tony was leaning on the windowsill smoking, when, on the block opposite, a window was thrown open. And, with barely a breath to dampen their clarity, or soften their impact, the artful lyrics of 'that song' drifted out into the street, desecrating his tranquillity and imposing themselves, for the umpteenth time that day, on his now gradually altering consciousness.

...done things that other men will never do

I've tasted pleasure, tasted pain

Felt the sunshine, felt the rain

But I've always...

'Is this some kind of a fuckin joke?' Tony growled, drawing himself in and slamming the window. 'What is it with this cunt the day? Is it his birthday or somethin? Did he fuckin die or what? "Tasted pleasure, tasted pain"! He'll taste fuckin pain all right if I ever get my hands on him! Shameless little cunt! Cunts like him couldn't give a fuck if they're singin songs or hostin fuckin game shows, as long as they're in the public eye! "One of the fuckin lads"! I swear to fuck, if country and western ever became fashionable this cunt would be struttin about in a ten-gallon hat claimin he was born and raised in Nashville!'

Pabs came back in and threw, like dice, a handful of drugs onto the table: four grams and an ounce, cocaine and hashish; the coke in four small resealable clear plastic bags, the hash in two half-ounce bits each cellophane wrapped. Beside these he dropped a larger plastic bag, knotted at the top, that must've contained about a thousand little white pills.

Tony sat back down.

'What the fuck's that?' he said, handing Pabs the joint.

'Tamazepam,' said Pabs. 'Or Diazepam. One of the pams, at least. You want some?'

'What did you do? Rob a fuckin chemist?'

'I'm sellin them for Daz.'

'Did he rob a fuckin chemist?'

'Don't ask, man,' said Pabs. 'I'll give you thirty for half price. Help you sleep.'

'Thirty?' said Tony. 'Aye, right you are. I'll set my alarm for November.'

'What about you, Billy?'

Billy shrugged.

'Not my kind of thing, really,' he said.

'They're fuckin dangerous, man,' said Tony. 'Total blackout material. Remember Coshy? Took a load of them one night and broke into the centre. They reckon he climbed all the way in through the heatin ducts. Polis found him in Boots's fuckin ransackin the place! Poor cunt woke up next mornin to three months inside. The fuckin dogs had been chewin on him and everythin, man, and he didn't know a fuckin thing about any of it! Fuck that for a laugh! Anythin can happen on that shite. And I mean fuckin anythin!'

'Suit yourselves,' said Pabs, as he proffered Billy the joint.

'No thanks, man,' said Billy. 'Not for me. I don't want to get too comfy. I'll need to be makin a move soon. Get him fed.'

And he thumbed in the direction of the hallway, where Dooly, the thrill of the new having seemingly worn off, was whining by the front door impatiently.

'He's fine,' said Tony. ' You can sit for a fuckin wee while.'

'Aye, man,' said Pabs. 'Sit for a wee while, will you? Here, have a toke or two. A day wasted is never a wasted day, eh? That right, Drako?'

'Exactly, Pabs, mate. Exactly. I couldn't've put it better myself.'

Inevitably, Billy succumbed.

'Aye, all right,' he said, reluctantly accepting the proffered joint. 'I suppose a toke or two won't hurt.'

One joint finished, another was begun. And another. And another. Time went by. Who knows how much? An hour, maybe? Maybe two. But time enough certainly for any nonsensical gibberish (spoken mostly by Pabs), penny philosophising (Tony) or sporadic bursts of uncontrollable laughter (originating in Billy but spreading to Pabs, while Tony looked on disparagingly, which only made matters worse) to have passed long since, leaving only silence. A silence leaden and morose, hanging over them like a pall, causing each to wilt bodily beneath its oppressive mass. A thick, stagnant silence, almost palpable, and of the kind not easily broken.

Billy unconsciously gripped the chair arms. His head drooped listlessly on its weakened stalk. His mouth was gaping open. The colour had all but drained from his face and from dark, heavily hooded eyes he stared beyond his own knees at nothing in particular...

Thoughts, lighter than air, flit randomly hither and thither, one no sooner formed than it spryly drifts away, to be instantly replaced with another, which itself drifts off in turn. Thoughts like bubbles, in that any attempt to grasp them merely disturbs the surrounding air, sending them further into the ether, floating teasingly out of reach. Delicate thoughts, diaphanous and ephemeral, then – pop! – lost forever.

...but in the general direction of Pabs, who, lying star shaped on the floor, was gazing vacantly up at the ceiling, his blithe spirit crushed beneath the tremendous weight of the stone that had lain him flat. Or maybe it had only moved out, temporarily, for want of room in its scrawny abode beside the immense quantity of smoke he had recently inhaled. Either way, only the lifeless body remained. Even Tony was looking the worse for wear: slumped low on the couch with his feet on the table, staring dreamily into the television. But now, as though resurrected, he began to stir. He took his feet off the table and raised himself up, intertwined his fingers and stretched, cracking each of his knuckles. He twice cricked his neck, once each side, and drew the table towards him. And, displaying an inhuman resilience, as Billy looked dumbly on, he began again to lick, stick, lick, stick, etcetera, smoothing, between that thumb and those fingers, with unimpaired pride, yet another exemplary joint.

Pabs suddenly spoke, in reflective tones directed at the ceiling.

'Shame,' he said, 'that nobody wanted the tamazy's. I told Daz I'd shift the lot for him no bother. And he must be due up any minute.'

Tony was reaching for the lighter. But on hearing that a visit from Daz was imminent he paused, and withdrew his hand. Casually taking the joint from his mouth he said:

'You know what, man? It pains me to fuckin say it, but Billy's probably right. We really should be makin a move. We've got a bit of a fuckin walk ahead of us, eh? And that dog'll not feed his-self.'

And he proposed a quick line or two to get everyone back on par, a motion eagerly seconded by Pabs.

For his part Billy now had no intention of moving, and but for an irrational fear of speaking out loud would have said as much. Yet when, after striving valiantly to conquer this fear, he finally felt able to speak, he was bewildered to find that his mind was a blank, and try as he might to refill it his efforts were in vain. Frustrated, he soon gave up, thinking only that he'd been thinking about it for far too long and had forgotten whatever it was he'd been trying so hard to remember.

Tony meanwhile had prepared the lines, and as he readied himself to take one of them, he had second thoughts about the pills.

'Ah, fuck it, Pabs,' he said. 'Give us the thirty at half price, will you? You never know, eh? It might make for an interestin night!'

Lines taken, Pabs was unbolting the door. Dooly eyed fixedly the intersection between it and the jamb, whining urgently as his tail thump-thumped the wall, anticipating liberty as a runner anticipates the starting pistol.

'Wait!' Said Billy from the other end of the hallway. 'Let me get him on the lead first. He's got a habit of runnin away.'

The door was then opened and Billy was pulled into the stairwell, where he had to restrain Dooly from tearing down the stairs. Tony, sniffing hard, strode confidently out behind him.

'Well, Pabs, mate,' he said, 'a pleasure as always, eh? Will we be seein you in the pub later for a few?'

'Oh, I doubt it, man. I doubt it,' said Pabs. 'I'll probably not venture that far. Just go straight to the gig from here, eh?'

Tony frowned quizzically.

'Gig?' he said. 'What gig?'

'What gig?' repeated Pabs with some surprise. 'Only the biggest fu...! Aye, right you are, Drako, man. I'm wasted but I'm not that wasted, eh? What gig, he says! Listen, I'll no doubt see you down there, about nine-ish, right? But if you'll excuse me, boys, I'll be gettin back inside now. I'll catch my fuckin death standin here!'

13

They had put a synthesized and syncopated dance track where the real guitars and drums had been!

In an editing suite, with Steve Steve, Kris and Jeremy all in attendance, Tony was staring in numb stupefaction at the TV screen before him.

He was dimly aware of the images on it chopping and changing in quick succession – an angry mob of stone throwing protestors wearing scarves over their faces like outlaws; an advancing cohort of riot police, shields and batons at the ready; black and white CCTV footage of an after hours street brawl filmed from on high; himself, in extreme close up, scowling out at the room – one image no sooner up there than it was immediately replaced with another – the clash of police and rioters; an apprehended street brawler refusing to go quietly; a severely truncheoned protestor; another being dragged bodily from the ruck; himself again, this time from the side, singing angrily into the microphone, gripping its stand with both hands – no single shot lasting longer than a second or two. But he saw the whole thing at one remove, as though the screen were a thousand yards distant. He was oblivious to the video's merits or otherwise.

They had put a synthesized and syncopated dance track where the real guitars and drums had been!

The music's clichéd beats had reached the drums of his ears and plunged straight to the pit of his stomach, bypassing his heart completely, and the suffering it caused him, the humiliation he felt, he felt all the more keenly for having seen this coming. This, he had known all along, was what they had meant by 'modernise'. This was why he had been afraid to ask. This was what he had feared most of all. This – with its dominant monotonous bass line, cheap imitation percussion and soulful (quote, unquote) backing vocals (coming from no deeper than the throat and not even close to the real Deal) – was dance music by numbers, and its pat, preprocessed arrangement neutralised the passion he had invested in the song and made a mockery of everything he stood for.

It didn't take a genius either to see the thought behind this (mis)deed. By amalgamating the two different styles, 'Alternative' and 'techno', they would appeal to both sets of fans and capture double the market share. It was a sure fire winner. Two birds with one stone. The best of both worlds. Statistics would bear them out on that. But Tony 'just wasn't feeling it'. His gut feeling, an actual physical gut feeling, was that this cack-handed attempt to make a fast buck would be seen for exactly what it was, and that the two birds, short of being killed, would escape unscathed, having spotted the clumsily thrown stone coming a mile off. And as for it being the best of both worlds it was neither one world nor the other, neither fish nor fowl, punk nor pop. It fell flat on its face between at least two stools and, in a pathetic, crumpled heap, would lie there while people pointed at it and laughed, spat on it, pissed all over it, kicked at it and poked it with sticks, before ignoring it altogether.

That music stand hurtling feet first towards the glass; the microphone felled by that clubbing right hook; a discarded shield, blood on the sidewalk, and, on an image of Tony glowering defiantly into the camera, the music ended and the screen faded to black. There was a clearing of throats, a shuffling of chairs and an air of expectancy in the room as all turned towards him for his verdict. But he did not, could not, move a muscle.

They had put a synthesized and syncopated dance track where the real guitars and drums had been!

With their cold-blooded reliance on statistics and analyses, their ears to the ground and their eyes on current trends, they had managed to reduce, to the level of mere novelty single, one of the greatest songs of all time. But it was his face up there on the screen and it would be his name, there for all to see, on the cover.

14

They had retraced their steps to the exit of the shopping centre (now an entrance), and Tony was telling Billy to just wait here while he nipped inside for something unspecified.

'Two seconds, man,' he was saying. 'I just need to get somethin. I'll be two seconds.'

Even from here Billy heard base-metal hit plate glass, plate glass hit faux-marble floor, the flat-note tinkle of smaller pieces of plate glass re-hitting faux-marble floor, the stunned silence of the crowd and the continual high-low high-low of a shop alarm system, and Tony came bolting back out through the sliding glass doors clutching a life-size cardboard cut-out of pop star Ryan Watson, shouting:

'FUCKIN RUN!'

15

If Tony was shocked but not at all surprised by the addition of this modernised backing track, Steve Steve was less surprised still by Tony's, da-da da da, let's say impassive response to it: newcomers to the business always brought with them an impractical amount of idealism. Nevertheless, hoping against hope, he kept his earnestly enquiring gaze – raised eyebrows, innocent eyes – trained on Tony for as long as he could until it was no longer cost effective to do so, and it fell, all at once, to a mixture of disappointment and, if not quite annoyance, then certainly mild inconvenience. He checked his watch. Did a delay here mean further meetings would have to be postponed? Was his shrewd business mind already calculating the cost of just such a delay? Was he weighing the importance of this meeting against that of the next? Or was he, as head of the corporation, deciding whether to take it upon himself to talk Tony round or delegate the duty to one or other of his subordinates?

'Hmm. I could I suppose tee off late if need be. Might still make it on time if I can wrap this up sharpish and then really put the foot down. Okay.'

With a furtive little wave of his hand he dismissed Kris and Jeremy from the room, while assuring them, with an equally furtive sincere expression, that he had everything under control. They both at the same time dutifully upped and left, and drawing his chair round, so that he was facing Tony directly – toe to toe, knee to knee if not quite eye to eye (Tony was staring straight through him) – Steve Steve pulled on his kid gloves and embarked on a managerial pep talk that began by adding insult to injury.

'Tony,' he said, all but placing an avuncular hand upon Tony's knee, 'Don't let mere creative differences stifle a potentially lucrative career.'

And he was still talking some minutes later, postulating worldwide returns and speculating on revenue garnered from appearance fees, signings and the like, when he caught sight of Tony and brought himself up short.

Tony had still not moved, but he had reeled in his stare a good nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine yards and was no longer staring straight through Steve Steve but straight at him. His countenance had darkened noticeably, his mouth was tightly closed and beneath the short sharp expulsions of breath from his nostrils a distinct gnashing of teeth could be heard.

'Creative differences?' he did not even need to say. 'CREATIVE DIFFERENCES? "Tweak and fuckin polish" you told me, cunt!'

Steve Steve was forced to reconsider his modus operandi.

To calm Tony down, or at least to keep him from losing his temper altogether, he began to liberally butter him up.

'Tony, Tony, Tony,' he laughed, and here he did boldly venture that avuncular hand. 'I fully understand your concerns. Believe me. Believe me...'

At this second 'believe me' he had given the knee a firm little squeeze before wisely removing his hand altogether.

'I realise that to a man of your integrity – and there are very few still in existence, you can take it from me, very few – it must seem that you have in some way been, da-da da da, compromised by our, shall we say treatment of this much revered classic. And may I add at this juncture that I am in fact outraged - outraged! - that the boys in production did not make our game plan clear to you from the outset...'

He lowered his voice.

'Heads will roll, my friend. Let me assure you...'

He raised it again.

'But Tony. Tony, Tony, Tony. The bottom line is I need you beside me on this one...'

He sat back in his seat with the air of a man who had just thrown his cards on the table.

'Without you...'

He again sat forward.

'Without you the song is worthless. Without you on the team we can as well forfeit the game right now...'

He dismissively threw up his hand.

' Right now...'

He threw it up again.

'You, my friend, are the only one among us who brings to the arrangement a certain vital something. Something, I hasten to add, that only a very few people alive would be capable of bringing. A certain flavour, shall we say? And that flavour, Tony, is nothing more nor less than the authentic flavour of the street...'

Carried away by the flow of his own words he had emphatically tapped three times with his forefinger on Tony's knee as though it were his desktop.

'Your rendition, your delivery, is at once so powerful and so...'

He was literally grasping in thin air for the right word.

'...so...'

His fist was now firmly clenched.

'...so nuanced...'

His eyes sparkled.

'...so grounded...'

He snapped his fingers.

'It is at once so powerful and so grounded that, well, suffice to say – and I see no reason to whisper – it's even better than the original.'

Here he risked a brief hiatus to review the situation thus far.

Though still scowling, Tony was breathing more easily now and he was no longer grinding his teeth. Steve Steve felt that he was on the right track, and so also for his car keys.

'In the face of such a performance, Tony,' he went on, 'the accompanying music hardly matters at all. In the face of such a performance, Tony...'

The level of his voice rose a notch.

'...any accompanying music can only ever be incidental. In the face of such a performance, Tony...'

His words were more deliberately pronounced now as well.

'...any music can only ever remain in the background. You and you alone...'

He pistol-pointed twice at Tony's chest.

'...are what the record buying public will pay their hard-earned cash to hear. You and you alone...'

Without bothering to reload he had pointed twice more.

'...are the star attraction, my friend. This...'

And three times more again.

'...is – all – about – you!'

Steadily, he lowered his weapon.

Anger still smouldered in Tony's eyes, but it was no longer directed at Steve

Steve. He had reeled in his stare that final yard and turned it inwards, angry with himself now for being susceptible to such obvious flattery.

Steve Steve, confident that this little tête-à-tête was nearing a satisfactory conclusion, was already on the golf course. He swiftly reverted to type.

'Tony,' he said, rising from his seat and returning it to its original position, 'with your heart and my head we simply cant fail...'

He was delicately placing ball on tee.

'America alone should yield a Christian, if not a juicy, profit...'

He was eyeing the distance to the pin.

'Asia the same...'

Flawless back swing. Low on the face.

'To say nothing of Europe and the Home Counties...'

Looking good. Looking very good.

'All of which means, in layman's terms, that if my calculations are correct – and I see no reason to think otherwise – you, my friend, will never have to work again...'

Off the pin and in! He proffered his right hand.

'What do you say?'

Tony's monumental indignation, despite his best efforts to sustain it, had by now been successfully whittled down to little more than a huff. He pointedly refused to shake Steve Steve's hand and never even offered so much as a moody half-nod by way of compliance.

Steve Steve took this as a yes. He withdrew his outstretched hand and again checking his watch cited pressing matters to attend. Stepping lively he made good his exit, adding on his way out the door, without so much as a cursory glance over his shoulder:

'I'll be in touch. My secretary will show you out.'

16

They were all three, short of breath, walking homewards along the Boulevard. Tony was proudly displaying his cardboard trophy to a disgruntled Billy and a disinterested Dooly when an advancing figure – slight, hands in pockets, churlishly rolling its rounded shoulders and dragging the heels of its trainers to a moderate four-four beat – developed, despite the arched peak of a baseball cap hiding his eyes and casting an oblong shadow over his hollow cheeks, into the recognisable form of Daz Docherty, town renowned 'agent of obscure enterprise' and man of few words.

Acquaintances at best, on meeting they stopped, the foreignness of the locale (a good twenty minutes from where they all lived) somehow calling for more than the usual nod-in-passing that would have sufficed on familiar home ground. Daz reluctantly plucked from his ears the earpieces of his Walkman and greetings were exchanged.

'All right, Daz?' said Billy.

'Daz,' said Tony.

'Billy. Drako,' said Daz.

'HOWF!' said Dooly.

'Dooly!' said Billy.

In the awkward silence that followed, Tony managed to catch the titchy tiny tinny tune barely emanating from the dangling earpieces...

Just one of the lads

Just one of the lads

Just one of the lads

...and to the usual, strident pitch of his anger, for the time being necessarily muted, a piercing note of incredulity was added, a note that the forthcoming 'poster incident' would raise above and beyond the highest of high c's. But it was right here, at this very moment, that Tony first realised, with epiphanic clarity, that his hitherto indiscriminate rage had found its focus. In Ryan Watson - all singing, all dancing personification of everything that's wrong with the modern world - he had himself a whipping boy.

An Explanatory Digression

Darren Allen Docherty (1971-1997) was the only child of an alcoholic single mother. His childhood was not a particularly happy one.

Docherty's school days are a catalogue of juvenile delinquency and severe behavioural problems that suspensions, expulsions and the decrees of the children's panel did little to curb. He spent the final three years of primary school and all of his secondary school years in care homes, secure units and eventually a young offenders institution. At the age of seventeen Docherty re-entered society and, determined to avoid penury, diligently applied himself to a wide range of criminal activity: car theft, burglary, drug crime and extortion being among his many and varied endeavours; endeavours which he seldom failed to combine with unpremeditated acts of sickening violence. His unflinching dedication to his chosen career, of which he was neither proud nor ashamed, gained him an introduction to the town's criminal hierarchy and his big break came in September 1991 when he was offered the position of getaway driver in a series of armed robberies. Although the jobs were largely successful, one of the vehicles used was recovered by police before it could be properly disposed of and fingerprints found on the steering wheel led to Docherty's arrest. A firm believer in honour among thieves, he refused to reveal the names of his accomplices and served a three-year term of imprisonment in Saughton prison, Edinburgh, returning, in March 1995, to all intents and purposes a hero. From then, until his untimely drug related death at the age of twenty-six, Docherty went from strength to strength, orchestrating, from his usual seat in the local pub, and with the unconditional backing of the old-school, an increasingly elaborate crime network, undetected in his lifetime. His reputation has continued to grow steadily since his death and his methods are much admired, and copied, by many of the town's burgeoning young criminals.

This reputation added to Daz a fourth dimension, something almost physical that made him appear taller and broader than he actually was. In reality he was not much to look at and a common misconception was that certain of his mannerisms – that walk, his surly taciturnity – were merely affectations, compensation for what he lacked in stature. A misconception that, time and again, wielding with unrestrained ferocity the carpet knife he forever carried in his pocket, he had been only too willing to correct.

To those aware of his reputation these mannerisms, these 'affectations', evidenced an extraordinary self-belief, the arrogant demeanour of a man in little doubt of his capabilities. But, in fact, if they were evidence of anything at all, it was something akin to a deeply ingrained humility that veered towards self-loathing, which his rise through the ranks and the unqualified respect of his peers had done nothing at all to alter. Reputation didn't matter to Daz. He did what he did out of necessity and genuine ill will. He walked the way he did because he had always walked like that, and if he said little it was because he felt he had little to say. Those who really knew him knew that his deeds spoke for themselves and were in no need of embellishment. But if, on occasion, the impression given was that of a hard man playing up to his reputation, what of it? It was a reputation thoroughly deserved, and besides, no one was about to criticize.

For Tony, then, Daz was the genuine article, and he could not equate this music with the man. This was patchwork pop music, designed to be piled high on the stalls of the mass market. It was manufactured from the best bits of real bands and so poorly stitched that only the packaging held it together. Unscrupulous mass marketeers were hawking fake goods at full whack and passing them off as authentic. At a glance, but only at a glance, they could be more or less convincing replicas of the lovingly hand crafted originals they were modelled on, but the quality wasn't there. And now it seemed even Daz had been fooled. For Tony this marked the watershed. The tide had truly turned. And the sea, the shifting iridescent sea, artificially swollen by the perpetual wind of advertising - in which not so long ago only besotted little girls had frolicked and splashed, attracted by the bouyant, lukewarm water - had finally surged over the floodgates and seeped down into (what Tony had believed until now to be) the watertight caverns of the underground.

Even Daz's heavyweight endorsement could lend this music no credence, and Tony's hatred of it went undiminished. Instead, Daz himself was stripped, by its fraudulent strains, of his fearsome reputation and reduced momentarily to his purely physical dimensions.

The Original Thread

Apparently having lost his mind Tony was staring beetle browed at Daz's chest.

'So, eh, what're you up to, Daz?' asked Billy nervously.

'Nothin,' replied Daz.

'And, em... where are you off to?'

'Nowhere,' replied Daz. 'Is somethin botherin you, Drako?'

These weighted words, innocently intoned, fell heavily onto Billy's heart, and it sank like a stone to his stomach. Tony seemed not to hear them.

Daz put his hands in his pockets.

'Is somethin botherin you, Drako?' He said again.

This time, thankfully, Tony snapped out of it.

'What?' he said. 'Eh, no, Daz. No. I was just, em... Nice Walkman.'

Billy never even thought about laughing.

'Will you be in the pub the night, Daz?' he asked.

'I'm goin to the gig!' said Daz curtly. 'See you later.'

'Aye, see you later, Daz,' said Billy.

'Aye, see you later, Daz,' said Tony. 'Mind and tell your alcoholic ma' I'm askin for her, eh?'

But Daz of course had already replaced his earpieces and was moodily walking away.

They carried on homewards, Tony dumbfounded by this recent revelation. Where the Boulevard ended, a flyover began and a flight of steps led down to a path below. Tony stopped, and stood the cardboard Ryan on its base beside him, apparently absorbed in the view. Spread out before them was the town's recreational heartland. Monuments to passing fads and good ideas at the time lined the river on either side. There was the BMX track and mini golf course (both deserted); the racetrack for remote control cars (rarely used); an area for open-air concerts, like a small cross-section of an amphitheatre (used once or twice) and the Trim-track (overgrown and vandalised). Only the skate park was still busy. Closest to them was the local night club, a squat octagonal building freestanding at one end of a large empty car park. Empty, that is, but for a few – actually, quite a few – fast food vans and the like already taking up their pitches in readiness for the evening.

'Cunt never was and never fuckin will be just one of the lads!' Said Tony suddenly, though more to himself than to Billy.

'Who?' said Billy. 'Daz?'

'Ryan fuckin Watson!' said Tony. 'How can he be so gullible?'

'Who?' said Billy. 'Ryan Watson?'

'Fuckin Daz!'

'What?'

'Fuckin Daz! Listenin to that shite!'

'What shite?'

'Ryan fuckin Watson!' said Tony. 'How can he be so gullible?'

'Never noticed,' said Billy. 'Still, nice Walkman, though.'

'What's that supposed to fuckin mean?'

'Nothin.'

They descended the stairs, and the club's name, projecting diagonally up from the roof of the building in cold, handwritten neon, rose step by step higher and higher, above the backdrop of houses, into the now cloud-dappled pale-blue sky.

'It's all fuckin hype and image!' said Tony, again more to himself.

Billy tried hard not to roll his eyes.

'Roll your fuckin eyes all you want, but it's true! The music counts for fuck all these days! Most cunts these days are about as real as this cardboard cut-out! But I'm tellin you, man: hype has never made any cunt a rock star! Or looks! Or fuckin videos or whatever! Only the music can do that! A celebrity, aye. But a rock star? Never! How can he be so gullible?'

'It's where his heart lies,' said Billy.

'What?' said Tony. 'What is?'

'Indie rock music,' said Billy.

'Whose heart? Daz's?'

'Ryan Watson's.'

'How the fuck do you know where his heart lies?'

'Saw it on the telly.'

'Where his fuckin heart lies!' snarled Tony. 'His heart'll be lyin in the fuckin street if I ever get a hold of the cunt! And what's this fuckin gig everybody's talkin about?'

The Poster Incident

'HE'S PLAYIN FUCKIN HERE?'

But that, in so many words, is what the poster indeed seemed to be saying, with infuriating, falsely modest de-emphasis:

TONIGHT

RYAN WATSON

'BACK TO MY ROOTS' TOUR

TICKETS AVAILABLE AT THE DOOR

DOORS OPEN EIGHT-THIRTY

Two posters in fact, one behind each of the smoked-glass panels of the night club's double doors.

Tony glanced up at the neon sign above him, as if to confirm that he was where he thought he was.

'You've got to be fuckin jokin!' he exclaimed.

And he read the poster again.

He dwelt on it for a bit, then his gaze melted through it, to where in the glass stood his vague, transparent reflection. And, while scrutinizing his own penetrating stare, as though asking if something could be done, he slowly faded into himself and virtually disappeared.

He was, of course, still standing where he had been standing, and was, in effect, still staring at the poster, but he no longer saw it. He was totally self-absorbed. His state was trance-like, catatonic almost, his face blank, expressionless save for a very faintly discernible lowering of the eyebrows that was darkening his visage. But for this he appeared completely calm. Yet it was precisely this calmness, this statuesque immobility, that betrayed the terrible and violent currents surging and swirling beneath the surface. Dooly shied away from him half-barking nervously and skulked around to the safe side of Billy - an indication maybe of the pitch of Tony's anger, that it had now risen beyond the normal human range to ultrasonic frequencies. A minute or two went by. Billy didn't dare rouse him. Then gradually, by degrees, he returned. First, a look of tacit understanding, that quickly fused into firm resolve, passed between himself and his reflection; secondly, he re-checked the time on the bottom of the poster; and lastly, the darkness, at least in part, lifted from his countenance. For his anger, though still severe, was momentarily tempered by this one consoling circumstance: the whipping boy was in town.

17

Since primitive man first stretched the hide of some slain and flayed beast tightly over a hollowed out tree stump and, after a few inquisitive taps, sat cross-legged before his invention beating out in faithful translation the simple song in his soul – a simple song which nevertheless touched profoundly the souls of his fellow men, inspiring some to dance and others to chant, but in all a feeling of awe and wonderment – music has undergone much refinement.Perhaps from that same tree, from somewhere higher up on the trunk, another drum was fashioned which, when struck, made a sharper, clearer sound, and from one of its thinner branches a rudimentary flute; crude instruments, making elementary noises, that down through the ages evolved and diversified into the multifarious array played, and heard, today: be it a doleful solo performance on acoustic guitar only, or the majestic swoopings and soarings of an entire symphony orchestra, employing wind, string, brass and percussion all at the same time; or any of the duos, trios, quartets, quintets, choirs and ensembles in between, performing the gamut of styles from a cappella to acid jazz via pop, punk, rap, funk, soul, rock'n'roll, etc, plugged or unplugged, live or pre-recorded, up to and including the solitary 'whiz kid' at the PC in his bedroom who, with the very latest technology literally at his fingertips, can, more or less accurately, recreate any or all of these foregone sounds, notes, tones, chords, riffs, movements or styles, fuse them all and introduce new ones, merely by tapping a few keys.But regardless of such meticulous refinement, and such glorious, inharmonious diversity, music, since those first primitive beatings, remains unchanged. It is still in essence – at least when made honestly and no matter how it is made – the faithful translation of the songs in our souls, inspiring some of us to dance, others to sing along, but in all of us a feeling of awe and wonderment.But it is not always made honestly.

It is a commonplace that all artists steal, but they do not all steal in the same way. There is a world of difference, for example, between those who openly and respectfully acknowledge their influences and in the spirit of homage proudly wear, alongside their own hearts, someone else's heart on their sleeves and those – undeserving of the title of artist at all (which they and they only bestow upon themselves) – who surreptitiously pilfer the ideas of others and try to pass them off as their own.Desirous merely of fame, as a spoiled child craves attention, and covetous of the adulation and adoration heaped upon the former type of artist, this latter type will remorselessly cull, from whatever or whoever is currently attracting acclaim, everything they need to hitch themselves to 'the scene' and launch themselves – with more than a little help from other agents, those ad men and the like, as desirous merely of fortune as their protégés are of fame and every bit as bereft of integrity – launch themselves – using extensive and expensive promotional campaigns, akin to blanket bombing, on a passive, readily exploitable majority – launch themselves – sometimes with hitherto unimagined levels of success, becoming in some cases, almost literally overnight, multi-million selling sensations – launch themselves into, or, indeed, keep themselves in, the spotlight.

And yet, despite all their thievery they are not, strictly speaking, thieves – for, after all, stolen goods retain their value – they are not thieves but forgers, or, more accurately still, forgeries: worthless imitations of something infinitely more valuable. They lack that essential quality, undeniable though difficult to define, that exudes from the core of all true artists, pervading and authenticating their works as a watermark authenticates currency. And, ironically, what's the simplest way to detect a forgery? Hold it up to the light.

It was something of this nature at least, something more or less to this effect, that Billy, only half listening as he idly flicked the channels from his usual position in the chair, had thus far managed to glean from the disjointed bletherings of Tony, who had done nothing else from the minute they walked in but inhale line after line after line of cocaine and ramble endlessly on and on on the whys and wherefores of music.

Hunched over the small table, he would, with his bank card, feverishly chop and shape three or four lines in advance, and every now and again, abruptly interrupting his monologue, would snort, through a rolled up ten pound note, one half of one line with one nostril, the other with the other, then simultaneously throw back his head, turn down the corners of his mouth, sniff successively in a diminishing scale and swallow, sending a globule of narcotic mucus – while he nervily thumbed at his nose – trickling slowly down the back of his throat. His eyes were wide and wild, shot through with red and darkly encircled, and even if his hair, supposing it longer and thicker than it actually was, had been utterly dishevelled and sticking up in tufts, it could not in any way have enhanced the vivid portrait of stark staring madness that he now presented.

He would then resume his rambling. And although he invariably re-opened with a 'look, man, all I'm sayin is...' or a 'I'm fuckin tellin you, man...' he seemed to make very little attempt to pick up where he'd left off, diverging sometimes to the very brink of irrelevance in relation to what he'd previously been saying, leaving his audience (namely Billy) to fill in the gaps and complete the picture. But the truth is that he was dredging up from somewhere deep inside, from the very pit of his soul no less, random bits and pieces of an aesthetic theory so natural to him, so fundamental a part of him, something inborn and inseparable which he carried within himself fully formed and perfectly coherent, that he failed to notice these gaps in his speech, which led to so much confusion and loss of meaning, and consequently frustration on his part, in the outside world.

And he would pace too: back and forth, to and fro, here and there, up and down; in front of the telly, behind the chair, along and back along the length of the couch; ranting and raving and bawling and shouting and gesticulating emphatically – grabbing at the beginnings of some words (those most vehemently enunciated, always expletives) with the curled fingers of his right hand (sometimes both hands) and physically wrenching them out of himself. And at every 'this cunt!' or 'that cunt!' or 'cunts like fuckin him!' he would point accusingly at the cardboard Ryan Watson – standing over by the CD player with its back to the room – like some demented peripatetic professor hell-bent on ceaselessly berating a pupil who had imprudently dared to defy him and whom he'd banished for his insolence to the corner.

Another line, then another, his wide, wild eyes growing ever wider and wilder, those dark circles darker still.

'I'm fuckin tellin you, man:' he went on, 'as far as I'm concerned music's about the only fuckin thing that makes life here worth livin! Well, that and drugs. And I'm not just goin to stand back and watch while cunts like fuckin him fuckin cheapen it! What time is it, by the way?'

Flick. Flick. Flick.

'HO! What fuckin time is it?'

Billy flicked on the teletext and flicked it off again.

'Half-seven,' he said.

Flick.

'Half-seven?' said Tony. 'C'mon, we need to get goin!'

'Goin where?'

Flick.

'The fuckin gig! We're goin to the gig!'

'The gig...?'

Flick. Flick.

'...I could do with a quiet night in.'

'Shame you're fuckin drivin then, eh?'

'I'm not drivin anywhere.'

Flick.

'Aye you fuckin are! Get ready, c'mon!'

'Forget it, man,' said Billy. 'I'm stayin in. You go if you like.'

Flick. Flick. Flick.

The TV remote control lay on the chair arm beside him, with his hand resting only very leisurely on top of it. Tony suddenly lunged at it from around the back of the chair. But Billy, once bitten, was too quick for him.

'Eh, don't think so,' he said dryly, having swiftly whipped it away from Tony's grabbing hand.

Tony stormed over to the window and tightly gripped the sill. But unwilling, or unable, to let Billy outmanoeuvre him he began casting around on the floor at his feet for some suitably heavy object, instantaneously seizing upon an empty vodka bottle. Weighing it in the palm of his hand he inspected it, like fruit, to gauge the damage it might be capable of, and first setting his sights hurled it rock-like at the telly. It flew past Billy's left ear, battered the screen dead centre and smashed to smithereens. Dooly sprang up from a flaccid slumber by the foot of the front door barking hysterically and Billy, after shielding himself reflexively with an arm and a leg, leapt up out of his chair and rained upon Tony a battery of furious rebukes intended...

'HOWFHOWFHOWFHOWFHOWF! HOWFHOWFHOWF!'

...intended to be...

'HOWFHOWFHOWFHOWF!'

...to be every bit as...

'HOWFHOWF! HOWFHOWFHOWFHOWF!'

'DOOLY!'

...To be every bit as cutting as the shards of broken glass that had previously rained upon him.

'And you better not have hurt that dog!' he concluded.

Tony was now, head bowed, leaning on the windowsill, staring between his arms at his feet and breathing, very patiently, through his nose.

'Never touched the fuckin dog!' he uttered. 'Nothin went anywhere near him.'

But was that a note of repentance in his voice?

The TV had blacked out instantly and Billy went to inspect the damage.

'Aw, nice one, man! You've smashed it!' he declared, crouching down in front of it. 'Well done, eh! You can buy another one!'

Taking a long, last deep breath Tony pushed himself upright off the sill.

'Let me fuckin see it,' he sighed. 'It's probably not that bad.'

'Not that bad!' cried Billy. 'How is it not that bad? Look at it, man! It's ruined!'

Tony crouched down beside him and pensively ran the tip of an investigatory finger over a perfectly straight hairline crack in the screen that extended diagonally from just above his own left shoulder to down below Billy's right knee.

'Hmm!' he said, and he switched the TV off, and on, and off again.

He stood back up and took half a step backwards, motioning to Billy to move out of his light, and, thoughtfully fingering his chin dimple, first cocked his head one way, then cocked it the other, as though earnestly seeking a solution.

'Hmm!' he said again.

'Oh, what?' said Billy. 'You think you can fix it?'

'Nah,' said Tony. 'I was just wonderin what would happen...if I did...THIS!'

And he violently thrust the heel of his front foot straight through the centre of the screen.

The television crashed backwards into the corner dragging his leg along with it, so that he was awkwardly straddling its stand. Steadying himself with a hand on either wall he dislodged his foot from the screen, pausing, only briefly, to consider the blood that was seeping through his sock at the ankle. Then, with a renewed fury that wholly eclipsed his suffering and seemed to render him insensible to the pain he must surely have been causing himself, he stamp, stamp, stamp, stamp...stamped...and...stamped! almost all of the remaining glass from the screen, leaving nothing but the four jagged edges.

'Now get yourself fuckin ready!' he breathed. 'We're goin to the fuckin gig!'

18

And from that day (of their little tete-a-tete) to this Tony had seen neither hide nor hair of Steve Steve. However, true to his word, he had been in touch, albeit via a third party (Don) who had informed Tony that, surprise sur-fuckin-prise, the record had under performed; that it had failed, despite ample radio play, to find an audience in Europe or the Home Counties, to say nothing of the US and Asia, and that a revised strategy was to be put into effect forthwith. Which was a typically long-winded way of saying the record was shite and they were now trying desperately to recover their costs.

This revised strategy, Tony was told, involved first generating a healthy local interest and then utilising that interest to reach a wider home-based audience, before using that audience, as evidence of a sort, to convince an even wider international audience that blah blah blah... Hence, Asda. But Tony knew that good, like truth, will out, and was in no need of such convoluted measures to promote it. If something is truly good, he believed, it is universally good, and through word of mouth alone it will spread like wildfire and effortlessly conquer the world. And if that was going to happen in his own case it would have happened long before now.

So why then was he still sitting here?

Hope, it seems, though often born prematurely, dies hard, and that initial phone call, enquiring whether he would like to make a record, had immediately elevated those long-suppressed dreams of stardom, that he, like everyone else, harboured, to the level of a real and tangible hope. His scepticism was no match for it. And even when that scepticism had proven only too well founded, hope, blind hope, remained.

Hope of what exactly?

Hope, quite simply, of a better life. Hope of becoming someone more in keeping with the idea he had always had of himself. Hope of escape from the humiliating mundanity of his day-to-day existence so at odds with that idea. And, okay, all right, hope of never having to work again. Steve Steve might pride himself on his powers of persuasion but for all his spin and spiel these were about the only words of his that had struck any sort of a chord in Tony, because was that not what he'd been thinking all along? That this record might, just might, make him money enough so that never again would he have to spend half his waking life being somewhere he would rather not be, doing some pointless thing he would really rather not be doing. That it might, just might, make him money enough so that never again would he have to don a corporate identity – be it overalls, starched shirt or monogrammed baseball cap – that didn't quite fit or suit him, to bow and scrape before supercilious supervisors and malignant middle-managers so inflated by rank as to think that they need no longer trouble themselves with common courtesy and that the concept of right and wrong has no independent existence but is theirs to redefine on a whim, forgetting, in their conceit, that rank begins and ends at the factory gates, which, very often, is where Tony could be found, patiently waiting for their shift to end.

Right. So, wealth, you mean?

No, not wealth. Just money enough. He didn't want to live in a country mansion with fifty-six cars and a yacht. He wasn't looking to be able to do whatever he liked in life. But to be able not to have to do whatever he didn't like would be nice. He would be lying if he said that this thought hadn't crossed his mind. But he would be lying twice over if he pretended that that was the whole story.

He also wanted something more. He wanted acknowledgement. He wanted recognition. He wanted respect. If he wanted to realise the idea that he had of himself, how much more so did he want others to realise it too? He wanted people who in the past had looked down on him, to now look up to him. He wanted them to feel humble in his presence and embarrassed at having failed to notice sooner the true measure of the man who for all these years had stood meekly before them. He wanted them to tell their wives, or their children, or their friends, or their friends' wives and children 'I used to know him', proudly, as though a little of his glory, through mere contact with him, had somehow rubbed off on them. Sure, he wanted justice to be done, but what he really wanted was for justice to be seen to be done.

Right. So, fame, you mean?

No, not fame. Respect! There's a world of difference. The one is about being seen, the other, about how you're seen, a seismic shift in emphasis often overlooked by today's narcissistic youth. Fame comes at a price, they say, but the price has never been so low. You can buy it these days for pennies. Respect, however, will always have to be earned. The two are not mutually exclusive but they should never, under any circumstances, be confused.

Yet wasn't that exactly the mistake Tony had made? With all the focus on how he wanted other people to see him, had he not lost sight of himself? Or, if not lost sight exactly, at least turned a blind eye. So desperately, it seemed, did he crave these things – not wealth and definitely not fame – that he was prepared to ignore his own life-long maxim: that respect, like charity, begins at home; that the only kind worth having is self-respect; and he had lost his the minute he'd said yes to an obviously ill-fated cover version, that he was only offered in the first place because of some highly sensationalised newspaper article. He just hadn't been able to admit it until now.

His circumstances now, though, left him no more room for denial. The complete lack of interest here today was a real eye opener and had brought him to his senses at last, awakened him from his 'unduly protracted dream'. Just how far he had fallen from grace became all too painfully apparent. Under the impression that he was at long last climbing the ladder of success, he had been all the while plumbing new depths and far from becoming a cut above, he had sunk beneath contempt. He had allowed his head to rule his heart but his head was turned, in the clouds, up his own arse. He had made secondary considerations (if they could even be accorded that status) his primary motivation for seeing this thing through, forgetting, in what appeared to him now as some form of temporary insanity, that music was, and always should be, an end in itself. At the first opportunity, it seemed, he had abandoned his principles wholesale and in trying to better himself had in actual fact become what he hated most. In a word:

'I'm a fuckin sell-out, man!'

In day-to-day life, he reflected, in day-to-day jobs, the question of 'selling out' never really arises. You go about your business as a matter of course, or of necessity, indifferently, without any strength of feeling one way or the other. It is only when you feel strongly enough about something to form definite opinions on it, and then choose, for profit or personal gain, to conduct yourself counter to those opinions can you be accused of selling out. He himself, then, he concluded, had been more deserving of respect as a bin man or a barman than he was now, at this moment; or a store man, or a labourer, or a security guard, or a window cleaner; a line worker, order picker, shelf stacker, forklift driver, burger flipper or whatever. And that would have still been true even if this CD, notwithstanding its complete lack of originality, or even legitimacy, had gone on to become a multi-million selling success story and launched him – a not uncommon phenomenon – launched him on the road to international superstardom.

All right, then. But what about the here and now?

Damage limitation! Damage limitation! Damage limitation! He couldn't let the boys see him sitting here like this. They would have an absolute field day. He would never live it down. Though there was little dignity left for him to salvage he might, if he walked away now, still leave with his reputation intact, or at least not in tatters (what they don't know can't hurt you, right?). And he would of course put a favourable spin on events when it came to relaying them later in the pub: claim that the minute he realised what the record company was up to he had walked out on the spot, and that try as they might to convince, coerce, cajole or console him, or otherwise induce him to come back, he had refused point-blank to have anything more to do with them, regardless of all the money he had been offered (it wouldn't hurt to colour himself heroic). And, in time, perhaps, by dint of honest endeavour, he would be able to redeem himself, to once again come to see himself as he hoped others would continue to see him. That is, as a man of integrity, untainted by material concerns, one of very few, very few, in existence.

'There he is there, look. AH HA HA! HERE, DRAKO, MAN, SIGN THIS FOR US, WILL YOU?'

The voice was unmistakably Pabs's. His humiliation was complete.

19

Billy drew himself forward, and stretching his chin out over the steering wheel peered heavenward through the windscreen. The sun, having gone down somewhere behind the shopping centre, coloured the evening sky with a lambent fiery redness, strongest towards the horizon but diffused across its entire expanse, imparting a faint pink glow to the edges of the foreboding clouds that were slowly amassing overhead.

He slumped back in the seat.

The traffic was backed up behind them all along the length of the flyover. It was at a virtual standstill too on all of the adjoining roads and roundabouts. And, coming in the other direction, it stretched from one end of the Boulevard to the other, as far as the eye could see.

Amid a fanfare of blaring horns Tony stepped carefully out of the car, and limping between bumpers, using bonnet and boot like crutches, crossed over the road. Leaning on the railing there he glared with an equal mix of disfavour and disbelief at the events that were unfolding down below.

Outside the night club a vast crowd had gathered, and it was gathering still. In endless procession people were flocking to it: along the Boulevard and down the steps; along the roadside by the trim-track; down the same road and out from beneath the flyover. They were trooping along the riverside past the amphitheatre, and over the mini golf course past the BMX track, converging at the footbridge and crossing en masse past the racetrack for remote control cars. They were arriving by the busload, and the mini-busload, and by car, and taxi, by bike, even, and skateboard (although these last were more probably destined for the skate park). In short, they were coming from far and wide and from every which direction, forming, in the car park outside the club, into an homogenous, indistinguishable mass.

Tony re-crossed the road and got back into the car, slamming the door behind him.

'Fuckin low-key gig?' he snarled.

A luminous-jacketed traffic policeman was beckoning them forward. Then, a little further on, another bid them stop. They were again beckoned forward. And again bid stop. Beckoned forward. Bid stop. Beckoned forward. Bid stop. Beckoned. Bid. Beckoned. Bid. So on. And so forth. Passed from one policeman to the next all the way round to the Asda.

'Aw, fff...!' said Billy. 'I forgot to feed the dog.'

They limped and sauntered respectively down towards the club, its neon sign now glowing very palely violet against the pinks and greys of the sky.

The car park, never mind the club itself, was nowhere near big enough to accommodate the sheer number of people that was trying to cram into it. No such thing as an orderly queue existed and the surging crowd was held at bay by a concatenation of metal barriers that created a wide and narrow buffer zone around the club's entrance, closing it off from all sides. This was manned by a vanguard of stone-faced muscular bouncers wearing headsets with microphones and tight black t-shirts with "security" emblazoned in yellow across the chest. The barriers at the front of this zone – those that bore the brunt of the crowd's eagerness – formed a sort of shallow funnel, at whose apex two more perpendicular barriers – the funnel's stem – sharply reduced the front of the "queue" to a rough approximation of four abreast.

The fast-food vans and ice cream vans lined the perimeter of the car park and people were queuing as best they could in the congestion for ice cream or chips or burgers or soft drinks. These vans went some way towards penning in the bulk of the crowd but as more and more people arrived, pouring in through the gaps between them, others were squeezing out and milling around on the outskirts, needful of escape from the crush. There were stalls too, selling all manner of unofficial tour merchandise – t-shirts, hats, posters, programmes, etc – staffed mainly by cocksure opportunists out to make a killing. There was even someone selling balloons. And candyfloss.

'It's like a fuckin day at the fair, man!' growled Tony.

Here was 'youth culture', in the very brightest of primary colours and cartoon character delineation, and excepting a few groups of teenage boys (who were doing surly, in keeping with this new direction in their idol's career) the tenor of the crowd was gratingly overpitched. Effusiveness it seemed was the order of the day, something, like the very latest fashions, put on for the occasion. The perfectly natural trait of striving to contain genuine excitement, or any strong emotion that might, if surrendered to, prove overwhelming and embarrassing, was nowhere in evidence. Instead, the crowd flaunted and exaggerated what little excitement it did feel, continually fanning its paltry flame – with whoops and hollers and cheers and claps and whistles – for fear that if it were left unattended that very paltriness would become all too desolatingly apparent. Their collective behaviour, then, was nothing more nor less than they deemed fitting for such an event; exactly, in fact, but on a much larger scale, like that of someone who smiles on cue for a camera whenever the photographer says "cheeeeese".

The overall atmosphere was one that tomorrow's papers would no doubt describe as 'charged' or 'electric' (if tomorrow's papers weren't about to be dominated by an altogether more sensational story), but if it was electric it was electricity of a very low voltage, producing much light but very little real heat.

'You realise,' said Billy, 'that we've got no chance of getting in, right?'

'As much chance as anybody else,' said Tony.

'Eh, aye, except for maybe the million or so people in front of us. The place only holds about three or four hundred.'

'Don't worry. We'll get in.'

'I'm not worryin. I just don't see how we're...'

'Stop fuckin moanin, man! We're stickin to the plan and that's fuckin that, right?'

The plan, as Tony had relayed it to Billy on the drive up, went like this:

'Right, here's the fuckin plan. We park the car in the skatey car park, right? The wee one round the back of the club, cause that's where the fire door is. We go in, right...? No, not in the fuckin fire door, smart cunt! Just fuckin listen, will you? We go in and size the place up. Do a wee bit reconnoiterin... What...? Aye, fuckin reconnoiterin! You got a problem with that...? Right, then. We do a wee bit reconnoiterin, then, later on, whenever the cunt's up singin, on my signal you go out and... What the fuck is it now...? What's wrong with that...? No, I don't think I'm bein a wee bit too fuckin dramatic! ON MY FUCKIN SIGNAL you go out and get the car ready and I'll... All right, fuckin forget it, man! I'll do it my fuckin self...! No, forget it! I'll do it my fuckin self! You can wait in the car! Just make sure you've got that fuckin engine runnin, ready to make a clean fuckin getaway!'

'What for?' Billy had asked. 'What are you goin to do?'

'We're goin to teach the cunt a lesson!'

'We? I thought I was waitin in the car.'

'You just do whatever I fuckin tell you, right...? Right...? Right.'

Billy of course had paid scant regard to any of this, dismissing it lightly with an inward shake of his head and marvelling at just how weak Tony's grip on reality had become. The plan, such as it was, was, at the very least, implausible. They would be lucky at this rate to get anywhere near the club, never mind Ryan Watson. But surely, as his drug-induced delirium began to subside (he had not had a line for over an hour now), surely even Tony would realise this for himself. Right?

'Em, the car's parked up at Asda,' said Billy.

'So?'

'So, eh, your plan's not exactly off to the best of starts, is it?'

'You can bring it down later.'

'What, on your signal?'

'I'm fuckin warnin you, man! I'm not in the mood!'

The sun went down completely, drawing the last lick of its flame down with it, and the sky, between the thickening and blackening storm clouds, became a dim pale-blue. The dry but pleasing heat of the day had been replaced with an uncomfortable stifling humidity. A warmth, hazy and vaporous, rose up from the car park among the crowd, the air was heavy and a pressure was slowly starting to build.

'Come on,' said Tony. 'Follow me.'

'To where?' said Billy.

Tony pointed over the many-headed solid block of people to some vague point up near the front.

'To there,' he said. 'Come on.'

It was as though these people didn't exist for him. Where Billy saw an impenetrable mass, Tony saw nothing at all, and he seemed to think he could effortlessly cut right through them; cut right through them as a pang of truth or conscience sometimes, catching us unawares, can effortlessly cut us right through to the core, taking not a blind bit's notice of whatever ad-hoc half-truths, falsehoods and fictions our cowardly hearts have, over the course of a lifetime, garnered together from a hotchpotch of sources (all second hand) and tightly knitted into a protective weave around themselves, each thread reinforcing the other, all forming a coherent, convenient, comfortable whole, which, having lain long enough to take root and seem organic even to ourselves (it is completely manmade and can be modified at will), becomes the value system, the synthetic moral code by which we live our lives, enabling us to blend, belong, call empty full, misery happiness, failure success, etc; a sharp pang issuing a stark reminder that we are not, despite appearances, all that we once hoped to...

'Ho!' barked Tony. 'What are you fuckin standin there dreamin for? Come on!'

He waded into the crowd, and, sure enough, the people did what they could to get out of his way (the truth is always easier to ignore than to confront). He was siding truculently between them, pulling at their shoulders with a 'mind yourself there, mate' or a 'watch out the way a wee bit' or even a 'come on, man, move, eh?' and they would step aside with nothing more than a disgruntled click of the tongue or a half-hearted 'hey' or some other such sundry bleating. Billy followed in his wake repeatedly apologising.

They fought their way close enough to the front to guarantee entry into the club, but not so close as to be spotted by the vigilant bouncers and singled out as troublemakers, Tony keen to ensure that things went according to plan.

They were right in the thick of it now, standing chest to back with the people in front, back to chest with the people behind and roughly shoulder to shoulder with each other and those on either side. Cocaine had fuelled Tony's temper but as its effects began to wane, his anger, in inverse proportion, continued to rise; and as he was nudged and jostled and bumped and shoved it rose higher and higher still; and as his toes were stood on and his heels walked up (especially that of his bad foot) it shot intermittently up to previously unscaled heights, up past his clenched fists, up past his gritted teeth, and up, all the way up, to his blazing eyes.

'Look,' said Billy suddenly. 'There's Daz and Pabs and them.'

Between the food vans and the ragged fringe of the crowd, filing along one by one in aloof parade were Daz, Pabs, Coshy and a number of others, all pub regulars. Daz in front had the peak of his cap pulled sullenly low over his eyes, Pabs behind was pulling a souvenir t-shirt over his own clothes and holding a balloon by its upright string, while Coshy was trying to figure out the best way to tackle a candyfloss. A few of the others were also carrying souvenirs and whatnot. They were bypassing the queue and making straight for the barriers.

'Fuck sake!' said Tony. 'Make a fuckin day of it, why don't you! Wait a minute... Are they gettin in?

A section of the barrier was opened for them like a gate and they were admitted, with a stern but respectful nod from the bouncer there, into the buffer zone.

'They fuckin are as well! Come on! We'll get in with them!'

Tony, followed by Billy, pushed, pulled and scrambled his way to the edge of the crowd and hurried towards that same section of barrier, reaching it just in time to see the last of the group disappearing in through the double doors, balloons, candyfloss and all. The neon sign on the roof was glowing a little more brightly now.

'We're with them, mate,' said Tony to the bouncer.

The bouncer stared straight past him, as expressionless as a palace sentry.

'Em, we're with them,' said Tony again. 'So if you'll just, eh, you know.'

He tapped the top of the barrier.

The bouncer stared straight past him, as expressionless as a palace sentry.

Tony turned to Billy.

'Cunt's deaf! Maybe it's a Walkman he's wearin.'

'Aye,' said Billy, 'that's the attitude that'll win him over.'

'Seriously, mate, we're here with Daz. Open this thing, will you?'

Still no response.

This 'exchange' was beginning to irritate Tony.

'Do you not believe me? Is that it? You can go and ask him if you like. Go. Ask him.'

Still nothing.

'Ask him! Go and get Da... Pabs. Go and get fuckin Pabs out here! Peter. Peter Brown. Get Peter out here. He'll tell you. Tell him Tony Drake's waitin outside. Drako. Tell him Drako.'

The bouncer stared straight past him, as expressionless as a palace sentry.

'Come on,' said Billy. 'He's not goin to let us in.'

As frustrated as Tony was, he was still loath to jeopardise the plan.

'So you're not lettin us in, then...? All right! Fine! We'll play it your way! We'll go and wait in the queue like every cunt else if that's what you want! But when we do get in I'll be sure and tell Daz that you're the reason we're late! See what he's got to say about that, eh?'

Had the corners of the bouncer's mouth twitched at this, ever so slightly, as though he was struggling to suppress a laugh?

Tony, displaying near miraculous self-control, turned away, and cursing under his breath (which made a sound like steam escaping) began limping back to the back of the queue.

'Did you just say you were goin to tell on him?' said Billy.

'Fuckin shut it, right!'

They fought their way back into the thick of it.

'Watch yourself, there!'

'Sorry,' said Billy.

'Get out the way, will you?'

'Sorry,' said Billy.

'Fuckin move it, eh?'

'Really sorry,' said Billy.

The cloud overhead was more dense and dismal than ever and the deep dark blue of the sky visible through only the narrowest of apertures. The pressure in the air steadily continued to build.

From somewhere in the crowd a lone voice piped up:

I've been up, I've been down

I've been a fool, I've been a clown

It was quickly joined by several others:

I've done things that other men

Will never do

Then twice as many again joined in and arms were being raised:

I've tasted pleasure, tasted pain

Felt the sunshine, felt the rain

Then twice as many more, with more arms, and swaying now:

But I've always come back strong

I made it through

Until soon the entire crowd, arms raised, was singing at the top of its voice and swaying in unison:

I know what it means to fail

I've been through hell, I've been to jail

I've suffered, rode the fashions and the fads

But one thing will remain

I will always stay the same

Just one of the lads

Just one of the lads

Just one of the lads

Tony was livid.

'Is some cunt up there havin a fuckin laugh at me, or what?'

Billy affably allowed himself to be swayed along with them, though he didn't raise his arms (well, once, briefly, but only to provoke Tony, whose reaction was as expected). Tony, meanwhile, was doing his utmost to stand stock-still. Whenever the crowd swayed 'to' he would, at just the right time, shoulder aggressively fro, and whenever it swayed fro he'd shoulder to, his face a travesty of calm and innocence as he stared straight ahead, determined not to draw attention to his actions. But as the second verse was begun with even more gusto than the first, and this prolonged attrition, this constant friction showed no sign of stopping, his already threadbare patience was in danger of being worn right through. This continuous rubbing back and across him in front and behind was like a bow being pushed and drawn over the increasingly taut cord of his nerves; pushed and drawn, pushed and drawn, scraping out the same off-key note over and over again in an ever heightening pitch, shriller and shriller with each oscillation, severing the cord one strand at a time, fraying it more and more, and more and more, pushed and drawn, pushed and drawn, higher and higher, shriller and shriller, strand by strand until finally, inevitably, suddenly it would SNAP! with the most almighty twang and reverberation.

'They better fuckin...let us in soon! That's all I can...say!'

'That's just comin on half-eight now,' said Billy. 'Try relaxin, man. Go with the flow, eh?'

'No fuckin...chance!'

The sing-a-long ended after one last repetition of the chorus and the car park was engulfed beneath a roaring wave of self-congratulatory applause, which had gradually fallen away to a ripple when it suddenly swelled again to full volume. The doors had just been opened.

Immediately the back of the crowd surged forward and the front of the crowd pushed back in response, those on the outsides pushed inwards and the whole became more tightly compact than ever. Up at the front, people were being ushered in four at a time, and as the mass inched its way forward only the tiniest of shuffling steps was possible. Four by four, inch by inch it trickled through the funnel. Progress was slow, very slow, painfully slow in Tony's case, but, eventually, he and Billy reached the funnel's stem.

'NEXT FOUR, PLEASE,' called a tuxedoed doorman, and a bouncer unclipped a thick length of red rope that hung between the two barriers.

The front four spilled into the buffer zone and hurried in through the double doors. The neon sign was glowing radiantly now against the evermore threatening sky.

'NEXT FOUR, PLEASE,' called the doorman again.

Tony could scarcely contain himself, all but rubbing his hands in diabolical anticipation. Despite the waning of his intoxification his grip on reality was clearly none the stronger. The next four were called forward, then the next four and the next, until finally the next four included them. The pressure in the air had built now to such an intensity that it seemed to stop up their ears and deaden the voices of everyone around, like being under water.

'NEXT FOUR, PLEASE,' called the doorman.

And Tony strode forward. He must have felt then as an emperor or a tyrant feels when his dream of world domination, a dream which had never, not even for a second, seemed to him anything less than feasible, is, at long last, about to become a reality. The bouncer stopped him dead in his tracks.

'Not you!' he said.

Billy was hustled into the buffer zone by those behind him. Tony had glanced at the hand on his chest and was now looking anxiously up at its owner.

'What?' he pleaded. 'What? I never done anything!'

'Keep moving, please!' said the bouncer over his shoulder, and Billy took one or two hesitant steps towards the entrance.

'I never fuckin done anythin!' repeated Tony. 'What did I do? I'm just here to enjoy the gig like everybody else! I'm not lookin to cause any trouble!'

'NEXT FOUR, PLEASE,' called the doorman.

'What did I do?' continued Tony. 'Is it because I was arguin with your mate there? Is that it?'

'Move back, please,' directed the bouncer.

'Was it the Walkman line? 'Cause I was only fuckin jokin!'

'Move back, please! Let the people through.'

'Is it because I skipped the queue? What? Tell me what I've done fuckin wrong!'

'No trainers,' said the bouncer. 'House rules.'

'What?'

'No trainers. House rules.'

'NEXT FOUR, PLEASE.'

The sky rapidly darkened. Tony looked down at his own feet, then at those of everyone around him – dress shoes to a man.

'What?' he cried. 'You must be fuckin jokin! It's a fuckin gig!'

The bouncer stared straight past him as expressionless as a palace sentry.

The storm finally broke and a flash of lightening followed by a loud crack of thunder elicited from the crowd yet another enthusiastic burst of clapping and cheering and whooping and whistling. Tony cast a desperate look towards Billy, who could only shrug apologetically before going inside.

Some of the other bouncers, sensing a disturbance, or, more likely, hearing it over their headsets, closed rank around their colleague.

'NEXT FOUR, PLEASE,' called the doorman.

Tony was utterly exasperated, seething now to such a degree that he feared his voice too might break if he dared to protest further. He stood for a time scowling at this impervious wall of steadfast professionalism, but his hard stare was met with half-a-dozen even harder and he was left with no choice but to turn and limp away.

The first drops of rain were just starting to fall.

20

'There he is there, look. AH HA HA! HERE, DRAKO, MAN, SIGN THIS FOR US, WILL YOU?'

Pabs's near-skeletal bared arse, ghostly white against the lowered waistband of his jeans, was pointed in Tony's direction from the opposite end of Books, Picture Frames and Stationery. Coshy was with him and was that wee Ricky Balfour from the Groves? Buoyed by the promise of a slaughter they were now strutting jauntily towards Tony up the aisle. Pabs was re-buttoning his jeans.

'Jesus, Drakes,' he said, shielding his eyes with his forearm, still a yard or two from the desk, 'they lights are vernear blindin me, man! I can hardly see where I'm goin!'

'What lights?' scowled Tony, looking upwards at the interminable rows of strip lighting suspended, amid the ductwork and pipes, from Asda's unadorned ceiling.

'The lights your fuckin name's up in, eh? Ha ha! Pure dazzlin, man!'

He was pointing at the blackboard in front of Tony's desk.

Coshy lifted a CD from off the desk, scoffed at it front and back, and put it down again. Pabs glanced this way and that.

'Are we in the way standin here, mate?' he asked. 'I mean, I wouldn't want to get trampled in the rush, eh?'

'I don't know about anybody else,' deadpanned Ricky, 'but I'm hungry. Em, can I have the fish and chips, Drako?'

'Aye, ha ha! Two sausages, two eggs, mushrooms, hash browns and toast for me,' Coshy joined in. 'Does that count as eight, big man?'

Mercifully, Pabs intervened.

'Aye, all right, boys, all right! Go easy on the guy, eh? You can see he's a wee bit upset. He's obviously havin a very bad day... So we'll just make it tea for three, Drakes, mate. Keep it simple, eh? Ah ha ha!'

'Can I see that marker a minute, Drako?' asked Ricky.

Tony neither helped nor hindered him and Ricky took the marker pen from off the desk. Crouching, he removed its lid and made a few alterations to the writing on the blackboard, and then moistening a finger made another. The others looked on and laughed.

'Don't worry, Drako,' said Pabs. 'Some of the biggest stars in the world have had a pretty shaky start. So just, eh, you know, chalk this up to experience, eh? Ah ha ha ha ha!'

Tony, for his part, remained silent. He sat and of course seethed but his position was indefensible and the abuses were allowed to continue unchecked. He had little choice but to take it on the chin. Until, that is, fortune, in the guise of an unsuspecting shopper, quite literally smiled on him and provided him with a convenient escape route.

This shopper – about ages with Tony and not significantly bigger – was leisurely browsing a nearby rack of alphabetised and categorised CD's. He had his back to the group and, wandering and stopping, at whichever band name took his fancy, would go through the available selection. With a file clerk's fingers he would flip forward one CD after the next, pausing occasionally to peruse the track listings on a flipside, until the category was exhausted and the index card reached; then, righting the selection entire, he would wander and stop once more, at the next band name or the next letter of the alphabet, and repeat the procedure. He was browsing the W's under Rock and Pop, well within earshot of all the jocularity, when he inquisitively turned his head towards it and allowed the faintest of acquiescent smiles to play upon his face, before turning back to browsing.

If you could even call it a smile. For it had not in any way altered the set of his mouth. In fact, it had scarcely, if at all, even revealed itself in his eyes. It was more as though, on hearing the laughter, he had merely, and not inappropriately, ever so briefly entertained the vaguest notion of smiling.

It could not, under the circumstances, go unpunished.

'HO!' shouted Tony. 'WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE FUCKIN LAUGHIN AT?'

By now Pabs and Coshy had their arms draped around each other's shoulders and, swaying back and forth, were howling mock-soulful Deeebaaasers at the tops of their voices, while Ricky accompanied them with an a cappella impersonation of a synthetic pounding bass. They all fell instantly silent and, looking to Tony, determined the target of his outburst.

'AYE, YOU! LAUGHIN BOY! I'M FUCKIN TALKIN TO YOU!'

Pabs, puzzled to say the least, freed himself from his and Coshy's mutual embrace.

'Take it easy, Drako, man, eh?' he urged. 'The boy's just lookin at the CD's.'

But his efforts were of course in vain.

'Naw, wait a minute, man!' protested Tony with a palm. 'If this CUNT thinks he can stand there laughin at ME and I'll just sit here and FUCKIN TAKE IT, he's got ANOTHER THINK FUCKIN COMIN!'

He was now turned sideways in his seat to better berate this scapegoat, whose demeanour, though to all intents and purposes unchanged, was, at one and the same time, greatly altered.

He continued to wander all right, but were his wanderings now not a little lock-legged? He continued to browse the discs, but his fingerings were stilted and the fingers themselves appeared to be trembling. He persisted in going through the motions but, all in all, his leisureliness now seemed a lot more laboured, and it was obvious, even from the back, that he could no longer concentrate on the task at hand. But what really gave him away, and betrayed the fear that Tony's sudden onslaught had struck in him, was that of all the people in the store, or at least in this section of it, he was the only one among them who never turned around to wonder at the shouting.

'FUCKIN CHECK HIM OUT!' bawled Tony, rising from his seat. 'STILL PRETENDIN TO LOOK FOR A CD! NOT FUCKIN LAUGHIN NOW, CUNT, EH?'

And he began swaggering laddishly towards the CD rack.

With each splay-footed step he let fly with fresh taunts, loud enough for almost the entire store to hear...

'YOU CAN SMELL THE FUCKIN SHITE FROM HERE, MAN!'

...and so threatening in tone...

'C'MON THEN, CUNT! ME AND FUCKIN YOU, EH?'

...that they were bound, he felt, to inspire, in at least one of these lily-livered bystanders, such an all-consuming fear of the impending brutality, that it would override their tendencies towards self-preservation and transform them...

'FUCKIN PRICK!'

...into a have-a-go hero, greater than the sum of their parts. Whereupon Tony, after delivering a well-pitched parting shot, for authenticity's sake, would oh-so-reluctantly allow himself to be ushered from the scene.

In the event, he was practically walking up the heels of his victim – who still, believe it or not, continued to browse – and was beginning to wonder whether, to save face, he might actually have to make good on his threats, when a solid prod in the small of his back (oh-no-you-don't!) halted him in his tracks.

'Argh! What the f...?'

He spun around to confront his assailant and there, wielding her broom like a bayoneted rifle – and, make no mistake, she was prepared to use it again – stood Margaret the cleaner.

'And if you think, son,' she rasped, 'that I'll just stand here and let you batter this poor laddie to a pulp, on my good clean floor, you've got another think comin!'

Pabs was quick to swoop and (at least as far as he was concerned) rescue the situation (even if Coshy and Ricky seemed quite content to linger where they stood, waiting to see what might transpire). Slyly tapping his temple, by way of excusing his friend's behaviour to this feisty little cleaner, he got in among the melee, and, laying a rational palm on each of Tony's shoulders, quietly suggested that it might not be such a bad idea if they were to, eh, you know, em, leave now. Tony breathed an inaudible sigh of relief.

'Aye, all right, ' he said, before turning back to the boy. 'You're fuckin lucky your ma was here to save you this time, cunt! But if I ever see you're face round here again you're a fuckin dead man!'

Halfway up the aisle he glanced back at the blackboard propped against the desk. It read:

IN STORE TODAY

DRAKO!!!

SIGNINGnoCOPIES OF HIS

LOUSyDEBUT SINGLE

"DEBASER"

FROM 12.30pm

'Cunts!'

21

That it had taken Billy at least three attempts to get his key in the door gave Tony ample time to compose himself. He threw himself onto the couch, covetously gathered up from the small table what was left of the drugs, stuffing them into his pockets, fumblingly re-lit a half-smoked joint he had fished from the ashtray and hurriedly tried out several different postures to find which one made him look the most nonchalant. He was sitting legs crossed with one arm resting on the couch back, taking a long, aristocratic draw on the joint when the door swung slowly open.

Immediately Dooly broke for freedom, and Billy, who stood wavering in the doorway, key in hand, reflexively bent to block his exit.

'No you dzon,' he slurred, the hard edges of his speech eroded by immoderate drinking. 'No, no, no. No you dzon.'

His reaction, meanwhile, had revealed to Tony a second person standing in the stairwell, someone, as it were, waiting in the wings. Tony eyed this person quizzically, his expression verging on disgust. He knew that he knew him, he just couldn't remember from where. He was even almost sure that for some long-forgotten reason they weren't exactly the best of friends. He certainly looked, and dressed, like someone Tony should know.

He had his hands tucked into the pouch-pockets of a close-fitting, retro-style red tracksuit top – zipped all the way up to his chin – of the kind a few of the boys from the pub wore from time to time, but he definitely wasn't one of them. And his short brown hair was cut in a fairly normal fashion, like that of many people around town, though maybe it was just a bit too meticulously disheveled. In fact, as Billy stumbled forward, coaxing Dooly back from the door, and more and more of this visitor was revealed, Tony began to feel that maybe everything about him was just a bit too meticulously disheveled, a bit too thoughtfully disarranged. His jeans, just ordinary jeans such as Tony himself might wear, were faded in all the right places, and they appeared to have been deliberately stressed at the knees. They were the perfect length too: that is to say a bit too long, so that the hems fell in exactly the right way over the tongues and laces of his trainers – TRAINERS! – which were still whiter than white. It was clear the effect aimed at – 'streetwise', 'anti-fashion', call it what you will – but he was too wholesome looking to pull it off and these clothes were like a costume on him. He looked as though he had just come from Wardrobe. He was too new, too...punctilious, too precise. And it was this about him, this precision understatement, that, in the space of an instant, led Tony to conclude that he wasn't from around here, that he didn't know him after all. Yet, somehow, shopping centre...? And then the penny dropped.

'No, no, no. No you dzon. No, no, no.'

Catching Tony's stunned look of recognition Billy was reminded of his guest, and with a nod of his head from one to the other, and back from the other to one, he casually made the obligatory introductions.

'Tzony, Ryan. Ryan, Tzony,' he said. 'Come in, man. Shut the dzoor.'

And Ryan Watson, thee Ryan Watson – all the while surreptitiously appraising his audience (tough crowd) to help determine the exact shade of his performance – stepped inside, with, he hoped, just the right amount of confidence and humility to ensure a warm reception.

The condition of the room startled him, as it would almost anyone seeing it for the first time, but knowing full well that here, in this milieu, it was not the room that was exceptional, not the destruction nor the neglect, but his reaction to it, he knew just how to act. An off-the-cuff flippant remark was called for, something mildly sarcastic but well intentioned, well delivered, something that would serve the fourfold purpose of: one, concealing any apprehension he was now feeling; two, showing his hosts that he was capable of an off-the-cuff flippant remark; three, winning them over with its somewhat backhanded politeness; and four, hinting at his rock'n'roll lifestyle, which could only but enhance his standing. A split-second's hesitation however upset his timing, and doubt set in, bedevilling the equation: what if just such a remark had the opposite effect? What if merely by making it he gave the lie to his casual demeanour and came across as less than sure of himself in these surroundings? That was the last thing he wanted, to appear ill at ease, or, for that matter, anything other than natural, in his element. Hmm. Tough call. How would a local react?

And so, for all his rapid calculating he was not a whit the wiser, when Billy fed him an opener, resolving his quandary.

'It's a wee bit untzidy,' he said. 'Try and just dzon't notice it. That's what we dzoo.'

'Oh, don't worry about that,' retorted Ryan, in something like Mancunian. 'I've left more than a few 'otel rooms looking worse than this in me time. Ryan, Ryan Watson.'

He extended a hand for Tony to shake.

Tony, still stunned, mechanically extended one of his own in return, and was surprised to find that it was already shaking.

Billy dropped heavily into the armchair, letting his head fall laxly backwards.

'And, eh, that's Dzooly,' he said.

Dooly was sniffing avidly at and around Ryan, salivating torrentially. But fame of course meant nothing to him and any resemblance between his lively curiosity and the excitable behaviour of a fan meeting his hero for the first time was purely superficial. He was just hungry, and this stranger was a possible source of food.

Ryan roughed him playfully, keeping him a good arms length from his clothes, but when the dog, perhaps sensing fear, started barking he sharply withdrew his hands. With his arms raised in mock surrender he steadily backed away, until he was pinned hard up against the front door, casting supplicating glances at his hosts, the one rapt spellbound, the other blissfully insensible.

'HOWF! HOWFHOWF! HOWF!'

He was as far back as he could go.

'HOWFHOWF! HOWFHOWFHOWF!'

He innocently displayed his empty palms.

'HOWFHOWFHOWF! HOWF! HOWF!'

Billy finally raised his head.

'Dzooly!' he snapped. 'Quiet! Relax, man. He'll not eat you. Look, his tzail's waggin. He's only playin. What's the matter? You dzon't like dzogs?'

'Funnily enough,' said Ryan, 'I do. But for some reason they never...'

'HOWF! HOWFHOWF!'

'...they never seem to like me very much.'

'Dzooly!' snapped Billy again, this time with as much authority as he could muster. 'Heel!'

He feebly snapped his fingers and pointed to the floor at his feet, and Dooly, after a somewhat circuitous skulk, flopped down with a huff between the armchair and the wall.

Using a cuff Ryan wiped what he could of the saliva from his jeans, and, after repositioning the hems and giving himself the once-over, nodded towards the cardboard figure in the far corner of the room.

'Is that what I think it is?' he asked.

Billy struggled forward and turned to look, leaning over the chair arm.

'Couldz well be,' he said, nodding. 'Couldz well be.'

'Mind if I take a look?'

'Not atz all!' said Billy with a be-my-guest gesture. 'Be my guest. Just make yourself at home, eh?'

Tony watched agape as Ryan Watson, thee Ryan Watson, crossed the floor in front of him stepping carefully through the assorted litter.

'Didz you feed him yet?' asked Billy.

But Tony was miles away. The remainder of the joint, still smouldering, had dried onto his bottom lip and a thin column of ash drooped precariously from the end of it.

'Didz you?' pressed Billy.

'Who?' said Tony distractedly, still stargazing.

The falling ash caught his eye and snapped him out of his reverie. He immediately looked to Billy for answers. Billy, though, was still asking questions.

'Who dz'you think?' he said.

'What? How could I fuckin feed him?' said Tony impatiently, peeling the joint off his lip. 'There's nothin in!'

'You couldz've got him somethin in Asdza.'

'When could I?'

Billy pointed to the Asda carrier bag at the foot of the small table. In it scallop-edged bottle tops, cylinders and semi-circles – representative of a dozen or more bottles and cans – bulged out at every angle from the accommodating green and white plastic.

'Em, when you were gettin that,' he said.

Ryan had rocked the figure towards him and was craning his neck around it.

'Ha ha! Nice one!' he said, nodding. 'I 'eard about this. This come from that shopping centre, didn't it? Me manager told me what 'appened. 'E 'eard some crazed fan 'ad broken in and stolen it. Ha ha! Nice one!'

At once Tony was up on his feet and limping over, and any awkwardness he may still have been feeling in the company of so famous a celebrity was effaced by such a show of matey over-familiarity that it bordered on the sinister. He even dared venture that fatherly arm.

'You like that, eh?' he said. 'A moment of madness, mate. A moment of madness. I just couldn't fuckin help myself. Come and sit yourself down and I'll tell you all about it. I'm Tony, by the way. Tony Drake. But my mates call me Drako. Smoke?'

He took three quick-fire draws on the joint and handed the roach to Ryan.

'Here, toke on that. Get you fuckin started, at least. By the looks of that cunt I'd say you've got a wee bit catchin up to do, eh? And you'll have to forgive my, em, rudeness before. I must admit I was a wee bit fuckin starstruck. It's not every day you get to meet a fuckin livin legend, right?'

Ryan looked suitably humble, then threw a reciprocal arm.

'Don't worry about it,' he said. 'It 'appens all the time. All part of...'

'Is that right? interrupted Tony. 'Well, like I say, you sit yourself down there and relax. Unwind a bit after your, em, gig. I'm just goin to have a wee word with Billy here, in the kitchen, eh? And I'll bring us out another couple of glasses. This calls for a fuckin celebration! A wee fuckin after-show party!'

Billy had settled back into his chair, oblivious to Tony's prompting. But a skimming slap across his crown soon roused him, and he moodily turned to see himself being benignly gestured into the kitchen.

The door closed gently behind them.

'How the...? What the...?' implored Tony with look, thumbing over his shoulder at the door.

' I'll tzell you later,' said Billy.

'Later?' echoed Tony, straining to keep his voice low. 'Tell me fuckin now!'

'There's really nothin tzoo tzell.'

'Nothin to tell?' echoed Tony again, again thumbing. 'How the fuck is there nothin to tell?'

Billy simply shrugged.

Tony was forced to check his frustration.

'All right, fuck it!' he said. 'We've not got fuckin time for this!'

He was foraging in his pockets for the cocaine and casting about for an uncluttered, non-stick, crumbless, sugar free surface. Ruling out the linoleum floor he impatiently drew aside from off the cooker the frying pan and two pots and lowered its smoked-glass lid. Atop the now two-dimensional spits and splashes of its underside he tapped and shook the entire contents out of the last remaining small plastic bag, splitting with his bankcard the resultant heap of white powder into two thin lines about a foot long apiece. Quickly snorting his own share, he passed the baton to Billy.

'Here,' he said sniffing. 'You might want to fortify yourself with that.'

While Billy was stooped over the cooker Tony made a cursory search of the overhead cupboards for some everyday household object likely suited to crushing and grinding. Finding none, he tried the sink, delving in to dislodge a mug by its handle from very near the bottom. A cascade of dirty dishes noisily plugged the gap. Billy stood bolt upright inhaling deeply and tottered back a step or two, at one and the same time a little more sober and a lot less straight.

'Man!' he said, blowing. 'That should keep us goin for a wee while, at least, eh?'

'Right,' said Tony, wiping the base of the mug on the leg of his jeans, 'go and keep him company. I'll be out in a minute... Wait! Grab a couple of glasses, will you?'

Billy rinsed two pint tumblers under the tap, inspecting the pitiful state of his eyes in the darkened glass of the window. The pub lights were out. Tony had pulled from his pocket the bag of pills and was just about to empty half of them at least onto the lid of the cooker, when Billy, on his way out, halted at the door.

'Wait a minute,' he said turning. 'Fortify myself against what?'

'I'll tell you later,' said Tony. 'Just go and keep him company.'

Billy had dragged his chair round to face Ryan on the couch, and Dooly now lay forlornly behind it, all but forgotten. He confined himself to the apathetic twitchings of eyebrows and ears when Tony re-entered, holding what looked like a full, a very full, bag of cocaine.

'Fuck sake, guys! Help yourself to my cans, why don't you? And don't fuckin bother to pour me one, eh?'

Two newly poured pints of lager stood on the table, beside Tony's own almost empty glass.

'Ha ha! Only jokin, Ryan, mate. Shift up a bit, will you?'

Ryan shifted along a cushion and Tony sat himself down, slapping the drugs onto the table. Palms on knees, elbows out, he defiantly faced his neighbour.

'Now,' he said, 'can you stay till the death, or is your mother expectin you home?'

Ryan laughed knowingly. Banter.

'I'm 'ere till the death,' he replied, meeting Tony's stare.

'Ha ha! That's the fuckin spirit! Just let me sort myself out with a drink and then I'll do the honours, eh? But none of this just fuckin lager shite! If ever there was a night for cocktails...!'

Tony dipped into the bag at his feet, coming up with a can of lager, and, hooking his forefinger underneath the ring-pull, peeled it open. He filled his glass, crushed the empty can in his hand and casually tossed it, past Billy's left shoulder. He again dipped into the bag, producing first one bottle, then another, of Smirnoff Ice, knocking off their tops one at a time on the table's edge.

'Right, neck a fair bit out of your glasses,' he urged, downing about a third out of his own.

And he split the two bottles more or less evenly between the three of them, the greyish vodka mix clouding the amber lager.

'Power shandys, man! Two or three of these and your fucked!'

Ryan held his glass aloft, inspecting the tincture.

'Well, in that case,' he said, ''ere's to two or three of these.'

'Eh, aye,' said Billy. 'Cheers.'

'Cheers!' said Tony with a straight face. 'Now, I'll do up a few lines and we'll get this show on the road, eh? How did you like playin here, by the way?'

'Oh, yeah! Loved it!' said Ryan. 'Top town. Top people. Wicked atmosphere! The crowd were well up for it. That's what it's all about, isn't it? The fans. If they're 'appy I'm 'appy.'

'Aye,' said Billy, 'it was a good night. You should've been there.'

Tony was patting his pockets.

'Very fuckin funny!' he said. 'Give us your bank card. I've left mine in the kitchen.'

Motioning halt to Billy, Ryan guilelessly produced his wallet. Flipping it open he selected his platinum American Express card and handed it to Tony.

'So you didn't go tonight, then?' He inquired, flipping closed and re-pocketing the wallet.

'Oh, I fuckin went, all right!' replied Tony, inspecting the card front and back and trying not to look impressed. 'I didn't get fuckin in, though!'

'Why was that?' asked Ryan concernedly.

Billy suppressed a snigger.

'Cause I was wearin fuckin trainers, that's why was that!'

'Ah!' said Ryan.

He self-consciously drew in his feet, back-heeling the plates on the floor. A fly spiralled up towards the light bulb.

'Anyway,' continued Tony, 'forget about fuckin that. The real party starts here, eh? So, here. Knock yourself out. The biggest one's yours.'

The lines were ready. Ryan took the rolled up ten pound note that Tony was now handing him, and leaning forward, boldly inhaled the longest of the three. He sat back up sniffing and swallowing and nodding discerningly, fighting hard not to allow an acute burning sensation and acrid taste to reveal themselves in a telltale expression.

Tony watched the water well in his eyes.

'Good stuff, eh?' he said. 'It might not be up to your usual fuckin rock star quality, but it's good enough for the boys.'

'Well,' croaked Ryan through his tears, 'if it's good enough for the boys...'

'Billy?' said Tony, holding out the tenner.

'No way, man,' said Billy. 'I'm done. Enough is enough, eh? In fact I could maybe do with one or two of the pills you got, just to take the edge off.'

Tony froze, eyeing him suspiciously.

'Em, suit yourself,' he said eventually, casually, pulling the bag from his pocket and tossing it to Billy.

Billy caught it and looked at it surprised.

'Where's the rest of them?' he said.

'What rest of them?' said Tony. 'That's all I bought.'

'No it's not. You bought thirty.'

'No I never. I bought fifteen.'

'You bought thirty at half price. I was there.'

'I took them,' said Tony.

'You took them? Fifteen of them? When?'

'What the fuck does it matter when? I took them and that's fuckin that! Twenty fuckin questions, man! Do you want them or not?'

'All right, all right, I was just askin.'

Billy counted four of the pills into the palm of his hand, like jacks, and clapped them into his mouth. Setting the bag on the table, he took up his glass and washed them down. Tony turned back to Ryan.

'All the more coke for us then,' he stated, 'eh, mate?'

Ryan was reaching for his glass.

'Nice one,' he said. 'I'll drink to that.'

His acute burning sensation quickly cooled to a warm inner glow and the drugs themselves stimulated a strong desire for more drugs, and more drugs perpetuated that desire and soon he and Tony were embroiled in a display of virile, manly posturing and gung-ho abandon, mutual back slapping and brinkmanship, drinking and inhaling freely and deeply, each regaling the other with anecdotes culled from their vastly different lives. To an appropriately sombre-faced Ryan Tony told of 'survival' on the streets, invariably colouring his tales a shade or two darker than actuality. And Ryan would counter with some tenuously connected story drawn from his 'life on the road', toning down the glamour and embellishing, if not completely inventing, the seedier aspects, to which Tony listened patiently, fittingly attentive, even laughing heartily if the punch line so required.

Ironically, in his heightened state Billy bore only partial witness to the scene playing out before him, receding further and further into himself until every now and again some sudden noise or movement – the rustle of the carrier bag or the pshht! of a ring-pull, a can or bottle arcing past his head or the tap, tap, tapping of plastic on wood (alerting him to the replenishment of lines that had, it seemed, only a moment ago been prepared) – some noise or movement would suddenly sharpen his focus and he would observe for a time the behaviour of the two protagonists.

Though both were, in differing degree, playing against type, it was Tony's performance, as genial host, that was the more convincing of the two – his motivation springing, as it did, from a much deeper source. Ryan's own performance, something like devil-may-care rock star, was too forced, less heartfelt, and though, as the night wore on, drink, drugs and Tony's 'hospitality' – not least the hospitality – had instilled in him a self-belief, a false confidence that enabled him to tackle this role with growing assurance, he never looked entirely relaxed, was never quite himself. An apt parallel might be that of a lounge singer, a crooner, who only from studying the greats has learned which gesture to match with which line of the particular song he is singing, to better impress his audience. And while he, Ryan, never stooped to anything of the crassness of a limp-wristed sashay or a wink-point-wry smile combo, the overall effect was more or less the same, his insincerity was never not apparent. Tony, no doubt, would be quick to label him a dissembler, someone giving the people what they want for his own ends. He might even point to tonight as conclusive proof, hard evidence, incontrovertible...well, he might even say 'I told you so'. But as far as Billy was concerned Ryan's insincerity was attributable simply to an eagerness to please in the company of strangers. He was trying far too hard to make a good impression, or, at least, not to make a bad one.

Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.

He was slouching now, Ryan, with his legs outstretched, one arm dangling over the chair arm, drawing limply on a joint that someone, sometime must have built. The best of both worlds palpitated pleasantly within his breast, fuelling a serene smile. He was famous, and rich beyond his wildest dreams, but tonight he had acquired what he had long coveted most – acceptance. He truly felt, for the first time in his life, like just one of the lads.

'So, eh...'

Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.

'...what were you inside for, by the way?' inquired Tony earnestly.

Ryan rolled his head round on the couch back to face him.

'What?' he said. 'What do you mean?'

His speech was becoming sluggish.

'"I've been through hell, I've been to jail",' quoted Tony. 'I just wondered what you were in for.'

'Oh, that,' said Ryan. 'Yeah... No, I were... I were never in jail.'

'Ah!' said Tony.

Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.

'Yeah... That lyric just, you know... Just seemed to fit.'

'You mean it fuckin rhymed!'

Ryan shifted uneasily.

'Well... Ha ha! No, em... That's not quite, em... I was just, you know, trying to capture a feeling.'

'A feelin you've never felt!' said Tony.

'Em, yeah, but... Ha ha... I mean a...a general feeling...a mood...a...'

Tony was nodding slowly.

'I see,' he said. 'A general feeling... Funny, cause, eh...'

Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.

'...when I was inside for GBH I remember it being a very fuckin specific feelin!'

He quickly took a line and sat back up, staring.

Ryan had affected his sombre look.

'What...did you, em, do?' he asked.

Tony continued to stare for a bit, then softened his gaze.

'Well,' he said, 'I don't exactly feel like fuckin singin about it, but let's just say that some cunt thought he was a wee bit fuckin special and I showed him that he wasn't, eh? Anyway, mate, here. Get another line into you. Don't be fuckin bowin out on me!'

With no small effort, and a cordial helping hand from Tony, Ryan sat forward and took the line, then fell back to slouching.

Tony was getting to his feet.

'I've got a few songs of my own,' he said. Do you want to hear one of them?'

Ryan again rolled his head round, and through the space vacated on the couch looked towards the HI-FI and the scattering of CDs around it.

'Em...yeah,' he said, '...sure.'

But this it seemed was to be a live performance. Furthermore, it had already begun.

It was a performance that Billy had seen countless times before – the wide-legged stance and angry scowl, the raw splenetic bawling, the imaginary guitar and drums – so without so much as a sideways glance at Tony he tranquilly sat gauging Ryan's reaction.

Ryan, despite his best efforts to widen intently his increasingly glassy eyes, was, in a word, bewildered. The song's abrupt beginning had caught him off guard and its frenetic rhythm hurtled on ahead of him, leaving him little hope, in his torpor, of ever catching it up. Nor was he faring any better with the melody (such as it was) or with the lyrics – the thick accent, furious tempo and screaming delivery rendering them practically indecipherable. And even though they were hurled directly at him, sometimes so violently and from such close range that he was forced to bury his head as far as he could into the couch back, he managed only to catch their residual spray, the words themselves escaping him. Consequently, through the now rapidly thickening fog in his brain, only a vague shadowy outline of the overall composition was discernible. But at least the repetitive nature of its ending enabled him to understand something:

'...SNIFFIN GLUE TILL MY FACE GOES BLUE! SNIFFIN GLUE TILL MY FACE GOES BLUE! SNIFFIN GLUE TILL MY FACE GOES BLUE! ALL BECAUSE OF YOU! ALL BECAUSE OF YOU! ALL BECAUSE OF YOU! ALL BECAUSE OF... YOU!!'

At this last 'you' a classic punk rock scissor-kick caught the edge of the table and spun it legs over top, sending its contents spilling onto the floor. Ignoring any pain it caused him, and Billy's dispassionate protests, Tony stood waiting – sweating and out of breath – for the star's professional opinion.

Ryan, at first, tried nodding, but found that he could not, except with considerable difficulty, lift his head up from off the couch back. So he offered instead a few noncommittal remarks.

'Em...yeah,' he said. 'It's... Yeah. With...the right...you know...'

His speech was more sluggish than ever.

'...the right, em... Maybe I could...speak to people and...'

Contemptuously, Tony looked him up and down.

'Don't you fuckin patronise me!' he growled. 'What the fuck do you, or your fuckin 'people', know about music?'

Ryan never even flinched. And if he was somewhat taken aback, by this sudden shift in Tony's behaviour, he did not, perhaps could not, let it show. But the comment itself had struck him as particularly absurd, and he managed, just about, to raise an incredulous eyebrow. Tony of course was more than happy to elaborate.

The eyebrow withstood slur after slur – even rising higher at one especially impertinent remark – until Ryan could hold it no longer, and his incredulousness was succeeded by a complacent half-smile, less strenuous to maintain and not entirely dissimilar (in appearance only) to his serene smile of but a short time ago. It was a look sure to leave Tony in no doubt whatever that his criticisms, foundless to begin with, had become frankly ridiculous, and, what's more, were having absolutely no effect. After all, his (Ryan's) achievements in the music industry spoke for themselves: a career spanning over eight years; a string of top ten albums; four consecutive number one singles, as a solo artist; record breaking attendances at his concerts and innumerable awards. And, raising each of these points in turn, he would effortlessly and categorically refute the charges levelled against him. But first, to clarify in his befuddled, drug-addled mind the precise nature of those charges, he would have to reduce Tony's rambling, shambolic, impassioned diatribe to a much simpler, much less esoteric form. This he now set about doing by re-iterating what he considered to be its salient points.

'So...'

To better deliver his defence he attempted to sit up, but, try as he might, found that only his heels lifted and fell, lifted and fell, off and onto the carpet. So he, one at a time, drew in his feet and, with all his diminished strength, pushed and heaved and writhed himself upright.

'...So...'

Raising an unwieldy, unsteady hand, he extended, as best he could, an emphatic forefinger.

'...So I know...nothingaboutmusic... I'm just...playingatbeing...a rock star... I'm... I'm a...flash in the...panwho's...onlyinitforthefame...'

Neither his benumbed features, unable to contort themselves into the appropriate expression, nor his lumbering, debilitated vocals, sounding by now like a forty-five being played at thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty-one, conveyed any trace of the indignation he was nevertheless striving to camouflage.

'...I'm a...shameless pub...licityseeker...with less...lessselfrespect...than a...thanacommon...acommonprostitute...'

His head was now lolling uncontrollably and his finger, like a grotesque conductor's baton, wavered erratically in front of it.

'...Millions...of fans...are...simple...are simple...are simple-y...wrongaboutme... And... I'm... nothing... but...'

And now it wavered less erratically in front of his chest. And now less still over his crotch. It seemed, as it fell, to be drawing his eyelids, with the same faltering motion, down with it.

'...I'm...'

Tony, like a victorious boxer, looked on disparagingly at the reelings and rollings of his nigh unconscious opponent.

'...nothing...'

Ryan's head flopped forward for the last time, nodded slightly and was still. His hand had come to rest on his lap and that forefinger, only ever semi-erect to begin with, slowly wilted.

With hindsight (a luxury never again to be afforded him) Ryan might have wished that he had chosen his words with a little more care, destined, as they were, to be his last. But he wasn't dead yet. No. For the time being at least he was merely fast, merely very fast, asleep.

22

'Cunts,' muttered Tony bitterly under his breath.

Nothing.

'Cunts,' he muttered again, more vehemently now.

Nothing.

'Cunts,' he muttered a third time, more vehemently still.

Still nothing.

Billy, of course, had never not been aware that these embittered utterances were intentionally loud enough for him to overhear, and so he ignored them completely, striving to remain comfortable in his armchair, where, in the prolonged absence of a television, he was re-reading an old, dog-eared and sepia coloured paperback.

'I'll fuckin show them!' Tony went on. 'I'll start a real fuckin band!'.

Billy continued to read his book.

'A real fuckin band with real fuckin people!'

Billy pretended to continue to read his book.

'A real fuckin band with real fuckin people playin real fuckin music!'

Billy continued to pretend to continue to read his book.

'Ho!' shouted Tony, now unmistakeably over his breath. 'Who do we know that can play the guitar?'

Under his own breath, Billy shook his head and, raising his eyes from the pages of his book, stared resignedly over it at the space where the television used to be.

'Em, I don't know,' he shrugged. 'Nobody?'

'I do,' said Tony.

'You do what?' countered Billy. 'You do play the guitar?'

'Nope,' replied Tony succinctly. 'I do know someone who does.'

Billy shifted uneasily in his armchair.

'Oh, aye?' he ventured, more boldly than he intended. 'Who?'

Tony was already smiling.

'You,' he said.

'No I don't,' Billy lied.

But Tony was still smiling.

'Well, there's a guitar under your bed,' he said.

'Fuck sake!' said Billy.

'Are you sayin you've never played it? Is that what you're sayin?'

Through gritted teeth, Billy wasn't saying anything.

'Because,' Tony went on, 'you're the only one livin here and, eh, that thing looks pretty well played to me.'

He lit the now completed joint he had been building all the while and casually tossed the lighter back onto the coffee table. Leaning smugly back on the couch he sent a plume of thin grey smoke drifting calmly toward the ceiling.

'Cunt,' muttered Billy bitterly under his breath, and taking up his book once more, tried his hardest to look as though he was reading it.

'So that's the guitar sorted then,' said Tony. 'Now who do we know that can play the drums?'

Pabs it was who heeded the call and he took to the task with relish, not only readily agreeing toplaythe drums in Tony's band but also refusing to let the lack of an actual drum kit in any way dampen his enthusiasm.

'Not a problem, big man,' he was saying as he rummaged through the inmost recesses of Billy's kitchen cupboards. 'All we need is this basin and one or two of these big-ish pots.'

Kicking aside bottles and cans, Pabs cleared a sizeable space on the living room floor...

'Jesus, boys, did you never maybe think about tidyin this place up a wee bit?'

...and fussily positioned there the items he had found: a pot, upside down, either side of the upside down basin. The basin itself he propped up at one end on two discarded pizza boxes so that it sloped slightly towards him; this, he confidently assured Tony, would greatly enliven the sound. For the drumsticks two differently sized wooden spoons were thinly wrapped at the bowls in torn strips of dishcloth, and the finishing touch was a pot lid, tied by its handle to a long piece of string, which he hung like a high-hat from the light fitting.

Taking a step back, he proudly admired his handiwork.

'There you go, big man,' he said. 'Not too shabby, even if I do say so myself. That old boy scouts trainin never ceases to come in handy, eh?'

'They taught you how to build drums in the boy scouts?' said Tony.

'They taught me a great many things,' said Pabs. 'A great many. Be prepared and all that. I was only really in it for about a month, but that was long enough to get the gist.'

'And did they teach you how to play the drums as well?'

'Prepare to be dazzled, big man. Prepare to be dazzled.'

Pabs sat himself down cross-legged on the floor, and with surprisingly impressive dexterity he rattled the receptacles in turn; and this makeshift drum kit, which had taken him a mere five minutes to construct, sounded exactly, but exactly, like a couple of old pots and a basin being hit with two wooden spoons wrapped in dish cloths.

It was good enough for Tony.

'Right,' he said, 'I'll go and bring the tape recorder and we'll get started.'

Billy, who was grudgingly tweeking and plucking the tuning pegs and strings of his guitar, waited until Tony had left the room before casting Pabs a concerned look.

'You don't actually think he stands any chance of being any kind of successful with this, do you?' he said.

Pabs shot a furtive look at the door and lowered his voice to a whisper.

'Of course not, Billy,' he said. 'Of course not. The drums are made out of pots for a start. But, listen, the big man's been through the wringer lately, what with one thing and another, made a wee bit of a tit of himself by all accounts, so, you know, it'll not hurt us to humour him for once, eh?'

Billy shrugged.

'I suppose so,' he said.

'And anyway,' Pabs continued, 'you know what he's like. He'll never shut up about it till he gets his own way, so we might as well get it over and done with.'

Tony returned with the tape recorder, an old, rectangular, top-loader with six long buttons out front like the keys on a piano. Neither Pabs nor Billy said a word. Setting it down on the arm of the couch, he re-wound the cassette inside ready for the forthcoming recording.

'Okay, boys,' he said. 'This one's called Sniffin Glue Till My Face Goes Blue. Billy, you know it already. Pabs, fast and hard, right? Now, with a song like this we're goin for one continuous take. Makes it a bit more real. Everybody happy with that?'

'Oh, aye, Drakes, man,' said Pabs. 'We're as happy as pigs in shite. That right, Billy?'

'Whatever, aye,' shrugged Billy.

'Right, then,' said Tony, 'I'll count us in like this, look: three...'

Holding up three fingers he soundlessly mouthed the word.

'...Two...'

He held up two fingers.

'...One...'

'Can you not just count normally?' interrupted Billy.

'I am countin normally.'

'Aye, but could you not just say, like, "three, two, one" out loud and we'll start? It might be a bit quicker.'

'I suppose I could,' said Tony, 'aye. But I'm fuckin doin it like this. All right?'

'All right,' said Billy, displaying a palm. 'Might've been a bit quicker, that's all.'

'Boys, boys,' interjected Pabs.

And Tony began again.

'Three...'

Fingers.

'...Two...'

Fingers (defiantly directed at Billy).

'...One...'

Finger (the middle one, even more defiantly directed at Billy).

'...And...'

He simultaneously pressed the play and record buttons on the tape deck.

Over eager as always Pabs came in too early, beating the tin-pot drum kit for all that he was worth. Tony was quick to join him, bellowing his tortured vocals into an empty beer bottle that he had snatched up from the floor at the last minute. Even Billy managed to suppress his natural apathy to strum furiously at his low-slung guitar, as though he were trying to file to the quick his fingernails across all six of its strings. And insofar as they intended to produce a sound shorn of all unnecessary embellishment, wherein the naked truth took centre stage, they achieved what they set out to do. But the sound they did produce was so bare, so raw, that it was flayed in fact to the bone, and if its heart was in the right place, and there for all to see, it would also be exposed to the elements - the bitter cold of big business, the howling winds of change - and in such a pitiful condition it could not survive for long; at least not without a good deal more care and attention than any modern day music mogul would likely be willing to give it.

Tony, in the moment, hurled the bottle at the wall, Billy threw down his guitar in protest and Pabs clattered the hanging high-hat, setting it swinging wildly on its long string.

'Right,' said Tony, pressing the stop button on the tape deck, 'that's a wrap. I'll do up half-a-dozen copies and send them out to record companies. With my name behind this thing somebody should get back to us before too long. Then, boys, as they say in the biz, the sky is the fuckin limit!'

The first of the rejection letters he haughtily dismissed; and the second; though by the third he was a little less haughty; the fourth simply angered him, while the fifth took the wind out of even that sail, so that by the time the sixth and final envelope dropped through the letterbox onto the carpet at the foot of the front door he was already more or less resigned to his fate. Nevertheless, mastering his emotions, concealing his highest hopes and his worst fears, conducting himself as he would if someone else were watching, Tony calmly picked up the envelope, calmly sat himself down, calmly opened it, calmly took out the letter within, calmly read the letter, calmly tore it to pieces and calmly threw the pieces on the floor; he then calmly walked up to Pabs's, calmly purchased a large quantity of drugs in a variety of types and calmly walked home again; he calmly sat himself down, calmly laid out the drugs on the table in front of him and calmly, very calmly, began swallowing pill after pill, imbibing line after line, swallowing pill after line and imbibing line after pill like there was no tomorrow.

23

And for Tony, alas, there was no tomorrow. But, by all accounts, it took considerably more than the drugs to kill him.

It was the downstairs neighbour, a Mr Grieves, who first suspected that something was amiss.

The day in question had begun like any other...

When the sweetness of his dreams had receded irretrievably, and the bitterness of existence could no longer be postponed, Mr Grieves reluctantly blinked open his eyes: semi-darkness. He dragged his head out from under the pillow and squinted moodily at the half-light – neither brightening nor darkening – in the room: bloody dismal! Rain again, no doubt. Pulling the cotton wool an inch or two from his ears he trained his ailing senses, as well as his age would allow, on the bedroom ceiling, searching for any noises from upstairs. Quiet, for now. Good. At least he might manage his morning cuppa before the usual bloody racket started up again and set the cup rattling around on its saucer like a pigging whatchamacallit. He tucked the yellowed cotton wool bits back under the pillow – waste not, want not – and lying supine beneath the blankets took a minute to get his bearings and gather his wits about him.

Pigging music! Blaring into the wee hours as usual! It was worse again now than ever it was. It's a wonder he managed any sleep at all. If you could even call it music. It was just bloody noise. And him up there howling along like a bloody banshee. Day in, day pigging out it went on, screeching and bloody bawling. Like a pigging punk rock soundtrack to his life. He didn't mind a wee bit country 'n' western, and he was even quite fond of yon Lulu, but this was bloody ridiculous! Whether he was watering his plants, or pottering about in the scullery, or just trying to get a read at the bloody paper there was never a minute's peace. Half the time these days he didn't even need to switch on his hearing aid because he had to have the telly so pigging loud that you could make out every word without it. Not that there was anything on worth watching nowadays, mind you. It was all that bloody reality TV. It looked bugger all like any reality he had ever encountered. They should bring their cameras round here sometime. He would show them pigging reality. It was getting so you were scared to leave the house. Bloody teenagers hanging about in gangs outside the shops. Drinking that bloody Buckfast. It was like running the pigging gauntlet whenever you needed a loaf. And the language! Always effing and blinding. The lassies were worse than the laddies. They should bring back national service. That's what they should do. Teach the buggers some discipline. Do them the bloody world of good. That said, mind you, you could hardly blame them. The modern world doesn't have much to offer for the young ones. How can you expect a young man to get excited about spending the best days of his life sitting in one of yon call centres? Phoning up pensioners like him all day bloody every day and trying to sell them stuff they don't need. That phone was never pigging done ringing. And that's if they're lucky. Jobs these days don't last a crack. Places opening and shutting all the time. Getting shunted from pillar to post. Never knowing from one day to the next what's in store for you. It must all seem a bit pointless. At least in his day they had hope, what with the war effort. One great goal. Everybody mucking in. Nowadays it was every man for his-self. He blamed the Tories. But yon New Labour shower weren't much better. Aye, it was maybe neither wonder that they were up there every night battering their brains out with drugs and loud music. Christ knows, he might even have been inclined to do the same himself, if he'd known back when he was their ages that this was all he'd have to look forward to. And on that low note he heaved himself up out of bed.

'Still and all,' he muttered, 'there's no excuse for inconsideration.'

Routinely, he slid one foot then the other into his baffies by the bedside, righting, as he did so, the bumfled legs of his jammie bottoms, and lifted his dressing gown down from off the wardrobe door. Donning it over his semmit, he drew it tightly around himself to keep in the heat – a penny saved is a penny earned – and, knotting its belt at the waist, shuffled gloomily, via the bathroom, through by to the sitting room.

So began another weary day.

It must have been gey near teatime – because he had just finished watching that gardening programme with yon whatsisname in the fancy jumpers, and it was usually shortly after that finished that he would go and fry himself up a sausage or two in the skillet, or sometimes some fish fingers with a few new potatoes before settling down for the night. And maybe some peas or beans as well depending on how hungry he was: his appetite wasn't what it used to be, you see – so, aye, it must have been gey near teatime when it suddenly occurred to him that still not a sound had been heard from upstairs.

Now, you'd be forgiven for thinking that he'd be grateful for the peace and quiet – Christ knows, it was long overdue – but in actual fact he began to feel a wee bit uneasy. All he could remember thinking was that the last time there was any sort of a lasting peace and quiet round here was just after that poor laddie was murdered up there. So he turned down the telly and switched on his hearing aid and listened for any sign of life. He even tentatively tapped once or twice with his brush handle on the ceiling to try and provoke a response – is-there-anybody-there? Certainly, nobody seemed to be, and, letting old-fashioned curiosity easily get the better of him, he set off upstairs to investigate further.

Well, it's a bloody good job he did! For if the sight that met his eyes, while he was peering through the letter box, would have been enough to turn his hair white, if it wasn't white already, it was the smell that reached his nostrils that put the fear of bloody death into him.

The squalling police car came tearing around the bend in the road like an over-excited child, skidded hard right into the cul-de-sac and screeched to a halt before the gate to the drying-green. Upon stopping, its siren was muted, leaving only the spinning blue lights, and the sirens of the other emergency services en route – ambulance and fire brigade – could be heard in the distance, still quite a good way away.

The residents by now had evacuated the building and anxious and animated were gathered on the grass verge opposite, out of harm's way. They were huddled together under a scattering of umbrellas that despite their panic some had stubbornly insisted on bringing.

The passenger door swung open and a fresh faced young constable stepped urgently into the rain. He had ample time however to fetch his waterproof overcoat from off the back seat, put it on and button it up before the driver's door was opened and the driver – a seasoned, more experienced officer – himself deigned to emerge, with all the practised poise of a film star at a premiere, to the frantic clamour of the crowd.

'About bloody time!'

'Aye, it's a wonder the buildin's still standin!'

'We could've all been blown to smithereens by now!'

'Or dead in our bloody beds!'

'Any bloody longer and we'd be lookin at a bombsite!'

'You'd better hope there's nobody still up there, eh? Lyin unconscious with the fumes, waitin for you to save them.'

'If there is somebody still up there they're well past savin, let me tell you. The place is like a piggin slaughterhouse! There's blood everywhere!'

The officer smoothened his uniform, troubling, even, to pick and discard a hair – possibly imaginary – from beneath its police insignia, and setting his hat on his head he adjusted it just so: this, after all, was nothing he had not seen before. Wearing a condescending expression, he motioned for calm, as though, very, very slowly, he were bouncing, simultaneously, with the flats of his palms, two imaginary basketballs.

'Never bloody mind calm!' harped the residents. 'The place could go up any minute!'

'Standin there bloody preenin his-self! Is this what we're payin our taxes for?'

And he was prepared to wait all day if he had to. This the officer indicated, as heads got hotter and tempers flared, by resignedly tapping the toe of his boot on the wet, stony surface of the road, or duurrrumming with his finger tips on the thin, hollow-sounding metal of the police car's roof, by casually glancing at his watch, or upwards at the heavens, or affecting to inspect his fingernails.

The sirens of his associates were growing ever nearer and louder.

Eventually, the exasperated gathering was rendered speechless at his antics.

'Thaaaat's better,' said the officer. 'Now, what seems to be the trouble?'

The young constable was quick to intervene, striding briskly round the police car and managing, just, to preserve some kind of order. Absorbing insult and criticism, while fully understanding their concerns, he proceeded to skilfully extract, piecemeal, from the justifiably irate residents any and all relevant information, to wit: there was a strong smell of gas issuing from the apartment on the first floor and the condition of its interior would certainly seem to be indicative of a violent, a very violent, disturbance.

'Leave this to me,' said his superior cocksuredly, and, with all eyes trained unfavourably upon him, he strutted casually, even suavely, to and through the building's main door.

Slowly, then slowlier still, it swung closed behind him, its hydraulic door check making the last six inches of its trajectory take what felt like an eternity. But, at long last, he heard the gentle click of the lock and, abandoning his casual suavity, all but lunged for the stairs, climbing them two at a time and pulling at both banisters to hasten his ascent.

'Did you hear that? Did you hear that? "Bombsite"! "Slaughterhouse"! It's too good to be true! And lightening never strikes twice they say. If it's as bad as they're making out up here I'll be back in the headlines tomorrow: "Hero officer revisits superstar death house". I'd better start preparing my response. And who knows? I might even get my picture on the cover this time: neither proud nor humble. Solid. Dependable. The dependable face of law enforcement. Nice! The public'll lap that up...'

He took a sharp half-turn onto the second flight of stairs.

'...Or, better still, the telly! I could make the six o'clock news! "Yes, yes, such tragic incidents are, sad to say, all part and parcel of an officer's daily routine." Ha ha! That's the tone, all right. The all-in-a-day's-work approach. I can always alter the wording when I get a better idea of what it is I'm dealing with. And if I conduct myself well enough it could even lead to more TV work. A regular spot on Crimewatch, say, might not be out of the question. Got to be first on the scene, though. There's nothing in this game for two in a bed!'

Those rival sirens grew louder now than ever, and then they abruptly ceased. There was no time left to lose.

On the first floor landing he stopped before the door, all that now stood between himself and celebrity. He had kicked in this door once before, without a moment's hesitation, in a crowd-pleasing act of bravado. But now (he glanced back over the banister), now alone, with no audience to play to, he allowed himself a look through the letterbox. What he saw there...

'Oh, my God!'

...surpassed in its terribleness...

'Oh, my God!'

...the very highest of his hopes.

'Forget the newspapers! Never mind the telly even! This – oh, my God – this is the stuff of movies!'

Very gently (he would be hard put to say why) he lowered the flap of the letterbox, raised himself upright and practically tiptoed back from the door. His heart beat fast in his chest, and so violently that he fancied he could hear its echo, sounding through the empty stairwell. Even the smell of the gas, a should-be reminder of the situation's deadly seriousness, could temper his excitement but slightly. Pulling himself together, he readied his stance, concentrating his aim just left of the door handle, willing himself to action. One good kick was all it would take to send the door crashing inwards and see him step triumphantly over the threshold. He again glanced over the banister. The others were nowhere in sight. There was time enough still to rehearse the manoeuvre. He – once – lifted the sole of his boot to the level of the door handle and tentatively planted it in the spot just beside it, before lowering it again to the floor. He – twice – lifted the sole of his boot to the level of the door handle and tentatively planted it in the spot just beside it, before lowering it again to the floor. He – three times – lifted the sole of his boot to the level of the door handle and...

The door suddenly opened, as if of its own accord, and a fireman, clutching his helmet under his arm as he removed his heavy gloves, emerged from the other side of it.

'Over to you,' he remarked in passing. 'I don't envy you, though, I must say. It's none too pretty in there! Mind you, I'll probably need to go down here now and talk to these reporters. I don't know what's worse, eh?'

He was by now halfway down the first flight of stairs, and was about to descend the second flight when he shouted back up to the officer:

'You might want to start in the kitchen.'

24

An accumulation of saliva had begun to dribble out over the brow of Ryan's drooping lower lip, and bead after bead abseiled onto his chest before trickling slowly down the zip of his tracksuit top to where a bulge at the pouch pockets stemmed their flow.

'How did he end up in such a state so quick?' asked Billy.

'Cunt can't handle his drugs.'

Billy was puzzled.

'Coke, though?' he said.

Concisely, candidly, Tony enlightened him.

'Aw, what did you do that for?' said Billy. 'The guy's all right.'

'I couldn't give a fuck if he's the nicest fuckin guy in the world,' said Tony. 'This is not about him. It's about what he stands for, and I needed to get him into this state so he wouldn't put up any resistance.'

'Resistance to what?'

'I'm goin to teach him a lesson.'

'Aye, so you keep sayin.'

'Right, then.'

'But I thought it wasn't about him.'

'It's not.'

'So, eh...?'

'What fuckin "so, eh"? The cunt needs to learn!'

'Learn what?'

'Learn a fuckin lesson!'

'Aye, but...'

'Aye, but, what?'

'Aye, but, what lesson?'

'I'm goin to make a fuckin example of him.'

'Aye,' said Billy patiently, 'but how?'

Tony abruptly turned and left the room. He returned moments later carrying an old fashioned Polaroid camera.

'Tan-ta-ra-ta!' He sang (akin to the French "voila!") holding up the camera for show. 'We're goin to take a few fuckin publicity shots!'

Billy was less excited.

'Oh, right,' he said. 'Publicity shots. Of a pop star wasted on drink and drugs. Scandalous! His career'll never recover! Are you familiar with the expression "there's no such thing as bad publicity"?'

Now it was Tony's turn to raise an incredulous eyebrow.

'No such thing as bad publicity?' he exclaimed. 'You should know me better than that.'

And he tossed the camera onto Billy's lap.

An Incidental Disclaimer

It should at all times hereafter be borne in mind that by this late stage in proceedings neither Billy nor Tony were quite their usual selves, and if on the whole they appear relatively unaltered – the odd slurred word, bleary eye and stagger excepted – it is no doubt because during the course of this long day a quantity of this and a quantity of that – uppers, downers, mild hallucinogens and alcohol – had, like a system of checks and balances, kept them on a fairly even keel. But (and it is this in particular that should not be forgotten) the keel itself, the entire keel, was now immersed so far beneath the surface (they were, after all, 'loaded') that the true shape of things, the stark forms of objective reality, appeared greatly softened and distorted.

Temporary insanity? Diminished responsibility? While their heightened state may in part explain how, paradoxically, they came to perform the subsequent low act, how Billy could allow himself to stand more or less idly by, even taking photographs, while Tony took what he doubtless perceived to be only fitting revenge on someone who for so long had defiled and defaced popular music, it should not in any way excuse it.

Crouching, Tony grabbed Ryan by the ankles, and, with all the tenderness of a lackey lifting his wheelbarrow, scooped up his legs. Tucking a foot under each arm he wheeled him through forty-five degrees. Ryan's upper body slumped sideways down the couch back in an arc. Billy, meanwhile, was inspecting the camera.

'Em, where did you get this?' he asked.

'My ma's,' said Tony, glancing over both shoulders at the floor behind him. 'Shift that table, will you?'

'It's not exactly state of the art, is it?'

'And move they cans.'

'Does it even still work?'

'Aye it fuckin works! Will you shift the fuckin table?'

As Tony backed up, Ryan's lifeless body fluidly adhered to the couch's every contour. His head slipped smoothly from the arm to the cushion and from the cushion onto the floor, where it hit a plate there with a clatter.

'Careful, man!' urged Billy, who had been tracking his descent through the camera's viewfinder.

But Ryan never stirred.

'Don't fuckin worry! He can't feel a thing.'

There was a sudden flash of brilliant light and Billy looked blamefully at the camera.

'Oh, it does work,' he said.

Inside, tiny machinery clicked and whirred, and, haltingly, very faint as yet, a photograph creakily emerged from the narrow slot in its front.

'Don't fuckin waste them!' complained Tony. 'There's only a few left!'

Pinching it by the border Billy drew it out and watched the image develop, the washed-out colours growing uniformly bolder until soon their potential was reached. Apart from his own outsized knees occupying the foreground in each of the bottom corners it showed Ryan from the waist up, amidst the general clutter, being dragged across the carpet to his fate. He was flat on his back at the base of the couch, eyes closed, mouth open, his hands above his head palms upwards, and his tracksuit top had ridden up to reveal – on what would not so long ago have been a tanned and depilated midriff – a tattoo, some word or other, and number, maybe, arching over his belly button in plain blue lettering. Peer as he might, holding the photo now nearer his face, now further away, Billy could not bring the writing into focus.

'MADCHESTER '89!' bawled Tony suddenly. 'Who's he tryin to fuckin kid? What would he have been then? Fuckin four? Look at it, man! The thing's still fuckin weepin!'

Having reached the back of the room, he had wheeled Ryan through another forty-five degrees so that his back, his own back, was to the window, and let fall his legs. He was now crouching down between them as he spoke, unbuttoning matter-of-factly his, Ryan's, fly.

'I'm tellin you, man,' he was saying, 'there's nothin cunts like this wouldn't do for... Whoa! The cunt's not got any pants on!'

He looked across at Billy with Mock horror. Billy was looking dubiously back at him, flitting his eyes between face and fly.

'Em, what are you doin?' he inquired.

'What does it fuckin look like?' answered Tony, tug-tug-tugging at the waistband of Ryan's jeans and pulling them down onto his thighs.

'Is this, em, part of the, eh, lesson?'

'Aye.'

'The same lesson you were goin to teach him in the club?'

'Better.'

'And what if he wakes up?'

'He won't.'

'But what if he does?'

'He won't.'

'Aye, but...'

'Don't fuckin start! We'll deal with that if and when it happens. Now, come round here and give me a hand.'

Tony stepped out over Ryan's left leg and crouched down at the side of him, slipping one hand under a shoulder blade and the other under the small of his back.

'A hand to do what?' asked Billy, rising from his chair.

'To get him into the...right...position.'

Ryan was rolled face downwards a body's width from Tony. His left palm slapped the carpet close to Billy's feet.

Billy looked back up.

'The right position for what?'

Tony rose, and as though mulling the question over looked along and back along the entire length of Ryan's prostrate body.

'Basically,' he said, 'I'm goin to fuck him.'

And setting rounded flesh aquiver beneath the sole of a roguish foot, added:

'Doggy style, of course!'

With the same foot, he now flicked Ryan's left leg up from off his right and again stepped in between them. To widen them he gave each a casual kick or two until, like the stays on a stepladder, the waistband of the jeans pulled tight.

On the off chance that his ears had deceived him Billy requested clarification.

'I beg your pardon?' he said breezily. 'You're...?'

'I'm goin to fuck him,' repeated Tony. 'Listen, here's the deal.'

And as he stood unbuttoning his own jeans he explained the deal to Billy.

The deal was, simply put, that while Tony was doing what he would be doing Billy would be taking pictures, and these pictures would, at the earliest convenience, be forwarded anonymously to every single tabloid newspaper up and down the land.

He pushed his jeans and pants down to just below his knees.

Billy could not suppress a titter.

'What?' challenged Tony.

'Nothin.'

He knelt down and clasped his hands underneath Ryan's midriff.

'Right, come here,' he said. 'Stand round there at his head. Right. Now, you push him by the shoulders and I'll pull him up towards me.'

Tentatively, Billy set down the camera.

'Do you not think you're takin things a wee bit too far?'

'On three, you ready? One, two...three!'

But midway through this manoeuvre Tony released his grip, and Ryan's belly flopped back to the floor.

'Wait,' said Tony, sitting thoughtfully back on his heels. 'This is not right.'

Billy was still holding the shoulders.

'You think?' he said.

'It feels wrong.'

'It is wrong.'

'No, but, it feels wrong!'

'It is wrong.'

'I mean somethin's lackin.'

'Self-control?'

'Music!' exclaimed Tony, raising an index finger. 'We need some fuckin music!'

Twisting from the middle he began rummaging through the scattering of CD's on the floor behind him, just beside Ryan's right foot.

'The Pixies, man!' he was saying. 'We need the fuckin Pixies!'

'It's already in,' said Billy. 'You were listenin to it this mornin.'

Tony pressed 'open/close' on the CD player. Smoothly, silently, the drawer slid slowly open.

'So I was,' he said, 'aye.'

He again pressed 'open/close'. Silently, smoothly, the drawer slid slowly closed.

'I know just the fuckin song for this type of situation! Exactly what's fuckin needed!'

He pressed 'play' and turned back to Billy, who, with a wry nod remarked that, em, maybe something else was needed in this type of situation.

Tony glanced down.

'Don't fuckin worry about that!' he said. 'I'll rise to the occasion all right! Now, on three, you ready? One, two...three!'

The song burst forth, pounding loudly out of the speakers, and instantly the opening cords, plucked out in bass notes, rolling, thunderous and sinister, felt, in Tony's stomach, like the thrill of anticipation. Ryan was made ready, so that his back end was level with Tony's groin while his head remained on the carpet. His arms were stretched out in front of him, the palms of his hands flat downwards, as though in humblest worship before some almighty, revered idol. Tony made one or two minor adjustments to his own position and waited. Staring straight ahead he wore a gravely serious expression, literally breathing in the music: the urgent wailing of the two lead guitars layered indelicately over the bass line, the drums in short rhythmical bursts struck aggressively and fast, the cackling, maniacal, disturbed, tormented vocals. He literally breathed it all in, and it shook the walls of his heart no less than those of the room and set every cell of his enraptured skin a-tingling. It infused him with its sublime demented energy and, with regard to the task at hand, at once began to fire his blood, firm his resolve, stiffen his upper lip and give him a steely, almost adamantine, determination.

Having once again picked up the camera, Billy took a few steps backwards, holding it up to his eye, now horizontally, now vertically, endeavouring to best frame the shot.

Tony lowered his head, and taking careful aim allowed a spumous gob of saliva to fall thickly from between his pursed lips onto Ryan's coccyx, dragging its tail behind it. He waited, watching, as it trickled down the cleft of the buttocks to its target. Then, bracing himself, he boldly took the plunge. Mouth tightly closed and eyes fixed, blazing, he slowly eased forward his hips, gingerly, probingly, wincing and cringing as he did so, driven valiantly onwards (or, in this case, inwards) by some grossly misconceived sense of duty which, endorsed by the pounding music, transformed this basest of acts into the noblest, most heroic of deeds.

'DEBASER!' screamed the CD player goadingly. 'DE-BASER!' it screamed again.

And Tony thrust forward violently.

For far too long now people, like himself, had maintained a dignified silence in the face of so much mass (-produced) hysteria, allowing more than enough time for the rot to really set in, or (since any suggestion of depth here would be wholly inappropriate) better say spread, spread like an infection, like some debilitating brain disease, over such a large area that whenever now they did try to speak (those people like himself) they found they could no longer be heard, that their sane and rational voices were smothered beneath the incessant effervescent delirious clamour, leaving silence, dignified or otherwise, their only alternative. But actions, of course, speak louder than words. With the delivery of the morning papers, the so-called fans would be shown, in stark allegory, just exactly how a nation really feels. They would be instantaneously cured of their collective condition, sharply jolted out of their docility, rudely awakened from their hyperbolic hypnosis, and, lacking not only the courage of their conviction but the actual conviction itself, would automatically assimilate themselves into this new world order and as if by magic all but disappear. He could see it all now. He would be hoisted high on jubilant shoulders and triumphantly paraded through the town. Fanatical crowds would ecstatically line the streets, waving flags and cheering loudly, fervently proclaiming him their champion. They would erect a monument in his honour, a plinth as tall and proud as nelson's column, towering high over the townscape and visible for miles around, with his image, this image, this precise moment captured forever, in burnished bronze at its peak. A modern day George And The Dragon, depicting the glorious victory of truth over falsehood, profundity over pretence, integrity over improbity, artlessness over machination, gut feeling over face value, self-respect over self-obsession, individual passion over popular opinion, absolute heartfelt sincerity over mere vainglory.

Billy, staggered, staggered backwards, absently lowering the camera. He had not for a minute thought that Tony would actually go through with it.

'DEBASER!' screamed the CD player. 'DE-BASER!' it screamed again.

Tony thrust forward violently, and forward violently, and forward again more violently still.

'WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOIN JUST STANDIN THERE?' he shouted. 'START TAKIN THE FUCKIN PICTURES, MAN! AND MAKE SURE YOU GET HIS WHOLE FUCKIN FACE IN! I WANT EVERY CUNT TO BE ABLE TO SEE WHO HE IS! DON'T BE CUTTIN OFF HIS FUCKIN HEAD OR ANYTHIN!'

He reached over Ryan's back and pulled his head roughly upwards and backwards by the hair.

'Don't what?' said Billy distantly, still in shock at the spectacle.

'CUT OFF HIS FUCKIN HEAD!'

'WHAT?'

'CUT OFF HIS FUCKIN HEAD!'

But, by now, Billy was staunchly shaking his own head, and was still shaking it when he threw down the camera in disgust.

'No way, man!' he was muttering. 'No way! I don't want anythin to do with this! This is sick! I'm takin nothin to do with this!'

He made for the door beside him as though about to leave the room, then turned and made for the front door, as though about to leave the flat altogether, before turning back again all of a fluster, not really knowing anymore what he was about.

'No way, man!' he was still saying. 'This is sick! You're sick! I don't want anythin to do with this! No way, man! No way!'

After watching him for a bit – to the squalling melodic guitars and a battery of rapid drum beats, playing out the remainder of the song – Tony suddenly burst out laughing, a forced, mocking laugh.

'AH HA HA! CHECK YOU FUCKIN OUT, MAN!' he shouted. 'FLAPPIN UP AND DOWN THE PLACE LIKE A FUCKIN HEADLESS CHICKEN! CALM THE FUCK DOWN, WILL YOU? I'M NOT ACTUALLY DOIN ANYTHIN. LOOK...'

He drew back his hips just far enough to let Billy see the (blunt) truth for himself.

'...SEE, THERE'S NOT ACTUALLY ANY PENETRATION GOIN ON. BUT I'VE GOT TO TRY AND MAKE IT LOOK CONVINCIN, EH? NOW, DO US A FUCKIN FAVOUR, WILL YOU? PICK UP THE CAMERA AND TAKE THE FUCKIN PICTURES. I'M NOT EXACTLY ENJOYIN THIS, YOU KNOW! AND HIT THE REPEAT BUTTON ON THE HI-FI FOR ME AS WELL. I NEED THAT FUCKIN SONG ON AGAIN TO GET MYSELF BACK IN THE MOOD.

25

Some half-a-dozen photographs, quickly and begrudgingly taken, lay scattered around on the floor, and Tony was stood over Ryan buttoning up his jeans.

'SO NOW WHAT?' shouted Billy, before testily lowering the volume of the music, at least until he could hear himself think.

'So now what?' he said again.

'Now we get rid of him.' said Tony.

'What do you mean, get rid of him?'

'I mean, get rid of him.'

'What? You mean, like, kill him?'

'Eh? I mean get fuckin rid of him! Put him in a taxi or whatever and send him back up to the club. They'll be lookin for him there. If we leave him here he'll wake up and see all this shite!'

'Right,' said Billy, relieved. 'Of course, aye.'

'Come on, give us a hand to make him decent. We'll carry him up to the taxi rank and dump him fuckin there.'

(Unst)ably supporting him, one on either side, they carried him out onto the landing, but they had got no further than the top of the stairs when it occurred to Billy that the music, which had rushed out ahead of them to fill the stairwell as soon as the door was opened, had maintained a constant volume, instead of, as should have happened, becoming gradually quieter as the door swung closed again behind them. He quickly glanced back and, sure enough, Dooly's big head was snaking eagerly round the jamb.

'HOLD HIM!' he shouted, 'While I...'

He lunged at the dog, and in the nick of time they blocked his escape, seizing him round the neck and pushing and pulling him back inside the... Wait...! 'They' blocked his escape...? 'They...?' 'THEY?'

Billy looked despairingly at Tony.

'What?' shrugged the latter. 'You told me to fuckin hold him!'

'Not him,' said Billy through clenched teeth. 'Him!'

And he pointed back to Ryan, who was no longer there.

He had collapsed straight down like a puppet with its strings cut and rolled head first onto the stairs. His feet, soles upwards, sailed archwise over his head, and his legs came down hard upon the nosing of three steps at once.

The impact roused him and his eyes shot open, but he bump-bumped down two steps more before, three from the bottom, he suddenly sprang to his feet. With an embarrassed air he hastily sought to compose himself – a reflex action only, for he was clearly still insensible. He knew not what had happened or how he had come to be here or even, come to that, where here was. Nevertheless, he seemed none the worse for his fall and Billy, at least, heaved an audible sigh of relief. But Ryan's revival was to be short lived.

He was holding onto the banister beside him but it soon became apparent, from the increasing sweep of his vacillations, that he was lapsing back into unconsciousness. It remained only to be seen which way he would fall. Just then, his jeans, which were still undone, slipped, with untimely haplessness, down his thighs to his knees, and he unquestioningly bent to pull them back up. For the briefest of moments he resembled a theatre performer who, on taking his curtain call, bows so low as to reveal the nape of his neck to his audience while his arms dangle loosely in front of him so that he is almost touching his toes (the audience in this case was the graffiti strewn wall of the stairwell, where the spray-painted "biscuits is a wanker" took pride of place among the other sundry scribblings. Billy and Tony had the view from backstage). And forward he went. His head hit the landing with a stomach-churning crack and a puddle of wine-dark blood bloomed steadily out from beneath it.

Billy grew sober in an instant.

'SHUT THAT DOG THROUGH THE BACK! He shouted. 'THEN GET DOWN HERE AND GIVE ME A HAND!'

But he intuitively knew already that Ryan was already dead.

26

The fireman's words had rung airily through the stairwell, its acoustics and the metallic resonance from the banisters lending both bass and volume to their utterance. But despite this enhancement they played faintly in the ears of the officer like some dim and distant bell. For he, perplexed, and not a little dispirited, was still trying to ascertain what, exactly, just happened.

'I mean, one minute I was... And then...'

The rug had been pulled out from under him. That same fireman was down there now, grabbing the headlines, his headlines, and his heart sank at the thought of it. But maybe, just maybe, he could upstage him yet, by providing a thorough, more detailed account of the crime scene, and dominating at least the inside pages of the very same tabloid newspapers.

OFFICER ENTERS APARTMENT

full story pages four and five

FEAR

The stairwell is eerily deserted. Each and every one of the building's twenty-some, mainly elderly, residents has been earlier shepherded to the relative safety of outdoors. Long-suffering members of a crime-ravaged community, anxiety is etched on their careworn faces as they stare expectantly upwards at the windows of the apartment. With bated breath they await the precise nature of this the latest violent crime to attract unwanted attention to their neighbourhood and shatter the precarious peace of their otherwise ordinary lives.

HERO

Officer Raymond McVitie, 47, is a close second on the scene. He need hardly steel himself for the grim task ahead. A tireless servant of this community for over twenty-eight years with the Lothian and Borders Police Force, officer McVitie faces danger and even death on an almost daily basis.

Known affectionately as 'Biscuits' to the neighbourhood's many children, he is rightly regarded in these parts as something of a local hero. But he achieved a much wider celebrity in the summer when his name became inextricably linked with that of superstar Ryan Watson, who met an untimely and horrific end here in this very apartment. Yet as our stunned nation came to a standstill, too wracked with grief to go about its business, it was back to work as usual for officer McVitie. And also for countless others of her majesty's finest up and down the country, who valiantly protect and serve, selflessly putting their lives on the line to bravely patrol our streets, ensuring that we, the citizens, can sleep soundly in our beds at night.

COURAGE

With enviable calm he steps boldly over the threshold, and confronts in its gruesome entirety what he had previously only glimpsed through the letterbox.

It is a sight so sickening that it would send the local so-called hard-men scrambling for the nearest bathroom. Officer McVitie doesn't flinch.

He told us:

'Three things are vital to good police work: a stout heart, a strong stomach and a logical mind.'

LADDER

The fire brigade's ladder is being lowered from the wide-open window, but this is not the time to dwell on lost opportunity.

FILTH

Empty cans and bottles litter the floor of the apartment. Household rubbish has been left to pile up and rot. Drying puddles of vomit discolour the carpet in a number of different places. The now lessening smell of gas can no longer mask the rank stench of degeneracy.

DRUGS

Stark evidence of drug abuse lies scattered across a tabletop at the front of the room. It is a growing problem all too commonly encountered by officer McVitie on his perilous beat. Small resealable clear plastic bags, known on the street as 'baggies', lie strewn amid the squalor. Empty now, these undoubtedly would have contained such potentially lethal substances as Amphetamine Sulphate – an artificial stimulant known as 'speed' or sometimes 'sulph' to its depraved users – or, increasingly, Cocaine – often referred to as 'coke' or 'charlie'. The mind-warping hallucinogen LSD – known as 'acid' – and killer designer drug Ecstasy are also commonly sold in this type of packaging. As are seemingly innocent prescription medicines such as Valium and Temazepam, which, for as little as one pound per tablet, thrill-seeking youths are mixing with booze in a volatile cocktail of death.

So widespread, in fact, has the problem now become that it is in danger of gaining acceptance, with some wrongheaded members of our too liberal society already calling for a halt to the so-called sensationalism and hyperbole surrounding drug abuse and demanding only the facts.

So here, try these for size:

FACT: evil peddlers of death are luring our kids at the school gates and getting them hooked with free samples to ensure future business!

FACT: the path of drug abuse invariably leads from gutter to jail to grave!

FACT: the link between drug abuse and the relentless rise in violent crime is undeniable, with crazed junkies targeting vulnerable pensioners to feed their filthy habits!

FACT: we are currently in the devastating grip of a drug-fuelled crime epidemic!

'These days, it seems, not only good things come in small packages,' commented officer McVitie drily.

NEWS

An open envelope lies at the foot of the same table. Around it torn up pieces of paper are indignantly scattered. This was one letter that had obviously brought someone bad news.

KNIFE

As he advances deeper into the room, officer McVitie's well-trained eye picks out a discarded combat knife amid the random debris and decay. The serrated edge of its eight-inch blade is besmeared from tip to handle with congealed blood. It is a typical example of the deadly weaponry stubbornly harboured by incurably violent criminals, despite the recent nationwide 'Knives Cost Lives' amnesty.

Is it any wonder then that we cower in mortal fear behind locked doors when mindless yobs, who are given every opportunity in life, are instead hell-bent on marauding our streets killing and maiming, and slashing to bloody ribbons the very fabric of society?

'The knife had obviously been used in a slashing motion, as opposed to a stabbing motion,' Officer McVitie demonstrated helpfully. 'No doubt to draw the blood that so liberally smeared the walls.'

BLOOD

Bloody slogans are angrily scrawled on all four walls of the living room. Writ large, the grisly brownish-red lettering stands out in chilling contrast to the once white wallpaper long since yellowed from nicotine. The blood is thicker in some places than in others. Where it is at its thickest it has run from the letters in thin, lurid streaks. The messages themselves are scarcely coherent and are often badly spelled.

'Money is the route of all evil that makes the world go round,' reads one confused adage in a downward slant across the back wall.

'One plus one equals zero,' reads a second message, still more nonsensical, lower down beside the window, the brain of its author now so addled from drug abuse that even the simplest arithmetic is beyond his capabilities.

'Sniffin glue till my face goes blue all because of you,' reads a third juvenile ditty, in two lines, just above a television stand in the corner of the room. While a fourth message demands that we:

'Play from the fucking heart!'

Single words too are daubed here and there on each of the walls:

'Debaser,' says one.

'Cunts,' says another, too explicit to print here.

One final message, urgently scrawled by the door to the kitchen, will forever remain unfinished. It says simply:

'No regre...'

Where it abruptly comes to a halt a thinning smear of blood arcs sharply down the wall to the skirting. From there a bloody trail on the carpet leads into the kitchen itself.

Officer McVitie told us:

'Though it pays to keep an open mind in this job, to expect the unexpected, I was beginning to think that I was now looking for only one dead body, and that this was not, as I had first suspected, a murder investigation at all.'

DEATH

Intrepidly, he follows the trail of blood into the kitchen. Not even the merest trace of anxiety can be read on his expressionless, battle-hardened face. The kitchen door stands open. The mess inside rivals that in the living room. Mouldy dishes and greasy pots and pans are piled high in the sink and lie scattered around on the bunkers. Stepping inside, Officer McVitie pulls the door towards him, instinctively glancing around it as he does so. Despite the macabre sight that greets him his steely nerve holds firm.

The body lies behind the door. It is as dead as can be expected from the evidence in the living room. To the ever-astute McVitie it is instantly recognisable as suspect number two in the Ryan Watson case, one Anthony Drake.

He is on his knees with his head shoved halfway into the oven. His chest is supported by the lowered oven door. His arms dangle limply by his sides and blood has run from a deep gash in either wrist down through his fingers to the floor. Two dark, coagulating puddles spill out beneath him over the tile-pattern linoleum. His face is gaunt and grey from blood loss, his expression almost peaceful despite the great pain he had obviously caused himself. His eyes remain open as though all seeing even in death. But death itself has removed from them, for once and for all, any trace of anguish or suffering.

STATEMENT

A spokesperson for the Lothian and Borders police force issued this statement yesterday:

'We are not looking for any other suspects in connection with this case,' it said succinctly.

27

The detective finished writing in his notebook and, raising his head, fixed Billy with a hard, penetrating stare. It was as though a two-way mirror had been installed in between them, through which the detective could, at his leisure, observe Billy with cold, detached professionalism, but in which Billy could see only himself, meek and subdued, shifting nervously in his chair and fidgeting. He had hoped all this was over and done with.

After an interminable silence the detective finally spoke.

'I see,' he said. 'And then what happened?'

'Em, we carried him back upstairs,' said Billy.

'Carried who back upstairs?'

'Ryan Watson.'

'Okay. And?'

'And, em, we put him down under the window.'

'How?' queried the detective.

'Well, we dropped him, I suppose. But it was an accident.'

'How so?'

'Well, like I say, his arms were, em, draped over our shoulders, you know? And we were sort of draggin him, draggin his feet kind of... Well, anyway, I slipped on a bottle or somethin and stumbled a bit, and to steady myself I tried to grab onto the curtains. I lost my grip on Ryan and he fell forward onto his face – I suppose Tony couldn't hold him on his own – and the curtains, curtain rail and everythin came down on top of him.'

'Go on.'

'Em, that's it really. Then we sat down and had a couple of lines.'

'You "had a couple of lines"?'

'Well, aye. Of the crushed up pills. We needed somethin to calm us down while we figured out what to do next.'

'And what exactly did you do next, Billy?'

'I, Eh, fell asleep.'

'You fell asleep?'

Billy nodded.

'I suppose the lines must have, you know, been a wee bit too much for me on top of everythin else.'

'Okaaay. And before you fell asleep what was Tony doing?'

'Em, I'm not really sure. He might have been buildin a joint.'

'But he was definitely still awake?'

'I think so, aye. But he couldn't have been for too much longer, because when I got up to go to the toilet in the mornin he was sound asleep on the couch.'

The detective looked interested.

'You got up to go to the toilet?' he said.

'Em, aye,' said Billy.

'At about what time?'

'I'm not really sure. Just before the police kicked the door in.'

'And for how long?'

'For how long what?'

'For how long were you in the toilet?'

'Oh, it was just a quick pi... I mean, not long. About a minute, I'd say, at the most.'

After a brief pause for thought the detective updated his notes.

'A – minute – at – the – most,' he repeated to himself as he did so, first boldly encircling then double-underscoring this particular entry.

'Is all this really important?' asked Billy.

'It could be, Billy. It could be. And then what happened?'

'Well, like I say, when I came back out of the toilet the police were kickin the door in and...well, I'm sure you already know the rest.'

'Nevertheless, It would be helpful if you could tell me, one more time in your own words, what the police then did.'

'Oh, right. Well, basically they just asked us a few questions then took us away to the cells. We were, em, interviewed and held on remand until gradually it became clear that we hadn't actually done anythin. But by that time it was too late, the papers had already got hold of the story and we were accused of bein everythin from kidnappers to cannibals. I mean, it was a wee bit over the top, eh?'

'You say it gradually became clear that you hadn't actually done anything. Could you, Billy, walk me through the police findings, as you understand them, step by step, starting with the kidnapping?'

'Em, aye, I suppose so, but do you not already have all this on some report somewhere?'

'As you understand them, please, Billy,' repeated the detective, a faint note of impatience creeping into his otherwise measured tones.

'Eh, right, aye. Well, like I say, there was no kidnappin. Ryan came back here with me of his own accord. Two different bouncers testified to seein us leavin the club together...'

The detective held up a hand.

'Let me just stop you there, Billy,' he said. 'Irrespective of the testimonies of "two different bouncers", it strikes me as highly improbable that an internationally renowned young celebrity, who, let's face it, could have gone home with any one of probably hundreds of young ladies in the disco that night, would have instead "of his own accord" chosen to go home with you. Why do you think he did that, Billy?'

'I don't know,' shrugged Billy. 'I invited him and he came.'

'You invited him and he came? Forgive me, Billy, but you don't strike me as the type of person who ordinarily goes around inviting superstars back to his house.'

'I was drunk. It was right at the end of the night. I'd actually invited everybody back – Daz and Pabs and them – for a bit of a party, you know? Anyway, like I say, it was right at the end of the night and all the lights had just came on, but before makin my way outside I nipped into the toilet for a pi... eh, a pee and that's where I met him. Ryan, I mean. He was standin at the what-do-you-call-it, the urinal next to mine. So I invited him as well. And, em, well, he said aye.'

'But there was no party.'

'Em, no, there wasn't, no. When we came back out of the toilet everybody had left already. I just assumed they would be makin their way back here, so me and Ryan came back by ourselves.'

The detective again updated his notes.

'Okay, Billy,' he said 'Now, what about the rape?'

Billy shook his head.

'That was Tony's idea of a joke.'

'A joke?'

'Aye.'

'A very sick joke, Billy, wouldn't you agree?'

'Of course, aye. But, like I say, he didn't actually do anythin. The, em, post mortem or the autopsy or whatever it's called showed that there was no, em...no actual, eh...actual physical contact, if you know what I mean.'

'You mean homosexual intercourse, Billy.'

Billy blushed.

'Eh, aye, exactly, aye,' he mumbled.

'But the photographs clearly show, at the very least, a serious sexual assault taking place, do they not?'

'Em, aye, I suppose they do. But as I understand it, his people – Ryan's, I mean – the record company or his manager or whoever, didn't really want to follow up on that. They wanted to, you know, keep that part of it as quiet as possible.'

'And why do you think they would want to do that?'

'Well, I suppose there's nothin like a good old-fashioned rock 'n' roll drug death to boost record sales, eh? Serious homosexual assault doesn't quite fit the bill, does it?'

The detective ventured no opinion.

'And the murder?' he said.

'Again,' said Billy, 'nothin actually happened, or, at least, it happened exactly like I said. The post mortem showed that his bruises and his broken bones, his fractured skull and that, were, em, consistent with him fallin down the stairs. The coroner or whoever recorded a verdict of death by misadventure.'

'Death by misadventure,' repeated the detective sceptically. I see.'

And, moistening an index finger, he leafed through, then back through, a page or two of his notes.

'All of which, then,' he said, 'brings us neatly to the last, but by no means least intriguing, stage of the inquiry: the question, Billy, of anthropophagy, or, as it's more commonly called, cannibalism. So tell me, please, just what did happen to his face?'

Billy again shook his head, and harder this time.

'Och, that was just ridiculous. It was obvious straight away that Dooly did that. He must have been absolutely starvin. He hadn't been fed all day. Forensics or whoever found, you know, traces of his, em, saliva on the face, and they found his teeth marks as well. The police realised straight away what had happened and we were never even accused of cannibalism, except by the papers, that is. They had an absolute field day. It was the crime of the century as far as they were concerned.'

'But according to your version nothing actually happened and you're completely innocent of all charges?'

'Em, aye, I suppose. More or less, aye.'

'Okay, Billy. And Tony's on the road to stardom, I believe?'

Billy gave a derisory snort.

'Looks like it,' he said.

'You don't sound too impressed.'

'If you knew Tony.'

'How did it come about?'

'Well, eh, all of this, sort of, you know, generated quite a bit of interest in us, and some record company, probably lookin to make a bit of money on the back of it, offered him a deal.'

'I see. And what's the record?'

'It's a cover version of a song called Debaser, by the Pixies. I think it's out next week.'

'And what about you, Billy?'

'Ah, you know, I'm just tryin to put all this behind me. Find a new job and get on with my life, I suppose. Get everythin back to normal, eh?'

The detective nodded his solemn comprehension, and Billy began to relax a little, sensing that proceedings were finally drawing to a close. He even prepared himself in readiness to rise whenever the detective, closing his notebook and rising himself, delivered his parting line: 'Well, I think that covers everything, Billy. Thanks very much for your time.'

But the detective remained seated.

'Are you aware,' he said, 'that the teeth marks found on what remained of Mr Watson's face proved inconclusive?'

Billy was caught off guard. The question completely wrong-footed him.

'Em, no,' he said. 'I, eh... I thought that...'

'And are you also aware,' added the detective, 'of the claims made recently in the music press, by Tony himself, that he did in fact, and I quote, "chew the face off that all singing, all dancing fucking wee puppet cunt"?'

Billy breathed more easily.

'Oh, that,' he said. 'Aye, I saw that. But surely you don't...? That's all just for publicity. He's clearly been put up to that by his record company or whoever. Surely you're not re-openin the investigation on the strength of that?'

'Not re-opening the investigation, Billy. Simply trying to tie up a few loose ends.'

'But you don't really believe him, do you? I mean, do you think he'd be shoutin about it if he really had done it?'

'It's not my job to believe or disbelieve,' said the detective. 'It's my job to look at all the available evidence.'

And with that, he again moistened his index finger and flipped back a page or two in his book.

'Now,' he said, 'when was he let out again?'

Billy was perplexed.

'Who?' he asked. 'Tony?'

'The dog', replied the detective. 'Dooly, was it?'

'Em, I'm not really sure what you mean.'

'Well,' said the detective, 'I see here that, according to you, he, Dooly, was at some point "shut through the back". Is that correct?'

'Em, aye. I got Tony to put him there while I went to help Ryan.'

'Through the back where there are...'

He flipped back a few more pages.

'...two bedrooms and a bathroom, right?'

'Em, aye, that's right, aye.'

'So, when was he let out again?'

'Eh... I'm not really sure. I mean, I don't, em... Wait...'

Beetling his brow Billy once more cast his mind back, through the welter of intervening days, to the night, or morning, in question. He had fallen asleep on the chair and Dooly was still shut in through the back. But on waking some time later, had he been in the living room then? While it would forever, no doubt, be harder to forget than to remember just exactly how he had felt at that precise time, it was requiring considerably more of an effort to remember what he had noticed, or what he had not noticed, and, in particular, what would have certainly seemed at the time such an inconsequential detail. Nevertheless, by dint of concentration a picture soon began to emerge. He could see himself rising from the chair. And now he could see Tony, quite clearly, asleep on the couch. But he definitely could not see Dooly. He had stumbled round the chair and, averting his eyes from the thing beneath the window, had made for the door at the back of the room. And now he could see the door, see himself reaching for the handle even...and it was still closed! The door was still closed! Had he let Dooly out then? He had come back from the toilet and found him whining by the front door at the other end of the room, so he must have! But in that case there would have been no time for him to eat anything. So that must mean... No! No way! That must mean that Tony... Oh, Jesus! Oh, God!

Billy breathed deeply.

'Em,' he said meekly to the floor, 'I think Tony might have...'

He swallowed hard.

'...Tony might have...'

He raised his eyes, but only his eyes, to meet the penetrating stare of the detective.

'...I think Tony might have let him out again while I was still asleep.'

THE END
