Part 30 (1/2)
”Oh, all right, I guess I'll have to do it.”
”Hero,” comments Heidi, giving him a peck on the cheek.
”As long as Craig comes.”
”Wha.s.sat?” mumbles Craig, who's been deeply occupied with his Pratchett novel.
”Come on, Spalding,” says Heidi, cheekily kicking at one of his trainers. ”Remember, you're in a rock band? Yeah? About to play to, ooh ... fifty thousand people?”
”It's a b.l.o.o.d.y good book,” he sighs, sticking his bookmark in and mooching off with Martin.
”Uh, I'll go too,” adds Petra, following Heidi out, understandably not wis.h.i.+ng to breathe in the poisonous atmosphere remaining between the two drunk boys.
For a good while neither you nor Dan say a thing; you're too busy nursing your gla.s.s of Jack, and Dan his rum, while absentmindedly plucking at his acoustic ba.s.s. But suddenly Dan looks up, frowns, and speaks with a comically slow slur.
”Oh ... s.h.i.+t. I forgot ... to tell you. Per ... seph ... on ... ee ... she called. Earlier. On the phone.”
”Uh?”
”You know. Per ... seph-on-ee. Gloria's ... sister.”
”Who ... whose ph-phone?”
”Yours.”
You actually do own a mobile phone, a lumbering, bricklike device which doesn't fit into any of your pockets, so you tend not to carry it around. You haven't even looked at it since yesterday evening. You drag yourself up off the sofa and stagger to where you dumped your bag. The conversation proceeds with all the energy of two dying criminals at the end of a Tarantino film.
”D-did she ... s-say ... anyth-thing?”
”Yeah ... to call ... back.”
”Nothing ... else?”
”Er ... no.”
The sheer incongruity of the phone call is what shakes you from your stupor. The last time Persephone Amhurst communicated with you was through a solicitor, when you were curtly instructed not to even attempt making contact with Gloria again, or legal proceedings, restraining orders and all manner of other seriousness would ensue. To now be called directly, on your mobile phone, on the day of your biggest British gig in years, seems alarmingly peculiar to say the very least. You open your bag and extract the stout black gadget. You're sure there's a function somewhere for seeing who called last, but it's hard to locate even at the soberest of times.
”Thanks ... Dan ...” you splutter, heading out the door.
”Yeah,” he murmurs.
John the security chap still patiently waits where he's been all evening, now puffing on a cigarette in the rapidly fading light.
”Off out, Lance?”
”Yeah ... need to m-make a ... phone call.”
”Oooh, dear, you'd better take it easy on the old booze, hadn't you? Big show coming up and all ...”
”Don't w-worry about m-me,” you drawl. ”I was probably more p-p.i.s.sed than this the last t-time you saw us.”
”Hmm,” John thinks, as you begin to dial Persephone's number. ”That would've been Langley Park, ninety-three. I was working on the sound desk, as I recall-”
”Sorry, s'cuse me.”
You duck behind one of the tents while the phone rings. That's the trouble with being friendly to the staff: then they think they're your mate, and ...
”h.e.l.lo?”
”Persephone.”
”Ah. It's you.”
She's always referred to you as ”you,” even for the brief five minutes back in 1985 when you were both making a strained effort to like each other.
”Yes. How ... are you?”
”Look,” she snaps. ”I'm not going to pretend this is anything other than a message service ... Frankly, I've no interest in how you you are, so I can't believe you've any concern for my well-being. Had a telegram from Rosamund. She's had a car accident in Russia. She's recovering but she's lost the baby. She requested that the family tell you, so that's what I'm doing.” are, so I can't believe you've any concern for my well-being. Had a telegram from Rosamund. She's had a car accident in Russia. She's recovering but she's lost the baby. She requested that the family tell you, so that's what I'm doing.”
She hangs up without waiting for a response.
Which is just as well, really, for it's another ten minutes before you regain the ability to form a sentence, and this time it has nothing to do with the alcohol.
In the weeks and months that follow, you'll come to realise that all is not quite as it seems. With her usual blend of stupidity and arrogance, Persephone has managed to both under- and overestimate your relations.h.i.+p with Gloria, and the true details of her crash will eventually emerge. But for now, the multilayered news. .h.i.ts you so hard, it's like you've been kicked. Four times. In the b.a.l.l.s, the stomach, the heart and the head. By someone with very strong legs. Just, presumably, as the Amhurst family intended. They could equally have sent someone round to beat you up; but then, they'd hardly consider that a respectable respectable form of terror. You cling onto a guy rope in the darkness and reacquaint the contents of your stomach with the outside world: a deliberately violent action with all the follow-through you can muster. You feel such utter, desperate, rock-bottom loathing for yourself and your stupid, worthless little life that you strongly consider lying down and rolling around in the vomit, soaking your hair, soiling your pants and then impaling yourself with an industrial tent pole. There are only two factors which stop you from doing this. One is that there's now comparatively less alcohol inside you and, ironically, you've started to sober up a bit. The other thing is more complicated, but goes something like this: you created another human life, which brings with it certain responsibilities, none of which you've been able to fulfil. Now you believe that life is over, and you suppose the spirit of that life can probably witness your every action, so-put simply-what would it think if it could see you rolling around in your own vomit? Would it be proud of its father? Then you'd have failed it in death as well as life. Years later, you'll come to recognise this moment as the genesis of the paternal instinct that grew so profoundly over the next decade, but right now all it means is you keep your hair and clothes clean. You've also got a show to perform. Although absurd and perverse at this juncture, you suddenly feel a rush of enthusiasm. Yes. This is what I can do. I've f.u.c.ked up everything else, but I can at least play guitar and sing rather well. Remember that? form of terror. You cling onto a guy rope in the darkness and reacquaint the contents of your stomach with the outside world: a deliberately violent action with all the follow-through you can muster. You feel such utter, desperate, rock-bottom loathing for yourself and your stupid, worthless little life that you strongly consider lying down and rolling around in the vomit, soaking your hair, soiling your pants and then impaling yourself with an industrial tent pole. There are only two factors which stop you from doing this. One is that there's now comparatively less alcohol inside you and, ironically, you've started to sober up a bit. The other thing is more complicated, but goes something like this: you created another human life, which brings with it certain responsibilities, none of which you've been able to fulfil. Now you believe that life is over, and you suppose the spirit of that life can probably witness your every action, so-put simply-what would it think if it could see you rolling around in your own vomit? Would it be proud of its father? Then you'd have failed it in death as well as life. Years later, you'll come to recognise this moment as the genesis of the paternal instinct that grew so profoundly over the next decade, but right now all it means is you keep your hair and clothes clean. You've also got a show to perform. Although absurd and perverse at this juncture, you suddenly feel a rush of enthusiasm. Yes. This is what I can do. I've f.u.c.ked up everything else, but I can at least play guitar and sing rather well. Remember that?
You'll also look back in days to come and speculate that everything would've been okay from then on-had Dan not decided to lock the dressing room door.
”Dan, are you in there?”
More knocking.
”Dan! Have you locked this?”
”He closed it five minutes ago,” John the guard tells you. ”Didn't hear him lock it, but there you go, he must have.”
”Have you got another key?”
”No, I'm afraid they don't give us the keys. The organisers will have a spare, but I'm not sure where you'll find them right now.”
”Can't you radio them?” you shout, whacking the door with your fist.
”No, we're on different circuits. You see-”
”Oh, for f.u.c.k's sake. Dan! Dan, can you hear me?”
You hear a faint groaning.
”Aw, f.u.c.k it, he's b.l.o.o.d.y pa.s.sed out.”