Death of a Rock Star: A Boy in the Band Novella (7 page)

“Don’t you ‘Mother’ me!” She hisses. “Care to explain what’s going on here Blake?”

“I’d have thought that was obvious. What’s been going on for the past two weeks – partying, and lots of it. You know, booze, drugs, fucking… everywhere.” I raise my eyebrows at her. “Dad okayed it.”

My Father’s expression is like thunder, but as Stepwitch turns on him he visibly shrinks under her icy wrath.

“You knew about this Charles? You told me he was coming up for the funeral; that was all.”

My father’s mouth is opening and closing, like he’s struggling for air rather than an excuse, or someone else to blame. He’s an errant schoolboy facing the headmistress. I feel a bit like a shit for dropping him in it with her. But she needs to know she’s not the fucking Queen around here.

“I agree to cut short our trip,” she seethes at my father, “and I arrive here to find that you’ve been letting him use our family home, as a drugs den and a brothel – for
how
long? Two weeks? And you’re okay with this?”

My father finally finds his voice.

“No, I’m not okay with this. I told him to treat this house with respect while he was here.”

“You told me not to trash the place, which I haven’t.” I retort.

My father shrinks a little more at the sound of Stepwitch’s displeased huff, but she rounds on me instead.

“I don’t care what he did or didn’t tell you.” She spits at me. “You abused your father’s trust. I want you out of here. Now!”

“It’s not your place to tell me to leave. This isn’t your house.”

“Oh, I beg to differ.” She sneers.

“Tell her.” I plead with my father.

He struggles to meet my eye.

“You’d better leave Blake.” He says quietly, examining the stairs carpet a little too intently.

“Fine! That’s just fucking fine by me. I’ll get my things.”

“And don’t come back!” The Witch calls after me as I disappear into my room.

I turn to slam the door behind me, but Carys is in the doorway. She steps towards me, her face a picture of concern.

“You need somewhere to stay tonight?”

“I guess I do.” I say heavily.

The light that sparks in Carys’ eyes concerns me. She’s a nice girl. I don’t want to hurt her.

“But I’ll crash at Darcey’s. Thanks for the offer though.” I add.

Carys nods and then steps into me. She wraps her arms around me tenderly, and I let her. She strokes my back gently, and it’s such a simple, platonic gesture my heart aches a little. Why can’t I let myself be loved by a girl like this? I’m so fucked up. For one brief moment, I let myself have this, the feeling of being cared for and not desired.

“Your timing is impeccable as always Blake.” Darcey says wryly. Not at all self-conscious that she’s answered the door in just a pair of boxer shorts and nothing else.

I try to keep my eyes averted from her tits, but it’s impossible.

“Nice view.” I comment, cocking an eyebrow at her pierced nipples.

“Oh please! Save it for someone who gives a fuck about your bad boy good looks.”

I laugh, shaking my head. I fucking love this girl. She always knows how to cut me right down to size.

“So… you finally got busted?” She asks, taking in my belongings sitting on the doorstep and the Alexander McQueen suit cover slung over my shoulder.

I shrug at her.

“Wondered how long it would take… I suppose you’d better come in then.”

She stomps back upstairs to finish off whatever girl she has waiting there for her.

“Make yourself at home.” She calls down to me. “I could be a while.”

It’s the funeral tomorrow.

I’ve spent the last two weeks, trying not to think about it. Every time I do I can’t breathe. I’ve thrown myself into work and into Chris Kavanagh, who has been more than accommodating. I’m getting my fill of him now because he’s heading off on tour in just over a months’ time. He wanted me stay with him tonight, but it didn’t feel right. After I’m done here, I’m heading home.

I’m hovering on the doorstep of Jamie’s house. I got a message from his Mum, asking me to collect a box of vinyls from his place that she thought I might want. For all the happy times I’ve spent here, there have been as many dark ones, and this has to be one of the worst. I feel uncomfortable being back here, knowing that this is where he died – all alone.

I don’t believe in ghosts, but I know that places can have an atmosphere – that lives lived within, and even deaths, get written and bound into the walls. I feel on edge from the moment I step through the door. If I let myself be ridiculous, I could almost believe that I’m not alone. It’s like the weight of an uncomfortable stare as I move through the empty house. Val has left the box for me on the kitchen island. At least it’ll be a quick in and out job.

As I open up the box, just to have a quick peek, my heart skitters. I’d told myself that I wasn’t going to cry, but I suddenly find myself fighting traitorous tears back. The seven inch that I bought for Jamie when we were in Amsterdam for Valentine’s Day is lying face up on the top of the stack.

It’s a rare edition of Lou Reed’s
Walk on the Wild Side
with
Perfect Day
as the B-side. The sleeve is far from mint, but the vinyl inside is surprisingly pristine. This record is so symbolic of mine and Jamie’s whole relationship. I remember joking that it must have been made for us. It sounds like such a cliché but being with him
was
a walk on the wild side, quite literally. He was a true rock star. But amongst all the hedonistic craziness there were many of those ‘perfect days’, ones that sit deep in my soul. The first time we listened to this record together was one of our best.

I open the sleeve, needing to spark that memory back to life, but the vinyl is gone. An emptiness that verges on panic grips me. Could it have been dumped by mistake? That thought is like another blow to my heart. I rifle through the box checking in the other sleeves, hoping it’s got mixed up. But despite Jamie’s haphazard lifestyle, he was particularly anal about his music. He’d never not put a record back in its sleeve, unless… he’d been playing it.

Something about this – the possibility that he’d actually been playing this particular record, around the time he died – is so much worse than the thought of it simply being lost. Part of me doesn’t want to know. It’s telling me leave this box, and all the memories it contains, to walk out the door and to never look back. But something stronger is pulling at me as I climb the stairs, as I open Jamie’s bedroom door.

My heart is racing and I’m finding it hard to breathe evenly as I crack the door open wider. I haven’t been in this room since…

Jamie’s parents mustn’t have been able to face it either. It appears untouched. The bed is stripped down, but that’s all that gives away what happened in here. The bedside table, clear of drug paraphernalia, is the only other clue that he isn’t going to bluster in here at any moment.

The dust cover is off his vintage turntable. Of course, he had a state of the art sound system – obligatory for every successful rock star – wired into every room of the house, but Jamie was actually a man of much simpler tastes. This old-school record player that he found in a house clearance sale, in Greenwich, gave him far more pleasure than all his newer shinier boy toys put together.

I remember so many lost hours and days whiled away in this room, me educating him on the virtues of vinyl, listening to his growing record collection, talking, fucking, Jamie writing songs, fooling around, kissing.

As I was dreading, Lou Reed is indeed on the turntable, the B-side face up. The needle is still down; the tone arm stopped half way through the track. So fucking symbolic it hurts.

I lift the arm and place it back. The vinyl is still so pristine, so cared for. It’s then that I notice something just visible in the space between the turntable’s feet, like it got pushed under there and forgotten. A piece of folded yellow paper. My heart thrums. I know it must be something written by Jamie, a scrap of a song perhaps – he always composed his lyrics in legal notepads.

I tease the paper out and recoil a little when I see my name written on it in. Even when he was fucked up he still wrote so beautifully. My heart hurts. My world stops as I unfold it.

It
is
a set of lyrics, addressed to me in Jamie’s unmistakable handwriting. I sit down on the bed to read them, and if it’s at all possible, the pain in my heart multiplies a thousandfold.

I’m dreading the funeral. The pit of my stomach feels knotted with anxiety. After putting off the inevitable for as long as possible, I eventually cave into Darcey’s nagging to get my arse into gear and get ready.

“You look like shit!” She scolds as she gives me the once-over when I’m finally suited and booted.

“Thanks.” I reply dryly.

I straighten my tie and examine my face in the mirror. I do look like shit. I guess not sleeping on top of two weeks of relentless drinking have taken their toll. I have pale greenish pallor that matches the colour of my eyes. With the dark circles etched under them, I think I look like a ghost.

I’m not one of those guys who spends hours in the mirror sculpting his hair just so. I run a hand through it to try to tame the scruffy black mess, but with little success. I really can’t be arsed. I’ve had a shave. That’s more than enough grooming for one day.

In our funeral attire Darcey and I make an odd looking couple. I look like a fucking rogue banker, who hasn’t slept for weeks and Darcey, well she looks like Darcey. Unapologetic and unflinching in her punkiness. With her heavy war paint, slashed tights and huge boots she looks like she’s fixing for a fight. Which I suppose she is – with her emotions.

Darcey doesn’t meet my eye as she hands me a bottle of Jack. She looks about as haunted as I feel.

“One for the road?” She’s jittery, and the anxiety is radiating off her. It seems that the unshakable Darcey Walters is nervous too.

I force a smile before taking a couple of huge swigs. The welcome burn does little to settle the strange tilt and sway of this day.

Maybe for most addicts alcohol is a trigger, that first slippery step on the road to relapse, but alcohol has never been my undoing. Getting wasted and getting high have always been such different beasts for me. I’ve never really seen them as being symptomatic of each other. Maybe I’m in denial, but since Jamie’s death I’ve managed to stay on the straight and narrow as far as the harder stuff is concerned. The bag of gear from Viper is still untouched. I haven’t even had a little dabble, which is pretty fucking impressive considering the circumstances. My liver has taken a battering, and I’ve sneaked the odd bit weed here and there, but that’s it.