Dead Girl Walking (13 page)

The image showed me balanced on one knee, thrusting my bow like it was a sword, my chin held high and my khepresh level, like I was drawn in profile on the inside of a pyramid. Heike stood above me with her head thrown back, her spine bent in a graceful arc and her microphone stand held almost perpendicular to the ground behind her. She looked like she had just been mortally wounded by me or that she was ready to unleash a killer blow.

I had to admit she was right. We both looked pretty amazing. I mean, I didn’t look anything like me, but maybe that’s why I looked so good.

As Heike purred over the picture, I spotted an email printout among Steff’s gear, on top of a press release about the forthcoming album. It was his brief from someone at the magazine, and it was headed, alongside the date and appointed start time, ‘British Museum: Savage Earth Heart’s warrior women.’

The email was from yesterday, before Heike’s interview, so the concept for the shoot could not have come out of her talk with the journalist. It was confirmation, if I still needed any, that it had always been Heike’s plan that we be photographed together. I guessed her earlier quiet chat with Steff was her telling him that she would have to reel me in gently.

I had been played, manipulated, yet all I could feel was a silent, secret gratitude. She had brought out something in me I didn’t know was there, shown me a version of myself I could never have imagined.

She
had known it was there, though. She had seen it clearly, and was now delighted to see it revealed in high definition.

There are certain undignified and downright embarrassing items that, when people are younger, they never for a moment envisage they will one day have in their possession: items such as pile ointment, nose-hair trimmers and, in Parlabane’s case, an all-access pass for a Prelude to the Slaughter gig at Manchester Apollo. A couple of days ago, he’d have imagined himself buying tickets for a Lostprophets reunion concert before he contemplated going anywhere near a venue hosting this shower, but as fate would have it, several of the Bad Candy crew who had worked the Savage Earth Heart tour were now on the road with this Cornish death-metal atrocity.

Mairi had sorted him out with a pass so that he could get close to the crew, but his cover for being there was that he was interviewing the band, something Mairi had also cleared with their press office. She had initially suggested he pretend he was writing a piece about what it was like to be a roadie, but Parlabane explained to her that this would merely make them more guarded about the image of themselves they wished to put across. In his experience, people on the fringes of something were more likely to let a few candid details slip if they believed he was interested in someone else.

Naturally, this conversation had taken place before he learned which band the crew were now out with.

Parlabane watched them assemble the centrepiece of Prelude to the Slaughter’s stage set: a twelve-foot plastic statue of a vertically thrusting guitar neck with two large-breasted naked women wrapped around it like pole-dancers. It was staggering to believe these same personnel had been setting up for Heike Gunn to sing ‘Dark Station’ a couple of weeks back. He wondered which suited their personal aesthetic more.

The tour manager was a Dutchman called Jan Rademaker, but Parlabane hadn’t encountered him yet. Who he had gotten a truckload of, however, was Dean Irons, a pot-bellied and foghorn-voiced uber-roadie who looked like he had been given his first Marshall amp to lug around as a toddler, instead of a pull-along doggy. Parlabane’s first impression upon meeting him had been ‘helmet’, but he reined in his instincts and reserved judgement until he had heard what the guy had to say, whereupon he revised his verdict to ‘utter helmet’.

Also among the crew was Angus Campbell, Savage Earth Heart’s guitar roadie. Parlabane had expressed his surprise that he should be squeezing in a twelve-date UK tour with another band before heading out to the US, but Mairi said he needed the money.

‘Isn’t Savage Earth Heart a full-time gig?’ he had asked.

‘It is these days,’ Mairi replied. ‘But Bad Candy tours had been his bread and butter up until recently. He’s still on their roster, and I guess if there’s paid work going he’d rather be earning than taking a break. That’s Angus for you.’

‘Workaholic?’

‘No,’ she had laughed. ‘He’s a natural-born waster who can’t hold on to money.’

Spammy had fondly mentioned Angus always having good gear on him, and from one look at the guy he could picture the two of them getting on. They were definitely from the same tribe, though Spammy had always been good with his cash, as well as deceptively diligent about the things that engaged him. Angus, it seemed, was industrious too, albeit out of self-created necessity.

He had first shuffled into view wheeling a huge flight case, his face obscured by the straggly brown hair that hung down over it as he bent his shoulder to the task.

‘Here he comes,’ announced Dean with a cackle. ‘Fresh from getting his balls back.’

Insufferable as he found him, Parlabane nonetheless had to pretend to be amused by Dean in order to keep him talking, in the hope that the sludgy river of sexist indiscretion and UKIP-level prejudice would give up a nugget of gold.

‘How so?’ Parlabane asked.

‘Been out with Savage Earth Heart around Europe, ain’t we? Angus here is their guitar tech. Has to be on his best behaviour for Queen Heike.’

Angus responded with a bashful if indulgent grin, the kind that knew he had to take his lumps or it would only be revisited all the more.

‘Is she a bit of a ball-breaker, then?’

Dean suddenly put on a butter-wouldn’t-melt expression.

‘I won’t hear a word said against her,’ he replied with exaggerated sincerity, inviting laughter from his colleagues.

Angus, Parlabane noted, did not join in.

‘Bit of a buttoned-down kind of tour, was it?’

Dean gave him a sly but nonetheless self-congratulatory look.

‘There’s always good times to be had, if you know where to look: specially on the Continent. Just gotta be discreet,’ he added, tapping his nose.

Parlabane mimicked the gesture, then amended it to running a finger beneath his nostrils.

Dean grinned approvingly, responding in kind then altering his own gesture to a horizontally thrusting middle finger.

‘All manner of fun,’ Dean said.

‘Just among the road dogs, or did the band party a bit too?’

Dean gave a dirty laugh.

‘Ooh, when I think of the self-righteous image she likes to give them. Gotta love her for it. She likes to keep everybody on a tight rein, and she’s perfectly happy as long as she thinks it’s so. Fucking amazing what she doesn’t realise is going on right under her nose.’

‘Like what?’

It proved an inopportune moment for Jan Rademaker to show up, striding from the wings clutching an iPad and making haste towards where Parlabane was standing.

‘You must be Jack Parlabane,’ he said loudly, offering his hand to shake. ‘Mairi Lafferty told me you wanted to talk about the Savage Earth Heart tour.’

This had the immediate effect of shutting Dean up, the roadie giving Parlabane a slightly suspicious look before wandering off to help a colleague heft a monitor. Given the swiftness with which Dean abandoned the conversation and busied himself elsewhere, Parlabane couldn’t help but wonder whether this had been Jan’s intention. Did he really need to mention Mairi’s name?

‘Let’s go someplace a little more private, where we can talk,’ he suggested, a slight raise of his brow communicating that he knew what they had to talk about was best not shared.

He led Parlabane to the dressing rooms, where Prelude to the Slaughter’s various leather garments were laid out in waiting for the band’s later arrival.

Maybe it was the traces of Dutch in his otherwise Americanised accent, but to Parlabane the guy seemed more porn business than music business. There was something slinky about him, but that wasn’t necessarily a criticism, particularly in this game. Some people were good at their jobs because their very oiliness was what prevented those around them grating against one another.

‘Mairi told me you’re looking for Heike,’ Jan said, grabbing a bottle of water from a crate on the floor and sitting on the dressing table that ran the length of a mirrored wall on one side. ‘So I take it she still hasn’t been in touch.’

‘Unfortunately not. You were the last person to speak to her, is that right?’ Parlabane asked, deliberately getting it wrong.

‘Yeah,’ Jan replied, then seemed to give himself a shake. ‘No. I mean, I just
told
everybody I spoke to her, so that I could keep the situation quiet. As far as I know, Monica was the last person to
actually
speak to her.’

‘Why did you lie? I mean, how could you have known she wouldn’t walk in the door of the venue two minutes after you just told everybody she’d flown home sick?’

Parlabane expected him to bridle at the implied accusation, but he seemed phlegmatic.

‘It was a judgement call,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Part of the job. I’m paid to be the one who ends up looking like a lying asshole now and again. Something wasn’t right, though, I could tell. I mean, its rock ’n’ roll, people don’t always keep to their schedules, but Heike would never miss a soundcheck, and if she did, she’d call to let me know what was up, you know?’

‘Was there anything else that maybe tipped your judgement? I mean, were you concerned about Heike’s state of mind?’

‘I’m always concerned about Heike’s state of mind. I don’t mean I’m always worried about it, but I’m monitoring it. People think the job of tour manager is all about arguing with venue staff and making sure everybody gets paid, but above all else it’s to keep the show on the road. When it comes to a band like Savage Earth Heart, Heike’s state of mind is priority number one. No show without Punch, as you say here in England.’

‘And did you have any specific concerns in the run-up to Berlin?’

‘Of course. You know about the photos, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That made things pretty tense for a while. I thought we had ridden the bump, though. But then Heike was a little off-form in Hamburg, and I just thought she was running out of steam. It happens.’

‘Was there anything else that caused tensions on the tour?’

‘Not that I can think of. I try very hard not to let molehills become mountains, so maybe I’m guilty of playing things down sometimes – it’s how I roll when I’m having to deal with a lot of conflicting egos – but Savage Earth Heart are an easy ride compared to some.’

‘I’ve not heard many people say dealing with Heike is an easy ride.’

Jan rolled his eyes, as though caught between discretion and a need for honesty under these circumstances.

‘There’s only one of her, though,’ he said.

‘I heard there was an incident on the tour bus, something about her falling out with some merchandising girls?’

Jan looked blank for a moment, then shook his head and gave a wry chuckle.

‘Just a misunderstanding. I don’t really remember the details: you know, the he said, she said. Or she said, she said, in this case. It was nothing, though.’

‘Okay,’ Parlabane replied, choosing not to probe further.

Damien had told him what happened, so he knew Jan had been at the heart of an incident that held up their bus for over an hour and had involved the police.

Sometimes the most valuable thing you’re going to learn from someone is merely the fact that they’re lying to you, and it’s all the more valuable if they think you’re buying it.

‘I can’t believe what you just got me to do,’ I told Heike.

We were sitting in a café off Seven Dials, having walked down from Bloomsbury. Steff had volunteered one of his assistants to transport our instruments to Brixton in a cab, as Heike had wanted to take a walk around the shops, but we needed fuel first.

‘I believe there are a lot more ways you could surprise yourself, Monica.’

‘I was always going to be in the shoot, though, wasn’t I?’ I asked, eyeing her over my gingerbread latte. ‘That was your plan.’

I thought she would maybe smile and acknowledge ‘you got me’, but instead she looked serious, challenging, even.

‘If I had just wanted a fiddle player, there’s a lot of good ones out there. After I binned Maxi, I saw quite a few, and at the time, I’ll admit, I was only looking for somebody to fill a gap and play his parts live. I considered a change of sound for the third album, maybe no violin at all. But when I saw you play – and I mean saw, not just heard – I saw someone who could bring a lot more to the band than Maxi ever did. That’s why I asked you to join.’

‘You didn’t ask me if I wanted to be part of a photoshoot for
Tatler
, though,’ I said, trying to make it sound easy-going.

‘I knew you’d be intimidated by the prospect, so I saved you the prospect bit. I also knew you’d come alive in front of the camera. And I was right on both counts, wasn’t I?’

‘Yeah,’ I admitted. ‘I’d have been terrified. I’m too much of a wee mouse to go flaunting myself like that. The costume helped, and the make-up. It’s easier when you’re playing a part, not being yourself.’

‘I think you’re actually playing a part when you think you’re being yourself,’ Heike said. ‘The wee mouse is the part you’ve always thought was appropriate to play for the people you’ve been around growing up. It’s what was expected of you, but that doesn’t mean it’s what’s inside. I think the real you is ready to emerge.’

After coffee, Heike took me down to Long Acre, literally leading me by the arm.

‘When I first moved to Glasgow, ‘she said ‘I used to spend hours wandering around the shops: Buchanan Galleries, Princes Square, Fraser’s and the like. Just looking at stuff, with no means or intention to buy. “Glimmering”, I used to call it, but not any more.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because these days I have the means
and
the intention to buy. Come on.’

We traipsed in and out of shops, dallying in some for Heike to try things on, while in other places she’d turn on her heel only a couple of seconds after entering. It was like she was shopping by instinct, and knew straight away when she was on barren ground.