Dead Girl Walking (7 page)

‘It would be like wanking to a Picasso,’ Scott said.

‘The media claim she wants to have her cake and eat it,’ said Damien, once again grabbing the reins. ‘They say she’s partly selling her music on her image, while at the same time condemning sexism in the media. It’s impossible to describe just how much they don’t get it. And it’s not about an image: it’s about who and what Heike is. There’s a million beautiful women out there, a million singers, a million songwriters. It’s about the whole package. It’s that unquantifiable but unmistakable thing: star quality. Whatever it is, we all know Heike’s got it. She’s touched by magic, and everybody wants some of the stardust to sprinkle on them.’

When the last of his interviews was over, Mairi was waiting for him in the reception area, sipping a coffee she must have bought from the greasy spoon he’d passed on the way in.

‘Well?’ she asked expectantly. ‘Did you find out anything?’

‘Yeah. That they’re all lying.’

‘What?’

‘By omission, at least. I’ve been speaking to them for two hours, and in all that time, nobody told me one thing that wasn’t already in the public domain. On a certain level it’s pretty impressive. It takes a degree of concentration to filter out anything, even an innocuous detail, that might have come from your own memory rather than reportage.’

‘Like I said, what happens on tour … So what’s next?’

‘I’m not sure yet. I should talk to the road crew: they might be a little less guarded.’

Mairi looked confused.

‘But what about the band? Is there not more you can find out from them?’

‘Your ground rules make it kind of tricky. I could press harder if they knew Heike was missing, but you don’t want that. I’ll have to come back to them when I’ve got more information from elsewhere. Right now I’ve got no leverage.’

Confusion was giving way to undisguised disappointment. Parlabane didn’t know what she was expecting, but he hadn’t delivered it.

‘No leverage? Don’t you have other means of finding out what they might know?’

‘Like what?’ he asked, adding an admonitory sternness to his tone.

‘I thought you were the kind of guy who would stop at nothing to get to the story.’

‘For one thing, I’m not allowed to
tell
the story, so maybe that’s taking my edge off. But that aside, these days I stop at the stuff that’s liable to get me the jail.’

‘I just thought…’

Mairi sighed.

This was when he realised why she hired him.

‘You just thought what? That I could maybe hack their phones or pull some black-arts shit you heard about during the Coulson and Brooks trial?’

‘But you said it yourself: it wouldn’t be for publication, and there’s someone missing who I’m worried about. Wouldn’t the end justify the means?’

Parlabane laughed. He couldn’t help himself. He thought about the blueprints, the modifications Sarah had been so determined to make. She had been the driving force in getting him to clean up his act, to cut out the practices that were going to see him ‘end up dead or in prison again’, as she often put it. And he had done so, more or less. That was the biggest irony about how he had been hung out to dry by some of his former employers: he had long since stopped doing most of the things he was being scapegoated for.

He wasn’t the same man any more, but whoever he’d become, it seemed Sarah didn’t think much of that bloke either. Or maybe it was just that
he
didn’t think much of that bloke. He couldn’t blame Sarah for not loving someone who didn’t much like himself.

Now it appeared the only gig he could get was working for somebody who thought they had hired the old Parlabane. Unfortunately, he wasn’t coming back. He had tried being his former self again: that was how he’d ended up with Pine and Mitchell up his arse.

‘Have you heard of the Westercruik Inquiry?’ he asked her, realising he’d probably been mistaken in his assumption the other day that she must have done.

‘Vaguely. Remind me.’

‘It’s looking into the Anthony Mead scandal. The MoD leaks. The “intelligence services conspiracy” story that turned out to be the biggest riddie for a UK newspaper since the Hitler diaries.’

‘Oh, yeah. Something about a stolen laptop that was actually bait to find the source of the leaks. I realise it must have turned up the heat on journalists, but this isn’t state secrets I’m asking you to—’

‘I’m Alec Forman,’ he interrupted. ‘I was the one who hacked the laptop. I’ve got the Met all over me trying to find out how it came to be in my possession. So not only am I a busted flush, but even if I’m a very good boy I’m going to be doing very well to stay out of the clink.’

‘Alec Forman? I thought your pseudonym was John Lapsley.’

‘Needed a new one. It’s an anagram of
roman à clef
. John Lapsley’s gone. I’m sorry, Mairi. I’m not the guy who found out the truth about Donald, any more than I’m the guy who used to come round your parents’ house when I was seventeen.’

Mairi said nothing for a few moments, then emitted a small tut.

‘Pity,’ she said. ‘I quite liked both of those. I’ll take what I can get, though.’

‘I know the feeling.’

The period after the soundcheck felt like an eternity of waiting. I knew I would have to learn to occupy myself, somehow make use of the time, as it was going to happen every night we performed. Practice would be one option, but I didn’t feel like even touching my violin until I was ready to take the stage.

We dined together; or rather we sat down to food together. I barely ate anything for fear of not keeping it down.

I felt very alone in the dressing room. I sat at one end of the mirrored wall, conscious of not being entitled to join any particular conversation.

Heike was sitting on her own too, thumbing through a book, though not really reading it. She kept looking at the clock.

I had spoken to her, but only when she asked if I was okay and I answered yes. She seemed distant yet focused; just not focused on the here and now.

Nobody was saying much, in fact. Rory was silently nodding his head to whatever was playing in his headphones. Damien was normally the one geeing everybody up, but even he was quiet.

Scott came back in for the third or fourth time. I wondered whether he had a nervous bladder, as it was a worry of mine to find myself mid-performance and in dire need. Heike looked at him harshly.

‘Just a fag, I swear,’ he replied with a chuckle, as though amused by whatever was in this unspoken accusation. She gave him a sour look, but I couldn’t suss why.

Every time he opened the door I could hear the support band on stage. I felt I ought to go and watch them, as a distraction or maybe out of politeness and for the sake of future relations, but I didn’t want to catch a glimpse of the hall yet, either from the stage or the floor. I knew it would make me worse, and quite possibly make me puke.

That was when I realised everybody else was just as on edge as me.

Nobody was on solid ground here. This was a bigger venue than they had ever played, and was not even the biggest on the UK schedule. This tour was a major step for the band. It was nights like this that would make people fans for life, or go home thinking, Yeah
The Venal Tribe
is a decent album, but they’re shite live.

I was suddenly all the more conscious of what the others had already put into this, while I had been dropped in at the last minute. Sure, I had played on every track on the new album, but nobody was coming tonight because of that. It made it all the more crucial that I did nothing to jeopardise their success. I had to play well, and I had to look like I belonged. I knew I was capable of the first. Right then the second felt more of a stretch.

Finally, after that endless wait in the dressing room, we got our cue, almost running on to the stage, where suddenly time accelerated.

I have literally no memory of the first three, maybe four numbers. Nothing. It’s like someone wiped the tape, seriously. First thing I recall from the set was realising that my eyes were closed. I mean, yes, sometimes I do play with my eyes closed, but it seemed I had them shut tight for most of those opening songs. I only became aware of this during ‘Zoo Child’, when I sensed someone shoot past me and blinked them open in surprise. It was like I had been practising alone and then suddenly found myself transported on to that stage in front of a packed hall.

It was Scott who had almost bumped into me. He gave me a funny grin of acknowledgement, opening his eyes comically wide to make the point. I guessed then that it was actually me who had almost bumped into Scott, so I must have been moving around more than I realised.

With my eyes open, I stayed relatively still for the next few songs, hiding from the spotlights by keeping closer to the wings stage right. But then it was time for ‘Dark Station’, when there was no hiding place. It was just me and Heike on stage, fiddle and acoustic guitar, a stripped-back sound for a haunting, desolate song, rallying at the end with a defiant cry of hope.

During the intro, without the thunder of drums at my back and with nothing else coming through the monitors in front, I could hear not just the murmur of the crowd, but could make out individual voices. Then when Heike opened her mouth, her lips almost kissing the microphone, I could hear hundreds of other voices sing along. She let them take a final repeat of the chorus, dropping out her guitar so that I was the only accompaniment to the crowd. It was literally spine-tingling: I felt like there was static thrilling through me; that if anyone touched me we would both be electrocuted.

I was supposed to segue into ‘A Square of Captured Light’, but completely forgot. I think it was for the best: Heike looked quite shaken to hear her words sung back to her by so many people, and she needed the moment that was given her by the cheers and applause. There were tears in her eyes, though only I was close enough to see them.

Something passed between us right then: an understanding, a responsibility, a trust. I might have seen something I wasn’t supposed to, but she expected me to keep it to myself.

The applause began to die, and I launched us into the more upbeat ‘Smuggler’s Soul’. That’s when things really got strange.

As per the album version, it starts with guitar and violin beneath Heike’s vocal on the first verse, while the rest of the band quietly file back into position, exploding as one into the chorus.

We were five on stage again, but it was like Heike and I were still a separate unit in the midst of the others. I stayed next to her centre stage, and as the song built towards its long outro, we started dancing around each other.

Most of the time, I sit down to play, as that’s how I’ll be throughout an orchestral performance. Sometimes when I’m playing alone I’ll stand, but it’s like I’m in the naughty corner. I retreat inside myself, and anyway there’s never much space on the stages I’m used to.

But on that night I found myself birling about like I was possessed. The others gave us space as Heike and I spun around each other, approaching and retreating, then dancing back-to-back while below us the audience were screaming in approval.

Suddenly we flew apart on the first beat of a new bar, Heike skipping to the front and thrashing away at her strings before a swell of bodies rushing to be near her.

I found myself heading in the opposite direction, towards the back, and I leaped onto the drum riser, facing Rory. It was a surge of energy, I guess.

He looked astonished, then reacted with aggression on the drums, as if I had invaded his turf and he was trying to drive me out. I came back at him, looking him in the eye as I worked the bow furiously. It was like we were in combat, feeding off each other’s energy and fuelling an ever rising level of performance.

He went to the floor tom to start a roll, swinging around as if he was about to throw the thing, then whiplashed back for a cymbal crash. His taut muscle drove wood against the brass like it was meant to kill, and sweat flew from his arms. It sprayed against my face, and instead of grossing me out, well … I’m embarrassed to write it even for myself.

We locked into each other’s stares again and I felt this surge of aggression that shocked me. I don’t know where it came from and I don’t even know if I wanted him sexually or I wanted to hurt him. What’s for certain is that if someone had teleported us away somewhere in that moment, I’d have launched myself at him, tearing clothes, scratching, biting, like an animal, primal.

I have never felt so alive, and I’ve never felt so afraid. It was one of the most disturbing and exhilarating experiences I have ever had: to be frightened of myself.

Just as suddenly as it began, the show was over. I remember the journey back to the dressing room as though it was a tunnel with a moving walkway. I was aware of voices, laughter, arms around shoulders. I had never felt so close to a group of people, so much a part of something amazing, and yet another side of me wanted to be alone, given space to deal with my emotions.

I think I must have been standing there looking a little dazed, because Damien was so soft-spoken and delicate with me. He gave me a bottle of beer and said nothing for a while as we both drank. Saying nothing seemed like the best way of expressing what we had just experienced.

Then finally he spoke.

‘You felt it, didn’t you?’ he asked. He didn’t wait for my reply. ‘That’s why we do this. That’s why we put in the hours we do and why we put up with all each other’s shite. Because only together can we make
that
happen. Hold on to the feeling, because it’s the thought of having it again that’s going to pull you through when the going gets rough. And believe me, you’ve no idea how rough it can get.’

Heike stopped talking to Scott and came over and hugged me. She was drenched in sweat, which was when I realised I was too. Heike’s sweat smelled fresh, like she had been out running. There were other smells in there too: body spray and shampoo. I breathed them in and didn’t want her to let go.

When she did she told me: ‘You were amazing.’

I wanted to say ‘you were too’ but was tongue-tied.