Goodnight Steve McQueen (29 page)

“How much is it?”

“Five pounds fifty.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a cricket kit.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, look. It’s got a ball and stumps and a little plastic bat and we could go and have a bit of a knockabout, couldn’t we? After lunch.”

“OK then. You’re on. You buy the cricket kit, Danny can go pay for the petrol, and I’ll get me map out and find us somewhere good to stop for grub.”

Vince rubs his stomach, lights a cigarette and stifles a small belch. All three of us are full to the brim with pub lunch. We can barely move. Vince found this great little place just outside learning ton Spa that does real ale and real cider and giant Yorkshire puddings filled to the top with tinned chicken curry. They were excellent. And not at all stodgy. And there’s

quite a trick to eating them right. For a start, you have to make sure you eat a substantial portion of the tinned chicken curry before you think about tackling the sides of your giant Yorkshire pudding. It’s a very tricky business. If you’re not careful and you make the mistake of eating the sides too soon the curry has a tendency to leak out over the top. It’s a bit like breaching a dam. Only with curry. Instead of water. As Matty found out.

“Shit. My pudding’s burst.”

“That’s because you ate the sides first.”

“But my curry’s gone all over the table.”

“So I see.”

“Can I have some of yours, Danny?”

“No you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m enjoying it.”

“Vince, why didn’t you tell me not to eat the sides first?”

“Like I said, Matty. You have to learn these kind of things for yourself.”

“Can we go and play cricket now, then?” he says miserably.

“Come on then,” says Vince. “I don’t see why not.”

We set up our kiddies’ cricket set in the fields opposite the pub and spend a couple of quality hours pretending that we’re playing for the world cup at Lords. It’s a very close match. Matty is Zimbabwe, I’m Pakistan and Vince is the West Indies.

“Why do I have to be Zimbabwe?”

“Because you do.”

“But they’re rubbish. Why can’t I be England or Australia?”

“Because we said.”

“Why can’t I be something cool like Sri Lanka or something?”

“I told you. The barman from the Moby Dick already bagsied it.”

“Well, can I have a go at batting yet? I’ve been fielding for ages.”

“In a minute, Matty. In a minute.”

It’s a top afternoon and I manage to score three hundred and fifty runs before the barman from the Moby Dick finally bowls me out LEW. It definitely wasn’t LBW, though. That was definitely a deeply suspect call on Matty’s part. If I didn’t know better I’d say he only declared me out so that he could have a quick go at batting.

The West Indies win the cup. Vince is 3 84 not out. He scores sixteen sixes in a row. He belts up and down the length of our makeshift pitch like a pissed hare on roller-skates and he knocks our plastic crimson-coloured ball halfway to Saffron Walden and back.

Gary Sobers, eat your heart out.

“How you feeling, Matty?” I say, examining the grass stains on my jeans and tucking into the remains of a cheese-and-pickle sandwich in the back of the van.

“Knackered. I’m totally knackered.”

“Sorry you didn’t get to bowl, Matty.”

“Or bat,” he says emphatically. “I didn’t get to bat either.”

“Yeah, well, never mind that now,” says Vince. “I’ve got an idea. How’s about we have a quick kip before we carry on down to Cambridge. Forty winks. Sleep off some of the beer. Get ourselves psyched up for tonight’s gig. What do you say?”

“Nice one… mega… very good idea.”

“Right then,” says Vince, parking up outside the Corn Exchange and switching off the engine. “Who wants to bet me that we don’t get to sound-check tonight either?”

“I do,” says Matty, putting up his hand.

“You bet that we do get one?”

“Er… yea hr

“Right then. Ten quid says you’re wrong.”

We spend Matty’s tenner on a bottle of vodka and a carton of cranberry juice and neck the lot in the dressing room right after we come off-stage. We weren’t bad tonight. Much better than yesterday. An afternoon of top-quality bonding has really helped with my concentration onstage. I was good. I played really well. The sound man still isn’t doing us any favours and Vince is still having a bit of trouble pitching his voice over all the feedback but I could tell that some of the crowd were really getting into it. A few of them even clapped. A couple of them were almost moshing.

“So, what do you think we should do now?” says Matty, rubbing his hands together.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, should we go and see Scarface do their set or should we go back to their dressing room and nick all their cheese again?”

We don’t hesitate. We speak as one. We can almost smell it now. Ten different types of cracker and fifteen different types of cheese.

I can’t wait to tell Alison what a great time I’m having.

“I’m having a great time.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“What have you been up to?”

“You know, loads of stuff. Playing cricket, eating pies, running away from loonies with bandages on their heads; fighting with Vince, taking the piss out of Matty… stealing all of Scarface’s cheese.”

“I see.”

“It’s quite dangerous, actually.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, they’d probably chuck us off the tour if they found out.”

“Right. Sounds fascinating.”

“Yes, well, it’s not all cricket and cheese, you know. We have been doing the gigs as well.”

“I’m very glad to hear it. How have they been going?”

“Not bad. The first night was a bit dodgy but tonight was pretty amazing.”

“Have the crowds been OK?”

“They’ve been fantastic. We’ve had them moshing up and down and clapping their hands and all sorts.”

“Good. I’m pleased it’s going well.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Good.”

“Good… Alison?”

“Yes?”

“Did I tell you that I’m having a great time yet?”

“Yes, Danny, you did.”

The line goes quiet for a moment. I feed another pound coin into the call-box to make sure I don’t run out of money and wait patiently for Alison to pick up the threads of our conversation. She doesn’t say anything. I wonder if she’s still pissed off with me over the famous Belgians incident. I wonder if she’s upset that I’m managing to have such a good time without her. I wonder why she sounds like she hates my fucking guts.

“So,” she says finally, ‘have you managed to catch up with Ike yet?”

“Um… no. Not really.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I don’t know. He’s very busy. The whole of Scarface had to be helicoptered up to Top of the Pops and back before the gig tonight and they’re always doing interviews before they go onstage and “meet and greets” when they come off and besides… we’re sort of avoiding them.”

“Why?”

The told you, on account of the cheese.”

“The cheese?” “Come on, Alison,” I say, getting agitated, ‘keep up. At least pretend that you’re interested in what I’m saying to you.”

“I’m trying to, Danny, but, you know … it all sounds like such an incredible whirlwind. You’re doing so many crazy, spur-of-the-moment, rock-and-roll things it’s hard for me to keep track.”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic.”

“Yeah, well, you started it.”

“Yeah. You’re right. I probably did.”

There’s fifty pence left on the call and I’m wondering if there’s any point feeding more money into the meter. She clearly doesn’t want to talk to me. She’s clearly not interested in what I have to say. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t bothered. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t badgered Vince to

drive round Cambridge for the best part of forty-five minutes looking for the last phone box on earth that was still making outgoing calls.

“So,” I say, feeding a circumspect twenty-pence piece into the phone and kicking at a piece of broken glass with my foot, ‘are you still coming back for the London gig or what?”

“Of course I am,” she says. “What kind of a question is that? You know I wouldn’t miss it. Not for anything.”

“Yeah … I know. I just thought…”

“What did you think, Danny, that I couldn’t be bothered?”

“Dunno. I just thought—’

“I mean, how long is this going to go on for?” she says crossly. “How long are you going to be pissed off at me for not coming home last weekend? I said I was sorry. I’ve apologised a hundred more times than you deserve and… fuck it, Danny, I’ve got responsibilities too.”

“I know you have. I didn’t mean—’

“I can’t just drop everything and jump on a train every time you want me to come back to London and hold your hand.”

“What do you mean?” I say, getting angry. “I just wanted to see you, that’s all. I really wanted to see you.”

“No you didn’t, Danny,” she spits.

“I did. What are you talking about?”

“If you’d wanted to see me you would have done.”

“How?”

“You could have come over here.”

To Bruges?”

“Yes, Danny, to Bruges. It’s not that far away. It’s not the Arctic fucking Circle.”

“But you were working.”

“Not the whole time. I had the evenings free.”

“Well how was I to know?”

“You weren’t… it just would have been nice if you’d asked me, that’s all.”

“Alison?” “Yes.”

“I’m not having that great a time.” “I know,” she says. “I didn’t think you were.”

I pocket the rest of my change, slam the receiver into the coin meter with as much force as I can muster and head back across the road to the van. Matty and Vince are leant up against a low wall, chatting and drinking and smoking cigarettes, and they both go quiet when they see me coming.

“How was that, then?” says Vince, offering me a drag on his roll-up.

Tine,” I lie. “She sends her love.”

“Everything’s OK, then?”

“Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

“It’s OK if you want to talk about it or something.”

“No, Vince. I don’t think I do.”

He knows better than to ask me again.

“Right then,” he says. “I thought it would be a good idea if we made do for tonight. Save ourselves some money, kip down in the back of the van and spend the extra cash on a better B&B tomorrow.”

“Sounds great.”

“You don’t mind, then?”

“No,” I say. “I don’t mind at all.”

We make ourselves as comfortable as we can. Vince unties a couple of moth-eaten sleeping bags that we bought after the bed-and-breakfast cum-sheets fiasco, and we move some of the gear into the front seats and spread them out in the back of the van. No one says very much. We park up next to a streetlight and play a couple of hands of poker, but none of us is really in the mood.

Vince brings out the bottle of Jack Daniel’s that we saved from the gig and we pass it round in silence. I can hear the sizzle from Matty’s cigarette as he pushes it into his empty beer bottle. I can hear gangs of pissed-up students staggering out of the pubs and making their way back home. A couple of them bang their hands on the sides of the van and try rocking it off the kerb as they walk past us. And then it all goes quiet again.

“Anybody mind if I put on some music?” I say, searching through the piles of tapes on the floor.

“No, mate,” says Vince, ‘you go right ahead.”

I know exactly what I’m looking for. Grandaddy, Under The Western Freeway.

“Everything Beautiful is Far Away.”

Drive: Newcastle-Glasgow (148 miles) Venue: Barrowlands (capacity 1,9OO) Sound check: 6.45-7.15 Doors open: 7.15 Onstage: 7.45-8.15 Hotel: THE GLASGOW HILTON! Check out: MIDDAY! Hot water: CONSTANT!

Breakfast: Full English, SERVED IN ROOM! Amenities: INDOOR POOL!

SWEDISH SAUNA! PAY

PER-VIEW MOVIES! HOTEL PORN!

So much has happened in the last five days that I’m not quite sure where to begin. For a start, we’ve finally made friends with Scarf ace. Everyone except for Ike. It turns out his own band hate him almost as much as we do on account of him taking sole credit for writing all their songs and keeping the rest of them on a crappy wage and they’re quite happy to have some new faces to hang out and get pissed with.

They’re not a bad bunch. In fact, when we told them that we didn’t have any food on our rider and that we were sleeping in the back of our kebab van most nights they went out of their way to try to help us. They said we were welcome to come backstage and eat their crackers any time we wanted. They’ve been really generous. They’ve got more champagne than they know what to do with. And spirits. And Jammy Dodgers. And chicken wings. And pharmaceutical grade cocaine.

Even better than that, their tour manager, Malcolm, has managed to score us rooms in some of their top-notch hotels. The band have a personal travel agent that negotiates them special room rates, so now we’re spending every other night in the lap of luxury: one night in the mobile kebab van, the next night in a super, swanky five-star on the cheap.

But that’s not even the best of it. The best of it is that Matty has become a brand-new man. He’s taken to after-gig slut ting like a cat to its very first litter box. He’s incredible. You ought to see him go. He’s slept with four different girls already and, the way things are going, it looks like Vince is definitely on to win our bet. It’s all Scarface’s fault. Thanks to Malcolm combing the front two rows for groupies every night and inviting them all backstage after the gig, there’s a distinct surfeit of girls. The ones that Ike doesn’t want get passed on to the rest of his band. The ones the band don’t want get passed on down the line to us. When I say us, of course, I really just mean Matty. I’m completely out of commission and Vince doesn’t seem to be having very much luck. Matty has a theory about this. He thinks it’s because Vince spends too much time talking to them.

“Of course,” says Matty, mulling over his lavish room service breakfast (he got drunk last night and ticked everything on the order form, including the prunes), ‘the main thing I’ve realised is that they don’t want a lot of chat. They just want to get down to business. That’s where you’re going wrong, Vince. You don’t want to start talking to them about Too-Rye-Aye being great and Astral Weeks being seventeen different types of shite. You don’t want to start bothering them about your views on transitional shoes, and you definitely don’t want to be asking them what they think about the philosophical implications of quantus physics.”