Kiss Heaven Goodbye (22 page)

‘Miles!
Miles!
’

He didn’t stir, hoping it was a dream. It wasn’t until he got a sharp prod in the ribs that he looked up.

Jonathon bent over him and hauled him up by the lapels.

‘Get up,
now
!’ he said urgently, dragging him up the basement stairs. For a second Miles thought the shouts and screams he could hear were the sounds of carnal pleasure, but one look at the face of the angels and waitresses running towards the front door was enough to sober him up like a slap in the face: they were terrified.

He ran up the stairs to the mezzanine floor, where Tom Samson was standing like a policeman directing traffic, yelling for everyone to get out.

‘What the hell’s going on, Sam?’ yelled Miles, willing his brain to engage.

‘Don’t you know?’ asked Samson incredulously. ‘The fucking top bedroom is on fire! One of the candles got knocked over!’

Fire?
Fuck!
The fugginess in his head cleared instantly and Miles turned to Jonathon.

‘Get water. In buckets. Now.’

‘Where do I get a bucket from?’

‘How the fuck should I know? Champagne buckets, anything. Get some others to help.’ Spotting a bathroom, Miles ran in and soaked the biggest towels he could find. Sprinting back out, he threw one at Samson. ‘Come with me,’ he commanded.

Climbing to the second-floor landing, they could see thick acrid smoke pouring down the stairwell and Miles knew instantly that the time had passed for smothering flames with wet blankets. Already he could feel the heat and they were both choking.

‘Is anyone else up there?’ coughed Samson.

‘Fuck knows,’ hissed Miles. Sweat was beading from his temples and not just from the heat of the fire. He had no idea who was up there, but he wasn’t going to hang around to find out. It was too late to save the party. Too late, probably, to save Alan’s house. The least he could do now was save himself.

‘Call 999,’ he shouted to Samson. ‘Make sure everyone’s out.’ Samson put the towel over his mouth and began climbing the stairs.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘Someone might be up there. One of the hookers.’

‘Fuck the hookers,’ spat Miles. ‘Let’s split.’

But Samson was almost halfway up the stairs. Miles tried to follow him but a shower of flames fell from the roof.

‘Samson, get out of there now.’

Samson half ran, half tumbled down the stairs, his jacket glowing with cinders which Miles beat out with his own coat.

‘Everyone’s out,’ he coughed as both boys fled from the building.

The sound of sirens grew louder until their harsh noise seemed to engulf the house. Dozens of partygoers milled around the grounds, some half dressed, some shell-shocked, all looking faintly ridiculous surrounded by the yellow-jacketed firemen running out their hoses with such purpose. Adding to the confusion, a long line of taxis had miraculously started to appear – someone had their head screwed on at least – and Miles saw people fighting to get into them, especially as the blue and red lights of a police car were heading towards them along the drive.

Quickly Miles pulled his mobile phone from the pocket of his soot-smeared tailcoat and stabbed at the keys. His stomach clenched with anger and shame at what he was about to do, but as he saw it, he had no choice. He didn’t want to be in any more debt to his father, but he didn’t want to go to jail either.

‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered as he listened to the phone ring at the other end.

He was relieved to hear his father’s voice.

‘Miles, what is it?’ Robert said with irritation.

‘I’m in trouble, Dad,’ said Miles. There was no point in sugaring the pill. ‘I need you to get someone down to Oxford.’

They talked for a few minutes, then Miles calmly put his phone back in his pocket and sat on a wall, watching as a policeman walked over.

‘Miles Ashford?’ he said. ‘I believe you are the organiser of this party?’

Miles glanced at the police officer’s uniform.
A sergeant playing by the book,
he thought contemptuously.

‘You don’t look too clever, son,’ said the policeman. ‘I should get yourself checked out by the ambulance team. But in the meantime, I’d just like to ask you a few questions ...’

The college’s disciplinary committee were predictable. Judgemental, conservative and holier-than-thou. Miles stood in front of them barely registering what they were saying. ‘
The importance of pastoral care at the college
. . .
The necessity to steer other students from drugs
. . .
The reputation of the university
...
’

Those wankers. What the hell did they know about life beyond their crumbling flint-knapped walls? Why the hell did he have to stand there and answer to them anyway? It was especially galling as he had almost avoided all of this, almost got off scot-free. To Miles’ surprise, his father had done everything he could to contain the story: the vice girls were paid off, the Youngblood membership warned to maintain their silence; even Alan Johnson’s parents were persuaded of the wisdom of dropping criminal charges, despite the damage to their home. Yes, Miles had spent a night in the cells at Oxford police station, but Dick Donovan had appeared the next morning and any formal charges had mysteriously melted away. Unfortunately, the Ashford clean-up team hadn’t been able to gag everyone: ‘an insider’ had contacted scandal-hungry tabloid the
Daily Chronicle
and the combination of drugs, prostitutes and an exclusive Oxford society was too irresistible, despite vicious threats from Robert Ashford’s lawyers.

The story had prompted an instant investigation by the university. The colleges traditionally turned a blind eye to the raucous behaviour at the elite clubs – clubs like the Carrington had only been suspended a handful of times in their history – but this was in another league entirely. They had no choice but to come down hard on Miles, despite the lack of much real evidence. Miles had been briefed extensively by the Ashford lawyers and knew what to say: the Youngbloods were not a registered university club and the party had not been held on university property; there was nothing to formally link them to the college at all. Moreover, there was nothing beyond hearsay to link Miles to the solicitation of prostitutes or the procurement of drugs – not even the
Chronicle
had been able to find a female party guest willing to admit she had been paid for sex. On paper, Miles had simply organised a party that had got out of control. But that didn’t cut any ice with the ancient dons staring down at him.

Miles slowly began to concentrate on what they were saying.

‘Aside from the newspaper allegations, Mr Ashford, the quality of your work has been considerably below the required level for this university,’ said Professor Stewart, a particularly severe-looking senior tutor. ‘Add to that your endless missed tutorials, a sub-standard tutorial report and a woeful history of penal collections. Under the circumstances, I feel we have been particularly lenient when we recommend that you rusticate for a period of one year.’

Miles closed his eyes. Rustication: temporary expulsion from the university. It was one better than being sent down, but still . . .

‘Fuck you,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr Ashford,’ said the Dean, peering over the top of his half-moon glasses.

‘I said “Fuck you”,’ repeated Miles, enunciating the words as clearly as he could.

The dons exploded: ‘What’s the meaning of this . . .’ ‘How dare you? . . .’ ‘I’ve a good mind to . . .’
Just as predictable as ever,
thought Miles. Holding his head high, he strolled out of the chambers and into the street, where he leant against the wall, breathing in fresh air, desperate to get the fusty smell of Oxford from his nose.

‘Bollocks to rustication,’ he muttered to himself as he lit a cigarette, sheltering in a stone archway.

He blew the smoke up towards the grey sky. Since he had been inside, it had started raining. A thin, chilling drizzle that was soaking straight through his Savile Row suit.

A cyclist, his college scarf flying behind him, rode through a big puddle, splashing Miles’ trousers, the damp fabric sticking to his legs like cold jelly.

‘This place is a shit-hole,’ he observed. ‘A fucking shit-hole.’

He turned and walked back up the high street. Oxford was over for Miles. It was time to get to where he belonged.

20

May 1992

‘Where are the gold lilos?’ shouted the photographer. ‘And where is that
bloody
unicorn?’

The entire area surrounding the pool at Hartfield Hall was in chaos. The view from the Berkshire country house hotel was obscured by huge lights, a camera on some sort of crane and a fog machine blowing smoke across the water. An army of extras dressed up as fairies were queuing for make-up and in between all of it ran innumerable men and women wearing baseball caps and carrying walkie-talkies.

‘It’s only a bloody album cover shoot,’ said Year Zero’s bassist Gavin, staring at the scene from the door of the hotel bar. ‘You’d think they were storming the beaches at Normandy.’

For once, the whole band was in a good mood, finally convinced that the record company believed in them, that they were getting somewhere. For the last year they had felt anything but: slogging around the toilet circuit, struggling for any sort of recognition in the music press, releasing a four-track EP that had gone down like a frozen turkey. The biggest blow for Alex was when they had moved down to London. He had always imagined that when he had a record contract, he would be living in a waterside apartment with a Porsche on the drive, but instead, he and Emma shared a mould-ridden Camden Town bedsit where one morning Alex had found a mouse in the toaster. Some days, he had felt like that was a metaphor for his career.

But not any more. Since Year Zero had recorded their debut album
The Long March
, things were changing; suddenly everyone was excited. ‘Don’t Talk’, their first single from the album, had just been released and industry buzz around it suggested that it would go in high when the charts were announced later that day. On top of all that, the record company had employed a team of radio pluggers to get them airplay and the band had even been interviewed on TV. Now they were shooting the album cover with legendary rock photographer Anton Jones. Finally it was all coming together.

‘Excuse me, guys?’ A girl carrying a clipboard walked into the bar and looked around at the band nervously.

‘Can I speak to your manager?’ She glanced down at the board. ‘Nathan Fox, is it?’

Jez immediately switched into PR mode. ‘He’s not here, lovely.’ He smiled wolfishly. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

‘Oh, well we just need someone to sign off on the car,’ she said.

‘What car?’ said Alex.

‘The Rolls-Royce,’ said the girl as Jez signed something on her clipboard with a flourish.

‘What Rolls-Royce?’ said Alex.

‘The Roller I’m going to drive straight into that pool!’ said Jez happily, taking a swig from a bottle of Bacardi.

‘You knew about this?’

‘Knew about it? It was my idea! Think of it, all the rock iconography – Keith Moon, Marc Bolan, Bon Scott carking it in a car – it’s all there.’

‘This shoot is costing a bloody fortune in unicorns as it is.’

Jez threw his arm around Alex’s shoulder and breathed rum fumes into his face. ‘It’s basic common sense: if the label wants to spend a fortune on our album cover, you don’t stop them. You want it to look as mental as possible.’

Alex wriggled free and pushed Jez back. ‘And who’s paying for this, Jez?’ he said.

‘How the fuck do I know?’ said Jez, annoyed.

‘We are, you moron! Everything comes out of our advance.’

‘Wow, do you two always fight like this?’ They both turned to see Liz Gold eyeing them with interest. The
Melody Maker
journalist was at the shoot to get ‘some colour’ for a four-page story the paper was running on the band. Alex noticed with a sinking feeling that the red light on the journalist’s dictaphone machine was on.

‘Fight? Nah, we’re just hamming it up for the press,’ said Jez, squeezing Alex’s shoulders. ‘Like brothers, aren’t we, Al?’

Alex smiled weakly.

Liz nodded, looking from one to the other as if she didn’t believe a word. She was right of course. Alex’s relationship with Jez had gone from bad to worse lately after Jez had demanded a share of the songwriting credits, threatening to quit unless it happened. The upshot was that Alex had been presented with an impossible decision: agree to Jez’s demands, give him equal billing on the songs and let him take credit for all Alex’s talent and hard work, not to mention a cut of the publishing royalties, or walk away from a band with a record contract and start again. In the end he had no choice: he caved in, but it did nothing for inter-band morale.

‘Listen, I’m just going up to your room where it’s quieter,’ said Liz, touching Jez flirtatiously on the shoulder. ‘Why don’t you come up when you’re ready and we can do our part of the interview?’

‘I’m in there,’ said Jez matter-of-factly, when Liz had gone.

‘Jez, don’t screw up the article by getting frisky with her.’

‘What do you care? Anyway, look, your missus is calling you,’ said Jez sarcastically. ‘The mini music mogul at work.’

Across the pool Emma was waving at them. Thanks to a tip-off from their manager Nathan, Emma had landed a job as a marketing assistant at EMG, Argent’s parent company, which had given her the excuse to attend the album shoot. Her new job meant they hardly saw each other these days, but Alex was genuinely glad she was doing so well in her career; in fact they both shared a dream that one day they would end up in New York ruling the rock industry: she running a major label, him a reclusive musician, occasionally emerging for a huge televised concert at Madison Square Garden or somewhere. And to think this was the girl who used to bang on the floor whenever they turned the music on in the flat downstairs.

‘Still looking hot, though,’ said Jez, giving Alex a complicit slap on the back. ‘Still pretty foxy. You’re lucky I gave her to you.’