Silver Ch. 13-15

'What's your name?'

'Candice.'

'Look Candice, I know Richey sent you down here to...to... I'm sorry, but I'm married and...and I'm not in the least bit famous.'

At this closer distance and, having become accustomed to the dark, Nick noticed the pigtails in her hair. Though she would never admit to it of course, if he convinced himself she was underage it would help to ease his conscience. 'So did Richey send you?' he pressed.

She screwed up her face. 'He said you were lonely. Offered me a hundred bucks if...'

She stopped suddenly, glancing around anxiously.

'If what? If what, Candice?'

She replied by puckering her lips. 'I have to bring back the evidence though,' she clarified, puffing out her cheeks by of example. 'A hundred bucks is a lot of money, and I figured if you really were lonely...'

It occurred to Nick just how easy it would be to lie back and let her get on with it. God knows he could do with the relief. Jan was thousands of miles away and a fortnight without female contact had become almost too much to bear. It wasn't as if the girl craved commitment, the opposite in fact, and there was no risk of disease or pregnancy. Simple, simple: an act purely for pleasure's sake, emotion-free and quickly forgotten. Yet Nick's conscience was steadfast. 'Sorry,' he whispered.

'Guess I'll go then,' she snorted, rising from the bed.

'Candice, wait,' he craved. 'If you promise me you'll give this up...this, this chasing rockstars around crap...I'll give you the money.'

She surveyed him sceptically. 'You will? Cool.'

Leaning over she pecked his cheek as he reached inside the drawer. 'But you've got to promise,' he reminded, holding the money tight.

'Okay, I promise,' she affirmed, holding out a slender hand.

Nick loosened his grip and the notes were snatched away. The door closed behind her, bringing welcome relief. Turning over, he tried to get back to the earlier dream but it was contaminated and no amount of trying could bring it back.

At breakfast the next morning, knowing glances were directed Nick's way as the band, some of the crew and Susie, took seats adjacent. Another wild night reflected in their cumbersome gaits, sunken eyes and static hair, America was gradually draining them.

Quickly Nick regretted having not ordered room service as inevitably a comment was thrown his way like an incendiary device, a jibe intended to get inside his head. It was followed by Mitch Farrell poking a tongue against his cheek. Immediately Richey latched on, his features forming a fishlike expression. As he contorted, it was noticeable to Nick how hollow his features had become. He looked ill, in need of the sort of drug that didn't come in lines. The others joked he had AIDS, but it was no laughing matter. Two stone lighter than at the start of the tour, his face was pale and skeletal. Yet unwilling to seek medical attention, he patched himself up with drugs and alcohol. Different rules applied out here, as if seeking help betrayed weakness. 'Are you okay, Richey?' enquired Nick. 'Only you don't look too well.'

Richey brushed off the concern, telling him to lighten up. Trying to ignore them, the stifled giggles soon became unbearable. 'Bunch of bloody juveniles,' he said under his breath.

'It was only a blowjob, Nick. It's not like...not like you shagged her. You've stayed faithful...sort of.'

Nick sighed. 'For your information...' he began, 'oh I don't know why I bother.'

'Oh Nick, Nick, Nick,' chastised Richey, 'get over yourself.'

'Look,' he protested, before noting the other hotel guests and lowering his voice. 'Look, I sent her away. Thanks for the thought and all that, but...but nothing happened, okay.'

Richey raised his hands. 'You're in denial, huh?'

'I am not in denial. I sent her away empty handed...um, empty mouthed.'

'So what's that in the ashtray in my suite then?' enquired Spike, joining the prosecution.

'It's not mine,' Nick replied indignantly.

There was a pause before Mitch laughed. 'Come to think of it, I saw that Candice noshing one of the roadies in the early hours. I do believe you've been hustled, Richey.'

Uncontrollable laughter broke out, Nick the exception. To Richey, a hundred dollars represented little more than a few second's work. Nick, on the other hand, would have to spend more time than he cared to contemplate with these morons to earn that back. Though it wasn't just about the money, it was about being let down by Candice who'd she'd so readily reneged on her promise. Throwing down his napkin, Nick fled before they hit on something else to aim his way. Instead, as tensions rose among them, they hit out at each other, breakfast forgotten as a full-scale argument followed by a punch-up erupted. Ejected from the hotel, they were ordered never to return.

'I wouldn't come back to this shit-hole if you paid me,' retorted Richey.

On the bus, Vaughn took the empty seat beside Nick, wearisome looks exchanged. 'Thank God there are only eight gigs to go,' Nick sighed, counting down t the moment he'd be free.

'I think we'll all be glad to see the back of this place,' replied Vaughn, who could not have summed it up more perfectly.

The tour limped on, a run of bad performances prompted by constant infighting earning few new friends in the States. Caught in the crossfire Nick often felt more like a war correspondent than a music journalist. But at least whilst they were taking it out on each other, they left him in peace.

By the final week, only Vaughn remained bearable, though he too had been sorely affected by the experience. Prone latterly to disappearing without word, sometimes for days on end, on a number of occasions he'd failed to show for rehearsal. Luckily for the band, sound engineer Ryan Byrne was an able understudy on drums. Indeed, with Vaughn's continuing no show, Ryan was needed for the final gigs.

With the tour heading towards an ignominious close, Nick could be forgiven for believing nothing else might shock him. That was until Vaughn turned up unexpectedly after another sabbatical, clean-shaven and sporting a grey morning suit and burgundy tie. 'I just got married in Reno,' he commented matter-of-factly. 'Her name's Jeanie.'

'That figures,' commented Mitch.

With Vaughn taking a permanent time-out from the band, thankfully they salvaged a semblance of English pride on the last three legs of the tour, culminating in a worthy performance in Athens, Georgia. Sandwiched between hometown favourites the B52's and REM, they ran a close second in the plaudits. Nick picked up a welcome bonus to take home to the UK, just about the only positive thing to come out of the whole tour, a rare interview with Michael Stipe. With very few upset to be leaving, Richey, now an eight stone zombie, had to be carried offstage propped between Spike and Mitch.

Back on home soil, Nick made a vow never to undertake another assignment with the band – however much Rock Week were prepared to pay. He wasn't going back, and that was final. Yet, deep down, he knew that unless they split or Richey self-destructed, he would be forced to return, and return, and return...

* * *

When Monica and Helen decided they'd had enough, Pete followed hopefully, only to be disappointed as Lindsey shooed her sisters inside their room. The spurned writer crashed down on the bed, noticing that Matt's top bunk was empty. Within seconds, however, he was asleep.

Left alone downstairs, the two elder statesmen congratulated each other on having outlasted the youngsters. 'So what you been doing with yourself lately?' enquired Richey.

'Not much since 2000...you know...'

They looked gravely at one another. 'Me neither,' sighed Richey.

'So why now? Why come back? Why not live out a happy and peaceful retirement? Why put yourself through all this shit again?'

Richey blew. 'The showman in me, I guess.'

'You're mad if you ask me.'

'Maybe I am,' Richey mused, rising to head to the bar. 'You fancy one more for the road?'

Nick didn't but accepted the beer nonetheless. 'You realise who Pete is?'

Richey shook his head. 'Should I?'

Nick enlightened: 'He's Kirk's son.'

Richey nodded sagely. 'Oh really, the brat he left behind in the pursuit of fame and fortune?'

'That's the one.'

'Another one after answers, huh.'

'If only...'

Richey agreed.

'You ever give Kirk much thought then Richey?'

'Occasionally. Well he was the first in a long line of friends I've seen buried...'

'The so-called 'Curse of the Speeding Hearts'...'

Richey nodded wryly. 'The more time goes on, the more I believe it.'

Nick nodded. 'I was thinking about Joe Donnelly too the other day.'

Richey's eyes narrowed. 'You journalists won't let that lie, will you?'

'Ex-journalist, please. And no, well we all love an unsolved mystery and they don't come any more mysterious than Joe's.'

Richey shuffled uncomfortably. 'Let it go, Nick. Raking up the past will just cause misery...'

'I'd still love to know the truth,' Nick mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully and prompting Richey to change the subject.

'Talking of raking up the past...Kelly...'

It was Nick's turn to shuffle uncomfortably. 'Kelly? What of her?'

'You know why she's here?'

Nick's look of miscomprehension was met with the reply: 'She's under the impression I'm her father.'

Nick exhaled hard. 'And...?'

Richey outstretched his arms. 'I wish I knew.'

With Saturday turning to Sunday the pair finished their beers with wistful sighs. Already the weekend had thrown up its fair share of unexpected revelations. Yet neither could have imagined what would emerge before their time together came to an end.