Silver Ch. 16-18

Arms crashed against the water, the two bodies locked together and ducking once more. Gone for two, maybe three seconds, the water remained still and blue, until finally the surface erupted. Monica had managed to free herself and looked mad as hell, dabbing a finger at a scratch beneath her eye. 'You dirty fucking whore,' she spat, 'I'm gonna get you for that.'

'Come on then, bitch,' gestured Kelly. 'You want a piece of me?'

At that moment Pete adjudged it wise to intervene, swimming over to place his admittedly thin body between the pair as a barrier. Hands tried desperately to breach his defence, their sharp talons snagging his skin. 'Ouch,' he cried. 'I think it's time you two kissed and made up.'

'Oh, okay,' Monica consented with a pretty pout.

It was then that a shrill voice rang out, breaking the idyll: 'Vhat are you doing?'

Pete glanced up to see a leggy blonde in a lime green micro bikini. He had to look twice, imagining for one moment that this was some delicious wet dream or that he'd wandered inadvertently onto the set of a porn movie. Hearing a low growl, his eyes fell upon a pair of slavering dogs at the newcomer's knee, straining at the leash. 'Get out now,' the woman ordered in an accent that was unmistakeably East European.

'We're Richey's guests,' Kelly replied. 'We're staying with him at the pub.'

'I'm sorry – vis is private property, you can't svim here. Go before I call police.'

They looked at each other with perplexed faces, yet when the dogs' growls turned to angry barks and the blonde was dragged forward, grudgingly they obeyed. Dressing swiftly, they headed for the gap.

'You tell Ree-chee no more, okay? Next time I set dogs on you.'

'Who was that?' enquired Monica as they made their way back.

'I think that was Larissa, Richey's ex.'

'Bitch,' cursed Monica, shivering in her damp clothes, the day having suddenly turned cold.

The other two felt it too, eyes raised as a dark cloud the shape and size of Africa came to rest overhead. Unable to conceal his disappointment at the turn of events, Pete made a final hopeful suggestion: 'Maybe we should shelter?'

'No, best we get back,' replied Kelly. 'If we're lucky we might just make it before the rain comes.'

The others had already departed as the first spots of rain, visible in the distance, closed in. Thankfully going down was easier than coming up and with the storm holding off just long enough, they were safe inside the doorway as thunder crackled the air and the windows streamed with rain.

Seventeen

'When you've achieved world domination, it can be hard building on that.'

- Richey Osgood, Rock Week, 1992.

After America, Richey allowed himself and the band a year off, returning to Broad Arch to work on a new LP, entitled 'Small World'. Having fallen out with Mitch Farrell, once more he shuffled guitarists, recruiting a young Scot called Will McCann through somewhat unconventional means. Anxious to maintain the band's profile in the press, Richey invited Rock Week readers to apply for the vacant post via a taped audition and a snapshot. The field whittled down to five, the graduate was chosen seemingly on image over ability, bearing a striking resemblance to Kurt Cobain.

Otherwise, the Speeding Hearts' ship remained stable. Spike Sanders continued on bass whilst Vaughn took time out from married life to fly over from the States to record the LP and to fulfil a seventeen-date UK tour, midway through which some more bad, if not totally unexpected news arrived.

Next to leave the stage was Tony Cage. That he had been Nick's original replacement was not lost on the journalist. 'Caged Tiger' from the 'Before Our Time LP' echoed through the church rafters, rattling the bones of the living dead in attendance. In fairness, Cage's self-destruct button had been wedged solid from the mid Eighties, the biggest surprise that he managed to clock up seven more years. Another cast aside on the waste heap along the way, witnessing the amassing of Richey's fortune destroyed Cage, the liver failure merely accelerating the process.

The first single was the title track from the LP. With its stampeding chorus and guitar driven melody, it craved attention on first hearing, but grew gradually more tiresome with time until it bordered on the tedious. In his review, Nick likened 'Small World', the single, as 'a fruit flavoured ice-lolly: refreshing at first, less so the second time, virtually tasteless the third and with nothing but a cold slab of ice left after that'. He was equally as scathing about the LP.

Awarding a measly two stars, he was unconvinced by the hybrid style of the LP. It was as if Richey had found Nirvana halfway through and tacked on five grunge-inspired tracks to those penned pre-grunge. Vaughn's input was minimal too, just two tracks finding their way onto the album though, quality if not quantity, both were released as singles. It illustrated the fact that if Vaughn had enjoyed a greater input they might have had another classic on their hands. Yet, seemingly anxious to cash in before the moment passed, the finished product was released a standout tune.

The single stopped at 19 after a fortnight's run though its namesake LP fared better, trading on past glories. Hitting the top of the charts for a week, it remained in the lower reaches of the LP charts until January 1993. It also grazed the Top Thirty in America but, unwilling to go overseas, Richey denied the band the opportunity to maximise sales. Vaughn's 'Falling Star', with its grungy undertones, was issued as the follow up single, peaking at 27 and a month later Vaughn's other effort 'Images Of Fear' enjoyed a brief stay at 35.

Despite the vow made at the end of the US tour to have nothing to do with the band ever again, on a wet and windy Fireworks Night in 1992, Nick was despatched by Rock Week to hook up at the Cardiff gig that completed the tour. The magazine's interest buoyed by the addition of Will McCann – their boy – there was no way Nick was going to get out of it, and he knew it. Like a bad holiday the worse parts of America were quickly forgotten and, though he wouldn't care to admit it to anyone else, deep down Nick harboured a morbid interest in tracking Richey's fortunes.

A couple of turbulent years having elapsed since 'Winning Smile' catapulted the singer to c-list stardom, the notoriety came at a price: unwarranted attention from the tabloids. Salaciously cataloguing tales of rock star excess, alcohol-induced orgies and a step back into class-A drugs, Richey appeared hell-bent on emulating Kirk and Cage. But then, what else was there to do with the millions?

Nick's own moderate degree of success having landed the family in the semi-comfortable, semi-detached surroundings of Farnham, admittedly life could be worse. The kids were two of the brightest young things a father could ask for, whilst Jan was taking night classes to further a passing interest in osteopathy. One rung away from his ideal property, the place on the golf course in Latham Wood, even that paled into insignificance compared to what Richey was in the process of acquiring: a sixteen-bedroom manor house set in two hundred acres of Wiltshire. The former country hideaway of an Essex porn baron, it was loosely based on the Playboy mansion, with a garish Seventies look in the carpets and wallpaper, two-way mirrors and huge accommodating beds designed for group sex. Whilst the deal was going through, Richey was acclimatising to village life by renting a room in the Green Man.

Trouble on the roads delayed Nick's arrival in Cardiff, the situation aggravated by having to park several miles from the venue. Threading his way back through the dark and uninviting housing estates, each unexpected crack from an errant banger caused him to startle. When the sky opened and a cat in a dark alleyway dislodged a dustbin lid, he scuttled off full pelt. A music journalist's life was not all the perceived glitz and glamour.

Jeans weighing heavily from the rain, Nick tagged onto the back of the fervent Welsh crowd. Two-thirds into the set already, a rash of similar sounding drones from the latest LP did nothing to soothe his mood and he sought refuge in the bar, allowing himself a rare whisky. Richey sounded almost as jaded as at the end of the US tour, whilst Spike and Vaughn seemed to be going through the motions and McCann's inexperience was showing. In a much-needed injection of humour, not the only one that night, Richey returned for encore dressed ironically in a Turtle suit, launching into 'Winning Smile'.

'No Place To Hide' signalling the end, a welcome end too, the still sodden journalist was invited to join the entourage backstage. An equally damp, though in his case sweat-soaked, Richey raised a hand in acknowledgement whilst wrestling free of Michelangelo. Nick nodded back before wandering off to locate Vaughn. Conversing in the corner with 'Diamond' Dave Donnelly, the former keyboard player had been allowed back into Richey's presence after a grovelling apology. Donnelly nodded back at Nick, before moving away to pastures new and Vaughn seemed pleased to see him.

Nick too was glad to see his old friend. A breath of fresh air among the parasites that had latched onto Richey since success sprung up, Vaughn hardly seemed to change from year to year. Thick tangled locks forming a motorcycle helmet-like mesh around his head, he was still bothered by acne and a lack of dress sense. Yet Nick found it an endearing quality. They chatted for ten minutes before Vaughn sighed. 'I'm gonna miss all this when I go home, Nick man.'

Nick regarded him in amazement. 'Vaughn, how can you...? This...this life is so shallow, so fake.'

Vaughn grimaced. 'To be honest man, I couldn't wait to get back with the boys again. My life's got itself into a bit of a mess lately. I think I've reached the crossroads.'

Nick gestured at him to continue and Vaughn contorted his face. 'Put it this way: Jeanie wants kids and to settle down...'

'And you don't?'

Vaughn offered a hopeless shrug.

'Well I can highly recommend it and I never thought I'd hear myself saying that.'

The catching up with Vaughn done, Nick moved on, some happy to see him, others less so. Most from within the rock fraternity, Nick the journalist was perceived as the enemy. Well, he couldn't keep everyone happy with rave reviews. The obligatory word with Will McCann to keep his bosses at Rock Week happy, an hour of small talk elapsed before Richey mounted a table and called for attention. 'Listen, everyone, we're gonna head back to Penn for a par-tay.'

As sycophantic whoops filled the room, Vaughn took Nick aside. 'Are you coming back, Nick man?'

Frankly Nick would have preferred to get off home but Vaughn was in an insistent mood. 'Come on man, it'll be a blast. Hey, I'm only giving it an hour or two – got to get to the airport for five tomorrow morning. Come for a quick one. You never know, you might not see me again.'

'Ha, you'll be back,' Nick joked.

As the tour bus loaded up with revellers, Nick remembered the car the other side of the city. Setting off alone and downhearted, a minute into the journey the rain returned with a vengeance, coating him. Raising his hands to the heavens he made a hopeful appeal, rewarded with a firework that whistled past his ear. Climbing gratefully inside the waiting car, he very nearly headed straight home to Surrey, but Vaughn's company was a rare treat and it could be years to the next time.

The last to arrive in Penn, the trail of rebel rousing led him to the door of the Green Man, overshadowed by the massive white horse that provided an awesome backdrop. Soon he was wishing he hadn't bothered as a body flew past, Donnelly's sparkly fist on the end of it. 'Oi,' shouted the white whiskered landlord. 'Right, I've had enough. I want you lot out.'

Richey was first to move, gesticulating furiously.

'You've twenty minutes to clear the pub or I'm calling the police,' rang out the taciturn reply.

Richey issued a childlike scowl, before the inevitable line came out: 'Do you know who I am?'

The landlord held a tight lip, folding his arms across his chest. In truth, he probably didn't realise who'd been lodging the past few months.

'What's up?' enquired Nick, taking a place at Richey's shoulder, Dave Donnelly at the other, apologising to the bloody-nosed crew member and pleading for clemency.

Richey, on the other hand, was at his most obnoxious. 'Oi, do you know who I am?' he prompted. 'I'm Richey Osgood, millionaire rockstar, and all these people have loads of fucking money.'

The landlord looked unimpressed and, in mortal danger of losing face, Richey removed a thick wad from his pocket, tossing it on the bar. The landlord pursed his lips, matching will with will.

At that moment, a girl Nick seemed to recognise strolled over, hooking an arm through Richey's. 'You promised me a party, Richey baby,' she purred, the accent American.

'It's okay, sweetheart,' he reassured, 'we'll party.'

Nick recalled the girl as the one from his chalet in Crocodile Quay, his memory keen, hers deadened, little more than a distant stirring of recognition in her drug-clouded eyes. Candice Barkin – that was her name. Evidently her life in America had been abandoned to follow Richey and the band back to England. Quickly losing interest in their little circle, Candice tottered away. 'She's all yours if you want,' offered Richey. 'She'll do absolutely anything, that one. There was this time...did I tell you...?'

Not wanting to hear, Nick made himself scarce, trying to search down Vaughn. Instead he bumped into a less welcome face. 'Handsome as ever, Nicky darling,' rang out her voice, blowing a kiss his way.

Nick had to look twice at the woman before him. But it was Richey's sister Susie. Marred by drink and drugs, she looked twice as old as his wife, her former university friend. 'You know you've only got to click your little fingers...' she pouted, eliciting a scared look from her prey.

Swerving Susie, Nick exchanged nods with Spike Sanders and Will McCann who were eagerly weighing up the posse of teenaged groupies that surrounded them. A circuit of the pub completed, with no visible sign of Vaughn, Nick returned to Richey's corner.

Little had changed since he left, the two men facing each other like gunfighters. Conscious of his image, the singer beckoned the landlord over, adopting a different tact. 'Look man, my friends want to party and I feel bad letting them down, so let's cut to the chase, how much?'

The landlord fixed him in a steely gaze. 'You can't buy me, Mr High and Mighty Rockstar.'

Nick admired the man's resilience.

'Oh yes I can,' Richey sneered, drawing a chequebook from his jacket.

'How much?' he repeated, the landlord's arms remaining tight to his chest. 'What's this dump worth, you reckon Dave – half a mill?'

Donnelly issued a shrug.

'We'll say half a million for argument's sake,' confirmed Richey.

And so that his friends could carry on partying through the night, Richey bought the pub.

An hour passed before Nick decided enough was enough, finally he tracking Vaughn down to the back bar, where a gangbang looked about to break out. He enquired if the drummer wanted a lift. Vaughn looked longingly over the scene, then back at Nick, before nodding his consent. Calling adios to the assembled, Vaughn headed through the front where Richey had taken up a position proudly behind the bar. Richey issued a high five to his bandmate, before shaking Nick's hand.

During the journey east, Vaughn confided that he needed to arrive at a decision soon. Nick warned him to think carefully though he had a feeling that the words were wasted. As the drummer alighted at Heathrow, Nick shouted through the open window: 'Vaughn, I hope you make the right choice...for everybody.'

With that Vaughn raised a hand in farewell before being absorbed into the bright lights of the airport lounge.

* * *

In the pub in Penn in 2006, Lindsey joined the others in the bar, causing Kelly to glance away guiltily. From the radio behind the bar came the words that drew all their attentions. 'This is the news at midday... Police are stepping up their hunt for the escaped prisoner Candice Barkin. Thirty-two-year old Miss Barker, considered to be one of Britain's most dangerous female prisoners escaped from Dunton Jail in Cumbria on Saturday morning...'

All eyes came to rest on Richey.

'Harmless, you said,' cried Matt.

'That doesn't sound harmless to me,' added Kelly.

'...Convicted in 1997 for the murder of a rockstar, police have warned members of the public to be especially vigilant and not to approach Miss Barker...'

It was then that Matt voiced the concern: 'Where the hell is Nick? And what the hell is all this about?'

Eighteen

'If you want to be a rockstar, be prepared to go to a hell of a lot of funerals.'

- Richey Osgood, 1996.

The period immediately post-'Small World' witnessed a rare stability within the band with no new fallings-out and the line-up of Richey, Will, Spike and Vaughn remaining steadfast. Yet the relative calm served only to amplify the horror that was to follow.

Another tragedy marred 1994: Susie Osgood's suicide inside the monoxide choking Mercedes. A heart-rending loss for Richey, only in death did it transpire that over the past five years she had siphoned off almost a million of her brother's earnings. That she'd managed to get away with so much for so long, served only to illustrate the fortune that had amassed since success first found Richey.

For some unaccountable reason, Vaughn chose England, single life and the band above America, Jeanie and making babies. Returning home for Susie's funeral, a one-night stopover at Richey's quickly turned into a year, and a year into two. On the up side, however, it gave the pair a chance to work more closely together and at least to aspire to the earlier highs of 'Before Our Time' and 'Passing Strangers' that had been lacking on 'Small World'.

The latest LP, 'Great Minds', released in the summer of 1996 catalogued two broken marriages, the ever-present fear of death and the pitfalls of celebrity, a move back to the band's new wave roots signalling a welcome departure from the derivative themes of 'Small World'. Despite this, an unimpressed Nick awarded just three stars in his review for Rock Week.

Failing to match the commercial success of the previous pair of LP's, it peaked at five. A trio of extracted singles, Vaughn's 'Last Chance', Richey's 'Head On' and Vaughn's 'Highs And Lows' would make 13, 21 and 17 respectively in short sorties into the Charts before the year was out. In a fickle America that had fallen out of love through lack of attention there was scant interest.

Carrying fame like a burden, the frontman was prepared to accord just one weekend to the music press, Nick and 'Diamond' Dave the chosen ones. Immediately noticeable that Richey had put on a few pounds since the glory days, the naturally light hair had darkened with age, and there were signs of thinning on top. 'Had a chance to listen to the new LP yet?' Richey enquired as the two journalists were ushered inside the inner sanctum.

'I loiked it, though Silver here wasn't so keen.'

'I did not say that,' Nick protested. 'I just said that it needed time to grow on me, that's all.'

'Never were easily impressed, were you Nick?'

Nick pursed his lips, unwilling to debate the point. He was, however, impressed by the size of the place. Like a curator, Richey led them from the vast hall, pointing out various heirlooms and expensive pieces of art, into a dusky reception room where Vaughn, Spike and Will slouched before what appeared to be a homemade porn video, Spike in the lead role with two starry-eyed teens offering able support. Through a pyramid of Special Brew cans, Vaughn lurched forward in greeting. Tar coloured rings around his eyes, the scrub of hair remained seemingly unwashed since Nick's last calling. 'How you doing Nick, man? Have you heard the LP yet?'