Silver Ch. 16-18

'He thinks it's a pile of shite,' Richey scoffed.

'I did not say...I did not, right.'

Winding up Nick was Richey's favourite pastime, this time achieved in record time. The frontman grinned as the journalist protested: 'I said it needed...oh why the hell I bother...?'

'Tree fecking stars he gave it,' added Donnelly.

Nick could mention the vitriol tossed Richey's way in some of Donnelly's articles over the years. Richey wouldn't have a clue, of course, popular legend suggesting he'd not read a review since 1991, when criticism stopped mattering.

A Special Brew was passed over and Nick gingerly fingered the ring pull, tilting his wrist surreptitiously. 10.30 a.m. Oh dear, it was going to be a long, hard day. Getting straight into the spirit, Donnelly split his can open, downing it in three gulps, before wiping a cuff over his lips in appreciation. 'Roight gentleman, let's get this over with as quickly as possible then we can party.'

'I like your style, Davy boy,' chirped Richey. 'Your brother would be proud of you.'

'Ah, so he would.'

Nick vibrated his lips in disdain. 'Joe had class.'

Donnelly glanced over with a sneer but held his tongue.

'So, are you looking forward to the gigs?' Nick asked, lapsing easily into journalistic mode.

'It's been a while since...and, you know...' Richey replied, shaking his hands like trying to dry nail varnish to demonstrate the ongoing affliction.

More cans were dispersed and Nick decided to leave them to it, electing upon a private tour around the vast estate. More open space than it was possible to imagine for a certified townie like Nick, it was all he'd ever wanted out of life. Yet in Richey's hands it might as well be two hundred acres of concrete. The grass was even more unkempt than Vaughn, overgrown and neglected. Sighting a motorised mower, Nick smiled – time for some fun. Imagining himself as Damon Hill, he set about clearing several acres, killing the morning and, before he knew it, the afternoon. It was only when dusk's descent brought with it a harsh chill that he realised the advanced hour. 'Wow man, look at all that grass!' the call rang out, preceding Vaughn's emergence from the shadows. 'We're heading off into the village for a beer – join us?'

Nick screwed up his face, instead enquiring: 'Vaughn, why'd you come back here?'

The drummer hesitated. 'I dunno, the money, I guess...lack of opportunities in other fields. Jeanie really bled me dry with the divorce and, to be honest, there ain't much else I can do.'

'Never thought of starting your own band, or producing, or writing for other people? You're wasted here, Vaughn. You've so much more to offer'

'Well I have thought about it, yeah, and you're right, the lack of recognition does piss me off. Everyone applauds Richey and says what a god he is, and don't get me wrong, I couldn't do what he does. But it's me that's written half the songs, only no one seems to realise that. It's frustrating at times, man, when Richey goes on the all TV shows, the magazine covers...'

Suddenly an idea came to Nick's mind. Perhaps this article could focus on Vaughn Madden, the forgotten man of the Speeding Hearts, the unappreciated genius. That was if Rock Week would let him write about anyone other than Richey or Will. Playing devil's advocate, Nick retorted. 'Yeah, but Richey takes all the bullshit for being famous. He's never out of the paper, mostly for all the wrong reasons, any girl he meets sells her story...and that American girl's been stalking him, you know, the one he had to take out an injunction on. Would you want that?'

Vaughn exhaled, not really hearing the words, enraptured by his own melancholic thoughts. 'Richey gets to stagedive...'

Nick issued a sideways glance.

'I hate being stuck at the back of the stage,' Vaughn complained.

'But you're the drummer.'

'Aye, but I want to stagedive...just once...'

They arrived back at the house where the others were waiting. Tired from the day's unexpected yet far from unpleasant exertions, Nick was far from enamoured by the prospect of going to the pub. 'You lot go ahead, I'll catch up later.'

When they'd gone he stepped inside, breathing it all in. The vastness of the place was intoxicating. 'One day...one day, Nick Silver...'

Taking to the stairs, he headed to the bedroom that had been designated earlier by Richey. Emerging half an hour later from the en suite bathroom, it struck him how insistent Richey had been on this particular room. The bitter experience of past years alerting his mind to Richey's wile and guile, Nick gazed deep into the bedroom mirror, a smile forming on his face, the feeling of getting one over on Richey.

Regrettably the door to the adjoining room was locked. Head craning around outside, he was able to see that the next door window was open. Climbing out a little unsteadily, he chose not to look down on the vast expanse of patio, scurrying along the parapet and inside the next door room.

A portrait of a naked Marilyn Monroe marked the spot, his hunch right, as the painting came away to reveal a two-way mirror, a window back into 'his' room. A camcorder was close by ready to record every sordid detail. 'You little scamp, Richey,' he admonished under his breath, searching for the key to this room. Locating it, he transferred his clothes from next door before barricading himself inside.

Awoken hours later by the front door and a wave of revelry that swept inside, he stirred.

'Let's party,' Richey's call rang out as he climbed the stairs, tapping on the next door along, Nick's original room. 'Nick, there's someone here who wants to meet you...Nick?'

Nick watched from the other side of the two-way as Richey pushed inside, a finger held to his lips, the other hand entwined in a female one. Predictably she was teenaged and top heavy, a good choice in fact, Nick had to concede. Richey looked at the empty bed as if to say: where's he gone? But quickly the journalist's absence was soon superseded by lust. 'Be a shame to waste you, darling,' he said with a grin, perching the girl on his knee before removing her pink halter-top.

Nick looked on, watching as Richey grappled with the nubile beauty.

Three minutes later, he was just about to put Marilyn back and climb into bed when the door opened. Richey's face dropped. 'What the fuck...?'

Into the scene stepped Candice Barkin, brandishing a kitchen knife. Richey pushed the girl aside, wrestling with a pair of trousers that were snagged around his ankles. 'There you are, Richey baby,' said Candice with a calmness that belied the fury in her features.

The teenaged girl screamed as the knife slashed the air, inches from her face. Distracting her momentarily, Richey cried: 'Candice...no. You're not supposed to be...you get out now or I'll...'

As Richey cowered, Candice moved forward, her eyes manic and mouth seething. 'You shouldn't have dumped me like that, after...after everything I've done for you.'

Richey held aloft his hands. 'Candice...put down the knife, honey.'

'Why Richey...why are you treating me like this?'

In a misplaced show of bravado, Richey snarled back: 'Oh get over it.'

'If I can't have you, no one will.'

She lurched forward as, looking on, Nick's eyes bulged.

Suddenly a commotion broke out, some brave partygoer diving in and wrestling Candice to the floor. As others, alerted by the screams, joined the fray, a resolute Candice fought back, slashing the air indiscriminately, finding flesh, drawing blood. Vaughn fell back with a yelp, gripping his shoulder, as Will McCann staggered away, wide-eyed, a hand covering his chest. Several others suffered surface wounds before Candice was overpowered and disarmed, Donnelly and Spike sitting on Candice as frantic phone calls were made. Seeing Vaughn's plight, Nick rushed to his aid, kneeling over his friend. 'I'm dying, man.'

With blood pumping from the drummer's shoulder, Nick tore off his pyjama top to use as a makeshift tourniquet. 'The ambulance is coming,' he stated, the drummer's eyes flickering as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

Nick cradled him, the blood spreading faster than it could be contained until Vaughn wore a t-shirt of crimson. 'You're going to be just fine,' Nick assured.

'It feels like I'm in a warm bath, man.'

Nick tightened his grip. 'Hold on there, big boy.'

'Don't let me die, Nick man.'

'Hang on, you hear – you just keep breathing,' Nick commanded. 'I'm not having you die on me. Help is on its way. You're going to get through this, Vaughn.'

'You promise?'

'I promise. We can't have you dying before you've stagedived, can we?'

Nick could feel Vaughn's grip easing as he looked up with appealing eyes, the blue strobe-lit window flickering, the sirens screaming like starved babies.

* * *

In August 2006, Nick looked up from the undergrowth as the woman towered over him, his life running before his eyes. One hand holding his knee, the other raised defensively in front of him, he pleaded for help, sucking in air through gritted teeth.

One of the dogs sniffed with disdain. 'You should look where you're going, yes' she said in a Russian accent, before familiarity set in. 'Oh it's you...the journalist, Ree-chee's friend...Neek isn't it?'

'Hi Larissa,' he acknowledged with a pained expression. 'Can you help me?'

'You stay with Ree-chee too, yes?' she observed, helping him to his feet.

Nick offered confirmation, limping to the car.

* * *

Back at the pub, the outhouse was abuzz with chainsaw guitar, as upstairs the girls were about to fulfil their obligation to Matt. Allowing them time to 'prepare', the handsome journalist stopped to speak to Kelly, rubbing at his nose embarrassedly. 'Kelly, look...about yesterday...'

'It's okay, I understand.'

'You do?'

'Yeah, I'm cool,' confirmed Kelly with a smile.

'Oh you are...um, good. Maybe we should all have something tattooed on our foreheads...to help avoid these kinds of misunderstandings.'

Kelly nodded wryly. She didn't think there was sufficient space on her forehead for the myriad of emotion, yearning and uncertainty she was feeling.

The weekend had started out as a quest to find her paternal father but had quickly evolved into one to define her sexuality.

Though, upon reflection, perhaps she just wanted to remain curious after all – on both counts.

Allowing her own flesh to be caressed and penetrated was one thing, whether she was able to reciprocate with confidence was something entirely different altogether. So simple to please a man, the results tended to speak for themselves, pleasing another woman was a whole different ball game. And where her father was concerned, now that reality had replaced fantasy, there was nothing left to dream of. Richey Osgood wasn't the man she'd imagined he was and if she never saw him again after the weekend was over, so be it.

Looking up, she saw Pete staring back her way, issuing a smile in return. There was no time to dwell on the moment, however, as the front door opened and Nick limped inside. All three helped him onto a bar stool, following which Nick explained what had happened.

Reaching into his pocket, a hand searched in vain. The weekend was going from bad to worse. 'Damn, I've managed to lose my phone. Damn, damn, damn. It could be anywhere.'

In his current state, Nick was hardly in a position to go searching, especially in that huge expanse. Not that it mattered particularly. He was more likely to hear from Ted Perry that 'The Outsider' was to be given a second chance than he was to hear from his wife.

Having allowed the girls enough time to do their hair and apply the make-up and to change into the black robes and buff up their crucifixes for the photo-shoot, Matt slipped away. A photogenic trio, their careers wouldn't fail owing to lack of an identifiable image. Indeed, as his editor at Rock Week had asserted before the weekend that simply having their faces on the cover guaranteed a third on the circulation.

A constant source of morbid interest and intrigue, in a finger-click brief career thus far, they were a band either to love or to love to hate. Outspoken and controversial, they were the voice of pallid, disaffected youth and those who shunned the uniform of trainers, hooded top or baseball cap. Still, Matt guessed that it was better to stir emotiveness over the apathy exemplified in the ambivalent acceptance of so many of the bland manufactured artistes of 21st Century pop.

His gentle probing was tailored for what the group was when the veneer was stripped clear: three young and naïve girls. As with the outer look, shock value superseded substance in what they had to say, expletives and barbs substituted for intellect and wit. What Matt managed best to tap into was their ability to slag off their contemporaries and, in particular, main rival Miranda Sharp. Inciting them to their bitchiest best, Matt loaded the gun and waited for the bullets to be fired, the tape recorder ringing with expletives.

The interview's conclusion coincided with the end of rehearsal and the rain finally ceasing, swiftly replaced by peace and quiet and a beaming sun. 'Will you join us outside?' Monica enquired of Matt.

He caught sight of the boys bounding up the stairs. 'I'll be down in a bit,' he replied with a grin, 'something's just come up.'

'I'll just be a moment too,' Lindsey called as her sisters departed.

Kelly had returned to her room and, exhausted from the morning's exertions, had flopped on the bed. As she contemplated love, life and the universe, she heard the footsteps approach, eyes bulging and heart pumping. It came as some relief to see the bolt was tight across. Ignoring the tap-tapping, Kelly turned over until eventually it went away. Glancing over, she saw a rectangle of paper slide under the door. The handwritten message read simply: Your room at seven? Love Lindsey xxx.