Silver Ch. 10-12

Yet the powers-that-be at Rock Week had different ideas. The Speeding Hearts were going to be pushed as Rock Week's Band of 1989 with all the free publicity and promotion the magazine could offer. A few strong singles, a good LP and some drama, intrigue and headlines needed in return, they would give the lot and more, sharing it with Nick and Rock Week over the coming years.

Assigned to the St Patrick's Day gig in Kilburn in 1989, Nick felt a slight unease, a feeling that the tide was beginning to turn. Richey held the stage, hair shoulder length as was the current trend and still maintaining the good looks, poise and pose that had brought him this far. Nick studied closely for chinks in the armour, of which there were many candidates: Richey's stage fright...or the alleged tension between the singer and guitarist Doug Perry...or Vaughn's weariness...or Kirk's spasmodic bass playing...or 'Diamond' Dave's wild man reputation de-stabilising the whole precarious balance.

Yet if he hoped to witness a bad performance, Nick was to be disappointed.

In the lead singer there was little evidence of past fear, kept in check by an ongoing hunger for fame. With Nick's pedigree, it would have been easy to single out Doug's guitar playing for criticism, yet Perry junior's strumming was tight and impassioned, a major improvement on the heavy handed, string snapping of Tony Cage. Whilst there was an undoubted atmosphere between Doug and Richey, it merely heightened the sense of loneliness in the frontman's latest lyrics. No weakness with Vaughn and Kirk either, both chipped in as enthusiastically as ever. And in 'Diamond' Dave there was nothing there to criticise either, his keyboards adding a whole new swirling, hypnotic dimension.

Only 'No Place To Hide', as ever the finale, survived from Nick's day and, post-gig, the former guitarist was invited backstage. Resisting the temptation, like former lovers rekindling the flame after a split, Nick determined that their time together would be sparing at first, amid an awkward sense of uncertainty on both sides. For Nick, having to go back to his old buddies now they were enjoying a degree of success without him felt odd, whilst for the band, having Nick pass judgement and critical opinion, breaking down and analysing rather than helping to construct, was awkward. Instead Nick headed home to Guildford and the newer larger three-bedroom semi that represented another step up the property ladder.

A snap of Richey clasping hold of the microphone stand, white-toothed and seething like a rabid dog, graced the cover of Rock Week with a double page review of the gig inside.

A month later, Nick was despatched to conduct his first interview with the band at the Maddens' place in Broad Arch that had become the band's base following their parents' migration to Ireland. As he climbed the driveway, Nick was filled with trepidation: this was where it all started and where once he had felt a part. Now he was returning as an outsider.

Richey took immediate control, raving of the upcoming songs that would be the best yet, of an ever-colourful life and of finding true love. Removing a cassette marked 'new songs' from its case, Richey gave Nick a brief glimpse of the new direction, a hybrid of the indie scene and the band's rock roots.

His colourful life needed little elucidating upon: it was in every music paper every week, more so now that the band was back in vogue. Nonetheless he fed Nick every gory episode in gloating detail, as if to tell Nick: this is what you're missing out on.

Where love was concerned, there'd been some resurgence, courtesy of the past. Richey spoke glowingly of his relationship with Jan's former university pal Cass, the latter day success having finally worn down her resistance. A rocker too, Cass was the bass player in an all-girl rock band called Mass Debate.

When Richey offered to get hold of tickets for one of her gigs, Nick recalled with nostalgia the early days of their friendship and of following the Thunder Cracks around London. Both harboured a deep sense of regret at having let their friendship lapse, though neither was prepared to voice it. It could never be brought back, they realised, the relationship between rockstar and rock journalist on a par with host and parasite.

Sadly, tragedy was rarely far behind. Smack addiction had spread through the band like a virus and as Vaughn confessed, it was the only way the others could hope to attain Richey's level. Thus, before fame could shine, tragedy would unfold and, though his arms contained more pock holes than a pincushion, it wasn't Richey that would buy the rockstar's exit pass.

Returning for a second interview at the Maddens' in June 1989, Nick found bodies strewn over the ground floor like unwitting victims of an aerial attack. Doug Perry was visible, sprawled across the sofa, surrounded by the night's remnants. Stepping over the spaced-out young things that followed the band like lemmings and up the littered stairs, Nick found Richey asleep between two groupies. Curled up at the foot of the bed, 'Diamond' Dave had a girl's head pressed cosily into his lap. Easing the door shut, the journalist stepped over more prone life before espying Vaughn alone in his room. The drummer forced a smile, turning away in exaggerated pain. With Kirk nowhere to be seen, Nick made his way down to the garage, a favourite hideaway of the bassist.

Immediately the stench assaulted Nick's nostrils, his eyes bulging, throat tightening as he chanced upon Kirk sat propped up in an easy chair. His face drained and skin the texture of wax, the bass was held clamped between his fingers. It later emerged that he lay there undiscovered for two days. Almost inevitable one would go in that manner it was merely a question of which one in the lottery they played out on a nightly basis. All living on borrowed time, if it wasn't drugs, it was AIDS. Payback for enjoying life too fully, their generation was being held accountable for the sins of the previous generation.

The funeral well attended as was befitting a popular figure in indie circles, whey-faced pals paid last respects in an ocean of black led by Vaughn and Richey. Both made poignant elegies, after which Nick and Jan mingled uncomfortably, feeling like they didn't belong. As they made to leave, she whispered: 'I'm glad you got out when you did, pet.'

On the up side, as it often has a habit of doing, death would become an unsuspecting benefactor. Helping Rock Week to shift double the usual amount of copies the following week, it also gave the band a much-needed shot in the arm.

Two other factors made a difference in the long term. The first was a loosened grip on the songwriting. Not since Nick's early tunes had another member of the band penned a song Richey was prepared to record. Allowing the talented yet underused Vaughn in on the act was a stroke of fortune. With a massive outpouring to get down on paper, rarely was there a substitute for raw emotion in shifting records. The second factor was the playing of the glamour card when it came to replacing Kirk. Drafting in stunning fiancée Cass brought in a new legion of teenaged male fans. It meant the end for Mass Debate, though the world could live with that.

* * *

Back in 2006, as Nick supped the pint Donnelly had forced upon him, a captive to his boorish charms for half an hour, the sky outside began to darken. Still no sign of Kelly, or Richey for that matter, he hoped she'd not done anything stupid. At that moment the front door swung open bringing precious relief, the Devilicious girls revealed in all their glory. Colour coded in black and weighted down with neck breaking crucifixes, they snarled at those inside who gawped back with stunned expressions.

From his position along the bar, Matt matched the faces to the research: Lindsey had the harsh features, long straight hair and a ring through the bottom lip, Monica the shoulder length hair and pretty compact face whilst Helen had the frizzled locks. Donnelly spat his beer, causing Nick to stifle a chuckle. 'Looks like the circus is in town,' he guffawed. 'Don't tell me you're just passing through as well, ladies?'

Along the bar, Donnelly's words registered in Pete's alcohol infused brain and his lip curled. How Pete wished he'd just leave them in peace. Their eyes locked briefly before Pete looked away, his gaze coming to rest back upon the girls. It was left to Matt, however, to do the decent thing, stepping forward dutifully to take their bags. Monica was first to break the trinity, moving to the bar as her sisters took the table inside the door. 'What'll you ladies be having, eye of newt or toe of frog?' chortled Donnelly.

All shot back fuck-off scowls, Lindsey flicking a middle finger in Donnelly's direction from her seat. Suddenly Richey reappeared, issuing greetings all round. Monica returned to the sorority with three bottles of cherry flavoured beer.

'Hey Osgood,' called Donnelly, 'there are so many people passing through today, I can't wait to see who'll be next – Coco the Clown maybe?'

Pete felt his muscles tighten, the beer endowing him with ill-advised bravado. Thankfully he'd managed to talk himself out of the idea long before it had time to settle in his brain.

* * *

Kelly found herself wandering aimlessly upwards in the early evening air, flip-flops in hand, the soft grass beneath her feet like a velvet carpet. The venom of the unprovoked verbal attacks had left her a shivering wreck and caused the physical pain to return, whilst her eyes were smothered in a red mask. Under her breath she issued silent curses.

Miles of fresh field unfolded in all directions as far as the eye could see, with a smell reminiscent of the back garden at her grandparents' house in Shropshire, just after the lawn had been mown. The majority of her childhood spent away from the family home as her mother juggled motherhood with survival, those times spent with her grandparents were magical occasions, full of fond memories, secret dens and imaginary friends.

Alone again once more in a strange environment, it would serve them right if something happened to her up here. Not that there was anyone else around, just Kelly and majestic chalk steed that breathed life into the sleepy village. She hated men with a passion. Over the past few days, her feelings for Nick had turned a complete circle. To think what might have happened but for the crash...

Stumbling on the grass as the climb took her higher and higher, the tears stinging her eyes, the white horse loomed ever larger, each hoof the size of a football pitch.

What happened with Nick was bad enough, but the subsequent confrontation with Richey had left her world in tatters, his heartless words cutting like a scalpel: 'My daughter, you say?'

'Yes, Liz May is my mother,' she'd replied defiantly.

'Liz? Oh, I see, I get it,' he scowled. 'What is it you're after, more money?'

Kelly's mouth opened wide, but no words came, the voice stolen along with her idealistic hopes and dreams. Money was the last thing on her mind. She just wanted a man to call her father after all the years without one.

Looking back down upon the pub, as tiny now as a Monopoly house, the only thing on her mind was getting as far away as possible, to climb until she was devoured by the clouds.

Eyes beginning to roll, she fell to her knees, amid an odd feeling of fatigue like being put under by the dentist. Just about to give in to the soporific grass, without warning the silence was shattered by a distant whirring. Looking up from the white horse that stretched like a massive sand bunker, her eyes locked on an incoming band of light. The chalk began to glow, the din growing ever louder until it was almost deafening, eliciting nightmare images in her head of a UFO coming in to land. 'Oh my God,' she cried.

Arms outstretched, her clothes billowed like a scarecrow in the wind.

* * *

The girls' arrival had transformed the bar into Halloween, their table becoming the focal point. Returning from bag duty, Matt caught a breath before taking a seat between Monica and Helen. Sufficiently loosened up, Pete was next to move into the coven, conveying with him three more cherry beers. As fifteen more minutes passed, Donnelly too was drawn in, leaving Nick alone with Richey. Still no sign of Kelly, he glanced anxiously around.

An edgy atmosphere in the bar, if it were any consolation, at least Richey had conducted himself impeccably – so far at least. Sensible and sober and seemingly clean, the telltale marks on his arm appeared ancient history, hopefully never to be reopened. Though it was early still and Richey did tend to reserve his best – or worst – for after dark.

With another half an hour having elapsed and, having failed in his attempts to charm any of the three girls, Donnelly boomed: 'Oi Osgood, where's that slut from earlier...what's her name...Kelly?' Pete felt the anger rise in his chest, along with the urge to lash out, but it wasn't he that reacted. In a sudden flurry of movement, Richey leapfrogged the bar, belying his years. Before the other man realised what was happening, Richey was upon him, a forearm round the neck. 'What did you say, Donnelly?'

'You what?' cried Donnelly, shaking to free the lock.

Richey folded his arms.

'I think it's time you left, Dave,' mouthed Nick, moving in.

'Yeah, so do I,' Richey concurred.

Slowly Donnelly elevated from the seat, before turning and edging forward until he stood eyeball to eyeball with Richey. 'Are you asking me or telling me?'

Matt and Pete rose from their seats, shuffling aside to join Nick at the bar. The Devilicious girls remained seated, displaying bemused expressions. Pete clutched an empty bottle like a cudgel, his mind racing with images of ejecting Donnelly to impress the ladies. Yet despite the favourable odds he elected to hang back. The two former bandmates stood statuesque, their hot breaths like two snarling bulls. As Donnelly raised an arm Richey jerked, though his adversary was merely reaching over to his jacket to remove a pack of cigarettes. Lighting up, Donnelly resumed the stance, blowing a fog in the singer's face. 'Well,' he taunted, 'are you asking me or telling me?'

'I'm telling you,' affirmed Richey.

Donnelly took a step back, assessing the situation. 'Hmm, now I'm sure these ladies don't want to see me leave just yet, or for that matter that other little prick teaser...'

A momentary pause as the words were ingested, Richey's lunge came ninja-quick, stunning the others with its ferocity. Fingers raking Donnelly's throat, Richey forced him to the table, glasses and bottles scattering like skittles. Donnelly's legs bucked wildly but, using all his weight, Richey pinned him down.

Motionless and unfazed, the girls' eyes were ablaze. 'Kill him,' hissed Lindsey.

'Get the fuck off,' ordered Donnelly breathlessly.

'Get out of my pub then.'

Relaxing his weight, Richey allowed Donnelly to his feet. Brushing himself down, Donnelly stared back: 'Hands off what you can't afford, Mr Osgood.'

'Go on, get out,' Richey commanded.

Nick moved to the door as Richey lifted the leather jacket off the hook and tossed it into Donnelly's chest. Eyes passing from man to man, Donnelly's head nodded slowly. 'Any time,' he snarled 'all the frigging lot of you.'

Pete took a step back.'

'Come back and you'll live to regret it,' warned Richey as Nick ushered Donnelly out, the door swinging shut in his wake.

Breaths held, the subsequent roar of an engine signalled Donnelly's departure and a collective sigh. Allowing a couple of minutes to pass, Richey wandered outside, scanning around to make sure, before returning inside. 'Thanks.'

'Don't mention it,' intoned Pete, putting down the bottle.

'What the hell is that guy's problem?' gasped Matt. 'Everywhere he goes there's trouble.'

In the melee, all the glasses and bottles had crashed to the floor but for a single bottle that remained symbolically on the table, rocking gently on its side. 'Truth or Dare,' Richey smiled.

'Truth or Dare?'

'Truth or Dare,' affirmed Nick.