Silver Ch. 13-15

Supplemented by a clever video that saw the screen breaking like glass and re-assembling, a nomination for Best Video at the following year's Brit Awards finally signalled mainstream acceptance and the commercial breakthrough even Nick would admit was overdue.

The LP that arose like a phoenix from the flames was, at turns, brilliant, at others a real oddity. Entitled 'Talking Strangers', Nick described it in his Rock Week review as: 'the musical equivalent of a cut and shut car'. Richey's upbeat tunes filled the first side, in contrast to which Vaughn's pain and anger at the loss of his brother haemorrhaged from side two. Only 'Winning Smile' from Vaughn's selection offered a semblance of hope for his sanity, with its jangly melody and simplistic lyrics. But against all odds the formula worked, the LP sneaking into the Top Twenty after a sustained run.

On the down side, the upturn in the band's fortunes brought the unwelcome yet inevitable legal action by the sacked members. As a result, Richey was forced to spend much of the second half of 1990 in court, denying the band the opportunity to lay down any new material to build on the success of 'Dead Pretty' and 'Tiptoeing on Glass'. Had they done so, there would probably have been no further singles released from 'Talking Strangers', and without which what went on to happen might not have happened – at least not in such a big a way.

In a twist that not even Richey at his most optimistic could possibly have foreseen, the really big breakthrough came via the most unlikely of sources. Totally out of the blue, Virgin decided to release 'Winning Smile' as a single, more to keep the momentum going than as a serious assault on the Charts. The final, almost overlooked, track on the LP, not even included in the live set up to that point and seemingly there only to fill Vaughn's quota, the lyrics were childlike:

'You have a smile that lifts me, a smile that sends me places,

A smile that sings to me and pines as my heart races.'

You're winning me over, a dream of a lover,

Your Winning Smile is my lucky clover.'

Though Richey had little regard for the song, it seemed to pick up on the mood of the moment and a new entry at 18 took everyone connected with the band by surprise. Soon appearing on the playlists of primetime DJ's, it would become the song on everyone's lips and would make the Speeding Hearts the band of the moment. Their image on magazine covers and badgered to appear on every music show in town, Richey's charisma quickly made him a household name. Only Partners in Kryme's 'Turtle Power' ultimately prevented it from reaching Number One.

Flushed with chart success, other doors opened, with a newfound demand to appear at the array of high profile festivals that had previously been off-limits. The Reading Festival over the August Bank Holiday being the pinnacle, during the next five years, the band would virtually make it their own. That they still commanded an exalted billing a decade later said something of the regard in which the Berkshire crowd held the Speeding Hearts.

Yet it was as debutants in 1990 that they truly stole the show. In his article for Rock Week, Nick wrote: 'The days of Richey Osgood cowering behind the microphone long gone, at Reading the Speeding Hearts at last fulfilled the expectation so many feared might never come. Where they go from here is very much in their own hands.'

With Rock Week as ever at the forefront, Richey allowed Nick into the midst, according three more interviews up to the end of the year. 'So how's it feel knowing you've finally made it?' Nick enquired.

'You call this making it?' Richey scoffed. 'This is merely the tip of the iceberg, my friend. The best is yet to come.'

Nick didn't doubt it for one moment, digging nonetheless for the crevasse. 'What about the drugs?'

'Been clean for a year now,' the singer announced proudly. 'It needed something like Kirk's death...you know, to make me appreciate...'

As Nick regarded him with his usual scepticism, Richey raised his hands. 'Scout's honour, Nick, even after...even after Cass and all that shit.'

Nick couldn't go home without first searching down Vaughn for old times' sake. Finding him, or at least a facsimile of the old Vaughn, in the garage favoured by Kirk, outwardly he was unchanged by the accident save for a light facial scar in among the acne craters. Below the surface, however, the drummer had become dark and maudlin. It helped make some sense of the lyrics of the LP, odd moments of genius prose intertwined with the nonsensical ramblings of a pre-pubescent schoolboy.

Described in some quarters as the song of 1990, 'Winning Smile' would feature among the top thirty best sellers and in 'Single of the Year' lists throughout the industry. In the wake of its success, the Richey-penned 'Beggar's Bowl', complete with sleigh bells and a choir-sung chorus, was put out at Christmas to keep the ever-increasing legion of new fans satiated. Reaching number 16, four Top Twenty singles from the same LP managed to exceed all expectations.

Yet, never one to rest on his laurels, Richey was looking further ahead, casting his sights overseas. As he informed Nick when they met for the third and final time in 1990, America was calling.

* * *

Seventeen years after its glory, 'Winning Smile' filled the Green Man in Penn with boundless joy, like a rush of nitrous oxide. Yet Richey was not to be allowed to get off lightly. 'What the hell is going on with the police?'

Richey waved his hands. 'It's nothing, a false alarm that's all.'

'False alarm?' queried Matt, moving to overshadow Richey. 'They mentioned an escaped convict.'

'Convict?' questioned Nick, standing to attention.

Richey sighed, patting the air with his hands. 'Okay, okay...calm down.'

'No Richey, I won't calm down...not until you explain what all this is about.'

Richey blew. 'Okay, okay, you remember Candice Barkin?'

Nick's eyes widened. 'You mean the American girl?'

'Who's Candice Barkin?' queried Matt.

'His stalker,' responded Nick.

'You've a ssschtalker, you lucky bastard!' cried Pete, suppressing the hiccups.

'Look, I very much doubt she'll come all this way,' assured Richey. 'Last I heard she was up north somewhere, Durham or Cumbria, somewhere remote...besides which she's supposed to be harmless these days...'

Matt was unconvinced. If she was harmless, why had a police chopper been buzzing around outside like an angry wasps and why was there a squad of officers in the sleepy village? Moreover, why was an officer being deployed outside overnight?

'You sure she's harmless?' queried Nick, pacing the floor. 'Only the last time I saw her in action she looked anything but harmless.'

'Yeah, but that was eleven years ago,' protested Richey. 'Why would she want to come here now?'

'It's the firshht place the police would look,' volunteered Pete.

'Exactly,' chimed Richey. 'She's just some groupie who got a bit few too fucked up for her own good,' he assured, pressing an index finger to his temple by way of illustration.

Nick and Matt's eyes locked, neither particularly satisfied. As everyone sat back down to take stock, Kelly found herself on the outskirts, sat up on a bar stall. She was unable to relate to the three weird girls, whilst Nick and Richey avoided her glances and Matt looked on uneasily as if he was afraid she'd pounce once more. It was with some relief therefore that Pete drew away from the table to converse.

Sobered up from the walk and the terrifying experience, Kelly soon began to wish she'd been left alone. His octopus-like hands uncontrollable, her patience was pushed to its limit. Pete merely grinned in an inane manner. 'Ish gerring late. Why don't we carry thish on upstairs?'

Kelly's eyes narrowed. 'Why don't you fuck right off?'

Fleeing to the sanctuary of her room, Kelly threw herself on the bed.

As a melancholy air pervaded, Matt Black decided to call it a day. Issuing farewells he promised to catch up with the girls in the morning. Climbing the stairs steadily, the journalist found himself drawn to the boys' room. The door ajar, a cool blue light and soft music spilled out onto the landing. Matt's eyes widened and his pulse raced as their waiflike bodies locked in a tight embrace. Shifting positions on the bed, Lee rested on his side, Spencer teasing a finger down his shaft, gently cupping the scrotum. No longer able to contain his self-control, Matt crept through, an absence of surprise showing on their youthful faces as they welcomed him into their midst.

Next door, her face impressed in the pillow, Kelly heard the bed creak the other side of the wall. Screwing her face deeper, Kelly tried to shut out everything, in particular the thoughtless men with whom she was acquainted. Things had not worked out at all as planned on this, her voyage of discovery. Nick had treated her like a stupid little girl, her friendship with Matt was all messed up, Pete was a lecherous arsehole but, worst of all was Richey's denial. Banging a fist on the bed in frustration, she jolted as the dormant pain spread from her shoulders to her neck and back.

Stumbling off the bed, she crept along the landing, enticed to the boys' room where the door remained ajar. The slap of flesh and eager panting drew her in closer, magnetising a hand to her lips to suppress a gasp. All three naked in a tussle of pale limbs, Matt was at the centre, bent over the bed as Lee thrust purposefully into him from behind, the younger man's tight buttocks tensing, lips blowing in rhythm. Spencer lay back on the bed, gazing up at the ceiling, his overhanging legs jerking playfully as Matt's head bobbed up and down his length. Slender, purposeful fingers reached out to ruffle Matt's thick hair.

Struck by a sudden guilt, Kelly scuttled off before anyone could catch her spying. Though at least what she'd seen helped in some small way to explain Matt's earlier rejection. Turning over in a vain attempt to attain a more comfortable position, she began to weep, tears blotting the pillow until a light tap on the door took her by surprise, the pillow forced up around her ears. But the tapping continued. 'Go away,' she called.

The door opened to reveal the eldest sister Lindsey, prompting Kelly to turn away in disappointment. It was too much to suppose that one of the men might come to apologise, or that her father had yielded. 'Are you okay?' enquired Lindsey softly. 'Only I thought I heard...'

Kelly trawled for an answer. 'I had an accident the other night. My neck and back hurt like hell.'

'What happened?' enquired the other girl, edging closer.

Kelly lifted up on her elbows. 'I was in a taxi when the cabbie tried to grope me. I punched him in the bollocks and he lost it, smashed the cab into a tree.'

Lindsey tiptoed forward, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. 'You showed him, girl.'

Kelly regarded her at close range, ebony eyes like a pair of unfathomable marbles, the ring through her lip glinting in the light of the moon. 'Where does it hurt?' Lindsey asked.

Kelly slanted her eyes, not sure what to make of this rare show of concern. Almost subconsciously she turned onto her stomach, the thin material of the t-shirt bulging at the sides from the pressure on her breasts. 'The worst is around my shoulders and above my arse.'

She recalled the expert fingers of Jan from the other night and how good it felt. She'd wanted it to go on forever. When she'd reached the bathroom that night, the crotch of her panties had been as damp as a flannel. The thought had remained with her throughout the night and impinged on her dreams.

Lindsey lifted the t-shirt and peeled it back, tracing a finger down the bumpy ridge of Kelly's spine and sending a shiver through her whole body. Adjusting so that her chin rested on the backs of her hands, Kelly's initial reaction was to stiffen as Lindsey began kneading the flesh of her lumbar region. 'Just relax,' Lindsey said soothingly.

Kelly let her muscles be coaxed into relaxation, the initial bout of pain worth enduring for what she knew would follow: a release, if only temporarily from the muscular torture. 'Arms up in the air,' ordered the other girl and Kelly submitted, a light wince as the t-shirt was hoisted clear.

Lindsey pressed every inch of flesh on Kelly's lower back, eliciting a series of 'oohs' and 'ahs' before her fingers encountered the bra strap. Released in one easy action, up and up she worked the flesh around Kelly's spine until reaching the shoulders, moulding like a potter with wet clay. Shifting position and cocking a leg over so that she sat astride, Lindsay's weight was supported on her knees above Kelly. Kelly felt Lindsey's backside brush her own, a liquid sensation rising between her legs.

Kelly smiled at an expression she'd encountered numerous times in magazines. What she was feeling had a name: bicurious, and for once it was spot-on. Unwittingly, Jan had unlocked a secret desire. One thing she had always contemplated was how lucky bisexuals were. Straights and gays were at a distinct disadvantage when only half the market was available. Kelly was all for maximising potential. 'That feel better?' came the softly spoken words.

A whimpered response slipped from her lips as the weight lifted. 'Wait there a sec,' mouthed Lindsey.

'Don't be long,' Kelly heard herself whispering.

A minute passed before Lindsey returned with the baby oil. From her prone position, Kelly felt her body shudder with anticipation. Climbing back into position, Lindsey shook the bottle, a dollop of cold lotion plopping on Kelly's back. Busy fingers squelched, dispersing the liquid across her shoulders. 'You like?'

Kelly nodded silently, her wavy hair jigging softly at her neck. Lindsey ran her fingers through its length, commenting on the feel before planting a tender kiss on the heart tattoo that adorned the prone girl's collarbone. 'All men are bastards,' Lindsey whispered subliminally.

Kelly felt another dollop of lotion, this time at the small of her back, brisk digits digging the muscles at her hips before finding her buttocks, pressing inside the thong, the only item that remained. With ease, Lindsey drew the strings to Kelly's knees as shifting position and lifting her backside slightly, Kelly allowed the other girl to trace a line to the top of her inner thighs, coated with perspiration. Brushing the fine mound of hair between, Lindsey's fingers hovered at the entrance of Kelly's vagina.

Just when Kelly thought she might explode with the anticipation, a finger slipped inside. Eliciting a gasp, the orgasm came immediately and intensely, almost causing her to faint. As Kelly's head swam, Lindsey continued to probe. Kelly lost count of the number of times she came in the next few minutes, before peacefulness emptied upon her. The last thing she remembered was a kiss planted on each buttock and the whispered promise of: 'See you in the morning.'

* * *

Downstairs, in the wake of Kelly's hastened exit, Pete had latched on to middle sister Monica, by far the most alluring of the trio. Heartened by some half-reciprocated smiles and a mildly flirtatious demeanour, he watched as her lips lingered suggestively over the tip of a bottle of beer.

Richey and Nick were reminiscing on America. 'Best month of my life,' said Richey with a smile.

Worst month of my life thought Nick with a frown. It was funny how, when America came to mind, Richey remembered only the good, Nick only the bad.

Fifteen

'We're more popular than Jesus Jones now.'

- Richey Osgood, Rock Week, 1991.

All lives of any repute have turning points, defining moments when things just suddenly click into or out of place. In both Richey and Nick's cases it was America. Despite the fact that by 1991, a decade after they'd first met, the distance between them had grown into a Grand Canyon sized gulf, professionally at least they needed each other to flourish.

America: it might have turned into one long, hard slog that strangled Richey's resolve and finally put to bed the band's career. Or their hybrid brand of rock and pop culled from countless sources might not have been naturally akin to American taste and left them impossible to market. Or they might have discovered, like so many of their peers, that breaking Britain was one thing, succeeding in the States something different altogether. Might, but not, for as soon as 'Winning Smile' worked its way into the collective stateside subconscious, there would be no looking back for Richey and the Speeding Hearts.

The story went that an American ad executive over in the UK on business heard the song in a bar and was instantly hooked. A month later it was being used as the jingle to sell Aquamint breath freshener. A month after that the Speeding Hearts would be following the song across the Atlantic. In a cruel twist of fate, his bosses at Rock Week deigned it a good idea for Nick to hook up from the start and follow the band's progress across the New World.

Desperately unhappy times for the journalist, the loner that had surfaced whilst the band travelled around the UK in 1982, was resurrected. But now outside the band, each inconsequential episode took on a heightened significance, each minor irritation magnified tenfold and, as the packed yet oddly empty tour bus trundled for long hours over greying dustbowls and verdant ranges, the overwhelming sense of desolation was exacerbated in direct proportion to the scale of the country.

Later at the gig, Nick felt like a kidnap victim, forced to endure his worst nightmare as the guitars and Richey's shrill voice found their way inside his head like a pneumatic drill. Taunting him endlessly, he toyed with suicide. If only he'd had the resilience, if only he'd had the guts to see it through, he would be up there on stage, a part of it, instead of writing from an outsider's perspective.

As the days turned into weeks, each new venue offered a greater test of resolve. The endless procession of groupies he could handle: they soon lost interest after learning he wasn't in the band. No, it was the older, though by no means wiser Susie Osgood that was a real problem. A decade on, she remained intent on having her wicked way with him, that or she derived pleasure from seeing him squirm, ultimate revenge for the denial all those years before.

Most nights habitually spent aboard a tour bus that in the main resembled a porn set, occasionally they'd get to stop off at a hotel. One particular evening, a fortnight into the month-long tour, in Crocodile Quay, Florida, whilst Richey basked in the Presidential Suite, Nick holed up in one of the more modest outside chalets with the tour's other lepers. It was a welcome change nonetheless to be away from the toe-curling, rank-smelling, claustrophobic bus. Having faxed back the latest report to Rock Week and spent his change on the payphone to Jan, Nick was looking forward to an early night of sublime privacy.

Soon ensconced in a fond dream of home, he was awoken with a start, groping for the bedside lamp. It crashed to the floor and, through the sleep-induced haze and iron-grey of the room he made out a female form, her eyes sparkling. 'How did you get in here?' he mouthed.

A slender finger held against his lips, in the half-light it was hard to be sure, but she was young, very young, a fan of the band no doubt that had wandered in by mistake. 'The band is in the hotel.'

'I know.'

'Oh...did Richey send you down here?'

'You're with them, right?'

'Yes...no...not really, I'm a journalist.'

'But you used to be, right?'

He used to be lots of things: proud, caring and staunchly faithful. A fortnight in the States had come close to bleeding every quality that set him apart from the other pond life on the tour. Sadly, this type of thing was commonplace, rarely a night passing without some trick or other being aimed his way. If it wasn't a hog's head in his bed, it was shaving foam in his socks or his bottle of aftershave filled with piss.