Silver Ch. 21-23

Part Three

Twenty-one

Monday arrived in a blaze of heat that prised open Nick’s eyes. No chance to savour the lie-in, Matt and Pete’s pained snoring quickly forced him downstairs to where Richey sat in the back bar, sipping fresh orange juice and pondering life.

This latest comeback self-financed and the single independently released, there would be no entourage at his beck and call to take care of promotion. Yet promote he must. Unable to rely entirely upon the unblinking support of the diehard fans, matters couldn’t just be left to chance.

Thankfully for Richey the competition wasn’t great, the heavyweights keeping their powder dry for the more productive winter months. A typically slow week for new releases, only a couple of holiday dance anthems and the already established singles from Miranda and Devilicious offered a serious alternative to the record buying public, and a top twenty position wasn’t out of the question. Though, as Ted Perry had rightly commented earlier in the weekend, the Speeding Hearts never had been a singles band. Only Winning Smile that clocked up 550,000 sales in the UK sixteen years earlier had achieved gold disc status.

Nick sat down opposite. ‘I was thinking, ‘Single-handed Attack’: sounds a bit of a violent message.’

‘You couldn’t be further from the truth. In fact you could say it sums up my sex life, since Larissa,’ replied Richey with a grin, doing the coffee bean shaking motion.

‘Ah right, that kind of single-hand…following in the footsteps of a rich history that began with…ooh, let me think…Chuck Berry.’

The pair sang the lyrics to ‘My Ding-a-Ling’, before Nick offered an alternative. ‘Then of course there’s that song by the Vapours…’

‘Ah yes, ‘Turning Japanese’,’ confirmed Richey, breaking into the hum before continuing the list. ‘How about ‘I Touch Myself’? Who the hell was that by?’

‘That would be the Divinyls,’ Nick clarified, proud of his pop knowledge. ‘And not forgetting the daddy of all masturbation anthems…’

Both grinned before breaking into song. ‘I’m a wanker, I’m a wanker, and it does me good like it bloody well should…’

‘Ivor Biggun.’

Richey issued a sideways look. ‘I’d like to think mine’s just a little more subtle.’

A minute passed before Nick continues the reminiscinces: ‘Do you remember our first NME interview?’

Richey pressed out his lip, his memory hazy. ‘Remind me.’

‘He asked what was the inspiration behind ‘The Outsider’? Was it our feeling of being on the wrong side of the tracks in Thatcher’s Britain? Did we feel like outsiders because of unemployment? Or did we see ourselves as rebels, cast away from the mainstream?’

‘That’s right,’ recalled Richey. ‘You said: nah, I work in a bookmaker’s. The outsider’s not fancied by anyone.’

‘Well that’s how I felt when I wrote it.’

‘Things worked out all right for you in the end though, didn’t they?’

‘You think so? I’m not so sure. Look at what I missed out on. If I’d stayed in the band I could have shagged my way around England…and the world.’

‘Like me you mean? No, you did the right thing getting out when you did. There’s no substitute for true, honest to goodness love. I’m not sure I ever really got over losing out on Jan.’

Nick blew. ‘Even after all the women you’ve had – Cass, Estella, Larissa…need I go on?’

Richey screwed up his nose. ‘Yeah, they’re all great looking girls, but the difference is that you love Jan and Jan loves you. I’ve never had that.’

‘Thanks, I appreciate that,’ Nick replied though he wasn’t entirely sure where he stood at that moment, given Jan’s continued failure to reply. ‘You have fallen in love before though.’

Richey scratched his chin. ‘I have, several times. It’s just they don’t seem to fall in love with me. Not properly…not totally. And the ones that do turn out crazy like Candice frigging Barkin.’

Two telephones, the one behind the bar and Richey’s mobile started ringing simultaneously, causing Richey to sigh. ‘Well, here goes. It’s game on, I guess.’

Nick shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Um, we were planning on heading off soon, Richey.’

Richey’s face dropped. ‘Stay a little while longer Nick…please.’

‘I’ve got to get home.’

‘Get home? Get home for what?’

Actually Richey had a point. ‘Okay I’ll ask the other three, but I think they’ll feel the same…I’m sorry…’

‘Damn, and I’ve given your mobile number to Ryan and Spike too – as a back-up and in case mine gets busy…which I think is going to be case…Hello, Richey Osgood…’

Nick sighed.

* * *

Her progress had been slow since the break-out, those she’d imagined she could rely upon, the sweaty truckers and lonesome van drivers, surprisingly reluctant to pick her up. The keen-edged blade in her pocket, crafted in the tool shop, had thus far proven unnecessary, but offered reassurance nonetheless should one of the misfits overstep the mark. The closest to having his chest punctured had been the sleazy delivery driver who, not content with fucking her in every hole, had wanted to kiss her afterwards. That guy didn’t realise how lucky he’d been. It was only a wish to avoid a telltale trail of carnage that had spared the loser. Besides which she had a more pressing appointment in Penn when the knife would serve the purpose for which it was made: ending Richey Osgood’s life.

‘BRISTOL 97 MILES’ read the sign as she alighted, her latest ride a more benign character, content with a swift blowjob in the lay-by for services rendered. Wiping her lips she thanked him and zigzagged across the carriageway, keeping her head down.

* * *

After a further abortive call home, running out of ideas and patience, Nick decided to phone Debra.

‘Hi dad,’ echoed his daughter’s voice, a female response at last to one of his calls.

Nick didn’t want to sound desperate but it was difficult under the circumstances. ‘Is…is mum at yours? Is she all right? Nothing’s happened, has it? I’ve not heard from her since Saturday. I keep leaving messages. Something’s up, isn’t it?’

Debra paused, dizzied from the onslaught of questions. The pause was sufficient to set her father’s mind racing. ‘I knew it, something’s happened since I left.’

Again she paused. ‘Look dad, something is up…and things have…things have changed since you left.’

The fear in his voice was audible. ‘Changed…in what way?’

‘This isn’t easy for me to say, and I know you won’t be happy but…’

‘What is it, Debra?’ he prompted. ‘Just tell me straight.’

‘I won’t be…I’m not going to be getting married anymore.’

‘You’re not what…? Oh…oh right.’

‘Trevor and I have split. I’m really, really sorry, I know how much it’s cost you and that.’

Nick held a palm to the receiver to cover the huge sigh. Rarely had he felt such relief. Composing himself he offered the assurance: ‘As long as you’re happy, that’s all that matters.’

‘Oh yes, I’m happy…very happy,’ his daughter purred.

Unseen to Nick the shaven head of her new Gallic lover popped up from beneath the sheets. ‘Very happy…ooh,’ she exclaimed as her inner thigh was nuzzled. ‘Must go, dad…ooh.’

It wasn’t until he folded the phone away that Nick realised he’d been railroaded. He still hadn’t a clue as to his wife’s whereabouts and why she was being so elusive.

As Richey’s phones continued to ring incessantly, inducing a headache, Nick headed outside for some fresh air. Somehow, news of Miranda’s parentage had leaked out to the press, the journalists persistent, pleading to know if the rumour was true. When the other three had risen, Nick took them aside to canvas opinion. ‘Richey wants us to stay a short while longer. I think he wants us to stay around and help his promotion drive. What do you all think?’

‘I’m in no rush,’ confirmed Matt who, like Nick, was nursing a headache but who, unlike Nick, had personal reasons for wanting to prolong the visit.

When the still morose Pete and Kelly agreed too, the decision was taken out of Nick’s hands, three against one. Besides which, perhaps if he didn’t return as planned Jan might actually become worried about him.

The quartet plus Larissa formed a mini entourage, piling into the Zafira. Wisely Miranda remained behind at the pub, out of the spotlight.

First up on the schedule was a lunchtime appearance at the V Store in Bristol, Richey’s multiplicity of countenances on the CD covers presenting a haunting collage. However, it quickly became apparent that music had taken secondary importance to the breaking story, and the press were camped outside the store like shoppers at the New Year sales. To satiate their hunger Richey consented to hosting a conference back in Penn later that afternoon.

The promotion got underway on a makeshift stage with a mimed solo version of the song in front of a crowd of a couple of hundred. That was followed by Richey signing copies of the CD and the occasional arm or chest for the diehards who would then head off to the nearby tattooist to make them permanent. All the while dodging the rogue pressmen and women masquerading as fans, Richey kept them dangling. ‘All in good time, gentlemen, ladies, all in good time…’

A DJ from a local radio station showed up and Richey was interviewed live on air, protesting from the start: ‘No questions about Miranda…please.’

But the interrogation came anyway and he took his interviewer to task. ‘What about the new single?’

‘Okay,’ the DJ nodded grudgingly, ‘there’s been some speculation in the press about the sentiments behind your new single ‘Single-handed Attack’. I read that it’s a one-man crusade against terrorism, right?’

From the wings Nick smiled inwardly. Richey rubbed his chin before replying playfully: ‘No, not really, Martin, I guess it’s more about how we can all ease the pain of loneliness through single-handed action.’

The DJ wrapped up half an hour more of inane questions with the cry: ‘Richey Osgood, everyone!’

With two hours having passed since they set off from Penn, the strain began to register on Richey’s face as unsubtle Miranda enquiries rang out like shots from an assassin’s gun. But he kept them hanging, milking the brief moment of notoriety for all it was worth.

Aping a modern day Pied Piper, the rock star proceeded to HMV, the entourage snowballing to fifty. Another mimed version of the single was followed by another signing session and the same question batted away a hundred more times as the posse of journalists swelled.

When finally they were able to break away from Bristol, the arrival back in Penn with the mob still in tow was greeted by a second pack of scandal-starved journalists. Poor Miranda had barricaded herself in the cellar like a frightened Ann Frank. Richey called for order, inviting everyone round to the beer garden before gingerly mounting the seat of a wooden trestle. The fear of a live audience as profuse as twenty-five years earlier, he pointed shakily to a pretty female journalist that had managed to fight her way to the front. ‘Yes you…and before you ask, yes I am single at the moment.’

A collective chuckle-come-groan rang out, illustrating how much the press had missed him. ‘So, Richey, is it true that Miranda’s your daughter?’ an obese male journalist shouted.

Richey issued a fake yawn, glancing back over his shoulder as the back door creaked open.

‘Miranda!’ they gasped, as she crept out to stand by his side, a hundred flashlights greeting her arrival.

Once more Richey appealed for quiet. ‘Gentlemen, ladies of the press, there have been several rumours lately as to whether Miranda Sharp is my…whether Miranda Sharp is my daughter.’

A buzz grew on the air as they moved in crushingly. ‘Well, is she or isn’t she?’

Richey paused. ‘Frankly, um, all of this has come as quite some shock.’

‘Is she or isn’t she?’ the question was fired louder.

‘At the moment, um, I’m unable to confirm or deny,’ he prevaricated, playing them the only way he knew how, like an audience at a gig, leaving them hungry for more.

A murmur of disapproval echoed around the mob, met by Richey’s raised hands. ‘Unfortunately, it’s too early to be certain.’

Squashed against Pete, Kelly was relieved, relieved that she wasn’t Richey’s daughter and having to endure this. Pete’s hand slipped inside hers and she pulled it away quickly, heart heavy with regret. Bowing to the journalists’ hunger, Richey fed a titbit. ‘What I can say is that Miranda’s mother and I did have a relationship in the late Eighties.’

Barely had the sentence left his lips as calls were made to editors in London to find out whom this woman was, and to track her down. Archives would be buzzing for the next few hours.

‘Richey, Miranda, can we have one of you two holding hands?’ rang out the request.

An hour’s worth of further questioning was met with non-committal responses from both parties and forced smiles for the lenses. When finally it dawned upon them that Richey really did have no more to impart, the mob was shepherded through to the bar where more beer was sold than the rest of August added together.

With evening drawing in, they headed out of Penn with their different slants, leaving the pub and the village once more in silence. ‘This’ll be the death of me,’ sighed Richey, flopping on a seat in the back bar. ‘I thought they were never going to leave.’

Miranda shook her head gravely. ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet, daddy dearest. Last week I did thirty record stores, a dozen shopping centres, seventeen radio interviews, God knows how many TV shows…’

Equally shattered, Nick elected to escape upstairs, even though it was barely nine o’clock. The humdrum day having kept his negative thoughts in check, with another full day having passed with no word from his wife, once more the worst of his fears rose. Willing the mobile to ring, to offer an end to the misery, he kept it close. But when eventually it did ring, his expectation was quashed by hearing Spike Sanders’ voice. ‘Okay Spike, I’ll let him know,’ he said wearily, slumping back on the bed and staring at the ceiling, trying to rationalise three whole days without so much as a word.

This was the most frustration he’d felt since the American tour.

Half an hour later Richey poked his head around the door and Nick was quick to pass on the message. ‘Oh, Spike rang…couldn’t get hold of you.’

He watched Richey’s face brighten, rubbing his hands. ‘I knew it. I knew Spike would come through.’

‘Uh-oh, sorry Richey, he said something about six grand you owe him and, I quote: ‘he wouldn’t piss in your mouth if you were dying of thirst’.’

Nick felt immediately – albeit temporarily – better. If he was down in the dumps, it was only fair someone else should be too.

Richey, however, had a counterpunch that Nick didn’t see coming. ‘Nick…this business about Kelly’s parentage…’

At that moment Kelly and Pete appeared at the door. It was Pete that spoke. ‘We need to know the truth.’

‘Okay,’ replied Nick, focusing on the events that followed the Battle of the Bands at the Ship in 1982.

* * *

With Elvis Costello’s ‘Accidents Will Happen’ appropriately leaking out of the stereo in the flat in Crossbow Hill, Nick took time out from grappling with Jan to check that none of the guests had been sick or spilled anything on the carpet. Having spent the evening half-drinking his beers to keep up with the rounds, he wasn’t totally blotto like the rest, though he was pleasantly inebriated. And it was his birthday.

Passing the spare room, he witnessed Liz and Kirk messing about on the bed.

In the half-light of the lounge, Susie’s head lolled on Vaughn’s shoulder. As Nick moved close, Susie elevated to wrap her arms his neck seductively. Automatically Nick responded, their bodies pressing together and he felt himself becoming aroused. When the birthday boy was offered a birthday kiss he let their lips brush before tongues gelled. Gently they swayed to the music as Vaughn looked on. It was a guilty pleasure but one Nick couldn’t deny. However, Susie’s urgings to take matters further were quashed when the control filter in his brain kicked back in.

Elsewhere in the flat, Richey and Cass’ voices were audible behind the kitchen door, the conversation heavy. Richey, it seemed, was being subjected once more to the heavy hand of rejection.

Denying his lust, Nick eased Susie away. Immediately she exacted revenge by slipping onto Vaughn’s lap, arms draped around his neck, even though it was obvious she didn’t fancy him. Their mouths locked and Susie moaned lasciviously for Nick’s benefit, though Vaughn was hardly complaining. As he moved out of sight, Nick hesitated at the bedroom door to witness the harsh uncoupling, Susie pushing Vaughn away. Vaughn staggered up as, at the same time, Kirk exited Liz’s room.

Heading inside to find Jan out for the count, it was impossible for Nick to ignore the feelings induced by Susie. His cock was so stiff it was painful. Looking back into the lounge, he saw Susie had fallen asleep on Kirk’s lap. It was turning into a night of Musical Chairs, no wonder no one could remember who’d done what to whom by the time morning arrived.

He watched as Vaughn hesitated outside Liz’s door before coughing, his neck juddering violently. The drummer had a sharp u-turn and, from the bathroom, Nick could hear the peal of pained vomiting. Richey shot a glance his way from the kitchen then back again at Cass, the night clearly not going his way. Movement in the spare bedroom drew Nick in closer. In bed, Liz was facing the curtains.

She issued an incoherent mumble as he climbed in, fumbling for position. No attempt to push him away as he pawed at her fulsome breasts, his eager cock nosed between her thighs that parted willingly as arousal forced its way upon her. Primal in his desires, a dozen eager strokes brought him to orgasm. Yet the moment he unloaded, guilt swept over him like an angry tide and he stole away as quickly as he came.

In the early hours, he was awoken to see Jan’s sparkly eyes. She placed a finger on his lips, beckoning him towards her. The sobering guilt of what he’d done with Liz almost stopped him but Jan was resourceful, young and eager, ensuring that he finished what she initiated.

When dawn arrived, Nick was not alone in his guilt: everyone seemed to harbour a secret of some description for what might or might not have occurred. Furtive looks passed around the group though no one, not even Liz, could possibly have suspected what occupied Nick’s mind. He spent the rest of the morning in shock for what he’d done, determined to place a block against it. And place a block against it he did, so much so that he denied it to himself so many times that the lie became the truth.

* * *

Pete and Kelly’s mouths were agape, and even Richey seemed shocked to the core. It suddenly occurred to Nick that his and Kelly’s dalliance of recent days had come dangerously close to breaking the same taboo Pete and Kelly had been so keen to avoid. But for the grace of God and that taxi crash… The upshot was that his kids had a secret half sister, and how on earth was he going to explain all this to Jan? It was probably as well he wasn’t at home. He wondered whether something that had happened a quarter of a century ago, when they’d only just started dating, could be classed as being unfaithful.

The wider implications infused the shock, prompting Kelly to throw her arms around Nick. ‘Oh thank you, thank you, thank you so much.’

Though clearly her joy arose more from lust for Pete than a daughter’s love for her newly discovered father, at that moment Nick didn’t honestly care. There’d be time for that.

Having received the validation they craved, Pete and Kelly crept away.

The other side of the wall, the writer pushed his lover to the wall, their lips moulding with passion. Breaking the embrace, Kelly dragged him to her bed, allowing the t-shirt to be lifted to free her curvy breasts. Snaking beneath her, Pete blew heavily, a week of fantasising and agonising finally being realised.