Silver Ch. 21-23

An hour passed before anything happened, bodies pressing in from behind to wedge him in. As the piped music and the lights died, a slender figure came forward in to the funnel of light to issue an embarrassed-sounding hello to a crowd heavily populated with Richey fans. Before even the first note was played, the pundits surrounding Matt were speculating heavily. Opening with ‘Love Is A Battlefield’, the floor filled to half capacity as curiosity disseminated.

A ripple of applause ran around the audience, after which Miranda launched into the tour de force that was ‘Hall Of Mirrors’. Even the most sceptical Richey fan couldn’t fail to nod along. As those around him vied for position, Matt felt his ribs ache, the tempo dropping as the teenaged singer showcased two more original numbers, doubtless destined for the forthcoming LP. She finished on a high with the Rock Hunt staple ‘I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll’, the stage darkening in her wake. Three minutes later it lit up again and Miranda returned with a bow, before launching into an encore comprising ‘Bat Out Of Hell’ and ‘Wining Smile.’

There were tears in the eyes of almost every concert goer, from pretty girls who were barely old enough to drink to great big hefty lumps of men who’d followed the band over three decades. Rumour and conjecture spreading like a forest fire, not wishing to lose the prime pitch Matt decided to forego more alcohol.

Twenty minutes elapsed before eager movement on stage saw roadies swapping instruments around. Piped music continued to fill the void, one tune running seamlessly into the next. The next fifteen minutes was marked by three more fillers, as if desperate to use up time. When another three followed and the stage remained desolate, a bearded joker behind mused that he hadn’t paid ten quid to listen to some karaoke singer and a sixth form disco. Two further tracks caused the sense of unrest to grow, some issuing hollow threats to head off to the pub instead. Soon an hour had elapsed since Miranda’s departure.

The black-clad cat-like roadies aside, the stage remained unwilling to give up its dark secrets, a sparse audience on the floor below testifying to the general air of uncertainty, the majority sticking to the bar rather than establishing a position near the front. Those that had filed out before the stage did so as much in hope as anything. This persisted for ten more minutes until suddenly a spotlight illuminated centre stage.

* * *

Behind the veil of black, Nick Silver fiddled with the bottle of cider someone had thrown his way, pacing like an expectant father. Someone said something and he nodded back, not really hearing, not really caring, the swirling voices mutating into dull sounds like he was underwater. His mind was replaying the events of earlier that had brought him from the disaster scene in Penn to the Tollgate in Bristol.

* * *

As they stood around watching the firefighters tackle the blaze, Nick’s phone bleeped and he withdrew it. Glancing down, the text read: meet me behind the church now. R.

‘I had a funny feeling you wouldn’t go that easily,’ he whispered, sidestepping away and out of sight.

Following the grey flint path, as the sounds from the street grew muted he came face-to-face with Richey, peering out from behind a tree. Gesturing Nick over, Richey immersed himself deeper in the thicket until they were enshrouded in silence. Before Nick had a chance to speak Richey said breathlessly and still evidently in shock: ‘T-that w-was a c-close fucking c-call.’

‘You’re not wrong. We all assumed you were inside. Everyone’s written you off for dead.’

‘I-I s-stepped outside w-wondering where that officer h-had got to…and the p-place just b-blew. M-must have been that g-gas stove in the outhouse. It’s always been a b-bit s-suss.’

‘I think we can all count ourselves lucky.’

A brief moment passed before Richey wondered out loud: ‘So, as far as the w-world’s concerned, I’m a g-gonner, yeah.’

‘Yeah, we’d better get back and break the news that you’re okay.’

‘Nick, no wait,’ Richey interjected, the shock seemingly having abated. ‘Don’t you see? This is my big chance to get away from all this, the seventy grand debt wiped out. I could be in the south of France by nightfall, a new life by morning.’

Nick frowned. ‘Don’t be daft, Richey, you’re still in shock. You’ve not had time to think this through.’

‘You’re right, it has all happened rather quickly, but it kind of makes sense, doesn’t it?’

‘You realise if you do a runner, you can never come back. Get caught and they’ll put you away.’

‘Well right now I’m happy to take those risks.’

Nick tried to rationalise the situation. ‘Okay, think about what you’d be leaving behind.’

‘Like what?’

Nick rubbed his chin. ‘Like your daughter.’

Richey chuckled. ‘Oh that’s complete bollocks, Nick. Miranda and I met at the TV studios last week. I heard her talking about having no father and a plan started forming as to how I might get a bit of publicity for the single.’

‘You did it for the publicity?’

‘If it helps sell a few more copies – for me and Miranda – where’s the harm?’

Nick shook his head. ‘That’s the lowest of the low.’

‘Come on, everyone does it nowadays. Not that it matters any more…’

Nick rubbed his chin. ‘Are you serious about disappearing?’

‘Never been more serious, my friend, I’ve twenty-five grand in cash in my pocket…’

‘That won’t last you five minutes.’

‘Staying in England I won’t last five minutes when the loan sharks’ goons come after me.’

Nick pondered. ‘Okay, what about the gig…?’

‘What about having a band?’

‘You don’t need one. You can do an acoustic set.’

Richey laughed out loud. ‘Richey the one-man band, huh. You know I can’t go up there on my own. It was hard enough with three or people to help me. No Nick, this is a God given opportunity and I’d be mad not to. Nothing you can say or do will change my mind. Now are you going to help me?’

Twenty-three

At the Tollgate six hours later, a partial hush fell as movement was sensed on stage, a microphone fizzing softly as it picked up the patter of feet. At the same time, the auditorium lights were killed, bringing pitch black and absolute hush for five seconds, so much so that it was almost possible to hear those at the front breathe. ‘Thirty seconds, everyone,’ rang out the near yet faraway backstage call.

Nick felt his insides turn a cartwheel as, with a crash, a cylinder of white light from up in the gods bisected the darkness of the stage. a figure dressed in a turtle outfit stepped out and into the illuminated ring, guitar strapped diagonally across his chest like a musket. ‘Hi…it’s good to be back,’ sounded the muffled greeting.

The turtle looked up, his eyes seeming to strain at the glare, before the front zip was ripped and a familiar face was revealed. Gripping the microphone with white knuckles, raising the other for hush, he continued: ‘Someone mentioned it was twenty-five years…’

Nick breathed deep long and hard, agonising with the decision as he had done for the past six hours.

* * *

Back in Penn, having been made refugees by the blast, Pete and Kelly accepted Larissa’s offer of dinner at the manor house. Heading to the pool, the lovers picked up where they’d left off on Sunday afternoon, enjoying a playful swim, circling and splashing. Pete was waiting for the dream to end, to be awoken to reality. As they climbed out dripping, he reached to grip Kelly’s waist, pulling her to him. ‘Let’s do it here,’ he commanded with a grin, wrestling her onto a sunbed.

‘Wait,’ ordered Kelly, pushing him away.

‘Oh Kelly…’

‘I said wait.’

At that moment they were joined by their hostess, the Russian beauty. Even in grief she looked sexy as hell in black lace.

‘What’s happening?’ enquired Pete.

Larissa held a finger to his lips as she moved towards Kelly. Kneeling over the younger girl, the pair moulded lips passionately. Breaking off momentarily, Kelly turned with a smile. ‘It’s every bad boy’s dream, isn’t it?’

Larissa stepped back to disrobe, unveiling that awesome body once more and allowing Kelly to offer a gentle caress. Pete waited expectantly, feeling his cock stiffen. New to this sort of thing, he wasn’t sure of the protocol, content just to gaze on longingly as the two women rubbed nibbles with a squeal of delight. Suddenly they turned on him, the damp boxers torn from his middle. Pete groaned as he came under attack from two hungry feminine mouths. Eyes closing, he prayed that the dream would never end.

* * *

Nick looked on, pocked with goosebumps. He couldn’t quite believe all of this had been at his suggestion. It was one thing for Richey to have been resurrected like a phoenix from the flames of the pub. It was another thing entirely to be persuaded to abandon the plan of a new life in France. But this was something Nick never thought he’d see, driven by desperation and artfulness.

The cumbersome turtle suit kicked aside, a deafening whoop caused Richey to smile crookedly, his cropped hair already glistening in the heat and electric atmosphere. The audience felt it too, gravitating towards its idol, held back only by the muscle and sinew of those that had managed to cram closer. ‘Richey! (clap, clap, clap) Richey! (clap, clap, clap) Richey! (clap, clap, clap)’ they chanted.

At the front, before even a note had even played, a teenaged girl passed out, hastily deported to the side on a conveyor belt of raised arms, as ‘Richey! (clap, lap, clap), Richey! (clap, clap, clap) Richey! (clap, clap, clap)’ continued the hypnotic mantra.

‘It’s been some day,’ he proclaimed with delicious understatement. ‘Reports of my demise have been somewhat premature.’

* * *

Up on his balcony Matt looked on in wonder. How the hell Richey was going to pull it off now that Spencer and Lee had abandoned him and everyone else he’d ever worked with had either died or wanted nothing to do with him? How was he going to persuade thousands of fans that the Speeding Hearts were back and better than ever? How was he going to raise the roof with the sound only a cohesive band could produce? Matt knew, as did Richey, that one false move and his career really would be dead and buried.

As the crowd’s cheer abated, Richey continued in hushed tones: ‘Let me introduce…the band…’

A second cylinder of light pierced the black, illuminating a denim clad bass player, few in the venue recognised. ‘On bass…we have Daryl Chandler.’

They cheered regardless, a raised hand from the mysterious Daryl followed by a deep-rumbled riff as his youthful fingers worked the strings. ‘Daryl fucking who?’ someone behind speculated and even the knowledgeable music journalist had to concur with the sentiment.

A third funnel of light hit the back of the stage and Richey heralded: ‘Ashley Garner on drums.’

More puzzled looks were passed around, a half-hearted cheer as a ripple on the drums signalled Ashley’s greeting. Another face Matt was unfamiliar with, this was worrying. Had Richey just been out on the streets of Bristol and rounded up a random bunch of buskers again? It all seemed doomed to failure and Matt was glad he was up here, disassociated from Richey.

‘And on lead guitar…’ Richey continued above the din.

Nick felt his heart plunge. Yet who else could save Richey? Who else knew all the chords and changes?

Nick certainly didn’t, his catalogue restricted to the eight or so songs from 1981/82. As he watched intently from the sidelines, he wished it were anyone else out there than his own son. Thrust headlong into the music world against every principle Nick held dear, only one person could be held accountable if Joe ended up on a slab in the mortuary within a year.

Yet at the same time it was nothing short of a stroke of genius. The Speeding Hearts’ tribute band, the trio knew every song in the catalogue, even the obscurities and crowd pleasers. Richey’s words came in confirmation: ‘…Joe Silver.’

Joe was bathed in light, a hand raised in salute, glancing over at his father who emptied the contents of the bottle in one gulp before remembering he didn’t much care for cider. ‘Gimme that,’ he ordered, wrestling the joint from Miranda who’d taken up a position alongside. ‘And if you can find anything stronger I’ll have that to.’

Richey’s pained breathing drowned out by the chanting of his name, he craved silence with the words: ‘We haven’t played this song live in over two decades.’

Joe started the familiar chords and Richey issued the laugh, launching into ‘The Outsider’ like a man given three minutes to live. A nod of appreciation among the older fans, Nick’s stomach felt hollow as he groped for another bottle of cider, swigging to wash down the ecstasy pill Miranda had liberated from one of the sound guys.

Out in the pit, the crowd crashed together violently, anxious figures soon forging a path to the wings for fear of being crushed. As overexcited pogo dancers lost their footing, immediately ten pairs of hands reached down to haul them back up, the unwritten rule among the giant swaying beast. As the song – Nick’s song – ground to an end, those with energy left held their hands high to applaud.

No let-up, however, another classic, ‘Machines’, kicked in immediately. Ashley sliced the drums with a deft touch, Daryl on bass aping Kirk’s near anonymity and Joe providing the crutch Richey had been missing since his father Nick had walked out. The generation gap between them mattered not, united as they were in their love of the Speeding Hearts’ tunes. They crossed and double-crossed the stage, Joe utilising every inch of slack on the guitar lead before Richey finished with throaty thanks, the lights killed.

Screams filled the air as darkness reigned for fifteen seconds. Suddenly, on came the primary colours, dancing wildly from member to member, in time with Ashley’s drummed intro to ‘Sweet Something’. Richey serenaded the crowd whilst Joe’s guitar threatened to short the amp as they’d played off one another, the electricity almost visible. Tiptoeing to the front, leaning over in a cruciate pose, Richey pleaded for order over the throng, before glancing left. ‘This next song…shush, this next song is dedicated to the man, but for whom…’

As the tempo dropped, the audience stilled like a tide coming to shore. ‘You’re So Gone’, the song an embittered Richey wrote for Nick and Jan’s departure, rang out – as never heard before. Transposed from a diatribe of the treacherous couple to a tribute, instead of ‘You’re so gone and I’m happy you’re gone’, Richey sang: ‘You’re so gone and I miss you so’, instead of ‘You’re welcome to her, now leave me in peace,’ he chimed: ‘You were made for each other, now I’ll leave you in peace’.

A single stray tear trickled down Nick’s cheek, wiped away before Miranda could see. Rarely nowadays did music move him, yet in moments like this it retained the rare ability, especially after a day like the one that had just passed. Whilst some of the Speeding Hearts’ back catalogue could be criticised for falling short on technical ability, few songs lacked passion or honesty. The singer gave another sideways glance, blowing sweat from his face as Nick nodded silent approval.

Three more oldies, ‘Poisoned Paradise’, ‘Honeydew’ and ‘Sun Street’ were dispatched at full tilt and it was only when a breathless Richey took time out to sup at his water bottle that the crowd was allowed brief respite. Yet one section refused to use the time to resuscitate, reanimating seconds after ‘Sun Street’ had closed and, from his position high on the balcony, Matt observed the thrusting of fists, reminiscent of something from a Nazi rally. It all looked rather intimidating. Richey, however, seemed to know what they wanted, calling for order with the promise: ‘Later.’

‘When The Lights Fade’ brought the medley of classics to an end, the lights fading on cue, a thirty second period of rest granted before ‘Head On’ and ‘Slide’ were thrown in to appease the newer fans. Stretching the audience from front to rear, Matt had rarely witnessed scenes like it. Reminiscent of the Oscars, as debilitated bodies came out, fresh space fillers came forward. And only the bravest were able to stand their ground throughout. ‘Thank you,’ called Richey as he led the band from the stage.

As Joe came close, working his brow busily with a towel, Nick issued a thumbs-up. Father’s pride outweighing the plenitude of reservations, it was the next best thing to being there himself. ‘This is a bit different to the Pig and Whistle and the Ship,’ mouthed Joe, tossing the towel to Miranda.

Yes, thought Nick, this was the big time all right. And Joe was a natural, instilled with the spirit of his namesake, the awesome Joe Donnelly. This time Nick wasn’t going to allow the regrets that had dogged his own development stand in the way of his son.

Richey, eyes the size of ping-pong balls, doused himself with water. Without drugs or alcohol, sheer adrenalin was pulling him through the trial. Cupping a hand to his ear to listen, from the floor the fans implored to the barren stage: ‘One-arm! (clap, clap, clap) One-arm! (clap, clap, clap)’

Richey led the band back to a huge cheer, taking up position behind a keyboard that had materialised during the break. Flexing a set of brittle fingers, he keyed the intro to ‘Winning Smile’, eliciting a short-lived hush. The audience was beside itself and, when the singer ran short of breath, they filled the gaps until he just let them get on with it.

The crowd noise faded and they applauded themselves before quickly the arms came out once more. Three more songs from the keyboard era, ‘Dead Pretty’, ‘Speeding Bullet’ and ‘Talking Strangers’ followed in quick succession before Richey’s fingers cried enough.

‘Small World’ and ‘Reaching Out’ from different ends of the Nineties allowed the crowd no opportunity to re-raise the chant, forced to pogo instead. But eventually Richey had to draw breath and the arms thrust as the order rang out: ‘One-arm! (clap, clap, clap) One-arm! (clap, clap, clap)’

Barely a week old and only just in the shops, it astounded Nick how they’d taken it to their hearts so fondly. The chant reverberated and Richey appealed for calm, once more denying their wish.

They knew of course that it was all part of the game, and that eventually it would arrive, doubtless near the end and no doubt the highlight of the night. Yet they went through the motions all the same, a well-rehearsed ritual to whatever single happened to be out at the time.

From Richey’s perspective, to capitulate to their whim and play it upon request would be tantamount to premature ejaculation and Richey wanted every single one of them to have the best climax ever. He might not have learned a great deal about life but he did know how to work a crowd.

He stilled their ardour with another live favourite, dedicated to ‘the Madden brothers who I miss terribly.’

Vaughn’s evocative tribute to Kirk, ‘Tiptoeing On Glass’, sounded as fresh as it had seventeen years earlier, bringing a lump to Nick’s throat as his mind visualised the two absent friends. The crowd knew too what the song represented, raising lighters and remaining reverent throughout the poignant tribute.

The second it ended, however, like fickle lovers once more they ordered the single. And once more Richey made them wait, before launching into ‘Last Chance’, and issuing a hoarse farewell.

‘One-arm! (clap, clap, clap) One-arm! (clap, clap, clap)’ continued the call and soon everyone was sucked in, even Matt up on his balcony.

Those around him were united in agreeing this was the best Speeding Hearts gig ever, if not the best gig ever. Richey truly had pulled off the seemingly impossible – with a little help from his friend.

The minutes passed and as the chant grew louder, rising like an aeroplane’s approach, a tube of light illuminated Richey atop a chair, the trusty acoustic in hand. A truly amazing sight, he’d never, ever been alone on stage before. ‘All right, this is for all you wankers,’ he called and finally the crowd was granted its wish.