Chester shook his head.
‘Not now, eh? They might think you were being pushy. Maybe play it when we go down to the studio.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Which had better be now. All right, everybody! Clear that shit away and get the gear downstairs. We’re going to start on time for once.’
To my surprise, there was a slow but positive response. They got to their feet (leaving the remains of the meal as it was) and began putting on coats and picking up instrument cases. I’ve never been able to understand authority. Some people (like Chester) have it, and others (like me) don’t. It’s not even as if he was especially tall. As they got ready, he stood there counting heads and making a mental calculation.
‘Janice, are you coming with us tonight?’
‘I thought I would, yes.’
‘We’ll need two cars. Paisley, have you got yours outside?’
‘Mm-hm.’
‘Give William a lift, will you?’
‘Sure.’
Soon they were all heading downstairs, leaving just Paisley and me.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Chester asked him.
‘Finish my joint.’
‘For God’s sake, Paisley. It costs me five quid an hour, that place. Every time, we lose an hour for some reason or other. Usually to do with you.’ He turned to me. ‘Don’t let him be late, Bill. See you in a few minutes.’
His footsteps echoed down the staircase. From the street, there was the sound of car doors opening and closing. Then the car drove away.
Paisley got slowly to his feet, bent down to a wall socket and turned off the light. He turned all the rings on the cooker off, too, and then sat down.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
It was completely dark. All I could see was the yellow glint of his eyeballs, the shine of the grease on his jet-black hair, and the tip of his joint glowing as he inhaled.
‘Want some?’ he said, leaning forward.
I walked to the window.
‘You heard what Chester said. We’d better go. Are you safe to drive after taking that stuff?’
‘We’re not going yet. Got some business to do first.’
‘Business?’
‘C’ mere.’
I guessed that he was beckoning, so I went to the table and sat opposite him.
‘Chester tell you about our landlord?’
‘A bit.’
‘He’s a dealer. Uses this place to meet people. That’s why we rehearse on Saturdays, see — he wants us to be out of the house.’
‘And?’
‘There was a phone call for him this morning. First thing. Nobody else was up. Then I got this idea, see.’
Not wanting to know, I asked: ‘What idea?’
‘I pretended to be him, didn’t I? ’Cause they said, “Is that Mr Jones?” — I mean, a name like that, it’s a cover, isn’t it? No one’s really got a name like that — and I said, “Yes, speaking.” So they said, “Meet you at the house tonight, six-thirty,” and I said, “What for?”, and they said, “We got some stuff for you,” and I said, “What sort of stuff?”, and they said, “Good stuff,” and I said, “How much stuff?”, and they said, “Loads of stuff, mate, loads,” and I said, “All right, I’ll be here,” and they said, “Make sure none of them wankers is in,” and I said, “It’s all right, I’ll be here on my own,” and then they rang off.’
‘I don’t get it,’ I said.
‘Well, I’ve got this plan, see.’
Still not wanting to know, I said: ‘What plan?’
‘Well look. They’re going to turn up with all this stuff, right, and they’re going to want some money for it. The thing is, I’m going to take the stuff, not give them any money, and then scarper.’ There was a pause. ‘What do you think?’
‘That’s your plan?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Look, Paisley, how many of those things have you had today?’
We waited in silence for several minutes. Every time a car approached my heart began to beat frantically. It was an absurd situation. Why could my life never be simple? All I had wanted to do was audition with a new band. Why should it have to involve something like this?
‘Paisley, this is a stupid idea,’ I said at last. ‘Let’s go and join the others. I mean, if you really think these guys are going to come in here and calmly hand over — look, how old are you?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘Jesus, you’re only eighteen, you don’t want to be mixed up in all this. You don’t want to be into drugs and crime at your age. You want to be a singer, for God’s sake. You’ve got a terrific voice, you’ve got a manager who’s devoted to you — ’
‘You think I’ve got a good voice?’
‘Of course you have. Look, you don’t need me to tell you that.’
He frowned. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes it doesn’t sound so good.’
‘Listen, we’ve got a singer in our band, right? To him, you’re like — Sinatra. You’re like Nat King Cole. Marvin Gaye. Robert Wyatt.’
‘You mean that?’
‘We’ve just made this new tape. Here, have a listen to this.’ I took the cassette out of my pocket and handed it to him in the dark. ‘Listen to what he sounds like. I mean, he’s OK, it’s not embarrassing or anything. But just think what you could do with a song like that.’
‘What — is this something you wrote yourself?’
‘Yes. It’s… well, it’s a very personal song, actually. I’d like you to hear it and… maybe hear you sing it some time.’
Just then, a car stopped outside the house. Two doors slammed.
‘Here they are.’
He slipped the cassette into his jacket pocket, stood up and went to the window overlooking the street. Quietly, I joined him, and saw the car parked outside, with its sidelights still on.
‘Can you see them?’
I thought I saw figures moving in the shadows by the front door; but couldn’t be certain. The next thing we knew, there were footsteps in the corridor.
‘Two people,’ I said.
Now that I could see his face, Paisley looked scared; more scared even than I felt.
‘Have you any idea what you’re going to do?’
‘Ssh.’
From downstairs, a voice called: ‘Hello!’
Paisley went to the door and, doing his best to disguise his voice, shouted, ‘Up here!’
The footsteps ascended the stairs, slowly. We heard a thud and a cry of ‘Shit!’ where the missing boards must have been. Paisley withdrew to the centre of the room, where the wall had been knocked out. I stayed right where I was, beside the window.
The footsteps stopped on the first landing, and we heard one voice say, ‘It’s a bit bloody dark in here, isn’t it?’
‘Shut up,’ said the other.
‘We’re upstairs!’ Paisley called. His voice was shaking now.
The footsteps approached, getting slower and slower. Outside our room, they stopped.
‘In here,’ said Paisley.
∗
I find it hard to describe what happened. There was a long silence, a very long silence, and then some more footsteps. Suddenly, two figures were framed in the doorway. They stood apart, threatening and wordless, their little bodies visible only in silhouette. They were wearing hoods and carrying heavy wooden clubs, and they could only have been about three feet tall, both of them. I don’t know how long they must have stood there. Paisley just stared at them, frozen with shock and terror, until they stepped forward and began to scream, together. This awful, icy, high-pitched scream. All at once they were running towards him, and then one of them jumped on to the table. The other one was swinging his club around and starting to hit Paisley about the legs with it. Paisley turned, and from somewhere or other he produced a knife and started slashing madly in the air. He was shouting something, too. I don’t know what. Then he must have managed to knife the little man in the hand because he dropped his club and started screaming and shouting ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ and he grabbed the bottom of Paisley’s jacket and tried to pull him down. But by now the other one, the one on the table, was standing right over Paisley, and before I could warn him or anything, he’d crunched him over the head, and there was this sound like an egg-shell cracking when you’re making an omelette. And then Paisley was on the floor, and for the next minute or so they were both at it, beating the life out of him till there was nothing left of his head at all and they were both too tired to do any more.