In Pieces (23 page)

Si had to admit they looked beautiful, if you liked that kind of thing.

Miracle of miracles, they fitted. Ten minutes later they were back outside the shop and Ricky was strutting carefully down Wardour Street, avoiding muddy patches and piles of rubbish, more like a Regency fop than a budding rock star.

‘You know what I'm going to call my band?'

‘
Your
band?' quipped Si.

But Ricky didn't react. ‘The Crocodiles. What do you think? Cool, huh?'

‘Mmmm… Could be. Yeah, it's not bad. Why not?'

‘Yeah,' grinned Ricky, ‘why the hell not. Rock ‘n' roll baby, rock ‘n' roll,' and he leapt into the air, neatly clicking the steel-shod heels of his new shoes together. The sun caught them and bounced off the metal and undulating leather. The flash of light seemed a good omen.

~

The first night grew into an affair. Soon the Sleeper and Greta were sneaking kisses not only when Michael was abroad, but also during the day when the kids were out of the room. The Sleeper stuck to his routine for the evenings, but noticed that Michael came home later these days, normally after the Sleeper had gone out to the pub. Also, the evenings when he opened the front door to the sound of fighting seemed to become more frequent. He didn't want to ask Greta about Michael or the arguments. He was afraid she might decide to end the affair if he asked such personal questions. Despite himself, he found the situation becoming more intense.

The Sleeper wondered how Michael failed to notice the guilt written large across his face. He used to resent Michael, but now that he was doing something which would really hurt his landlord if he found out, he felt bad about it. He despised his weakness.

Sometimes, when he was talking to Michael, he'd become convinced that Greta had left a lipstick stain on his cheek; he would rub discreetly at it.

‘What's wrong with your face?' Michael would ask.

‘Oh nothing. Caught myself shaving, that's all.' He felt the heat rising in his cheeks.

But Michael seemed not to notice and turned away. The Sleeper knew he was making a mistake getting involved but he couldn't help it. So long as no one found out then it wasn't a problem, he told himself. He refused to confront the bigger questions which lurked in the shadows at the edge of his mind.

Just after Easter he received a letter. It wasn't the first one he'd got since moving into Westbourne Park Road because his ma wrote a couple of times with family news and to ask when he'd be coming home. He hadn't been home since coming to London, but thought maybe he'd go in May or June. Greta handed him the letter with a smile at breakfast. She'd been up for a couple of hours with the kids and getting Michael off to work.

‘Hey, dozy, you've got a letter.'

It had a London postage mark, but he didn't need to open it to know who it was from. It had been so long since he'd last heard anything that it came as a shock. He thought they'd forgotten about him. He'd got so caught up with Greta that he'd almost forgotten why he'd come to London in the first place.

The Sleeper toyed with the letter over his toast and tried to convince himself that he hadn't hoped that they'd forgotten about him, but he knew he was lying to himself.

‘You going to open it or what?' demanded Greta nosily.

‘Oh, no. I'll read it later. After breakfast.'

She gave him a strange look. Then one of the kids started screaming and she turned away to comfort the child.

The Sleeper tucked the letter in his pocket. Later, when he was alone in his bedroom, he ripped it open. The message was brief and gave little away. Just some instructions to be at a pub in Hammersmith on 30 April. Nothing more. He mentally cancelled his trip home. The letter could only
mean one thing—he remembered what they'd told him. His heart was beating terrifyingly fast, and he felt sick.

The flames engulfed the letter and black flakes floated into the sink. When there was no white paper left, he wafted at the smoke—surely Greta would smell the acrid stench of burning? He scrunched up the ashes and turned on the tap. They left a black stain on the porcelain as they spiralled down the plughole.

~

The first gig was in the upstairs room of a Kilburn pub. Si turned up early to give a hand in setting up. But Ricky and his new friends had already played a couple of warm-up numbers. Of course, there was no one there yet. It was ten past nine. The landlord, a grumpy old bugger with holes in his cardigan, kept popping up to check on them.

‘What's he worried about?' muttered Ricky.

‘Dunno. But I don't like 'im.' This from Art the drummer.

As far as Si could see, Art was the most articulate of them all—apart from Ricky, of course. The other band members stood in their own little worlds, tunelessly playing to themselves. What a bunch, thought Si. What the hell is Ricky doing with this lot?

But Ricky stood proud centre stage. He'd backcombed his blond mane and was wearing the crocodile winklepickers; he looked pretty slick dressed all in black with that shock of hair and those extraordinary shoes.

Somehow Ricky had got his way with the name too. The Moguls were history and tonight's gig was billed as the launch of The Crocodiles. That's what it said downstairs on a blackboard outside the pub.

TONIGHT! THE LAUNCH OF THE CROCODILES. THE HOTTEST NEW BAND TO HIT LONDON SINCE SPANDAU BALLET. 10 PM PAY ON THE DOOR

Si suspected Ricky had written the quirky notice. He was right.

‘Why Spandau?' asked Art.

‘It'll attract attention.'

‘It looks stupid.'

‘Yeah,' chimed in the others.

‘Makes us sound like a bunch of ponces,' complained Art eloquently.

‘Come on, guys. Wise up. It makes us look like we're in the same league as Spandau.'

‘But we're not. We're a rock and roll band. Not mincing New Romantic tossers.'

‘Ah, come on, guys,' sighed Ricky, and using the same technique as he'd employed to change the band's name, and to ease himself into the role of lead singer and unofficial manager, he painted a picture of The Crocodiles' future. ‘Can't you see it? Wembley Arena, playing to fifty thousand… The
Hollywood Bowl… Screaming chicks… Rock ‘n' roll, man… Yeah? Well, trust me. I'll get you there, okay.'

‘Yeah,' grinned Art and the entranced band members nodded.

‘Effing cool,' one managed.

‘Yeah…' agreed Ricky. After a pause he clinched the deal. ‘So Spandau stays?'

The expressions hardened slightly, but nobody protested. Ricky's sweet talk had won the day.

~

‘You all having a good time?' screamed Ricky into the microphone, sweeping his hair back as he did so.

Si admired Ricky for his guts. It wasn't easy to stand on a low stage in a small room facing fifteen bored looking punters and give out that you're Mick Jagger.

‘Cool… Well, this is a pussy-whipping song we're gonna start with. It's called
Brown Sugar
.'

The guitarist, Dog, as he liked to be known, struck the first notes and Art clattered his sticks. They were off.

Si hadn't quite known what to expect, but this wasn't it. Ricky had warned him that most of the set would be covers. But this was a cover with a difference.

Ricky gathered the mike-stand to him, jutted his pelvis towards a striking girl at the front—she was already beginning to look more interested—and strutted. He flicked his amazing shoes into the spotlight and marched up and down—not easy in a space two metres square. But nobody seemed to notice the cramped conditions.

‘Brown Sug-ar…' howled Ricky and strutted.

He was good, thought Si. Really good. Next time he'd have to bring Mary. The poor girl was still working, he imagined. He hadn't pushed her to accompany him in case The Crocodiles turned out to be embarrassingly bad. But not only could Ricky sing, he also transformed on stage into a rock star. Si could already imagine his friend playing stadiums. It seemed just round the corner. And the band had only played one number.

What's more, Si could see why Ricky had been so keen to join the bunch of troglodyte musicians formerly known as the Moguls. These guys might find the word “chord” hard to spell, but they could certainly play. They were tight, and Dog's licks cut like a hot knife through butter.

At the end of the first song Ricky leapt into the air, legs splayed. Joe Strummer would have been proud. ‘Yow!' he screamed as he hit the ground and the song finished.

Really together, amazing for three weeks' rehearsal, thought Si.

The rest of the set was the same. Slick and compelling. The Crocodiles looked like they'd been playing together for years. It didn't last long—they only had eight songs so far; but none of the audience was complaining. In fact, they came back for an encore of
Brown Sugar
before unplugging.

The small crowd, which had been swollen by some drinkers from the pub downstairs, was generous in its applause.

‘We'll be back next week,' called Ricky as he stepped from the stage. Si had no doubt that the turnout would be higher.

‘Great stuff.' He slapped Ricky on the back.

‘Thanks, man. It was okay.'

‘Okay? You're going to the top, man… Yeah!' Si grinned.

‘Yeah, I know.' And Ricky threw him a high five and a hug.

~

Jimmy was going from strength to strength. ‘Si… I'm in the starting line-up again. Tomorrow against Coventry. The boss told me today.'

‘That's great.'

‘And what's more, the boss reckons I've a good chance of playing at Wembley if Roy Keane's suspended.'

‘Fantastic.'

‘Yeah, isn't it? Not for Keano of course, but for me,' Jimmy added. For an instant he felt a twinge of guilt about profiting from his colleague's misfortune, but the feeling passed and he carried on happily. ‘Just think, only three months ago I was nowhere… Nobody… Playing for a second-rate, Second Division team. Now look at me. Sometimes it's all a bit like a dream, eh?'

Si could understand Jimmy's point. Twenty-seven's late for a soccer player to break into the big time, but that's what his friend seemed to have done. He was fast becoming one of the most talked about players in England. His arrival at United had coincided with their rise through the league. Jimmy hadn't played much of a part in the Championship race—as opposed to the Cup where his contribution was clear—but he had shared the glory as United recovered a twelve-point deficit from Newcastle. The Tynesiders, under the charismatic Kevin Keegan, had dominated the Championship all season. But now, with four matches to play, their run of bad luck had allowed United to overtake them and top the table. Heady stuff, and Jimmy was part of it.

‘So you'll watch the match, then?'

‘Yeah, course I will.'

‘Good.' Jimmy seemed pleased. ‘And you're sure you can't get there?'

‘It's good of you to get us tickets, but I just won't be able to get out of work in time. You know how it is. Anyway, I'll be down The Feathers with my pint watching.'

‘That's great. I'll put one in the net for you, okay?'

‘You do that.'

‘Yeah.'

In fact, Si didn't get to The Feathers until after the kick off. But he was in time to see Jimmy come close to scoring. He was in the right place to meet a Ryan Giggs cross with his head and direct it firmly goalwards. The Coventry keeper was off his line and watched helplessly as the ball sailed over him.

The red hordes in the stand behind the goal leapt to their feet with an expectant roar. But this subsided into a deep ‘Aaaah' as the ball smacked against the crossbar, and a Coventry defender cleared the rebound.

A ripple of applause, like the Centre Court at Wimbledon except stronger and with added testosterone, greeted Jimmy's effort. He turned and trotted back towards the United half. The camera zoomed in and a white box appeared beneath the picture of the young man with his head held high:
Jimmy Sweeny, No.22, centre forward for Manchester United
.

‘Only a handful of appearances for United,' the commentator was saying, ‘but already showing great promise.'

‘That's my boy, Jimmy,' said Si softly. Jimmy looked calm, enjoying himself. Si had noticed how when the attack broke down, Jimmy had looked across to Giggs and applauded his world-famous teammate's precision cross. Clearly, he was already part of the United machine, at home among the stars.

Si felt a warm glow surge within him. He was surprised to find tears prick behind his eyes. But no, that was wet. Men only loved women. Mates were… Yes, mates were mates. You didn't
love
them. But no doubt about it, he was proud of Jimmy.

The other feeling Si experienced was even harder to define. It was a sentiment shared with millions the world over. Like all humanity, Si was subject to the religious urge—the desire to express his spiritual self, his higher being—which takes many forms, and is often channelled into ritual or a set of conventions. However, Si was finding in the rites of football a channel for this urge. A blind alley symptomatic of the age, but one which brought to the surface the nobler side of Si Simpson, the searching soul seeking to return to its origin. So as Si felt himself moved almost to tears by Jimmy's participation in a slick sporting performance, he was half-conscious that it wasn't just affection for his friend that was inspiring him; something profound and important, long-buried, was moving within him.

Ricky arrived ten minutes before full time. ‘Sorry I'm late. Christ, the traffic, man—unbelievable. Another bomb scare. I think it was a hoax again in the end.' He settled into his chair. ‘Have I missed anything cultural?' he asked with gentle irony.

Si grinned. Ricky had become a football addict. The first match Ricky had watched had been a knockout success: Manchester United had thumped Southampton, and Ricky had been spellbound. He
was now threatening to send off to join the MUFC Supporters Club. Si thought this might be simply a Californian over-reaction, but wasn't going to say anything.