Rock Star (11 page)

Manoeuvring himself behind the victim he grabbed him under the arms and began to swim to the side of the pool and safety.

Only it wasn’t so easy. The man really thought it was all over, and with arms and legs thrashing in every direction he fought for survival, not realizing – in his panic – that Kris was trying to save him.

Together they sank beneath the water, whereupon the man suddenly changed tactics, clinging on to Kris for dear life, wrapping his legs around him in a death hold, dragging him to title bottom of the pool where they hovered in a state of battle as Kris desperately tried to free himself from the man’s fierce grip of unadulterated fear.

Without the intervention of Buzz it might have been all over. Buzz didn’t hesitate. He dived in like a Kamikaze pilot, prying the man off Kris with lethal force, grabbing him around the neck.

With a sudden wild burst the three of them surfaced, and between them Buzz and Kris managed to drag the man to the side of the pool, where helping hands hauled him out. Kris immediately went to work pumping water out of the poor old sod.

‘Fuck!’ exclaimed Buzz. ‘This gig deserves danger money.’

‘Really . . . you’re both so brave!’ cooed the brunette he had observed earlier, now in a wet bathing suit with very sympathetic nipples on red alert.

The victim gasped and tried to sit up. A group of school children burst into applause.

Kris peered at the man he had rescued. He looked familiar, even in his half-drowned state. ‘Mr Terence?’ he asked tentatively.

‘Oh . . . my . . . God. I owe you . . . my life,’ the man spluttered. ‘I had a cramp – an unimaginable pain. I couldn’t move. I was—’

‘Mr Terence?’ Kris repeated, definitely recognizing him as the show business agent whose house his mother used to clean.

Terry Terence gazed up at the cocky-looking twenty-year-old with the bulging crotch and crooked grin. Maybe he’d died and gone to heaven. Ah . . . he’d always liked them young.

‘Yes,’ he replied dreamily. Do I know you?’

*    *    *

Mr Terry Terence no longer lived in his house on Carlton Hill. He had moved to a rather grand apartment on Abbey Road, quite near the famous Abbey Road studios where The Beatles made all their records.

Later that day, when Kris and Buzz turned up for tea, they were greeted by a lanky, effeminate-looking man with watery spaniel eyes and a low cultured voice. ‘Do come in,’ he said softly. ‘I’m Justin, Mr Terry’s companion. He’s resting right now, but his instructions were to wake him as soon as you arrived.’ Justin extended a limp, white hand. ‘My deepest thanks for your bravery. You know, Mr Terry suffered a heart attack six months ago, and the doctor advised him to take more exercise. He started walking, soon got bored with that. Then tennis –
much
too strenuous. Finally he settled on swimming – the perfect answer.’

‘Yeah, it was nearly the answer all right,’ joked Buzz morbidly, peering at an Andy Warhol poster of a series of soup cans.

‘How’s he feeling?’ Kris asked, checking out the photo frames – searching for the old signed picture of Johnnie Ray he remembered from his childhood.

‘Thankful to be alive,’ Justin said crisply. ‘Usually he swims at the Grosvenor House pool, but today, for some unknown reason, he decided to venture locally.’ Justin made a clucking sound. ‘Life! How blithely we tread the path of fate!’

Buzz threw Kris a look as much to say
Who is this wacko?

‘Maybe we should come back another day,’ Kris suggested. ‘Y’know, if he’s restin’ an’ all.’

‘Not at all,’ Justin said quickly. ‘He’d be
most
upset. I’ll wake him now.’ He hurried from the room.

‘Talk about light on yer feet!’ Buzz said.

Kris zeroed in on the old photo of Johnnie Ray – different frame, same picture. ‘Look at this,’ he said triumphantly, picking it up.

‘Who is it?’ demanded Buzz.

‘Johnnie Ray.’

‘Who’s ’e when ’e’s at ’ome?’

‘A big singer in the fifties. My mum loved him.’

‘Hey – get a load of
this
, Buzz said, picking up a picture of The Beatles. The fab four themselves.
An’
they signed it – all of ’em.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. This old fart must really know people.’

‘I told you, didn’t I?’

Mr Terry Terence entered the room resplendent in black pyjamas worn under a scarlet dressing gown elaborately embroidered with gold, and matching slippers. He was a middle-aged man, rather plump, with bland features, a ruddy complexion, and a puff of dyed brown hair. He bore a passing resemblance to Liberace.

‘Well, boys,’ he said. ‘How am I ever going to repay you?’ And that was how The Wild Ones acquired their first agent and manager.

*    *    *

Right from the beginning Mr Terry Terence had eyes for Buzz. He took one look at the moody, unsmiling twenty-one-year-old with the agile body, pale complexion and ragged black hair, and it was love at first sight. Although he was careful to conceal the way he felt, it soon became common knowledge and a great joke among the boys. That’s what Mr Terry Terence called them once he took them in hand: the boys –
his
boys. He was going to mould them into stars – or so he said – and after a year of trailing around the clubs getting nowhere, they were only too happy to put themselves in his experienced hands.

First he attended a couple of their local gigs, after which he sat the four of them down in his office and told them exactly what they were doing wrong.

‘You’re a copycat group,’ he told them. ‘Bleating out other people’s hits – any bunch of musicians can get together and do that.’

‘I told ’em,’ Buzz said in his best know-all voice.

Kris shot him a disgusted look. ‘It’s what the kids
want
to hear,’ he said stubbornly. ‘We’d love to do original stuff.’

Mr Terence sipped from a cup of strong black coffee. ‘Naturally. They’re
used
to hearing familiar songs. Only you must understand, it’s not going to get you anywhere. We have to have original material. Can any of you compose and write lyrics?’

Tentatively Ollie raised his hand. ‘I write music,’ he said. ‘Lousy on lyrics, but I’m quite into creating a melody.’

Kris was surprised. It was the first
he’d
heard of it.

‘Anyone else?’ asked Mr Terence, anxious eyes lingering on Buzz as usual.

‘Uh . . . yeah . . . I got some stuff,’ responded Buzz with an embarrassed shrug. ‘’Course, it probably stinks – sod it – what the hell . . .’ He trailed off.

Kris had always thought he and Buzz were pretty close – and now this revelation. Shit! He’d better make his own announcement soon or he’d be left out. ‘I’ve put together quite a bit of material,’ he said quickly.

Now it was Buzz’s turn to look surprised. He raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘You ’ave?’

Rasta laughed, always one to break the tension. ‘Seems like you’ve
all
bin at it in secret. Someone should’ve told
me
, I’d ’ave given up wankin’ an’ done somethin’ useful with me right hand!’

‘It’s never too late,’ said Mr Terence fussily, ignoring their ribald laughter. ‘The more original material the better.’

‘Right on,’ agreed Buzz.

‘Next, we have to work on your image,’ Mr Terence continued, adjusting the knot on his old school tie.

‘Why?’ Kris demanded. ‘There’s nothin’ wrong with the way we look.’

‘There’s nothing right with it either. On stage you resemble a raggle-taggle group of misfits. There has to be a sense of unity – a feeling you belong together.’

‘I’m not wearin’ no stupid stage costume,’ Buzz warned. ‘I wear me black gear, an’ that’s that.’

‘You could
all
wear black,’ Mr Terence suggested, diplomatically, careful never to say anything that might offend his favourite.

‘I’m better in red, man,’ argued Rasta. ‘I got enough black on me already, thank you very much.’

‘I have the answer,’ Mr Terence said triumphantly. ‘All-black outfits with red scarves.’ Naturally he had observed that Buzz usually wore a long, tatty scarf wound around his neck.

‘I don’t want some faggot outfit,’ Buzz said rudely. ‘I think we should go with whatever we got on at the time.’

The Beatles look good,’ Ollie observed.

‘Bunch of wankers!’ Buzz sneered.

Mr Terence inspected his nails, buffed to a pearly shine. ‘Next we have to talk about buying you decent equipment,’ he said. ‘And sending you out on tour, so you can acquire
real
experience.’

‘What about a recording contract?’ Kris asked, getting down to the nitty-gritty.

‘That’s not something that just happens,’ Mr Terence replied testily. It’s a goal we have to work towards. If I sent you into a studio now you’d be laughed out of the room.’ Pausing, he took another sip of coffee. ‘First you’ll develop original, fresh material, and if you can’t do that, we’ll buy you some. Then you’ll go out on the road and learn
presentation
and
discipline.
It’ll all be worthwhile. When I say you’re ready to go into a recording studio, that’s when we do it.’

‘What about our jobs?’ Ollie enquired seriously. ‘How can we tour and still work?’

‘You can’t. That’s obvious.’ Mr Terence was crisp and to the point. ‘I have decided not only to be your agent, but to manage you as well. As your agent I will receive ten per cent of your collective earnings. As your manager I shall require a further twenty-five per cent. And for that I take it upon myself to finance your climb to the top. I will purchase new equipment, a van for you to travel around the country in, clothes for you to wear on stage, and I will also advance you a reasonable living allowance.’

‘Wow!’ exclaimed Rasta. ‘That’s fuckin’ fabulous!’

Kris shot him a warning look. We’ll have to think about it.’

‘Yeah, right,’ agreed Buzz, catching on that enthusiasm could only lead to getting screwed.

Mr Terence was perfectly calm. ‘Think away,’ he said. ‘You can let me know within a week.’

‘You’d be gettin’ thirty-five per cent of us,’ Kris said unsurely, calculating aloud. ‘Isn’t that a lot?’

‘Thirty-five per cent of nothing,’ Mr Terence pointed out. ‘
And
risking a goodly amount of my own money, not to mention my valuable time. Take it or leave it.’ He sighed, as if he couldn’t care less either way. ‘I think you have potential. Others might not.’

A week later all four of them signed individual contracts tying them irrevocably to Mr Terry Terence for the next seven years. Kris had to have his mother sign for him as he was still a few days away from his twenty-first birthday.

Avis came to Mr Terence’s office in her best yellow dress, a silly hat perched rakishly atop her greying hair. ‘I bought it for you, luv,’ she whispered to her son. ‘For luck. Two quid in Marks & Spencer.’

Impulsively he hugged her. ‘Thanks, mum.’

‘Mrs Pierce! What a joy to see you after all these years,’ Mr Terence said, and in a low aside everyone in the office heard, ‘
Nobody
polishes silver the way
you
used to.’

‘Thank you, Mr T.’ Her voice was stiff and proper, unlike her usual raucous shout. She had never told anyone why she’d abruptly left Mr Terence’s employ over nine years ago. He had accused her of stealing a pair of gold cufflinks, and when one of his gentleman friends turned up with them two days later he merely said, ‘Found ’em, dear’, as if that was apology enough. She never went back.

Now here she was, in his office, signing important contracts on behalf of her Kris. She’d sooner have given him a black eye for his stinking mistrust.

After signing they went to the pub to celebrate, just mother and son. Mr Terence had wanted them to stay in the office and split a bottle of champagne, but Avis tugged on Kris’s sleeve and hoarsely whispered, ‘I’d be more comfortable down the pub, lad.’ So the pub it was.

They sat there for two hours enjoying each other’s company and a few beers. It was one of the best times Kris had ever spent with her. She only mentioned Brian four times.

‘I’m goin’ to buy you a mink stole, mum,’ he promised, as they walked out into the cold night air. ‘You deserve it.’

She laughed – her wonderfully familiar, bawdy cackle. ‘Cor luv us! You an’ who else – Prince bleedin’ Philip?’

*    *    *

The Wild Ones toured for a full year, covering the country. They travelled across England, Wales, and Scotland. Up north, down south, across to Ireland and back again. And all the time squashed together in a cramped Volkswagen bus with their equipment piled high around them. They took turns to drive, and on one-night stands slept in the back of the bus smelling like a bunch of clapped-out camels. They even took turns having girls in the bus. One little raver in the front, and another on her knees in the back. Some of them were barely in their teens. ‘Baby groupies,’ Buzz christened them. ‘Straight off the bottle an’ onto the rod!’

Once in a while Mr Terence came to see them. He made full note of the enthusiastic audience reaction, listened carefully to their new material, made his criticisms and general observations, then left.

‘When are we coming to London?’ Kris always asked.

‘As soon as you’re ready. I’ll let you know,’ was Mr Terence’s unswerving reply.

They were exhausted and burnt out. Where was the recognition Mr Terence had promised them? Where was their recording contract? Where was Fame, Fortune and the Good Life?

To say they were disillusioned and fed-up would be putting it mildly.

‘We have seen the asshole of England,’ Kris observed solemnly, late one night as they sat in a roadside cafe outside Manchester, sharing a greasy plate of sausages and chips. ‘And it bleedin’ stinks.’

‘Write a song about it’, Buzz said, yawning. ‘Yer manage t’write about everything else.’

‘Oh, yeah, very pretty – ‘The Asshole of England’ by Kris Phoenix. I can see it now – a big hit. It’ll knock the Stones right off the charts!’

Rasta began beating drum rhythms on the table, while Ollie made fake
boom boom
sounds.

‘I met a girl an’ ’er name was Sally. Kissed ’er on the cheek and fucked her in the alley,’ sang
Buzz.
‘She looked so sweet, she looked so neat. An’ I didn’t know she lived in –
ALL TOGETHER NOW – LET
’
S BLOODY HEAR IT—
’