Beatlebone (17 page)

John stands up and stretches. He groans from his years—he groans from deep inside.

There's no odds in engaging here, thinks Charlie Haimes.

John looks wearily now towards the studio door. The drear fucking repetition of it all. It's never a picnic, this.

In the studio a tape spools and resets and comes to life again—a sudden squall, a half-rhythm.

John stands up to listen; Charlie sits and listens. It's got a low slithering thread, a half-rhythm with a chanted beat, an arcane air.

And now the beaten hollows of a chest, and a theremin's loops, and the squall of a fuzzbox, and there are white horses riding the sea. John fishes out his box of fags and he pops one with a squeeze of the box and he lights it. A peregrine falcon crosses the sky.

Ever the diplomat, Charlie Haimes, who's been six weeks in the studio trying to look the other way.

Kate Bush is going to be a walk in the park, thinks Charlie Haimes. And he—John—leans out across the rail and looks to the new morning across the bone-dry city; London hasn't had a drop for weeks.

They both stand and turn to look at the steel door that leads to the studio.

I quite liked the Mamas and the Papas, thinks Charlie Haimes. Those were very lovely, those harmonies. Between the backs of the buildings—the laundry, the Turkish restaurant—there's a sliver of street to be seen, and it's Tottenham Street, coming around from Goodge Street station, and here's the old Italian prowling by, always first about the street. He must be tipping eighty, an old-stager, and he'll have the café open any minute now. Charlie's stomach rumbles. He could use a bacon sandwich and a mug of scald.

They stay on the fire escape. It must be going on for half past six if the old Italian's about. The heat is building.

Charlie Haimes hears a stack of newspapers slapped down on Tottenham Street. A shutter rises with a jaunty screech. There is a maniacal holler, indecipherable, from the vicinity of Goodge Street station.

They've been in since nine the evening before. It's going to be another twelve-hour run with a squall of broken notes to show for it. A tubby kid goes by on Tottenham Street with his bucket of paste and the last of his posters. He'll have been plastering the town half the night. Elvis Costello. The Slits. African Head Charge in the Hackney Empire.

Ever the optimist, thinks Charlie Haimes, who's been having his tinnitus again—a worry—and that's not to mention the bloody piles. A tub of salt, apparently, tipped into a lukewarm bath. Is the way to go for piles. Charlie Haimes has a farmhouse to pay off. The plan is to pack all this in and stick to the homestead on a three-six-five basis. Run the place as a donkey sanctuary. He has a thing for a donkey has Charlie Haimes. There's something about them that's spiritual, kind of. And Dora had two as a kid—Billy Joe and Dixie.

The story has been coming through in odd scraps all summer. He talks about the island and he talks about the cave. Some bloke with one ear—a badger had his other. Charlie Haimes has mixed feelings about badgers. Tuberculosis. Spread of. Or so they say.

John sings a bit in American—an old jingle-type snatch:

Amethyst? Like a jewel? Like a gem? Colour of a bird's eye in the rain? He slaps his hands together, John. He pouts a kiss for the sound engineer Charlie Haimes. He pushes through the steel door.

The morning sun tips over a rooftop. The sea? In fact he was never gone on the sea was Charlie Haimes. Give him a nice placid lake any day.

John sticks his head out again.

Charlie counts the fags in his box. Nine. He'll have to nip out for fresh. Cornershop's open for seven. Can show his face in the Italian caff, too. The old-stager will be at his rituals. Wipe the coffee spout, leave out the grease traps. Get your wireless on. Hasten slowly. You make the moments of a day and a life is what you do.

This story that's been coming through? The room marked nine. The crows like Gestapo. The voices in the trees.

He pushes the door out and Charlie Haimes is left to himself for a last few morning moments. It is the Thursday of the week, with a Thursdayish air. Not unhopeful, actually. The emptiness of the street is framed by the shunting of the trains for Goodge Street station. Now a post van slides past and beyond the steel door John is singing—he's lah-lah-lahing—and Charlie stubs his fag on the rail of the fire escape, and inside John is singing—he's hah-hah-hahing—and the coil of the morning tightens and turns.

The sound engineer, Charlie Haimes, rights himself for the last of the work, a new tape to loop and the last tracks to separate, and John is singing inside—he's tra-lah-lahing—and now two kids appear on Tottenham Street, a boy and a girl, and he is long and thin with a mess of hair and she is tiny and they just idle there, and they're looking this way—aren't they?—with a slouched and watchful air, and inside John is singing, and the boy leans into the girl and he speaks to her, and she agrees and they move on again, and there is something about them that unsettles the sound engineer Haimes because about the boy there is something wolfish and about the girl there is the sense of an elf.

Charlie Haimes enters the studio and kicks the steel door shut behind. Bolts it. He spools a tape on the Telefunken M12 Magnetophon—tape tension is constant, no need for brake solenoids—and John sits crouched and
smoking with a blanket around his shoulders and Charlie rolls the tape, and John begins—

[transcript]

and if i have nothing left to say—well okay—because when i have nothing left to say—[indecipherable]—there was an enormous fucking egg on the rocks—is it rolling charlie?—i can see it very clearly in fact—brownish actually with yellow speckles on—do i sound like i'm going to fucking sing, charlie?—i'm on my island at last—an enormous fucking egg the size of me head and bigger again an egg that big a baby baboon might step out pinkarsed—smeared light and blue void—[indecipherable]—i will keep my distance from that fucking egg—it seems to move just a bit—something's got to crack and something's got to give—i'm not having in with that fucking egg—say a newborn john steps out and spits the mucusy bits away—pale and moonfaced—skinny new john with an heron's legs and a reedy chest—a hairless reedy art college chest—poetical—tubercular—it grows worse by the hour, my love—i'll give it some richard fucking burton shall i?—boskier—what's fucking bosky when it's at home?—my words are fucked and all over—in the city my head feels big as a melon—too much noise—on the island my head feels tiny as a pea—i could belly across the rocks and tip my ear up against that giant egg—news therein I daresay—shells and walls and caves and holes and rooms and hollows—here's a word—encasement—not one to linger on, doctor—close my eyes—i could walk the rocks for a while it would kill a fucking hour like a tall dark bird as the last of the daylight goes on an ink-black stick-bone night-dark heron's walk—oh let's get richard fucking burton in altogether, shall we?—they say the welsh are thieves, don't they?—at least in liverpool they do—count the silver once richard burton's fucked off again—all this chatter—i mean, really!—as I still can I will—boskier!—[indecipherable]—i'm on my fucking island at last—close my fucking eyes—walk a slow curve around that fucking egg—the giant egg shimmers and rocks a bit—soft throbs or thuds of life therein—the past is about—the black skin of the water moves—i'm as well to walk on—flower-brained and heron-eyed—just leave me fucking be just leave me fucking be on my own fucking island at last—at the bottom of the sea there are a million tiny rooms but no doors no locks no keys—it's the past that gets locked in—the sea is moving its inks about—close my eyes as i walk i've gone inside the past again—slip inside the old house then—uncle's come up the stairs—uncle travels on a broken lung—wheezes like a busted accordion uncle maudlin's travelling lung—the way his lips make the words and the news they bring—she's gone, john—motherless waif left on the docks or some such violin fucking thing—she's gone—put a hole in my arm and let all the money in—a rabid fast snare here? and building?—the stars hang down like blue fruit—lovely?—the past is about—ye cracke is my boozer it smells of dirty girls and beer—i am made of bile and nerves and broken glass—i've got such a screechy, such a girly laugh—the war room at ye cracke—keep it fucking down, john—midnight by the churchbells—fucking some girly in a doorway someplace—back arse of bold street—a knee-trembler—the city is held in the palm of its own lights—oh to be on an island by night—the birds home in like rueful thoughts—thank you, charlie, it is nice—there's a great lairy bird on patrol—don't give me the nazi fucking eyes, pal—i'm the intruder on the stones and grass—there is no salve and there is no fix—she is on the dark side of every passing moment—this is my disease—she's a shadow just beneath my skin—julia—and the island seems to move or give in the night's black wind—[indecipherable]—let me go back there, mr. haimes—close my eyes—the island by night—the giant fucking egg groans—rouses from a sour dream—there's a strange green light across the sky—green as a starling's coat—iridescent—this is going fucking beautifully now—a sea-holly or an ivy's green—ivy as of a churchyard in november—the past is about—rain in liverpool, a november, about the time of all souls, in the midweek, it's late in the morning, i should be in the schoolhouse but i'm not—i'm in a churchyard having a fag under the dripping ivy—the way it's dull but glossy the way its own lights are trapped within—i've got a throb on but one must not attend to that in the out-of-doors as it sets a dangerous precedent—next thing you know you're wanking off all over—there is rain on the island by night—there is no way to mark time out here but day for night and night for day again—the years might go past—the rain tastes of salt and earth—the giant fucking egg groans—who'll step out from that egg in a bit?—i'm in on business i'm in on executive fucking business to haunt the rooms of my own black self—the past is about—over the ice fields of quebec we flew—four voices in a great dark hall—montreal—those sexy rascals—
lah-de-dah, lah-de-dum-dum-dah—
screams and mouths like black maws like the mouths of tiny birds to be fed—what if the giant fucking egg cracks and the past steps out?—i'd like five minutes back, not more—set me down on bold street—on the island the night crowds in and i scream but it gets swallowed up again—slap my head off this rock for a bit?—what if there's not much time left after this?—all the black chatter that goes on—walk awhile across the dark and stones of it—there are lights on the hills on the mainland—this exiled prince on scepter'd isle, handsome, beak-faced, and heron-thin—i'll have a fag in a bit—i am so many miles from love and home—the night birds shriek and grumble—the black water moves—where you lie down is the centre of my world, my love—i wanted to fuck you eleven ways and did—crossing the causeway is like crossing the moon—great boulders and stones and the black water moves—the starlight runs on cold engines—birds in conference the length of the night—a huge grey bird hides its head beneath its wing but fans it back slowly to show the evil eye as i pass—something regal, isn't there?—i'll have a sitdown—auntish moment—darling mimi—i lean back into the night sky—it's terrifying, of course, this fucking sentiment—so crucify me up top of fucking bold street then—sell fucking tickets—is there not such a thing as agency? my sweet english fucking arse there isn't—there's maggots under the rock with more agency—there's pigeons up the town clock—but you can be for a while whoever you decide to be—that's all—where I walk is the centre of the fucking universe—this is what you must always believe—have you got that, kids?—what did it feel like in sefton park?—he's a gimp and she's a skittery a nervous a scattered young thing—did she call him alf or did she call him freddie?—he's doing all the voices—the way she fixes her hair—he wants to have in—she wants to let him in—did he drop the hand first thing?—on lark lane i will walk you home again—they are so far from me now and gone—across the fields of the sea—it's harder to think about him than her—the cold is deep in my blood and bones—walk awhile under the dying stars—the morning comes across the water—the giant fucking egg groans—the giant fucking egg cracks—he climbs out in red raw skin and greasy feathers—his blistered black beseeching eyes—alright, freddie? alright, kid?—he lies among the rocks in his feathers and bones and cowers from me there—alfred?—his first war face—and i have nothing left to say—lay my hand to his face—he sighs a tiny breath onto my palm—he grows smaller with each breath that I take—i have nothing left to say—take me away from here—put me back on bold street—let me walk the street in the crowd—the bombed-out church—the starlings mobbed above the ropewalks—a fair-minded breeze lifts the cup of a skirt and shows the back of her knee—she is not a showstopper but still—bold street moves—a mam and a dad and a sticky-faced kiddie—the bawl of the child as it comes past—he's pig-ugly him, missus, there's a case here for your coupons back—a weary widow on a ritual traipse—it's all ahead of you, love—and a toppling quiff above a dummkopf face—a whiskied old fart in his green and piss-stained gaberdine twill—the lyceum—the tunnel for central station—bold street—the chinless wonders and the gin-blossom noses—i might have a show coming soon—i might get to play out again soon—if it works out with mr. knowles in ecclesworth—who's a cunt—or mr. eccles in knowleston—fifteen bob and a root up the arse—the street moves—there are pale sisters by cripp's—they're having a bead at the girdles and the dainties—if i burn the eyes on hard she'll sense it and turn, the prettier one—she turns—alright?—perky noses, sisterly grins—bold street moves—the way the knit of her collarbone turns as she goes—a cat watches from the lyceum steps—all the calm of china in its bone-white eyes—the busy faces—the pug faces—the lancashire-irish—the eaves of the stores and the eaves of the churches—i'm by the fucking lyceum—i'm by the window of cripp's—i'm the natty cocksparrow—the turn for the tunnel for central station—the sisters again—they whisper and turn again—the prettier's hand is held over her mouth—her face is pale and interested—her hand is white and tiny—a glove of bird bones—i'm by the lyceum—i'm by the turn for the tunnel for central station—military click of high heels on the stones of bold street—the city rumbles beneath—its limestone air and secret reaches—the scent of the girls' voices is on the air—their voices are coloured yellow and racing green—their voices come from the hollows of the woods—by the steamy window of a murderous caff a gummy old coot commits an act of murder on a plate of black pudding and chips—hello, tony? hello, taff—i walk the street in the crowd—pub voices bounce from the tiles and brass—sexy cured tobacco voices—ladies of special vintage—the painted lips and map-lined faces—the bowl of the town fills up with night—out there is the green moving estuary—out there are the devil-haunted hills—the first stars light the cold estates—i'll make a nonsense rhyme for my dandy lips—
oh to be a suburban jack,
fit for the mirror and fit for the rack—
the turn for central station—the white cat smiles—and listen?—the world is still this faraway evening, as hushed and hollow as an empty church, and we can be quiet now if we want to be.