Emerald City (19 page)

“They were amazing. If he'd let me put them out I'd have made enough to pay off the debt. He just laughed.” He looked at me. “I had to have those tapes. It was the only choice I had left. If he'd said yes he'd still be alive.”

In his head it all made sense. Every part of it was logical. He'd done what he had to do. I tried to gather my thoughts.

“Who did you get to keep calling me?”

“Andy,” he said. “You'd never met him, you didn't know his voice. He's a bright kid. Just royally fucked up.” He paused and pursed his lips. “I didn't have any choice. Don't you understand that, Laura? I had to.” He stared straight at me, desperation in his eyes.

I couldn't give him the answer I wanted. I wasn't going to absolve him. I just looked at him as he raised the gun. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of closing my eyes as he shot me. He was going to have to face me.

Tom's hand kept moving until the barrel was under his chin, pushing against the loose flesh. He opened his mouth as if he was about to say something but no words came out. He pulled the trigger.

Someone must have heard the shot and called the cops. They arrived while I was still kneeling on the ground, puking up my guts and frantically trying to brush blood and bone off myself. Two squad cars, blue lights flashing, sirens loud.

The next hours blurred. I remembered an officer talking gently to me, putting a blanket around my shoulders to try and stop me shaking. An ambulance arrived, then the coroner's van.

They drove me downtown, gave me coffee and cookies from a vending machine and asked me questions I barely heard. I was numb. I gave them the answers, the words floating out of me in a monotone. Finally, once they were happy with what I'd said, they took me back to my car. The streets were almost empty, just a few night owls drifting around. I drove home without
thinking, on autopilot.

In the bathroom I stripped off my clothes and left them on the floor. I stood under the shower, soaping myself over and over, shampooing my hair four times until I felt sure none of him remained on me, then wrapped a large towel around myself.

The bedroom door was open, the bed empty. Steve was out there somewhere, probably getting drunk. Part of me wanted to go and find him, to comfort him. Instead I cranked up the thermostat, made a pot of coffee, and stood by the balcony door, smoking and waiting for the dawn.

I ate and showered again then drove up to Safeway for the Sunday paper and another pack of smokes. I felt removed from the world, as if a glass wall was separating me from everyone else. If I tried to close my eyes and let the weariness take me, I heard the noise of the shot and saw Tom's head explode.

Around eleven I called Rob's home number.

“Christ,” he said when I'd finished. “Right there in front of you?”

“Yeah. After I'd thought he was going to kill me.”

“I'm sorry. If I'd thought it was going to come to that...”

I knew it was all he could say but somehow it didn't seem like enough.

“Do you want to write it all up?”

“I'm back, am I?” My voice was bitter.

“Yes, you are.” He tried to sound kind, sympathetic. I knew he meant well that he'd only done what he had to do. But all I could see was Tom's eyes right before he pulled that trigger.

“Yeah, maybe in a few days.”

“Take as long as you need. And I mean it, I'm sorry. I really am.”

An hour later I heard a key in the lock. Then Steve was standing by me, guitar case in his hand.

“Hey,” he said. From his face I could tell that he hadn't heard.

“Hey.” I was glad to see him but right now I was numb. I'd seen someone I'd liked, someone I'd respected, blow his head off after I thought he was going to kill me. Next to all that, a bad gig seemed pretty pissant, no matter how much I loved him. I opened my mouth to start to tell him, but he was ahead of me.

“I went back in after you last night but you'd already gone. We all went over to Connor's and...” He shrugged. “And I did a lot of thinking.”

“Go on.”

“I'm not going to make it, am I?” Before I could even say a word, he continued, “I want the truth.”

“Maybe not,” I answered finally. I was tired, I felt like little pieces of me were everywhere. I didn't even want this fucking conversation about him and his music right now. “But you should never stop doing something you love. Making it isn't the only reason for playing music.”

“I quit the band.”

“Why?”

“Because...” He struggled for the words. “Because what's the fucking point? We were shit. We'll always be shit. You know it. I know it. Everyone in the fucking Central knew it. I've got to stop. If I don't I'm just going to keep tearing myself apart.” He hesitated. “I decided something else, too.”

The silence hung between us.

“I'm going to find my own place. I need to be alone for a while and try to figure out exactly what I do want out of life.”

“I love you.” It was true, I did. But if he couldn't look at me and see the pain on my face, maybe he was doing the right thing. I knew that, too. Everybody fucking hurts.

“I love you, too.” He gave a sad smile. “I just know I need to sort this shit out by myself. I'm sorry.” He reached out and took my hand for a moment. “I really am. More than you know.”

He vanished inside. I lit another cigarette and poured some more coffee.

Without the help and faith of many people you wouldn't be reading this book. I'm grateful to Creative Content for wanting to publish it and for suggesting the big change that brought it more alive. To Lorelei King, for giving Laura a voice. To Lynne Patrick, as insightful an editor as anyone would want. To Ross Bradshaw, for a pair of early edits that made a huge difference. To Gary Heffern for the wise words. To Penny, for patience, always. And to more people than I can name who here read a much earlier version and gave advice and encouragement. Thank you all.

I spent 20 years in Seattle, several of them as a writer for
The Rocket
, working with some excellent editors and a great, supportive publisher in Charles R Cross. It really was a remarkable publication and I'm honoured to have been associated with it – I only hope I've done it justice here. It was an interesting time, being there when Seattle became ‘America's most liveable city' and the music scene rose to global prominence. Some bands achieved deserved success, others went nowhere and there were a few casualties along the way. May they all rest peacefully.

I've taken liberties here and there to fit the story. I know it, you may too. Mea culpa.

 

Chris Nickson was born and raised in Leeds and he first realised he wanted to be a writer when he was 11. As a teenager, though, music dug its claws into his soul, and for many years he played in the US, both solo and in bands like Harvey & the Larvae and Heat In The Room, that few people ever noticed. Finally, landing in Seattle, his passions met as he became a music journalist. Now, hundreds of interviews and thousands of reviews later, he lives back in England, still a music journalist, but also a novelist. He's the author of five Leeds-based Richard Nottingham novels, The Crooked Spire (set in 14th century Chesterfield) and now his love of music, crime and Seattle have come together in Emerald City.

 

18th century Leeds: Pickpockets, pimps and prostitutes: All in a day's work for the city constable – until work moves too close to home. When Richard Nottingham, Constable of Leeds, discovers his former housemaid murdered in a particularly sickening manner, his professional and personal lives move perilously close. More murders follow. Soon the city fathers cast doubt on his capability and he is forced to seek help from an unsavoury source. Not only does the murder investigation keep running into brick walls, he can't even track down a thief who has been a thorn in his side for months. When answers start to emerge, Nottingham gets more than he bargains for...

Published by Creative Content Ltd.

ISBN 9781976790844

For over four decades, John Martyn was a musician's musician (lauded by artists as disparate as Eric Clapton, Phil Collins and Bob Marley), a superb guitarist and singer who straddled the worlds of folk, jazz and rock, earning an OBE and being honoured with a Life Achievement by the BBC Radio 2 Folk Awards shortly before his untimely death in 2009. He was a true innovator, constantly pushing the boundaries of his music. He leaves behind a body of work that ranges from the beautifully intimate to the majestic, created during a turbulent, troubled, but uncompromising life – all detailed in Solid Air.

Published by Creative Content Ltd.

ISBN 9781976790264