I Am (Not) the Walrus (15 page)

24

Monday

But I don't have long to enjoy the feeling. There's a squeak as the outer door swings open, and footsteps echo across the floor.

“It's out of order,” I say, thinking this is a woman who's ignored the sign on the door. With the long neck of the bass I have to back out of the cubicle, and as I do I come face-to-face, not with a woman, but with Pork-pie, still in his hat and sunglasses.

“Ha,” I say. I feel I need to explain what I'm doing here. “Yeah, I know it's the ladies', but I figured that as it was out of order it would be okay to use it.”

“Hey, my brother.” He shifts his hat back on his head, revealing a pink, lined forehead. “I have no problem with that. No problem at all. You gotta go where you gotta go.”

“This is actually the dressing room for both bands,” I tell him. “It's kind of private.”

“Oh, no problem. I hear you loud and clear.” He shifts his hat forward. “You need your space. It's like a little oasis of coolness before the sandstorm up there.” He points at the ceiling. “I will leave you to do, or not do, whatever it is you need to do, or not do.”

He takes a couple of steps back toward the door.

“Thanks for coming, anyway,” I say. “I hope you enjoy the music.” I wave toward the door as a kind of hint.

He does a 180 and looks at the ceiling. “I always enjoy live music. In fact, I'm an aficionado of all of the arts. Once upon a time, I was an architecture student.” He looks straight at me. “That was why I came in here. I love these old places. I like the way they were put together.” He points at my bass. “Now that is a classic piece of design. The Fender precision bass. Never changed in sixty years. It's a nice instrument.”

“Thanks,” I say. I take a long breath. Okay. Big-decision time. “I saw you in Harry Haller's a couple of days ago.”

Finally, he pulls off his glasses. At least he slides them part of the way down his nose but not so far that I can see his eyes. “Harry Haller? I'm blanking out. I have so many friends it's hard to keep track of all of them.”

“Harry Haller's is a music shop,” I say. “They sell instruments. You were in there looking for a p-bass.”

“I love, love, love p-basses.” He replaces his glasses and reaches out a bony hand. “Do you think I could take a look at that one? It looks old. You must know the pedigree and that kind of thing, like who owned it and when it was made.”

“Sure. Give it a whirl.” I unhook the bass from its strap and hand it to him.

He takes it left-handed again. He pulls at a string with his thumb. It makes a horrible metallic twang. I immediately regret giving it to him. He's going to put it right out of tune.

“I'd better take it back,” I say, holding out my hand. “We go on in a couple of minutes.”

He looks up at me, but doesn't make any move to give it back. “I want to buy this instrument from you,” he says. “You mind if I just take it upstairs? The light is better, and I want to take a closer look at it.”

“It's not really for sale,” I say, “and in any case, it belongs to my brother. I don't exactly know how much it's worth. I mean it could be worth five hundred, or it could be worth five-thousand.” I point at him. “Why don't you take your sunglasses off if you want to see it better?”

“I have the money. Cash,” he says. “Right now. I could give you five thousand pounds right here, right now. Think about it. You could buy yourself half a dozen basses every bit as good as this one, plus you could equip your whole band.”

“But we're just about to go on stage,” I say. “What am I supposed to play?”

“The other band,” he says. “Borrow their bass.”

I shake my head. “Nah. I don't think that would work.”

He takes a couple more steps toward the door. “Just give me one minute, good sir.”

Good sir?

I think that if I live long enough, I'm going to have a family motto. I wonder what Slow on the Uptake is in Latin.

“No.” I grab the instrument on a strong point around the neck, near the body. “No, Rupert.”

I pull the bass back toward me, and with it comes Pork-pie. He brings his face right up to mine. So close that I can see the flecks of gray on his unshaven chin, and smell his cheesy breath.

We stay like that for a few moments, then he hisses, “Yes, Rupert.” He flips the bass over, jerking it out of my grip, then swings it back and levels it at my face as if he's about to hit me with it.

“Peek-a-Boo.” The door swings open behind Rupert, and Jasper pokes his head around it. “Anyone home?” he says.

Rupert twists around as Jasper clomps into the room and stands in front of the doorway, which he blocks quite easily.

“Can't you read, mate?” he says to Rupert. “The sign on the door says that this room is closed, so scram, my friend.”

“It's cool, it's cool.” Rupert bobs his head. “I was just having a heart-to-heart with my good buddy here.” As he says this, he moves toward the door still holding the bass. “If you would let me through.”

“No! Wait,” I say, and I say it more to Jasper than to Rupert. “You can't take the bass. I need it.”

Pork-pie grins at Jasper. “This kid is paranoid. I have no idea what he thinks I'm going to do with his bass.”

Jasper moves to one side, giving Rupert room to leave.

“No,” I say. “That's my bass. Don't let him take it.”

Jasper puts one hand on Rupert's shoulder. “Sorry, Buster,” he says. “I'm not sure I have any idea where you're going with that bass either.” With swift moves, he relieves Rupert of the bass and shoves him out through the door.

Rupert stumbles into the corridor, but almost immediately finds his footing. He turns to face us, looking first at me, then at Jasper. “That was uncalled for, my friends.” He straightens his jacket. “To be continued,” he says.

Jasper closes the door without even looking at Rupert. “How do you feel?” he says, and hands me back my bass.

“Ready as I'll ever be,” I say, and I actually hug the bass.

Jasper laughs. “I wouldn't leave it unattended if I were you.”

“Yeah. You're probably right,” I say. “Thanks for helping me out there. For a minute I thought I'd lost my bass.”

“I thought you knew him,” says Jasper.

“No. I've never seen him before,” I say. “Well, I have seen him, but I don't know who he is.”

“Well, he finagled his way in without paying,” says Jasper. “He said he was a friend of the band. None of us knew who he was so we figured he knew you.”

“He says he wants to buy my bass, and he has the money on him,” I say. “I think he was just a bit impatient.”

“Well, he must be the stingiest guy on the planet, because he not only refused to pay to get in, but he also scrounged a free drink at the bar.” Jasper gives a short laugh, and then looks serious. “I actually came down here to let you know that I found out where that Julie McGuire lives,” he says. “You want me to give you the details now?”

He doesn't get a chance to finish, as there's another knock on the door.

“It's the bloody ladies' room,” shouts Jasper.

This time the door opens all the way, and Zack steps in. “Ladies?” he says to Jasper, then he looks right at me. “I don't think so.”

Harry appears behind Zack. “Please come,” he says. “Your destiny is waiting for you, my friends.”

“Thanks,” I say to Jasper. “Can we talk about this later?” I bash the neck of my bass against the edge of the narrow doorway as I try to steer through it.

“Maybe I should ring you tomorrow,” he says.

“Good idea.” I swing the neck upright so I don't bang it on anything else, then I follow Harry out of the toilet, into a pitch-black corridor, and up the steps.

25

Monday

Harry pulls the door all the way open. “Go, go, GO!!” he yells, like he's a sky-diving instructor kicking his students out of the plane.

Zack crosses himself, wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans, then turns to me and shouts, “Yeah! Come on! Let's do it! Let's knock 'em dead,” as if everything is still okay. As if this is just the first of many gigs.

Zack leaps out onto the stage, and I'm just about to follow him when I feel a hand grip my shoulder.

Rupert! I think, and ice shoots through my limbs, but when I spin around to confront him I find myself face-to-face with a scowling Harry. He pokes each of his index fingers into the corners of his sad mouth, and pushes them up so it looks like he's smiling.

I stretch my own mouth into a grin.

Harry twists his mouth into a lopsided smile and shrugs, then nods.

I give him a thumbs-up, then turn and chase after Zack, keeping my eyes glued to the soggy orange carpet that covers the stage.

This would not be a good time to trip over any of the cables that snake between the main act's amplifiers, speaker cabinets, drums, guitar stands, keyboards, and microphones.

Staring at the carpet also means I don't have to look at the audience. There's no cheering, no applause, no disembodied voice announcing,
Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to introduce the fantastic new sensation from Port Jackson! The Nowhere Men!
in a hurried baritone.

The disco music fades out to nothing and there's silence, but as my ears get accustomed to the quietness there are more sounds within it. There's a clink of glasses, and the sound of someone crumpling a crisp bag.

A couple of people clap—Zack's friends probably—and somebody calls out “Zack, my man!”

Ordinary sounds.

I would prefer silence. Silence is kind of special. Silence would mean everyone has stopped what they're doing to watch us. Ordinary sounds mean that everyone's gone back to whatever it was they were doing before we went on stage.

I see our mic stands over on the left-hand side of the stage. They're sitting in their own beam of dusty light in a narrow ledge between a speaker cabinet the size of a wardrobe, and the edge of the stage itself.

Cradling the bass so I don't knock it against anything, I insert myself into my little patch of carpet. It's just wide enough for me to stand upright with my feet apart. I slide the bass down into playing position and turn to confront the audience.

Zack slides in next to me, then turns sideways so there's room for both of us. For the last six weeks we've been rehearsing in a tiny bedroom, barely bigger than a broom closet. But even in that broom closet we've never had to play standing this close together.

So this is it. This is really it.

With a massive effort I force my chin up so I'm facing the audience, and then stretch my mouth into my best fake grin.

The fake grin that tells the audience that I'm not the least bit scared to be standing up here, even though I am.

The fake grin that tells the audience that I know all the songs backward, which I'm not sure I do.

The fake grin that tells the audience that this is the first of many gigs, as opposed to the first and last gig.

Hopefully with the hazy lighting and the distance between me and them, the grimace will pass as a grin.

Yup. There really are only twelve of them. But at least there's nobody wearing a pork pie hat.

A mere dozen people in the entire history of the universe will hear the Nowhere Men perform live, and that includes the bloke behind the table selling Coke and crisps. For one second I think there might be another figure, lurking in the shadows, but I'd rather have twelve in the audience than thirteen. Although it would be poetic if Rupert was the thirteenth.

Maybe it's just as well there won't be many witnesses, but I wish somebody was here to take a picture. Something to show my grandchildren. I frame the view, then blink my eyes as if I'm taking a photo. As if I can put this picture in the back of my mind and keep it forever.

I find the power cable. There's a loud buzz and hum as I stick the jack plug into the amp. Zack turns his back to the audience and twangs a low E for tuning. When he turns back he whacks the head of his guitar against the body of my bass, creating a humungous boom, which then reverberates around the room.

It's the loudest noise I've ever made, but oddly enough it's in tune. It's probably the loudest noise Shawn's bass has ever made.

I shuffle sideways so the mic is right in front of my mouth. It's actually just a fraction high for me, but it's too late to adjust it now. Anyway, it'll force me to keep my head up while I sing.

“Hello,” I say into the little serrated, metal ball of the mic. I've realized I can't make myself sound like I'm a native of Port Jackson, but I try to make myself sound as non-London as possible. My voice echoes back from the auditorium. “Hello, Day Trippers,” I say, the last
S
echoing off windows, pillars, wallpaper, and the twelve members of the audience who are shuffling around to face us like a group of zombies who've just got a whiff of live brains. “This is your ticket to ride.”

A couple of them even clap again.

I step back from the mic and arrange my fingers on the bass strings, then blank out.

What is this instrument?

How do I play it?

Who am I?

Then it comes back to me. “One, two, three—” and we both hit the first note like a bulls-eye, the second note follows it, then the third, and our first and last gig has begun. It's as unstoppable as a boulder tumbling down a hill.

I stretch up to the mic. “I think I'm going to be sad,” I croon, in perfect harmony with Zack, and almost immediately my brain starts to play tricks on me.

The bad news is that there really is a thirteenth person in the audience, leaning on a pillar in the shadows. The good news is that she's not wearing a pork pie hat. She's probably just some friend of the other band, but just because she's a girl of about five-foot nothing, with long dark hair, my brain has to turn her into Michelle.

Of course, I know it's not her. It's just my mind playing tricks. But just as it happened at the Brunswick Bus Station, even though I know that this isn't Michelle, I can't take my eyes off her until I'm absolutely certain.

Keeping to the shadows, the Girl-Who-Isn't-Michelle shuffles forward to one of the empty seats just in front of me. She slumps into it, her chin tucked down into her collarbones and her hands shoved into her armpits.

Typical. If my brain is going to pretend that Michelle's here, then why can't it invent a Michelle who's happy to see me?

Yup. The magic of the moment of my first time on stage is over. I really do think that I'm going to be sad, and more likely than not it's going to be today-yay, but probably for very different reasons than the ones Lennon and McCartney wrote about in their song.