Remix (2010) (2 page)

After thirty seconds, Joe said, “What are we waiting for?”

“It does this. You have to give it a few minutes, and try again.”

Joe fished an iPod out of his pocket, put the earphones into his ears, eased down in the seat and closed his eyes. The dog settled in his lap. I tried the key once more, and this time the van got its act together and set off gamely down the road.

“It’s a good van really, it’s just feeling its age,” I said. Joe didn’t answer.

Being Sunday morning, the roads were quiet as we cut across London to the M4. I like it when you get to the first sight of real countryside, with sheep and cows. Joe seemed to be asleep. I had hoped he’d tell me more about himself. We passed Slough and I wondered whether to wake him up for directions, or leave it a bit.

“It’s got to be junction seven or eight…” I muttered under my breath.

He opened his eyes and sat up.

“Eight.”

A sudden suspicion entered my mind.

“You weren’t asleep,” I said accusingly. “And is that iPod even playing anything?” How could he have charged it, anyway?

“Nope. I got fed up with all the questions.”

Fine
.

I stopped the van where he told me to, keeping the engine running, outside an ordinary, quite pleasant detached house in a street off the main road. Joe undid his seatbelt and put his hand on the door catch, looking me in the eyes. His were brown like the dog’s, but a shade darker.

“Well, thanks. Good luck with the horses.”

I reached for my handbag, got out a twenty pound note and handed it to him.

“What’s this for?”

“You can’t wander around without any money. It’s just in case.”

He put it in his jeans pocket. “I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”

“Keep it. It’s a gift.”

I didn’t want to be disappointed if he didn’t return it. I preferred to give it to him, even though twenty pounds is quite a lot of money to me. In spite of his grouchiness I liked him; I didn’t want to watch him walk off, him and the dog, with just what he stood up in and no money for a bus, or a cup of tea, or a phone call if his friend was out.

If he’d asked me for money there’s no way I’d have given him anything. Strangers are always coming up to me on the street and pitching me a tale about being robbed and needing the fare to get back home. I must have a kind face. I gave the first two what they asked for, then wised up. But Joe hadn’t asked for anything, except to use my bathroom.

He smiled, opened the door and got out, followed by the dog. I put the van into gear and drove off. I didn’t expect to see him again.

Chapter

2

*

The Collinson’s new owners lived in an old rectory, surrounded by gardens. The horse was a present for their youngest daughter. They had selected it at the gesso stage in my workshop the month before, which meant they got to choose the finish: a blond mane and tail, chestnut tack and blue rosettes.

The father came out as I arrived, to carry one end. Between us we lugged it inside and up a broad curving flight of stairs, and paused at the top to get our breath. Rock music pounded out from the older daughter’s room; beyond a door bearing a skull and crossbones it was a typical frowsty teenage den, with curtains drawn against the sun, clothes tangled all over the floor, and its occupant hunched at a computer screen. She gave us a dark stare, and returned to Facebook.

Something caught my eye.

On the open wardrobe door was an iconic rock poster, so ubiquitous that even I, who am not a fan, had seen it and knew the name of the rock star. It wasn’t posed; the photographer had got this atmospheric shot with luck and skill mid-performance. Ric Kealey stood against a smoky dark background, wearing low-slung jeans and nothing else, his back to the camera, showing some impressive muscles. His left hand caressed the neck of his guitar, his head turned so he could smoulder at me over his naked, glistening shoulder. You could see beads of sweat flying where he’d flung back his hair.

He looked a bit like Joe. Younger, and his hair was long, whereas Joe’s was quite short, but there was a definite resemblance. That must be why I’d thought he looked like someone I knew.

“One last heave?” said my customer. “Nearly there.”

“Okay. Ready?”

We edged carefully through a doorway - I didn’t want to scrape the paint after all my hard work - and lowered the horse on to the middle of the carpet. This room was pinker than was good for it, and contained more soft toys than any rational child could require. (Someone once asked me to paint a rocking horse, a perfectly good Patterson Edwards, pink. I refused. I have my principles.) I wondered how long it would be before the bedroom turned into a teenage fortress, and whether the rocking horse would stay.

We stood and admired my handiwork for a few minutes, then he offered me a cup of coffee, and I thanked him and said I had to be off. Another satisfied customer. The van started first time, and I headed for home.

The journey back was slower, once I got to the outskirts of London. Round about the Cromwell Road I was hardly moving. I flicked through the station presets on my van’s ropey old radio; Abba, Mozart, weather and an advert telling me I could get rich playing the stock market. As if. I switched it off.

I started thinking about Ric Kealey. He’d become the biggest, most sensational rock star ever, back in the days when I was at art college. Not my sort of music, but you couldn’t help knowing about him. He was everywhere, and as far as the tabloids were concerned The Voices and their lead singer were the best thing since Princess Diana. Whatever they did made the front page. They were huge; they supplied the soundtrack to a whole generation’s yearning, exaltation and dreams.

I decided to look Ric Kealey up on the internet when I got home, and see if he really did look like Joe.

Since it was Sunday I grilled some bacon and treated myself to a BLT for lunch. I made a pot of tea (weird of me I know, since the Good Lord gave us teabags, but I think it tastes better). I took it on a tray out to the terrace, put it on the table, fetched my laptop and curled up in comfort on my new sofa under the big cream parasol. The sun shone, a gentle breeze blew, the blackbird sang. Perfect.

I googled
Ric Kealey
, and went to Wikipedia. The page went on for ever. Only one picture, of him with a guitar while he was still at school, looking solemn, his face with the soft curves of adolescence, hair flopping over his eyes. He started the band when he was sixteen or so. In the photograph he didn’t look much like Joe. His mother was an actress, mainly on television - not a household name, but quite successful, in work most of the time. I realized she’d been in a sitcom I watched as a child called
Better the Devil
. His parents split up when he was small, he went to boarding school at seven, excelled at music from an early age…

I had a swig of tea, a mouthful of sandwich, and scrolled down, looking at the subtitles. The Voices In My Head (band), Early Fame, Musical Influences, Kealey/Orr songwriting partnership, Drugs and Alcohol, Conflict, Relationship with the Press… I stopped there and clicked on the link to The Voices In My Head. There were a couple of photos of the band members, one early one before they got Jeff Pike as their drummer, and a black and white poster with them all in dark glasses looking morose, as if earning squillions every year was no laughing matter. I returned to Google and clicked Images.

Loads of pictures; Ric Kealey in colour, in black and white, tiny at Wembley Stadium, close-up so his features filled the frame, fake Andy Warhol silk-screen multiples of his face, Ric playing his guitar, singing, smoking a cigarette, making a V-sign at the paparazzi, on stage with fans reaching for him, full face, profile…and all of them looking very like Joe. Very like Joe indeed.

It couldn’t be him, though.

I went to Youtube and typed Ric Kealey in the box, and selected the only song whose title I remembered. A grainy postcard-size rectangle showed The Voices on top of a tall building; London, since I could see the Eye in the background. A big flat space, with random bits of air conditioning systems, lifts, satellite masts and fire escapes sticking up here and there. The camera panned in close on the drummer. A heavy, throbbing drumbeat. Stirring. I turned up the sound. The camera moved to Ric Kealey as he struck the first, arrogant chord on his guitar. Every hair on my skin stood up. I suddenly understood why they were mega-successful. He began to sing into the microphone, intensely, as though he was alone, completely ignoring the camera crew filming him. I watched, transfixed, to the end of the song. Ric glanced across to the bass guitarist, and smiled.

I sat back, heart thumping. Youtube offered a replay, or another of The Voices’ hits. I didn’t need a replay. I knew now that Ric was Joe, beyond any doubt at all.

Which was very odd, as Ric Kealey died three years ago.

Chapter

3

*

Back to Wikipedia. I scrolled down to Kealey’s Death.

‘Reportedly, Kealey had been drinking heavily and had resumed illegal drugs use in the weeks before his death. Friends said this was a reaction to his arrest on suspicion of the murder of fellow band member
Bryan Orr
, although before this he was allegedly depressed by the prospect of the band splitting up, and the effect this might have on sales of
The Voices’
most recent album,
Fluke
. (In fact,
Fluke
went on to out-sell every album the band had made except for
Random Voices.
) He had been released on bail of two million pounds the previous week. On 15th April, one day after his twenty-seventh birthday, Kealey went to the house of his manager/agent
Phil Sharott
, in Cookham on the
River Thames
near Maidenhead…’

Maidenhead! He must have been going to see him after I dropped him off…

‘…and without his permission or knowledge took off in Sharott’s
Cessna
aeroplane. Kealey had been taking flying lessons, but was as yet unqualified. He headed to the coast. A witness on a yacht reported seeing the aircraft crash in deep water to the west of the coast of
France
.
“Its engine cut out and it went into the sea. It sank really fast. I didn’t see anyone parachute from it before it crashed, and no one swam away, though of course I had a good look for survivors.”
The witness was able to pick up various parts of the plane, which confirmed its identity. The body of the plane was never recovered. Theories about the death abound. It is widely assumed that Kealey committed suicide, since the aeroplane did not have sufficient fuel to reach land in the direction in which it was headed. However, bearing in mind his lack of flying experience, and the fact that he was most likely under the influence of drugs and/or drink, it may also have been a tragic accident.

‘The Orr murder case was closed. The police issued a statement saying they were not looking for anyone else in connection with the murder.’

I considered the implications of this. I had spent the morning alone with a man the police believed guilty of murder. He hadn’t seemed like a murderer to me, but then murderers, when not actually murdering people, probably did act as normally as anyone else. Feeling hunger, needing a pee, befriending stray dogs.

I hoped he wasn’t intending to kill the agent. Perhaps I should ring Phil Sharott and warn him? How could I do that without him thinking I was a nutter?

Or I could ring the police… A moment’s reflection made me aware this was not an option. I might as well tell them I’d spotted Elvis working down the chip shop. They’d think I was out of my mind if I only told them I’d let an intruder into my home, fed him, then driven him to Maidenhead. I had no proof my visitor was Ric Kealey, and I didn’t know where he was now. Would they send policemen to warn the agent of a possible visit from a dead rock star on my say so? I couldn’t see it happening. I read on.

‘Kealey’s death at the age of twenty-seven makes him the sixth and latest member of the notorious
27 Club
, or Forever 27 Club as it is sometimes known,
a
popular culture
name for a group of influential
rock
and
blues
musicians who all died at the age of 27, sometimes under mysterious circumstances
.’

I looked it up. Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, and Ric Kealey.

Ric Kealey’s page again. Conspiracy Theories After Kealey’s Death.

‘Many fans refuse to believe Kealey is dead, their conviction fuelled by the fact that his body was never found. The website
Ric Kealey Lives
promotes the theory the plane crash was set up in order for him to escape the murder trial, and that he was spirited away by friends, had plastic surgery to make him unrecognisable, and is now living abroad. In spite of the alleged surgery, fans have claimed sightings in
Australia
,
South Africa
,
India
,
Mexico
and
Chile
.

‘Alternative theories maintain he
is
dead, but the fatality occurred during a botched attempt to fake his own death; that he was murdered by the real murderer of Bryan Orr, in order to cover the killer’s tracks; that his death was part of a suicide pact, to which there are clues in the last album made by the band; and even that on his last solo flight he was abducted by aliens.’