The Singer (7 page)

Kevin would rather have just been left alone but at least, the way things were, he was safe. At school and at home. Playing his drums was the only thing Kevin ever got to do that he really enjoyed. Gary had called him a puff for it, mind, but in an affectionate way. He let him get on with it. Gary weren’t all
that bad, really.

Stevie Mullin, on the other hand, was a mad bugger in a league all of his own. Darren and Keith Dunton could handle theirselves all right, but the Mullin boys were mental, had a reputation for it. And as for their dad…Their dad drove boats into Finnish trawlers in the middle of the North Sea.

It didn’t bear thinking about. If Stevie was after him, Gary or no Gary, Kevin was
really in trouble.

Like the rest of the school orchestra, Kevin was supposed to be polishing up on his repertoire for the end of term concert in three weeks’ time. Tucker, who’d fought in Normandy in the war,
still had a thing about the Big Band classics of his youth. He’d had them all learning Glenn Miller – ‘In The Mood’, ‘Chatanooga Choo-Choo’, ‘Moonlight Serenade’ – all that old-style stuff.
Though it were right different to the stuff Gary and his mates listened to, all that Pink Floyd and Deep Purple, Kevin liked it, liked the way it really did swing. He’d learned to use brushes for the first time to get that shuffling sound, had really impressed Old Tucker both by his dedication and his natural ability.

But tonight, he was all over the place, staring into space, not concentrating
and in turn, putting the others off. The rehearsal was a shambles.

‘You sure there’s nowt wrong, lad?’ Tucker asked him gently as Kevin packed up his kit. Because there were so many bits to it, he was always the last to leave. Tonight he seemed to be taking even longer than usual over unscrewing everything and putting it all into its cases.

Kevin Holme had reached puberty later than most boys
in his year, looked younger, with his specs and his puppy fat and his still smooth face. Tucker knew the crowd he hung about with, but he knew at heart that Kevin wasn’t the same as them. He hoped that this one’s talent for music might see him go a bit further than the trawlers or the docks, the likely careers of most he taught.

‘No, sir, honest,’ Kevin’s voice came out high and shrill.

‘Shall
I give you a hand with that?’ Tucker took the cymbal stand that Kevin was wavering over and began unscrewing the cymbal for him, lest the lad eviscerate himself with all his dithering.

Kevin stood hopelessly as Tucker effortlessly dismantled the rest of the kit and stowed it in its cases. His eyes kept flicking up to the big clock that hung above the stage, the hands creeping around to a quarter-to-six.
He had already deliberately made himself as late as possible, but would it be late enough? The question came out of his mouth before he could stop himself: ‘Sir, what time does detention end?’

‘Detention?’ One of Tucker’s bushy white eyebrows shot upwards. ‘Detention ends at five o’clock sharp, son. You waiting for someone? You’re a bit late if you are.’

‘No, sir,’ Kevin avoided the teacher’s
eyes, but the way his shoulders slumped indicated his relief.

Tucker didn’t press it any further. ‘Right, let’s put this lot away.’ He lifted up a case and was pleased to see the little lad smile back at him.

After they’d lugged the kit back to the music room and locked it all up, Kevin had reassured himself. They’d walked across the playground twice and there had been no sign of Stevie Mullin
hanging by the swill bins, or anywhere else. Mindful of the sports hall incident, Kevin had glanced up there too, but couldn’t see anyone crouched on top of the building, nothing but seagulls up there, wheeling across the sky.

The caretaker was waiting to lock the gates as Kevin left for home. Only, out of the shadow of the kindly music teacher, without Gary and the others around, he suddenly
felt vulnerable again. Kevin looked left and then right before he started down the road.

All he could see was an old boy out walking his dog, a gaggle of biddies in nylon overalls gossiping outside the corner shop and a couple of bains doing wheelies in the road.

Kevin walked quickly, looking around him every time he took a corner. It was a humid night and overcast, the sky a dreary grey, but
the closeness of the atmosphere making him sweat. He tugged at his school tie, trying to loosen it, but only managing to tighten the knot. His bag of books felt heavy on his shoulder, the monkey boots he’d got his mum to buy ’cos Gary’s lot all had them chafed at his ankles, making his stride uncomfortably slow.

Kevin navigated the little sidestreets that took him onto the Beverley Road as if
caught in a bad dream, spooking at every gang of little kids running out of an alleyway, every dog barking up at a gate. All the time he was humming to himself, almost without
realising, humming to keep his spirits up the song they had just been practising: ‘In The Mood’.

Once he got to top of Road, he felt safer again. The constant, heavy traffic reassured him, as did the amount of people walking
back from work in the city centre and mums pushing prams, the chip shops that had just opened for the evening and their comforting smells of fresh hot batter and frying fish. It were too busy here, Kevin rationalised, for Mullin to jump him. And only a little bit further down Road was his turn off for home, his road, effectively the Duntons’ road, Davis Close. Stevie wouldn’t do owt there either.

The chippy smells made his stomach rumble. Normally, Kevin would have eaten by now, even on a normal night’s band practice. He was half an hour later than usual and hoped his dinner wasn’t too burned in the oven where his mum would have left it for him. Thursday night were a good one, usually his favourite week night – band practice followed by sausage and mash and Mum’s thick onion gravy. Just
thinking about it, he could almost taste it.

He was tasting it as he turned left onto West Street, tasting it as he swung around the corner for Davis Close, the corner where two tall fir trees stood and from behind them out jumped: Stevie Mullin.

‘All right, Kevin?’

‘Whaaa!’ Kevin recoiled backwards, his face white with shock.

Stevie Mullin here, on the end of his road.

‘Eh up, lad,’ the
spiky-haired, grinning mug moving in on him fast, amusement glittering in the staring eyes. ‘Just wanted to finish our talk. You know, about you bein’ a drummer?’

‘Whaaa!’ shaking Kevin repeated, his hungry stomach lurching into sick fear.

As Stevie continued to walk towards him, he found himself backed up against a garage wall. The fir trees gave cover from the Davis Close side of the road.
Nobody could see them.

‘Well, what it is like,’ smiling Stevie looming over him now, ‘is
we need a drummer. For band we’re startin’. And I thought about you, straight off. Only thing is,’ he turned his head and smiled in the direction of the firs, ‘young Lynton here’s going to take a bit of convincing.’

Kevin followed the direction of Stevie’s stare, and to his horror, saw another shape emerge
from the deadly shade of the trees.

A long, dark, sinuous shape. Only somehow different to the last time Kevin saw him. Lynton Powell with his hair shaved into a flat top, wearing a long drape jacket and a white shirt and skinny black tie. Lynton Powell no longer cowering scared in the playground but looking as hard and weird as Stevie did.

Staring at him with jet-black eyes that bored right
through his skull.

Kevin felt his bowels loosen, strained to keep his sphincter tight.

‘Lynton feels you owe him an apology,’ Stevie continued. ‘For what you and your mate Cunton were saying to him.’

‘I-I-weren’t saying it!’ Kevin stared with pleading eyes from one to the other of his captors. ‘Honest, I said nowt. It were all Gary and Lee. I were just lookout for ’em. I didn’t like what they
were saying, honest I didn’t…’

Which was actually true. Kevin had cringed inside at their monkey jokes. It were like when people called him ‘four-eyes’ and ‘speccy swot’, but worse. It were just bloody cruel.

Stevie tutted. ‘I can’t hear an apology there, can you, Lynton?’

They moved in closer on him, so close that he could smell the mixture of sweet cider and tobacco on Stevie’s breath.

‘I’m sorry they said it, they shouldn’t have.’

Lynton saw the smaller boy’s eyes fill up with tears, knew it would only be seconds before he dissolved completely. ‘I’m sorry I helped them,’ his voice cracked and snot blew out of his nose.

Lynton put his hand on Stevie’s shoulder, muttered, ‘S’ enough, bro,’ and stepped back a pace. Stevie did likewise, cocked his head to one side as he watched
Kevin wipe his nose on his sleeve.

‘All right, Kevin, so Cunton makes you do his bidding. We know you’re not really from same side of trough as he is. And you won’t have to worry about his lot any more. From now on, you’ll be with us.’

‘Worry?’ Tears were streaming down Kevin’s round face now. ‘Worry? Gary lives next door to us. What d’you expect us to do? I can’t…’

But Kevin couldn’t go on
with the sentence. Overwhelmed by tears, he crumpled up into a heap, crouching on the pavement, torn between the fear of Dunton and the fear of these two figures of nightmare.

Lynton crouched down beside him, put a hand on his shoulder.

He looked up at Stevie, who was trying his best to suppress a grin as he rocked on his heels, surveying the damage he’d done. Said: ‘Be cool, Stevie. He won’t
be no use to us if he’s gonna be like this.’

Kevin had clamped his arms around his bowed head.

‘Listen,’ Lynton said to him softly, ‘you won’t have to tell Gary nothing. And we won’t tell him neither. You like playin’ the drums, don’t you, Kevin? You like being in the school band?’

Kevin continued to bury his head somewhere between his knees. But Lynton thought he saw a nodding movement.

‘OK, so come in with us, you can be in a band the whole time. It’s the holidays soon, we can start then. Don’t worry about nothing until school is over.’

‘That’s right,’ Stevie added boastfully. ‘Me and Lynton are still at songwriting stage ourselves right now. Once we’ve writ ’em, we can learn ’em together. We can start first day of holidays.’

‘Now, Kevin,’ Lynton ignored him, continued talking
in the same soothing way. ‘Is that kit you play yours or the school’s?’

‘School’s,’ a small voice whimpered up from the depths.

‘Right then,’ Lynton looked challengingly at Stevie. ‘To prove to you that we’re serious about what we say, me and Stevie’re
gonna get you your own kit. We can keep it at my place. That way, we can all rehearse together and Dunton will never know.’

At this, Kevin’s
head came up. Through smudged glasses and bleary eyes, he stared up at Lynton incredulously.

‘H-how you gonna do that?’ the smaller boy whispered. ‘You’ve not got that kind of money?’

‘We don’t need money,’ Stevie gloated. ‘We’ve got…contacts. Contacts in all the right places. No sweat, Kevin. We can take care of it.’

Kevin’s gaze travelled from Lynton to Steve and then back to Lynton again.
Those deep, dark eyes that had so scared him only moments before were now warm and kindly. Even Mullin was looking at him earnestly, palms outstretched in a ‘trust me’ gesture.

He couldn’t quite work out what they were up to. He thought they were going to kick shit out of him, but here they were promising him his own drum kit.

‘I don’t believe it,’ he finally said.

‘Don’t have to,’ Stevie smiled.
‘We’ll prove it to you. You mark my words, Kevin. First day of holidays and it’ll all be ready for you.’

Kevin stumbled to his feet, began self-consciously brushing the dust off his trousers and sleeves.

‘You all right now?’ Lynton asked him.

Kevin nodded his head, not looking him in the eye.

‘All right then, we’ll be off,’ announced Stevie. ‘We’ll be in touch, Kevin.’

‘Have faith,’ added
Lynton, raising his palm in farewell.

Kevin watched them drift back in the direction of Road. Both of them over six feet tall, wearing their weirdo’s clothes proudly, laughing easily with each other as if this nerve-wracking exchange had never even taken place.

Kevin did a final check to make sure he wouldn’t look to his mum like he’d been rolling in the mud. Got his glasses case out
of his
schoolbag to give them a polish with their proper cloth. Maybe if he could see clearly then the events of the last couple of hours would start making sense.

Kevin’s stomach reminded him of sausage and mash. As he walked towards the sanctuary of his own front door, he couldn’t help but think: This is the strangest day of my life.

Winter 2001

‘What do you think then? Think anyone will give us a go?’ With Granger again already and it was only Monday night.

At a bar called Lounge on the Portobello Road, his manor infinitely preferable to mine. Christ, it was posh around here now. While Camden had remodelled itself into an open-air lunatic asylum/young offenders institute, Ladbroke Grove had
taken a decidedly upmarket turn.

This bar, for instance. Moroccan, Bedouin tent theme, with lavish drapes hanging from the ceiling, heavy wooden tables complete with hookahs, chaise longues and huge scatter cushions everywhere. Brian Eno and David Byrne’s
My Life in the Bush of Ghosts
the soundtrack. Jocasta and James and their friends sipping Pinot Grigio and showing off their lizard foot tattoos,
while a couple of Heroes of Britpop – the ones whose daddies were millionaires to begin with – slouch at the bar, pretending not to surreptitiously eyeball everyone who’s surreptitiously eyeballing them.

This bar used to be a dirty, dingy old man’s pub called The
Black Fort, with a brass-topped bar and a carpet that stuck to your feet. London Pride was the brew of choice, real Rastafarians dealt
ganja openly and emphysema was the soundtrack of the day. Every eccentric weirdo in the vicinity congregated here at the altar of greasy optics: the old git with the motorised wheelchair, banging on its horn and poking at you with his stick, yapping Jack Russell cavorting at his side; the black lady with the big blonde wig and the even bigger Russian fur hat, selling voodoo candles from a bag
that trailed human hair; Jangling Jack, a twitching, angular heroin addict, doing the withdrawal shuffle across the floor. And the cast of old timers who considered this their front room, dozing in the dark corners, studying the racing pages or just staring into their pints in search of visions.