Notes on a Missing G-String, page 22
And it was packed.
At the back, a party of four was just leaving. We appropriated their table before anyone else could spot the impending vacancy.
“Your usual?” Trev checked. “Perrier? Pellegrino?”
“I’m feeling dangerous,” I said. “Make it a Coke.”
That made him smile. He went to the bar and came back to the table with our drinks: pints for Rudy, Ken and himself and a very large Coke for me.
He sat down.
“I gather,” he said, “that, collectively, we’re less than enthusiastic about the offer.”
“Collectively,” Ken replied, “we’d be twenty feet from stardom on the back of a tour where the audience can’t tell the difference between Miles Davis and Thelonious Monk.”
“Collectively,” Rudy said, “I doubt that Ryan and Elise‘s audience would even know who Miles Davis and Thelonious Monk are.”
“Or care,” I added.
“Sorry, Jason,” Trev said. “I know this has been your dream for a long time.”
“Decades,” I said, trying not to let my unhappiness show.
“I’ll say it,” said Rudy. “I’m not keen on touring. I don’t feel like being on the road more than I’m off it, and I know Dave would never agree to it. Not now, with Gracie.”
“Not to mention what would happen to our gig at the Blue Devil,” Ken added. “I quite like having a regular job. As far as regular jobs go in this business.”
“I’ve got a studio to run and songs to produce,” Trev said. “And bookings well into next year. Jason?”
“I agree with Rudy,” I said. “I don’t want to tour. I might have considered it when I was younger and just starting out. Not now. I remember how much it took out of my mum and dad. No thanks.”
“Then I think,” Rudy said, “we’re all pretty much in agreement that Ryan and Elise fucking Arsewipe can stuff their Hot Uptempo Adult Contemporary World Tour right up Mark Williamson’s bottom.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I went home to change and to have something to eat—though I wasn’t very hungry—and to collect Jenn’s cameras.
Wednesday nights at the club are usually busy, but there’s always an extra table or two for special guests. I made sure our Security guy at the front door knew Jenn was coming, and that, upstairs, she’d have a good seat with an unobstructed view of the stage and an open tab at the bar and the kitchen.
We had a good first set. I positioned my stool so that I could just see Jenn, off to my left, without the lights completely blinding me. She’d attached a telephoto lens to one of her cameras and was shooting closeups. I purposely avoided looking directly at her. I always think pictures of performers are so much better if the photographer’s managed to capture them unaware, just being themselves, without worrying about what they look like or whether or not they have to strike some kind of artificial pose.
Just before the break, I took over the mic.
“This one’s for my daughter, Jennifer, who’s in the audience tonight.”
There was a small amount of appreciative applause, and Jenn put her camera down to acknowledge it—and me—with the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.
My heart soared.
We played “Here to Stay”, another of my favourites by Pat Metheny, and then Ken, Rudy and Dave left the stage and I went to sit with Jenn at her table.
“I like your music,” Jenn said, before I could ask. “I’ve never really thought about listening to any kind of jazz before. I’m more a fan of ancient rock bands. You know. Mick Jagger wearing tight trousers. Freddy Mercury wearing hardly anything at all.”
“Jason Davey wearing joggers and old man plaid slippers,” I said.
“You’re not old,” she said, fondly. “And I can’t even begin to imagine you wearing plaid slippers. Big grey woolly ski socks though, yes, very definitely.”
Kieran, who was working as a waiter at the club to pay his fees at drama school, brought me a Pellegrino and a Caesar for Jenn, garnished with a pickled bean and a lemon slice.
“I’m so impressed that they actually know how to make a Caesar here,” she said. “And that they actually have the right ingredients.”
“That’s down to me,” I said. “You can’t sail in and out of Vancouver once a week for a couple of years without picking up some decent Canadian cocktail knowledge. It’s my contribution to the Blue Devil’s international appeal.”
Kieran was coming back to our table.
“Sorry, Jason,” he said. “There’s a woman at the bar who needs to speak to you. She says her name’s Holly and it’s quite urgent. I showed her where you were sitting but she wanted to stay there.”
Jenn and I both looked.
It was most definitely the blonde from Moonlight Desires.
She was wearing jeans and leather boots, and a padded winter jacket, which was unzipped to show off a white angora sweater.
“Stay here,” I said, to Jenn, and then I followed Kieran back to the counter.
“Holly Medford,” she said, immediately. “Tatiana Melnic, as you may know me. Is there somewhere more private where we can talk?”
She looked frightened and I had a pretty good idea why.
“This way,” I said, taking her back to our dressing room, where Ken and Rudy were drinking coffee and checking their emails and Dave was on the phone to Helen.
“Apologies, guys,” I said.
“It’s not necessary for them to leave,” Holly said. “In fact, I prefer them to stay. There is safety in numbers.”
She made sure the door was shut securely.
“No lock,” she said.
“Sorry.”
“Braskey will most definitely be in the club by now. I already recognized two of his men sitting at the tables. There will be more outside. I don’t know how they found me. Please, I need your help.”
Her English was impeccable, just like Sofia’s. And her slight Eastern European accent was almost identical.
“He will kill me.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I said. “Would you mind telling me what the fuck’s been going on?”
“I married Braskey. The marriage ended. I took what I felt I was owed. I went into hiding.”
“The jade necklace,” I said.
“For what I put up with while I was married to him, I consider the necklace a non-returnable investment. It is mine. He gave it to me.”
“Where’s the necklace now?”
Holly unzipped one of her jacket pockets and showed me what was inside. There it was. A string of perfectly round green beads. The source of so much deception, so much violence, so many lies.
“What about the £10,000 you claimed was stolen from your locker?”
“I made it up. When a person is afraid, they can make wrong decisions. They can panic. I only wanted somewhere safe to stay for a few days. I thought it might help when I asked Sally for a room. I always remember her kindness aboard the cruise ship. I didn’t know she would ask you to become involved. And I didn’t know who to trust. I asked my friend Sofia to stand in so that no one—you included—would be able to describe me.”
“No one except Sal,” I said.
“I’m very sorry for all of the trouble I’ve caused.”
She looked nervously at the door.
“I have a ticket on a plane to Larnica at 7.15 a.m.,” she said. “I will be safe there—a friend is waiting for me. He works aboard the cruise ships. But I must first get to Heathrow. Will you help me?”
Something told me if I didn’t, I’d regret it for the rest of my life. I had no wish to throw her back to Braskey. And I wanted—needed—explanations.
I slipped outside and went back along the corridor and stood where I knew I couldn’t be seen, checking out who was in the audience. I spotted Grandad occupying a table close to the main exit. If there was anyone else from Braskey’s stable in the audience I didn’t recognize them. And there was Braskey himself, just arriving, bribing one of the hostesses to get him a table close to the stage where I couldn’t avoid seeing him while I played.
I went back to the dressing room.
“Dave,” I said. “Can you go out and fetch Jenn? Don’t make a big scene. Just have a quiet word. Tell her Braskey’s watching. She should bring all her things. Cameras. She’ll understand.”
He went.
I knew Rudy rode his motorbike into London every night for our gig. Bikers don’t have to pay the Congestion Charge and it costs him nothing to leave it one of the dedicated spots in the big multi-level parkade a couple of roads over. His helmet was sitting on the counter in front of the mirrors.
“Have you got a spare one of those?” I asked
“In the bag on my bike. Why?”
I removed a wad of money from my wallet. “Mind taking a cab home tonight?”
Rudy thought for a moment, then accepted the cash. “You don’t have a motorcycle license, do you?”
“I’ll risk it,” I said.
“Have you ever actually driven one?”
“Twice,” I said. “My sister’s husband has a Triumph Rocket III.”
Rudy whistled his appreciation. “Good luck.”
He removed the keys from his collection and handed them over as Dave came back with Jenn.
“Braskey saw me leave,” she said.
“It’s OK. He doesn’t know who you are.”
“You sure about that? He knows everything else about you.”
“Not what’s coming next. I need your jacket. Have you got your chit?”
“Yes, sure.” She produced the little paper ticket from the coat check.
I rang the club’s front office.
“Jeremy,” I said. “Can you possibly pop up to our dressing room?”
He was there in less than a minute.
I gave him Jenn’s coat check.
“Don’t draw attention to yourself. Just collect her jacket and take it down to the office. Then bring it back up to me—use the old stairs.”
Safety regulations dictate that there have to be multiple ways in and out of the club’s two public floors. Our audiences only know about the ones that are posted with lit signs. They have no idea there’s an old, original staircase dating from when the building was first built. It’s too rickety and narrow to qualify as a fire escape and it has never, as far as any of us know, been renovated or upgraded. But it’s useful for secret liaisons, quick smokes when it’s raining outside, and dodgy getaways.
“I also need your boots,” I said, to Jenn, after Jeremy had gone. “Please.”
I handed them to Holly, who took her own off and zipped Jenn’s on over the legs of her skinny jeans. She also remembered to extract the jade necklace from the pocket of her jacket before exchanging it for Jenn’s. She put the necklace into her bag—the sum total of everything she was worth crammed into a black Polo Ralph Lauren tote.
Jenn manoeuvred her feet into Holly’s ankle boots. “Nice,” she said.
“Rag & Bone,” Holly replied, a little sadly. “My favourites.”
“I’ll look after them,” Jenn promised.
“Ken,” I said. “Is Patrick working tonight?”
“Yes, his usual shift.”
“I need a huge favour. I’m not even sure if it’s possible. Can you reach him?”
#
My absence from the stage caused a bit of a commotion. It was meant to. First, there was the delay. The audience was beginning to get restless. It was ten minutes past the time we were supposed to start our second set and the house lights were still up. Our bartender had no idea what was going on. Kieran and the other serving staff were none the wiser.
At last, Jeremy made an announcement, using one of our mics on the stage.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. The band wishes to apologise, however their lead guitarist has unfortunately been taken ill. He was involved in an accident earlier in the week and his injuries have proven to be somewhat more serious than initially believed. An ambulance has just arrived and the management would greatly appreciate it if everyone would please stay seated until the paramedics have gone.”
Patrick and his colleague carried a sitting stretcher up to the dressing room, strapped me in and wheeled me through the club to the main exit. I did my best to look anguished and in serious pain. It wasn’t difficult.
Jenn walked beside me with all of her camera gear and Holly’s winter coat. She’s quite a good actress. She was close to tears. She had me convinced.
“Are they buying it?” I whispered, on the stairs.
“Absolutely,” Jenn replied.
I was bundled into the back of the ambulance and Jenn climbed in after me, along with Patrick.
Lights flashed and sirens wailed as we pulled away from the Blue Devil’s front entrance.
“Where to?” Patrick inquired.
“Dean Street Car Park,” I said.
Patrick conveyed the directions to his colleague.
We were there in two minutes.
“Thank you,” I said. “I hope you won’t get into any trouble.”
“We were on a break,” Patrick said, unbuckling me. “It’s been a quiet night in London town. We won’t say anything if you don’t.”
Jenn clambered out of the ambulance after me.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I promised. “I’ll fill you in about Knave Records.”
“Stay safe,” she said, with a kiss.
I walked across to the dedicated motorcycle bay inside the multi-level parkade. Holly was already there. She’d left before me, going down the rear stairs and slipping out of the Blue Devil’s back door. She’d taken the narrow paved lane behind the club and gone right past one of Braskey’s men, who’d been stationed on the corner but wasn’t looking for someone wearing Jenn’s down-filled blue winter parka and knee-high brown leather boots and, for added safety, Rudy’s bike helmet.
Rudy had a black and silver Triumph Bonneville T120. A classic, styled after a 1959 original. The spare helmet—a flashy Union Jack open-face with an attached visor—was in the sidebag. I popped it on and fastened the chin strap.
“Which terminal?” I checked, making sure Holly was securely installed behind me before I started the engine.
“Five,” she replied.
“Hold on tight,” I said. “I’ll have you there in forty-five minutes.”
I was being optimistic. Google Maps was telling me I could do it in less time than that. Google Maps didn’t know I’d forgotten more about driving a motorbike than I could actually remember.
I started the engine and took a moment to reacquaint myself with the machinery. And then I roared out of the Dean Street Car Park and shot up the narrow road and around Soho Square Gardens, past St. Patrick’s Church, where Tommy Steele married a dancer from the Windmill Theatre in 1960 and nearly caused a riot, then down the equally narrow Greek Street all the way to Shaftesbury Avenue, otherwise known as the A401.
It was, by then, nearly 1 a.m. I love being wide awake when most people are fast asleep. I sped past Soho’s lights and taxis and cafes and clubs and its late-night pedestrians, feeling like I owned the city, driven by adrenaline and the certain knowledge that I was besting Arthur Braskey, the bastard.
I soared down Shaftesbury Avenue, past Les Mis, and cut around the back of Piccadilly Circus by way of Great Windmill Street, thoroughly enjoying the freedom Rudy’s bike was giving us, wistfully wishing that I wasn’t obligated to wear the helmet.
We were on Coventry Street and then Haymarket, the cozy social grazing of Soho giving way to Pret A Manger and Planet Hollywood and the grand architectural commerce of the Theatre Royal and the back side of Trafalgar Square.
A quick turn west and we were on the A4—Pall Mall—with its gleaming white gentlemen’s clubs and private residences and then Google sent me north up St. James’s Street to Piccadilly and we were roaring past The Ritz. It suddenly occurred to me that our circuitous tour of central London had probably taken in parts of the city that Holly knew very intimately—along with the gentlemen who frequented them. But her arms around my waist had never tightened or loosened and, if she was feeling anything other than tense caution, she wasn’t letting it show.
We were in the tunnel under Hyde Park and then we were out again and roaring through Knightsbridge—Patsy and Edina territory—Harvey Nicks and then Harrod’s, and as we sped past the V&A and the Natural History Museum I finally felt that we were out of Braskey’s reach. My sense of relief was palpable. I relaxed. And as we negotiated the Hammersmith Flyover and, a few minutes later, the lane change onto the M4, I was at last confident we were safely on our way to the airport.
#
We were there in less than half an hour. I know traffic to Heathrow can be a bugger at times, but in the middle of the night, it’s a doddle. I’ve been out that way before, usually sitting in the back of a taxi and not really paying attention to the road. And especially not paying attention to the signs directing me to Terminal 5 and all of the choices for drop-offs and parking and ways to get completely and utterly lost.
I paid attention this time, and after a couple of wrong lanes and some quick corrections (and even quicker curses), I managed to find the place where you could park a motorbike. At that hour it was mostly empty.
It felt good to get the helmet off, although the smell of jet fuel instead of fresh country air left a lot to be desired.
“You OK?” I checked, helping Holly off the bike.
She removed her helmet as well. “OK,” she said. “Thank you. I owe you more than I can ever explain.”
“Let’s get you safely inside,” I said. “Your flight’s not ‘til seven. We’ve a few hours to kill yet.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Airports at two in the morning are amazing places. I used to enjoy being wide awake aboard the Sapphire at that hour, wandering through the deserted passenger areas, seeing the cleaners and the tidy-uppers, the night crew, the odd lost souls who’d drunk too much and become disconnected from their companions, the insomniacs and the diehards who were there to party and sleep be damned.
