Heaven's Promise (22 page)

He couldn't tell me either as the Malcolm he had chosen to copy was the fiery, white hating Malcolm, the one yet to make the trip to Mecca and change his ways, and so, he half-apologised, for the next month or so, he could not be seen rapping with me. ‘Fair enough Stinga,' I answered back and then moved off having spotted Davey Boy, drinking on his own at the bar.

‘Davey, how goes your percentage of life?'

‘Up and down, soldier, up and down.'

‘Lord Haw Haw not with you tonight?'

‘He's inside.'

‘Prison?'

‘Yeah, smuggling E's the stupid bastard.' Davey Boy took a huge gulp of his drink, wiped his mouth and said, ‘You would have thought that someone has caked up as him wouldn't have to do that shit, wouldn't you?'

‘I know but pater and mater will bail him out surely.'

‘Oh, his uncle will probably be the judge sentencing him.'

‘And the group?'

‘Going strong. If I can get them off the happy pills for five minutes, we might even get a record out one of these days. I don't know, it's just stress all the time these days,' and for the first time ever, I saw something of the real Davey Boy come to light, but it was gone in a flash and the cheeky Cockney mask went back on.

‘Still, I haven't forgotten your tonik number,' he happily said. ‘I'm going to see someone next week, reckons they've got a warehouse full of the stuff.'

‘Yeah, alright Davey. I'll pop in at the end of the week, okay?'

‘You do that son,' he replied, ‘you do that.'

It was time to man the dex one last time although, in the excitement of the past days I had been unable to put any thought towards this last set, and in a way I was glad I hadn't for sometimes when you plan something too well, it has a tendency to backfire on you. I just opened up my box and pulled out tunes at random, throwing it all in, mixing up rare groove with house, rap with soul, jazz with reggae, and not caring that the tunes followed no party line. The crowd, I'm happy to report, were of the same persuasion, parting only once to allow Sammy The Foot and his crew space to dazzle everyone, a spectacle that I was glad to see his gal, watching from the sidelines, enjoying immensely.

I finished up with a tune that I am convinced was written when God was in the room because how else can you explain the spiritual power and musical grandeur of The Staple Singers' ‘If You're Ready (Come Go With Me).'

My fave bit is towards the record's end when the music goes up a notch and Mavis Staples starts testifying about a land where there is ‘no economical exploitation, no political domination,' a place we should all be fighting to live in. When the record ended and the lights came up, Brother P. came up to the booth with Amanda, and put his arm around me.

‘I've made a few moves tonight,' he said in his quiet manner. ‘If we play the cards right, we'll be sorted. We'll speak tomorrow?'

‘Of course we will,' I replied, giving him a little hug, glad that I had kept such an ally by my side throughout the years, knowing that there were still so many more mountains for us to climb.

‘I'll check you then. Seen?'

Amanda gave me a kiss on the cheek.

‘He won't say it but you were slammin' on the dex tonight,' was her passing comment. I collected up my tunes and then made straight for the cloakroom where I expected to see Jill who I still wanted to parlare badly with.

‘She quit,' Rajan said as I clocked a brand new face behind the counter, handing out the last of the coats. ‘Flew the nest last night,' and all things considered that was probably the best thing for both of us.

‘Did Jasmine make it down?' I enquired of her brother. ‘There were so many people, I didn't get to see everyone.'

‘Nah, I didn't see her or the psycho all night.'

‘Where's Costello?'

‘In his office.' I went over and pushed the door to. Costello sat at his desk, a huge wad of cashola piled up in front of him.

‘Ah, come in, young man, come in. I have a treat for you.' He handed over double my usual wages.

‘For services rendered. Keep in touch, I want you for my new club.'

‘Thanks a lot, boss,' I replied, ‘I'll certainly do that.'

‘And don't bring any babies again, promise?'

‘I promise.'

‘Ok, off you go.'

There was a party going on back at someone's yard that I had been told about but I had a major mission to attend, so grabbing a mini cab from outside, I went back to my yard, kept the car waiting, rushed upstairs, dropped off my tunes and as a beautiful, purple dawn started to break across the sky, I directed the driver to a north address.

It is always funny driving down an empty street that you know in a couple of hours will once again awake to city street drama, a stretch of buildings and concrete that will no doubt be standing after each and every one of us has long since departed this earth, headed hopefully for a better land. Mother and baby were fast asleep when I reached their front door and it took five minutes of gentle knocking and whispering loudly through the letterbox to rouse Sandra.

‘What are you doing here so early?' she demanded in a sleepy voice, clutching her gown around her.

‘I'm sorry, I couldn't sleep and I wanted to see Kimberley.' 

‘I said, this afternoon.'

‘I know Sandra but now that I'm here...'

‘Alright.' She let me in and closed the door, and I followed her into her room. ‘Don't make a sound,' Sandra whispered. ‘I've only just got her back to sleep. You wake her and there'll be hell to pay.' Sandra climbed back into her bed and I stepped over to gaze on my daughter's sleeping face, so unworried, so contented and so unbelievably beautiful. I swallowed hard and I felt the tears building up behind my eyes and no matter how much I fought them, it was no use and they began to streak down my face until in the end I had to turn away to go wash myself in the bathroom.

As I washed the tears away and patted my face, Kimberley came to life for I suddenly heard her cry, like an ambulance siren as it goes off for the first time, and when I returned, Sandra was sitting up in bed, breast feeding her. I acted cool but truth be told the scene flustered me, so I went out to the kitchen to prepare some coffee. A minute later Sandra walked in.

‘Here,' she said, gently placing our daughter in my arms, ‘she needs changing and I've run out of nappies. I'm going down the shop. Don't panic,' she said, noting my expression, ‘she won't bite.'

I took Kimberley into my arms and rocked her, not even daring to talk whilst Sandra dressed and then left for her provisions. The minute Sandra left, an impulse, from out of the nowhere blue came into my mind's solar system, and I quickly made for the phone and with one hand, I dialled a familiar number. Four rings later, a sleepy female voice came onto the line.

‘Hello... who's this?'

‘Indigo, I'm standing here holding my daughter. I just thought you should know.'

Then I put the phone down and kissed my daughter's head.

 

Chickaboo and chickabee, due to circumstances beyond our control there are certain spelling and typographical errors in this copy of ‘Heaven's Promise.' We hope that this has not detracted from your reading pleasure. 

Paolo Hewitt has been for over thirty years one of the U.K.'s foremost writers on popular music. Cutting his teeth at the
NME
for seven years in the eighties, he also moonlighted as the ‘Cappuccino Kid', whose musings and manifesti adorned the covers of Style Council albums.

Paolo has written over twenty books, including
Getting High: The Adventures of Oasis
,
Steve Marriott: All Too Beautiful
and the novel
Heaven's Promise
(all available as ebooks from the Dean Street Press). Other than music, recurrent themes in his writing include mod culture, football and fashion.

Steve Marriott: All Too Beautiful

Getting High: The Adventures of Oasis

The Sharper Word: A Mod Anthology
(editor)

www.thecoverfactory.com