The Alternative Hero (36 page)

“Go on! Take ’em. Don’t want you kids goin’ back down south saying our drugs are shite up here.”

And that appeared to be the end of the conversation. The bloke ambled off, leaving me to study my gifts. When Alan returned with his snack a few minutes later I recounted the episode; he immediately grabbed one of the pills and knocked it back with a mouthful of water, so I did the same.

“When in Rome,” Alan shrugged.

A minute after that, Billy appeared.

“Hi, guys, wasn’t that amazing?”

As we pushed through the partying throng back to the car, we discovered why Billy’s experience differed so dramatically from ours: he’d somehow managed to achieve his aim of accosting a loved-up female, with whom he’d had a “fiddle” behind one of the burger vans. Alan still refused all direct communication with Billy, but instead repeatedly murmured, “It’s all bullshit,” in my ears. Occasionally he’d offer Billy the packet of chips, but withdrew them when he tried to take one. By the time we reached the car I was getting pretty sick of this, but I was a little distracted by a strange tickling feeling I had behind my ears. As we started our long wait to leave the car park this tickling had spread to the joints of my mouth, and had also started to develop in my gut. Then my slightly frustrated mood lightened up a tonne-load, and before I really knew what was going on Alan and I were leaning out of the car windows, hollering back to the other cars in the queue, dancing to other people’s music, telling each other it was a great gig and ordering Billy to drive faster.

“How can I drive faster?” muttered Billy, still creeping along behind the other vehicles. “You guys are so weird.”

It must have taken us ages to get to the motorway but I didn’t care. I was too busy telling Alan that I wanted to go back in time, and asking Billy to change lanes because “it feels nice.” Finally addressing him, Alan asked Billy whether he had any dance music. Billy responded by putting on his tape of
The Stone Roses
. This was greeted with a roar of approval; and so, travelling at probably no more than twenty miles an hour back down the M56, Alan and I relived the Spike Island gig, the way it should’ve been: screaming out the lyrics to “Waterfall,” aping Brown’s crazy backwards-style warbling on “Don’t Stop” and waving frantically to other revellers during “This Is the One” as we all gradually sped up. We didn’t even mind when some geezer shouted “Thieving Wankpies!” in the direction of Alan’s T-shirt.

If only my memories of the evening could end there. If only we drove all the way back to Hertfordshire in those blissful spirits, Alan finally talking to Billy as another human being, perhaps even saying hello to him in school on the Monday. But no. As soon as we turned onto the southbound M6, Billy’s car started to make worrying noises. As we approached Knutsford Services these noises worsened: horrid, grinding sounds that seemed to emanate from the entire lower body of the car. In Alan’s and my heightened state of—shall we say—alertness, these struck us as variously hilarious (“Billy, man, d’you give your car curry instead of petrol?”) and scary (“Fuck, man, this is getting a bit hectic”). Finally the car started to lose power; we were doing a maximum of ten miles an hour as the car crawled up the services’ slip road.

“This is bad,” frowned Billy, remaining admirably calm as we limped into the petrol station. “Are either of you guys members of the AA?”

Of course the answer was no.

I’ve relived the contents of the following ten minutes countless times in my head, praying for them to turn out differently; like watching a disaster film when someone’s already spoiled the ending for you. But I’m always forced to endure the same grim details: Billy going inside the garage to be told there’s no mechanic around at this hour to look at his dying car; Billy phoning his dad to discover the AA policy doesn’t cover any other members of the family; Billy looking vainly inside his bonnet; Billy looking vainly inside his wallet. And Alan, oblivious to any of this, still pilling his nuts off, delightedly chatting and flirting with a pair of bubbly female Spike Islanders whose blue Fiat Uno had just pulled into the forecourt, their stereo pounding out the sound of Jesus Jones as they filled up the little car for their journey back to London. In truth, I too was still very much all over the place with the effects of the drug, and I can’t deny that the thought of a joyful ride home with these two sweet-smelling indie chicks was quite breathtakingly attractive, but I knew full well: this would be
wrong
.

“Come on, man,” Alan was blethering. “They’re giving us a lift!”

“We can’t!” I spluttered. “We can’t leave Billy here!”

Alan shrugged nonchalantly.

“It’s not your problem, man.”

It’s not your problem. Of course. It’s never your problem. I’d been proper friends with Alan for about six months now, and was familiar with his over developed sense of self-preservation—but this was pushing it even beyond his usual standards.

Billy was agog at the gathering atrocity.

“You can’t just fuck off!” he yelped. I was standing in the centre of the forecourt, equidistant to the two vehicles. The girl driver had paid for her fuel and was skipping back to the car. Alan was already inside, leaning out of the window.

“Clive, stop being a knob! Come on!”

I looked helplessly over at Billy, who looked like he was going to cry.

“Billy I …”

“Well, at least give me some fucking petrol money, then.”

I pulled my wallet from my pocket and tried to focus on the contents. There was nothing. It had all been spent on useless drugs. The girls’ car beeped its horn.

“Sorry, Billy,” I muttered, and ran off.

Ouch.

As you know, this wasn’t the last time I saw Billy, but that final glimpse of him from the Fiat’s back windscreen—tired, alone, penniless, accompanied only by a useless hunk of orange metal, stranded two hundred miles from home at two in the morning—has always lingered with me, like a massive glob of chewing gum on my shoe of conscience. To this day, I have no idea how he got home. When I next spied him in school the following week I was too guilt-ridden to go anywhere near him. Alan, of course, reverted to his standard behaviour of denying Billy’s existence. Yes, I allowed it all to happen. Yes, I went along with it, didn’t protest. But what can I say, your honour? It was all about the girls and the music. You know how it is.

Girls and music.

Having relived that sorry escapade on this pleasant Sunday morning as the bus trundles along towards Soho, I’m finding myself quite gut-wrenchingly nervous. I keep telling myself it’s only Billy Flushing I’m going to meet—Billy “Quasi” Flushing, who once managed to trip over his own arm in the school computer room—but it doesn’t help. It occurs to me that Billy’s the second famous person I’ve had drinks with in less than a month, and for some stupid reason this
thought makes me feel a bit unusual. As I’m a bit early, I slip into Bar Italia to steady myself with a quick coffee.

I sit there in my silly smart trousers and silly shirt and even sillier jacket, and reflect that perhaps it’s not the fame that’s making me nervous. Perhaps I’m just subconsciously preparing for the paltry little achievements of my life to be hurled into Billy’s bottomless swimming pool of global success; even more so than with Lance Webster.

But what nonsense. It’s Billy fucking Flushing. The dweeb I ditched. I neck my coffee, march across the road to the unmarked door and buzz the intercom.

“Forsyth’s.”

“Oh, hi, I’ve an appointment with … Billy Flushing.”

“Certainly, sir,” replies the female voice. “Come upstairs.”

This is one of those private members’ clubs that are so private you don’t even know you’re in a club. You just feel like you’re in some very rich person’s house. I trot up the carpeted steps and emerge into a dark, slickly furnished sitting room, with some more stairs ascending to my right. An extremely pretty girl (dressed, to my bemusement, in a cropped T-shirt and jeans) leaps up from behind her laptop and shakes my hand.

“You must be Clive,” she beams.

“Er, yes.”

“Have a seat. Billy will be with you in just a moment.”

I sink deeply into one of the black velvet sofas while the girl summons a colleague on a tiny CB radio.

“Leona, please tell Billy his brunch has arrived.”

She gives me a melting smile and settles back behind her computer. “Smart casual,” my arse. I feel like sprinting to Oxford Street and buying some proper clothes.

“Oh my
God!”
says a voice suddenly. I turn to where the sound comes from, and there he is, Billy Flushing himself, coming down
the stairs. “Who the hell is
that?”
he laughs, bounding over to me and grabbing my hand before I’ve even had time to raise myself from the incredible sinking sofa. Our handshake morphs awkwardly into a strange sort of hug as I stand up; not that Billy looks remotely awkward himself.

“Clive Beresford, Clive bloody Beresford.”

“Billy Flushing,” I respond, trying to sound as natural as I can. I want the world to pause for a minute so I can study his appearance properly, but Billy has never been the sort of guy that
does
pauses. Now with his mantle of authority, he does them even less.

“What the fuck do you look like, you lunatic? You look like you’re going to a boat race! Come on up,” he commands, turning back where he came from.

“Your PA said it was ‘smart casual,’” I protest. He glances round and shakes his head.

“Oh God, sorry. Emily is so bloody by-the-book with people. I need to have a word …”

There’s a distinctly transatlantic edge to his voice, I notice—you can hear it in the way he says his Ls. “Emily” is “Eh-mul-y.”—“Bloody” is “Bul-uddy.” Plus there’s a little roll on the Rs. I follow him upstairs and we come into a plush bar, where another stunning girl is opening wine.

“Kate, can we have some drinks on the roof? Bloody Marys? Clive, you wanna Mary?”

“Er, yeah …”

“Two Marys, and menus.”

Kate nods and grabs two tall glasses.

I only get a proper look at Billy once we’re on the roof terrace (a disappointing view, but the sun is shining; a man and a woman are already out here, drinking coffee). His face is certainly the face of
Billy Flushing, not a lot has changed; but his skin looks healthy and taut, his big, chunky glasses look incredibly pricey, his black hair is scruffy but perfect and there’s no trace of the clumsiness or bad posture which engulfed him as a youth. He’s wearing rich, dark green combats and a perfectly fitting white T-shirt, a chunky silver bracelet and trainers that look like they’ve been biked over to the club just a few minutes ago. Although he probably wouldn’t be recognised if he walked across Leicester Square on a Saturday night, everyone he passed would know he was
someone;
it’s that kind of look. He’s also trim, muscular, and generally exudes health and vitality. The bastard. We settle ourselves at a table near the ledge and get started.

“So, Clive Beresford,” he smiles. “Clive Beresford. The highs—and indeed the lows—of the last sixteen years, if you please.”

You don’t require full details of the autobiography I embark on, but it’s important you should know that I manage to tell the truth. Though I also refrain from mentioning Lance Webster. At first. Towards the last five or six years of my dull story, when less and less of any conceivable merit took place, his face noticeably drops.

“So … who are you writing for now?” he asks.

“I’m … not. Myself, really.”

“You’re
not?
Clive, come on! What’s your job, then?”

“I’m temping. For a bank.”

“For a
bank?
Oh, Clive, no! We gotta sort that out, for a start. Have you got a girl?”

“Nah, split up eight months ago.”

“Well, I can’t help you with that one, my friend.”

“So, what about you?” I enquire, to which Billy grins and launches into his own rundown. Predictably it’s a lot more interesting than mine: aside from the success story you already know (which he continues to be appreciably modest about), the following facts emerge:

1. He moved permanently to New York a year ago, but still has a house in Rickmansworth and a flat round the corner from the club (“I’d invite you for brunch there, but I’ve forgotten where all the supermarkets are”).
   

2. He moved permanently to heterosexuality (as he describes it) two years ago, when he met his current girlfriend, Clara, but has essentially been bisexual since leaving school.
   

3. He runs a fledgling indie label in London called Civilian Flush, one of the reasons he’s over here this week.
   

Chatting to Billy produces a predictable blend of pleasure and misery. Obviously it’s great to see him doing so well and, encouragingly, he keeps saying stuff like, “I can put you in touch with the right guys, easy. You’re a good writer, man! I could get you writing in New York within a week. I assume you still fucking hate comics, else I would have you working for
me!”
But throughout most of the conversation an enormous, vulgar-pink neon sign is flashing at me from behind Billy’s head, complete with accompanying music, asking the obvious question:
WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I BEEN DOING WITH MY LIFE?

After a while, naturally, Billy asks me about one of my current “writing” projects, so I take the plunge and tell him about the recent Webster escapades. I tell him
everything
—or, at least, the first part: seeing Webster in the street, following him, working at the vet’s and then putting that stupid letter through his door. Billy is almost on the floor with laughter.

“Noo!” he hoots. “Clive, you fucking nutter, man! You weirdo! That’s actually quite
dark!
I
like
that! And you’ve
no
idea what you wrote in the letter?”

I shake my head, glugging my drink.

“All I know is it had my email address in it.”

“How d’you know that?”

But of course, I can’t tell him. Not without telling him all of the next bit: bumping into Webster in the pub, not being able to say it’s me ’cos he sent the roadies round; calling myself Alan ’cos it’s the only name that pops into my head; having to pretend I don’t know who he is; looking at each other’s writing; him finally realising who I am and running off, blah blah. By the end of this saga Billy almost needs an ambulance he’s laughing so much, and the other people on the terrace have turned to look, perhaps thinking we’re engaged in a tickling contest.