A Song for Joey (26 page)

"De Luca!"
The boy jumps. "Si, Signore."
Paolo rises from his chair, loping round his desk with that long stride of his, to stand,

hands behind his back, facing the class of fourteen-year-olds, leaning towards De Luca.
"Your homework - where is it?" He smiles, benignly.
The youth is laughing, looking around at his friends. "I forgot it, Signore."
"Ah," shrugs the teacher, raising his head to look around. "You forgot to bring it; what a

shame. But you did it?"
"Oh yes, Signore."
Paolo, the smile still on his lips, fixes him with an inscrutable stare. "When?"
"Perdone, Signore?"
"When did you do it, De Luca. The homework; when did you do it? Last night?"
"Er ... oh yes, last night, Signore."
"And how long did it take you to do this homework?"
"Umm, about an hour, Signore."
"Ah, very good." Walking back to his desk, Paolo perches his behind onto one corner of

his desk, then beams at the class. "Most commendable, De Luca; I am gratified.
The boy looks relieved.
"So, it's at home, now, is it? On the kitchen table, perhaps?" Paolo resumes.
De Luca starts. His torment is not over yet. "Si, Signore." Then, realising that he needs

to placate the Old Man, he makes an offer: "I'll bring it in tomorrow, Signore."
"Oh, we can do better than that, can't we, De Luca? If you were to jump on your bicycle
at lunch time, and pedal really hard, I bet you could get home, grab your homework from
the kitchen table, and return before the hour is up. You could do that, couldn't you?"

"Lambardi!" Paolo has fixed another student with his eyes. Lambardi jumps, and stops
sniggering.
"What's your excuse, Lambardi? Why have I not received your homework, either?
Come to that, I haven't had any homework from you for last week, have I? Nor, as I recall,
for the week before that."
Paolo stands again, and takes the half-dozen steps to bring him to Lambardi's desk. The
youth is confused. Old Man Bellini is usually a pushover.
"Sorry, Signore," he mumbles, looking up at the teacher, who now seems much taller
than he had been.
But instead of pursuing the interrogation, Paolo paces slowly across the front of the
class, glaring at each boy and girl as he passes.
"Perhaps I am making it too hard for you all, is that it?"
Or perhaps I have been too
preoccupied to care
, he thought, realising that, for nearly twenty years, he has been backpedalling.
"
Notazione Musicale
," he says; then pauses for effect. "Musical Notation. Is it difficult,
class?"
He stops pacing and scans the room. There is a mumble of assent. He shakes his head.
"No, it's not all that difficult at all, if ...." He raises both arms, outstretched on each side,
and looks hopefully around him. "If ... what?" he asks, his eyes darting from one blank
face to another, receiving a wave of incomprehension in return.
He gives a frustrated groan. "
If - we - work - at - it
," he says, carefully enunciating every
syllable. "You know,
work
; what people used to have to do to survive."
Still the sea of faces radiates confusion.
He shakes his head. "Very well, here is what we are going to do. I am going to help you
to become the best musicians that you can be." His face grows larger with a big smile,
then becomes sad. "Oh, if only that meant I could make all of you into stars of the stage
and recording studio. But I'm afraid that is impossible. Some of you, and your parents,
will have to reconsider your choice of career." He turns again to the hapless De Luca.
"Am I making myself clear, De Luca?" The youth is sitting with his mouth agape. He
shuts it at the mention of his name, but is unable to answer.
"Don't believe what some people will tell you: nothing worth having will be yours
unless you make an effort - a lot more effort than you have been making so far. Oh, but
don't worry, here is the good news: I am going to help you with that, too." He beamed
around the room. They had never seen him so self-assured, so ... excited to be teaching
them.
"This is how I will help you. From tomorrow, I will be reporting on your progress
directly with your parents." Suddenly, their lethargy is replaced with panic; he can see it
in their faces. "If you fail to do your homework," he continues, remorselessly, "I will ring
them. If I think you are not trying hard enough, I will tell them. Every day, after school, I
will sit at the telephone until every parent knows how you are wasting the money they
have paid to give you a start in life. But," he blesses them with a genuine smile, "if you
apply yourselves, if you work hard, and really do your best, I will tell them that too. That
is fair, is it not?"
A mumble of voices fails to convince him that they agree.
He returns to his chair and sits down. Then, to their amazement, he tips back the chair
and puts, first one foot, then the other, on his desk and crosses them at the ankles, smiling
beneficently around him.
"Now, that's fair, isn't it?"

"Is Connor ok?" I asked Garth, one of the young waiters in the hotel restaurant, when he
came to take my breakfast order instead of Connor.
"Dunno, love," he shrugged. "He didn't turn up this mornin'. Rest'rant man'ger arsed me
to cover his tables. Good job we're quiet, init?" Then he switched into his 'waiter' voice.
"What would you like to eat?"
"Nothing, thanks. Where's the manager now?"
He tipped his head towards the restaurant doors. "He went upstairs to reception."
I thanked him and headed for the exit. Before I reached it, though, I saw the manager
return and head for the kitchens. I ran to catch him up.
"Charles!" I called as I reached him.
He turned, surprised, then smiled. "Good morning, Miss," he said, warmly.
"Charles, I'm worried about Connor; have you heard anything?"
"No, Miss. I'm quite put out, to be honest. He could have phoned in, if he's sick, but it's
thoughtless of him to just not report for work."
"Has he done it before?"
"Well, no; he hasn't missed a day since he started."
"And you didn't think it odd that it's happened now?"
"I suppose so." He looked rather sheepish.
I found I was becoming angry that no-one seemed to be worried about Connor, only that
his absence was inconveniencing them. It didn't occur them to wonder why he would
uncharacteristically fail to show up for work.
"He shares a flat with two of the other waiters, doesn't he? Are either of them on duty
now?" I realised that I was quizzing him like a headmaster - an odd situation, considering
that he was about three times my age.
"Yes ... Katie ... she's over there." He indicated the girl in question.
I crossed quickly to where Katie was clearing a table, and asked about Connor.
"He didn't come home last night. Neil and me figured he had a hot date; know what I
mean?" She continued working as she spoke, folding the corners of the white cloth into
the centre, then gathering it up under her arm and replacing it with a clean one.
"Do you know where he spent the evening?" I had to check myself; I could hear a harsh
note entering my voice - partly rising panic, partly frustration at everyone's apparent lack
of concern.
She seemed not to notice my tone, as she carried on setting out cutlery ready for the next
diner. "He went to
The Emerald
at about eight. That's all I know."
"Ok. Look, if you get any news, will you leave a message for me at the front desk?"
"Yeah, sure." I was sure she wouldn't, but I was in too much of a hurry to argue. I ran up
the stairs, across the entrance hall, and was about to push through the big doors when
Connor emerged from them. He was almost unrecognisable; his face was bruised and cut,
his clothes torn and dirty, one of his arms was in a sling, and he hobbled like an old man,
every step drawing a grunt of pain from his lips. I felt my breath catch as I saw him.

Taking his free hand, I held it to my face as I looked him up and down. "Connor, my
love, what happened?" I asked, hoarsely.
"A bunch of lads beat me up on my way home last night," he croaked through swollen
lips, then smiled ruefully, a twisted grimace. "I guess they were feeling brave. There were
four of them and they'd a skinful."
"But why?"
He shrugged, then winced. "Who knows. Because I'm gay? Because I'm Irish? Because
they'd had a good night and felt like kicking some innocent sod? Who can tell what goes
on in the minds of people like that."
"Have they been arrested?"
A splutter that may have been a laugh. "No hope of that! They ran off when a taxi driver
stopped and shouted at them. I think he saved my life. He called the ambulance and I
spent the night is hospital."
"But the police ...?"
"Not interested without some kind of identification, and I'd no idea who they were.
Never seen them before."
"Hmph! They could at least try. Maybe the taxi driver could identify someone."
"The cops who came at the same time as the ambulance talked to him, but he didn't see
any of their faces." Connor reached out his good hand and gently grasped my shoulder.
"Don't worry, my lovely friend, I'll heal. Be right as ninepence in no time."
"It just seems wrong to me that they can get away with it."
"Ah, they'll answer for it. God sees everything."
I looked into his eyes; he was perfectly serious. He had never mentioned religion before,
and I realised there were still things about him I didn't know. Unsure what to say, I
changed the subject. "Well, you're not going back to your flat alone. You can stay with me
while I nurse you." I saw that he was about to argue, but I stopped him. "You are in no
condition to fight me, Mr O'Connor, so just do as I say. Ok?"
With another rueful grin, he capitulated. "How can I disagree with logic like that. Lead
on, kindly light."

The next day, I left Connor in my room while I went to the studio to work on the album
with the guys. When we finished, at about six o'clock, I met Connor for a drink in The
Emerald.

He still looked a sight, but was insistent that he would return to his digs, so when we
finished our drinks, we walked the short distance to the shabby house where he shared a
floor with Katie and Neil. I had never been there with him before, and was stunned to see
the shocking state of the place. The walls were damp, with the paper peeling off and
patches of black mould everywhere. The three of them shared a tiny kitchen and a filthy
bathroom. I needed a pee, but could not bring myself to use the toilet there.

The last thing I wanted was to stop to speak to anyone. But as I passed the hotel
reception desk on my way to the lift, my bathroom, a wee, and then sleep, the night clerk
called to me. Wearily, I crossed to the mahogany and marble desk.

"Sorry to bother you, Miss Bellini, but there's a letter for you, delivered by hand." He
held out an envelope.
I took it and studied it - it was grubby and crumpled, with nothing written on it. I turned
it over - nothing on the back, either. "Who brought it?" I asked.
"I don't know, Miss, it arrived before I came on duty. But Cheryl told me it was a
scruffy man with a limp."
"Ok, thanks Nick. Goodnight."
"Goodnight Miss."
While the lift bore me to the fourth floor, I tore open the envelope and saw that it
contained a folded sheet of paper, but my floor arrived before I could open it, and I was in
a desperate hurry to get to the loo. Why is it that, the closer you get, the more urgent your
need becomes?
I unlocked the door to my suite, and threw my handbag on an armchair as I ran to the
loo. Seconds later, sitting there, in blessed relief, I realised I still had the letter in my
hand. As I unfolded it, a piece of paper fell out onto the bathroom floor. It was a cutting
from a newspaper, and I saw my photograph on it.
My curiosity aroused, I finished unfolding the ruled page, which had been roughly torn
from an exercise-book. I was completely unprepared for what I read:
"
Doing well for youself arnt you bitch? You owe me and you gonner pay. I know were
you are and I'm gonner get you.
"

Shocked, I sat stunned for a while, my knickers around my ankles, my skirt clutched to
my chest, as I contemplated the message, made more sinister by its terrible grammar and
spelling mistakes. Who was it from? Some madman? My heart was thumping so hard I
could almost hear it.

Eventually I put the letter down while I dried and dressed myself and washed my
shaking hands, then I picked it up again, with the cutting, and took them into my lounge,
where I dropped onto the sofa.

The cutting was a page from the New Musical Express, the interview I did with Penny
Wardle. As I read it, I realised that, between us, we had revealed rather too much about
me.

I looked at the clock - eight fifty, Jenny would still be at work. I rang her.
"Jenny Macarthur," said her tinny voice.
"Jenny, something weird has happened."
"Why, what is it?"
My whole body shivering by then, I told her about the letter and read it out out to her. A

face kept flashing before me, I pushed it aside.
"Stars often get this kind of unwanted attention," she said, reassuringly. "Do you have
any idea who it could be?"
The more I thought about it, the more likely it began to seem. Gary Buroughs. He had
been limping when I last saw him.
"There is someone, but it's complicated," I said, feeling my chest tighten as I
remembered the things that man had done. Fear and anger gripped my heart.
"Well, tell me about it tomorrow. Right now I am getting a security firm to put a
bodyguard on you, twenty-four hours a day, starting from the time we end this call.
Belinda, take this threat seriously, but try not to be frightened. This security outfit is the
best, we use them all the time, you have nothing to fear. Ok?"
"Ok."
"Now let me hang up so I can phone Hamblin Security."
Within half an hour, there was a gentle knock on my door. Standing there in the hallway
was a well-dressed mountain of a man with blonde hair.
"Hello Miss Bellini," he said softly, with a noticeable Germanic accent. "I am Hans,
your bodyguard for tonight. I just want you to know that I shall be in the corridor, right
outside your door, all night. You have nothing to fear."
I thanked him, and as I closed my door, he turned and sat on a chair that he had placed
in the hallway opposite. So fame has it's price, and it's measured in lost freedoms. From
that moment, I could never be alone again.