In Pieces (17 page)

Jimmy was his mate and had done nothing to deserve such shoddy treatment. What would Jimmy say if he ever found out? He blushed at the thought. Thank God Mary had called off, reflected Si. Just for once, it had been a good thing.

As Si pushed through the crowded bar towards where he knew Jimmy would be sitting, he realised he was still carrying the video camera; he sighed. Ever since his birthday a fortnight before, Mary had insisted that he carry the camera with him whenever he met her. He'd begun to suspect that the gift had an ulterior motive which had more to do with Mary's vanity than with his own pleasure. But he'd refrained from voicing this thought, and accepted Mary's mantra good-naturedly: ‘You must film at every opportunity for the next few weeks to make a full and balanced record of your life aged twenty-eight. Your family and grandchildren will thank you for it,' she offered regularly by way of explanation.

Si was not so sure. How would anyone be able to make much sense of his life aged twenty-eight? A fragmented series of events lacking any overall direction or purpose, and only linked by the linear cord of work routines, football and habitual visits to the pub. Perhaps the video footage had some intrinsic worth—it might show how rudderless people could become in a free society. Even so, Si was far from convinced.

But he couldn't be bothered to argue with them, despite his own unhappy experience of family videos: dull evenings during the Christmas holidays trying to set up the ancient machinery, and then embarrassing silences when neither of his parents could remember the name of the person who'd just featured in the last four minutes of flickering over-exposed film. But, he reflected, the irritation of his childhood had faded into a dull ache, and he found the thought of resistance harder than that of inflicting a similar trial on his own offspring. And, God help them, on his offspring's offspring. Would it never stop?

So, when meeting Mary he obliged her by lugging along the camera. It kept her quiet. He'd not gone so far as to take the camera to work, and Mary had not been crass enough to insist on it. If she did… Well, he didn't know what he'd do. But the thought of toting the ugly black Japanese box around at
The Courier
made him wince. Imagine what his colleagues would say. Even Bill might laugh at his expense, and that was something Si could ill-afford, the way things were going. He'd have to pretend he was making a fly-on-the-wall documentary for Channel 4.

Well, he told himself just before reaching the end of the bar, now that I've got it here and Jimmy's not yet arrived, I might as well us it. And flicking the switch, he filmed The Feathers regulars, starting of course with Brenda behind the bar, who grinned sheepishly and then ham-acted the pulling of a pint as if for a TV advert. Zooming in on her face, Si surprised himself with the realisation that she was really not that plain after all. In fact, Brenda was seriously attractive when she smiled. Certainly, much better looking than Anne, her new colleague.

Jimmy arrived ten minutes later. He ignored Brenda, who'd been chatting to Si. She turned away and began to serve another customer. Si was sensitive enough not to comment.

‘Hey, Jimmy mate, I'd almost given up on you.' Si gave Jimmy their usual half-embrace.

‘Yeah, sorry. You know how the traffic is. I got caught up round High Street Ken.'

‘What were you doing over there? Bit out of the way isn't it?'

‘Yeah.' Jimmy looked embarrassed.

‘So?'

‘Well, I had to meet this journalist for an interview.'

Si raised an eyebrow. ‘Great. So you really are becoming famous now, aren't you?'

Jimmy still looked uncomfortable. ‘Yeah, I guess. But… I know it sounds silly… But I'd always hoped that if I did make the big time, I'd give my first proper interview to you. Trouble was, I didn't really have much choice.'

‘No worries, it's just great to see you.'

‘You sure you don't mind? You see, the club told me that this guy wanted to interview me next time I was in London, and like they thought it was a good idea—to mark my arrival you see—and I wasn't really able to do anything about it… Sorry.'

Si was touched and slightly surprised by Jimmy's concern. ‘Listen, mate. That's great, but you don't need to worry. I'm not that type of journalist anyway. I don't normally do sports interviews, and
I'd be unlikely to be able to persuade my editor to run a feature piece on you yet. Not that you're not becoming famous enough, but the footballing world is a speciality in itself, and I'm not a football journalist.' Si realised he was gushing and should have just thanked Jimmy for the thought and left it at that. It was bizarre that they should be so uptight in each other's company after such a short separation.

‘Right. Well, that's all right, then.'

‘Yeah.' Si tried to lighten the mood. ‘Pint? I bet you're gagging after dealing with that hack.'

‘Yeah. He really was a wanker. Kept asking me about my childhood, as if that had anything to do with anything. Then he wanted to know what I thought of United and got upset when I wouldn't say anything bad about the Boss or any of the other guys… I mean, what does he expect? I've only just started to establish myself and he wants me to bite the hand that feeds me. He didn't even ask me about that Southampton goal. What a git!'

Si understood why that goal had extra significance for Jimmy. Every national tabloid had run it as the back page headline story with photos of Jimmy in the act of beating the keeper. Even
The Courier
had given the story prominence under the headline SWEENY'S BIG NIGHT! Jimmy had arrived.

They both laughed and began to relax. Brenda put two pints on the bar.

‘Hi, Jimmy. Aren't you going to say hello or have you become too famous for your old friends?'

‘Hi, Brenda. How you doing?' Jimmy replied unenthusiastically.

Si thought better of joining in the conversation. The communication between the two seemed to have little to do with the words being spoken. Fortunately, Brenda soon seemed placated.

‘So, Si, aren't you going to video Jimmy's triumphant return, since you've already done the rest of us?'

Si looked puzzled for a moment, then realised she was referring to the video camera beneath his stool.

‘Oh yeah, right. You don't mind, do you?' he asked Jimmy, feeling foolish.

‘No, sure, go ahead. I love the cameras… You know me! Of course, you'll have to talk to the club before selling it, you know.' Jimmy seemed half-serious, but Si decided it was a joke and laughed.

He shot some stilted footage of his friend drinking a pint and looking embarrassed. Then he filmed Jimmy ostentatiously waving a fifty pound note about as he got another round in and things got better. Si left the camera on during an increasingly raucous conversation. Jimmy relaxed when Si began to imitate a famous soccer TV pundit who always said the same things. Then he did a passable imitation of a
Match of the Day
interviewer. Jimmy played a camped-up version of himself.

When Si got home later that night, half-cut and desperate for sleep, he stuffed the camera in a cupboard. It was a long time before he thought to get it out again.

~

The seasons in London met seamlessly that year, and it was impossible to pinpoint when spring overcame winter. February had been chill but bright; March's light breezes promised heat; and April, after a wet start, reawakened somnolent Londoners with balmy caresses. But the spring had definitely arrived by mid-month when it blossomed and progressed triumphantly, adorned with garlands of flowers and perfumed with the musk of a thousand freshly mown lawns.

The transition between seasons generated an excitement perfectly in tune with Jimmy's own mood. His first season at Manchester United was approaching a dramatic finale. His bank account had been transformed by United's Midas touch and he now drove a red Ferrari; he never lacked for attractive female company on his nights off in Manchester and he was about to buy his first house complete with swimming pool, sauna and gym; and importantly for Jimmy, Si had been suitably impressed by the photos in the estate agent's brochure.

As for his professional ambitions, Jimmy found himself part of a club which was on course to win the Double Double and if it achieved this Herculean task, it would be the first time in the long history of English football that a club had done the Double twice (United having won both the League and Cup competitions simultaneously for the first time two seasons earlier). Jimmy had to keep pinching himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

By mid-April United had reached the Cup Final and were running neck and neck in the Premiership with their rivals Newcastle. The last few weeks of the season promised to be nail-bitingly tense.

Jimmy was now established as a full member of the squad and had come on a few times as a substitute, partly through good luck as his rivals were injured. He'd even scored a couple of goals over the busy Easter period. He now had a unique chance to fulfil his dream of making sporting history.

Si was also excited about the imminent arrival of summer. But the upbeat weather didn't reflect his emotional state. A windswept and rainy autumn afternoon would have better suited a growing sense of confusion about the course his life was taking. He recognised the symptoms of dissatisfaction and saw that the cancer threatened to spread to healthy parts of his existence. But it was difficult to envisage, let alone take, the necessary steps to cut it out and make a fresh start.

~

It wasn't only Jimmy's soccer that was going well.

‘Smoke on the waaaa-ta… fire in the sky…' Jimmy hit the chords hard as he walked the bar chords up and down the neck of his purple-lacquered instrument. ‘Ba, ba, baaaa… Ba, ba, ba ba… Ba, ba, baaaa… Ba, ba….' he shouted as he strummed the riff at the heart of the rock classic.

He'd sneered ten years ago when other boys had claimed they could play this song. But the pleasure he felt as he generated the just-about-recognisable music swept away such memories.

After three months of painful practice, Jimmy was beginning to make progress. He'd told nobody that he'd bought a cheap electric guitar and amplifier, and he was determined to keep it a secret until he became good enough to do his first gig. He would be the new Billy Bragg or Bruce Springsteen. He was going to play raw, folky but loud and energetic rock. He'd appear on
Top Of The Pops
when his first single went triple platinum in the first week of its release; he'd got it all planned. The football was getting in his way a bit, and he wasn't able to practise as much as he would have liked. But still he was making progress and he reckoned it wouldn't be long now. But first he had to learn some new open chords.

Learning to shape bar chords on E had been an excruciatingly painful process—he'd had cramp in his fingers for hours afterwards, difficult to hide in training at times. But as a result he could now play many more songs than before. Jimmy had read that the real secret was learning to move effortlessly between a series of complex open chords. The mysteries of the suspended and diminished lay before him, and although he had no idea why they had these names, he was totally aware that strummed in a smooth sequence they sounded awesome.

He looked back at his chord book and started to contort his fingers into an unnatural claw. The trick was managing to put enough pressure on the strings once you'd tied your fingers in knots. One last tug on the second finger of his left hand and… Ta daaa! An open B7.

‘God, that hurt.' Jimmy expelled a satisfied moan, and after exercising his aching fingers, he began again.

~

‘You ever heard of Jack Derrida?'

The man with too much blond hair answered confidently. ‘Yeah… He was in that movie with Marilyn, wasn't he? Yeah, I remember him.'

Although Si didn't know who Derrida was, he was pretty certain he wasn't a film star. He also knew he had to find out if he was to make any sense of his editor's instructions. His job might even depend on it. How had Dougy put it as he stared out of the huge window in his office? ‘Make your Diary like Derrida… You know, Jack Derrida.' Si had nodded, not daring to ask what his boss was on about. Now six hours later he was at a party and desperate to find out who Derrida was. It might be the key to success at
The Courier
.

‘No, I don't think so,' replied Si. It was time to leave.

‘Yeah, he was. Swear to God…'

Si paused and looked at the surfer. He knew he was a surfer because he'd told him so.

‘Hi, my name's Ricky.'

‘Oh. Right. I'm Si.'

‘Far out, Si. I'm a surfer. What d'you do?'

How could anyone in their right mind describe their profession as being a surfer? Envy mixed with incredulity as Si reeled off his standard reply about journalism.

Now after thirty seconds of desultory conversation, Si was tired of his new acquaintance. The whole party seemed to be having a good time. Apart from him. And where was Jimmy?

Perhaps he'd lost the ability to enjoy himself. To let his hair down. Before changing newspapers it had never been a problem. But then he'd taken on a great deal of responsibility with the Diary. Perhaps that was inhibiting him, he wondered, not really caring whether it was. He just wanted to go. And why did he always end up at such dreadful parties where he hardly knew anyone, and those he did know he didn't like? All these parties seemed the same. Uniformly dreadful, whether they were celeb bashes he had to cover for the Diary or just normal parties held by friends of friends, in this case a friend of a friend of a friend. Si wondered if he was a misanthrope. Then it struck him that perhaps Derrida was a misanthrope and that's what Dougy had been on about? Whatever, it was time to go.

‘See you, Ricky.'

‘Later…' smiled Ricky, slapping his shoulder. But then the blond boy seemed to have a flash of intuition. ‘God, man. What am I saying? You can't split yet.'