The Alternative Hero (18 page)

Although obviously, school being school, I couldn’t completely cut Billy off just like that. I still sat next to him during history, where we enjoyed a muted form of our previous capery, and I still oh-so-graciously allowed him to help with the first issue of the
Peanut
, but he only once again accompanied me to a gig (the less said about that episode, the better), and I kept contact with him outside the confines of a classroom to a minimum. After a month or two he got the message and, quite understandably, stopped bothering with me altogether. The only reminder of our former bond came from my mum (who, incidentally, disliked Alan from the moment she first heard his name) when she occasionally returned from a Conservative Party do and asked why Billy never came round anymore.

Ho-hum. There’s still a part of me that wants to go back in time and give the sixteen-year-old me a good kicking, tell the seventeen-year-old Alan Potter to piss off and stop being so ridiculous, and politely suggest to Billy Flushing that he simply get a decent haircut and perhaps some contact lenses. But what can I say? Other than: I
have always had a vague feeling that my actions of winter 1989 will catch up with me one day.

Alan never did get hold of Nicola, by the way. A week or two later we beheld the sight of the delectable Miss Cartwright strolling arm in arm with one of the biggest, meanest rugby players our school possessed, with whom she was also seen dancing at the Christmas ball to—among other things—a Jive Bunny record. Whether she privately exposed this chap to the delights of The House of Love, All About Eve or the Violent Femmes was never clear, but we certainly never saw that side of her again.

Not that it mattered much to Alan, however. For within a month, he (and I, whenever the chance presented itself) was happily shagging anything in a tie-dyed skirt that drew breath.

Come on—you know how tricky life can be.

It’s a Friday. You’ve had a bloody hard week at work. Hard in the sense that it’s been hard to maintain your enthusiasm for something as monotonous as arranging insurance for nine hours each day. A minor stab of variety has invaded the tedium today as the firm has spent the whole day packing for the office move tomorrow. For reasons you’ve not bothered to contemplate—though cost-cutting must be somewhere fairly close to the centre—the bosses have put you in charge of picking up a hire van the next morning, entrusting you with their driving licences and appropriate hard currency. You plough through the afternoon, shifting boxes of lever-arch files, finding to your surprise that something approaching physical labour feels oddly pleasant after months, nay years, of sitting on your arse making phone calls, drinking too much coffee, eating endless packets of sandwiches and downloading crap off the Internet.

Evening arrives. At seven the phones and computers are switched off and, unusually, everyone hits the pub together. Something about the camaraderie of the day has made the collection of motleys who’ve ended up working for this small but perfectly dysfunctional organisation behave, for once, in a normal, even wholesome manner.

Someone fires in the first round and you nail your pint quickly,
partly because you’re damn thirsty but also it’s your favourite little trick: neck the first and immediately buy the second round, so it’s only you and that fat dude from accounts who need a refill. Six quid, and your round-reputation is still spotless. Needs must when Satan vomits into your bank account. You kick back, quite content for the moment to play the part of the Friday-night office drinker in the rowdy Friday-night pub. Some show-off from customer service decides to get everyone a shot of sambuca. Well, why not? That boring girl who sits next to the shredder doesn’t want hers, but would you like it? Of course you would. Coffee bean and all.

Third pint, and by now it’s all getting nicely merry and the banter flows. You remember you’ve got Ron’s and Michael’s driving licences in your bag. You dig them out and hold a small contest with everyone: who can guess their year of birth? Everyone aims too low for Michael, but too high for Ron, miserable git that he is. Then you pass round the licences so everyone can laugh at the photographs.

Remember that, Clive? Shall we say it again?

You pass round the licences so everyone can laugh at the photographs.

Got it
.

You’re fully aware that you have to be up at the crack of arse tomorrow morning and off to some fucking cheapo van-hire place near the Holloway Road, but hell, it’s only eight thirty, most of the crew are still out and that fourth pint is sorting you right out.

Right out.

Right … out.

Finally you’re on the bus. Going home at what must be a nice sensible time. You even manage to read a bit of your book. Strange how most of the books you’ve read have entire chapters you don’t recall, characters that materialise without adequate explanation as to who they are, plot points that are somehow missing. Bizarre, because
you’re certainly taking everything in right now. A text message bleeps. Who could it be? Polly, of course. “Fancy lasties?” Well, why not? “Wot u having, the bar’s about to close.” The bar’s about to close? It can’t be midnight already. But it is. Where did those hours go? Shit. Well … you’ll be okay. It’s not like you have to do
real
work tomorrow, just, erm … driving.

You barge into the pub. Polly laughs heartily at your predicament. She’s obviously been swigging red wine all night, as her teeth are black. You listen to her latest disastrous date encounter—“a surgeon from Durham, for God’s sake”—with wavering attention, your lubricated mind now beginning to float back towards a certain ex-alternative rock star you’ve been trying to meet. Let’s be brutally frank: it’s not going terribly well, is it? Three weeks and all you’ve had is a two-minute exchange in a vet’s waiting room about hormones that stop cats pissing on the bed. You’ve soundly failed to pinpoint any of the man’s other haunts, and any other sparks of genius are sadly unforthcoming. Alan’s scrapbook remains on top of your record player, unbothered by any of its central players, still wrapped in its industrial-plastic legal sheath. Sod it. You have to do something. This is fast turning into one of those painfully unsurprising Ideas of Clive’s that amount to absolutely fuck all.

“… so in the end,” Polly blethers, sloshing red wine into the ashtray as you briefly tune in, “I just told him it simply wasn’t going anywhere. I had no interest in surgery, or Durham, or any of his opinions really … I was honest with him … and he was fine about it, really … even paid for dinner … It’s amazing what you can achieve when you’re just honest with someone …”

Suddenly a cartoon lightbulb appears above your head. You’re only halfway through your pint but something compels you to rise, apologise to your companion and lurch off in the direction of your flat. With a certainty that only vast quantities of beer can provide,
you’ve rarely been more sure of what you need to do. Be honest. Enough of this tomfoolery, skirting around the issue. Just be honest.

You stop off at the Turkish shop for a couple of beers (you’re not sure how long this will take, after all), pass by the abode of the man himself (no lights are on, but that doesn’t matter), descend the steps to your own flat, let yourself in, crack open a beer and settle at the kitchen table. This is the right thing. It has to be. The magic solution. The key to the lock, the long-sought combination code. The turning point, frankly. The pivot on which everything else swivels. That Zane Lowe moment. “It was really that simple, you see, Zane … all I had to do was be honest.”

And now you’re outside again.

And now you’re standing in front of a large black door.

And now you’re walking.

And now you’ve forgotten your keys.

And now you’re looking at the moon.

And now … Polly. In her dressing gown.

“Clive, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Sorry. Left my keys.”

“Why’d you leave me in the pub like that?”

“Sorry, just needed to … you know.”

“You’re completely mental. And I thought
I
was drunk. Where’ve you been? What time you gotta be up?”

You manage to focus on your watch. Someone must be mucking around with it. Why the hell is time going so quickly?

“In about five hours.”

“Ouch.”

“Sorry, Polly. Better go to bed.”

Bed. Now there’s a bit of rational, reasonable thinking. Bed. See, there’s still sense somewhere in that brain of yours. Amazing. It continues to operate, even at this drunken juncture. The last thought it
processes before you fall into a leaden, exhausting sleep, is that you’re somehow missing something—but you can’t imagine what it could be.

Never mind.

You’re sure it’ll come to you in the morning.

There’s an old
Peanuts
cartoon; I’m not sure if you remember it but bear with me: Snoopy wakes up one winter’s morning, he’s been sleeping on top of his kennel in the usual way he starts reflecting on how nice it is to wake up with a feeling of well-being, a cosy sensation that, although not perfect, life is generally fine and dandy. Only then does he spot this bloody great icicle with a huge razor-sharp edge, hanging precariously over his doghouse. One move and it’ll fall off, slicing him and his abode clean in two.

Well, that’s essentially how I feel when my clock radio prods me out of slumber around seven. I have no headache. I’m warm. I had a nice dream about cooking barbecue sausages on a Norfolk beach. It’s a Saturday. Even the song playing (that stupid Libertines one about the Likely Lads) doesn’t irritate me too much. I lie there feeling pleased with myself for twenty seconds or so. But then I see the icicle. Except, in my case, there are two of the fuckers. I only see one of them right now. But don’t you worry—I’ll be seeing the other one soon enough.

I leap out of bed and grab my bag. After a superficial look in the main section I simply unzip all the other pockets and tip it upside down. Lots of rubbish, bank statements, foreign coins, my diary, a couple of bills, but nothing else. I blunder over to where yesterday’s trousers have been unceremoniously dumped and check the pockets. Nothing. Then my coat. Fuck all. Then I try to find my phone. I need my bloody phone.
Now
.

I find it under my socks and call directory enquiries while running to the kitchen for a glass of water.

“Yes, it’s a pub, the Schooner, Old Street … London … Uh, I dunno. N1? EC1? Or 2? Not sure … Right, got it … Yes, please, thanks …”

I glug the water and frantically search the kitchen top—loads of papers and bills, mainly Polly’s—while the pub’s number rings and rings. There’s plainly no one there at seven in the bloody morning, what was I thinking? I slam the phone down on the kitchen table.

Which is when I see the second icicle.

My notebook, open, pages ripped out, a few scrunched-up sheets lying loose. Blue biro hanging about nearby. Empty can of beer.

A horrible, dim memory surfaces.

“Polly!”

Still wearing only yesterday’s underpants, I look bloody everywhere. All over the kitchen. Out in the stairwell. Up the steps. The bathroom. My bedroom again. A cold sweat emerges from my brow, as does Polly from her bedroom: a splendour of smudged mascara, light blue dressing gown and those damn slippers with toothpaste stains.

“Clive, what the hell are you doing
now?
Jesus, it’s seven o’fucking clock.”

“I’ve lost it,” I splutter, turning my bedroom upside down.

“Dare I ask?”

“No. Everything. What the fuck was I doing last night?”

“What?”

“What was I doing? Last night. After I saw you.”

My phone rings. I push Polly out of the way before she can answer and stumble to the kitchen.

Withheld number
.

“Hello?”

“Yes,” responds a male voice. “You call this number.”

“Are you the pub?”

“Yes.”

“The Schooner?”

“Yes. I am cleaner.”

“Look—I was in the pub last night. I left something there.”

“Yes.”

“A plastic wallet. Two driving licences. And … um … five hundred quid in cash.”

I realise how hopeless this sounds as soon as it leaves my lips. I half expect the bloke to laugh.

“I check,” he says.

“Thanks.”

“Oh, Clive,” murmurs Polly leaning on the kitchen door.

“Never mind all that. What was I doing?”

“You left me in the pub.”

“Sorry. But when you came home?”

“You were writing at the kitchen table.”

“What was I writing?”

“How should I know? Looked like a letter.”

“Fuck!” I yell, unscrunching one of the sheets of paper.

“What?”

“I think I wrote to Lance Webster.”

The unscrunched piece of paper has nothing written on it. Lord
knows why I scrunched it up. Another merely has the date. Which I’d got wrong.

“So?”

“So … I was drunk. So it was probably nonsense. So it was probably hysterical, with my stupid name at the bottom, possibly even my address.”

“So?”

My voice allows a bit more exasperation past the flood barrier.

“So, Polly—he has a history of stalkers! So—I’ve probably completely sodded up my chances of ever getting within a hundred yards of him! Let alone interviewing him!”

“Right … so what’s that got to do with you leaving money in a pub?”

“Nothing! They’re merely two totally separate but equally fucking disastrous outcomes of me getting wankered, as bloody usual!”

“Well, if you ask me I’d say the money thing is slightly worse, but …”

“Shhh!”

At the other end of the line I’m hearing steps coming back towards the phone. Steps that my entire bank balance and probably my job hang from.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hi. Any luck?”