The Alternative Hero (19 page)

“No, sorry. Nothing. I can ask manager when he come, he come nine thirty.”

“Fuck. Thanks anyway, I’ll ring back.”

I sit down uneasily in one of the kitchen chairs and think for a moment. My one advantage is that I’m awake. It’s five past seven. Time is on my side. Polly, who has a nice habit of going into maternal-style overdrive at times like this (at complete odds with the total
shambles of her own life), puts the kettle on and fetches her laptop, which she places in front of me.

“Right. Go online and check your bank balance. Work out how much you can afford to blow on this, then I’ll lend you the rest. The important thing is that you show up, on time, with a van. Then at least they can see you’re trying.”

I discover I can physically withdraw two hundred, and God knows what I’ll do for the rest of the month. Polly, bless her, lends me the other three. I phone and wake various other people as I dress and jump on a bus to Holloway: a couple of people from work (“Was there cash in the packet as it was being passed round? Are you sure? Yes, yes, I know Ron’s going to crucify me,” etc.), the Turkish shop, the other pub, the bus company, none of whom reveals anything useful, while the perpetual question of what the hell I put in that letter rattles around at the back of my mind like a broken exhaust pipe. Incredibly, all this frantic activity manages to cancel out the vicious hangover I certainly deserve, although that probably says more about the general level of alcohol present in my body these days than any psychosomatic theory one could consider.

I pick up the van—a suitably knackered-looking Luton—and clatter back down the Holloway Road without further mishap. It’s eight thirty when I pull up outside our grey office building. I’m greeted by a few tired and grumpy faces from last night; everyone cheers up considerably when I inform them of my impressive blunder. Ron hasn’t appeared yet so we retire to the café round the corner, where I drink coffee like a man possessed and interrogate my colleagues. No one seems to remember anything. One of them suggests the bar staff pilfered it when collecting glasses. Further speculation seems pretty futile. The unanimous view is that I’m fucked. I groan and order another coffee. I picture Lance Webster opening and reading my letter.
It’s nice to have another self-made catastrophe to focus on. It’s times like this that I thank the gods I never started smoking.

My mobile rings at nine. It’s Ron.

“Good morning, Clive.”

“Morning, Ron. We’re just having a coffee.”

“I see the vehicle is currently parked in a car-parking space that ceases to be free at nine thirty. Now, what I propose is that you give me the keys, and while you commence shifting some of the objects downstairs I’ll familiarise myself with the van and find a free car-parking space.”

“Ah, yes—um, good idea, Ron, but I need to just quickly have a word with you about something, if you just wait there …”

I run round the corner. He’s standing by the van wearing an absurd pink and purple fleece and jeans that look like they’ve just come out of a packet. Bright white unbranded trainers. His glasses are held on by a yellow elastic band. None of which makes him look any less scary. Gingerly, I tell him the news. His reaction is interesting.

“Oh, fuck!” he exclaims.

Ron is not a man who says this word very often. He looks genuinely gutted, and stares at an unspecified object halfway down the road for what seems like the next ten minutes while I stand there stupidly.

Finally he sighs and says, “Well, these things happen, I suppose, but I can’t believe you couldn’t have been more careful.”

And that, it seems, is that. I actually think he’s far more upset at not being able to drive the van than he is about the money. Of course, that could very well mean that in his view, the money is not his problem.

The rest of the day passes at an unbearable crawl. The van now being solely my charge, I spend most of the time either sitting in it,
driving it or standing next to it, wondering if my parents will lend me some money, if my bank will extend my overdraft limit, if there’s any space left on one of my credit cards. And when I’m tired of thinking about those things there’s always the rich worry-seam of the Webster letter for me to relentlessly mine. It’s amazing how my brain has recorded none of the contents whatsoever, although—crazily—I somehow recall the
shape
of the text on the page. For some baffling reason I balanced it all in the centre, starting with the greeting, the sentences spreading out below, line by line, wider and wider like a Christmas tree, a design decision that will certainly lend currency to the argument that he’s being addressed by a gibbering lunatic. Mercifully, I don’t think I went beyond one page. I hope to buggery I didn’t mention I was the guy working in the vet’s.

We continue shifting and packing the rickety truck with endless loads of paraphernalia, Ron in his element, presiding over the process with mathematical precision. One wonders why he became an accountant at all and not the boss of a removal firm. Only after every cubic centimetre of space is filled and the van’s arse begins to sag dangerously am I permitted to trundle round to our new premises: an even more depressing sixties block behind Brick Lane. There I find a second team of weirdos, who reluctantly extinguish cigarettes and get busy hauling the stuff inside every time I appear. Towards three o’clock, when the old office finally starts looking emptier than the new one, Ron accompanies me on one of the trips to find four of his employees relaxing in the car park with pints from the pub round the corner.

“I find it improbable that you have moved all the furniture to its correct place, and completed setting up the electronic equipment,” he reflects, shortly before going inside to discover his hunch is correct.

Typically, Michael doesn’t appear until around six. He strides
about in his suit, concentrating on the less essential aspects of the undertaking: finding a place for the coffee machine, putting up the pictures, the calendar and various statistical charts, instructing a few chaps to install his orthopaedic chair. Just before seven, after I’ve swung the van into the new yard for the last time, Michael does that annoying thing of beckoning me over with his little finger.

“So, Clive. Sounds like you had a colourful evening last night. Has someone reimbursed you?”

I’m agog.

“Er … no?”

He extracts ten fifty-pound notes from his wallet as if he’s giving me change for milk. I swallow hard, fighting to remain dignified, although frankly I feel like kneeling down and kissing his brogues.

“Oh, Michael, that’s really good of you … I wasn’t expecting that, to be honest.”

“Well, that’s the kind of company we are, Clive. We give our staff money and they go off and lose it.”

He smirks and strides off towards Ron, who is happily changing a strip lightbulb in the foyer.

The phrase “more money than sense” has regularly been bandied around in the region of Michael, but never before has it been of such miraculous benefit to me. Thank God for the upper classes. Whether Ron will approve of Michael’s munificence is another matter but, for the time being, I have the luxury of unrivalled worry-time devoted to the Webster letter.

The plan is that I take the van home tonight and return tomorrow for some final bits and pieces, which effectively means I have my own set of wheels for the evening. I phone Alan and, not going into too much detail, request an emergency meeting. His expert knowledge of Webster’s brief spell as the object of a nutter’s desire will hopefully inform me a little of the reaction I might expect.
I set the van’s controls for the heart of Crouch End—but never get that far. I’m just crossing Essex Road when my mobile rings.
Home
.

“Polly,” I answer.

“Clive, where are you?”

“Um … Islington, near Canonbury I’m driving. I’d better be quick.”

“Are you coming home?”

“Yeah, eventually. Just having a quick beer with Alan first. You all right?”

“Look, there are some men here to see you.”

“Men? Which men?”

“They say they’re associates of …” I hear someone say “Mr. Webster” in the background. “Did you hear that? Mr. Webster.”

A swarm of butterflies lets rip in my digestive region. This is my life, ladies and gentlemen. Jesus O’Fuckwit, how do I get into these things?

“Ah. Um … okay. Don’t … don’t let them in.”

“They
are
in.”

“Shit. Okay—don’t let them further in. I’ll be home in ten minutes.”

Instantly I’m picturing a few plug-uglies from
The Sopranos
, or the Kray twins, or at the very least some Vinnie Jones figure accompanied by, perhaps, Ken Stott, standing in our hallway giving poor Polly intimidating stares. So, after I’ve broken all the speed limits back up the Essex Road, buggered the suspension on the speed bumps and found somewhere to dump the van, I am somewhat surprised and relieved to find two middle-aged crusties who I instantly recognise as former members of the Thieving Magpies road crew, sitting at our kitchen table sipping tea. In fact, I think I’ve an even more involved recollection of them, although I can’t
presently place it. They rise as I enter, politely introduce themselves as Stan and Malcolm, and for the moment seem fairly reasonable and unthreatening. Nonetheless, their smart, dark jackets, chunky no-nonsense raver’s jewellery, thick tattooed arms and hardy complexions suggest they are not to be fucked with. Malcolm, the slimmer and probably older of the two, asks the questions while Polly lurks supportively in the doorway.

“So. You know why we’re here?”

“Erm … I think so, yes.”

“Why?”

Damn! Why did I say yes? What the hell do I say now?

“Why?”

“Yes, why?” he repeats quietly.

“Erm … because I wrote a letter to Lance Webster.”

“That’s one way o’ describing it,” remarks Stan. Glaswegian accent.

“Erm … how else could you describe it?”

Stan sniggers and shakes his head disparagingly.

“Mr. Beresford,” continues Malcolm, “we are here because our associate Mr. Webster wishes to illustrate to you how seriously he views his privacy and safety.”

“Okay.”

“Given the contents of your communication to Mr. Webster, am I to understand that you have some knowledge of his life, and his former musical career?”

“Um … yes.”

“You may therefore remember a couple of incidents, ten or so years ago, where the attentions of certain … ah …”

“Fans?” I suggest.

“Tha’s a polite way o’ putting it,” remarks Stan again. I’m already getting a little tired of his useless interjections.

“The attentions of certain members of the public,” Malcolm resumes, “reached the point where the police had to be involved.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Good. You will therefore understand, I hope, that Mr. Webster never wishes matters to escalate to that point again.”

I exhale, thinking hard. Are they really so worried about
me
? What the hell could
I
do?

“We wish you to know that, if he feels that his privacy and safety are being threatened, Mr. Webster will not hesitate to take immediate action.”

I hold up my hands in submission. “Listen, guys—I wasn’t planning to threaten either of those things. You really don’t need to worry about me.”

“Tha’s not the impression we got,” Stan comments.

“But … come on, the guy is an ex-internationally famous rock star! He must get letters from fans? Occasionally?”

Malcolm nods slowly.

“Letters from fans, yes. Hand-delivered letters that say what yours did, no. Well, not anymore.”

“What the hell did it say?”

Both men gape at me for a good few seconds.

“You wrote the fuckin’ thing!”

“Yes,” I concur desperately, “but … um … what particular part are you referring to?”

“Fuck’s sake, which bit de y’ think?”

“Well, I …”

“It’s fuckin’ obvious what sorta shite he mighta felt just a bit threatened by, don’t ye think? Ya wee wanker.”

Polly leaps across the room.

“Right—I’m sorry, but you have absolutely no right to talk to Clive like that.”

“Oh yeah? Ah’m not the one doin’ the fuckin’ stalkin’, love.”

“Ah, I think you’ll find there’s a very specific legal definition of stalking,” improvises Polly, “one that whatever Clive is supposed to have done, or written, he still lies some considerable distance from.”

“And ya think we give a fuck about that, do ye?”

“All right, calm it down,” instructs Malcolm. “We’re not accusing anyone of anything. We’re here on a purely preventative mission. This situation is really very simple, Mr. Beresford. Whatever you’re doing, or are trying to do, that concerns Mr. Webster—cease it. With immediate effect.”

There is silence. I’m hoping Polly doesn’t say “Or what?,” or similar. She doesn’t. Perhaps because, like me, she doesn’t really want to know. I’m not sure what they do to miscreants in the crustie-verse. Tie them to a chair and play them Ozric Tentacles records for twelve hours, maybe. Either way, I realise that it’s probably over. All of it.

I show them out. As I shut the front door, it finally hits me.

“I knew it,” I smile, as I turn back to Polly. “Me and Alan beat them at pool. Ninety-one, in that pub next to the Dome in Tufnell Park. The Magpies were playing a secret gig there. I knew it! We fucking slaughtered them as well.”

Polly glares at me from behind weary eyes.

“Clive, I never thought you’d hear me say this …”

“What?”

“For God’s sake, will you
grow up!
”

She storms off to her bedroom.

I agree. I should. But how?

So, you might be wondering whether my Visit from the Roadies has successfully thwarted my Webster-based ambitions. To answer this, let me quote a few minutes from a phone conversation I had with Alan sometime on Monday morning. I was at work, balanced on the edge of a desk in our new office (crap still all over the place, Internet not yet working, not enough chairs to go round); Alan was somewhere on the A505 between Baldock and Royston (Bluetooth headset, BP garage coffee, suit jacket hanging in the back).