I Remember You (5 page)

‘It's a delight to see more of you,' said Finbar, unable to resist a double meaning.

Harry guessed now why the Irishman had been willing to spend an evening enduring a talent show in which he had no interest and it had nothing to do with lending Melissa his moral support. He must have met Sophie when appearing on
Pop In
and hoped, after the letdown of the Danger, to see her again tonight. In any case, she seemed determined to flaunt her interest in him; treating him to a ravenous smile.

‘You really were wonderful yesterday morning. Poor Harry has a lot to live up to.'

‘I'm sure you'll be as kind to him, darling,' said Finbar, ‘as you were to me.'

‘Whoops!' said Nick Folley.

‘Oh God!' cried Melissa simultaneously. Sophie squealed, as if with delight.

Folley had spilt the contents of his glass over Finbar's white jacket. The stain was huge, spreading while they watched, as if the Irishman had been knifed in the heart.

‘
Mea culpa
', said Nick Folley. ‘Incredibly clumsy of me.'

Malicious pleasure sweetened his voice, made a mockery of the frown of concern on his face. Harry didn't believe it had been an accident.

‘That's all right,' said Finbar, breathing hard and choking back anger with a visible effort, ‘though you ought to get that nervous twitch under control.'

‘Of course, you'll send your dry cleaning bill to me.'

‘Ah, think nothing of it. In any case, it'll be a long time before I come to another do like this.'

Finbar's expression was affable, but his words were as sharp as bits of glass. Nick Folley shrugged slightly before turning away; he'd made his point. Melissa glared after her boss and Sophie stifled a snigger before slipping a hand in Folley's pocket, a deliberate gesture of intimacy intended to be seen.

The fires burning beneath the surface at Radio Liverpool, Harry thought, would take much longer to quench than the blaze at Williamson Lane.

Chapter Six

‘Take this,' said Sophie Wilkins the next morning, handing Harry a razor blade.

He drew the sharp metal edge across the palm of his hand and felt a tingling. A thin red thread appeared.

‘You expect me to be that bad?'

‘No, no,' she laughed. ‘We ask you not to take the newspapers into the studio. The rustles would have all our listeners reaching for the telephone - or, even worse, the tuning dial. So when you see a piece you want to talk about, use the blade to cut it out. Simpler than scissors. Right then, I'll see you in twenty minutes.'

She bustled out, leaving him alone in the Radio Liverpool hospitality lounge. Fish in a huge tank stared at him with a dull-eyed solemnity, in striking contrast to the ingratiating smirks of the local celebrities whose photographs lined the walls. He sank back in the voluptuous embrace of a brothel-pink leather chair and started to leaf through the morning's papers.

Sophie's welcoming manner had been effusive enough to suggest that he lent lustre to commercial radio by his very presence. The tee-shirt she wore was two sizes too small for her and no less provocative than the previous night's cocktail dress. When she kissed him on the cheek in greeting, he felt her push against him with a groupie's ardour. After she'd finally disengaged and he'd recovered his breath, he asked what he was expected to say on the show.

‘Just be your normal self,' she said, with flattering faith.

‘That could cost you your franchise. Come on now, what's the brief?'

‘Same as every morning. You know the programme - you must be familiar with what we want.'

Well, actually, no
, thought Harry. He hadn't the faintest idea what Baz Gilbert expected of him, because he seldom listened to Radio Liverpool. He'd grown up with the city's two longer-established stations and he wasn't a man who readily transferred his loyalties, but he dared not utter such blasphemy. He cast his mind back to Finbar's trumpet-blowing account of his own experience of radio stardom.

‘So I pick two or three stories from the Press which catch my eye and then tell Baz about my favourite record?'

‘Right.' She consulted a clipboard. ‘“There's Always Something There To Remind Me”? An old one, isn't it? Before my time. But no problem, we have it in the record library.'

She bustled out and he turned his attention to the papers. Flipping through the tabloids, he was rewarded with a story beginning:
A randy reverend defrocked a teenage organist five times a night, a court was told yesterday
. For slaking the Great British Public's thirst for legal cases with a little spice, the Street of Shame beat the All England Law Reports hands down.

He was cutting out the last paragraph of a snippet in
The Independent
about an Australian bigamist who wanted to plead guilty but insane when Penny Newland walked through the door.

‘Hello again,' he said.

She started. ‘Mr Devlin. What brings you - oh yes, you're on the programme with Baz this morning, aren't you?' She touched the mark on her face with her finger, a gesture he guessed was her habitual reaction when disconcerted.

‘I hope he's going to be gentle with me.'

‘You needn't worry. Baz is marvellous with all his guests, especially those who aren't experienced. Forget about his reputation for being sharp - people always exaggerate, he's never had the credit he deserves.'

‘He's certainly a celebrity in this city.'

‘A big fish in a tiny pool, that's all. He could have been a national name if he'd had a few more breaks, but Baz has always been unlucky.'

‘In the wrong place at the wrong time?'

‘I suppose so. He's known tragedy. He married young, but his wife died of leukaemia.' Her voice faltered. ‘And his - his twin brother died a few years ago. People don't realise how much suffering he's been through. Yet you'll see when you get in the studio, he's always the complete professional.'

Sophie stuck her head round the door. ‘Your public awaits, Harry. How are you doing?'

‘Okay. You were right about the razor blade.'

He nodded to Penny and let Sophie lead him up stairs and along corridors through a labyrinth of offices, finally ushering him through a heavy door into the control room. From vast loudspeakers came the voice of a dead man - Otis Redding, being broadcast at that moment. Hunched over a control panel, a bearded engineer in jeans and a lumberjack's shirt nodded a greeting.

Thick glass separated them from Baz Gilbert, who sat on the far side of a circular table on top of which were crammed teddy bear mascots and a dozen snapshots: Baz in a band, Baz on the air, Baz through the years, changing from a lad with a guileless grin to a seen-it-all veteran of a business in which youth was the only thing that mattered. A couple of old photographs showed him with a look-alike brother, whose military short-back-and-sides made Baz resemble a refugee from sixties San Francisco in comparison. A couple of recent pictures showed him cuddling Penny Newland. In other shots, taken years back but carefully preserved, he shared a joke with Roger McGough, chatted with Paul McCartney.

Now he had his headphones on and was raising his thumbs in salutation. His mouth framed the word: ‘Welcome.'

Harry realised how nervous he was. Excited, too. No big deal, he told himself, to appear on a local radio show; yet he had never done it before and his mouth was dry and his stomach unsettled. He imagined microphones picking up a thunderous rumble from his innards, causing the listeners to flinch. The stories he had chosen in the papers seemed to have fled his mind; he did not know what he could say about the Sandie Shaw song. Downstairs he had been struck by the casual atmosphere. Here, things were different. Sophie and the engineer swapped flip remarks but tension was as heavy in the air as approaching thunder. He felt the adrenalin pumping through his own system. No doubt about it, to appear on a live show was to rekindle long-forgotten childhood fears of public humiliation.

Sophie sat astride a chair at the opposite end of the control panel to the engineer and spoke into an intercom which connected her with Baz. Harry found it disconcerting to see him mouthing his replies, yet to be unable to hear what he was saying. A jingle played and a phlegmatic Lancastrian voice began to extol the virtues of a chain of launderettes, whilst in the background a chorus of voices sang that listeners would be glad of that extra sheen that left their garments squeaky clean.

‘You'll be in the hot seat in five minutes,' said Sophie. ‘Nothing to worry about. After all, you're used to speaking in court: not like Finbar, and he turned out to be a natural broadcaster.'

‘Somehow I can't see him hosting
Desert Island Discs
or
Yesterday In Parliament
.'

‘No, I mean it. He's so warm, he has so much vitality - perfect for communicating with an audience. He comes over as a very attractive personality.'

Thinking of the arson attack, of Sinead and of the man whom Finbar had been so anxious to avoid outside his office, Harry said sourly, ‘He's not top of everyone's popularity charts.'

‘Oh, believe me, I can see why Melissa fell for him. Though I'll admit Nick's not his number one fan.'

She giggled and added. ‘Nick did it deliberately, you know. Spilling the wine over Finbar, I mean.'

Harry thought it politic to feign surprise. Sophie was not saying anything he hadn't guessed the night before. But he was interested that she was frank enough to put conjecture into words.

‘Finbar got up his nose, that's what I mean.' Sophie didn't bother to hide her glee. ‘Nick's a hunk and I love his bones, but he does like to be the centre of attention. And if something doesn't suit him, he's apt to fly off the handle. Maybe seeing his ex hang around a humble tattoo artist hurt his pride.'

Yes, and Sophie's egging-on of Finbar had stoked up the provocation, Harry thought. He contented himself with a wry smile.

‘Not all that humble.'

‘Perhaps not. Finbar can take most things in his stride, I guess. Which reminds me: I forgot to commiserate with him last night. I read in the paper about the fire at his studio. Arson, I gather.'

‘The police are still investigating.'

Sophie tapped him playfully on the shoulder. ‘You're so guarded, Harry! A solicitor down to your socks. But it must be worrying for Finbar - to feel someone has burnt down his place on purpose.'

‘He'll survive.'

‘I'm sure he will. Melissa will be in a state, all the same. I thought she looked peaky yesterday. Of course, she never has much colour, but even so she looked dreadful. And she can do without that sort of hassle after all the problems she's had.'

‘What problems?'

Mischievous pleasure deepended the laughter lines round Sophie's mouth and eyes. ‘Don't you know? Oh, sorry. Perhaps I'd better not say any more. I simply thought that, as a friend, you...'

A tiny girl in a pink tracksuit walked into the room, followed by a spotty young man wearing an Everton scarf. She looked to Harry as though she ought to be at school.

‘Harry, this is Tracey Liggett, our weather girl,' said Sophie. ‘And - Jason, isn't it? - her boyfriend. He's just here as a spectator. We keep open house on this programme, people drift in and out all the time, no wonder we call it
Pop In
. Tracey, meet Harry Devlin. Harry's a local solicitor.'

‘Yeah?' The girl sniffed as if she'd been introduced to a lavatory attendant.

‘Tracey's one of our rising stars,' said Sophie. ‘The weather report today - who knows what tomorrow may bring?'

‘The football results, most likely,' said the engineer as he lifted a cassette marked kwikslim from the bank of pigeon-holes which ran across one wall of the control room. With casual efficiency, he flipped it into the machine in front of him and pressed a switch. Another silly little tune played, followed by two housewives discussing the merits of a new miracle diet.

‘Okay, Harry,' said Sophie. ‘You're on.'

He took a deep breath and, clutching the bits of newspaper like a passport to a new world, opened the door into the studio. Baz waved him to one of the three vacant chairs round the table.

‘Welcome. I hear last night ended with a splash, so far as Finbar was concerned. Rumour has it he's not one of my lord and master's bosom buddies.'

Harry wasn't in the mood to discuss Finbar. All he wanted was to make sure the next ten minutes passed as quickly as possible and without too much embarrassment. ‘I have the snippets here,' he said, fanning the bits of paper out on the table between them.

‘So, this is it, eh? First broadcast to the nation, right? Don't worry. Next thing, “on your dressing room door they've hung a star”, and all that crap. Now, this is simple. After the news bulletin, Tracey will tell us when the fog is going to clear and the moment I start talking about the lane closure on Runcorn Bridge, you wet your lips and get ready to speak, right,' cause there'll only be seconds to go. Okay? Good luck.'

The local news was bad, as usual: an attempted murder in St Helens, redundancies at a printing firm, a drugs haul in the docks, a strike in local government. The weather outlook was equally grim, but Harry was past caring. His mouth was dry and he was wishing he was anywhere but behind a microphone.

Suddenly, the microphone was open and he was on air. How he actually sounded to the indifferent outside world, Harry was never sure. Against all expectations, his time on air sped by. The stories he had chosen seemed to go down well, with Baz chuckling at regular intervals, and the lead-in to his choice of song was less of an ordeal than he'd imagined.

He didn't tell the whole truth about the song, of course, describing it simply as an old favourite. It had hooked onto a peg in his mind long ago, but had acquired a special meaning since Liz had left him. Whenever he walked along the Liverpool streets he had walked along with her, he couldn't help but recall how much in love they had once been. He didn't know how to forget her when there was always so much to remind him of the past.

At last Baz was thanking him and giving a thumbs-up sign and farewell wave as he cued in the next jingle. ‘Great, Harry. See you around.'

He made his way to the other side of the panel, where Sophie mimed applause. She had been joined by a young man with an anarchic haircut and John Lennon glasses; Harry recognised him as an authority on the tangled web of Liverpool politics.

‘Wonderful,' she said. ‘I told you it would be a success. Thanks a million, sweetie. You know your way out, don't you?'

And that was it. The show would go on and Harry's part in it was history. He wandered back alone through the labyrinth and a couple of minutes later found himself outside in North John Street where it had begun to spit with rain. He turned up his jacket collar as people hurried past on their way to work, oblivious of his presence.

His flirtation with stardom was over.