The Alternative Hero (46 page)

I let out a rather large sigh.

“Look, Lance—”

“Geoff.”

“Sorry: Geoff … Look, it sounds bloody awful, I know … It’s your life. But really, the whole point of me doing it is so you can be vindicated, and …”

Here I run out of steam. Arse. He’s got me.

Silence.

“I know someone who’d buy it,” he announces.

“Uh?”

He’s still looking over at the bar, perhaps eyeing up one of the waitresses.

“Who?”

“Someone who’d make really good use of it, and make it worth your while, too.”

“Who do you
mean?”
I demand, tired of this tortuous exchange.

He turns and looks straight back in my direction.

“Me.”

I snigger disappointedly.

“You what?”

“I’m serious.”

“No, sorry …
what
are you saying?”

“I’ll buy it from you,” he insists. “Exclusive rights, of course.”

I’ve run out of ways to ask what the hell he’s talking about, so I stay quiet.

“I’ve told you what you wanted to hear … now here’s your side of the bargain. I’ll buy it off you for ten grand.”

Oh God. He’s gone bonkers again. Next he’ll be shaving off his hair and putting on his white suit.

“Um …”

“Ten grand. Sterling,” he adds.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m totally confused.”

Now he’s even getting his bloody chequebook out.

“Wait, hang on,” I protest, trying to grab his pen. “What are you
doing?”

He drops the pen and again takes off his shades.

“Listen, Clive … I don’t mean to patronise you, but you’re being really naïve. I’ll be totally honest: you’re not going to get much out of this story. No one will care. Screw any false modesty: who really gives a fuck about me? You might get one of those silly half-page ‘where are they now’ pieces, if you’re lucky. As for any money, forget it.”

“But that’s not the point, it’s …”

“And frankly, I don’t want everyone knowing all this stuff. I’m not going to be around much anymore, but … my family’s still here, a few friends … They’d find it … well, difficult.”

“So why the hell have you told
me
?”

“Because you deserved to know.”

I study his face for a moment. I see no humour—and very little of anything else, in fact.

“Is that
it?”

“Look at it this way okay? I’ve been living with this shit for years, and gradually I’ve managed to patch up a few old wounds. But the one thing I’ve never done is say sorry, and explain … to someone who was there.”

“At Aylesbury?”

“Yeah. And the couple of years after that.”

“But that’s just it,” I persist. “If I write this thing, you’ll be able to apologise and explain it to
everyone…
”

“No,” he frowns. “Not in the way you’re hoping. Oh, a few people might say, All right, well, fair enough, then’—and instantly forget about it. But it’ll just mean more embarrassment for me, and the whole thing’ll rise to the surface again.”

“But …”

“And there are others involved.”

It’s this last bit that shuts me up. Call me slow on the uptake, but for the first time I have the slightest idea where he’s going after all this.

“But you,” he states, pointing at me, “are probably one of the only people left who it genuinely
means
something to.”

He opens his chequebook again, and starts to write.

“Look, Lance—”

“Geoff,” he corrects me again, not looking up.

“Sorry, Geoff … I don’t think I can—”

“Clive, listen to me. One of the old songs just got licensed for a big advert in America. Ten grand is roughly what I’ll get, and it may sound insane, but that’s ten grand I don’t
want
. It’ll be a reminder of a past life, hanging around like a bad smell. And also … well, there
are other reasons why I don’t want it. It’s a single R in Beresford, isn’t it?”

“Um … yeah, but …”

“Plus, you
have
earned it,” he nods, “running around like a twat for the last few months, listening to me prattle on today. Oh, and the work you did on
Sainsbury Sid
, and who knows what’ll happen with that?”

Bloody hell, Sid the fly. I’d almost completely forgotten.

“So … you take this,” he breezes, flinging over the mammoth cheque, “and you bloody well
sort yourself out
. You’re a fucking good writer. You should be doing something with it … other than hankering after ex-indie pop stars.”

I gaze down at the row of zeros in the box, and look back up at him.

“I still don’t understand why you’re giving me this.”

“For fuck’s sake, Clive, don’t make me spell it out to you—I’ll miss my bloody plane.”

I can’t help but continue to wordlessly gape at him.

“You don’t get it, do you? Cast your mind back. I was at my fucking wits’ end in ninety-six. My career was fucked, my girl was thousands of miles away with a child I hadn’t even met … didn’t even know what
gender
it was … my bloody dad was dying of cancer and I was surrounded by people laughing at me and calling me a cock. It often felt like you were the
only person on my side.”

I try to respond, but only a feeble croak emerges.

“Gloria started to send me cuttings. Bits and pieces you were doing, a word of encouragement, a letter of support. The way you asked people to write in with their thoughts, gig memories, favourite B-sides … it all reached me. Yours was the only British review of
Commercial Suicide
that understood what I was trying to do, and appreciated the fucking state I was in … I was almost ready to give
up songwriting
entirely
before I saw that. Then when things
really
started to deteriorate … well, man, you practically pulled me in from the edge of a building. The things you shouted to me at BFM … this may sound unbelievable, but … fuck it, they actually
calmed
me. No
way
was I going quietly into that police van before you appeared!”

If I wasn’t sitting down I probably would’ve fallen over. I’m waiting for the moment when he says, “Nah, only winding you up,” and rips the cheque in two.

“But how did you know that was
me
?” is all I manage to ask.

“Well … that’s the strange thing. I
didn’t
actually know it was Clive Beresford for years, until your note came through the door. That line you wrote at the bottom,” he says, opening the scrap of paper again, “‘You’ve done so much.’”

“Ugh. Cheesy.”

“Maybe,” he concedes. “But distinctive.”

I look back at him, a cocktail of nausea and butterflies careering around within my torso. I need an extra hour with him, plus a secretary to transcribe all this hair-raising stuff just in case I convince myself I’ve dreamed it. And I need a drink. A waitress passes with a couple of beers and I seriously consider lunging for one of them.

“So then this note shows up,” Webster continues, “at a time like this …”

“A time like what?”

“A time when I’m making some major changes to my life,” he responds, in a manner that forbids further prying. “The note comes through the door, and I realise there’s some unfinished business.”

“Are you seriously telling me,” I frown, “that if I’d simply walked up to you on the high street and said, ‘Hi, I’m Clive Beresford. Can we talk?’—you would have said yes?”

He sighs.

“Probably.”

I let out a little moan and bury my face in my hands, marvelling at the untold pointlessness of everything that’s happened to me since that Saturday in April. The time, the expense, the job, the stress, the lies. Some of which aren’t directly connected to Webster, of course, but it certainly feels like it’s all part of the same sorry spiral. I look up after a minute, and to my amazement he’s actually laughing.

“But hey,” he grins. “It was so much
more fun
doing it this way … wasn’t it?”

Once again, words have deserted me.

We sit there for a while longer, batting the various absurdities of the last couple of months to and fro. I’d be quite content to remain here for the rest of the day, but I’m suddenly all too aware that my final seconds with Lance Webster are approaching. That age-old “if you were stuck in a lift with anyone” rubbish pops into my head, and I rack my brains for something I might spend the next few years regretting I’d missed my chance to ask. Finally, he stands to go.

“One last question,” I demand.

“You’re getting your money’s worth, aren’t you? Okay, hurry.”

“Why d’you think they all turned on you?”

He looks up at the ceiling, gives a quick hoot of laughter and claps his hands.

“Oh, fuck it, Clive, I dunno. It was our time. We were stubborn, we weren’t going away. I think every journo and industry knob expected
The Social Trap
to bomb, and when it didn’t … they all just thought enough was enough. We simply didn’t fit with what was going on. And also … oh, I suppose I’d made some enemies over the years. Said the wrong thing, slagged the wrong band, insulted the wrong writer, fucked the wrong girl. So I guess it was a multitude of revenges. But I’m over it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah … just. Listen, man, gotta go.”

I wave the cheque at him feebly.

“You know, I’m really not sure I can take this.”

“Don’t be a pillock,” he snaps. “Take it. To be frank, it’s either you or the Inland fucking Revenue. But remember—exclusive rights. Not a soul.”

“Okay,” I respond, feeling that only a total moron would argue with a deal like this. “Thanks,” I add unsteadily.

“Fine,” he smiles. “Don’t do anything stupid with it. And get your fucking shit together, will you? Quit drinking so much.”

“I’ll try.”

“And email me an invoice.”

“Okay.” Ever the businessman.

“Oh, and I guess you can probably tell this crap to your mate Alan.”

“Ha! Well, maybe. Not sure he deserves to know right now.”

“Whatever.”

He slings on his shoulder bag and gathers his paperwork.

“I suppose I’m not permitted to ask where it is you’re going now, then.”

“Hey, man …” he answers, putting his shades back on. “I said I’d tell you
about August the twelfth, not
the future. You’re gonna have to work that one out for yourself. But you guys seem to be fairly good at that,” he sighs, nodding at Alan’s scrapbook.

We shake hands. It all seems rather formal—but oddly appropriate.

“Well,” he says. “It’s been … different.”

“Alternative?” I suggest.

“Pah,” he responds. “Always hated that word. Made us sound like poor cousins.”

“Independent.”

“Even worse,” he frowns. “Right. Better get going. Don’t want to get in trouble for holding up the plane, five hours later.”

“Keep away from any cute girls,” I offer, as he departs.

“Ha! Fat chance,” he scoffs. “You know what they say.”

“What’s that?”

“No one likes a grown-up pop star.”

He delivers a final trademark Webster grin and bounces off towards his gate.

I remain standing next to the table for a minute, blindly fingering the cheque with something approaching mild dementia. My instinct is to instantly rush out and find a bank, but instead I sit for a while, a strange but not entirely unpleasant daze engulfing me, as I consider what a strange man my benefactor is. But although Webster’s certainly got a loose screw or two, the cheque itself is signed, dated and unarguably sane. Of course, in the grand global stadium of rock ’n’ roll, people often get bigger cheques for doing far less, while in my tiny little pub venue of an existence the notion that I’ve truly earned this money seems a little far-fetched. But if Lance Webster wants me to have ten big ones, then bugger it, who am I to protest? My short-term plans remain swathed in their usual fog of uncertainty, however. I have my priceless information—the story it feels like I’ve spent a lifetime pursuing—but nothing to do with it. It’s time to think of something else to write about. A situation I’ve been in many times before; only this time I’ve got slightly more money.

“Anything else, sir?” asks the passing waitress, and inevitably the thought of a drink enters my head. But something stops me, and the words “No, thank you, just the bill” emerge from my mouth almost automatically. Weird.

I pay and amble out among the hurrying passengers and duty-free shoppers, suppressing another instinct when I spy one of the flight-information monitors. I start towards it, hoping to see which
badly delayed flight is at last about to depart. But no. That’s what I would have done a month ago. Now things are slightly different.
Just let him go
. Wherever it is he’s going. Bangkok, Mumbai, Cape Town, São Paulo, San Francisco. He had a friend in New Zealand he used to Skype with, didn’t he? Perhaps. Or he may just be going on an extended holiday. Or maybe he’s going to see Gloria, or Rosamund, as she now might be known again, to finally be the partner and dad he’s longed to be. I have a suspicion this might be too straightforward, but then … twelve years of long-distance forgiving and forgetting could hardly be described as straightforward. And after all, he’s no longer a rock star, so they’ve actually become
cosmically compatible
. Ha! But who knows?
Let it go, Clive
.

As I get back to the place where the passengers stream into the departure lounge after their long wait, I find myself laughing, as it occurs to me that he never said why he couldn’t come to the other side of security. Maybe he couldn’t be arsed to move. Or maybe it was another test: to see how much I wanted his story. Who can guess? But on a more practical note, I’m not entirely sure how one gets
out
of here again. Not many people needing to go the other way. A pair of pretty girls stroll by, one of them lamenting to the other that she’s “only got half an hour to shop” before her flight leaves. What’s the world coming to? When someone actually seems more excited about their shopping experience than going to a wonderful, far-off place …

Like New York.

It’s the old cartoon lightbulb, the whack of the iron bar on the head, the Zane Lowe interview moment. “My whole life changed … the dry cleaner’s … just be honest … what if I actually did go to New York?”