The Song Never Dies (3 page)

“And what are they fighting about?”

“Me,” came a woman’s voice from the side.

Lauren looked up to see a girl standing silhouetted against one of the flares.

“I’m Sarinda,” she said, stepping closer.

Lauren looked at the girl.

At this Sarinda …

She wore the tiniest of skirts, and clumpy platform shoes that added a good five inches to her height.

Tiny diamonds sparkled on her exposed tummy, nose, and ears. On her face she had a party tattoo … a bright red rose, with a single drop of blood dripping from it.

Whatever that’s supposed to mean!

She couldn’t be more than seventeen. If that! What was she doing here?

We’re all old enough to be your parents, love,
thought Lauren.

“Showing your age,” said Chris. “You’ve not heard of Sarinda?”

Lauren shrugged. “Sorry, love, I don’t …”

“I’m a singer,” said Sarinda.

“Not just any singer,” said Chris. “Sarinda’s got her own YouTube channel. Queen of the Streams — no?”

“I’m just lucky to have such wonderful fans,” said Sarinda. “I’m nothing without them.”

Sounding like she memorised that line.

“Good for you,” said Lauren. “But — what’s the Alex connection?”

“There isn’t one,” said Sarinda. “I’m here with Nick.”

“Ah,” said Lauren.

“Are you and Chris together?” asked Sarinda.

“God no!” said Lauren, laughing and looking at Chris.

But he wasn’t laughing.

“I’m Lauren Dumford. Will’s wife.”

“Oh,” said the girl. “Will … he’s the—”

“Our drummer,” Chris added. “Damn good back in the day.”

Even in the darkness, Lauren could see that the girl’s expression was one of … what? Sympathy?

Lauren stared at her, not sure what all this meant.

Was this young thing Nick’s girlfriend too? But more important — was she a threat to the band getting back together?

An awkward silence. Lauren saw the girl look away, as if seeking something more interesting than these two old folk she had wandered into.

“Well, um, nice to meet you,” she said, with a quick half-smile, then she turned, and Lauren watched her slip away, heading back to the crowd.

“Confused?” said Chris.

“Totally. Seems like she should be studying for her A-levels not partying with a bunch of ageing rockers.”

Chris nodded, smiling. “Let’s go and get a drink,” he said. “And I’ll explain it all, love.”

And he put his arm around her shoulder and led her away.

*

Alex King slid open the door to the pool house and looked around.

It took a minute for his eyes to adjust from the bright lights of the terrace outside. A handful of candles girded the pool, their flames flickering, reflections sparking on the water, which steamed gently in the darkness.

Some chilled Ibiza sounds played on the pool speakers.

Vintage Café del Mar?

Sexy stuff.

The place seemed empty.

Bliss.

Right now, everyone’s more interested in getting stoned than having a swim,
he thought.

Normally he’d have been with them. But he’d smoked and snorted enough for tonight.

He had wanted to keep his wits about him talking about a new tour.

The goal — getting the band back together.

Now a quick swim would help clear his head.

He could just hear the distant beat of the dance music still pounding away back at the house. But this place was so calming.

Just the thing after going head-to-head with Nick!

Talk about reliving the old days.

He looked across at the sauna and steam room — but they were dark.

He had the pool to himself.

For now anyway.

But not for long — he hoped. He dug out his phone and looked at the text he got back at the bar.

About meeting down here.

No ID for the number.

But it was an offer he couldn’t refuse …

He didn’t know who sent it.

But he could guess.

He felt angry. The meeting couldn’t have gone worse. Nick, Will, Carlton — even Chris — it was as if they all hated him?

Why
?

He’d taken them to the top.

What did Lennon call it?

Right to the ‘toppermost of the poppermost’.

All of them. And now he was ready to take them there again.

They had no idea. Totally clueless about how hard it had been for him in the old days to keep the band going. To keep turning out the hits.

How hard it would be now to get the show on the road again.

And yet, it seemed like they just wanted to undermine him.

That bastard Nick. He was going to ruin everything. So selfish.

Letting one bloody song screw up the tour plans …

Alex took a deep breath and told himself to chill. He’d get it sorted.

Had to expect a few bumps in the road to revival.

He swayed slightly.

Then he went over to one of the loungers and slipped out of his clothes.

Naked, he turned and walked over to the steps into the shallow end of the pool and walked into the warm water. Then took a deep breath and eased himself under.

He felt the water wrap around him, womb-like.

Without the pool lights on, it was like swimming in space, in infinity.

Almost touching the bottom of the pool, he kicked out for the deep end.

He’d do a length underwater.

Just one.

He’d never gone swimming this stoned before.

Felt like magic.

He pulled himself through the water, arms gliding, feet kicking.

I’m a dolphin,
he thought.
A porpoise.

A shark.

His fingers touched the side of the pool and he started to come up.

Need air.

But instead of breaking out of the water — he felt a force on his head pushing him down.

Not a force — a hand!

Someone was pushing him back under the water. He kicked and scrabbled with his hands — this was crazy!

His head came up out of the water — he sucked in air — but then something forced him under again and now he was breathing in water instead of air.

This was all wrong …

He was coughing, but as he coughed, more water filled his lungs, he felt panic, trying to figure out what to do.

How to escape …

But the grass slowed him down; his arms and legs were moving at half-speed. He had no strength, he breathed again, his lungs now full of water.

He saw fireworks flashing before his eyes.

Needing air to breathe so badly.

Then a moment of peace … quiet.

This was okay.

This was how it was supposed to be.

No more struggle. Just this … drifting.

He felt the hand leave his head as he drifted down, not up, down, down towards the bottom of the pool into the black, black water.

Jack carefully attached a new fly to his fishing line.

He was far more used to slapping a bloody chunk of chum on the end of big, nasty hook and heading out into the Atlantic when the blues were running.

This — on the other hand — was quite the delicate operation.

But, amazingly, he’d gotten quite adept.

“You see, Riley, the trick is to make sure that the fly, all its bits and pieces, keep the actual hook hidden from the fish.”

Riley sat at his feet, eyes on Jack’s hands as he wrapped thread around the fly, making sure it held tight.

Until it finally resembled some kind of flying, insect thing that might make a nice lunch for a hungry trout.

Riley tilted his head.

Of course, he watched everything that Jack did.

The very definition of a good dog. Or even more, man’s best friend.

But then — Jack really knew who was his best friend.

Funny, how your life can change. Even after you’ve been on the planet for quite a while.

“There we go, Riley. What do you think?”

He held the full-fastened fly out for Riley’s inspection.

And Jack would have sworn that his Springer performed the slightest nod of approval.

“Good. Glad you like it. Now to the actual casting.”

For this, Jack got out of his chair, with both the wooden chair and the duckboards of the Grey Goose creaking.

All a bit creaky.

Bit like me,
he thought.

Casting was another skill that had taken some time to acquire.

He had been asked, back on his days on the force, to go on a camping and trout fishing trip in the western mountains.

But somehow the right time never appeared.

And besides, why travel so far when the Atlantic — teeming with flounder, porgies and bluefish — was right at your doorstep?

But here, in Cherringham, with a little help from Sarah’s dad, Michael, he had learned how to give his casting line some slack, bring the rod back and with a sharp flick of the wrist, send the ‘fly’ darting to the surface of the water, just in time — with luck — to catch the eyes of a hungry fish.

Now, he let it go and watched the fly plop a satisfactory distance away, with — Jack thought — enough of a tiny splash so that it did look like an insect landing.

But even after a few jigs — jerking the line and the fly back towards the Goose — no response.

And Jack repeated the mantra that he guessed had probably comforted people who fished for as long as there were water, poles, and sunny mornings.

“Hmm, maybe they’re not biting today.”

Riley too had turned to train his eyes on the river. A slight breeze pinned back his ears.

Time to take him for a good long walk when this attempt at fishing was over.

Riley loved his romps off the Goose, racing around the surrounding meadow.

Jack reeled his line in again. And before another cast, reached down and took a sip of his now lukewarm coffee.

Mornings these days were still chilly so Jack wore a worn, plaid coat with a leather collar. Kept him warm enough.

“Okay,” he said to his dog. “Let’s give another try. Different spot, eh boy? Like right over …”

He again gave the rod a flick of his wrist, making the line fly out, moving so much more slowly than deep sea fishing, the big fish waiting, hundreds of feet down.

Here — if they
were
here — the fish would be right at the surface.

The fly hit the water.

Again, a few ripples, and the fly sat on the water, patiently waiting.

When — in a flash — it disappeared.

The line stared running away off the reel, the spinning reel humming.

Jack laughed. “Wow. Guess they are biting.”

Now — another tricky part — getting the fish to circle back, letting it fight a bit, while Jack inexorably reeled in his line.

Jack took a breath. Like all good things, this required patience.

Until the fish was just below him, flapping around, making silvery waves in the morning light.

He freed one hand from the rod and reached down for his net. Riley had his snout over the side, looking down at the reluctant ‘guest’ about to be brought aboard.

Net ready, Jack went back to reeling in the line.

The fish still flopping, tail kicking left and right in the air, but now the good-sized trout was over the railing. If it slipped off, onto the deck, Jack would still have a nice fish lunch.

But it stayed hooked, and Jack brought the net under it.

“Hey. Not too bad, eh Riley? I’d say we got ourselves a very nice—”

Which is when, from the other side of the Goose, tied to the wooden mooring, Jack heard someone call out.

“Jack Brennan? Mr. Brennan?”

Loud.

Riley didn’t bark at people — one of the things Jack really loved about his Springer. Smart and selective when it came to making noise!

But the dog did turn to the bow, in the general direction of the voice.

“Looks like we have company,” Jack said.

And pausing only to work his fish off the hook, with net and fish in hand, Jack walked up to the bow, and around to see who was visiting The Grey Goose so early on a chilly spring morning.

*

Jack — still holding his net and its catch — looked down at the man, squinting into the sun as he looked up to the deck of the Goose.

“Jack Brennan?”

“Yes?”

The man looked like a farmer — jeans, bulky, grey sweater, skullcap, mid 40s. Not someone Jack recognised.

Bit of a gut, making the sweater tight.

But then nothing about the man would have made Jack notice him.

“My name’s Will Dumford. And my friend Pete suggested, well, um, that I come by.”

“Pete?”

“You know. Pete Butterworth. Was his farm where they found that Roman plate, the one—”

Jack laughed. “Oh, yes. That was quite the discovery …”

And attempted theft,
Jack remembered.

“Um, yes. Said you were a big help, and, well, do you think I could come up, have a chat?”

Jack looked down at his net. He had his fish to be cooked.

And now, with this man’s arrival, he had something else on his agenda.

“Sure. Just about to make some more coffee. Come on up.”

Jack turned around and headed into the wheelhouse and down into his river barge’s saloon as the man walked up a rickety plank and came aboard.

*

“Coffee okay?” Jack asked.

“Very good. My wife — my Lauren — never makes it strong enough.”

Jack nodded. “All my years hitting coffee shops. Grew to like my morning ‘cup of joe’ as dark and sludgy as can be.”

Jack took a sip.

He waited for Will to explain the visit, the man visibly nervous.

Two hands locked on the metal cup of coffee. Looking around the dimly lit saloon, shifting in his seat.

Whatever this was about, it wasn’t easy for the man.

Jack threw him a lifeline.

“So, Pete said you might want to talk to me?”

Will nodded. Then, releasing his imprisoned cup, he leaned forward. “You see, Jack, a few nights ago there was a big ‘do’. Party at Alex King’s place.”