Gang Of Losers by Chris Lynton
Gang Of Losers
Chris Lynton
Copyright © 2014 Chris Lynton
Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Chapter One
Lyncombe, Wiltshire. Summer 1983
Theo put his drumsticks down and looked at his watch. It was 8pm. If he practised any longer, his older brother - whose bedroom was directly below his - would start to complain. So he extricated himself from behind his large, ramshackle drum kit and went downstairs.
He found his parents in the living room and told them he was going out. His father looked up from his newspaper.
"Homework done?"
"Didn't have any, just revision," replied Theo.
"Fair enough. Going anywhere nice?"
"Just for a walk."
"We'll come with you if you like, keep you company."
"Ummm..." Theo wasn't sure if his dad was joking or not.
His mum came to his rescue: "Pay no attention dear, he's just being silly. Have a nice time."
He crammed his keys, money and inhaler into the front pockets of his drainpipe Wrangler jeans and left the house. The walk had no firm purpose, other than getting him out of the house and into the warm night air. But now that he thought of it, he might drop by the fountain in case Pete and the others were there.
As he walked, the inhaler rubbed uncomfortably against his thigh. He normally kept it in a jacket pocket, but the lining of his beloved Harrington had recently disintegrated, and he was now jacketless. The easiest solution would be to buy a second-hand denim or leather from one of the markets in nearby Bath. But leathers tended to be stiff and uncomfortable, and denims limited your choice of leg wear - after all, only a Status Quo fan would be happy with the double-denim look.
No, he wanted something different, something unique. Recently he'd seen a fantastic jacket in a book about the Second World War. There was a chapter about the war in the Pacific, and one of the photos featured a group of smiling GIs sat in a jeep. One soldier in particular had caught Theo's eye, the one in the driving seat. This GI was a symphony of effortless cool: one arm draped over the steering wheel, blond hair in a buzz cut, sunglasses, chinos, white T-shirt and that jacket. It was green, the same cut as his Harrington, and seemed to be made from the same shiny material as his school parka from several winters ago. It looked thick and heavy, the sort of jacket that would bulk you up and make you feel invincible.
Theo resolved to seek one out. First off, he would try Millets in Bath. They often had old military gear in stock, but it tended to be British army not American - musty knee-length Great coats, itchy against the skin and as stiff as cardboard. After that he would try the second-hand shops at the top of town, and if they came up empty, it would have to be another trip to London's King's Road, home of Flip Clothing - the epicentre of the vintage American clothing world.
His last trip to Flip had been a month ago, when he'd come away with his Wranglers, a short-sleeved pink shirt and a nifty blue woollen tie. But train tickets to London were expensive, and the prospect of travelling up there on the off-chance that they had the jacket seemed risky, even for him. Maybe he could phone them up - he seemed to remember there being a phone number on the plastic bag he brought his last purchase home in. Yes, that was the thing to do. He'd check the bag when he got back home.
After five minutes he'd reached the High Street. The fountain stood in a pedestrianized section at the far end of the street, just outside the Guildhall. The fountain had a large circular stone surround that you could sit on and watch the world pass by, and this was where people his own age tended to congregate in lieu of anything else to do. Its proximity to popular under-age drinking spot The White Hart added to its popularity.
Approaching the fountain was always problematic if you were on your own. What if there were people there who you only vaguely knew? Should you stop and say hi, or just walk past pretending that you hadn't seen them? What if all your friends were there? This would mean that they hadn't invited you and were quite happy without you. And if the fountain was empty, did you sit there by yourself and wait for someone else to come along?
He needed the ammunition of cigarettes. Having something to do with his hands made him feel less self-conscious in situations like this. He made a detour towards the newsagents and bought his usual: ten Consulate and a box of matches. His friends often teased him about his fondness for menthol cigarettes, but Theo didn't care, he liked the stylish green and white packet (so much more elegant than the brutal red and white of Marlboro), and they had a distinct old world charm to them - matinee idols smoked cigarettes like these. But perhaps more importantly, menthol cigarettes made him feel less ill than regular ones. Theo could only handle full-strength ciggies after a couple of pints, but the weaker menthols suited him just fine. So he continued his walk to the fountain and just before he came into its catchment area, he sparked up.
As it turned out, there was no-one there. He sat at the fountain and waited for signs of life as he smoked. When he reached the filter, he threw the butt in the fountain and stood up to begin the walk home. He looked towards the White Hart before setting off and saw Bill, the pub's landlord, exiting the pub with a beer barrel in one hand and a bright pink piece of paper in the other.
Theo watched as he placed the barrel on the floor and expertly rolled it along the pavement with his foot. He stopped after a few paces, next to a notice board on the wall. He unclipped a keychain from his belt and used one of the keys to open its glass front. He then pinned the bright pink sheet of paper to the notice board's cork surface and relocked it. His task complete, he continued to roll the barrel round to the back of the pub.
It had been a while since there had been a decent band at the pub, so Theo's hopes weren't high as he approached the new flyer. The bright pink sheet of A4 featured a crudely drawn rocket, with a long haired semi-naked girl astride it. Below, in a chunky sans serif typeface was the band's name - THE NEW ENGLAND PLANETS.
Theo clenched his fist and whispered "Yes!"
"All right young 'un?"
Theo span around. It was Bill, now barrel-less. He nodded towards the poster. "Good are they?"
Theo felt his face redden. "Oh, hi Bill. Umm, yeah. I like them. Not your cup of tea though, not very bluesy. More punk really."
"Doesn't bother me, as long as they bring a good crowd in."
"They should do yeah, I saw them at the Viaduct a few weeks ago and it was packed. Lots of girls - the guitarist is really good-looking. I mean apparently..." He trailed off, his blush intensifying.
Bill eyed him quizzically. "Whatever you say. The usual time Sunday then?"
"Yep, usual time," replied Theo.
The White Hart was the town's main music venue. Back in the seventies, it was know
He turned his attention back to the poster and scanned it for a date. It was a Friday, a couple of weeks away. This was definitely something to look forward to. The Planets might not be the most original band (half their set was cover versions) but they played wild frenetic rock songs and had real talent.
The band was made up of pupils from the nearby Catholic school, and they were all in the same year as Theo. The singer was called Andy Ross, but the one you tended to watch more was the lead guitarist, August Wells. Wells looked how a rock star should look in Theo's opinion: dyed black hair, thin angular face, constantly tanned skin, green eyes and dazzling white teeth. He smiled readily and chatted to everyone. As well as playing the guitar, he sang some of the songs and was more of a natural at stage banter than Ross, which led people to think of him as the leader. But in fact Ross had formed the Planets and did most of the songwriting.
Wells always wore the same thing: a lumberjack shirt with buttons undone, a white vest underneath, a pair of black, skintight jeans and Doc Martin boots. Halfway through a performance he would take the shirt off, revealing thin but muscular arms. He often got an appreciative whoop from the girls in the crowd as he did this.
As far as he could recall, he had heard Wells before setting eyes on him: Theo had been at the fountain one Friday evening when a roar of laughter cut through the general hub-bub. Theo looked around and saw a slim, lumberjack-shirted figure with his arm round a pretty bleached-blond girl. He grappled the girl to the edge of the fountain and dipped her hair in the water. The girl shrieked and responded by splashing him. Wells then backed off, still laughing, while the girl filled an empty pint glass with water from the fountain and followed him slowly through the crowd. They came his way, and Wells brushed Theo's arm as he passed. "Sorry pal" he said, and broke into a run just as the girl hurled the water at him.
Transfixed, Theo made enquiries. One of his friends had an older brother at the same school. "New kid," said the brother, "plays the guitar. Dad's in the government or something." Theo kept watching; the new kid and the girl now re-united, arms round each other, kissing.
He envisaged that his life would be somehow better if Wells was part of it. His manner was so positive, so playful, so jubilant, that Theo saw him as the perfect antidote to his own rather downbeat demeanour. Maybe some of Wells' easy manner would rub off on him. Maybe he too could smile readily and chat to everybody.
So, this evening stroll had been a success: a new Planets gig to look forward to; a new chance to court Wells. He drummed out a beat on his trouser pockets, a habit of his when he got excited. The inhaler in his left pocket was the snare drum, and the empty right pocket the bass drum. Dum-chack, dum-chack, dum-de-dum-de dum-chack! The night air was beginning to turn cold, so he walked home as quickly as he could, breaking into a run as he reached his road.
When he arrived, he told his parents that he was back and headed upstairs to his bedroom. Theo lived in a large Edwardian House on one of the main thoroughfares of Lyncombe. His room was at the front of the house on the second floor. He had recently painted the walls a smoky orange colour and liked it so much that he felt no need for posters or other distractions. The only adornments were on the mantelpiece over the long-defunct fireplace. Here were three framed prints: in the middle a colour reproduction of a Van Gogh self-portrait; to the left a black and white photo of Eddie Cochran; and to the right a black and white photo of a young Elvis Presley smoking a cigarette.
Two of the images meant a great deal to Theo and one not so much. Van Gogh and Eddie Cochran were his two idols, the two greats whose achievements he wished to celebrate. But when he arranged the two photos on the mantel, he didn't like the way they looked - no matter how he placed them, the eye was always drawn towards the vibrant colour of the Van Gogh reproduction. Poor Eddie didn't stand a chance. He felt that a third black and white image was needed to balance things out. So he put the colour Van Gogh in the middle, the Cochran to the left and then picked Elvis photo more or less at random from a selection of postcards he'd bought on a recent visit to Forever People in Bristol.
The only other item on the mantel was a burnt-out joss stick in a dust-covered jam jar. Theo didn't necessarily like their scent, but they served the purpose of hiding the rather musty smell that seemed to permeate his bedroom. He wasn't sure if the smell was his fault or the room's, but it was potent enough to require constant attention. In the summer this meant leaving the window open, and in the winter burning the joss stick before friends or girls came round.
He sat on the drum stool, wishing it was earlier in the day so he could play. Then he remembered his dream jacket - he needed the number for Flip. He retrieved the plastic bag from its current resting place in the bottom drawer of his desk and checked the pristine white façade. He was mistaken. There was no telephone number, just the words 'Vintage American Clothing' underneath the red checkerboard logo. Now what was he meant to do? He pondered this as he put the bag back into the drawer. Just then he noticed a scrap of paper on his desk.
In his brother's handwriting were the words:
'Call Lee Heritage ASAP on 0249 701___'
Theo felt gravity leave him. Lee Heritage was the lead singer with Steal Guitars, a rockabilly band from Chippenham with a huge local following. They had been mentioned in the NME and the local paper had called them 'Britain's answer to the Stray Cats'. People actually paid to see them.
The call could mean only one thing: Steal Guitars needed a new drummer.