Gang Of Losers by Chris Lynton
Chapter Twenty-One
The next morning Theo received what he was informed by Sylvie would be his last breakfast in bed of the holiday. He accepted it with thanks and tucked into his Shreddies as his mum opened the curtains. Bright sunshine flooded in. She lifted the sash window and said "It's going to be a hot one today, thirty degrees they reckon."
This excited Theo no end. He had nothing to do until after lunch so he could just spend the morning relaxing and doing a bit of sunbathing. He looked at his upper arms - they had certainly improved in colour over the past weeks but there was still a slight paleness above the t-shirt line.
Once his breakfast was finished, he got out of bed and immediately felt bolts of pain run through both thigh muscles. Until that moment he had forgotten about his abortive attempt to see (or spy on) Martine, or how he had pushed the bike home, or how he hadn't got to bed until 1am. He had left the bike leaning up against the side of the garage, as he didn't want to risk wakening anybody by opening its creaky metallic door. He would check that it was still there as soon as he was dressed.
He hobbled over to his chest of drawers and looked for a t-shirt. The first one he came across was the Dead Kennedys one he had borrowed from August. He put it on and walked downstairs in just the t-shirt and pants. It was indeed a beautiful sunny day, but not quite late enough for sunbathing. He went to the bathroom and looked in the cabinet for suntan lotion. A Boots own-brand factor two caught his eye, so he took it downstairs in readiness for when the sun was high enough in the sky.
To kill time he watched television: The Banana Splits followed by The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe. At ten thirty he took the radio out to the back garden, laid out a towel and stripped to his underpants.
Radio 1 provided its usual mixture of pop classics and new releases. Simon Bates introduced a new Madness song 'Wings of A Dove' - Theo had never though much of Madness, but he really liked this one, the gospel choir particularly catching his ear. He decided to buy it in town on Saturday, along with the Don McLean record, if he could find it.
His sunbathing routine consisted of thirty minutes on his back followed by fifteen minutes on his front. He knew how important it was to get an even tan, but at the same time it seemed a waste not to try to get as much sun on his face as possible. By the time Newsbeat came on, he decided to call it a day and go inside. He showered, put some Black & White through his hair and went to his bedroom with the intention of wearing the Dead Kennedy's t-shirt and his Wrangler jeans to the X-Tradition practice, but as he descended the stairs, he realised that he was bored with the jeans/t-shirt look and wanted something else.
He had a rummage through his chest of drawers for some alternate trousers, but aside from another couple of pairs of jeans there really wasn't anything to choose from. But then he noticed his old black school trousers from fifth form. He used to like these trousers - they weren't the traditional cheap nylon schoolwear, but instead were thick cotton with a lining that made them hang really well. He tried them on. If anything, they were a little loose around the waist - he must have lost some weight since he last wore them. He put on his blue Rucanor baseball boots and checked the look in the full-length mirror in his parent's room. The trousers looked a bit baggy in the leg, but now that they were no longer needed for school, he was perfectly at liberty to alter them if he wanted to.
He kept a sewing kit in his desk drawer, so he removed the sky blue Strat from its cradle and retrieved a needle, some black cotton thread, a piece of white chalk, some scissors along with a metal ruler from his art supplies. He then turned the black school trousers inside out and laid them out on the bed. Then he found his Wranglers jeans (which in his opinion had the perfect drainpipe cut) and laid them on top of the black trousers. He followed the cut of the drainpiped Wranglers with the chalk, leaving a white line on the black school trousers below.
Then he threaded the needle and began to stitch along the white chalk line. It took him about twenty minutes, and once he had finished, he took the scissors and cut off the now superfluous inner section of trouser material. He turned the trousers the right way out and tried them on. The drainpipe cut was perfect. Now he just had to think about the rest of his outfit. He wanted to wear clothes that August would not have seen him in before. Aside from the Rucanors (which were still dusty from the quarry) he only had a pair of uncomfortable Pony trainers and the impractical brothel creepers. But then he remembered his old Vans skateboard shoes - he used to love them! They were cream and blue ones bought from Rollermania in Bristol about three years ago. They were in the garage along with a ton of other old stuff (including his skateboard).
After five minutes or so of rifling, he found them at the bottom of a water-damaged cardboard box at the back of the garage. He cleaned them off with a washing up cloth and some warm soapy water. They looked great, but the laces were all grey with mould so he had to unlace the Pony trainers and re-lace them into the Vans. Annoyingly they were far too long so he cut them to size with the scissors once he had tied them. He knew they would fray, but he assumed he could get a day's worth of wear out of them before that happened.
Now he just had to think about his top. He wanted to wear a shirt and not a t-shirt today, even though it was now midday and he could feel the heat from outside in his usually cool room. Sadly, his favourite shirt did not belong to him; it belonged to his brother. The shirt was made by Levis had been bought from Jean Jeanie in Bath a year or so ago. It was the same cut as a lumberjack shirt and was a cream colour with a kind of crosshatch pattern on it. Theo knew that Jon was out for the day so he crept into his room and opened his large wardrobe. He looked along the rail of clothes, and found it cramped and crumpled between two jackets. He crept from the room and ironed the shirt, then he tucked it into his newly-tailored black trousers and checked the look in his parent's full-length mirror. He rolled the shirt sleeves up so they rested on his forearms.
Satisfied that this was the right outfit for the day, he fetched his drumsticks and started the long walk to August's house. His legs began to ache and he knew it would be a long time before he would be getting back on to that bike.
So far he had managed to avoid thinking about The Dead White Sky, but it began to permeate his consciousness as he walked along the side of the A4. His panic from the previous evening had diminished slightly, and he was now feeling resigned to either one of two fates: that August did not like the song, or that it was a rip-off of something else. He knew that August was a considerate chap who would not poke fun at him for either of these outcomes, so he shrugged to himself and banished negative thoughts by singing 'Cherished Memories' by Eddie Cochran to himself.
When he arrived at August's house, he was later than he wanted to be - his aching legs and his impromptu sewing session had delayed him significantly. The front door was open so he entered and walked up the stairs towards the attic practice area. As he climbed, he heard chat and laughter broken up with the occasional stab of guitar. He guessed it would be another full house judging from the noise. He continued up the creaking bare-wood stairs to the attic itself when he stopped dead. Coming from the practice area came a sudden and very loud drumroll. None of the hangers-on played drums as far as he knew, so who was this playing his kit? He quickened his pace. When he entered the attic room, he was greeted warmly by August and the others. He said hello back and quickly looked towards the drum kit. Sitting there was a lanky Mohican-ed man probably in his early twenties with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. When he saw Theo, he put the drumsticks down and said "Sorry pal, just practicing my paradiddle."
Paradiddle? That was a paradiddle? Jesus! No way could Theo do one that fast! He was momentarily stunned and his first thought was to ask the guy to do it again, just so he could watch. But instead he mumbled "No problem" and took the drumsticks from him as he passed.
Once he was settled behind the kit, the rehearsal began. They ran through three or four songs that had already been sessioned, and then August called a halt for a ci
"Right, how about we try a couple of new songs" he said rhetorically.
Theo's heart began to race.
"This one is called The Dead White Sky" he continued. "It's about nuclear war an' that."
Gravity left him. The Dead White Sky. This was it: would August use his version? Had he even heard it? He looked at his friend, trying to catch his eye, hoping for some sort of wordless acknowledgment, but he was already looking down at his guitar.
"Just join in when you can. It's a bit poppier than our other stuff."
That sounds promising, thought Theo, very promising...
August formed an awkward looking chord right at the bottom of the fretboard. It looked nothing like any of the chords Theo had used on his version of the song. Oh dear; maybe it was going to be a different tune after all. But then August began to play, and Theo recognised the tune - his tune - immediately. He stood up from his stool in excitement, and when everyone looked in his direction, he felt foolish and sat back down again. After a couple of bars of the familiar tune, he clicked his drumsticks together to count him and the bass player in, and off they went - a fully live and very loud version of the Hanlon/Wells composition The Dead White Sky.
August started to sing, each word enunciated clearly and dripping with venom. As he progressed through the first verse his voice seemed to get higher and filled with more rage, but then he reset himself at the beginning of the second verse to start the vocal onslaught again. And then he stopped for the chorus, his voice low and full of resignation:
"The Dead. White. Sky"
Theo knew what was coming next, so he stopped drumming but for single thuds on the tom toms as August sang these first four words of the chorus. The bassist kept going but quickly caught on to what was happening and followed Theo's lead.
And then the rest of the chorus began - the melodic bit. Theo used the ride cymbal to add more power, and August nodded his head in approval. Finally, some recognition! He looked around the room: Tom the bass player was practically head-banging as he pummelled out his improvised bassline, and many of the onlookers were nodding their heads too. Buoyed by this reaction, Theo turned it up a notch, peppering the second verse with elaborate fills and double cymbal smashes.
By the end of the second chorus August had built up a real sweat. Theo watched as he stepped back from the microphone and ran his hand through his dripping Mohican. Was that the end? Theo hadn't written a middle eight, so had no idea what would happen now. He stopped playing and looked at Tom, who did the same. But then Theo heard the guitar start up again: the same melody, but this time an octave (or key?) higher, the opening chords played over and over. August nodded encouragement to Theo and Tom, so they both joined in, Tom with his rattling bassline and Theo with tom toms and snare - bubadum dum-dum tat, bubadum dum-dum tat - quietly at first and then gradually building.
August walked up to the mic and spoke softly into it:
"Under the. Dead. White. Sky."
And then slightly louder:
"Under the. Dead. White. Sky."
And then louder again:
"Under the. Dead. White. Sky.
I don't want to die
Under the dead white sky..."
He kept on going, his voice louder, filled with more vitriol than Theo had heard before. He repeated the same phrase again and again:
"I don't want to die
Under the dead white sky
Under the dead white sky
I DON'T WANT TO DIE..."
It was clear that this was the middle eight, the piece of the song that Theo had failed to write. It was clever, really clever, paring the song back to its basics and concentrating on these two lines to underline the gravity of what it was about. But how long could August keep going before finally breaking into the chorus proper for one last time? He caught August's eye, and managed to shout out "Now?"
August nodded and launched into the rest of the chorus:
"I don't want to die
What Kind of bomb is this
That turns a man to mist?
I don't want to die
What Kind of bomb is this
That turns a man to mist?"
And then the song descended into chaos, August riffing at the top of his fretboard, Tom chugging away at the bottom of his, the rhythm guitarist without a clue and Theo rolling up and down the tom toms, finally coming to a halt on the snare drum - Rat ta- tat TAT!
Then silence.
"Holy shit" someone said. And then the applause began. More applause than had greeted any of their other songs. Theo rested the drumsticks on his snare and looked at August, who was shaking Tom's shoulder and saying "Good work buddy!" Then he practically leapt towards Theo and extended his long arm over the tom toms "Well done pal, I knew you were the best drummer in Lyncombe". Theo smiled and shook August's hand.
The hangers-on whooped and clapped and laughed amongst themselves. "That's probably as good a note as any to end on. Well done everyone." said August as he took his guitar off and leant it against his Yamaha amp.
The applause subsided and the hangers-on began to file out leaving only the band members themselves. August sparked up a joint and passed it around.
Theo looked at August, willing him to say something, to thank him. But there was nothing forthcoming. So he spoke first:
"You liked it then?"
"Eh?" replied August.
"The Dead White Sky. I mean the tape I left you?"
"Eh? What tape?"
Theo felt things shift around him; he needed to hold on to something.
"The Dead White Sky" he continued "You sang my version of it. I made a demo tape and left it here. You must have heard..." But he didn't manage to get the word 'it' out, his throat was beginning to constrict and his Adam's apple suddenly felt very swollen.
"Sorry pal, don't know what you're talking about."
"You do, August, you do. I... I... I..."
And then the first tear began to roll down his cheek. Tom and the rhythm guitarist looked at each other and edged backwards out of the room.
"I...I...I... made you a tape. I... I... I... left it here. You... you... you... must have heard... it. August... you must have." His bottom lip was wobbling.
Theo stood there defeated. He wanted someone on his side, someone to comfort him. But there was no one. His shoulders began to shake and he could do nothing about the sobs that came from his mouth. He turned away from August and reached into his trouser pocket for a tissue to dry his face with, but there were none there. He used the rolled-up sleeve of his brother's shirt.
"Really sorry Theo, I don't know what you're talking about." He heard August say. "I wrote that last night and played it to Sophie this morning. It's mine man. I didn't even know you wrote songs."
"Well I do and it's mine." Theo's voice was back and he wiped the tears away. He walked over to the sound system and rooted around for the cassette.
"What are you doing?" asked August.
"Looking for my fucking demo! It's got to be here somewhere."
He looked through the collection of singles, albums and cassettes, but it was not there. He looked down the back of the system and under the nearby bed, but still nothing.
"Sorry man" August said again. "Look, just take a minute to chill out and let's talk about this yeah?"
Theo turned to face him: "No. It's fucking mine."
He grabbed his drumsticks from the snare drum and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
-
He leapt down the stairs three at a time and ran out the front door. Tom and the rhythm guitarist were in the front garden sharing a fag when he passed. "Are you okay Theo?" Tom asked in a kind voice.
"No I'm fucking not," replied Theo and threw one of his drumsticks at him. The stick hit the grass just in front of Tom, then bounced up sharply. Tom ducked and
"Jesus Theo, what did you do that for?"
But Theo did not respond. He needed to get away from August's house as quickly as possible. Why did his bike have to choose last night to get a puncture? He heard Tom shout out: "FUCKING LOSER!" but he didn't look back. Instead he walked as fast as he could. But he couldn't bring himself to run: running was something he did when he was happy, and he was far from that now. Instead he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, making sure not to think about what just happened. His muscles ached as he walked, the pain aiding his avoidance tactics. One foot in front of the other. This is what I am doing now - I am walking, nothing more, nothing less. He managed to get to the end of August's road without thinking about anything except one foot in front of the other. Now he was at the junction with the A4 and he wasn't sure where to go next.
It was hot, really hot, perhaps the hottest day of the summer holiday so far. Sweat began to form under his armpits, and he wiped his brow with his already wet shirt sleeve.
Home was to the left and the long road to Bath was to the right. He didn't want to go home or face any of his friends. In fact he wanted to be somewhere he couldn't be found, where there was no-one else. Somewhere utterly alone. So he headed towards the place he'd been meaning to go all summer, the place he often wondered about, the place that lay at the bottom of that spectacular view. Today was the day he would make it to the bottom of Box valley.
So on he walked, still not thinking about what had just happened. Still not thinking about The Dead White Sky, not thinking about August saying "eh?" Not thinking about his tears or his quavering voice. There was so much not to think about that he had to walk at top speed to keep it all at bay.
After five minutes he reached the top of Box valley. There was a wooden bench from which to enjoy the view, so he sat and looked at it. The sun was low in the sky - what time would it be now? About 6ish? 7ish? - creeping slowly towards its vanishing point somewhere beyond Bath. The previously deep blue sky was already beginning to turn red at the horizon and the valley itself looked misty and blue, the heat of the day compressed into it.
He looked down towards the floor of the valley and saw mostly woodland - the perfect terrain to lose himself in. But before he set off he bent his head downwards and let a globule of spit drip from his mouth onto the bench's concrete foundation. He looked at his old cream and blue Vans: the laces were indeed beginning to unravel. He then noticed that he was still carrying his remaining drumstick, with fresh divots from today's furious drumming. He looked up at the view again and thought about throwing the stick at it. But then he decided against it. What if he hit a cow? Instead he laid it gently between the slats of the wooden bench, resting on its concrete support.
He kept walking, following the A4 as it began its descent towards Box. He was looking for a way in to the verdant valley - a stile or gate or pathway - and after another five minutes of robust walking, he came across a narrow muddy road, just wide enough for the average-sized car to make its way along. He took the road and was gratified to see that it instantly dipped downwards at an almost alarming gradient. The awkwardness of walking at this new gradient sent fresh waves of pain to his calf muscles and gave him something new to keep the events of the past hour at bay.
Eventually the road began to even out and he put his hands in his pockets as he walked. The image of August saying "eh?" replayed itself in his mind's eye, and then a sudden flash of his own voice saying "you must have heard it August, you must have." And he could hold it back no longer: his throat swelled, his eyes burned and he began to cry. Big helpless sobs that forced him to stop in his tracks. He looked around for something to hit - a telegraph pole maybe - but there was only hedgerow. So he continued to walk, his breathing now steady, the sobs almost under control.
He looked ahead and saw a lady and her dog walking up the hill towards him. He turned away from them, and wiped his eyes dry, but he could do nothing about their redness. As she passed, she stopped and said "Are you all right dear?"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine thank you," Theo managed to reply, his voice steadier than he expected. And to be honest, he did feel slightly better. He began walking quickly again, and after twenty yards or so he looked back to see the dog-walking woman still watching him.
He kept going, and soon reached the bottom of the valley. It was not at all what he had hoped for. A well-presented stone farmhouse stood at the side of the narrow road, a humpbacked bridge to its left. A Range Rover was parked out front and he could hear a dog yapping somewhere nearby.
In his naiveté, he had hoped that the bottom of this valley would be a swampy and overgrown wilderness, an unkempt chaos of nature where he could bury his fists in the soil and scream until the anger was gone. He couldn't have been more wrong. And now he thought about it, this place looked familiar - the farmhouse, the bridge, the winding road. He must have come down here is a kid with his parents, perhaps for a Sunday afternoon stroll.
Now that he was here he decided to keep going. Past the Range Rover, past the well-maintained farmhouse, over the humpbacked bridge, and then to a public footpath that led into a fallow field, presumably the lowest point of this picturesque valley.
He climbed over the stile into the field and noticed that there was a stream at the far end. The stream was shallow and edged with sandy banks on both sides. He sat on the bank and watched the water ebb and flow, ebb and flow. Perhaps he should come down here with his sketch pad (and definitely not his oils). After all, the farmhouse would make a great study, what with that quant bridge next to it. He looked west towards the setting sun: the sky was now ablaze with reds and oranges. Another hot day tomorrow.
Now that his sobbing had come to an end, he could think more clearly. His first worry was how many people had seen him cry. August for certain, and probably Tom and the rhythm guitarist as well. What about Sophie? He couldn't remember if she had left by that stage.
And what about the argument itself? Why did August disclaim all knowledge of his demo? He must have heard it. Maybe he was resentful that Theo's song had received so much support from the assembled hangers-on. Maybe he didn't want to relinquish his status as sole-songwriter. Collective my arse! But was it too late to try to patch things up? After all, he seemed to remember that August had said "Chill out and let's talk about this." Maybe he could talk about it now, and get August to admit what he had done. Maybe...
But then he heard a voice behind him:
"Are you sure you're all right dear?"
Theo leapt to his feet in shock. He turned around to see the dog-walking lady looking at him, a look of concern on her face. He blushed but managed to compose himself, "I'm fine, honestly. But thank you for your concern."
Now he felt miserable and embarrassed. He walked as quickly as he could back towards the stile, making a point of not looking back this time. Did she think he was going to kill himself? Did he really look that upset? The thought made him smile. I am no Van Gogh, he said to himself.
The spur-of-the-moment journey to the bottom of Box valley had not worked out as he had hoped. There was no cathartic outpouring of rage, no communing with the wilds of nature, no cleansing of his earthly pains. Just a twee farmhouse, a Range Rover and a picturesque bridge.
So now was the time to get back to his real element. It was Friday night and the pubs were open.