Bad Music 8
you're band new, you're retro
By five he was showered, shaved and, leaving the doggy door open for Chess, he walked out of the house, got in the truck and drove through town. He parked up at the Station Hotel car park, got a ticket from the machine, grabbed his bag, and entered the building through a side door.
The hotel was a statement of Victorian splendour and wealth and luxury, even the side corridors were corniced and carpeted, lit by counterfeit gas lamps, and the doors were double wide compared to anything built in the last century. He took a few side routes until he emerged through a door behind the grand piano in the far corner of the bar. Giving Janie the barmaid a wave, he saw there were only a couple of customers and began setting up.
Instead of sheet music he had an iPad, which he plugged into a power source and linked to the hotel wifi. He looked at the clock, calculated how many drinks he could have between now and half-past midnight, added in a few variables and decided that, anything over three and he’d be getting an Uber home. He decided, as he did every time he got home from a job that this was the last time he’d go away; juggling family, his dog, his life, it no longer worked the way it had. If it ever had. He worked for himself, there was no notice he’d need to work, just complete the current job. He had ample savings, no mortgage and no desire to continue with the line of work he was in.
With that thought he turned to his true vocation, and opened the lid of the piano. Softly, he tested every note from the bottom to the top, then the pedals, then closed his eyes for a moment. He remembered an early piano teacher telling him that every performance was a performance, that you had to be the piano player, that in a gig like this, you had to provide the musical backdrop to whatever was going on in front of you. This piano, he knew, was a Mecklenburg, and it had been here since 1951. The previous piano, which had been the first in the hotel, and was retired at the age of ninety-six.
He opened his eyes and clapped his hands together softly, once, twice. Then he played a soft F chord. Nothing special. Solid. Then a flat sixth rise, then down to a minor fourth, the sequence a tiny bit off-piste. He added a sixth to the minor fourth, was pleased with the sequence. Played it a few times, bringing in his right hand and adding colour. Someone approached him, Janie. She placed a drink on the table beside him. ‘From the couple over there.’ He picked the drink with his right hand, took a sip, waved a thanks to the couple who smiled at him.
He nodded, dropping the F minor to an E minor.
‘They asked if you’d play something romantic.’
He modulated back to F, minor to major, then C, then began playing the iconic bass line, blending into chords with his right hand, and slid into the melody for My Girl with his right. She smiled and walked away, left him to it.
He was in his rightful place. Playing music. This was his thing, he thought. All the rest, quoting to himself a line from an old movie, all the rest is propaganda.
Angus stood by the sea wall staring at the surf, white against the black sea and sky, phone in hand. Will approached him, ‘Jess, my cousin, she’s away tonight, Bernie says we can kip here.’
Angus said nothing. He stared out into the darkness.
‘You been calling someone?’
‘Faith.’
Wull remained silent. There was nothing to say about that relationship. Angus would get over her eventually. Or not.
‘You’re old man’s a fisherman,’ Angus said.
‘He is. Fancy the life?’
He shook his head. ‘How cold do you think that water is?’
‘Three, four degrees tops.’
‘How long do you think I can lie down under the water?’
‘Are you mad?’
Angus ignored him, began undressing.
Dominic took a break at half-seven, went outside and checked his messages.
See you Saturday morning. Matthew.
Have you heard from Angus? DI Khatter.
Would you like me in formal dress? Z.
He replied to the first with a Yes. The second with a No. To Zlata he replied, in black silk. She replied almost immediately with an image of a post-it note on which was written a single, large, cursive X
Angus and Wull staggered barefoot, wet and shivering across the road holding their clothes and shoes. They pushed through the doors into the bar, dripping seawater, steaming like puppies, cupping their private parts. Bernie, looking up, said, ‘Swimming in the north sea does nothing to enhance your manhood, chaps.’ She went into the back room and returned with towels, threw them to Angus and Wull, and as they stood naked, drying themselves off, she took down two glasses to pour them a drink, but even as Angus was hopping on one leg, attempting to pull his jeans up his damp legs, she glanced out through the window, saw a patrol car pull up outside and said, ‘Cops. Get into the store room.’ She emptied the glass of lager she’d been pouring and put the other glass back on the drainer and as she did so, Angus followed Wull into the back, still hopping on one leg, trying to get his jeans pulled up.
Bernie picked up the mop that was stood in a bucket by the store room door and began swilling the floor, working quickly towards the door, masking the damp footprints. She looked up as two Uniformed police officers, stepped back, began mopping around and beneath the tables. ‘Evening, Sergeant, officer,’ she said.
‘Good evening, Bernie,’ the sergeant said. ‘Quiet.’
‘The weather,’ she said. ‘We make a killing in the summer, and at Christmas, but January through March we’re dead. That’s the North Sea, thirty yards away.’
‘Why do you even bother opening?’ the constable asked.
‘The owners are required to pay me, so they keep it open. Out of spite, I reckon. I’d prefer to be upstairs in my flat, watching Love Island and eating nachos. Want a drink?’
‘No thanks.’
‘A coffee to warm you up?’
‘Can’t stop too long, B.’
She propped the mop against the table, dried her hands on a towel. ‘So what can I help you with?’
‘We’re looking for two lads. Angus Kerr and William Armstrong. Know them?’
She nodded. ‘Yeah. They’re regulars, you should know, you get in a lot yourself.’
‘I do. They been in tonight?’
‘Too early for them. They were in on Sunday night though.’
‘What time on Sunday?’
Bernie shrugged. ‘Late-ish, it was busy so I didn’t keep track of who was in for how long.’
The Sergeant looked around the bar. He took his time. He walked over to the low stage in the corner, where a skeletal drum kit and an old upright piano stood. He lifted the lid, played a couple of random notes. ‘Haven’t seen a good band in here for ages.’
‘We only do buskers’ nights now; they’re cheaper. They play for a pint and bring their own crowd.’
He walked away from the piano, leaving the lid up, continued to look around for a few moments, then shrugged. ‘If those lads turn up, give me a call.’
‘What they done?’
‘They’ve been very naughty boys.’
‘I bet you’ve been naughty in your time, Sergeant.’
He smiled. It was a cold night. She’d offered them free drinks and was now flirting with him. ‘Long time past,’ he said. He took out a card and placed it on the bar. ‘Give me a call if they turn up, Bern.’
‘Want me to spike their drinks, make sure they stay put?’
‘That’s entirely up to you.’ He turned for the door, accompanied by his colleague. ‘Night, Bernie.’
‘Goodnight, Sergeant. Constable.’
She watched them walk out into the night, climb into the patrol car and drive off. Bernie spoke, loud. She said, ‘If I was a copper, and I suspected the barmaid was telling porkies, I’d park up on the top, walk down the path and have a look through the side window. So if I was a bad boy the cops were looking for, I’d use the back stairs and go up to Bernie’s rooms and chill out for an hour. There’s lager in the fridge.’
From the store room came not a sound. A minute later, she heard the sound of the door at the top of the stairs creaking open. She needed to get those hinges oiled.
By eight-thirty Dominic was in the zone, that special place where creative people go when everything becomes weightless and thoughtless, a blissful state of no-mind. The bar had filled and his job was to make people feel they were somewhere special, that they were drinking in a bar with a pianist who played cool music, so that by inference they too were cool. He settled into his favourite genre for solo piano, late-fifties jazz, mostly Bill Evans-inspired, with a little bit of Monk to add flavour, and his own touch, which was smoother than either, a little more lyrical. There were three drinks on the table beside him, and he’d drank two already.
A woman approached. ‘Can I sing with you?’
He kept playing, ‘Can you sing?’
‘I can.’
‘What do you want to sing?’
‘Rehab.’
‘Key?’
‘C.’
Which was the original key. He pointed to the microphone at the side of the piano, and she took it, switched it on. He slid straight into the arpeggiated bridge, and she waited, humming, until he got to the end of the chorus, and as the song came out of the line ‘…in a shot glass,’ after which she slid into the first verse.
Within a moment he knew she had it and he relaxed, focused on giving her the correct backing for what was a strong, bluesy, contralto voice.
Fifteen minutes, later, having sung Rehab, Back to Black, then some Etta James, and finishing with I’m Feeling Good, one of Dominic’s favourites, she took her bow, but the bar was hooting and cheering for more so she came back for an encore. This time Dominic didn’t wait to be asked but went straight into the Ella Fitzgerald version of Evry Time We Say Goodbye, and the singer, whose name he still didn’t know, even though he knew how she breathed, how she stood and how she phrased herself, how her heart beat, how she responded to stimulus, caught the moment and flew with it.
Applause followed, and the singer thanked Dominic with smiles and compliments and a note with her number on it left on the table by his drinks. He thanked her in return and as walked away, buoyant, he quietened things down with a version of Alfie, a lovely tune but not a singalong.
He felt someone close behind him, felt gentle fingertips covered his eyes. ‘I hope you don’t call that number.’
Zlata.
‘Hey, gorgeous,’ he said, continuing to play, switching to All The Things You Need, a favourite of hers.
Around ten Angus and Wull ventured downstairs. Apart from Bernie, there were exactly three people in the bar: a couple in matching parkas, and a lady with a small dog. Rain spattered on the windows and the shushing of the waves outside was a constant low noise in the background. Wull went to get served and Angus, seeing the piano lid open went over, sat down and began playing, comping softly.
Wull sitting down beside him with their drinks asked, ‘What’s that called?’
‘Favours.’
Wull nodded. He wasn’t musical but he had an open mind to new sounds. ‘I like it.’ He listened for a while more, leaned across. ‘Why do you do this?’
‘Do what?’ Angus asked.
Wull didn’t reply, just heard the music, closed his eyes.
By ten, Dominic had wandered somewhat from his sweet spot. Too much alcohol, and his focus at least half on the woman sitting a couple of feet away from him. Every now and again she would send message to his tablet that would make him laugh or take sharp intake of breath.
A whole later she moved close beside him. ‘When do you finish?’
‘Couple of hours.’
‘I’m going to get a room, have a shower, get changed. I’ll text you the number.’
‘I have to get home for Chess.’
‘We’ll do a flit,’ she whispered. She pronounced it fleet, a word he’d taught her. ‘We can leave the hotel about three, be home before dawn.’
Z, he thought. He really did not know what he had done to deserve her favour. He turned and said, ‘I’ll see you about half-past midnight,' and as he slid into the Thelonious Monk tune of almost the same name, she kissed him on the cheek, walked across the room and and left the bar, to the furtive gaze and sometimes open gaze of many there.
Sometime close to eleven Angus stopped playing. Gently he closed the lid, picked up his drink and went over to the window where Wull was now sitting. Apart from them, the bar was empty. They sat quietly for a few minutes, then Wull said. ‘You know the thing about lobsters?’
‘No. What?’
‘My dad catches them. He drops pots in the sea and they’re like a trap for a lobster. They can get out if they really try, but mostly when you retrieve the pot, it’s either empty or there’s two or three in there.’
‘Why’s that.’
‘If one lobster gets in, it might get out. But if a second or third one gets in, they stop each other getting out. They drag each other back in.’ He took a sup of his lager. ‘I’m a lobster in a pot, my whole family are lobsters in a big fucking pot, we got claw marks all over our backs from being dragged back in. But you choose to get in here beside me, and you could leave at any time. Question is, why?’
‘That’s an existentialist question,’ Angus said.
‘See?’ Wull said, almost laughing, ‘I don’t even know what that means.’
Angus grinned. ‘I just like it,’ he said. ‘This life. It’s sweet.’
‘Me, I’ve got no fucking choice,’ Wull said, ‘But you, hearing you play piano, listening to your retro music, hearing the way you speak, the way you think, man, if I was an educated thug like you, I’d be outta that pot in a second.’
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