Needle Preview

Published by Spikytop Books 2005

Copyright © Geoff Turner 2005 Geoff Turner has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other that that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

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CHAPTER ONE Oh Jesus, it’s starting again. Just like the last time. And the time before that. And the time before the time before... I squeeze my eyes shut...tight...in fact if you handed me a needle and thread, I’d sew those fuckers closed right now. I clamp my hands over my ears, but the harder I try to block it out, the worse it becomes; a burning bile building in my throat, like hoodoo firewater, some kind of Memphis bad mojo.

Something’s wrong; I’m back again and there’s

nowhere to run. With creeping fingers of dread playing a slow-burning solo up my spine I know what’s coming next. Any moment now the music will start... First the rhythm; deep and pounding - ten thousand demon drummers thundering out a rock n roll beat. The rhythm is so deep and so strong that I can almost reach out and touch it, feel the vibrations dancing through the air. Then the melody starts, creeping slowly like a blues-beat

swallowing

serpent

snaking

through

my

bloodstream;

dripping poison and biting deep until it freezes my heart. The voice builds slowly from a whisper to a scream. Is it his scream; full of hate and full of vengeance? Or is it mine? I can’t tell. I just feel the old familiar cold sweats as he starts the chase once more. Round and round we go. Running up and down Escher stairwells and through halls of crazy mirrors, the blades slicing closer but never quite connecting; scything the air at the back of my neck. He wants to

2

kill me. In his eyes I’m guilty. In his eyes I have to pay. He’s judge, jury and executioner... Fuck me! I felt that. Jesus, he’s cut me. I slap my hand to the back of my neck and stare at the sticky blood coating my fingers; it’s thick and dark red. I see his mirrored features leering at me in the glinting crimson: the face, the hair-style, the sideburns, the sneer. Got to run. Got to get out here. I turn a corner and sink back into the shadows, allowing the darkness to pull me in. The footsteps approach quickly, then pause. I catch my breath, sucking it in, trying to flatten myself against the wall. My mind races; if I’m no thicker than a shadow, then he won’t see me. Yeah, that’ll work. He won’t see me and won’t be able to find me and I’ll be able to find a way out of here. I’ll be free! The footsteps shuffle back and forth. I chance a look and peer out, seeing the moonlight shimmering off the curved silver blades that line his snow-white acoustic guitar. He grips the instrument by the neck, wielding it around his head a couple of times; the tiny sharp knives whistling through the air with a distinct swish. Spinning around he looks. I retreat, shrinking, holding back my breath and the tears I can feel burning behind my eyes. He hasn’t seen me. He hasn’t seen me and I’m going to get away. This time it’ll all be over...this time... I crane my neck and watch as he lurches forward, pausing momentarily to perform a snake-hipped wiggle and a frustrated ‘uh-huh’; just a crowd pleaser, one for the fans before disappearing into the darkness. He’s left the building. Has he? Who knows? I wait ten...twenty...thirty seconds. Is it safe? A pain throbs through my skull; if I don’t breathe soon my eardrums will implode. Leaning forward, resting my hands on my knees, I exhale then breathe in - long grateful breaths refilling my lungs. Relief washes over

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me like a hot, hour-long shower after swimming through shit and, uncontrollably, I start to chuckle. Funny thing is, I’ve never been to Graceland. I’ve travelled from Manchester to London to Berlin to New York to Seattle in search of the music, but I’ve never been to Graceland. Never trodden its hallowed turf or visited the graveside. Never exulted the sacred music and blindly followed. Never really been a fan, never really loved the big man. Mind you, I’ve never been overweight white trash either, with bad hair, fourteen mewling brats, no life and a fucked up deity complex. Heroworship bullshit. These people have no sense of perspective. Never been to Graceland, yet here I am, running down endless rhinestone corridors with him always one step behind me, just one step away. Sometimes the young, leather-clad rocker, other times the burger-stuffed, flaredjumpsuit wearing hombre, but always wielding a razor-edged acoustic guitar of purest white, like some twisted Memphis Leatherface. I know he wants to kill me. I know he wants me dead. I’ve committed the crime, I just wish I could remember what that crime was. I try and think back, but my mind is a muddy swamp full of half-realised hopes and tired one line put-downs. Where did the light go? Why is everything suddenly so dark? Why me? What the hell have I done? What have I done that's so wrong?.. A shallow breath catches my attention and suddenly I look up into his eyes; dark, empty and soulless - cold as a nuclear winter. He smiles and gives a quiet, satisfied laugh. The scream, when it comes, backs up in my throat, like its going in reverse, like I’m trying to swallow the sound. He raises the guitar above his head and gives me a wink, before I close my eyes. Tight... Milo Snuff’s eyes snapped open. Sweat-stung they flicked left and right, as he lay motionless in bed. The room was swathed in the dark grey shroud of night and the gloom seemed to cling to everything, making the real world fuzzy-edged and out of focus. The perspiration covering his body chilled in the cold air and he gave a shiver - as some dude in blue

4

suede shoes stomped all over his grave. Raising himself up on one elbow he rubbed his eyes, still trying to clear his head as the tendrils of the dream grimly clung to his subconscious. His duvet lurked on the floor like an amorphous childhood dream creature preparing to strike. Milo shivered again and sat up, gingerly feeling the back of his neck. Moving his hand slowly in front of his eyes, he squinted at it in the half-light, momentarily anxious at what he might find. There was no blood, only the mustard yellow nicotine stains that had covered his fingertips for years. He reached for the bedside lamp and the bedside Marlboros, knocking a half glass of Jose Cuervo to the floor. A few years ago that glass would have been half full, now...well you can guess the rest. “Shit -,” he mumbled. The word resonated through his head as though he’d whispered it in a canyon. “Shit, shite, shee-it.” He cried it out long and loud then chuckled, enjoying the liberation of being alone in a bedroom in the middle of the night and being able to scream to merry fuck. “They'll never take me alive,” he muttered to himself. He glanced at the digital clock display: 3.43am. Rubbing a hand over his prematurely balding pate he caught sight of his reflection illuminated by the lamplight and sighed. Should really have a shave. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after. What to do now? Sleep was hopeless, it always was after one of the nightmares. He could lie there and pretend for a while, but he’d only end up bored and he found boredom even more terrifying than the psychotic blade-wielding ghost of a long-dead rock n roll icon. Fear of boredom: it’s what comes of growing up in the suburbs in the seventies, he concluded. An involuntary shudder slid up his spine as the swiftly fading images of the dream finally started to disintegrate and tumble back into that dark, nameless drawer at the back of his mind. Oh god, the only alternative to the nightmares was barely more appealing. Mentally he weighed up the pros and cons and reached a decision. He could work, he supposed, but that really was a last resort.

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He slid from the bed, pulled on an old sweatshirt and shuffled across the room, then slipped onto an ancient leather office chair and turned his computer on. He then took a packet of white powder from the desk drawer, meticulously cut it into two neat parallel lines with an out of date credit card and snorted them back; one into each nostril. His head quickly began to clear as the amphetamine swam a sharklike path through his cerebral cortex. Slowly the words started to form behind his eyes, metamorphosing from concepts into sentences, almost certainly never as satisfying as the original spark of inspiration, but worth writing up nonetheless. He blinked into the glowing screen a couple of times, flexed his fingers and began to type. The incessant, repetitive wail of his telephone woke him. Milo slowly opened one eye as the answer-phone kicked in, inviting the caller to ‘leave a message’. “Milo - Milo are you there? If you’re there, pick up.” The voice was edgy, laced with pent-up fury. “Milo, you wanker. How much longer do you think you can keep doing this, eh?

No-one’s indispensable, you

know, not even you, you shitforbrains fuckwit arsehole. We had a planning meeting at 9.30. You missed it...” The voice muffled for a moment. Milo winced as he lifted his face up, gingerly feeling the keyboard impression covering his cheek. He looked at the screen: 7092 pages, all rows of the letter ‘K’. “Milo. I hope to fuck you’re not there. I hope for your sake that you’re on your way into the office. If you are there, you’re fired, you hear me? Aah fuck it. You’re fired anyway!” The connection rudely cut and was replaced by the buzzing of the dialling tone. Milo sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. Must have that shave, he thought. Forty minutes later, after a breakfast of nicotine, caffeine and scalding hot blueberry Pop Tarts, Milo was sitting in the back of a black cab. “You a journalist?”

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Oh great. Milo hated cab drivers and only ever took a taxi when it was absolutely necessary. He hated the way they would turn up and slip into fractions of his life; picking up semi-resolved arguments, the first flowerings of a burgeoning romance, the clumsy fumblings of alcoholic lust. They never got the full story, yet he could picture their minds making all kinds of conclusions and connections then editing them together into an ongoing tableau that would run through their heads. He forced a smile in the direction of the driver. “You look like a journalist. And I couldn’t help noting the address. Sound Off, what is that? Is that some kind of political magazine?” the driver continued. Milo rolled his eyes and tried to sink as far back as possible into the sticky leather of the backseat. With any luck he would drop through and disappear from this particular hell altogether. “So, politics is it? Sound Off; sounds political. Get up on yer soapbox and sound off, is that what you do, eh? I always fancied going into politics meself, reckon I'd get a few votes. Got an honest face y’see and that's what yer man in the street goes for. You, on the other hand, if you don’t mind me saying, you look a bit shifty. No offence mate -,” said the driver. No offence? His chirpy East End cock-er-ney drawl was really starting to grate. Milo stared at the back of his head taking in every minute detail; from the stubby shaven hairs cut in uneven clumps and huddled together like Bedouin on a vast pinky, flesh-coloured desert, to the two rolls of fat at the bottom that appeared to cushion the head against the neck. For a moment Milo imagined he had the power to think his way into the driver's brain and shut him up permanently with a couple of well-aimed psychic neurological explosions. “It’s a music paper. I’m a music journalist - ” Milo mumbled eventually. He immediately wished he’d just kept quiet, but the horn interrupted him anyway. “Get off the fucking road!” the driver yelled at a pensioner cutting him up in a geriatric-blue Reliant Robin. Milo winced and rubbed at the

7

stinging pain in his forehead, trying to ease his fingers through the skull and massage his brain, which was starting to pound and throb. “Sorry mate. What did you say? Music journalist?” the cabbie asked and gave Milo the once over in the rear-view. “Bit old for that game, aren’t you? No offence, like, but shouldn’t you be a proper writer at your age? Something serious. Something ...journalistic.” This hit Milo where it hurts and he gritted his teeth. The driver continued obliviously: “Music’s all right. Used to be in a band meself at one time. Lead guitarist in the Snoozing Pilgrims. Rhythm and Blues that's what we used to play.” Rhythm and Blues? - Surprise, sur-fucking-prise. Why was it that every middle aged bloke with musical leanings that Milo had ever encountered always fancied themselves, at one time or another, as some Eric shitin’ Clapton wannabe, playing ‘Layla’ and ‘Wonderful Tonight’ in some godforsaken smoke-choked hovel? “Clapton covers. That’s what we did mostly,” the driver continued Oh god, please, kill me now! - “Clapton covers, Van Morrison and the odd Fleetwood Mac.” The driver twisted round in the front seat and the cab veered sickeningly. Milo adopted the crash position, huddled and gripping his head. “You ever been in the Dog and Mallet in Charing Cross? I remember one night we filled that bar...Here, you all right, mate?” Milo dragged himself upright as the driver got the cab back on track. His mind drifted as the driver’s stream of consciousness continued to overflow: last night's football and his best mate's sexual peccadilloes splashed unheeded past Milo’s ears, like fat droplets of rain - dull and mildly annoying. He pulled out his cigarettes and lit one, exhaling long and sweet, as the nicotine did its job. Closing his eyes he thanked God for these snatched moments of pure oblivion. A rude phlegm-y splutter interrupted his reverie and dragged him back to reality. The driver was tapping the air freshener hanging from the mirror.

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What's his problem? “No smoking, mate. I’m in this cab ten hours a day, I don’t want it smelling like an ashtray.” He coughed again to reinforce the fact. Great, thought Milo. He smiled and leaned forward, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “I’ll open a window,” he said. “You won’t smell a thing.” The driver shook his head in response. “No can do mate. Rules is rules.” Rules is rules? Milo could feel the ire boiling in his blood. Ever since he was a teenager, if he had the opportunity to fly in the face of any kind of authority, then he’d grab it. With both hands. “Tell you what. Why don’t you keep your mouth closed and drive, and I’ll sit quietly in the back and, under my privilege as a paying customer, I’ll enjoy my cigarette...” There was a screech of brakes and the forward momentum almost sent Milo’s face through the plexi-glass screen separating him from the front seats. The driver slid the screen to one side and grabbed Milo by the throat. “Listen. I eat mouthy little bastards like you for breakfast and shit ‘em out before my morning break. My wife’s got cancer.

She never

touched a cigarette. The doctor said it was due to passive smoking. Know what I'm saying?” the driver growled. Milo struggled free and fixed the driver with his most winning smile. “Cancer, eh?” he nodded, understandingly. “That’ll be a merciful release for her, but surely there are easier and more painless ways for her to get away from your rambling and tedious conversation..?” Milo watched as the taxi disappeared into the gathering traffic in the distance. He dabbed his bloody nose with a handkerchief and tried to wipe some of the blood from the front of his shirt. Looking out across the Thames he bent down and salvaged one of the broken cigarettes from the ground and lit it. He felt slightly sorry for himself, but mainly he felt vindicated: one man against the whole fucking world. *

9

Milo sat staring across the desk, not looking at Dan Adams, but trying to look through him. Twenty-eight; the baby-faced little bastard. How the hell did he become editor? What did he ever do? He never toured with the Mary Chain in 86. He never arm-wrestled Iggy Pop over the last bottle of vodka in the bar. He never got busted carrying Kim Deal’s last two wraps of speed, through customs at L.A.X. Two crappy, half-arsed interviews with Oasis hardly warranted a mention, let alone some fast-track promotion plan. Some of us still live the life, Danny-boy, others just write about it. “You’re a fuckwit, Milo,” Danny spat. He was coiled and venomous, like a cobra wearing in a Libertines tee-shirt. When Milo had eventually rolled into the office, Danny hadn’t even batted an eyelid at the bloodstains - that kind of thing tended to happen on a regular basis. He did, however, tap his watch and tut a lot like an irate and disappointed father. Milo sat back and spread his hands. “I know, I know. I was up late finishing that article. Remember the deadline?” He was the epitome of infuriating calm. Dan stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. Milo reached into his pocket and tossed a disk across the desk. Dan picked it up, twirling it slowly between his fingers, as though this symbolised something ominous. “It's all there. 2000 words. Only three days late,” Milo said. He smiled and shrugged, then lit a cigarette. Dan slid an ashtray in his direction. The

uncomfortable

stand-off

hung

in

the

air

like

radio

interference; unwelcome and intrusive. Trouble was, Dan knew the article would be gold dust. He could never fire Milo, it would be like cutting off his arm; he could probably get by, but life would be more difficult and, in the end, it probably wasn’t worth the trouble. Read it and weep. “You’re surfing the razor’s edge, Milo. You’re this close to falling.” Dan narrowed a gap between his thumb and forefinger.

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Milo smiled to himself. ‘Surfing the razor’s edge’? He liked that. A little corny maybe, but worth plagiarising someday. He stored it away in the soundbite filing cabinet at the back of his brain and stood to leave. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Dan asked. Milo turned back. “Super Furry Animals gig. Shepherd’s Bush,” he replied and watched the response rise in Dan's face. Beginning a healthy pink, it built to an artery-hardening crimson in a matter of seconds. Something of a record. “It’s two thirty in the afternoon.” Dan was trying to keep a lid on his rising fury. “I need to prepare. And I need to check my post-tray,” Milo responded. “And that’ll take you six hours?” Dan whispered, hoarsely. Milo scratched the stubble on his chin, then raised his hand. “I’ll speak to you tomorrow,” he said. Outside the editor’s office, Milo blew out a final cloud of smoke, then stamped the butt under his foot. He glanced back over his shoulder. Wanker. The open-plan office of Sound Off magazine was a hive of inactivity. Most people sat staring blankly at their computer screens whilst swigging their thirtieth plastic beakered java of the day. A couple of subs played about with the new issue’s layout on their screen; giving the latest insidious ‘soap-star-turned-singer’ a 666 tattoo on their forehead and a pair of devil horns, while someone next to them was busy downloading ‘Kick Out The Jams’ as the ring-tone for their mobile phone. Milo ignored everyone as he slumped down at his desk. He hated this place almost as much as everyone else hated him. His post-tray was overflowing with old memos and promo CDs; stuff that he should have reviewed and regurgitated weeks ago, but he couldn’t be bothered to listen anymore, so he didn’t. As a result, the last singles review he wrote was based entirely on the quality of the CD covers. Consequently, some faceless, Icelandic, euro-pop duo were single

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of the week because of the cool technicolour cartoon robot on the front of the inlay. A letter perched precariously on top of his tray caught his eye. It was a plain white envelope, with his name meticulously handwritten on the front. He was intrigued and tore it open then read it. He read it again. He read it a third time, then laughed like a banshee, ignoring the looks from the temps and first-year greenback hacks. Well fuck me. He folded the letter carefully and slipped it into his top pocket. This calls for a little celebration. Breezing out of the office, he ignored the furious outburst emanating from the direction of the editor's room. Fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em all, Milo thought. There’s only one person in this life who counts, and I’m on a roll. It was a shame that he didn’t check the rest of his post. There was another important letter waiting for him there, only this one didn’t carry such good news. Milo sat at the bar behind a barricade of shot glasses, the alcohol steadily sinking in and slowly muffling the sound of the music. He scanned the venue through bleary eyes, stung by fuzzy smoke and the acrid aroma of a ten year old beer-soaked carpet. Kids thrashed around in the pit - all angled limbs, shaggy hair and tee-shirts - as the band hit their groove; some song about smoking. He used to love this. This was why he did the job. The music, the noise, the sweat, the dubious stickiness of the floor. Soak up the holistic package; sights, smells, sounds. Soak it up, breathe it in, swill it all around, let it ferment, then let it flow, through his pen, through his fingers, through the keyboard and onto the page. He stared at the dregs of brown liquor at the bottom of his glass, swirling them around until they gyred around the edges. When did things change? He didn’t know.

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He couldn’t pinpoint a moment. Couldn’t put his finger on it. Just a gradual cynical, cyclical decline. Try as he might, Milo couldn’t see the talent anymore. Everything was mediocre and mediocrity was there to be raged against. He realised that, to a lot of people in the industry, he was a pariah, but he’d rather be a pariah than a sycophantic fool. Artists, real artists don’t want you kissing their arse they want you to seek out the truth whatever the cost. He slammed forward against the bar as a crush of bodies vied around him for alco-pops and piss-weak lager. Christ, they can’t be much older that fifteen or sixteen. Spiky-topped pop-kids, all adolescent enthusiasm and loving every minute. They hadn’t even noticed he was there. Bastards. A notion suddenly hit him between the eyes, rocking him slightly, knocking him off-balance, shifting his perception. Maybe the cab driver was right. Maybe that old bastard who’d tried to break his nose was on the button. Maybe Milo was getting old. He had to face facts, he was definitely no longer a hip, young gun-slinger. True, he could still write, but did he still feel what he wrote? A happy thought ignited and flickered and illuminated one of the darkest corners of his alcohol-clouded mind. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter. Reading it carefully, he let each word sink in, each sentence flow over him. Dear Mr Snuff Congratulations. The UK Music Industry Association are delighted to inform you that you have been nominated for the Music Journalism Lifetime Achievement award at the forthcoming MIA Ceremony... He flipped the envelope over; it was postmarked three weeks ago. Jesus, had he really been away from the office that long? No wonder Dan was pissed off. In five days time Milo would be vindicated. At last, after nearly twenty years in the industry he’d receive some proper recognition. Anyone who says that awards aren’t important, have obviously never

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been nominated for one. Anything that made you feel this fucking good had to be important. With the letter back in his pocket, he eased himself off the barstool, pausing only to knock some kid’s drink over on the way. Then he left, well before the encore. The Sound Off offices were in darkness as Milo by-passed the alarm and entered. He sank into the chair behind his desk and flicked on the lamp. Feeling around inside the drawer, his fingers located the small plastic packet taped to the top. Removing and cutting the cocaine, he rolled a £20.00 note and sat forward to sniff. As the first of the minuscule crystals began to scorch his nostril and the back of his throat, he noticed a red envelope poking from the middle of the letter pile in his tray. For some reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on, it looked strangely out of place. He reached out and pulled it free, moving it into the light for a better look. A slick ooze of nausea, shifted from his bowels, through his stomach before lodging in his throat. The envelope had been addressed, in large black marker-pen letters, to ‘MR PIG FUCKER’. The darkness in the office suddenly seemed to close in and the silence exploded against his ear-drums. He propped the letter up and stared at it as he snorted the second line. Every fibre in his body screamed at him to tear it up and throw it away. This is just somebody's idea of a joke. Still, what do they say? Curiosity killed the journalist. He tore it open and laid the crumpled sheet flat on the desk. Today’s date was scrawled in biro at the top and the simple phrase leapt off the page in classic ransom-spliced letters: YoU hAVe FIvE dAYs to LiVE Cocaine

paranoia

shot

through

his

brain

like

white-noise

feedback. He screwed the paper up and sat back, cold sweat stinging his pores, as the ghost of a man with a snow-white, razor-edged, acoustic guitar loomed over his shoulder.

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Then Milo began to laugh. Building from a quiet chuckle, he sat back and laughed out loud; long and hearty, laughing into the night.

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CHAPTER TWO The punch flew past Milo’s cheek as he swayed backwards, dodging the blow. Unfortunately he failed to see the left-handed swing then the kick combination that caught him in the chest and under the chin. He grunted and reeled as the room span. The padded helmet muffled most of the pain, but he felt his knees starting to jellify anyway and he hit the ground like a chubby, wheezing, sack of potatoes. “Jesus Milo, you’re in worse shape than I thought.” Milo struggled to open his eyes and lay there happily oblivious for a long moment, gently inhaling the rubbery aroma of the gym mat. Slowly the fog started to clear and his vision swam; eventually forming the grinning features of Kyle who leaned forward, untied his gloves and offered Milo a helping hand: “Come on, I'll buy you a pint.” The trendy East End bar fairly thrummed with afternoon smoke and the conversation of too many people with too much time on their hands. Kyle weaved skilfully through the punters. Showing the balance and poise of a real pro, he carried two pints of Guinness and two packets of salt and vinegar crisps. Landing at the table, he pushed the sustenance in Milo’s direction. Milo looked up into his flat, oriental features and smiled weakly.

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The story goes that Kyle Murakami moved to London from Thailand eleven years ago, but the facts are sketchy and Kyle had a tendency to romanticise elements and play up to whoever his audience was. Camp as Christmas and probably the best kick-boxing teacher in the city, he was almost certainly the closest thing Milo had to a real friend. Kyle downed half his pint in one and tucked into the crisps. Milo took a small sip of the Guinness and grimaced.

“Why do you always

insist on buying me pints of this shit?” he moaned. “You need the vitamins,” Kyle replied and took another huge gulp. “There’s more iron and protein in this drink than in any of those junk food meals you insist on eating.” Milo shuddered as Kyle smiled and said: “Drink it, you poof.” Milo took another mouthful and barely suppressed his gag reflex. “There, that's better.” “You’re a sadistic bastard, Kyle,” Milo said, touching the bruise rising on his lower lip, and wincing. “You’ve missed too many sessions recently, it’s no wonder I’m back to so easily kicking you in the arse.” Milo munched sulkily on a crisp. “I’ve been busy.” He regarded Kyle with a hint of suspicion. “And you keep my arse out of it.” Kyle laughed. “Trust me Milo, you are the least attractive man I know, and that includes the seventy-year old who has just started coming to class.” Kyle finished off his pint and looked ready for more. He nodded in the direction of Milo’s barely-touched drink. “Don’t suppose you want another one of those?” he asked. Milo shook his head enthusiastically. “Whisky,” he said, “And make it a large one.” Kyle pulled his face in mock disgust, then headed back into the throng. Milo had first met Kyle during a Shonen Knife set at an early Nirvana gig. The crazy freak had a giant ring through his nose and was

17

dancing like a St Vitus out-patient. Milo watched him with increasing interest between jotting down a few discouraging notes for the savage review he would later pen. The guy had a weird kind of hold over the audience and a small group had gathered around him, shifting the attention away from the band. Like Milo, they watched near-mesmerised, as Kyle found rhythms and beats that seemed to be hidden just beneath the surface of the music. It was the first time Milo had ever seen slamdancing practiced as an art form, almost like a mutant Ballet Rambert, a Danse Macabre for the vacant generation. Later, as Kurt Cobain, Kris Novoselich and Dave Grohl took to the stage, Kyle sat next to Milo at the bar and accidentally spilled his drink. Milo hit him with a ferocious verbal barrage only to be met by a dark stare of such pant-wetting vehemence that Milo actually found himself apologising and buying the next round. Soon they were talking, discussing everything from pop to music, and the rest was history. Kyle informed him that he had been a political refugee, on the run from his home country because of his ethical and sexual beliefs. He told a swashbuckling tale of how he had killed his jailer with a deadly combination move of fists and feet, then fled north hidden in a banana truck. He’d spent two days travelling with a family of tarantula crawling over his face, until he reached the airport and stowed away on a plane to London. Milo knew this was 99.9 per cent bullshit; someone else told him that Kyle had been born and raised in Cheltenham and that his parents were a pleasant middle class couple who worked for local government, but Milo never called him on it, even though Kyle’s accent was more Cotswolds than Pacific Rim. Besides, the less cynical side of him enjoyed the adventure and the way Kyle told it, it was one hell of a story. The kick-boxing came about a couple of years ago, shortly after Milo’s divorce. He had taken it up as a kind of therapy. At that time he had a lot of pent-up aggression and it was either kick-boxing or he would have found himself going out and buying a gun one day and ending up

18

as one of those flash-in-the-pan tabloid statistics. Another lone gunman sitting up in a water tower picking off passers-by... “Here drink this and tell me what the problem is.” Kyle had returned and was perched opposite. Milo took the whisky and downed it in one, smiling as the golden fire burned down his throat. That was better. A proper drink. Proper strength and quicker into the bloodstream. “What do you mean?” he asked. Kyle arched his eye-brows. “Come on. I haven’t seen you for three weeks, then you phone me up, arrange a training session. You fight like a girl and I beat the crap out of you so easily that it’s embarrassing for me. There’s something on your mind. You didn’t want to train you wanted to talk.” You had to hand it to Kyle. As well as being the best kick-boxing coach in London, he also fancied himself as some kind of pseudoBhuddist/Taoist psychotherapist: he always tried to second guess your true motives and had an uncanny ability to see right through any shell of subtext to the kernel inside. Milo sighed, and pulled the letter from his pocket, handing it to Kyle. Kyle read in silence, then scratched his chin and looked up. “Congratulations. But I thought you always said that these ceremonies were just communal dick sucking parties for mediocrity junkies.” Milo frowned and snatched the letter back, stuffing it back into his pocket. He handed over the other envelope. “Here.” Kyle perused the writing on the front. He raised an eye-brow suggestively. “Pig fucking eh?” he smirked. “Milo you are a dark horse. And I thought you were so straight.” “Very funny. Just take a look inside.” Kyle’s slender finger teased the letter from the envelope. “So, is some angry farmer going to make you marry his prize sow because you got her into trouble?”

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Milo fumed silently. “Just read the fucking thing,” he said. Kyle’s eyes flicked left and right over the lettering. He looked up and smiled. “This is a joke, right.” Milo squirmed in his seat. “You think?” “Do you think?” “Oh don’t use that reverse-philosophy answer a question with a question shit on me. Do you think this is real? Do you think they mean it?” Kyle laughed and folded the letter into a small, neat square. “It’s probably just from someone you wrote a bad review about. I realise that you probably think you have a lot of enemies, but hate is an extremely draining emotion and hate has to be very strong for someone to want to kill. I doubt whether anyone you know has the energy to go through with killing you. Believe me Milo, you’re not worth the trouble.” Milo relaxed slightly, even though he clearly felt he was worth the trouble. “Of course it’s a joke,” Kyle continued. “Here...” He placed the folded letter into the ashtray, “Pass me your lighter.” Milo handed the Zippo over. “What are you doing?” he asked. Kyle rolled the flint, creating a spark and igniting the flame. “I’ll exorcise the demons, then you’ll be free.” Milo watched as the yellow flame inched closer to the crumpled page. “No. Ouch...Jesus - shit...” He snatched the letter from the ashtray, singeing the back of his hand in the process. “I’ll keep hold of it.” Then added weakly: “Evidence. You never know.” Kyle shrugged and snapped the lighter closed. “Hey, whatever. It’s your karma my friend.” He handed the lighter back as Milo stood to leave. “Remember: the hunted tiger is a dangerous creature. Fear sharpens the teeth and hones the claws.” Milo held his gaze for a long moment, then cracked a smile. “Shut the fuck up, you pseudo-mystical freak. I’ll give you a ring sometime.”

20

Outside the bar in the late afternoon glare, Milo looked up, squinting into the sky, enjoying the warmth of the dying sun against his face. Right, he thought, time to nip this in the bud. Time to get my life back on track and concentrate on fucking up other people’s. Time to get back to being the victimiser and not the victim. Milo entered Dan’s office, armoured up and battle-ready. “Okay shithead. I can take a joke, but I want you to sort this out and sort it out now...” Where the hell was he? Milo scanned the room settling momentarily on the empty chair behind the desk and the scrolling screen-saver on the computer; Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Who watches the watchmen? Who indeed, Danny-boy, who indeed. “He isn’t here.” Milo wheeled around to see one of the junior writers standing behind him. A young girl in urban chic fatigues with a bleach blonde buzz-cut and an eye-brow ring. Milo thought he’d met her before, but couldn’t remember her name. He had a sudden, vague, cold-sweat sensation that he’d made a clumsy, drunken pass at her at last year’s Christmas party, and shivered inside, trying to shake the memory. “Really?” he replied desperately trying to hide his discomfort. “He said that if you showed up, to tell you that the article was shit and he can't use it.” Milo turned back to her. “What?” The girl smiled, then blew a pink gum bubble. It burst and she chewed it back into her mouth. Milo’s temper was starting to fray. “That dumb fucker wouldn’t know good journalism if it jumped up and flashed its tits at him,” he snarled. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,” she replied. Milo stared at her. He could feel the nerve under his left eye starting to jitter and jump.

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“He also said to not let you in here if you did show up,” she said. Milo smiled grimly at her then swung the door, slamming it in her face and locking it. Ignoring the banging and the angry shouts from outside, he settled into Dan’s chair and perused the items on the desk, his fingers flicking through dull articles and production notes. He idly drummed a rhythm and exhaled loudly. What the hell was he doing? What was he looking for? What was he trying to prove? Suddenly his attention was attracted to the desk drawer, sitting slightly ajar. He pulled it slowly open, like some naughty kid raiding a biscuit tin and, looking into the confined darkness, his breath caught in the back of his throat as his eyes focused. A sliver of his mind cracked and crumbled into the abyss and ‘Love Me Tender’ echoed through his brain. The Elvis doll stared at him blankly from inside the drawer, all mannequin sideburns and toy wraparound shades. This isn’t real. With trembling fingers, Milo reached into the drawer... “Milo, what the fuck are you doing in there?” Dan Adams hammered on the door. Milo snatched his hand back and slammed the drawer closed. “Milo..!” Dan's shadow lurked behind the frosted glass of the door and for a split second it took on the shrouded form of the grimmest of reapers. “One minute,” Milo spluttered, and scrambled from behind the desk. “One minute? What the hell do you mean, one minute. This is my fucking office,” Dan responded angrily. Milo twisted the key in the lock and pulled the door open. Dan fell through, then stared up at him. “I was just...” Milo faltered, then he remembered the note burning a hole through his jacket pocket. He pulled it out, balled in his fist, and held it up in front of Dan’s face. “This...” he whispered angrily.

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Dan frowned and fought the note free. He read it and shook his head. “Where did you get this?” he asked. “Somebody...somebody hand delivered it and left it in my fucking in-tray,” Milo replied. Dan glanced at it again, then looked up. He shrugged. “What’s the problem?” He was unnaturally calm. “What’s the..? What’s the problem? The problem is someone wants to fucking kill me.” Milo was reaching the end of his already very short tether. “Milo, you’ve had idle threats before. Most of them much worse than this,” Dan said, vainly attempting to diffuse the situation that he could see building behind Milo’s eyes. He waved the note in front of Milo’s face. “Look at it, it’s a fucking cliché. A fucking joke. Your paranoia’s off the scale this time. Maybe if you laid off the white lines for a while, eh?” Milo snatched the letter back and read it again. He shook his head then staggered past Dan and headed for the exit sign.

He paused,

ignoring the stares from the other staff, and glanced back. Lost for words, Dan just shrugged. Ice dropped down Milo’s spine. He shivered involuntarily, then fell out of the office. The final drops of red wine filled Milo’s glass to the brim. He swung the empty bottle behind his head until it was plucked from his grasp by a passing waiter. The restaurant was classy, with trendy, but meaningless artwork adorning the walls, and staff that treated you with just the right amount of contempt and disdain to make you realise that you were paying through the nose for the privilege. Milo wondered why the hell he came to places like this, then realised that it wasn’t his choice of venue. “Still drinking then?” a soft edged voice asked. He smiled across the table at Delilah and raised his glass. She stared back at him, her face a mask of reserved calm. She was probably

23

fuming inside, but she’d never let him know that. That was one of her skills, one of her great weapons. When they were married, they very rarely had a full blown, crockery bouncing off the walls, argument. Whenever Milo wanted to release a torrent of spleen and fury, expecting to get the same in response, Delilah would mellow right out and start talking to him with total calm and reason. Trying to argue with someone like that is the most frustrating, impossible thing in the world, like picking a fight with your reflection. All the best arguments build like some organic growth, cells of abuse splitting and multiplying, building on bile and insult - you always say the worse things to the person you love the most.

When you get

nothing in return, there's nothing to build on, there’s nowhere for you to go. So Milo would hit the bottle or the Class As and Delilah would sit in silence and read. He wouldn’t say that she was cold and emotionless, far from it, she just knew how to successfully manipulate her emotions and, in turn, his. He remembered the night she left. There was no huge scene, no recriminations, no ‘Dear John...’ note sitting behind the clock on the mantelpiece and the ghost of her lingering in the air. She just waited, bags packed, until three thirty in the morning, then when Milo rolled through the door, she dropped her keys into his hand, gave his cheek the gentlest brush of a kiss and quietly left. Straightaway the feeling had sunk in through his rhino-thick skin; Milo was instantly alone. As the door clicked closed, Milo noticed the untouched cold dinner waiting on the table. The candles had burned down to little more than waxy stumps and an envelope rested in Milo’s place. The card’s simple message read: ‘Happy Anniversary, Love Dilly’. For one fleeting moment he really hated her. He hated her for making him feel that bad. Milo hadn’t actually forgotten that it was their anniversary, it simply hadn’t crossed his mind to do anything about it. He was so used to Delilah accepting the situation, accepting him, accepting the way he was - for better or for worse. In the end the worse grew to be too much.

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“I’ve brought the papers to finalise the sale of the flat,” she said, then leaned forward and fished around in her bag. Her white shirt fell open slightly offering Milo a furtive glimpse of inviting cleavage. Why was it that no matter how many times he’d seen those breasts in all their naked and wondrous glory, nothing could quite beat a sneaky shufty at their semi-covered loveliness? He sighed. “Just need your signature. My solicitor says that he’ll tie up any loose ends,” she said and laid the papers down in front of Milo, then attracted the attention of a passing waiter and ordered a coffee. Milo squinted at the words through a semi-inebriated mist and tapped his teeth with the pen. “How are things?” he said. “You’re looking well.” He looked up at her. She smiled in response, but it was more out of pity than anything else. “Wish I could say the same about you,” she responded. Milo grunted. “I have some things on my mind. Serious stuff. I wouldn’t want to bother you with it.” “It’s a tough business.” Milo noted the sarcasm, but let it slide. He raised his glass once more. “Deadly,” he said and held her gaze. The chirp of a mobile phone shattered the moment. Milo rolled his eyes. He hated the fucking things. Never owned one, never would either. Not because of the tumour fears or the fact that you look such a tit standing in the middle of Oxford Street, finger stuck in your ear and shouting at the top of your voice, but because when Milo wasn't near a phone it was because he didn't want to be contacted - to him that was the whole point of being able to go out. Sometimes he just needed to get away from people. Delilah plucked the phone from her jacket pocket. “Excuse me,” she said. “I have to take this, it’s business.” Milo waved her on and returned to his drink. Delilah ran a small, publishing house. Feminist polemic and shiteawful poetry mostly. Milo always hated 90 per cent of the stuff she used

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to bring home. To be fair to her, so did she, but she had found a niche in the market and exploited it, and he had to admire her for that. Milo watched as she sipped her coffee and talked on the phone. She lifted her hand to brush a few stray hairs from her dark bobbed fringe out of her eyes. Milo smiled at this, then felt suddenly selfconscious, embarrassed almost, and finished the rest of his wine in a single gulp. “All signed then?” she asked, folding her phone closed and burying it back in her bag. She turned the contract around to face her and frowned. “You haven’t signed it.” Milo shrugged and sat back. “I don’t think I should. Not like this. Not without my solicitor taking a look. Sorry,” he replied. Tight-lipped, Delilah slid the papers off the table. “I’ll have a copy sent over in the morning.” She suddenly looked smaller, deflated, shrunken in the chair. “Why do you want to drag this out? What’s the point Milo? It’s wearing us both down. It’s not healthy for either of us. We need to make the break. We need to make it clean...” She glanced at him, her dark eyes shadowed in the half-light of the restaurant, the candle pinpointing a solitary flickering star deep in each. A tiny pain exploded behind Milo’s left eye, flaring for a moment, before fading, dissipated. Was it remorse? Regret, perhaps? Who knows? The new bottle of Rioja arrived focusing his attention. As he reached forward, Delilah grabbed his wrist. He was momentarily stunned by the ferocity of her strength. She stared at him for a long, intolerable, moment then spoke. “Milo, you’re not this person. This painful little...shit. You’re...” She shook her head and slackened her grip. “I have to go.” He watched as she pulled on her coat and dug out her credit card at the counter and paid, then left without looking back. Milo filled his glass once more, his finger catching a single ruby droplet dribbling from the rim of the bottle. As he tasted it, the rich flavour seemed to stick in his throat. *

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The inky midnight sky swarmed above Milo. Forsaking the option of the cab, he had taken the last tube then night bus to Camden and now walked, trudging slowly towards his flat through the gathering puddles. Grey, steely rods of icy rain pissed down on his head; not like London rain at all, more like a Manchester downpour. A fleeting memory of his Northern childhood entered his brain, then exited through the back door before having chance to fully form.

He turned the collar of his jacket up and lurched on, until he

reached home. In through the front door. Locks on. Snapped closed. Safe. Hit the light switch. Spark up a cigarette. Milo exhaled, blowing out a cloud of smoky relief then slipped a CD into the stereo and slumped into his favourite chair. Wiggling his behind into the ready-formed arse groove, he closed his eyes and started to drift. Hell of a day. Hell of a shitty day. Time passed, the music sinking through his skull and slowly lifting his mood. For a moment he thought that maybe Delilah was right, he wasn’t this person, this - how did she put it? - painful little shit. A final crumble of hot ash fell from his cigarette, singeing the back of his hand. He opened his eyes and surveyed the flat. Christ, what a fucking mess. This is me. This is what I amount to. This is the sum total of nearly forty years, one failed marriage, innumerable lost friends and an eighteen year career: half-empty pizza boxes lurking under three day old dirty dishes. I'm nearly forty, he thought, and I live like a character from an 80s alternative sit-com. His gaze alighted on the primary colours of the framed poster hanging on the far wall; The Clash at Manchester’s Free Trade Hall, 1977. Milo was no more than a teenager, but the memory struck a three chord tune like it was yesterday. He remembered standing huddled in the queue outside, shivering in the pouring rain, wearing nothing but a bootleg Pistols tee-shirt and a pair of tartan bondage trousers. By his side was his best friend at the time, ‘Helium Arse’; thus monikered

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because of his unsurpassable ability to fart the chorus to the New York Dolls’ ‘Jet Boy’. Strange, but thinking back, Milo could never remember his real name, yet his anal aptitude was second to none and would be ingrained on Milo’s memory forever. As the heavens continued to open, the flour and sugar self-made hair gel started to run and sting his eyes, the cheap black dye dribbling rivers down his cheeks and forehead. His mother had despaired; “How can a son of mine go out looking like that? Looking like some circus freak?” Her middle-class, net-curtain sensibilities were suitably offended, and Milo loved it. His father made no comment, just shook his head and muttered something about Milo learning nothing about music, in spite of all he had taught him, then went back to lacquering his voluminous black-quiffed wig. Inside the venue, the passion kicked in. All the heat and all the sweat - steam rising from the crowd like dried ice. The memories came thick and fast. Joe and Mick running backwards and forwards like a couple of rock n roll centre halves playing some kind of demented offside trap. Pogo-ing to ‘Janie Jones’. A stray fist catching him in the eye. Puking snake-bite in the toilets during the ‘White Riot’ encore. It was the best night. It was the best two hours Milo had ever spent, yet now he hated it. He hated it because it had revved him up like a cheap child’s toy. Revved him up and let him blindly loose on this road. A road that had led him here. To this. Nearly forty, alone, living like a student, with someone wanting him dead by the weekend. He checked the clock and watched for a moment as the seconds of his life fell away one by one. As his teenage punk memories faded, his attention was drawn to the red flashing cyclops eye on the answer machine. Odd, he was sure there was no message when he arrived home.

These days he never

received messages. Not anymore. Maybe he’d fallen asleep and missed the ring. He hit play and waited for the tape to rewind. The vaguely erotic electrical female voice informed him that he did, indeed, have a new message and Milo wondered momentarily why all new electronic devices

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had these strange feminine come-to-bed vocals? If it wasn'’t his answerphone, it was his internet access message or voicemail at the office. The machine clicked and as the message began Milo’s mind did a dolly-zoom, like that moment in Jaws when Roy Scheider’s on the beach and the cry of “Shark!” comes from the water. He recognised the tune almost instantly. That incessant skiffle guitar, that chugging drum-beat. Elvis’ voice spoke the vocals to ‘Mystery Train’. Not the real Elvis, obviously; that would be utterly insane, but some eerie mutation, two octaves lower or higher or sideways. It was Stephen Hawking doing a bad impression. “Thank you very much...” A shudder of terror tightened Milo’s scrotum, then shot to his brain. He tried to move, but was rooted to the spot. “So Milo, read anything interesting recently?” Milo’s mouth sandpapered, dry as a bone. “Want to know what I'm doing right now? I’m watching you sleep. I have my phone in one hand and a knife in the other. It’s twelve fifteen and I’m watching you sleep in your favourite chair...” Jesus fuck! Milo glanced at the clock: 12.33. Christ, he had been here. He had been here, in here, in his home, less than twenty minutes ago. Shit, what if he was still inside? Milo’s heart pounded in his throat as he frantically scrambled from room to room, throwing open doors and turning on every light in the place. The message continued: “I’m going to kill you Milo. I’m going to kill you because you serve no purpose. You’re a music journalist, a rock critic, a vessel for hate and bad vibes. That’s why I’m going to gut you like a pig. Call it a merciful release for everything that’s good and honest and truthful in the world...” The bedroom window was open and the wind billowed the light cotton curtains into the room, like an out-take from a forties horror BMovie. Milo dived through onto the balcony and looked left and right; the

29

fire escape ladder was down, but there was no-one around, nothing stirred. “I want to see you squirm. I want you to suffer. I could have done it tonight, but where's the fun in that?” The voice paused, as though expecting a response, then: “See you soon. I'm counting the days, Mil...” Milo snatched the cassette from the machine. He stared at it in his trembling fist, the shiny brown tape wrapped around his fingers like some dreadful sprouting weed. He breathed deeply, in - out, in - out, trying to calm the fluttering thump of his heart. Okay, get a grip. Got to get handle on this. Milo pulled box-file after box-file off the shelves, spilling papers, old articles and junk onto the floor. Scavenging through the debris, he hunted for a clue, a tell-tale word, a photograph, anything. A fifteen year carpet lay before him; fifteen years of bile and battle, spleen and psychosis, shattered careers and broken dreams. Okay, so he had never pulled any punches when he wrote, but at least it was honest; he wrote it as he saw it. It was his job for fuck’s sake: railing against the mediocrity. Looking down, he shuddered and felt suddenly nauseous with the knowledge that somewhere in the middle of this pile sat Elvis, plotting away and sharpening his blades. “Shelly from Essex wins two tickets to see Westlife...”: much screeching and DJ whooping. The teeth-grindingly irritating banter of breakfast radio punched a fake-tan fist through the veil of Milo’s slumber. He dragged himself to his feet and ripped the clock radio plug from the wall socket. A piece of paper was drool-glued to his cheek. He tore it free and glanced at the text; it was his no-holds-barred review of The Stone Roses’ first album. Milo smiled. That had caused a few ripples at the time. While the rest of the world were kissing their baggy arses, he’d dismissed the record as nothing more than insipid dance/pop meanderings played by the bastard

30

offspring of Jim Morrison, and sung with slightly less melody than a neutered Mancunian tom cat. Aaah, happier times. The sheet slipped from his hand, fluttering and hovering to the floor and, at that moment, he caught sight of the tall pile of paper teetering precariously on the corner of his desk. Oh shit! The truth of last night hit him between the eyes like a burgeoning hangover. This was it. This was the murder pile. Somewhere in there, amongst those hundred or so losers, was someone who wanted to kill Milo Snuff.

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