'O'Toole's last painting,' Arthur said. 'Joe had it all this time. I got it framed when I bought it from him. He had no idea what a Tough Romantics collector would have paid for it. He only sold it to me because he needed money and didn't want charity. I had to twist his arm to take as much as he did.'
'You all posed for it?' I asked.
'Veevie did. O'Toole took some promotional shots, just before…before she died. He must have used those as references to capture us.'
I nodded slowly, eyes on the painting. O'Toole had done more than capture their likenesses. I was reminded of the many indigenous peoples who refused to be photographed because they believed their image captured their soul.
'It must be worth a fortune,' Monty said.
'To the right person.' Arthur gave an apologetic grin. 'When I got it back from the framers I hung it over the mantelpiece in the library. Pats said it gave her the creeps so I moved it in here.'
Monty and I exchanged looks.
Arthur cleared his throat. 'Take a seat.' He indicated a two-seater couch that had seen better days. It was positioned in front of a TV-sized computer screen which was running a screensaver. It had to be a personal screensaver because the three children were obviously Arthur's. Two looked just like Pats, but the eldest girl had his clever, slightly uneven eyes.
He killed the lights and inserted a disk. 'I got the original super-8 digitised to save it from deteriorating any further, then edited it and burned it to DVD.'
The monitor cleared to black, then a menu came up. He hit play. A title and date appeared. The date was a month prior to Genevieve's murder. The words faded out as sound built and the picture became clear. Arthur was a dab hand at editing his own home movies. He sat on one end of the couch next to me, sinking deep into the worn springs.
Monty perched on the couch's arm, his hard thigh near my cheek. It was an effort, but I ignored it.
'You gotta realise the original was not a professional recording.' Arthur said. 'One of my friends came along to see us perform at the Prince of Wales and filmed us. I've cleaned it up as much as I could.'
Dark heads appeared silhouetted against a lit stage while Tucker and Arthur did a sound check. Arthur hunched over his synthesiser fiddling with dials. Pia stepped onto the stage. With her white-blond hair and wide cheek bones she glowed under the spot light. And the camera loved her; unlike the small, dark-haired girl who followed her.
Still, I had eyes only for Genevieve as she adjusted the height of the microphone so that she could play rhythm guitar and sing. Something shifted inside me, as I recognised Genevieve on a visceral level. The sensation was so strange I felt slightly sick.
In my mind's eye, superimposed over this Genevieve in the grainy black-and-white film, I saw Veevie in full colour, running down the upstairs hall towards the bathroom. She laughed as she glanced back over her shoulder. The memory of the dream wasn't just visual, it came with all the emotional associations, and these triggered other vignettes, each as rich and multilayered: Genevieve prancing around the kitchen, Genevieve at the kitchen table, tear tracks on her cheeks while she searched my face for something only I could give.
As my dreams came back to me, I realised I'd been seeing Genevieve James every night since I'd moved into One-Eight-One. No wonder I recognised her.
Monty caught my hand, to stop me rubbing the palm on the couch. 'We're about to see the original line-up of the Tough Romantics,' he said with a soft laugh. 'And I've got goose bumps. Antsy's obsession must be rubbing off on me.'
This time I didn't bother to deny the fixation.
The screen reclaimed my attention. It had to have been filmed with a hand-held camera. More heads blocked our view, and there was clapping as Tucker picked up his bass guitar and Pia went over to the mic near Arthur.
Abruptly the picture faded to black then came back. I realised the cameraman had climbed onto a chair and Arthur must have edited this out because now we were about the same level as the four band members.
Tucker gave the signal, nodding to Arthur who began with a series of rising chords, then Tucker's guitar came in with Genevieve playing rhythm. Next came Pia harmonising, professionally sensual already.
And then Genevieve sang Heartless City. It told the story of young woman who can't find love and ends up killing herself. The child-that-I-was had thought it told the story of my mother. That was before I found out about the drugs and the voices.
The camera focused on Genevieve and I couldn't tear my gaze away. She had none of Pia's practised moves. She was raw. She was vulnerable. She sang from the heart and her voice was incredible. She did not sound like a girl of nearly 17, more like a woman who had seen life and suffered.
'Gets you right here, doesn't it?' Arthur whispered, tapping his chest with his fist.
'Such a powerful voice from that little body.' I found it hard to speak. I knew the song of course, it was their first single, but this arrangement was unfamiliar. When Heartless City was released it had been transposed for Pia's higher voice. I had a love/hate thing with the famous recording; the one that had been my mother's favourite, the one she'd played over and over in the last month before she died. I remembered that, more than I remembered her. Much like the faces of the band, also more familiar than hers, from the posters on our walls.
Yet I had no trouble appreciating this version and, now that I'd heard it, I would never feel the same about Pia's rendition. This was grittier and much more powerful.
I glanced up at Monty. He was spellbound. I turned to Arthur. Tears trailed slowly down his cheeks. I looked away and didn't look back.
The shaky camera work, the intimacy of the pub gig, it held me enthralled. Then Genevieve stepped back to let Pia sing. The Tough Romantics played another six songs, all original material. Tucker and Pia sang the one that later became their trademark, You Don't See Me. Even Arthur had a short solo on the synthesiser. The 18-year-old Arthur seemed glad when it was over. They finished with Genevieve and Tucker doing a duet where they argued in song over a love gone wrong. I knew I Don't Need You!, but again, the lyrics in this version were not the lyrics I was familiar with. This was raw and sassy, yet poignant.
'Veevie wrote that,' Arthur said, voice cracking. 'The record company made us clean it up for release. In those days we didn't have the power to say no.'
The band's set finished and the screen faded to black, then cleared. Now we were backstage with the band and their hangers-on, who were drinking, smoking and talking. Tucker and Pia dominated the group; Genevieve was just a common sparrow compared to those swans. And there was Arthur with his sensitive, lopsided face telegraphing every emotion. The group radiated a vital energy, almost as if they knew they were going to make it big.
Arthur stood up and cleared his throat as the recording finished. There was silence in the semi-dark of the heavily curtained garage. He took the DVD out of the computer and put it in its case with deliberate casualness. I realised he was giving himself a chance to regain control. When he'd done that he switched on a desk light and turned to us.
'So,' he said, 'Veevie was a no-talent hanger on? Bullshit!'
'How come I've never heard a recording of her singing?' I asked. 'The band did a demo for Mushroom just before she died. What happened to it?'
'Ask
