at the thought of the evening ahead.
Reluctantly abandoning the idea of murder, I returned to my bedroom and thought about an outfit for the evening. I weighed up what would be expected of me. It didn’t matter a damn what I wore to the concert. I’d be lost in the thousands of yelling fans desperate to welcome Jett back in triumph to his home town. The party afterwards was more of a problem. Much as I hated having to ask, I called through to Richard, ‘What’s the party going to be like, clothes-wise?’
He appeared in the doorway, looking like a puppy that’s astonished to have been forgiven so easily for the mess on the kitchen floor. His own outfit was hardly a clue. He was wearing a wide-shouldered baggy electric blue double breasted suit, a black shirt and a silk tie with a swirled pattern of neon colours that looked like a sixties psychedelic album cover. He shrugged and gave that smile that still made my stomach turn over. ‘You know Jett,’ he said.
That was the problem. I didn’t. I’d met the man once, about three months before. He’d turned up on our table for ten at a charity dinner and had sat very quiet, almost morose, except when discussing football with Richard. Manchester United, those two words that are recognized in any language from Santiago to Stockholm, had unlocked Jett as if with a magic key. He’d sprung to the defence of his beloved Manchester City with the ardour of an Italian whose mother’s honour has been impugned. The only fashion hint I’d had from that encounter was that I should wear a City strip. ‘No, Richard, I don’t know Jett,’ I explained patiently. ‘What kind of party will it be?’
‘Not many Traceys, lots of Fionas,’ he announced in our own private code. Traceys are bimbos, the natural successors to groupies. Blonde, busty and fashion-obsessed, if they had a brain they’d be dangerous. Fionas share the same characteristics but they are the rich little upper-crust girls who would have been debutantes if coming out had not become so hopelessly unfashionable with everyone except gays. They like rock stars because they enjoy being with men who lavish them with gifts and a good time, while at the same time shocking their families to the core. So Jett liked Fionas, did he? And Fionas meant designer outfits, an item singularly lacking in my wardrobe.
I flicked moodily through the hangers and ended up with a baggy long cotton shirt splashed with shades of olive, khaki, cream and terracotta that I’d bought on holiday in the Canaries the year before. I pulled on a pair of tight terracotta leggings. That was when I knew the motorway sandwiches had to go. Luckily, the shirt covered the worst of the bulges, so I cinched it in at the waist with a broad brown belt. I finished the outfit off with a pair of high-heeled brown sandals. When you’re only 5’3”, you need all the help you can get. I chose a pair of outrageous earrings and a couple of gold bangles, and eyed myself in the mirror. It wasn’t wonderful, but it was better than Richard deserved. Right on cue, he said, ‘You look great. You’ll knock them dead, Brannigan.’
I hoped not. I hate mixing business with pleasure.
We didn’t have to scramble for a parking place near the Apollo Theatre, since we live less than five minutes’ walk away. I couldn’t believe my luck when I discovered this development halfway through my first year as a law student at Manchester University. It’s surrounded on three sides by council housing estates and on the fourth by Ardwick Common. It’s five minutes by bike to the university, the central reference library, Chinatown, and the office. It’s ten minutes by bike to the heart of the city centre. And by car, it’s only moments away from the motorway network. When I discovered it, they were still building the little close of forty houses, and the prices were ridiculously low, probably because of the surrounding area’s less than salubrious reputation. I worked out that if I pitched my father into standing guarantor for a hundred per cent mortgage and moved another student into the spare room as a lodger, I’d be paying almost the same as I was for my shitty little room in a student residence. So I went for it and moved in that Easter. I’ve never regretted it. It’s a great place to live as long as you remember to switch on the burglar alarm.
We arrived at the Apollo just as the support band were finishing their first number. We’d have caught the opener if they hadn’t left the guest list in the hands of an illiterate. One of the major drawbacks to having a relationship with a rock writer is that you can’t put support bands to their traditional use of providing a background beat while you have a few drinks before the act you came to hear gets on stage. Rock writers actually listen to the support band, just so they can indulge in their professional one-upmanship with lines like, ‘Oh yes, I remember Dire Straits when they were playing support at the Newcastle City Hall,’ invariably to some band that everyone has now forgotten. After two numbers, I couldn’t take any more and I abandoned Richard in his seat while I headed for the bar.
The bar at the Apollo reminds me of a vision of hell. It’s decorated in a mosaic of bright red glitter, it’s hot and it reeks of cigarette smoke and stale alcohol. I elbowed my way through the crowd and waved a fiver in the air till one of the nonchalant bar staff eventually deigned to notice me. At the Apollo, they specialize in a minuscule selection of drinks, all served at blood heat in plastic tumblers. It doesn’t matter much what you order, it all seems to taste much the same. Only the colours vary. I asked for a lager, which arrived flat and looking like a urine sample. I sipped tentatively and decided that seeing is believing. As I pushed my way back towards the door, I saw someone who made me stop so suddenly that the man behind me cannoned into me, spilling half my drink down the trousers of the man next to me.
In the chaos of my apologies and my pathetic attempts to wipe up the spilled beer with a tissue from my handbag, I took my eyes off the source of my surprise. When I managed to make my embarrassed escape, I looked over to the corner where he’d been standing. But it was now occupied by a threesome I’d never seen before. Gary Smart, brother and partner of Billy, had vanished.
I stared round the crowded bar, but there was no trace of him. He’d been standing with a tall, skinny man who’d had his back to me. I didn’t hear a word of their conversation, but their body language suggested a business deal. Gary had been putting some kind of pressure on the other man. It certainly hadn’t looked like a pleasant, concertgoers’ chat about which of Jett’s albums they liked best. I cursed silently. I’d missed a great chance to pick up some interesting info.
With a shrug, I drank the few remaining mouthfuls of my drink and went back down to the foyer. I checked out the tour merchandise just to see if there was anything among the t-shirts, sweatshirts, badges, programmes and albums that I fancied. Richard can always get freebies, so I usually have a quick look. But the sweatshirts were black, and the t-shirts hideous, so I walked back through the half-empty auditorium and slumped in my seat next to Richard while the support band ground out their last two numbers. They left the stage to muted applause, the lights went up and a tape of current chart hits filled the air. ‘Bag of crap,’ Richard remarked.
‘That their name or a critical judgement?’ I asked.
He laughed and said, ‘Well, they ain’t honest enough to call themselves that, but they might as well have done. Now, while we’ve got a minute to ourselves, tell me about your day.’
As he lit a joint, I did just that. I always find that talking things over with Richard helps. He has an instinctive understanding of people and how their minds work that I have come to rely on. It’s the perfect foil to my more analytical approach.
Unfortunately, before he could deliver his considered verdict on the Smart brothers, the lights went down. The auditorium, now full to capacity, rang with cries of ‘Jett, Jett, Jett …’ After a few minutes of chanting, wavering torch beams lit up pathways on the stage as members of Jett’s backing band took the stage. Then, a pale blue spot picked out the drummer, high on his platform at the rear of the stage, brushing a snare drum
