Nathaniel Darke
“I assume you’ve tried sobering him up?” Dane asks, leaning over the tub to take a look at Knox. My brother looks far too good for this hour of the morning.
“A cold shower didn’t fix him, nor has being dragged halfway around the hotel, or punched,” I say.
“That wasn’t a punch, it was a prod,” Joel interjects. He scowls at Knox, who is completely unaffected by the venom being thrown his way. “If you want me to try the latter, I’m up for it.” He climbs to his feet. As do I.
“Punch, prod, they amount to the same thing when he can’t defend himself, Joel. For fuck’s sake leave him alone.”
Lightning fast, Dane slaps us both around the ears. “Quit bickering.” His calm is unnerving. Usually, he’s the hot-head we’re both piling on trying to calm down. He gingerly prods Knox, but gets no response. “So I’m assuming we’re fucked in terms of turning up and playing for Graham Callahan?”
“Yep.” Joel and I respond simultaneously.
At least we agree on some things.
“Finish the song?” Dane asks me. He turns away from the tub and finds himself a perch on top of the vanity unit.
“Nope.”
“Which all means Bitch Slap are going to walk off with our prize,” Joel says, deliberately aiming to incite Dane’s wrath. “All thanks to the chug-monster there.”
Knox hasn’t even thrown up on him.
Astonishingly, my brother doesn’t bite. He’s obviously dropped a few Zen tabs since Callahan stated his terms. Instead, he just scratches at the stubble he has on his chin.
“Bitch Slap aren’t walking off with anything, Joely-boy.”
“Yeah, they are,” Joel grouches. “Thanks to imbecile here.”
“Quit picking on him. He’s one of us, and we swore we’d stick together and support one another come thick or thin.”
“Hm, and how exactly is him being too fucking stoned to play, supporting me or acting in the spirit of togetherness?”
He slams his fist into the side of the bath, denting the plastic side panel.
“It isn’t. I accept that, but just because Knox has forgotten his promises, it doesn’t mean the rest of us are obliged to do so.”
“Useless, fucking, wanker!”
“Why don’t you just shout that a bit louder so the whole hotel can hear?” Dane snaps. “For God’s sake stop whining and use your noodle. We need to put our heads together and think. We’ve less than two hours. How are we going to fix this?”
“We can try and blag it,” I say, “Tell Graham Callahan that Knox is sick with food poisoning or something.”
“Chancy, though it’s an option for explaining his absence. It’s not a solution though.”
“If we attempt to play without him, it’s going to sound fucking weird,” Joel remarks.
“So if we’re going to perform we need someone to stand in for Knox. Any suggestions? And I mean decent suggestions. The guy from Bulldozer’s dire, and in any case, they’re all crashed out with hang-overs. They were mixing vodka and champagne last night, and I saw their vocalist in the gents’ lining up coke chasers.”
“Dave Twist can’t go more than a few hours without doing a few lines,” I say. He’s been like that since Bulldozer first appeared on the scene. “What about the two opening bands from last night. Anyone know them? I don’t. I’m not sure I could even pick them out of a line up, let alone tell you who plays what, or if they’re any good, and sadly I don’t have Lemmy’s number to see if he fancies rising from the grave to help us out.”
“What about Flea’s?” Dane fires straight back. “Or Les Claypool’s. I mean one of them has to be free on a Sunday morning.”
I make a point of retrieving my phone from the counter and scrolling through my contacts list. “Sorry,” I apologise, having failed to find what we were looking for.
“Joel?” Dane prompts him. “You got any great suggestions?”
I look across at Joel and I know he’s just itching to say Loveday’s name. Thankfully, even he has sense enough to realise that Dane will just laugh in his face, probably prior to thumping him. It’s why Joel was seeking my support with the idea first, because Dane’s not going to welcome any sort of association with Bitch Slap.
“We could attempt to alter something or write something new that doesn’t require a bass guitar,” he suggests.
I nod. The idea has merit, and maybe if this was a Sunday afternoon, there was no pressure on us, and we’d all had a decent amount of sleep we’d manage to pull that cat out of the bag. In our present state of grogginess, we’ve zero chance of producing anything ear-worthy.
I shake my head. “There’s not time. Let’s not even pretend.”
Dane agrees. “Then we’re just going to have to roll with the food poisoning excuse and hope that Bitch Slap fuck up, guys.”
“Why would they?” Joel moans. He scratches at his mop of curly hair and gets his fingers stuck in the tangles. “Oh, fuck it! What about their bass-player? Can’t we poach her?”
“To battle against herself?” Dane stops short of calling him an idiot, but the twists and wrinkles in his expression get the message across just fine. “Why would she even consider it? Assuming it wasn’t a stupid idea anyway, and we’d actually want anything to do with her?”
Joel purses his lips and looks at me. “Why don’t you ask your brother, since he’s the one fucking her.”
“Joel!”
“Nate?” Dane rounds on me like a prize fighter. “Since when? Is that why you’re frickin nude?”
I ward Dane’s approach off with my arms. “She helped me get Knox in the bath.”
“You mean she knows he’s in this state?” He stomps around in the tiny space for a moment, apparently speechless. “We can forget using the food poisoning excuse then. Jessie’s going to make sure Callahan knows the truth. She’s probably on the phone to the tabloids already.”
“I hardly think they’d be interested.” We’re a virtually unknown group from the west country, newspaper readers aren’t going to give a shit that our bass-player smokes weed. In any case, you’re making the assumption that Loveday’s told Jessie. She won’t have done.”
I believe that with every fibre of my being, but Dane’s green eyes flair bright with scepticism.
“She won’t.”
“Ever consider that Loveday might have just screwed you to put you off guard?” my baby brother asks.
“His head’s not screwed on well enough for rational thought.” Joel heads out into the bedroom. The creak of a set of mattress springs, tells me he’s crashed out on one of the beds. Getting a few minutes rest seems like a sensible plan given there no longer seems to be any advantage to be gained in staying up.
I stand too, intending to follow.
“You fucked Loveday?” Dane says, through pursed lips. He blocks the exit with his body. “I suppose that explains why you have felt tip all over your arse.”
“It’s my theme tune.” I turn so that I can inspect the writing in the mirror, rather than attempt to wrestle my way past Dane. What I see reflected causes my jaw to slacken and my mouth to fall open.
“What is it?” Dane asks, brows furrowing in response to my astonishment.
She said it was my theme, that she’d heard it while I was inside of her. It is my rhythm. The damned one I’ve been searching for. It’s the missing bass-line to TL:DR written on my arse in purple ink.
It doesn’t matter if we perform for Graham Callahan anymore because we finally have our bargaining chip.
I look at Dane, and he looks at me.
“We’re sorted,” I say. “The song’s complete. It’s all gonna work out.”