It’s the feet that go first. Because you’re in your shoes all day long, trudging around the streets or sitting sweating. In the August heat. Wear the same pair of socks for two days in a row and you’re sunk. From that moment on, you trail the stench of a rotting corpse around with you.
After three nights in doorways, the Street Rescue folk find me and refer me on to this hostel near Colliers Wood Underground. Nice enough, to tell the truth, with a narrow bed in a narrow room. But the smell of feet in the building! Every evening it creeps through the corridors like a toxic cloud, seeping in underneath the doors and settling on the sleeping men, piled up on the mattresses, and their belongings, piled up underneath the beds.
In the mornings, the staff get the bleach out and there’s a brief spell of clinical-clean before we all leave for the day, but I know that when we return the nostril-singe smell of the chemicals will be overpowered once again by our collective trench-foot.
On my second night in there, I dream of the First World War. A vivid, reeling nightmare in which I stand alone among the mud and barbed wire and listen to the piercing screech of a whistle. In my hands is a gas mask, but I can’t find the opening for my face, can’t unfasten it quickly enough as the mustard gas wisps and weaves its way across No Man’s Land. I don’t know if it’s the chemical warfare in the corridors that brought that on, or the afternoon I spent wandering through the Imperial War Museum, but I wake with a panicked conviction that the cold sweat on my face is poisonous.
It’s becoming the dominant emotion now – fear. Out on the streets it’s the thought of someone swiping the guitar case from the ground in front of me, taking away my day’s earnings and the prospect of a drink along with it. I begin keeping one putrid trainer on the case as insurance. That seems to affect my takings, though, so I take to kneeling instead. With my feet behind me and the fabric case like a prayer mat in front. There’s still the possibility of someone robbing me, of course, but they’d have to physically move me first.
At night, in the hostel, the worry is the men around me. Screamers and squinters, they are. The screamers come into the communal lounge and shout and babble as if they’re having a seizure, while the squinters log on to the computers and start watching porn, right out in the open, but without looking at the screen. Instead, they keep glancing sidelong at me.
For the most part, I stay in the room I share with a screamer. I sneak in half-bottles of whisky, even though the hostel forbids it, and drink quietly beneath the fluorescent lights. With a skinful, I secure all my belongings in my rucksack and then tie the straps to the leg of the bed, so that it can’t be taken during the night. Even my trainers – the same ones that inspire German gas attacks in the small hours – are bound by the laces to the bed. It reminds me of something Ewan and I used to do in primary school. Every day for a year or so we’d put our schoolbags over our chairs and our shoulders, then our jackets on top, so that if there was a fire alarm we could stand quickly and try to take everything we owned – no more than crayons, a packed lunch, and a plastic chair that actually belonged to the school – with us.
The only thing I don’t tie down for the night is my guitar. From the second night I spent in doorways, I’ve been putting it into a locker in a place in Tooting. It costs four quid a pop, which is normally what I set aside for food, but it doesn’t eat into my drinking budget and it means my wage-earner is secure for the next day.
All of this will make for a great story one day. This is the authenticity Pierce was looking for, right? Grit under my nails, a husk to my voice, a tremor to my hand as I reach for the chord. This is the experience. I’ll talk about it on chat shows and at award ceremonies – ‘that was when my music got its edge’ – all with a patient, fixed smile that masks the shrieks I hear in the empty corridors of my mansion and the stares of the haunting hobos I see in the crowd at my sell-out gigs.
Strangely enough, it’s not the fear of the screamers and the squinters that leads to me leaving the hostel in the end. It’s not even the eau de feet.
A few days into my stay, one of the staff members takes me to the side and talks to me about payment. At first, it’s all along lines I can understand: they would like a contribution of seven pounds a week from me. That’s OK, that’s do-able. One pound a day, set aside from busking. Then he starts talking about how they’ll need to sort it with the housing benefit and see to it that my Jobseeker’s Allowance starts coming through as well –
I react. The bloody, shitty-faced cheek of it. The pissing, fucking nerve of this boy. On some voluntary-intern-work-experience to feed the fucking destitute, the down-and-outs, because he read Orwell once, he bought the Big Issue with his first pocket money, he gives to the Christmas appeals. Because he goes to church, or browses the Guardian website, or watched an art-house film where the homeless guy had a heart of gold. He’s on a self-improvement kick disguised as a society-improvement mission, this middle-class Melvin, and so he thinks he can look down his nose – talk through his nose – at me.
‘I’m not fucking unemployed,’ I explode. ‘I’m not fucking – ’
‘Language,’ he chides.
‘I’m a singer, for arse’s sake.’ It’s the best censoring I can manage. ‘I’m out singing every day. I have an album out, mate, I have newspaper reviews and radio play and – ’
‘All I’m saying is that the benefits office could – ’
‘I’ll have gigs in a week or so, once the Olympics are over. Because it’s all a distraction, isn’t it – the… people don’t go out much. But I’m not unemployed, you stupid wee…’
I trail off, remembering that I’m not meant to swear but also because I see the anticipation of hurt on his face – the widened eyes, the dropped smile. Even with a half-bottle of whisky in me, I don’t want to offend this lad who must be no more than a year or two older than me. Still young.
‘Would you have called Woody Guthrie unemployed?’ I reason with him.
‘I don’t know who that is,’ he says.
‘Well, there’s your problem, then, grasshopper. He was an American singer – the figurehead of the folk movement.’
‘What does he have to do with your benefits, though?’
‘I’m not unemployed,’ I repeat, through my teeth. ‘I’m a singer.’
To prove the point, the next morning I decide to pay Bower a visit to collect my royalties directly. It’s been over a fortnight since I left Pierce’s house. Enough time for sales to have picked up, surely, or for Bower to have listened to the new tracks and reconsidered his decision about the second album.
So I make my way to the office in St John’s Wood. Not the vast, shiny offices of the parent company, but the converted townhouse that holds the Agitate imprint. Only four or five staff and my old friends the potted plants.
The secretary is a blonde woman in her thirties with a piercing, just above her top lip, that she prods and probes with her tongue. Her nose curls up, either sneering or sniffing, as I begin speaking. Trying not to falter, not to let it affect me, I tell her my name and that I’m here to see Bower.
‘You’re Bob Dylan?’ she repeats.
‘Yeah.’ She drawls it out. ‘And I’m Erica Clapton.’
‘Do you not remember me?’ I ask.
‘I’ve heard of you, certainly.’
‘Ah, you have? Good.’
‘But you’re with Columbia Records, love. I think their office is over in Kensington somewhere.’ She’s enjoying herself, plastering the sarcasm on as thickly as her eyeliner. ‘They’ll be delighted to see you.’
‘I’m not fucking joking. I’m an artist on this label.’
She sits up straighter. ‘No need to take that tone, sir.’
‘How long have you worked here?’
‘Since June.’
That explains it. That clears up the misunderstanding. She’s a new member of staff, drafted in since Measures Taken hit the shelves. She wasn’t around in the months before, for all the frantic preparations. Maybe she was around for the option meeting, at the end of July, but that was a manic time. It’s fair enough if she’s forgotten. She’s probably only ever seen the album listed in the sales figures, maybe heard the songs playing, and she hasn’t connected me with it because I look – this morning, with all my belongings in the rucksack and a guitar slung over the other shoulder, with fringes of plastic bags visible at the tops of my trainers, where I stuffed them to protect my last clean pair of socks – I look… dishevelled.
‘Do you have any promotional material there?’ I ask. ‘Catalogues, or – ’
She shakes her head.
‘CDs, then?’
My thinking is that if I can just get her to look at the cover art for Measures Taken then she’ll realise who I am. It even crosses my mind that it might be worthwhile running out to – where, Maida Vale, maybe? – and finding a record store that stocks a copy. I’ve only got £2.33, though. It’s possible that it’s been discounted, by now, but hopefully not by that much.
‘Listen,’ she says, ‘we’ve got nothing to give you, nothing that you can – ’
‘Search me!’ I shout, suddenly realising the simple solution.
‘What?’
‘On the internet. Put in “Rab Dylan” and “Agitate Records” and you’ll get pages of results.’
She still looks unconvinced. There’s no need for me to reach across and type it in for her, though, because the door to Bower’s office opens and he emerges with a stately-looking black woman. She has shaved her head to a neat skullcap and she no longer wears her trademark vinyl trousers, but I recognise her immediately as Sasha Coburn, the singer who had two hit singles in the early Noughties.
‘Rab?’ Bower says.
‘Hi there,’ I say, brightly.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I wanted a quick catch-up,’ I say. ‘A follow-up.’
‘Right.’
There’s a look exchanged between Bower and the secretary. Then a shrug from her. It’s Sasha Coburn who takes the awkwardness from the situation. With a single stride, she comes across to me and holds out a hand.
‘Sasha,’ she says, smiling.
‘Rab. I’m a big fan.’
That smooths everything over nicely and I’m ushered into Bower’s office to wait while he sees Sasha out. I take the opportunity to tuck the plastic bags on my feet firmly into my trousers.
‘She’s still a big earner on the songwriting-publishing side of things,’ Bower says, as he comes back in. ‘Not on the recording side so much, not any more, but we keep her sweet for the big bosses…’
I nod. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Mr – ’
‘An album every couple of years,’ Bower cuts me off. ‘At a loss. With the songs they can’t get other artists interested in. She does a lot of writing.’ He sits down and stares, for a moment, at the wooden desk. ‘Prolific songwriter and a real hard worker.’
‘I remember seeing her on telly,’ I say.
‘She was our first real success.’ Bower shuffles some papers. ‘Although, funny thing, we actually had a similar problem with her in the early days. Similar to you, that is.’
‘Is that right?’
‘With the name thing, I mean.’ He pauses, as if considering whether to go on. ‘She spelt her surname Cock-burn, you see. Like, C-O-C-K. And we thought that might be a bit too, well, pornographic for the mass market. A beautiful black woman, wearing leather, with…’ He pauses, then finally meets my eye. ‘We make these decisions all the time. Sometimes they work out, sometimes they don’t.’
‘Absolutely, Mr Bower. I understand that.’
‘So, what can I do for you then, Rab?’
‘Well…’ It’s my turn to avoid eye-contact. ‘I need some money.’
‘What for?’ Bower leans back in his chair. There’s a sigh, but I’m not sure if it comes from him or the cushion underneath him.
‘Just to keep me going. Accommodation, maybe some new clothes so that I can start chasing gigs in pubs and clubs. I’m planning on working the scene a bit harder – ’
‘No,’ he interrupts. ‘I guess I don’t mean what for, so much as what from. I mean, what would I be giving you money from? Your album’s not earned out its advance, far from it, and there’s fuck-all coming in…’
‘What about my royalties?’
‘Son…’ Bower leans forward. ‘Your advance, the production costs, a packing charge – all that – is recoupable from your royalties.’
‘What does that mean, though?’
‘It means you have an empty well to fill, mate, before you get a bucket of water for yourself… sorry.’
That knocks the breath from my lungs. It’s a setback. Because I felt sure there’d be a small amount – even just a few hundred – accumulating since my last visit. I mean, what have they been doing since then? Where are all those shiny CDs? Are they all just sitting in a warehouse somewhere?
‘I thought we’d spoken about this,’ Bower says. ‘Me, you and Pierce.’
‘I’m no longer with Pierce Price,’ I say.
‘OK. So you don’t have a manager at the moment, then?’
‘I’ve decided to self-manage.’
In the silence that follows, I cross and re-cross my ankles underneath the chair. I immediately regret it, though, when I see that Bower has registered the rustling of the plastic bags.
‘Listen,’ he says, ‘these things can turn around. Of course they can. But I’m not going to lie or sugar-coat it. The album hasn’t done well and we’re not going to throw good money after – ’
‘I’m ready to work harder, do more promotion,’ I interrupt.
‘It’s not that.’
‘And now that I’ve not got a wannabe game-show host for a manager – ’
‘It isn’t that, either.’
‘What is it, then?’
Bower reaches across to his computer and starts key-tapping. He takes some notes on a pad of paper, then reaches into his trouser pocket. He brings out his wallet.
‘The train fare up to Glasgow is a hundred and twenty-five quid,’ he says. ‘Here’s a hundred and forty. So you can get yourself some grub as well. Take it and go home.’
I smile, and shake my head. ‘My career’s down here.’
‘Listen, Rab…’ He leans across the desk. ‘Not for now it isn’t.’
‘But – ’
‘This isn’t money from the label. Or money you’ve earned. This is a personal loan – gift, even – from me so that you can get yourself home. So you can get your shit together and…’ He trails off. ‘You need to regroup, Rab.’
‘You think I should form a band?’ I ask. ‘Get a group together?’
‘No, Rab. Regroup.’
‘Maybe if we re-recorded some tracks with an orchestra?’
‘I’ll see you out…’
‘Or got a rapper on board as a featured artist? Brink, maybe?’
‘And keep in contact…’
‘Maybe Sasha could write me a song?’
‘Let us know when you get home…’
‘Or I could get a bit of exposure on one of those TV talent shows?’
‘Take care.’
I walk. Aimlessly. Up Abbey Road – yes, the Abbey Road – and over the train tracks, before turning towards Queen’s Park and then crossing back over the tracks. I find myself in a maze of small streets intercut with the arterial lines of the Underground and Overground. There’s a depot somewhere nearby. I stand on a railway bridge and watch the trains trundling below.
I think back to Pierce telling me about his father, how he would clean up the scattered limbs and torsos of folk from the lines as if they were no more than store-window mannequins – and I wonder what damage a slow-moving suburban train would do. Just a short fall and an impact. Maybe some scarring or a lost limb, maybe worse.
I’ve always had this fascination with trains as they pull into the platform. The suck and rush of air and the moment, just a split-second, where you could sway forward, out in front, but instead you shuffle back. What would happen if you stepped out? Or dropped down? Not in front of an express train or one picking up speed, but just an ordinary one, travelling fast enough so that you feel the collision like a collapsing, crumpling punch – massive, all-over and somehow welcome. Like the hit of a rugby player, that leaves you bruised but not broken. Is that possible? Does that happen? Or do all jumpers, all steppers, droppers, and divers end up being scooped off the tracks by Pierce’s dad? What if you did survive? By some miracle. If you got up off the ground with all your essential organs still in place.
What then? Does that make the papers, maybe? Do they tell your story in the press: the failed first album, the couple of weeks of homelessness, the triumphant return to playing gigs with only one arm – no, wait – only one leg, maybe. And a Phantom of the Opera mask to cover the missing portion of your face. Does that affect sales? Out of all those hundreds of hard-luck, triumph-in-adversity, against-the-odds tales, does that one make it through?
There are bushes and spindly trees on either side of the bridge, behind the advertising billboards and the flattened fence. They lead steeply down to the tracks. Waiting until there’s no traffic on the road, no pedestrians on the pavement, I push myself up on to the top of the wall and then jump, sideways, on to the embankment. My feet slip, but I reach out for a fistful of roots and weeds to steady myself. Then I crouch in the undergrowth and watch the carriages rattle past beneath me, no more than a few feet away.
Although there is blazing sunshine overhead, it is murky down here. The shadow of the bridge and the overhang of the branches means that I can’t make out the two shapes properly at first. Instead, I hear them. Snapping twigs, rustling leaves, grunting.
I peer through the trees, thinking of the night – up at the woods in Glasgow – when I saw Maddie with Ewan. The two shadows, two shapes, are doing something similar. Fucking or fighting. They grapple at each other’s clothes, their feet kicking and their toes digging as they try to find some grip on the loose earth. To stop themselves rolling down, still in their embrace, on to the tracks.
This goes on for five minutes or so, about ten feet to my left. Then, abruptly, one of the two scrambles to his feet, rearranges himself, and starts to shuffle and slide his way over towards the bridge. Towards me. I shrink back, into the bushes. If he sees me, though, then he doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he reaches for the top of the wall and, with difficulty, levers himself up and over.
I wait, breathing shallowly, for the second one to follow suit. Carefully, I inch backwards, further up the slope. He is larger than the first – fatter – with the same hobo’s uniform of thick beard, tattered khaki jacket and stained trousers. He sits still for a moment, with his head cradled against his knees, and I wonder if he’s weeping. But then he rises and stumbles his way over towards the bridge. When he catches sight of me, his step falters and he has to reach out for a branch to steady himself. I wait, with my breath stuck in my tightened throat, to see what he will do.
At first, it seems as if he will carry on past me. But then he hesitates. Stops. Turns.
‘You’re not thinking of jumping, are you?’ he asks.
‘Me?’ I say, as if there are others around. Behind other bushes, beneath other bridges. ‘It wouldn’t really be a jump, would it? Not from here. More of a slide.’
‘Still,’ he says, slowly, ‘if you are thinking about it… don’t.’
Fuck me, I think. How’s that for advice, eh? All that fancy psychiatry and psychotherapy shite they do and all they actually need is a single word – don’t. That’s it, all that’s needed. Back from the brink, off the ledge. Keeping the noose from the overhead beam and the toaster from the bathwater.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘Thanks anyway.’
‘Can I tell you a story?’ he asks. He’s reaching down to fiddle with his fly. To re-zip it after his quote-unquote ‘wrestling match’.
‘Sure.’ I watch him warily. ‘Why not?’
‘Back in the nineteenth century…’ he crouches a couple of feet away – a safe distance ‘… there was always smog over London. Thick clouds, nicknamed pea-soupers, from all the household fires – of course – but also from the industrial work of the city. It was the physical manifestation of all the activity of the capital, you know?’
I don’t know if I’m supposed to answer. So I settle for nodding.
‘And people were anxious not to live with this constantly,’ he continues. ‘Breathing it in, and letting it settle on their skin, on their food. So they took trips to the seaside for fresh air and a break. Just to the south coast. Brighton, Eastbourne, wherever.’
‘Makes sense,’ I say. ‘What’s your point?’
‘Well, the smog’s gone now. For the most part, at least. Because the industry’s been replaced by commerce. There’s just as much movement and activity, just as much noise and stress, but it doesn’t create clouds of coal soot or…’ He stops, clears his throat. ‘It’s an invisible smog, rather than a visible one, but it’s just as thick, just as toxic.’
‘It’s a frantic city, no doubt about it,’ I say.
‘Exactly.’ He looks across at me. ‘And when was the last time you went to the seaside for some fresh air?’
‘Well…’ I consider. ‘I played a gig down in Brighton, a good one, a few months ago. But I didn’t really spend time on the beach or – ’
A train goes past below us. The clatter of it breaks my sentence. A thought – a brief thought – flits through my mind: that, without the interruption of this smoggy storyteller, the brakes of that train might now be squealing. And I’d not be having this thought, or taking this breath. Or this one, or this.
‘I don’t mean literally,’ my companion says, once the train has passed. ‘When was the last time you escaped all the pressure and expectation – all the smog – of London, is what I mean.’
My hand goes to my pocket. To feel the edges of the banknotes that Bower gave me. They were earmarked for a different trip, of course, but one that I never intended taking. Maybe they can take me in a different direction. Give me a chance to – what was the word Bower used? – regroup.
‘I know you think,’ the man says, ‘that this might be a way of escaping it. But it’s not really, because it all adds to the smog – the fug – of it all. Think of the driver, for instance. How do you – how could you – recover from something like that? From – ’
‘I’m Rab,’ I say, stretching out my hand.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he says, taking it. ‘The name’s Sage.’
‘Sage?’
‘Like the herb.’