Chapter Ten
John Fleming stirred something into a glass of water and drank it quickly as it fizzed. Stroking his stomach to ease the pain from his ulcer, he burped.
“Ah, that’s better now,” he announced to his empty office.
The worry of the forthcoming Annual Showbiz Awards was taking its toll on him. Concerned by the lack of contact from Simon, annoyed with Alan Fox’s constant badgering, and running back and forth to rehearsals while The Stray Cats learned Simon’s songs, was all becoming too stressful for him. “God, I need a holiday,” he sighed.
Flipping the intercom button on his desk, he instructed his secretary to book the photographer for a photo-shoot of Simon and the new band.
“Oh,” he added, “and if Jody calls again, I’m busy.”
Fleming turned his attention back to the press release he was working on. Still trying to find an angle to justify the changing of Simon’s backing band, he mulled over several scenarios.
He did not envisage any backlash from the fans; they were loyal to Simon. But he knew he had to consider his words very carefully.
The buzz of the intercom broke the concentration of his thoughts. His stomach dropped when his secretary told him who was calling, but he knew there was no point in trying to avoid her.
“Ah, Samantha. How are you, my dear?”
“Same as always, John, not that you give a rat’s ass,” she teased.
“Now, now, don’t be like that. From one bitch to another, let’s keep it clean,” he laughed.
“Ha ha, okay. Any new men in your life, John?” she asked delicately.
Fleming breathed a heavy sigh before answering. “Sadly not, Samantha. As I get older, I tend to dwell on missed opportunities instead of embracing new conquests. And you, my lovely, are you getting any?”
“Not as much as I would like to, but then again, when is enough enough?” She giggled.
“Samantha, my lovely, I would be dearly flattered if this was a social call, but we both know that wouldn’t be true. So what is the whisper on the street?”
“It’s not a whisper, John. The call came from a musician who was attached to your office. Now there are two ways that we can report on this, but either way Review Magazine will cover it.
“Option one is I can do a half page interview with your sacked band members, revealing the injustice of breached contracts, no statutory notice of any changes in their working environment and audited accounts of royalties that may or may not be due to them. A messy piece of reading, you understand,” she said, as if ethics were a factor. “Or we can do something really exciting.”
She paused before going in for the kill.
“You let me have an exclusive, and I will give you the front cover together with a four-page launch of Simon and the New Heartbeats. What the hell, I’ll even throw in a centrefold pull-out poster,” she teased.
Fleming paused before answering. He knew she already had the whole story and was only giving him a break for old time’s sake.
“My dear Samantha,” he chuckled, “how I miss your charm. Shall we do lunch, say 12.30 at the Belfry?” he suggested, his mind already in overdrive as it considered his options.
* * *
Alan Fox had been enjoying his daily Me Time, relaxing contentedly in his heavily-studded, burgundy leather armchair, a glass of expensive brandy in one hand and a well-chewed cigar in the other. Wearing his state-of-the-art headphones, he was listening to classical music. Head tilted backwards, eyes closed tightly; he quietly hummed along with the orchestration. Raising his arm high into the air, he awaited the crescendo to explode in his headphones, then leisurely lowered his arm again using his stubby, smouldering cigar to conduct an imaginary string section in the corner of his room.
Eyes still closed, lost in the music, he knew his escape would only last for a few moments longer before reality came calling again. He looked forward so much to this time of the day. Time to close his eyes, shut out the world and free his restless spirit from the shackles and burdens imposed by his overworked body. Like a bird of prey, he released his spirit and let it soar freely to skip the light fantastic and glide along the astral plane.
* * *
Outside, in the waiting room of Empire Records, young Robin Bellswood was pacing nervously, waiting for Alan Fox’s attention. Sent by a recruitment agency, he hoped to embark on the career that he’d studied hard for in university.
Standing six feet two inches tall, with shoulder-length fair hair, his feminine complexion was pale from the lack of sunlight. The suit jacket he wore, borrowed from someone undoubtedly more masculine, sloped at the shoulders of his narrow frame.
As the wait dragged on, he mentally revised everything that his university tutor had cautioned about interviews. “Stay focused, be alert, anticipate the next question, but always stay focused.” He could hear Professor Carmichael’s gravelly voice as though he was in the room with him.
The door opened and a cute girl entered the room. “Mr. Fox will see you now.”
As he followed her lead, his nervousness was alleviated by concentrating on the wiggle of her perfectly formed ass. She tapped lightly on a door at the end of the plush carpeted corridor, and opened it for Robin Bellwood to enter, smiling at the young graduate before walking away. Alan Fox stood up from behind his huge oak desk. Reaching across to shake his hand, Alan Fox smiled and announced proudly, “Welcome to the Empire.”
After Robin had finished showing Alan Fox his impressive lengthy portfolio, it was time for some questions and answers. Robin had no previous experience–he was just a rookie–and Alan Fox thought he needed more.
“Son, your work is great, you have a pleasing personality and you know some day you will reach the top of your tree. But I’m not sure if here is the right place for you to cut your teeth. This is a hard business. It is unforgiving. Maybe for your own good, son, you should test the waters elsewhere.”
Robin wasn’t about to accept rejection so readily. Standing up to shake Fox by the hand, he calmly responded, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Fox. I know you are a very busy man so I’ll cut to the chase. I think I have not sold myself enough here today and for that I have to blame myself. However, I also feel that your apprehension is misplaced.
“Your company needs young blood. This is a young person’s industry. You are a gifted man who has built a very successful corporation, but please don’t let your judgment get clouded because I have no experience. Show me what you want, and be assured I will make every effort to impress you. If I am not good for your company, then who is? A thirty-five-year-old who has conformed to the norm? I can still think outside of the box. I have not been contaminated yet by any outside influence or restricted in my thinking; that is your task, to harness my energy.
“Everyone you interview after me will be moulded by someone else’s judgment, so why would you let this opportunity slip by when you know that my work is good?”
Alan Fox was impressed by the young man’s closing pitch. The kid certainly had the balls to go down fighting. He was hungry for the position and talented, but Fox was still undecided.
* * *
The Funeral Mass was about to begin. Father Paddy and a group of young altar boys waited on the damp steps of the old village church, watching for the pallbearers to come into view.
Slowly they made their way along the narrow turning at the end of the street, carrying the coffins three abreast; behind each one, a grieving family.
Villagers, friends and relatives, many of whom had travelled a long way to pay their respects, followed a short distance behind them. With each step of their approach, the priest read quotations from the Bible grasped firmly in his feeble, bony hands.
Four young altar boys to his left and four more to his right, behind him stood another holding a large crucifix on a pole. Incense burning on his left and Holy Water to sprinkle on his right, the Christian ritual had begun.
The air inside the little church was stale and heavy from overcrowding. The rain shower earlier caused the smell of damp clothing to stifle the air as it dried out on the backs of the mourners. Father Paddy recited his prayers, and the mourners responded.
A choir of young schoolchildren sang hymns chosen by the bereaved and, as the priest named each departed soul, the congregation responded once again.
“Robert Hamilton.”
“Pray for us”
“Shay Gilbride.”
“Pray for us.”
“Noel O’Hare.”
“Pray for us”
“And we ask Almighty God the Father to send his guardian angels to watch over Paul O’Donovan and Michael Grant, who need all the help that he can give them.”
The sermon was nearing its end. Dan the fiddler, Big Charlie O’Donnell and several other musicians played a lament as the three coffins were carried from the church. The tunes they played were sad and haunting melodies. Old Dan’s fiddle echoed in the church like the wailing and crying of a stranded mermaid.
Simon had not been invited to join his fellow musicians, but if they had asked, he would have declined anyway. This was not the time or the place for a stranger. He had known none of the dead, nor they him.
When the three fishermen reached their final resting place, screams and howls and cries squealed out above the scratching sounds of the rubbing rope as the departed were lowered down into the earth. Stone, dirt and clay made a hollow sound as they hit off each of the shiny boxes that entombed them. Tears and more tears fell at the sound of each shovelful of earth, which the gravedigger returned to the gaping holes in the ground.
Piercing sounds from the back of his shovel boomed into the air as he slapped down hard on the swollen ground. The fresh graves were humped on the landscape like three beached whales.
* * *
Back in the hospital’s Intensive Care Unit, still trapped between worlds, the two survivors lay motionless while their machines beeped in unison. In the corner of their room, the Reaper waited patiently on their souls.
Marie-Clare’s daily vigils continued. She tapped softly on the back of Michael’s hand, then stopped to massage it before tapping some more, willing him back to life as she spoke of his future.
“You have to get strong again and follow your dreams, Michael. Uncle Seamus in Boston said you would make a grand cop. He says that he can get you on the Force with him; sure, you would pass the Police Academy exam no bother.
“You have to beat this, Michael,” she pleaded. “Come on now, it is not enough to hold on, you have to be strong and break through; I need you back here with me.”
Every day for hours on end, she tapped, massaged, issued words of encouragement, and told stories of a wonderful future in Boston. When she tired, she would play him some of his much-loved music.
Simon had stopped going into the hospital. He would drive Marie-Clare there and collect her later, but he stopped visiting.
He had come to Donegal to write songs, and he needed time alone to work on that. In the evenings, he always had a meal prepared for when they got back. Some nights she would eat it, other nights she just moved the food around the plate with her fork.
Somewhere in her tortured mind and jumbled feelings, Marie-Clare knew that she had come to depend on him. She wanted his comfort and she needed his strength. Knowing that he would be leaving soon made her want him even more.