Five a.m. a call came in for a trip to the airport, Heathrow. Kemal looked over at Mac, who sighed then nodded. It was 7:15 by the time he made it home, a council maisonette in Gospel Oak. Jackie was just getting up, making some tea and yelling at the kids, teenagers now both of them, to get themselves out of bed.
“Hey,” he said flopping down on the couch, absolutely knackered.
“Hey yourself,” said Jackie.
“Good time last night?” Jackie had been out with a couple of mates from the school.
“Yeah,” said Jackie, “nice. Listen, there was a message for you when I got in. From someone called Etheridge. Wants you to call him. Sounds like it might be a job. Etheridge, why does that name ring a bell?”
“Used to manage Ross, you remember?”
Jackie pulled a face. “Oh, him.”
“Yeah,” said Mac, “him. He’s doing all right these days, has his own label and management company. Did he leave a number?”
“Yeah, by the phone.”
“Right,” said Mac, stretching and heading for bed. “I’ll call him later.”
“So,” said Jackie at teatime, her turn to sit on the couch looking knackered, after a day spent looking after special-needs kids at the school. “What did he want, this Etheridge?”
“Ah, he wants me to talk to someone.”
“Oh yeah, any particular someone?”
“Yeah, someone he wants to do a gig, and he’s heard I’m the man who might be able to talk this someone into doing one, or at least sober him up enough to get him on stage.”
“Oh Christ,” said Jackie, “not bloody Luke.”
“Yeah,” said Mac, “bloody Luke is exactly who he wants. It’s this label’s twenty-fifth anniversary and they’re having a whole series of gigs to celebrate and they really want Luke to be there, as he was the guy who started it all for them. There’s some decent wedge in it for me and all, if I can get him on stage.”
Jackie shook her head. “Well, just as long as you don’t bring him round here again. Not after last time. Not if he’s still drinking.”
“Oh,” said Mac, “it’s a pretty safe bet he’s still doing that.”
Luke North was another old-timer, another feller who went all the way back to ’76/’77, had played all the same speed-driven, gob-drenched gigs as Mac. Only Luke’s crew had found favor with the all-important John Peel on the radio, and a bit of a cult had grown up around them over the years. Every decade or so a new band would come along and say their heroes were Luke and his mob, and then there’d be a feature in the NME about his dissolute genius or whatever.
All that dissolute genius stuff sounds fine when you read about it in the paper, of course. It tends to be a bit different when you get up close, though. The truth of it was that Luke was a fuck-up, and one who had the knack of fuck-ing up anyone who came in his orbit. But to be fair, he had charm, charisma even, and, given that Mac wasn’t planning on sharing his life with the bloke, he’d always got on with him okay. They’d been close for a while right back at the beginning, drifted apart as you do, then become mates again after they’d both been touring Slovenia at the same time a few years back, both of them at a low ebb. Since then, Luke would call up once a month or so and they’d go out, have a drink or whatever.
A few times Mac had brought him back to Gospel Oak but Jackie wasn’t too keen. Said she sort of liked him, you know, she could see what the attraction was, but there was something about him that creeped her out. Mac hadn’t really known what she meant till the last time he’d come round. He’d been really drunk, maybe something else going on as well. He hadn’t eaten a thing, stubbed his fags out in the food, all that kind of shit which was bad enough, but this time Mac had really known what Jackie meant. There was something — not evil, that was overstating it — but rotten, something definitely rotten coming off him. And since then, that was three, four months ago, Mac had only seen him once.
But apparently that was more than anyone else had done, and if Etheridge was going to pay him a grand “consulting fee” just for getting him on stage, well, Mac was in no position to turn it down.
Calls to the couple of numbers he had for Luke proved fruitless, so Mac decided to cruise around a few of his known haunts in between fares. A run down to Soho gave him a chance to check out the Colony and the French; Luke liked those old-school boho hangouts. No sign of him though, which wasn’t much of a surprise, no doubt Etheridge would have found him already if he was hanging around Soho. Same went for Camden Town. Mac checked the Good Mixer and the Dublin Castle just in case, but once again no sign, nothing but Japanese tourists hoping for a glimpse of someone who used to be in Blur. This was ridiculous, Mac decided, there had to be a million drinking holes in London and the odds of finding Luke at random were next to zero. Even if he was in a pub at all and not crashed out in some flat in Walthamstow or Peckham or God knows where else.
He’d just about given up on the idea when a fare took him to London Bridge station and he had a bit of an inspiration. Years ago, Luke had a kid with a woman who ran a pub just down the way. Well, she hadn’t run a pub back then, but she did now. Luke had taken him in there a year or so back. He was from Bermondsey, was Luke, originally. Over the years, he’d become all international rock and roll, but scratch deep enough and there was a bit of barrow boy lurking in there. And for years, when he was starting out, he’d had this girlfriend who came from the same background as he, London Irish, Linda her name was.
The pub was tucked underneath the railway line, a real basic boozer with a pool table and jukebox and bunch of old fellers sitting at the bar.
Linda was playing darts when Mac walked in. She was a tall woman, what you’d call handsome rather than pretty, chestnut hair and good bones, looked like she could sort you out herself, no problem, if you started any trouble. He waited till she finished her turn, then said hello.
“All right, darlin’?” he said, and she looked at him uncertainly for a second, then broke out a big smile, came over, and hugged him. Women liked Mac, always had, he was big and solid and he kept his troubles to himself. Plus, in this particular case, there was a little bit of history. It was a long time ago, so long ago that Mac had kind of forgotten it till he felt her arms around him, but once, must be twenty years ago, they’d had a bit of a night. Nothing serious, just a bit of a laugh when Luke had been driving her crazy.
“So,” she said, leading him over toward the bar, “what brings you down this way?”
“Well,” said Mac, “pleasure of your company, of course.”
“Oh, aye?” said Linda, and gave him a bit of a look, one that said she didn’t believe him for a moment, but she’d let it slide for now. “So how’s the family?”
“Good. Growing up, you know. How’s your boy?”
Linda shook her head. “In prison.”
“Oh,” said Mac, who wasn’t inclined to rush to judgement, he’d done his own time in his wild youth. “Anything serious?”
Linda scrunched her face up. “Not really, just some E’s and intent to supply.”
“What? They sent him down for that?” He looked at Linda, saw the little shake of her head. “Oh, not a first offense then.”
“No,” said Linda, “not exactly.” Then she mustered up a bit of a smile. “Like father, like son, eh?”
“Yeah, well,” said Mac, “he was always a bit of a boy, your Luke, that’s for sure. You seen him recently?” Felt like a bit a bastard slipping that in.
“Luke? Yeah, now and again, you know how he is.” She paused, took a slug of the drink she had on the bar. Could just be Coke, though Mac wouldn’t have bet on it. “You know what I used to think, back when?”