T wouldn't be here without Skip,' he said, and it sounded pathetically inadequate to convey his feelings - who cared if he was here or not? What did it matter to anybody? But the woman smiled and nodded. 'The boss wants to see you,' Misty said. 'The pair of you.'
Terry turned and saw Leon standing in the doorway, pale-faced with shock and lack of sleep. One of his eyes was half-closed and purple. There was a black scab of blood on his forehead. And his hair was golden.
Terry took Leon's arm and stepped outside the review room, looking at his friend anxiously. 'Jesus, Leon - what happened to you?'
T went dancing,' Leon said, and Terry had to smile. He gave Leon a shove and felt the mad, inappropriate laughter bubbling up inside him. 'You went dancing, did you?' 'Yeah, I went dancing.' Leon was smiling now. 'Did the Dogs catch up with you?' Leon's smile grew wider. 'No, the Teds caught up with them.'
Terry nodded with satisfaction. 'And what about Skip? What's going to happen to Skip?'
T don't know,' Leon said, tearing up. Terry placed a hand on his shoulder.
'Skip will be all right,' he said. 'He has to be. He's only - how old is Skip anyway?'
Leon bent his head, and for a moment it seemed to Terry as if his friend was not thinking about the question but about the articles they had all grown up reading - Skip Jones telling them about his adventures with Keith Richards and Iggy Pop and Dag Wood
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and Lou Reed and Jimmy Page and the New York Dolls, Skip's hard-earned wisdom and reckless appetites somehow co-existing, Skip ripping apart the pretentious, celebrating the good stuff in that cool, pristine prose. Terry watched Leon thinking about Skip, and he knew that Skip was a better writer than he would ever be. 'Skip's twenty-five,' Leon said.
They walked the short distance to Kevin White's office. White was staring out of the window at the traffic on the river. Ray was standing beside him. They turned when Terry knocked on the open door. White gestured for them to enter, and Ray smiled, and as they walked in Terry remembered the last time the three of them had been together, hiding from the Teds in that destroyed building at the start of the night. A lifetime ago.
'Boss, the three of us are going to the hospital,' Terry said. 'We've got to see Skip.'
White shook his head impatiently. 'Don't worry about Skip,' he said. 'They're taking good care of Skip. He's going to be all right. And we've got a big issue to get out.'
'A big issue?' Terry said. 'A big issue? Skip's in the hospital with a cerebral whatever-the-fuck-it-is, and you're talking about a big issue?'
White said nothing, just looking at them, letting the silence fill the room. When he eventually spoke his voice was very quiet.
'You boys are getting a little long in the tooth for this teenage-rebel stuff, aren't you?' he said, looking at Terry like he was a greaser on Brighton beach on a Bank Holiday Monday in 1965. T heard about the stunt you pulled at the Hotel Blanc' Terry said nothing, but something in White's eyes made him look at his feet. He hated it when White was angry with him. The editor let his voice get softer. 'In future don't bring your personal problems to work. Okay?' Terry nodded. 'Okay.'
White looked at Leon. 'And God only knows where you were last night.' 'I went dancing,' Leon said, but his editor didn't crack a smile. 'Look at the state of you,' White said, shaking his head.
'But -1 thought we were meant to be wild,' Leon said. T thought we were meant to be a rock-and-roll paper.' He could feel his argument gaining momentum. T thought - I thought that's what it's all about!'
Terry noticed that White's desk was covered with pictures of the young Elvis Presley. And he saw for the first time that Elvis had been beautiful.
'You think that's what it's all about, Leon?' White was saying. 'Coming into work looking like you've been up all night, playing in the traffic? Maybe once. Maybe rock and roll was about being young and wild - once. But look at you two,' he said, nodding towards Leon and Terry. 'Now it's just an excuse to never grow up.' 'Whatever happened to anarchy?' Leon said.
'Yeah,' chimed in Terry, wanting to stick up for his friend, willing to risk incurring the editor's wrath. 'I thought anarchy was all the rage.'
But White just smiled at them. 'Don't make me laugh,' he said. 'If Johnny Rotten was a real anarchist he would be sitting in a pub in Pinsbury Park with his thumb up his arse. He wouldn't be signing a recording contract with Richard Branson.' The editor shook his head with exasperation. He was almost thirty years old and tired of all this crap. Terry could see it. He was tired of arguing with them. 'You boys are going to have to decide if you're serious about what we do up here, or if you're just happy amateurs. Because there's no place for happy amateurs in the music industry any more. If that's what you want, go write a fanzine.'
'Boss, you're talking like some old businessman,' Leon said quietly. He did not want to row with White. He loved him. 'But I know it's more than that to you. I know you care about the music. I know you care about The Paper. I know you do.' Leon smiled triumphantly. 'You're just like us.'
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'The times have changed,' White said, and Terry thought their editor looked more tired than any of them. 'We're not one step away from the underground press any more. This is a business. We have advertisers, management, subscribers - all that grownup shit. I had them in here last night, the fucking suits -complaining about drug use, about loud music, about all these journalists swanning around like they're in a band. Complaining about you lot. There's no such thing as a free festival. Not any more. That's why, when he's better, Skip's going to take extended leave.' The three of them were stunned. 'Skip's not coming back?' Terry said.
'Skip needs a rest,' White said. 'A long rest.' Terry and Leon looked at each other. Ray let his hair fall over his eyes. 'Look - I know you love Skip. So do I. Of course I do. Who gave him his first proper job? Who kept him on when he was frightening the old ladies on Country Matters? But Skip couldn't go on like that for ever. Trying to keep up with Keith Richards? Going cold turkey in the review room? You think the men in suits don't notice this stuff?'
T can't believe Skip's not going to be around,' Terry said, looking at Ray. But Ray's face betrayed nothing. It was as if he had already had everything explained to him by the editor. Terry watched his friend brush the hair out of his face.
'You know what it's going to be soon?' White said. 'It's going to be the Eighties. Think about it.' Terry thought about it. But he couldn't imagine the Eighties. They were unimaginable. Then White was grinning like a loon, happy for the first time, jerking a thumb at Ray. 'Guess who this guy interviewed for us?'
Terry and Leon stared at Ray for a moment and then they were all over him, slapping him on the back and laughing together and congratulating him.
'So Ray's going to be writing Lennon for the new issue,' White said. 'Terry, what are you doing for us?' Terry played for time. He hadn't given any thought to what he would be writing for the new issue. 'Well - thought I might talk to Billy Blitzen. Get him to -'
'Forget it,' White interrupted. 'That's all over. Everybody's tired of the noble junkie thing. It's all played out, and the music is just too bad. I'll tell you what you're doing - you're doing the singles this week and then I'm sending you up to Sheffield next week. The Sewer Rats are on the road. Take Misty with you. Tell her to get plenty of pictures of the Dogs going mental and smashing the place up.'
Terry said nothing, but his face said it all. About the Sewer Rats, about the Dagenham Dogs, about Misty being around the likes of them.