When the time came to kiss her good night, in the lamplit doorway of that unbelievable mansion, I was determined to do the job properly. I don’t know what expectations I had arrived with, exactly, that night. Somewhere at the back of my mind I had probably believed that I would end up sleeping with her, but there was no sense of frustration or anti-climax when I realized that this wouldn’t happen, tonight or even for some time to come. I was happy, for now, to cup her cheeks between my palms, to feel her face tilt expectantly towards me, to plant my open mouth against hers, to sense a tiny yielding, and then to whisper ‘Good night, Madeline’ and hear her murmur in reply. As I walked back towards the tube station, I felt that no satisfaction could be more complete.
Perhaps I would have been less happy if I had known that on this first date, Madeline and I had come as physically close as we would ever come; that we would never surpass that kiss — wouldn’t even equal it, more often that not. Except once. Except for an evening when we had eaten somewhere near the Aldwych, the Waldorf or some other place that I couldn’t really afford, and we walked down to the Thames, and she slid her hand into mine, and one minute we were standing looking at the water and then the next she had put her arms around me and suddenly we were kissing with a passion which baffled and astonished me, her tongue crushing against mine, her mouth biting into my lips until it was me, after all, who had to withdraw and look away. She never explained those moments to me and after I had seen her on to her train, I staggered home across Waterloo Bridge like a drunken man, reeling with shock and pleasure, my head and body throbbing with excitement.
‘Are you sure you won’t have another?’ somebody asked.
It was Chester, standing over me as I sat at the piano.
I closed the lid.
‘Why not?’ I said, and followed him to the bar.
Just as Chester was paying for my drink, a tall, angular, sallow young man rushed in and grabbed him by the shoulder. He had restless eyes and a shock of black hair, greased back and centre-parted, and he seemed very agitated. Chester registered surprise and, I thought, even a little anger on seeing him.
‘Paisley? What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I’ve got to talk to you, Chess. I need to have a word.’ He didn’t look at Chester as he said this, but kept staring restlessly around him, as though he thought he was being followed or something.
‘Not now, Paisley, for God’s sake. Can’t you see I’m busy?’
‘I just need a quick word. Five minutes.’
‘I told you not to come and find me here, didn’t I?’
‘Five minutes, Chester.’ He put his hand on his shoulder and started clawing it until Chester pushed him away.
‘Piss off, can’t you? I’ll come and find you later.’
‘Look, you don’t understand. I don’t just want a word. I need a word. I need, Chester, I need.’
He was looking into his eyes by now; but still his gaze was unsteady, darting uncontrollably.
Chester paused for a moment, tight-lipped, and then said, ‘Christ, you’re a pin-head, Paisley. You’re a real fucking Christmas turkey. Come on, and make it quick. Excuse us a minute, Bill.’
They disappeared in the direction of the exit; or it could have been the Gents, I’m not sure. I was left standing alone at the bar. Just me, and Karla, drying glasses.
‘Who was that?’ I asked her.
‘I don’t know. I’ve seen him here before once or twice. I told you Chester knew a fairly strange crowd.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t think you really know him very well, do you?’
‘I don’t know him at all.’
‘You find out quite a lot about your customers, working behind a bar. In bits and pieces. I know all the regulars, now. Sometimes even when I’m not working I just stand at the window and watch them coming and going.’
‘What window?’
‘I live right opposite here, above the video shop. I can see everything that goes on at this place.’
‘What is there to see?’
‘You never know, do you?’ She smiled again, and it was almost as if she was talking to herself. ‘You never know who you’re going to see.’
I could make no sense of this remark, so I used it as an excuse to change the subject.
‘I’d love to hear you sing. Seriously. Maybe we could come in here one morning before opening time, and use the piano.’
She shook her head, laughing. ‘That’s the worst chat-up line I’ve ever heard in my life.’
I was indignant.
‘It wasn’t a chat-up line. Listen, I’ve got a girlfriend, you know. I’m not trying to chat you up.’
She took me more seriously once I’d told her that, but still all she’d say was, ‘I said I used to sing, that’s all. And I don’t think you’d like my voice very much.’
Chester reappeared, looking breathless and apologetic.
‘Sorry about that, Bill. Did you get your drink?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ I gestured at the other members of the band, who seemed to be in various stages of clinical depression. ‘Do you think it’s worth carrying on with this?’
He looked at his watch. ‘No, we’re wasting our time. See how the recording goes on Tuesday, eh? Maybe things’ll look up when you’ve got a decent demo under your belts.’
‘I’d better get back. The buses are completely fucked today, it’ll probably take me hours.’
‘You live over Rotherhithe way, don’t you? I can give you a lift.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, I’ve got to see someone over there, about four o’clock. No problem.’
So it was that I found myself sitting for the first time in Chester’s little orange Marina, speeding past the Angel and down through the City and out across London Bridge. And it was then, also for the first time, that he raised the subject of Paisley, and Paisley’s band The Unfortunates — the band of which Chester was also the manager.
‘I’ve been thinking about them, you see. Listening to their tapes, that sort of thing. The thing is, they need a keyboard player.’
‘Oh?’
‘You know, a real musician. To fill out the sound a bit. They’ve got real style, this band, they could really go somewhere, but musically they… well, they need a bit of help.’
I paused long enough for him to perform a particularly agonizing gear change.
‘Is this in the nature of a… proposition?’ I asked.
‘Yes, you could say that. That’s very well put, William. A proposition. Exactly.’
‘Well, I…’
‘You probably want to think about it.’
‘Yes. Yes, I would.’
‘Fine.’
He took me to within half a mile of the flat and then pulled up at a junction. He seemed worried that he was going to be late for his appointment.
‘I’ll drop you here, if you don’t mind. This bloke, he gets a bit mad if you keep him waiting.’
‘A bit mad?’
‘Yes, you know. A little bit nasty.’ And before I had time to wonder what he might have meant, he had straightened his cap and was driving off. The last thing he said to me, as he wound up the window, was: ‘Think about it.’
Interlude
Panic on the streets of London…
I wonder to myself
Could life ever be sane again?
So I thought about it. That is, I thought a lot about Chester, and about Paisley, and the strange encounter I had half-witnessed in the pub that afternoon. I thought about it over the next week, and I thought about it on that dreadful Saturday night, as I ran through the back streets of Islington, each step taking me further and further away from Paisley’s smashed and lifeless body.