THE SIDEWINDER: First 4 Chapters

Here's the first few chapters of my new book. I hope you enjoy it. It's officially not out through Solstice Publishing until 1st December, but you can actually order both paperback and e-copies here if you like-

Amazon UK

Amazon USA

Thanks,

Simon.

The Sidewinder

By Simon Maltman

Part 1- Opening Theme

Chapter One

“Just one more thing.”

That’s what my mind repeated to me over and over, as the TV screen informed me that my old buddy was dead. I surveyed the steam rising off my ‘Columbo’ mug, as my mind zoned in and out, like its zoom setting was broken.

“Just one more thing”- written in blue ink, alongside a grainy image of the famous detective, blanketed in his trademark long and scruffy jacket. It was like a mantra. I exhaled, forcing some of the steam to wisp away. I knew I needed to keep it together.

            “Andrew, are you alright?” asked Darragh urgently.

            “Yeah… yeah, shit, I’m sorry,” I said blinking a few times and running a hand through my receding blonde hair, “It’s just a shock- you know?”

            “So that’s Mike from your old band?” he continued, glancing across at our big newsroom T.V, “I’m really sorry,” he added sympathetically.

            I followed his gaze to a still picture from the mid 1990’s of my band mates and me. We posed in front of City Hall- trying to force out more attitude than The Sex Pistols themselves. At the very least, Stiff Little Fingers. My eyes focused back out and closed in on my colleague Darragh, as he half perched on the desk- his white striped shirt brushing past my penholder. I found myself distracted, squinting at his shirt, checking it didn’t have ink on it. He was a few years older than my forty-seven, but he was filling out and somewhat spilling over his clothes. I knew I was no oil painting, but the observation registered nevertheless.

Need to focus. I shot a tentative look about the room. Most of the office staff seemed  drawn into the main meeting area. I darted another look at the screen- a serious looking reporter speaking to camera in a suburban street- police tape zoning off the entrance. An involuntary cough leaped from my throat. I could sense people starting to stare in my direction. I glanced up again. Stephen, the burly sports writer breezed in and looked about, making a face,

            “Jaysus, sure it’s like an Amish wake in here!” he declared in his broad Kerry accent. He surveyed the room more closely, grinning.

            Someone quietly whispered in his ear and gestured to the screen. Stephen’s grin dropped and he uttered “shite” under his breath and hastily walked out again.

            “You okay pal?” asked Darragh as he turned back to me, lines appearing faintly on his bulgy forehead.

            “Yeah, I just need some water,” I said, feeling the burning need to get away.

            I scrambled up and headed towards the kitchen, my eyes down, avoiding the onset of many sets of others.

***

The Belfast News was my place of work and had been for the guts of ten years. It wasn’t exactly The New York Times, but it paid the bills. The digital age had reduced it to mostly freelancers, but me, Darragh and a few others had managed to hang on to payroll. I bent over the small porcelain sink in the galley kitchen, propping myself up with both arms, letting the lukewarm water run cold. I put both hands underneath and relished the sensation. As I turned, a young intern girl began to walk in- looked at me and then left awkwardly. I stood up straight, filled my Columbo mug with cool, bubbling water and drank it greedily down.

            “I’m so sorry love.”

            Jenny hugged me tightly as we sat on the sofa in our small front den. The room was warm and cosy. The radiators either side of me were piping out heat towards me and Jenny was acting as my human insulator. The daylight was fading and the electric lights were off, but the duskiness mixed with the warmth felt good. I sank further into our old, but comfy suede sofa. I had left home early and it was good to be home.

            “Poor Mike, and poor, poor Brenda,” she continued, “I’ll have to ring her.”

            “I know, I know,” I said, sipping the whiskey she had poured me. It wasn’t Irish- but it would do okay. I set it down on the little coaster made from old vinyl records. It was some forty-five by Louis Armstrong- probably better used as a coaster.

She pulled my face up as if to examine it, a look of concern in those vast blue eyes. The face around it was still beautiful I considered-barely creased, except for times like now. It struck me that she looked as good as fifteen years earlier, when she was a girl of twenty-two and we were falling for each other.

            “Are you alright Andy?” she said.

            I must have been staring off into space.

            “I’m okay Jen, really. Frig- we’d barely seen each other in years I suppose. It’s just a bit of a shock.”

            “I know- but you guys had real history together too, so just allow yourself to feel whatever comes.”

            I shrugged and held her gaze, “I’m fine, really.”

            She pulled me close and kissed me hard on the lips. I felt an involuntary twinge down below, followed by a prick of guilt. That’s probably a poor choice of words.

Chapter Two

“Pass the red sauce Dad.”

            I went to give it to Danny and was interrupted by Jenny’s “Please!” and her raised eyebrow. I allowed my mouth to curl into a part smile, which Danny saw. He gave his usual impish smile back to me, taking over that malleable little face on his skinny shoulders.

            “Please,” he said in an almost humouring tone that nine year olds seem to revert to.

            “Remember, your Dad got some bad news today and we all want to make things nice for him,” Jenny continued, looking at Danny again, then at our newly turned teenager Debra.

            “Love you Dad,” said Debra grudgingly, peering out from her matted ginger fringe.

            “Thanks love,” I said and returned to my pie and chips.

            Sometimes we left the TV or radio on in the background during dinner and tonight it was Simon Mayo on Radio 2. We ate in silence for a few minutes as some dross from the eighties played on. When his ‘confessions’ write in section started, I stood up and switched it off. Listeners send it a humorous story based on some secret or prank gone wrong, often from their youth. I wasn’t in the mood. I leaned against the counter, which separates our kitchen from the sunroom and our dining area. I bit my lip and took in my surroundings, my home; our local art on the wall, comfortable Laura Ashley sofas and new fake wood floor. I looked at my family. I knew I had a lot.

            “I’ll see you guys in a bit,” I said.

            I hadn’t looked at my Sidewinder photo albums for years, but they weren’t at all dusty or ragged. Carefully hidden away in a sealed plastic box in my garage. The garage was watertight and I stacked everything on a lino sheet just in case. Inside was also a copy of our EP from 1990 and the full album from ‘93. Both were on cassette- the EP had never been put out on anything else. Well- not until the vinyl anniversary released a few years back- but that was really just a nostalgia thing. I had parted with my vinyl of the album shortly after release- gifting it to my sister at the time.

            I sorted through the photo albums, pulling out some old photo wallets with odds stuffed inside them too. There were a few pictures in there of the early days when we used to jam in my Mum’s garage. There I was, with my sunburst Strat copy and Mike with his fake Les Paul. It was the closest the two of us had ever been. Me and him had started the group- playing in each others bedrooms after school- singing Beatles songs and then moving on to Led Zep. Craig joined on vocals and then Lee on bass. Then we got my old friend Ted in when his dad bought him a drum kit. I’ll never forget the thrill of first playing along with a proper drum kit. I’m sure Ted’s parents never forgot when they first bought him that kit either. Why had we called it Sidewinder? Oh yes, that was Lee. Even back then, he was into his jazz and that was his favourite piece of music at the time I think. The rest of us had no such sophistication; we just thought the name sounded cool. My mind meandered and I sat for a moment with my thoughts; good and bad. I felt a draught coming in from under the shutter and started to pack the things away again. I checked everything was back in place and flicked off the lights.

            Jenny and I later finished the previous night’s bottle of wine, watching some mediocre rubbish on the telly. She said she was heading to bed at around eleven and I told her I’d be up in a bit. I decamped myself into our ‘good room’- the one where we have couples over to and that. Well, where we planned to anyway. It also has my good hi-fi and it isn’t underneath either of the kid’s rooms, so volume wasn’t an issue. I slipped our EP cassette out of my pocket and loaded it in to the deck. Spools, plastic and tape- it was funny how antiquated it all seemed. I flicked off the lights and sat down in the corner recliner with the high back. The street light outside illuminated the venetian blinds, casting lines of white across the wooden floor.

            E minor, G, D, and then a harmonic on the twelfth fret. That was the opening of ‘No Substitute,’ me strumming alone on the rhythm guitar. It sounded sloppy to me now, tinny too- an embarrassment from my youth. Then in came Lee on the bass- undoubtedly always as tight as a duck’s arse. Mike could be heard twiddling away in the background and then Craig too- busting in like the bastard son of Robert Plant and Axl Rose. Jesus- it was hard to think of him now as a series Stormont MLA. Well, that is on the seldom occasions whenever The Assembly actually manages to form a government. I turned down the music, but left the tape’s spools humming and running round and round as I nipped to the kitchen to fix a drink. When I returned, the first side single had finished and I didn’t bother listening to side two. I had my drink and went to bed.

            “Debra, listen to your Mother and get out of that bathroom,” were the first words I spoke the next morning. Well, shouted actually. Twenty minutes later and we were all having breakfast together: in silence. Debra was scowling and Danny was still half-asleep. Both were in partial amounts of school uniform.

            “Will you remember to get my MOT booked in love?” asked Jenny suddenly to me, breaking the silence.

            “Yeah, sure,” I said.

            “I’m sorry, are you alright?” she asked, placing a hand on mine.

            “Yeah,” I said simply.

            “Good,” she said and got up and began rinsing the breakfast dishes ready for the dishwasher.

            Apparently, my allocated grieving period was over.

            On the way to work, I gazed out of the car window more than usual. I stared through lightly steamed up glass as I inched along the Sydenham bypass. Passing The Oval on my left, I thought back to Saturday afternoons at the football, with vinegary chips and red sauce. It had always rained there it seemed, but we still chose to watch from the uncovered end terrace. The massive bright yellow Harland and Wolff cranes looked on from across the road. If we weren’t practicing in someone’s bedroom, that’s where me and the lads would be, watching ‘The Glens’.

            “Thanks for coming Andrew,” said my boss, shutting the glass door behind us and waving for me to sit down in the good chair at the back of his office. This was usually the spot reserved for the biggest advertisers and not just us mere mortals. Tim was tall and always sharply dressed. There was sharpness to his voice too at times. He didn’t always mean it- it was a bit like the voice of the BBC from the 1950’s. It was crisp. He sat down at his large white desk over to the side. I sat next to the large original Terry Bradley portrait of some fearsome lady with many tattoos. I could also view through frosted glass, the translucent bustle of bodies going up and down the corridor. It seemed odd seeing the room from this new perspective.

            “I’m glad you understand that we have to run a piece about Mike, it would be strange not to,” he said, pouring us both a coffee from his pot on the sideboard. He had already offered me his condolences and so forth. As he added cream to our drinks, I noted there was still definition in his arms. He was older than me- and greyer, but probably fitter too.

            “Yeah, sure, I understand Tim. I appreciate your talking to me about it, though of course you don’t have to.”

            “Yes,” he said squinting up his eyes and chewing on the word for longer than is usually necessary, “I also wanted to ask what you’d think about writing it yourself.”

He left that to sit there, gracelessly.

I made a pondering face. I knew the publicity would probably be good for my writing.

            “I don’t know Tim,” I said hesitantly, taking a sip of my coffee. It tasted good. I made a mental note to ask Jenny to buy some cream for the house.

He set his coffee down, stood up and began to pace the room. He was certainly something of a cold son of a bitch at times, but now looked genuinely pained.

            “I hate to ask- but you know what the readership figures are like and, well… I’m not trying to take advantage of his death you know. Bugger, it just makes some sense- you of course knew him well and you all were making quite a name for yourselves back then, you know, before…”

            “I know,” I said softly, cutting him off and leaning forwards, “Can I think about it Tim?”

            “Of course Andrew- sure, sure,” he said with a hint of irritation, sitting back down again, “The end of the day okay?” he asked.

Chapter Three

I spent time in my office afterwards, Googling news reports from the previous day. I already felt somewhat detached from it all. Maybe it was just the journalist in me. I don’t know. I suppose I had long accepted that that was what I was anyway. For a while before, I had thought I was a ‘Rock Star’ and I kind of was I suppose. Well, we had a few top twenty singles and a decent following. It didn’t last long and I seemed to go straight to ‘Washed up Rock Star,’ not passing ‘Go’ or collecting two hundred pounds. Being a journalist seemed good enough now anyway. I drummed my fingers on the desk and pictured my garage from the night before- I didn’t think I even had one guitar with all six strings on it. It’d had been a long time since I had played at all. I didn’t even listen to much rock music any longer. I would put on a bit of Radio 2 in the car occasionally, but mostly I was into Classical. Since my thirties at least- I had immersed myself in it- everything from Mozart to Stravinsky. An orchestra moves me, sometimes it feels like it’s the only thing that can. I’m open to most types of music to an extent, though still not jazz. It’s too chaotic. I don’t get how a song can be based on improvisation. How can it change every time? That’s not a song or a composition then. Either you’ve written a piece of music or you haven’t.

            I returned to my internet search.

“I hadn’t seen him much since the reunion gig a few years ago. It’s really sad. My heart goes out to his family. He was such a lovely fella.”

That was a short clip of Lee, speaking to the local BBC News. It looked like he was outside some club or another- possibly The Empire. Lee was the only one of us still playing music full time. He looked well. He was always a bit dishevelled and never truly looked sober, but he seemed like he was keeping alright. I watched the rest of the news clip and scribbled down a few notes. There were a fair few videos up on You Tube about Mike’s death already. There were local news reports and some old school fans, just vlogging about it. How many old fans surprised me. I was also impressed that any of our fans even knew what vlogging was! We were getting old. My mind flitted back to our first tour- 1990 I think it was. It was an ‘all sleeping together in the van’ job- very grotty. Fun though too. It was long before all of the other stuff, simpler times, before all of the pain.

            “You dirty fuckin’ bastard,” said Mike, digging Lee playfully in the ribs.

Lee just looked blankly at him. His eyes had disappeared in a haze of weed, somewhere behind his floppy black curtains. He hadn’t even seemed to register the noisy burst of flatulence that he had released into Mike’s face in the first place. Ted looked equally as baked, sitting beside him- a dopey grin on his freckled face. Mike dropped down off the bunk-bed, which was essentially a wooden shelf inside the van. He almost toppled his baseball cap off- there was always one on- covering up his already thinning hair. Today it was a Thin Lizzy one. He was double demining that day too- blue jacket, blue jeans.

            “Give’s some of that,” he said reaching up, snatching the spliff off Lee.

            Lee half-heartedly gave him the finger.

            “Well bugger, looks like I’m driving again then,” I said, kneeling down and changing the tape over in the deck. It was the Batman soundtrack by Prince. Perfect pop funk swaggered out from the speakers. Everyone groaned, but I thought it was incredible. They were all too caught up in everything being edgy and underground. I could just tell if something was good music. I took a swig from my big bottle of Buckfast and passed it over to Craig, who was already half through a bottle of white cider. Craig belched and said, “Cheers mucker!” and sat back on the floor. He was in his prime then and quite a hit with the ladies. His hair was buzzed short and you’d hardly know that he was actually blonde- same as me.

            Prince was in the process of singing; “If a man is guilty for what goes on in his mind, give me the electric chair for all my future crimes,” when Johnny pulled the van door across from the outside and leaped in with a brown bag full of chips and cans of Coke. He had his leather jacket pulled up high, droplets of rain spilling off him as he swung the door shut again.

            “Father fuckin’ Christmas is here,” he said jovially, “Jesus Christ,” he added with a chuckle, looking around the van, “looks like my Elves are all stoned to the balls.”

            Johnny was our manager -  come sound guy, come chip buyer, come soft drug supplier.

            “Cheers mate,” he said to Mike, snatching the joint out of his mouth.

            I opened up another You Tube video. A different local news reporter was standing outside Mike’s house. It had been earlier that day. He was trying his best to look grave. This clashed with his blue shirt and yellow tie, which clashed enough already.

            “The police were called around five a.m by Michael Robinson’s wife. It appears that she had awoken in the night and Mr. Robinson had not returned from their detached garage where he had gone to listen to music around midnight. On venturing through their back garden and to the garage, she found the door locked. She could see Mr. Robinson slumped inside on a chair. She became alarmed when she banged on the window and it did not wake him. She attempted to unsuccessfully break the glass and then proceeded to call the PSNI. The Chief Constable confirmed in a statement that their investigation is ongoing, but that early toxicology reports do show illegal drugs present in Mr. Robinson’s blood.”

Chapter Four

“How was it love? Rough?”

            “It was okay,” I said, stripping off my wet mac.

            Jenny took it from me and offered a sympathetic smile as we ambled down the hall.

            “There’s a few messages for you, Craig and Lee both rang.”

            I paused, “Right okay,” I said, raising an eyebrow, “I’ll maybe need to make a few calls after tea then.”

            We went on into the kitchen and Jenny flicked the switch on the kettle. The other main living room is just off to the side and the TV was on in there, playing some dreadful pop music channel. Two zombies were in front of it, also with their tablets out on their knees.

            “Hi kids,” I shouted in and received a few grunts, but no eye contact.

            I turned to Jenny, “Tim asked me to do a piece on Mike today.”

            “Right,” she said softly, “How do you feel about it?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “Do you think you’ll do it?”

            “I probably will.”

            It was really a bit moot as I had already told Tim that I’d do it.

            I felt preoccupied through dinner, knowing that I’d have to call up my old band mates afterwards. I had never been able to enjoy a meal when I knew there was something to follow that I didn’t want to do. I never really enjoy anything when I know there’s something to be done. I suppose I’m a pragmatist. I ate most of my dinner and there wasn’t much conversation anyway. It seemed as if most meal times featured a mix of terseness and silence. I’d like to think we’re a happy enough family- but sure who has the perfect family? Kids can be annoying and Jenny and I, well we didn’t maybe have the same spark anymore. We got along okay mostly. I got up and kissed her on the cheek and left the room.

            While going for a leak, I reflected on how that band of young guys had ended up. None of us had been that close to each other over the recent years, it’s just how things go sometimes. Who else in their forties still hangs about with their old teenage buddies? I never understood why people expect band mates will. They’re just the same as everyone else- people drift, fall out. There hadn’t been any particular reason, other than we all chose different paths. Lee with his music, Mike did a bit of producing I think along with publishing and this and that, and Craig- well no one expected that one. Craig was very much the unlikely politician, but who some political commentators say could be a future First Minister. Well, that is if he ever gets the Ulster Unionists back its old political strongholds. Yes, we had all made different choices. Some decisions were hard. The reunion get-together and gig we did a few years back had actually been good fun. It was relaxed, no pressure. It was also nice to see how fans still responded to the old songs. Of course, though, there was no Ted. That was difficult. Some trouble came afterwards too, when offers came in for more gigs and deals for reissues. Mike and Lee had no interest really in playing the old songs, but also were precious about how they would be preserved and not remixed, and not put out without our control. They voted it down. You’d have thought Lee would have wanted it- him still scratching a living on the gigging circuit. Craig thought it was a good enough idea to take the deal and was pushing heavily for it. Starting out as a local counsellor, he wanted an edge, something different from the rest. He saw himself as some hip politician-thought he was a future JFK or something. I remember Lee gagging that he was more of a KFC. I didn’t particularly want to play any more gigs, but I didn’t mind the money either. I sided with Craig when we were by ourselves, but it didn’t matter anyway with two saying no. Democracy was the way it had always been in the band and that was one thing that wouldn’t change. Ted wasn’t around anymore for casting the crucial fifth vote.

            I sat with a sherry, half watching Sky Arts, deciding on what I was going to say to them. There was grainy footage on from the early years of Sun Records. Johnny Cash was up on stage, ‘taking off’ his touring mate Elvis, with a curling lip and quaffed up hair. Then there was Elvis up next himself, singing an incongruous medley of songs with a youngish Frank Sinatra. When I had finished my sherry, I realised I’d been distracted for too long or just avoiding and switched it off. Right, Lee first. I looked at my hands- they were sore and stiff. I curled them open and shut painfully. I had developed early arthritis in my left knee and hands which bothered me from time to time. I did a few stretches and readied myself.

            “Hi Andrew mate, you doing alright?”

            “I’m okay- how about you?”

            “Okay too I suppose,” said Lee thoughtfully.

            Lee still retained his distinctive North Belfast twang. There was a duel roughness and tunefulness to it.

            “It’s just a shock,” I said and reached for my glass, forgetting it was empty.

            “I know- what the fuck? Terrible mate. Such a shock. Poor guy. He hadn’t touched any drugs in years too you know?”

            “Really?”

            “Yeah, I don’t understand it. I still saw him every few months or so, we talked a lot- you know? Hung out occasionally. He had been clean for years.”

            “Yeah, uhuh, right- shit, a real pity,” I said, my mind turning this over.

            “Poor Brenda is in bits. I went around to see her,” he said and paused.

            I could hear him dragging on a cig or quite possibly a joint,

            “That’s what’s playing most on her mind too- why would he start the drugs up again? Tragic mate. He seemed settled, happy.”

            “It makes no sense, just bloody terrible,” I agreed.

            “It’s not public knowledge yet, but the cops told her the amount of smack in him was double what a daily user might shoot,” his voice quietening ever so, “Sure you know that a few of us dabbled back in the day and Mikey too- but he was never a big user. Fucksake, even Mr. Politics- fuckin’ big Craig was more into it back in them days.”

            “I don’t understand it, poor Brenda. God knows why he would’ve got back into it all,” I offered.

            There was another break as I listened to him taking a hard draw. I could picture the expression that would be across his face- like some kind of rodent stuck halfway through a drain.

            “Look, I was chattin’ to Craig- and we thought we could all meet up for a wee drink?”

            “Yeah, yeah sure, I’d like that. When were you thinking?”

            “Maybe Thursday night? You’re still around Belfast, aren’t you?”

            “Yeah, yeah, still up in the East.”

            “Okay, well I’ll give you a shout- up your way would be quieter and probably suit well. Fuckin’ Craig will probably be busy up at Stormont anyhow! Jesus.”

            We both let out a chuckle, allowing a bit of steam to leave with it.

            “Sounds good Lee.”

            “Okay, I’ll text you. Cheers Andy.”

            He hung up. I still hated being called Andy. There’s only two people whoever called me Andy- Lee and my sister. It still makes me cringe. Anyway, I was happy enough with how the conversation had gone. I fixed another drink and cracked on, calling Craig. It rang off on to voicemail. No sooner than I set the phone down did it begin to vibrate, so loudly in the room that I thought it was going to leap up towards me. I snatched it up.

            “Andrew, sorry I missed you.”

            He sounded more like the local BBC News, rather than my old mate Craig. I had seen him more on BBC television than in person the last ten years too.

            “No probs, how are you Craig?”

            “I’m alright. It’s a horrible thing, hey Andrew?” he said earnestly.

            “I know, a real shock.”

            “His poor wife. God help her.”

            “It’s terrible,” I said again. After two conversations, I was running out of ways to say it.

“And how are things with you- keeping alright?”

“Yeah, yeah can’t complain. Busy, I’m sure you are yourself?”

“I am Andrew, I am. Even if the media would like to make out otherwise, hey Andrew?” he said, with a guffaw.

            His voice gradually shifted from a somewhat affected local preacher to something more resembling my old friend. We chatted for a few minutes and then he told me there was an urgent message for him on the other phone and he had to go. We said our goodbyes and hung up. Just then, Jenny put her head around the corner; her hair pulled back in a band, the neckline red trim of her black sports zippy showing below,

            “I’m off to the gym- the kids are up in their rooms,” she whispered.

            “It’s okay love, I’m just off,” I said, setting the phone down.

            She stepped into the room, “Are you okay- have you made all your calls already?”

            “Yeah, that’s them both.”

            “Did it go alright? How are they?”

            “Yeah, fine,” I said.

            “What about you?”

            “Fine too. I didn’t realise you were going out.”

            “Yeah, sure I said, just be a couple of hours.”

            “Okay, see you later,” I said absently.

            She left, and I was left alone. I looked around the room and blew out my cheeks. I didn’t really feel much at all. I knew I probably should, but I didn’t.

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