Silver Ch 01 02

Blurb

For Nick Silver, an overwhelming sense of disappointment and failure has dogged his life. Yet it is turning his back on the band he co-founded in 1981 that haunts him above all else. Little did he realise back then that they would go on to become a global success, selling millions of records in a career spanning a quarter of a century. And it is not as if Nick has been able to ignore the success for, with his chosen alternative vocation as a rock journalist, inevitably his and the band's paths continued to cross, and cross, and cross. That is, until the cataclysmic events of 2000 forced Nick to turn his back on music for good.

August 2006 and with the Silver Anniversary of the band at hand, former collaborator Richey Osgood announces a surprise comeback that sets in motion a dramatic chain of events. Summoned to hook up for old time's sake, Nick is wary at first, tormented by past tragedy yet at the same time harbouring a morbid interest in tracking Richey's progress. As numerous colourful characters, including a psychotic former band member, a group of gothic rock chicks and a vengeful stalker head to Richey's World on a fatal collision course, explosive revelations emerge. Hidden secrets of the past emerge that will change lives forever.

*

Prologue

February 2006: Start of Rock Hunt, the television talent contest to find a rockstar of the future.

March 2006: Exiled British teenagers Lindsey, Monica and Helen de Vil set up the rock group Devilicious from their French base with the aim to wreak havoc on the world.

April 2006: Devilicious feature on the front cover of Paris Match magazine.

May 2006: Devilicious sign their first record deal for an undisclosed sum.

June 2006: Devilicious feature on the front cover of Rock Week magazine.

July 2006: Miranda Sharp voted winner of Rock Hunt by the British public.

August 2006: Miranda Sharp and Devilicious release their debut singles in what the press describe as the 'battle of the rock babes'. Richey Osgood announces the comeback of the Speeding Hearts.

Part One

One

Most ageing rockstars' comebacks prompt a curious fascination and a sense of nostalgia. Rarely, however, do they spark murderous revenge, taboo sex, the uncovering of decades-old dark secrets and death and destruction. Richey Osgood's comeback had all that and more, and in the process turned several lives upside down.

And who could have foreseen that? No one perhaps apart from former band mate Nick Silver. An eternal pessimist, Nick spent the first twenty-five years of his life agonising what to do with it, the next twenty-five regretting those decisions. Embracing failure in the same way others clasp opportunity, Nick figured it was easier to lament what had passed by than to laud what breaks had fallen his way.

Described somewhat cruelly in the NME in 1982 as 'one who constantly wears the anxious expression of a schoolboy who thinks he's left his homework behind', little seemingly had changed by the time August 2006 arrived, the image reflected back from the bathroom mirror depicting a pair of lips drawn tightly and a face burdened by the probability that another day just like the last, and the hundreds before, lay ahead. With another year passing by in a blur, fast-forwarded like a least favourite record track, Nick Silver found himself poised at the crossroads between eternal joy and terminal despair.

Out of the swirling mist of the shower stepped wife of over two decades Jan. Groping blindly for the towel, she tried to gauge the mood of the morning as Nick scratched a hole in the condensation. Furtively admiring the still trim figure that adorned the woman over his shoulder, Nick caught a brief gust of joy before allowing the comforting malaise back in. Typically, no words were exchanged as they mimed their way around the morning's rituals, Nick stepping aside to allow his wife prominence at the mirror.

Teeth gritted for the toothbrush, freckled girl-next-door nose scrunched up, Jan brushed the auburn fringe aside, a reminder that a visit to the salon was overdue. It wasn't the only appointment the coming days held but, at the risk of joining her husband in the doldrums, Jan preferred not to dwell on the other. A positive woman, her current joy was threefold: summer was in full bloom, there were sufficient clients on the books to see her comfortably through to the end of the year and, to top it all, their daughter's forthcoming wedding offered something really special to look forward to.

From Nick's perspective the opposite was true: summer brought tireless nights, he'd barely undertaken a meaningful days work this side of the Millennium and that bloody wedding was costing a fortune. The very thought caused a growl beneath his breath, just audible enough to hear.

'Lighten up, pet,' Jan retorted in a Geordie accent that twenty-five years in the south had failed to dilute.

Heading off to the bedroom, she picked out something light, bright and summery from the rail of clothes, craning her head back around the door. 'I said lighten up,' she repeated.

Nick scowled, about to launch an invective, before catching sight of his wife in the sundress. Slowly the tension released like a pressure valve being eased. 'That's better,' she added.

The human equivalent of a stress ball, Nick forced a smile.

Heading downstairs, Jan espied the Fifties-style jukebox that was her husband's pride and joy, keying in a code that was etched indelibly on her brain. Her husband's attempt at protestation was quickly drowned out by the little laugh that opened the song and the strained guitar intro that perversely never failed to lighten his mood. Finally came the words, harsh yet bizarrely pacifying:

'I'm on the outside looking in, your thing is not my thing, I'm on my own in all of this, your hit, my miss. I'm on the outside, invisible, our lives divisible, On the outside, there's no way in, no way in...'

Nick couldn't help but allow himself to become enraptured, not so much by the words as the guitar – his guitar – urgent like it was late for an appointment. In his mind he visualised the finger movements and chord changes, allowing a wave of unadulterated joy to descend, a feeling on a par with – he imagined – the rush experienced by a junkie. And imagine he did for, despite his rockstar roots, the only needle Nick had ever needed was the one that played his old 45's.

Jan smiled broadly at her handiwork. She knew how much he loved that song – his song – doubtless reminiscing on the summer of 1982 when its release promised and threatened so much. The Speeding Hearts, a band on the edge, the Speeding Hearts, a band going places. Suddenly the chorus erupted:

'I'm an outsider, I'm running, I'm running, I'm an outsider, I'm on the run, I'm an outsider, I'm running, I'm running, I'm an outsider, here I come.'

As the chorus gave way, another verse of Richey's vitriol spilled out, animating Nick's foot. The chorus reprised, he smiled as the instrumental break – his instrumental break – arrived: half a minute of systematic guitar abuse, biting and inciting. Subconsciously he strummed air guitar, guiltily glancing up to make sure he hadn't been spotted, as his glorious solo drowned out the rest: Richey's pained singing, Vaughn's military-style drumming and Kirk's dull bass, perhaps the only element on the track that didn't quite excel. But then to have achieved perfection on this, their debut single, would have left nowhere to go.

The song ended in a cacophony as each attempted to outdo the other and, when the instruments had faded, all that was left was Richey's plaintive appeal, a heart-ripping wail, as if his wrists were being slashed with a blunt implement.

For the duration of the song Nick was in a different place, back in his mid twenties and on the verge of rock legend. Had Jan been upstairs, she'd have noticed a distant, almost forgotten glint in those expressive irises.

Heading for the living room, Nick found the remote, activating a widescreen TV that was habitually tuned to one of the plethora of satellite and cable music channels. A video was playing, displaying a pretty, pencil-slim female clad in faded denim with flyaway blonde locks. Though her fame was new, she was instantly recognisable as Miranda Sharp, winner of the recent Rock Hunt talent show.

The video fading, the camera cut to Miranda's face in close-up in the studio, a smile for the camera as the first question pf the interview was served up. Asked if the lack of a father figure during her formative years had spurred her on to success on Rock Hunt, Miranda explained how it had made her doubly determined to win the contest. Nick snorted and, as Jan dropped the breakfast tray on his lap, cynically Nick asserted that the starlet appeared to be exploiting the fatherless situation to try to turn sympathy into instant record sales in what would surely prove to be a brief career.

Jan smiled inwardly. Well it was asking a lot for the good mood to prevail for too long.

The interview wrapped up succinctly, the words that subsequently echoed around the room made Nick splutter on his bacon and eggs. 'Later this morning we have an exclusive: Richey Osgood will be in the studio to talk about his new single.'

The couple exchanged wide-eyed, open mouthed glances and Jan tried to assess what effect this revelation might have on her husband's fragile state of mind. It didn't take much to tip a precarious balance.

Half an hour passed before Richey was revealed in the studio in soft focus. Ten months Nick's junior, but with three lifetimes of hard-living rockstar iniquity crammed in, he was a little podgier around the jowls than the last time they'd met, the bags under the eyes more saggy and his hair cropped short.

The subsequent interview was unrevealing, leaving Nick disappointed. Now, if he were the questioner it would be a whole different story – trying to get to the core as he'd always done with Richey, firing the questions that really shouldn't be asked. Like what on earth was the man's motivation for a comeback? A millionaire several times over, why did he feel the need to resurrect a moribund career? Yes, Nick could do a far better job but, like so many other things, that life was way behind him.

Richey's latest band members made no show in the studio, though the ageing rockstar did hint that he was working with some 'exciting talent'. A mimed solo performance of the forthcoming single, introduced as 'Single-handed Attack' followed. Nick had heard better from Richey, which probably meant that this time next week it would be infecting his head.

* * *

Think of Dexy's Midnight Runners in dungarees, deelyboppers erupting from kiddies' skulls like weird alien antennae and the Kids from Fame in pink legwarmers and naturally 1982 springs to mind. 1982 was also the year the Speeding Hearts emerged onto the music scene like an unwanted rash. Too late for punk yet too early for indie, too rocky for pop yet too poppy for rock, their impact would make barely a ripple at first in a world that was not yet ready for their unique brand. Though they would of course go on to rule the later Eighties with that eclectic fusion of styles, and embrace the fame and fortune and glamour and glitz.

Yet it wasn't the glory days that interested the writer Pete Collins but the early days when life in an aspiring band was tough and heart-rending decisions framed futures. A singularly personal quest, Pete had been searching on and off for over half his twenty-eight years, encountering a mix of apathy, annoyance and disinterest. Were it not for the news that the band was about to emerge from a six-year hiatus, sparking his interest once again, Pete might have well left it. For, whilst there were things he desperately craved to know, there were other things that probably best remained secret.

This time, however, he was determined to do things properly, to find out everything there was to know, even the trivia that meant nothing other than to those with a close connection to the band and to complete the jigsaw once and for all before being able to move on with his life. But just where to begin? Richey Osgood was a non-starter, a virtual recluse these days who hated journalists with a passion, whilst the others 'in the know' were either dead or had moved on with their lives. Guitarist Nick Silver remained the only hope for Pete though he too was playing hard-to-get, five telephone messages having gone unreturned. It was time for the determined young writer to pay a visit to leafy Surrey in person.

Nice-looking house, he noted, stood in the spacious driveway, looking up at three storeys of Edwardian architecture set against the backdrop of a private golf course. Six feet tall, Pete felt dwarfed in comparison, his straggly tentacles of dirty bleached blond surfer dude hair dancing in the early morning breeze. Had it been Nick and not Jan that answered the front door, Pete's quest might have gotten no further. But after he explained his business, the amiable redhead invited him inside.

The writer followed through the well-kept living room to a study door, waiting outside like a schoolboy for the headmaster. Pete's Adam's Apple tightened in his throat as a minute passed before he was ushered in. Hands behind his back, he scanned the room, taking in an almost endless library of CD's, countless other items of musical memorabilia that would have put the Hard Rock Café to shame, walls plastered with posters of long forgotten bands and the highlight, huge jukebox.

Nick was quick on the offensive. 'So, you're the writer that won't take 'no' for an answer?'

Pete gulped, thinking on his feet. 'I wasn't aware you'd said no, seeing as you didn't return any of my messages...'

In the doorway, Jan smiled behind her hand at the young author's impudence. Nick seemed thrown off guard as Pete continued: 'Didn't you ever go to extreme lengths to get what you wanted when you were a journalist, Mr Silver?'

Nick screwed up his face. 'In my day we waited until we were invited.'

'An hour of your time is all I ask.'

'For what purpose may I ask, Mr Collins – to write about some long forgotten band that no one remembers and no one wants to read about?'

'On the contrary, Mr Silver, interest in the band has never been greater. There's a new single coming out soon and Richey's talking about going back on the road.'

Nick's eyes slanted. 'Some people just don't know when to bow out gracefully.'

'So you see Mr Silver, a whole new generation of music fans could soon be into the band.'

'Hmm, I'll believe that when I see it.'

Needing to overcome the irrational resistance, it was time for Pete to play the trump card. 'Anyhow, it's not what's happening now that I'm interested in really, but your day...you see it's the early days that fascinate me, the ones no one ever seems to talk about.'

'There's probably a good reason for that.'

Okay, here goes, the writer thought, all or nothing. 'Yes, but as far as I'm concerned 'The Outsider' has to be one of the greatest songs of the Eighties.'

Nick continued to eye him suspiciously. 'You think so huh?' he mouthed, rubbing at his chin. 'Okay then, Mr Collins, I'll give you an hour.'

Pete felt his heart lift – a breakthrough at last. 'Thank you, Mr Silver. You won't regret it, I promise. Maybe we can grab some lunch in town.'

'Okay, how does now suit you?'

'Perfect sir.'

Outside the door, keeping her distance though listening in secretly, Jan exhaled deeply. Wow, he'd actually agreed.

After Nick had grabbed his wallet, keys and phone, the couple exchanged a kiss – more than a peck – the first time in months that had happened. As Nick followed the writer to his car, from the doorway Jan waved animatedly, not quite able to believe the change in her husband. Pleased and relieved in equal measure, there was perhaps hope for the future. As positive as she could remember his mind, it seemed, was close to becoming stimulated once more, even if it was his least favourite subject – the band.

On the journey into town, demonstrating this newfound vigour, Nick telephoned Dimanche, his favourite West End restaurant that, all of a sudden, had become everybody else's favourite. It was short notice but he'd dined there for many years and was blessed with the all important secret number for avoiding the queue. A good table reserved, this would be his way of saying thank you to Jan for having put up with him for so long. Quite how she'd refrained from walking out, God only knew.

Though he presented an air of ambivalence in front of the overly keen writer, deep down Nick had become quickly excited at the prospect. Pressing fifty, this could be the opportunity he'd been waiting for, as close to fame as he might ever come. A couple of near misses along the way had culminated in the BBC contacting him a few years back to contribute to 'I Love 1991', but his offering was edited out of the final programme. No great loss anyway, it was merely paying lip service to Richey Osgood, though it would have been nice to see his face on the TV. In his own right, seeing the name 'Nick Silver' beneath articles and reviews in Rock Week magazine had been the pinnacle of a disappointing career, and something that hardly got him recognised on the street.

Nick directed Pete to the Alpha Bar in Latham Wood town centre. More accustomed to real ale pubs and quiz nights, he suspected Pete would feel at home among its young and trendy clientele, its plasma screens and barrage of noise. This was where Nick's daughter Debra dragged him for lunch every other week. Whilst the writer ordered the drinks, heading to a relatively quiet corner, Nick rehearsed the start of the story in his head.

Yet as quickly as the excitement had arisen, the inevitable second thoughts arrived. Nick blew hard, agonising over whether opening up to a stranger was the right thing to do. There was a lot of personal stuff, hurt and regret wrapped up in the tale and he could easily end up a figure of ridicule, the net widened beyond the handful of people that already knew the story. For when bad judgement was talked of, Nick Silver was exemplified in the same breath as those that conspired to lose multi million pound lottery tickets. Talking about it might just open up old wounds, wounds that had never quite healed.

Returning with the beers and taking a seat opposite, Pete smiled at the video on the screen ten feet away, Miranda Sharp's 'Hall Of Mirrors'. Mirrors everywhere in the video reflected her image, whilst some lucky young fellow with rugged features got to enjoy a roll in the hay. When she'd tired of his attention, Miranda rode off into the horizon on a white steed. The video was replaced by a fresh one, the darker and less easy on the ears and eyes, Devilicious. 'A mate of mine's a music journalist,' Pete commented. 'He has the dubious prospect of interviewing this lot soon.'

Nick was somewhat relieved Devilicious hadn't existed in his day. They made Ozzy Osbourne look like a Sunday School teacher. With a reputation that had reached even the jaded ex-journalist, the image of a trio of black robed rock chicks with clunky crucifixes and flowing raven hair seemed to have spread through the UK like the Plague. British born but having been raised on an all-female commune in the south of France, rumours abounded of dark rituals, satanic practices, deviant sexual activity and animalistic sacrifice, so much so that some panic-stricken local authorities had refused to let them play.

Their pale faces presenting an eerie negative to the black surround, the trio synchronised their scowls as guitars throbbed like erect penises and they wailed a cover of Iron Maiden's 'Bring Your Daughter To The Slaughter', sounding as if they meant it. As the guitars mutated into buzzing chainsaws, caricature male zombies were despatched, limbs and blood spewing forth as the screen flashed with the fury of an epileptic attack. The girls finished up by smashing their instruments on a spitting volcanic pyre, the middle finger of each hand held erect defiantly against the fading image.