The All Saints (Part II)

By Mei

School is out and Jimmy is finally free. In book two of the three-part All Saints series, we find our young hero flipping burgers in a grease joint. But for all the cow guts and blow flies, life has never been sweeter. He’s in a band, meeting girls and generally doing everything he can to abuse the freedoms of adulthood, without being encumbered by its responsibilities.
Of course, every story needs a bad guy. When rival band De-Funkt hit the scene with their bullish front man Kane and his new wave electro, Jimmy is determined to show them—and Kane’s girlfriend, Anna—what real music sounds like.
It was all meant to be a bit of fun, but in Jimmy’s world a lark can turn serious with a single look. Kane has secrets to keep, and the last thing he needs is a loud mouth sniffing around Anna, or the money she makes him.
Both boys will do anything they can to win, and the battle of the bands may just spill out onto the streets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mei
• Release date: Aug 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370145256

Mei

Most writers lose themselves in fantasy; it’s the troubled, semi-deranged ones that find themselves in the glaring light of the truth. Mei escaped the mean streets of Tottenham to become a successful musician and TV Line Producer, leaving the grit and grind of the working class behind in the pursuit of creative freedom. But for all the towers of gold and starry sunsets, Mei has found his greatest treasures in the dark, dirty spaces most are quick to pass over. His debut novel, Cherry Smack, follows the story of a young man trying to crawl from society’s gutter, only to discover his greatest enemy is one that might just follow him everywhere.

Book preview

THE ALL SAINTS

PART II

By

Mei

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Mei

Chapter 1

FUNKENSTEIN

You know when people say they hate someone so much they wish they were dead? asked Dean.

Yeah. replied Jimmy.

They don’t really mean it. You know when they do?

No.

When they pull the trigger.

Jimmy sat on a bench seat in Franks recounting the conversation. Franks was a burger joint in Brixton, London a crude place popular with the antisocial and unemployed. The staff canteen was frenetic. Workers on their lunch break milked every second; speed snoozing, cramming an hour’s worth into thirty minutes. 

That Dean is weird. said Jimmy.

He’s not ya know. exclaimed Simon. ‘Happiness is a Warm Gun’ played through tinny speakers. Listen, hear that? Fucking cuckoo. Lennon wrote that, you wouldn’t say he’s mad would ya?

Not you too. Dean’s nuts. Are you chums now? Is that it?

I like the stuff he says. And you know the best part? Jimmy shook his head.

He plays drums.

Jimmy and Pra were in Kael’s band Funkenstein.  Without a drummer they were going nowhere fast. Their old drummer left for a rival band, De-Funkt, because unlike Funkenstein, De-Funkt had gigs. Drummers were hard to come by as to play you needed either a deaf neighborhood or cash for a rehearsal space. Simon had volunteered to manage Funkenstein so the task to find a replacement fell upon him.

He eased Dean forward for consideration. He’s a session drummer.

Jimmy was taken aback, suitably impressed. He wouldn’t be interested in us.

Ah, I thought he was nuts?

Yeah, alright you got me. So what do we do now?

Leave it up to me.

Dean worked at Franks to top up his pay. Session work was light on the ground, not much call for funk drummers in Peckham. It was the 80s, Electro and New Wave Romantics had taken over. Most bands packed 808 drum pads or if you had the money the ubiquitous Linn.

He’s a purist, hates playing on shit tracks for money,

A purist working at Franks, give me a break.

"I’m serious. He loves JB, Funkadelic, Monk."

"Monk, shit. Kael will love that,"

Jimmy was the lead singer, a slick dude, easy going. If Elvis was Caribbean he’d look like Jimmy, tall dark and absurdly good looking. Simon was short and stocky, hard as nails, a British bulldog ruggedly fierce but could turn on the charm when need be. Pra, the bassist, was as honest as the day is long. He took no non-sense unless it was from the boys. A Kenyan born Indian, he was a refugee, orphaned and brought up as a foster kid from the age of five.

Simon booked a room at a youth club off Tottenham Lane, an old crumbling prefab marked for demolition. The rehearsal space was tatty, cluttered with archive boxes, twitchy amps and a drum kit. Jimmy and Kael arrived early, keen to get started.

Can he play? I mean what do you know about him? asked Kael.

"Si says he’s good, no worries if he's shit