And the Music Plays On

By Peter Harrison

King Coal was a world famous four-piece sixties rock band. Between the years 1960 and 1962 the group reigned supreme. The band hit the top spot twice in the U.K. and the U.S.A. With millions of records sold, worldwide adulation and respect from fans and industry alike, the boys from the North-East of England imagined the dream would last forever.
Ryan Dove was the group’s lead singer and the sanest member of the band. Bill Bleasdale, the group’s songwriter and lead guitarist, was a drunk with a penchant for teenage girls. Nathan Diamond was the drug-addled drummer whose behaviour made crazies like Keith Moon and Jim Morrison look like choirboys. Finally, there was Johnny Blower, the group’s base guitarist. His showbiz image of a heavy-drinking Lothario was a front. It was true about his penchant for alcohol. But a womaniser? Johnny had problems. Gender issues.
Their manager, Neville Warrior, the multi-millionaire Cockney had the pop industry in his vice-like grip. Like-minded pop stars like Terry Dene, Vince Eager and Dickie Pride followed in the footsteps of King Coal and signed their lives away to the streetwise, shrewd Londoner.
But then, only a few short years later, Brian Epstein – an inconsequential manager of a record shop in the North West of England - was persuaded to visit a local club and listen to an obscure band called The Beatles.
Within months of the coming of the Liverpool sound, King Coal’s record sales collapsed. Within a year they were no longer headline acts in major venues. After five years they were doing the rounds of minor nightclubs and workingmen’s clubs. The group became yesterday’s men. Disenchanted and struggling to earn a crust, King Coal soldiered on as they slid inevitably into mediocrity, surviving on memories.
Struggling to persuade a fledgling management company to sign them, the band drowned their sorrows in a nearby pub and meet by chance a small group of women claiming to be fans of the group. Accompanying the middle-age females was teenager Annie Shah. While the besotted Ryan Dove falls under the spell of the alluring, yet troubled young lady, the group’s songwriter and lead guitarist, Bill Bleasdale, is bowled over with the antics of thirty-something Ella Gatenby, a pushy ex-cop ready to move hell and high water to persuade naïve Bill to start a relationship.
Were the females bone fide fans of the group or was there some ulterior motive for their arrival on the scene because within weeks of their meeting the group implodes: one member dies, another is hospitalised after a brutal assault, and a third makes a life-changing career choice. A disillusioned Ryan Dove packs his bags and heads for home, his world out of kilter, his future uncertain.
But was it over for the band?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barny Books
• Release date: Jan 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463813720

Book preview

Present Day. 1972

Acton, West London

Ryan Dove lived with long-term partner, Gretchen Laine, in a downstairs rented flat, a stone’s throw from the railway station. The owner of the building, Mo Patel, lived in the upper apartment with his wife and four children.

Ryan had met his fiery partner five years earlier when Ryan and Bill Bleasdale were enjoying a beer in Ryan’s local pub, The White Hart, the pair waiting patiently for fellow band members, Nathan Diamond and John Blower to arrive.

At the furthest end of the public bar, on the small raised stage, a pensioner raised the saxophone to his lips and began playing his version of Acker Bilk’s million seller Stranger on the shore. The old man, painfully thin, with a hardened, aloof expression, was being barracked by a small, unruly group of youths. Timothy Green, sixty-six years old and a former saxophonist with the Chris Barber Band ten years earlier – sacked for alcoholism – periodically put aside his instrument as he bravely chastised his youthful tormentors.

Barmaid, Gretchen Laine, could take no more. Small, rotund and with a fetching smile, she put down the tray of empty glasses, strode towards the heckling, immature louts and began scolding them. The youths, boisterous and brave because of their intake of alcohol, retaliated as only the young know how. They began cat-calling and chanting; circling the hot-tempered barmaid, occasionally prodding and poking her in the most intimate places.

Timothy Green, former sergeant in the Grenadier Guards, abandoned his instrument, stepped off the miniature stage and waded bravely into the fracas. His first punch caught one of the protagonists squarely on the temple. The younger man, pumped up with adrenalin, staggered slightly before recovering. Without a moment’s hesitation the bully floored the old man with a flurry of punches.

The assault stirred Gretchen Laine into action. Without a moment’s hesitation, the fiery female ran at the chortling tough and thumped him on the nose. The youth collapsed in a heap, dazed and bleeding. Gretchen leapt on the floundering figure and proceeded to pummel him. The other youths rushed the out-of-control female, dragging her to her feet; manhandling her.

Ryan and Bill exchanged glances, put down their drinks and walked into the melee. Bill Bleasdale was a big man; six feet three, solidly built with hardened, lived-in features. He wore a battered leather Stetson and matching waistcoat. His colleague was a little under six feet, ruggedly handsome, with thick black hair. He was dressed casually; jeans, moccasins, short-sleeved shirt. His muscular arms were covered in tattoos.

In moments the battle was over. The newcomers scattered the trouble-makers, forcing them from the pub. A cheer went up. A toff in a suit, standing at the far end of the bar counter, ordered drinks for everyone present.

Months later Gretchen Laine persuaded Ryan Dove to leave his bed-sit in Shepherd’s Bush – and his flatmate, Bill Bleasdale - and move in with her. Her landlord, Mohammad Patel, more Jew than Muslim, increased her rent accordingly ……

I’m not trying to start an argument, said Gretchen, saying it like it was. But maybe it’s time you took your head out of your arse and faced facts. The group’s never had a hit in years. The days of filling arenas are long gone. The group’s sales are dire. Remind me where you played your last gig?

I forget! said Ryan, trying to forestall the escalating argument.

You forget? Days ago, and you can’t remember? I’ll remind you: Slough Social Club! uttered Gretchen adamantly. The gig commenced prompt eight-o-clock and lasted less than an hour! If Bill Bleasdale hadn’t have threatened the club treasurer the group wouldn’t have been paid!

That was Nathan’s fault!

It’s always Nathan’s bloody fault! Tell me why you don’t sack him? He’s a bloody liability; not only an alcoholic but an addict to boot!

We grew up together! You know the history, replied Ryan loyally. Nathan’s had a rough upbringing.

Me too! But do I snort cocaine or inject heroin?

Best drummer in the business once!

Why the hell are you defending him? How many times have you lost shows because the little squirt forgot to turn up; or worst still, turned up legless? What happened in Hayes two weeks ago?

Nathan bought some second-grade stuff, said Ryan, trying to defend his lifelong pal. He had a bad reaction.

So true, said Gretchen, smirking like a hyena on speed. Didn’t he smash a cymbal over the head of some committee member!

He thought the chairman was staring at him.

It’s called paranoia!

Nathan was having an off-night.

They’re happening more and more!

Silence fell over the room. Loud and uncomfortable for the couple.

It’s what I do! replied Ryan, breaking the stalemate. It’s what I’ve always done!

So, explain your dreams of owning your own music shop?

What about it? It’s an on-going idea, a natural progression for the band. We all know our instruments. John is a wizard with the base guitar; Bill is multi-talented: guitar, piano, organ. And as for Nathan; not only can he drum better than Sandy Nelson, but he knows everything and anything connected with show business.

Who the hell is Sandy Nelson?

Okay! Ringo Starr then!

So, jump in! Rent a shop! Ryan, I can even picture the interior. You’ve told me so many times how you would design it: one section for instruments, then a record section, another for memorabilia.

It’s not the time, said Ryan, grimacing under the onslaught. The others aren’t keen. They still think there’s a few good years left as a band.

No offence Ryan but do you really need anyone else to make the venture successful? It’s your baby, your idea. Make the jump alone.

It’s the pulling power of the band that will make the shop a success!

You’re too close to the woods to see the trees!

Ryan rolled his eyes. He sighed, held his tongue knowing what was coming.

There’s only you who has the personality and the drive to make it work. The others have problems.

Ryan shrugged his shoulders and waited for the insults that he had heard so many times before.

Bill Bleasdale can’t make it through the day without alcohol, snapped Gretchen. Nathan is permanently doped. John has gender problems. Your words not mine!"

It’s the stress of touring.

Of course it is, replied Gretchen sardonically. Always on the road, sharing hotel rooms, sorry bed-sits. No matter how you feel the show must go on. I get it Ryan, I really do!

You really need medication, Gretchen. The sarcasm is spreading!

Their eyes met in a blaze of angst. Lasted moments. It was the woman who threw a lifeline. I’m sorry Ryan. I’ve said things I shouldn’t have, said Gretchen, rolling her eyes. She reached across the telephone table and clutched a wad of energy bills. But the reality is we’re struggling to pay these. Stand in my shoes. I work six days a week for Acton Letting Agency plus three nights a week serving drinks at the White Hart and still can’t pay bills.

Jesus Christ, change the bloody record! exclaimed Ryan, exasperated, his temper broken. Tell me again! You put bread on the table!

And you piss it down the toilet!

That’s not fair!

The group thing isn’t working anymore Ryan! It hasn’t worked for years! You’d make more drawing benefits.

It’s my life! When I was sixteen and just starting my apprenticeship, I met Bill, Johnny and Nathan. It was Bill Bleasdale who made us think of the bigger picture!

My opinion, you should have finished your bloody apprenticeship! At least you’d be on regular money.

Yeah, yeah, I’m hearing you loud and clear!

Don’t you think it’s about time you faced the real world? Gretchen stood and began pacing the floor. She stopped suddenly, shrugging her ample shoulders, You were sixteen, yes?

Peterlee Technical College. Bill showed me and Johnny how to pluck a few chords on a banjo.

And Nathan?

He already had a drum-kit.

So, tell me, how old was Bill Bleasdale? Gretchen asked dryly. I’ll tell you! He was twenty-five, maybe twenty-six when you first met up with him! And when was that?

Sometime. Late 1957, give or take a few months!

Right! And now it’s bloody 1972! Want to work out the years you lot have been on the road?

Work it out yourself!

And in all those years, spat Gretchen, how many were money-making?

Most of the sixties!

I mean big money, not minimum wages!

Four years, give or take

And have you nothing to show for it?

Despite the relationship hitting the five-year mark, Ryan was still unsure of their future together. He had secrets that he could have shared, would have shared if Gretchen wasn’t the person she was. Admittedly she had her good points. She was hard-working. Honest too. A little too honest for Ryan if the truth be told. Gretchen did not suffer fools gladly. Called a spade a spade. Like today, not for the first time was he getting a tongue-lashing. Perhaps that was why he had never mentioned his one asset to his fiery partner. Too late now. Five years too late. Admitting he owned a large detached, four-bedroomed house in Durham would have started a war and Gretchen, true to form after any major argument, would have shown him the door. More than once in the past few years, Ryan had returned to his old bedsit and pleaded with Bill Bleasdale for room and board. Gretchen imagined the house in Easington Village was his parent’s family home. It would stay that way for the present, until he was sure that the relationship would last.

We were young. We enjoyed ourselves.

So, you burned your bridges, you blew all of your money?

Not all of it! Neville kept a percentage of our money! How many times do I have to tell you, it was invested. It’s the band’s pension pot. In a few years we can start drawing it.

Neville Warrior was a showbiz legend, one of the biggest and most powerful pop impresarios in the U.K.

You honestly believe that garbage? said Gretchen, interrupting.

It’s true, Gretchen! All the guys signed on the dotted line, shook hands with some investment lawyer hired by Neville.

Name?

Say what?

What was the name of the lawyer?

I forget.

Okay. Show me the papers, the legal document that shows the four signatures!

Five!

Five?

Ryan hesitated, Neville Warrior signed too.

Show me the document!

It’s in Neville’s safe, said Ryan awkwardly. We were always on the road at the time. Not just the U.K. but Europe, America. None of us had put down roots …

How many times have I begged you to have a face to face with Neville Warrior? said Gretchen, interrupting.

Every fucking week!

Does it make you feel better swearing, heighten the effect, give you a little boost?

Ryan’s demeanour darkened. He placed hands on hips, lowering his torso until their noses almost touched, I’ll tell you, Herr General! He straightened, towering over his diminutive partner, not too close to risk a slap from her. I saw Neville two weeks ago!

And he put your mind at ease?

Totally!

If you had a brain, muttered Gretchen, leering, you’d be dangerous!

Ryan flushed with anger. It did not deter the little dragon from putting the boot in.

Deluded and stupid! she snapped. "In all those years you’ve allowed some shark to hang on to some of your earnings on the pretence that he was the middleman to some investment guru? Are you telling me it was beyond your comprehension to find your own lawyer, to look after your own money?"

I trust him!

You’re naïve, Ryan! retorted Gretchen, thinking about silk from sow’s ears.

Neville guided the group from mediocrity to stardom; from workingmen’s clubs to some of the biggest stadiums in the world!

And for the last few years you’re back to working in clubs and pubs! Don’t you get it? Your time is over! It was over five years ago!

Kick me while I’m down why don’t you!

All I’m saying is, maybe it’s time for a career change. Your idea – the music shop – is a good bet. It would work.

Shaking his head despairingly, Ryan left the table and walked into the living-room. He stood, forlorn and desperate, gazing from the window. Rain rattled noisily against the pane. A low clinging mist exacerbated the dreariness of the day. People trundled past, their heads bowed under the onslaught of the dire weather. A continuous line of traffic trudged slowly past. The evening was miserable. He was miserable. Ryan took a deep breath and continued defending his boss.

Neville’s been our manager for years! he said. You have to remember, when we first got started, he ignored the big boys at Decca and London when they tried to persuade us to work alongside songwriters and session musicians to work with the band. Way back then Neville Warrior was like some Guardian Angel. He believed in Bill Bleasdale as a songwriter. Gretchen, you have to understand that.

I do, Gretchen replied grudgingly. Thought she might cut him some slack knowing full well the argument was about to explode. Last thing she wanted was Ryan throwing his toys out of the cot and running to his old pal’s Shepherd’s Bush bedsit and blowing what pittance he made on drink and drugs and girls. Reigning in her temper, Gretchen backtracked, Ryan, it’s just at times, well, it’s like we’re always robbing Peter to pay Paul.

Couple of years and we’ll be sitting pretty.

Call me a clown but I think Neville has placed the group’s money into some offshore account.

I agree with you. He’s probably banked it abroad. I imagine the dividends will be bigger overseas.

Gretchen groaned with despair. She looked directly at Ryan, Give me a figure, a rough guess. How much do you think the group’s made over the years?

Millions.

Neville Warrior lives in a mansion near the city centre. We’re living in a flea-pit, like the rest of the band. Gretchen grimaced, adding, Am I missing something, Ryan?

Chapter 2

Doncaster, Yorkshire. One week later

Sadie Beecham’s bed and breakfast

Neville Warrior is on a life support machine? said Ryan Dove, lead singer of the band, King Coal. The swarthy, handsome, twenty-nine-year-old sat upright in the chair, clearly shocked at the news. Our manager is comatose! Are you sure?

Here, read it yourself! spat Bill Bleasdale, lead guitarist and the group’s songwriter, scratting nicotine fingers through his thick permed tresses. Married and divorced twice, the forty-year-old was the oldest member of the band. Red-eyed and trembling, the virtual giant put aside the spliff, reached for the cider and drained the bottle.

Ryan grabbed the newspaper and scanned the headlines, his mouth slack with shock, Who the hell is Lennie Spangle?

According to the rag, replied Bill, he’s Neville’s piece of skirt.

Neville Warrior is a married man. He has a wife, a twenty-five-year-old son?

Maybe it was a front. It won’t be the first time someone has tried to hide his true feelings from friends and family.

Overdose, both of them! said Ryan, scanning the page. Lennie Spangle is dead; Neville is fighting for his life!

Had to be an accident, think?

Nodding, Ryan abandoned the newspaper. He gestured at the bedroom door, Maybe we should wake the others?

Bass guitarist John Blower, the lanky, laid-back guitarist; and drummer Nathan Diamond, the band’s diminutive, drug-addled drummer, had drunk themselves into a stupor after the poorly-attended gig at The Trilogy Club in the town’s Silver Street the previous night.

Is that wise? said Bill Bleasdale, opening a second bottle of cider.

We have to get back to London, said Ryan. Warrior’s offices. We need the legal stuff cleared up. Our future’s on the line.

Seriously? asked Bill, frowning. I thought Neville was in charge of his company, Bonanza Enterprises. You know, shareholders and the like? If he kicks the bucket doesn’t someone else take over the helm?

Neville Warrior is a one-man band! As for the company, it’s not a public company with thousands of shareholders. It’s a private company, more like a sole trader or a partnership. It’ll consist of him or close members of his family. If he dies or stays a vegetable, it’s likely the company will be wound up!

Get you! uttered Bill, more than a little impressed with his pal’s knowledge of the law. Sole traders, partnerships, what the hell Ryan, are you making this up as you go along?

There’s more in a newspaper than sports pages!

Hey, I read the headlines!

Business pages?

Stop being a smart arse! Bill Bleasdale stretched and yawned. His shirt was day’s old and showed dull, grey patches under his armpits. Let’s not jump to conclusions. Neville is as tough as old boots. He might pull through it.

Even if he did, how can it ever be the same?

I don’t follow?

Neville has a family. Bad enough being caught with his pants down, but with a male prostitute?

Bill Bleasdale winced, Something to think about I suppose.

With enough cocaine pumping through his veins to knock down a horse!

I never read that?

The newspaper inferred as much. There were sachets of the stuff found everywhere!

As Ryan continued to gleam information from the newspaper, Bill Bleasdale said, You don’t think it’s our money Neville’s wasting on dope? He pondered, his features pinched with concern, You know, I haven’t had any royalties this year.

We’ve had no sales this year! was the curt reply. Ryan, still unhappy the way Bill gleamed every penny from the sales despite the occasional help or prompt from members of the band when he used to struggle with the odd lyric or key change. The newspaper was discarded. We only had few sales the year before!

Royalties are paid in arrears! said Bill testily, expertly depositing the remains of the spiff into the neck of the empty cider bottle. We sold quite a few the year before last! You forgetting Germany? Then there was the Poland tour before that!

Germany was ‘67. Poland was in ‘65. Half-empty venues. I remember that.

We still made enough … Neville was happy!

Neville might have been happy! snapped Ryan. I wasn’t. What about you?

Bill pulled a second smoke from the breast pocket of his shirt, found matches and lit up. He took a deep draught, shrugging his shoulders.

Since when did we ever see any real money? continued Ryan Dove, Gretchen’s words of woe ringing though his thoughts. In all of ‘59 we averaged £200 a week and shared it between the four of us. Work it out, man. £50 quid each! Even when the hits happened, and we made thousands of pounds every week for the firm, we were never given more than £50 each. Now we’re back to playing workingmen’s clubs in between bingo sessions and we’re still pocketing pennies!

Give over, Ryan. Twelve years ago the average wage was maybe £20. You’ve just said we pocketed £50 a week! We were naïve! We blew a fortune in those days! Bill Bleasdale took a deep reflective breath, Thank Christ we allowed Neville to hold on to some of it.

Ryan Dove nodded miserably. Wondered when he should voice his concerns about their manager’s business acumen.

Neville knew we’d waste our money, continued Bill Bleasdale. He knows all about investments. Neville is no dummy. Remember his words of warning, remember what he said? I’ll tell you! He said no group, no singer, rarely lasts more than five years! Look at Little Richard, the Everly Brothers. In Britain, Tommy Steele, Marty Wilde, Adam Faith!

So how come Cliff Richard and Elvis still make the top ten?

Stop nit-picking Ryan! snapped Bill. I could mention Emile Ford or Eden Kane! You know what I mean! Most of us have a limited shelf-life!

Maybe you have a point, Ryan wondering if it was the right time to share his worries about their manager’s investments.

Ninety-nine percent of the time I’m right! exclaimed Bill Bleasdale. What are we talking, six maybe seven years since the Liverpool Boom fizzled out? Most of those groups now are scraping a living like us! Billy J. Kramer, Jerry and the Pacemakers, Freddie and the Dreamers? They were like us: number-one records here and America. Now they’re yesterday’s men. No one wants to listen to them anymore. The teenagers who bought their records have grown up and married. The new kids want 10cc, Marc Bolan, Alvin Stardust … Rod Stewart. There’s a lot of us on the same sinking boat!

I’m on your side, it’s just …

Neville’s Warrior hasn’t stayed top of the pile because he’s lucky! exclaimed Bill, interrupting. He’s one shrewd operator! Without him I would have squandered most of what I’ve earned. Thanks to Neville’s investments we’re all sitting pretty!

Ryan decided to share his concerns, Did I tell you I asked Neville when we could start drawing from our pension-pots?

When was that? asked Bill, his tone suddenly suspicious.

The last time we were in his office. Maybe four weeks ago.

So how come I never heard you say a single thing?

Because you and Nathan were in the bloody toilet snorting coke!

Bill pondered for moments before smiling sheepishly. I suppose it proves my point. We’d all be skint by now if we’d had access to our dough.

Want me to finish?

Sorry man.

"So, I said, Neville, any chance of taking a slice of our investment, only I’m sick of living on the breadline. You know what he said, straight-faced too? Another year Ryan. I’m talking to Decca about a Greatest Hits Album. Plus, did I tell you the group might be headlining a U.K. Golden Oldies tour. Another year, and you can retire … His very words."

We’d be the headline act? That’s cool.

He didn’t sound too convincing so I pushed him on who exactly we’d be sharing a tour bus with. And you know what, he struggled to give me one concrete name. Finally told me he was negotiating with Jack Scott’s manager. Can you remember him?

"He’s American, maybe Canadian. Sings mainly ballads: My True Love: What In The World’s Come Over You. Both number ones in America. Poor sales over here though! The big man sighed, adding, He was huge in the late fifties. 1958; ’59. We’d just abandoned skiffle."

Anyway, Neville’s on full throttle now. He tells me there was a hell of a chance Frankie Ford would be teaming up with Jack Scott. Two Americans for the price of one. Said Ford was massive in the U.S.A.

"He was a one-hit wonder: Sea Cruise the record. I remember Micky Most covering it before he went into management. He looks after The Animals and Herman’s Hermits now … Micky Most."

Okay, back to the story, said Ryan Dove. I think Neville was getting a little peeved at my negativity because he started throwing English names in the hat. Said he was negotiating with James Darren and Craig Douglas to join us on the tour.

James Darren was never a headliner. As for Craig Douglas? He’s in the same boat as us.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, Neville tries to persuade me to wait awhile; that a Greatest Hits album, plus the tour, will net us big money. Once we get that out of the way Neville hinted maybe a farewell tour around the U.K. then we should split.

Neville said that? Bill looked crestfallen. We should retire?

Either that or change big time. Spray sparkle on our bouffant hair, find some platform boots. That was the gist of it.

Glam rock? said Bill. Bowie, Bolan, Sweet? Glitter? We do that anyway!

It’s funny you should mention Gary Glitter because Neville suddenly started reminiscing. Out of the blue he was down Memory Lane giving me the gossip on him … Told me he’d been in the business donkey’s years.

When I think about it, Glitter is no spring chicken.

According to Neville, continued Ryan. "Glitter’s real name is Paul Gadd. In ‘62 he took the stage name Paul Raven and had a few records. One was Tower of Strength. It was a hit for Gene McDaniels in America and Frankie Vaughan in this country. In ‘69 he changed his name to Paul Monday when he copied George Harrison’s Here Comes The Sun. It was another flop."

I never knew that.

It’s true, said Ryan. I asked Nathan.

Nathan Diamond, the group’s whacky drummer, had an encyclopaedic knowledge of all things showbiz.

According to Nathan the only thing Neville missed out, continued Ryan, was the toupee Glitter wears.

Typical Nathan, snorted Bill Bleasdale, adding, So it was third time lucky for Glitter? he mused. Just look at him now. He’s one of the biggest acts in the country!

Whatever! I told Neville we couldn’t do that. Okay for Gadd to have multiple personalities because he was a nothing. We had hit after hit! People know us. We’d be laughed off the stage!

We have to be careful Ryan, said Bill Bleasdale. If Neville recovers from this mess, and I hope to God he does, we shouldn’t be upsetting him. If he ditches us we’ll find it hard getting another manager. Especially with a dead-weight like Nathan!

Drummer Nathan Diamond’s drug-fuelled exploits were legendary. None of the larger hotel chains would accommodate the band after one particularly boisterous tour in the early sixties.

Nathan has calmed down lately, said Ryan, still loyal to his childhood friend.

We could have been sacked because of Nathan’s antics! continued Bill. "But no, Neville stayed faithful to us. He could easily have dropped us like he dropped Dickie Pride, and Dickie was the best of the bunch. Remember his record: Primrose Lane?"

Yeah, catchy tune. Dickie Pride was some showman! Billy Fury said his live shows couldn’t be topped.

Poor bastard, said Bill sympathetically. He gets sacked and goes big time on the cocaine. Spends time in a mental institution, then has a lobotomy in 1967. He died two years later.

Neville sacked Dickie for being a junkie and all the while he’s injecting!

People in glass houses, eh?

The discussion stalled as the pair mulled over the implications of the breaking news.

My point is this! Ryan said earnestly. I called to see Neville Warrior. I wanted a heart to heart about our investments. I told him about my worries and how did he react? He manipulated the conversation, turned it on its head and promised us gold, but not today or tomorrow but sometime soon!

Meaning it was his way of deflecting the real question?

Yes.

And you think he was conning you about the U.K. tour?

Filled my head with make-believe about who’d share the stage with us on some daydream tour then he turned on the drivel about the likes of Gary Glitter. Maybe it was his was of derailing the conversation!

It was all lies?

I didn’t think it was at the time, said Ryan. I do now!

Noises from the adjoining room made the pair stop talking. The voices grew louder. Nathan Diamond and John Blower were arguing.

Here we go again, said Bill sardonically, the debate shelved temporarily. Handbags at dawn.

Nathan Diamond, touching thirty, lurched into view. Apart from a gaudy coloured tie, Nathan was as naked as the day he was born. The one-time svelte, diminutive drummer - married at eighteen and divorced a year later and now sporting a permanent, pendulous stomach - hurried to the toilet, clashing the door noisily behind him.

A moment later, John Blower appeared. The lanky, balding guitarist was dressed in the previous night’s attire: yellow pantaloons and black satin blouse. He joined his friends, nodding a greeting at the smirking pair.

Trouble? asked Ryan.

No sleep, replied John, grimacing.

Nathan?

Night terrors. You must have heard him?

I slept like a log, said Ryan, smiling broadly.

Me too, said Bill.

Chapter 3

An hour later all four band members sat around the small dining- table in the back room of Sadie Beecham’s bed and breakfast; the dilapidated house situated in one of the side streets close to Doncaster’s main street. Sadie, in her late seventies and partially deaf, had periodically housed the band over the years. Desperate for income, the landlady usually turned a blind eye to the boys’ often lewd behaviour.

Want anything else, boys? asked Sadie, appearing from the poky kitchen. She began clearing the table. Coffee and cake?

Three beers Sadie, said Nathan Diamond, fully dressed and mulling over the sports pages of Bill’s newspaper. And a coffee for Ryan.

No problem, son, the old girl replied. She smiled awkwardly showing pink gums, Don’t suppose you boys could pay me something on account only Neville Warrior hasn’t covered the last trip. I normally wouldn’t ask but times are hard.

We’ll do a whip-round Sadie, said Ryan Dove. Cash it is.

Thanks Ryan, replied the landlady, smiling broadly. It’s appreciated I’m sure.

Once Sadie Beecham was out of sight, thirty-year-old John Blower attacked his colleague, What the hell, Ryan! he spat venomously. We need every penny!

The transit needs tyres and we’re in Stockton, playing The Fiesta Club in three days! exclaimed Bill Bleasdale. Getting money for repairs from Neville’s secretary is like getting blood out of a stone!

Billingham! said John, butting in. Billingham Forum not Stockton!

You’re splitting hairs, man! replied Bill, his voice raised.

What didn’t you two understand? snapped Ryan Dove. We’ve spend the last half an hour discussing Neville Warrior!

He’ll be okay, said Bill Bleasdale.

And if he croaks?

We find another manager.

That’s no easy task, said John Blower, butting in. Especially with the baggage!

Ryan grimaced, puzzled.

John gestured at the slumped figure of Nathan Diamond, pawing over the newspaper. Now do you get it?

The penny finally dropped. Ryan sighed. Bill nodded in agreement.

A sixth sense made Nathan glance up. Unnerved at being the centre of attention, he asked, Something wrong?

We need your input, Nathan! said Bill Bleasdale.

Sure!

Well?

Well what?

We’re discussing Neville Warrior!

Neville, mused Nathan, trying to focus, his thoughts muddled. He put aside the newspaper, I never knew he was a faggot. Is that what you mean?

Ryan Dove winced. John groaned inwardly. Bill Bleasdale retorted to sarcasm, Go back to the showbiz page, Nathan, he said. We’ll fill you in later.

Nathan smiled weakly, shrugging his shoulders, Hey, I’m all ears, man. He put aside the newspaper, You’ve got my undivided attention.

Ryan patiently regurgitated his concerns to a somewhat chastised Nathan Diamond.

Car crash! said the band’s drummer. Do we have a plan?

I have an idea, offered Ryan, suddenly inspired.

All three band members gave Ryan their undivided attention.

Here me out, okay? said Ryan Dove, pensively. When we do the rounds of gigs we normally collect cheques or cash from Club secretaries or treasurers; named cheques with Bonanza Enterprises on them. As a rule, we take the pile of cheques back to Neville Warrior’s secretary and that’s the end of it. Right?

And then some office clerk hands over our wages for the week, said Bill.

My opinion, pushed Ryan. We change that. Neville Warrior might never leave the hospital. So, if we hand over cheques to Alice Blanding, who might still be his secretary but don’t be surprized if some stranger - an executor – is waiting with his hand outstretched. The way I see it, we won’t see a penny piece until Neville’s either back to the land of the living or he dies, and we have to wait until his last will and testament is read out. That might take months. Remember, if he kicks the bucket, there’ll have to be a post mortem.

And we’re still making decent money! exclaimed Nathan.

A month ago we hit £4000 in one week! said John Blower.

That was because we played two gigs at Sunderland Empire, said Bill. The North-East crowd are still loyal.

And how much did we put in our pockets? quizzed Ryan, sticking in the knife, bursting Bill’s balloon.

Couple of hundred each.

So we have to change things, we can’t wait for some pay-out. said John Blower, stretching his long legs while subconsciously toying with his receding hairline.

You know what bastards those club treasurers can be! offered Bill Bleasdale. They’ll have the cheques already written out.

Not for the last few months, said Ryan adamantly. Neville used to ask for a standard price but since the crowds have deserted us they tend to wait until the tickets are sold.

So what’s the plan? asked Bill.

I type a letter pretending I’m Neville Warrior. Not only do I type the letter but I sign as if I’m Neville Warrior! said Ryan confidently. He smiled at the others, adding, Neville mentions, due to a legal technicality with his current bank, he must be paid in cash or, if the club insists on giving us a cheque, it must be made out in the name of Ryan Dove.

Since when did you learn to type? asked Nathan Diamond.

His sweetheart, Gretchen the Rottweiler will do it, said a sardonic Bill Bleasdale. Isn’t that right, Ryan?

Don’t go there, Bill!

Hey, I’m only repeating what you’ve called her!

She gets a little uppity now and then, snapped Ryan awkwardly. It’s a woman thing.

Tell me again, asked a sneering Bill. How many times has the little lady threw you out?

Part and parcel, isn’t it?

Maybe for you. Never for me! No woman would ever tell me what to do!

How many times you been married, Bill? asked John, a twinkle in his eye.

I walked away twice! The little ladies are still pining after me, matter of fact!

Good housekeepers, offered Nathan, smirking. Didn’t the pair snare a house from you?

What gives with you lot? I mention Ryan’s a soft touch and I’m jumped on, snapped Bill Bleasdale, his heckles rising. He glanced at Ryan Dove. You don’t mind a little ribbing, do you, Ryan?

It’s past its sell-buy date, Ryan replied curtly. He filled his chest, suddenly weary of the insults, the current dilemma temporarily shelved. People in glass houses, man!

What’s that supposed to mean?

Some people can give it but can’t take it, all I’m saying.

I’m waiting!

You really want to know?

Fire away Ryan!

Okay! The Brighton gig last month!

Brighton? muttered Bill, chortling darkly. Man, I can’t remember last week never mind last bloody month!

The school kid with the same name as the Moors Murderer? Ryan said, Told us her family were on a weekend break. Lived in East Ham.

Myra, uttered Nathan Diamond, butting in. Myra Quigley.

I remember her. Got us to sign our autographs on her tee-shirt, uttered Bill Bleasdale, chortling. She was a looker!

Pushy little tart, said John Blower. Flirted with Ryan then latched on to Nathan.

I told her to get back to the classroom, said Nathan interrupting.

Wanted a notch on her belt, said Bill, my opinion.

Is that why you dragged her into the broom closet? asked Ryan, a steely look in his eyes, his tone icy.

I gave her a kiss and a cuddle! said the big man defensively. I was in there a couple of seconds before you spoiled my plans!

And if I hadn’t dragged little Myra from your clutches?

It was legal! exclaimed an indignant Bill Bleasdale. She told me she was sixteen!

She didn’t look sixteen!

Give it a rest, replied Bill gruffly. It was a one-off!

A one-off, really? Maybe I should remind you about our second American tour. 1962. Miami. Remember the shit-storm you created.

No doubt you’re about to remind me of some little transgression of mine?

Those twins from Tupelo, Elvis’s home town?

Bill Bleasdale paled.

You’re not smiling, said Ryan, his brow furrowed.

Oh that, replied Bill, struggling to retain control of his emotions. Hey, I apologised to their uncle. Didn’t we give him a roll of cash to keep his trap shut?

You had nothing to do with it! We locked you in the hotel while we searched out their uncle. Three of us apologised! Three of us filled his pockets with dollar bills.

I was a little worse for wear. Could have sworn those dinky cheerleaders were over the legal age.

I thought the same as Bill, said John, metaphorically offering the peace-pipe. It’s all that powder and paint they were wearing.

Come on, Bill. You tried to ape Jerry Lee, snapped Nathan, ignoring John’s defence of his pal.

Say what?

Jerry Lee Lewis wooed and then wed his thirteen-year-old cousin. It destroyed his career … You could have destroyed ours!

They wanted to spend some time with me, he said awkwardly. I obliged.

This is the U.K. not the U.S.A., said Nathan Diamond. Legal in the deep south. Illegal over here! You should grow up, man!

Bill mused for seconds. Despite the passage of time he still had nightmares about the Tupelo Twins. The guys knew about the twins. They did not know about the Scarborough incident two years ago or the York shenanigans months earlier. That would certainly put the cat amongst the pigeons. It would certainly mean the demise of the group.

Bill! said Nathan dryly. Say something!

Bill Bleasdale struggled from the stupor and tried to focus. He thought about the south coast gig. He had nothing to hide about that night. He was as innocent as the driven snow. The Brighton gig? I did nothing wrong and that’s the truth!

So when her old man almost took the changing-room door off its hinges you didn’t feel obliged to face him?

Lolita was with us minutes! That old goat came with his threats two hours later! You can’t reason with someone who’s acting like a psychopath! I locked the door! I didn’t see anyone objecting!

The old goat was her father, said John Blower. He couldn’t have been that old.

Figuratively speaking! snapped Bill, his heckles rising. He sounded old!

He sounded drunk, said John.

Yeah, my point exactly! exclaimed Bill, on his high horse now. He eyed the others, If her father was so concerned about his precious daughter he should kept her on a long lease instead of propping up the bar!

Silence followed as all four exchanged glances, nodding, wincing unconsciously at the memories.

I made a dumb mistake. Bill Bleasdale put aside his pride and grovelled, I was out of order. It’ll not happen again, okay?

Ryan Dove lifted an arm, waving the white flag, Back to business?

We’re listening Ryan, said John.

Gretchen works in an estate agents, said Ryan Dove, trying to make light of the earlier insults. She can easily fudge stationery so that it looks authentic.

Ryan, I’m thinking, grunted Nathan Diamond, suddenly suspicious. Why does the cheque have to be made out to you?

No reason, replied Ryan, matter of fact. I thought with Gretchen doing the work it would be easier to put my name on the cheques.

Hey! replied Nathan, grimacing. So make the cheques out to me!

Why you? said John Blower, suspicion spreading through the air like a virus. You’ll be straight around to your dealer with the cheque. Money will be spent on crack or hash or some other muck! He looked directly at Ryan Dove, "Why can’t we have my name on the cheques!"

Me! said Bill Bleasdale. "Put the cheques in my name!"

Ryan Dove smiled wanly, I’m Spartacus! he muttered miserably. I’m fucking Spartacus!

Ryan, you been pill-popping? said Nathan Diamond, chortling. Want to throw a few my way?

Chapter 4

Acton, West London. Weeks Later

Where to tonight? asked Gretchen.

Johnny Blower mentioned some place in Chelsea we gigged in last year. The Builder’s Arms I think.

Is there no way you could call at Neville Warrior’s offices and persuade the girls to slip you a few pages of old bookings from a year ago?

Alice Blanding, Neville’s personal secretary, is following instructions from Chantelle Warrior, answered Ryan, adding, She’s cancelled all bookings.

Neville’s wife is panicking, she’s naïve! You have to call on Larry. He’ll sort it for you!

Mother and son are carved from the same stone. They’re both singing from the same hymn sheet! Bonanza Enterprises - for reasons I’m not privy to – have frozen all accounts. The business is on hold.

Maybe it was a bad idea forging Neville’s signature to collect the gig monies?

You didn’t seem to mind at the time?

I’m having sleepless nights thinking about it.

You’ve no need to worry. My idea was a dud. In the last three weeks the band collected one solitary cheque made out in my name. Ever since the news broke about Neville, the group have collected cash.

One cheque is one cheque too many!

Ryan shrugged his shoulders, an exasperated look on his face.

Gretchen continued, Shouldn’t you tell someone from Bonanza Enterprises you’re working? What if someone at the firm discovers the band are moonlighting? Not only moonlighting but pocketing cash that belongs to Neville’s company?

Gretchen! exclaimed an exacerbated Ryan. I’m broke! The boys are broke!

And it’s all because Neville Warrior held on to your money for too long! Gretchen spitting fire, on