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Source ISBN: 9780008228484

Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780008228491

Version: 2018-04-05

Dedication

This book is simply dedicated to our Alan Taylor. Rest in peace, Alan – you fought with every last breath to stay as long as you could with my lovely little cousin, Sue, AKA our Nipper, and your girls, Penny, Lou and Lindsay. They all did you proud, Alan, and always will do. You were everything a man should be and you’ll be sadly missed. x

Epigraph

‘Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity, and in sin my mother did conceive me.’

Psalm 51:5

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Acknowledgements

Further titles in this series

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

About the Publisher

Prologue

Bradford, June 1997

Mo took a slow look around him and sniffed the air. Nothing had changed, he realised. The Sun Inn still delivered: its familiar cocktail of stale beer, cheap perfume and sweat. Did it feel good to be back? He wasn’t sure yet.

On balance, though, yes. Because he knew he still had it. Knew from the ripples of reaction that seemed to flow out when he moved. The odd stare. The covert nudge. The inevitable whispered conversations. Conversations that he knew were taking place in his wake. So on balance, yes. Yes, the weather was shit, obviously, but for the most part it felt good to be home.

He swayed – he couldn’t help it – to the rhythm of the music. A young band. Loud and fast. A little raw, but pretty good, currently banging out Blondie’s ‘Picture This’. He leaned in towards Irish Pete – well, as close as his nose allowed, anyway. ‘These are good, man,’ he shouted at his friend above the noise. ‘What they called?’

‘Parallel Lines,’ Pete said. ‘Blondie tribute band.’

‘I think I got that much.’

‘And that blonde tart’s a dead ringer for Debbie Harry, is she not? I know what I’d fucking like to do to her, too!’ Pete grabbed at his crotch and thrust his hips forward. ‘She wouldn’t have to picture this, eh? She’d get the whole ten fucking inches!’

Mo eyed his old friend with distaste. One thing he’d forgotten during his long years on the oh-so-much more civilised (well, at least in that sense) Spanish Costas was that the Petes of this world never changed. Dirty-tongued, always. And dirty-mouthed, too. The recipient of some very expensive dental work recently, Mo was the proud owner of a gleaming new set of teeth, which only served to highlight what a sewer Pete’s own mouth had become since he’d gone away. It stank like one every time he opened it, however sweet the words that issued forth, the rank-smelling interior fenced in by uneven rows of yellowy-brown, misshapen teeth.

‘In your dreams, Pete,’ he said, turning sideways to avoid the stench. ‘Ten fucking inches, my arse.’ He nodded back to the stage. ‘Seriously, you know anything about them? I’m on the lookout for some talent for when me and Nico’s place gets sorted. Decent house band. Something with a bit of class.’

And they did seem to have that. That sense of knowing their own worth. The blonde at the front, in particular – she had enough attitude to start a war. And the kid on the drums. There was definitely something special about him. Muscular. Mixed-race. Maybe twenty. Possibly younger. A whir of mesmerising movement beneath a cloud of chocolate curls, his hands moving in an expert blur across the whole drum kit.

‘Not sure about “class”,’ Pete was saying. ‘The bird’s Josie McKellan’s kid.’ He nudged Mo. ‘You know? Paula? Don’t you recognise her? Tidy wee fucker she’s turned out to be, eh?’

Mo looked more closely at the girl belting out the Blondie track. Of course. He’d been fooled by the bleached hair. If you took the peroxide out of the equation it was immediately obvious. That same familiar Hudson look. She was very like her mother. Taller than Josie, yes – hardly difficult, to be fair – but the same cocky expression. And a stark reminder of how times had changed in this particular corner of Bradford – like The Sun, which had reinvented itself from spit-and-sawdust to what was now obviously the thing: coloured-glass Tiffany light shades, lots of polished wood, dark, patterned carpets – like a migraine on the floor. He made a mental note, filing the look away for his latest venture.

The people had changed too. It no longer seemed such a man’s world. Not like Spain – well, his bit of it – which still clung to the old order. Where men were the bosses and women were mostly meek. He could hardly believe the amount of skirt that seemed to be out partying unaccompanied – and none of them seemed to look as if they cared less.

A fresh rum and Coke appeared in front of him. ‘Here you go, mate,’ said his friend Nico. ‘Lot to take in, isn’t it? A bit different to how it was when we were banged up, eh, my friend?’

Nico laughed – a big booming laugh that might grate if you didn’t know him. Ditto his usual moniker – the ridiculously unimaginative ‘Nic the Greek’. Still, it had served him well enough in prison, Mo decided, greasy Greek fucker that he was. And it was serving him well now. They’d do all right together in this new version of Bradford. Even if Nico couldn’t quite get his head around why Mo had wanted to return to it. After all, he’d been living the high life in Marbella since he’d come out of the nick, hadn’t he? But the pull had always been there. Even though sometimes Mo didn’t really understand why himself.

And he’d come back at the right time, with cash in his pockets, half of which he’d already invested in a house on Oak Lane’s ‘millionaire’s row’. And now the club – into which they’d both now invested a ton of money; Nico’s from the stash he’d managed to hang onto from the armed robbery that he’d done nine years for, and Mo from what he’d saved from his various business ventures while in Spain: the lease on a huge nightclub in Bradford city centre.

He sipped his drink, taking stock. All on track. Things looked good.

Pete was tugging at his sleeve. ‘And you know who he is, don’t you?’ he said, following this announcement with a fetid burp.

‘Who is?’ Nico asked, irritably fanning the air in front of him. He had yet to see the benefits of Irish Pete, Mo conceded.

‘Yes, who is?’ Mo asked, annoyed that Pete was pissed already, and already so incongruous among the mostly youthful, attractive crowd.

‘Joey Parker,’ Pete persisted. ‘I knew I recognised him. Joey Parker.’

‘Yes, I got that bit,’ Mo said. ‘And I’m supposed to know him, am I?’

And even as Pete’s mouth formed the shapes to say the next bit, the penny dropped, and Mo made the connection in his head.

‘Christine Parker’s lad, Mo.’ Pete nodded towards the stage. ‘As in –’ He faltered now. Nervous about saying it. ‘You know?’

As in – could it be? Really? Mo looked again, much more carefully. Considered. Checked the dates out. Could it be? Yes, it could.

The track having come to an end, the Debbie Harry bird – Paula – was doing her frontwoman bit, telling the audience that they were having a break and would return in fifteen minutes. Seconds later, some tinny shit from a CD started up, half drowned out by what seemed like genuinely rapturous applause. So they already had a bit of a following, which was a plus point, Mo noted.

And that drummer. Still in place, while the rest left the stage.

He put down his rum and Coke and motioned to the skinny barmaid to pull a pint for him.

And once in hand, he held it aloft to make his way through the chattering, sweaty crowd. Which parted to allow him through as if he was fucking Moses or something. He grinned as he sauntered. Still got it. That presence. That respect. That fear.

The young drummer was oblivious, fiddling with some component on one of his cymbals. No fear here, obviously. Mo cleared his throat.

The lad looked up finally. Big innocent eyes.

Mo smiled. ‘You look like you could use this,’ he said.

The boy’s face and neck were slick with sweat. He now looked wary. As was to be expected, Mo conceded. The young Mo would be wary if approached by the older Mo too.

‘Go on,’ he persisted. ‘It’s on me, dude. Great set. And it’s Joey, right? You’re good. You’ll go far.’

The boy glanced around. Not eighteen yet, by Mo’s quick calculations. But then thirst got the better of his evident concern about the landlord and, after eyeing it thirstily, he took the cold beer. And in two Adam’s-apple bobbing gulps had half of it downed.

‘Thanks,’ he said, surfacing. ‘Er …?’

Mo held his hand out to shake. Big, dark and manicured.

‘Macario,’ he said, surprising himself. He never told anyone his real name.

The boy nodded as he took it. ‘Okay. Macario. Right, cool.’

Knocked off-guard by a jolt of unexpected emotion, Mo crushed the smaller, paler hand with more force than he’d intended. But the boy held his gaze. Didn’t flinch. Squeezed right back, with powerful drummer’s hands.

He winked. ‘Hey, but you just call me Mo.’

Chapter 1

For as long as he could remember, Joey had always made music. Right from the start, it had always been a part of him. From the foggy memories of his early childhood, of wielding a wooden spoon and saucepan while his mam belted out songs off the radio, to being in the percussion corner – always – in primary school productions, right up to learning the recorder, then trying the trumpet (a short-lived excursion, that one) to the point where he was allowed to try the battered high-school drum kit, music, particularly rhythm, had been in his blood. He’d more than once wondered (his mam and step-dad always having been so tight-lipped about it) what kind of man had put the curl in his hair. A musician. It just had to be a musician.

And here he was now. Making music. And getting paid for it, however little. Playing to an actual audience, who seemed to like him, as well. And in one case – he quickly downed the rest of the pint, in case the landlord clocked him – even being given drinks by complete strangers.

He watched the man who’d just spoken to him – a giant of a man, too – weave his way back round the scattered tables to the bar. Was this what it was like, then? Being in a band? Being famous? Well, not so much famous – that would be pushing it. It was the band people had come for. It was Paula they really came for. And he got that completely. He’d come to watch her sing here a few times himself. First as an old mate he’d rediscovered – their mams had been really close once – and then because, well, because the band were pretty good. And Paula herself … Well, who wouldn’t want to watch her sing?

He watched her laughing with some friends of hers at the side of the stage. And for too long, as well; she caught his eye and must have realised he’d been staring, because she flicked her hair at him in a way that made it clear she’d read his thoughts. She gave him a thumbs up before turning back to her friends, and he felt his cheeks flush. Was he imagining it, or did she like him as well?

Joey lowered his gaze, flustered, and went back to his high hat, checking the nuts, touching the cymbals, pumping his foot on the pedals, and all the while still not quite believing – or feeling quite deserving of – his luck. It was his second gig with Parallel Lines now, and he’d been told that if things went well, there would be more. But he didn’t like to think too much about it, in case it was all taken away from him. He’d been brought up to understand that you didn’t count on anything. So counting on this might be tantamount to jinxing it.

He knew the beer might have something to do with it, but for the first time since leaving school he felt a welling of proper pride, even so. Pride in having achieved his own ambition, the first rung on a ladder that was a world away, or at least could be, from the one he inhabited doing the rounds on his window-cleaning cart. Not that he wasn’t proud of that too. Of course he was. A gift from his dad, on the day he’d left school two years back, the window-cleaning round he’d inherited from him had always been a precious means to an end.

His mum and dad might not have believed it, but his own belief had never wavered. If he worked hard and saved hard – and he’d been good at doing both – he’d known from the outset that it could provide him with his chosen future. The means to practise in the short term – once he’d paid his keep, every spare penny went on kit – but, longer term, to make him a more viable commodity. A drummer with his own drum kit was more desirable than one without; it was at least half the reason the band had given him a try-out when their regular drummer, whose wife had just had a kid, had decided to call it a day. The trick now was to prove his talent and commitment, both of which he knew he had in spades.

He risked glancing up again. Paula had gone now. Presumably to the loo, before they began their second set.

But apparently not.

‘Boo!’ came a voice. Joey swivelled on his stool. Paula was behind him, in a cloud of musky fragrance, presumably having just returned from the ladies’. She nodded towards the bar, which was still rammed with people getting their drinks in before they started. ‘Who was that?’ she asked, as she tucked her bag down behind him. Her hair brushed his shoulder as she did so.

‘That black guy? Dunno,’ he said. ‘He said his name was Mac-something. Nice bloke. Bought me a pint.’

‘I noticed.’ She looked across to the bar again, where the man was half-hidden in the crush. Except he wasn’t crushed. It was like he had some sort of force field around him. He also stood a whole head above the men gathered around him, none of which Joey recognised either. He looked for his uncle Nicky, who’d brought him and his kit down here in his battered van earlier. He might only just be out of prison but he seemed to know everyone. But there was no sign of him and Joey realised he’d probably not returned yet from where he’d gone once they’d brought the stuff in, to ‘see a man about a dog’.

‘But I’ll be back before you’re finished,’ he’d promised. ‘Help you pack up and take you home and that.’ And though Joey didn’t doubt it, he couldn’t help wondering what exactly the man and the dog bit was actually all about. His mam had spent fifteen years visiting his uncle Nicky in prison – VOs as regular as clockwork, and she never missed one – but now he was home, Joey couldn’t fail to notice how tense she seemed about her brother. Did she worry he’d end up in the nick again? But she and his dad were as tight-lipped about that as about everything. Drugs. That he did know. Though he’d gone down for murder. But he’s not a wrong ’un, love, trust me – how many times had he heard his mam say that? And on the evidence of the few weeks he’d been stopping at theirs Joey was inclined to believe her.

‘So who d’you reckon he is?’ Paula was asking him now. ‘He looks like he owns the place, doesn’t he? Well, acts like it, anyway. D’you reckon he’s someone in the music business or something? Did you cop the designer threads he’s got on?’

Joey nodded. ‘That jacket. Must have cost a bit. A good bit.’ He reached for his drum sticks. ‘Macario,’ he said, remembering. ‘That’s his real name. Macario. But he said to call him Mo.’

‘Macario. Strange name,’ she mused. ‘No wonder he likes to shorten it. Hey –’ she nudged Joey. ‘D’you think he might be a producer or something? Or an A&R man? Oh my God, can you imagine? I mean, it’s not outside the bounds of possibility, is it? I mean, like, out scouting – that’s what they do. They go round all the pubs and clubs. What was that band … Oh, it’ll come to me … Used to play down the Devonshire Arms? That’s what happened to them. They got spotted by an A&R man and invited to send a demo in to some record company – don’t remember which, but, God, he could be. He looks the part, doesn’t he? That bloke with him as well. The one with the hair. Macario. We’ll have to ask around. I wonder if Matt knows him. Matt!’ she said, raising her voice and beckoning towards the approaching lead guitarist. ‘That black guy at the bar – the one who was talking to Joey.’

‘What about him?’ Matt, the lead guitarist, was also the unofficial leader of the band. He was in his mid-twenties and had the air of a guy who’d been everywhere and done everything. Though he seemed a decent guy (not least because he was gay and obviously had no designs on Paula) Joey felt very young and naïve in his presence.

‘Do you know who he is?’ Paula was saying. ‘He’s not a regular, is he? We were wondering if he might be in the business.’

Even Matt’s normally furrowed eyebrows lifted at this.

‘He’s called Macario,’ Joey supplied. ‘Mo. He seemed impressed with the band.’

Matt peered across at the bar, but the man had his back to them now. ‘Don’t think I recognise him,’ he said. ‘Or those other blokes he’s chatting to. Not seen them in here before.’ He spread his palms. ‘So you never know. He might be.’ He grabbed the neck of his guitar and ducked his head beneath the strap, settling the instrument against his stomach. ‘Actually I do know of a Mo, come to think of it,’ he said, pulling the plectrum from where he’d slipped it between the frets. ‘Wasn’t that the name of that drug dealer people used to talk about? You know, back yonks ago when we were kids? Wasn’t he called Mo or something?’

‘Not that I’ve ever heard of,’ Paula said. ‘Anyway, he looks more like an off-duty solicitor than a drug dealer. Well, maybe not a solicitor. Not with the dreadlocks. But someone in the business, definitely. You remember that bloke, don’t you? The one who –’

‘Wish away, Paulz.’ Matt said. ‘Anyway, who’s to say he isn’t both? It’s been known.’ He laughed. ‘Did he try and slip you anything, Joey? Anyway, here’s Dan,’ he added, as the bass player ambled over. ‘Christ, man, get a move on!’

‘And he’s staying for the second half by the looks of it,’ Joey said, looking back across to the bar. The man Mo – former drug dealer, record scout, solicitor, whatever – caught his eye, lifted a tumbler and smiled.

Joey raised a drumstick and smiled back. He couldn’t help it.

Chapter 2

Brian peered out of the front-room window and cursed his brother-in-law. Yes, on the whole, Nicky was a sound bloke these days, and he’d be the first to leap to his aid in a fight, but he couldn’t seem to quash the constant hum of anxiety when he was in any way left in charge of Joey. He might be Joey’s kin – biologically, he was, where Brian wasn’t, which sort of rankled – but he wasn’t a dad and he didn’t understand. He just wasn’t reliable enough.

He turned back to where Christine, curled in an ‘S’ at the far end of the sofa, was apparently engrossed in her new Jackie Collins novel. How could she remain so unconcerned? ‘I swear, Chris,’ he said irritably, ‘if your Nick’s forgotten to pick our Joey up, I’ll fucking swing for him, I really will! I warned him not to go on the piss if he was driving, and now it’s –’

‘Not even that late,’ Christine said, tenting her open book on the sofa. ‘Stop worrying. He said he would and he will. Have a little faith, love,’ she added. ‘They’ll get here.’

‘Since when was gone midnight “not that late”?’ Brian huffed.

‘Since for ever,’ Christine said. ‘Bri, he’s almost eighteen. You can’t keep him wrapped in cotton wool for ever. Think about it. They’ve been playing. They’ve got a lot of gear to sort out. If anything it’ll be our Joey holding Nicky up. All excited. All that adrenaline. And it’s not like they’re going to just unplug their amps and bugger off, is it? There’ll be the pub to empty out, the clearing up, the loading up … And they’ll probably have stopped to have a drink with the landlord and everything – you know how it goes. Love, they’ll be here.’ She picked up her book again, the conversation apparently over, and Brian continued his vigil at the front-room window.

That was the main problem. That he did know how it was. Not as someone in a band – he never was, never had it in him – but he certainly knew all about pubs. Not to mention lock-ins, and the sort of people who hung around for lock-ins. And how being in a band meant spending a lot of time in pubs, with exactly the sort of people that he used to be. And what about the lad’s window round in the morning?

‘Fucking poncing about in a band,’ he muttered. ‘I really don’t like the idea. He’s a grafter, that lad, not some pie-in-the-sky wannabe with ridiculous ideas. He should be home in bed.’ He waggled a finger in Christine’s general direction. ‘He’s going to be too tired to get up for the windows tomorrow, just you wait.’

Christine gave him a look that he’d come to know well. Because Christine, who he’d been with since Joey was still a toddler, knew him so well – so uncomfortably well. She knew exactly why he was so hard on poor Joey; it was simply because he was terrified. He’d completely wasted his own youth – in a booze- and heroin-filled oblivion, much of it alongside her brother – and couldn’t even begin to contemplate the prospect of that kind of life for his son. Worse than that, they’d even lost him for a bit – well, Christine had, anyway – to social services, when he was just a baby. And he’d been complicit. Involved. A central part of the problem. Had even stood, albeit off his face, and watched the social taking Joey away – he could recall his frightened screams like it was yesterday. And Christine howling like she was dying. Because it was almost like she had been. It had been a long wretched road to get him back again.

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