Chapter 34
Con, unusually, woke early. He lay with his eyes closed, willing sleep to return. He had a busy day rehearsing in the studio, then he was speaking at a rally of the Campaigners for Peace in Trafalgar Square in the evening.
After half an hour of trying, Con gave up and reached for his packet of cigarettes. He lit one up, then lay back on the pillows and took a deep drag.
He felt, as he had for some time, unsettled and unhappy.
‘Why?’ he whispered to the empty room.
Con Daly, the boy from nowhere, with statistically little chance of making anything of his life, had risen to achieve fame and fortune beyond his wildest dreams.
So why did nothing give him pleasure any more? He knew how difficult he was being with Sorcha, Todd and the rest of the band, yet it seemed he couldn’t help himself.
He was still in his twenties. He was too young for a mid-life crisis, surely?
Even music, always the great passion in his life, no longer gave him the buzz it once had.
He thought of next week and the huge open-air concert in Central Park.
Con no longer felt anticipation or excitement.
All he could think of was the crush of bodies that would await his limousine – the pushing and shoving that saw him protected by minders as he made his way backstage.
To top everything off, rehearsals had not been going well.
Todd and he had done little more than argue about what they would play.
Con wanted to try some of the new stuff he’d written, but Todd argued that with almost a quarter of a million people in attendance, they should stick to the tried and trusted numbers that had made them such a huge success.
‘That’s what the fans will be coming for,’ he had said. And he was probably right.
Con felt the claustrophobia weigh in on him. It was as if his fame, which should give him so much power, had taken away his freedom both personally and professionally.
He could no longer go where he wanted or write what he felt he should. Creatively, he felt stifled. He knew Todd disapproved of his political anthems, but then his bandmate was a middle-class boy who’d never known what it was like to go to bed so hungry your stomach ached.
Con ground out his cigarette into the pot plant that stood on the floor near the bed.
He had too much success to be so bitter. What the hell was he becoming?
Moodily, Con lit up again. He’d even started to drink to the point of oblivion, after all those years living with his father and swearing he’d never do the same.
Sometimes he caught Sorcha looking at him, her face a picture of sadness.
He’d shut her out, he knew he had. And yesterday, when she’d been so desperate for his love and support, and he’d been unable to give it to her. There was a definite chance he could lose her . . . but the numbness in his heart seemed to prevent him doing anything about it.
Con got out of bed and showered, before heading downstairs to brew himself a large pot of coffee. He piled it on a tray with a mug and a packet of biscuits, then picked up his guitar and began to tinker with a tune that had been going around in his head for the past few days.
‘Shit!’
It just wouldn’t come any more.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What’s happening to me?’
Con picked up his coffee cup, stood up and looked out of the window.
It was a lovely August morning. He watched his electric security gates slide open, and Jenny’s car pull into the drive.
As the gates closed, he saw one of his most loyal fans attempt to squeeze between them.
As was most often the case, the extra strong gates – bespoke built – won.
Con shook his head in despair. Would she one day look back and wonder why she wasted some of the best years of her life sitting outside the gates of a rock star’s house?
Con sipped his coffee and listened as Jenny opened the front door.
He’d go and make chit-chat – anything to take him away from the maudlin thoughts swimming about his head.
He mused at the hours he’d spent alone in his hut on the beach, sometimes not seeing another person for a week. These days, he dreaded his own company.
At least tonight he’d be out with Lulu. She was the one person who brought him out of himself. Con admired her focus and determination. She didn’t give a damn what others thought of her, and was prepared to go to any lengths to publicise her cause.
He opened the door to his study and walked across the hall. Jenny’s voice carried out of her office. He stopped to listen.
‘He’s had another one, Inspector . . . Yes, it’s the sixth .
. . Oh, pretty much the same . . . the letters cut out of a newspaper, the usual murder threat.
Yes, this time the postmark’s Southampton.
The weirdo certainly gets around! No, I haven’t yet, but I think the time has probably come.
Will you? Okay then, I’ll call you back when I’ve spoken to Metropolitan. Goodbye, Inspector.’
Con heard the click of the receiver. He opened the door.
‘Morning, Jenny.’
She turned round. ‘Hello, Con, you’re up early.’
‘Yeah.’ Con was staring at the paper in her hand. He snatched it from her.
GONNA GET YOU COMING SOON YOU BASTARD IRISH FILTH.
Con shuddered involuntarily and dropped the letter onto Jenny’s desk.
‘Did I hear you say that was the sixth such epistle I’ve received?’
‘Yes. Look, Con, don’t panic or anything. It’s all under control. We didn’t want to worry you unduly.’
‘Someone’s sending me murder threats and no one bothers to tell me.’ Con forced a chuckle. ‘How old do you think I am, Jenny? Ten?’
‘I’m sorry, Con, really. You’ve been perfectly safe, though. There’s an unmarked police car that sits outside the house every day. It’s followed you everywhere for the past month.’
Con was startled. ‘Has it now? Jesus, the police must be short of something to do if they can spare someone to babysit me. I’ve had these sorts of letters before. It’s just cranks with nothing better to do than to scare me.’
‘Well, I spoke to Helen McCarthy when these things first started arriving and she decided it was a matter for the police because of all the Troubles in Ulster and your, er, well-publicised attitude towards them. The previous letters never made a point of highlighting your nationality. Anyway, I’ve spoken to the inspector and he wants to drop in and have a word with you. ’
‘We’re in the studio rehearsing all day but . . . tell him he can see me there at lunchtime. I’ll buy him a beer and a sandwich for his trouble.’
‘Okay, will do.’
Con stood up. ‘I’d say I need some air. I’m going for a walk on the heath before I leave for the studio.’
‘Fine. Try not to worry, Con. You really are being well looked after.’
Con smiled thinly and left the room. He opened the front door and stepped out into the fresh, warm air, heading for the concealed gate at the bottom of the garden which led directly onto the heath.
His heart was beating fast as he undid the padlock.
Con felt stiflingly hot all of a sudden, and there was a tight band around his chest. After relocking the gate, he set off at speed onto the heath, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
It wasn’t long before he came to a halt, his breath too short to allow him to go any further. He crouched down under a tree, his head in his hands.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ he panted as he rested on his haunches.
Sorcha . . . New York . . . the new album . . . and now these threats. The pressure was intolerable. Con had a burning urge to disappear to where no one would find him.
He wiped his forehead and stood up, taking some deep breaths.
The option was always there if he wanted to take it. He was amazed at how much the thought comforted him. Maybe he was just tired and worn out from the punishing schedule of the past four years.
Con looked at his watch. He was already late for rehearsals.
Feeling calmer, he walked slowly back home across the heath.