Chapter 42
On Thursday afternoon, the band was scheduled to have a think-tank session regarding the album in one of the new recording studios at Metropolitan. Later, Freddy was joining them and they were all going out to supper.
Derek arrived to find Con already in situ, strumming away at his guitar.
‘Hi, Con.’ Con did not acknowledge him. ‘I hoped I might find you here. I want a word.’
‘Fire away.’ Con did not stop softly strumming his guitar.
‘I know I’ve gone on about it but I need my song on the new album. Otherwise I’m going to have to reconsider my position with the band.’
‘Really?’
‘I don’t know whether I want to continue being part of The Fishermen.’
‘Have you told Freddy this?’
‘No, but I have told Helen. She’s in full agreement. She thinks I should get my shot.’
‘Does she now? That’s interesting, considering your woman hasn’t heard the song.’
‘She has. I sent her a tape and she says she thinks it could be very good with a bit of work,’ Derek said petulantly.
Con stopped strumming and looked up at Derek.
‘I’m only saying this one more time, and then the subject is closed.
Your song stinks, Derek. It’s desperate altogether.
We are not some little amateur band that can put any old crap on our new album.
And that’s what your song is: crap. If you don’t like it, then do as you say and leave the band.
I really couldn’t give a shit. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. ’ Con resumed his strumming.
Derek glared at Con for a while before he spoke.
‘I don’t know what’s happened to you recently. You used to be such a decent guy. It must be the fame that’s turned you into a miserable shit. If that’s the way you feel, then fine. Find another rhythm guitar player.’
Con shrugged but didn’t reply.
‘I’m warning you, Con Daly. You’re an arrogant Irish bastard who’s putting an awful lot of noses out of joint. You’re going to get your comeuppance soon.’
Derek left the studio. Con sighed and continued to play. The tune he was working on was starting to take shape.
At ten past three, the studio door opened. Todd headed straight for Con and slammed his fist into Con’s face. The blow sent Con tumbling backwards onto the floor.
‘You bastard! You bastard!’ Todd climbed astride Con and proceeded to use his face as a punchball. From his prone position all Con could do was raise his arms to try to protect himself.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are? You bastard, you bastard!’ Todd continued to pound his fists into Con’s now bloody face.
‘Jaysus, you’re killing me, Todd! Stop it!’
‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you? Coming on to Lulu behind my back. My wife! Your mate’s wife!’ Todd landed a punch in Con’s stomach.
‘What?!’ Con screeched.
‘You of all people know how much I love her. Last night she tells me that you’ve been all over her for weeks.’ He whacked Con again. ‘She said she was lucky to get out of that hotel room in New York after you grabbed her and kissed her.’
‘Todd, that’s not—’
‘Well, you’ve really done it now. It’s over. It’s all over. You’ve ruined everything.’ Todd choked back tears. He looked at Con below him. His nose was bleeding profusely.
‘You’ve destroyed the band, Con. I never want to see your bastard face again.’
‘What the hell is going on?’
Todd turned round and saw Freddy standing in the doorway.
‘You can ask Con what the hell is going on. Excuse me.’ Todd pushed past Freddy, walked through the control room and left the suite.
‘Bloody hell, Con. What did you do to ask for this?’ Freddy knelt down and offered an arm to help Con upright. He staggered a little as Freddy placed him in a chair. ‘Stay here. I’ll get something to help clean you up.’
Freddy walked through the control room to the kitchenette at the end of the corridor. There was a pile of serviettes by the coffee machine. He wet a few and returned to Con.
‘You really do look like you’ve gone the distance with Muhammad Ali,’ he quipped as he dabbed at the blood on Con’s face. ‘I think your nose could be broken, old son. We’d better get you to hospital and get it checked.’
‘No thanks, Freddy. I’ll be fine, really.’ Con winced as he touched it. ‘I’m sure it looks worse than it is.’
‘I’ll call you a car then. Go home and let Sorcha nurse you. Maybe now isn’t the time to go into detail about what just took place.’
Con nodded as Freddy went back to the control room and dialled reception.
‘Car’s ordered. Where are the others?’
‘Derek left and Ian’s yet to arrive,’ murmured Con.
‘Typical. So, I suppose supper’s off then?’
‘Could be looking that way.’
‘Okay. Come on, I’ve asked the car to meet us right outside the door. Don’t think it would do for Con Daly’s screaming fans to see him like this. Can you stand?’
Con heaved himself out of the chair. ‘Yeah.’ He followed Freddy out of the recording suite and up the stairs into reception. A car pulled up outside and beeped its horn.
‘There you go.’ Freddy ran to open the door. ‘Hop in. Listen, I’ll give you a bell tomorrow to see how you are. You’d better fill me in then as to exactly what’s going on.’
‘Sure. Thanks, Freddy.’
Freddy closed the door and the car sped off along the road. Sighing heavily, he made his way back inside and down to the recording suite.
Ian was floating down the corridor towards him, wearing a long, garish kaftan. He made the peace sign to Freddy. ‘Hi, man, what’s occurring? Where are the others?’
For some reason the bizarre sight of Ian – at least two hours late and in a complete world of his own – caused Freddy to burst into laughter.
‘Gone, Ian. You missed ’em, mate. Hold on two ticks while I turn the lights off in the recording suite, and you and I will go for a beer.’
‘Not beer, man. I don’t like beer.’
‘Well, whatever tickles your fancy. I need a drink.’
The two of them walked back upstairs to reception.
Freddy leant over the desk and smiled at the young receptionist. ‘Could you send someone down to recording suite number three? There’s a bit of a mess that needs clearing up.’ Freddy tapped his nose. ‘Keep it between you and me, can you?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Thanks, Melody. See you soon.’
Freddy put an arm round Ian and steered him to the front door.
‘Let’s find a boozer, old son.’
Con studied his nose in the mirror. It was numb and did seem wonkier than usual.
He’d broken it once before in a punch-up when he was a kid.
He’d see how it looked tomorrow and maybe visit the Royal Free if it still didn’t feel quite right.
The rest of the cuts and bruises seemed pretty superficial. Con dabbed at them clumsily with TCP.
‘Jesus, what a day . . . what a week,’ he sighed to his reflection.
That bitch, Lulu . . . Not only had she given Todd that nonsense story, but she’d obviously been the one who’d spilled the beans to Sorcha.
‘Hell hath no fury . . .’ he mumbled.
Con decided the best thing to do was to take a couple of aspirin for his throbbing head and have an early night. He was starving, but since Sorcha had left, the supplies had run low. If she were here now, she’d tend to him. He missed her . . . he really missed her . . .
Opening the medicine cabinet, Con pulled out the aspirin, filled up a toothmug with water and swallowed them down.
He stripped off his bloody T-shirt and jeans, feeling too exhausted even to take a shower, and went to the bedroom.