43. Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Three
‘Take it easy, mate,’ said Brian, walking into Cillian’s dressing room.
‘It’s to steady my nerves.’ Cillian topped up his glass from the bottle of whisky.
Brian pressed his hands to the back of Cillian’s chair and met his reflection in the mirror. ‘You’ve never needed a pre-show drink before.’ His voice was faintly accusing.
Cillian took a defiant swig. ‘I’ve never had so much going on in my life before. Give me a break.’
‘Fine,’ said Brian. His hand whipped out over Cillian’s shoulder, and he grabbed the bottle, setting it on the floor before returning his hand to the chair.
‘I’m keeping this with me until after the show.
The last thing we need is you screwing up the lyrics or singing out of tune.
’ He stared at Cillian’s image. ‘The whole point of putting on a secret gig is to give a six-star experience to your die-hard fans. It’s a way of apologising to them for the dent you’ve made to your reputation.
’ He smiled thinly. ‘They feel let down, mate. You need to go out there and give it your best, not stumble around the stage like some old geezer who lives for the bottle.’
‘This is only my second dram,’ muttered Cillian. He wished Brian would take his hands off the chair and stop breathing down his neck. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘You’ll be fine if you stop now.’
A knock at the door and a head poking round it came as a welcome relief. ‘Mr McDonaugh, this is your five-minute call.’
‘Thanks.’ Cillian tipped his glass to the runner in a move he hoped would rile Brian.
Despite agreeing to the plan, he couldn’t help feeling like an animal trapped in a cage at a petting zoo.
His business brain told him that following Brian’s plan was the right thing to do.
His heart … it was best not to examine that too closely.
‘Here you go.’ Brian handed Cillian his trademark leather jacket. ‘Go out there and smash it. You’ve got this, son.’
‘Cheers.’ Cillian downed the last of his drink and made his way along the grotty corridor to the wings.
From his position behind a red velvet curtain, he could see the compère whipping the crowd into a frenzy.
At least the audience seemed excited about the gig.
It had crossed Cillian’s mind that after the various reports in the paper he might have been met with boos or rotten tomatoes.
‘And now,’ said the compère, ‘it’s our great honour to welcome onto the Plaza stage for the very first time, the one, the only, the god among men … Mr … Cillian … McDonaaaauuuuuugggggggghhhhhhh!’
Cillian strode onto the stage, pumping a fist in the air as a stagehand lifted his guitar around his neck. He walked to the microphone, the cheers from the mostly female crowd soothing some of his nerves. The buzz he’d grown used to was, however, missing.
His lips met the microphone, and with half-closed eyes, and in his thickest Dublin drawl, he said, ‘I think y’all might know this one …’
As his fingers slid down the strings and the first chord of “Boy in Love” rang out, his eyes filled with unexpected tears.
Then, somewhere between the intro and the first verse, the tears dried and were replaced by an intense rush of anger.
He hated this song. Hated it. It was worse than awful, an embarrassment.
Think of your fans, he told himself. It didn’t help.
Somehow, he made it through the gig, the years of experience kicking in and enabling him to autopilot his way through ninety minutes of what he now thought of as terrible songs.
‘Amazing,’ Brian crowed when Cillian left the stage after a second encore. ‘Bloody amazing. The fans loved it. I loved it.’ His grin split his pudgy face. ‘You’re back in the saddle, son, and the sky’s the limit.’
Cillian couldn’t muster a smile. He gave Brian a nod, which he assumed the man would take to mean Cillian agreed with everything he had said.
‘There’s no meet and greet tonight,’ Brian said as they walked the grotty corridor to Cillian’s dressing room. ‘Let’s head back to the hotel to meet Kia for dinner.’
‘Actually,’ said Cillian, ‘I could do with a bit of time by myself to clear my head.’
Brian chuckled nervously. ‘As long as you’re not going to run off again,’ he said.
‘No.’ Cillian patted his manager on the back. ‘I’m going for a walk, that’s all.’
‘Best put your disguise on then,’ said Brian, ‘or you’ll be sharing your walk with a mob of teenage girls.’
‘I’d thought of that, but thanks.’ Cillian used every ounce of his self-control to remain polite and keep a brave face. It wasn’t fair to blame Brian for the situation he found himself in. Brian was only doing his job. It was Cillian who was responsible for his choices, no one else.
Once the crowds had dispersed, Cillian, well disguised, set off into a town he couldn’t remember the name of with no plan other than to walk off the frustration, resentment, and – he realised now – sadness which was squeezing his chest, making it difficult to breathe.
He stuck to side streets, heading away from the bustling bars on a nondescript high street until he found himself in the suburbs, clusters of terraced houses intermingling with grander semis.
On the corner of one road he found a quaint Victorian pub, its outside benches taking up most of the pavement and packed with merry drinkers enjoying the warm summer evening.
Cillian was about to walk past when the sound of a guitar stopped him in his tracks.
He recognised the lyrics of “Jet Lag”. It was a song he found almost too painful to listen to, but it drew him in nonetheless.
He stepped into the pub as though in a trance, ignoring the bar to push through the crowd and listen to the singer describe a life of travelling devoid of human connection.
While the words belonged to Frank Turner, Cillian could easily have written them himself.
A man bumped into him, spilling some of his pint onto Cillian’s jeans. ‘Sorry, mate,’ said the man.
‘No worries.’ Cillian brushed at the damp spot.
‘You’re here for the open mic?’
‘No, I was just passing.’
‘You play? You look like a poor musician,’ said the man with a grin.
If only you knew. ‘I guess I play a bit, but I don’t have my guitar with me.’
‘No problem. I’m Gary, by the way. I run the night and pride myself on being able to spot a musician a mile off. James up there has one song left, so why don’t you grab yourself a drink and I’ll put you up next?’
Before Cillian could answer, Gary wandered off, so he did as he was told, ordering himself a pint and a packet of crisps. Brian wouldn’t approve of the extra calories, making them taste all the better.
The musician began a rendition of “Better Half”, and Cillian’s chest contracted once more.
Now he wasn’t thinking about himself. It was May who filled his mind.
He pictured her organising the wedding alone.
By the time he arrived back in Saffron Bay for the wedding, the distance he’d allowed to grow between them would be too great to breach.
He imagined her arriving at the wedding with a date, and his stomach turned.
The song ended, and Gary called him up onto the stage. ‘Sorry, mate, I didn’t ask your name.’
‘Eugene.’
‘Right, well, let’s all show our appreciation for Eugene.’
Muted applause accompanied Cillian onto the makeshift stage, and he couldn’t help comparing the situation favourably to his earlier experience of adoring fans. What was wrong with him? How could he be so ungrateful for all his success? He needed to get a grip and stop being such an idiot.
‘Right, so, um, this is a song I’ve been working on with a friend.
’ No one was listening, and Cillian was grateful, as in his disguise the Cillian McDonaugh stage presence he’d so carefully cultivated had deserted him.
As “Black is the Colour” poured out of him, Cillian was overwhelmed by the feeling he was home.
He had no idea what the feeling meant. He only knew something had to change before he lost himself completely.