‘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.’
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