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.
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