The Trouble with Rock Stars: Jackson's Story (Access All Areas 3)

It’d always be in the past for Fred. Gone and forgotten. I wondered how much he remembered of that night. It burnt clear in my mind but then I’d been clean, apart from a few drinks. No convenient excuses for me. I had complete recall of everything.

I nodded.

Carlie walked over and gave me a look. I gave a slight shake of my head to let her know I had it under control. Fred ordered a beer and she walked off. The silence between us hung heavy. I didn’t plan to break it. There was just Carlie’s music playing in the bar and someone laughing out on the street and, from somewhere, the sound of Drew practicing guitar.

Fred took his beer off Carlie, put a tenner on the bar and took a sip.

“The thing is, our label wants to release a bunch of our early songs. They need you to sign the rights, though.”

And there it was. The reason he was here. That they sent him to do the job was a complete joke. Better that they’d sent one of those fancy company employees in their fancy suits or even one of the other guys in the band. But Fred always thought he could talk anyone into anything. It was his gift, he said. But the gift had no value here.

“I thought they had all the rights. That’s why I get a big cheque in my bank every month.”

“Not for this. This is from back when we were with that fat guy managing us. I forget his name.”

“Damien.”

“Yeah, Dame, what a jerk, huh? Anyway, that stuff wasn’t included in the deal. Just sign the paper, mate, okay?” He laughed in that way people do when they want you to join in the joke. A shared memory, a common past, that’s what he was banking on.

I almost expected him to slap the papers down in front of me. I’d not be signing. I didn’t need the money and I didn’t give a damn. I’d refuse, just to be petty, because I hated this shit. This false camaraderie he put on to get his way. He could shit his way through life but it wasn’t cutting it with me.

“There’s nothing here for you. You can forget it. I wrote the songs; I have the rights. Write your own songs. Oh, you have for the past five years. I’ve heard a couple of them. Pretty fucking embarrassing, if you ask me. I’m glad I’m out of it. Better that than being a laughing stock.”

Fred sucked in his breath. He was used to people crawling up his arse. Not many people ever told him the truth. I never coated it, though. If he wanted nice words, he was looking in the wrong place.

“I’ll give you time to think about it,” he said. “You might feel differently in a few days.”

“Come back in a hundred years and I’ll think no differently. I have no shits to give in this business so best you walk out that door now and don’t bother coming back.”

Fred polished off his beer and stood up. He paused, then walked out.

“Well, that went well,” Carlie said.

I shrugged. I couldn’t be responsible for the trash that came in here. If he came back, he’d get more of the same. He’d taken just about everything he could from me but he obviously wanted to squeeze out the last bit of juice. Maybe, if he’d thought to apologize, I’d have signed those papers just to get rid of him but, as it stood, he could go to hell.

He’d stirred up some shit, though. All those memories I’d fought to lock away. They’d gotten all churned up. Ghosts of the past reaching out to pull me into the grave with them.

I ordered another drink.

Chapter 28 Jackson

AFTER FRED LEFT, I hit it hard. Normally, I knew my limits and I drank slow but I needed a few quick ones to get me through. Gina wasn’t at the bar. It was a weeknight and she had to be up early for work the next day. If she’d been around, I’d have probably reined it in but, with no one to give a shit, I got a skinful.

When my speech got slurry, I knew it was time to leave but that didn’t stop me from drinking when I got home. Leastways, I wasn’t too messy in public.

When I got to the bottom of the bottle, I looked for more. I had another bottle stashed away somewhere; I just knew it. I was too befuddled to remember where I’d put it, or maybe I’d drank it last time and hadn’t replaced it. While I was looking, I tripped over and landed face down on the floor. It was comfortable there, so I dozed off.

The next morning, I had an appointment at the hospital. Just a check-up. I rubbed my eyes and tried to stand up long enough to have a shower. Hell, that water hurt, hitting my head.

My mouth was like sandpaper, that dry, bitter taste of the morning after. I had no energy, nothing in reserve.

The appointment was for 10.30 but it was past 10 when I got dressed. I’d never get there in time. My guts rumbled in protest and the bed looked mighty fine. I could sleep this off.

It wasn’t like they’d do anything at the hospital anyway. I’d have to wait in a room of sick people, on an uncomfortable seat, until they called my name. Then I’d go in and the doctor would poke around at my hand, pressing things into it.

“Can you feel this? Can you feel that?”

Of course, I couldn’t bloody feel it. I could work that out for myself.