I
As Nixon finished his sandwich, he flicked through his magazine. A page suddenly caught his attention. A quarter page advert, in black and white, announced.....
THE BELLEVILLE RIDERS – BACK AFTER 25 YEARS !
The image in the centre, featured Marrat in a deliberate motion blur. It was hard to make out if this was present day or not, but is was definitely him. It announced that the mythical Belleville Riders, would be reforming and playing a French tour, culminating in an appearance at Le Chateau de Bonnefontaine, a large outdoor rock festival held in September, and situated in Brittany, western France. Nixon had heard of it before, and knew that some pretty big names had played there.
This was amazing, he could hardly believe it. After all these years. Nobody had ever fully explained what went on after that legendary concert at The 100 Club. Marrat had vanished soon after, and was never seen again. The Riders, without their main man, were no more. The album never did get officially released. It sold out its original five hundred copies. Tanner had probably sold half that amount on the evening of The 100 Club show. The rest, soon snapped up in the wake of Marrat's disappearance, and the brief publicity that followed.
Never reissued. The band had never become well known enough, and without Marrat, there was nothing to work with. No footage, no bootlegs. Not even any unreleased recordings, just a few grainy photos, and some memories. It didn't prevent some kind of mythical status taking root however. The notoriety of the Punk movement to follow, only helped to build the myth, but without the reappearance of Marrat however, it was likely to remain just that. Many theories on what had happened circulated, and some even ventured to say the band itself had never existed.
It was true, that probably no more than a few hundred souls had ever seen them play. They had probably only ever played ten shows. All, except at The 100 Club, to small audiences. Hardly any live shots existed, and from those that had surfaced, they were poor quality, and had a somewhat, Loch Ness monster feel about them. Some said that Marrat had been murdered by MI5, worried about the threat posed to national stability, after it was noticed that his lyrics were basically a call to arms and revolution. Other theories abounded, that he'd realised at the eleventh hour, on the verge of unexpected commercial success, how this contradicted his Marxist principles. He'd returned to France, changed his identity, and was now living on a remote commune in the mountains, near Pau.
One story even proposed that he'd taken his own life, in an act of martyrdom. This story tied in with the recent well documented disappearance, in 1995, of Richey Edwards, the wayward, rebellious guitarist of The Manic Street Preachers. It was noted that Edwards cited Marrat as an influence, in more than one interview, and therefore, it was logical that he'd tried to emulate his hero by jumping off the Severn Bridge. Nixon had no idea, but he did know that the band had really existed. He was there after all, he and Gil Riot, and yes, he had the scar to prove it.
Gil Riot. He'd not thought of him for a while. At first, they'd kept in touch, but as the years had passed, Nixon had never seemed to get around to catching up. A couple of times Gil had contacted Nixon, to tell him that he was coming over to London for a visit, but it had always coincided with him being out of town. It was the nature of Nixon's job. Gigs were booked well in advance, and Gil had never got the timing right. Maybe he thought Nixon was making excuses. He never mentioned it, but from thereon contact slowed to New Year or birthday greetings.
More recently, Gil had announced that he was getting married, and invited Nixon to the wedding, but Nixon had managed to get himself booked on a week long tour of Scandinavia. This was a rare one, and they didn't come often, so once again, he had to decline. He did feel guilty, though, as he'd never arranged to visit Gil himself in France. It was just never the right time. He needed to get his life in order, especially now.
Then it came to him. He wondered if he still had his number. He looked in his diary. He always carried his diary, and made sure that each new year, he religiously copied out all his business contacts, weeding out the non current, and adding in the new. Nixon kept the same friends for years on end though, and these numbers rarely changed. They hadn't spoken for some time now, but still, amazingly there he was, Gil Riot......the number just waiting to be called.
“Gil ? …man, how are you ? Its Nikki....you know ? Nixon....yeah, that's right......good to hear you too.....listen, I was thinking, man, if its kinda cool...do you think I could come over ?...err, well now..umm well tomorrow, actually ......If that's okay ?”
“Are you in any trouble ?”
“No, no no, no. I ….just err.....well yeah.….Actually, I am....... Gil, I need your help”
II
Peter thought of the staff. He had a rough idea that there were around two hundred in total, but mostly women. He'd heard her mention maintenance engineers, perhaps half a dozen or so, and then, the management. His mind focused, he tried to remember his name, her boss, the managing director. He'd have the means, he'd have the idea, yes. Peter was cross with himself for not thinking of this before. It appeared to him, to be a red hot lead. His wife, since she'd been promoted, had practically spent more waking hours in the company of this man, than himself. When did she get this job? It had to be a least five years. What was his name?
He then thought, of all the occasional, off hand remarks she'd made, which now took on new significance. He hardly ever took much notice, but were the clues there all along? All the “Mr (so and so), has asked me to stay later tonight” and “I have to do some urgent (what ever's) for Mr...” bloody.............Mr fucking,.... stole my wife......Stoddart! That's it. He drank some more vodka. He'd have to be clever here. No doubt Stoddart himself would be in work tomorrow, but she wouldn't. Of course, she'd be off shopping for clothes. An entire wardrobe to replace....no problem, managing directors can afford that. That's why none of her stuff had gone, she'd found someone who could easily replace the lot. There'd be no memories to remind her of the bad days. Lets start afresh, oh yes, how very fucking cosy.
He thought of where he might live. It wouldn't be in the town, most likely somewhere nice, in the country. Security gates, probably CCTV. Peter knew he'd have to be smart to track this bastard down. He'd be ex directory, of course.........still, he'd just check anyway. Thirteen Stoddarts were listed. He couldn't remember his first name, or if she'd ever used it. He wished he'd listened more now. The thing is, she used to bang on about work, nearly all the time. It was always when he was watching a film. That was it, either whatever bloody Rita and Will were up to, or tales of the girls, and their sodding office politics. That was why he watched films.
None of the addresses sounded right. Everyone was a number. Peter imagined no number, but a name. The Gables, The Laurels, or such and such farm. He had to find some way to get the address. He swallowed again and imagined them together right now. He looked at the clock, just after ten. He guessed she'd be upset at first. Peter hoped she was. Surely he was worth some remorse? There had to be some sadness, that their life together had ended? Gradually, as the day wore on, she would have settled down, and become accustomed to her surroundings. He'd have taken her out to dinner. No.... not today, they would most likely lie low today. Keep a low profile, especially, with Peter 'the way he was.'
Lucia could cook well enough, but she wouldn't be doing that today. No, he would cook. Peter imagined Mister, fucking Stoddart, serving a simple pasta dish, with a nice, quality chilled white wine. They would eat a the dining room table. There'd be a tablecloth, as well as some kind of candle affair. Peter thought momentarily of his own culinary skills. Something on toast, perhaps? He took a slug, and wondered about that address again. How would he find it?
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