Jonathan Coe - The Dwarves of Death

Thanks are due to the following people: Ralph Pite, for writing the words to Madeline/Stranger In A Foreign Land; Brian Priestley, for copying out Tower Hill and teaching me most of what little I know about music; Michael Blackburn, for publishing Middle Eight in the first issue of his Sunk Island Review; Janine McKeown, Paul Daintry, Andrew Hodgkiss and Tony Peake for inspiration and help; and Kinmor Music (publishers) and Tom Ross (translator) for permission to quote from Fadachd an t-seladair (The Sailors Longing) by John McLennan: the version William hears as he stands outside Karlas window being from Christine Primroses wonderful LP S tu nam chuimhne, available on Temple Records (TP024).

The epigraphs in this book are reproduced by kind permission of Warner Chappell Music Ltd. Words and music: Morrissey and Johnny Marr Morrissey and Marr Songs Ltd.

Nuair chi mi eun a falbh air sgiath,

Bu mhiann leam bhith na chuideachd:

Gun deanainn crsair tr mo rin,

Far bheil an sluagh ri fuireach.

I find it hard to describe what happened.

It was late in the afternoon, on a far from typical London Saturday. Winter was mild that year, I remember, and although by 4.30 it was already good and dark, it wasnt cold. Besides, Chester had the heater on. It was broken, and you either had it on full blast or not at all. The rush of hot air was making me sleepy. I dont know if you know that feeling, when youre in a car and it doesnt have to be a particularly comfortable car or anything but youre drowsy, and perhaps youre not looking forward to the moment of arrival, and you feel oddly settled and happy. You feel as though you could sit there in that passenger seat for ever. Its a form of living for the present, I suppose. I wasnt very good at living for the present in those days: cars and trains were about the only places I could do it.

So I was sitting there, with my eyes half closed, listening to Chester crunching the gears and giving it too much throttle. I was pleased with myself that day, I must admit. I thought Id made some good decisions. Small ones, like getting up early, having a bath, having a proper breakfast, getting the laundry done, and then getting up to Samsons to hear their lunchtime pianist. And then the bigger ones, as I sat alone at a table, drinking orange juice and letting Stella By Starlight wash over me. I decided not to phone Madeline after all, to let her contact me for once. Id sent her the tape, and made my intentions pretty clear, so now it was up to her to make some sort of response. Id got one unit left on my phonecard, and I could use it to phone Chester instead. That was the other thing: Id decided to take him up on his offer. I didnt owe the other members of the band anything. I needed a change of scene, a new environment. Musically, I mean. Wed grown stale and tired and it was time to get out. So I left just before the final number, round about three, and phoned Chester from a box on Cambridge Circus, and asked him what time he wanted me to come over.

Come now, he said. Come to the flat and then I can give you a lift. Theyre rehearsing at six so you can come and meet them all first. They all want to meet you.

Theyre rehearsing tonight? What you want me to sit in?

See how it goes. See how you feel.

Before taking the tube up to Chesters I stood at Cambridge Circus for a while and watched the people. I watched while the sky turned from blue to black and I dont think Ive ever felt so good about London, before or since. I felt Id reached some kind of turning point. Everyone else was still rushing around, panic on their faces, and Id managed to stop, somehow, to find some time to think and take a new direction. Thats how it felt, anyway, for about half an hour. I would never have believed that things were going to get even worse.

Youre not nervous about meeting these boys, are you? Chester asked me, as we drove on into ever darker side streets.

What are they like?

He gave one of his short laughs, and said, in that funny, friendly North London drawl: Like I said, theyre a bit weird.

Whos the one I saw that time?

Chester gave me a sidelong glance, and I wondered whether Id been tactless to mention it. But then he answered, readily enough: That was Paisley. He sings, and writes the words. Hes good, too. You know, hes got real presence. He looks really manic on stage, throwing himself about. I just wish I could keep him off the drugs. Its the same with all of them. Its costing me a fortune. Perhaps youll be a good influence on them. Someone sort of straight like you, you know perhaps itll set them an example. Like, Paisley, he hasnt written a song for two months. Hes been too stoned.

The car lurched and made a sickening grinding noise as Chester negotiated the difficult business of arriving at a main road, stopping, starting and crossing it.

You ought to get this thing seen to, I said.

Well, Ive been meaning to. Like, when the money starts coming in, right, from this band and everything. Im going to have it done up. Or maybe get a new one. Im just a bit hard up right now.

Chester drove a 1973 Marina, orange. The sidelights didnt work and the heating was broken and there was something wrong with third gear, and yet somehow (like its owner) it inspired trust in spite of appearances. You knew that one day it was going to let you down, badly let you down, but perversely you continued to rely on it. It amazed me to think that the car was only a few years younger than Chester himself. He was only twenty-one; but for some reason Ive always looked up to people younger than me.

Nearly there, he said.

We were driving down a handsome, sad sort of road, with high Georgian terraces on either side. It was that hour of the evening when the lights are on but the curtains are not yet drawn, and through the windows I could see families and couples, bathed in a golden glow, preparing their suppers, pouring their drinks. You could almost smell the basil and the bolognese sauce. We were in North Islington. I felt a sudden desire to be inside one of those houses, to be either cooking or being cooked for, and all at once I realized that I had not made a proper decision today at all. I began to wish that I had phoned Madeline, and I knew that I would, at the first opportunity. I ached for her after just one weeks absence. And that was the first sign that things werent quite as simple as Id thought.

The next sign was when Chester parked the car, pointed up at a window, and said, Good. Theyre in.

I looked up and saw, not a soft square of amber, framing a domestic scene, but a curious, distant, flickering beam of pure white. It was luminous but muted, eerie. I must have stared at it long enough for Chester to get out and open the door on my side.

Im warning you, its a bit of a tip, this place, he said. The landlord doesnt care what they do to this house. He doesnt give a toss. He found his keys and locked the door. When I was looking for a house for them, I heard about this place through a friend. Well, perhaps friend isnt the word. Through a business associate, if you like. He chuckled, for some reason. Anyway, the deal was, he didnt mind what kind of a mess they made of it, so long as he was able to use it himself now and again. Just sort of one evening a week. Well, I knew that was ideal for these boys, cause I knew, any place they moved into, theyd have it looking like a pigsty in no time. So, I mean, it sounded like a dodgy deal to me, but handy with it.

What does he want to use it for himself?

Chester shrugged. Search me.