Eighteen

Quick and Teef ’s deranged behaviour had surely shown the wild side of rock and roll at its worst. The Handyman and I were not much better, being far from heroic when we abandoned Teef to the agonies of the cricket pads. I was too ashamed to give Dale more than the barest description of what happened. Before going to bed I phoned The Handyman to find out if he had removed the pads. He had, but found Teef ’s legs were so red and swollen that he had to send for the doctor.

Before this episode, despite Quick’s constant point scoring, I had felt friendly towards him, but after witnessing such unpredictable, bizarre and violent behaviour, warm feelings would be very difficult to rekindle. People in the rock and roll business do not mix much with outsiders, so maybe my contact with the Boulders would end anyway once the book was finished.

In spite of the pressures of our jobs and the ‘auto’biography, Dale and I did somehow find time to prepare a couple of computer game scenarios for each other. His began with my avatar standing on stone steps that led up to the pillared portico of a museum. Clicking with the mouse took him to the entrance and into the first room, containing exhibits from ancient Greece in glass cases. Among them was a foot-high bronze statue of Priapus, the mythical goblin-like figure with an outsize erect penis. When I clicked on him he ran up and down his case and hammered on the glass as though determined to get out. More chaste bronze figures nearby recoiled in horror.

In another case was a large urn decorated with a handsome youth playing a lyre. Clicking on this caused two muscled, naked men to climb out of the urn and caress him, slipping their hands inside his robe. He ignored them and continued to play his lyre. Next, an older man carrying a staff climbed out. He whacked the two randy muscular men with it until they ran off to the other side of the urn.

The next room had full-size, marble statues, whose stone penises became erect when my avatar passed close by. At the end of this room was a doorway to the Temple of Dionysus. Inside was a collection of curiously shaped pottery vessels. A museum attendant appeared and handed ‘me’ one with a spout shaped like a penis. I clicked on this pot and a box popped up on the screen saying Don’t worry Ben, the contents are only white wine. With the mouse I raised the pot to my avatar’s lips and tilted it to make him drink. The brew must have been very potent, for the other pots began to change into lizards and snakes. They moved threateningly towards the on-screen me, teeth and fangs bared.

Running from the room and turning this way and that to escape them, I passed a statue of Dale. Clicking on it brought it to life. From a large stone chest he pulled out some nets with weights on the corners, and we flung these over the reptiles, eventually catching and entangling them all. Then, of course, my avatar thanked his saviour in the kind of way you would expect.

The scenario I devised for Dale began with his avatar walking along a deserted beach in a pair of long white shorts. Clicking anywhere on the sea made ‘him’ wade out, his shorts becoming almost transparent as they got wet, and revealing that beneath, he had on a pair of very skimpy swimming trunks. A dolphin appeared and swam around him. Clicking on it made it grab his arm in its mouth and drag him underwater to a hidden cave, where it released him. He surfaced near a small beach with partly submerged rocks. The cave had several branches that led off in different directions. A band of pirates arrived, ran to the water’s edge and began to chase him. Clicking on the nearest rock made him jump into the water and climb up onto it. He went from rock to rock whilst the pirates continued to chase after him, until a sheer rock wall blocked his escape. A shadowy figure dropped a rope ladder from a ledge above. When he climbed up the ladder, he found his rescuer was the on-screen me, dressed as a marine and armed with a club. The pirates climbed up towards us, but clicking on the top of the ladder made us unhitch it to send them tumbling back down. The game ended with us going to a secluded inlet, where a rowing boat gently bobbed up and down. We climbed in, and the boat was soon bobbing up and down more vigorously to the rhythm of our movements.

Increasingly I wished that Dale and I had more time to enjoy doing things together, as we had before Quick’s book came to dominate our lives, like taking out rowing skiffs on the Thames. Instead, however, a call from The Handyman added to the pressures. The doctored cricket pads and itching powder had so incapacitated Teef that he was unable go to the theatre to try out the stage set and do sound checks. They desperately needed someone they could trust to substitute for him. Since I had zero experience of stage productions of any kind, they must have asked me out of desperation. I could imagine Dale’s voice in my ears imploring me to stay away. I told The Handyman I had no time, and would only be in everyone’s way, but shortly afterwards, he rushed into the bookshop, saying the concert would have to be cancelled unless I went. Hearing his agitated voice and wanting to be helpful, Jeremy said he would be in all afternoon and it would be perfectly okay for me to take a few hours off.

This made it impossible for me to refuse. On our way to the theatre, The Handyman said all they needed me for was to make sure the stage lights would catch Teef in the right way while he was performing, and to ensure no wires or equipment had been put where they might be a hazard. He made it sound as though a mannequin, moved around the set, would have done. Nevertheless, the attraction of actually helping with a live music performance, even in such a small way, began to grow.

Our arrival at the theatre was the opposite of a glittering occasion. Vans were parked everywhere, and the only spot left was next to overflowing rubbish bins. The stage door appeared not to have been painted since the place was built eighty years ago. We climbed a bare concrete staircase and turned into a narrow corridor leading to the dressing rooms. We found the band’s manager, Max, a big wire-haired man with a cigar who looked past me at The Handyman and said, ‘You sure about this one?’ The Handyman must have nodded, for Max rested his cigar on the edge of the table and pushed several sheets of paper towards me. ‘Right-oh, sign here.’

‘Confidentiality agreement. The essence of it is, if word about this gets out to the press, or anybody at all, we get to rip out your tongue and castrate you.’
I signed nervously. How much less anxious I would have felt if Dale had been with me. The Handyman led me towards the stage, but was called away to talk about food for the band the next day. He found someone to take me to a stage entrance, where I was to wait until called.
In front of me I could see the Boulders’ drum kit, a backdrop of large screens stretching behind it. Dozens of people, hidden from the auditorium, were busily working at keyboards and control panels. No one took any notice of me. After hanging about in the wings for ten minutes or more, ignored and becoming increasingly bored, I meandered out and peered into the dim auditorium. Empty rows of red upholstered seats stretched away into the distance. Up above, the steeply raked seats in the balcony receded even further, disappearing into the gloom. The footlights in front of me glared suddenly. A voice from the stalls shouted, ‘Give him a guitar somebody.’
One of the stage hands appeared with a Fender guitar. My pulse quickened, my stomach tightened, and a shiver of stage-fright ran through me. Terror must have shown in my face, for as he handed me the instrument he said, ‘Don’t worry, mate, you look really cool.’
My eyes adjusted to the footlights, and I saw The Handyman make his way along a row of seats towards Max, who was already in the middle of the stalls. He called out, ‘We really appreciate you coming to help. You’ve seen Teef perform, on telly at least, haven’t you? Maybe you could try a few of his moves, to help us adjust the lights and check the set. I’ll give you a tip. The most important thing with the guitar is holding it right. Try this for us. Stretch your left arm right out forwards holding onto the neck… yes… bend your knees slightly as though you’re ready to spring into action… that’s good, now hunch your shoulders over the guitar, you’ve got it, we call it the battering ram, make like you’re ready to charge into the audience with it. Swing it gently up and down a bit, that’s it, great. Now another one of his favourites, straighten yourself up, bring your left arm up so the neck of the instrument is above your head… now move your hips back and forth. Yes, you’ve got it, we call that the space launch. It’s like you’re ready for lift-off.’ He glanced across to The Handyman, gave him the thumbs up sign, and called out to me, ‘That’s how it’s done, mate, the girls will love it.’
He again looked at The Handyman, who this time moved his hands forwards and down in front of his chest to suggest a female bosom, shook his head and pulled a face. ‘Oh, right,’ Max said, ‘correction. The guys in the audience will really go for the next moves. Hold the guitar like you’re trying to shake the chords out of it… terrific… turn sideways for me… a bit more… now back to face me… and again… yes, you’re turning me on now.’
With more encouragement, I pretended to play the chords Teef had taught me, swung around this way and that, and strode towards a back corner of the set. ‘Excellent. Now, Bendy, isn’t it? Try that again. Let’s have some backing music this time. Wiggle your arse for us a bit… not too much.’
Posing as a rock star, I must have struck everyone as utterly ridiculous, but they did not laugh, and Max continued to praise and urge me on. After about fifteen more minutes he said, ‘Someone take him up to a dressing room, put a headscarf on him and slap on a bit of eye shadow.’
He explained: ‘We have to make sure the image is right. So we need to get you made up properly.’
When he next saw me, in the headscarf and wearing eye make-up, he had me walk around under different combinations of lighting for a couple of minutes, then nodded his approval and said, ‘Okay, you can go home. Unlikely we’ll need you again, but be back here at four o’clock sharp tomorrow in case we do. The Handyman will take care of you.’
I learned on the drive back that Quick himself had not taken part in stage and sound checks for decades, because he considered himself too important for them. When we pulled up at Fulrose Court, The Handyman dropped a brown envelope full of money into my lap. ‘What’s this?’ I asked.
‘Hush money,’ he said gruffly.

Dale was very dubious about that brown envelope full of cash, money not duly recorded or signed for. ‘For all we know,’ he said, ‘it could have come from drug dealing or organized crime. What are those guys up to? If they needed someone to prat about on stage pretending to be Teef, why couldn’t one of them do it? Still, you’re not going to hand such a big wadge of notes back, are you? I could go with you tomorrow if it would help. I can leave work a bit early to get there for four.’

He did not have to repeat the offer. The Handyman collected us from Fulrose Court, and during the drive to the theatre talked constantly of the need for strict secrecy. He said that Max, the band’s manager, alone knew the grand plan, how and when all the elements needed for the show were to come together. Everyone else knew enough to perform their particular tasks, and no more.

All day, fear of what might be about to happen had caused me nervous inner twinges. At the theatre we entered through the weather-beaten door, went up the concrete staircase, and into a shabby room containing a couple of plastic chairs, a small table with mineral water and polystyrene cups, and a very old television monitor showing the empty stage. Dale was told to wait for me there. I was ushered along the corridor and into one of the dressing rooms. ‘They’ll dress you and put some stage make-up on you next,’ The Handyman said.
‘What’s going on? Yesterday they thought I probably wouldn’t be needed.’
‘Same kind of thing, the performance has got to feel right. Image is everything these days,

everything has to be just so. Little details you or I would never think of… how the guitars and outfits appear in different coloured lights… clothes having a particular style, not what the kids might wear, but not dated either. Nothing is left to chance, everything is thoroughly tried out, checked and re-checked, so even if you don’t know the reason for some of the things Max asks you to do, just go along with him. He even fusses about how visible the knot at the back of Teef ’s headscarf is, and how close the guitar strings are trimmed back to the machine heads. Shouldn’t need you for long. You’ll be performing a few moves under the dark spotlight.’

‘The dark spotlight? What the hell is that?’
‘It’s some newfangled thing. The Rocking Boulders are the first band ever to use one. It has a sort of silhouette effect, makes people seem a bit fuzzy. It creates a sort of Goth aura, no matter how bright the other stage lights. Someone tried to explain how it works to me. Something to do with lowfrequency energy fields. A professor at Pottsville University in the States invented it.’
I remembered Alicia speaking of a professor at Pottsville when she had been banging on about psychics and low-frequency energy fields. Perhaps they were not just mystical mumbo-jumbo. After the dresser and make-up artist had finished, they handed me a mirror. The face that gazed back was more like Teef ’s than it was my own; patches of a rubbery substance had been stuck on to create wrinkles, and my colour was ashen enough for a deathbed scene. Was all this really necessary to get the stage lighting exactly right?
I went down to the wings of the stage where an earpiece was fixed under my headscarf. Through this Max gave me instructions, evidently able to see me, though this time I could not see him. He had me cross from one side of the stage to the other several times, turn to face into the wings or move back towards the drum kit, and then twirl around and strut to the front of the stage, then go a little to the right of dead centre. He stopped me a couple of times because I was encroaching on Quick’s centrestage space. After that came an exercise in which I had to lean back whilst pretending to pluck the guitar strings rapidly. ‘Go on, further, lean right back as far as you can, bend your legs more, not too much with the right one, remember Teef ’s right knee is a bit stiff,’ he ordered. Worried more about the guitar than my own safety, I lost my balance and fell down, banging my head. ‘That might have stretched you a bit, but you’re getting to know your limits, well done,’ he said. ‘Let’s try you in the dark spotlight next. Be extra careful. It will make you appear shadowy and mysterious to the audience, but for you everything more than a few yards away will become indistinct. You may see weird coloured patches of bright light. They can be confusing… try to ignore them, they’re a side effect of the equipment. Always check the guide marks on the floor when you’re moving around on stage; keep at least three feet away from where the others will be. It would be a disaster if the spotlight suddenly made them look like Goths as well.’
I practised a few more of Teef ’s moves as directed, trying to drag my right leg a bit to make it appear stiff. Then the dark spotlight came on, and except for what was directly in front of me I could make out nothing at all, not the footlights, the edge of the stage, or the rows of seats in the auditorium. Random patches of colour appeared, as if part of a light show. Following Max’s commands, his voice constantly in my ears, I moved as though blindfolded. After several minutes the spotlight was extinguished and the stage became visible again. ‘How was that?’ I asked.
‘Great… little bit of adjustment… no problem. Tell you what, we’ll take a break now and you can meet a few of the people backstage. Not sure if we’ll need you any more, but you may as well see what goes on. Give you some impression of how the show is put together. The technology we’ve brought in is fantastic – terrific sound system, top class lights, hologram projections, the dark spotlight – but you can’t put on a concert with technology on its own. Not yet, anyway, you still need flesh and blood artistes up on the stage, unpredictable buggers that they are.’
The Handyman waved to me from the wings and took me back up to the room where Dale was waiting. ‘Is that really you in that disguise?’ he asked. ‘Was that really you on the stage? I can hardly believe it.’
‘I can hardly believe it myself.’
‘You’re like an octogenarian pirate. Hang on to those clothes, they would do you for fancy dress parties.’ The Handyman took us backstage, where the technicians, hidden from the audience, controlled the show. He introduced us to a couple of them, who told us how the stage effects and sound system worked, for instance that the phase of sound waves from more distant loudspeakers had to be altered to avoid spoiling the acoustics. We moved on to see where body guards would be waiting in case anyone climbed onto the stage. Next, we made our way up to a cubicle on the balcony from where the lights were controlled. It was so cramped that the woman at the desk had to squeeze past banks of electronics to greet us. ‘They don’t leave you much room,’ I commented.
‘It’s not usually as bad as this. They’ve brought in whole racks of stuff for the dark spotlight. You can see the main unit over there.’ She waved towards a special caged-off area at one end of the balcony. There a huge cylinder, with half a dozen or more thin tubes attached to the outside, pointed towards the stage.
‘It’s big enough,’ I said.
‘Yes. It doesn’t actually produce light itself, it works by generating low-frequency energy fields that interfere with the light from other sources. You see those tubes fixed to the outside? They’re telescopic sensors. The output is constantly varied with every change in the main stage lighting. This is the first time I’ve seen one. They’re horrendously expensive. Only a mega-group like The Rocking Boulders could afford one. Worked a treat on you, though, made you so spooky, like a real creature of the night.’
We returned to the shabby room where Dale had to wait. As it was late and Max wanted me to stay longer, The Handyman sent out for takeaway food. When we were alone, Dale said, ‘I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but in case they do want you again, you have got your phone with you, haven’t you? If they push you too hard, call me. I’ll come running.’
‘Thanks. You’re sure you don’t mind hanging around here?’
One of the stage hands came to take me back downstairs. Before he led me away Dale hugged me and mouthed ‘phone’. Off a short corridor I had not noticed before was a first aid room, where a man with a stethoscope around his neck said he would give me a quick check-up. He had me sit on a couch, move my arms and legs this way and that, and told me to follow the light of a little torch he held in front of my eyes. Then he checked my pulse and blood pressure. ‘You’ll do,’ he said.
With his fingers he moulded two plugs of a cotton wool-like substance around a couple of tiny earphones and fitted them into my ears. He clapped his hands. The sound was barely audible. Then he plugged the earphones into a small amplifier and snapped his fingers close to a microphone. The thwap of his finger and thumb came through loudly.
‘Very good,’ he approved, ‘Now, take a couple of deep breaths through here for me.’ He put a little perspex mask over my mouth and I breathed deeply. I felt a burning sensation in my sinuses and lungs. My muscles relaxed totally and I slumped onto the couch. If I had been standing I would certainly have fallen. My eyes shut, but I had the impression of seeing a brilliant flash of light that quickly faded. When I was conscious again he helped me straighten up, and said, ‘Now, one more good breath, and we’ll be finished.’
‘But…’ He pressed the mask over my mouth and nostrils hard, forcing me to inhale another dose. This time I blacked out. I have no reliable memory of what happened next. A kind of consciousness, or the illusion of consciousness, returned. My impression was that I was standing in the wings of the stage holding a Fender Stratocaster guitar. I could hear Max’s voice in my ears, ordering me about. Next, the dark spotlight’s deep shadow enveloped me, and its chromatic patches of light appeared. I have no idea know how long it was before I became properly awake. Whether my impressions were distorted memories of actual events, or weird imaginings induced by the inhaled gas, I cannot say.
I have a clear memory of going back to the room where Dale waited. He removed the headscarf, pulled the earphones from my ears, and washed my face with warm water from a plastic bowl. Then he helped me change back into my own clothes. Holding my arm he led me down the concrete staircase to a waiting taxi. On the way home I blacked out again.

Dale had watched the concert on the small screen of the closed circuit TV, but the picture was poor and the fixed camera revealed no detail. All kinds of things might have gone on under cover of some of the light-show effects and hologram projections. Teef, in particular, was very heavily made up, and was frequently under the shadowy influence of the dark spotlight. He also quite often disappeared behind the screens for a minute or two.

We bought newspapers the next day to read the reviews. They were of two kinds: those that praised the band effusively, and those that, whilst saying it was amazing they had continued to perform live for so many decades, suggested their material must sound dated to younger ears. All the reviewers loved the strange Goth aura that followed Teef around. There were no suggestions of anything amiss, or questions about how much of the music was actually live, or comments about the use of holograms or the special spotlight. A famous rock and roll band was expected to put on an expensive stage show, and the showmanship, mostly, was what interested the press.

Dale and I discussed whether the audience might, briefly, have seen me impersonating Teef, rather than the man himself. Was it possible that a holographic image of me, acting under Max’s directions, had been shown for a few minutes to allow him to rest? My own vague, uncertain memories proved nothing. We might as well speculate that the whole performance had been generated by the banks of computerized equipment, hologram projectors, and so on, without any human performers being on stage at all. No one would take such outlandish ideas seriously.

But if they had not used me during the concert, why had they dressed me up like Teef, and why had Max been directing me under the aura of the dark spotlight? Even if my role had been bigger than giving a little help with preparations, none of The Rocking Boulders’ entourage would ever reveal the truth. Why should they risk losing their highly paid jobs, or being tortured with the doctored cricket pads, for a story that could never be proved and was unlikely to be believed? If, during the band’s long history, a lookalike had ever been used in performance, the The Rocking Boulder‘s loyal circle knew better than to tell.

There were, though, clear signs of a change in attitude towards me. For over a week The Handyman phoned every day to ask how I was. Teef and Quick each called personally to thank me for helping with the show. Quick, instead of fobbing me off with the usual terse statement that he could not talk for long because he was on his way to some exclusive gathering, talked for ten minutes about how the band had struggled to get bookings in their early days. He promised that I would be the special guest at a big party on a river boat in a month or so. Twenty places were to be reserved for anyone I wanted to bring along. The Handyman gave Dale and me another brown envelope full of money for expenses, even though we had not claimed any.

Finishing Quick’s ‘auto’biography again came to take up much of my time. After several weeks more work, only a final batch of comments from the music journalist brought in by the band remained to be considered before the book was complete. Busy with our day jobs and our own routines, Dale and I soon stopped worrying about what might or might not have happened at the theatre.

The date of the party on the boat was confirmed. I easily filled my quota of guests by including those who had worked on the book and friends from the Give and Take. When anyone asked about the invitations, I gave an explanation suggested by Max, that they were a thank you for some papers and pictures belonging to Quick and Teef that I had discovered at an auction of celebrity memorabilia. The party on the boat began with lunch. We joined the boat at Millbank, near a stubby pillar marking the place where, long ago, a prison hulk was moored, full of convicts awaiting transportation to Australia. The boat for the party, in contrast, was a luxury river cruiser with a gleaming white hull. The forward of its two large cabins was filled by tables set for a four-course meal, and the rear one, with a small stage, had been cleared for dancing. Once aboard we were directed to the free, already crowded, bar. As the cruiser cast off we went in to eat.

My friends and the band’s people did not mingle much. Open bottles of wine were already on the tables, but the Boulders’ guests were soon calling for more. The traffic between bar and tables was constant. Everything was paid for, so there was no reason to hold back. A few of my group did their best to keep up, but alcohol consumption on the Boulders’ tables was hard to match.

At the end of the meal, when coffee had been served, Max stood up to speak. ‘First off,’ he said, ‘thanks to all of you for coming along. Well done to everyone who helped make the concert at the Apollo such a success. I’d like in particular to extend a special welcome to Ben and his friends, who discovered at an auction some material from a rock opera that, sadly, was left unfinished a long time ago. For anyone who would like to know more, a song from it will be performed in the aft cabin after the meal.

‘A question I am often asked, but can never give a definite answer to, is where the name The Rocking Boulders came from. Various ideas have been put forward, but none of them has ever been confirmed. The lads themselves are always very coy about the band’s origins, as I’m sure you know. One thing we can be completely sure of is that they did not start out as a tribute band to The Rolling Stones. My favourite story is that The Rocking Boulders was chosen from a long list which included gems like The Quaking Shoulders, The Party Holders, The Paper Folders, and The Do Az-ure Tolders.’

He was answered by noisy, drunken laughter and a cry of ‘Should have called them The Sex Soldiers.’
‘Finally, would you all raise your glasses, please, to the forthcoming work of fiction to be known as Rick Schwagger’s autobiography, subtitled: Quick: Fore, Aft, and Everything in Between. To the autobiography, your glasses please!’
Later, as we made our way to the rear cabin, we passed the toilets. A long queue had formed outside. I thought at first this was a result of all the wine and beer that had been consumed, until Dale came up with a more likely explanation: Peruvian Marching Powder. Three lads confirmed his theory by coming out of the loos together, one rubbing his nose, all of them unnaturally alert and pleased with themselves.
The Handyman saw them and said quietly to me, ‘I’d better make sure there’s no risk of Quick shoving any of that stuff up his nostrils. We don’t want him flinging his clothes off and jumping into the river. By the way, Max wants to have a word with you. You’ll find him over at the bar.’
He was talking to a couple of people when I approached, but seeing me he quickly disengaged from them. He ordered me a drink, put an arm around my shoulder and walked me to the now deserted gangway where we had boarded, so that we could talk privately.
‘Party all right for you?’ he asked.
‘Yes, fine. Terrific.’
‘Okay. Now, if Quick’s book goes as well as we expect, there will be others in the business wanting to have a book of their own. There will be an opening for someone who can be trusted to put their stories together for them. Give me a ring in a couple of months’ time. If anyone is sniffing around I’ll hear about it, one way or another.’
‘Wow! Would you do that for me? Thanks.’
‘In this business loyalty is paramount. There are times when working for the Boulders is a bit like being a secret agent, or possibly like working for the Mafia. You get to hear about things that are definitely not for the press or public. You got as close as you did because The Handyman vouched for you. Now I’ll be willing to vouch for you too, if I can be sure you won’t let me down.’
‘Count on me, not the slightest hesitation.’
He gave me his card, we shook hands, and I went back towards the rear cabin. The Boulders had taken up their positions on stage and were ready to begin the song from the rock opera. A couple of chords from Teef ’s guitar got everyone’s attention, and Quick began to sing in a voice so tender it surprised us all:

‘There’s nothing wrong with the sunshine, Sun and sky are a perfect blue,
But, with you oh so far away,
Here’s one more weary, lonely day.

Days break and fade as they used to, But pleasure is too hard to find, Sun, sand and sea, but miss you so, Love him, respect him, let him go.

Those sweet love songs we like to hear, Whispered words meant so to endear, For my ears, they’ve nothing to say, Can’t ease this weary, lonely day.’

Without the aid of backstage technicians, they delivered a moving and expressive performance. Teef ’s guitar solo was great. The song lasted for perhaps ten minutes, and was very different from the raunchy, rebellious h