The Kimota Anthology (2 page)

I remember the sounds of screaming, a feeling as if the whole world was tilting. When I try to think back about it, I only see “flashes’: like I’m seeing some kind of psychedelic film that makes no sense. I remember something made of glass breaking. Later, they found that my front window was broken and there was blood on the panes, so I suppose it must have been that. They found the guitar out there too, on the street. I seem to remember running through rain (although it wasn’t raining that night), and with the sounds of that hideous screaming all around me. I seem to see faces swimming out of mist, leering at me. But in retrospect those faces must have been passers-by on the street shrinking back in fear as I hurtled past them in the night.

Then I remember the car, swerving around the corner with its headlights stabbing the night. I remember a shrieking of brakes that matched the terrified shrieking all around me. Then the impact. A horrible black gulf of pain that killed the screaming dead. A feeling of flying, and the knowledge that the screaming was not coming from all around me, but was actually coming from me.

Then it was like I was kid again, at the dentists. Back then, when I had gas for an extraction, I would suffer the most terrible hallucinations. I reckon it must have been some reaction to the gas, because the experiences were always hideously painful. Jumbling black-white-and red shapes. Magnified sounds, like the crashing echoes of someone dropping a tray of cutlery. And the twisting and turning of those shapes, and the sounds of that crashing cutlery were all, in themselves, causing the most hideous, gouging pain. Distorted voices moaning obscenities. Waves of nausea creeping and swelling through the pain…

And then I was awake again, fully expecting to be leaning forward to the unconvincing voice of a dentist telling me that everything was all right and would I please spit into the bowl. I tried to struggle up, but that hideous pain had transferred to my leg. I slumped back. I wasn’t ten years old, I was forty.

I was in a hospital bed.

Sweat soaked my face, and I could feel it in the small of my back. And oh God, had I pissed myself as I lay there?

I lay there a while, breathing deep and trying to orientate myself.

There had been an accident. I remembered the car with its blaring horn and its shrieking tyres. My leg seemed to be in some sort of splint under the covers. Yes, that was it — I’d been hit by a car. But what about all that other stuff? The screaming and the breaking of glass and the running through the streets — and something to do with music? No, that must all be part of the shock of the accident. If I just lay still for a while and took it easy, everything would come back to me gradually. Maybe I’d just left Gerry in the pub, and walked outside, full of whisky — straight in front of a car. That made much more sense.

Gerry.

Somehow, I could hear his voice. I rubbed my face, screwed my fists into my eye sockets, shook my head. I could still hear his voice, then I could hear the shrill Liverpudlian voice of a famous TV star — and the sounds of an audience laughing.

I looked up.

There was a television set high up on a shelf, just off to my left.

And there was Gerry — on the screen. Chatting to the TV star.

My senses were still a little blurry . I tried to rise again and felt the pain, thought about ringing the bell at the side of the bed for assistance.

“So tonight’s the night,” said the woman in the bright red hair, “After all these years. You must be feeling very excited.”

“More than excited,” said Gerry’s familiar voice. “I’m proud. Just proud that I’m part of such a big moment in Rock and Roll history.”

“So no one’s heard the song, none of the band back there have rehearsed it?”

“That’s right. This is the first time that his last song will have been playied to an audience. Just like the band back there, the vieweres will be hearing Deep Blue just as Buddy composed it — for the very first time.”

“I can’t wait, chuck. Believe me. So, viewers tune in for tonight’s Big Event - just after the regional news…”

And that’s when I tore the IV wires out of my arm and shoved the stand aside. The wires sprayed liquid over the bedspread. I knew that the pain was going to be bad, but hadn’t appreciated just how bad as I pulled myself out of bed as my strapped-up leg swung down to bang against the mattress. The pain almost made me throw up. I gritted my teeth, felt the enamel scraping — and hobbled to the cupboard. I was right, my clothes were in there. I dragged them out as the loud and brassy television theme filled the room. My head was still swimming as I dragged the clothes on. There was a walking stick beside a chair in the corner. I grabbed it and hobbled to the door. So far, no one had noticed that I’d come around. I staggered, putting too much weight on my splinted broken leg. This time, I did throw up; reeling to one side as it came out of me.

In the next moment, I was out of the ward and hobbling down the corridor head down. I hoped to God that no one would stop me. Each step of the way, I gritted my teeth or chewed at my lips with the pain. By the time I’d reached the end of the corridor, there was a salt taste of blood in my mouth.

Outside, it had begun to rain. I stood aside as an ambulance pulled up at the entrance, kept my head down and tried to pretend that I was just a patient having a breath of fresh air as the back doors of the ambulance banged open and two of the crew loaded out some poor old guy on a stretcher with an oxygen mask on his face. As soon as they passed me, I hobbled out into the night.

How long had I been lying there in that hospital bed? Days, weeks, months?

Prime time television special, Gerry had said. How long would it have taken him to fix up a deal like that?

I stared out into the darkness. I’d never make it to the main road with this leg, and there was no guarantee that I would be able to flag down a taxi. I had to go back inside the hospital, find a telephone, hope that I wasn’t spotted. How the hell could I convince anyone at the studios?

Then I saw the driver’s keys, still in the ignition of the ambulance.

Now or never.

I yanked open the door, threw the walking stick inside, drew a deep breath and began to clamber in. My leg bumped against the door as I climbed it — and I’m sure that I passed out then. In a kind of dream I saw myself being hauled out of the ambulance, put onto a stretcher and taken back inside. But then the dream dissipated, and there I was, half-in half-out, lying across the seat. My leg was on fire. I struggled up and pulled the door shut. The walking stick was going to have to serve the purpose of my damaged leg on the accelerator.

I gunned the engine into life — and the ambulance screeched off down the hospital ramp. I expected to see the two crew members galloping out after me, yelling and screaming. Expected to hear the sounds of police sirens at any minute. But there was no one to stop me as I came off that ramp into the hospital forecourt, and the ambulance screeched out on to the main road. If anything had been coming, there would have been no way I could have stopped. There would have been a pile-up, and that would have been the end of it. But, thank God, nothing came.

Where the hell was the siren on this thing? If I could find it, then I could get where I was headed with no problems of being snarled up by traffic. The other bastards would have to stop.

Nine previous owners of that song.

I found it — just before I went through that first set of red lights. A Volvo swerved up onto the pavement out of my way, juddering to a halt. Now I knew - I’d never get to that studio on time, would never get past the security guards in this condition. I rammed the gears into reverse and screeched down a side road. There was one other place I had to get to - and it wasn’t far.

Nine previous owners, all of them dead. Suicide, Gerry had said. That first girl who found it committed suicide. What about the other nine?

How long had I got? How long did the local news last for God’s sake?

There were roadworks at the corner of the street I was headed for.

Buddy Holly composed it. Somehow. On that plane.

I swerved the ambulance in hard, tried to avoid the hole that the British Gas workmen had been working in. That left side wheel juddered on the edge as the ambulance slewed across the street, slamming into the red and white wooden barriers, splintering them and sending traffic cones whirling and clattering in the night.

He plays it for the first time. On that night, 3rd February 1959. He plays it on the plane.

Somehow, I didn’t go sideways into the hole as I tugged at the wheel. The ambulance righted and roared down the street.

Those on board the plane hear the song. And something happens then. The plane pitches out of the sky, slams into the earth killing everyone on board.

I jammed down hard on the brakes, pitching myself forward; the juddering agony in my leg making me yell out loud. But I couldn’t stop now; not now, when I’d managed to get this far. I dragged open the door, leaving the siren wailing. Already, the curtains in the windows of this small side-street were twitching as those inside came to find out what the hell the noise was about. That was good. Let them come. Let them get away.

And out of that carnage, two sheets of writing paper flutter in the wind, coming to rest in the branches of a tree. There to be found, eventually, by a young girl. Taken away — and kept. A love song to her. From Buddy — or perhaps — Something Else.

There was no way I could clamber down from this height, it was going to take too long. There was only one way. I gripped my leg hard, and rolled out of the seat, head down, hunching my shoulders to take the impact as I hit the ground. All the way down to the ground, I gripped hard on my leg trying to make sure it didn’t bang against anything. The impact seemed to judder every bone in my body. Something ripped in my shoulder and now I couldn’t see straight. Had I concussed myself?

And then the realisation. As I’d run screaming down the street, having played that song. That horrible realisation as the car swerved and its horn blared. The car was swerving to avoid me — but I’d heard the song, and now — I WANTED to die. I had thrown myself under that car deliberately.

No time to think, no time to lose. I dragged myself up, pulled the walking stick out of the cab and hobbled furiously towards that familiar front door.

It began to open as I approached.

It was Angela.

In her dressing gown, hair wet and looking as if she had just got out of the bath.

“Oh my God,” she began. “It’s you…” It was an automatic response of weary disgust, but her words shrivelled in her mouth when she saw my face, saw what kind of state I was in. Her mouth opened wide, and she had no time to react as I hit that half-opened door hard with my free hand. In shock, she staggered back against the wall and I blundered straight in past her.

“The kids!” I yelled. “Where are the kids?”

“They’re watching the telly — what the hell do you think you’re doing, busting into my house like that? There’s a restraining order against you coming here. You know that? And what the hell is that ambulance doing…?

I shouldered the living room door open. Jamey and Paula were already looking my way as I came in, eyes wide and fearful.

On the television, the red haired woman said: “And without further ado — not that there’s been any ado going on anyway (laughter) — Gerry Cainton’s band, Surefire, are here to play — for the first time — Buddy Holly’s Deep Blue.”

As the audience applause filled the room, I limped towards the television set, forcing myself not to care about the agony in my leg.

The band played those first two chords. Major to minor. The intro.

God in Heaven, I couldn’t bend to switch the damn thing off, or even pull the plug out of its socket. The pain was too great. If I was to fall, I’d never get up again with this leg.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the kids shrinking back on the sofa, away from me.

The drums began, the bass started a riff. The lead guitarist strutted forward to his microphone.

And I seized the top of the television, yanking it from its table and screaming like a wild animal at the pain as the weight of it forced me to stand on both legs. Then I lunged forward as that first lead guitar phrase filled the room - and stumbled towards the windows.

The set’s lead jerked free from the socket just as I hit the window. It shattered with a juddering crash, and the set went straight out into the street in a glittering wave like broken ice. I fell over the jagged edge, feeling the glass slice through my clothes and across my stomach and chest. I saw the television hit the gleaming pavement; saw the screen explode with a hollow cough, spitting out blue sparks, glass and shattered filaments in its last buzzing, spluttering death rattle.

I couldn’t get my breath.

As I tried to suck in lungfuls of night air, as the rain spattered through that shattered window and the sounds of that ambulance siren wailed in the living room, I was racked by a keening, sobbing convulsion deep in my chest. It had something to do with the pain, the agony — but it was more to do with relief, with the fact that I never thought deep down that I was going to get there in time.

Now, there were hands on my shoulders. Small hands, gentle but strong.

That sobbing seemed to be convulsing my whole body as I was lifted out of the broken window. It was Jamey and Paula, their faces no longer terrified, their eyes no longer wide with fear.

“Here,” said Jamey. “Here, Dad.” And they were both trying to guide me to the sofa.

In the doorway, I could see Angela in her dressing gown. Face white and set in a mask of fury. She was on the telephone. I knew from that expression that she had just dialled 999.

“Police!” she snapped firmly at the ’phone, her eyes still fixed on me.

“Oh God, Dad…” said Paula, her voice filled with a kind of soft horror. “What’s that?”

I struggled to control that sobbing, and turned to see her looking past me, back out of the window.

“Listen,” she said.

And I heard what she had heard, even above the sound of the ambulance siren.