Last Acton Hero
The white Ford Escort drifted aimlessly like a rudderless ship
broken free of its moorings. Dave kept it moving around the
streets of North West London. He was heading towards Acton though
in no hurry. Afraid to get there and also afraid to stop. His
fear was that his passenger might try to disembark and run off
into the night. He pushed the cassette into the machine and the
singer (who cannot be named for contractual reasons) started to
lament:
'Just a song of love, nothing very deep,
Just some words that came while trying hard to sleep,
An idea that just grew, Into a song of love for you'
Dave stopped the tape. 'Listen to that, It was me that wrote
those words, of course I care about you ...I'm sorry.'
He had written the song months before, inspired by a typical
evening spent in her company. Typical in that he had responded to
her plea of loneliness in his usual gallant fashion. Undaunted by
experience it is probable that he imagined a hint of desire as
she spoke enticingly down the phone. They had spent a typically
pleasant time, in a typical pub somewhere, with only the
occasional mention of her resentment towards Gary. Then,
following the typical return to her flat for coffee that always
turned out to be tea and nothing more, she had yawned the yawn
that said "I'm tired, please go" and pecked his cheek
with the kiss that said "Nothing".
Dave had returned to the studio and, unable to sleep, had penned
the song. Alex had hated it. Mandi was out of his favour and to
celebrate her in such a way was a complete anathema to him,
however it impressed the singer (who cannot be named) who
suggested they might record it there and then. Living as they
both did over a twenty four track studio, it was surprisingly the
only song they had ever recorded together. They had always
planned to write and record a more sorrowful song than Dolly
Parton's little known "I Will Always Love You." The
song which Radio One's Steve Wright's had declared the saddest
song ever. They took the rough sketch of lyrics and chords and
contrived a stimulant for the lachrymal glands. The melancholic
result had given witness to grown men crying and saw crying men
groan. Despite this artistic triumph the singer and Alex had
thought it best that Dave should rid himself of his muse and
source of inspiration.
'You've got to dump her before you turn out as mad as she is.'
They had insisted.
That evening he had suggested this to her as they were driving
back from another typically pleasant night out. His suggestion
that they part as friends rather then wait for resentment to
settle in left her, for the first time since he had known her,
totally speechless. Minutes past without a murmur or even a
movement. It was almost a relief when she started to sob. It
astonished Dave that any action on his part could result in such
a reaction.
He pushed the tape back in to allow him more time to think.
'Just a song of love it didn' t take too long
I just played some chords and the words just followed on
I guess it's nothing new
Just a song of love for you'
'No one wants me, Gary dumped me and you were the only friend I
had'
Dave reached out for the cumbersome mantle of guilt, and as he
wrapped it around himself, he searched for excuses. This young
girl had no one else to help her other than him and all he had
been thinking of was his own needs. She needed a friend and he
wanted a fuck.
'Just a song of love I might just throw away,
No words would win your heart no matter what they say'
The singer struggled to find new levels of pathos painfully
dragging each tearstained phrase through his distressed larynx.
'It won't change your point of view. Just a song of love for
you.'
Dave turned the tape player off and immediately regretted the
silence.
'I am your friend,' He yelled almost violently. 'I'm very sorry.'
His heart was pounding. 'I'm very fucking very sorry.' He could
feel the onset of an adrenaline rush. His thoughts darted between
irrational conclusions like a semi-severed cat squirming on the
road. He took the last packet of cigarettes from the dashboard
and lit the last one, pulling hard on the filter; sucking the
smoke deep into his lungs; anxious to absorb some tranquillity.
'I'm sorry I was acting on very bad advice.' He apologised as the
spokesmen for his worse nature nagged at him like old horses,
mocking the sincerity of his apology.
'What can I say?' He asked as sinister voices in his left ear
scoffed with wrought irony, delighted that the prophecy that he
would become as mad as her, though it may have been bad, was
proving to be true.
'Remember how I told you I had been admitted into Saint Bernard's
Hospital the night before New Year's Eve, well this is why.' She
pulled back one of the tennis sweat bands she was wearing. Even
in the dark Dave could see the painful lacerations across the
pale flesh at the most venous part of the wrist. He shook.
'Didn't you wonder about these' She pointed to the sweat bands,
'Or did you think I'd taken up tennis.' Her voice had become
hysterical though her demeanour remained autistic.
Dave gripped the steering wheel to steady himself and he pulled
the car into an all night garage on The Vale in Acton. The course
of the journey had diverted into alien territory. He was crossing
invisible borders and experiencing side effects: nausea,
trepidation and reluctance. He had never before been needed,
though he had often been wanted. In this uncharted territory he
knew he would encounter unfamiliar demands: compassion and
sympathy. He knew it would be a place where genital contact was
merely an embarrassing triviality. This was an opportunity to
rise to the challenge, play the hero and become a saint; but then
he realised, once again he was thinking only of himself.
He bought some cigarettes; it was going to be a long night.