“Hey man, cool it there…” Tony says.
“You ain’t saying we can’t be trusted now are you Tony?” Jamie responds.
“Well no, of course I ain’t Jamie… of course not… we been running for years, I just know…”
“Yeah, you know what?”
“Well I know life is busy for you and our friend the star right now and I wouldn’t want you guys to, erm, well… forget! You understand I’m sure but what you have there is at least a couple of months rent on my place and, well…”
“Ah come on now Tony man, you know you can trust us, you know I just got to run this on over to the studio, then to the company, I got a big old briefcase of money to pick up and our star already knows I got to drop off here before she even sees it, you get me?”
“Yeah, yeah… I’m sorry man, I guess I just ain’t used to dealing with customers I see on billboards every time I leave my damn flat! I still ain’t used to it even if it is you guys…”
“So we’re all good Tony?”
“Sure man, so you’ll be back later?”
“Sure I will, give me a few hours, get our star back into working order, get that big case of cash from those fuckers at the record company and then I’ll be right on over…”
“Cool man, so… til later my friend!”
“Til then!”
Jamie bundles down the stairs and out the front of a nondescript block, it could be industrial, it could be residential, somewhere in the mostly ignored north London neighbourhood famous for a street dominated by pubs, takeaways, street dealers and poseurs. Walking the familiar route towards the studio and the reluctant star, the poor little girl thrust into the limelight and all because of some silly little song she wrote on the back of a fag packet a couple of years before. All she’d ever wanted to do was sing, to sing the blues like her heroine Billie Holiday but now, well, now… no one knows where the hell she’s going now. Walking pass the reception desk he knows that she’ll be climbing the walls waiting on his arrival and sure enough as he pushes the door open the first words he hears are, ‘Jamie? Is that Jamie?’
“Yes yes it’s me,” he announces spying her stalking the floor.
“What the fuck Jamie,” she says.
“Did I do good?”
“You could say that you daft fool… Crikey I better go easy with this much hanging around… You pay him?”
“Not yet, I did it exactly the way you told me boss.”
“Good man, so off you pop to those bastard suits to get our money…”
“I hope you didn’t get her too much of that shit!” this weeks’ manager demands to know, “We’ve got her on a TV special this weekend and she’s got to be on for it… it could bring in a seven-figure sum!”
As Jamie bundles pass the reception desk flunky in super-quick time his phone pings.
‘What the fuck?’ is all he can think after reading the message from Tony. It pulls no punches and is already threatening violence despite the short time and Jamie knows, he just knows, he’s got to scarper.
Meanwhile inside the star is throwing another of her epic diva fits and as her manager, this weeks’ poor sucker convinced he is the one who can get her in line, loses his cool she knows there is only one thing for it. She storms out the room and heads immediately towards the place she always feels at home.
“Vodka-tonic please Bill,” she asks the barman who’s been serving her drink since she was only seventeen.
“Double?”
“Well sure why the hell not…”
Right on cue it seems Greg, a long-time lesser-spotted friend, walks into the bar.
“Greg!” she hollers as she spies him walking towards Katherine, the gorgeous Russian beauty of a barmaid.
“Oh hey, long time…” he responds.
“Sure has been, you still up to your usual?”
“Erm, you ain’t talking about my music or my drinking are you?”
“No, you know… the other!”
“Oh yeah I just about get by, got a new gig with some deluded nut-job who some record company are convinced is going to be the new… well, erm…”
“Oh dear, like we need another one like that! For god-sake one of them is almost more than enough!”
The old friends fall into each others arms laughing until the star leans in and whispers into Greg’s ear.
“I got some real good stuff Greg but it’s hot and I got to get rid, you interested in taking it off my hands for a drink or two?”
“Well sure…” he responds, handing her a 10 note in exchange for what he reckons could last him, maybe, a couple of weeks.
“Let’s go get fixed first though,” she says turning to Bill.
“Sure” is all he says as they disappear up the stairs to the office. Time passes as the fix kicks hard but soon both are walking back through the bar; Greg to home and our star outside for a quick cigarette.
The chaos and noise of the street cut right through the night as she steps out and straight into a barrage of bullets and to anyone it is clear death is near and almost inevitable but Greg, not knowing, simply heads on home. He’s got to get fixed and as he walks in his flat his phone starts binging. The news it brings is impossible, she can’t be dead and as he pushes the needle in and pumps the mixture deep into his vein he can feel something going terribly wrong. As a nation is updated on the death of their new singing queen Greg merely collapses to the floor where it’ll take a couple of days before the smell of his decay will alert his neighbours of his fate.
Bradford Middleton still lives in Brighton, UK but has recently landed a new job that he doesn’t hate so maybe here for a bit longer yet… Recent poems appear in Beatnik Cowboy, River Dog Zine, Back Room Poetry ‘Rebel’ Anthology, Stink Eye Magazine and Dreich. His most recent chapbook was published early 2023 by those fine folks at the Alien Buddha Press.
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