Authors: Debbie Johnson
I headed towards the girl he’d pointed out, and tapped her on the shoulder, tentatively. She whirled round, the sweet chemical smell of her perfume and hair lacquer floating in a cloud as she did. She smiled at me, so happy she was sobbing.
‘Weren’t they brilliant? I can’t believe it! Everyone’s saying it’s their last time here …’
I nodded. They were, indeed, brilliant. Couldn’t argue with that, especially when you knew what their future back catalogue would sound like.
I smiled back, and wondered what she was seeing as she grinned up at me – surely not a bedraggled girl from the future, wearing mud-spattered jeans and battered Doc Martens, red hair lying in thick chunks around her shoulders. I was so not rocking the Sixties look, but it didn’t seem to bother her at all. She was high on life, and I was just another part of it.
I took a deep breath, inhaled more of her perfume, and reached out, taking hold of her hand. I tried to do what Fionnula had taught me, and control what I was seeing. I wanted to feel her emotions as they were right now, because they looked like fun. Not thirty years in the future, when her only son was killed in the Gulf War, or whatever. That might, I admitted to myself, have reflected a slightly negative attitude.
She gripped my fingers, and pulled me against her in a tight hug. Yes, she was that happy. The hugging complete strangers kind of happy that I’d witnessed before, but strangely enough had never been tempted by.
I was nestled into her bouff, and swamped with second-hand joy. Her name was Theresa Brady. She was nineteen years old, and worked in ladies accessories at George Henry Lee, the local department store. She was a little bit in love with Paul McCartney, who she’d snogged one time when she was fifteen, but she was even more in love with her fiancé, Brian. In fact … she was pregnant by him. And terrified of telling her mum. Even though Brian had said they could bring the wedding forward, do it before she was showing. Even though he’d said he’d stand by her.
Theresa’s emotions cut through me: anxiety, fatigue, love, hope, and the sheer unadulterated thrill of being in the thick of all this – here, tonight. Of seeing this band, on this stage; of having this last wild memory to share with her unborn child. Of being part of something so special.
I could feel the baby too, heartbeat throbbing away in her tummy, high on amniotic fluid and the motion of its mother’s body as she jigged around, holding on to me. That was too freaky for words, so I pulled back, concentrated on Theresa, and the present.
The present was awe-inspiring. The present was all joy and hope and just a nag of uncertainty. Theresa Brady, on this one night she’d never forget, was experiencing emotions I’d never even felt, and they were wonderful – even if I was only borrowing them for a few minutes. But what about her future? What happened next for Theresa and Brian and their baby? There’s a reason I never usually do this kind of thing, and I was probably about to be reminded of that – but I had to try.
I lifted some of the white cloud I’d been using to guard myself, let it fade slightly, and nudged forward, dropping control. With a near-physical whoosh, it happened: Theresa’s future life, running through my mind like a movie montage on fast forward. The wedding – her not showing, as promised – and Brian, suited and booted and beaming. Mrs Brady senior looking on, a slight twist to her lips, thinking that her daughter had blotted her copy book but not to mind, worse things had happened at sea.
The baby – a boy. Colin. Followed by another boy, and finally a girl. The mundane happiness of an ordinary life: school gates and Nativity plays and Holy Communions and teenage sulks. The dark cloud of a stillbirth, and a brief unsatisfactory affair with a man from work who reminded her of the bloke from
The Sweeney
. The death of Brian, after a lifetime of smoking and drinking, and the long trek to adjusting to life without him. Grandchildren – lots of them – and aching joints and a lump removed and nights filled with telly and bingo and TV dinners.
No lottery wins, and no huge tragedies, just normality. It was … nice. It was full. And even more pleasantly, there was no nasty ending – which meant that Theresa Brady, nineteen years old and high on life, was still out there somewhere. Still living, still loving. Still remembering this one very special night.
I dragged myself away, still feeling woozy with her excitement. Like I’d been inhaling someone else’s spliff. Adrenaline rushed through me, the sheer force of Theresa’s happiness becoming my own. I turned around, looking for the Man – that definitely needed capitalising now – ready to give him a super-thrilled thumbs up, in honour of McCartney’s traditional gesture.
As I turned, I started to tingle all over; the sounds around me became blurred and fuzzy through my ears, and my vision clouded. Uh-oh. Fally-down time again. I felt my body crumple, and hoped I wouldn’t get trampled to death beneath a crowd of stampeding Beatlemaniacs. Better than my last two deaths – fake car crash and death plunge – but not ideal.
I woke up back in my deckchair. The Man – no longer shimmering, just back to being normal old God, Overlord, whatever – was next to me. I rubbed my eyes, feeling like I always did after a see-’n’-swoon session: like I’d woken up from an unpleasantly long sleep.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I caught you. I’ll always catch you, Lily. And I got you an extra pint in as well.’
Sure enough, a fresh glass was waiting at my feet, the glass sweating in the heat. Right next to my backpack, which I’d assumed was gone for ever.
‘How was that?’ he asked. ‘Did you like Theresa? I always had a soft spot for her …’
I reached down for the glass. Gulped down half a pint in one go.
‘Are you telling me you know all about her?’ I said, wiping my Guinness tash off my lip to distract myself from the craziness of the whole conversation. ‘About everyone? I mean … how can you? There are so many of us!’
‘The very hairs on your head are all numbered, Lily. Don’t you remember that? Yes, everything. About everyone. Especially you. You’re extra special.’
I stayed silent and drank. There was nothing I could possibly say that would sound remotely close to ‘intelligent’. I took in what he’d just said, and couldn’t quite shake the ridiculous image of God sitting at a computer station, filling in the world’s largest-known spreadsheet. Excel to the max.
There was a ripple through the crowd, and an extra-loud hum of excited chatter. The little puffs of energy in the air started to swirl, creating mini tornadoes just beneath the ceiling. Something was happening. I craned my neck to see what the fuss was about, as people thronged around a spot off to the left.
‘Ah,’ said the Man. ‘I wouldn’t advise you go and touch his hand, to be honest …’
I looked again. John Lennon had emerged from the dressing rooms, and was talking to his fans. More handsome in real life, with his equine face and waistcoat swinging open. Laughing – he laughed like the world was at his feet – which it was, right then. No. Indeed. I was in no rush to go and meet the living legend – I didn’t need psychic powers to know what his future held, and it wasn’t heading anywhere nice.
‘Right,’ said the Man, bringing my attention back to the here and now. Or the then and there, I wasn’t quite sure. I still thought there was a strong possibility I was dead, or at the very least in a mind-altering, coma-based alternate reality. ‘We have some more bands to see,’ he continued, ‘and you have some more people to meet.’
Over the next hour, the Cavern swirled and changed around me, flying through the decades and surviving closures, bankruptcies, demolitions and rebuilding. But, ultimately, not changing at all. We remained in a small, cosy hole beneath the ground, brick arches winging over our heads, and musical history appearing before our eyes. They were all stars who had actually appeared at the club during its history, which was a pretty impressive list.
Soul singer Wilson Pickett. Queen. Elton John. The Who. The Rolling Stones. A brilliantly sneering Liam Gallagher in Oasis. And even some I’d been to see first time round, and had very different memories of: Bo Diddley, Paul McCartney as a solo artist, the Arctic Monkeys.
I set aside the mysteries of life to just enjoy the experience. After all, it was the best gig ever in the history of the universe. My life has been pretty crappy in a lot of respects – but really, how many people can say they’ve seen Mick Jagger, Freddie Mercury, Chuck Berry, Rod Stewart and Stevie Wonder all on the same night? Not many, I reckon.
All the time, the fashions were changing around us: from beehives and Brylcreem to bad afros and hippy hair; from sharp suits to bell-bottom jeans and Afghan coats, right up to the current indie chic of skinny pants and Converse trainers and zipped-up puffa jackets. The smells changed too: less ciggie smoke, less eau de drainage, and a lot more booze.
After each show, I was asked to follow the same routine – find someone in the crowd, and connect with them. I saw so much. I felt so much. Some of it sad, some of it tragic, but most of it wonderful. Joyous. Long lives, well lived. Bright lights shining the most vividly on that one night, in that one place. Sex and love and hope and sheer excitement all blending in with the sounds and the smells and the sights. Gigs and hen nights and stag dos and birthday parties and good old-fashioned Saturday nights out on the town.
By the end of it, I was dazed. Filled to the brim with other people’s emotions. High as a kite, in fact.
I’d touched so many people – seen so much about them. And survived it all, bar a few swoons. I’d crammed in more human contact in one evening than I’ve had the rest of my life, and I was giddy. So giddy that when the final band came on stage, I was ready to rock.
‘This,’ said the Man, ‘is a special treat for you. They never actually played here, but I thought it would end the night well. But before we start – and before you go off and snog some random student, you’re buzzing so much – what have you learned? Sit down, and tell me.’
I didn’t want to sit down. I didn’t want to discuss what I’d learned. I was flying, and I wanted to spread my wings. I wanted to dance, and jump up and down, and sing out loud, and laugh with strangers, and yes, snog random students. This was all stuff I’d never done before, and I was starting to see why it was so popular.
But I looked at the Man. Remembered he could shimmer, and that he had eyes like diamonds. Remembered that he’d caught me – said he’d always catch me – and that he had counted all the hairs on my head.
I sat down.
‘I’ve learned … that it’s not all about pain. That I’ve never given pleasure a chance. That most of these people will live happy lives, even if they don’t appreciate how lucky they are to be ordinary. I’ve learned that being alive is … wonderful. Joyous. Exciting.’
‘And what else?’ he prompted.
‘That Freddie Mercury used to wear really tight trousers?’
‘Yes. That. But what else?’
I sighed, drew my arms around myself. I was hot, sweating from the crowds and the music and the dancing.
‘I’ve learned that I could … I suppose … feel all of those things myself, one day. If I let myself try. And if I work hard. And if I eat all my greens. Happy now?’
The Man smiled, and I was swamped with a feeling of pure love. I closed my eyes and savoured it, tucked it away to bring back out on bad days. And there would, I was sure, be plenty of those on the road ahead – but at least now I
saw
a road ahead. I saw a future. I saw potential, for me and for everyone else. A future that didn’t only include hurt and pain and death. It’s amazing what a good night out can do for a girl.
The lights dimmed, and a moody-looking indie crowd started to sway and chatter. Hooded jackets, baggy jeans, T-shirts with smiley faces on them.
The Man stood up, and gestured for me to do the same. The band came on. The bloody Stone Roses. The best gig ever had just become perfect. I really wished Carmel was there.
A distinctive opening drum beat. Guitars kicking in. Ian Brown’s offhand vocals.
‘I Am the Resurrection’.
Nobody warns you about your sense of smell. When you lose someone – when you become part of that happy little club, ‘the bereaved’ – you are swamped with a mass of information: how to register a death; how to organise a funeral; how to contact a counselling service.
What they should really be doing is telling you stuff that saves your sanity. Things like: ‘Erase all your voicemail messages, as hearing them again will make you sob up a lung’; and: ‘Empty their bin right away, or you’ll see their discarded fag packets and tea bags and imagine they’re still there.’ That kind of thing. In fact, I might do it myself, get it printed up into booklets: self-help for the apprentice griever. It could be a hit in hospices around the world.
In my case, it was the smells that got me. I’d let myself into Coleen’s little terraced house late at night. My new-found friend had dropped me off in a cab, while the street was silent and empty and still. I’d looked around – rows and rows of terraces, all the same. Close-packed cars and wonky lights shining from wonky street lamps. Litter in the gutters, cats on the prowl. Just another night in Anfield.
Except this night, I was letting myself into a house that would be for ever different. For ever changed. Just like me.
As soon as I stepped foot into the hallway, my nostrils flared. I’m sure for some people, returning to their childhood home brings a rush of happiness, or at least a sense of security. Memories of good times shared, and love doled out with the cornflakes. Not so for me – there was no happiness here, despite Coleen’s deathbed proclamations. Every single time I’d opened this door, during my entire life, I’d done so with a sense of dread, not anticipation – and being told you were loved seconds before someone took their last breath couldn’t change that. At least not this fast.
But there were still memories; way too many of them, in fact. You can’t live with someone for most of your life without storing them up, hoarding them in your mind like unwanted shoes shoved to the back of the wardrobe.