Killing Scorpio - Part Two

It was upstairs in the smaller of the O2 venues and the place was only half full so we had no trouble in threading our way through to the front. We were already a bit drunk by the time we went in and if there was a support band I don’t remember them. We were leaning against the barriers in front of the stage when Charlie struck up a conversation with one of the security guys. After a few pleasantries he gestured at me and said:

 

“This guy used to go to school with Scorpio.”

 

I’m sure he was hoping to start a conversation which would eventually lead to us getting backstage but it wasn’t required. A short, bald, stocky man standing behind the security guy must have overheard. He leaned across and interrupted:

 

“Somebody went to school with Scorpio? Who did?”

 

“Yeah, me” I said. “I was at West Leeds with him. Steve Patterson. Do you know Scorpio? Tell him I’m here. He probably won’t remember me but tell him anyway.” I repeated my name with exaggerated emphasis. “Steve Patterson. Or he might remember Patsy.”

 

“Yeah, course I’ll tell him. Steve Patterson. Patsy. OK. I’ll tell him. But why don’t you just come backstage after the gig? Say hello yourself? I’m sure he’d like to see you.”

 

I hesitated.

 

“That’s great, I’d love to. But how do we get past these guys?” I gestured at security.

 

He looped his lanyard over his head and handed it to me.

 

“Here. Use this. You’ll be fine.” He nodded at the security guy. “Gotta go. See you later.” And he was off.

 

Attached to the lanyard was a pass which said “O2 OXFORD – ARTIST – ACCESS ALL AREAS”. I think I’ve still got that pass somewhere.

 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

To be honest the performance was a bit meh, though to be fair I’m more of an Indie man, heavy rock is not really my cup of tea. Most of the audience seemed to agree with me though there was a small but significant group of Scorpions getting their rocks off at the front. They loved him. Bare chested under a battered leather biker’s jacket, peaked SS cap complete with death’s head insignia, a large metal swastika dangling from a heavy steel chain round his neck, I had to admit he had some stage presence. His skin tight leather pants were held up by a fully loaded cartridge belt. As soon as they came on I realised that the guy who’d given us the backstage pass was Scrote Thunderclap, Scorpio’s long standing and long suffering lead guitar. He must have said something to Scorpio before the gig because at one point between songs he peered around the crowd and said “Where’s Patsy?”, but then before I could react he’d moved on. They finished with their biggest hit, “Panty Dropper”, (look for it on YouTube). The crowd went mild. There was a half-hearted encore of course, and then that was that. The crowd quickly dispersed and we moved over to the security barriers. I nervously flashed my pass but was ushered straight through. “Him as well” I said, pointing at Charlie. The Rock God awaited.

 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Have you ever been in a green room? No neither had I. I’ve never even been backstage, so how do you even find the green room? We walked around for a minute, poked our heads round a couple of doors, no-one challenged us. Then we came to a door where someone had pinned a torn piece of copier paper with “Artists” scrawled on it in orange marker. It was half open so we tentatively stepped inside and stood in the doorway. I don’t know what I expected but it certainly wasn’t this, a square windowless room, maybe fifteen by fifteen, the walls completely covered with posters and the tatty plastic stickers of previous bands and performers. The little I could see of the original walls was painted dog shit brown. The word that sprang to mind was ‘hovel’. In one corner was a chipped porcelain sink and a stained wooden draining board on which stood two bottles of vodka and a half-empty one of Johnnie Walker. The room was crowded with the band and the roadies busying themselves, packing away the instruments and equipment which littered the place. It was airless and stuffy and the weak fluorescent lighting only enhanced the drab tawdryness of the scene. Nobody took any notice of us. 

 

Even in this quite small room I didn’t immediately notice Scorpio. Then I heard a voice over my shoulder.

 

“Hiya gents! You made it then?”

 

I spun round to see the sweaty face of Scrote grinning at me.

 

“Whoa! Scrote! How ya doing? Yeah, we made it. You were great. Great gig!”

 

“Yeah! Thanks, glad you enjoyed it. Not our best night but it was OK.” He firmly shook hands with both of us. “Have you met Mark yet?”

 

“No we haven’t. I don’t know where he is.”

 

“He’s over there. Come on, let’s go say hello.”

 

He led us to a low day bed in the far corner of the room that in all the bustle I hadn’t even spotted.

 

Have you ever noticed how much smaller performers are in real life than on stage? You see them singing their songs or telling their jokes, either live or on TV, and even the mediocre ones seem confident, composed, assured, and just, well, big. But then you see them interviewed afterwards and the interviewer looms over them. Or you might bump into them in the bar after the gig and you only notice them because your mate points them out. They’re not all naturally charismatic, not at all, it’s as if the stage itself seems to grant them some presence, some magnetism, some height, which melts away as soon as they step off. If you saw Kylie Minogue onstage for the first time and didn’t know any better you’d probably assume she was an amazon. She’s five foot nothing ferchrissakes.

 

“Oi Mark! Here’s those guys I was telling you about. Patsy, and his mate Charlie.”

 

The was a man laying flat out on the day bed. But who was he? He was wearing Scorpio’s stage gear, he certainly looked like Scorpio, but he was smaller, shrivelled, diminished, this couldn’t be the mighty Scorpio, the self-proclaimed Sex Fuhrer, the High Priest of Love? Then I realised that indeed, the man lying in front of me wasn’t Scorpio at all, it was Mark, and Mark is a late middle-aged man who wears thick glasses with heavy black frames. And Mark gets tired easily at his age. And Mark is all that’s left, the spent and empty husk, when the vital entertainer I’d been watching twenty minutes ago leaves the stage and goes to the green room. His eyes were closed. He could have been asleep. We must have looked like grieving sons round a dying father’s hospital bed. Scrote raised his voice:

 

“Mark! Wake up you lazy bastard!”

 

He opened his eyes.

 

“What?”

 

“Here’s that Patsy I was telling you about. Went to school with you.”

 

There was a short and uncomfortable silence. That’s when I realised I should have rehearsed for this moment. It had been over forty years and I had no idea what to say next. I awkwardly held out my copy of “Fuck Me Dead”.

 

“Hiya Mark! How are you doing? I got your book. Loved it. Can you sign it for me?”

 

He slowly raised himself up and sat stiffly on the edge of the bed. He looked at Charlie then at me.

 

“Which one of you’s Patsy?” Then he noticed me holding the book out towards him. “Are you Patsy?” His voice was strained and hoarse.

 

“Yeah, I’m Patsy. You must remember me. I sat behind you at West Leeds.”

 

He furrowed his brow in concentration.

 

“Patsy. You were the brainy one. Mates with Benny and Carter.”

 

“That’s me.” I was relieved and flattered that he still knew me. “You remember  Benny and Carter then? I still see Benny now and again.”

 

“He came to see us at the Fforde Grene a few years back.”

 

He looked across the room to where Scrote had wandered off and was chatting to the drummer.

 

“Oi Brian, bring us one of them bottles of voddie will ya?”

 

Look, please don’t judge me, I was under pressure. Before I could stop myself I blurted it out.

 

“Brian? I thought his name was Sc…”

 

My voice trailed off. I realised how stupid I’d been before I even finished the sentence. Mark looked me directly in the eyes.

 

“Of course his name’s not bloody Scrote you dickhead. His name’s Brian Pickles. He’s from Grimsby not the Planet fucking Tharg.”

 

He half filled three tumblers with vodka and we managed a few minutes of slightly stilted conversation. The main thing he seemed to remember from our time at school was when we both played in a rugby match at Normanton that we lost heavily.

 

“D’yer remember? It were fucking cold weren’t it? Gimme a pen?”

 

He wrote about it on the inside cover of my book in thick black marker:

 

“To Patsy, 128-Nil. White frost and hard soil. Luv Scorpio.”

 

He kept refilling our glasses and slowly the conversation became more relaxed. We talked about teachers:

 

“D’yer remember that bastard Price, that Welsh cunt?”

 

“Remember him? Course I fucking do, he slippered me twice.”

 

Charlie didn’t say much. At first I’d been worried about him feeling left out but by the time we started on the Johnnie Walker I was too drunk to care. At one point he butted in with “Come on guys, I’ve got an 8.00 o’clock conference call tomorrow”. We acknowledged him then ignored him. Inevitably I started banging on about how I’d spent my life as a boring accountant with two kids and a mortgage and how jealous I was of his life as a rock star.

 

“And what’s so fucking great about being a rock star?”

 

“Oh come on, all the booze and all the girls, all those hot groupies, flying round the world, the crowd chanting your name!” I waved my hands above my head. “Scorpio! Scorpio! Like they were doing tonight. It must be fantastic. I’d give my right arm for a life like you’ve had. You must have some stories.”

 

He laid back on his bed again and winced.

 

“Are you OK mate? You look like you’re in pain.”

 

“It’s nowt. Just a bit of arthritis in my hips. But no, no stories, not really. I don’t remember much to be honest.”

 

“I can’t believe that. It must have been great. How about all the drugs and stuff? I’ve never touched a drug in my life, not even weed. Never really wanted to to be honest. But still, bet you did coke. Have you done heroin? What’s heroin like?”

 

He closed his eyes.

 

“Yeah right, drugs. That’s probably why I don’t remember much.”

 

I took another gulp of my whisky. I wasn’t sure if he was being serious or just trying to make me feel better about my tedious and colourless life.

 

“It still sounds better than me, stuck in a village with a wife, two kids, a boring job and a massive mortgage.”

 

“Yeah, but at least you’ve got a house, and I bet you’ve got a big fat pension. I haven’t got fuck all. I haven’t got a pot to piss in.”

 

I found that hard to believe. Hadn’t he been “massively successful worldwide” with a “huge cult following”? But I don’t know, maybe it was true. That’s when a young roadie came up and interrupted us. I’d seen him setting up before the gig but I didn’t know his name.

 

“Van’s loaded Mark.”

 

Mark was still lying back on the bed, his eyes still closed.

 

“Good boy. On your way then.”

 

The roadie hesitated.

 

“It’s Coventry tomorrow. I’m gonna have to get petrol.”

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

 

He sat up again and pulled a wad of notes out of his back pocket.

 

“There’s eighty, that should be enough.”

 

The roadie took the petrol money and left. The room was empty now except for the three of us. It was nearly midnight and Charlie had finally had enough. He put his hand on my shoulder to make sure he had my full attention.

 

“Come on mate. It’s time to go. I’m going anyway, even if you aren’t. I’m out of that door in thirty seconds either with you or without you.”

 

He was right. It didn’t matter. By this time we were both so drunk we were basically talking at each other rather than to each other. I held out my hand to Mark and he took it. We shook.

 

“Great to see you Mark. It’s been fun. We’ll have to try and catch up again soon. Good luck with the tour and all that.”

 

“Yeah mate, good to see you too. Take care of yourself.”

 

He loosened his grip, but he didn’t fully let go of my hand. He spoke again, but in a lower voice and a non-commital almost disinterested tone:

 

“How old are your kids?”

 

I told him, a boy and a girl, eight and nine. He let go of my hand and it dropped to my side. I turned away and we walked towards the door. We’d just stepped into the corridor when I heard him say something else. I can’t be certain as it was barely audible but it sounded like:

 

“I wish I’d been a fucking accountant.”

 

I don’t know. Maybe I misheard.

 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was after one o clock by the time I got home. The wife and kids were long asleep and the house was dark and quiet. The next morning I had a stinking hangover but I had to go to into work because it was a Friday and I had to summarise the European sales reports. It was a good job I didn’t get stopped for speeding or had an accident because I must have been way over the limit.  Luckily the boss was out at a customer so I just went into a corner and kept my head down. The Germans and Italians had missed their targets so I had to stay late to write an analysis for head office. I finally got home around nine, just as the wife was putting the kids to bed.

 

All that was a few years ago now. More than a few, maybe twelve or fifteen. I still follow him on social media where he has a small but dedicated band of hardcore fans regularly urging him to reform the band, but he’s not very active. I’ve never messaged him or anything, except for just once when I told him I was thinking of writing a story about the time we met. His reply was short and to the point:

 

“I’m not a total cunt really, please don’t shoot me.”

 

I won’t Mark. You’re not and I won’t.