Music Love Drugs War Read online

  Geraldine Quigley

  * * *

  MUSIC LOVE DRUGS WAR

  Contents

  1981 Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  1996

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  For Thomas ‘Mutts’ McDermott, our friend

  There was a bar and a home and streets full of people, friends and enemies and music.

  That’s how she remembers it.

  Everything, each drop of life, layered with a thrilling fear, a razor-edged excitement.

  Yes, she thought. That’s how it was.

  1981

  * * *

  1

  The Cave was invisible to outsiders. It was grubby and obscure. A passing parent might give its door a sideways glance but they never warned their teenagers away. It was off their radar.

  Once a grown-up wine bar for discerning couples, it had quickly degenerated until its design as a Mexican cantina – white stucco walls and moulded vine leaves – was the only indication of that original intention. The Cave was dirty, rough, bathed inside by a dim orange light, the haunt of bikers, rockers, hippies, punks, hookers, and the occasional gay man seeking a safe place; somewhere no questions were asked. Anyone entering the bar for the first time could be forgiven for thinking they were the cleanest thing in the place. They probably were.

  It was St Patrick’s night and a haze of smoke clung to the ceiling. ‘Hey Joe’ blasted from the jukebox at the back of the room and Paddy McLaughlin sat, trapped, his big frame squeezed between the table and the wall behind. His younger sister, Elizabeth, ignored him from the other side of the table, her conversation moving between her boyfriend, Kevin Thompson, and her friend Orla. Paddy twisted painfully in his seat and shouted across the table.

  ‘Swap seats with me, Liz.’

  ‘Stop asking,’ she said, without turning her head. ‘It’s not goin’ to happen.’

  Orla sipped demurely at a half-pint of beer, nodding as Liz continued describing the coat she was trying to persuade her mother to buy her.

  ‘It’s got these metal buttons running down the front, and big lapels.’

  But Paddy wasn’t done.

  ‘It’s my birthday,’ he said. ‘And you’re smaller than me.’ Shifting heavily, he shoved the table, jolting it forward an inch. The glasses on top juddered.

  ‘Hey!’ said Kevin, quickly lifting his.

  At the other end of the table, Christy Meehan was drunk and lecturing on his pet subject, Vietnam. He had stolen a book from a local shop where the staff were too ‘right on’ to complain, and it offered new insights on the war, insights beyond the tales of experimental drug-taking he revelled in.

  He stabbed at the table with his finger.

  ‘The Vietnamese were organised, you see? But the Yanks – them boys didn’t give a fuck. They only wanted to get home alive. See in Vietnam? There are tunnels everywhere.’

  He swung his arm above the table, inviting them to visualise swathes of jungle and endangering the glasses that had survived Paddy’s ill temper.

  ‘The Viet Cong used them to move around the country. There’s this part, about Khe Sanh, the Tet Offensive – crazy stuff. You have to read the book, Noel – Coppola based Apocalypse Now on it.’ He paused to take a drink.

  ‘Heart of Darkness,’ said Noel, raising his voice over the noise. ‘That’s what the film’s based on.’ He leaned back in his chair, the loose neck of his washed-out shirt gaping around skeletal collarbones. ‘Joseph Conrad – I read it at university. I didn’t like it much.’

  There was nothing as pleasant as using your degree to impress your less educated friends, and Noel Baxter made use of it as often as he could. But his languid, bohemian image fell apart when he opened his mouth, a broad country accent betraying his Protestant farming background.

  Christy ignored the correction. Baxter might be older than him, he might have his own flat, but he was still a bit of a wanker sometimes.

  ‘The Vietnamese definitely produced a better class of war,’ he said, checking out the room over the top of his glass as he took another drink.

  ‘Looks like you stole the wrong book, Meehan,’ said Kevin. ‘Hi, “Charlie don’t surf …”!’

  Christy laughed. ‘ “I love the smell of napalm in the morning … Smells like … victory.” ’

  Both could spool off a dozen lines like this: between them they had seen Apocalypse Now five times.

  ‘ “The horror … the horror …” ’ mouthed Kevin softly.

  ‘ “How you feelin’, Jimmy?” ’ shouted Christy.

  ‘ “Like a mean motherfucker, sir!” ’ replied Kevin.

  Suddenly, Liz stood up. ‘I’m going to the toilet.’ She pointed to her brother. ‘Don’t let him take my seat.’

  ‘I’m coming too,’ said Orla.

  Moving chairs and squeezing past bodies, they made it to the girls’ toilet and pushed at the door. It was held firmly closed by someone leaning against it on the other side – there was a queue.

  Liz stood against the jukebox, cupping her hands over her eyes. ‘They’re really burning,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to rub them.’

  ‘Put your glass over your eye – the moisture will help,’ said Orla.

  ‘I’m not doing that,’ said Liz. ‘It’s disgusting. This bloody mascara’s running.’

  She took her hands away to wipe under her eyes, then looked across the bar to the corner where their friend Sinéad was involved in a passionate session with a large biker.

  ‘Do you think we should rescue her?’ she said.

  They could just about make out Sinéad’s blonde curls behind his leather jacket, ponytail and muscular neck.

  Orla stuck her head around the corner to have a look. ‘I can’t believe that – he’s minging,’ she said. ‘Leave her.’

  As several girls came out, they pushed through the open door and took their place in the dingy toilet, where someone had been sick in the sink.

  There were two cubicles, both occupied, with no locks on the doors. Another girl had her hand on top of one, holding it closed for her friend inside. The cubicle beside her opened and two large biker girls came out, big-chested, in too-tight jeans. Everyone shuffled around to let them out and Orla and Liz found themselves with their backs to the sink. Liz ran the tap to clear the vomit.

  ‘Do you have your lipstick?’ she said, checking herself in the mirror. Orla reached into her handbag and handed her the plastic tube.

  ‘I love this colour,’ said Liz, smearing the scarlet cream on her lips.

  When the door opened again, Sinéad bounced in, sporting a grubby denim waistcoat.

  ‘What?’ she said, as her friends rolled their eyes. ‘Dave let me wear it.’

  As she swung around to display the eagle, wings outstretched, se
wn onto the back, she banged her elbow on the edge of the door. Liz and Orla winced, but nothing registered on Sinéad’s face.

  ‘What do you think?’ she said.

  ‘You’ll probably catch something off it?’ said Orla.

  One of the cubicles emptied and they were next. Sinéad was too fast for them.

  ‘I’m really busting,’ she said, running into the toilet. ‘Hold the door for me, Liz.’

  She slammed it behind her. Obediently, Liz stood guard, her foot hooked under the door.

  ‘Do any of yous have a tissue?’ called Sinéad.

  ‘No,’ said Liz abruptly. ‘You’ll have to drip-dry.’

  Liz read the graffitied door while she waited for Sinéad to finish, her arms folded, reviewing the scrawled genitals and biro’d phone numbers. There was a hole put through one door, stuffed with paper to keep out peering eyes. Inside, neither toilet had an actual seat, just the rusted remains of the two hinges, and only the bravest customer would consider sitting down. Most people hovered – not easy when sober and near impossible when drunk.

  ‘You and Kevin are going with each other three months this week,’ said Orla, retouching her own lips.

  ‘How do you know that?’ said Liz.

  ‘I remember the night,’ said Orla. ‘It was icy. Noel slipped on the road and fell.’

  ‘Was that three months ago?’

  ‘Nearly to the day,’ said Orla.

  ‘Ooh, going steady,’ said Sinéad sarcastically from behind the door. ‘Hope you’re on the pill, Liz.’

  ‘Jesus, Sinéad, shut up!’ shouted Liz. She pulled her foot away and the door swung open.

  ‘Hi!’ shouted Sinéad, pulling up her knickers and jeans. She came out, still doing up her zip. ‘I was done anyway,’ she said.

  Liz rushed in to pee and this time it was Orla’s turn to hold the door.

  ‘Have you thought about it?’ she said to Sinéad who was admiring herself in Dave’s waistcoat, twisting to see the artwork on the back.

  ‘Thought about what – the pill?’

  Liz came out. ‘I wouldn’t even know where to get it from,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t go to the doctor, not in our house.’

  ‘You go to the Family Planning,’ said Orla casually. Sinéad and Liz both looked at her. Sometimes Orla was full of surprises.

  ‘How do you know that?’ said Liz, but Orla only shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘I heard it somewhere,’ she said, pulling the door open to leave.

  ‘Do you not have to go?’ said Liz.

  ‘Naw,’ said Orla. ‘I only came in to keep you company.’

  Outside, the crowd at the table was swollen by new arrivals, friends of Paddy’s, and had spread out, pressing into the next table.

  ‘Oh, for fucksake,’ said Liz, as Paddy grinned at her from what had been her seat. She stormed over, punched him on the arm, punched Kevin on the other arm, then made him move over so she could squeeze onto the seat beside him.

  ‘It’s his birthday,’ said Kevin. ‘He begged me.’

  Orla pulled Sinéad back by the arm until they stood behind the jukebox again.

  ‘What?’ said Sinéad.

  Orla pointed discreetly at the table and one of the boys, a clean-cut youth, out of place in a tweed jacket and a checked shirt. He had squeezed in beside Christy.

  ‘It’s him,’ said Orla.

  Sinéad looked blankly at her.

  ‘For Godsake, Sinéad, it’s Peter Harkin.’

  Now Sinéad was interested and leaned forward carefully to see. ‘So it is,’ she said, smiling. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t stay here.’

  ‘Brass it out – you didn’t do anything. You went with him, you didn’t see him again. That’s it.’

  Two months earlier, at a concert in Belfast, Orla had, to use the technical term, ‘got off’ with Peter Harkin on the back seat of the bus that brought the crowd back to Derry. It was an hour of fevered kissing that ended at the bus stop, but she was smitten. Oh, he was gorgeous, and Orla, for all her worldliness, was not one to go easily with anyone.

  They met one more time, on an arranged date, and spent the evening walking the streets and eating chips, followed by more kissing until she had to go home. Since then, there had been radio silence as Sinéad called it.

  ‘Mmm,’ groaned Orla, chewing her nails.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Orla! We can’t stay here all night,’ insisted Sinéad.

  ‘But what’s he doing here?’

  ‘I don’t know – he’s talking to Christy. Come on.’ Sinéad pushed her from the jukebox and back to the table, where their seats had also been taken by other drinkers.

  ‘Budge over,’ said Orla. Liz shifted her bum on the seat, enough for Orla to perch on the edge, avoiding eye contact with Peter.

  ‘Talk to me, Liz, for Christsake,’ she whispered.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Liz.

  ‘That’s the boy I went with on the bus, talking to Christy.’

  ‘Hey, he’s Paddy’s friend from school. He’s a lovely fella.’

  Peter must have heard. He looked at Liz, then got up and started to come over. Orla put her head down, trying not to look or smile, or do anything that would make it seem as though she remembered him.

  ‘How’s Liz?’ said Peter. ‘All right, Orla – long time, no see.’

  ‘All right, Peter,’ said Orla quietly.

  He crouched down beside them. ‘This is the first time I’ve been in here. Your Paddy’s in some form.’

  Paddy and Christy were arguing across the table a few feet away from them.

  ‘Does your da still give people a hard time when they call for him?’

  He touched Orla on the arm. She looked over at Sinéad – the move hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  ‘When we called for Paddy, their da would answer and he’d say, “There’s no Paddy lives here.” Does he still make everybody call him Elvis?’

  ‘Sometimes, when he wants to wind him up,’ said Liz.

  ‘Watch this,’ he said to Orla, and shouted, ‘Hi, Elvis!’ across the tables. Paddy didn’t react.

  ‘Elvis – do you want a pint?’ he shouted again, louder.

  Paddy looked over, registering who had called him. ‘Fuck off, Harkin – aye, why not.’

  ‘See,’ said Peter, smiling at Orla. ‘He’s Elvis when there’s a drink in it.’ He went to the bar to get the promised beer.

  ‘Aww, he’s lovely,’ said Liz. ‘He fancies you, Orla.’

  Sinéad was over immediately. Orla blushed with embarrassment and pleasure.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ said Sinéad.

  ‘Shh, he’s coming back.’ Orla watched over Liz’s shoulder as Peter wormed his way through the crowd. He passed the pint to Paddy, over the top of Christy’s head, and came back to them, standing awkwardly beside her.

  ‘I need another pee,’ said Liz, looking at Sinéad. ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘We’ve just been,’ said Sinéad.

  Liz took her by the elbow and pulled her away.

  ‘So, what’s happening after this?’ said Peter, squeezing onto the seat beside Orla.

  ‘There’s a party in a flat down the street. Do you know Noel?’ she said hopefully.

  ‘I do now,’ said Peter with a grin. He sipped his drink.

  Orla didn’t know what to say to this and several uncomfortable seconds passed. She looked in desperation at her friends, lurking by the jukebox.

  Peter nudged her with his shoulder. ‘I never saw you again, not after the last night,’ he said. ‘I was kind of raging about that.’ He ran a hand over his short, dirty-blonde hair, a sheepish look on his face.

  ‘What – were your legs broke?’ said Orla sharply. She had spent an agonising fortnight laid out on the sofa, wondering what she had done to put him off. ‘What do you mean, you were raging? It was you that vanished off the face of the earth – not me.’

  Peter was about to say something, but she raised
her hand and silenced him before stating clearly, ‘It wasn’t up to me to go running after you.’

  ‘OK,’ said Peter. ‘I should have made an effort.’

  ‘An effort?’ Orla’s arms folded tight as she turned her back on him. ‘You’re some craic, hi.’

  ‘Can I leave you home tonight?’ said Peter, to the back of her head.

  ‘No!’

  The girls came back and Liz perched on Kevin’s knee. Sinéad sat behind Orla and Peter. She nudged Orla in the back.

  ‘Everything OK?’ she said.

  ‘No!’ said Orla. Peter had his elbows on his knees as he looked the other way.

  Sinéad turned back to Liz. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said.

  ‘That girl’s throwing daggers at you,’ whispered Liz from her vantage point on Kevin’s lap. ‘I think she might be your man’s girlfriend.’

  Sinéad looked across to the place where she had left Dave the biker. Six or seven hairy men sat with their girlfriends, in a rough huddle. One of the women, red-haired, bursting out of an Iron Maiden T-shirt, was glaring at her. Sinéad realised that she still had the biker’s colours on and Dave was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Shit, I forgot about him – is that her?’

  ‘Do you know Dave the biker’s girlfriend, Kevin?’

  ‘No,’ he said, turning to Sinéad. ‘But you might want to get rid of the evidence – give the mouse-eater his vest back.’

  ‘I don’t know where he is,’ said Sinéad. Very slowly, she shrugged it off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

  ‘Who calls him the mouse-eater?’ said Liz, as Sinéad kicked at the waistcoat until it was under the table, out of sight.

  ‘He’s the man who found the mouse on the floor in here and ate it for a bet,’ said Kevin.

  ‘That’s not true,’ said Liz.

  ‘I’m going to boke,’ said Sinéad.

  ‘It is,’ insisted Kevin. ‘The mouse was lying under that seat.’ He pointed to the table around the corner.

  ‘Somebody dared him, so he held it up by its tail and dropped it into his mouth. It was a Saturday afternoon. All you could hear were bones crunching.’

  A shudder convulsed Liz and Sinéad.