Gang Of Losers

Gang Of Losers

Chris Lynton

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 Chris Lynton

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Chapter One

Lyncombe, Wiltshire. Summer 1983

Theo put his drumsticks down and looked at his watch. It was 8pm. If he practised any longer, his older brother - whose bedroom was directly below his - would start to complain. So he extricated himself from behind his large, ramshackle drum kit and went downstairs.

He found his parents in the living room and told them he was going out. His father looked up from his newspaper.

Homework done?

Didn't have any, just revision, replied Theo.

Fair enough. Going anywhere nice?

Just for a walk.

We'll come with you if you like, keep you company.

Ummm... Theo wasn't sure if his dad was joking or not.

His mum came to his rescue: Pay no attention dear, he's just being silly. Have a nice time.

He crammed his keys, money and inhaler into the front pockets of his drainpipe Wrangler jeans and left the house. The walk had no firm purpose, other than getting him out of the house and into the warm night air. But now that he thought of it, he might drop by the fountain in case Pete and the others were there.

As he walked, the inhaler rubbed uncomfortably against his thigh. He normally kept it in a jacket pocket, but the lining of his beloved Harrington had recently disintegrated, and he was now jacketless. The easiest solution would be to buy a second-hand denim or leather from one of the markets in nearby Bath. But leathers tended to be stiff and uncomfortable, and denims limited your choice of leg wear - after all, only a Status Quo fan would be happy with the double-denim look.

No, he wanted something different, something unique. Recently he'd seen a fantastic jacket in a book about the Second World War. There was a chapter about the war in the Pacific, and one of the photos featured a group of smiling GIs sat in a jeep. One soldier in particular had caught Theo's eye, the one in the driving seat. This GI was a symphony of effortless cool: one arm draped over the steering wheel, blond hair in a buzz cut, sunglasses, chinos, white T-shirt and that jacket. It was green, the same cut as his Harrington, and seemed to be made from the same shiny material as his school parka from several winters ago. It looked thick and heavy, the sort of jacket that would bulk you up and make you feel invincible.

Theo resolved to seek one out. First off, he would try Millets in Bath. They often had old military gear in stock, but it tended to be British army not American - musty knee-length Great coats, itchy against the skin and as stiff as cardboard. After that he would try the second-hand shops at the top of town, and if they came up empty, it would have to be another trip to London's King's Road, home of Flip Clothing - the epicentre of the vintage American clothing world.

His last trip to Flip had been a month ago, when he'd come away with his Wranglers, a short-sleeved pink shirt and a nifty blue woollen tie. But train tickets to London were expensive, and the prospect of travelling up there on the off-chance that they had the jacket seemed risky, even for him. Maybe he could phone them up - he seemed to remember there being a phone number on the plastic bag he brought his last purchase home in. Yes, that was the thing to do. He'd check the bag when he got back home.

After five minutes he'd reached the High Street. The fountain stood in a pedestrianized section at the far end of the street, just outside the Guildhall. The fountain had a large circular stone surround that you could sit on and watch the world pass by, and this was where people his own age tended to congregate in lieu of anything else to do. Its proximity to popular under-age drinking spot The White Hart added to its popularity.

Approaching the fountain was always problematic if you were on your own. What if there were people there who you only vaguely knew? Should you stop and say hi, or just walk past pretending that you hadn't seen them? What if all your friends were there? This would mean that they hadn't invited you and were quite happy without you. And if the fountain was empty, did you sit there by yourself and wait for someone else to come along?

He needed the ammunition of cigarettes. Having something to do with his hands made him feel less self-conscious in situations like this. He made a detour towards the newsagents and bought his usual: ten Consulate and a box of matches. His friends often teased him about his fondness for menthol cigarettes, but Theo didn't care, he liked the stylish green and white packet (so much more elegant than the brutal red and white of Marlboro), and they had a distinct old world charm to them - matinee idols smoked cigarettes like these. But perhaps more importantly, menthol cigarettes made him feel less ill than regular ones. Theo could only handle full-strength ciggies after a couple of pints, but the weaker menthols suited him just fine. So he continued his walk to the fountain and just before he came into its catchment area, he sparked up.

As it turned out, there was no-one there. He sat at the fountain and waited for signs of life as he smoked. When he reached the filter, he threw the butt in the fountain and stood up to begin the walk home. He looked towards the White Hart before setting off and saw Bill, the pub's landlord, exiting the pub with a beer barrel in one hand and a bright pink piece of paper in the other.

Theo watched as he placed the barrel on the floor and expertly rolled it along the pavement with his foot. He stopped after a few paces, next to a notice board on the wall. He unclipped a keychain from his belt and used one of the keys to open its glass front. He then pinned the bright pink sheet of paper to the notice board's cork surface and relocked it. His task complete, he continued to roll the barrel round to the back of the pub.

It had been a while since there had been a decent band at the pub, so Theo's hopes weren't high as he approached the new flyer. The bright pink sheet of A4 featured a crudely drawn rocket, with a long haired semi-naked girl astride it. Below, in a chunky sans serif typeface was the band's name - THE NEW ENGLAND PLANETS.

Theo clenched his fist and whispered "Yes!"

All right young 'un?

Theo span around. It was Bill, now barrel-less. He nodded towards the poster. Good are they?

Theo felt his face redden. Oh, hi Bill. Umm, yeah. I like them. Not your cup of tea though, not very bluesy. More punk really.

Doesn't bother me, as long as they bring a good crowd in.

They should do yeah, I saw them at the Viaduct a few weeks ago and it was packed. Lots of girls - the guitarist is really good-looking. I mean apparently... He trailed off, his blush intensifying.

Bill eyed him quizzically. Whatever you say. The usual time Sunday then?

Yep, usual time, replied Theo.

The White Hart was the town's main music venue. Back in the seventies, it was known for its blues nights, but with the rise of pub rock and then punk, the blues had dropped in popularity and now Bill let pretty much anyone play. He kept the blues connection going by booking local band Blues Train every Sunday lunchtime. Theo was the youngest member by about twenty five years. He didn't much care for the music (it all sounded the same), but the practise was invaluable, and he readily took advantage of the pub's lax view on licensing laws.

He turned his attention back to the poster and scanned it for a date. It was a Friday, a couple of weeks away. This was definitely something to look forward to. The Planets might not be the most original band (half their set was cover versions) but they played wild frenetic rock songs and had real talent.

The band was made up of pupils from the nearby Catholic school, and they were all in the same year as Theo. The singer was called Andy Ross, but the one you tended to watch more was the lead guitarist, August Wells. Wells looked how a rock star should look in Theo's opinion: dyed black hair, thin angular face, constantly tanned skin, green eyes and dazzling white teeth. He smiled readily and chatted to everyone. As well as playing the guitar, he sang some of the songs and was more of a natural at stage banter than Ross, which led people to think of him as the leader. But in fact Ross had formed the Planets and did most of the songwriting.

Wells always wore the same thing: a lumberjack shirt with buttons undone, a white vest underneath, a pair of black, skintight jeans and Doc Martin boots. Halfway through a performance he would take the shirt off, revealing thin but muscular arms. He often got an appreciative whoop from the girls in the crowd as he did this.

As far as he could recall, he had heard Wells before setting eyes on him: Theo had been at the fountain one Friday evening when a roar of laughter cut through the general hub-bub. Theo looked around and saw a slim, lumberjack-shirted figure with his arm round a pretty bleached-blond girl. He grappled the girl to the edge of the fountain and dipped her hair in the water. The girl shrieked and responded by splashing him. Wells then backed off, still laughing, while the girl filled an empty pint glass with water from the fountain and followed him slowly through the crowd. They came his way, and Wells brushed Theo's arm as he passed. Sorry pal he said, and broke into a run just as the girl hurled the water at him.

Transfixed, Theo made enquiries. One of his friends had an older brother at the same school. New kid, said the brother, plays the guitar. Dad's in the government or something. Theo kept watching; the new kid and the girl now re-united, arms round each other, kissing.

He envisaged that his life would be somehow better if Wells was part of it. His manner was so positive, so playful, so jubilant, that Theo saw him as the perfect antidote to his own rather downbeat demeanour. Maybe some of Wells' easy manner would rub off on him. Maybe he too could smile readily and chat to everybody.

So, this evening stroll had been a success: a new Planets gig to look forward to; a new chance to court Wells. He drummed out a beat on his trouser pockets, a habit of his when he got excited. The inhaler in his left pocket was the snare drum, and the empty right pocket the bass drum. Dum-chack, dum-chack, dum-de-dum-de dum-chack! The night air was beginning to turn cold, so he walked home as quickly as he could, breaking into a run as he reached his road.

When he arrived, he told his parents that he was back and headed upstairs to his bedroom. Theo lived in a large Edwardian House on one of the main thoroughfares of Lyncombe. His room was at the front of the house on the second floor. He had recently painted the walls a smoky orange colour and liked it so much that he felt no need for posters or other distractions. The only adornments were on the mantelpiece over the long-defunct fireplace. Here were three framed prints: in the middle a colour reproduction of a Van Gogh self-portrait; to the left a black and white photo of Eddie Cochran; and to the right a black and white photo of a young Elvis Presley smoking a cigarette.

Two of the images meant a great deal to Theo and one not so much. Van Gogh and Eddie Cochran were his two idols, the two greats whose achievements he wished to celebrate. But when he arranged the two photos on the mantel, he didn't like the way they looked - no matter how he placed them, the eye was always drawn towards the vibrant colour of the Van Gogh reproduction. Poor Eddie didn't stand a chance. He felt that a third black and white image was needed to balance things out. So he put the colour Van Gogh in the middle, the Cochran to the left and then picked Elvis photo more or less at random from a selection of postcards he'd bought on a recent visit to Forever People in Bristol.

The only other item on the mantel was a burnt-out joss stick in a dust-covered jam jar. Theo didn't necessarily like their scent, but they served the purpose of hiding the rather musty smell that seemed to permeate his bedroom. He wasn't sure if the smell was his fault or the room's, but it was potent enough to require constant attention. In the summer this meant leaving the window open, and in the winter burning the joss stick before friends or girls came round.

He sat on the drum stool, wishing it was earlier in the day so he could play. Then he remembered his dream jacket - he needed the number for Flip. He retrieved the plastic bag from its current resting place in the bottom drawer of his desk and checked the pristine white façade. He was mistaken. There was no telephone number, just the words 'Vintage American Clothing' underneath the red checkerboard logo. Now what was he meant to do? He pondered this as he put the bag back into the drawer. Just then he noticed a scrap of paper on his desk.

In his brother's handwriting were the words:

'Call Lee Heritage ASAP on 0249 701___'

Theo felt gravity leave him. Lee Heritage was the lead singer with Steal Guitars, a rockabilly band from Chippenham with a huge local following. They had been mentioned in the NME and the local paper had called them 'Britain's answer to the Stray Cats'. People actually paid to see them.

The call could mean only one thing: Steal Guitars needed a new drummer.

Chapter Two

It was 9.30 pm on a Wednesday, presumably not too late to phone the lead singer of a rockabilly band (and the note had said 'ASAP' - he assumed his brother had quoted directly).

The phone was in the downstairs corridor, two floors below Theo's room. It could be a private place to chat as long as the door to the living room was closed and there was no one in the kitchen or on any of the landings. These elements seemed to be in place so Theo bounded down the stairs three at a time. He made it as far as the first floor landing when his older brother Jon emerged from his room, holding an empty mug and plate. Theo slowed so as not to crash into him, and Jon took the opportunity to move to the flight of stairs leading to the ground floor. Once there, he began to descend at a snail's pace. Theo tried desperately to pass, but Jon made it impossible, his elbows jutting out theatrically, mug in one hand, plate in the other.

Sorry old boy, are you in a rush? Jon asked.

Can I just get to the phone? That message you left was—

Careful now his brother interrupted. "Do you know how many people are injured every year by falling down the stairs? We wouldn't want that to happen to you now would we? What if you were to break an arm, or worse a leg? Imagine that! No bass drum pounding above my head day and night, no drumming along to Never Mind the Bollocks when I'm trying to revise for my finals. I'd be able to hear myself think, or possibly listen to my music if I fancied. How dull life would be!"

Sarky sod replied Theo. At least I don't... But then he tapered off, unable to think of anything annoying that his brother actually did, so he had to finish the sentence with the lacklustre get in people's way.

I wouldn't be so sure, came the reply.

By now they had reached the downstairs corridor, and much to Theo's annoyance, Jon made his way to the phone and picked up the receiver. Theo stared at him.

Yes? Jon's voice was dripping with disdain.

I was hoping to make a call.

Me too, and it would appear that I was here first.

Theo knew there was no point in arguing, so he traipsed back upstairs and sat outside his room, waiting for his brother to finish. After ten agonizing minutes, the call came to an end, so again he bounded down the stairs three at a time and got to the phone before anyone else picked it up.

He chose not to think about what he would say when the phone was answered, far better to wing it and sound casual than to parrot some pre-rehearsed script. But after dialling, he was not ushered through to a cosy chat with Wiltshire's great rock 'n roll hope, instead he was met by the blunt, shrill repetition of the engaged tone - the tone that told him someone else was currently talking to Lee Heritage. He listened on and on, willing the beep to suddenly reset itself as a ring, but it stubbornly refused to. And so began a frantic five minutes of dialling and redialling, until finally, joyfully, he was met with the luxurious purr of the ring tone. Before he could compose himself, it was answered.

Hello? A gruff, lazy drawl on the other end.

Hi there, said Theo, suddenly aware of how posh his own voice sounded. This is Theo Hanlon. You left a message for me to phone you. Hope it's not too late.

No, it's fine. Lee's voice warmed slightly. We need a drummer. We have a gig at Moles club in a month. Are you available?

Of course, of course! He tried to keep his voice steady.

We're holding auditions on Saturday. Could you make it at... three o'clock?

Theo's optimism sagged. So this wasn't a done deal - there was an audition to get through. It made sense of course; a band this big wouldn't just offer him the job without trying him out first.

Sure! Theo replied, trying to sound casual.

The auditions are in the rehearsal room below Sounds International in Chippenham. We're just gonna play 'Brand New Cadillac' by The Clash to see how you sound. There will be a drum kit there so no need to bring your own.

The call came to an end and Theo hung up. He ran back upstairs to his room, and too excited to do anything practical, leant out the window and sparked up a Consulate. This could be big he told himself. This band has record company interest! And a gig at Moles - the Bath nightclub that had played host to pretty much every important British band of the last five years.

But first there was the damned audition to get through. This, and the cloying taste of one too many menthols, snapped him out of his reverie. He stubbed the cigarette out halfway through and tried to focus. There was some planning to be done. He needed to master 'Brand New Cadillac', and he needed to choose an outfit for the audition.

Steal Guitars (originally called We Steal Guitars) was led by two brothers, Lee and Mark Heritage. Both boys had gone to Theo's school but had left years ago (the younger brother Mark had been expelled for throwing a chair at a teacher). They were 21 and 19 respectively, so older than Theo's 16 years. Both Heritage boys once had reputations as troublemakers, but they had mellowed over the years and now put all their energy into music. As well as rockabilly, the brothers were heavily into The Clash, and Lee based his performing style on lead singer Joe Strummer.

The choice of song for the audition pleased Theo no end. The Clash's drummer Topper Headon was a favourite of his and he regularly drummed along to their old hit 'White Man in Hammersmith Palais' for practise. 'Brand New Cadillac' was on the album London Calling which Theo did not own, but Jon might - he would have to sneak into his bedroom tomorrow to find out. In the meantime he leafed through his singles and found 'White Man'. He lined it up on his Panasonic Music Centre and listened.

The drumming was perfection: crisp hi-hat and snare, deep bass drum, and the occasional boom of thunderous concert toms. Nothing too complicated, just solid, precise drumming. That was what made Topper so great - he gave each song exactly what it needed. There were no unnecessary fills or breaks. They called him the human metronome, and that was the key: to keep that metronomic beat going.

The music calmed him after the excitement of the last few minutes. He tried to imagine what the audition would be like. He knew the location for the rehearsal - the music shop Sounds International - because he had had drum lessons there a few years ago. The shop had a kit permanently set up in the basement and rented the space out for band practises when there were no lessons. It was cramped and dingy, and he wasn't even sure that a band with a double bass player could fit in it.

The Heritage brothers were striking to look at: tall, slim, bleached hair in razor-sharp quiffs, and eyeliner to add a touch of Bowie-esque androgyny. Their stage gear was vintage rock 'n roll: luminous Teddy Boy jackets, white shirts with bootlace ties, and black drainpipes. The double bass player was a comedic counterfoil: short, podgy and old. Theo had even heard a rumour that he was married with kids.

Steal Guitars live performances were raucous affairs, with the brothers throwing themselves around the stage or leaping into the audience, where they would be manhandled back on to the stage by appreciative fans. Teeo knew that the audition would be more subdued than a Steal Guitars performance, and that the brothers would not be in their stage gear, but even so, these were stylish guys and he wanted to make an impression.

So what should he wear? The only rockabilly clothing he owned was a pair of blue brothel creepers bought at great expense from Paradise Garage in Bristol, but they were difficult to drum in (the thick soles meant you couldn't feel the bass drum pedal) so he discounted them for now. He decided to keep it simple: a white T-shirt and jeans along with his blue Rucanor baseball boots.

But then he thought again. Wasn't the jeans/T-shirt combo just a little bit...safe? He wanted to look distinctive somehow, to impress his prospective bandmates. Determined to find something suitable, he rummaged through his drawers and wardrobe and came across a long-forgotten blue neckerchief. Maybe he could wear this to add a bit of rockabilly cred? He changed into the white T-shirt, tied the neckerchief on and looked in the mirror. Not bad, but the thin ends of the neckerchief were creased and wouldn't sit where he wanted them to. No matter how he tied it, they kept sticking upwards and tickling his cheeks when he turned his head. He took it off.

Next he turned his attention to the T-shirt itself. He'd seen loads of guys wearing them with the arms cut off. He liked this look and was pretty sure that his arms were muscly enough to carry it off. So he fetched a blade from his art bin and set about removing them. Once finished he put the T-shirt back on and checked the mirror again. It looked good; the only problem was that his upper arms - which had so far been hidden from the sun this summer - were a striking white next to his tanned lower arms. Now what should he do? He couldn't sew the arms back on, and he doubted if he could get another white T-shirt in time for Saturday. Bollocks. He should have just left it. Maybe he'd be able to get some sun on his upper arms tomorrow or Friday so by Saturday he'd be tanned all the way up to his shoulders. This was do-able - the past few days had been sunny so maybe tomorrow would be too.

It was getting late and he could hear his parents coming up to bed, but his heart was pounding way too hard to even think about sleep. Not knowing what else to do, he sat at his kit again, but playing was out of the question. Another walk perhaps? Another Consulate? No, he was still feeling the effects of the last one. He leaned out the window and waited until ten cars passed. Still not tired. Then he looked through his record collection again - maybe just listening to some music for a while would do the trick.

His record collection consisted of approximately one hundred singles and a dozen or so albums. The singles were a mixture of hits from the seventies and more recent punk or new wave offerings. As far as he could tell, he didn't have a particular style of music that he preferred over all others. If anyone asked him what he was into, he replied Anything, as long as it's melodic.

When it came to the albums, practically all of them were 'Best Ofs' and borrowed from (and yet to be returned to) his parents: The Best of Cliff and The Shadows, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Chuck Berry, Frank Sinatra, The Hollies, Phil Spector and of course Eddie Cochran.

The Eddie Cochran album was placed at the front of his album collection, facing out into the room. He was by far the best-looking artist in the collection. It was an episode of Top of The Pops that first introduced Theo to Eddie. Tony Blackburn announced Sid Vicious' new single 'C'mon Everybody'. When the song started, Theo's father Roger peered over the top of his newspaper and exclaimed Oh how marvellous! He then called out to Theo's mum Sylvie, who was in the kitchen: Darling! The Sex Pistols have done a version of 'C'mon Everybody'! Ha! It's almost as good as the original! How funny! He then proceeded to tap his foot and sing along with Sid.

When the song finished, Roger asked Theo if he had ever heard of Eddie Cochran. When Theo said that he hadn't, Roger told him the sad story of how Eddie's life came to an end in a car crash just a couple of miles up the road. He was only twenty one at the time. So young. So much promise.

His dad lent him his Best Of Eddie Cochran that evening. Theo listened to the original of 'C'mon Everybody' first. He instantly loved the trebly bass intro and the chunky acoustic guitar. He'd never heard anything like it. And when Eddie started to sing - well - C'mon Everybody! He sounded so young, so full of energy. So much livelier than the dark, almost operatic warblings of Elvis. This was the sound of being young! The rest of the album was just as good: 'Twenty Flight Rock', 'Something Else', 'Three Steps to Heaven'. Each song a two-minute nugget of pop perfection.

Some evenings, when he was particularly stressed, or just needed to be soothed by something familiar, he would play the album on his bedside record player, and let each song wash over him until he dozed off. Then the recurring thunk! of the needle as the record revolved around it would wake him up in the middle of the night, and he would have to reach out of bed and switch the player off at the wall.

But on this evening, he did not wake up in the middle of the night - the thunk! was still there when the alarm went off the next morning.

Chapter Three

Theo resolved not to tell anyone about the Steal Guitars audition. Better to tell people he was their new drummer if it went well. And if it didn't, he would just keep it to himself.

Today would be a perfect day to get his upper arms tanned. Thursdays were quiet at school, with only double history in the morning and study periods in the afternoon. He planned to sneak home at lunchtime, sunbathe during the hottest part of the day and then practise 'Brand New Cadillac' before tea. A quick visit to his brother's room while he was having breakfast confirmed that there was indeed a copy of London Calling in the house.

Theo was in the sixth form of the local all-boys comprehensive. After surprising his form tutor and careers advisor by getting five 0-levels, he decided to stay on and take A-levels. This was more of a delaying tactic than anything else as he didn't have the remotest idea of what he wanted to do. He was taking history, geography and art. This meant he really only had two A-levels to