Scraper

James Gilberd

Scraper

James Gilberd

Part I Going Underground

Heroes

One word echoing through the subway: cake? Kite? Then picking its Chaz by his shaven head, his towtruck build. Not a clue what hes on about but hes got this kid from my old school, holding him by the throat against the tiled wall, feet off the ground. I hate bullies. Nobody else about so Ill have to do something. You fucking little kike Five metres and closing, Chaz hasnt spotted me yet. Smack! It used to work on the rugby fieldIm big enough to take most people outbut this bastard doesnt give an inch. Might as well have run into the bloody wall, but at least hes let the kid go. Chaz glares at me, cold green eyes sizing me up. Playing the hero Bryant? Sickly yellow fluoros gleam off his skull as the brain inside it generates the thought of smacking me over. In the silence of the railway station subway I can just about hear the cogs turning. Know what happens to heroes? I tense my stomach muscles, brace myself for the inevitable. Ive seen him fight at school; wind you, smack you to the ground then kick the snot out of you. But nothing. Yet. Waiting for my next move? I risk taking my eyes off Chaz to look at the kid. You OK? Yeah. Thanks. His voice shakes. His size is deceptive; hes my age or a year older.

Scraper

James Gilberd

Lucky its only Chazs laughter that surprises me. Think Ill leave you two faggots to play with each others dicks. With which he heads off down the subway in a rolling stride exaggerated by his huge cherry-red Doc Martens. Rubbing shoulder, catching breath, waiting for Chaz to disappear. Havent seen him for months, since school in fact. Thought the bastard would be in jail by now. Hes not so tough without all his Bootboy mates around. Bootboys? Resting on the sound of it. How many? Dunno. Half a dozen? Theres this giant one, Runt, and one about my size called Scrag. That little prick wont leave me alone. Well if I were you I wouldnt hang round the railway station at night. If its not Skinheads its Rastas. You were at my school. Steve, isnt it? Last time I checked. Steve Bryant. Second-year sixth. Eric Moss introduces himself and offers me a handshake. His grips quite strong, for a shrimp. You were hard to miss back then, always in trouble. I just dont like authority, thats all. Eric nervously looks at his watch, says his trains about to leave and he bolts for the platform, skinny little legs pumping. Its my train too, so I lope after him. The guard waves for us to hurry up. Then were on board the old electric unit, puffing, slumped on seats facing each other. Eric flings his feet up on my seat. Black basketball sneakers like mine (though not falling apart); but above the ankle our clothing styles part company. The guard tells Eric to put his feet down and demands our tickets. Eric pulls a ten-trip. Take two clicks off it please.

Scraper

James Gilberd

I look at him, dollar note in my hand. You didnt have to. Its the least I can do. He smiles and his face relaxes, like hes already forgotten about Chaz. So what are you up to in town this time of night? Been working for my dad, rewiring an old warehouse down the waterfront. But we had this big argument about the Springbok rugby tour so I didnt fancy a lift home with him. I just got some fish and chips and wandered round town, watching happy couples doing their Friday night shopping. Funny, Ive just come from an anti-tour meeting up at varsity. Maybe you should come along to the next one. Assuming youre against it that is. You dont look the rugby type. Erics taking in the stovepipes, the spiky black-dyed hair, the ear studs, the jersey thats more holes than jersey. Used to play, but I gave it up when I discovered punk and started learning guitar. Dad was pretty pissed off about that. Wouldve loved a son in the first fifteen. Eric reaches into his duffel bag, pulls out a pair of drumsticks and performs some sort of figure-eight wrist-twisting exercise with them. Im doing a bunch of nerd stuff at varsitymaths, chemistry, computer science. This helps me unwind. Very impressive, but can you play? Im looking for a good drummer. Im OK at it, Ive been told.

Three Imaginary Boys

Saturday, we pull up at the end of the turnaround, aware that the presence of my old Bedford vans already lowering property values in the snooty cul-de-sac where Erics friend lives. I see kitchen curtains flick, a round-faced woman looking concerned.

Scraper

James Gilberd

Eric hops out and heads towards this totally radical building. Its like a gnome village scaled up for humans, all pointy-rooved towers and portholes. Eric told me Merlins old man was that architect, the one even Ive heard of, Gregory Henderson. Was, because he died not long ago, from cancer; it was on the news. He also tells me Merlins real name is Marlon, but were both up shit creek if I call him that. I lug my amp and guitar up the path after Eric. The front door opens and hes just as I feared: a terrible hippy. I confront mismatched jandals, flares, Bob Dylan on the T-shirt, greasy hair tied back with a rubber band. And he smells. I cant start my punk band with a midget nerd and a smelly fucking hippy. Down in Merlins basement room, lit only by a couple of red light bulbs like the photography darkroom at school, I step on something that slides under my foot. Hey, watch the vinyl man. I apologise, and once my eyes adjust, I see scattered among the clothes and crap on the floor, LPs of Zappa, Neil Young, The Band, Floyd (pre-Dark Side), Dylan of course, and the absolute fucking worst band ever, Jethro Tull. In contrast, the lower part of the L-shaped bedrooms neat as an army barracks. But its a music room. While Im looking out the round window and noticing you can see Meadowlea Grove, where I live, Eric slots himself behind his drum kit. Its far from new but at least seems to have all the requisite bits, putting it way ahead of the old kit at school. To warm up (or show off), he plays a fluent, funky rhythm that ends in a spectacular fill around the toms. Last night on the train, he was being modest. Over theres cool, Steve, Merlin says, pointing to a corner of the room solely occupied by a saxophone on its stand. The instruments a dull bronze colour with just a few patches of shiny brass left. There are old jazz posters framed on the walls

Scraper

James Gilberd

behindOrnette Coleman, John Coltrane and other names Ive never heardmaking the corner like a kind of shrine. Can I shift that? Merlin scurries over to the sax before I can touch it, then he picks it up and cradles it. It was my fathers. Can you play it? Yeah man, but were not here for jazz, I guess from appearances. What are we here for? I mean, Eric, you can obviously play, but we dont want to do Steely Dan covers. And I have to say the records on the floor dont excite me that much, man. Merlin says nothing, just climbs in behind his keyboards and starts up a Blues riff, and Eric joins him on drums. Theyve apparently done this together quite a bit. Simple enough twelve-bar, but when I join in, it sounds awkward. Bit like bunnyhopping the car in heavy traffic. I realise I havent even tuned my guitar, which is an excuse to back out. Hey Merlin, give me an E, I shout over the music. At last, they stop. Merlin grudgingly holds an E on the organ. The other keyboards a synthesiser, I think; it looks like a cross between a piano-accordion, a computer and a telephone exchange, with coloured patch-leads looped across its sloping control panel. All I know is those things are pretty damned pricey. I manage to get my guitar in tune, more or less. You want to try something from this decade? Merlin offers. I know some Talking Heads songs. No thanks. Devo?

Scraper

James Gilberd

No! Well, what then? Merlins hands are palms-up over his keyboards, saying I can play whatever you like man, just name it. Erics shoulders slump and he starts fiddling with his drumsticks, picking the splinters off them. He just wants to play something. Anything. This is the stand off we probably all knew was coming. OK then, now or never: I wrote something. I hear the words come out and immediately I wish Id kept my mouth shut. Theyre both miles better musicians than me. Theyll just think my stuffs crap and want to go on with their Blues or trendy New Wave or whatever. I turn to my guitar case to get my lyrics. But I linger over the band names scrawled on the stripy cover of the old school exercise book; The Clash, The Jam, The Ramones (the sole Americans), The Buzzcocks, (My English teacher didnt like that one so I made it the feature.) Stiff Little Fingers (which she didnt think much of either). Will this work? Can it work? Finally, I stand up and face Merlin, because hes the key; Eric will follow him. Clutching my lyric book like a Mormon with a bible, I deliver my mini-sermon. The only point of having a band is to play original songs. Its a fucking waste of time just jamming and playing covers. Thatll never get us anywhere. OK so far, so, Look, this ones pretty basic, its called Eleven Slain. Give it a go? I feel the heat in my cheeks, knowing its either this or nothing. Im already planning to go into town Monday and put up a fresh notice on the Musicians Wanted board at the music shop. Aladdin Sane? Bowies already used it. I repeat the name of my song before realising Merlins just pulling my tit. Hey, be cool man. The chords?

Scraper

James Gilberd

I tell him and as he tests it out on the keyboard, I wait for some snarky comment because its so basic. It doesnt come, so I start strumming and Merlin slots straight in. When Eric joins it speeds up a bit and the rhythmic feel I had transforms into something better. This isnt how he drummed before. This has drive. Merlins mike isnt up to much, but itll do. And with my voice going through his keyboard amp, I have to shout, which is what I was planning on anyway. By the end of the song I reckon I sound a bit like SLFs singerraw and angry, (but not Irish). My throat hurts. That was great! Eric says. Got any more? Fuck me, he liked it. Or hes just happy to be playing something. Merlins more reserved. Lets run through it again man, a little slower. Eric, can you give us a bar intro? Something like tum tum tukka tukka tokka tokka tooka tooka. And can you leave me some space after the second chorus, if thats cool? Eric brings us in. Merlins right, it sounds better slower. More focussed, less nervous, I improve on the singing this time and Merlin throws a new middle bit into it; a bridge, I guess. He calls out the new chords as they come and my left hand struggles with the shapes, but we get there. Fuck that was great! Its me this time, but then Im embarrassed because theres a woman in the room watching us. Shes holding out three opened blue Steinies. So, Merlin has an older sister. Youll have to stop now, sorry. Ive got a piano student starting and with all three of you playing, well, I can hear every note from upstairs. Thats OK Mum, Merlin says, going over to her. Thanks for the beers. Im sure hed rather be down here with you boys, but thats how it is. And, as she leaves, Try B diminished in the bridge, instead of the minor seventh.

Scraper

James Gilberd

I think of saying, Jesus H, that was your mother? Sign me up for piano lessons. But I dont; I resort to my guitar teachers B demolished joke instead. Yeah, thats how it is, man, Merlin drawls, ignoring my attempt at humour. Which is why its not cool to practice here. Its her job, so its like all the time. So what do we do then? Eric looks to me, not Merlin. I swig the cold lager, savour its bitterness. That new bit of yours Merlin, it gives the song an extra dimension. And the drums lift it like a 737 taking off. But when I look at Eric I just see a typical varsity studentjeans and grey sweatshirt bought from Farmers. And Merlin Look, if you two are happy to work with original songs, there are loads more where that came from. Ill find us somewhere to practice where we can make as much racket as we want. But if were going to play live, be a real band, well need to do some work on our image. If youre looking at me, Merlin says, because I am, then sorry man, but what you see is what you get. Im not cutting my hair and dying it blue. If we get one more keyboard on that rack, nobody will see you anyway, Eric says. I laugh, Merlin doesnt. No idea how long Erics been mates with Merlin but hes on my side now. I leave Merlins fantasyland house, buzzing from playing in a band for the first time and hearing my own song come together so much better than I even hoped. It sounds like Erics on board, but doubts about Merlin drag my mood down fast; and the two of them come as a package. So realistically this is never going to work, a hippy in a punk band; its a waste of time, and I should just keep looking for some other musicians.

Scraper

James Gilberd

10

Drums and Wires

Breakfast Monday, and Dad declares Im now his official apprentice and Ill be doing the next available Polytech course to get me up to speed as an electrician. This is news to me but we talk money and I realise Ill be slightly better off than on the dole, but with a third of my pay going straight to Mum for board and another third back to Dad to pay off the Bedford, therell still be bugger all left for anything else. The prospect of a lifetime as a tradesman congeals in front of me; eventually taking over Tom Bryant Electrical Ltd, growing a soup-strainer moustache and listening to Elvis. No thanks, but the job will do me for the time being. Looks like youll have to change the sign on the van to Bryant and Son. Good lad! He slaps me on the shoulder like were mates. Mind you, Im only doing this on the condition that you dont go on any of those anti-tour protests, when they come along. Oh for fucks sake Dad My little brother Thomas giggles. Dont use that language at the table. Look, Im eighteen next month. Are you going to make me vote National as well? Havent you heard of free speech? Not if it involves breaking the law. Youve been breaking the law paying me cash for work when Im on the dole. Anyway, peaceful protest is my absolute fucking democratic right. Steve.

Scraper

James Gilberd

11

Lunchtime, half a days work under my belt, and driving down to the dole office to sign off then up to the Polytech to sort out my electrical course gets me a much-needed break from Dad. He cant shut up about the bloody Springboks. I mean, he brought it up, then he tells me to give it a rest! I leave him dealing with the intricacies of the warehouses main switchboard as I slip the new white Toyota van neatly into gear. I like driving but this machine takes half the fun out of it. Much prefer my Bedford, where just getting going forwards at any speed is an achievement. Shes a sky-blue ton-and-a-half of pure character, which is why Dad sold her to me, cheap, he claims; he cant bear to totally part with the old beast. It provides him with something to work on in the weekends, an excuse for not going out or doing anything with Mum. She comes with a free mechanic, son. While at the Polytech office I make the decision to lie; Ill tell Dad the April course is already full. I put my name down for the July intake instead, giving me three months breathing space to find out if this band will fly. Later, I show Dad the section of cable Ive pulled out of the wall. Rats. Big bastards too. Youd think the insulation was made of cheese. Dad laughs for the first time today. At least theyre keeping us in work. After this one theres three more warehouses along here need doing. He sounds in a better mood now, at least. Hangovers worn off. Dont suppose theres any chance of me doing the connections and you pulling the cable through? He just gives me one of his raised-eyebrow looks. This is real work, unlike school, and Im buggered. Still two hours to go. Wonder if well get through it without a major argument like last Fridays.

Scraper

James Gilberd

12

You havent got your mind on the job at all, have you. Bout time for smoko anyway. A cuppa will wake you up. I drag myself across to the office, built into in the far corner of the old warehouse, and make us a brew. The men working in there totally ignore me, but I feel their eyes on my back as I walk out with the mugs of tea. Someone mutters bloody freak. I ignore it, as usual. Goes with the territory. I know Trish really wanted you to go back for seventh form, Dad says, but its good to have you working for me on a proper basis now. Youre not bad at the job, when youre awake. And once youve got a trade behind you, youll have a job for life, you know. You can do whatever you want later on, but you can always go back to your trade when you need money. Dad slurps his tea. Maybe youd rather still be at school, then youd have more time to muck about with those musician friends of yours. Its early days, not too late to go back. And he gives me one of those annoying nudges, making me slop half my tea down the front of my overalls. Nah, youve both got me mixed up with Thomas. My twelve-year-old brothers about fifty times brighter than me, and being named after Dad, hes bound to be the favourite. Hes not a bad little shit though. This is miles better than school. Well, it sort of is. So do you lot actually call yourself a band yet? Dunno. We havent got a name. Or anywhere to practice, more to the point. Next thing, Dads up and talking to some bloke in the office and then theyre unlocking the room in the other corner, by the toilets. It takes both men to shove the door open. Theres a crash like a heap of wood collapsing, then I get to look in. This is a turn up; its a good-sized storeroom, full of total crud. The bloke, who Dad introduces as Mr Matheson, the gaffer, looks me up and down then says its fine

Scraper

James Gilberd

13

because Im Toms lad and the rooms ten a week and hell even order a skip so we can clear it out. I clamber in there over piles of old pallets and broken furniture for a better look. Its perfect. Or its going to be. I say well take it, but hed better get two skips. Cant wait to ring Eric tonight.

Tattoo You

But actually I can, so Ill do it later. Now, I need some time to myself to nut a few things out. Dad drops me off in town after stuffing a days pay in the front pocket of my overalls. I retrieve the three tenners before climbing out of said garment and hiffing it in the back of the Toyota. Not a bad days work. Almost enjoyed it. First stop, the music shop. Not to lust over guitars I dont need and cant afford anyway, but to check the musicians noticeboard. Still the usual suspects, stuck in a rutInto UK Subs, The Damned, Sham 69, The Ruts. Yeah. And that bloke I phoned, Pete, still hasnt found his lead singer. We had quite a good chat on the phone the other week, until I let slip my age. Fuck mate, stop wasting my bloody time. Click. Looks like Merlin and Eric are still my best bet. Or my only bet. I hesitate, but then take down my old notice and dont bother to stick up the fresh one Id carefully written out. That behind me, its quick march to the bookshop for the latest three-monthsout-of-date New Musical Express, before cutting through to the mall to get to Andys record shop before it closes. Inside, I head straight for the counter, brace of tenners in my mitt. That import copy of Entertainment, Ive finally got the dosh for it Shes not Andy. I cant place her straight off, but she is from my year at school. Shes modelled herself on Siouxsie Sioux, with full-on black eye makeup and

Scraper

James Gilberd

14

a red vinyl jacket. Her hairs short, black and spiked up, bit like mine, but I remember her as a redhead, long and smooth like an ad for Sunsilk. Her olds must be spitting tacks. Susan Donaldson? Suze these days. Youre Steve Bryant, right? Surprised she even knew I existed, never mind my name. Stiv Bile these days. She looks like she believes me. Nah, still just plain old Steve. Made-up punk names have had their day. And Im thinking that I always fancied her, but she wasnt in my world. She and her equally cute girlfriends went about in an untouchable clique with all the trendy boys fluttering around. Boys with blow-waves, brown leather jackets, Adidas shoes. Utter wankers in other words. Theyd probably like whats playing on the shop stereoDepeche Mode. (More utter wankers.) Then Suze turns and bends down to get the Gang of Four disc from the cupboard behind the counter and I cant help but notice her incredibly tight black leather pants that creak louder than the music. Andy comes in, catches me staring and winks at me. Five-thirty, Suze. You can knock off now. Before I leave, I hear myself asking Suze if shes doing anything tonight, because apparently Im just going to hang around town and grab a takeaway and itd be nice to have someone to do that with. She blushes and says its the best offer shes had in the last hour. Shit, I cant believe she said yes. Down the mall and Suze is in a red phone box, her figure a hazy silhouette through bleary panes, lit by the last of the sun. I cant help but notice how short she is five-three, if shes lucky, to my six-even; but she has got the kind of figure I most fancy, a genuine hourglass.

Scraper

James Gilberd

15

Her call home is apparently turning into an argument. She bursts out of the booth and the spring bangs the door shut behind, saving her the job. Jesus, you cant win. Call and tell us what youre up to, they say, and I still get arseholes for missing dinner. Youd better be worth it Steve Bryant. Mine have given up, but Mum still worries if Im not in by about four. Liar. Smiling again. Shout you a Big Mac. Not my choice of junk foodId rather support the nearest Greek chippybut Im not going to argue. At first were too busy to talk, stuffing our faces with burgers and chips, (or fries, as they insist on calling them, trying to make us into little Americans), but over coffee we get on to music. Unfortunately, it turns out half the stuff she likes is pretty high on my hate list: Spandau, Dexys, Adam and the Ants, Gen-X and my current number one, Gary Fucking Numan. So shes a bit trendy, which fits with her practically overnight transformation into a punk. Not that any of this is stopping me lusting after her, and she is the first girl to show an interest since that disaster with Sandi before I left school. As Suze continues to rattle off bands I mostly loathe, I go from being absorbed in her hazel eyes to studying her cute freckles, which shes tried to hide with makeup. Finally I get to ask, Have you heard of The Fall? Mark E. Smith? Who? Oh, Ill have a listen tomorrow. Any particular album? She failed the acid test but Im still not that bothered. Girls are allowed to have crap musical taste, same way us boys can get away with wearing crap clothes. Grotesques their latest, but see if Andys still got that import disc of Live at the Witch Trials stashed away. Then if you can sell it to me without getting the sack Ive only got a crappy cassette dub and its the best record by anyone ever.

Scraper

James Gilberd

16

Will do. Fancy another coffee? Youre buying. During whichat least after giving her a partial rendition of Totally Wired, complete with Manchester accent and table drumming: bom bang bombom bang Im totally wired-uh, cant you seeI have to tell her Ive started this band. Well, its kind of true. Of course she wants to know all about it immediately and there isnt much to tell so I make some of it up, including the name. Scraper just popped into my head, from a nickname Dad had for me when I was a kid. I was obsessed with earth moving machines, especially Euclid scrapers, which I thought were like giant dinosaurs or dragons, the way their two engines roar when they drop their abdomen to drag up the earth. Too soon, were bathed in the alien green fluoros of the bus station. Suze fishes for something in her red vinyl handbag, (sickly brown in this light). Reckon Ive stuffed my chances, going on forever about the band, but she produces a biro and wants my number. The fine-tip Bic wont start, so I only manage to scratch a white line into the back of her hand. She pulls away and I get the pen going on my jeans. This time I hold her handhalf the size of mineand stretch the skin so the ink goes on easily. I return her pen. OK, now its my turn to tattoo you. Prepare yourself for some real pain. She presses the nib in harder than necessary while making a buzzing sound like a tattoo gun, and I respond with little agonised noises. So thats there for ever now, is it? Until you die, Steve Bryant.

Scraper

James Gilberd

17

Her bus swings in and she hops straight on it, moving towards the back as the other passengers track her with their stares. She bangs her hand up against the rear window, phone number showing, and smiles at me as the bus leaves. Its only Monday but I feel like staying out all night. Better catch my train though. Work tomorrow.

White Music

Hey, its cool man. Bit whiffy though. I mutter, Thats rich, coming from you, not intending Merlin to catch it. I spent Friday night till after midnight in the storeroom, up to my bollocks in crud, using the old pallets to highside the skip and fill it past the limit. OK, Merlins right about the smell, but itll air out if we leave the door open. Otherwise its about perfect. For a punk band anyway, if thats what we are. Eric sets up his drum kit down the far end of the room, on the small area of wooden flooring, while Merlin and I settle for concrete underfoot. With the bashed-in hardboard walls, the acoustics arent that great and the mike feeds back something shocking but we play through it. Reckon the others are as thrilled as I am to have our own room where we can do what we want, just like kids with a new clubhouse. When were finally done playing, Merlin mentions he spotted some old lounge furniture poking out of a rubbish skip back in town. We head out in the van, full of enthusiasm, hoping its still there. Apart from nearly losing Eric under the massive art deco sofa as it tumbles out of the skip, we manage to get it, two armchairs and a coffee table safely back to the practice room. After that effort, we all collapse into the damp and dusty furniture to

Scraper

James Gilberd

18

catch our breath. This is brilliant! Own band, own practice room, playing our own songs. Its all really happening. Now, the name. Scraper, I say, and wait for a reaction. Merlins inverted over an armchair. Hey man what? I explain the origin of the name. I was thinking of calling us Mothra. Its this old Japanese horror film about a giant moth I look doubtfully at Eric and he says, A moth? Youre outvoted Merlin, sorry. Scraper it is then, I say. Wish we had some beers to christen the band. Merlin takes his left sneaker off and fishes round inside it. Damn things slipped down. Oh, here. Lucky I didnt lose it in the skip. Im mystified until Merlin unwraps and straightens the rumpled joint. He lights it and passes it to Eric, who takes a long drag. I had him down as too straight for illegal drugs. Eric passes it to me. Dont know about this, Merlin, putting something in my mouth thats been stuffed in your shoe. Dont just stare at it, Merlin drawls. Take it in or pass it on man. You could at least wear socks next time. And I succumb to the occasion.

Its Going to Happen

Sunday lunchtime, and I finally summon the courage. Can may I speak to Suze to Susan please? Whom may I say is calling?

Scraper

James Gilberd

19

No one says whom these days except her old man, the chartered accountant. Steven Bryant, Mr Donaldson. Dunno where the Mr D came from. I must almost sound well brought up. He calls out and Suze picks up, but theres no click of Daddy hanging up. I tell her about the practice room and the band name. So youre a fully fledged band now. Excellent. Well, Ive got some news too. I know this girl Polly, the bass player in Plague of Snails Ive heard of them. Theyre supposed to be good. They are, and they need a support band for when they play at this bar. The other band pulled out. So you told them about Scraper? When is it? Two whole weeks away yet. Silence from my end. Thats OK, isnt it? Thomas bursts from the sitting room into the hall and plants himself in front of me, hands on hips. Whore you talking to? Im looking at my own intense brown eyes and heavy brows, set in a rounder, pre-growth spurt face. Piss off and mind your own business, you little shit. I forgot to cover the receiver. Sorry, thats my little brother. OK, great, but Id better go because he needs his head smacking in. Before she hangs up, Suze says shes got a younger brother and sister that need dealing to as well. Then Thomas takes off up the stairs with me after him and he dives onto his bed. I force his head into the pillow and rub his hair with my knuckles. NowdontyouhasslemewhenImonthephone!

Scraper

James Gilberd

20

With each word I push his face harder into the pillow. Hes struggling for breath and I remember Dad used to tease me the same way; not that I minded, much, but I know what its like being unable to breathe. I ease up on him and he wriggles free, gasping and giggling. He wants to rub his knuckles on my spiky hair and I laugh and lower my head to let him. He must like the feel of it.

Entertainment

Later, much later, I cant sleep. Im over-tired and theres too much to think about, with the band, the gig coming up, Suze. SuzeI see her in the phone box, then bending over in her tight leather pants. Im hard for the second time tonight. Once Ive finished, the sheets are in a right state and I have to totally remake the bed. I want a shower but I cant go waking everyone up. Bursting for a piss though. 3AM, really trying to get some sleep and I start thinking about Sandi for some reason. First girlfriend, first fuck. God, not again! The third time always hurts and leaves my balls aching. Instead, I get my lyric book out and try to write something. An hour later, Im too tired for this. Theres a new page of mainly crap, except one line, dissipation, dissipation, dissipation. Well, one word really. And the guitar riff in my head is at best a Gang of Four rip-off, which is hardly surprising since Ive played Entertainment even more times than Ive played with myself this last week. Not that I want Scraper to sound like GO4, or anyone else in particular; just as long as were not already old hat, like The Pistols or The Ramones. Ive got stuff that needs saying, and now theres the means to say it. Eric and Merlin have the musical talent, and theyre both pretty-much misfits like me, looking for some purpose. All I want is for the band to work: nothing else matters. So when it ultimately flies to

Scraper

James Gilberd

21

pieces, then what? Grow up, get over it and become a normal bloke with a normal job, a normal house, a normal family? Nah, Id rather jump off the bloody viaduct.

Fear of Music

Cut to the gig. Merlins on the low stage in the back corner of the bar room, fiddling with his keyboards. Eric and I share a table with Suze and her friends Bridie, Dianne and Annette, all of who have made similar transitions to punkdom. Were one chair short so I share Suzes. Our thighs are pressed together and the chairs edge cuts into the most uncomfortable place but Im not complaining. A bonus, shes wearing those leather pants again. This is rock and roll. As Eric goes up to the bar for our second and final free jug, the talk immediately turns to him. I can still only visualise him in a school lab coat, calculator slung low on the hip. That comes from Bridie, I think, but I might have her and Dianne mixed up. Well I think hes cute in his new punk gear. Annetteeasy to remember because of her height. I want to make a smart comment about smoking stunting her growth but shell probably flatten me. Then, to my disappointment, Suze steals Erics chair. That was mean, Annette says. Wheres he going to sit now? On your lap, Suze replies. I avoid looking at Eric as he returns with the jug, and we all act like were on about something else. Annette moves aside and Eric squeezes onto her chair. Even sitting, his eyes only come up to her shoulder. Suze and I exchange glances. The idea

Scraper

James Gilberd

22

of Eric and any girl hadnt occurred to me before. But Annette looks really spunkyI wouldnt say no myself. Then Brian from Plague of Snails comes over with the message from the manager: were on! Thought we had time to at least get a bit drunk, calm the nerves. I top up my beer glass and take it with me to the stage. Before were half ready, Brian announces ussort of. This lot have been together less than a month and Steve here apologises in advance for any bum notes. He slaps my back, making me belch into the mike. That gets a few laughs from the heavies at the bar, but I dont feel much like laughing. Puking more like. So now folks, for the first time ever and hopefully not the last, Scraper! As I stoop to the mike to say somethingno idea whatBrians in the process of raising the stand for me. I dont react in time and the mike whacks me in the teeth. Probably sounded worse than it felt, but I jump back holding my mouth. More laughter. My face heats up. Fuck, I feel like the fall guy in a comedy routine. Ive got to pull this together. Uh, we wont keep you waiting long for the Snails because we dont have a whole heap of songs at this stage. I strum a chord. At least my guitars working. Sounding good too, through Brians Fender valve amp. Better than my crappy transistor job. Hey Steve! Wah-heyyy, Suze yells from just in front of the stage. As her friends and some others kick up a right racket, Eric hits his drum intro at pace. Too damn fast actually. Hes nervous too. I smash into the mike again, but this time its deliberate. Eleven slain in doomsday cult massacre Another front page, another disaster

Scraper

James Gilberd

23

How can we cope, can we keep going on Eyes closed, the texture of the mikes cool wire mesh on my lips is the whole world. Unready to face the audience, I roll around to the side of the mike and open my eyes. Erics all motion, flailing the Snails drummers kit, sweat flying off him already. Both feet going too. How do drummers do that? I fixate on the rhythm, remaining side-on to the crowd. Then my attention shifts to my own playing. Looking down, its like watching a movie clip of someone else playing an electric guitar, a close-up shot locked on the blurring right hand colliding with the strings. Cant bring myself to believe its me doing it, me playing on stage in front of total strangers. The songs over too soon. Eric does his stretching exercise with the drumsticks and I give him a few seconds. Staring at the song list gaffer-taped to the monitor speaker at my feet, thinking about the next song. Havent faced the crowd since we started. That doesnt happen till halfway into the third song, Repeater, a slower one. And fuck me, its working. Theres at least a dozen people down the front, right into it. Suze and her girlfriends make up the core of the group and the rest are mostly boys. They slam around sideways into each other, the girls pushing back. Next songs hot on the heels, faster tempo, and their motion transforms to vertical pogoing. That song ends how we planned, abrupt as a car smacking into a tree. I drop back to turn up the amp, swig some beer and check my watch. Four songs in thirteen minutes. With only two originals left, were going to need Pretty Vacant. Avoiding looking at Merlin, because I can hear his voice in my head alreadyHey man, you said it wasnt cool to play coversI pick out the intro guitar riff, but at Buzzcocks speed rather than Pistols lazy mid-tempo: ding ding dang dang ding ding dong dong. The regulars up the back wont know this song, or wont like it, but I dont

Scraper

James Gilberd

24

give a shit about them because its all on down front. I take one long step up to the mike and snarl the best first line of any punk song: Theres no point in asking youll get no reply. Middle of the number, Merlin takes over the lead and I can back off the mike, wipe the sweat from my eyes and risk a look round. Erics still just a blur. Merlin seems to have forgotten his hatred of the Pistols and is right into it. His left hand pumps out the keyboard bassline while his right jumps between hitting chords on the organ and soloing on the synth. With Erics rampant drumming and my threshing rhythm guitar cranked to twelve and distorted to hell, were not half putting up a wall of sound. Im still chanting, pret-ty, pretty va-cant over my own guitar outro when the PA system cuts. Its the pigs! Theyre already onto most of those who look underage, which means Suzes crowd. Eric looks a few years shy of his actual eighteen so I signal him to keep down behind the drum kit. Hes already twigged, pretending to adjust the kick drum pedal. I think Suze can probably handle herself, and so, painfully aware of my own mere seventeen years, I slam my guitar into its case and head for the backstage exit. The others follow. Merlins last to the van, a keyboard under each arm, staggering in the back doors. Well whatre you waiting for? Get us out of here man. Even when hes anxious, he drawls. Shit, I feel guilty now. Ive got to help Suze. Gee, howd you manage to play guitar in all that shining armour? No time to argue, Im out of the van. But when I get round the front of the hotel theres a line of cop cars screaming towards me full titlights, sirens, the works. I dive out of the way and their spinning back wheels spray gravel over me. By

Scraper

James Gilberd

25

the time Im upright and dusted off, theyre already at their destination, the next pub down the road. In the Trafalgars car park, Brians having a chat with the managerabout us, it sounds like. Typical pub manager, balding, overweight and red in the face from blood pressure and too much beer. Bit like my dad, come to think of it. Good job theyre up to their usual antics at The Flying Jug. Got me off the hook with just a warning. The manager chucks his cigarette butt down and grinds it into the gravel with the toe of his cowboy boot. Suppose I should get back in there and play some music, calm things down a bit, Brian offers. Damn straight, boy. Im not paying you to stand round arguing with me. Theyre off inside, but I move too early and they hear me crunching across the gravel. Ah, heres Sid Vicious himself. Now I want you lot and all your little punky girlfriends and boyfriends off my premises right now, in case them cops come back. Dont worry, were gone. Sorry we caused you a problem. Problem? I could lose my liquor licence. Brian steps across to my side. Dont be too hard on him, Rod. You know that wont happen. Yeah, OK. Youre a good band, but you want to try playing some real music, not that punk shit. Then get a bit older and Ill have you back. Great, thats encouraging thanks. Now how about our forty bucks? Rod throws his head back in a guffaw then turns and disappears inside. Before following him, Brian pushes something into my hand. Feels like tinfoil, so I dont

Scraper

James Gilberd

26

need to look at it, just shove it in my jacket pocket. I slap him on the shoulder for thanks and leave them both to it. So much for the money. Back to looking for Suze, but she finds me first. Her makeups a write-off. Steve! I thought theyd arrested you. Me? Nah, but didnt they get your name and stuff? Not my real one. The policewoman was asking for ID when she was called away. Lucky. Unfortunately the underage crowd you invited got us in shit with the manager. We didnt get paid. Oh really? And youre all twenty, are you? If they hadnt all come it wouldnt have been nearly so successful. So what youre saying is we need a bunch of groupies up dancing before we can say we played well? And Im one of your groupies, am I? I didnt mean it like that but fuck, it went well didnt it? Steve, you were bloody brilliant. The whole band was. Just please dont turn into an arsehole. Look, Im glad you didnt get arrested, but Ive got to get back to the others. As I turn away from her she pulls me back around, reaches up and grabs my face with both hands and plants this giant, sloppy kiss. When her tongue joins the party, so does mine. A few seconds of that and shes off, running back inside. Im leaning back on a car bonnet trying to take it all inplaying our first gig and now this thing with Suzewhen Eric appears, grinning like the bloody Cheshire Cat. Hes obviously seen the whole thing, the little bugger, but pretends he hasnt.

Scraper

James Gilberd

27

What happened to you? Did you find Suze? I go to whack him round the head, like I would Thomas. He sees it coming a mile off and ducks. Reflexes of a bloody cheetah. Then he runs up the wall of the pub and turns a perfect backflip. I feel like doing the same, only I know Id break my bleeding neck.

Boys Dont Cry

Erics lumbered with a swag of varsity assignments due at once. But being back at university doesnt seem to affect Merlin; he still appears to have all the time in the world. So he makes it to the practice but Eric doesnt, which means we can work on the new songs without Erics infernal noodling on the drums when he gets bored. Merlin does seem out of sorts though; hes hardly said a word in half an hour and he keeps pissing about with his keyboards effects. Cant you just leave it on the piano sound so we can get on? Merlin answers by whacking the keys with his fist. First time Ive seen him do anything remotely violent. Thats not very cool. Are you OK? Have you ever thought about taking some singing lessons? It might improve your ear too. You do know your guitar was miles out of tune the other night, dont you. Or would it be easier just to invest in an electronic tuner? What happened to man? Look, I cant just walk in and buy one of those things, or pay for private lessons. And I dont have rich parents thatll fork out either. Oops. Neither do I. Do you think my mum likes teaching piano?

Scraper

James Gilberd

28

Sorry... Merlin looks up at me again. Buying me stuff was his way of being a good father, at that time. He was winning architecture awards and making stacks of bread but he was working all hours, so it was what he could manage. Some colour in his cheeksanother firstand the tips of his ears, poking through his hair, go bright red. Mum and I hardly saw him when he was working, then suddenly hes home most of the timewhen he wasnt in hospitaland the bread supply stopped. He left me five grand in his will, enough to see me through varsity, but I dipped into it for the MS20. Merlin looks down at his Korg synth, but its been all eye contact up to this point, unusually. Suppose Im lucky, still having two parents. Ive never known anyone who died, except my grandmother but I was too young to understand it then. Well, it was pretty rough. It took about a year after he was diagnosed. Sometimes he was OKhe even started working again for a whilethen he wasnt He drops his head again and I think hes about to cry. Look, do you still want to do this, Merlin? With a tear on one cheek, then the other, Lets just go for it man. So we just go for it. Two new song ideas come from the intense jam, and we even manage to knock them into shape enough to run through with drums next practice. I feel better now, Merlin says at the end of it. Hey, this room could do with cheering up a bit too man. We should do something about the colour and put up some cool posters and stuff.

Scraper

James Gilberd

29

Yeah, anythings better than this snot-green. Dads got some old tins of paint I can nick. Meet you here tomorrow night and well give the walls a lick. Then we can have a party here. Its my eighteenth next week and I dont fancy a party at home, so this will be perfect. Suze could invite her friends. Give the band a bit of practice in front of a crowd. A crowd in here would be like a dozen, but yeah, cool idea. Then I get a wobbly lift to the railway station on the back of his ten-speed. He throws the bike in the guard van and we ride home on the train together, up into the suburbs. We dont say much, but it seems like we might have something like a friendship now, despite his being a hippy. You know, I reckon this band could be a goer, I say, once were out on the platform. Merlin does up his oilskin, mounts his bike. Yeah man. Maybe And pedals off into the dark.

Rattus Norvegicus

Saturday night, and alcohols already in action in the practice roomwhich now, thanks to our interior decorating skills, resembles a caramel slice from the inside and Im waiting anxiously for the bourbon bottle to come round again. Its so fucking freezing tonight even Merlins wearing shoes and socks. Dianne nags at me, So are you going out with Suze or what? Pointing at Eric and Annette fails to distract her. Suppose she cant imagine a nerd like Eric, even with his newfound punkdom, actually getting up to anything much. Then I remember how cruel she wasthey were (Suze was in that clique)to

Scraper

James Gilberd

30

Sandi, telling her to fuck off all the time. Sandi was a natural loner, like me, but didnt realise it and so always wanted to be part of some group or other. That connection between SuzeSusan, as she was thenand me is now buried and untouchable by either of us. Bourbon seems to bring out thoughts like that, tainting everything. Dianne used to call me State House Steve for a while back at school, the snooty bitch. It didnt catch on. Now look at her; she wants to be in my world, wants to be a punk. But just dressing like one isnt enough. She doesnt get it. Its how you think and what you do that counts, not just buying the clothes, getting the right look. The attitude and the action, not the act. At last the bottle comes my way again. Have to watch I dont get too pissed to play, because I feel like it. Eighteen at last, and I feel like getting totally legless. Steve, have you met Keith? Hes just started at Andys shop. Suze expects me to shake hands with him or something. I recognise him from the Snails gig, the Sid Vicious clone. I hold out a hand. Keef mate. You can call me Keef. And he gets me with a biker shake. Must think hes really got his image together. Worked on his sneer in front of the mirror. I hate the prick already. Yeah, and you can call me John. I turn away and mutter, Think its about time we played something. And I dont know why, but I leave Suze and Keef to it. For some reason, Im more nervous than when we played at the pub with Plague of Snails. Even though this is just a party, there seems to be a certain level of expectation, like its around that were a hot band and this lot are here to really see something. Anyway, Im busting to play. Ive been building up to it all week and now Im ready to let rip.

Scraper

James Gilberd

31

It was Merlins idea to start out with some blues. I wanted to get straight into our proper songs, but hes rightwed be shooting our load too early, and we still havent got that much stuff. So I stay out of it while Merlin sets up a drone on the synth, which he begins to wrap his sax around, python-like. Eric eases into a crediblesounding jazz rhythm (not that Id really know one if it grabbed me by the scrotum). This strange opening is sowing the seed of confusion in the room, which is no bad thing. Someone I dont know passes me the Bourbon againcheers mateand before Merlin and Eric have seen out their jam, the spirits doing its business good and proper in my head. I find myself crouching on the floor, my guitar wrapped inside me as if Im an amoeba trying to digest it. At what seems an appropriate moment I spring up and unleash the first chord of Eleven Slain. The chord rapidly degenerates into feedback; not quite what I intended but itll do. I ease off the volume and Eric hits the drum intro as if wed rehearsed it this way. Suddenly the confusion evaporates and the small crowd fills the room to the top corners, bouncing round like tennis balls in a concrete mixer. Im so wrapped up in playing or so pissed or a bit of both, but most of our set seems to have passed without me particularly noticing. There was a really dodgy Happy Birthday in there somewhere, with Suze, Annette, Bridie and Dianne taking over our mike and us lot backing themI remember that bit. But now were down to the last song, Midnight, complete with Impending Nuclear Destruction theme. I count it in and we all hit the intro together.
God, theyre good. Theyre really good, and in such a short time. Theyre going to be big, if they can stay together. Go Steve wah-heyyyy! Jesus, what did that sound like? Im so pissed. This is great, this room, this place. Hes not a bad singer either. No Billy Idol, but hes better than that Rotten Johnny or whoever.

Scraper

James Gilberd

32

Hes so intense, like he was born to do this and nothing else matters. Nothing outside this room even existswere just floating out in space somewhere, spinning round like the Tardis. I think hes forgotten about me, at least while hes up there playing. Im not Suze Donaldson anymore, just another face in the crowd. And hes so angry. Veins standing out, sinews on his neck like some old man. Its like every wrong thing that ever happened in the world is just pouring out of him and washing over all of us. Its incredibly exciting. It makes me want to just run out and do something, smash something, throw stuff about. Scra-per! Scra-per! God, I am pissed, but I feel really alive. Thats what ithemakes me feel. And hes so sexy. Those bare arms God. Now whats that little squirt Eric up to?

The end of the songs a countdown. As I shout the numbers Eric actually jumps up and down on his drum stool, smashing the cymbals each time he lands. I get down to One, then theres supposed to be a pregnant pause before we all make a noise like a nuclear bomb going off. But into the gap comes a sound of wood splintering. By the time I look round Erics already vanished and bits of the drum kit are on their way down after him, through whats left of the wooden bit of the floor. I react in time to grab the bass drum and rack toms. Keef leaps in mid-pogo and catches the snare and hihat, but the floor tom and a cymbal stand disappear below with an echoing crash. Erics voice echoes too, Ahhh! Shit, get me out of here... Which goes on until we eventually do get him out. I remember theres a stepladder in the warehouse, and I scone a couple of people with it while trying to get it past them and down the hole. Hey, watch it mate. Well just get out of the fucking way then. Merlin helps Eric back into the room above while I fish round in the dark and retrieve the various bits of drum kit. I get it all except one drumstick which mustve

Scraper

James Gilberd

33

rolled off somewhere. Far as I can tell, Im standing in a shaft about a metre square and three or four deep, so where did the stick go? Then I feel a draft and hear something scraping about. Fuck am I up that ladder quick. Eric looks basically OK. A bit shaken up, a graze or two and a decent bruise on his arm from fending off the floor tom, but nothings broken. A few people have left the party but most are hanging around, trying to get a look down the hole. I dont want them to, so I get on the mike. OK, shows over folks, you can run along home now. Spent ages rehearsing that last bit, eh Eric? And most of them leave, including Keef, thank fuck. Its down to just the band, plus Annette, whos fussing over Eric. And Suze. And the three enormous rats that have just scaled the ladder. As they bare their long yellow incisors I remember those gnawed cables and back away. Suze takes charge. Steve, Merlin, get the ladder out before more of them come up. And she grabs my guitar by its neck and uses it like a hockey stick to whack the rats back down into the abyss. Brown rat in corner pocket, Merlin says, grappling with the ladder. When the ladder comes up theres two more giant rats hanging onto it, but Suze manages to knock those off as well. Merlin and I drop the ladder on the floor and the four of us cheer her. Fuck, I could do with another shot of Bourbon after that lot, I say. Any still floating round? Sorry, none, Suze replies. We could go out for some fresh air though. Its quite close in here.

Scraper

James Gilberd

34

I dont need to be asked twice. Seconds later, out in the warehouse behind a stack of crates, its a repeat performance of after the Trafalgar gig. Except this time she doesnt catch me by surprise. In the middle of things, I hear another scraping sound. More rats? I break off kissing and look up. No, its the fucking Cheshire Cat. After what just happened, how the hell can Eric silently climb a ten foot stack of crates to be beaming down at us? When he returns to floor level I aim a slap at the back of his head and I get him this time. Suze tells me off. He might have concussion. Eric proves hes in perfect health by turning three smooth cartwheels on the concrete floor of the warehouse. Not bad, for a nerd. It wouldve been a good night if wed just left it there, but we have to go on to the flat party, dont we. Suze pays for the taxi for all five of us; and Keefs there, of course, since he invited Suze. Now its as if shes parading me in front of him, playing us off against each other. Does she want me to fight him for her? I go out to the kitchen to get away from him, and I find theres a load of bottles of Lyin Down in the ice-filled sink. More my dads taste in beer than mine, but I grab one anyway. The floors covered in ice and water, and as I go to open the bottle against the edge of the yellow Formica bench I arse over and theres beer and brown glass everywhere. And following the usual bad-to-worse pattern, the Skinheads arrive, filling the kitchen. First time Ive seen the lot of them together and the effect of the cluster of shaven heads is a bit intimidating, I have to admit. The one that fills the door frame I guess is Runt, and the little chap who picks up the jagged neck of my bottle and

Scraper

James Gilberd

35

pockets it, saying itll come in handy later, has got to be Scrag. Being the smallest, he has to constantly show hes the toughest. Trashing the place Bryant? And to my surprise, Chaz reaches out and helps me off the floor. You might make one of us yet. It was an accident. He surprises me again, this time by punching me in the stomach. I double over, gasping for breath, down onto one knee. Last time I got winded was playing rugby, falling on the ball. Then theres a ruck on top of me and I cant even try to breathe until they get off. Its the longest time in the world. That was an accident too. My fist slipped. Chazs laughter starts the rest of them going. Once that dies down, he says, No, I tell a lie. It was for protecting your little faggot Jew bum buddy, remember? Got to get up fast or I know whats coming. I slip and stagger but manage it. Cant quite achieve my full height but its still enough to look down on Chaz from. Eyeballing him, I remember you didnt have all your gang round you then you fucking coward. Scrags got the broken bottle out again, which is making me a tad nervous. He looks the kind of psycho who would actually use the thing with no provocation, or if Chaz just clicked his fingers. Fuck, hes coming at me! But Chaz sticks an arm out, barring him back. Yep, definitely a screw loose there. The little bastards itching to carve my face up. You might have a couple of queers for mates Bryant, but youve got balls, Ill give you that. Chaz goes to punch me in the breadbasket again but pulls it, laughs and walks out. The five other skinheads follow him, each grabbing a beer or two from the sink first.

Scraper

James Gilberd

36

Somewhere in that lot, I cut myself. Theres a triangle of glass the size of a guitar pick stuck in my left palm. I pull it out and drop it, then make a fist around my snot-crusted hanky to stop the bleeding. My jeans are soaked with beer and spotted with blood and I still cant manage to stand up straight. Suze walks in. God, you look terrible. What happened? Find Eric and Merlin. Were leaving.

The Gift

Were only meeting for lunch but Im nervous as fuck. Ive come up with this idea of acting cool, like Suze doesnt particularly matter. If shes going to play Keef off against me, shell find I can play games too. Starting by not wandering over there right away. So I watch from across the road as she rummages the clothing racks outside the old market building. Her hairs different to last night. Boiled up about five colours of crepe paper, by the look of it. I remember what happened last time I tried that trick; it rained and the dye ran down my face and into my clothes. Time to casually stroll over there. I say hi and she looks pleased to see me. We heading for that caf upstairs? Vegetarian, isnt it? It has nice food and its not expensive. Is vegetarian a problem for you? Its going to be like that, is it? Whatever I say, shell take it negatively. Play it cool Steve. Veggies fine. Slept through breakfast, so Im now on a mission for food, veggie or whatever, but Suze keeps getting distracted by the various stalls and the buildings

Scraper

James Gilberd

37

cleverly organised so you have to pass every single bloody stall to find the stairs up to the next floor. The smell of incense is getting on my tits. Id prefer the smell of bacon and sausages, or even a mince pie, but Id better keep quiet about that. And this place is full of total hippies, sandals and beards everywhere. Keep expecting to run into Merlin. Eventually we get to this famous caf. Suze tells me to grab a table while she queues up. I pick one by the window and plant myself on an ancient wooden chair, wondering if itll take my weight. The tables equally ancient, its timber scarred and pitted, and the sweet smell of the beeswax candle burning in a jar in the middle of it makes me feel even hungrier. To pass time while my stomach grumbles, I look out at the view and see the century-old warehouse our band rooms in. Even through the ripply window glass I can make out the intricacy of its brickwork, which Id never noticed before. I imagine back to when they were building it, men with hods climbing wooden ladders, skilfully laying each brick. Suze banging the thick plate down brings me back to the present and Im faced with a decent-sized wedge of some kind of moist, heavy-looking cake. Not my idea of a meal but itll have to do. Theres a pot of tea too. Ever had carrot cake? No, but Ive heard of it. Coffee cake counts as exotic at our place. I dont suppose youre a camomile tea drinker then. Only ever had gumboot tea. Her laughter says either shes just heard that expression for the first time or she thinks Im an ignorant git. Maybe both. She pours me this greenish water with a few stalks floating round in it. I pick up the cup and take a whiff. Not too bad, its smell blending with the beeswax candle nicely. I take a noisy slurp. Nah

Scraper

James Gilberd

38

Does it remind you of anything? Hmm yes. Its my turn to mow the lawn this weekend. Which Im quite proud of but Suze doesnt seem to think is funny. I hope you like this better. Shes got a bit of this carrot cake on a fork, along with something that could be cream but probably isnt, and shes about to feed it to me. I open wide like a baby. Its sharp; plain yoghurt. Cakes nice enough though, lemon icing. With mouth full, Never eaten cake with a fork before either. Id normally just pick the whole thing up and stuff it in my face. Here, you have some. I swipe a forkful of cake through the yoghurt and feed it to her. Next forkful, she drips yoghurt down my chin and before I can deal with it, she wipes it off for me and then licks her finger clean, slowly. You want to know why I grabbed you and kissed you that night after your first gig? I thought it was obvious. You totally fancy me. Close enough. She leans across the table and makes it happen for the third time. As usual, we have an audience; theres a hoot from one side of the caf and a wolf whistle from the other. But I dont give a fuck what all these celery-munching longhairs think, Im right into it. As we finish the cake and so-called tea, I have to blurt out something about fancying her too. And when we get up to leave she grabs my hand and drags me over to this used clothing stall, disappears into the racks and emerges with a good-looking black leather jacket. I throw off my denim one and try it on. Looks good on you man, but if you wear it round a while itll take on your body shape. Then itll get real comfortable.

Scraper

James Gilberd

39

The stallholder reminds me of Bonzo, the late drummer from Led Zeppelin, red bandana and all. His smile suggests hes had a smack in the chops with a knuckleduster. Bonzo goes on, Its got forty-five on it but its a slow day, so forty. Suze produces a handful of coins and small notes and counts up, Thirty-one, thirty-two and a bit, and slaps it in Bonzos hand. Thatll do for a deposit. Bring me the rest and its yours. Sorry, its all the money we have and were not coming back here. Suze looks to walk away. Do you want the sale or not? Theres a kind of staring match and I guess Bonzo loses, because next its biker shakes all round. Enjoy it man. You got one tough chick there. We head downstairs, Suze looking pleased with herself and me feeling pleased with the jacket. Ill pay you back next time I get paid. Dont bother. Call it a late birthday present. She cracks one of her cute smiles. No doubt some of Daddys moneys gone into her teeth, so theyre a great contrast to Bonzos, thank god. And something to mark the day we became girlfriend and boyfriend. Im a bit slow; I hadnt even thought of that, but suddenly I feel very different. Theres this strange hum going through my body and I imagine if I grabbed hold of a guitar lead, an amp could pick it up and make a sound out of it. I want to spend the rest of the afternoon, the evening, the whole night with Suze, but weve both got other things planned. Shes off with her girlfriends to see a band that I absolutely fucking hate, The Beau Jesters, which could result in the worlds shortest relationship if I went along; and Im supposed to meet Merlin over at the practice room, with my tools and stuff. So we walk to where I left the van, do kiss

Scraper

James Gilberd

40

number four, then she goes off on her way. I sit in the Bedford and listen to my body hum.

One Step Beyond

Merlins sitting on the ground with his back against the roller door. Probably forgot his keys again. Looks like hes not too thrilled about spending a sunny autumn afternoon in the practice room sawing and hammering, but he doesnt know what I know about that hole in the floor. I doubt if Eric knows either; he was probably too stunned from falling to notice that the shaft led into some kind of room or tunnel. I could only guess from the echo and the bit of a draft, but Ive been imagining all kinds of things. Down the ladder, and its obvious under torchlight that one wall of the concrete shaft is actually just plaster over rough planks. There are huge cracks and rat-sized holes at the bottom. Together we give the wall a good shove and it collapses. Torch in hand, I look through the cloud of dust and say, Fuuucck. Merlin says, Fuuucck man. My torch batteries have about had it but theres enough light to reveal a huge basement with brick walls and concrete columns holding the roof up. I step forward and something rolls under my foot. Its Erics drumstick, which I pick up and shove in my back pocket. As we wander out into the middle of the cavernous space, we make the only human footprints in the dust; but rat tracks trail in all directions, along with tracks of something bigger. The torch beam catches a pair of glowing green eyes from a dark opening in the far corner. As we head over there, a huge white cat retreats. Following it, we find

Scraper

James Gilberd

41

theres another smaller room off the main one, but we have to stoop through a hackedout tunnel to get to it. The torch is crapping out, dammit. A hand suddenly gripping my shoulder makes me jump. I hit my head and loose gravel or something goes down my back. Jesus Christ Merlin! Youd be meeting him personally if you fell down that hole man. Didnt you see it? A cut-off concrete pipe surrounds the hole, like a well. The torch beam wont reach the bottom but I hear water down there and smell the sea. Chucking a pebble in confirms it. So assuming this isnt the cats escape route, there must be another way out. Theres just enough left in the torch to spot the exit, another concrete pipe, but horizontal. Itd be just about big enough for Eric to walk upright in, but not me or Merlin, and it looks like it heads off under the city. The last thing the torch picks up is the cats eyes, way back in the pipe. Exploring further in pitch darkness is out, so we head back into the main room. The trick now is to find the way out without having an accident. I lead, hands out front, but I cant even see where the shaft is. What I manage to smack into feels like a wooden barrel. And there are more of them, my knees find out. Topside at last, and Merlin looks as excited as I am. Cant wait to show Eric. I place the drumstick back with its mate. Nah, lets just sit on it. Ill rig some proper lighting down there when I can nick the stuff from work. Then well give him and Suze a surprise. Even though it turns out Merlins pretty handy with tools, were both exhausted from the gig and the party the night before so it takes us the rest of the afternoon to knock together a decent wooden cover for the hole in the floor. We nail a bit of old carpet to it for Eric to sit his drums on.

Scraper

James Gilberd

42

My dad used to be a builder before he became an architect, so naturally thats what I wanted to be, Merlin says. Spent my childhood in the workshop, wasting trees and nails making like trolleys and guns and shit. Thomas is totally into that stuff too. He cant use a hand saw to save himself, and Dad wont let him use the electric, but he reckons hes going to be a builder. My bets more on nuclear physics. Christ knows where he gets his brains fromIm about as thick as the planks weve been cutting up. You might not be great at like maths and all that heavy academic shit man, but that doesnt mean a lot in the real world. Wondering what Merlin might know about the real world, I reply, Maybe, but I know Ill never be much of a guitarist either. Look at these fucking great hands theyre more for manual labour, like what Dads got me doing while he pretends to be training me as an electrician. You dont have to be Hendrix or Clapton to play guitar in a band these days. You of all people should dig that. Yeah, its more about just getting up and doing something, making a statement. But I want to do it well. Before this band, I was totally invisible. I dont mean nobody noticed a six-footer in full punk gear, but I just didnt have anything going on. Nobody even wanted to know me. Now it even looks like Ive got a girlfriend. Yeah man. I think us two make a pretty good team. Not quite Lennon and McCartney, but that shit we cooked up last week was cool. Youve got the raw ingredients, the flour and eggs, and I can, like, add the icing, make something different to what everyone else is doing.

Scraper

James Gilberd

43

Speaking of which, Ive been thinking about the Springbok tour, apartheid and all that. Reckon Ive got the bones of a song about it. And I dig into my pocket for the folded paper with the scrawled lyrics and chords of Antisong. Merlin reads it and frowns. This is like my notes from Pol Sci 101 man. We need to cut the real specific stuff and work with the more abstract images, make it more poetic, less preachy. Im shot to pieces. I thought it was good, but hes probably right, as usual. I pull myself together, grab my guitar from its case and try to sing him the chorus how I imagined. The end of Apartheid Hope I live To see the day. I want to give it a ska feel but Im struggling to strum the offbeats and sing at the same time. Try playing it as upstrokes. Does he fucking well know everything? Suppose he does, because it works. Thats a good melodic chorus. Nice feel. We can build the rest of the song around it. Its well dark by the time I drop Merlin and his bike off up in the subdivision, and I say I reckon weve really come up with something and we should write more songs like this, together, make Scraper a political band. Like The Tom Robinson Band? Yeah, but maybe not so Gay.

Scraper

James Gilberd

44

Black and White

Handy that Brians dad owns a big printing company, so the posters Suze designed for our next gig with Plague of Snails get run off for nowt. All we have to do now is stick em up; so the other Snails, Dean and Polly, start at one end of the mall and Suze and I work from the other. We just get started and this trio of young punks comes up to us asking for posters. Suze peels one off for them on the condition they promise to come to the gig on Saturday. Yeah, well be there, the one with the spiked dog collar says. By the way, watch it down the other end of the mall. Fuckin Rastas hassling us. Fuckin black bastards, his friend adds, with a nervous look back toward the group that can just be seen in the gloom, sitting round the fountain. The trio leaves in the opposite direction and I suggest that we head to the fountain, just in case. You think theyd pick on Dean? Hes a bloody giant. He is big, for a drummer; more like a lock in a rugby team. We get there in time to see him and Polly sending the Rastas flying. Theyre not real Rastas, of course, just kids whove taken to the style. No, this lot are just a street gang, and they dont half hurl back some verbal as they take off. We laugh at the sight of Dean lurching after them, waving his metre-long arms. Later its just me and Suze round at the university, using up the last of the posters. The winds got up and I accidentally let go of a freshly-glued one, which flies over and covers Suzes face and tits. Once she fights her way free of it, she looks furious.

Scraper

James Gilberd

45

You let that go on purpose you stupid prick! Not true, but I dont bother denying it. Youre covered in glue anyway. You shouldve brought a change of clothes. Its all right for you, in your overalls, she says as she wads up whats left of the poster and lets fly. I duck into it, and now Ive got glue through my hair. Thanks for that. Itll keep it nice and spiky. Seconds later its all out war, slinging handfuls of wallpaper paste at each other until were both covered in the stuff. I move in, grab Suze in a bear hug and kiss her. Bad idea, because theres paste on her lips. Trying to ignore the bloody awful taste, my mouth, lips and cheeks slide over hers. This starts something. By the time were sick of rubbing our faces together I reckon Im wearing half her makeup. The vans wing mirror confirms it, but the effect on Suze is worse. Her old mans going to have a fit.

Setting Sons

Home, cleaned up, and my old mans having a fit too. Happens every time some leader of the anti-apartheid movement gets himself on the news. Dads picked up all this crap down the pub and he trots it out like a bloody parrot: Whats the harm in a simple game of rugby? Keep sport out of politics, thats what I say. Protestors? Pack of bloody commies being paid to ruin the country more like. I blame the media, theyre stirring it all up just to sell papers.

Scraper

James Gilberd

46

As he goes on, empty beer bottles accumulate at the foot of his armchair. Hes trying to draw me into an argument but Im in too good a mood for one, unusually, so I keep schtm, resist the urge to rise to it. As I share my own beer with Thomas, Dad keeps spouting crap, his voice growing raspier and his face more purple. Thomas has had enough. Hes not as used to this carry-on as I am, since hes only recently been allowed to stay up late. He runs off upstairs and a door slams. I recognise the drum intro to Janie Jones immediately. The little shits into my records. Thomas, go up and tell Steve to turn that fuckin stereo down. I try to imitate my brothers breaking voice as I leave the room. Sure Dad, no problem. Nighty-night. Up in my room, Thomas has the old radiogram wound up to distortion level, which isnt really very far and actually suits The Clash. I turn it down a bit anyway, then maybe Dad will stop drinking and doze off. Have you been playing my records before? I grab one thats sticking out of the beer crate, the first Ramones album. And sure enough. So I show Thomas how the inner sleeve should be turned sideways to keep the dust out. At least youve got taste. Show me how to put one on properly, without scratching it. Wondering which discs hes managed to scratch so far, I slip The Ramones back out, handling it by its edge, and put it on instead of The Clash. Hey, you know what these records have in common? Thomas asks, holding up the two covers. Theyre both first albums, and both really important musically? Yeah, I guess so, but also theyre titled eponymously. What?

Scraper

James Gilberd

47

The record is named after the band. Didnt you know that? I just shrug. Hes gone to the same schools as me, had mostly the same teachers, so how did I manage to get out the far end with University Entrance, eventually, but knowing almost nothing? You like this band? They sound kind of dumb but I bet theyre a lot smarter in real life. Hes probably right. What about Joe Strummer? He knows whats going on in the world, eh? Do you think hed be against the Springboks coming here, if he knew about it? Bloody sure he would be. Why dont you write to him? Tell him whats happening in our little corner of the world. Look, the address is on the cover. Yeah, I bet if The Clash wrote a song about it and came over here, they could stop the tour. Everyone would listen to them. You think so? You reckon a band could do that? He may have a point. Im sick of The Ramones already so I pull out Grotesque. You havent been into my Fall records yet, I see. Let me introduce you to Mark E. Smith. After a couple of songs, Thomas gets bored. Time for Totally Wired, I suspect. The 7-inch 45 immediately has him heading for bed: my bed, to jump around on it! So I have to leap around the room too, dont I. Dad yells up the stairs, Oi, shut the fuck up will you. Some of us are trying to sleep. But we carry on to the end of the song then collapse puffing and sweating, Thomas on the bed and me on the rug. Recovering, I put on The Cures Boys Dont Cry. Hope Dads too far gone to bother coming upstairs.

Scraper

James Gilberd

48

Its 2AM before Thomas drags himself to his own room, having sampled most of my record collection. I doubt hell have any trouble getting to sleep, but I will. Too much music in my head now. I reach for my lyric book. Political lyrics? I make an attempt to write something about the Springbok tour, but it turns out too preachy again, like Merlin said. In frustration, I flick back through the pages of old songs. Its like going back in time. I stop at a page written during a particularly boring English classa list of hated things, loosely organised with the biggies in the left column and minor irritations in the right. But its a bit out of whack: Armageddon Ronald Reagan selling out to major labels rugby as religion disco bunnies Hippies Nazi punks experiments on animals monopoly power censorship racial killings/KKK sales tax stars & stripes forever import controls Rastafari class distinction late trains teachers on my back too much homework school uniforms long hair walkshorts/socks/sandals New Romantics wanky guitar solos weekend punks glue sniffers hairdressers AM radio (no FM) top 20 yank trash Casey Kasem rednecks trendy wankers

Scraper

James Gilberd

49

Good raw material, so I have a play with it: Rastafari, Nazi arseholes, stars and stripes, sales tax, yankie trash, pigs on my back, uniforms, import controls, racial killings, KKK, Casey Kasem, late trains, Ronnie Reagan, Armageddon, New Romantics, trendy wankers, glue sniffers, hair dressers, red necks, animal experiments The verse is OK, but it needs a chorus. Something will come, maybe at the practice tomorrow night.

The Idiot

Or maybe not. This is the worst practice ever. Could be my expectations are set too high, comparing how we sound to The Clash or Gang of Four, but I want Scraper to somehow sound tighter. Thinking back to when Suze and I met Plague of Snails at their band room to organise the gig, they played Going Underground so well youd swear you were listening to The Jam. I suppose its about playing together more, really working at it, and it will come. Merlin and Eric are both better musicians than me, but they dont really have the level of commitment to the band so theyre not giving it everything. Then theres the bit of paper I found on the notice board at the music shop just before coming down here; that spindly scrawl, that incriminating phone number. I pocketed it, meaning to take it up it with Merlin later. Now I lean my guitar up against my amp and suggest we take a break. But he has to choose this moment to have another go at my singing ability, or lack thereof. So I pull the note and wave it in his face. In a stream of mainly swearwords, I reckon I get across to Merlin that he shouldve discussed it with the rest of us before

Scraper

James Gilberd

50

advertising for a lead singer who can actually sing. Eric agrees with me, I think, but Merlin just doesnt seem to see it. Then my guitar decides to fall over. I hear it sliding but cant turn in time to rescue it. Kerang! Fuck. I really snap. If anyone needs to get their act together its you, Marlon. Ive got no problem with the way you play, but look at you. Fucking long greasy hair, stinking clothes, bare feet. I point wildly behind me at Eric. At least hes made an effort to look like part of this band. With you its like punk never happened. This is 1981, not 1973. Who would you want for a lead singer anyway? A Bob Dylan clone? Im suddenly aware of being less than five inches from his face. Only Suze has been closer. If anyone doesnt fit this band, its you, man, so dont you fucking well give me a hard time. All Merlin says is, I dont have to listen to this, and he grabs his bike and rides out of the practice room and off through the warehouse. A final, Yeah, fuck off hippy, escapes me before he reaches the roller door. Eric and I practice for a while longer but its hopeless; the arse has fallen out of it and we sound crap. You cant be a band with just guitar and drums. Which is bad news because thats how were going to be playing on Saturday, it looks like. Eric tries to talk me into going up to Merlins place and apologising, but Im not listening. Itd do no good going up there now; Im still too fired up and Id only carry on and make things worse. Anyway, if Merlin leaves the band because of this, were stuffed for now but maybe better off in the long run. As long as Eric stays, I can find a guitarist and a bass player to replace Merlin, people whore into my kind of music and look like they are. The one and only good thing that comes out of tonight is on the drive home, the lines that popped into my head and now wont pop out again: I wish it would rain

Scraper

James Gilberd

51

fucking rain, and wash all the shit away. Cup of tea and straight off upstairs and Ive got my old acoustic guitar on my knee, nailing the riff down.

Metal Box

You said what to him? I dont bother to defend myself. How can I? Ive fucked the band up. She shoves me in the chest surprisingly hard, knocking me backwards. Get in your precious bloody van and go up there and apologise. Pushing me towards the door of the hired hall. And dont come back here without him. Youve got an hour so get a move on! Suze tearing strips off me is a bit embarrassing in front of Plague of Snails and the sound engineer; but shes right, of course, although part of me is still thinking itd be pretty damn convenient if the van broke down, or Merlin wasnt home and I couldnt find him. Or I could just lie. Driving through town and that songs stuck in my head again. I wish it would rain. As I climb into the subdivision, this black shape comes hurtling downhill out of the darkness and misty rain towards me. Its Merlin on his bike, black oilskin billowing. I stop the van and he pulls up with a long screech of brakes. His heads in the window. Can I bum a lift man? Where to? The dairy. Mum needs a pint of milk. Chuck your bike in the back and hop in. Can we stop at the practice room on the way? I need to pick up my boards.

Scraper

James Gilberd

52

I know Im avoiding this apology, but things seem to be going well and Id only put my foot in my mouth. As long as I get him to the gig, Im off the hook with Suze. But while were at the practice room and my acoustic guitar happens to be there I might as well show him the new song, which Ive decided to call The Rain Fucking Rain Song. Merlin laughs at the name but likes the song, and hes got this amazing idea for a bridge. We run through the whole thing a couple more times then realise we really need to be at the hall for the gig. Jagged clusters of punks wait outside the hall, self-consciously sullen, smoking, some measuring others against their own image. Am I like that? Brians on the door with Suze, and she just smiles at both of us and stamps our hands with Not Negotiable in red ink. Nicked it from Dads office. I kiss her. Then two blokes who look like part of Chazs gang come through the swing doors from the main hall. As Im thinking here we go again, Brian introduces them as Lance and Ralph and says theyll be in charge of security for the evening. Theyre both Tae Kwon Do black belts, so if theres trouble with Chaz or anyone else, whistle em up. I volunteer to look after the door while The Snails play, for two reasons: I need some time to myself to get in the mood for playing, clear my head of the whole Merlin problem and other stuff; and also I dont want to be reminded of how good Brians band is. Im nervous enough about tonight as it is. But I cant resist watching them through the gap in the doors, keeping it open with my foot. Im envious of his guitar too, a genuine Gibson SG, not a Jap knock-off like mine. Ah, the joys of rich parents. But Brians not the slightest bit up himself, in

Scraper

James Gilberd

53

fact I like him. And even though theyre the senior band, he offered to play first, so its almost like theyre our support act. Then these two Skinhead girls show up, ten-hole Docs, black leather everything, spiked dog collars. The one asking whos playing sounds faintly uppermiddle class, like Suze. I tell them. Never fuckin eard of em. Shes trying to disguise her background. Her dads probably a National MP. Well cough up eight bucks and you soon will have. Dont get smart wiv me, ya wanker. I cant help laughing at her whole act. Then she pulls out a crisp, red hundred dollar note. Ive never actually touched one before so I rub it between my fingers before pocketing it for safekeeping and getting her change from the metal box. The two of them kick the doors open and march in, giving me the finger before the doors swing closed. Fine. Nice girls. Chaz and his Bootboys are next to show up. Why does this happen when Im on the door? I think about getting Brians mates but decide thatd make me look like a wimp. Hey Bryant, Zelda come in yet? I suppose if Chaz had to have a girlfriend itd be one of those two, so I tell him yes. Which one is she? The fuckin gorgeous one of course. Her mates a fuckin lesbo dog. I thought they were both pretty nice looking, under it all, but Im not going to argue with Chaz and his six cronies. You all coming in? Thats twenty-eight bucks.

Scraper

James Gilberd

54

Runt pushes forward and looks like going through the doors, so I bravely block him. Six-six if hes an inch, hes got about five stone on me, (of muscle, not fat) and hes about to shove me out of the way. Leave it Runt. So Runt leaves it, thank fuck. Scrag, pay the man. The little Skinhead comes up to me brandishing thirty bucks. Better than a bottle neck, but something about him suggests youd be better off picking a fight with Runt. I hand him back a two-dollar note and go to open the door for them, a gesture they ignore, preferring to kick the doors open like the girls did and make the grand entrance. Nobody much else arrives after that, but theres well over a hundred inside and the Snails have got things pretty cranked up with their first set. Its time to go in and get ready to play and my nerves are really kicking in now. Im shaking, but I reckon half of its from hunger, low blood sugar. Wish Id had something to eat, but the fish and chips were well polished by the time I got back with Merlin. Despite my nervousness the first set just sort of goes by, and I see weve used up pretty much all our faster songs trying to keep the audience on their feet and interested. This is our last song before we hand you back to Brian and the Snails. I look over to Eric, who plays the intro to Pretty Vacant on the toms. It sounds like the tune but nobody gets it until I play the guitar riff over him, then Merlins in and were away. Theres no point in asking

Scraper

James Gilberd

55

And for the first time tonight Im fully engaged with what Im doing, and enjoying it. The song ends with me chanting, Pretty, pretty va-cant over guitar feedback and synth drone. Fuckin great mate. More of that! From Chaz. God Save the fuckin Queen! From another Skinhead. Anarchy in the UK! Thats Runt. Sorry, were not really a covers band, and were taking a break now which is met with a shower of phlegm and sprayed beer from the Skinheads. There wasnt even supposed to be any alcohol in here, one of the conditions of hiring the hall. Shit, I hope we get our bond back or were fucked. I retire to wipe my guitar. Backstage, and I suggest to the others that we work on The Rain Fucking Rain Song. The first set went pretty well, I tell them, and Im feeling confident enough to pull it off. Merlin gets hold of my guitar and runs through the chords of the chorus and on into his new bridge. Why doesnt it surprise me the bastard can play the thing? And when he does the arpeggio bit that I sing the verses over, I realise he can play it better than I can. Thanks for the confidence booster Merlin, I needed that. Erics banging with his drumsticks on his thighs and the floor, and when we come to the bridge again he gets into this amazing rhythm that I cant figure out at all. Even Merlin looks perplexed, for a few seconds anyway. But before we finish the song, Brian bursts in. Fucking Skins smashed up the bogs! I was in there taking a leak. Thank fuck Ralph and Lance turned up. Brians red in the face, slashing with his arms and kicking the air like hes trying to re-enact some kind of ninja battle. You shouldve seen it. They waded in and it was all over in about twenty seconds, then the Skins took off. They knew when they were beaten. Are you OK?

Scraper

James Gilberd

56

All right thanks Steve, but I wouldnt be if the cavalry hadnt arrived. Dean appears with a dozen cans of Leopard beer. Snuck these in this arvo, in my bass drum. Looks like were going to lose the bond anyway so we might as well enjoy ourselves. Plague of Snails take half the cans onstage with them for their second set. I think about going out front, finding Suze and watching for a bit, but I want to run through our new songs again. Suze will understand, and shes got her girlfriends for company. So, finally onstage and plugging in my guitar. Suze is down the front by herself. She points and yells, Where the fuck were you, Steve? I have to stay focussed so I ignore her. Merlins already playing the intro to End of Apartheid and I need to get those offbeats happening before attempting the singing. The beer didnt help much with the nerves, but we get through the song without fucking it up. In fact, going by Merlins nodding and Erics wide grin, it was better than that. Someones even shouting for us to play it again. We start the next song. Before we got back onstage, I gave the others a pep-talk, bit like our rugby team captain back in fifth form. Basically, it was to keep the intensity level up through the whole set and to really concentrate, make each note count. And it seems to be working. The combination of keyboard-bass and drums sounds huge; Erics really cranking it, not so much his usual flurry of rhythm, just a big fat stonecrushing beat. Its one I dont play guitar on, so I can really concentrate on the singing. Guitar slung round behind, it makes me feel like Bono or someone. That song ends and we

Scraper

James Gilberd

57

hit the next one like the All Black front row hitting a scrum. Whats left of the crowd is totally with us. The next three songs go without a hitch and the intensity stays up. Weve got something special going here; the crowd is locked into us, the inner circle in constant motion and those outside it mesmerised. The presence of the Skinheads thinned the crowd down to the hardcore but now no one else is leaving. The set list says Rain. Its time. Merlin kicks off with a droning, Indian kind of melody. Im supposed to start the arpeggio bit, but wheres the beat? So I just start, and I hear the little skip as Merlin compensates. Now I understand what hes doing. Magic. I let it run a while and settle before I begin my robotic chant. Eyes shut, concentrating on just the sounds of the words, their shapes; I give them corners. Ronnie Reagan, Armageddon, New Romantics, trendy wankers, glue sniffers, hair dressers, red necks, animal experiments And so on. The other two are waiting for me to finish and cue the pause. I open my eyes just to slits, feel the heat of stage lights on my lids and catch their coloured diffraction through my lashes. Then a guitar neck gesture and silence. A few unsure noises from the audience, thinking the songs finished: but theyd be wrong. I wish it would A pregnant pause; a second gesture and the band crashes in on: Rain, fucking rain And wash all the shit away. Weve climbed to a plateau of intensity that seems to double the actual volume of the music. My eyes fly open to see the crowd. Some are writhing and swaying but most are motionless, totally absorbed in the moment. Im ripping shreds from my guitar. Merlins got his head down, face lost behind a swinging curtain of lank hair.

Scraper

James Gilberd

58

Into the bridge and Erics head goes down as well, sticks flying past his ears, seeming to hit everything at once. Merlins diabolical bridge follows, a repeat of the chorus, then on cue the wall of sound cuts. Only the synthesizers drone remains, its harmonics echoing round the wooden hall. Seems like the crowd expects us to launch into yet another chorus out of the silence. Then someone shouts, Yeah! and that cues the rest of them into an uproar. They want more but theyre not getting it. Even if we had any songs left, Im totally spent and I guess the Eric and Merlin are too. I shamble back to switch my amp off and lean my guitar against it. Once the weights off me, my shoulders drop from exhaustion. Then I go to find Suze, which stupidly involves jumping off the metre-high stage. My legs buckle and Im in a heap on the floor. I dont need to find Suze now because shes helping me up. Are you OK? Youre white as a sheet. Yeah yeah, Im fine. Just a bit buggered. Nice to see you. I reinforce this with a hug, using her for support. I didnt appreciate being ignored by you all night, I hope you know, she whispers, her mouth as close to my ear as she can reach. Yeah, you made that point earlier, a bit louder. Wheres Keef, by the way? Thought hed be here. And I go to kiss her but she deflects me with a look. Why would I know? Ive got no idea. She uses her flat voice. Like when a cat flattens its earswatch out. Well can I give you a lift home in the van, after weve packed up? No thanks darling. Di and Bri and Annette and I are sharing a taxi. A tax-eye? Suit yourself. Id better get on with things. I break the embrace, which had gone cold anyway, and drag myself back up onto the stage.

Scraper

James Gilberd

59

Im pretty bloody useless for moving stuff. Cant remember being this fucked before, and I notice even Merlins making himself more useful than me. So by 2AM Suze and everybody apart from the musicians and the sound man have long since scarpered and weve got things packed down and helped the soundman lug the PA system back into his truck. But when he drives the truck off, revealing the Bedford parked behind, I clock what Chaz and his gang have done. The sight of it sucks away the bit of strength thats keeping me vertical and I fold up again. Merlin and Eric manage to catch me.

Give Em Enough Rope

Eric wanders up to the van and wipes some of the black spray paint onto his finger, which he holds up for us. It might come off with petrol or something, he mutters, breaking the surface tension of the silence. The van is covered in anarchy symbols, swastikas and SS tags. I stagger closer and read Scraper Sucks Shit, with the Ss done lightning bolt style. Dad will kill me. Eric says we should find a service station and get the paint off before it gets much drier. So I sit in the van and concentrate on pulling myself together enough to drive while Merlin and Eric do the remaining donkey work. We spend ages driving round looking for a station thats still open. Finally. I put ten bucks worth in the van and the man at the station gives us some petrol-soaked rags, but he tells us to clear off the forecourt, pointing at a bit of waste ground across the road. Over there, we get rubbing. Eric was right; the graffitis coming off, but slowly. Trouble is the petrol fumes arent doing me a lot of good, and returning later with freshly soaked rags, I

Scraper

James Gilberd

60

trip over the gutter and land on the bonnet of the cop car thats just pulled up. This doesnt impress the two cops, who pile out and grab me before I can even get off their motor. Eric runs over and tries to explain whats happened. The cops ignore him and start grilling me. I burble on about the petrol fumes and the graffiti. Slow down there son, the younger cop says. Hes a big bastard. Im not your son, thank god. Watch the lip, son. Is that your van? Are you the driver? Yeah, but you want to go after the bunch of Skins that vandalised it, instead of hassling us. I hear myself slurring, sounding like some old alky. Probably that lot we saw before, in the Zephyr, the older policeman says. He doesnt seem such a prick as the young one. Youre not going to drive again tonight, the state youre in, son. Give me the keys, the young one says. But its only the petrol fumes from cleaning. Ill be OK in a bitIm not drunk or anythingand we cant leave the van here with all our instruments inside. Whatever, youre not driving. Either of those two got a license? Wish they had. How about if I sleep in the van and drive home in the morning? The cops turn away for a little chat, then the young one saunters back to his car while the other tells me that will be OK and writes down everything about me in his notebook, then he repeats the warning about not driving in case I didnt get it. Once the cops finally bugger off, Merlin and Eric come back over. Gonna be a long night man, Merlin whines. Wouldnt have minded getting home a bit earlier.

Scraper

James Gilberd

61

Look, this is my van and my problem. Thanks for helping clean it up, but you two can share a taxi home if you want. Weve got the money. But Chaz might still be driving round, Eric says. Ill stay in the van with you. Yeah, like you two can handle them. Merlin says. Oh man, I might as well stay too. The others polish off the last traces of graffiti while I wander back to the service station to see if theyve got any food. The man wants to know how it went with the cops, so I tell him, thank him for his help and buy three cans of Coke and the last three Big Ben pies from the warmer, which look like theyve been in there since last weekend. As I head back, the two cops cruise by to check were still here. The older one waves to me, nods and looks vaguely sympathetic. I wave back and attempt a smile. The young one just glares at me. Pig. And Merlins always got a flaming joke: Its getting pretty near breakfast man. One of those pies bacon and egg?

Cut

Monday, Im sitting on the edge of the mall fountain. Occasional splashes soak my arse but Im still too wrecked from Saturday to care. Not to mention arseholes from Dad most of Sunday, about the van: If you cant look after her properly son, Ill have her back. So I can hardly face meeting Suze for lunch. From her voice on the phone this morning, shes still in a right stink with me. But Im also here to meet Brian, who shows up before Suze and gets straight into talking about money from the gig. The result is that were only out of pocket by

Scraper

James Gilberd

62

about a hundred bucks, which is apparently good news. The mention of that amount triggers a dim memory and I search my jacket pockets. Brian looks chuffed when I hand him the C-note, but then I have a job convincing him that I just pocketed it for safekeeping. The music wafting out of the record shop is appalling New Romantic stuff Spandau Ballet or some similar drivel. Inside, Suze is chatting with Keef and hes all over her. My storming in there gets a smirk from Suze, and she welcomes me by saying I look like shit. Thanks, I knew that already. You look great as per usual. Agree with you there mate, she looks great all right. Fucking great. Im not your mate, Keith, and I never will be. And Suze is my girlfriend so keep your fucking hands off her. I get myself between the two of them. Or should I say wanking hands, because thats all youre going to be doing. Glares from both sides now. I dont really feel up to smacking him one, but if he pushes me any further, itll happen regardless. Andy walks in at this point, breaking the deadlock. I say hi to him, then; Suze, we were meeting for lunch, werent we? You still keen? She holds her arm like a teapot handle and I link in and walk out with her, not looking back. Will he still be there after lunch? Andy? With a smirk. Oh, I expect so. I just glower back.

Scraper

James Gilberd

63

Keiths only covering our lunch breaks today, and Id say you got your point across. Good. So what do you fancy to eat? Dads finally paid me so its my shout. Fillet mignon, pheasant under glass and a bottle of Chateau Rothschild sixtyseven. How about the Wimpy? I think they can manage that, and Erics working there part time now so we might get a discount. Youre a cheap bastard Bryant. Im learning it from you. Lunchtime conversation, between stuffing burgers and chips in our faces, is as if nothing had gone wrong in the weekend. So were singing that song in the taxi all the way homeI wish it would rain, fucking rain. We drove the cabbie bloody mental. I had a nice night out sniffing petrol, then eating for the first time in ages and chucking it straight back up again. Pie and Coke all down the side of the van wed just spent two hours cleaning. And so on, till weve got complete pictures of each others weekends. Theres no apology in there from either of us, but it doesnt matter because she wants me to come up to her house after she finishes work, and her parents and little brother and sister are away for the night. Lucky Ive got a day off the bastard of a job Dads landed us. Electrical work? More like bloody demolition. Were not just removing the old lighting and wiring, but stripping out damn near everything that isnt structural and chucking it into skips. It could take months, gutting the poor nine-storey building a floor at a time.

Scraper

James Gilberd

64

Keefs already gone when I drop Suze back, admittedly a bit late, and Im guessing from Andys look that itll cost me the discount on my next album purchase. Next thing is what to do to fill the afternoon in, because its not worth going home and coming back in for five-thirty. I quite like this Monday off lark, with Dad too crook to get on the job. Too hung over, more like. So I decide to wander round the second-hand shopsa dangerous activity when theres money in my pocket. I hit my favourite bargain basement first. Its not so much the stuff they sell, I just like being down there with all its alcoves and head-high beams and low pipes with carpet underlay taped around them so you dont brain yourself. It starts me thinking about the basement under the practice room, wondering if we cant make something out of the place. Then I come across a box of army surplus torches, great metal things, far better than my old plastic one with the magnet on the side that was about an eighth birthday present. I take one to the counter and the bloke loads it with batteries and shows me how focussed the beam is by shining a spot on the far wall. Fantastic. I buy it. And now off to the practice room.

Secondhand Daylight

The big concrete pipe is scarily dark, even with my mighty new torch. Trying not to think of the giant rats, I stoop and walk into it. In minutes Im out of torch-range of the entrance. Thats what the scratching sound isnot rats but cat claws on concrete. I turn and hes right behind me, suddenly frozen in my torch beam. He hurtles past me, halfway up the side of the pipe, and vanishes into the dark.

Scraper

James Gilberd

65

So this leads somewhere, but maybe not to anything a human can get through or out of. And already Im cold, thirsty and my back aches. And I shouldve known better than to rely on batteries from the bargain basement. Before they crap out, I check my watch and see Ive been down here for over an hour, which could mean two hours fumbling my way back in pitch darkness. And what about those rats? The white panthers nowhere to be seen. Like a madman, I decide to turn the torch off and feel my way forwards. Soon I come to something. I know this because my foots dangling in space and an echo of the word Fuck trails off behind me. The batteries have recovered enough for the torch to show me a concrete chamber with one major pipe leading out at floor level, two metres below and at a right angle to the one Im in. The metal grill bars across it are bent, so I reckon it would be easy enough to squeeze through if I had to. Dont fancy it without light though. Lots of smaller pipes run into the chamber, trickles of water coming from some of them. I can hear the wretched squeaking of rats now. Probably talking about me. Before the torch fades, it picks out an iron ladder that probably leads up to a manhole, but to get to it I have to cross rat-held territory. Longing for daylight, I decide its worth risk. I clip the torch to my belt and drop into the chamber. Landing in total darkness is tricky, I find out. Luckily the accumulated filth on the floor of the chamber breaks my fall. Heavy things with claws scurry over me. Shit, am I on my feet quick, flailing to get the fuckers off. Then I hear the return of the panther, and it sounds like hes nabbed a rat already, by the screeching. Theres a struggle going on close by and I reckon the other rats have abandoned their doomed mate and fled. Which is handy because Ive lost my direction and have to feel round

Scraper

James Gilberd

66

the walls for the ladder. I find it pronto and scurry up, bruising knees, shins and elbows all the way. It sounds like the life-and-death battle below is over, with the noise now more like a dog chomping on a beef bone. There might be an amplifying effect in here, but it makes me shiver. Anyway, the manhole opens more easily than expected. Im halfway out before it occurs to me I might be surfacing in the middle of a main road. I spin round for a look and almost fall back down the shaft. But now I know exactly where I am; in the alleyway back of a familiar building, next to the same rubbish skips I was busy filling with crap last Friday. Ive only travelled about a kilometre underground and it took almost two hours. What happened to the time? As I go to close up the manhole, theres a white streak. It turns into the big cat, now petrified at my feet and with a surprisingly long, thick rat tail hanging from his mouth. I consider pushing him back into the shaft, but I dont think cats can climb down as easily as up so I slide the cover closed. The cat remains motionless. The only thing to do is pick him up and carry him, and he doesnt struggle. Halfway back, Im tired of hefting the beast; he must weigh a stone, but at least hes settled and purring, and hes bitten off and dropped the rats tail somewhere, thank fuck. Hope I dont find it in my clothing later. The men working in the warehouse notice me come in with him and they point and stare, talking among themselves. I wonder if theyve seen the white cat before. Anyway, I let him go in our practice room and hes down the hole in the floor quick as mercury. And I need to be getting back to Suzes work or Ill miss out.

Scraper

James Gilberd

67

Flowers of Romance

So, I finally get to see the inside of her house, and hopefully her bedroom, although it took most of the evening to walk up the hill, the rate she goes in those heels. Hasnt she heard of flat shoes? Feeling pretty relaxed, I cant seem to stop talking; about music, about clothes, not about sex, about politicsthe bloody Springbok tour again about our respective parents, but mainly about complete shit. Its quite nice having a girlfriendmakes me feel like a normal teenager. Almost. Good thing her old mans out, hes like a fucking guard dog.
So Ive finally got him home. He was lovely on the bus, not at all the moody, introverted Steve that I usually encounter. He talked about himself for a change, just like when we first met. He can be quite funny, for a serious type. Even walking up the hill, for once he thought of me and didnt power ahead with his long stride, expecting me to keep up. Why I have to wear heels for a job that involves standing all day, you tell me. Something to do with being five foot three and wanting to make the most of my fat little legs, plus Id feel like a dwarf around him in my sneakers or flats. A certain amount of pain has to be endured.

Fuck, and heres me thinking Merlins house was big. But this is just impressive-big, not real architecture. No wonder she didnt bring me here before now. Probably thought Id run a mile, thinking she was just a rich kid. Inside, and fuck, I thought Mum fussed around the house, cleaning and tidying, but Mrs Donaldson makes her look an amateur. Wonder if Suzes rooms this tidy. Somehow I doubt it.
He obviously finds this house a bit intimidating, which is hardly surprising, since my parents built it solely to impress their friends and Dads work colleagues, rather than to actually live in. And Mums so goddamned tidy its embarrassing. Its like the photographer from Home Beautiful is constantly about

Scraper

James Gilberd

68

to arrive. Wait till he sees my room, thatll surprise him. The Black Hole, Mum calls it.

If we ever get up there, that is. Much more of this beer and pizza and Im going to fall asleep. Quite enjoying these Beatles records though. Only decent thing in the record cabinet. All the boring old Classical crap must be her dads. She seems restless. Hope Im not boring her, going on about songwriting and shit.
Thats if I can ever get him up there. Weve finished all the beer and pizza, but hes completely hooked on Mums Beatles records. He must be spending too long around Merlin, wanting to listen to old stuff like that, and whats more, trying to get me interested. I couldnt care less what a passing chord is, not right now anyway: Ive got other things on my mind. Steve, my feet have been torturing me all day. Could you give me a foot massage? I dont know. Youll have to tell me what to do. Jesus, I hope he doesnt say that later on. I say to just press firmly, and he does, after tickling me at first. It feels good, but hes soon sick of my feet and I dont blame him. Theyre probably a little whiffy after walking up the hill.

Ive heard there are people who are really into girls feet, but I dont think Im one of them. Legs, thats more me. And bums. But sucking toes and stuff, yecch. I suppose if I had to do that to get her onto the final stage, maybe, but shed have to have a pretty long shower first. Reckon I could do with one too, especially after going down that tunnel. Also I think Ive got a flea or two off the cat. Yeah, a shower; maybe I should suggest it.
God, what was I thinking? We shouldve had a shower first. But its nice here, now that hes working his way up my calves, massaging the stress out. Theres plenty of time, all night in fact, with Mum and Dad out of town. His hands are so broad they almost encircle my thighs, even this high up, and theyre hard

Scraper

James Gilberd

69

and strong from all that work he does. Each time he runs a hand up and pushes my skirt a fraction higher, it feels like heaven. I need to get him upstairs.

Germ Free Adolescents

God, I feel spent, but so relaxed. My whole bodys buzzing with electricity. I dont think he finished though, and I wonder if I should be doing something more for him. Oral? Maybe it was the condom. He looked a bit annoyed when I stopped to put it on him, but I cant imagine he was expecting to do it without one. OK, I was a little clumsy, but one has to learn.

Things couldve gone better from my point of view, but I think it worked well enough for Suze. Im a bit out of practice. Ha! Blame it on the condom. No, seriously, not bad for the third time ever. And the first time Ive got a girl to have an orgasm; thats if she wasnt faking it. Sandi was too nervous, both times. All the time actually.
It feels lovely, just laying together, warm skin touching in so many places. Im drifting off, and from his breathing I think he already has. But the little chap between us hasnt; hes knocking against my bum, announcing his presence. Mind of his own, like a little pet snake. Ill let Steve sleep, for a while anyway!

What? Im not at home in my bedroom, so where am I? Suze? We did have sex. I didnt just dream it. Her rooms weird, all painted black, like being underground. Going underground, going underground, but I dont get what this society wants
I havent seen his bedroom but I cant imagine its as messy as mine. It was a bit embarrassing shovelling armloads of clothes off my bed to join the rest on the floor, just so we had space to be together; to do It. I imagine hes quite tidy, and his parents sound so normal. Its amazing he turned out the way he has and not part of that middle-of-the-road rugby club culture like all the other

Scraper

James Gilberd

70

electricians sons in the country. Thats one of the things I love about him; hes an individual, following his own path and not just doing what is the normal, expected thing to do. And he will succeed. Look what hes achieved so far, just in the last few months. Jesus, hes awake. Here we go again

Kaleidoscope

I spend the best part of twenty-four hours continuously with Steve and then I learn hes been keeping a secret from me the whole time. Eric looks as gobsmacked as I am and hes been down the shaft before, admittedly under different circumstances. Were both shown through this huge, fantastic basement, complete with lighting that Steves put up. Its still shadowy and creepy though, especially if its true what Merlin says, that no one but us has been down here for thirty years or more. We follow through and up the sloping tunnel to the smaller room, with its well-like shaft in the middle that goes down to the sea. Theres a set of metal rungs in the corner of the room that Steve says leads up to a manhole around the back of the warehouse. I step into the huge pipe on the far side of the room, testing it for height. Steve laughs, probably because I dont have to stoop. I ask him where it leads. It just goes a short distance to a junction. Only the cat could get through it after that. Merlin glares at him and asks when he explored it, but Steve brushes the question off. Somethings going on between those two. The furniture from the practice room has been brought down and theyve found a coffee table and some more chairs somewhere; probably the rubbish dump, by the look of them. Its obvious Steve organised the catering, because

Scraper

James Gilberd

71

theres this small hill of fish and chips, enough to feed us all twice. They mustve spent ten dollars on it. And of course theres lots of beer. No wine though. I have to go upstairs and use the warehouse toilet, which is disgusting. Theres no Ladies, and no hot water or decent soap. I might have been better off just doing what the boys did; pee down that well-thing. It appears theres a strange, male satisfaction in urinating from a great height. It must make them feel powerful in some way. But theres no seat so I probably wouldve fallen down it and drowned. Anyway, its great fun, sitting in this ancient, hidden basement, stuffing ourselves and getting drunk, telling creepy stories. Merlins is the best, and it could almost be true. He takes us back to the days of the Waterfront Lockout, 1951, and the wharfies have to find some way of getting money to feed their families. So they set this place up as a smuggling den. Barrels of whisky are dropped off ships at night and they float them in under the wharves and winch them up the drain-shaft in the back room, which they tunnelled out for that purpose. This main basement is their bottling and distribution plant. When its all over they cover the shaft to upstairs and abandon the place, but the empty barrels are left here, being too hard to get rid of. Well, there are a lot of barrels. I have an idea. Surely they dont really belong to anyone, I mean the people working in the warehouse dont even know about this place, do they? So why cant we sell the things? Nobody knows but us, Im sure of that, Steve says. But who would want empty barrels? Theyre pretty old, so an antique dealer, for a start. Or we could cut them in half and a garden shop could sell them as planters. The band seem to think this is a great idea, but Merlins got some crazy scheme; apparently he already checked and found they were indeed once full of whisky, and he thinks its possible to extract the booze thats mostly soaked into the wood. Eric, whos doing chemistry at university, agrees, and the two of them

Scraper

James Gilberd

72

get on to planning in detail how it could be done, which is really boring for us non-brainboxes. Steve eventually cuts across them with another idea, which he maybe should have asked me about first, because I probably would have told him to forget it. But down here its different, and I am a bit drunk. Suze, that was a brilliant idea with the barrels, and I remember the way you dealt with that Bonzo bloke about my leather jacket. You already got us that Trafalgar gig, so why dont you be our manager? They other two look at me expectantly. Its obvious theyve already discussed this among themselves and decided that its best to make it sound like its just coming from Steve. If I do, I want a cut of the profits. If we ever make any. Were running at a loss so far, Steve says, and the others laugh. You wont lose money with me as manager. What about ten percent then? Thats about standard. But I wont be your standard manager. Ill be working just as hard as any of you, so it would have to be one-fourth, twenty-five percent. Ive got them staring at each other now, instead of at me. Steves lips move as he works out the maths. Merlin speaks for them. Think shes our man, man. They raise their beer cans in a toast. I guess Im in the band now, sort of. Strange feeling. Then Steve comes out with something else, which I get the impression hasnt already been discussed. So, now we have a manager, how about we make this place into our own venue? We could play the first gig here, maybe with the Snails. Thered be no one telling us what to play or wanting a bond in case we wreck the place. We might even make some money. Were all staring at each other now, mouths open. Theres a second toast.

Scraper

James Gilberd

73

Soldier

Im starting to regret having the idea now. Labouring on Dads office building refit every day, then straight down to this freezing blasted basement at night, working single-handed on making it into a venue. Just trying to get rid of the damned dust, Ive worn out a yard broom and it always seems to be back just as thick the next night. Noveltys gone from the place too. At least my version of a bog isnt looking half bad, twin booths with wooden toilet seats built over the pipe so everything goes into the sea: a real long drop. Its working out, scrounging building materials and old furniture from Dads job, by hiding the good stuff in the skips then going round at night with the van and retrieving it. Hard work though, after a long day. The only interested party is Boz, whos become quite tame after a couple of donations from our fish and chips and stolen raw hamburger patties, courtesy Wimpy. The cats name went from The Boss (my suggestion) to Bruce (from Merlin, with a chuckle) to Boz (from Eric, courtesy of Mr Skaggs). Boz examines every new thing I put up, like the heap of scavenged pallets and stolen planks I like to call a stage. He weaves underneath, checking the construction like a building inspector. His favourite thing is the old wool carpet I nailed on top to reduce the echo. He wont have slept on anything that soft and warm for a while, or ever. A hand with the work would be nice, but Eric and Merlin are both too busy with their precious universityits mid-year exam time, apparentlyand when they do turn up, its all about extracting that whisky from the barrels. I hear them topside buggering about with Erics chemistry stuff, laughing and carrying on while Im dripping sweat into the dust below deck. Seems to be the way of the world.

Scraper

James Gilberd

74

I suppose I cant blame Suze for not helping with the construction work. Shes been hard at it designing posters and organising and promoting for the big gig down here, as well as getting us in the Battle of the Bands and also a paying gig at the Town Hall of all places, a city council youth initiative thing. (They might change their minds when they see us, but itll be too late.) Shes even found buyers for the barrels, once Eric and Merlin have finished with them. I wish theyd get a move on; we could do with the money, and I could do with a large sample of this famous whisky right now. Even if it tastes awful and turns out to be poisonous, itd make me feel better. At least when The Undergroundas Boz and I christened itis finished and totally buzzing with people and music, itll be mainly down to me. Fuck Merlin. Fuck Eric. They expect me to do every fucking thingme and Suze. They dont really care about this band. Its just another thing in their busy middle-class lives. When theyre married men with careers, pillars of society, theyll tell their middle-class friends at middle class dinner parties that they were once in a punk band and everyone will laugh. You? Oh, I really cant imagine And there was this really serious guy, Steve. It all meant so much to him, like his life depended on the band. I wonder what became of him. Sitting on the edge of the stage, exhausted, bitter and close to tears, this basement feels pretty damn vast and cold and empty. Itll never be a venue. Its just a cavern. Im working my arse off for nothing. Waste of bloody time. Then Boz appears, nuzzles me in the ribs, and I scratch the back of his neck and say Im sorry I havent got any fish for him tonight. Hell just have to go and catch himself a big juicy rat.

Scraper

James Gilberd

75

The Scream

Its the Town Hall gig were heading to, me and Suze, with Thomas tagging along. Since discovering music via my record collection, hes been pestering me for guitar lessons. And since its his thirteenth birthday Ive just said yes, but itll have to be down at the practice room, not at home. Hes chuffed, but Dad will fucking kill me if he finds out, specially as Thomas has just shifted from soccer to rugby. Hes not bad at it either, like most things he puts his mind to. Nippy little first-five, and his coach says he can read the run of play like a much older player. Pity about this bloody Springbok tour; its going to stuff things up totally. It was bloody hard to explain to Thomas why I wont be going with Dad to any of his games. Thomas hoots when he spots a shoeless Merlin in flares passing us on his bike, keyboards strapped across the carrier as usual, apparently oblivious to the danger of capsizing the whole shebang. When he waves to us, it almost happens. We stop for a rest in the shelter of a building, out of the cold wind, and I hoist myself up onto one of its deep window ledges. Theres a little warmth in the concrete, from the occasional weak sunshine. Suze resists my help and makes it up third go, nestling in beside me. That successful attempt means Donaldson finally moves on to the next ledge, set at one metre oh-nine. Thomas, whos just sprung up effortlessly to sit on my other side, thinks my joke and Suze walloping me one is hilarious. It was expected but Im in a good mood so it was worth it, even though she made me drop my guitar case from between my legs onto the footpath. Then, once shes rearranged herself against me, Suze pulls out

Scraper

James Gilberd

76

the cutting from that new free arts magazine and hands it to me. I hold the famous review so Thomas can read it too. Scraper wouldnt be the only band to let nerves get the better of them in this competition. The long-haired keyboardist, the only one who wasnt nervous, looked and probably sounded like a transplant from The Doors or Pink Floyd. Unfortunately he was lost in the mix, as the original songs could have done with the extra dimension of keyboards. The boyish drummer was dynamic and propulsive, but singer-guitarist Steve OBrien is the vortex of this band, all intensity and anger: a new talent. I wait to see Scraper on their own turf, as their original material is strong, especially End of Apartheid, and their closing number, Rain F***ing Rain. This band particularly, but also Plague of Snails and The Audacity in last weeks heat, demonstrate there is fresh creative potential left within the punk idiom without necessarily following the worn out groove of the original stylists such as The Sex Pistols and The Ramones. Scraper have a political message coupled with genuine songwriting ability; a rare combination. Get thee to a studio, boys. Well, that wasnt so bad after all. Actually, Im ecstatic. Not bad, Mr OBrien? A new talent! People will take notice. She hugs me extra tight, nearly tipping us both off the ledge. I tuck the cutting in the inside pocket of my leather jacket. Bonzo was right, it is getting real comfortable now. Brian told me what they were doing in the sound mix, turning the best musician down and making the worst loudest, which would be me. Like Merlin said, its all rigged. Maybe so, but it was worth doing for the publicity and the experience. And now a kissI am doing well. Thomas sniggers and I shove him off the ledge. He lands easily as a cat. So is this thing today worth doing, do you reckon?

Scraper

James Gilberd

77

Suze vaults down more athletically than she got up. This is different, its for money. And Erics parents are coming to watch. Were on the move again. And Helen, Merlins mum. Not much chance of my folks coming though. Mum probably would but Dads not interested in going out anywhere. Hes got the Bedford in pieces again. Says its misfiring, but I didnt notice anything. He just uses it as an excuse. Do your folks go out at all? Its the opposite problem in my case. They just leave us three to fend for ourselves half the time. Lucky Ben and Averil can amuse themselves, because Im not babysitting the little brats. Speaking of brats, were suddenly facing a horde of them. Hey punk, the oldest Rasta says, Got fifty cents? Got fifty bucks? another says. Others jeer. Sorry, left my wallet in the Rolls Royce, Not the best, but Im worried about Suze and Thomas. Hey, dont get smart punk, the oldest one says. Gimme your jacket. No chance. This one needs a good shove so I give him it. In a split second the rest of them pile onto me and Im on the ground. I can see the one I pushed holding Suze back, and one of the boys is wrestling with Thomas. The leather jacket is being ripped from my back. I let it go so my arms are free. But each time I throw one of them off theres another in his place. I cant get a punch in, but they all can and they do. The one holding Suze says, She a good root, punk? Hair between her legs green and purple too, eh? Never resorted to hair-pulling before but Im desperate and these dreadlocks are just too tempting. I manage to pull myself halfway up. Then theres a thump on

Scraper

James Gilberd

78

the back of my head. Noise like a car smash. My ears ring. Im sitting up, somehow free of bodies. I can see Suze clearly now, in slow motion, screaming out something. Then my head again, a grenade this time. Suze vanishes down a tunnel. Thomass face comes in real close, way out of shape. Then sky, no clouds, just the sun. Strange, it wasnt that sunny. I find myself sitting in the gutter, leaning on a rubbish bin. Red flashing of an ambulance, men with a stretcher, policeman towering over me and asking if Im OK. Yeah fine thanks. Hell of a fucking headache though. My voice has a metallic echo, like inside that concrete pipe. Now, Im pretty sure I was carrying something valuable. My guitar! Where is it? Im supposed to be playing at the Town Hall. Youre not playing anywhere today son. Youre concussed and youre going in the ambulance. Same cop, or do they all go on like that? Im not your son, thank god. Blackness. Smell petrol, feel like puking. Wheres my guitar? And thats it from me for a while.

Too Much Pressure

So once the room takes shape I realise where I am. Its not my first time in hospital. Suze comes into focus, leaning over me. Pain. She kisses me. Agony. My skull feels like its been split open and nailed back together. Turns out thats not far off. She tells me they had to drill a hole in the back of my skull to let the pressure off so my brain didnt explode or something. Starting to think I might be out of action for a while.

Scraper

James Gilberd

79

Then my folks arrive, and as soon as they see Im awake they call the doctor. Before I get to say anything, she arrives and clears them all out. Then she gives me a good looking-over. Can you bring them back? I actually want to see them, for once. And can I have a Disprin or something please? But Im starting to drift off again, with the room spinning and dissolving into spots. Next time I come round, Suze is there. Still. Dark swelling under her eyes forces them nearly closed. I find out its Wednesday night. Youve been here the whole time? Your parents have been here most of the time too. Theyve been feeding me and bringing me stuff. You didnt have to. Its only a bit of a whack on the bonce. Im here because I love you, Steve. I turn over, away from her, knowing itll bring more pain. Fuck, does it what! I curl up, try to wrap myself around it, contain it; anything but show it. The bloke in the next beds been staring, taking it all in, and when I stare back he looks away. Beyond him, grey windows spotted with rain; and outside, another tower block of dark, wet concrete. Im in some endless chain of wards, constant suffering, routine death. She loves me.

Spellbound

Night, and Im wide awake, but now shes asleep. Slumped in the chair beside my bed, chin down on her tits, shes snoring. Shall I mention it later? Its funny watching

Scraper

James Gilberd

80

her sleep, but I suppose shes spent the last few days with me out to it, most probably dribbling, snoring, farting, the works. All I can think about is why I dont particularly feel anything. Dont or cant? I mean, the sex was nice, exciting even. Theres the obvious physical pleasures something Merlin once explained away as a programmed mechanism for survival and it sort of made me think Im a man, doing what youre supposed to do; but theres nothing much more to it than that, it seems. Am I supposed to be in love with her by now? Maybe I am in love. But if this is all there is, all love is, someone upstairs is ripping us off. So should I tell Suze all this or just keep it to myself? My normal response here would be to try to write a song about it but Ive got no energy and theres nothing to do in this bloody room but lie here and think, go over and over stuff ad nauseam. Speaking of which, Im shaping up for another good vomit; that horrible, slow buildup of queasiness until the welcome release of actually chucking. And when I finally do my head splits open. I freeze mid-vomit, eyes popping in total agony. I feel round the back of my skull. Hair, then fuzz, then a scar that feels like its raised an inch. Then blood. Popped the damn stitches, I reckon.

Get Happy

Finally, it seems Im off the danger list. Mum and Dad arrive to take me home. Great. But one day in my own bed and Im going out of my mind with boredom, worse than in the hospital. At least the headaches eased off and I can see straight again. Enough to read and write anyway, so Ive got my lyric book out but nothing will come. Nowt else for it: time to sit up and attempt the guitar.

Scraper

James Gilberd

81

Wish I hadnt now. I strum a minor chord and it sounds like turgid shit. Guitar out of tune? No, the fingers of my left hand are on all the wrong frets. My hands forgotten the hard-learned shape. I reach for my chord book, scrabbling round under the bed in the dust and grit until I manage to grab the poor dog-eared thing. Coming back upright, I feel queasy and my heads throbbing again, but I look the chord up. The effort of placing my fingers how the dots are on the grid is like my first guitar lesson of nearly two years ago. Panic, the whole throat-tightening cold-sweating lot of it, arrives in force. I lumber downstairs, nearly falling, and get on the phone to Merlin. My appearance triggers Mums automatic tea-making reaction. I manage half a cup and before the rest has gone cold, Merlin arrives. Back upstairs, he puts my old acoustic guitar over his knee and gives it a quick tune up. Then, filthy bare foot up on my bed, he picks out the intro to The Rain Fucking Rain Song. Im reminded that he plays better than I do. Or did. When he comes to the chorus, I try to copy the chords hes playing, work my fingers into the shapes. Shit, youre going to have to slow down. He spends a patient couple of hours, by the end of which I can stagger through Rain and halfway play two other originals at half speed. Im completely shagged. Well have to keep at this, man. Tomorrow? Shouldnt you be at varsity? Its cool, nothing I cant miss. Got to get you up and running inside a week man, so we can do the recording. Recording? Next thing, Suze turns up, kisses me and fills me in. The three of us talk band stuff over tea and Chocolate Wheatens, then Merlin leaves. I know whats coming next.

Scraper

James Gilberd

82

At the hospital, when you turned away from me I was in pain. I need to know how you feel. I nearly say so do I. Instead, That bloke in the next bed, staring at us. What could I say in front of him? Let me make it easier. If it were me unconscious for three days, would you have been there for me or would you have gone off to band practice? Look, I cant even play the bloody guitar anymore. You want to know how that feels? Id intended to keep that between myself and Merlin, but it mightve got me out of admitting that I think her feelings for me are more than mine for her. You cant what? Weve got the underground gig in a fortnight. Now look whos more worried about the band. Hah! Its Suzes turn to look away. She gets off my bed and walks round the room, gazing at my posters. You look tired Steve. I should let you get some rest. Best idea yet. Yeah, Im a bit poked. I flump down onto the pillows for emphasis, which makes my head hurt again. Coming over tomorrow? Sorry, Andy wants me to work the late night.

Natty Dread

Its a relief to have a day off from Suze. I can focus on my guitar lesson without the pressure of the whole Love thing. I still cant think straight, so one thing at a times enough. And Merlins missing lectures to help me. Better than yesterday man. Youre going to have it down by the gig.

Scraper

James Gilberd

83

Well, I might have to make like a jazz musician and sit down in a chair to play. I can hardly walk down the stairs. Hey, well just wrap that bandage back round your head, dab some tomato sauce on it and people will dig. Its around town man, like what happened. Yeah? Hey, I had a visit from the boys in blue today, asking a million questions. Got the feeling they were just going through the motions though. Anyone beating up punks is doing them a favour. But I wasnt much use to them. Remembered bugger all about it. I heard Chaz was after those Rastas. Hes probably got more chance than the pigs of tracking them down. Is that right? Reckon its just an excuse for a bit of racial violence as far as hes concerned. Anyway theyre not real Rastas, just stupid kids. You dont want him to catch them? If theyd hurt Suze or Thomas, maybe. But I just see it as wrong place, wrong time. I mean, in their eyes Im the same as Chazthe enemy. How do they know Im not racialist like him? A lot of punks are. Thats a magnanimous attitude. Mag-whatimous? Lets just get back to the guitar man.

All Mod Cons

Im totally chuffed with the way The Undergrounds shaped up, but even more with how the others finally pitched in and pulled their weight while I was crook. The place looks great. And shit, we might even make a bob or two tonight. Suzes scheme of

Scraper

James Gilberd

84

five bucks in and a free double whiskys done the trick; weve got easily a hundred people down here. And even though the quack told me not to drink, I had to have a nip. The stuff looked like water until Merlin thought of colouring it with strong tea. Doesnt taste like fucking water though, or tea. Tad rough on the old throatwe wont have the jocks from Johnny Walker after our secret recipebut its got a kick to it. Keef returns for another double, slaps two bucks on the table, downs the grog in one, crushes the little paper cup on his forehead and lets it fall. Then he drags Suze off for a dance, the prick. Im in no state to make anything of it so I take over on the bar for a bit. As consolation, I go against medical advice a second time. Its a bit thick down here mate. Air conditionings down. I pour Lance a triple. Hey, I thought you were on the door. Its slowing down up there now, and still no sign of Chaz. Looks like you could do with the fresh air. Why dont you go up and keep Ralph company for a bit? Hes right, so I let him take over the bar. The Snails have already played my favourite, Ronnies Gonna Push It, so thatll do me. Im up the ladder, slowly, and outside. Strange nightits so quiet out. Not a breath. Youd think youd be able to hear the music coming up out of the ground, but you cant. Im still a bit worried about Chaz showing up, so I tell Ralph Im going for a scout round the back of the warehouse. Standing on the manhole cover, I can just hear the Snails through the little holes in it. They sound like a transistor in another room. I drop back to lean on the warehouses brick wall and listen, but Im soon thinking about Suze again. Havent

Scraper

James Gilberd

85

really seen much of her in the last fortnight, except to do with the band. Since hospital we havent done anything. I think she knows I dont feel the same way she does, even though I never got round to actually saying it. I mean I should be in love with her; arent us teenagers meant to be all hormonal and seething with emotions? I should be like Eric is with Annette. Hes having whole fresh attacks of acne. First girl whos ever even looked at him, probably. But then thats the band; hed still be a complete nerd otherwise, with the opposite sex remaining a mystery. I wonder if theyve actually done it yet. If they have, it wouldnt be standing up, at least not without a couple of phone books. The throb of a big car engine brings me back to reality. Other side of the slatted fence theres a grey Mark III Zephyr full of Skinheads! And another carload behind it, a Holden. I duck behind a stack of pallets. The cars take forever to trundle out of sight but once they do, I leg it. Round the front of the warehouse, Ralph sticks his head out the trapdoor in the roller door, looks towards the road and then to me. Thank fuck they didnt suss us mate, but youd better shoot down and send Lance up. Dont want you copping another whack on the scone do we. Giddy from running, I head inside, just as the first heavy raindrops fall. They punch through my hair and explode on my scalp. Theres a flash and a roll of thunder from out over the harbour. Downstairs, I tell Lance about the Skins, but not Suze or the others because its nearly time to play and we need to focus on that. Have to go for a leak first though, and out in the long drop room Merlins smoking a joint with this bloke (well I think its a bloke) who looks quite like himthin, fine boned, smooth skinned, but blond. Another bloody hippy.

Scraper

James Gilberd

86

Hey man, Martys got some great shit. Want a toke? My heads fucked up enough already, ta. You look like you need to relax man, Marty drones. No, I enjoy being tense, thanks. Were on in five. And I leave them to it. Fuck, if everyone was as laid back as those two, nothing would ever happen. At least Suze is back doing the bar and Keefs off pogoing to whats on the turntableThe Dead Kennedys album, for about the ninth time tonight. And fair enough; I havent half thrashed it at home, much to Dads annoyance. Suze brought it from the shop for me when I couldnt get into town. I ask her to pour me a decentsized drink to take onstage, which she does, and she pours one for herself. Its tricky to find my way onto the stage in the dark without tripping over leads and stuff. Feels like a commando raid, like we shouldve blacked our faces with boot polish first. Just a few cigarette lighters and glowing tips show in the room now, and its almost silentthe odd whoop and whistlewhen Suze turns up the radio. She catches the tail of our interview with the DJ, then the opening bars of Rain and my own voice chanting that list of hates. Strange to hear it; it sounds almost professional, not just like we recorded it down here on Erics dads reel-to-reel, (with the swear words faded out). The round tone of the AM broadcast and the crackle from receiving it underground add to the effect, like being in Berlin or somewhere. Wonder if Thomas managed to stay awake to listen to us on his transistor, under the blankets. I wish it would We all come thundering in live over the tame airwave version Rain fucking rain And wash all the shit away.

Scraper

James Gilberd

87

The coloured fluoro lights flicker on randomly. The crowd switches from static to raging. I feel powerful. The rest of the set goes like a dream, one that I sail through in a haze of sheer elation, drunkenness and residual brain damage. But when we stop theres a sudden change in the atmosphere. Brian appears down the front, frantically waving for me to follow him. Its Lance! Get over here! I jump off the stage and follow, pushing through the crowd now surrounding Lance. Everybodys staring at him. Ralph tries to hold him upStay awake mate, stay awake!but hes not in great shape himself. Lance is barely recognisable. Theyre dealt with. Now, anyone else wanna try chucking us out? Chaz says to the circle of starers, smacking his fist into his palm. Runt and Scrag and some other skinheads back him with their laughter. Suze and Keef break into the circle. Ignoring that theyre together, I ask if they know of anyone with a car. Keefs flatmates got one so he goes off to find him. Ralphs still trying to keep his friend conscious by walking him around, but Lances heads lolling and hes losing blood from his nose and mouth. Heavy drops splash in slow motion on the dusty concrete. I lose it, screaming at Chaz, You fucking bastards! Get the fuck out, just fuck off! There there Bryant, calm down. Were here now and everythings nice and cozy. When are you playing again?

Scraper

James Gilberd

88

Weve finished. Were not going back on for you bastards. Im saying this but it sounds like someone else speaking. Dizziness arrives. Not the whisky, more like a relapse of concussion. I heard there was some good booze going. Any left for us? I cant answer Chaz because Im staggering backwards, looking for somewhere soft to land. I find myself on one of the old sofas, watching Suze wade in for me. Ive no idea what shes shouting at the Skinheads but it seems to be working because theyre backing down. And, strangely, Im coming up with something like a plan, putting it all together even though the rooms spinning and I feel like chucking. But first, packing up the gear. The mood on stage, when I finally drag myself back up there, is pretty black. The Snails are helping, and Merlins showing Marty how to dismantle the keyboard rack, using the activity to keep his mind off what happened, it looks like. Eric looks sickened. As I speak to Suze, he accidentally drops the crash cymbal that hes just taken off its stand. The noise just attracts more unwanted attention. Hey Bryant, get over here. I look in Chazs direction and see that a bunch of the Skinheads have made themselves at home; theyve pulled chairs in around a couple of tables and theyre already well into the beer they brought. Others are roaming the basement, intimidating the last paying punters into leaving The Underground. Before I head over there, I tell Eric to get make sure all the band gear gets shifted upstairs into the practice room. Theres a place left for me between Runt and an almost equally massive skinhead. As I squeeze past knees and boots into the chair, Chaz swings his bloodied Docs onto the coffee table and sits back with his hands behind his head like he owns the fucking place. Which he says he does, now, as I expected. On cue, Suze comes

Scraper

James Gilberd

89

over with the booze. She hurls the column of paper cups onto the table so it breaks up and cups scatter. The big plastic bottle of whisky follows, skidding into Runts lap. I hope it chokes you, you fucking pricks. She storms off, back to the others to help with the gear. Shes got a mouth on her, your bird. If she was mine Id teach her some fuckin manners, Chaz says. Id tie her up and give her a bloody good whipping with my belt, Runt adds. Shed probably enjoy that. What do you reckon Bryant? She be into it? Shed give you a fucking hiding first, if you tried, I mutter. Chaz ignores it. Were setting up our nest down here, as of tomorrow. Just thought Id let you know, Bryant, out of courtesy like. Thought he might come up with something like that. Yeah? Well, you wont be able to come and go through the warehouse. Theres another entrance. The manhole? How you think we got in? Chaz laughs, rocking even further back on his chair. Wish hed fall on the concrete and split open his skull. Your pet hippy mightve given the game away there, Runt says, tapping the side of his nose. I can smell dope smoke a mile off on a still night, and theres this little wisp of it coming up out the ground. Chaz cuts in. So youre just handing the place over, Bryant? Do I have a choice? Not really, no. Well youll have to feed the cat Not that cat there, the one Scrags got? Doubt itll need feeding any more.

Scraper

James Gilberd

90

Scrags behind me, whirling Boz round his head like a lasso. Proves theres room to swing a cat in here, he says, grinning like a loony. Im having a nice quiet piss, see, and this big white fucker goes me. What he doesnt see is Eric screaming up behind him. He gets whacked across the back with the thick end of a cymbal stand and he goes limp and collapses. Boz is briefly airborne before crashing into a concrete pillar and sliding down it. Tears streaming down his cheeks, Eric drops the cymbal stand and runs over to pick the cat up in both arms. Runt goes to deal with him. I try to get up to stop him but I feel huge hands on my shoulders jamming me back down into the chair. At least Deans coming over to protect Eric. Leave it Runt, Chaz barks, and Runt turns and comes back. A huge, powerful animal, completely under Chazs control. Little bastard deserved that. After Chazs command, not one of the Skins even goes to help Scrag, whos still lying unconscious. Maybe Chaz is a cat lover, under it all, or hes impressed by little Eric having the balls to take on one of his gang. As Eric scuttles off cradling Boz, Im feeling regretful about starting this whole thing: The Underground, because now its completely fucked, along with Lances face and pretty-much everything else; and now Boz is dead. Why cant just one fucking thing turn out right? Chaz holds up the three-litre plastic bottle of whisky. So what about this plonk? How do I know youre not trying to poison us? Unfortunately the worst thing youll get is a fucking terrible hangover. Otherwise its pretty good stuff. He slides the bottle over. You have some first then.

Scraper

James Gilberd

91

A pleasure. I grab a cup and pour myself a good measure, then down it in one without even coughing and slam the cup into the table, crushing it flat like Keef did. Get into it. Im off.

The Art of Surfacing

Why did we all have to get soaked running to the van? Suze complains. Couldnt you have just gone and got it? I parked it here to put Chaz off the scent, I reply. Shitload of good that did. But were all going to get a lot wetter anyway so it doesnt matter. I let them think about that while I locate the entrance to the alleyway, which is tricky with the van totally steamed up. That last shot of whisky isnt helping either, but I didnt have much choice about drinking it. At least its warmed me up a bit. Poor Erics sitting back there, still holding Bozs soaking corpse, which must be going cold fast. Up the alley, the headlights pick out the two skips, which luckily are still full of crap from yet another floor of the poor old building. Dads student helpers have done a good job. No time to waste, so Im out in the rain again and trying to lift the manhole cover but I cant get a grip on it. No ones coming out to help so I run back to the van for the wheel brace. Boz is alive! He was just knocked out, Eric says. I think hes crying again but its hard to tell with the rain. Shit, thats brilliant. But youll have to shut him in the van for now. I need you out here. All of you. Bozs recovery cheers me up a bit, but theres no time to dwell on it. After levering up the manhole cover, I clamber into the nearest skip, grab a sheet of

Scraper

James Gilberd

92

plasterboard, break it across the steel side and hiff the pieces out onto the ground. Then I shout through the rain, I need all this shit, both skips, down that manhole fast as we can. Suze is onto it, even though I havent explained anything yet. Shes got us all organised; me and Eric in the two skips breaking stuff and throwing it out, Merlin breaking it more down to size, and shes stuffing it all into the manhole, occasionally throwing bits back that wont fit. Merlins face is super pale in the street light, from exhaustion, cold, the shock of what happened to Lance maybe. He shouts up to me, Hey man, want to give us the lowdown? Ill explain when were done, I reply, without slowing my pace. Finallywhen were all totally drenched, covered in crud and bleeding from a thousand scratchesits done. Except for me taking the torch down the manhole to make sure the big drainpipes well and truly blocked. Suze is worried about me, and when I get far enough down the shaft to see the rushing water, Im worried too. Luckily weve done a good job. Theres nothing more to do than kick a few things from one side of the chamber to the other and Im out of there. Then we join Boz back in the van and head to the warehouse to watch and wait and hope my plan works. Now the headlights shine on the only remaining exit from The Underground; the manhole out back, since we loaded the trapdoor in the practice room with a stack of amps, speakers and furniture. Im about to explain what we were doing and why, but the Brain of Britains already figured it out. When you said that pipe was a dead end, you were like, lying, man. Right? Yep, you got it Merlin.

Scraper

James Gilberd

93

And the whiskys to keep the Nazis distracted so they dont notice the impending flood before its too late. Right? I repeat my answer, then Eric gets it too. Radical plan, Steve. So why dont we park with one wheel over the manhole then share a taxi home. We could come back for the van in a week or two. I laugh. We dont want to drown them. Dont we? No more talk for a bit, just the thrum of steady rain on the vans roof. Suze breaks it. It seems a shame to destroy The Underground, after all the work youve done. All of us have done, I say. But we cant use it again anyway, so Eric looks up from cuddling Boz. Does this mean the bands finished too? He sounded hopeful. I dont see why. Do you want to quit, Eric? Nervous silence, but no reply. Reckon hes scared of me blowing up, like with Merlin. But I dont. Somethings changed since hospital. If Eric leaves, he leaves; its meant to be and I cant stop it. I watch the rain passing through the headlight beams and let it hypnotise me. Eventually I snap out of it. You know, Eric, if I hadnt turned up at the railway station when you were having that run-in with Chaz, this band wouldnt have even formed. A few minutes one way or the other and its a different future. Then you fall through the floor and next thing weve got our own venue going. More luck, good or bad Merlins cuts in. Its like determinism man. What I think youre saying is like its kind of inevitable that were all here noweverything is predestined. Is there really any free will?

Scraper

James Gilberd

94

Yeah, maybe, but it needs someones drive to, I dont know, activate it. It needs that trigger, otherwise nothing would happen; the good luck or whatever would just evaporate. God, Im starting to sound like Merlin now. Its so useless sitting around waiting and watching, then criticise things other people start up. You have to make things happen yourself, actually do stuff. Sounds like youve been into some heavy head space man. Heavy head space? Shit, hes getting worse. Well, when I was crook there was nothing to do but think. Its the first time in my life I couldnt actually do what I wanted, and it made me realise a few things. I look at Suze again. Eric pipes up at the crucial moment. Hey, the manhole! The cast iron cover flips up like a bottle top and Chazs shaven head appears, wet and shining in the headlights. I start the engine but it doesnt drown out the bellowing from below. Next thing, swarms of rats claw their way up out of the flood. Chazs head gets scratched bloody as he thrashes with one arm to wipe the rats off. I flick to high beam for a better view. Blinded, Chaz loses his grip topside and disappears. And by the sound of it he bowls a few other Skinheads off the ladder on his way down. Dozens more of the huge rodents surge from the manhole, fur stuck up in wet spikes. Hey, punk rats! Merlin says. I notch the Bedford into reverse and get us clear of the manhole. Then I spin her round and just drive, along the waterfront, into the rainstorm.

Part II Hinterland

Scraper

James Gilberd

95

New Values

Not my choice of band to support, but well take the gig. His exact words to Brian, as I recall. Democracy has never been a strongpoint of this band. In which case as manager, it shouldve been my decision anyway; and given the opportunity, I would have said yes. As bass player, however, I would have said a big N O. How am I supposed to learn a completely new instrument and all the bands songs and master the art of singing backing vocals in three weeks? Talk about jumping in the deep end. Or being thrown in. Steve assures me that all the best punk bands started out like this, but its all right for him; hes had proper guitar lessons. My only qualification was reaching grade four on the piano when I was nine. My own fault though, I guess. Merlin is sitting playing this old bass guitar he got from somewhere and Steve says he prefers the sound to the keyboard bass. When Merlin complains he cant play both and once, I stupidly put my hand up. Its only got four strings so it cant be that hard. Boy, has that quote come back to haunt me. Anyway, back to this gig. I like The Beau Jesters, and it means Bridie, Dianne, Annette and I get to meet them. Steve mumbles on about trendy New Romantic wankers etc, turning the air blue before he disappears off somewhere with Brian. Hes just jealous because theyre famous and have a record and a video. Not to mention theyre all really cute. And they look like a band, whereas we just look like four random individuals, or three punks and a smelly hippy if you like. Their bass player, Ricky, hes all over me when he finds out I play bass, and even more when I tell him its my first gig and Im nervous as hell. He suddenly wants to give me all sorts of tips and advice, which involves him getting

Scraper

James Gilberd

96

his arms around me and his hands all over the place. Luckily hes gorgeous. At least its distracting me from the fact that were on in five minutes and Im about to pee my pants. Actually, its all going to be over too soon. Ive been concentrating so hard on my playing Ive forgotten theres an audience. Now I know how Steve feels sometimes, so maybe Ive been a bit hard on him, going on look at the audience, make eye contact. Then halfway through our last song, its as if Ive been wrapped in blankets the whole time and someone just torn them away. I get the rush of experience of being on stage in front of a huge audience and theres only minutes left to enjoy it. At the same time, I notice my hands are hurting like buggery. My lefts all cramped up and the fingertips are rutted from pressing on the great thick steel strings, and my rights sticky with blood. Ruined my damned nails too. The audience seems to like us. Theres a wolf-whistle, a few cat-calls and a massive amount of applause after the last song. There are even calls for more, but weve had out thirty minutes. Then Steve comes over and gives me this huge hug. In front of everyonethats lovely of him. His back and shoulders feel so tense, so hardjust bone and muscle under skin. I must feel like a sponge pudding to him. Hes sweaty thoughhis T-shirts actually wetwhich suddenly makes me wonder what Im like. This would be the most physical activity Ive had for a while, probably even more than last time we had sex, (which was quite a while ago, come to think of it). And now the nerves have subsided, the feeling running through my entire body isnt too much different to that. Maybe even better. But now I have to stop being the bass player and start being the manager again. Its a tough job, but. Well, theres that tall redhead girl from Gigs & Flicks, but it looks like Steves already ensuring she gives us another good review.

Scraper

James Gilberd

97

Hypnotised

Eric and Annette are going on about how good Suze was on the bass. Theyre right tooshe was amazing, for her first time playing live. She was tense, and its not like there werent a few cock ups, but I doubt anyone much noticed. Merlins off gasbagging with Eric now, some boring crap about varsity. I think hes forgotten about the gig already. Then this tall leggy bird comes over, massive smile on her, arms out like shes going to hug me, but she stops short and just puts her huge hands on my shoulders. Behind me, I hear Merlin say to Eric, Looks like hes got a groupie at last. Steve, you were wonderful. Scraper sounds great, even with the new bass player. Uh, thanks. You seem to know who I am, so who are you? Before I can blink theres a business card in my hand. She cant just tell me, I have to read it: Rave Edwards - sales/reviews. That new free arts mag, got a copy floating round home somewhere. Wait a tick fuck me, its her! She wrote our one and only review. Pull yourself together Steve. So are you going to give us another Rave review? I get the impression shes heard that joke before. I ask her about the name. Rachel-Anne Verity Edwards. Bit of a mouthful, yeah? Shes wearing these ankle boots that make her over my height from maybe five-ten. And torn fishnets, like Suzes but longer. Shes built like a model, and when I stop ogling her long enough to listen, shes got an English accentnot faked, unlike most people round here. Pocketing the business card, I glance up towards the stage,

Scraper

James Gilberd

98

but Suze has disappeared off somewhere. Probably snorting coke backstage with those wanky hairdressers. First I thought you sounded like a cross between The BuzzcocksI saw them in Manchesterand The Clash, but that Rain song and some of the others, youre more like Gang of Four or Joy Division. Ive seen them too. Youve seen Joy Division? Shit, what were they like? We should go for a drink and Ill tell you all about it, everything thats going on in England, yeah. Ive been living over there three years. Yeah, thatd be great. When? Call me at work Friday and well set something up. Suddenly she sounds more like a yank, despite the accent. Sales talk I suppose. Watching her strut off, I decide Fridays a definite. But Im getting a funny feeling about it already. There you are. Hey, I did OK, didnt I? Suze, you were fantastic. Jarred back to reality. Hey, remember saying that to me once, first gig? What came next? She remembers. We French-kiss without breathing for about a minute. And you looked great doing it, I go on, catching my breath. I love it when you say things like that. We kiss again. I sort of hope Rave might be watching. And sort of not.

Rocket to Russia

So the Friday night eventually arrives after a hellishly dull week of slaving away in the cold and now Im sitting on the edge of the fountain opposite the record shop,

Scraper

James Gilberd

99

getting a wet arse from the splashing as per usual, waiting for Suze. Couldnt get hold of Rave, what with there not being a phone in the building were working in and when I finally get time to use a pay phone, shes not there. So its a night out with Suze, which I suppose is all for the best anyway. Im thinking about moving out of splash range when I hear heels clacking: Rave arrives, having somehow tracked me down. Plenty of room but she sits right up close; leg, hip, shoulder all touching me, then she crosses her long legs so her foots toward me, kind of fencing me in. Nice boots yeah? Scored them at the Notting Hill Market in London for a fiver. Lovely soft Italian leather. Feel. And she shows me how I should be fondling her boot, rubbing the leather between her fingers. I agree with her but decide to give the boot-fondling a swerve, with Suze being just inside and allwithin eyeshotand I explain that Id tried ringing her again at lunchtime but there was no way for her to ring back so I didnt leave a message on the answer machine. No problem Steve. Im here now, so lets go somewhere. I was waiting for Suze actually. Were supposed to be going to the flicks when she knocks off. We look across to see Suze busy getting rid of the last few time wasters. She hasnt spotted us yet. Flicks? Boring! Come with me instead. Tell her you had to work late, yeah. She nudges with her elbow and adds a hip wiggle that I feel. Come on, Im more exciting, arent I? I hold my ground, thinking its already nine oclock so thats not an excuse. Rave says she knows this place with a great band, then she gets up and walks off. Long legs, short skirt. I follow like a dog on a leash. (A leash attached to my gonads,

Scraper

James Gilberd

100

that is.) One glance back to check I havent been sprung. Shes right, she is more exciting. Im shaking slightly and feeling a bit sick in the stomach, like getting the flu. A short walk, during which we dont say a thing to each other, then she leads me down this skinny little alleyway that opens into a light-well between old buildings. Theres a stream of water from way above exploding into the middle of it and the walls and plumbing are covered in green slime and pigeon shit. It must never dry out down here. The metal steps of the fire escape are slippery as hell so I have to watch my footing, following Rave up. Stay close, Steve, in case I slip. As we get higher and drier I can afford to look upwards, and the views definitely worth absconding for. Poor Suze. Turns out this back entrance is about avoiding the doorman. Rave explains they always leave the fire door open slightly to let some fresh air in (and us too). As it is, you cant see the far wall for smoke haze and I reckon its not just cigarettes. Rave spots a free table in the corner so we grab it, and we just sit in silence and take in the atmosphere. Theres a lot of it to take in. Eventually a waitress appears, but closer up, maybe its a waiter; she has a suspiciously deep voice. What would a lovely young couple like you be drinking? Ive never seen a transvestite this close before. Something about the skin texture isnt quite right, among other things. Sounds like were not about to be chucked out for being underage though. Rave asks what red wines they have and theres an exchange of French-sounding words that I dont quite catch. Moments later there are wine glasses in front of us that look too new and clean for this place, and the waitressIll give her the benefit of the doubtopens the bottle and pours.

Scraper

James Gilberd

101

By the way, if you order a meal theres no cover charge for the band. She points to the blackboard, which I strain to read through the smoke. I cant make out any of the food things, just ToniteThe Corrupted. You dont do chips do you? Does that count as a meal? And Rave glares at me. Why are girls so obsessed with healthy food? Of course we do sweetie, with sour cream and a lovely salsa. That will be fine, thank you, Rave says, to my relief. When the waitress has gone, I say, Look, Ive only got ten bucks and weve already got to pay for this wine. I ordered the wine so Ill pay for it. You can cover the food, yeah. Cheers, then. Cling. And we slurp up. Then she relaxes and starts talking about herself: about how she had to wear a uniform at this posh girls school in Manchester, and she and her friends would do what they could to subvert itheels, pierced ears and studs, dyed hair, and even tattoos (but she cant show me hers here!); how she saw The BuzzcocksPete Shelley was so cuteand Joy Division; how Ian Curtis chopped with his arms in an intense parody of dancing; how she chatted with the drummer backstage and he was really nice; how there were all these Skinheads in the crowd doing Sieg Heil salutes. I say we get that here too, then the chips arrive. Its a huge steaming bowl and theres little pottles of creamy stuff and chunky tomato sauce-looking stuff, which Rave explains is sour cream and the salsa. I say I thought that was a kind of dance. The chips still have their skins on. So while Im stuffing my face as per usual, skins and all, she picks out the occasional chip, concentrating on the kumara ones, and she tells me about this band she was lead singer inMayday, or Heyday; didnt quite catch itbut her family left

Scraper

James Gilberd

102

England for here a few days before the band got to play. Thered been a huge row, with Rave wanting to stay for the gig and fly back later, but she lost. So you see I have this unrequited need to sing in a band. Even just one song. Even just backing. I know what shes angling for, but luckily The Corrupted hit the stage at this point, rendering further conversation impossible. Ive heard some pretty loud bands, but Gordon Bennett! The singers voice snarls somewhere amid the guitars, but where is he? Through shifting gaps in the dancers, I spot a man sitting on the edge of the stage. The bands hits the chorus and he slowly stands. I keep thinking he cant possibly get any taller but he continues ceilingwards. Fuck, he must be seven foot. Skinny though, wasted, like a junkie. He probably is a junkie, but hes riveting. He twists like a python, tugging at his hair like hes trying to pull it out. Then a huge chunk of it actually comes loose. The giant throws it out over the dancers and one of them claims it. Next thing, a hand reaches up from the crowd and the singer bends towards it. An even bigger chunk of stringy black hair gets ripped out and the white patch of scalp the size of a two cent coin darkens with blood. He drags his hand through his hair and down, smearing blood over his face. I feel a bit sick. I look across at Rave. For all her worldliness, shes gone pale. Some bands use this kind of sheer volume to hide a lack of musicianship, but not this lot; theyre all individually really good and they play together like they formed the band in kindergarten. I drain my wine glass, get up from the table and go in for a better look. Rave assumes that I want to dance, which I dont, so shes right there with me. Shes rubbing various intimate bits of herself against me as she dances. For a while I just stand there and enjoy it, and keep watching the band. But I just cant ignore her dammit. Its OK, theres no one I know here, no one to see me with her; and the red wines doing its work. I pull Rave in close enough to smell her over the

Scraper

James Gilberd

103

heavy atmosphere; her leather, her makeup, her sweat. How hard her body is. But not her small breasts, brushing my chest, and not her arsethose bits are lovely and soft. My hand cups one leather-wrapped buttock easily, fingers meeting thigh below the skirt. I feel myself harden and I pull her in tighter so shell feel it too. Make the point. I dont care about Suze at this moment. I want Raves swollen lips around my cock. I want to fuck her hard, over and over, all night.

The Voice of America

What the fuck is she doing here? You know Rave, she wrote that great review of us. Thought I mentioned she was coming along, to try out with the singing, Steve says. I thought they were looking a bit too friendly after the gig. Now they arrive at band practice together. Does he think Im fucking stupid? I wasnt aware we were looking for a vocalist. We werent, I just thought we could give it a go. Experiment. What happened to you last night, by the way? Sorry, I didnt feel well. Splitting headache. I shouldve phoned the shop. I just went straight to bed. Hes useless at lying but I believe that last part. Bastard. Well I hope youre feeling better now. Shall we get on with it? The bitch chooses the Siouxsie song from the list. Steve doesnt even look at me while we play, but his eyes are all over her. Up and down, undressing her. Everything aside, she doesnt make a bad job of it. But what next? Do you know any Nina Hagen? Steve stifles a guffaw. Well, we never learned any of her songs, because I cant sing them, for a start.

Scraper

James Gilberd

104

You mean because theyre from a female perspective? No, because I havent had the opera training. Steves really on edge now. He knows hes fucked up and hes well and truly in for it. She laughs, but shes faking it. Probably not the only thing she fakes, the tightarse slag. Well I can sing her stuff. Do you want to learn something, yeah? Ive brought along a tape Look, were not a covers band, he says, before I can. We dont even play that Banshees song anymore. Its all originals now. So why did you invite me along then, if its only your songs? I cant sing from a male point of view. You cant sing from a female point of view either. Not strictly true but I had to get it in. Actually, you pretty much invited yourself. Now hes moving over to my side. Did I? It didnt seem that way to me last night. Or this morning. Christ Almighty, shes dropped him in it. Ive had enough of this anyway. You fucking slept with her, didnt you. Both of them are just staring at me now. Didnt you. Fuck, Im not going to be able to hold it together. I scream at him, Didnt you. Then Im out of there. I feel the tears and I dont want the rest of them seeing. Dont care if he does though. I cant even see straight as I run out, tripping on my stupid heels, but I hear him say, Youd better fuck off too then. I go and sit on the edge of the wharf for a bit. Theres no one else around, thank Christ, so its just me, a few seagulls and the water lapping at the wooden piles. I can see better now, and there are little fish down there, swimming around the weeds and picking at stuff. They dont feel anything, Im told. Wouldnt mind joining them. I let my shoes slip off my heels and dangle from my toes, wiggle

Scraper

James Gilberd

105

them up and down in the air. Risky. Damn, wish I had a tissueIm sniffing like a bloody hedgehog. Then my right shoe drops off into the water. Bollocks! I watch it drift out into the harbour, bright red against the green water, and slowly sink. While Im thinking about letting the other one follow it I hear someone elses heels behind me. Its her. She sees me then turns and walks off the other way. She looks pretty upset, so at least thats something. Dont think therell be any more goings-on there. But fuck him, I didnt want to break up. I mean, I know hes too obsessed with his band to take much notice of what I want, even though Im in the bloody band now, but why did he have to go and do that? I didnt think he even liked sex that much. Fucking skinny bint like her toono bloody tits on her. One thing he likes is my tits. He loves my tits God, if I was only taller. Five foot, seven centimetresha! Fat little legs Ive got. Her legs, shit, shes like bloody model. Look at her, clopping off into the sunset. What does she need heels for? Hope I never see the fucking cow again. Steve, Im not sure. I thought he was coming right. Hes been better since the hospital, like hes beginning to realise I really care about him. One day hell get some perspective and understand what weve got. Or hadit might be too late now. But he is just a boy. Hes not a man yet, I can see that now. So its true then, the male of the species thinks with his bollocks. Might as well let the left one go now. Splash! Two bucks at Mums church fair. Ill walk home barefoot. As if Ive got a choice. Bollocks!

Pornography

No mood to talk to anyone and no mood to listen. The Perspex shields down, like a version of Maxwell Smarts Cone of Silence that actually works, but for feelings and emotions instead of sound. It doesnt stop the bloody freezing wind though. Wish I

Scraper

James Gilberd

106

hadnt lost that leather jacket; denims no use in the cold. And Ive had fuck all sleep so Im a total wreck. The second day of Polytechs going to be a very long one. Yesterday was bad enough, like being back at fucking school, roll call and the rest of it, being herded about like stupid bloody sheep. And the teacher obviously hates me. He didnt half make me look a plonker, putting me on the spot with questions all fucking day, trying to catch me out. He did too, most of the time, even with stuff I actually knew; but only because I could barely concentrate, with everything over the weekend. He got everyone laughing at me, including the only girl in the class, who I just happened to sit beside. She looked me up and down like I was some sort of freak and I felt like saying, Were just the same, the only two people who dont fit in here. To be honest, I was disappointed she didnt fancy me because I thought she was cute. But then Im not supposed to be thinking like that. Im supposed to be trying to put things right again with Suze. Its the putting right that counts. I hate bloody busses, lurching and rattling, my head vibrating against the window as I stare out at grey streets and buildings, people walking with their heads down into the wind. And me, heading down to Polytech, like going into purgatory and knowing Im guilty as charged. No good trying to salvage the situation; there was no phone call Sunday or Monday, no apology, no attempt to patch things up. No fucking point. At least I got it together enough to phone Merlin and Eric and make sure we still have a band. Back to a three-piece with me as manager, it looks like. Nope, Polytech doesnt stand a chance today. Think I just wasted a bus fare. I get off the bus and loiter with no intent whatsoever across the road from the main entrance. Leaning on a concrete wall with one foot up against it, I watch the other students file in. Drones, some of them my classmates.

Scraper

James Gilberd

107

One of themDarren? Darrell?calls across, Hey Bryant, coming to class? Old Baldhead wont have anyone to pick on. I say, Tell him I topped myself because of him, but he wont hear me over the traffic between us. The student disappears through the swing doors. I lean on the cold wall for an uncomfortable hour, thinking the same thoughts over and over, during which time my meagre breakfast of white toast burns away and I grow hungry. Need a shit too, since I left home in too much of a hurry, so I have to go onto the campus after all. With nothing else to do, nowhere else to be, time drags like dry sand. Finding a bog suddenly becomes an important mission, almost giving me a sense of purpose. Feeling lump-in-the-throat bitter, I cross the road and enter the main foyer. The turd drops and disappears around the u-bend by itself, without the aid of flushing: a torpedo! Amuses me no end when that happens. Bright spot of the day so far. I lounge in the cubicle for longer than necessary, reading graffiti scratched into the blue-grey Formica. Some students come in and smoke a joint, laugh about nothing for a bit and then leave. I almost wanted to join them but Ive gone off dope, hippy shit that it isdont need it. And getting stoned isnt worth the price of dealing with strangers today. I wont talk to anyone. Sitting here thinking, (bogs the best place for that) I have this fantasy about going up to the varsity and enrolling in some classes there. Got my UE, after all, and its the start of the second half-year. History maybe, and something to do with architecture, or that philosophy course Merlin goes on about. What would Dad think, me chucking tech and going to varsity? Mum would like it, I think. But pretty soon the fantasy runs its course. Im not bright like Merlin and Eric, not academic.

Scraper

James Gilberd

108

Everyone would laugh at my stupidity, even more than here. Im just kidding myself. I blow my drippy nose on some toilet paper then get up and leave. Off the Polytech campus unseen. Slip in, slip out; that felt good. I decide to explore to the south, into new territory. Walking into the southerly wind cuts me. Its deserved though, the cold pain of it, like a monks self-flagellation. I steel myself against it and push ahead. Silver and copper coins weigh in my pocket, enough for chips and the train home, maybe. Theres also the ten buck note for the practice room rent to drop off at the warehouse office later, but Id better not touch it. Im bloody hungry but its still nowhere near lunchtime. Have to stay out all day, so Ill hold out till later; one oclock will do. Then Ill feel the comforting heat of crisp, salty chips in my mouth. Walking alongside the main drag, cursing the noise of trucks and buses, I come to a row of old shops Ive never seen before. The first ones an antique shop, flash looking, so itll at least be warm. Metal chimes clang above the door. The old man in the cardigan glares at me, his eyes saying, ShoplifterIm watching you sonny Jim. I shove my numb hands deeper into the pockets of my denim jacket, defying him. Time is spent picking things up and putting them down while feeling comes back to my hands and face. Overpriced junk, I murmur as I leave. That cold wind again, dammit. Theres a scungy little caf next door so I duck in for a coffee. I ask the price first, then take my cup of filter to a bar seat by the window. (Plenty of choice of where to sit; theres just a couple of unemployedlooking men in there, closed off, singly huddled round their coffees, as I intend to be.) Refills only twenty-five cents luv. Voice like an electric saw through hard timber. Yeah, I might get that, but lets just sit here and watch the world go by for a while, warm my hands round the cup.

Scraper

James Gilberd

109

Theres an upstairs office across the road, above another antique shop, and I can just read the sign: Gigs & Flicks. Theres a girl sitting in the window, talking on the phone. Its Rave! My eyes fix on her like a cats on a bird. I sip coffee, she talks. She looks stressed, the way shes holding her head in her hand, twisting her hair round her finger. Wonder if shes talking about me. Nah, probably some business call, someone shes trying to sell advertising to. Ive drained my coffee, except the gritty dregs, and shes still talking. I watch Rave until Im sick of it and then go up for my refill. When I get back to my seat, shes gone. But then she walks out the door onto the footpath, waits for a break in the traffic and hurries across the road. Shit, shes coming here! Nah, shes too classy for a greasy spoon like this, surely. Unless shes spotted me. I think about making a bolt for the loo, just in casethey must have one. Then she walks past the window, a few feet away but too much in her own world to notice me staring at her. I think about following her. What a creep thing to do; but I find myself abandoning my coffee and heading out after her. God, just watching her walk, long legs with muscles working under black stockings, her tight little arse wiggling in that tight little skirt. Reminds me of following her up that fire escape. But she knew I was looking at her then; she meant me to. Rave moves pretty fast, even in heels, and I have to work to keep up. Never done something like this before. I feel like a New York private dick, following the redhead broad down Broadway. So when she rounds the corner of a building, I get into character and flatten myself against the wall to peek after her. Shes climbing into a car, some kind of Jap sports job, purple with a black stripe down the bonnet. I hear the engine start so I pull my head back and try to look casual. Just in time. Her car comes up to the corner and as she looks to pull out, she clocks me. The passenger window lowers. Power windows.

Scraper

James Gilberd

110

Hey Steve, what are you doing way out here? I was stalking you, until you spotted me. She laughs. Good. Want a lift into town? Oh fuck, now what? The doors swings open and I get in, because I cant think how to get out of it. Bad move. The Spanish Inquisition begins. So, its all over between you and Suze, yeah? I dont know. Maybe. I want to know. Youve left me in a difficult position. Ive left you? You think this is all about you, yeah. Ive got feelings too you know. Whats that supposed to mean? Are you being deliberately dense? No, its just how I am. I have feelings for you Steve. I dont just sleep with anyone. I wanted you. I still do. What? Sorry, I thought you just wanted to be in the band. What do you think I am, some scheming bitch who just uses people? No Yes. Im hurt, Steve. Youve really hurt me. Im sorry, but Where do you want to be dropped off? Dunno, just in town. The library? I didnt think you were the booky type. Im not. They have records there too. So, do you want to go out this Friday night? Ill pick you up.

Scraper

James Gilberd

111

What? Youre available, yeah? I guess I am. The little brains kicking in now. She is gorgeous. Next thing, weve swapped home phone numbers and she says shell pick me up and take me back to her flat in town for a drink, then well decide what were doing from there. The little brains thinking it might just be straight upstairs, then go out later. She lets me off right outside the library and gives me her huge smile as I go to get out. What a turn-around. Shouldnt have ordered that second coffee. Its left me with not quite enough brass for chips and the train home. Maybe I should try what the street kids dohey mister, got twenty cents. Which immediately brings back getting mugged for the leather jacket. Funny thing, I can see all their faces now. So I settle for a sausage roll from the cake shop on the corner, so greasy it makes the paper bag transparent. I still have pastry flakes stuck to my fingers as I flick through the record bins in the library. They havent got much new stuff there, but theres some great old Who recordsyou might say they were the original punk band, with the anger in their music and the sheer volume they played atand Iggy & the Stooges, Velvet Underground, and Kraftwerk, something Merlin put me onto. I spend the afternoon with headphones glued to my ears. Its getting dark, so probably time I was heading home for tea, and to spin the olds some bullshit about how the day went, what I learnednot a great prospect. Then I remember about having to pay Mr Matheson the rent for the practice room. The extra journey takes me away from the relative shelter of the big buildings and shops and out into the real wind. And now rain; its turned into a bastard of a July day. Looking for some shelter, I just happen to come across The Trafalgar. The

Scraper

James Gilberd

112

blackboard outside says Girl Band NiteThe Plastic Bags, Gag Reflex, The Knockers, Shrub Department, The Fur Pies. Shit, this could be interesting. Looks like Matheson will have to wait till tomorrow, when I can get to the bank again. God, thatll be another day to fill. Rod the purple-faced manager serves me a beer at the bar. He doesnt seem to remember meits not as if I look any differentor else hes just put that night behind him. But as Im about to take the first slurp of my pint, someone who wont have forgotten me arrives at the bar: Runt. The huge fucker hasnt noticed me yet though; hes busy trying to chat up some punk bird, probably from one of the bands. But where theres a Runt theres a Chaz. And sure enough Hey Bryant, get over here mate. Hes calling me mate? I could just take off, but fuck it, I go over there. Have a seat mate. Surely hes not going to smack me one in here, hell get chucked out. Nah, hell just be keeping an eye on me and theyll get me outside when I try to leave later on. Ill have to pretend I dont know anything about a certain flood, for all the good itll do me. So hows the band going? Still got that kike drummer? You mean Eric? Whats a kike again? Front wheeler, a Jew boy. Didnt you know that? So thats what that business at the railway station was about, not just routine bullying. It hadnt even occurred to me that Erics Jewish. Hes a good drummer. Getting too busy with his part-time job and varsity to come to practice much though. Doing a degree eh? Bloody typical. Hell be up there running the show before long, like the rest of his kind. Hitler shouldve finished the job.

Scraper

James Gilberd

113

I suppose if I choose to drink with Skinheads, Im going to have to put up with the shit they spout. Change of subject. So, hows the basement working out then? Might as well get it over with. Slight problem with rising damp there, but weve got this big old house up on Bevan Street instead. Were called the Bevan Street Boots now. Catchy, eh? Thank fuck he didnt twig. Or else hes luring me into a false sense of security so I dont try to sneak off without getting my beating. Yeah. Um, still with whatsher-name? Hazel? Zelda, yeah. Shes the singer in The Fur Pies and her lesbo mates the drummer. What about that eh? Me and Runts on best behaviour tonight, otherwise were in the dog box. Birds, eh? Yeah, Ive had a few problems in that department lately, which is why Im on my tod tonight. Why am I telling him this? Its almost like were friends all of a sudden. Aw no, not Suze? You stupid git. Yeah Ive been feeling like a stupid git since Saturday, actually. For some reason, I go on and tell him about Rave and everything, while Chaz calls me a plonker and a stupid git several more times, saying what a little corker Suze is and Im bloody mad to play away. Ive finished my beer by this time and he buys a fresh jug and tops me up. Then The Fur Pies clamber onstage and Chaz and Runt are off down the front, shouting abuse at them and spraying beer out their mouths (Thats their best behaviour?) and Zeldas yelling back, Get fucked ya wankers, over the mike. The Fur Pies start playing and theyre fucking awful, but no one seems to mind. Except Rod, whos grimacing behind the bar. Chaz and Runt and some others are

Scraper

James Gilberd

114

wolf-whistling and generally making a hell of a racket. Keef appears in there too, and I stay back to avoid him. Mercifully, the band only has about five short songsabout, because one song came to a crashing halt after the first verse and they didnt attempt a restartso its soon over. Chaz sticks himself limpet-like to Zelda and seems to have forgotten I exist, which is a relief. But soon Im missing his company, which is weird. So I stand and nurse my beer and watch the next band, Shrub Department, whore a bit better than The Fur Pies, but not much. At least theyre something to look at. When theyve finished, I see Chaz and Zelda heading outside towards the back car park. I follow, thinking of saying thanks for the beer, and then Im either going home, or if I get the chance Ill buy Chaz a jug with the last of my money (at least Mathesons money). But when I catch up the two of them are having a good old snog, so I leave them to it and head back inside. But suddenly these four blokes come piling out, pushing past me. Business types, ties and white shirts. Wonder what theyre doing here? Two of them grab Chaz from behind, slam him against the fence and hold him. The other two start laying into him. Fucking cowardly wankers. Zeldas yelling and kicking them with her big boots but they ignore her. Before I can think, Im over there and dragging one man away. I manage to throw him on the ground, and when he sees its no longer four against one, he bolts. I yell to Zelda, Get Runt. Find Runt. Then I grab another man around the chest, pinning his arms against his sides so he cant punch. Chaz looks a fucking mess but it doesnt slow him down. The man Im holding cops a single punch in the face that knocks both of us over backwards. I get

Scraper

James Gilberd

115

up, he doesnt. Then Runt arrives, dragging the one who ran, and the three of them whore still conscious will be wishing theyd never started this. About fifteen seconds later its over, except Zelda and the drummer girl going round randomly applying their Docs to the four helpless men on the ground. Chaz uses the sleeve of his denim jacket to wipe the blood off his face. Reckon I owe you another drink for that, Bryant. I was going to buy you one. Nah, my shout mate. Go a double whisky?

Life in a Day

What fuckin time do you call this? Its only fuckin Tuesday, and youve got school tomorrow. Looks like Im not the only one been on the turps tonight, Dad. Well Ive got an excuse. Whatve you got? What excuse? What happened? I look over at Mum. Toms lost the contract, Steve. Shes been crying. Then I notice Dads knuckles. Looks like Im not the only one whos been in a fight either. Whod you hit, Dad? Not Mum, I hope. What is this? The fuckin Spanish Inquisition? Mr Matheson, Mum says. So theres no more work now. Shit. And the first thing I think is well lose the practice room, never mind Dads business and my job.

Scraper

James Gilberd

116

Fuckin pricks gone all lefty liberal about the fuckin rugby. Reckons hes going protesting, the bastard. So I ask him if I can have his season ticket and he just cant take a joke. Tells me to knock off early. Had to fuckin hit him then, eh? Pow! He replays the punch and rocks back laughing. Please stop swearing Tom. Thats it, Im going to bed. Wonder if Thomas caught any of it. Upstairs, I check on him but hes asleep.

The Affectionate Punch

Next mornings even worse. Dads hangovers more than a match for mine, and Mum doesnt seem too flash either. Probably awake all night worrying. Thomas is the only one looking ready to face the day, with his school uniform on; the only one with somewhere to go. Mouths too dry to deal with toast and Vegemite; I chew and chew but cant swallow. A good slurp of strong tea turns the contents of my mouth to mush so itll go down. Lovely. The radios a smidge off the station, which is annoying me but I cant be bothered getting up to fix it. It beeps eight oclock and the news comes on. As usual, the first item is about the Springbok tour, something about the Gleneagles agreement. It sets Dad going. Mum gets up and turns the radio off. Tom, can you give Thomas a ride to school? Its about to rain. Let me finish my bloody breakfast, woman. Its OK Dad, Ill do it. Youve got to catch the bus lad. Youre not taking the Bedford to polytech.

Scraper

James Gilberd

117

Im not going to polytech. Oh fuck, Ive let the cat out. Day off already? Youve only been there two days. Fuck it, might as well come clean. One day. Didnt go yesterday either. Dad stops mid-chew, a toast crust hanging out of his mouth. Why not? Cant hack it. The teachers a bastard and the whole place is a fucking nightmare. Its just like being back at bloody school. Steve, dont use that language in front of your brother, Mum says. You little shit. How do you think youre going to do the job if you dont get qualified? What job is that then Dad? What fucking job is that? Dad reaches across the table and cracks me one. If my reactions had been up to normal I wouldve avoided it, but he catches me good and proper. Tea spills over the tablecloth and down onto my jeans. He hasnt hit me since I was I kid, and then thatd just be a little slapa warning. Nothing like this. Fuck this, Im going. Come on Thomas. Thomas is staring at me like Ive grown a second nose. I put my arm round his shoulders and lead him out, trying not to show Im actually hurt. Sitting in the van, turning the engine over, the left side of my face is throbbing, my ears are ringing and Im fuming. Thomas still stares, mouth open. Rain hits the windscreen, drums on the roof. Its pissing down, like Mum said it would. Good job youre not walking to school, eh. Yeah The engine starts, thank god, and I leave it idling. Look, just wait in the van. Im going back to get some stuff. I dont want to be late for school.

Scraper

James Gilberd

118

You wont be. Dont touch anything, Ill be back in a tick. And I am, with my army satchel stuffed with underpants, socks, T-shirts, my new torch, bank book and lyric book. I also grabbed the wool blanket off my bed and my old kero lantern. Theres probably some other stuff I shouldve got, like toothpaste and deodorant; but then I dont reckon Ill be needing them where Im going.

The Black Album

After dropping Thomas off and telling him Ill be away for a few days and not to worry, I park up at the end of the mall and wait for Suze on her way to work, not to apologise but just to tell her what I told my little brother. As I wait, the rain gets even heavier. Shes not coming. Maybe shes having a sickie. Ill find a park and go and see Andy, leave him the message for Suze. Yeah, I wont have to explain myself to Andy. Next stop the Post Office, to get my seventy-six dollars out. Then a few days worth of food from the 4-Square, get the van fueled up and its beach time. I love the beach in winter. Nobody about, just miles of pebbles and driftwood, the sound of the waves, plenty of time to think. And no obligation to go swimming or anything remotely associated with having a fun time (as the Americans call it). Itll be perfect. Better go sort out things down at the warehouse first though, see if we still have a practice room. Driving away and leaving everything and everyone behind, I feel truly free. Singing that song from Quadrophenia, A beach is a place where a man can feel, hes the only thing in the world that is real In the warehouse office, and Matheson hasnt half got a shiner.

Scraper

James Gilberd

119

He glares at me. Your old man proud of himself, is he? Got me too, but its not as good as yours. He tells me youre against the tour. Ill be protesting too so I might see you down there. I thought you played rugby. Tom was always going on about how good you were. Hes never got over me quitting the same week I got picked for the first fifteen. They all snubbed me after that. Matheson smiles. Long as you keep up paying for the room, its yours. Thats great, thanks. I hand him a tenner. He stuffs it in his shirt pocket and taps the side of his nose with his forfinger. Christmas fund. I say thanks again and leave the office. But while Im here, I might as well check the room out, have a look below deck and see how the water level is. A month or so back it was down to about a metre. Now its soaked down to around eight inches but theres a lot of crud in it. Half way across in bare feet, jeans pulled up, and Im wondering if some of the crud might be broken glass from the Skinheads beer bottles. Turn back? Nah, but I shuffle forward rather than plant my feet where I cant see. I need a piss, and despite the lake of brown water around me I cant bring myself to add to it, so I wade over to the long-drop room, up where its dry, and let go in the proper place. By the time my bladders empty the beach plans temporarily lost out to the prospect of exploring the underground pipes. I wade back for my stuff, thinking chances are Ill hit a dead end pretty soon and be off to the beach after all, then back Friday night in time to meet Rave. What took two hours last time is behind me in fifteen minutes; a straight kilometre of five-foot concrete pipe. The claustrophobia I felt down here last time

Scraper

James Gilberd

120

doesnt reappear and I laugh at myself for freezing up way back then. Now I stand at the end of the pipe, looking into the first chamber, and bugger me, its been cleared of the two skiploads of crap we threw into it. Mustve been a prick of a job for some poor bastard, (or a bastard of a job for some poor prick). Luckily nobody bothered to fix the steel bars, otherwise itd be all the way back to the Bedford for the jack, so it wont be hard to squeeze through into the next pipe. Which is pretty similar to the last one, except theres a fair bit of water travelling with me, so I walk with my feet up each side of the curve to keep my sneakers dry. And getting along with shoulders hunched and head bowed I must look a right spaz. Its soon pretty painful, so its a relief to finally get to the next junction and have a good stretch. Theres a fluorescent light going, probably left on all the time, judging by the amount of green slime growing up the walls. No sign of rats yet, thank god. Shame Boz isnt about. Hed be about the right amount of company for me just now, but hes better off at Erics, slowly becoming domesticated. The next big pipe comes in a few metres up on the far wall of the Slime Chamber, with rusty iron rungs up to it. Theres a thin stream splattering below and running off down through a huge grate in the middle of the floor. After a mouthful of precious drinking water, I scale the rungs, but as Im about to swing over into the pipe I hear this roaring sound coming out of it. The stream gets steadily stronger and the flow from the pipe I came in through is also building fast. Shit, coming down here on a rainy day wasnt too clever, specially with what I know about how this stormwater system works. I cling to the ladder as the chamber below floods, quickly forming a whirlpool. Underground for an hour and trapped already. Wonder how long I can hang onto this ladder.

Scraper

James Gilberd

121

Eventually I stop being mesmerised by the rush of water and it occurs to me to point my torch upwards. Duh! The rungs lead to a manhole cover. This is going to turn into a trip to the beach after all, because if Im going to end up drowning Id rather it happened in the open sea, taken out by a rip, not here in the darkness under the city. At the top, and the torrent is safely below me now. Trouble is I cant lift the bastard manhole cover. I heave with all my strength until I feel the rusty rungs bend under my feet, and for nothing. I think about using my belt to tie myself to the rungs and then wait out the rain. But as I squirm to get more comfortable, I hear the brass tips of my satchel straps scrape against metal behind me. Its a trapdoor, not very big, but it swings open easily when I pull the handle and I reckon I can squeeze into the downward-sloping shaft behind it. Half way through the manoeuvre I realise the shaft is tighter than I thought, and the claustrophobia I was laughing at before gets its revenge. Still, I persist until Im fully in. I can always squirm back out. But then theres an ominous clang from behind: the iron door swinging closed. It doesnt matter, Ill just ease back up a bit and kick it open. Yeah, Id better, because I dont reckon theres much air in here. I push my toes against it. Nothing. I kick it with the heel of my right foot. Still, it doesnt swing open. Panic. Kicking with both feet. Fuck! How was it so easy to open before? There must be some kind of catch on it that I didnt notice. If I could see behind I could probably figure out some way of opening it with my foot, but I cant even turn my head in here, never mind my body. Bracing my elbows against the walls, I kick again and again in sheer panic now, gasping from the exertion. Gasping precious air. Cant hear the rushing water now, just my own pulse throbbing in my head. For some reason I think back to childhood, of Dad pushing me under the

Scraper

James Gilberd

122

blankets and holding them down, his weight on me, the darkness and the panic for air. When I couldnt stand any more, Id slap the mattress three times in surrender, like a wrestler, then hed let me out. Of course I knew he wasnt going to suffocate me, but hes not here now to let me free or save me. Theres no one. The only way out is forwards and it feels like the tunnels getting narrower. Im going to get stuck. Theyll probably never even find my body. The rats will get it first. And when I cant imagine anything worse, I reach the bottom end of the tunnel and its sealed up! I punch the metal sheet four, five times, hard as I can with two inches of elbow room. All that happens is my knuckles bleed and smear the metal red. Adrenalin blocks the pain. I need something to wrap round my fist but my satchels too far behind, still looped round my ankle. The only thing to do is sacrifice my metal torch. Kill my light. If this doesnt work, I will die in the darkness from slow suffocation. No time to waste. A couple of good whacks with the torch and Im in utter, utter blackness, a thing my eyes can never hope too adjust to. Theres still the kero lantern and matches in my satchel but theyre out of reach. Im aware that each energy-draining blow of the torch against metal uses up a portion of the air I have left. I can feel Ive managed to dent the cover, but thats all. Its got to give. Got to. Im really running out of air now, breathing in the same stuff I just exhaled, carbon whatsit, making me weaker and weaker. Heads spinning. Dropping the torch, I slap the concrete floor of the tunnel once twice. No! One more slap and Ive given up. Ill find out what its like to suffocate, how long it takes. I fumble for the discarded torch, and grasping it again brings back my determination. Im not going to die down here like a rat and never be found, never be heard of again.

Scraper

James Gilberd

123

Finally, something gives! Feels like I managed to pop one of the rivets holding the metal sheet in place. Desperate, I strike the spot again and again. The corner bends back and a needle-thin draft of sweet cool air seethes into the shaft. I suck and suck at it, filling my lungs to bursting. I might still be stuck here but at least I wont suffocate now. Dehydration will get me instead. Revived by the air and the chance of escape, I strike harder and make more rivets pop. Now I can get hold of the metal and rip it back and forth, fatigue it off. I lose my grip, bugger it. Blood. Cut my hand. Doesnt matter, keep at it. And at last the sheet metal bends out of the way. Easing forward, I stick my head out. Still cant see a damn thing though. Its so dark its like being totally blind. God, what if I am? I weigh up surviving this but with the loss of my eyesight, becoming one of those old blues musicians on a porch in a swamp; Blind Stevie Bryant. It has a ring. With that thought, I slide out of the shaft like an eel and collapse into the space below. My head discovers something harder than itself and thats it from me for a bit. After a timemaybe a long time, because Im freezing coldI stagger up, stretch and breathe. Bruises, grazes, a cut hand, ringing ears, a headache, but basically intact. I must be in some big tunnel or chamber. I grope around my feet for the satchel with the lantern in it, hoping somehow its not broken. Good, lucky. I find the matches and strike one. Not blind. The sudden flare burns my eyes. Hands shaking, I eventually manage to light the lantern and get a look around. This is different; its not the stormwater system any more. There are cables of various thickness fastened to the ceiling and pipes along the walls. A basement, maybe, or some kind of utility tunnel. Nice and dry, and theres plenty of room to stand up and walk about. And to breathe. Theres something about falling head first out of that narrow, sloping shaft, and realising it makes me double over laughing. God? Quick, check. (How?) No, hes

Scraper

James Gilberd

124

still not with me. My laughter echoes in the tunnel forever. Thank god Im still an aethiest! My hands are in worse shape than I thought, now the adrenalins worn off. Ive managed to split the skin on the first two knuckles of my right hand, exposing bone, and both palms have been cut by the sheet metal, the right one feels worse though. Solid scabs have formed already, so thats proof Ive been out cold for a while. As I open my hands for a better look both scabs break at once and theres more blood. And pain, of course. Fuck, this is all going to get infected and I havent brought anything for first aid. The best I can do is shred my spare T-shirt to bandage my hands. Its the Ramones one, bought at their concert, that suffers. Doesnt matter; Ive grown out of it, and them. That done, I decide its time for a meal. When I bought the baked beans I imagined heating them in their can over a fire on the beach. No chance of that here, so its cold Watties down the hatch. Yum. It takes me maybe twenty minutes to open the can with my pocket knife opener. No spoon on the thing though so I have to more or less drink the beans, then when all the sauce has gone, scoop them out with my fingers. The inevitable sauce stains on my Ramones bandaging mix with the darker bloodstains seeping through. Well I wanted to rough it for a bit so I got my wish. Wandering around for a while, this is definitely no basement; more like a complex of chambers and tunnels that could run for miles under the whole city. Its fascinating. Therell be people walking round up top oblivious to this world below. I havent even seen any graffiti, so its not like just anyone can get down here. Far as I know Im the only person to see this who doesnt have a legit reason to be here. Then I wonder if Dad knows about these places. A lot of it is electrical, after all.

Scraper

James Gilberd

125

Dad. Dammit. Now Im thinking about the argument this morning, (or whenever it was), work, Polytech. From there to Suze, and then Rave. I had a kind of date with her. Fuck it, all I want to do is forget everything to do with topside, blot it out. So what can I do? I pull out my lyric book and pen with the idea of mapping where Ive beena mental exercise to keep me from thinking about that other stuff up there. It might also come in useful, stop me getting lost. I mentally backtrack and mark down where Ive been, then get more precise, marking all of the manhole covers, grills and other possible exits that I come across points of contact with the world above that let in various amounts of daylight and sounds of cars and people, petrol fumes. Once a glowing cigarette butt came through a hole in a manhole cover and hit me. A waft of baking bread just about makes me want to give up the whole adventure. Love to pick out the innards at a soft white loaf right now, something I remember being told off for when I was about five. Or anything hot; chips, sossies, a cardboard pie even. I have to harden my resolve to remain down here. Wish Id brought a bottle of Bourbon. Then I could sterilise my cuts and take a whole lot more pain away besides. Havent seen daylight for a while, so I go to check my watch. Its smashed. The leather covers gone and the glass and hands are clean off it. The dates caught between two numbers and I cant move it to tell the day. This probably happened when I got stuck, so its amazing I havent noticed until now, seeing as Im normally a compulsive clockwatcher. But desperation about time soon flips over into not giving a fuck. A forced shedding of a habit can be good. Nobody knows where I am and for about the first time ever I dont have to be anywhere at any particular moment. No cares, no expectations. This is genuine freedom.

Scraper

James Gilberd

126

Maybe its to do with the cold down here, but I feel like lying down and going to sleep. Cant start a fire. One, theres nothing to burn, and two, if there was the smoke would come out topside somewhere and Id be discovered. I decide to curl up against the side of the tunnel, wrap the blanket around like a poncho and try to sleep sitting up. I dream of rats. Not entirely a dream, because I wake up to catch an organised gang of them raiding my satchel. Kicking at them sends them scuttling off, but not far enough. As I inspect the damage another rat jumps out, and he stops and glares at me before joining his mates. Maybe he knows me. Theyre going to be my stalkers, now they know I have food. Another can of beans begins its journey south, and the cold feeling of them sliding down my gullet is almost welcome. Good job theres no one to share the farts with. While I eat, I study my map. Could be completely wrong in my sense of direction and distance, but I think the main tunnel ahead leads under the suburbs and out towards the airport. A compass wouldve been useful, if itd even work down here. In the next chamber theres a metre of steel pipe propped up in the corner. I feel safer and stronger toting it, and it soon becomes a walking stick, clanking on concrete with every step, reinforcing my ownership of this realm. No need to skulk. Armed, lantern held high in my left hand, I feel like an adventurer in a Dungeons & Dragons game, like the nerds at school used to play. Wouldnt they fucking love this place. Soon I begin to worry about the kerosene supply. I turn the wick down to minimum to conserve it and use the pipe more to feel for obstacles.

Scraper

James Gilberd

127

Exploring a side tunnel leads to a room, and the first of the strange symbols. Sometimes in red and sometimes black spray paint, theyre like a crucifix but with arrow-points on the arms and foot, and a round blob on the top like a head, the whole thing set in a circle. As I travel further south, sometimes through tunnels I have to crawl in, the symbols appear more often. I draw the design in my book as well as I can in the minimal light.

Another chamber, the biggest yet, with multi-level causeways of metal decking. Theres a fluorescent light left on up the top. Once my eyes adjust to the brightness, proper sight is a luxury. Theres more of the strange symbols and they look fairly fresh. Good spot for a kip, this. The rats wont come up here on the steel grid platform, I tell myself, or else Ill hear their claws and wake up. Now Ive totally lost track of the days, if I hadnt quite before. Id sort of hoped I would, but its not so great when it actually happens. I know Ive slept a long time because Im freezing and dehydrated. My piss, darkening the concrete wall, is close to the consistency of Golden Syrup. No knees left in my jeans and my own knees are caked in scabs from crawling. My tops of my sneakers are just hanging onto the soles, which are worn through anyway. I must look like hobo.

Scraper

James Gilberd

128

Maybe its the cold confusing me. Vague memory of some lesson about hypothermia on a school tramp, how it disorients you. I pull the blanket round my shoulders and stagger onwards like a refugee, no idea where Im heading or why. Ive left my bit of pipe behind somewhere so I just have to feel along the wall with my left hand. My rights not hurting anymore but the fingers are numb. This is probably not a good sign. Waters low too. Have to ration. If it comes to drinking my own piss, then Ill give up, go topside. Itd probably be OK on some pancakes though. Laughing in the tunnel sounds amazing, so I do it again on purpose. Only then do I realise Ive been talking to myself, for hours or even days, about Dad and Mum, the damned Springbok rugby tour, Suze; whole fantasy conversations, acting out both sides. The walls gone funny. Its like running my hand over a carving. I feel contours, hands and faces, almost flat to start with but becoming more definite as I go on. Cant see them for some reason, not even dimly; not at all. I think of a photo in a book, some tomb in Mexico or wherever with mummified corpses lined along the walls. I snatch back my hand. Imagining arms reaching out for me, I stumble forwards, trying to avoid the walls. At some point I crack my knee on a pipe or something. The pain makes me cry and I dont care about showing it since theres nobody to see. The crying goes on longer than the pain. Its harder to move forwards now and I havent noticed any manholes or other ways out for ages. Just keep slogging, I repeat to myself, and this tunnel will end up somewhere. Right knees stiffened up so Im reduced to hobbling. Not stopping, I fumble in the knapsack for my water bottle, go to take what I expect will be my last mouthful from it, but its already empty. I let it drop. The sound of plastic bouncing on concrete, echoing. Never been so thirsty. Or so fucking freezing cold, losing body heat slowly, steadily over days. Expecting the rats to move in closer now, like

Scraper

James Gilberd

129

vultures sensing that Im weaker, but I cant hear them any more. They seem to have been replaced by faces. Pale faces floating in the blackness; whispering, murmuring. Down to an old man shuffle now, so its time for a little rest stop. Just a few minutes. The luxury of relaxing against the tunnel wall, now mercifully smooth, and slowly, slowly sliding down. Its warmer close to the floor, and so, so comfortable.

The Correct Use of Soap

Air moving across my face. Still pretty dark, but with blobs of yellow light, street lamps, car headlights, all shifting out of focus. Must be topside. Eyes fight to open fully, then slowly adjust. Im in a big empty room with graffiti on the walls and no glass in the windows. Not as cold as when I drifted to sleepthere are blankets round me, more than just my own. A flash of white where my right hand should be. Its bandaged and so is my left. But this isnt any kind of hospital. Remains of some strange dream; of men and women with white faces and black eyes and lips, long black coats, a room with candles burning and huge symbols painted all over; then being helped along a tunnel, toes dragging, and pushed up though a manhole. The Keepers? They wore brass pendants with that same strange crucifix symbol. No, The Coopers, they were called. Odd name. I stand up, throw off the blankets, stagger and catch myself. Then its a matter of gathering my stuff and getting the hell out of here, wherever here is. Downstairs, outside, and the silhouette of the rugby grandstand looms, so I know exactly where I am. At my feet is a manhole cover with a crucifix symbol sprayed on it. Near the derelict building is a fish and chip shop and its open. OK, there is a god.

Scraper

James Gilberd

130

The fluoro lights are so bright that I have to put my arm up to shield my eyes. But not before I notice everyone in the chippy staring like Im an American tourist in an English country pub. I get a can of Coke from the fridge and plonk it on the counter, along with a filthy, scrunched fiver. This, two fish, chips. And what day is it please? And a hotdog. So its Friday. Good, I can make it to the band practice tomorrow, like I said. Not sure if Im up to this date with Rave though. Have to phone her. Its nice and warm in the shop so I take the last spare seat and wait for my order. Those seated either side of me get up and go outside in the cold. I drain the icy Coke too fast. Nausea, headache. When I finally get my food I unwrap it and start straight in. The woman at the counter calls her husband, who then tells me I cant eat in the shopits not a bloody restaurant mate. So I go, spilling half my chips as I try to bundle them up. Cursing and nearly crying at the waste of food, I slam the door and retreat into the night. To make matters worse, its raining. Fuck it. Theres a bus shelter just down the road. I run for it but fall over and the rest of my meals on the footpath. So now Im on my knees picking up broken bits of fish and stuffing them in my face before they get too wet. In the bus shelter, I find Ive still got the hot dog. I hold it up in front of my face and the smell and the sight of itlike a syphilitic dogs penismakes me chuck. Soon I get on a bus for the railway station, leaving a steaming mess on the seat of the shelter, lumpy brown liquid dripping through the wooden slats. Dont think the driver spotted it or else he wouldnt have let me on. Its a relief to find the Bedford still parked where I left it, and even better to climb in and start her up. But driving feels strange, like the first time ever. Its tricky with my stiff leg but somehow I make it home without crashing.

Scraper

James Gilberd

131

Dads at the pub, which is good for me but Mums not too thrilled that he is. Shes all over me, making cheese on toast and cups of tea, finding me clean clothes, running the bath. Im not taking in much of what she says but some bits cut through: You dont give a damn for anyone elses feelings, do you. Tom and I have been so worried. Even Thomas The bandage comes off and things are not looking too bad, thank god. I had visions of not being able to play the guitaragainbut whoever cleaned up my cuts did a good job. The feeling in my fingers slowly returns as I warm up. In the sitting room, Thomas is watching TV. That is when hes not staring at me; his attention swaps every few seconds. Obviously he blames me for whatever its been like in this place lately. When Mums off in another room, I tell him Im leaving again after band practice tomorrow, but I dont know where. Now his attentions onehundred percent on the telly. I watch the light from it flicker on his face. Do you want my old acoustic guitar? Yeah? Do you want it? We can start those guitar lessons I said Id give you. One a week. Yeah. Thanks. His voice mightve finished breaking. Down at the practice room though, not here. Noon on Saturdays. OK? OK then. Mum reminds me the baths run, and that Im to leave my clothes outside the door so she can burn them. The bathrooms a refuge from her concern. Running away as a kid, on my inevitable return I would be given a bath, meaning Mum would be in here washing me. Scalded and scolded simultaneously. But from the age Thomas is now, the bathroom becomes a private place, and thereby one of the two main

Scraper

James Gilberd

132

locations for wanking. Mums everywhere are aware of this and tend to not disturb; it must be written in the instruction manual for teenage boys. But no show tonight, even if I wanted to. I can just hear Mum on the phone downstairs, Yes officer, hes turned up Fuck, the police! I haul my heavy body out of the bath, dripping a gallon onto the Lino, and stick my head out the bathroom door. Whats that about Mum? I call down the stairs. I was only gone a few days. Through the escaping steam, I see her cover the receiver. You call ten days a few days? Ten days. What? Whats the date? She tells me its the thirty-first of July. Fuck. Fuck! No wonder Im dehydrated, pissing syrup. No wonder Im exhausted, stinking mess. No wonder Mum was beside herself when I showed up. Back in the steaming water I digest that lapse of a week, occasionally topping the bath with hot, soaking out the grime of the tunnels. When I hit my head after being born again, was I unconscious for days? Dazed with concussion the rest of the time? Or does time just pass differently down below? Im clean and toasty warm and in my own bed before Dad gets home. I hear Mum telling him the news and that I need rest. I hope he doesnt come up, and he doesnt. Much as I need sleep, I set my alarm radio for seven-thirty so Ill be up and out of bed well before Dad.

Singles Going Steady

Scraper

James Gilberd

133

Down at the practice room, after Ive given Thomas his first guitar lessonhes in a better mood with me, and as usual he picks things up ten times quicker than I do, so I only have to show him each thing onceSuze turns up. She gives me a hug, but no kiss. Your mum rang me. I did miss you, she says, even though were not Glad someone did. I did too, Thomas says. Mum and Dad thought you were dead, but I knew you were OK. Suze and I just look at each other. I dont need to tell you to practice, I say to Thomas. Youll be better than me in a month. In a fortnight. Seeya Steve, and thanks. And hes off, toting the guitar case like a miniature session muso. Suze waits till hes out of the building. Your mum was beside herself, your dad too. I went round there three times, trying to reassure her, saying you were just squatting somewhere. Shed brought the police in. Yeah, they still want to talk to me, give me a right bollocking for wasting their time most likely. But you knew Id gone underground? Im sitting on one of the newly scavenged sofas, relaxing while she paces the room. You left the hatch open and we found your van parked on the waterfront. Eric and Merlin had a look down some pipes, but. She kneels in front of me, hands on my knees. So what was the point of disappearing for so long? Did you sort things out? Is anything different now? Ill tell you when I get back from the beach, in a few days. I need some fresh air.

Scraper

James Gilberd

134

Youve got to be joking. Whats that going to achieve? Jesus, youve dropped out of Polytech, youve got no job left with your dad. What you need to do is get cleaned up, shave that stupid beard off and go and find another job somewhere. Then if you really cant face living at home, you can afford to get a flat. Im about to bite her head off for telling me how to run my life, but for once I stop and think for a moment and as usual shes right. OK, Ill get rid of the bumfluff, stop being a bum and find a job. Then when my lifes all sorted out you can come and visit at my new flat. Are you being sarcastic? Youre the expert on sarcasm. Glare. Well, yes and no. And then I make the mistake of mentioning I left the house this morning before Dad was up. You were going away again? He was worried you were dead and he hasnt even seen you yet. I mean, I know I dont see eye to eye with my father all the time, but Jesus Christ! You should forget the band practice and just go home now. Hell be waiting for you. Yeah, right. So did your old man ever punch you in the face? Watching her reaction. Didnt mention that, did he? Thought not. Merlin and Eric arrive together so the discussions over. It takes a Suze and me a while to settle into the band practice, but weve got our big anti-tour gig middle of next week, it turns out, so its a matter of concentrating and getting down to it. Im surprisingly focused and so are the others, and it feels good to just play again. We run through our whole set twice, including a new song Merlin and Suze put together in my absence. Merlin shows me what to play and Suze sings it. Shes great. Its great. Were ready.

Scraper

James Gilberd

135

Afterwards, when the others have left, Suze suggests we go for a coffee at some new place thats open evenings. Shes changed her tune from earlier, at least. After ten days alone I cant get enough of company, even if were not how we were. Its close by, so we walk. No holding hands, no contact, just two people. So if this cafe is new, it looks like theyve furnished it for about forty dollars, like The Underground, by scavenging in skips and scrounging round op shops. None of the old Formica tables or vinyl chairs match and our cups and saucers are from four different sets. Coffees good though, really strong and smooth, out of this massive shiny chrome machine that probably did cost a bomb. The talks all this mini-tour Suze has been arranging, kicking off straight after our next gig. Theres still a few loose ends, things to finalise and confirm now that Im back in circulation, but shes managed to get us into four venues in four towns in a week. I reckon its going to be great, cruising into town with all four of us and all the instruments stuffed in the van, like a real band. Then back to sorting me out Right, well what are you going to do tonight? You said you werent ready to go back home just yet. I was planning on sleeping in the van. I brought blankets and stuff. Dad will probably be drunk again by now, so I might put in an appearance early afternoon Sunday. Theres usually a couple of hours grace between the worst of one hangover and getting started on the next. What about the practice room? We can pull the sofas together, keep each other warm. Didnt think youd want to. I didnt mean wed have sex.

Scraper

James Gilberd

136

Well Id be into that not having sex, I mean. Thats if I can manage to nod off with a thumping great hard on. Turns out Suze is actually pretty interested in what it was like underground, so we get another round of the delicious coffee and I start to tell her. And show her, by opening my now severely battered lyric book to the page of my first map. Which isnt there! There are just slivers of paper left near the binding; you can see where a sharp knifes been run along. Even my drawing of their symbols gone. The Coopers! I didnt just dream them. Followed by more explaining. Eventually, when its all out, Suzes appetite for fantasys aroused and she suggests we go to a movie. Theres a paper at the next table so I grab it to see whats on. Basically its wall-to-wall crap, or weve already seen it, like The Shining. I could put up with going to that again, but Suze points out a double feature of this Italian director, Antonioni or something. Sounds arty-farty. Its miles out in the suburbs Theres a bus stop just outside. Itll be all subtitles. They vanish before I can read them. Blow Ups in English. Its all about reality, wondering if things actually happened or notright up your alley by the sound of things. And the other ones just about protesting and sex in the desert set to rock music, it says. Im convinced. We drain our coffees and run for the bus thats just appeared. Later, back at the practice room, Ive still got Pink Floyds Zabriskie Point soundtrack playing in my head. Those were totally the wrong films to see if youre going to spend the night cuddled up to a gorgeous girl you cant have sex with. Suze falls asleep no problem, of course, and Im lumbered with the predicted boner. No choice if I want any sleep; I gently turn away from her and ever so quietly take care of

Scraper

James Gilberd

137

myself. First time in a fortnight, which is a record for me. Record quantity too. God, what a mess.

Leave Home

Suze gets me to let her out of the van a little way up the road, since she phoned her olds and said she was spending the night at Diannes. I remember how it felt dropping her off home after wed really spent the night together, when leaving her for the day made me ache. Anyway its Sunday now so Id better get on with what I said Id do; go home and see Dad. The Springboks arrive in the country tomorrow and thatll make things impossible, so todays the day. I start off down the hill and then remember Merlin lives a couple of streets below, so I decide to see if hes home. Ah, the delights of procrastination, he greets me with. Turns out hes just looking for an excuse to abandon his essay on Plato, so were somewhat in the same boat, althoughand I dont know much about the great philosopher except that he had big feetId rather deal with Plato than Dad any day. So while Merlins upstairs raiding the fridge for Steinies, I put his new Joy Division album on the turntable. Once weve been through Unknown Pleasures twice and the twelve-inch of Love Will Tear Us Apart three times, Im ripped to shreds. The emotional intensity of the vocals, the bass guitar as a frontline instrument, the urban wasteland atmosphere of Martin Hannetts production; it all restores my faith in the bog standard guitar/bass/drums lineup by taking it into totally new territory. And on a decent, imported hi-fi system, its like having the band in the room with us. Its a hundred

Scraper

James Gilberd

138

times better than the antique radiogram in my bedroom, limping along at about two watts per channel. Merlins mum Helen interrupts, asking if Id like to stay for dinner, an invitation I gratefully accept. Dad will have to wait till later tonight. After shaving properly with a razor borrowed from MerlinI was surprised he shavedits upstairs for a meal. As I sit and rub my silky chin, Helen apologises about it only being a beef curry. I say that it would count as exotic round our place, and that the one and only time Mum made a curry Dad called it foreign muck and refused to eat it. Helen laughs at that. She looks younger than my mum, and I can see where Merlin gets his babysmooth skin and almost Asian cheekbones. Shes wearing this denim skirt that goes below her knees, but its split up to the hip so I keep glimpsing naked thigh as she works around in the kitchen. Her T-shirt doesnt hide much either, as shes not wearing a bra. With the house being centrally heated, she goes about like its midsummer rather than mid-winter. Unfortunately, while trying not to get caught looking, Im getting a bit aroused by Helen Henderson. I wonder if its showing. A glance down says yes, but then staring at Merlins dirty, veiny bare feet for a few seconds is a more than sufficient cure for the oncoming erection. I wonder how Merlin sees her. Come to think of it, Ive never noticed him taking an interest in girls in any way. Suppose thats because hes such an intellectual, spending all his time inside his own head. Merlin and Helen agree the second bottle of red wines particularly good, much better than the first, which we had with dinner. I cant tell the difference, but I am getting quietly sozzled. Think we all are. Then the dreaded topic of the Springbok tour rears its head. Not sure who started itmightve been mebut its OK because were all on the same side.

Scraper

James Gilberd

139

Im looking forward to the protest on Wednesday night. Are you going Steve? You know hes not going Mum, weve got that gig thing afterwards, so we have to be there early to set up. Otherwise wed all be on the march together. Therell still be marches to go on when we get back from our own little tour, I say, But right now the bands more important. We can do our bit with music. It would be nice if the whole thing was over by then. If the government sees sense, theyll call it off, Helen says. I think they see themselves winning the next election on the back of the tour going ahead no matter what, Merlin says. I notice he doesnt use man around the house much. Hes been following things closer than I have, going to all the meetings at the varsity, along with Eric and Annette. I dont feel like I know much about it, next to him, but Im in no doubt were in the right. Its the reason I dont really want to go home at the moment. Dads all for the rugby, so it just turns into a huge argument. Helen looks at Merlin and Merlin gives this little nod that Im not supposed to notice. Youre quite welcome to stay here for a few nights Steve, at least until you boys go on your trip. You can sleep in the tower. Its got a great view. Im surprised by the offer. I hope she doesnt think I was angling for it, but its just the job. Ill ring Mum and tell her. Shell at least be happy Im not living in a cardboard box under the railway bridge. Or in a brown paper bag in a septic tank, Merlin adds, which cracks both of them up.

Scraper

James Gilberd

140

Crocodiles

Monday, I wake up with a cracking headache and a vague memory of climbing the spiral stairs on hands and knees. The view, on all four sides, is something to prise my eyes open for, as Helen said it would be. I can make out Meadowlea Grove and home, and I imagine Mum and Dad at yet another sombre breakfast. Thomas will already be on his way to school. And all I have to do today is find a job. With no real skills, and unemployment on the rise, it should be simple enough. Monday opens out before me like the Grand Canyon, but somewhat less inspiring. After Ive showered and got a couple of Disprins and some pretty reasonable percolator coffee on board, Helen gives Merlin and me a lift into town in the Jag. But before that was the phone call home, which I thought Id better make, finally. Thomas answers. His head sounds bunged up. Having a sickie? Steeb? Yeah, whod you think? Your teacher, wondering why youre not at school? Why dont you want to watch me play rugby anymore? Fuck. I think about just saying I have to be at band practice Saturday afternoons, which is kind of true. Um, its not that simple Tell me. Well, you know how Dad keeps saying how politics has no place in sport. Its just that I dont happen to agree with him. You mean my junior rugby games have something to do with Apartheid in South Africa?

Scraper

James Gilberd

141

I was wrong about the nuclear physics, hes going to be a lawyer. Well, when you put it like that it sounds a bit funny. But yes. Its the principal. I think I understand. Mr Woods explained it to us. He said hes been going on the protests. Are you going Steve? Yeah, but dont tell Dad. Mum there? I explain to her Ill be staying at Merlins for the rest of the week, before we go away for another week with the band, but shes not to let my room to anyone. Dont hang up Steve. Talk to your father. Hes been worried about you. Before I can make some excuse, Dads got the receiver. Really sorry I belted you one, son. I dont want you to feel you have to stay away because of it. Ive even got three tickets to the test match. Sounds like Mums holding a loaded rolling pin to his head. Dad, you know Im sticking by what I said. No more rugby, not even a test match. Best not mention Ill be on the big protest march that day. Thomas will be disappointed. I told him youd be going. Sorry, but hell have to get used to it. Silence, then sucking in of breath at both ends of the line. By the way, any sign of work? I was going to try to find another job, but if theres some electrical work going God, where did that come from? Wish there was, son. Wish there was. Does that mean you wish there was some work, or you wish I could still work with you? Well have to see. Trish has invited Bob Matheson and his wife over for tea, and Im supposed to Ill try to sort things out.

Scraper

James Gilberd

142

I laugh. You didnt half give him a shiner, eh? I saw it. Probably not the smartest thing to say, but it gets a laugh out of Dad. Hope Mum didnt overhear. Well good luck finding a job, son. Its a bit grim out there you know. I know. Seeya Dad. Hope it goes well with Matheson and that. Why dont you come over too? Wednesday night. Trish is doing one of her roasts. Sorry, but the bands got a big gig on. Could be a few hundred people there. Really? Well, good luck for it. He doesnt need to know its an anti-tour gig. Matheson will probably be on the protest march that evening too, so it could get interesting round the dinner table after. Theres another Good luck son from the old man before he hangs up. I dont know what to feel. After dropping Merlin at varsity, Helen asks me where Id like to be let off. Let off? I was hoping youd just drive me round in this thing all day and I could wave out the window at all the plebs on the street. I do a royal wave for effect. At least I arrive at the Unemployment Office in style. Inside, the first person I run into is Chaz. Been on the dole long? Its my first time here, I say, to be polite. Actually Im looking to take someone on, but they keep sending me bungas and fuckin coconuts. Just come down to have a word with them about it. Chaz talks pretty loud, not caring who he offends. About half the people in the room, by the looks. Take someone on for what? Oh, I manage this timber yard. Family business, so its mine when the old bastard carks it. Shouldnt be long now.

Scraper

James Gilberd

143

Didnt imagine Chaz would even have a job, never mind run a business. I hold both hands out, palms up, and shrug my shoulders. I watch his face as the penny slowly drops. Hey, youre white. Got a drivers license too, eh? What a bit of luck. Back at Merlins later, Im babbling on about what a great day I had, getting to drive the flat-deck out to building sites round town, saying how Chaz is going to pay for me to get my HV license so I can take the big truck out. Youre working for that Skinhead? Helen Henderson looks blankly at her son. I dont think shes aware of what the Skins are about. Look, I dont give a rats. Its just a job. Thats what Hitlers minions said. Its not cool. Hes not getting me to burn down Indian dairies or anything. Thats not the point, its Merlin, thats enough thank you. Im pleased you found a job Steve, and the fact that youre going on the protest marches shows you have principles. Now lets talk about something else. When I get paid, Ill give you something for board. I did at home. She refuses for now, but says that if I want to stay on as a boarder after our road trip, we can discuss it, because she could use the extra money. Its roast chicken tonight, and Merlins friend from varsity, Marty, is here too. Theyve been down in his room working on some computer programming thing on Merlins VIC-20. Smoking dope, more like.

Scraper

James Gilberd

144

Anyway, I seem to have landed on my feet. Im sure Merlin would have some kind of hippy explanation for it, serendipity or karma or whatever. That episode underground has the distant feeling of a nightmare now, or something that happened to someone else. Few more meals like this and Ill have put back the stone of weight I lost. And with Suze relatively friendly again, for the first time in ages, things is looking up.

Sound Affects

Wednesday night, and were the first band on, so the last to soundcheck. And its a super quick check because everythings running late. Were due back on stage in five minutes. Backstage, downing a beer to calm the nerves, I hear from Annette that people are arriving from the protest and saying things got ugly. Minutes later, Im approaching the mike and feeling a tad nervous about the size of the crowd, already three-hundred and climbing. Wondering whether I should say something or just start playing, I notice a girl down the front with a great bleeding gash where her hair meets her forehead. She holds her hand out for me to help her onto the stage. Thinking she needs an ambulance more than she needs to be up here with me, I grab her bloody hand and lift. Shes so light. She reaches for the mike but stumbles against me, close to passing out. I put one arm round her to support her and I get her the mike. The police just attacked us. It was peaceful protest and look what they did. Im just a girl. Speaking through tears, pointing at her forehead, Im only sixteen and look what they did!

Scraper

James Gilberd

145

Looking around the staring faces in the crowd, this girls not the only one whos been hurt. I feel a tap on my shoulder. The organiser bloke. Ill look after her. Youd better just play something. Not White Riot though. His Irish accent makes it Whoyt Royit. So we play something. We go straight into our anti-apartheid number, Hope I Live. Merlins buggered about with it so we sound something like UB40 but the crowd seems to like it anyway. In fact they lap it up. Hope they go for the rest of our set as much. Song over, and a chant starts in the back of the crowd, spreading fast to include everyone: Shame! Shame! Shame! Shame! I hope its not directed at us. Suze is looking about as uncomfortable as I feel, but Merlins his usual relaxed self. He plays a couple of rhythmic chords to the chant. Eric, ever alert, picks up on it and adds some syncopation. Suze and I find our way in, and when things seem to be sitting well enough I hit the mike and echo the chant. The crowd goes ballistic and shouts even louder, competing with the massive PA system and winning. Im suddenly worried the organisers going to pull the plug. But when I catch sight of him at the side of the stage hes punching the air and shouting loud as anyone. Stuck for something to sing, I bring back the words of Hope I Live, but with my original lyrics that Merlin criticised for being too direct and preachy. That doesnt matter here. I didnt even notice the TV cameras until one of them comes right up under my nose. Later, Suze says they caught the whole thing from when the girl got onstage. Back at Merlins after, still bouncing off the walls, and fuck me, were on the late news! My face fills the screen. Strange feeling. Wonder if Dads watching this.

Scraper

James Gilberd

146

Helen was on the march, far enough back to not get batoned, but she saw the police attack. Shes beside herself, slender arms waving. Youre it boys, shes going on, Youre the soundtrack for the whole protest movement! Coffee perc bubbling and clattering in the background, the three of us are huddled round the kitchen table writing a new anti apartheid song. We move through to the piano room and Merlin and Helen start throwing chords around, mostly ones Ive not heard of. Wish I hadnt left my guitar at the practice room, but I can just about keep up. I crawl up into my tower at about five AM, the new song and the nights events still rocketing around in my brain.

Loaded

Finally, pulling out from the warehouse with the whole band and all the gear on board, heading for the motorway; its a great feeling. The Bedford strains so I stick to the lower gear for now, but I know its going to handle this trip. Well, I dont so much know, I have Faith. Erics had to wrench himself away from Annette for the week, after being told theres no room for her in the van, so hes a bit quiet. Well, more still than quiet. First time Ive seen him not fidgeting. Merlins asleep in the front seat, far side of Suze, his head gently bouncing against the window. I wish the Bedford had a tape deck, then we could play some decent music instead of the commercial shit on AM radio. As it is, Im totally chuffed at going away on tour as a band, with Suze organising everything, with getting on the telly, with my new job at Chazs yard and him giving me time off, with staying at the Hendersons place. But when I rang Rave to explain why Id missed our date, she plain refused to believe me. Not a peep since. Now it

Scraper

James Gilberd

147

almost feels like it could work again, with Suze that is, but well see how things pan out. A morning on the road and we stop for petrol. The band fund coughs for some lunch from the nearby tea roomspies for the boys, a filled roll for the girl and terrible, stale coffee all round. The owner of this place looks like shell be happy when we leave. Another round of her coffee would do the trick. I imagine shes heard of punks and the chaos they cause wherever they go, but has never actually seen any before, not in this neck of the woods. I suggest to Suze that we leave her a tip on the table, for a joke, but shes ruling the band fund with an iron fist. The tip will just have to be not smashing the place up. Four oclock Friday afternoon, we hit town. We do a couple of circuits of the square before stopping to ask some kids with bikes where the hall isare you guys a band?and find out its a fair way up some back road. The decrepit wooden hall stands on its own (just), front doors flung open to the icy wind. Theres a Holden station wagon and a motorbike outside, which must belong to the local band, The Air Spiders. Its even colder inside the hall than out. Four people are onstage checking the mikes. I wave and a voice booms out (with the ring of feedback), You must be Scrapper. Great you made it out here. I dont bother to correct him. Once weve shifted our gear in, we stand round and listen to the Spiders play a few bits of songs for a soundcheck. Theyre surprisingly good for such a hick place. Suppose theyve got nothing else to do round here but perfect their playing. Then its our turn, and theres a sense of competition. Rather than play something were still working on, as Merlin suggests, I call a song

Scraper

James Gilberd

148

weve got down pat. I get the usual black look from him but Im learning to ignore them. We nail it and I feel confident again. Everything sounds fine, or at least it will when theres a crowd in the hall to soak up the echo. Russ, the Spiders singer, says hes not hungryhe can never eat before a gigso the rest of us pile into the Bedford and head back to town for fish and chips while Russ minds the gear and the hall. Its too cold out, so the newspaper wrapping is opened in the middle of the vans floor and we all squeeze round and hoe in. The smell of fish, vinegar and six males thickens the air. Suze grabs a bit of fish and clambers over the front to open a window. Shes bombarded by complaints about the cold but she tells us all to get stuffed because she cant breathe. Im loving every minute of the day so far. I smile at Suze through the steam and she smiles back. Their drummer dives out and returns in minutes with two dozen blue Steinies, saying to make sure we save some for Russ. I just halve one with Suze because Ive got to navigate the van back to the hall in the dark, and I imagine the country cops will be keeping an eye on the road, knowing whats going on out there tonightthere are posters all over town. Erics got this little Kodak and a flashcube, so we pile out of the van and have photos taken in front of a wall of Suzes posters; one of the lot of us (minus Eric) and one just of Scraper, taken by the other drummer. Call it late in the piece, but this is our first ever band photo. Hope it comes out. Caught in our headlights outside the hall are Russ, a cop and another man. The singer looks despondent. The cop walks up to the van and I wind down the window. Are you Steve Bryant? Are you lot Scarper? I cant be bothered correcting him so I just nod.

Scraper

James Gilberd

149

Sorry boys, but youll have to pack your instruments up and clear off. Youre not going to be playing tonight. Im too gobsmacked to speak, so Suze leans over. Weve driven all day to get here. Whats the problem? Youre that anti-tour band. Youll cause a riot. Its not the big smoke here you know. People in this town are all of the same opinion and I dont want any trouble. Were not an anti-tour band, officer. I have no idea who you mean. Come off it. Thrusting his thick finger in my face, I saw him all over the news the other night. Now load your van up and bugger off. I know were not going to win this argument, even with Suze on our side. Yeah OK, no need to point. That was me. Weve got two anti-apartheid songs. Thats anti-apartheid, not anti-tour, but youve obviously made your mind up without even hearing us. Lets get the gear packed up lads. Russ comes over and argues the case for his band to play, trying to salvage something from hiring the PA system and the hall. The other man, the hall caretaker, is fine with that and so is the cop. At least thats something. Are we allowed to stay and watch, officer? Suze says. OK, youve been good about it. So long as you dont get on stage, I suppose that cant do any harm. Phils going to be keeping an eye out, and if theres even a hint of trouble, Ill be round to arrest the lot of you for incitement. So we stay. Its not a bad night, plenty of free booze about, but Im itching to get up and play and I reckon the others are too, even Merlin. Suze and some of the Spiders girlfriends have a bit of a dance but its not really me so I leave them to it.

Scraper

James Gilberd

150

Im busy wondering if the same things going to happen in the next three towns and the whole thing will be for nothing. Word travels fast out in these parts, probably. Afterwards were shown to a cabin in a paddock behind the hall, probably shearers accommodation, and we make the best of it. I hear the others breathing steadily, asleep in their bunks, but I spend most of the night listening to the wind and an occasional morepork, and shivering. I wouldnt half like to be in Suzes sleeping bag, cuddled up against her smooth, soft skin. I whisper that thought into the air a few times but shes either asleep or awake and ignoring me.

Adventure

Morning, and theres no showers, which seems to bother Suze more than the rest of us. We head straight back into town, stomachs growling. Being Saturday theres nothing much open, so its pies from the dairy and taking turns for a whores bath using the service station toilets hand basin, which is pretty disgusting even by my standards and doesnt even have hot water. Suze comes out of there fuming. Wed better stay somewhere decent tonight or Im catching a bus home. Next little town, and we cruise round the square and its war memorial until we find a caf open. More filter coffee. Im sick of pies and chips and the taste of all the shit I usually eat so I get a filled roll. Suze feels my forehead to check Im not running a temperature. After lunch, Suze says shes feeling slightly less grumpy, so its time to do her manager act and get on the phone to the other venues. Minutes later she bursts from the phone box, fuming afresh. Anyone got a fag?

Scraper

James Gilberd

151

Im surprised. You dont smoke. Do you? Well I used to and now Im starting again. She hurries over the road to the diary and returns with a packet of Rothmans and a box of matches, a lit ciggy already stuck in her face. She offers the packet round but no takers. I ask, So whats the story? Are you going to give me a hard time about ruining my health? I mean about the rest of the tour. Oh. Well, tonights venue, the manager said the same as the cop last night, so no luck there. No answer from the fourth place, and Im not optimistic about that one, but town number threes all go. Apparently the pub manager theres anti-tour, and his brother-in-laws the local police sergeant, so things are under control in that department. Not all cops are pro-tour, he told me. OK. Trouble is, we cant afford to stay anywhere much tonight if we dont get paid to play, and I doubt even our anti-tour man will want to shout us three nights, so what do we do in the meantime? We might as well just go home, forget the whole thing. Its hardly worth driving any farther for one measly gig. I didnt expect Suze to come out that negatively but I dont really blame her. Looking round the rest of them, Erics picking at a pimple on his cheek and Merlins gazing off into space, distracted by some obscure species of bird life or something. Look, weve already come most of the way, I say. If theres somewhere cheap we can stay I reckon we should push on. If you can get us a place with hot showers for under fifteen bucks a night, youre on. Otherwise we head home. Deal?

Scraper

James Gilberd

152

Ive found service station attendants to be pretty helpful sort of characters, and this ones no exception. I come back with directions to something called Henrys Ski Resort and Health Spa. And if its where he says it is and not a hundred miles further, I dont see how it could be any kind of ski lodge. Someones got their wires crossed and my money says its Henry. Its getting gloomy and were still trying to find the place, if it even exists. This road is deeply unfamiliar, with spooky overhanging trees blocking the last evening light off the road. Climbing further into the hills and we havent seen another car for an hour, or any sign of life for that matter, not even a sheep. Im starting to think the petrol jockey was having us on, sending us into the twilight zone. And now the temp gauge is riding high, dammit. Just as Im about to pull over and pop the bonnet to let the Bedford cool we come to a gravel side-road with a hand-painted sign pointing to Henrys, and half a shuddering mile along it is our accommodation. Hanging on ten foot hurricane fence topped with barbed wire is a Vacancy sign with a permanent look to it. The gates been left open wide enough to ease the van through. What is this, man? Stalag thirteen? Merlin says from over the back. Its a ski lodge, obviously. Havent you been to one before? Im learning this from Suze. All the way up the shingle driveway bare branches swat the windscreen and drag their winter fingers over the vans paintwork. We emerge from the trees to face a vast, Gothic wooden building. Stalag thirteen? I say. More like fucking Colditz. The place looks deserted. I drive up close and can just make out the carved lettering above the entrance; Sunny Vale Asylum for the Insane. Perfect, this is just us.

Scraper

James Gilberd

153

Theres something written on a scrap of cardboard impaled on a nail in the door. I stop the engine and hop out to read it. Rooms $10 pur nite, sleep 6. Make your self at home. Gone to town to sort out me dads funerill. The door swings open with a predictable creak. Apparently theres no one else here, so of course we have to go poking around before Henry gets back. Erics already got a blanket and pillow from the van and hes hobbling about on the dark staircase like Quasimodo. As I wander back out to the van, theres the sound of tyres on shingle. A battered Toyota Landcruiser pulls up in a skid and a small, leathery man in a Swandri leans out the window. You fellas comfy there? Need anythink? Sitting up precariously in the tray of the Landcruiser is a coffin. This place is great. Wed like to stay two nights, four of us, if thats OK, I say, assuming this is Henry. Dunno. Pretty full. Couple coachloads of yanks coming in tonight. Really? Nah! Henry laughs, showing more gaps than teeth. But I was about to brew up. Fancy a cuppa? Youre a mind reader. Over the pot of tea, the subject of Henrys fathers death inevitably arises. Um, your dads not in that coffin now, is he? I venture. Henry rocks back laughing, his wooden chair at tipping point. Nah. The old bastards at home in his armchair. Snuffed it watching the races. His horse came in too, would you believe. Wouldnt the undertaker pick him up?

Scraper

James Gilberd

154

Them undertakers cost money, they do. Got that there coffin off me neighbour. Only used once. More huge laughter. Nah, just joking. He bought it for himself years ago when he were a bit crook. Fit as a fiddle now, so I talk him round to letting me have it for a song. As the five of us slowly drain the enormous aluminium teapot, the details of Henrys fathers funeral arrangements are revealed. Henrys seen to everything by himself, it turns out, saving a bundle. Im wondering if thats even legal, and Im scared to ask where hes planning to bury the old man, thinking, them cemetery plots cost money, they do. Henry says hes making up a big batch of spag bog later, a dollar for all you can eat, which sounds like a good offer, and its probably the only food available in a forty mile radius anyway. Suze parts with fourteen dollars and then we unload our stuff into a big room on the first floor. Sleeps six? You could fit twenty in here no trouble, if there were ever a need to, and there must be at least a dozen more rooms just as big. I ask Henry if its OK if we bring our band gear in and set up for a jam. Love you to, boy. Shake the old ghosts up a bit eh? So we do, and we cant get rid of Henry without being rude. Hes sitting on my bunk and slapping his thigh in time like hes at some country hoedown. Eventually Suze makes a gentle enquiry as to when this spaghetti bolognaise might be ready and Henry excuses himself and heads off to the kitchen. Good management skills. Later, worn out from the day and stuffed to the gunwales with Henrys cooking, theres nothing to do but drink beer and tell ghost stories, and Henrys got a good supply of both. Even later, curled up in my sleeping bag, Im awake to all the

Scraper

James Gilberd

155

strange sounds of the ancient building. Eventually Ill need to go out for a piss and Im not looking forward to finding my way down the dark hallway to the bog. In the morning, which by the time were all showered and dressed has become the afternoon, we drink several gallons of tea then decide to go for a look round the building and the grounds. Before he drove off, Henry said its fine to go exploring we wont be disturbing anyone except ghosts. I manage to swing it so Eric and Merlin go off in one direction and Suze and I the other. Sharp as ever, she spots Im angling for something and she clams up. The awkward silence persists as we wander through what used to be a formal garden. The surviving roses have gone feral, snaking through the native trees that have overtaken everything. Iron spirals of decorative gates and rusty railing spikes poke through here and there. Hedges you couldve once stepped over are impenetrable masses. My bladders keen to empty itself of three mugs of tea and I cant be bothered hiking back to the main building so I duck round behind a skeletal, overgrown glasshouse and let go. My stream against a stalactite of broken pane causes it to ring, but the proximity of the dangerous edges makes me uneasy so I take a step back. Suze appears behind me before Ive finished. About the only thing its handy to be male for, eh? At least shes broken the silence. Suze, that night we spent together at the practice room.... Well, you wouldnt have stayed with me there if you still really hated me, would you? You want us to get back together, is that what youre saying? Suppose so. This isnt coming out well, even though Ive had plenty of time to think it through. I mean, yesI do. The skinny bitch is out of the frame now?

Scraper

James Gilberd

156

She was never even in it. Youre denying you slept with her? I spot a lichen-covered wooden bench so I go and sit on it, leaving space for Suze, but she holds her ground. The low winter suns right in my face and shes a fuzzy silhouette. I was just bloody stupid. Its like the bright lights of an interrogation, but it was my idea to sit here. So how do I know it wont happen again, next time my backs turned. Youre a famous rock star now so theres going to be more girls. Youre in the band too you know. Dont you think the boys fancy you? What about Keef? Fuck, Im just being dumb now. Im blowing it. Are you serious? Do you want to discuss this or not? Yeah, sorry. What I really want to say is that I wont be doing anything like that again. Youre the one for me, Suze, and Im sure of that now, finally. But you had to try someone else first, just to convince yourself. Youre not making this easy, but if you want me to say it I am in love with you. There is no one else and there never will be. Its wonderful to finally hear that, but I dont believe you. I am in love with you I heard myself say it but Im not sure I believe it either. But at the same time I know Im not lying. At some level, from some part of me, it is the real, guttural truth. I wish I could explain the contradiction. I cant talk, I cant even think like she can. When I try to everything just gets more confused. So I just sit there and drop my eyes away from the sun and away from Suze. Eventually, she comes and sits beside me. The problem, Steve, is whatever you really want, you havent got the slightest idea how to love me. Its not that youre useless at sex. Actually I guess youre pretty good. But you dont even love yourself. I

Scraper

James Gilberd

157

mean, what was all that business of hiding out in those tunnels? Youve no idea how worried I was about you. I just wanted to vanish, to be a ghost. I thought by the time I came back up things wouldve changed somehow. And that I wouldve changed too. But you didnt give a moments thought to how it affected anyone else. Cant you see? You dont really care about me at all. Or your own family for that matter. You dont even care about yourself, all you care about is music and this band. Your band. What surprised me most was that you missed a practice. Look, I dont expect to be forgiven overnight, but if we can just stay together as we are, just for now, that would be great. As I say this, what she just said is sinking in. Ive thought about itIve thought about little else actuallyand Ive realised that Ill just never be able to trust you again, Steve. You did it with someone else once, the first girl who came along and flashed her long legs at you, and no matter what you say or even what you think, youll do it again. Silence. I got into Raves car and if I hadnt been lost underground I wouldve most likely gone back to her place that Friday and got into her bed. What about if we give it some time, see if youre right or wrong? Pathetic, but its the best I can manage. Im so useless at this. No, Ive made up my mind. I know Im right about you, Steve Bryant. Anyway, I might not want to wait around watching you live a monk-like existence for years to prove yourself. I might have other prospects. This actually hurts, like physical pain. I try to recover with a sort-of joke. Looks like Ill just have to take care of myself for the foreseeable future then.

Scraper

James Gilberd

158

Serious expression. Like the other night, you mean? Followed by a burst of laughter. You were awake? Oh shit. Im laughing now and the shift feels strange. I imagine monks do that too, followed by bouts of whipping themselves. When I recover, You know, Merlin has this saying, masturbation is the thief of time. Isnt that procrastination? Youve never caught me procrastinating, have you? Talk of the devil. Merlin appears, along with Eric. Apparently theres some dope goingMerlins brought his stash with him, or maybe he got it from one of the Spiders. I havent smoked pot for agesgone a bit against the stuff actuallybut suddenly getting stoned sounds like the best idea ever. And lucky theres a good supply, because I reckon Henrys going to be into a smoke by the time he gets back from burying his poor old dad. Itll be our way for paying him back for the beer. The jam we start up once were all well off our faces sounds like the best weve ever played and Eric reckons we should always get stoned before we play. Merlin knows better. Yeah, it sounds really cool at the time, but dont be fooled man, its complete shit. I know from bitter experience. Well I enjoyed it. Music just flowed out of my whole body and through my hands as if I could really play the guitar, like I could suddenly speak through the thing so much more clearly than with words. I realise it may never happen again but it felt great while it lasted. Mind you, Merlins probably right. Like Suze, he usually is, even if he is a hippy. Anyway, well head over the hills to the gig tomorrow and keep our heads clear for it. In the meantime, this state of being is fine. You make your own fun in the country.

Scraper

James Gilberd

159

When Henry returns at dusk he looks a bit thoughtful and subdued. I suddenly feel terrible because we didnt even offer to go with him to the funeral. Bet thered be no one else there, just Henry with his old dad in a box, facing a hole in the ground that he probably dug himself with a pick and spade. Poor, lonely old bugger. Anyway, its spag bog again but nobodys complaining. In fact were not half peckish.

Love Zombies

I was a bit hard on him. Once I get started its hard to stop. It did the trick though, put him on the spot. I made him say it while backed into a corner; it was his only way out. I guess thats partly why I didnt believe him. The thing is, now I kind of do believe him. If he was the sort of person who says I love you without meaning it, then he wouldve come out with it ages ago. From what Ive heard, most guys will say it just so they can have their way with you. Giving him some credit, he couldnt have picked a more romantic setting; it was like a Jane Austen novel. Still, I couldnt imagine Mr Darcy urinating in front of Miss Bennett. But I can imagine the mental patients working in the garden for therapy, how beautiful the tended roses and hedgerows wouldve looked back then. I wonder if Henry will ever restore this place to its former glory. Look at him, curled up in his sleeping bag. The others are asleep but I doubt he his. Probably still mulling over this afternoon, what he should have said. Boys are different. What they do is sometimes more important to them than the people around them. He is on a kind of mission with his music, and I suppose hes frustrated because nobody else seems to understand how important it is to him. Its funny being in the band now, being a real part of it, more than just the manager. I mean, its kind of cool, and differentbut I dont really need

Scraper

James Gilberd

160

it. I dont think I truly understand how much it does mean to him, how much he needs it to go somewhere. Im always going to be kind of secondary to that. I whisper, Steve, are you awake? Nothing, but the second time, Suze? Its freezing in here. Im coming over. Well, its true. I unzip my bag, climb down from the bunk and creep across, hoping the others dont notice. His sleeping bags a bit of a squeeze for both of us, but I dont mind. His body moulds against me from behind, and the little chaps knocking on the back door straight away. I know that its largely involuntaryits got its own little brain, like he saidbut its kind of nice. I miss saying hello to it. I tell him were just going to get warm and stay cosy, nothing else. You know that and I know that, he whispers, But the one-eyed trouser snake doesnt understand. Sorry. Silence, just his breathing close to my ear. His nose must be blocked. Then, still whispered, I meant what I said before. I feel the warmth of a tear on my cold cheek. His or mine? We lie awake. We dont move.

Trust

Henrys viciously strong coffee wakes me up enough to take on the drive to the next town. We promise to drop in on the way back, fill him in on how the gig and everything went. Mustve been his first guests for a while, poor chap, and hes obviously still a bit down about his old man. Maybe well stay another night before the long drive home. But we leave the loony bin behind for now and hit the road. The Bedfords relatively eager after its rest, starting no problem despite a coating of ice. Another two

Scraper

James Gilberd

161

hundred bucks and its all mine. Should manage to pay Dad off by the end of August, all going well at the timber yard. We pull into town too early, judging by the size of the place. Were going to have the whole afternoon to kill and theres just a main street of boring shops. But were handy to the sea so we can go down there and relax for a bit after we get sorted at the pub. The pubs a typical two-story wooden job, the local brand of piss in large letters on its brown iron roof. Its hard to see where our audience is going to come from round here, but Suze reckons itll be great. Shes got more faith in country folk than I have. Funny thing, in a place like this, is the pub owners as gay as they come. Nice chap though, Warren, making sure weve got everything we need, as well as a proper hot lunch and a round of beers. Revived, we set up and have a quick soundcheck. Some white-haired old bugger at the bar cracks up at the sight of us and starts giving Warren a hard time. Thought the Sex Pistols had split up. What you got em here for? The James Last Orchestra wouldnt fit on the stage, so shut up and pay for your beer you old scrounger. And Warren assures us therell be a younger crowd round who are not particular about their brand of rock as long as its loud. I make some assurances about the volume before we leave our gear and pile into the van for our trip down to the beach. Seeing theres miles of uninterrupted sand in both directions, we choose to head into the southerly so itll be easier on the way back. But after a while Im sick of it. Theres a limit to how much fresh air you can take when its being forced down your throat at fifty miles an hour. Eric spots an old gun emplacement up a bit of a rise

Scraper

James Gilberd

162

and hes all keen to go for a look. Luckily theres another one farther down the beach, so I suggest he and Merlin explore that while Suze and I go up to the nearer one. Eric doesnt take the hint but Merlin grabs his arm and drags him off. Our bunker obviously once housed a big gun, commanding the horizon. Theres a room to one side, which we duck into to get fully out of the wind. The insides covered in graffiti, lots of racist stuff. I wonder if they have skinheads out here too. Then theres this square hole in the floor with a rusty ladder. Im down it without hesitation. Suze waits above, and when my feet hit solid concrete I ask her to chuck me her matches for some light. It turns out to be only a single small room, probably where they kept the ammo. As Suze (eventually) comes down, her foot misses the bottom rung and I catch her. Jesus! I dont fancy this kind of thing, but I want to keep an eye on you. Cant have you disappearing for another fortnight. No chance of that here. I strike a fresh match. Hey, dont use them all. I fancy a fag. You want to pop back to the pub and see Warren then? She thumps me. I light her cigarette and we skooch down in the dark while she consumes it. Shes not the first person to grab a smoke down here; its the local hang out, with old school chairs and a broken table, piles of empty booze bottles, chip papers and hundreds of butts. We listen to the booming of the surf, deepened by the concrete chambers acoustics. Suze lights a second smoke. Want a drag? Im about to refuse but decide itd be nice to share. Havent tasted tobacco since wagging to smoke in the school toilets when I was about Thomass age. Never got into it. Think the others will be back soon?

Scraper

James Gilberd

163

Nah, theyll be ages. Just the rumble of surf and the minute glow of the cigarette, then darkness. I feel strangely relaxed. Our bodies slightly touch but theres no tension left between us. Its over properly now and we both know it.

Music for Pleasure

The first set goes off perfectly. Weve never sounded so together, a combination of practicing at Henrys and really wanting to get on stage. And Warren was right about the crowd; they dont look or dress much like us lot but theyre not half into it, as much as any crowd back in town. During the break, armed with another round of beers from Warren, we meet the local band. Seems every little town has one, but its always good to talk to people whore really into their music. Their drummer, it turns out, is a huge fan of The Clash and The Jam. I tell him about Joy Division and hes shoving thirty dollars at me to buy him the records and post them out. Trusting, these country folk. I make the excuse that Ill forget or lose his address, but really I just dont want the responsibility. Suze reaches across and grabs the notes from him. Ill handle it for you. I work in a record shop. And as she writes down his address she says to me out the side of her mouth, Thatll do for petrol to get us home. The second set goes even better than the first. Most people are up dancing and Warrens got a gleam in his eye from the bar takings. Even though weve only played live a handful of times, I feel like an old hand, taking it all in my stride like Merlin always seems to. I look over at Suze as shes doing her song. Shes still pretty nervous

Scraper

James Gilberd

164

but shes got something going on and the crowds lapping it up. Wish I could see from their viewpoint. Then I think, fuck it, my guitar leads long enough, so I hop off the riser and merge into the crowd, still playing. Instantly air guitarists form around me; a Pete TownsendI give him room; a Johnny Ramone, legs spread so wide his knuckles brush the floor; and the obligatory Hendrix, miming a squirt of lighter fluid and ignition. Suze spots me and smiles. She really does look good. Merlin glares at me, as usual. Eleven oclock arrives too soon and we have to stop. I assumed things would go on past closing out here but Warrens a stickler. Probably just keeping the peace with his brother-in-law the cop, whos at the bar. Murray introduces himself. Good on you for not playing that song of yours from the TV. Some elements round here wouldnt appreciate it. Im thinking we only didnt play it because we ran out of time. He points out a bunch of blokes in the corner who look like rugby types and says theyd normally be down the clubrooms but theyve been barred from there for fighting. One of the men, smaller than the others but obviously the leader of the pack, is putting the evil eye on me. I stare back at him but he doesnt look away, he just gets more intense. You look out for him. Billocks his name but everyone calls him Pillock. Nasty little sod. Reckon he knows exactly who you lot are. Yeah, I can tell. He and my dad would probably hit it off. Like that in your family eh? Same down the cop shop for me. Ill be glad when this bloody tours over and we get back to normal. If we ever can. Shit, I never thought Id be having a conversation like this with a cop. He seems a good bloke. Like when the Bedford got sprayed, theyre not all complete bastards. We move onto talking about music. Hes into Zep and Floyd and stuff, like I

Scraper

James Gilberd

165

was before I found out about punk and traded those records in, so we have a pretty good chat. I tell him about The Clash and The Jam. Yeah, my boy likes them. Hes in a band too. Drives us all mental with his bloody drumming. Once weve packed the gear down and stacked it ready to load into the van tomorrow morning, were all done in. We sit around on the beds in our room for a bit but the conversations nothing much, just the usual trade of insults centred on the gig, who fucked up and where. But really, everyones chuffed with how it went. Eventually Merlin and Eric slope off to their room and leave Suze and me in peace. Soon I hear them out on the fire escape and theres the smell of dope. I think about joining them for a puff but neither of us can really be bothered. Its freezing out there and nice and cosy in here, with the radiator on full blast. Theres two single beds, complete with orange candlewick bedspreads. Fancy pushing them together? She smiles and gets round behind her bed to give it a shove. Soon were curled up together. She says, I hope this isnt too hard on you. Is that supposed to be a pun? She snorts. You know what I mean. I can cope. Its just nice, and I can take care of myself when I have to. I know, Ive seen you. I know youve seen me. I havent seen you though. Do you want to? Wouldnt mind Well tough. Youll just have to imagine it. If I do that, youll get to see me again and itll be two-nil.

Scraper

James Gilberd

166

Oh shut up and go to sleep.

Do a Runner

We pull out of town with stomachs full of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes and toast, all swirling in coffee, and with a hundred bucks in our pocket, (at least in Suzes purse), which is more than we expected. The weathers not looking too bad either. And, despite Warren phoning to try to persuade the manager otherwise, the news that venue number fours a no-go doesnt bother us because last night went so well. Well just turn round and take our time getting back to Henrys, maybe do a bit of exploring on the way. Steve, did you see that ute pull out of the car park? I think theyre following us, Eric says from the back. He sounds nervous and I have him on about it, saying its the SIS after us, disguised as farmers. Its too nice a day for this. No, its those guys the policeman pointed out. Three in the cabin and two more standing up in the back. They close in and I clock them in the side mirror. Erics right. And when they start shouting at us, its confirmed theyre not fellow anti-tour protestors. One of the men in the backs hugeRunt-sized, with a big droopy moustache. I spot a side road and on impulse I brake hard and swerve onto it. The others all swear at me. Merlin and Eric are half buried under band gear, but at least the ute missed the turn. But when Eric clambers free and looks back, he reports they have come round after us. Shit. Were climbing quite a hill now and the Bedfords losing revs. I doubledeclutch into second. They catch up to uswhat a surprise. Fuck knows why I turned

Scraper

James Gilberd

167

off the main road. If wed just kept lumbering on ahead what could theyve done? Shoot at us? These are farmers, so I wouldnt put it past them. And wouldnt you know it, this roads a dead end. Havent they heard of No Exit signs round here? This time I tell the others to hang on before I slam on the brakes and do a rapid U-turn. Another avalanche of drums and amplifiers and more curses from the back, so the warning was wasted. I spot the ute waiting a couplehundred metres back down the hill and I immediately know what to do. Hang on, this is going to be rough. What was that just now man? Smooth? Why is everyone around me sarcastic? At least Im not copping anything from Suze. Actually shes looking a bit pale. Eric asks what Im going to do. Im too intent to reply, but it becomes obvious when we pick up speed downhill. Were barrelling straight at the ute. Theres maybe just enough room to get a Mini past them, but were not in one, Merlin helpfully points out. Itll be interesting then, wont it. Im not sure exactly how this happens, but we end up jammed between the ute and a wire fence, with the drop on our side. Theyre pinned against the bank and theyre not half pissed off. To make matters worse, were on a decent sort of a lean over the fence. Well at least three of them are trapped in the cabin, I say. Id be more worried about the other two. As Merlin says this, the van starts rocking, scraping the ute and leaning harder into the fence each time. And even if youve never heard it before, the sound of

Scraper

James Gilberd

168

number eight fencing wire snapping under tension is unmistakable. Fuck, were going over the edge! Frantic to restart the engine, I yell for Merlin and Eric to dive out the back doors. I look at Suze. Suze looks at me. Theres no chance of us getting out. Then the last wire snaps and were off. But the Bedford picks that very instant to come back to life. One back wheel bites and we somehow spin round. Were now driving down the bank, which is better than rolling. Sort of. I can barely hold the wheel as were flung side to side. Suzes arm smashes the side window. Levelling off, the vans nose digs into a creek and the back comes up. Im staring straight at the water. We stay up. Suze has her back to the dashboard, unconscious maybe. Im waiting for all the instruments to come down and crush us, but looking round, theyve gone, along with the back doors. Next thing Erics on the far side pulling Suze out. Merlin tries to slide the door up on my side, but he cant. I shuffle across and fall out the passenger side, into the creek, then Merlins around there helping me up and away from the van. Good job he came round the front to get me, cause if hed gone the other way hed be under the van when it crashed down onto its feet. Were all standing, at least. Suze is holding her arm. I go to ask her if shes OK but my voices gone and I can only croak. I want to hug her but it might hurt her. I look back. Amazingly the van doesnt look too bad, just a few dings. Its windscreen is only cracked. The back doors are lying up the grassy slope, along with most of our instruments, amps and luggage. As we all look up, the bass drum rolls and bounces downhill towards us. The bastards in the ute mustve thrown it from the road. As Eric stops it with his foot, I hear them drive off, laughing and hooting in victory.

Scraper

James Gilberd

169

Suddenly I feel dizzy. I go down onto my knees. Some people are coming over from a farmhousea woman in a red cardy and a man in a grey turtle neck.

All Wrapped Up

The Bullens are a godsend, it turns out. Mrs Bullens a retired nurse, and shes got Suzes forearm splinted up and has given her something for the pain. If I told you what it was youd all want some. While were sitting round having tea and biscuits and generally recovering, Mr Bullens got the Bedford towed out of the creek and going again, and hes even welded the back doors back on. Nothing much wrong with her except maybe the suspensions a bit knackered. They built em tough back then. Great news, but Im worried about Suze. The colours gone from her and shes drawn and silent. Shock, I suppose. We discuss taking her to the nearest hospital but the final consensus is to head straight for home, so going back to Henrys is out. Merlin and Eric are both pretty much unscathed. Ive collected a few decent bruises, but Mrs Bullens given me the OK on the concussion front, and after another cuppa I feel up to driving. So once weve got the van repacked the best we can, we take off. We drive in silence, and I assume the others are thinking the same as me: the bands finished. Im certain that once we return Suze with a broken arm, her olds will stop her seeing any of us ever again. Merlins looking gloomy about his instruments, and I dont blame him; two out of three keyboards are obvious write-offs. And Erics poor drum kit looks like Keith Moons spent ten minutes alone with it. But most of all, this anti-tour label weve gotten ourselves is the real death knell, and I dont think changing the bands name or anything like that will help. Its going to be next to

Scraper

James Gilberd

170

impossible to get gigs, other than at protest rallies maybe, because theres always going to be trouble. No, the bands finished. It burned brightly for a while and then died. Its just not right to try to continue it. Id like to be left thinking it was worth it, putting our viewpoint across and all that, but when it comes down to it Id rather that we still had a band. I steered the wrong passage and now weve all paid for it and were utterly fucked. Keep sport out of politics? What about keep politics out of music?

Part IIIProtest

Party

Theres such a great hole in my life now, almost like somebody died. No particular emotion though, just a kind of emptiness, a sullen silence. With the band over, the only purpose left is stopping the rugby tour. Reckon we had a better shot at that with music than we ever will marching, but at least its something to do, something to focus on. Well, for Merlin and me anyway. Erics working all hours, taking every available shift at the Wimpy to save money for going flatting, and Suze is both injured and grounded for eternity, or at least until both her parents eventually die of old age. Then theres the phone call from Thomas about not wanting to play rugby any more. Some of the kids in the team pick on him because he has an opinion, he said. Maybe because hes my brother too, but he didnt mention that. Dads world will really be falling apart now. Good thing Im still at Merlins. The first march Merlin and I go on is OK for the experience, but a bit of a fizzer. It doesnt feel like we really achieve anything except occupying a few dozen

Scraper

James Gilberd

171

cops for a few hours. The rugby goes ahead as usual and the tour goes on. The chances of the protest movement stopping even one more game, never mind the whole tour, are looking extremely slim by this stage. At least we learned the drills: linking arms, manoeuvring, running in formation, and a few tips like going limp if you get arrested so that it takes two cops to move you and you cant get done for resisting. But tomorrow the Springboks are actually playing a test match here in our town, so itll be all on. Its our one real chance to get stuck in and make a difference. I fish in my jeans pocket and find the small, folded piece of paper from the march, and I read it again.
CHANTS: Amandla, amandla, amandla nga wethu 2,4,6,8 No tour, police state. 1,2,3,4 We dont want your racist tour. 2,4,6,8Graeme Mourie is our mate. Remember Sharpeville, Remember Soweto, Remember Steve Biko. LAWYERS TO RING IF ARRESTED: Sonia: 828-568 or Bruce: 796-417

Suppose I should keep it on me for Saturday, for the phone numbers, but I decide to glue it into my lyric book as a souvenir, on the same page as my first antiapartheid song. Therell probably be more handed around. I attempt to phone Suzeattempt, because if her old man answers hell just hang up when he hears my voice, like the other dayto keep her up with whats happening, but more because I havent seen her all week and I miss her. She picks up. I wish I could come on the march, but its like Im in prison. Theyve even stopped me working in Andys shop.

Scraper

James Gilberd

172

Shit, I didnt know that. You wouldnt be much use on the march with a sling on anyway. We have to link arms all the time. Whatever, its academic. Unless I want to get chucked out of home, Im not going. Tell you what, you could sneak out one night and visit with me down at Merlins. Hes always downstairs studying with his friend Marty while Im all alone, stuck up in the tower. Sounds bizarre. You hairs a bit short for me to climb up though. I think that was a no. God knows how my mums coping, and poor old Thomas, caught in the middle. He cant flee the coop like I have. Im even going to have to skip his guitar lesson tomorrow, with the march. Shit, Id better give him a ring after this. Hope Dad doesnt answer. Steve, do look after yourself. Dont get arrested and please dont get hurt. If theres any fighting, dont dive in like you usually do. You sound like my mum. Ill be careful. Well try to go for a coffee on Sunday, eh? I fancy that place with the expresso machine. Espressono X. Ill sneak out when the olds are at church. Thank God theyve stopped making me go. The blue hair helps, it embarrasses them. At least my folks arent religious, thats one good thing. By the way, whats it like working for that Nazi? Chaz, you mean? Oh, hes OK really. Im out doing deliveries all day so I dont see much of him. He pays better than Dad and he even shouted us a few beers after work Friday. So when are you going to shave your head and get swastikas tattooed on your knuckles?

Scraper

James Gilberd

173

You know I dont agree with his politics. One thing Im definitely not is racist. I wouldnt be going on the anti-tour protests if I was. Hey, I know that. Im just pulling your tit. And thats about all we have to say to each other these days. We talk just like I would with Merlin or Eric, not even as ex boyfriend and girlfriend. I should feel gutted about it but Im just kind of numb. What the fuck is wrong with me? When I dropped Suze off home from up country that Saturday night, not a word was said; they just dragged her inside and slammed the door in my face, literally. I heard the fireworks about two seconds later, once they realised she was injured. Probably best I was outside the house at that point. At least theres coffee next Sunday morning to look forward to, if she can escape. But Id better hit the hay. Big day tomorrow.

White Light/White Heat

It feels strange to sit in the middle of the motorway, a place where if you even stepped on it at any other time youd be asking for certain death. But right now the main risk is probably catching a cold in the drizzly southerly. Initially there was a just straggly line of bored cops staring at us, looking like theyd rather be back in their nice warm cop shop sipping hot Milo. Now the police lines thickened up a bit and Im thinking we really ought to get up the other end of town where the action will be. Our protest marshalthe same Irish bloke who organised that concertseems to think likewise, so now that the police numbers have built to a level where they look like having a chance of shifting us, we get up and leave. The marshal recognises me and winks, miming guitar playing. Down the on-ramp and away, heading uptown at last.

Scraper

James Gilberd

174

Its a long march in the rain, swapping between walking and jogging, but never stopping. Always moving down the middle of the road like we own the city, we cover six or seven K in an hour, seeing nothing unusual until we approach the rugby ground. Then its all shipping containers and truck trailers and barbed wire blocking every road. Its like something on the news from Belfast or Gaza. And there are police everywhere. Never knew we had so many. Obviously were not getting past this lot so we take a detour to the right, up a steep bank. The marshal yells like an army sergeant, Come on you lot, up to the top field. Fast as you can. The banks a nightmare of mud and were all sliding down as much as scaling it. At least were making the cops whore tracking us struggle. Think thats our job, tiring them out so the squads with the shields and helmets can have a decent crack at them later. We finally get to the top, muddy as if wed played in the curtain raiser. Theres another squad already up therethe heavy mob, it looks like. They all have motorbike or construction helmets and padding taped or tied on. Those in the front row have plywood shields, each with a big black letter, spelling B I K O twice over. I think of the Peter Gabriel song and chills run down my spine. We move right up to them. Theyre mostly older than us lot, and they look like theyve already had a run against the cops and come second. Close by, a woman holds a blood-soaked hanky to her mouth and the man linked to her has an eye closed with swelling. Theyre all silent. One of their marshals is talking to ours, and I can hear them.

Scraper

James Gilberd

175

Sean, weve had a right pasting. Weve got at least two dozen needing medical attention and we have to get them out. Reckon you could break off forty to escort them away to the safe houses? Ill sort it in a minute. But do you know whats happened to our men inside with the tickets? Ive got men hidden in that derelict building behind the wire with cutting tools and a megaphone. Theyre waiting for the signal to go, but nothing. Didnt you know? Someone sussed the tickets were fake. They didnt get in. Fuck. Sean pronounces it Fook. We need to get some people in there somehow. No chance of that. The pigs have got the ground tighter than a chickens arsehole. Theres containers blocking all the roads on the perimeter and riot-pigs stacked three deep in the gaps. Theres a clear view of the stadium from up here and I think I know what Seans on about. I have to interrupt. Scuse me, but this derelict building, it wouldnt be that one on the far side, would it? I point at it. The other marshal glares at me like Im an undercover cop. Pretty bloody good disguise if I am, but I dont blame him for being suspicious. Sean explains, Hes OK Pete. Hes from that band, you know, Reaper. Scraper. Were not heavy metal, I say. Anyway, I think I can get to that building. Would that help? You think or you know? I need certainty, Pete demands. Hes pretty damn tense. OK, I definitely can. Right, we need to get at least fifty people there, but the more the merrier. Tell us how to do that.

Scraper

James Gilberd

176

So both squads mingle and we head back down the mud bank. There must be a thousand people altogether and most of us are sliding on our backsides, taking out the ones whore trying to keep their feet. The cops cant manage it either. One rockets past us horizontally but were in no position to laugh. Were soon regrouped and trotting round the perimeter towards the far side of the rugby ground. Its heavy going, with mud sticking my jeans to my legs. My sneakers are caked, my socks are soaked and my Jockeys are chafing round the crotch. Im really looking forward to tonight and climbing into a nice hot bath. But now the crowds cheering for somethingmaybe the players coming out onto the field. It must be about that time. The squad swings onto the main road, manoeuvres itself and stops so that Merlin, Sean and I are hidden in the middle of everyone and were standing right over a manhole cover. Precision! I get my bearings on the abandoned building and hope that this is the spot. Kneeling down, I notice a crucifix symbol sprayed on the iron, worn by traffic but unmistakable. This is it. Now how do we get the fucker open? I ask Sean. The squad sets up a huge chantOne, two three, fourwe dont want your racist tour. It covers the noise we make getting the cover off. This is thanks to Merlin, who threads his beltthe spare one worn over his jacket thats for gripping onto when your arms are linkedbuckle-first, down through the slot in the cover. Sean, whos a lot stronger than Merlin, uses the belt to raise the cover enough for other hands to grip it and lift it aside. Im first down, with a penlight that was miraculously handed back through the squad a minute after the word was put out for a torch. Merlins next, then Sean and a few of his hand-picked hard men. I cant wait for them all, so Im off down the

Scraper

James Gilberd

177

service tunnel in the direction of the old building, counting my paces for a guesstimate of the distance. Trouble is, theres no exit manhole where there should be. Could it be were in the wrong system and it was actually a storm water tunnel I was brought up from? If Id been a bit more conscious at the time, Id remember. Now Im feeling terrible about leading everyone down here. I tell them to wait while I shoot ahead and explore. Going to be long with that torch? Im not too keen on this, I hear from behind. Sounds like one of Seans hard men. Keep it shut. The filth might be right on top of us. Thats Sean, his clamped voice almost lost in echoes. Now Im panicking because I reckon Ive passed the building and there was no manhole. I mustve missed it, so I do another sweep of the tunnel. Still nothing. Im psyching myself up to tell Sean that Ive failed and the plans off, but suddenly Im aware theres someone else down here. Or some thing. All I can see is a white face floating in the gloom of the endless tunnel. Ive heard about peoples blood freezing, but now its happening to me. The face speaks. Trouble in overland? You want the old building, yes? I can only nod. Cant tell if the voice is male or female. Follow The figure leads me farther south and into a side tunnel that doubles back, and theres our manhole. As the figure passes me to escape, my light catches the brass crucifix pendant around its neck. The Coopers? Youre one of them.

Scraper

James Gilberd

178

Well, I didnt expect an answer. The Cooper vanishes and I go back for the others. One of the hard men pops the manhole cover easily then he boosts me up and out. I can tell hes glad of the daylight. First thing I hear topside is chanting. Looking towards the road, theres the Biko squad making a right racket. Looks like theyre having a crack at the barricades and all the nearby cops are there to stop thema perfect diversion. Seans out next. Were near the derelict building so we scuttle for cover. Merlin joins us. Sean says we have to find the men in the building. And, up on the second floor, behind some old metal cupboards that have been used to wall up a toilet, are the six men and the equipment. Jesus, we thought the cops had finally found us. Theyve been up here three times since yesterday. Get your stuff, were moving. Wow, Seans not one for chitchat. When we get back down, theres a few dozen people huddled behind the building, out of sight of the cops. More are popping up and moving to join them. Theyll spot us soon enough, Sean says in a loud whisper. Lets get that fence down. Once were seen, we make a dash for the field. And sure enough, theres only one flimsy-looking wire fence between us and the back of the old grandstand. Theres a few people wandering about back there, drinking, smoking, pissing against the wall, but they havent spotted us either. Someones smiling on us. Theres about sixty of us in a bunch by the fence when the Hurricane wire rolls back. Suddenly everyone notices us at oncethe cops from behind, ground security and rugby fans inside.

Scraper

James Gilberd

179

Right, Sean yells. Everyone link arms, form rows of six and fucking run for it. Follow me. Im on the outside of my row, about halfway back in the group. I can feel Merlins skinny arm wedged into the crook of mine. He has almost no muscles. Before we get round the stand, I glance back. The cops are after us, but theres not enough of them in the right place to stop our charging herd. I assume theyve got the manhole sealed off by now though. Next thing I feel grass under my feet, then theres the roar of the crowd all round. The All Blacks: suddenly Im staring at them and theyre staring at us, confused, just metres away. I can name all of them. Were in a tight circle in the centre of the field, arms linked to make us solid. The crowds even louder now. Seans shouting something in his Irish accent from somewhere behind me. Then he gets the megaphone into action. Now that we have your attention, we are here to protest against the Rugby Unions hosting of this illegal Springbok tour. The Gleneagles agreement, which our government signed, has been breached. We will remain here until this test match is called off. You should all go home now A voice from the crowd, someone with bellows for lungs, No, you go home ya bloody mick! We want rugby! We want rugby! Forty-thousand take up the chant. Sean gives up with the megaphone. Then the riot squad arrives, trotting into position. A double line, twenty men wide, advancing on us lot. More lines of riot police come in from the sides to fence us in. I get the feeling this stand of ours is going to be over as fast as it started. Shit, it just occurs to me Thomas is out there somewhere, watching. With Dad. Could they recognise me from this distance?

Scraper

James Gilberd

180

Move! Move! Move! Theyre thrusting their two-handed batons with each word. Theyve got us surrounded, so fuck knows where were suppose to move to. The crowd picks it upMOVE! MOVE! MOVE! Is Dads voice is part of it? Thomass? No, I dont think he would just follow; hes learning to think for himself. I hear Merlin talking to the woman on his left, swapping names like were supposed to. Dragging my eyes away from the police, I introduce myself to the man Ive got my right arm linked tight with. Yeah I know. Saw you on the telly. Great song. Im Mike Woods. Im a Schoolteacher. Hey, you dont teach my brother, Thomas? Good lad. Bright. The riot police halt a few metres from the edge of our circle and transform into a circle of their own, encompassing us. This looks like something theyve worked on since that earlier match was stopped, albeit by a bigger group of protestors than ours. Merlin, Mike and I are in the third layer back. Got any padding on in front there? I ask Mike. Just two stone of fat, mate. Another megaphone voice, presumably the riot squad commander, comes from the right. Pick your target. Use full force. Aim to hurt him. Take him out. Sean starts on the megaphone again. Link arms with your neighbours and lock to your belts. This is your only chance to withdraw. If you leave the ground now, we will protect your passage. Youve made your point. Your protest has registered with all of those present The crowd jeers and boos.

Scraper

James Gilberd

181

We will not leave until this illegal test match is officially called off. With the megaphones, it sounds like a conversation between Daleks. Very well. In thirty seconds, the riot squad will use their batons. You will be hit and you will be hurt. Then you will all be arrested and charged. You have thirty seconds to remove yourselves from the field of play. Sean sings, We shall not, we shall not be moved Its taken up by the entire group, except me. Turning to Merlin, Im not singing that old hippy crap, even here. There are photographers circling and snapping away. A uniform cop turns to one of them and tells her to clear off. When she keeps shooting, he runs over and smashes her camera away from her face with his baton. Shes hurt, and she covers her face and retreats, leaving the remains of her camera on the grass. The crowd loves this Get the bitch! Baton her! Its like the fucking Coliseum. And I notice the cops ignore the other two photographers, both men. They must taking photos to identify us. Riot squadadvance! For some reason I stare straight up in the air. Its raining again, and once I focus I can track individual raindrops. They make cold micro-explosions on my face. Its hypnotic. A scream brings me back to Earth. A woman two rows in front of me slips to the ground, limp, like a towel off its rail. The riot squad moves mechanically back three paces. The womans unconscious, but the man lying next to her is in agony. He keeps kicking her as his legs thrash uncontrollably. Maybe the baton blow ruptured something. The uniform cops march around in front of the riot squad and drag both victims away just the same. And many others, as far round the circle as I can see. The

Scraper

James Gilberd

182

crowds cheering builds. Anyone witnessing this and enjoying it is absolutely fucking sick. Riot squads, advance. Same again, this time to the people just in front, pressing on me. I hear the hiss of breath driven from lungs, feel the solid weight of the baton blow driving a man against me. Hes not very big, and pretty oldmaybe fifty. He grunts and goes down clutching his stomach, eyes and lips screwed up as he twists over on the grass. Theres the distinctive smell of piss all round me, and sweat, despite the cold. The riot squad backs off again to allow the fresh victims to be dragged away. Half our groups gone now, I reckon, and Im staring at the helmeted cop whos picked me as his third target. I cant see any expression through his rain-spotted fullface visor. I look for a number on his heavy wool coat, but nothing. Theyre all volunteers from the ranks, Merlin explained to me once, carefully vetted. All humanity drilled out of them, no longer individuals, but automatons. How else could they do this? A new chant from whats left of our tight little group: Shame! Shame! Shame! This is more me, so I join in. The word scrapes at my throat each time I bark it out. Im back at that gig, the batoned girl with my arm round her, her blood sticky on my hands. This is like peeling an onion, Mike says as the chant dies. Like peeling a bloody onion. Merlin looks at me. Hes paler than Ive ever seen him, and thats saying something. Trouble with this arm-linking thing is it tends to leave you a bit vulnerable, he says. Always a joke, no matter the situation.

Scraper

James Gilberd

183

Dont give them an excuse to hit you more than once. Just go down with the first blow and let them haul you off, I say, And remember to go limp. There shouldnt be a problem with that last bit man. Then a fresh chant, lead by Sean with his megaphone: The whole worlds watching! The whole worlds watching! Not as good as Shame, but I go with it. Somehow it helps take my mind off whats about to happen. I feel arms tensing on both sides, Merlin and Mike. I might be adding to it. Riot squads, advance! The bastards a metre from me now and I can see through his visor at last. Hes young, not much older than me. Hes bigger though, the biggest cop in sight. What luck. I feel an oyster of phlegm in my throat. Might as well use it for something, so I hoik for all Im worth. The glob of yellow mucous attaches itself slug-like to the cops visor. Got the bastard. I hear Mike say to his man, I hope your mothers proud of you, Sonny Jim. I hope shes proud. OK, hes a bit more subtle than me. Bonusmore phlegm on the rise, and another direct hit. This cop must be really pissed off now. Still the order from the commander doesnt come. Wish it would just happen and be over with. Seans megaphone voice crackles once again. Cozy back there, Sean? I try to say, but it doesnt quite make it past my clenched teeth. Teeth! Shit, hed better not go for my face. Ive wound him up enough for that. Wish Id remembered to bring my old rugby mouthguard, but I doubt itd stop a solid aluminium baton with the weight of this big bastard behind it. I cant protect myself. Merlin was right. I want my arms free.

Scraper

James Gilberd

184

More Dalek-chatter between Sean and the commander, but I cant take it in now. Sean might as well be reciting limericks for all the good itll do, and Im too busy eyeballing my cop, trying to psyche him out. Its all I have left. Seans voice pops back into focus. OK, were going to walk off the field now. Marchers, form a column four wide, link arms and head back the way we came. Theres a cheer from the crowd at that, but it soon resolves into Baton them! Baton them! The riot squad forms into two lines facing each other, making a corridor for our retreat, and the uniform cops follow suit farther along. My cop finally gets to wipe his visor with his sleeve, but only manages to smear my mucous over the Perspex. Get you later, punk, he says. We pass where the womans smashed camera was abandoned, and I break my link with Merlin to scoop it up. I feel a slap on the shoulder and expect to be told off for breaking ranks. Good man, Steve. Its Seans voice, from the row behind me. We made our point and we held things up for a bit. No use all being martyrs, eh. Hes right, I suppose. We only wouldve lasted another couple of minutes the way it was going. But passing the grandstand, the opportunity for martyrdom comes again with the savage rain of beer cans and various other objects you dont want to get hit by, including what look like big hunks of wood torn off the seating. Mike cops a full beer can on the bonce and goes down swearing loudly. Sean picks him up, tells him to keep moving and helps him along. Rugby fans sacrificing good beer. They must really hate us, Merlin says. I suppose hes trying to lighten things up, but Im getting a bit sick of his jokes. Bugger this linking arms, I use mine to cover my head. I just want out of here.

Scraper

James Gilberd

185

Beyond range of the grandstand, passing the derelict building, I hear the referees whistle and a massive cheer. Theyve restarted the match. I suppose the fans in the stands and terraces will just think of what happened in front of them as an amusing incident, a bit of bonus action, a pack of communist stirrers trying in vain to stop their holy sporting event. Wonder if we even stirred a trace of a conscience in any one of them. I suspect probably not. Were escorted out past the barriers and I wonder why were not being arrested. Mustve been something they agreed when I wasnt listening, to get us off the field voluntarily. Ill compare notes with Merlin later, but right now I just want to get as far from this place as possible. Its stopped showering and the muds drying on my jeans and sneakers. I feel almost mummified by the stiffness of it, the cold and the numbness from both mental and physical exhaustion. Im keen on getting home, or at least getting out of the city before the game finishes and the rugby fans pour forth looking for protestors to bash for sport. But Merlin wants to join back into the protest. Were still in a group of around thirty, and Seans telling us to keep together, keep our arms linked so we dont get picked off by the police or anyone else wanting to have a go at us. We hear them before we see them: Amand-la! Amand-la! The chant echoes up the suburban street. Several squads have apparently merged into one and are marching back towards town. Sean takes us to join them for safety. Im into that. One last strong statement of defiance, even though the elements of the right wing have finally triumphed on the day. Once its known that it was us who got onto the field and held up play, everyones smiling, patting us on the back. Good on ya mate. You guys showed em, eh!

Scraper

James Gilberd

186

Someone holds up a little transistor, crackling with news: test match was disrupted for fifteen minutes by a small but determined band of protestors who somehow managed to penetrate the massive police and army security net I dont catch the rest of it because of the cheering all round. Merlins smiling, and I just about manage to crack one too. But I just cant get that thing of Mikes out of my headLike peeling a bloody onionand that man thrashing in agony on the ground. Its worse than anything Chaz and his cronies ever did. Because theyre racist thugs but pig-ignorant, whereas this is The State in action and it knows exactly what its doing and why. This is by order of the Prime Ministerto baton down peaceful protestors in front of a bloodthirsty horde of animals who will then vote for the National Party and keep the bastards in power. It absolutely fucking stinks and Im not done with it yet.

Hicks from the Sticks

At the original assembly point, the squad breaks up and people head for the busses and for home. I spot Eric and Annette, which isnt hard given her height. When they find out it was Merlin and me on the field, of course they want to hear all about it. Were near that caf of Suzes with the good coffee, so I drag them all over there. Merlin and I trail mud, and when we sit down large bits of earth detach from us, preferring the semi-hygienic surroundings of the caf. We get a black look from the woman behind the counter. Erics got his pay from work, so its his shout. And when it eventually arrives, the hot, milky coffee is just the ticket. The feel of it in my mouth smoothes the edges off the days events. I breathe out, close my eyes and for a moment theres lightness.

Scraper

James Gilberd

187

Were all talking at once when a second round of coffee arrives. Pardon me, but I overheard what youre talking about. This is on the house. Shes more than made up for the look she gave us, which was completely justified anyway. I bung a couple of sugars in this one, not that its bitter, but for the extra energy. The big brown crystals sinking into the froth draw my attention and the babble of the other three becomes background. Before we leave, I give Eric the busted camera, since he reckons he can get the film out of it and develop it in the universitys darkroom. Out on the street again, were all partially revived and in better spirits, talking ten-to-the-dozen on the way to the bus stop. Until we meet the rugby fans. You can always pick them, especially when theyre in town from the sticks. They all dress the same and they gaze around with a dumb-vacant expression like theyre wondering where their next beers coming from. Six of them face us now, and I recognise their leader: Pillock. Not sure if hes twigged its me yet, but it probably doesnt help that I give him lip. So you lads are down for the test, eh? Enjoy the floor show? He twigs and we run. Annettes limping and cant keep up and Eric slows down for her. Two men catch them, but we cant help because were blocked by the other four, including Pillock. If this were a movie, Id be thinking, No, no, dont run down that blind alleyway. But what the fuck do we go and do? Same as last time. I seen ya, ya fuckin wanker. On the park with them protestors! We are them protestors, Pillock. Why do I feel the need to wind him up even more? I dont know. The hippy too. He were there, I seen him, one of the others says, a big bloke with a droopy moustache. I remember him too.

Scraper

James Gilberd

188

Then Merlin has to have a go. You mean, He was there, I saw him. Did you guys drop out of school when you were like six? Pillock speaks again. Shut it ya smart prick. Now youre gonna get the hiding them cops shoulda given ya. And then some. Apart from the wind being driven from my lungs, I feel nothing. So much has happened today that getting the crap beaten out of me is just a trivial annoyance. I hardly bother to defend myself, but I watch whats happening to Merlin. Droopy Mos got him by the neck and hes whacking his head back into the brick wall over and over. Merlin is no weight to him, no resistance. The sound of it Its not quite like the old movies. Here, the cavalry have shaven heads and Nazi tattoos, but they arrive in the nick, as scripted. How? Attracted to violence and chaos like flies to shit. I dont know; they smell it? Anyway this time its Chaz pulling three blokes off me. Over there, it looks like Runt wants Mo to himself. Pushing Shade away, he relishes the challenge of dealing to someone his own size. Mos down, out cold. Pillock and the rest take off with the Skinheads in pursuit. Chaz doesnt go after them though. He pulls me up and props me against the wall. Big day, eh mate? Heard you had a crack at the filth earlier. You know about that? But my mouths fucked up so it doesnt come out too clear. Youll be all right mate, just not quite so pretty for a while. Merlins still standing, leaning against the wall. He looks pale and dazed. Come over here Steve. I want to ask you something man. What? We have to find the others Itll be something he doesnt particularly want to share with Chaz. I climb over Mo to get to him.

Scraper

James Gilberd

189

Tell me, are you and Suze getting back together? Quietly, so I move in closer. Why are you asking me now, of all times? You fancy her yourself? Ive never been that interested in girls man. Hadnt you noticed? Yeah. Whats he on about anyway? Seen Marty round anywhere? He came out with us this morning, didnt he? What? You know he didnt, you said he Fuck. Marty! How could I have missed it? Then Merlin looks into my eyes. A strange, vacant smile. His eyes go glassy and he slides down the brick wall and stops in a sitting position. He leaves a wide smear of blood on the bricks, and bits of his hair. Chaz is right beside me now. This is not good mate. Not good. Merlin slumps forward, showing us the back of his head. Its a stoved-in bloody mess.

Nobodys Heroes

Poor Steve, right there when it happened. No wonder hes a mess. God knows I would be. Its not that he couldve done anything, with three men beating him up. I hate to think it, but Im glad its not him up thereit so easily could have been. Mrs Hendersons speech is doing my head in. Poor woman. I mean, God, its not even a year since her husband died and now shes lost her only child. At least her familys here, for now. Wonder if when they fly back towherever it was shell go back with them, sell the house. I cant even watch her anymore, so I look over at the coffin. Merlins inside it. Inside that box, with flowers and all on top, and his fathers saxophone. I cant bear to look there either. Behind, Erics

Scraper

James Gilberd

190

huge blow up of the protestors in the middle of the park. I can see Steve in there, next to Merlin. I put my arm around Steve and nestle into his shoulder. I cant stand this, he whispers. Im going out for some fresh air. Ive never seen him really cry before. A tear or two maybe, which hes of course tried to hide. I remember him telling me that the last time he cried was when he got smacked in the face by a rugby ball, aged twelve. He got teased for that, called a cry-baby. I suppose he was closer to Merlin than any of us, even Eric. But they really argued sometimes and he probably feels guilty about that now. Youve got to carry Merlin soon. Stay here with me. Of course Im crying my eyes out too. Were soaking each other. Its wrapping up. Marlon Gregory Henderson, known to his friends as The things you learn about people once theyre dead: he was the national secondary schools chess champion three years running; when John Lennon was killed, he shut himself in his room for two days and played Beatles records while refusing to eat; his dads favourite film was The Wild Bunch, hence the name. Steve holds it together, thank God. Him and Marty in front, standing up tall and bearing the coffinthats an honour. Then Merlins uncle and the cousin. The coffin has a definite slope to it, with little Eric and the other, shorter cousin at the back. I hope thats OK. Steves done some great things, but Ive never been more proud of him. Bet he could do without those flashes going off in his face though. Photographers should be banned from funerals. Half the damned protest movement here too. Cant really ban them, I suppose. I can imagine the headline: Punk Protestor Buries Best Mate. Good job theres plenty of alcohol at this receptionGod knows I need a drink, but not as much as Steve does. Hes slugging back his fourth double whisky. I know youve earned it, but its not the done thing to get drunk at these occasions, I remind him.

Scraper

James Gilberd

191

How do you know? Have you even been to a funeral before? Have you ever carried a fucking coffin with your dead friend in it? OK I havent, right. Just calm down. Calm down? Shit! Everyones looking at us. OK, lets get that fresh air now. And I put my arm round his waist and guide him towards the back door. He staggers down the steps to the rear car park. How much of that whisky have you had? What is this? The fucking Spanish Inquisition? Nobody expects the Fuck, its like being around Merlin. Then hes up against the outside wall of the funeral parlour, eyes screwed shut, fists clenched, and he starts banging the back of his head against the concrete. Three, four times before I can stop him. Throwing arms round his neck, I pull him down with all my strength and we end up in a heap on the asphalt. Once were untangled, we sit up facing each other. His mouth hangs open, nothing is said, he just stares into space for maybe a minute. I cant help counting the stitches in his lip. Six. Now his hands are on my shoulders. He stares into my eyes, but somehow straight though me. Its as if hes just spoken with God. Perhaps he has. I understand now. Its not about the band. Its not about music or protesting or having a job. What are you saying? All this time, what have I given you? Youve put up with being second place to everything. Theyre just things. Trivial things that take your mind off actually being alive, being human. But theyre nothing, nothing compared to what we

Scraper

James Gilberd

192

What a time for Dad to show up, just when Im finally getting to something. He couldve come to the actual funeral, but no, he turns up now. And pissed as a fart. How fucking unusual. There you are. What do you think youre doing? Fuck, hes got Thomas, dragging him along by the arm. Let Thomas go. Its not his fault. Let my brother go! He refused to watch the rugby with me today. Youre ruining him with your political views and your fucking music. He smashed the guitar, Thomas cries, tears streaming. And all your records. I couldnt stop him. What? People are flocking outside now, staring at us like were the floor show. Dad, this is the funeral of my best friend. Let Thomas go. Please! Not until you promise to stop driving him away from me. He gives Thomas a shake to make it clear who hes talking about. I lost you a long time ago Steve, but let me keep this one. Hes thirteen. Hes old enough to make his own decisions. And turn into another version of you? No. hes staying on my side. Suze wades in for me once again. Do you think this is the way to keep him, Mr Bryant? Let the boy go. Stay out of it you little bitch. This is a family matter. He shoves her away and she falls over backwards. Dad, please Thomas is frantic now. Ive had enough. I stagger up and push off the wall, launching myself at Dad. Its a rugby tackle against the parked hearse. Metal crumples. Thomas breaks free.

Scraper

James Gilberd

193

A second later Im flat on my back on the bonnet with Dad on top of me. Squeezing my neck. Its going darktunnel visionI cant breathe. No strength left to push him off. Like being trapped underground. Like under a ruck. Like under the blankets. I slap the car bonnet hard as I can, one, two, three times. It reminds him. His grip loosens and air surges back. Then I feel the weight of my father collapse on top of me, the heaving of his chest. His sobbing drowns everything.

ENDS