Hidden Sin: When the past comes back to haunt you

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‘Go on,’ he persisted. ‘It’s on me, dude. Great set. And it’s Joey, right? You’re good. You’ll go far.’

The boy glanced around. Not eighteen yet, by Mo’s quick calculations. But then thirst got the better of his evident concern about the landlord and, after eyeing it thirstily, he took the cold beer. And in two Adam’s-apple bobbing gulps had half of it downed.

‘Thanks,’ he said, surfacing. ‘Er …?’

Mo held his hand out to shake. Big, dark and manicured.

‘Macario,’ he said, surprising himself. He never told anyone his real name.

The boy nodded as he took it. ‘Okay. Macario. Right, cool.’

Knocked off-guard by a jolt of unexpected emotion, Mo crushed the smaller, paler hand with more force than he’d intended. But the boy held his gaze. Didn’t flinch. Squeezed right back, with powerful drummer’s hands.

He winked. ‘Hey, but you just call me Mo.’

Chapter 1 (#u954bf3dc-e64a-5818-9c16-4128664b67ca)

For as long as he could remember, Joey had always made music. Right from the start, it had always been a part of him. From the foggy memories of his early childhood, of wielding a wooden spoon and saucepan while his mam belted out songs off the radio, to being in the percussion corner – always – in primary school productions, right up to learning the recorder, then trying the trumpet (a short-lived excursion, that one) to the point where he was allowed to try the battered high-school drum kit, music, particularly rhythm, had been in his blood. He’d more than once wondered (his mam and step-dad always having been so tight-lipped about it) what kind of man had put the curl in his hair. A musician. It just had to be a musician.

And here he was now. Making music. And getting paid for it, however little. Playing to an actual audience, who seemed to like him, as well. And in one case – he quickly downed the rest of the pint, in case the landlord clocked him – even being given drinks by complete strangers.

He watched the man who’d just spoken to him – a giant of a man, too – weave his way back round the scattered tables to the bar. Was this what it was like, then? Being in a band? Being famous? Well, not so much famous – that would be pushing it. It was the band people had come for. It was Paula they really came for. And he got that completely. He’d come to watch her sing here a few times himself. First as an old mate he’d rediscovered – their mams had been really close once – and then because, well, because the band were pretty good. And Paula herself … Well, who wouldn’t want to watch her sing?

He watched her laughing with some friends of hers at the side of the stage. And for too long, as well; she caught his eye and must have realised he’d been staring, because she flicked her hair at him in a way that made it clear she’d read his thoughts. She gave him a thumbs up before turning back to her friends, and he felt his cheeks flush. Was he imagining it, or did she like him as well?

Joey lowered his gaze, flustered, and went back to his high hat, checking the nuts, touching the cymbals, pumping his foot on the pedals, and all the while still not quite believing – or feeling quite deserving of – his luck. It was his second gig with Parallel Lines now, and he’d been told that if things went well, there would be more. But he didn’t like to think too much about it, in case it was all taken away from him. He’d been brought up to understand that you didn’t count on anything. So counting on this might be tantamount to jinxing it.

He knew the beer might have something to do with it, but for the first time since leaving school he felt a welling of proper pride, even so. Pride in having achieved his own ambition, the first rung on a ladder that was a world away, or at least could be, from the one he inhabited doing the rounds on his window-cleaning cart. Not that he wasn’t proud of that too. Of course he was. A gift from his dad, on the day he’d left school two years back, the window-cleaning round he’d inherited from him had always been a precious means to an end.

His mum and dad might not have believed it, but his own belief had never wavered. If he worked hard and saved hard – and he’d been good at doing both – he’d known from the outset that it could provide him with his chosen future. The means to practise in the short term – once he’d paid his keep, every spare penny went on kit – but, longer term, to make him a more viable commodity. A drummer with his own drum kit was more desirable than one without; it was at least half the reason the band had given him a try-out when their regular drummer, whose wife had just had a kid, had decided to call it a day. The trick now was to prove his talent and commitment, both of which he knew he had in spades.

He risked glancing up again. Paula had gone now. Presumably to the loo, before they began their second set.

But apparently not.

‘Boo!’ came a voice. Joey swivelled on his stool. Paula was behind him, in a cloud of musky fragrance, presumably having just returned from the ladies’. She nodded towards the bar, which was still rammed with people getting their drinks in before they started. ‘Who was that?’ she asked, as she tucked her bag down behind him. Her hair brushed his shoulder as she did so.

‘That black guy? Dunno,’ he said. ‘He said his name was Mac-something. Nice bloke. Bought me a pint.’

‘I noticed.’ She looked across to the bar again, where the man was half-hidden in the crush. Except he wasn’t crushed. It was like he had some sort of force field around him. He also stood a whole head above the men gathered around him, none of which Joey recognised either. He looked for his uncle Nicky, who’d brought him and his kit down here in his battered van earlier. He might only just be out of prison but he seemed to know everyone. But there was no sign of him and Joey realised he’d probably not returned yet from where he’d gone once they’d brought the stuff in, to ‘see a man about a dog’.

‘But I’ll be back before you’re finished,’ he’d promised. ‘Help you pack up and take you home and that.’ And though Joey didn’t doubt it, he couldn’t help wondering what exactly the man and the dog bit was actually all about. His mam had spent fifteen years visiting his uncle Nicky in prison – VOs as regular as clockwork, and she never missed one – but now he was home, Joey couldn’t fail to notice how tense she seemed about her brother. Did she worry he’d end up in the nick again? But she and his dad were as tight-lipped about that as about everything. Drugs. That he did know. Though he’d gone down for murder. But he’s not a wrong ’un, love, trust me – how many times had he heard his mam say that? And on the evidence of the few weeks he’d been stopping at theirs Joey was inclined to believe her.

‘So who d’you reckon he is?’ Paula was asking him now. ‘He looks like he owns the place, doesn’t he? Well, acts like it, anyway. D’you reckon he’s someone in the music business or something? Did you cop the designer threads he’s got on?’

Joey nodded. ‘That jacket. Must have cost a bit. A good bit.’ He reached for his drum sticks. ‘Macario,’ he said, remembering. ‘That’s his real name. Macario. But he said to call him Mo.’

‘Macario. Strange name,’ she mused. ‘No wonder he likes to shorten it. Hey –’ she nudged Joey. ‘D’you think he might be a producer or something? Or an A&R man? Oh my God, can you imagine? I mean, it’s not outside the bounds of possibility, is it? I mean, like, out scouting – that’s what they do. They go round all the pubs and clubs. What was that band … Oh, it’ll come to me … Used to play down the Devonshire Arms? That’s what happened to them. They got spotted by an A&R man and invited to send a demo in to some record company – don’t remember which, but, God, he could be. He looks the part, doesn’t he? That bloke with him as well. The one with the hair. Macario. We’ll have to ask around. I wonder if Matt knows him. Matt!’ she said, raising her voice and beckoning towards the approaching lead guitarist. ‘That black guy at the bar – the one who was talking to Joey.’

‘What about him?’ Matt, the lead guitarist, was also the unofficial leader of the band. He was in his mid-twenties and had the air of a guy who’d been everywhere and done everything. Though he seemed a decent guy (not least because he was gay and obviously had no designs on Paula) Joey felt very young and naïve in his presence.

‘Do you know who he is?’ Paula was saying. ‘He’s not a regular, is he? We were wondering if he might be in the business.’

Even Matt’s normally furrowed eyebrows lifted at this.

‘He’s called Macario,’ Joey supplied. ‘Mo. He seemed impressed with the band.’

Matt peered across at the bar, but the man had his back to them now. ‘Don’t think I recognise him,’ he said. ‘Or those other blokes he’s chatting to. Not seen them in here before.’ He spread his palms. ‘So you never know. He might be.’ He grabbed the neck of his guitar and ducked his head beneath the strap, settling the instrument against his stomach. ‘Actually I do know of a Mo, come to think of it,’ he said, pulling the plectrum from where he’d slipped it between the frets. ‘Wasn’t that the name of that drug dealer people used to talk about? You know, back yonks ago when we were kids? Wasn’t he called Mo or something?’

‘Not that I’ve ever heard of,’ Paula said. ‘Anyway, he looks more like an off-duty solicitor than a drug dealer. Well, maybe not a solicitor. Not with the dreadlocks. But someone in the business, definitely. You remember that bloke, don’t you? The one who –’

‘Wish away, Paulz.’ Matt said. ‘Anyway, who’s to say he isn’t both? It’s been known.’ He laughed. ‘Did he try and slip you anything, Joey? Anyway, here’s Dan,’ he added, as the bass player ambled over. ‘Christ, man, get a move on!’

‘And he’s staying for the second half by the looks of it,’ Joey said, looking back across to the bar. The man Mo – former drug dealer, record scout, solicitor, whatever – caught his eye, lifted a tumbler and smiled.

Joey raised a drumstick and smiled back. He couldn’t help it.

Chapter 2 (#u954bf3dc-e64a-5818-9c16-4128664b67ca)

Brian peered out of the front-room window and cursed his brother-in-law. Yes, on the whole, Nicky was a sound bloke these days, and he’d be the first to leap to his aid in a fight, but he couldn’t seem to quash the constant hum of anxiety when he was in any way left in charge of Joey. He might be Joey’s kin – biologically, he was, where Brian wasn’t, which sort of rankled – but he wasn’t a dad and he didn’t understand. He just wasn’t reliable enough.

He turned back to where Christine, curled in an ‘S’ at the far end of the sofa, was apparently engrossed in her new Jackie Collins novel. How could she remain so unconcerned? ‘I swear, Chris,’ he said irritably, ‘if your Nick’s forgotten to pick our Joey up, I’ll fucking swing for him, I really will! I warned him not to go on the piss if he was driving, and now it’s –’

‘Not even that late,’ Christine said, tenting her open book on the sofa. ‘Stop worrying. He said he would and he will. Have a little faith, love,’ she added. ‘They’ll get here.’

‘Since when was gone midnight “not that late”?’ Brian huffed.

‘Since for ever,’ Christine said. ‘Bri, he’s almost eighteen. You can’t keep him wrapped in cotton wool for ever. Think about it. They’ve been playing. They’ve got a lot of gear to sort out. If anything it’ll be our Joey holding Nicky up. All excited. All that adrenaline. And it’s not like they’re going to just unplug their amps and bugger off, is it? There’ll be the pub to empty out, the clearing up, the loading up … And they’ll probably have stopped to have a drink with the landlord and everything – you know how it goes. Love, they’ll be here.’ She picked up her book again, the conversation apparently over, and Brian continued his vigil at the front-room window.

That was the main problem. That he did know how it was. Not as someone in a band – he never was, never had it in him – but he certainly knew all about pubs. Not to mention lock-ins, and the sort of people who hung around for lock-ins. And how being in a band meant spending a lot of time in pubs, with exactly the sort of people that he used to be. And what about the lad’s window round in the morning?

‘Fucking poncing about in a band,’ he muttered. ‘I really don’t like the idea. He’s a grafter, that lad, not some pie-in-the-sky wannabe with ridiculous ideas. He should be home in bed.’ He waggled a finger in Christine’s general direction. ‘He’s going to be too tired to get up for the windows tomorrow, just you wait.’

Christine gave him a look that he’d come to know well. Because Christine, who he’d been with since Joey was still a toddler, knew him so well – so uncomfortably well. She knew exactly why he was so hard on poor Joey; it was simply because he was terrified. He’d completely wasted his own youth – in a booze- and heroin-filled oblivion, much of it alongside her brother – and couldn’t even begin to contemplate the prospect of that kind of life for his son. Worse than that, they’d even lost him for a bit – well, Christine had, anyway – to social services, when he was just a baby. And he’d been complicit. Involved. A central part of the problem. Had even stood, albeit off his face, and watched the social taking Joey away – he could recall his frightened screams like it was yesterday. And Christine howling like she was dying. Because it was almost like she had been. It had been a long wretched road to get him back again.

But you know what’s going to happen, Bri? For God’s sake!Can’t you see it? You’re going to be the one that drives him to it! Christine’s words, spoken in anger after one of their interminable ‘differences of opinion’ about Joey – what he could and couldn’t do, where he could and couldn’t go – were never far from Brian’s mind. Because a part of him knew she was right. But if he didn’t look out for him, who fucking would?

He lowered the heavy green curtain and managed a conciliatory smile in the face of her tutting. ‘Stop fretting, love,’ she told him. ‘Joey knows where his bread’s buttered. He won’t give up the windows. He knows that would be mad. It’s doing that round that’s enabled him to buy the bloody crap he needs in the first place.’

Which wasn’t exactly why Brian had passed his window round on to Joey. It was supposed to be his living – a proper, stable, decent living. Not just a stopgap till he ‘made it’ as a bloody pop star! No, it wasn’t charity – Brian had been only too happy to accept a job at Beechwood Brushes, not least so he could drop Chris off at work, and bring her home again – but he’d done so with the intention of giving his son a future. One he was constantly anxious that Joey might at any moment throw away.

Brian glanced out again, sensing a light in the street. Finally. ‘Oh, thank fuck for that! They’re back,’ he said, feeling the tension drain from him. Sometimes he felt like he was going on eighty rather than forty. ‘And judging by the way your Nicky’s parking that bleeding van, he is pissed. For definite, the knobhead.’

‘Come away from that bloody window, Bri,’ Christine snapped. ‘The frigging neighbours’ll be wondering what’s going on. Honestly! Nowt like drawing attention to us, is there?’

Though there was little chance of avoiding it, given the way Nicky was sauntering up the path – not to mention the way he was singing at the top of his voice, despite Joey’s fruitless attempts to shut him up.

‘The kid did good!’ Nicky bellowed, once they’d both clattered in, slinging his keys on to the coffee table where they immediately overshot and skittered down to the rug. Joey rolled his eyes as he followed him into the front room.

‘Er, what about the stuff?’ he said, sounding plaintive, and looking hopefully at Brian. ‘No way am I leaving it all out there to get nicked.’

‘Patience, lad,’ Nicky said. ‘All in good time. At least give me a chance to have a fucking slash!’ Upon which he burped loudly and flung himself down on the sofa, giving Christine just enough time to save her book from being crushed.

Brian shook his head but decided not to say anything. He and Joey could deal with the kit between them once Nicky had gone to bed. He knew how anxious Joey would be at the prospect of Nicky dropping something precious like his snare drum or something. He also looked happy, and Brian didn’t want to spoil that.

‘So you had a good night, son?’ he asked, as Joey sloughed off his denim jacket. ‘You must be buzzing, mate. Did you get plenty of claps and all that?’

Joey’s caramel-coloured eyes shone with pride. ‘It was mint, Dad! I swear the punters loved us. Really loved us.’ He was pacing in front of the gas fire. ‘And I swear down, Paula’s brilliant. I mean, really, really brilliant. You’d never know it wasn’t Debbie Harry – just you wait till you see her yourselves. And, like, we all fit together’ – he meshed his hands – ‘so incredibly well. You know, if I could bottle this buzz, I’d make a fortune!’

Christine laughed. ‘Well, my boy, you never know, do you? If they can clone a sheep can’t be long till they can bottle buzz too, can it? How difficult can it be, after all?’ she smiled. ‘Trust me, I can feel it from here.’

Brian smiled too, caught up, as he always was, in pride for his stepson. ‘You and Paula still getting on alright then?’ he asked, just about managing not to wink. Paula’s name had been coming up such a lot lately that he and Christine had both picked up on it independently – and both agreed they knew why, as well.

‘Dad!’ Joey said, his cheeks darkening immediately. ‘Course we are. We have to. We’re working together, aren’t we?’

‘And she’s a lovely lass,’ Brian pointed out.

‘She’s fucking fit,’ Nicky added.

‘And you could do a lot worse,’ Christine said, standing up. ‘Me and your dad were only saying the other day, weren’t we, love? You and her would make a lovely-looking couple.’

‘Whoah, whoah, whoah,’ Joey said, looking suddenly aggrieved. ‘Have you heard yourself? Nowt’s happened yet, Mam, so you and Dad can just keep your nosy snouts out. Last thing I need is you two showing me up if she calls round.’

‘Ooh, calling round, is she?’ Nicky said. ‘You’re well in there, son. Lucky bugger. Anyway, is anyone going to make a brew, or am I going to have to do it?’

Brian reached for his pouch of baccy. ‘What do you think?’ he said.

Nicky roused himself and Brian followed him out into the kitchen anyway, leaving Joey to tell Christine all about the evening, the words ‘I’ve got a permanent place in the band now’ following his progress down the hall. He was pleased to see Joey happy – how could he ever not be? – but he couldn’t shake the nagging anxiety that increasingly accompanied it. Things were changing and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

Dreams were one thing but real life was a very different matter. And it seemed to him that Joey’s dreams, however talented he might be, were surely destined to end in disappointment. Maybe not now, not right away, but eventually they would. He wasn’t stupid – half the bleeding pubs in Bradford made it so obvious; how many of them had bands in, scratching out a meagre living, day to day, from one badly paid gig to the next? What were the chances of it ever really amounting to anything? Whereas with the windows, if he knuckled down and extended the round onto another estate, the world would be his oyster in no time. He’d be able to buy his own van, too. A van meant for ladders, buckets and chamois leathers, not frigging speakers, amps and drum kits. Why was Joey always so restless? Always looking for something more? Why wasn’t his life – which was a good life – enough for him?

Brian rolled his ciggie and lit it, then helped Nicky with the tea, tuning out from his pissed ramblings. He also made a mental note that next time Joey needed a lift, it would be him and not his uncle who took him, even if taking the drum kit meant two trips. He also made a mental note that he’d need to say something to Christine. He was happy enough putting Nicky up in the short term – least they could do, given the extent of the sacrifice Nicky had made for his sister – but not for too long. He was too bad an influence on Joey. But it seemed it wasn’t just Nicky in pole position for turning Joey’s head.

‘So I think he might have been some kind of record producer or something,’ Joey was saying to his mam when they returned. He glanced across at Nick. ‘Did you see him, Uncle Nicky?’

Nicky grunted as he put the mugs down. ‘See who?’

‘The man who came and spoke to me. I think you might have already left by then, actually. But he was there till the end. And you wouldn’t have missed him if you had seen him. Big black guy. Posh clobber.’

‘Didn’t he say who he was?’ Christine asked. ‘Give you a business card or anything?’

Joey shook his head. ‘No. I just told you, Mam – he just came up and said how good he thought we were. And bought me a pint.’

‘So what makes you think he was a record producer then?’

‘Just the way he was, Mam. We all thought so. Just the way he looked and the way he acted. I dunno.’ He spread his hands. ‘He just seemed sort of professional, you know? Not someone you’d expect to see in The Sun. He stuck out like a sore thumb. But in a good way,’ he added, leaning down to grab a mug of tea.

Brian was properly listening now. This was what he had been afraid of as well – of his son being taken advantage of by some fly-by-night agent. Of him being exploited in some way. Joey wasn’t exactly naïve but he was definitely still a bit wet behind the ears. And you heard about it all the time, didn’t you? ‘Well, did he have a name, this guy?’ he asked. ‘And did you see him, Nicky?’

‘See who?’ Nicky said again.

Joey shook his head. ‘He couldn’t have done. But his name was Macario.’

‘Macario?’ Brian said. ‘Odd name.’

But ringing a bell, strangely. And soon not at all strangely, with Joey’s next, damning, utterance. ‘Yeah, it is, isn’t it? But he said I should call him Mo.’

The name hit Brian like a physical whump in the chest. And he didn’t need to look to know the colour would be draining from Christine’s face. And when she spoke it was little more than a whisper. ‘Mo?’ she said. ‘You sure? A big man? A black man? Definitely called Mo?’

Joey nodded. ‘Massive dreadlocks.’ He fluffed up his own substantial head of hair to illustrate. ‘Like, huge.’

Brian felt cold, despite the tea, which was now scalding his hands. ‘Why?’ Joey asked, smiling happily. ‘Do you know him?’

Brian didn’t dare look at Christine, because he knew his mask might slip. Masks tended to do that when long-buried secrets threatened to come out.

‘Think I’m thinking of someone else,’ he finally plumped for.