Into the Trees

1. Preacher Man

Hammersmith Palais, 31 December 1983

‘Ten, nine…’

Cam pushed through the goths, the punks, the skinheads and psychobillies, the sweat, hairgel and mohawks, lager sloshing out of the bottles in his hand.

‘Eight…’

‘Lucy!’ The speed was kicking in. He surged forwards through the wall of noise. Power chords sliced the growling bass. His body felt like someone had set fire to it. Frantic elbows and biker studs jagged his ribs.

‘Seven…’

The mosh pit parted as the crowd counted down. And there she was, with her Siouxsie Sioux eyes, pink back-combed hair, zippered black jumpsuit and sixteen-hole Doc Martens, hanging off Mal’s shoulders as his bandmates careened around.

‘Six…’

A fire-eater, tattoos crawling up his face, burst onto the stage.

‘Five…four…’

She pulled Cam in, wet-kissed his face, bodies jostling around them as he handed out beers.

‘Three…two…’

‘Happy anniversary!’ she shouted in his ear.

‘One…Happy New Year, you ugly fuckers!’ screamed the frontman on the stage, his right arm in the air, hand outstretched. ‘It’s 1984…time to wake up…time for Wardance!’

Cam held her tight, their friends bundling into them. Blood-red confetti cascaded down before the bass dropped, sending a sonic boom through the stalls. Buffeted back and forth by bodies and sound, they separated for a moment, before she grabbed his arm, urging him into the throng. Mal had hold of her other hand, pulling her away, and then she was lost.

‘I’ll find you,’ Cam shouted.

He pushed his way through a ruckus in the lobby and stumbled through the swing doors into the toilet. He ran a cold tap, swilled water into his face and raked his hair back. Acid lime Oxfam suit, orange winklepickers – he’d looked okay a couple of hours ago. Not like the demented puppet with severed strings who stared back at him now. He closed his eyes, dropped his head and rubbed his temples.

‘Okay, mate?’

He looked up at the reflection of an electric-haired goth standing behind him.

‘Yeah…happy new year…whatever that means.’

He dug out a scrunched silver wrap from his pocket, rolled up a fiver, and took another bump of speed off the back of his hand, before striding back into the crowd.

*

New Years’ Day and Portobello Road was heaving. People who hadn’t been to bed yet, those who had just got up, noisy revellers in last night’s outfits and market traders along either side. After wandering around like Transylvanian neophytes fleeing the light of day, Cam and Lucy had retreated to the comfort zone of the Lisboa.

‘Bom dia, Bruno’

‘Feliz Ano Novo, Lucy. Coffee e pastéis de nata?’

‘How did you guess?’

Just a year old, the Lisboa had become their main hang-out in Notting Hill. Twenty yards from Cam and Mal’s front door, it had the best/only real coffee on Golborne Road, and it had custard tarts.

Lucy was stroking the sleeve of the mint velvet biker’s jacket she’d opened from him that morning. ‘Feel this…where did you get it?’

‘Ken Market…it was hopping on Xmas Eve.’

‘You’ll have to wait for yours - it’s back at my place.’

Their gift exchange – usually lost-and-found charity-shop loot or a coloured vinyl 12 inch – had become their new-year kick-start, commemorating their first hook-up in the last few hours of the seventies.

‘You’re all twitchy, you still speeding?’ Lucy put her palm on Cam’s forehead as if he was a child spiking a fever.

‘It’s New Year’s,’ he said. ‘What’s the point?’

‘We’re over the hump.’

‘What?’

‘Winter solstice…days are getting longer, summer’s coming.’

Cam laughed: ‘Miss Myles…always glass-half-full.’

‘You should have gone home for Christmas.’

‘I told you, Lu…Caitlin’s a million miles away now, and my Dad was only interested in some rugby shindig he was organising.’

‘You could have come to mine.’

Cam looked at her with a wry smile.

‘Well, maybe not…but it’s not healthy to be on your own.’

‘Come on…it’s all mindless crap.’

‘Poor li’l Scroogie,’ she said, ruffling his hair.

‘I mean…sitting round a smoky fire with my old man staring at the wallpaper, after this last year. Nope, not yet. I called him on Christmas Day, left a message but he didn’t call back. Then I called Caitlin in NZ …she’s still grieving Mum.’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘I guess…until we get to June, every new month will be the first one without her…it hurts. A new year just amplifies it all.’

‘It won’t go away...you just get better at dealing with it. It’s unfulfilled love.’

‘Well, I survived my Dad’s fulfilled rage, so perhaps I can survive this too...’

‘You have to speak to him soon, Cam…get some closure on all that shit. I know you couldn’t while your mum was on chemo, but…’

‘That was the other reason I didn’t go back. It’s too big, too much…we’re still fragile after last year.’

‘I know…but you have to make it happen…he won’t.’

The thought of more cold weekends up north searching for a way through to his father, to disinter the dark days, made Cam shiver. ‘What time is it? Does everyone know we’re in The Pit today?’

They jumped up and grabbed coats: ‘Bruno – on the tab please mate…sorry, no cash.’

*

The Immortal had formed two years earlier, after Cam, Mal and Lucy had migrated east to London and run into Alex at a Wire gig. Mal had a thing about the mafia, from books and films – in particular, an indestructible Neapolitan nicknamed L’Immortale after a series of Lazarus-like resurrections in the side-streets of Naples. The band’s name had to be singular -- like The Fall or The Clash -- an edifice towering over the sweeping plains of the mainstream. Built to last.

The basement at Golborne Road – the Pit -- was the ideal practice space; sound-proofed by its depth and position, backing onto the main rail line into Paddington. Hooks hanging down from the ceiling gave it industrial edge – perfect for their first album cover if they could ever get enough decent songs to justify the vinyl within.

A door slammed. ‘You down there? The boys are back in town,’ shouted Mal, falling down the last three steps. Alex followed, carrying an amp, rolling his eyes at Cam, nodding in Mal’s direction: ‘He’s still on it.’

After ten minutes of threading cables, plugging in amps and tuning guitars, they were set.

‘HNY us…’ said Cam. ‘Right, onwards…same rules…new month, new song. I wrote something while you lot were busy pulling crackers. Inspired by the final scene in Blade Runner. Went to see it again.’

‘Hit us, McCartney,’ said Mal, loosening the strap of his Stratocaster.

‘We build it up, then break it down,’ said Cam. ‘Bass to start. Then tom-tom drums from Alex, a couple of big chords from you, Mal, and Luce sets up the rhythm.’

‘I’ve got lyrics, but they come in halfway through…either me or Mal. We have an anti-solo in the middle…

‘Anti-solo?’ said Mal.

‘Gang of Four…Andy Gill’s invention. Open up a hole in the middle of the song. Lull before the storm...’

Mal laughed. ‘Aha…I know what you’re doing.’ They all knew Mal was too good a guitarist to be allowed to exercise his full range, having been raised on a diet of peak Hendrix. Not in this band, not now. Purple haze mega riffs were verboten. He’d come round eventually - to the right side of history.

‘Remember the last scene at night in the rain on the rooftop, when Rutger Hauer saves Harrison Ford?’

‘Time to die,’ said Mal. ‘Epic…’

‘Yeah, and that means time for you to turn the dial down, Jimi,’ said Cam. ‘So, it’s called ‘Tears in Rain.’

‘Take it easy, matey,’ said Mal, ‘we have a whole year in front of us.’

‘Don’t remind him,’ said Lucy. ‘He’s resisting it…’

After their seventh run-through, Alex suggested a switch. ‘Let’s spin through the covers -- ‘Shot by Both Sides’ is still a mess.’

‘OK, but shouldn’t we review where we’re going?’ said Cam.

‘Meaning?’ said Mal

‘Direction. Vision. Is it more of the same, this year -- or something different?’

‘Now?’

‘You promised some new songs back in October, Mal. We’re becoming a tribute band…only we’re our own fucking tribute band. Are we doing this because we can…or are we going to try something new? I don’t want to be a rat on a wheel.’

‘Hamster.’ said Mal with a grin.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake…’

Mal looked at Lucy, his head still, eyes wide open. Alex dropped his drumsticks to the floor, pulled a pack of Rizlas out of his shirt pocket and started a roll-up on the snare drum.

Cam lifted his Fender up, ducked his head through the strap and propped it against the wall. ‘Look, it’s fine…you go ahead…I need air.’

He trudged up the stairs, grabbed his Crombie and headed out onto Golborne.

Another cold snap was moving in.

*

‘Happy Hogmanay, Dad!’

‘Campbell…I was just thinking of you…’ [yeah, right, so why don’t you ever call?].

‘How was Christmas with all your mates in London?’

‘Okay…yours?’

‘The rugby boys got together at the Wheatsheaf on Boxing Day. Quiet otherwise. Caitlin just called – she wanted to speak to you too, but I said I hadn’t seen you…or even heard from you, for that matter.’ [first guilt trip]

‘I called, Dad…left a message on the ansaphone. Did you get it?’

‘No, I never listen to that.’ [second lie]

‘I spoke to her on Christmas Day.’

‘Any job interviews lined up? So you can use that marvellous degree of yours.’

Cam glanced up at Trellick Towers -- the poster boy of Brutalist architecture and occasional abode of half The Clash, that had just had its tenth birthday. He slowly counted to five. Silence was the best antidote. He’d long since given up reminding his Dad he’d just done a second degree…but then again, he did have a point, it was the same outcome: BSc, MSc, UB40.

‘You still there?’

Beep, beep

‘Dad, I have to go…no more change, sorry.’

‘Why are you in a callbox?’

‘On a walk…’

Beep, beep, beep

‘Oh right…don’t let me keep you.’

Cam winced. Barely a minute had passed before his father had turned the drip-drip of his sarcasm back on. Another time, he would have responded. He would have reminded his father that he had voted for the government that had slammed a lid on the job prospects of his son and forced his daughter to emigrate.

But not today.

He pulled the collar of his coat up as a cold wind swept across the railway bridge. He walked south along Portobello, under the Westway and on towards the antique-stall end of the market.

At the corner of Talbot and Portobello, he stopped. A small group was clutched around the Oxfam stall opposite Rough Trade. A guy wearing a designer trench coat, buttoned up to his neck, and a long gold scarf was speaking to them about something. Cam moved closer. The speaker’s long black hair shone with oil. Cam watched for a while. He was talking about youth something in London and some other type of project in a forest in India.

‘Poverty is everywhere. Here we are…in the capital of one of the richest countries on the planet, and there are families a few miles from here…’ he said, pointing east, ‘scraping about for two meals a day. They love their kids…but they despair for them. What future do they have?’

Heavy-lidded green eyes, a lilt in his voice, he held the group. Cam thought he was standing on a crate – that this was some kind of speaker’s corner set-up - but then he saw he was on the same level as everyone else. His projection was elevating him.

‘I came to London as a priest from India ten years ago…yes, there are Christians in India…and with others in the church, we set out to do something. We started community groups, and we just asked them – what do you want to do? Two provisos - you need to do it together and it needs to be legal.’

A ripple of laughter spread through the group, as others stopped to listen.

‘Art, music, footie in the park…it doesn’t matter...when youth mobilise they get to see a way out, a future. It’s about hope. We called it YouthMove. Then last year I went back to India – I wanted to see if it could work there too.’

After five minutes, he wound down his speech, waved a flyer and the crowd dispersed slowly. Cam edged closer, picked up a flyer from the pile on the wall, and focused on the last two lines:

Contact: Rev. Ajay Joseph, Vellavaram Abhivrudhi Sangam (VAS)

c/o 174 Holland Park Road, London W14.

He caught the speaker’s eye.

‘Good talk, Reverend. Where in India did you say the project was…is?’

‘You know India?’ said Joseph with a smile

‘Well, I’ve studied it…hunger in Tamil Nadu.’

‘Aha…then you do know it,’ Joseph laughed. ‘Sorry, unfair. We’re the state above…by the Godavari, the heart of India, well away from the cities. Want to know more?’

‘Maybe...’ said Cam.

‘Free tomorrow?’ Joseph interrupted. ‘I’m staying nearby. It’s freezing, and I’ve got another meeting to get to.’

‘Yeah, I could be,’ said Cam.

‘OK. Ten o’clock,’ Joseph said, handing him a business card before blowing on his hands, pulling up the collar of his coat and walking away.

*

2. Immortal

2 January 1984

Holland Park was cold and quiet the following morning. Cam hadn’t been to this part of London before, despite living less than a mile away. Gravitational forces had always pulled him towards the Westway and the edgy north end of Portobello.

He looked up at the huge white houses with their fussed-over gardens. He walked down the even-numbered side of the road until he reached 174. He unlatched the gate and walked down the path, past a couple of palm trees on either side of a gazebo. At the door he adjusted his charity-shop jacket and smoothed back his hair. He pressed the buzzer and a voice told him to come up three flights of stairs to the top flat.

A young woman wearing an orange and gold sari met him on the landing. ‘Hello, I’m Anjali. Please come in. Rev Joseph will be with you shortly.’

Cam stepped onto the waxed floor of a hallway that opened up to a large living room. A log fire, splashy canvases that looked like they were painted by someone famous, a giant yucca in the corner, the rest of the room decorated with row upon row of books. Hardbacks, most of them.

‘Take a seat. I’ll make some tea.’

The mantelpiece glittered with dancing figurines having a wild party. He walked over. Small Indian gods. He carefully picked up the one in the centre – a jet black demon-goddess with blood red eyes, a lolling tongue, and four arms. On one side of her was a yellow elephant-headed god, on the other, a green monkey waving a rattle. Crawling at their feet was a chubby blue baby with a big smile.

He edged sideways to one of the bookshelves, scanning the spines -- Castenada, Laing, Huxley, Conrad, Garcia Marquez -- until he felt a crick in his neck. He prised out Heart of Darkness.

‘Read it?’

Cam was surprised by the voice behind him. Joseph looked different to yesterday, a cream smock over scuffed jeans, his long hair now loose, his eyes more yellow then green.

‘I had a go after watching Apocalypse Now. But I got fed up with the racism and didn’t finish it,’ said Cam.

‘Who’s the racist – Conrad or Marlow?’

‘I don’t know…it was an uncomfortable read.’

‘As uncomfortable as the film? Thank you, Anjali. Sugar, Campbell?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘So…’ Joseph said, sinking into in a huge leather armchair and beckoning Cam to sit opposite. ‘Tell me about yourself - what makes you think you’d be right for this project?’

Cam shifted in his chair, rattling his teacup. ‘Well, I’ve just finished at the London School; my thesis was on the politics of hunger in South Asia. I’m keen to get some real-world experience now.’

‘And you think you can do some good in the world?’ Joseph’s eyes unsettled him. Yesterday they drew him in, today they seemed to be looking inside him.

Cam looked away to avoid his gaze. ‘I want to be useful.’

‘Young people always do.’

‘And I’d like to learn more.’ Cam tried the well-practiced phrases from past failed interviews.

‘Relax,’ said Joseph. ‘This is informal…just a chat. I need to make sure I select the right people. It’s not easy out there. You need to be tough. The forest is remote -- mud huts, no electricity, terrible roads, contaminated wells. The health and nutrition situation is grim. The children get sick, they die. I need to see…’ he paused to interrogate Cam’s face with that stare, ‘If you’re up to the job.’

‘Who else is working there?’ Cam’s voice was shrivelling up.

‘A small team - a couple of local graduates from Warangal and two Brits who’ve been there for six months. We have some brilliant young health workers who have asked for more support. You might be useful…although I’m not sure how just yet.’

‘What about the locals? You said they were tribals -- where do they fit in the caste system?’

Joseph laughed. Cam was unsure if it was with him or at him. ‘We work with the Koyas and Lambadis in the teak forests, a hundred miles north-east of Hyderabad. They exist outside of…some say beneath…the caste system. They’re scattered across central India. On the fringes, the margins - geographically, socially, politically.’

‘Do they get on with each other – the two tribes?’

‘Sometimes...’ Joseph flicked his wrist to usher Anjali away before she could offer more tea from a tray.

‘Anyway, what can you offer, Campbell?’

[continues…]