Marky was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.
Now wait a minute. There is plenty of doubt. That is just not true. Also, bald-faced plagiarism. Mark Ganner scolded himself for such maudlin and self-centered musings. And lack of creativity. He was not dead yet. Far from it.
He still was one of the most recognizable faces on the globe. Had been for sixty years. Maybe more famous than old Dickens whose famous intro he’d just stolen for his morbid daydreams. Couldn’t really blame him, I guess, for thinking about the end. The reaper recently had winnowed the band by 40% after all.
But this was no way to celebrate Christmas. Nothing special about this Yuletide but at this stage they all took on some gravitas, if only out of future scarcity. He had mixed emotions about the Savior’s birthday. Mostly spurred by the pressure to do something seen as worthy. For years he was expected to celebrate publicly with bread and circuses. That became more ludicrous in his mind as time went by. Also, he had to listen incessantly to that ridiculous Christmas song from that Liverpool band.
This year he secretly blocked out his calendar for the whole holiday weekend. Sent away his publicists and stylists and staff. English breakfast with the family and presents under the tree but then they too were excused, with love and gratitude, for a couple days. The band, now more than half replacement parts, was on a break. He decided to gift himself one of the few things on earth he couldn’t buy. Time.
He enjoyed a couple glorious hours among the weeds and the warblers in the garden. Then retreated to his home recording studio. Sat in the plush recliner and prepped for the 13:00 footy match, moved up a day from its traditional Boxing Day kickoff. How could the Gunners let down an 82-year-old with the soul of a schoolboy? Well, he certainly ate like one. Downing crisps and chips and curries and pies, he hoped none of this got back to the Mail, or his cardiologist. He downed a few Boddingtons, as sweet and creamy as a Christmas pudding. He spent a blissful unaccountable afternoon just Mark and his ancient cat Muddy who had wandered in through an open patio door years ago and lever left.
At one point as he lounged in his plush leather throne his eye caught on an old, framed poster of the original band in full. The inimitable Gathering Moss. Once five strong. But Byron ran his Phantom into a swimming pool outside Hyde Park way back in ’71. George the human metronome wasted away behind his drum kit from smack and riotous living, unable to bring the same steady order to his life as he did to their catalogue. Bobby the Bass fell victim to a different, oncological predator; he must have been a handful for the hospice nurses to the end, especially the young ones. That left just Mark, the voice of a generation, and Cliff, the maestro on axe, with whom he’d formed the combo as mere schoolboys at Tunbridge Latin. The fish wraps said they were “estranged”, as if they could know.
By nightfall he was duly and properly relaxed and had adjourned to the sofa. Not yet knackered, just comfortable and content. He may have been dozing which for his age was to be expected especially given the vanquished cans of pub ale stacked like firewood at his feet.
He started when he heard what sounded like groaning and a clanking of chains by the entryway. Could it be a break-in? A ghost? Just his imagination, he thought. Or something he ate? “There’s more of goulash than ghoul about you!”
Turns out it was neither apparition nor felon. Well technically not, since that famous bust in Barbados years ago had been downgraded in a plea deal. It was in fact none other than his long-time guitarist, amigo, soulmate, dealer, rival, muse, co-writer, nemesis: the one, the only Cliff Symmonds. Together they were the Golden Pair. Rock and roll Rushmore.
The ruckus Mark had heard was Cliff tripping over a hidden drum kit bringing the cymbals crashing to the floor as he moaned from lifting his arthritic knees across the wreckage.
“I heard you wanted to be alone, mate,” he said. “Now when was the last time I did anything I was fucking told?”
Cliff limped over to Mark’s place on the couch with a bottle of muscat wine and swung open his cape to make room to sit. The two old chums then spent a few ageless hours recounting stories that virtually nobody else on the planet could have imagined let alone experienced.
So much for Christmas past. And at this age there was not much daylight between Christmas present and Christmas future.
Finally, they leaned back together and nodded off hand in hand, Mark feeling his friend’s knobbed fingers gnarled by decades of guitar licks that had electrified two generations of musical acolytes. He began to dream the same dream that had comforted his rest for half a century: he and the boys in all their youthful glory stampeding on to the stage as the house announcer thundered, “Ladies and gentlemen, the greatest band in the world.”
“God bless us everyone,” he mumbled.
Scott MacLeod is a father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared recently in Flash Fiction Magazine, The Twin Bill, Punk Noir, and Rmag, with more forthcoming. His Son of Ugly weekly flash newsletter can be found on Substack at https://scottmacleod1.substack.com, on Instagram @scottmacleod478 and at http://www.facebook.com/scott.Macleod.334
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