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He hadn’t found him, and even though his ears strained for the sound of an engine in the distance, Joe had instead found peace and the dogs had been more than happy to roam free on the sand while he pored over the mess in his head. Uppermost in his mind was Ace. More than ever, Joe felt the need to protect him, and it was nothing to do with the fact he wanted to go on an adventure to the Far East.
It had occurred to Joe that Ace might actually be safer out of the way, another faceless tourist wandering amongst a crowd of backpackers. That’s what was really bothering Joe because unbeknown to anyone but himself and Gus, the real danger was closer to home. He was terrified that the death threats he’d been receiving for months weren’t just from a disgruntled fan or a manic stalker as the police and Gus suggested. Someone who signed their name as Marnie was on his tail. Everyone knew the name, she was the lonely, rejected woman in one of his songs, who took up with a grifter and lived a life on the road, the two of them against the world. It wasn’t one of his number ones but a favourite with the fans when he toured, the name Marnie chanted around the stadium until the band gave in and played the opening chords.
Joe had mentioned it to Silvestre and Nanou, so they could be vigilant while at the same time playing down the serious nature of the notes. In truth, a nagging sense of foreboding was telling him that his past was catching up and someone out there wanted him to pay the price. For what or why, Joe wasn’t quite sure. It was hard to tell, the words were cryptic, and he hadn’t worked them out yet. ‘You are a fake. Your words a pack of lies. You sold me a dream. And left me broken. I hate you so bad.’
Dragging strands of hair from his face he sighed deeply. Christ, who the fuck was it? And then, on top of a psycho and Lance’s mounting debts and therapy bills, Gus getting sick and Ace’s wanderlust, Joe suspected his son was now in love with his long-distance girlfriend.
At least they were finally going to meet her in the flesh, his geeky mate who he talked about all the time who had ditched her boyfriend and made Ace’s year. Nanou was so excited about the visit and had been fussing for days while Joe quietly hoped the young woman was as genuine as she seemed. From all the photos Ace had shown them, Edie looked like a nice kid, down to earth, clever and talented, so he, Nanou and Silvestre had their fingers crossed. Joe wasn’t into all that Facebook shite, and neither was Jenny, but she’d got a friend to have a gander and said the kid was kosher.
Anyway, at least she wasn’t a bloody actress or a reality star, or a wannabe singer looking for an in but a literature student who was doing something with her life and right now he needed something to feel positive about. And what was more uplifting than young love? The last few years had been a nightmare, and just when he’d thought his troubles were over the notes started arriving. Karma was determined to take a chunk out of his arse, one way or another.
It had started five years back, when Denny Sullivan, the bass player, wanted to revive the band and do a reunion tour, kicking off at Glastonbury. Joe had given the idea a resounding no because when he’d called time on NorthStar, he’d meant it, no going back. Denny just wouldn’t take a hint and started an online media campaign, rallying fans, appearing on TV shows publicly cajoling Joe into reforming the band. The answer was always the same.
War was declared when Denny finally lost patience and decided to start a new band, recruiting new members because Chaz and Steve, the drummer and guitarist remained loyal and declined. Joe then forbade Denny to use the name NorthStar. Joe had written all of the songs and owned the copyright, therefore if Denny performed them, he’d have to pay royalties. Yeah, tribute bands sang his songs all the time and he wasn’t arsed about that, good luck to them if they could earn a few quid. But there was no way he was going to sit back and let someone he didn’t even like swan off and reinvent his band. Not on his nelly, as his old mam used to say.
The legal battle had been as epic as NorthStar’s rise to fame and kept the tabloids busy if nothing else. And when Joe won, just like his very expensive team of lawyers said he would, Denny had crawled back under his stone and hadn’t been heard of since.
Hell, if he wanted to start a band he could. Get some guys together, get someone to write him some songs. It wasn’t out of his reach. The man was just idle and wanted it the easy way. Denny was also stinking rich, had a cute young wife, number four, maybe five, Joe had lost count. They lived in a mansion in Buckinghamshire and had a villa in Jamaica, so it wasn’t like he was on his arse and back in Manchester, signing on the dole. That was where they’d met, in the queue at the job centre.
Joe’s bass guitarist had buggered off to Oz and Denny, a very mediocre musician, scraped his way into the band. He had always been a troublemaker, the one Gus found hard to manage then had to make excuses for when his behaviour drew bad publicity towards the band, which of course, the tabloids loved. Gus always said that Denny’s problem was that he wanted to be the star of the show. It would never happen though. That role belonged to Joe.
To be fair, Joe was no angel either. Yes, everyone knew he loved the ladies and when he said he’d slept with more women than he could remember, he wasn’t kidding. Shameful as that may sound, Joe really and truly couldn’t remember all of them. Especially the early days when he was a wild twenty-three-year-old, living his best life, the one he’d dreamed of. Nothing was off limits, the drugs, drink, groupies.
The bizarre became the norm. Too quickly, so fast it took their breath away and blew their minds like the little plastic bags of uppers and downers. They’d all lost days, weeks to whatever they swallowed, waking up in hotel rooms surrounded by naked bodies, nameless women who he’d never see again. Or maybe he did, it was all a blur.
They became hooked on it all. Being ferried about in fancy limos, flying to gigs in private jets, driving across the US in a convoy of gleaming tour buses; so far away from dossing in the back of their smelly old van on a mattress. The real, good old days.
Then there was the dark side of fame that came in flashbacks and haunted him. The things he’d seen that he knew were wrong, and the secrets he’d kept all these years for people who didn’t deserve it. This was why he’d refused to co-operate with several publishers who wanted him to write his autobiography. He couldn’t go there, skim over the truth, or lie, because to tell his story would mean digging up the past and exposing others, let alone reliving what little he remembered about the lowest points of his life; the times when two young women had lost theirs.
Instead, he’d left it to others to gossip and make up their bizarre scenarios. And why, whenever he did talk shows, Gus warned the hosts not to ask Joe about that time because if they did, he’d get up and walk out. It had happened, twice. Again, the gossipmongers loved it, social media replaying the moment when Joe Jarrett ripped out his mike and stormed off set.
Joe didn’t give a fuck about what people said. He knew his own truth and had done his best to atone for something that wasn’t his fault, not directly. Privately he’d helped, but all the money in the world wouldn’t heal broken hearts. The names he could remember, he hoped their families were okay, and the others, girls like a poor homeless kid called Pammie and those he’d tried to help through secret donations, he wished for them on shooting stars all the time.
It was always at this point in his reminiscing that Joe made himself stop and Bob, gambolling across the wet sand carrying a chunk of driftwood, helped break the cycle of misery whirling around in his head. Looking downwards into brown, trusting eyes, Joe smiled and ruffled the Labrador’s soggy fur before taking the wood and throwing it out to sea, watching a moment of innocence as his dog raced away, relishing the joy of simple pleasures.
This thought brought him back to the farm, a place where he was able to live his life in peace, away from the razzamatazz. And now he feared it was all in jeopardy. He’d already had more cameras fitted around the perimeter, although he’d ignored the advice of the firm he’d employed to ramp up security. The last thing he wanted was to erect a wall around his property, fit electric gates or have someone patrol the perimeter with dogs. He might as well go back to LA and live like a prisoner.
The beauty of his home was that it was semi-remote, wild and rugged, off the beaten track and away from the tourist route. It allowed him to do his own thing, which was write, play music, hike, eat good food and drink too much wine.
Okay, so every now and then fans would invade his precious privacy. It wasn’t a secret where he lived so they’d turn up in the village, or hover at the end of the lane hoping for a glimpse of their idol but they weren’t a problem and Joe liked to meet them. He would wander down with the dogs, sign autographs, let them take their dreaded selfies and spend time chatting. Joe didn’t want that to change.
Maybe he was overthinking it all. Feeling his mortality, getting old and maudlin, hankering after the good old days and his mam and dad and a terraced house in Manchester. In fact, he needed to go home soon, back to his roots. They were pulling him across the channel.
Whenever he went back, he’d tie up his hair, stick on a hat, be anonymous and have a wander round the city, go back to the boozer on the corner of his street, call in at his old school and bung them a few quid, give out some prizes to the kids. Yeah, he’d like that and so would Ace.
They could go before he headed to the Far East, get away just the two of them and make some more memories and in the meantime, hope that Gus and the police were right. That the notes were from some harmless crazy getting their kicks and like most things it would blow over. Like another chapter in the unwritten story of his life.
There was so much that people didn’t know, didn’t need to know either. For the past forty years he’d lead his life in public, so he had a right to keep some stuff to himself, in his heart and head. Joe accepted there was no going back and erasing the bad bits. And he would have to live with regrets, the what ifs, and lately the face of a woman who he’d loved so badly and let slip through his fingers. His secret summer lover, who should have been by his side through it all, but he’d messed up.
Joe was about to indulge himself in a bout of bittersweet torment when the hum of an engine alerted him and the dogs to a visitor. Turning, he looked towards the path that led to the beach and there as he expected was Ace, one arm raised. It said – I’m here, are you okay, Dad? Sometimes, the two of them didn’t need words. God, he loved that kid.
The dogs were already racing up the sandy pathway barking their excitement when Joe stretched creaky legs and stood, his hiking boots splashing a puddle of seawater, a high tide incoming. As he followed his hounds, Joe told himself it was time to get it together and stop his wallowing and worrying, focus on the present and Ace’s birthday.
The new cameras would tell them if anyone approached the property, and so far his letter-writing stalker hadn’t bothered them at the farm. So as long as he kept his circle close and his wits about him, all was good. Everyone he loved would be safe and crazy woman, whoever she was, could go to hell.
