Norris?”
“It’s
like history is repeating itself. You turn up here and suddenly,
wham, people start vanishing again.”
“What
exactly are you implying?”
“I’m not
implying anything Mr O’Shea. But it’s a strange coincidence, don’t
you think? Tell me, have you ever been here before?”
I stared
incredulously. “I’m twenty nine years old for God’s sake. I was no
more than a kid when the stuff you’re talking about
happened.”
“Yeah, I
know,” he agreed. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
“No, I
haven’t been here before.”
“ Forget about the disappearances for the moment,” he said,
changing tack, “how about giving me an exclusive on your proposed
comeback?”
“ I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to my agent,” I said meaning
it.
“Don’t be
so predictable. Ever heard the phrase “beggars can’t be
choosers”?”
He was
trying to provoke me. I was determined not to rise to the bait, but
it was difficult.
“Why
don’t you come straight to the point, Mr Norris, while you’ve still
got the chance?”
He
stubbed out the cigarette and leaned forward, elbows on his
knees.
“You’re
not exactly in the driver’s seat anymore, Mr O’Shea. The public
have
short
memories when it comes to pop singers.”
“I’m more
than a singer,” I argued, riled by his impertinence. “I write my
own material. I’ve written songs that artists will always want to
record. I own publishing rights. So long as my songs exist, I will
get recognition and revenue.” The revenue part wasn’t exactly true.
Copyright to most of my songs was now owned by third parties. I’d
needed cash that badly.
Ignorant
of the fact, Norris was nevertheless unimpressed. “Yeah, right,” he
said, “but what happens in a few years time when you’re forgotten
as an artist, and your songs sound dated and become unfashionable,
and through complacency you’ve lost touch with the guys that
matter?” He raised his eyebrows knowingly, and flashed that
irritating little grin at me again. “Suddenly not many artists will
be singing O’Shea stuff anymore. Your place will have been taken by
younger fresher, more productive writers, eager for success. And
then there are the artists who write for themselves. You’ll find
yourself forgotten and maybe, just maybe, you’ll wish you’d spoken
to the little people like me. So, how about it? From little acorns
etc, etc...”
I’d had
enough.
“ I think you should leave, Mr Norris, before I do something
we’ll both regret.” I stood and motioned for him to do the
same.
He did
so, grudgingly. “Have it your way Mr O’Shea, but a word of advice:
it might pay you to be nice to the people on the way up the ladder
in case you meet them again on the way down; know what I mean?” He
pulled a crumpled business card from his back pocket, and dumped it
on the coffee table. “When you finally come to your senses, give me
a call.”
He headed
out of the room, crossed the hall and reached the front door. As a
parting shot, he said, “I would heavily advise you to buy a copy of
the Chronicle next week. It’ll carry a little story about the
recluse staying at High Bank Cottage who keeps mislaying his
guests. Careless, don’t you think?” He grinned, apparently pleased
with himself.
“Get
out,” I said and pulled open the front door.
“My
pleasure Mr O’Shea...I’ll be seeing you.”
He walked
out onto the drive leaving me free to slam the door shut behind
him.
CHAPTER NINE
It’s like
this: you’re a red blooded young male who has a burning desire to
become a star, because everyone knows that being a star gives you
access to fame and fortune, and an endless supply of nubile young
women. Only not many of these red blooded young males are fortunate
enough to see their dream fulfilled.
Well, I
was one of the lucky ones. I had it all by age twenty five. Two hit
records, a hit album that went platinum, money coming out of my
ears, and a
“It’s
like history is repeating itself. You turn up here and suddenly,
wham, people start vanishing again.”
“What
exactly are you implying?”
“I’m not
implying anything Mr O’Shea. But it’s a strange coincidence, don’t
you think? Tell me, have you ever been here before?”
I stared
incredulously. “I’m twenty nine years old for God’s sake. I was no
more than a kid when the stuff you’re talking about
happened.”
“Yeah, I
know,” he agreed. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
“No, I
haven’t been here before.”
“ Forget about the disappearances for the moment,” he said,
changing tack, “how about giving me an exclusive on your proposed
comeback?”
“ I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to my agent,” I said meaning
it.
“Don’t be
so predictable. Ever heard the phrase “beggars can’t be
choosers”?”
He was
trying to provoke me. I was determined not to rise to the bait, but
it was difficult.
“Why
don’t you come straight to the point, Mr Norris, while you’ve still
got the chance?”
He
stubbed out the cigarette and leaned forward, elbows on his
knees.
“You’re
not exactly in the driver’s seat anymore, Mr O’Shea. The public
have
short
memories when it comes to pop singers.”
“I’m more
than a singer,” I argued, riled by his impertinence. “I write my
own material. I’ve written songs that artists will always want to
record. I own publishing rights. So long as my songs exist, I will
get recognition and revenue.” The revenue part wasn’t exactly true.
Copyright to most of my songs was now owned by third parties. I’d
needed cash that badly.
Ignorant
of the fact, Norris was nevertheless unimpressed. “Yeah, right,” he
said, “but what happens in a few years time when you’re forgotten
as an artist, and your songs sound dated and become unfashionable,
and through complacency you’ve lost touch with the guys that
matter?” He raised his eyebrows knowingly, and flashed that
irritating little grin at me again. “Suddenly not many artists will
be singing O’Shea stuff anymore. Your place will have been taken by
younger fresher, more productive writers, eager for success. And
then there are the artists who write for themselves. You’ll find
yourself forgotten and maybe, just maybe, you’ll wish you’d spoken
to the little people like me. So, how about it? From little acorns
etc, etc...”
I’d had
enough.
“ I think you should leave, Mr Norris, before I do something
we’ll both regret.” I stood and motioned for him to do the
same.
He did
so, grudgingly. “Have it your way Mr O’Shea, but a word of advice:
it might pay you to be nice to the people on the way up the ladder
in case you meet them again on the way down; know what I mean?” He
pulled a crumpled business card from his back pocket, and dumped it
on the coffee table. “When you finally come to your senses, give me
a call.”
He headed
out of the room, crossed the hall and reached the front door. As a
parting shot, he said, “I would heavily advise you to buy a copy of
the Chronicle next week. It’ll carry a little story about the
recluse staying at High Bank Cottage who keeps mislaying his
guests. Careless, don’t you think?” He grinned, apparently pleased
with himself.
“Get
out,” I said and pulled open the front door.
“My
pleasure Mr O’Shea...I’ll be seeing you.”
He walked
out onto the drive leaving me free to slam the door shut behind
him.
CHAPTER NINE
It’s like
this: you’re a red blooded young male who has a burning desire to
become a star, because everyone knows that being a star gives you
access to fame and fortune, and an endless supply of nubile young
women. Only not many of these red blooded young males are fortunate
enough to see their dream fulfilled.
Well, I
was one of the lucky ones. I had it all by age twenty five. Two hit
records, a hit album that went platinum, money coming out of my
ears, and a
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