Page 137 of The Last Love Song
‘I know I’ve gone on about it but I need my song on the new album. Otherwise I’m going to have to reconsider my position with the band.’
‘Really?’
‘I don’t know whether I want to continue being part of The Fishermen.’
‘Have you told Freddy this?’
‘No, but I have told Helen. She’s in full agreement. She thinks I should get my shot.’
‘Does she now? That’s interesting, considering your woman hasn’t heard the song.’
‘She has. I sent her a tape and she says she thinks it could be very good with a bit of work,’ Derek said petulantly.
Con stopped strumming and looked up at Derek.
‘I’m only saying this one more time, and then the subject is closed. Your song stinks, Derek. It’s desperate altogether. We are not some little amateur band that can put any old crap on our new album. And that’s what your song is: crap. If you don’t like it, then do as you say and leave the band. I really couldn’t give a shit. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’ Con resumed his strumming.
Derek glared at Con for a while before he spoke.
‘I don’t know what’s happened to you recently. You used to be such a decent guy. It must be the fame that’s turned you into a miserable shit. If that’s the way you feel, then fine. Find another rhythm guitar player.’
Con shrugged but didn’t reply.
‘I’m warning you, Con Daly. You’re an arrogant Irish bastard who’s putting an awful lot of noses out of joint. You’re going to get your comeuppance soon.’
Derek left the studio. Con sighed and continued to play. The tune he was working on was starting to take shape.
At ten past three, the studio door opened. Todd headed straight for Con and slammed his fist into Con’s face. The blow sent Con tumbling backwards onto the floor.
‘Youbastard! Youbastard!’ Todd climbed astride Con and proceeded to use his face as a punchball. From his prone position all Con could do was raise his arms to try to protect himself.
‘Who thefuckdo you think you are? You bastard, you bastard!’ Todd continued to pound his fists into Con’s now bloody face.
‘Jaysus, you’re killing me, Todd! Stop it!’
‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you? Coming on to Lulu behind my back.Mywife! Your mate’s wife!’ Todd landed a punch in Con’s stomach.
‘What?!’ Con screeched.
‘You of all people know how much I love her. Last night she tells me that you’ve been all over her for weeks.’ He whacked Con again. ‘She said she was lucky to get out of that hotel room in New York after you grabbed her and kissed her.’
‘Todd, that’s not—’
‘Well, you’ve really done it now. It’s over. It’s all over. You’ve ruined everything.’ Todd choked back tears. He looked at Con below him. His nose was bleeding profusely.
‘You’ve destroyed the band, Con. I never want to see your bastard face again.’
‘What the hell is going on?’
Todd turned round and saw Freddy standing in the doorway.
‘You can ask Con what the hell is going on. Excuse me.’ Todd pushed past Freddy, walked through the control room and left the suite.
‘Bloody hell, Con. What did you do to ask for this?’ Freddy knelt down and offered an arm to help Con upright. He staggered a little as Freddy placed him in a chair. ‘Stay here. I’ll get something to help clean you up.’
Freddy walked through the control room to the kitchenette at the end of the corridor. There was a pile of serviettes by the coffee machine. He wet a few and returned to Con.
‘You really do look like you’ve gone the distance with Muhammad Ali,’ he quipped as he dabbed at the blood on Con’s face. ‘I think your nose could be broken, old son. We’d better get you to hospital and get it checked.’
