Simon Brett - A Comedian Dies

From being cowed, the audience began to be amused. The material remained unattractive, tales of sex and scatology, but it seemed to be what they wanted. Each punch line was greeted with the right shout of shocked laughter. More and more faces turned to the spotlit figure, sweaty faces with mouths slightly open in anticipation of the next crudity.

And, as he won the audience, Lennie Barber began to woo them, to force them to his rhythm rather than bending himself to theirs. He slowed down, stopped pile-driving his jokes, started to use silence and work with his face. Now that he had their attention, he let the audience see his full range of expression. His eyes popped lasciviously in the character of young men, fluttered with false sophistication for tarts, bleared rheumily as impotent dodderers and closed in obscene ecstasy for images of consummation.

But as his spell began to work, he started to dilute his material. Now that the audience was watching him, it no longer needed the hook of dirty words. His jokes became more whimsical, more attractive. Charles began to relax. He was in the presence of a master. Soon all the props of stereotype would be dropped and they would be watching the real Lennie Barber.

But the act never reached that point. In one of the pauses that the comedian was now daring to leave longer and longer, there was a harsh commotion from the bar. Voices were raised in anger. There was a sound of breaking glass.

Charles turned with the rest of the audience to see thrashing figures in the gloom. From the shimmer of their garments they seemed to be members of Mixed Bathing. Only two were actually fighting, while the rest of the group struggled to prise them apart.

There was a grunt, a curtailed scream and a guttural sound. As the overhead lights were switched on with sudden blinking intensity, Charles saw the silver-vested vocalist/guitarist back away from the drummer, who held a broken bottle. The vocalist turned to show the waterfall of blood that was his face, before he toppled forward onto the floor.

FEED: Do you talk to your wife while you are making love?

COMIC: Only if she telephones.

Mixed Bathing’s vocalist was not seriously hurt. In the sense that there was no damage to anything except his looks. He would go round for the rest of his life marked like a hockey ball and maybe he would have less success with pop-crazed teenage girls, but he was not seriously hurt.

The police had been called and, after taking brief statements from some of those present, they left with the drummer. The vocalist went off in an ambulance. Apparently the antagonism between them had been of long standing, brought to a head by an argument over a girl.

Most of the club’s clientele had left by the time the police arrived. Certainly there was no hope of recapturing the evening’s atmosphere, either the mounting eroticism of the dancing or the spell created by Lennie Barber. Anyway, it was after twelve when the fight happened and the club closed at one.

But people lingered and the manager didn’t take a lot of persuading to keep the bar open for Walter Proud’s party, Miffy Turtle, Chox Morton and a couple of the members of Mixed Bathing. Everyone needed a drink after the shock.

‘Trouble was,’ said Mixed Bathing’s rhythm guitarist, ‘they didn’t agree about the music neither. Nick always said we wanted really to get into punk in a big way and Phil thought we ought to appeal to a more teenybopper, bubble-gum market.’

Charles didn’t know which of the fighters was which, but he felt it only appropriate that Nick the punkophile must be the drummer with the broken bottle.

‘Yeah,’ Mixed Bathing’s keyboard player agreed gloomily. ‘Like from the start I’ve always thought we ought to have been into a funkier sound anyway. More kind of laid-back, less up-front, know what I mean?’

Disconcertingly, Charles found that this remark seemed to be addressed to him. ‘Sort of,’ he offered hopefully.

‘Still, now Nick and Phil’ve split that’s really screwed the whole scene. Been a heavy trip last few months, anyway. Guess we’ll all just get back to our musical roots now.’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Charles, intrigued in spite of himself.

‘Well, like I’m really into good old fifties R and B. Wiggy — ’ he indicated the rhythm guitarist, ‘Country’s really his scene. You know, I guess we’ll get it together in our own ways, go back to basics, from the top, no hassles, know what I mean?’

This time Charles felt that to nod or agree that he did know what the keyboard player meant would be dishonest, so he said nothing.

‘But you mean it’s the end of the road for the group?’ Chox Morton’s voice was small and anxious. He sat nervously forward on his stool, impossibly thin, fingering his glass of Coke.

‘Gotta be, hasn’t it, Chox? I mean, I don’t reckon we could have stuck together long anyway. The vibes were getting really heavy. But after this. .’

‘Yes, Mixed Bathing’s finished.’ Miffy Turtle spoke with authority and a kind of realistic gloom.

‘No more Mixed Bathing. The boys will be taken down to the Baths with their costumes on Monday and the girls will be taken down on Tuesday. Which means the Gym Master will have his hands full.’ Steve Clinton laughed immoderately at his innuendo. To give everyone else their due, they ignored him.

‘But what about tomorrow night at the club?’ the manager asked Miffy. ‘I mean, the group’s booked in to the end of the week.’

‘Well, come on, use your loaf. They won’t be here, will they? One of them’ll be in bleeding hospital and the other will be in the bleeding nick. You’ll have to make do with records for the kids to bop to.’

‘Be a darned sight cheaper.’ The manager spoke with venom festered by an old grievance.

‘Look, if you want a decent group to come to a hole like this, you have to bloody pay for it. We ain’t bloody amateurs.’

‘You’ll be in breach of contract if the group doesn’t turn up tomorrow.’

‘Stuff it, Mr. DeMille. There’s bugger all you can do about it.’ Miffy spoke with impressive force and the manager was silenced.

‘Hear about the Irish rapist who tied the girl’s legs together?’ asked Steve Clinton, incapable of leaving silence unfilled and equally incapable of filling it with anything but a joke.

Again company solidarity prevailed and nobody took any notice of him. Charles looked across at Paul Royce, who was gazing morosely into his Scotch. The young man seemed even less amused by Steve Clinton than the rest of them. Maybe it was the prospect of writing with this walking Bumper Fun Book that depressed him. Walter Proud may have had his theories about introverts and extroverts complementing each other, but Charles couldn’t see it working out for long with such extremes of facetiousness and gloom.

As he looked across at Paul Royce, he caught Virginia Moult’s eye. She was staring at him hard, appraisingly. He felt an uneasy excitement.

Walter Proud sat next to her. Charles shifted his gaze to the producer. The gin was getting through and, as it relaxed the face, Charles could see the sagging contours of age and sadness.

Walter was determined to be jovial, to put across the showbiz image of indestructibility, but brashness could not hide the fear, the fear of ageing and of dying, the fear that could drive a man into the apparently rejuvenating arms of a young girl and that could turn him to violence if she rejected him. Charles could identify uncomfortably closely with Walter. He had known the blindness of sexual anger, the jealousy of a younger man’s irretrievable advantage. If he had been in love with Janine and if he had been aced out by a cocky young comedian, he would not like to have predicted how he might have behaved.