CHAPTER SIX

Wilson wasn't quite sure what happened after that, but he woke up in his car again, this time having somehow managed to drive it into his own basement, without damaging the house, or having to widen the corridors. Drinking his coffee, Wilson's thoughts turned, as they often did, to Cornelius. Cornelius had always been a great friend. This wasn't to say that sometimes he couldn't be annoying sometimes, a bit too cocksure and headstrong. Wilson had strong, lasting memories of sitting in a practice room with Daz, or Luther, calling Cornelius all the bastards under the sun. Despite all these faults, when he was on form, Cornelius was one of the best musicians, and one of the best singers, and one of the best all round good blokes you could hope to meet. Wilson still remembered an event years ago, that he had pushed to the back of his mind, despite it being one of the few times that he had heard Cornelius talking to him without the air of defensive humour he often adopted.

It had been a rehearsal, as usual.²⁵ It had been late, as usual. Remiel had been drinking, as usual. Cornelius had been messing about, as usual; and, as usual it had started mid-song, although Wilson had not the faintest idea, now, which song it was. Wilson had opened the song, and all had been going well, until Cornelius, who had a short but stylish bass solo later on in the song, kicked in, just as Remiel was about to start singing the next verse.
"No! No! No! No! NO!" Remiel shouted into his mike, throwing it to the floor and storming off away from the others. The band stopped, and Cornelius unplugged his instrument and headed straight for Remiel.
"What the hell is wrong with you, man?" he shouted at Remiel, who turned round and countered his yell with one of his own.
"You did it again!" Remiel shouted into Cornelius's bemused and slightly angry face, "You played in my bit again! You're always doing it, and usually I wasn't petty enough to mention it, but this is one time too far."
"Of all the pathetic, trivial, sad things to complain about-" Cornelius retorted, incredulous about what he saw as a very silly thing to get so angry about.
"Oh shut up, you smug, self satisfied bastard!" Remiel shouted, cutting through his friend's comment. "You always do this, Brandt, you drive me into a rage because you wind me up so much, and then I get angry and start shouting like this, and you end up in the right, even when you're the one who's messed up, or pissed about. You always do this, and it always rubs me raw!"
Cornelius's face assumed a look of amused reproach, the traditional look of surprise at unexpected anger, he turned to the other band members, and asked, "What's up with him, too much to drink?" with a derisory snort of laughter in his tone.
"That's right, play this to an audience." Remiel said, still angry but calmer now, "Like you always have in the past, like you used to do at school, when I got sent to the headmaster because you stole my bag, and you got away with it because I made a scene. I wouldn't mind you doing things like this, except for the insufferable air of wounded innocence you generate. I don't think you've ever admitted you're in the wrong, have you? Not once, you always just put on this irritating manner, until whoever it is you're arguing with either gives up and goes away, or gets so angry that they punch you in the face. I don't mind telling you that I'm not falling for it again, this was one time too many, I'm not quitting, but I'm bloody close to it. I'm going for a breath of fresh air"
Remiel walked quickly over to the door, stopping as he got to it, and turning round.
"Cornelius?" he said, his voice calm, "I know about my problem, have you got even the faintest of ideas what yours is?"
Remiel left, leaving a lasting silence.

Daz turned to the others in the room, made a shrugging gesture, as if to say, "What can I do about it, best to leave it alone," picked up his drumsticks, stuck them in his pocket, and walked out, mumbling something about just going for a quick drink, possibly followed by a slow one. Luther sat for a second before his mobile phone rang, and he went outside for one of his frequent hushed chats. Cornelius sat down on his amp, and stared into empty space. Wilson stood for a few seconds, not wanting to break a silence he hadn't started, not being able to think of anything to say. For around ten seconds, he stood before turning round, and seeing something he hadn't seen before, tears in his friend's eyes.
"Cornelius" Wilson said as he ran over, genuine concern etched into his face, "What's wrong?"
"He never told me" Cornelius's voice was small, all of the humour and timbre had left it, leaving the real voice behind, liberated from pretensions, "All these years, I honestly didn't think he minded, I thought he took it all in fun, you know? Just a bit of a joke, just banter. I didn't realise he took it so seriously."
Cornelius's head fell into the palms of his hands,
"I've really gone and bloody done it now, haven't I?" he sobbed, "What have I done to him? How could I have been blind to what I was doing?"
"Take it easy" Wilson's arm shot uncomfortably onto Cornelius's back, "How could you have known if he didn't say anything? What are you, a mind reader or something?"
"That's the point!" Cornelius yelled, remorse in his tones, "He's been saying it for years, in how he looks, in what he does, even in his songs, what the hell else did you think 'Last man alive' was about? I've just never noticed before. The most damning thing is that he's right, I don't show the real me at all, all I show is this laughing shell, the same face I've shown for years. I don't even know who I am under all this."
Cornelius seemed calmer now, as if something had been exorcised, he smiled, and for the first time in a while, the smile was not fake, not smug, not contemptuous, it was a smile of relief, as the tears had stopped flowing. Wilson stood up, not desperate to leave, but not sure what could be achieved by his continued presence.
"I've got to go, you sure you're OK?" he asked, pulling on his jacket, and unplugging his guitar.
Cornelius looked up at him with the eyes of a child, and said, in a small voice, "You won't tell anyone, will you?"
Wilson promised he wouldn't, and didn't.

It would be nice to say that Remiel and Cornelius never fought again, unfortunately it would also be lies. Remiel and Cornelius frequently had the type of fights that made Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker look like, well, father and son. Cornelius did, however, make an effort to tone his act down, and occasionally even admitted he was wrong. Remiel stopped drinking at practices, and whilst he did not cut back massively on how much he drunk, he at least admitted his problem, and was well on the way to asking for help.

A faint knocking noise brought Wilson back to reality, it was a noise that he could not at first place, although it sounded very familiar. It took a full four seconds before Wilson realised that the noise was exactly in time with the record playing on the radio, Pills, by the Swimmers. Wilson wandered around, trying to get a sense of the sound's source, and eventually traced it to a high cupboard. He pulled the door open, and was confronted with the horizontal visage of Daz, playing two pencils on the shelf, to the beat of the song.
"What're you doing in there?" Wilson asked, feeling slightly silly talking to a man surrounded by pans, lying down in a cupboard.
"Isn't it obvious?" the pencils stopped moving, although Daz didn't turn and face Wilson, "What're you doing out there?"
"Making coffee"
"Thanks, two sugars."
"How'd you get in there in the first place?" Wilson asked, as he put the kettle on to boil again.
"Dunno, where am I?"
"You're lying in a cupboard, at my eye level, wearing half a policeman's uniform, and somehow we've managed to park my car in the cellar." Wilson added one drop of coffee essence from a small bottle to each cup.
"Dave's teeth! That was some night. What's the time?"
Wilson checked his watch, "Nine thirty."
"A bit early to be up isn't it?"
"In the evening."
"Wow. Some night"
Wilson stirred the coffee, walked over to the cupboard, and frowned,
"I'm not serving you drinks when you're in a cupboard." He commanded sternly, "Now get out of there before all this seems a bit too surreal."
"What day is it?" Daz jumped down, scratched his head muzzily, and sipped the proffered coffee.
"Freeday.²⁶"
"Good, I haven't missed any work. Can you give me a lift home?"
"Sorry," Wilson apologised, "The car's in the cellar like I told you"
"Yeah, you said." Daz paused, smiled, and chuckled, "I was just thinking about old times, you know, in the band."
Wilson smiled, glad that he was not the only one who thought fondly of times past, "There'll never be another bass player like Cornelius"
"I should hope not" Daz sounded faintly shocked, "If another bastard monstrosity like him was spawned, the Tree would probably collapse in disgust. Still, he was a boat-ride in a slow phloem when compared to Remiel under the influence."
"It must be admitted, he did like a drink."
"No, he liked several drinks, in quick succession, followed by a few more drinks, before rounding off the evening with a quick drink. Still, you couldn't fault his voice. Shame he quit, Cornelius's death must have hit harder than we thought."
"And there's the incident at the farm. Who could do something like that to such a lovely guy?"
"I don't know," cynical lines appeared on Daz's face, "Someone that had been out drinking with him? God knows, I was tempted to glass the moody bastard a couple of times."
"It just seems so odd, you know?" Wilson's glance swung to the window, as he gazed at the sky. "One day, it's all fine, no problem, Remiel's even come back to sing for us; the next morning, Cornelius has been shoved down a drain by some wannabe revolutionaries, Remiel's farm has blown up, and Luther's made for the hills."
Daz opened his mouth to say something profound, intelligent and wise, but was interrupted by the doorbell, and so the once in a lifetime opportunity was lost forever.

Wilson ran through to the hall, noticed that at some point in the night he had hung every picture in the house upside down, and opened the door.
"Good evening, have you ever thought of giving your life to the balance?"
Wilson was faced by a tired looking caterpillar, with a stubble build up on his neck which implied that he had much too little time on his hands. Two nervous but businesslike aphids flanked him, and, after only a few seconds' woozy, alcoholic incomprehension, Wilson recognised his friend.
"Strangely enough, we were just talking about you." He said, after only a slight pause, his conversational tone hiding the shock at seeing someone who had cut most of his contacts with his friends. Remiel was not the most sociable caterpillar, and he hadn't seen him since the funeral. He hoped like hell that they had enough Leafburner in the house, or they might have to start on his home brew²⁶.
"Mind if I come in?" asked Remiel.

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Copyright 1999 Ian Rennie, for Remiel Productions.