Nico by James Young Page A

gratified.
    10.30 p.m. : Demetrius kicked them all out. Then Nico kicked him out. She didn’t like the way he ogled her when she was taking a shot. ‘Like I was naaaked.’
    We were running late but she had to have one last hit before we went on stage.
    I chain-lit another cigarette.
    â€˜Jim, look, yer makin’ me nervous, an’ I’m not in it,’ said Raincoat. ‘Go on,’ave a dab, yer’ll be all right.’
    He opened a small white envelope and then from his waistcoat pocket he produced a miniature penknife. It was the prettiest thing, slightly curved, dagger-shaped. The body was ebony, with three diamonds set along the length. He pressed the middle diamond; a tiny blade flicked out, like a baby with a vicious tongue. He trimmed a corner off the pinkish brown powder and scooped it on to the blade. He held it under my nostril.
    I heaved into the sink.
    â€˜Shiiit, Raincoat. Such a waste.’ Nico tutted self-righteously, like a kindergarten ma’am. ‘Don’t you know he’s a health freeek … probably a nymphomaniaaac too.’ Moral superiority builds its pulpit in the strangest places.
    10.45 p.m. : Perhaps it was the white tiles and the mirrors.
    â€˜I need a piss,’ said Nico. Though it resembled one, there was no WC in the dressing-room and no other way out except through the audience.
    Titz was thumping on the door. ‘Can you pleeese be on stage now ?’ The audience were slow-handclapping. Nico hoisted herself on to the sink. We all looked the other way.
    Pisssssssssss … You could hear it in the pure tiled acoustics. We started giggling. So did Nico.
    Titz banged on the door again. ‘Tell that girl to shutthefuckup,’ said Nico. ‘How can I do it when she’s making me nerv ous?’
    Echo opened the door, blocking Titz’s view. Her head peered round to witness a Rhinemaiden perched on the sink with ancient grey cotton drawers flapping down around her motorbike boots. Another illusion shattered.
    Titz led us on stage with a flashlight. Echo first, then Toby, then me. Nico was still hitching up her pants.
    Echo plugged into his amplifier, slung on his guitar strap, searched in his pocket for a plectrum, then very carefully and very intently he began to play. Maybe it was good, but no one out front could hear anything. He looked over at me. One word registered across his features. Raincoat.
    Nico strode on. The audience immediately surged forward. She stood straight, head back, eyes closed, hand resting on the mike-stand, waiting.
    Silence. Nico looked round at us inquiringly. Echo shrugged. Over at the desk I could see Demetrius and the Italians gesticulating at Raincoat. The sea of faces was looking mean. They’d paid good money.
    Nico pointed upwards, as if to suggest more volume. As she did so a brain-searing whine shot through the place like a hot needle between the ears.
    Toby counted 3–4 with his sticks and we started to play, a whizz-bang cacophony. But the more hideous the uncontrollable squawks and screams of feedback became, the more the audience were getting off on it. My electric organ sounded like a buzz-saw. Toby kept ripping into his snare, Echo was laughing and shaking his head in disbelief. Nico was pacing up and down the stage with her fingers in her ears, kicking at the nearest heads in the audience.
    Back at the mixing desk, I could see Raincoat smiling, a huge beam of self-congratulation across his face … After all, it was only Pop.
    The seven songs were soon over. Nico had dispensed with our services for the time being.
    â€˜What? You play no more?’ asked Pasquale.
    â€˜Don’t know any more,’ said Echo.
    â€˜Wha’appen now?’
    â€˜The funeral begins.’
    Disappointing to be back in the dressing-room after only twenty-five minutes. For Echo, though, a relief. He hated any kind of public display of anything. Toby, being the youngest, still had plenty of