Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

off his jacket and hung it on a hook behind the door. “I didn’t know you were a Tim Buckley fan,” he said, sitting down in the armchair.

“You’d be surprised. Actually, I’m not, really. Haven’t heard him much. Hell of a voice, though. You can hear it in his son’s. Jeff’s. He did a great version of this song at a memorial concert for his dad. Most of the time he refused to acknowledge Tim, though.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Read a book about them. Dream Brother. It’s pretty good. I’ll lend it to you if I can find it.”

“Thanks.” Mention of the Tim and Jeff Buckley relationship reminded Banks of Luke Armitage and the tape he still had in his pocket. Maybe he’d get Brian’s opinion. For the moment, though, a stiff drink was in order. A Laphroaig. “Can I get you anything to drink?” he asked Brian. “Drop of single malt, perhaps?”

Brian made a face. “Can’t stand the stuff. If you’ve got any lager, though…”

“I think I can manage that.” Banks poured himself the whiskey and found a Carlsberg in the back of the fridge. “Glass?” he called from the kitchen.

“Can’s fine,” Brian called back.

If anything, Brian seemed even taller than the last time Banks had seen him, at least five or six inches taller than his own five foot nine. He had inherited Banks’s constitutional thinness, by the looks of him, and wore the usual uniform of torn jeans and a plain T-shirt. He’d had his hair cut. Not just cut, but massacred, even shorter than Banks’s own close crop.

“What’s with the haircut?” Banks asked him.

“Kept getting in my eyes. So what are you up to these days, Dad? Still solving crime and keeping the world safe for democracy?”

“Less of your lip.” Banks lit a cigarette. Brian gave him a disgusted look. “I’m trying to stop,” Banks said. “It’s only my fifth all day.” Brian said nothing, merely raised his eyebrows. “Anyway,” Banks went on. “Yes, I’m working.”

“Neil Byrd’s son, Luke, right? I heard it on the news while I was driving up. Poor sod.”

“Right. Luke Armitage. You’re the musician in the family. What do you think of Neil Byrd?”

“He was pretty cool,” said Brian, “but maybe just a bit too folksy for me. Too much of a romantic, I guess. Like Dylan, he was a lot better when he went electric. Why?”

“I’m just trying to understand Luke’s relationship with him, that’s all.”

“He didn’t have one. Neil Byrd committed suicide when Luke was only three. He was a dreamer, an idealist. The world could never match up to his expectations.”

“If that were a reason for suicide, Brian, there’d be nobody left alive. But it had to have a powerful effect on the boy. Luke had a bunch of posters in his room. Dead rock stars. Seemed obsessed with them. Not his dad, though.”

“Like who?”

“Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, Ian Curtis, Nick Drake. You know. The usual suspects.”

“Covers quite a range,” said Brian. “I’ll bet you thought your generation had cornered the market in dying young, didn’t you? Jimi, Janis, Jim.” He nodded toward the stereo. “Present company.”

“I know some of these were more recent.”

“Well, Nick Drake was another one of your lot. And do you know how old I was when Ian Curtis was with Joy Division? I can’t have been more than six or seven.”

“But you have listened to Joy Division?”

“I’ve listened, yeah. Too depressing for me. Kurt Cobain and Jeff Buckley are a lot closer to home. But where’s all this going?”

“I honestly don’t know,” said Banks. “I’m just trying to get some sort of grip on Luke’s life, his state of mind. He was into some very weird stuff for a fifteen-year-old. And there was nothing in his room connected with his father.”

“Well, he’d feel pissed off, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t you? Only stands to reason. Your old man does a bunk when you’re just a baby and then offs himself before you can get to know him at all. Hardly makes you feel wanted, does it?”

“Want to listen to some of his songs?”

“Who? Neil Byrd?”

“No. Luke.”

“Sure.”

Banks paused the Tim Buckley CD, put the tape in, and they both sat in silence sipping their drinks and listening.

“He’s good,” said Brian, when the tape had finished. “Very good. I wish I’d been that good at his age. Still raw, but with a bit of hard work and a lot of practice…”

“Do you think he had a future in music, then?”

“It’s possible. On the other hand, you see plenty of bands with no talent get to the top and some really terrific musicians struggle just to make a living, so who can say? He’s got what it takes in its raw form, though. In my humble opinion. Was he with a band?”

“Not that I know of.”

“He’d be a steal for some up-and-coming group. He’s got talent, for a start, and they could milk the Neil Byrd connection for all it was worth. Did you notice the voice? The similarities. Like Tim and Jeff.”

“Yes,” said Banks. “I did.” He started the Tim Buckley CD again. It was “Song to the Siren,” which always sent shivers up his spine. “How’s the CD going?” he asked.

“Haven’t bloody started it yet, have we? Our manager’s still haggling over the contracts. Hence that crappy pile of junk you saw outside.”

“I was expecting a Jag or a red sports car.”

“Soon, Dad. Soon. By the way, we’ve changed our name.”

“Why?”

“The manager thought Jimson Weed was a bit too sixties.”

“He’s right.”

“Yeah, well, we’re The Blue Lamps now.”

“The police.”

“No, that’s another band. The Blue Lamps.”

“I was thinking of Dixon of Dock Green.”

“Come again?”

“The Blue Lamp. It was a film. Fifties. It’s where George Dixon made his debut before it became a TV series. A blue lamp used to be the sign of a police station. Still is in some places. I’m not sure you want to be going around associating yourself with that.”

“The stuff you know. Anyway, our manager thinks it’s okay, more modern – you know, White Stripes, Blue Lamps – but I’ll tell him what you said. Our sound’s hardened up a bit too, got a bit more grungy and less slick. I get to play some real down and dirty guitar solos. You must come and hear us again. We’ve come a long way since that last gig you were at.”

“I’d love to, but I thought you sounded just fine then.”

“Thanks.”

“I saw your grandparents the other day.”

“Yeah? How are they?”

“Same as ever. You should visit them more often.”

“Oh, you know how it is.”

“No. I don’t know.”

“They don’t like me, Dad. Not since I screwed up my degree and joined the band. Whenever I see them, it’s always ‘Tracy’s doing this and Tracy’s doing that.’ They don’t care how well I do.”

“You know that’s not true,” said Banks, who suspected it probably was. After all, weren’t they the same way with him? It was all Roy, Roy, Roy, no matter what Banks achieved. He’d had a hard enough time reconciling himself to his son’s chosen career, just the same way his mother and father had with him. The only difference was