"Don't, Johnno. it's important to him to do this his way. He'sLuke's
trying to tie up his loose ends. He needs to tie up his loose ends."
"Oh fuck. Oh bloody tucking hell." The grief and the fury raged inside
him. There was nothing he could vent it on. It did no more good for
him to curse the disease than it had done for him to curse fate for
making him what he was. He took out another cigarette, fingers shaking
as he fought with the lighter. "I arranged for some very discreet, very
expensive testing about six months ago. I'm clean."
He dragged in smoke while he crumpled the letter in his fist. "No nasty
problems with my immune system. Nope. No problem here."
Because she understood, her voice was brisk. "It's incredibly stupid to
feel guilty because you're well."
"Where's the justice, Emma?" He smoothed out the.letterthe letter, then
carefully folded it and slipped it into his pocket. "Where's the
frigging justice?"
"I don't know." She laid her head on his shoulder. "When Darren was
murdered I was too young to ask myself that question. But I've asked
it, Johnno, hundreds of times since. Why is it the people we love die,
and we don't? The nuns say it's God's will."
"It's not enough."
"No, it's not enough." She searched her conscience. She supposed she'd
known all along that she would tell him. "Luke's in New York. He's
staying at the Plaza for a few weeks. He didn't want me to tell you."
He tightened his arm around her. "Thanks."
When the limo pulled up in front of Brian's London home, Johnno kissed
her. "Tell Brian ... tell him the truth. l'll be back in a couple
of days."
"All right." She watched the limo disappear in the misty rain.
EmmA SWITCHED TO a wide-angle lens and crouched at the foot of the stage
in the London Palladium. There was no denying that Devastation was as
dynamic in rehearsals as they were in concert. She was delighted with
the shots she'd taken so far, and was already readjusting her schedule
to work in darkroom time.
But now she was shooting the empty stage, the instruments, amps, and
cables left behind while the group took an hour's break. There were
electric keyboards, horns, even a grand piano. What interested her now,
what she wanted to immortalize in her way, were the underpinnings of
music-making.
The scarred and sacred Martin made her think of the man who played it.
Stevie was as battle-worn and as brilliant as the instrument he had
favored for almost twenty years. Its strap, a bold, eye-popping mix of
colors, had been her last Christmas gift to him.
There was Johnno's Fender bass, painted a slick turquoise. On its stand
next to the Martin, it looked frivolous and funky. Like the man, it was
a competent, clever instrument under a coat of fancy varnish.
P.M."s drum set had the band's logo splashed across the front. From one
angle it looked so ordinary. Then, on closer inspection, you could see
the complicated arrangement of bass and snare and cymbals. The cautious
addition of three sets of drumsticks, the gleam of chrome trim that P.M.
still insisted on polishing himself.