I stir some sugar into my coffee, starting to feel a bit vague from lack of food.
"It's good calling you Clive," he notes. "I never really thought you looked like an Alan. Should have known it was all bullshit."
I start to apologise, then stop myself. We're silent for a while. After years spent frantically trying to envisage Webster's final few hours as a relevant rock star, hearing their true contents at last seems to have blown a few of my fuses. But either I'm being a bit thick or he's left a lot unexplained, and further questions seem tricky to pose without appearing vulgar.
"So," I say, gingerly, "can I-"
"Yep, you got fifteen minutes, journo-boy, might as well use it."
"How did you discover Persephone was lying?"
He bites his lip and leans back, while I hope to buggery that I've got the right end of the stick. Mercifully, it seems I have.
"It started to make sense over the next few weeks, I s'pose. I suddenly had lots of time to think, as you can imagine ... No band, no girlfriend ... no life, basically. I just sat in my flat ruminating, trying not to drink. Failing most of the time. But I kept going back to how Persephone told me the news ... like I already knew Gloria was pregnant. I didn't, though ... she never said anything. But I knew Gloria so well ... better than her own family did, probably ... and I knew that, despite everything, she'd never never ask them to tell me she'd lost a baby, not without first telling me there ask them to tell me she'd lost a baby, not without first telling me there was was one. So I made up my mind about that bit: Gloria never asked them to tell me a damn thing." one. So I made up my mind about that bit: Gloria never asked them to tell me a damn thing."
"Why d'you think she even telegrammed them at all? I thought she wanted to get away from them?"
"Money," he shrugs. "Not an awful lot of free health care for foreigners in Russia. She had no travel insurance, obviously. Fuck knows what she was thinking, going out there in her condition with no safety net. They wired some cash, sorted her out, then arranged for her to be flown to Tokyo, where a family friend lived. That's where the baby was born. She's bloody lucky her family are so rich. Otherwise she'd have probably died herself, let alone the baby."
I frown hard, my mind returning to that afternoon in Webster's flat: the framed photo of the little boy, the only flash of colour or emotion in his otherwise blank canvas of an abode. The child would be older than that, surely? But of course, the photo could be from a few years ago.
"So she left Russia for good?"
"Yup."
"So ..."
"Yeah," he nods, following my thoughts. "Alison whatsit never did spot her in that cafe. Must've been some other nutter."
"You read that?"
"Course I did. I read everything." everything."
He pours himself more coffee from the industrial-sized jug we ordered, exhaling heavily. I find it a little implausible, the idea of Lance Webster himself turning to a cheaply made fanzine called Things That Make Me Go Moo Things That Make Me Go Moo for information on the whereabouts of his closest friend-but then everything is starting to feel a little back to front today. for information on the whereabouts of his closest friend-but then everything is starting to feel a little back to front today.
"Fucking idiots, her family," he spits, with vintage bile. "The irony was, I hadn't even thought thought of trying to find Gloria up 'til that point ... I hadn't the time, with the tour and everything. But I started looking bloody hard after that, I tell you. Precisely the fucking opposite of what they hoped to achieve." of trying to find Gloria up 'til that point ... I hadn't the time, with the tour and everything. But I started looking bloody hard after that, I tell you. Precisely the fucking opposite of what they hoped to achieve."
"Bastards," I whisper. "Why did they hate you so much?"
"Initially, because they're a bunch of upper-class wankers. But as time went by their feelings became a little more ... justified, shall we say."
"But this is what I don't get," I interrupt. "It was hardly your fault Gloria was so stubborn about the whole destiny thing. I mean, you guys were in love ... It must have been bloody difficult for you ..."
"Not as hard as you'd imagine," he counters. "Don't forget, I had my own reasons for not wanting to be tied down to her her. I was young, stupid and incredibly vain ... Gloria was attractive, but she wouldn't have exactly been a status symbol. Particularly not during the whole Bruise Unit Bruise Unit thing, when I had people on my arm like Camilla McBriar and Sally Chester ... Both ended up being models, which unfortunately meant a lot to me at the age of twenty-five. It wasn't until the end, when Gloria really started to get sick, that I remembered I loved her. Sounds fucking crazy, I know, but what can I tell you? I was an idiot." thing, when I had people on my arm like Camilla McBriar and Sally Chester ... Both ended up being models, which unfortunately meant a lot to me at the age of twenty-five. It wasn't until the end, when Gloria really started to get sick, that I remembered I loved her. Sounds fucking crazy, I know, but what can I tell you? I was an idiot."
"So what did you do?"
He puffs and places his head on the table for a second, each word of his confession clearly a considerable effort. I feel painfully guilty pressing him further, but I guess if he didn't want to continue, he wouldn't.
"Well, I started trying to convince her we should just say fuck it, and be together. This would be ... autumn of ninety-four, I think. Told her I was prepared to take the risk, and if the whole bloody cosmos came crashing down around us, or whatever she believed, then so be it. And you've got to understand ... she really did really did believe it. Man, you should have seen what she started to do to herself when we tried to release that stupid song as an A-side ..." believe it. Man, you should have seen what she started to do to herself when we tried to release that stupid song as an A-side ..."
I brace myself for some graphic description of unprecedented hideousness-which thankfully he doesn't bother with.
"Anyway, I said I'd make huge changes for her ... give up the other women ... even the band, if it came to it. Sod it, I'd made enough money, and The Social Traps The Social Traps recording sessions were ... well, far from a paradise of creativity. But of course she didn't buy it. So then we had this one stupid night when it finally went too far ... and that was it. I don't think I saw her again after that. A few months later she was gone." recording sessions were ... well, far from a paradise of creativity. But of course she didn't buy it. So then we had this one stupid night when it finally went too far ... and that was it. I don't think I saw her again after that. A few months later she was gone."
My body shudders involuntarily. I remember my video footage of the 1995 Brit Awards, Gloria clearly seen lurking in the background. I glance furtively around the restaurant, not really sure what I'm expecting to see ... Tony Gloster, perhaps, secreted in a distant booth, taking notes. All I see is a large man in an Arsenal top, irritably trying to persuade staff to give him a steak knife made of something other than plastic. The trials of air travel in the twenty-first century.
I turn back to Webster, who is gazing forlornly at his mobile phone.
"So," I ask gently, "did you ... um ... did you find her, in the end?"
"I didn't. She wrote to me. Sometime around Christmas ninety-five. Didn't mention the baby straightaway. She just said ... she knew her family had been lying to me, but didn't specify what about. I still didn't even know where in the world she was, I had to send my letters via an intermediary for ... oh, months. Then after about a year she started to mention she'd been 'looking after a child.'" didn't. She wrote to me. Sometime around Christmas ninety-five. Didn't mention the baby straightaway. She just said ... she knew her family had been lying to me, but didn't specify what about. I still didn't even know where in the world she was, I had to send my letters via an intermediary for ... oh, months. Then after about a year she started to mention she'd been 'looking after a child.'"
He shakes his head and stares into the middle distance, exhausted by the complexity of his own life. After a minute or so he shakes himself out of it, looks back at me and laughs.
"Well, there you are. That's the long answer to the question 'Why was the Aylesbury gig so shit?' Is that acceptable?"
"Yeah," I smile, still scribbling on my pad. "I think so."
"How close were you, then?"
"I'm sorry?"
"To the stage. At the gig."
"Oh ... right down the front, as usual."
"Did you feel like shooting me?"
"Um ... no. Alan was the angry one. I think it finally killed his career as an indie kid."
"Shit, really?"
"Afraid so," I reply, toying with the idea of showing him the "black" page from Alan's scrapbook. "But I think I was a little more philosophical about it. I was completely off my face anyway. Plus ... well, I was used to you being, um, a bit rude."
"Thank you!" he cries, jumping up and banging on the table. "I said said this at the time to anyone who'd listen, but no one believed me, no one remembered! We used to be this at the time to anyone who'd listen, but no one believed me, no one remembered! We used to be ridiculously ridiculously rude to our audiences. Used to tell 'em to fuck off, called them cunts, everything! And they loved it!" rude to our audiences. Used to tell 'em to fuck off, called them cunts, everything! And they loved it!"
"Totally," I concur. "Which is why I was so perplexed by the reaction it got."
"Well, everything had got so bloody clean clean by ninety-five." by ninety-five."
"That's right. And 'moshing' beat 'rucking.'"
"You what?" he frowns.
"When me and Alan started out, we 'rucked' to gigs. Now everyone 'moshes,' which used to be just a heavy-metal thing. Pisses me off."
"Ah, well ... we used to call it 'pogoing,' so I can't really help you with that one."
"But ... the whole business of you being rude ... I remember my first-ever Magpies gig-"
"Which was?"
"Brixton, spring '89."
"Ah ... the 'What If Everyone Goes Mad?' tour," he smiles, looking a bit misty-eyed. "Not bad, if I remember. Had a row with Martin before the encore. Played the cover of 'Bette Davis Eyes' for the first time."
"That's right. And you screamed at someone for chanting 'You fat bastard.'"
"Ha! Did I?"
"Yeah," I laugh. "Then gobbed at a stage diver."
"Ah, the gobbing thing. See? Good clean fun, all that. Never a word of complaint."
"I suppose we weren't used to you punching security guards, though."
"No," he concedes. "But it's better than hurling bass guitars at them."
"Nicky Wire," I respond, catching his reference.
"Right," he nods-then fixes me with a sudden glare. "Fucking hell, you're full of shit, telling me you didn't know anything about music."
"Sorry."
"Don't fucking apologise."
"Uh."
"You're a bloody fool. It made me so so much more suspicious than I ever would've been. Can't believe you made me go through all those stupid explanations when we were going round the art gallery." much more suspicious than I ever would've been. Can't believe you made me go through all those stupid explanations when we were going round the art gallery."
"Well," I admit, "if it's any consolation, it was pretty excruciating for me to listen to."
"Thanks, arsehole," he snaps. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"
"I didn't really know what else to do," I mutter pathetically. "Didn't want you to think I'd heard of you."
He stands up again, grandly replaces his shades and announces: "There are some people in the world who've heard of Kurt Cobain, but who haven't heard of me. They exist. But I can take it. I'm a big boy."
I blink up at him, at a loss for further responses. Then he dashes off-to the loo, presumably.
I exhale and lean back in my chair. I feel pretty drained. His energy has multiplied tenfold compared to the times we sat discussing writing, and it's hard to navigate his ups and downs. It's a skill, I reflect: the feisty rock 'n' roll interview. Every bit as important as singing or playing guitar. A certain amount of his former warmth has gone-the price I've paid, I suppose, for gleaning his darkest, grimmest secrets. There's still heaps I want to ask him, not least about his kid, but I know I'm quite ridiculously privileged to have been told as much as I have. Not just because he's Lance Webster, but simply because he's a human being and I'm just ... someone he doesn't know terribly well. Which is still the oddest thing. Why the hell has he chosen to tell all this stuff to me? me? I suppose there might be some limited catharsis in getting it all off his chest, but surely he can pay a professional for that sort of thing? Not some weirdo who puts silly notes through his- I suppose there might be some limited catharsis in getting it all off his chest, but surely he can pay a professional for that sort of thing? Not some weirdo who puts silly notes through his- Silly notes through his door.
I scrabble around on the table but only find empty sugar packets, Alan's scrapbook, Webster's newspaper and his boarding pass. Then I spot what I'm looking for on the seat, poking out of his jacket pocket. I lean over, snatch up the scruffily folded piece of paper, take a deep breath and open it:
Webster has returned by the time I finish reading.
"You enjoying that?"
I toss it onto the table with distaste. "It's ... amazing."
"I rather like it."
"Why on earth earth did I lay it out like that?" did I lay it out like that?"
"Probably something primal," he muses. "Like, that's the shape your subconscious wants to write in. The Christmas tree of desperation, Freud might call it."
I pick it up again. I feel like I'm examining my own drunkenness through a microscope. This could turn out to be more educational than expected. I'm astonished that the pissed me thinks this sort of thing is a good idea. Having said that, it's not quite quite as bad as those roadies made out. In fact ... as bad as those roadies made out. In fact ...
"Um ... funny thing is ... it's embarrassing, desperate, and really rather sad, but it's not ... threatening threatening at all, is it?" at all, is it?"
"Not really," he replies. "Just a bit creepy."
"But I don't understand. If it's not not threatening ... then why did you send your stooges round to see me?" threatening ... then why did you send your stooges round to see me?"
"Ah. Well ... I didn't, really. That was Malcolm's idea. He's overcautious."
"Oh my God! They told me what I'd written was hugely hugely threatening, and to fuck off, basically, insinuating they'd come back and break my legs if I didn't!" threatening, and to fuck off, basically, insinuating they'd come back and break my legs if I didn't!"
"Shit," he chuckles. "Sorry. I guess they were nipping it in the bud. But I also wanted them to size you up, see what sort of, er ... enthusiast enthusiast we were dealing with. I've had a bit of trouble with that sort of thing, you know." we were dealing with. I've had a bit of trouble with that sort of thing, you know."
"Um ... yeah, I know."
At this point he takes off his sunglasses again, revealing a face with a different tone-far more serious, heavy with intent. His eyes are bloodshot and I realise once again how emotional this must have been for him. But I couldn't be less prepared for the gear change to come. He puts both elbows on the table, leans forwards and narrows his eyes slightly, as if composing himself for some complicated scientific explanation.
"I have to say," he begins, "after they visited you, I was was planning to get in touch." planning to get in touch."
"You're joking."
"No, I really was. But to randomly show up at someone's flat isn't really my style, and as you'd forgotten to give me any other-"
"Fucking hell!" I gasp. "I never put my bloody email address on it!"
He shakes his head and sips his coffee.
"Then how the fuck did you ... ?"
From his shoulder bag he fishes out a tatty-looking coloured booklet. A rather familiar booklet, with a poorly printed picture of what looks like Belle and Sebastian on the cover. I reach out to take it. And bugger me with a pitchfork, it's a copy of Definitely Not Definitely Not. One of the final few copies of Definitely Not Definitely Not, from May 1998 (interview with Cable, review of the second Garbage album). I flick straight to the last page, and there it is: my email address, which I must've had for all of two months.
"Where the fuck did you get this?"
"Gloria gave it to me."
"Gloria gave it to you? How did Gloria get it?" gave it to you? How did Gloria get it?"
"Gloria was on the mailing list."