Red Razor (standard:mystery, 3559 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Apr 08 2022	Views/Reads: 882/518	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The ex-lead singer of a band watches as the group rocket to stardom. How far does his jealousy take him?

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Television appearances, gigs at proper venues, and more money than they
could handle, meant that for the following two years, they knew nothing 
but fame, and Razor had tried to tell himself that he wasn't concerned, 
it didn't bother him, but it did, and he knew it. The growing seed of 
jealousy had been planted when they were signed, growing more and more 
everytime he saw them on television or heard them on the radio. As they 
played theatres and stadiums, Razor played his acoustic sets in pubs 
and wine-bars, but soon even they dried up and he was playing one gig a 
week, then one every two weeks, four weeks, two months. It soon 
occurred to him that he would have to stop, that the guitar would have 
to go back in its case, the sparkly costumes would have to be hung up 
inside a dark cupboard, and he would have to find a proper job. 

The proper job came in the form of a car salesman. He reluctantly cut
his hair to shoulder length, but still the appearance of a mature hippy 
came through despite the suit he was forced to wear. He didn't 
particularly like the job, but didn't hate it, it paid the way, and 
dreams of stardom still pervaded his mind, still ran riot. 

He would concoct songs and rhythms as he worked, sometimes dropping what
he was doing to run to the cloak-room and jot down notes in his pad 
that he kept in his coat. Afterwards, he simply kept it with him at all 
times, his superiors not minding as they guessed he was fairly 
delusional. 

After around a year since the Bazookas were signed, Razor saw that one
of their tour dates was in the Wirral. It was a kind of homecoming. 
Tranmere Rovers football ground was to be converted for the occasion. 
Their home game with Walsall was brought forward a day, and it was then 
that Razor had an idea that could fast track him to the top, could put 
him back where he once was. 

An old friend, well, somebody whom he once knew. Friend is not strictly
a word that could be used for him, owed Razor a favour. In their early 
twenties, Razor had rather a lot of money, and used a substantial 
amount of it to buy the Bazookas early instruments. 

Lee Griffiths had always been a plastic gangster, somebody who walked
the fine line between obeying, and breaking the law. He'd been arrested 
a few times for minor misdemeanours, but had asked Razor for a loan of 
exactly one thousand pounds, and Razor, in his naivety, convinced that 
fame and fortune was imminent, was just around the corner, gave him the 
money, said he wouldn't be needing it once the wealth starts rolling 
in. It was a gesture of goodwill, a rarity for him, but he never forgot 
that Lee owed him a favour, a favour that he could call in now that the 
Bazookas were coming to town. 

Razor met up with Lee at the outdoor tables and chairs at a local café
near where Lee lived. “Just repeat that,” he had said, continuing: “you 
want me to kill the lead singer of the Bazookas so you can reinstate 
yourself”. “Basically, yes”. They both sat in silence for a while, Lee 
contemplating. “It's a much bigger favour than what I owe you,” Lee had 
said. “Much bigger. I've never killed anyone before. I've put a few in 
hospital, but still, it's a big ask”. “It's nigh on guaranteed I'll 
take his place,” Razor said, “which means I'll have plenty of money to 
pay you. You can name your price”. “I can name my price?” Razor nodded. 
“Then consider him dead”. 

The Bazookas lead singer was shot dead after the gig. From the stage
door to the coach, there was a distance of around forty metres, 
barriers erected to hold back autograph hunting fans. All of the band 
appreciated their fans, so took time on the way to the coach to shake 
hands and have their pictures taken. After every gig there were always 
crowds hoping to get something from their idols, but Dave was signing a 
poster when a gloved hand squeezed between two shoulders clutching an 
8mm Beretta handgun. It fired point blank above his right eye. The gun 
was dropped and Lee eased back into the crowd, waited for everybody to 
realise what had happened, then panicked as they did to blend in. He 
ran amongst the stampede, away into the cold night. 

After the initial pandemonium had died down, Razor found that he did not
know the whereabouts of the Bazookas, although he was convinced they 
were still in the Wirral. The rest of the tour was cancelled, and he 
knew that it was now or never to get back with them. Before they were 
signed, the nearest link they had to a record company was a dogsbody 
who worked for a small independent label, the management of whom had 
seen the Bazookas perform, the producer saying that the music was like: 
‘Hyenas on acid'. It was just a racket that kids loved as far as they 
were concerned, not the sophisticated rock and roll blues that they 
signed. They were however, seething with purest jealousy when they 
became successful. Harvey Milford, who could do nothing about getting 
them signed, was Razor's port of call when trying to ascertain the 
Bazookas whereabouts. It turned out that he knew, and told him they 
were staying at the Coracle hotel in New Brighton, but only for two 
days before they headed back to London to plan where they went from 
there. 

Two days after the lead singer's death, Razor put on his sparkly suit,
gave himself three ponytails, and headed for the Coracle. Harvey had 
arranged it with security to allow him through. He found them in the 
lounge, all looking rather morose. 

Walking in with a big smile on his face, and standing there with his
hands on his hips, he said: “Hi, lads. I'm back. Now where was I?” They 
all stared up at him as though he was total stranger, but they said 
nothing. “I'll be your lead singer. We can carry on from where we left 
off”. The Bazookas all looked at each other, confused, silently seeking 
answers. The drummer took the initiative and stood up, looking at 
Razor. “Nice to see you Red. Long time no see and all that, but we've 
moved on from you. Sorry”. They all then stood up and left the lounge, 
leaving Razor standing there like a children's party clown reject. 

Soon afterwards, he was walking along New Brighton promenade,
periodically stopping to lean on the railing and look down at the River 
Mersey, and across to Liverpool. People looked at him curiously, but he 
didn't care, he'd had his answer. ‘We've moved on from you' repeated in 
his mind like a stuck disc, and his dreams of stardom lay shattered, 
almost irreparable, and he went back to work in the car showroom, his 
notepad left in his coat, hardly touched. 

Five weeks later, the Bazookas were back on the road with a new lead
singer, much to the consternation of the press, and even fans who 
thought it was far too soon. The extra publicity did them no harm, and 
they were forgiven. ‘Rhino', was the nickname of the new front man, a 
man of 43, overweight, with a huge bushy beard, hardly wore anything 
but brown T-shirts and Khakis, who belted out the lyrics almost as loud 
as he could shout, and regularly spontaneously started dancing like a 
dancing dad at his son's 18th. 

Of course there were doubters, those who said they could not replace
Dave, but most of them soon warmed to Rhino, and after the tour they 
went straight into the studio to record their third album. 

Razor picked up his guitar in a kind of ‘I'll show them' attitude. He
managed to get two gigs in two pubs, but the audience, which were not 
there to see him, hardly responded in any way, continuing to talk and 
laugh amongst themselves. There was the occasional sympathizer who 
clapped at the end of every song, but from there to a sell-out stadium 
was a very long way. 

After he'd played the second gig, he was sitting alone in his red
sparkly suit at the bar, sipping a double-whisky when on the juke-box 
came a Bazookas hit: ‘Darn tootin' baby', and Razor simply walked out, 
his drink unfinished. He seriously contemplated taking his guitar to 
the streets and busking, but the shame of it prevented him. He felt he 
could not get any lower than that, except to give up, but that was 
something he could not consider. He was grateful that Lee Griffiths had 
no idea how, or where to contact him. 

The car showroom paid him a fair wage, until he was posted to another
dealer of the same company, three miles away for a lesser salary. He 
had no choice but to take it, incapable of facing the dole queue. If 
that was the case, and he was scraping a few more coins through 
busking, then he felt as though he might as well throw himself under a 
train. 

For the next four weeks he could not get one gig anywhere. It seemed
that nobody wanted a delusional fantasist with dreams of reaching for 
the stars, instead opting for psychic nights, quiz nights, and karaoke 
nights. The Bazookas appeared on television a few times, flew to 
Germany for a one-off gig, to return for a three date tour before 
flying to America to try for a number one hit. Two concerts were to be 
played in London. They had sold-out within three hours, and the third 
gig was at a place called Trefor, on the west coast of Wales. It was to 
be a free outside show on a beach, and underneath a large marquee. 
Turnout was expected to be in the thousands. 

One night Razor was sat alone in his flat, the light off but the
television on, staring at it blankly, the changing rainbow of colours 
reflected in his eyes. It was the night of the people's choice awards, 
and an unfunny comedian was hosting it, trying his best with one-liners 
and sarcastic comments, and the Bazookas were up for the top prize. 
Razor sighed with despair and closed his eyes when they won, and in 
their acceptance speech, not one of the band mentioned Razor. They 
exited the stage all smiles and waving, and when Razor opened his eyes 
again, he was looking at the television with absolute hatred. 

He was going to see them again. Of that he was sure. He'll teach them a
lesson for their blatant disregard, and their seemingly successful 
attempt at forgetting him. Time for a little reminder, he had thought, 
and knew there and then what he was going to do. The gig at Trefor was 
where he would go, and it was two weeks before that performance. He 
rang up Harvey Milford again to help him get past security, and also to 
arrange it to change the coach driver after the show. He guessed that 
they would not stay overnight there, preferring more classy hotels in 
the near town or city. Razor told him he'd done a bit of coach driving 
in the past, and the lads would be pleasantly surprised to have their 
old friend driving them to the hotel. Harvey took it all in, believing 
every word, and arranged it. 

So, on the night of the gig, sporting five ponytails, and his trademark
glittery red costume, which he guessed may attract attention, he 
thought that this was who he was, and things had been arranged to the 
effect that the Bazookas would never see him unless he wanted them to. 
It was a risk he was willing to take. With fences set up around a three 
mile perimeter with five entrances, Razor was standing amongst the 
crowd, watching the support band, a country and blues outfit called: 
‘Travelling Rangers', who he thought were rubbish. It was soon time for 
the Bazookas, and he could only stand there not cheering, not waving 
but looking with abhorrence, because he knew it should have been him up 
there. 

When it ended, his conscience told him that they were actually quite
good, but he suppressed that, his hatred boiling over again, especially 
when on their encore, Rhino brought out the People's choice award and 
waved it at the crowd. ‘That's mine,' he had said, aloud, ‘that's 
mine', but no-one had heard him. They were too busy cheering and 
shouting their appreciation to acknowledge him at all. He didn't even 
look out of place in his suit. Some others wore more extravagant 
costumes. Razor did not wait for them to exit the stage, as he knew he 
had limited time. He found himself backstage while they were still out 
there, then out to where four coaches were parked, knowing he had to 
hide, and wait for them to come out. A nearby overhanging tree gave him 
enough cover to wait. 

Just over an hour passed, a cold wind slowly picking up, when the
Bazookas and their entourage appeared and headed for a large black 
sleek coach. 

None of them had any idea that they would have been waiting there for a
while until they realised they had no official driver, but their driver 
quickly crossed to the coach and rushed into the seat. 

Between stepping on and sitting down, a glint caught his eye on the
front passenger seat. It was the award. The Bazookas and their 
hangers-on were all laughing and joking in the rear of the coach, 
oblivious to their driver who was positioned down enough so that even 
those near the front could not see him. 

He realised that to drive one of these things was not going to be an
easy task. With the keys in the ignition, he fired it up, and quickly 
found that the controls were not like that of an ordinary car. It was, 
however, close enough which meant that he could precariously drive it, 
albeit, somewhat slowly. 

Slowness, though, was something he did not plan. He soon found himself
on empty roads trying to head in the direction of the sea, intending to 
drive them in, but the closer he got to it, the more he found that the 
land was becoming more elevated. The passengers were oblivious, and the 
more they laughed and joked, the angrier Razor became, and the angrier 
he became the harder he would press on the accelerator, but there was 
no beach to drive on, and seemingly no sea to drive into. This was not 
part of the plan. He reached the crest of a slope, and a right turn he 
knew was the water's direction, because it was a down-sloping field 
with a few birch trees dotted around it, and darkness illuminated by a 
three-quarter moon. 

He swung the coach onto the kerb, then onto the grass, and floored the
accelerator. The passengers had lurched against the chairs and windows, 
causing shouts of protest. The powerful headlights picked out at around 
fifty metres away that there was no more grass, only thin air. Razor 
quickly stood up and grabbed for the award. He had picked it up and 
held it close to him. All faces stared at him in surprise and despair. 
‘This is mine,' he had said, ‘this belongs to me'. He had then turned 
and quickly leapt off the coach before it sailed into the night air, 
and plummeted 174 feet into the cold water below. Razor was in a foetal 
position on the grass, clutching ‘his' award. ‘Mine,' he muttered, 
‘this is mine'. 

Today the mystery continues. Where are the Bazookas? By now, 35 years
later, probably swept away to the lost city of Atlantis, or still at 
the bottom of Caernarfon Bay. Either way, I like to tell people who 
will listen what happened. It's not a secret anymore. People just think 
I'm mad. ‘Yeah', ‘right', ‘whatever', is what they all think. No-one 
believes me. They nod and smile, then get up off the bench and walk 
away. I still have five straggly pony-tails, and always wear my sparkly 
red suit, which doesn't sparkle anymore like it used to. 

I still cling onto the award, which people think is a fake, but that
doesn't concern me, what does concern me is what I'm going to do with 
all the wealth that'll be coming my way, once I get a record deal. 

For now though, I'm hoping to buy a guitar, once I get enough money.
I've seen one in the window of a 2nd hand shop in my local shopping 
arcade. Life as a tramp isn't so bad once you get used to it. I may 
have lost everything, but one day I'll be up on stage where I belong. 
One day.


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