Show Me the Sky - Nicholas Hogg [18]
The Lightspeed tour finished in Europe. And so did the band. At the Red Square Rocks concert, Billy K slipped offstage mid-set, replacing himself in Houdini-like fashion with a pre-briefed, pre-rehearsed double, who for two songs fooled both the band and crowd.
For the Feeney brothers this proved that Billy K was superfluous to the sound. ‘He took the piss,’ said Tommy. ‘He got bigger than the band, bigger than us, when we were all just as talented as he was.’
How wrong they were, embarking on a lacklustre album that proved only their mediocrity without the sparkling brilliance of their lead singer or drummer Ronnie Strong, who along with Billy K fronted the slimmer, louder, pared-down sound of the Notorious.
Again, his arcadia was a studio. Involved in the production, mixing, as well as playing bass on four of the tracks, Show Me the Sky was his coming-of-age record. Slower, more intelligent, yet still bristling with the angst let loose on previous albums, it was another global smash.
Despite the success, he began to spend more time away from prying eyes at his sprawling manor in Cornwall. TV interviews and live performances were scarce. Rumours he was training with the Russian Space Agency circulated on news of zero gravity flights he took on a free-falling airliner above Siberia.
In an act of generosity we must now analyse as a precursor to his ‘disappearance’, Billy K auctioned off almost everything he owned. Music awards, furniture, cars, an antique jukebox, his three Persian cats, and the warehouse in East London. Sotheby’s auction director Harold Wapshott would only comment that, ‘Mr K was adamant that not a single possession remain in his property. All belongings went under the hammer, or into the skip.’
Homeless charities received all monies raised from the sale. When police searched his Cornish mansion they discovered floorboards stripped of carpet, rooms devoid of fixtures and fittings. His final possessions were a reed mat, a penny-farthing, and his empty guitar case. The Les Paul has never been located. Score marks on the floorboards were attributed to the solid rubber tyres of the antique bicycle. His final days had seemingly been spent sleeping on the reed mat, riding a bicycle around an empty house, and strumming his beloved guitar.
Had the teen-turned-rock-legend burned out? Has he joined the other doomed icons too delicate to survive the chaos and fury of their own fame?
He’s been spotted on every continent. Mediums have conversed with his floating soul and transcribed their conversations for Sunday magazines. A Cornish farmer swears he saw him pilot a microlight towards France. A plastic surgeon in Sao Paolo sculpted him a new face. Zdenka kidnapped him. Gene Fontaine killed him. Ricky Wise has imprisoned him until he records a new album.
A year on since his disappearance, police have drafted extra officers to pursue the deluge of reported sightings. So far, all have proved to be dead ends. Inspector James Dent, leading officer on the case, and much maligned for lack of progress, has refused to speculate on whether murder is a line of inquiry.
The tragic fact is that Billy K, singer and guitarist of the Notorious, who streaked across our heavens with a comet-like burn of glory, is still, by legal and spiritual definition, Missing in Action.
PART TWO
Morning rush hour in downtown Sydney. Towers of the Central Business District reach for the sun. Below, commuters step through sliding doors, footfall the rhythm of daily routine. In two hundred years, from a harbour of wooden ships filled with marines and convicts, aborigines on the shore with painted skin and ancient song, to a city of steel and glass, a way of life erased.
I have to think what day it is.
Wednesday.
By now the rest of the bureau will know I’m AWOL.
I feel the weight of my cell phone in my jacket pocket. It’s switched off. If I turn it on there’ll be messages. An irate Roberts, a concerned Meg. Or is this wishful thinking?