The New Romantics
A Matter of Life and Death
The New Romantics
On Monday, Frankie Starr is a suicidal New Romantic, bereft of family, fans and love. By the weekend, he has the first number one single of his career, is the single father of 18 (and counting) and just may be in love with his own daughter.
Extract from The New Romantics
April 6 1983
Samantha Fox stared up at him. Willing him. Wanting him. Begging him. “Take
me, Frankie… take me right now…” It was no use. He must be the only man in
Britain who couldn’t get a stiff one for Sam Fox… He skimmed the pages of
the dog-eared magazine. How long had he been in here? Sweat trickled down
his temples. Were they welts forming on his hand? Finally, he found her on
page 48. Modeling lingerie in the small ads. There were only a couple of
square inches of her but she was pure, black perfection. Gingerly, he
maneuvered himself inside the plastic container and was only mildly
disappointed when he didn’t inhabit more of it. This time, he would fill it
with the perfect sample. Frankie heard himself groan as he climaxed, then
the sound of an all too familiar voice:
- What are you doing, Frankie? At yourself again at your age!
Frankie fumbled with the cup, dropped it to the floor and watched in horror
as half its meagre contents oozed over the linoleum.
- And you can think again if you think I’m cleaning that up!
- Yes, I mean no… I mean… it’s for science Mum, honest. I’m not doing
this for my own pleasure.
Frankie carefully scooped up the mess with a black, nail-polished finger.
The sticky gloop filled the cracks of his lacquered nail as he held up the
sample with “Frank Boyle A” typed on it for her approval, then thought
better of it and sheepishly hid it behind his back.
- Hah! Don’t tell me you’re after developing a social conscience? She
mocked. - Well I wouldn’t bother – all children ever bring is pain. Have you
forgotten how much pain you caused me?
- Why don’t you ever appear when I’m doing something good, mother?
- Because you never do anything good, Frankie – and you never will.
Frankie’s shoulders began to tremble softly. His scrawny frame hunched over
the sink. A mildly violent set of semi-dry wretches splattered the half
digested pills against the ceramic receptacle. Slowly, he rose to face his
own reflection. Mascara streamed down his face. His fist tightened around
the sterilized container and launched the creamy sample wallward. The
velvety viscous exploded all over his features and leached down the mirror.
This time the wretches produced more, much more, so much more that Frankie
thought he might actually choke on his own burning vomit – just like Jimi
Hendrix, minus the glorious career. And he reckoned Jimi was most probably
making love to some supermodel Goddess, as opposed to humping a plastic cup,
at the time. “Jimi Hendrix – Legend.” “Frankie Starr - Wanker”. His epitaph
would be original, if nothing else.
When the projectiles finally subsided, the tired and battered face staring
back at Frankie was thirty years older. If only he were back in the past. At
least he had a future then.
An extract from "A Matter of Life and Death"
And then reality did something very strange.
It started with what sounded like a gunshot. And there was a very good reason for that: It was a gunshot. It was followed rapidly by another gunshot. And that was followed by Nick Dunne-Davis charging through the fields, screaming like a butchers boniff and headed straight towards Barry. That would probably have been enough to shock Barrys brain into disbelief; the fact that Dunne-Davis was wearing a red and white floral-patterned summer dress with splits down the sides almost pushed him over the edge.
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