Happy birthday to lilithn!
This is not a birthday fic, just a random piece of insanity that came out of nothing. A little snippet of Spike and Drusilla in Liverpool in the early Sixties, that most of you will be too young to understand. Those that do understand it will probably throw things at me. PG, exactly 500 words.
Spike cringed as he listened to the singer who was performing on the stage of The Cavern. A lot of the bands who performed there were pretty good but some were mediocre at best. So far Spike’s worst experiences had been hearing Freddie and the Dreamers, and the time when the management had allowed a cloakroom attendant to get up on stage where she had murdered a Dionne Warwick song in an irritating Scouse nasal whine, but this was in a league of its own.
With the Mersey Sound sweeping the world everyone in Liverpool seemed to be trying to jump onto the bandwagon. Spike sincerely hoped that this particular example, Ernie and the Fruit Bats, would fall off the bandwagon and be crushed beneath its wheels. Ernie’s particular gimmick was to set turgid Victorian poetry to a Merseybeat rhythm. The audience weren’t impressed, and Spike guessed that the world was probably safe from Ernie taking his ghastly songs to the Royal Variety Show or Shea Stadium.
Spike sipped at his beer and then jerked in shock and dropped his glass. Ernie was performing a song based on a fragment of unpublished poetry by an obscure poet who had disappeared mysteriously in 1880, completely unlamented.
“My heart expands,” he wailed. “’Tis grown a bulge in it. Inspired by your beauty … effulgent.”
Drusilla clapped her hands in glee. “Oh, Spike, he’s playing your song! So delightfully hideous.”
“Bugger that for a game of soldiers,” Spike snarled. “Not gonna risk that cropping up on bleeding Juke Box Jury and having them go ‘I’ll give it none’.” He stood up. “Got to do something about it.”
It was easy to lure Ernie away after the performance. There was a complete absence of fans besieging the dressing room, Brian Epstein had decided that he’d be better occupied in trying to sign up the cloakroom attendant rather than Ernie – in fact he’d decided that even the coats and hats would make more viable star material – and Ernie was wide open to an approach by a handsome stranger who claimed to be from ‘Melody Maker’ and who sought an interview.
Ernie saw no reason to decline the ‘journalist’ when he suggested a walk down by the river. He prattled happily about his inspirations and his forthcoming tour while Spike nodded and smiled and made noises indicating interest.
As soon as they reached a spot where there was no-one around Spike seized Ernie, dragged him down to the river, forced his head under the water and held it there for a full two minutes after Ernie’s struggles had ceased. Eventually Spike was satisfied, let the body drift away, and went back to collect Drusilla and head off in search of somewhere that played Chuck Berry records.
Years later, when Spike had won his soul and was being tormented by recollections of all his evil deeds of the past, that was one particular murder that he felt no need to regret.
It had been a Mersey killing.