She’s your best friend. You’re a private investigator. She asks you to track down her old boyfriend, you’re going to do it. You can do it, you can help her. So you might have to go home, so what? What’s wrong with going home?
“So the herpes-happy horny harridan of Hornsea is no longer fronting Laced Mutton? The fabulous Miss Angel Dust is no more?”
“I dumped Laced Mutton back in ‘95… the band got a new manager who wanted us to rebrand as yuppie goths.”
“Body-piercing and Bolly… well, it did catch on.”
Natalie shook her head. “I know, don’t remind me. They replaced me with some twit called Stiletto Jones.”
“Psycho Nomenclature must be all the rage – I just met a girl called Ellie Mental. But I have to say, I always liked Angel Dust.”
“Thank you. Coming from you, that’s a real compliment.”
“What do you mean?”
“These days you call yourself Sam Haine, for Christ’s sake. I like Javert and all, but a little bit of me wondered whether part of the reason why you married him was so that you could get your hands on that name. You invented Angel Dust, and Glory Hole. And remember that day you insisted I call you the Incunabula? That was creepy. But nothing on… what was it? I can’t remember… the Watchmantis…” she laughed, suddenly. “That kind of freaked me out, I have to say. Yuck. You were a strange little girl.”
Sam tightened her lips. “You’ve got a good memory.”
“You wrote good lyrics, though,” admitted Nat.
“Well, Glory Hole did…”
“Queue Jumper was my favourite for years… as all the fairies fell into Hell, my Incunabula wept to tell, the hideous history of the Farce Menagerie, a feast of fools in a blasted coterie…”
“Too bad it didn’t sell.”
“Tell me, Mrs Samantha Haine, where do you get your ideas?”
(c) Ian Bird 2009