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"What the fuck are you doing?"
HP turned round from where he was leaning out of the window. "Michael! Hello! I am throwing my iPod out of the window."
After thirteen years of working and touring with HP, Michael reflected, he really should know better than to ask. Still.
"OK, right, let me try that again. What. The fuck. Are you doing."
HP turned round properly this time and leant against the wall. "It is No Music Day, Michael! So I am throwing my iPod out of the window."
Michael shifted a little, and saw a piece of string attached to the window handle. "On a piece of string?"
"Ja! Of course! Or I could not get it back tomorrow!" HP shook his head disapprovingly. "You are so wasteful, Michael."
"What the fuck is No Music Day?"
"Bill Drummond invented it," HP said enthusiastically. "And here we are in Linz where they celebrate it this year, and Bill Drummond might even be here. Bill Drummond, Michael! He does after all like to roam the land! What would I say if I ran into Bill Drummond and I had not thrown my iPod out of the window on No Music Day?"
Michael rolled his eyes. "You have a bit of an issue with Bill Drummond, you know. Have you sought therapy?"
"Bill Drummond is amazing," HP said with messianic fervour. Michael noticed a bottle of vodka by the side of the bed. Ah.
"You do remember that we have a gig tomorrow?" he demanded of HP.
HP beamed. "Tomorrow is fine! Tomorrow there is music again."
Michael gave up and sat down. "Fine, well, whatever. You have fun now."
HP nodded seriously. "I am going in search of Bill Drummond. And his ice-cream van."
As HP left the room, Michael wondered if he should follow. The amount of trouble HP was capable of getting himself into was basically limitless, even without – he leant over to check – half, no, about two-thirds, of a bottle of vodka inside him.
On second thoughts, HP was a grownup. He could get himself into – and even sometimes out of – trouble all by himself. It wasn't likely by now that he'd learn anything, but at least Michael wouldn't end up wasting his own time trying to talk HP out of it. It was really less hassle all round just to wait for the call from the police station.
*
In fact, the call was only five minutes later.
"Michael. If I have to be present through this, so do you. Downstairs. Five minutes."
There was a click, and Michael stared at the phone before heaving a regretful sigh. Rick had too much blackmail material on him to risk refusing, and unlike HP, Rick actually had something approximating a reasonable memory of those thirteen years of touring. He shoved phone and wallet into his pockets and hunted under the bed for his shoes.
*
There were probably worse ways to spend an evening than trailing behind HP as he ricocheted from bar to bar, searching for his hero so he could, what, get his autograph? Babble at him about the genius of 3 AM Eternal? But right now Michael was having trouble thinking of any. The fact that HP felt it obligatory to knock back some variety of sickly-looking cocktail at each new establishment wasn't helping. The latest one was pink, and actually had an umbrella in. An umbrella.
"Mine's a Ninety-Nine!" said HP happily, pointing at the No Music Day blackboard behind the bar.
Michael held firmly onto his own beer. Beer. That was a proper drink.
Suddenly, there was a minor commotion at the door, and someone said loudly, in English, "I like the look of this one."
Immediately, HP was all quivering excitement. Michael could have sworn that his ears actually pricked up.
"Bill Drummond," HP breathed, and then was off his barstool and over there. Rick and Michael exchanged horrified glances, then looked back over to where HP was doing an excellent impression of an overexcited puppy, if the puppy was six foot tall, bleached blond, and drunk. Something seemed to be working, anyway – Bill Drummond and entourage were coming towards them. Oh good.
*
"HP, you're coming onto Bill Drummond."
"Yes! Of course!" HP sounded surprised that Rick might be questioning this.
"For fuck's sake, HP! What would Simone say about that?"
HP looked wounded. "Rick! You were there. I am surprised you do not remember. Michael, surely you must remember."
"Remember what?" Rick and Michael asked together.
"Simone and I have an open relationship."
"...You do?"
"Our vows," HP explained with an air of exaggerated patience, "included a special Bill Drummond exclusion."
Suddenly, Michael noticed Bill returning from the bar. He tried to indicate this surreptitiously to HP.
"Simone understands how I feel," HP continued, blissfully ignoring Michael's increasingly wild gesturing. "She insisted that the Bill Drummond exclusion cover her as well. But I am here, and she is not." He frowned. "Do you think I should make a video for her?"
"So," Michael said desperately to Bill. "I hear you burnt a million pounds, once?" Bill looked as though he were trying really, really hard not to piss himself laughing.
*
"I want to feel you sweat," HP was saying to Bill, in tones that left little doubt as to his intentions. Michael gave up and put his head in his hands. Which at least meant he missed HP licking Bill's neck.
*
Eventually, the barman politely – well, fairly politely – kicked them out, and in the confusion outside it transpired that Bill Drummond and entourage were staying at the same hotel as them. HP maintained that it was only just up the road, and, quite unbelievably given the amount of alcohol he'd put away, when he set off and everyone else trailed after him, he turned out to be correct.
"The final chapter!" Bill declared when they got to reception. "Back to mine?"
Rick and Michael demurred politely, without even needing the warning of HP's laser-beam stare, and watched HP and Bill stagger off towards the lift. They looked at each other for a moment, then Michael said "There's a minibar in my room," and Rick said "God, yes," in fervent tones.
They were on the second whisky each when Michael got up to shove the window slightly more open. It was a surprisingly balmy night for November, and the central heating was on full blast. Damn overheated hotels. He stood by the window for a moment, enjoying the breeze.
Suddenly, he heard noises from the room below.
"All aboard. . . yeah."
"Oh. God," he said faintly.
Rick looked at him with a frown. Michael could only shake his head, and Rick came over to stand next to him.
"Faster! Harder!" came from below.
Rick shut his eyes in horror, which helped not at all to avoid hearing "Move your ass!".
Michael looked down, and saw the string attached to the window catch. With a thoughtful expression, he pulled at the end of the bow. They watched the string slide clear of the catch, then heard the clatter below.
"Hang on – what the hell was that?" they heard, then a pause, and a door opening. "Why the fuck is there an iPod on my balcony?"
Rick and Michael reversed silently back into the room, with HP's indignant "Does it fucking matter? Get back here!" ringing clearly through the night air.