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Jimmy calls a month later. Robert is instantly thrown off balance, because how do you small talk to someone you've mourned and buried, albeit untimely?
‘Hey, Robert, it’s me. Look, uh... I’ve decided to go to a private rehab in Switzerland to straighten things up a bit.’
An understatement of the century, Robert thinks.
‘Good, Jimmy. Good for you.’
‘My flight is next week, so, uh... I was wondering if you could do me a favour. I’m afraid I might lose my nerve on the way. Will you go with me and make sure I won’t jump off the plane or something?’ A nervous laugh.
Protect your boundaries, says Robert’s shrink in his head. You and James are not the same entity. You never were.
‘Please, Robert... Will you do that for me?’
Of course you will, says Shirley in Robert’s head. He beckons you and you crawl to him like a dog.
‘Yeah, okay. But Jimmy, I’m not staying, not this time. I’ll just bring you over.’
‘Sure.’ A relieved sigh. ‘Thanks. I really appreciate it, you know.’
They haven't talked since that disaster night when things were said and deeds were done. Robert couldn't bring himself to visit Jimmy in hospital after they had managed to resuscitate him with miraculously no brain damage inflicted. He just wanted to save himself a great deal of heartache.
He figures he still owes Jimmy an apology, though.
Jimmy wouldn't risk flying commercial, not in this case, so they meet at a private airport with an awkward handshake and tight-lipped smiles. They feel like complete strangers, and Robert hates it.
'Jimmy, look... What I'd said that night... I didn't mean it. Not a word of it'.
Jimmy scratches his head and rubs his nose in small jerky movements.
'I know. I know. And what I'd said on the phone - I may have been drugged out of my mind but - I meant it. All of it.'
He avoids Robert's eye. Robert knows that look too well.
On board Jimmy takes it in stride - no smoking, no Jack Daniels. Fifteen minutes into the flight his face turns sickly greyish and he starts shaking uncontrollably. Robert feels a wave of dull ache rising up in his chest. He is crucified, nailed to Jimmy like to a cross. He will always be.
In the summer of ’79, right before the Knebworth gigs, he and Jimmy went to a shamanic retreat in Thailand in an attempt to sober Jimmy up. To heal my soul cold turkey, as Jimmy had put it. George Harrison had sworn by that shaman.
They journeyed to Isaan, and a local guide showed them to a secluded village. After three days of fasting (save for a few joints they had snuck in), the shaman had Jimmy tied to a pole in the centre of the hut, chanting and burning foul-smelling herbs. That’s when the screams came. Robert remembers helpless rage and unbearable pain akin to withdrawal. Jimmy is hurting, Jimmy needs him, he needs to be there, he needs to be HE HAS TO BE-
‘He must walk this path alone’, the shaman said. ‘I will guide his spirit, and you will take care of him later.’
When Robert was finally allowed into the hut, Jimmy hung on the ropes barely conscious. His chest was covered in snot and drool, and he’d probably wet himself. Robert thought that this was more like punishment than healing as he took him down and carried to the thin, shabby mattress in the corner.
There they stayed, Robert wiping Jimmy’s brow, giving him water, murmuring soothing nonsense, leaving his side only to take a piss. On the third day Jimmy could stand unaided and Robert took him to the river to wash. They both stank like hell. As they held each other, Jimmy said no one else would have done it for him and it was all worth it because Robert had been there.
Robert finds himself holding Jimmy by the bony shoulders, gently rubbing his back and pressing his lips to the clammy temple, because how do you keep away from the one you love?
Oh, his shrink will have so much to say about it, but Robert doesn’t care.
‘Jimmy, you’ll pull through, all right? No, we’ll pull through. I’m not giving up on you.’ A constricted sob.
After all, to the shaman’s credit, Jimmy had been doing relatively fine until John’s death. So maybe, just maybe, they get to have their second chance.
‘And I promise – we’ll go to Morocco once more. And see the Atlas mountains again. But before that you are going to have this great solo album which will blow everybody’s mind.’
‘A solo album? Why not ours?’
‘No, I’m being selfish here. I wanna sit in the audience and witness the return of Jimmy Page, Lord of the Strings. I never had a chance to really enjoy your playing, y’know.’
‘I can’t believe you hid behind a loudspeaker that one time, you arsehole. Was I that bad?’
Robert laughs. ‘And when I go backstage after your show I’ll be crying like the sentimental fool I am and telling you how great you were. And you won’t believe me and keep asking ‘Was it good, Robert? Was it all right?’ And I’ll kiss you silly and call you my only one.’
My wonderful one.