Deadly maybe, p.1
Deadly Maybe, page 1
DEADLY MAYBE
A GALLAGHER BROTHERS MYSTERY
PHILLIP MOTTAZ
NOT AS BAD BOOKS
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2024 by Phillip Mottaz
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published by Not As Bad Books.
ISBN: 978-1-7372384-8-5
Cover art by Stefan Lawrence.
This is a work of fiction. All names, places, and characters — including those based on real people, living or dead — as well as characterizations and opinion are all products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To all the people.
ALLLLLL the people, so many people….
1
I’ve lived so much of my life in cities that sometimes I forget how the fuck you get out of them. There are a number of options I normally have. When I’m touring, I’m often on a bus, sometimes a plane. A few times I’ve used a jet, which is really fucking something. When I’m working and recording, I usually take the train to the studio. It’s London, nobody gives a shit, and if they do know that I’m Noel Gallagher, then they know well enough what to say and what not to say, or to leave me the fuck alone.
On this particular occasion, I was leaving London because I had agreed to sell a guitar to some person in who-knew-what village. Mr. Gregory Fisher. He lived up north a bit, and out east a bit and expressed a great financial interest in a Gibson hollow-body of mine. I’d decided to deliver it myself. I could have shipped it, but that costs you fucking mountains and you still might never know if the thing even made it where it was supposed to get, or in one piece. I once bought a guitar from some guy in America who told me he’d ship it with all the insurance. Fucking right, all the insurance, because that thing arrived in eight pieces. I couldn’t do that, not with a hundred thousand pounds on the hook.
I might have used a specialty courier, or convinced some mate to do the haul. But whatever Irish-Mancunian upbringing still flowed through me wouldn’t allow it. I didn’t trust anyone, you want the truth. I could just see it: ‘Here you go, mate. Here’s an expensive musical instruments and a few notes to get you there. Oh, and here’s the keys to the car. Now… go be responsible!’ Had it been me, maybe in my younger years, and I’d been handed that kind of bag, I never would have come home. Not on my own anyway. Maybe the cops would’ve brought me back, but not without a fight or two.
If I’m being a hundred percent truthful here — which I will try to be for as much as this story as I possibly can — I think I wanted to do the work myself. I wanted to get out of London and get away from my normal responsibilities. I had a break in the touring schedule and didn’t feel like recording anything. The opportunity to leave town had come, so I took it and went.
The fact that I didn’t really drive all too much only added to the complexity of this situation. Fortunately, by benefactor was eager to please, and arranged for a driver. Double ace for me.
I let my people know that I was leaving town, despite my desire for privacy. When you’re a celebrity of a certain stature, you have to tell people what you’re doing or they’ll assume you’re dead. That being said, I gave no major details of my journey. I wanted the solitude. This village — Little Abbotsbee it was — appeared pretty backwater, likely not the hippest place around. The kind of place that didn’t care about rock stars, or being cool or any of that. I welcomed it. After packing some clothes, the guitar and its letter of authenticity (have you ever gotten one of those fucking things? Fucking lawyers; they really have found every conceivable avenue to piss away your money), I somehow remembered to do one very important thing:
I checked to see where my brother was. More accurately: to confirm where he was not.
Even more accurately: to confirm that he was not in the vicinity of where I was going.
We hadn’t spoken in years. Depending on when you’re reading this, it could be closer to twenty years, with no real signs of changing. I didn’t want this trip — this easy jaunt to the country — to be any break that streak.
His feeds held the normal piles of shit and shit talking, normal for his abnormal brain. His social media feeds contained recent activity (mocking people; mostly myself), but didn’t offer any good, specific information. His website was slightly more useful, but still avoided concrete insight. Expanding my search gave me the results I required. God bless all you obsessive fans out there. Your Reddit confirmations of ‘Liam Sightings In the Wild’ brought comfort to this old bastard’s soul. They had him pissing his life away at some bar in Ireland, outside Dublin. Miles from my destination. With Our Kid confirmed to be out of the picture, I set off with what passed for optimism.
The driver was a dude on the younger side and kept his mouth shut. All the better for me. He struggled through the London traffic, getting lost twice leaving the city. I was no help; It had been a long while since I had to keep track of which exit led where. After those early setbacks, we hit very few problems on the open road. I listened to music with headphones. The driver did fuck all.
Over two hours away from civilization, Little Abbotsbee looked about like it sounded: quaint and boring. It’s one of those places with some gardens and an ornate sign welcoming you in. We drove too fast to notice the billed population, but it couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen thousand. They had a handful of stoplights, all in the centre of town. The ‘business district’ had one bookstore, a resale shop, a couple coffee shops, some pubs and that was fucking all. It was exactly the type of place I would have mocked in my teens (and my early twenties) (most of my life, really). However, I have to say that after battling through London traffic, I was relieved to see the place.
The driver let me out in front of my hotel. The Horse and Carriage Inn was the only and therefore best in town. It more resembled two houses forced into a joint relationship than a proper hotel.
“Tomorrow then?” I said, pulling my bags from the boot.
“Not sure I follow, sir,” said my driver, bringing our conversation into double digits.
“The return drive tomorrow. I think the arrangement is for the evening.”
He says, “Sorry, sir. My shift’s done. Another driver will be arranged by Mr. Fisher.”
End of conversation I suppose.
Inside the hotel, I met the old geezer at the desk. He asked me for identification when I checked in, and it was the first time in a while that such a thing had happened to me. He hadn’t clocked me right off, hadn’t gotten all nervous wondering how to sound cool around me. Just asked me for me ID in a wheeze. My ego took a back seat as I told myself, ‘Remember: this is fucking top. This is what I fucking wanted, coming all the way out here.’ My therapist would say it was good for me to give my ego a check. Or they would say that, if I had a therapist, that is. Maybe when this got all wrapped up, I’d have a chat with one. My lawyers would love it; another couple quid in their coffers.
I asked if I could keep the guitar in the hotel safe, and when the old guy said, “Whatcha mean ‘safe?’” I kept it at my side. I made it up to my second-floor suite (with not just one but two twin beds) and weighed my security options.
The closet presented itself as the best option. I fit it in the back, then carefully positioned some paper-thin bath towels to mask its black triangle case a little better. Call me paranoid, sure. Nobody was going to steal it. If nobody knows who you are, then why would they think, ‘Oh, this fucker’s sure to have some expensive gear on him’? My brain knew this, too, somewhere, but taking the extra step made me feel better.
NOTE: My editor has just suggested that you might not know who I am, who my brother is, why we’re feuding or anything of the sort. And since I’m paying that bastard like all the rest of them, I’ll oblige.
If this is the case — that you don’t know who I am — then allow me to say ‘Welcome’ and ‘What the fuck are you doing picking up this book in the first place?’ You’re going to have very little context for this, so you might get as lost as the driver getting out of London. On the other hand, if you’re still game to keep reading despite not knowing me or WotsIzName or whatever we were about, then you may now ask yourself, ‘How have I lived this long without hearing about two of the greatest rock ’n’ roll stars in the world? How could I let this happen? How can I call this a life?’ I suppose you could be a young child. If that’s so, then you’ve got an easy excuse (it’s called ‘being a lazy twat’).
In case you still demand answers, my name is Noel Gallagher and you should just learn how to use fucking Google. I was in a band with my brother for a while, then I wasn’t, on and fucking on. Wikipedia has some helpful information — good enough for this scenario anyway. You can even look up copious YouTube clips of our concerts, our interviews, our arguments. A lot of them are funny. Not bragging there; that’s the truth. There are even books on the subject of me, since you’re so big into reading. Resources are widely available, which means this whole being-behind-the-times thing is on you.
So that’s me. You’ve done the minimum of homework, looked me up and we’re all well acquainted, thank you very much. You know who I am, some of what I’m about, a little of what I’m like. I’ve written this book like how I talk, which is to say I’m literally talking it into a computer. Grammar heads ain’t gonna be happy about it, I can promise that. When the tenses and that get off, you can fuck off back to Oxford. You looked me up, so you aren’t surprised to learn that I’m someone who can’t be arsed about it.
Let’s get back in it then…
My security system in place, my stomach told me it was that time. I wandered back to the lobby in search of a bite. Their kitchen was closed for repairs, so I inquired about pubs in the vicinity.
“Where?” said the old man.
I let myself out, figuring I could find something quicker if I just followed my nose. I’d seen a couple possibilities on the way in. Villages like these were built on pubs.
I made my way back to the centre of town, just a few blocks off. The town seemed to have been constructed around this park, and the park had been constructed around a large fountain with a statue of a dog in the middle. I tossed a coin at it and continued on my way.
According to the sign, the name of the joint was ‘STAR SHINE PUB,’ though considering the fact that some letters had lost their shine, it read more like ‘_TAR SHI__ __B.’ I decided it would do.
Soon as I had the door open a crack, that sweet smell of old beer and sausage brought me back home. I’d spent years playing gigs in all kinds of arenas and theaters, but when you smell those places from your childhood, it brings you right there, setting up in the back, arguing with the doorman to let in your mates.
The interior decoration of the Star Shine lived up to the lustre of its exterior banner. The walls looked like the inside of a rusty submarine, the last drips of sunlight slapping them about. It had some tables on the floor leading to a proper bar in the back. A group of older looking folks huddled around one table. Other than that, it was empty.
Enter: me, the ageing rock star walking into a bar like the start of some shitty joke.
I dug my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket, trying to look nonchalant and unapproachable in case any of the people recognised me. None could be bothered, and it was just as well. Making my way to the bar, I passed the juke box. Almost didn’t notice it, the music was so low. But playing music it was, and when I recognised it I almost stopped in my tracks. It was my music. My solo stuff. It weren’t even singles neither; the song wrapping up went to the next one on the album. This led me to believe that this group of older folks had been listening to one of my latest in full. Like a listening party. I wasn’t sure how to feel about it.
The bartender was a gent about my age (this means, sadly, in his mid 50’s), but his hair was both whiter and less plentiful than mine. He was pouring some martinis when he looks at me and smiles. Bigger than just being polite, like he recognises me. Which he did. And this man didn’t need some fucking iPhone Siri bollocks, youngsters. This was an adult person, looking me right in the eye. Using his brain.
“Noel Gallagher,” he says, sans question mark. “Welcome, lad, welcome. Big fan, big fan.” Despite the energy in his voice, he kept down his volume, helping me maintain a low profile from the tiny crowd at the table. I asked if the kitchen was open and he said it was indeed. He took my order and off he went.
This barman, he knew me, but he’s an older bloke so he’s not going to go mental or anything. I’ve been through this a million times and I’l go through it a million more and I’m telling you: if fans will be cool with me, I’ll be cool with them. Recognise that we’re not likely to become best mates or share a flat or nothing and we can enjoy our brief encounter before moving on.
Avoid confusing me with my brother and you’re a cut above.
Whilst waiting for my food, I examined this juke box with excellent taste in contemporary music. It had to be one of the best collections I’d ever seen, at least in a long fucking while. Two of my solo records were in there, along with the totality of my prior group project. I found the Stone Roses, naturally, and the Smiths. Otis Redding, early Bee Gees (criminally underrated if you ask me), but the biggest plus was its negative, for it contained nothing from my brother’s solo career. I’m petty, certainly, but it made me feel welcome.
The box did its thing as I returned to the bar to have a gander at the local paper. This move was a classic of mine, aiding me to appear both busy and unbotherable. If the barman came back and had gotten a hard on for a chat, he could read my body language and stop.
The Little Abbotsbee Bugle was as uneventful as you might imagine, with most of its ink dedicated to town traditions (“Founders Day Parade a Success!”) and other such stories (“Restoration of Old Samuel Fountain Scheduled”). Some names in the articles seemed familiar, but then again, most English names are pretty fucking derivative. You’ve got your Glovers, your Cooks, your Fishers. It took me half a second to wonder whether the Mr. Fisher mentioned in the paper (“East Side Development Spurred by Fisher Co.”) was the same Mr. Fisher who was buying my guitar. After that half second, I remembered the size of the village and felt like an idiot. It had to be him.
The energy of the table behind me crackled in a way that was far too familiar. I’ve been in enough bars and endured enough fights to sense when a row’s about to go off. This specific tremor in the Bar Force pulled my eyes away from the astonishing newspaper to clock what’s going on.
It weren’t a fight brewing, but not far from it. As I said, three people were at that table: One’s stood up while the others sat. If you asked the standing man how the night was going, he’d have surely said, ‘It’s going fucking great. I got my hair newly dyed, my denim shirt unbuttoned down way too far than anybody asked for, and nobody’s questioning my mustache choices. Top of the world for me!’
However, you asked the two sitting people the same question, they’d have told you things had gone tits up before midday. They were both older than myself or the Mustache Party Man, and a bit too Tory Party for such a blue collar pub as the Shining Star. The sitting gentleman was sipping a martini to cover his scowl. I would bet anyone one-million pounds that he supported Brexit. Not a doubt in my mind. And the woman? She was sitting so straight you’d think she invented sticks up the arse. I didn’t see her drink for her impeccable posture blocking my view, but I guarantee you one thing: it weren’t a Guinness.
The Mustached Party Man, still having the time of his life, wanders away from the table, bringing the only laughs with him. He heads toward the bar just as my food arrives.
“Another glass of red, Oliver, if you please,” he says.
He was chewing gum as he finished his glass. It fueled his courage, because even though I’d turned to my food, he slaps his hand on my shoulder and I knew it was over.
“Hang on,” he says. “It’s you! Bloody hell. Noel Gallagher! Oliver, you see who this is here?”
Oliver the barman nods by way of apology for his friend’s behaviour.
I put on my ‘Being Polite’ smile, ready to deal with yet another drunken fan. I don’t really mind when this happens. It’s the gig I signed up for. I do get a bit upset when my dinner is interrupted, but that’s why I’ve rehearsed the Being Polite smile. It’s a reflex.
The Mustache Man was beaming at me when he says, “I’m Gregory Fisher.”
Fucking hell: it was the man I came all this way to meet. The man buying my guitar for far too much. I turned off my Being Polite smile and activate my ‘Don’t Fucking Blow This, Noel — Just Close the Deal’ expression. This particular face primarily gets used during meet-and-greets with important dickheads, but has come in handy for instances like these.
