Harry Hargreaves spotted Freddie "The Vertigo" Evans half-way through the guitar break of "Hotel California". Harry loved this bit of the song. He didn't have to sing. His fingers played all by themselves. He could go on forever if he wanted to.
The Vertigo! Some called him The Vertigo because his guitar sucked you right in and never let you go again. Others called him The Vertigo because of his eyes. Still others called him The Vertigo out of jealousy. And here he was, The Vertigo, in the "Sir Robert Peel" on a Friday night, and Friday night was Harry's night. Everybody knew.
True, The Vertigo wasn't exactly paying attention to Harry. The Vertigo was leaning against the bar, pushing his crotch forward and drumming on his thigh. His rhythm had nothing in common with the rhythm Harry was playing.
The Vertigo's curls fell into the beers behind him every time he tilted his head back and grinned. This, he did often. Not difficult to see why. A gaggle of girls in hot-pants and overripe t-shirts were hanging on his every breath.
"Bastard!" thought Harry.
He extended the guitar passage by a dozen bars, and another dozen, just to marvel at the sight a little longer. And it became apparent to him even from this distance that The Vertigo's mind wasn?t where his body was. His gaze skimmed the girls' heads without ever settling on any of them. He seemed more interested in the chandeliers and in the photos of old buses on the wall. Or perhaps he was interested in nothing at all. No doubt about it, thought Harry, The Vertigo was bored out of his skull.
This was a chance he must not let slip away.

Harry brought "Hotel California" to a halt with a flourish - an arpeggio on the G diminished. In one slick move he switched off the Roland in mid-beat, slipped the harmonica holder over his shoulder, then the guitar, and laid them both on the floor. There was a smattering of absent-minded applause from the corner by the toilets and a curse from the only dancer, an aged soak whose zip was undone.
"Thank you ladies. Back in a flash with more trash."
For once it wasn't the shame of his situation that made his speaking voice so small. It was the tightness in his chest. He, Harry Hargreaves, about to have a reunion with Alf!
Harry switched the PA over to the CD-player and made towards the bar to the first strains of "Why Does It Always Rain On Me?"

The usual Guinness was awaiting him by the till. Next to it was an unusual, large Jameson.
"Damn." muttered Harry. No one in this shit hole had bought him a drink in eons. His popularity was indisputably on the wane. No complaints, of course. Fifteen months was a lifetime in this business. And anyway, the feeling was mutual. He had already made inquiries elsewhere. Dropped a hint or two that his Friday might become available. So why this wretched drink now? Etiquette would demand that he find the donor and thank him profusely for his generosity. Probably promise him a Daniel O'Donnell in return. Two, even. Probably lose the whole break to this hick who didn?t want the music at all, only the opportunity to flash his cash at a helium-brained blonde picked up in Boots. This, and The Vertigo would be standing six feet away, begging to be rescued!
"T'Jameson's from a bird!^" cried Gerry the barman in a mock-strangled voice. Gundula, the top-heavy rookie barmaid from Slovenia, seemed to enjoy making it difficult for him to pass.
"Which bird?" sighed Harry.
But Gerry was already flirting with one of The Vertigo's hot-pants. The hot-pants were all on Alcopops. Surely not The Vertigo? No, The Vertigo was on Stella. Stella and Aftershock chasers.
To hell with etiquette!
Harry made a brief show of craning his neck in all directions and waving the Whiskey in the air, and stepped forward.

"Alfie!"
Harry launched his arms into an arc, ready for the hug. The same moment, the hot-pants, oblivious to Harry's approach, erupted in a frenzy of mirth. They were squealing and stamping their pretty feet and tugging at The Vertigo's arms like a bunch of over-excited five year olds. The fence of teenage flesh between Harry and The Vertigo had turned electric. Anyone touching it would be burnt to a cinder.
At last, The Vertigo had smiled at the ceiling long enough.
He lowered his eyes.
Ah!
Harry raised his arms once again.
Their eyes met.
Harry's eyes became shiny discs. The Vertigo's eyes became slits.
"Fuck off!"
Harry tried to mouth something back, just to make himself feel better. He couldn't. He couldn't think of anything to say. His whole body was tongue-tied. The body was no longer his. He was watching himself like a cinema film.
He saw The Vertigo's eyes return to the chandelier.
He saw the hot-pants straining on tiptoes to hold them back.
Hidden behind their beautiful flamingo legs he saw The Vertigo's beautiful snakeskin briefcase.
A shudder went through Harry. With it, time itself seemed to be suspended. The hot-pants no longer swayed, their faces were frozen in a state of hysterical bliss.
Where Harry was, was total silence.
Immune to their electricity, he reached behind the legs and pulled the briefcase towards him as if it was his already.
He heard nothing as he glided through the crowd and out into the street. Nothing, as he fumbled with the padlock that secured the back of his van. Nothing, still, as he ran his fingers over the briefcase and hid it under the emergency speakers.

Harry could riff with the best, he knew that. McLaughlin. Fripp. Manzanera. Up and down the frets like lightning, trioles flashing in all directions, mad syncopations and fiendish tempi - he could do speed ?til the cows came home. But McLaughlin, Fripp and Manzanera, they had more than speed. They had soul.
When Harry heard himself trying to play like McLaughlin, Fripp and Manzanera, he sometimes wondered whether he had a soul at all. Playing in the pub was different. The pub made him wonder what had happened to his brain. And when the pub was over, he still hadn't found his soul.
For a while he had tried to get there with pills and dope. It hadn't worked. Drugs only made him sleep. Booze was another matter. The booze had cost him "Raffles Piano Bar", "The Queen's Arms" and the whole of Shoreditch.
And he still couldn't do brains and soul in one. He just didn't have it in him. Not with his guitar. Not with his voice. Not with anything.
And now this, The Vertigo's briefcase.
He had only stolen once before in his life. "The White Album", from old Rusbridger's shop next to the post office. That didn't really count. He had been too pissed after the funeral. Didn't know what he was doing. Rusbridger was kind about it. He stopped him the next day, said I'm sorry about your dad, and let him keep the album at half the price.
The briefcase was another matter.
Tonight, Harry was stone cold sober.
Every one of his senses was fully present.
This was it. This, he knew, was the riff.

Harry Hargreaves went back in through the public bar. Better not to disturb The Vertigo's reverie again. And anyway, he needed a leak before returning on stage.
John the Landlord pounced on him the moment he emerged from the urinal.
"There's something wrong with the bog." said Harry before John the Landlord could say anything.
"What's that then?"
"No flooding."
"Very fucking funny!" said John the Landlord. "There's a couple of requests. It's about time you earned your fucking money."
Always written on a scrap of paper that looked as if a cow had chewed on it. Always the same requests: "Whiskey in the Jar", "Stuck in the Middle with You", "Useta Love Her".
Always the same handwriting, too.