Cathi Unsworth is a novelist, writer and editor who lives and works in London. She began her career on the legendary music weekly Sounds at the age of nineteen and has worked as a writer and editor for many other music, film and arts magazines since, including Bizarre, Melody Maker, Mojo, Uncut, Volume and Deadline. Her first novel, The Not Knowing, was published by Serpent’s Tail in 2005, followed the next year with the short story compendium London Noir, which she edited, and in 2007 with the punk noir novel The Singer. Bad Penny Blues is her third novel. More at www.cathiunsworth.co.uk Praise for Bad Penny Blues ‘In Bad Penny Blues, Cathi Unsworth fashions a magnificent tapestry of period and place, confirming her status as one of Britain’s most potent writers of noir. The exciting, dangerous, experimental mood of Notting Hill is conveyed with realistic harshness and a tinge of nostalgia’ Marcel Berlins, The Times ‘The author has been compared to cult noirist Derek Raymond, but here she enters a pantheon of writers exploring London lowlife that extends from Patrick Hamilton and Colin MacInnes’ Christopher Fowler, Financial Times ‘Cements her reputation for eerie plots, evocative settings and deeply- drawn characters… should propel her into a new league ****’ Henry Sutton, Daily Mirror ‘There’s something about the textured layers of Cathi Unsworth’s third novel that effortlessly draw the reader into the dark and disturbing environment she creates… Unsworth lives up to her growing reputation as one of the UK’s stars of noir crime fiction, combining hardboiled prose with vivid characters and a lucid sense of place’ Yasmin Sulaiman, The List ‘The kind of swinging rock/n/roll crime novel that your folks should have warned you about. Set in the seedy London of the ’50s and ’60s, it’s one quality counter-cultural thriller… What more could you want for company on a dark winter’s night?’ NME Praise for The Singer ‘A cracking page-turner that feels authentic, authoritative and evocative. And it’s beautifully written. This is a bloody good book’ Val McDermid ‘Brilliantly paced, plotted and stylish crime novel from the hugely talented and highly original Cathi Unsworth’ Daily Mirror ‘If Cathi Unsworth’s searing debut novel, The Not Knowing, was the perfect sound check, The Singer is the incredible show that everyone should be talking about…Gritty, raw with an authenticity that proves the author knows her stuff. Quite simply, Cathi Unsworth rocks’ Daily Record ‘[An] excellent slice of muso-noir…gripping’ Metro ‘This is not just essential reading, it’s also the ultimate punk noir novel’ Bizarre The Not Knowing ‘Brilliantly executed with haunting religious imagery, interesting minor characters, great rock ’n’ roll references and a spectacular ending. The Not Knowing is a cool and clever debut. Sleep on it at your peril’ Diva ‘Hugely entertaining debut from a future star of gritty urban crime literature’ Mirror ‘Unsworth’s debut ushers the reader into an early ’90s twilight world of Ladbroke Grove bedsits, dingy magazine offices and seedy Camden pubs – a louche, lovingly evoked milieu…Unsworth has concocted a powerful story’ Time Out BAD PENNY BLUES Cathi Unsworth A complete catalogue record for this book can be obtained from the British Library on request The right of Cathi Unsworth to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 Copyright © 2009 Cathi Unsworth The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or alive, is coincidental and not intended by the author. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. First published in 2009 by Serpent’s Tail, an imprint of Profile Books Ltd 3A Exmouth House Pine Street London EC1R 0JH website: www.serpentstail.com ISBN 978 1 84668678 8 Designed and typeset by olio at Neuadd Bwll, Llanwrtyd Wells f Printed and bound in Great Britain by Bookmarque Ltd, Croydon, Surrey 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 SGS-COC-2061 For Mum and Dad Consider the thought of re-incarnation as the ability to dissect the secret history inherent in our genetic coding and the multiple atrocities which have polluted our bloodlines. Contemplate suffering as an acute oversensitivity to geography and the army of ghosts which litter the landscape, who have given their lives leeched of blood to the whimsy of brutarians who denigrate life by celebrating death. Imagine that every stone, stairwell and street has absorbed the life, death and fear of everyone and everything that has come before you and your job is to give voice to this nightmare. This is my murder. Lydia Lunch, This is My Murder We’ve kept an almost open mind and things have wandered in we’ve tolerated much and gone deaf with the din we’ve put up with the mess the stains, the smell, the crowd but now this thing that once was us drags chains and wears a shroud Shock Headed Peters, Hate on Sight Prologue I step out of the car and on to the kerb, the clack of steel-tipped stilettos on pavement. The sound sends a crackle into the still air of 1.10 a.m., like a radio has suddenly been turned on between stations; a hiss of interference and the distant sound of garbled voices speaking in foreign tongues. I look back into the window of the black Morris Ten. He is leaning across the seat, an earnest smile on a battered face, one front tooth chipped, dark hair greased back off a furrowed forehead. Christ, he’s eager, I think. And then a dark wave sweeps through me: resignation, boredom, something close to madness tapping on the corner of my skull. I know what it is, it’s the feeling of being trapped. I want to get out of whatever it is I’ve got myself into but I don’t know how, I’m caught up in a current that’s taking me down. He’s saying something, but I can’t make out what it is, the sound of the radio is coming in louder, a sudden burst of an orchestra tuning up. But I hear myself talking back to him clearly, saying: ‘Half-past three.’ This seems to please him. His grin deepens along with the lines on his forehead and he says something else, pointing at the side of the road. It’s lost in the hiss of static, a sound like a toilet being flushed. Now he’s leaning back into his seat, putting his hand on the |||||| Cathi Unsworth |||||| gearstick, pulling away up the avenue, red tail lights under the trees, under the trees where nobody sees… A sudden eerie note rises up around me, like a church organ maybe, but distorted, echoing around the trees and the empty road. I shiver involuntarily. It has been hot, stifling all day, and I’ve got on my new summer dress, but suddenly I feel a chill wind blowing up from nowhere. The dress that Baby bought me, I think, and the thinking of that name prickles out the aches in my body. The back of my neck and my right arm feel heavy, pain beating a dull tattoo through my blood like a finger running down a plastic comb. I become aware of a cold wetness in my knickers, a fresher pain down there too, a reminder of where the man in the car has just been, where too many other people have already been before. These thoughts run into my mind unbidden and I don’t want them, memories swirl that need to be blotted out, lest those fingers start drumming louder on the side of my skull, the sparks of madness start to flare. I’m standing on the corner of this long, wide avenue next to a tube station that’s all shut up for the night. For some reason I can’t read the lettering over the door, can only make out an Art Nouveau swirl of letters, but I feel like I know this place, I have been here at this time of night many times before. The station stares back at me through blank, empty windows. Squat and silent, it sits back on the pavement, detached, like whatever else is going on round here is surely none of its business. I stroll past it, hearing the clack of my feet and the strange music, that distorted organ motif and the crackles of radiowaves, a sound like bubbles being blown under water. I turn around the corner, drawn towards it, and realise the music is coming from the building diagonally across the road from me. A high tower like a castle’s keep made out of red brick, little tiny windows all the way up it but just one light on, one yellow light, right at the top. The spook symphony is coming from the window, getting louder and louder. ||| x ||| |||||| Bad Penny Blues |||||| I suddenly think of a lighthouse, sweeping its beam across a dark and choppy sea. And the vision fills me with fear, like I have suddenly seen my death coming towards me, the light across the water, luring me to the rocks… I turn away, catching my breath, clutching my handbag tighter. I realise that whatever plans I have made for this night are all going to fall through, that the boy I am expecting to meet here is not going to come.