Twenty five years, fifteen weeks, and three days had passed since Nixon Tyme and Gil Riot last saw The Belleville Riders play. The events of that night, a generation ago, had marked them both, and tonight, here they were again, at a club with a number for a name, about to experience another sharp twist in the course of their lives.

This time, they were in France, and it wasn't even an official Riders gig. Gil had known about it for a week. He had a friend who handled band bookings for The 1929 venue, in Rennes. It was known as a cafe concert, which mainly booked local bands around the weekends. Gil's booker friend, had been tipped off that 'The Verdict' were actually, the legendary Belleville Riders, looking for a low key, warm up show for their French tour. The tour would commence for real, the following day, and culminate in a prestigious appearance at the Chateau de Bonnefontaine Festival, in two weeks time.

Ever since Tanner had given Franck Blanchard the go ahead to book the tour, back in April, he'd made sure that Blanchard had got the story out early to the French press. With Franck keen to promote interest in his forthcoming book on the band, he didn't need much encouragement, and the tactic worked so well that the wave of interest took them all by surprise. The demand for shows was such that, they could have easily booked twice the amount, but Tanner resisted, reasoning that around a dozen shows, while keeping up demand, would not overtax the new, untried line up. Also on his mind, was the fact that interest in 'Marrat' would be especially high.

Because of Michel Le Noir's refusal to involve himself again, Tanner had had little choice in admitting that the bass player was not an original member, but this hadn't seemed to cause much concern. The real problem would be to keep a lid on Renard, not only on stage, but off it. As founder member, writer and sole remaining 'Frenchman', Marrat would inevitably come under scrutiny. Luckily for Tanner, the real Marrat had made a point of never speaking in interviews, and Tanner was quick to point out that this was still the case, and he alone, would be handling any press.

If it became known that Marrat was an imposter, and not even French, it would almost certainly destroy any hopes of a successful revival, so Tanner had repeatedly made it clear to Renard, just how much responsibility rested upon him to keep quiet, do the shows, and nothing more.

“Don't worry, dear boy. I hear what you're saying..........Leave it to me.”

He hoped he could trust Ren, but it was a leap of faith, and probably true, that of them all, it was Tanner himself who was most nervous on that opening, first night. The term secret show, had by now, turned into a bit of a joke. Everybody knew, and the place was packed. Luckily, Gil had anticipated this, and he and Nixon arrived early.

The 1929 Bar, was situated just off the Rue Mont St Michel, in the centre of the old medieval quarter of Rennes. It was a long, narrow cobbled street, flanked by crooked, wooden frame buildings, which gave the area a distinctive, bohemian air. At the southern end, just before opening out into a large square, was a small alley. A couple of metres wide, and amidst the throng of youth, dogs, tables and chairs, it was easy to miss.

Gil and Nixon squeezed through the pack, and headed towards the bar entrance. The alley was no more than twenty metres long, and at first, it reminded Nixon of something from a Dickensian novel, but there was no way this could have been in England. Gloomily lit, the uneven cobbles reeked of urine, and crackled underfoot with shards of glass. Along the walls, tattered music posters jostled with Breton separatist slogans, even covering a doorway that appeared to lead to some apartments. Then, on the left, an Egyptian tea house, replete with large, hookah water pipes. Two burly Arab men guarded the door, curiously dressed in Tuxedos.

The crowd thickened as they pushed through, Gil barking out something in French, that evidently allowed them to pass. Finally, Nixon caught sight of their destination at the end of the alley. The 1929 had a large, glass panelled double frontage, covered in flyers and yet more graffiti. Once, finally inside, it was hard to distinguish everything immediately, such was the squeeze, but gradually, Nixon took in his surroundings. There was a long bar down the left side, with a small stage area at the end. To the right was a seating area, furnished in a hefty, rustic style. The walls, and even ceilings, were embellished with an unusual melange of French deco, ethnic and rock memorabilia. The smell of hash, and pungent incense filled the air.

Despite the crush, Nixon figured there could have been no more than a hundred and fifty in the place, and when Gil reappeared, surprisingly quickly from the bar with their drinks, he realised his friend was clearly on home turf. Rennes, after all, was no more than an hour from his home. He'd played here many times, and knew the staff well. It seemed auspicious that The Riders should have chosen this place for their first show.

“Can you believe this Nikki ? This was one of the first places I ever played in a band......”

“Well it's not The 100 Club, but it's pretty cool all the same. Where's the dressing room ?”

“Dressing room ? Ha! Not here, no......I'll guess they'll be upstairs, next to the toilets, or even en face, in the Tea House..........”

Just then, some friends came over, and Gil introduced Nixon. Even before Gil tried to translate the conversation, Nixon had pieced together the gist. His grasp of the French made him think of Isabella. Gil had not mentioned her. He was sure he hadn't invited her anyway. Nixon had wondered whether to ask her himself, but then decided it was probably best to leave it.

"... et on sort notre nouvel album dans... mmm..... deux mois, p't'être même plus tôt.... et après... une tournée !" 

Though Nixon understood Gil's boast, he couldn't see how they'd be touring that soon. He said nothing, but gradually, as the evening wore on, it seemed that everyone Gil encountered would be confidently informed of the same news. An album out, and a tour, in two months or less. Nevertheless, Nixon was still pleased with himself, that the previously impenetrable French was now becoming clearer.

He wondered if Isabella could remember any of his music theory, and then, just as he was thinking of what he might talk to her about next, he caught sight of a muscular man, descending the stairs opposite. He had short, blond hair, and wore a tight, plain tee shirt, and ironed blue jeans. His look was at odds with the setting. As he made his way to the sound desk, halfway down the room, Nixon caught sight of what looked like a dagger entwined by a serpent, tattooed on his right forearm. He leaned over towards the sound man at the desk, whispered something, then returned back up the stairs. Within a minute, the background music of the bar was overtaken by the loud, beautiful, glam boogie of Bolan's Get it On.

“.......you're dirty, sweet, and you're my girl.............” 

Everybody looked towards the stage. It remained empty, but the room sensed something was about to happen. Gil gestured to Nixon to get nearer the stage, then again, almost effortlessly, with little words here and there, threaded his way across the packed room, while Nixon struggled to tail.

They positioned themselves at the front end of the bar, to the left of the tiny stage, and after another three or four classic early seventies tracks, the unmistakeable chords to Faith Healer cut in.

Instantly, there was a cheer from the crowd, which was a clear indication that they knew what was about to happen. How could they know that this was the intro song? Nixon looked at the faces around him, and figured most of them were barely born when this band last played. How could they know? He was just about to ask Gil, when suddenly, all the lights went out.

There was a big “Oooh” from around the room, and then, all at once, a cheer from the back, as the deafening chords from a live guitar cut in over the record. It was Damon, a few steps up, on the rear staircase. Just in front of him, stood the blond man Nixon had seen earlier. He was holding a large spot can, held directly above his head with one arm, while the other, stretched out, perpendicular, with his palm facing the transfixed crowd around them. It appeared like he was directing traffic, but it worked perfectly, and nobody moved.

The bright, white light of the can bounced off Damon's baggy vest, and glinted from the chrome guitar parts, as he gently swayed to the hypnotic rhythm. Then, with no apparent signal between them, the pair began to move down from the stairs, and towards the stage, with the light man leading the way, arm outstretched, parting the way ahead, but keeping the light firmly on Damon all along. Nixon was wondering how the hell they were going to get the rest of them on to the stage, when, just as Damon was nearly there, the bass and drums started up simultaneously, with a thunderous rumble.

They were already there, well, Clifford was. Nixon glanced around, and there, on the bar above him, was Neil, leather clad, hammering away at his cherry red Rickenbacker. The place was still in darkness, except for the spotlight trained on Damon, who now had mounted the stage, still churning out the hypnotic, three chord riff. Suddenly, the stage lights came on, and the crowd cheered again, as Marrat jumped out from seemingly nowhere, grabbed the mike in his gloved hand, and screamed out an elongated “Allooo !” It must have lasted five or six seconds, till his voice started to break, then bringing down his crop, with a sudden jerk like a conductors baton, the band stopped as one.

Silence, nobody moved. Marrat stared, expressionless, straight into the centre of the crowd, as the others looked to the floor. A good few seconds passed, as slowly the crowd realised, it was them the band were waiting for. Slowly, a great wave of a “whooaaa” built up around the room, and then, the band burst into life with the opening refrain of 'Aux Armes'. The effect on the room was a great release of energy, and a deafening cheer, as Marrat's opening lines were virtually drowned out.

It was an incredible entry. Nixon and Gil were, along with the rest of the room, transfixed. It was as if nothing had changed. They were clearly older, but to Nixon, at least in some ways, even cooler, to have managed to recreate the sound, he thought he'd never hear again. The set passed, pretty much as Nixon had remembered from before. They didn't appear to have played any new songs, and, as before, 'Beauty in the Streets' ended the show, in the same chaotic wall of sound, to a riot of cheers.

Marrat, assisted by the roadie, headed straight out of the room, via the front door. The rest of the band hung around on the stage for a few moments, then slowly started to make their way out, just in time for their chaperone to return, and usher them out the same way.

“They must have gone to the tea house. Come on, lets go and meet them.....”

“Don't be ridiculous.....Would you want punters in your face, straight after the show ?

“Okay we'll have drink and go over a bit later. I know the guys on the door, it should be easy.”

Gil ordered a couple of beers. They chinked glasses.

“To the band !..What do you think of Baby Strange for a name? We have to decide on one”

“Gil, man.............I really think you need to take it more steady. Look, we've made a decent, well, maybe a great record, but it's not even released yet, and as for a band.........well, you saw these guys tonight, they may not have played as the Riders for ages, but they've obviously been doing something in between......Still, strange they didn't play any new stuff.....”

“Perhaps he can't write songs” 

“What d'ya mean ?” Nixon looked at him with a puzzled stare

“Well you saw it, didn't you ? Don't you remember I nudged you, about halfway through ?”

Nixon thought back through the gig. The band had left hardly any gaps between the songs, but there was one moment, when Damon paused for a few seconds, to retune a string. It was then, that he recalled, Gil had nudged him, nodding directly in the direction of Marrat. Nixon didn't understand what he meant, and then, just about to ask, the band had started up again, and the moment was lost.

“What was I supposed to see ?”

Gil made the gesture of wiping the corner of his eye, with his little finger. Nixon recalled the moment. Yes, it was true, the singer momentarily wiped his eye in that way, but so what?

“You really don't remember, do you ?.......When he dropped his mike at the 100 Club, and I handed it back to him. I told you then........”

Nixon scanned his mind back twenty five years, to that noisy, sweaty room, and yes, he could just remember Marrat dropping it, and Gil handing it back....but that was all. If Gil had said something, then it was lost in the noise and chaos.

“All this time I thought you knew, but you didn't hear me, did you ?”

Gil, had indeed, handed back the microphone to the gloved hand, and as their hands came together, he discovered something that he'd never forgotten. Marrat had no little finger.

“It was probably the reason he wore the glove. He must have had some sponge inside to make it keep its shape, I know, because I couldn't take my eyes off his hand for a while after, and from a few feet away, it looked perfect, but I know for sure that, when I gripped his hand, there was definitely no finger inside. When I nudged you earlier, he was wiping his eye with that same finger, and..... I'm pretty sure they don't grow back.” 

“You're telling me it's not him ?”

“Well, I admit, it did look like him, but, you know ? I didn't think his voice was so close, and he didn't move quite the same.”

“Come on man, does anybody's voice stay the same after that time? And hey, it was a little stage, and he is older............the thing is, they were great, and everyone loved it”

“It does not matter, Nikki. I'm certain, it's not him.......and.....” he tailed off, as he glanced over to the empty stage.

“...and what ?” Gil said nothing for a few seconds, deep in thought, then an idea sparked. He drained his beer, and turned to leave.

“Come on, they've had time now. Let's go and have a chat...We might not get another chance”

Nixon had never really understood the idea of hanging around after gigs, and trying to meet total strangers. To him, it was in the same category as autograph hunting, or taking photos of paintings, and now here he was, unable to dissuade Gil, reluctantly standing outside the tea house, while Gil, seemed to be engaged in a lively conversation with one of its sturdy doormen.

They were clearly on first name terms, but although Nixon could hardly penetrate the heavy accent, it seemed that Abel, the doorman, wasn't about to relent and let them in.

Nixon moved alongside. “Ecoutez, Gil.......On y va!” Gil brusquely, pushed away his guiding arm.

Nixon's best French, had made zero impact, in fact, it actually seemed to rile him into another attempt to get Abel, who'd now been joined by his equally muscular colleague, to explain exactly why they wouldn't let him in. The initial geniality of the Arab was now cooling, and just as Nixon was beginning to think things couldn't get worse, the now familiar blond hair of The Riders' roadie had sidled up, and suddenly grabbed Gil by the throat, pulling his face to within an inch of his own.

“Nobody comes in...Comprendo ?” his steely eyes bore hard into him.

Gil realised he was beat. “Ok ok ok......” the grip released, and Gil backed away, fiddling with his collar. The roadie, seeing his job done, patted Abel on the shoulder and disappeared inside. The doorman raised his eyebrows, and made a conciliatory gesture.

“Desole, uhh, Gil ?, mais c'est la loi ce soir......” Gil turned around, and didn't answer, then, almost as if about to leave, he noticed an English voice nearby. Tanner Francis was on the phone.

For Tanner, his earlier worries concerning the reaction to the band, seemed unfounded. The show had exceeded his expectations. Ren had pulled it off. It was actually going to work, and now he was looking forward to tomorrow's opening show in Orleans, and particularly the day after, in Paris. That would be Saturday night, then there'd be a day off on Sunday. He called Cecile. She seemed happy to hear from him, and yes, she was looking forward to meeting up. Since her revelatory email, neither of them had mentioned it, but Tanner sensed the tension had lifted, and his doubts that she may pull out of their weekend rendez vous at the last moment, now looked much less likely.

“...Okay, so I can meet you at the hotel before the show. It's on La Rue des Dames, in the 17^th. Its very near Place de Clichy Metro, do you know it ?”

Tanner contented himself that his meticulous planning seemed to be falling into place. By Saturday night, the band would have completed three shows, and for Paris, he'd decided to book into a different hotel for their two night stay in the capital. It would allow the band and crew to relax for a day, before ten further dates, with two days off, and hopefully, the climatic finale at the festival.

He smiled as Cecile wished him an affectionate 'au revoir', then put his phone away. Suddenly, just about to re enter the tea house, a man, in a blue pinstripe jacket and grey trilby, came up to him.

“Excusez moi, mais..... Are you the manager of The Riders ?”

As Gil congratulated Tanner on the concert, Nixon hovered slightly away, as if unconnected, but still within earshot. Tanner responded politely to Gil's comments, but looked impatient, and just as Gil sensed that he was losing him, he launched his bombshell.

“Its not him though, is it ?” Nixon cringed with embarrassment, and busied himself with a roll up.

“What did you say ?”

“Look, I know.... I was there at the 100 Club, in 1976...... I know about the finger.” Tanner, who was only half facing Gil by now, took his foot from the step, and turned around. He said nothing.

“It would be a shame if it was revealed, non ?” Nixon lit his smoke, and looked at his phone. Seconds passed, then Tanner pursed his lip and gently nodded “....and what might stop that ?”

“Oh nothing so heavy, just a few dates on the tour as your premier partie”

“Premier what ?” 

“Support band. A half hour will do. They'll love you here, so your promoters will be happy to please. Look, here's my card. Call me tomorrow, and tell me which dates we can have.”

“But who the fuck are you ?” Tanner looked at the card, puzzled. “Is this a joke ?”

“Not at all, I promise. Call me tomorrow, if not I'll tell the press......” Gil turned and, completely ignoring Nixon, walked back to the bar, leaving Tanner bewildered, mouthing the words on the card. 'Gil Riot Producer, Engineer, Studio Moulins Blancs'