The Mystery of Mercy Close Read Online Free PDF Page A

expressed mostly through his hair. He’d been made to do it like the Sydney Opera House and he’d seemed to comply willingly enough. In his defence he’d been young, he’d known no better and in recent years he’d atoned by having a perfectly normal do.
    Of course all that had been several lifetimes ago. Lots of water under the bridge since the number one hits. The original Laddz fivesome had become a quartet when, after a couple of years of success, the Talented One hightailed it. (He had then become a global superstar who never, ever, referenced his murky boy-band roots.) The remaining foursome had struggled on for a while and when they eventually split no one gave a shite.
    Meanwhile Wayne’s personal life fell apart. His wife, Hailey, left him for a proper bona fide rock star, one Shocko O’Shaughnessy. When Wayne showed up at Shocko’s mansion, looking for his wife back, he discovered that she was pregnant by Shocko and had no plans to return to Wayne. Bono happened to be visiting his good pal Shocko at the time and was hovering protectively, and in all the upset Wayne (or so the rumour goes) hit Bono a clatter on the left knee with a hurley and yelled, ‘That’s for
Zooropa
!’
    After so much misery Wayne decided he had grounds to reinvent himself as a proper artiste, so he lost the mad hair, grew a goatee, tentatively said ‘fuck’ on national radio and did a couple of acoustic guitar albums about unrequited love. Obviously, because of the runaway wife and the assault on Bono, there was a lot of public goodwill towards Wayne and he enjoyed some success, but it mustn’t have been enough because he was dropped by his label after a couple of albums, then fell off the radar altogether.
    For a long time all was silent … but now it seemed that enough time had passed. The icy snows of winter had thawed and springtime had returned. Laddz’s original screaming tweenie fans were now grown women, with kids of their own and a yen for nostalgia. If you thought about it, the comeback gig had only been a matter of time.
    So, Jay Parker told me, about three months ago he’d pitched to the four boys, offering himself as their new manager and promising them (I’m guessing, I know what he’s like) untold riches if they got back together for a while. They’d all gone for it and had received immediate orders to cut out carbs and to run eight kilometres a day. And to do a modest amount of rehearsing. No need to go mad.
    ‘There’s an awful lot riding on these gigs,’ Jay said. ‘And, if it goes well, we’ll tour nationwide, maybe get some gigs in Britain, a Christmas DVD, God knows what else … And the guys could do with a few quid.’
    From what I gathered the Laddz were variously bankrupt, multi-married or addicted to classic cars.
    ‘But Wayne wasn’t into it,’ Jay said. ‘Maybe he was in the beginning, but for the past week he’s been … unreliable. In the last few days he’s stopped showing up for rehearsal. He was caught with a fig focaccia and a jar of Nutella … He shaved his head –’
    ‘What!’
    ‘He cried during prayers.’
    ‘Prayers!’
    Jay waved a hand dismissively. ‘John Joseph sort of insists.’
    That’s right. John Joseph Hartley – the Cute One, or at least he had been about fifteen years ago – was holy.
    ‘What sort of praying?’ I asked. ‘Buddhist chanting?’
    ‘Oh no. Old school. The rosary mostly. No real harm in it. In fact it’s probably a good bonding exercise. But there we were in the middle of the third sorrowful mystery and suddenly Wayne was in floods. Sobbing like a girl. Does a runner, doesn’t show up for rehearsal the next day – which was yesterday – and when I called round to his house I found him with chocolate stains on his T-shirt and all his hair shaved off.’
    His famous hair. His re-wackied wacky hair. Poor Wayne. He must have really wanted out.
    ‘I mean, the hair we could deal with,’ Jay said. ‘And the carb-gut. He promised