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Into The Fire	By : Nexus Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Deep Purple Views: 1448 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Deep Purple. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Into The Fire
- 1
Into The Fire

Genre: Slash
Rating: R
Fandom: Deep Purple
Pairing: Ian Gillan/Ritchie Blackmore
Timeline: 1973
Warnings: Angst, Violence, Drug Use, Language

Summary:
Deep Purple are about to sign David Coverdale, and Ritchie ponders over his fevered relationship with Ian over the years, which had eventually led to his departure.

Disclaimer:
I do not, nor will I ever, own Deep Purple. Damn.

*****

It’s late, I can hear the barn owl over yonder whooping in the darkness. Tonight, I am madness maddened, and the 2000 miles between us only serve to foster my sense of grace. I open the window and squint out at the bare foliage in the distance, I could have sworn I saw something moving, something bleeding, and I was drawn to its gentle stillness like a homing beacon.

“Du bist sächlich, lieb?”

“Ja,” I say, startled. “Ich konnte nicht einschlafen.”

“Warum?” she asks, tiptoeing out of bed.

“Think I had too much to eat,” I lie. I don’t know how to lie in German.

“Kommen hier,” I can feel her warm arms upon my naked back.

“Listen,” I turned around. “I’m going out for a walk, go back to bed.”

“Walk,” she murmured. “But it late, mein lieb, you have early flight.”

“Keine sorge hun,” I smile.

“But I do worry,” she whispered.

I pull her to me and embrace her softy, running my hands over the small of her back. If anyone is taking notes, this is how marriage works. You just gotta live in different countries, see each other every other month, and romance never dies out. Take it from me.

“Don’t,” I plant a kiss on her lips and break off to pull my clothes on.

Five minutes later I emerge into the black forest adjoining the barren fringes of Cologne, feeling calm and oddly invigorated. It was freezing, but the layers of sheepskin were doing their job in keeping me warm and comfortable, especially if I maintained this crazy pace of walking. Where the fuck was I going at 2 am in the hub of some Bavarian woodland?

Well, it’s been years since I’ve known where the fuck it is that I’m going. Tonight was no different.

The next morning on the BA 168 flight to Gatwick, I sat in my tiny enclosure and gazed out at the blue skies through dark sunglasses, which some would argue is a sound metaphor for my outlook on life. I picked idly at the rim of my cardboard cup, staring at the murky remnants of what was supposed to be coffee, but tasted more like radioactive soup.

Then I remembered the photograph I found crumpled in the annals of my suitcase the other day. I felt tried, dejected, and sick to the stomach. The only thing giving me the tiniest sense of purpose was the cute stewardess gawking at me from behind the curtain. Finally, after a few moments of playing hide and seek, I shot her an empty grin and motioned her to me. The chick almost fell over some guy’s briefcase.

“Yes, sir, did you want something?” she squeaked.

I just grinned at her from behind the shades. Let her wiggle a bit.

“Mr Blackmore, sir?”

“You know my name.”

“Well, yes of course, I adore yo—Deep Purple, I have all the records,” she breathed.

“A wise investment of your finances.”

“Yes,” she giggled. “Did you want something, Mr Blackmore?”

“Three somethings, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

“Of course, anything!”

“A glass of water, please, to sooth the aftertaste of sludge that passes for coffee here.”

“Oh, I’m so s—“

“That’s quite all right luv,” I interrupted. “Secondly, I’d like you to let me know exactly 20 minutes before we land. There’s something I need to do that requires perfect timing.”

“Of course,” she smiled. “Was there anything else?”

“Yep,” I thrust the cup in the small garbage dispenser. “I want to fuck you.”

“Oh,” she blushed and flicked her hair back. “Well I never,” she giggled.

As she was giving me head in the tiny service compartment I lit a cigarette and my thoughts wandered back to March 1971, when that damned photograph was taken. I think—I can’t be sure—that it was from the promo shoot for Machine Head. It was an icy morning, as befits the very essence of English spring, and our faces were truly illustrative of the way we felt.

Ian, wearing that silly white suit he’d acquired with the first paycheck he’d received, looking proud and jubilant and very, very young. Roger was sprawled below him in his usual hippie-meets-bad-motherfucker stance. Jon—always at my side—playing it cool. I can’t remember what I was thinking exactly, but I remember a vague trepidation, a feeling that I was in the coils of something wild and wonderful, and that it would also lead to a lot of heartache.

There is something intensely sexual about impending doom, it fuels up your senses and makes you feral with the anticipation. I remember being absolutely parched, and downing a pitcher of lager in the pub. I remember him, Ian, jumping up and down like a child at the fairground, pulling me in all directions and taking me on a violent rollercoaster of emotions.

Ian…

“Oh, god,” I moaned as I shot my wad into her mouth, somehow forgetting all about the chick at my knees.

I staggered back to my seat, put the shades on, and lit another cigarette. A different stewardess handed me a copy of The Times sport section and a hot cross bun.

Always fly British Airways.

A couple of hours later, the cute stewardess appeared at my side and informed me that we’d be landing in twenty minutes. I nodded and made towards the bathroom adjacent to my cabin, locking the sliding door behind me. I prepared a fix and shot up. I tilted my head back, my eyes peering wildly at the mirror before me, my lips forming a sluggish grin.

Don’t show ‘em your pain, Ritchie. Stay cool, calm and focused, that’s the ticket.

I was met at the airport by a company rep who escorted me to the record label offices in London where our lawyers were waiting in the foyer with Jon, Ian Paice, and our new bassist, Glenn. Glenn was a curious bloke, I could never make out if he was a genuinely nice lad or an evil bastard. I still haven’t made up my mind.

“Hey mate, all right?” Jon greeted me warmly.

Out of all the musicians I’ve worked with—and I’ve worked with plenty—Jon’s always been my closest friend. The bloke had refined political sensitivities, he was a true mensch, and a brilliant pianist. What the fuck he was doing banging keys for some heavy rock band was beyond me.

“Hi, have I kept you waiting?” I said, nodding at Ian and the others.

“David’s here,” Glenn beamed. “He’s with the CEO.”

Fuck, I’d almost forgotten about him.

David Coverdale was the kid we were signing up today to replace Ian Gillan. Everybody was besotted with the blonde punk. I went along with what the others wanted, I was too lethargic to give a rat’s arse anyway. They could have signed Donny Osmond for all I cared, my heart just wasn’t in it anymore.

I remembered the day Ian joined Deep Purple. It was 1969, we’d done an extensive tour of Europe and returned home to a succession of trials and tribulations. We were dumped by the record company, and to make matters worse, Rod and Nick had buggered off. Ian and Roger were like a breath of fresh air, even though I never admitted it to their faces. I always made a point of reminding them that we were doing them a favour, and not vice versa. It’s amazing what you’ll get people to believe if you drum it in hard enough.

The night before the Machine Head photoshoot, Ian stayed over at mine and we wrote “Fireball” together. Ian had a little too much to drink—as usual—and I had a little too much to dream. It would prove to be a triumphant, albeit dangerous, combination.

"There’s no catch, you silly bugger," Ian giggled in the corner.

"There's always a catch, my son."

"Notcha son,” he slurred.

"Nah," I sighed. "He can't speak a word of English."

"Why'd you marry his mum then?"

"What d'ya mean why I married his mum?"

"You 'eard."

"Cause I love her, innit."

"But she's German!" he chortled.

I laughed with him.

"You better get some beauty sleep, Ian, we have that shoot first thing."

"Piss off," he snorted. "Plus there's still a quarter of bottle left."

"Gillan, you are one tenacious fuck."

"Aye, that's why you love me."

"No comment,” I eased back on the mattress, suppressing a grin.

My head was spinning, and a languid satisfaction spread through my limbs. I closed my eyes and let the drunken stupor course through my veins in a pleasurable atrophy. I was fucking happy, foolishly happy. I wouldn’t let him know that, though, lest he start taking liberties with my affections. No fuckin’ way I’d let him have the upper hand on things. I caught the scent of bergamot in the air, and felt Ian's soft tresses brush my shoulder.

My eyes shot open. Here we go.

I reached out and ran my fingers through his hair, tugging slightly, eliciting a contended sigh. I traced his jawline and held his chin up so that his cobalt eyes poured into mine. There was so much feeling in those goddamn eyes, but it was all masked behind a veil of scotch. He never liked to do that—look me in the eye—and soon enough he broke our gaze, and started singing under his breath.

“Oh my love it’s a long way,
Where you’re from it’s a long way”

He buried his face in my nape, nuzzling my hair, his right arm running up my chest.

He was always doing shit like this when he’d had a few. It fucked me off to no end that he’d only do it when he drank, thus excusing himself of the consequences. At first I was naïve enough to think that he honestly didn’t remember what happened between us in the still of the night. To be fair, I wasn’t gonna argue with that MO—fuck, it’s not like I wanted to discuss it either—until one day, when we were in the US on tour, Ian came up to me straight after a show. He practically shoved me into one of the cargo units, pushed me up against the wall, and kissed me right then, right there.

It was a great show, he was buzzing and all fired up on adrenaline, I could understand. But this time, he couldn’t blame it on the booze. And what do you know, he avoided me for the rest of the US leg. Mr Predictability, that’s my Ian.

The next year Ian’s drinking took on a life of its own, you’d have to make an appointment with his sobriety, and there was a fucking waiting list. I told him to get his shit together, or else, and that seemed to shake him up. Ian knew I didn’t make idle threats.

That night in March, though, was a turning point in our relationship. I was fed up of his drunken fumbling and my own inability to bring this shit to a conclusion. So I took matters into my own hands. Literally. I took his hand and directed it towards my crotch. He knew what to do, after all, he’d had months of practice. After I’d spent myself in his hand, I rolled over and pretended to fall asleep. Heh, ingenious.

Ian was perplexed. He prodded me lightly, then not so lightly.

“Hey sleepy,” he drawled.

“Yeah,” I turned to face him, flexing my muscles. “What’s up?”

“Ehm,” he was obviously uncomfortable.

Ian was going to have to ask me to bring him off. I bit my lips so that I wouldn’t laugh in his face. Ian was dumbfounded—and with good reason, he never had to ask, I’d happily reciprocate—but not this time. If he wanted a bloody orgasm, he’d have to be vocal about it and ask for one.

“Yes?” I arched a brow.

He snorted and turned his back to me. I got up, zipped up, and popped the kettle on. I felt Ian’s eyes following me as I pottered around the room. I put on Led Zeppelin II and brewed the tea.

“Can I have a cuppa,” Ian finally said.

“What’s the magic word, Gillan?”

“Fuck off.”

I grinned.

That night was the first time we’d ever talked about stuff. My little plan worked, and by the end of the night Ian was telling me exactly what he wanted me to do to him. And the best thing was that he couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen the next morning. It was official—at least between us two—we were fucking. I don’t think either of us analysed it much back then, we were too busy with a nonsensical workload of two albums and relentless touring.

One night after a show, we were having a nasty argument. We were in a hotel room in Copenhagen—or was it Munich?—shit, I can’t remember.

“I thought I was fucking good!” he yelled.

“Yes,” I sighed.

“So what’s your fuckin’ problem?”

“Calm down.”

“Calm down. You calm the fuck down, you’re just jealous that I stole your thunder. Oh, look at Ritchie Blackmore with his shiny new strat. D’ya think anyone gives a toss about your new guitar, it’s my arse they’re looking at!”

“Whatever. Listen—this isn’t going anywhere—I’ll leave you and Jack alone.”

“Yeah, go. That’s your fuckin’ answer to everything,” he spat as I slammed the door in his face.

It all went downhill from there.

His drinking, my reluctance to ‘go anywhere’, we both harboured opposite needs and growing resentment. Sometimes I’d look at him and lose myself in a murderous fantasy of blood and tissue, his torn ligaments hanging from my shiny new strat.

I fucking hated his guts—or hated myself when I was with him—and the only time I could bring these fevered thoughts to catharsis was when I fucked him so violently that he sobbed and begged me to stop. Yeah, I pretty much raped him on the odd occasion, but in my defence I was never sure if he was totally wankered or really meant it.

Funny how Ian’s drinking became my excuse.

“All right lads, looks like they’re ready for us,” Michael, one of the lawyers, snapped me out of my reverie.

“Into the fire,” Jon winked at me.

We entered the office where Coverdale, his lawyer, and the company execs sat in a round table meeting. David flashed me a toothy grin and exchanged greetings with the others. I grunted something non-committal, sat down, and watched as the suits shuffled papers. David fancied himself something of a comedian, he tried too hard to win my approval. Didn’t he see how redundant I had become in this little production, this charade? I was as relevant to the proceedings as the tea biscuits.

Shit, he was quoting from The Flying Circus. What was next, a Peter Sellers sketch?

I excused myself from the meeting and climbed up to the roof for some fresh air. I lit up and stifled the tears that threatened to choke me. Ian never saw me like this, I wouldn’t let him. He couldn’t stomach my vulnerability, he proved that last month at his leaving do. What the fuck was I thinking, showing up at his house in the dead of night, hoping to compress three years of headfuck into one last fighting match?

Of course, I found him on the floor, semi-conscious, kneading a bottle of Jack. This could have been 1970, or 1971. Even 1972 if it wasn’t for the utter coldness in which we bade our salutations. I wasn’t even sure he knew I was there, whistling in the darkness.

“Ya couldn’t stay away,” he slurred. “I knew you’d come.”

I sighed. “You must have the gift of foresight, then.”

Ian tried to stand up, but was so out of it that he stumbled down to his knees, laughing. “Nothin’ to it, Blackers, I just know you.”

The way I saw it, I had two options. I could spend my last night with Ian exchanging witty repartee, putting us both off the hook, or I could go for the jugular, claw at the gaping wound in my heart and go to hell with it, taking Ian with me.

As we fucked for the very last time, I said the words that gnawed at my conscious. The words I would have said—should have said—ages ago had it not been for my damned pride.

Ian’s response curdled my blood. He laughed.

“Hahahahaha, you love me. Yeah baby, I can feel your love grinding my arse. That’s what it’s always been for you, eh? You deluded pile of horseshit, do you love your wife the same way? Deutschland, Deutschland über alles! Über alles in der Welt!”

I knew he was drunk. I also knew that he wouldn’t remember a word when he woke up in a few hours. That, in a nutshell, was our tragedy. We only truly connected on one level, and to achieve that height of clarity, one of us had to be drunk, and the other a psychopath. I couldn’t do this anymore…

I found a piece of paper, scribbled something on it, and left.

‘Do you remember what I said, Ian?
Well, that’s why I’m glad that you’re leaving.
Too bad if you can’t recall. I wasn’t kidding
when I said I was a rotten prick, so don’t be
surprised that I won’t bother repeating myself.
It makes no bloody difference anyway.
Have a nice life.’

And that, as they say, was that.

THE END
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Into The Fire