“Help me, help me, help me.
You told me what I am. Now help me.”
She lifts her eyes, grey and muted, and fixes her stare on me. The shopkeeper doesn’t say a word, doesn’t move a muscle. She slowly closes her eyes, and as she does, mine start to close, too.
An image starts to form in my head. One of her, by the river, standing next to me and watching a milk crate float downstream.
“Not yet,” she says. “Not yet.”
“When?”
“When I’m sure you won’t do something reckless with the information.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
She is in my head, in the same way that I can be in Roe’s or he can be in mine. The only difference is that she is in complete control. She doesn’t need the cards to form a gateway. She can do this at will.
Just as I’m sure she’s about to dismiss me, she says one last message. Sends it without even moving her lips.
One more tip for being a good sensitive, Maeve. Don’t bite off more than you can chew.
And then all of a sudden, it’s over. We’re back in the shop, all four eyes open. The bell on the door rings, and a woman starts asking about essential oils.
“Goodbye, Maeve,” the shopkeeper says.
I go.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO WEAR TO THE GIG AT THE CYPRESS. All Roe said was that it was an LGBTQ all-ages thing, which means … what? I can’t wear the blue dress I wore to Fiona’s barbecue, it’s way too “meet the parents” for that. But I don’t have anything cool to wear, either. Being a sensitive has not, evidently, made me sensitive to dress codes.
I should be thankful that I’m even allowed to go. Parents, en masse, are still holding the reins very tightly. Mum and Dad weren’t going to let me go to the gig at first, but Joanne stuck up for me. She said it was important that I support the charity. I was amazed at how hard she went for it.
“I’ll drop her off and pick her up. You guys know what’s happening in the world right now,” she said. “We need all the allies we can get.”
I go through Joanne’s wardrobe, but her style is too practical, too fresh, too sporty. I need grunge, not pink polo shirts. I manage to find some black fishnets that she wore at Halloween, but that’s the best I’m able to do. Abbie’s old room isn’t much better. The only stuff she’s left here are hanging-around-the-house clothes, all soft joggers and hoodies. I do, however, find one deep plum lipstick that looks quite good against my dark hair.
I hit the jackpot in Pat’s room, where I find a big black Kate Bush T-shirt. And I actually know some Kate Bush songs, so I won’t feel like a complete imposter wearing it. I cut up an old pair of black jeans into shorts and put the fishnets on underneath.
After a good hour of scrutinizing the mirror, I decide that I look like someone who belongs at a gig.
Now the only trouble is going downstairs.
“Oooooh, look,” says Mum.
“Oh, look at you,” copies Jo.
“Rocker chick!” Dad cries enthusiastically. “Rocking girl!”
“Please stop,” I plead.
“No,” says Dad. “Shan’t.”
“Maeve, that shirt is miles too big on you,” Mum says, with scrutiny.
“That’s the point,” I say uncertainly. “Jo, can you bring me in now please?”
“Yup,” she says draining her coffee. “To the les-mobile.”
She’s quiet in the car, but keeps smiling over at me.
“Stop.”
“I can’t help it. You look so cute. My baby sister!”
“Jo, I swear to God…”
“Is your boy in the band then?”
I am silent. Roe and I have still not spoken. I wonder whether it’s a good idea to go to his gig at all, but the only thing worse than going at this point would be not going.
“Still all this secrecy? Jesus, it must be serious.”
“I actually…” My voice cracks. “I don’t know whether we’re still together.”
“Oh no! Why?”
“I think I screwed it up. I was too … myself.”
“What does that mean?”
I laugh hollowly. “You know.”
“I don’t.”
“Angry. Jealous. Bitchy. Manipulative. Whatever.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, being yourself can mean more than that. You’re also funny. And confident. And you know your own mind.”
God. This is rare. And suspicious.
“Why are you being nice?”
“I’m just telling it how it is. I wish I’d had your confidence when I was sixteen. I wish I had your confidence now.”
“I’m not confident.”
“Maeve, you’re wearing your older brother’s sweaty T-shirt to a gig. That’s confidence.”
“Oh shit,” I say, panicking and smelling the armpits of Pat’s T-shirt. “Do I smell?”
“You smell fine.” She smiles, pulling the car over. “Go on, get out, be young, support the baby queers. God, I can’t imagine what life would have been like if we’d had queer all-ages gigs when I was your age.”
“Do you think I shouldn’t be there?” I say, suddenly very worried. “You know, because I’m not…”
“No,” she says firmly. “Community is important, no matter who it is. As long as you’re supportive and don’t, I don’t know, ask anyone weird intrusive questions about their gender or their sex life. We need support. Especially the way things are turning.”
“What do you mean? The way what is turning?”
“The world, Maeve. Hate crime is still very much a thing. The other day me and Sarra were holding hands at the sandwich counter in Centra and a boy not much older than you started screaming at us. I mean screaming.”
“What?” I say, alarmed. “Why? You never said anything.”
“I wouldn’t say it to Mum and Dad. They’d only get upset.”
“Jo, that’s horrible.”
“It is,” she agrees. “Now, I’m parked in a bus lane – get out.”
She turfs me out onto the street. I’m still reeling with the thought of someone screaming at my sister – at my sister! – in a Centra.
I pay my seven euro to get into the gig, climb the narrow rickety stairs to the venue and nervously buy a Coke. Everyone here is colourful, with pink glitter in their eyebrows and interesting, gender-unspecific haircuts. A bearded drag queen in a turban is making the rounds, saying hello to everyone. No one is doing the stupid 1990s grunge look I’m doing.
Roe and I haven’t spoken since the disastrous tarot reading. What if he doesn’t want me here? What felt like a gesture of loyalty in my bedroom now feels like an insane suicide mission.
I scan a poster as a way of not making eye contact with anyone, and realize that I don’t know the name of Roe’s band.
I don’t know the name of my own boyfriend’s band.
This, surely, is the confirmation I need that I never actually had a boyfriend. Girlfriends know their boyfriends’ band names! That’s just a fact! There’s someone called Miel in the band, but that’s all I know. I haven’t even got a clue what music they play or anything. God, I’m rubbish. I need to leave. I should leave.
I head to the door and make my way down the stairs, pushing past people on their way up. Suddenly I hear Fiona’s voice.
“MAEVE!”
I whip around, my heart melting with gratitude. Fiona’s here, and she’s wearing black jeans, a Penelope Pitstop T-shirt and her big leather jacket. She has a little bit of winged eyeliner on. She’s infinitely cooler than I am, but at least we look like we belong together. I throw my arms around her.
“You’re here!” I squeal. “I’m so glad you’re here!”
“I’m so glad you’re here!”
We grin at each other, happy to be doing normal things, like going to gigs together. We will not discuss witchcraft, or spells, or sensitives. Not tonight.
“Roe? No. A couple of the drag queens performing are in Othello with me. I only found out Small Private Ceremony were playing today.”
“Who?”
“Small Private Ceremony,” she repeats. “Roe’s band?”
“Oh, sure,” I reply quickly. “Of course.”
Fiona knows Roe’s band. Fiona. Who has only met him a handful of times, as opposed to me, who has known him for ten years.
The room goes dark and a single spotlight falls on the bearded, turban-wearing drag queen who is hosting the evening.
“Hello, hello, hello,” she purrs into the microphone. “Guys, gals, and those of you beyond the binary! How are we? Are we well?”
Roars of approval.
“Welcome to a night of queer musical cabaret. I’m your host, Avoca Reaction – because that’s what great drag should do. Now, mic check. My name is WHAT?”
“Avoca Reaction!” the crowd calls back.
“Because WHY?”
“That’s what great drag should do!”
“That’s right! I’m your friendly neighbourhood bisexual non-binary intergender drag entity. Now, is there anyone here who has never been to a cabaret before…?”
Small Private Ceremony aren’t on until third, and despite my hideous nerves at seeing him, me and Fiona still have a brilliant time. We scream for the kings and queens and almost cry laughing at the comedy, and we don’t talk very much at all except to grasp each other and whisper, “Would you look?” and “I am dying…”
And then he comes onstage.
Standing in black Doc Martens and a floor-length, deep-red velvet gown with a split up the leg is Roe O’Callaghan. His hair is curlier than ever and pushed forward, so his eyes are barely visible under the thick mop. And with lips so painted they look swollen, he starts to sing, slowly at first. Softly. I only notice that he’s holding a guitar when, three lines into his song, he takes a single, jerked stab at it.
The lights come up, and the rest of the band are now visible. A blond bass player with a page-boy haircut that I assume is Miel, wearing a white vest and black waistcoat. The drummer is a ginger boy with glitter in his beard, and the lead guitarist is a big girl with bubblegum-pink hair and a buttoned-up Victorian nightgown on. None of their outfits go together, but weirdly that’s what makes them look like they belong to one another.
They play mostly covers at first, Roe going from Karen O to the Corrs in the same song. I can tell, even objectively, that he is an absurdly talented performer. He can make songs that should be embarrassing and mawkish into these slick punk numbers, and slick punk numbers into sentimental ballads. Then, they start singing their own material. It’s easy to tell when Roe has written a song: it’s full of his dry wit and sincerity, full of colour and story and metaphor. He sings a song about a Russian spy that, it’s clear, is pretty well-loved among the twenty or thirty people here who know the band well.
“You’re a tripwire trap
In a house that’s tapped
With a telephone trigger that’s rigged to blow;
When the ringing sounds,
I won’t wait around.
I will pick it up and say ‘hello’.”
And people are singing along, yelling “tripwire trap” and then “hello” every time the chorus comes around. By the final chorus, he’s screaming it. Clusters of people are screaming it back.
Roe has fans! I think in amazement. My boyfriend has fans!
“All right everyone,” Roe says, finally addressing the crowd. He starts retuning his guitar, and I can see a tremor. His hand is shaking. He is sick with nerves under all that velvet, trying so hard to keep it together. “How are we doing?”
Fiona and I shout loudest. His head jerks in my direction, his eyes meeting mine and then journeying down to my enormous T-shirt. His mouth twitches slightly, an almost-smile playing on his red lips.
God, he’s so sexy. How is he so sexy?
“This is a new song,” he says simply. “I hope you don’t mind that it’s a bit slow.”
And he starts.
“How long have we been here?
And do I say too much?
These days I’m mostly vacillating
In and out of touch…”
His eyes focus and settle on me, and every hair on my body is awake and standing on end. He is singing this song at me, to me. It feels startlingly intimate in such a full, sweating room. The only music is an occasional strum of a chord and the thud of a kick drum.
“In and out of focus
Always trying to construct
These aimless conversations
as a substitute for trust…”
Roe’s eyes are boring into me, to the point where a few people in front of me are turning around to see what he’s looking at. The snare drum kicks in. The chorus explodes as the girl on lead guitar starts playing a high, tinkling riff that vibrates my blood.
“And then there’s you, in livid blue
Come seeping through the silence;
If you’re not dangerous, then how come I hear sirens
And is everything just violence?
“And then there’s you, in livid blue
Come wading through the weather;
But if we’ve got to live in hiding,
least we’re stuck in here together…”
I’m completely breathless. What does this mean? Does Roe love me? Is he scared of me? Is it both?
But I don’t have time to figure it out, because at that moment, a glass bottle sails across the room and hits Roe in the mouth.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
AT FIRST, I’M SURE IT’S AN ACCIDENT, OR A JOKE.
It is neither of these things.
The lights suddenly go out, and the room is plunged in darkness. There’s some kind of fight happening near the door, and I hear Avoca Reaction’s voice, loud and defensive.
“You need to get out of here. No, you’re not welcome. No. No. Get out. Get out, before I call the…”
I can’t hear what happens next. The room, which moments previously was alight with the happy, joyous shouts of singing teenagers, is now full of horrified screams. I grab Fiona next to me.
“Where’s Roe?” I yell. “What’s happening?”
A crowd of people heave backwards, crushing me and Fiona against the wall. I hear her screaming as a boy falls backwards on top of her. I crouch to pick her up and am almost trampled in the process. I haul her to the side of the stage and manage to stand up on top of it, trying to see what’s happening.
A group of people have wrestled their way into the gig. Most of them are about our age or a few years older. The biggest ones, the biggest men, are shoving people backwards and screaming in their faces. A few others are carrying things. I get on my tiptoes to try to see.
Carrying … buckets?
No one is actually punching or hitting, just pushing, pushing, pushing. There’s about twenty of them, and the closer I look, the more I see how familiar they are.
Fiona, recovered from the initial shock, is standing on top of the stage with me.
“Maeve,” she says, pointing. “Look.”
I follow her finger and see a tall blond man in a soft grey sweatshirt and navy peacoat standing with his back to the wall.
“Isn’t that the guy from the cafe?”
And it is. It’s Aaron. Aaron has brought the Children of Brigid here, to Roe’s gig. To a queer charity cabaret night. He’s not moving. He’s not even speaking. Just standing, watching the fury impassively. For a moment, our eyes meet, and I’m sure that Aaron can see me for who I am. The other sensitive. But his eyes rove on as he keeps scanning the room.
“Where’s Roe?” I shout over the din. “Can you see him?”
A drag queen has taken her shoe off and is clubbing someone with it. The pink-haired lead guitarist from Small Private Ceremony is shoving a CoB member back, yell
ing at him to hit her with his best shot. The CoB kids aren’t doing anything except pushing and shouting: shouting the worst kind of words you can think of, words that were probably thrown at Jo and Sarra last week when they were in Centra queuing for a hot chicken roll.
And then, somebody gets grabbed. A fourteen-year-old boy who I had noticed on the way in for having better make-up than a Jenner sister is held by the back of the head, and dragged to the doorway where the people with the buckets are waiting.
“What’s in the buckets?” Fiona yells. “What are they doing?”
My mind goes to the worst. Piss? Blood? Animal poo? What on earth could they possibly have in there?
The boy’s face is pushed into the bucket, held there and, a few seconds later, is pulled out again dripping wet.
Water. I think it’s water.
His mascara is running down his face, his foundation an orange mess. He is pushed back into the crowd, shell-shocked and crying.
They’re taking his make-up off.
They’re trying to take everyone’s make-up off.
As the realization sparks and carries, the room goes wild. Punches are thrown. Blood starts to spatter. The cabaret crowd start to fight. And that’s when I see him. Roe, his mouth coated in blood, his dress torn at the shoulder. He is trying to get to Aaron, but he is being stopped by a boy I recognize as Cormac, the boy from the CoB meeting who played GAA and shaved his legs. Roe pushes past Cormac and manages to square up to Aaron, who seems calmly surprised that Roe wants to speak to him. He gives a “who, me?” look of indifference, as if Roe has wrongly recognized an old neighbour.
I stare at Aaron’s face and realize that this is exactly what he wants. He wants the cabaret crowd to descend into violence: he wants them to throw punches, to stab with stiletto heels, to go out of control. He wants to be able to maintain that all CoB did was show up with a few buckets of water. He intentionally brought only twenty or so Christian teenagers with him, against a crowd of one hundred. He wants it to look like an uneven fight. He wants to lose.
This, I realize, is a PR exercise. And Roe, screaming and shaking Aaron by the shoulders, is doing exactly what Aaron wants him to do.
All Our Hidden Gifts Page 22
