Outsider
Page 8
She was screaming in her head, shouting, begging the Second Look keyboard player for a forgiveness that wasn’t hers to give. With a swift hand, she slashed at the tattoo-free breast, clean razor blade, as deep as she could, but it was never deep enough. She slashed. Sharpness of metal burning through skin……. Cold metal meeting warm blood. Hard metal meeting soft blood. Mingling. Once, twice, thrice. She stopped counting. Physical pain was nothing.
When the fingers lost their grip on the razor blade, tears slid forth and free from her drowned, brown eyes. Feebly, slowly, her fingers touched the fresh, savage wounds, feeling wet with blood.
Blood mixed with tears and a taste of alcohol on her tongue.
CHAPTER TWELVE
(First Set)
“She’s out of this world, she’s sometimes here / But this is no sci-fi, she’s getting nearer / She knows you know / If you’re out in the middle of the deep dark night / And you come across this woman, be polite.”
(Catherine “The Been” Feeney)
Tattooed and sporting a green mohican, clad in a sleeveless, old, black T-shirt with a huge spider all over the front as usual, this time with a new creation: black, stretchable trousers found on the street (she was always grateful to the Skip Goddess for her many gifts) whose lengths she had treated with scissors (they were too hot, she made them cool) and put back together with all the safety pins she had found on a market stall (she had a thing for metal), Sid stepped into the pub, got greeted by the smiley woman with the dark pony tail who was working alongside a tall guy setting up music and sound equipment, and walked out within the same 30 seconds, running away from the assault of the unbelievably concentrated energy mix of the place.
She felt wary, more than premenstrual: manic. She was wondering how she would behave during the gig. Would she be a quiet, but bouncy dancer, or would she irrepressibly and obnoxiously harass the singer, like a month earlier (only a month?), the first time she ever saw Second Look on stage? There was only one way to find out.
Tonight, she had brought her camera with her; Sid was more than just a tattooed, 31-year-old writer with a green mohican or a confused performer. There was so much more to her to meet the eyes than anyone could ever imagine, but apparently that was just for her to know. She was also a photographer and photography was for her like everything else she did: something to avoid boredom. She had looked at the band’s website, she had looked at the CDs, and felt the same frustration: photos are so deceptive, only a mere moment frozen in time. From one photo to the next, the same person could look so different. She needed to find out for herself.
It was only 8 pm and she was more than an hour too early for the show. She walked back into the pub and decided to get a bottle of schnapps, knowing that she knew better. She knew that the combination of alcohol and SSRi was about to get her drunk and out of control, but hell, she was gonna go for it. Life would have been only a tad more exciting if she had been a weredragon.
The idea of arriving at music venues before the crowd of punters was to get used to the increasing energies and thus avoid being shocked to collapsing by the excess and excesses of people. Sid believed herself too sensitive, unable to protect herself and as a result, she had a tendency to feel confused.
Tonight, Sid was also considering the absurdity of going out from her non-smoker’s point of view: you get all cleaned-up, all dressed to kill, and when you get back home, you discard your entire outfit because it stinks and reeks of smoke, alcohol and a collection of sweats. Of course, if you dance barefoot as Sid was about to…….
Tonight she wanted to scout the joint for her next work of fiction. Tonight, she had her camera to play paparazzi. Tonight she was gonna drink on the job, even if drinking was as hazardous to her mental health as some rock band could be to punters’ current idols…….
* * * * * * *
A tall woman with short, dark hair and a big smile across her innocent face walked into the pub. Despite getting stuck in Clapham Common, thanks to the wonderful London public transports, Judy had made it before the band. The Second Look crew were still smoothing down T-shirts, rounding edges, correcting angles, basically making sure that Dawn’s keyboards and other technical gadgets were plugged in properly and Terri’s microphone stand at the right height. They wheeled the last huge metal box back to the unmarked, blue van parked outside.
The pub was still quiet. Only two dozens of punters. The newcomer joined the writer by a tower of speakers and sat on the bass one. She had a camera in her backpack.
“Great! We could have a competition!” Sid exclaimed, a tad more manic than she expected.
Five minutes later two women stepped in, as confident as if the world was their private oyster, and greeted the crew. Terri with her wavy, red hair and freckles that suntan showed off to great effect. Dawn with her blonde, uncooperative curls and a shiny, black top. They looked around and Terri spotted Sid and Judy.
The writer felt nervous but she would have never acknowledged so, because people would misunderstand anyway. Of course, she could explain, but she was tired of explaining herself to every human being. Maybe she could wear a T-shirt screaming DON’T EVER TAKE ME FOR GRANTED.
The Second Look singer closed the distance to grab Sid’s left hand for one of her firm handshakes. Sid liked that. She loved to feel strength in a woman’s grasp. She started to relax, but in a manic way.
* * * * * * *
The groupie presently buying a copy of each of Second Look’s CDs and a black T-shirt sporting Terri’s and Dawn’s eyes, was one nondescript baby dyke with bleached, short hair, tattered and faded, blue jeans uniform. She was presently raking the front pockets of her trousers for her last tenners. The look in her eyes was a mixture of fire and Shit! I haven’t got the dosh for this crap!
Contrary to most groupies, her fixation was solely for the keyboard player. It was actually a fixation by default. The singer simply frightened her with the definite power and the insane edge of her voice. On top of that, the red-haired woman made a point of breaking glass glasses against walls and windows and squashing plastic glasses under fancy black boots, after every shot of tequila. That was absolutely too freaky for our little baby dyke. In her eyes, Terri was a stage beast. Hang on a sec, did this expression really exist in English or was it another of her literal translations from the language of her childhood. In the country Baby Dyke had left behind, the wild singer would have been a bete de scene.
Extraordinarily contrasting, Dawn was always so quiet in her corner, so efficient with her electronic paraphernalia, so radiant with serenity, looking so serious and so intellectual, so oblivious of the world. It was definitely reassuring for the barely-20-year-old, innocent groupie who suffered from a bad case of shyness crossed with social anxiety.
She wondered what Dawn’s voice sounded like. She had heard her singing, but never speaking. Did she have a specific accent, something slow and nasal, something bouncy and hip, or the sound of rocks? Would she ever find out?
Baby Dyke would stand in a corner by the stage. Well, here at the Greystoke there was no stage. The monitors shaped a symbolical boundary. But she’d stand as close as she’d dare, too nervous to dance. Besides, she was convinced that if she danced, everyone would look at her and comment. And laugh. So, she wouldn’t dance. Just as well she was now skint because she was very afraid of misbehaving or behaving out of character if getting drunk. Very afraid to be judged and condemned by the keyboard player. No, no, she couldn’t take the risk of having her Goddess rejecting her. To live among the shadows was a lot safer, even if Dawn was to never acknowledge the existence of this petrified admirer.
Baby Dyke looked around. The terrifying singer was in conversation with an equally terrifying woman. A wild dancer with loads of tattoos and a proud, green mohican. Well, more yellowish than green tonight. Standing near another dancer, not as wild, but pogoer. Baby Dyke would stand at the other end of the dance floor. Tonight, it was a diminutive rectangle of floor.
She wondered if
the gorgeous woman with the so long black and white mohican, always wearing sexy, black clothes and dancing on high heels, would be there tonight. The innocent groupie had a rising tendency to panic when the stranger was around. This stranger had a habit of disappearing with a woman in tow at every gig. Baby Dyke hoped in hell she’d never be one of those.
As a matter of fact, when Baby Dyke turned around…
* * * * * * *
Tonight, she was wearing a strapless little black number, matching the high-heeled boots climbing up to her knees. Her dark eyes, as gypsy as ever, were enhanced with black mascara. Hunger was almost a rumbling noise in her throat. She exchanged a few words with the dark-pony-tailed woman working for Second Look, looking around at the same time, checking the growing crowd, searching for the prey she had been dreaming of for 22 days. Tonight she would taste Sid’s blood; she would feed and feast on the coppery sweetness hinted by the smell. Yes, Sid was right there, with her tall friend, in the deep thralls of a conversation with the red-haired rock singer. Deep thralls. The immortal creature felt like impersonating a hissing snake. She could hear the writer’s heart beating faster than normal. But Sid would be hers tonight. By any means necessary.
The gypsy-eyed woman’s graceful walk took her to the bar where the whole staff sported T-shirts claiming their allegiance to the rock band of the night. Waiting to order a drink, her selective ear was spying on the writer’s conversation.
Terri: “I read your story. I liked it! Actually you write very well. You should get published!”
Sid: “Good. You don’t mind me killing you then?”
Terri: “It’s ok, I get killed all the time!”
Sid: “I’ve got another story for you.” Digging an A5 envelope out of her bag. “But actually I don’t kill you in that one.”
The barmaid asked the gothic spy for her order, while Terri walked to her microphone to get a quick sound check. Sid and Judy started to play paparazzi and shoot performers and punters alike. Dawn smiled for the cameras.
* * * * * * *
Sid had already sipped some of her third schnapps by the time Second Look made their slow start of the night. A song about the eternal subject of your other half being out late and not ringing you to let you know. Probably drinking. Oh yes, Sid knew the story alright. Hers had a threatening phone call added for good measures. She could laugh now, years later, thanks to this song. About every song performed by the band could make her laugh her head off, occasionally to the point of hysteria. Maybe she should cut down on antidepressants.
The camera still in her hand, Sid started to dance, singing along. She had done her homework, practicing with the now in-built music tape in her walkman.
By the end of the third song, Sid had kicked out of her black biker boots and red, spidery socks. Barefoot she was even more at home in music. Even more obsessed, more possessed, more belonging to music than ever. And now, she was also obsessed with Second Look. Without obsessions her life would have been a total void. At least she could play with her obsessions, and currently Terri and Dawn were a great inspiration for her feverish writer’s brain. She knew she needed to have a word with her irresponsible psychiatrist and change antidepressants. She also knew it was time to face the truth: she couldn’t hate Second Look. She knew the truth deep down herself, she knew she’d have to face it, sooner would be better than later. This band, in her book of standards, was not good: they were disgustingly brilliant. They were the band she had craved for back in her solitary teen years, their absence had been the motivation to pick up a guitar and sing. She loved them, but claimed to hate them, because she was not in a hurry to feel the pain walking hand in hand with every truth about her own life. And if she wanted to blame someone for the state of her life, she didn’t have to look as far as Second Look, even if Second Look were what she had always wanted to be. And could not be. Because she was different.
Rather than acknowledging the decaying reality of her singing career that the wild Terri was unknowingly throwing at her with every breath, Sid decided to focus on the keyboard player.
* * * * * * *
Baby Dyke had found enough coins in her back pockets to afford a small glass of soda water. She needed the bubbles like vampires needed blood. Lost in music, she divided her attention between her Goddess and the sparse dancers. Sid currently pogoing madly with her tall friend. The so-damn-sexy stranger swaying her hips and keeping her shoulders almost motionless. Was it because if you got started too wildly the high heels would shock you senseless against terra firma? No, Baby Dyke was better off not thinking about the stranger’s slender legs.
Her eyes moved along. A woman not taller than herself, blonde, short-haired and probably blue-eyed, was rhythmically swinging her hips and stepping one and two, on a chronic basis. Next along after the pillar, a woman clad in baby blue was hardly moving.
Manic Sid was dancing all over the place, right and left, her bare feet never sliding across the slippery floor. Occasionally stopping two seconds by a punter, then bouncing away again. Her eyes hooking without locking with anyone’s, even if crossing daggers. And rebounding more powerfully.
Baby Dyke was waiting for Dawn to sing, but this was not to happen before the second set. Then she noticed that tonight, the wild dancer was paying more attention to the keyboard player than the singer…
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
(Second Set)
“Who’s gonna fall tonight / Your guess is as good as mine / Who’s gonna walk into her world / Who’s gonna wish they stay in there / She knows you know”
(Catherine “The Been” Feeney)
Joy’s frustration was increasing by the minute. Whenever Sid had stopped by her, she hadn’t made eye contact. Whenever the mad dancer had looked at her, the gothic woman had tried to weave her mesmerizing spell, but to no avail. This was getting seriously tiring. She NEEDED to feed, but tonight she wouldn’t give up. If she had to, she’d use inhuman means.
She found herself having to keep an even tighter check on her frustration during the break, when Sid’s friend came to her and introduced herself as Judy. Joy had to play the game, her useful youthful good looks were to blame.
But then, Lady Luck suddenly struck in her favour. The writer stopped near her, a visa card in one hand, and asked Judy:
“Want a drink?”
“Yeah, another one of those.” Showing a bottle of schnapps.
And then boring into Joy’s eyes:
“Want a drink as well?”
“I’m already pissed out of my brain!” Making time, weaving the spell, hooking at Sid’s soul, at last.
“Well, you don’t have to ask for alcohol, you can go for a soft drink, fruit juice, whatever!” Her brown eyes searching Joy’s dark eyes, suddenly responding so easily and so readily to the mighty will.
“A diet Pepsi then.” Smiling slightly.
* * * * * * *
What did Dawn’s voice sound like when she was not singing, but just talking like anyone else? Baby Dyke cranked up all her courage, felt her whole face go red and redder by the second, probably a red akin to ripe tomato. She had to, she needed to know, she wanted her Goddess to look at her, to talk to her, to smile at her, to acknowledge her.
She walked to Dawn, who was just handing back a fan’s copy of the 1995 CD to Terri for autograph. Baby Dyke reached out with her own copy, mumbling her request. The keyboard player smiled her radiant smile:
“Yes, of course! What’s your name?”
More mumbling from Baby Dyke. She felt totally overwhelmed by the heavenly accent, an Irish-like collection of rocks. She eventually gathered enough voice to give out the proper answer:
“Dan.”
Dawn wrote a few words, signed and spoke again:
“Let me pass it on to Terri.”
The wild-haired terror flashed her wildest grin at Dan and added her piece of wits to Dawn’s. Baby Dyke felt herself going pale.
* * * * * * *
When Second Look launched into the first so
ng of the second set, Sid was still at the busy bar collecting a bucket load of schnapps to cultivate the degree of alcohol in her blood. Good job she had left her bike at home. But by the end of the song she was back, ready to offer a shot of tequila to the singer. Terri grabbed the glass, swallowed the alcohol in one gulp and threw the empty container against the wall. The glass crashed satisfyingly. The drunken dancer gave her two thumbs up.
During the next number Sid felt that the two partners in crime were not at their best. Probably because they’d been constantly on the go for a week. Three gigs in the States, flying back to London, three gigs in the suburbs and now Teddington. There was only so much energy they could muster. Terri lacked her usual Scorpio sting. No jokes about fancy lingerie tonight.
When the singer stomped through Mercedes Benz, she gave the audience only one go at the microphone, accused them of being totally pissed and finished off the song, with her own inimitable style.