“Not really. So far no one here seems my type.”
“And what is your type, love?”
Kit scooted closer to her on the velour-covered bench, finishing off the last of her third lager. “Don’t know, really. Someone clever. Pretty. But not stuck-up, vain, or rude. So hard to find one without the other. The one everyone in the room falls in love with while he’s completely oblivious to it. I guess what everyone wants, really.”
“You’ll have quite some competition, then,” said Delia. “Let’s hope we get lucky tonight.”
Kit rolled her eyes but allowed the briefest smile to cross her lips. Delia linked arms with her and dragged her along to grab another drink. The hosts’ three-story home was decorated like the future began in the sixties, which of course, it did. Homemade radios and toaster ovens, Indian rugs and posters from the F-Punk revival at the start of the decade. Different boarders every month, and the place paid off by generations of kindness and good luck.
“You’re shy, aren’t you?” Delia asked Kit as she popped open a bottle and handed it to her. “You fake being sociable when you want to though—you’re good at it. But the shy ones always have something to hide,” she said with a grin. “Do you?”
“Yes,” said Kit, though she felt it was a lie. By sin of omission perhaps others assumed she had some dark secret hidden away. Everyone else seemed to wear if not their hearts, their carefully crafted personalities on their sleeves—like Delia, for instance. Perhaps there’s something I can learn from her, Kit thought.
Delia flipped her hair behind her shoulder, laughing loudly, insincerely, at a comment made by a lanky bloke standing beside them.
Perhaps not.
Chapter Seven
HOW TO WIN MATES AND INFLUENCE THE BORED
“You’re coming with me to a gay party,” Sailor said.
“No, I’m not. Have to finish this book.” He held up the cover for Sailor to see. The Rise and Fall of Nitro Winchester and the Self-Stable Apocalypse by Janus Jeeves.
“‘Here, I’ll tell ya what happens.” Sailor swiped the book from him while Sam waved his arm around uselessly in the air. “He gets reincarnated into a toad at the end. You see, what most people don’t know is that toads live a pretty good life. They don’t have to buy groceries or petrol or get a job or get married or divorced. They just eat insects and slime on things. Fuck me, I’d like to be a toad.”
“Those are two separate requests, and thoroughly incompatible with one another,” Sam said from his prone position on the couch.
“You don’t have to come as my date,” Sailor said, his voice fading as he headed towards the loo.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare. Anyway, I’ve already got plans. My band’s playing at this party tonight, at this couple named Lindseys’ place. We’ve been gettin’ pretty good I think—might even be up to your saccharinely deplorable music tastes…Are you listening to me?” he hollered over the running tap.
Sailor’s head popped round the corner, pink suds in his crayon yellow hair and a green mud mask circling his wide brown eyes. “That’s it, that’s the hooley!” he said. “At the Lindseys’. We leave as soon as I’m done getting ready, which could be anywhere from one to five hours, so you’ll have time to finish yer book. Just make sure you’re scrubbed and plucked and polished and shiny, yeah?”
“Yeah, I’ll be nice and shiny,” Sam said. He paused for a minute. “Hey, why’d you invite me along to a party you already knew I was going to?”
“I just like hearing you turn me down. You know what they say, comfort in repetition.” Sailor winked and disappeared back into the loo behind a flurry of river-blue satin.
After spending half an hour getting dressed, Sam stood in front of the narrow full-length mirror in Sailor’s room. Aviator sunglasses. Check. Tattered black jeans. Check. A blue, yellow, and violet top in metallic criss-crossed patterns that Liberace would be embarrassed to go out in, check. Dark hair purposely disheveled, skin glowing, stretched taut across his architectural cheekbones, shoulders, elbows and hips. Scented like a girl and just a hint of pale grey eyeshadow that made his water-brown eyes appear even more sunken in.
Sam attracted women, men, and those both or neither, but had few serious relationships to reflect upon. The girl would move. The girl would break his heart. He would fall in love again within a week, or at least be under the impression that he was until the shine wore off the new penny. He never wanted to let her know though, didn’t want the guilt; he’d just go silent until she went round and round in her head with suspicions and ruined it.
He’d probably never been in love. Love might merely be something invented by advertising execs to sell more rubbish at Asda.
“Are ya ready to ‘ave the time of your life?” Sailor asked from the doorway in bowtie and leather chaps.
Sam stifled a laugh. “You bet. The night is young.”
Sam and Sailor arrived at precisely 10:30 p.m., late enough so that they were fashionably late and everyone was already drunk, but not so drunk as to be incoherent.
Sailor always started the evening off with a whiskey and ginger in one hand and the other clasped around Sam’s shoulder. He and Sam chatted with the hosts of the party, a man and a woman who were both named Lindsey. The Lindseys were the sole local distributors of rare upper class goods—handmade commodities from places like Paris and Milan had become a scarcity and would usually cost a small fortune.
The Lindseys gave them away practically free. Exchanged them for odd jobs like car rides and laundry.
“Charmed,” the female Lindsey said as Sam introduced himself. She had thick pale lips, oak-coloured hair, and wore vivid violet eyeliner too bold for her unassuming features. “So, you’re the singer. What sort of singer are you?”
“A motivational singer,” Sam said.
“Indeed. And what do you sing about that motivates people?”
“I want to get people to take what turns them inwards, and get them to turn it outwards.”
“That sounds very inspiring. If only we had more pretty boys like you trying to get people off their arses.” She reached up to run a mannish hand covered in rings through his already-mussed hair. “Follow me.”
“I’ll catch up with you later,” Sam said to Sailor, who was currently engaged in a heated debate with the male Lindsey on a topic both of them clearly knew nothing about, supercars or some such nonsense.
The Lindsey woman led Sam into the den to show him where he would perform, in a wide, elevated alcove cut in black marble—gorgeous acoustics, no doubt, made for displaying prominent works of art and doubling as the perfect stage. A mic stand remained from the start of the evening—a soprano from Barcelona had attempted to move the guests to tears with her aria while they were arriving and the first drinks were being poured.
“How’s this for your debut?”
“It’s perfect,” Sam said. “It’s just what I need for people to hear me.”
“Sweetheart, I’d like for you to meet Delia and Kit.” Lindsey led him over to a pair of girls, one bouncy and feminine, the other tomboyish and angular. “Both these girls are so talented. Musicians—like you.”
“Oh, I’m more of an actor than a musician. Just backing vocals for friends’ bands sometimes, and I can strum a few chords, but that’s about it,” Delia said, her eyes shining at Sam.
“And our Kit here’s a wizard on the guitar,” Lindsey added, squeezing Kit’s shoulder fondly.
“I’m not sure about that,” said Kit.
She was pretty, in an odd sort of way, Sam noticed. Not pretty in a way you’d notice right off, like Delia. He had dirty thoughts about both of them immediately, which he pushed to the back of his mind for the sake of making conversation.
“I’ve just been playing since I was young,” Kit continued. “I learned enough technique so that I could break the rules is all.”
“Got any projects going at the moment…anything I’ve heard?” asked Sam.
“Maybe. I haven’t put out
anything in a while. Been working in I.T. for the past few years, but...I just quit my job.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Working for the man finally get to you?”
“Something like that. It was time for a change,” she said, internally chastising herself for the trite statement. “I’d like to get back into music.”
“Sounds like you could teach me a thing or two. You into effects?”
“Yeah, my pedal board weighs more than I do.”
Sam laughed, flashing a genuine smile.
“I’m excited to see you perform,” Delia interjected. “You’ve gotta be brave to put yourself out there like that.”
“It still scares me, to be honest. I’ve only just started, but I’ll get used to it.”
“What’s the band called?”
“We don’t have a name yet.”
“Maybe I’ll think of one while you’re playing.” Delia widened her lips into a smile, running her vermillion-painted nails along the rim of her glass. Kit was staring off at the stage, sizing up their gear, perhaps.
“Sold to the highest bidder, darlin’. Well, I’ll see you girls after the show then. Cheers.”
A group of fine, fabulous young men and women had gathered in front of the marble stage, relaxed and euphoric with the late hour of the night and drink coursing through their bodies. They discussed everything salacious and incendiary except for politics while Sam and the band set up.
“Excuse me,” Sam said into the microphone, and was greeted with feedback from the sound system. “If I could have your attention, please.”
His voice, soft yet commanding, did not belie the tension he felt. One would have to pay close attention to notice his eyes moving rapidly back and forth across the crowd of people, his nervous fiddling with the guitar strap. Behind him, Muzzy and Zephyr stopped adjusting their instruments, turning towards him with quiet interest. Some in the audience did the same. “Just a few moments of your time, ladies and gents, then I’ll let you get back to your conversations. I’d like to start a conversation with all of you tonight, just a little food for thought.”
Sam bent his head, placed his hands on the strings, and began to play. The first song was a folk song with hints of blues and electronica, and went like this:
Rally your troops and test your weapons
For you, my friends, are the enemy
Laughing the night away, wanting for nothing
While millions struggle to make ends meet
Come closer now, my darlings and hear me
I am the face of what you ignore
No more protests, and the songs will be few
I’ll be your action man, you can be sure
So rally your weapons and test your troops
First, remove the ones who need handling
We come like death, like a thief in the night
And we won’t leave a’ one of you standing
When the song ended, Sam gazed out into the audience, making eye contact with the ones who were paying attention. More than half, he noted.
When the set was through, he stepped off the platform with a confident smile on his lips, and found himself face to face with the fashionably later-than-late ringleader.
Or had he been there all along?
“That…was most excellent,” said Jeeves, placing his hands on Sam’s shoulders.
“It was, wasn’t it? Quite the adrenaline rush—just a little gig like this,” Sam said, jittering up and down with post-performance energy.
“This is just the beginning, Sammy. Just you wait. You think they’re eating out of the palm of your hand now—come now, come! Let’s go thank the Mizz Mister double-Ls, shall we?” Jeeves directed, leading him over to the Lindseys. “Aha! There they are. So, what do you think of my boy?” he asked, all eyes and gestures.
“He has a beautiful voice,” the female Lindsey gushed, turning to Sam. “Why darling, I’m practically in love with you after hearing you sing. But isn’t that always the way it is?” She stroked her hand along Sam’s arm, toying with the material of his garish shirt as the male Lindsey clasped him round the shoulder.
“You know, a university mate of mine is a music producer,” the male Lindsey said. He was tall and slender with grey messy hair, and wore a suit that was somehow both ill-fitting and expensive-looking. “I see fame and fortune in your future, young man. Let’s go outside for some air and discuss it further. You must see our garden.”
“And you must remember us when you’re well on your way,” the Lindsey woman said. “So many do forget.”
As the male Lindsey led Sam outside, he turned his head to glance back at Jeeves.
But it seemed he had already disappeared.
There was something in the way Sam performed that held hints of the former greats—the jut of his hips recalled Mick Jagger, the hair in his eyes Kurt Cobain, the commanding twinkle in his eye and slitherine movements tricks that any junkie jiver would be proud of. Kit knew the protocol, knew that if you put anyone semi-good-looking on stage who was semi-decent at playing, they were immediately the object of sexual desire to everyone in the room. Whether at a party in someone’s flat or in a stadium full of thousands, it was merely a matter of numbers. There was something deliciously mind-numbing about it; you were a slave to your own desires, ridiculous fantasies accumulating in your head despite tugging notions of boring reality. This was what rock n’ roll sold—a tried and true formula. A formula which, for years, had been abandoned in favour of regurgitated beats with one watered-down lyric laid on top of it repeated over and over ad nauseam. Nothing you could really get excited about, nothing you could get behind. Nothing that would wake people up.
This was different.
This was the rock n’ roll she knew and loved, stripped down to its core. She recognised it clear as day.
She wondered if the band even knew what they had, knew that they’d touched upon that intangible magic. Not only were their songs lyrically solid, but the music was at once reminiscent and new, songs that—with a little work—would become instant hits. Smart enough to appeal to smart people. Catchy enough to hook everyone.
Could use more guitar, she thought wryly. Her mind had already begun dancing hooks and phrases on top of the crunchy chords and simple riffs. Sam’s guitar sound was good—clear, crisp, and loud—but she could teach him a thing or two about effects that would instantly liven up his sound to make it even sweeter.
She let her gaze wander back to Sam. The frontman’s disheveled hair and lithe frame said protect me, care for me—the last laugh of all rock stars—tiny, effeminate outcasts, mercilessly picked upon in school, stealing girls from the bigger boys by playing on both their maternal instincts and promising they were man enough to treat you badly. An irresistible dichotomy.
When the set was over, Kit watched the gently brazen rock-star-in-the-making take care of the room, moving from one misty-eyed new convert to the next, all smiles and easygoing charm.
I’m a silly girl after all, Kit thought as she watched him. No different from the rest.
Chapter Eight
YOUR PULSE IT RACES WITH MINE
The Lindseys’ garden was a paradigm of nostalgia, of a time when common people took leisure, strolled through parks, cultivated their own veggies for recreation. Conifer trees stood proud and askew, their branches reaching in between neighbouring plants of blue, purple, and gold, touching soft white ferns and skimming above surreal patches of ground cover—black leaves with multi-coloured sterile berries. Greek marble statues and bronze angels hid behind tree trunks and gushed fresh running water over unripened blossoms. The Lindseys sauntered hand in hand wearing silver gauze and blue chiffon, regaling their guests with the proper names of rare species and the blooming cycles of the vast array of green growing things, many of them in full bloom of their fruits and colours as they embraced the cusp of the season.
The evening was dying down as Kit watched Delia and Sam through the entrance to the garden—an onyx black gate wroug
ht in sundial patterns. The night air had a rough chill to it, dancing around and defying the edges of the approaching summer, and Sam gave Delia his coat.
She accepted his outdated chivalry with a tilt of her chin and a wide smile on her warm, red lips, sliding Sam’s hand into the pocket of his own coat that she now wore. They sat down together under green-black trees on a wooden bench, momentarily commanding each other’s full attention. Sam activated the holo keypad on his cleverband and began typing—a number, an address, a plan. A plan for seeing each other again soon, certainly.
Kit hesitated at the gate, wondering if she should join them outside. Delia’s laughter drifted through the air, false laughter meant to flatter. The sound had Kit turning away. She shrugged on her coat and gathered her things in a slow-motion gesture of leaving, then headed out alone into the dark night.
They probably stayed on that bench for hours, talking about nothing at all.
About an hour after Kit arrived back at her flat, her cleverband chirped a two-second sing-song as she prepared for bed. She popped open the holo display. A message from Delia.
Delia: Hiya love. Would you like to come with me on an adventure this Wednesday?
Kit: Do I get a hint where we’re going?
Delia: Nope. It’s a surprise. =)
Kit: Well mysterious missy, guess I’ll just wait and see then.
Delia: Cheers! Goodnight, darling.
Kit: XO. Goodnight.
Kit snuggled deep into her double bed and pulled her white down comforter around her tightly. She can have him, she thought to herself. They’re better suited for each other anyhow, I’m certain of it. I’m happy as I am, and it’s wonderful to have made a new friend. Simply wonderful, she thought, as she faded from waking to dreaming, and in her dream-state dreamed of wrong and forbidden things, things she had forgotten, things she felt she didn’t deserve. Things bright, luminescent, and loud, people she could kiss and touch and hold if only she would reach out. She did, and it was warm and brilliant.
The Rise of Saint Fox and The Independence Page 5
