Getting Real

by Ainslie Paton

  Off stage he had no right to question how she dressed, talked or behaved and he was ashamed to realise how harshly he’d judged her. But there was no going back either, their ‘thing’ whatever it was—a hot infatuation, a fantasy trip—was clearly over, too much real world had intervened.

  Looking at her now laughing with Harry, her body an open invitation with raised lettering to sleepless nights of wondering what he might’ve done differently, Jake didn’t know if he could be her friend. He thought the cost of friendship with Rielle Mainline might be his sanity.

  29. Bolt from the Blue

  Even though Ice Queen’s performance was a free Music TV Bolt from the Blue gig and had only been promoted as a mystery act, the fans were about fifty rows deep around the portable stage.

  From where Rand stood in the doorway of a tent off the side of the stage, he could see there were already too many people in the small space. They’d agreed to do this gig primarily for the TV audience; the live audience was supposed to be limited. He wasn’t looking at limited. Word must’ve got out. He was also looking at the sound desk at the back of the area where Jake stood with the TV network people. They looked happy. Jake didn’t. He kept shaking his head and pointing back towards the stage.

  “This is a blast,” said Rie. She ducked under his arm to get a look at the building crowd.

  “This is a problem, but I don’t know what we’re going to do about it.”

  “We’ve done this kind of thing before.”

  He pulled a lock of her green hair. “Yeah, but back then the crowd were for some other band and we were the warm up no one bothered listening to.”

  She laughed. “It was simpler back then.”

  “I miss those days.”

  “You do not. You like your home studio, your private jets and your big Ducati.” She stuck a knuckle in his ribs. He squirmed away and considered returning the favour.

  “Yeah, but I’m not sure I want to get torn up to keep them.”

  “Wuss.”

  Oh that’s it. He made a grab for her, but she was a little ninja and scooted under his arm and back inside the entrance tent. He called after her. “Stay close to me.”

  She gave him an irritated look and he wished for once she was less fearless about performing. He looked for Harry; her crew was out there somewhere too, capturing this for the doco.

  Stu took Rie’s place. “This is a lot of people for an impromptu gig.”

  Rand estimated about five hundred people were crammed into the yard of the old church now. They’d expected two hundred at most. They spilled out onto the street, stood on the low stone fence and sat in the branches of a huge fig tree. “Keep the girls close.”

  It would probably be fine; it’s not like there was going to be any real trouble. Ice Queen fans were cool. Indoors there might have been; there were fire hazards, loading and access issues, but here in the open, on a bright, blue sky day, it should work out okay. And they were only on stage for a half hour max. So why did he feel so uneasy, like insects were crawling around the collar of his t-shirt?

  They were late, that was part of his concern. Twenty minutes and stretching. No sign of a producer to give them a ready signal and all the time more and more people arriving and the group already assembled getting louder and louder. Some parts of the crowd were waiting patiently, talking amongst themselves; others were singing the chorus to Darker Deep, amusingly ragged and off key. Then from the front of the stage among the people who’d been there longest, a chant started up, “Ice Queen, Ice Queen, Ice Queen.”

  Jake argued against the delay, argued against the idea that more people in the audience was better. Better for the network, but not for the band. The more people that arrived the less adequate their security and exit plans were. He wanted out. This wasn’t the deal and it was putting people at risk. He couldn’t get Ron on the phone either and this was something outside his experience to deal with.

  “Mate, it’ll be fine. We do these things all the time.” The network’s producer had shifty eyes and Jake couldn’t get them to shift and fix on him.

  “This wasn’t the deal.”

  “Look, mate. Sure you can pull your people, but if you do that you void your contract and well, we can’t take responsibility for what might happen.”

  The subtext was clear. Pull the band out, the network would stand back from the issue and still get footage for the evening news, and who knew what the fans would do when they heard Ice Queen wigged out and reneged on performing.

  Jake needed to get to Rand. He couldn’t make this decision alone. Had there been the original hundred or so people in the crowd it wouldn’t have been a problem, but with probably ten times that number here now, he could see no way to get to the stage. They tried shouting down the phone and then they reverted to text messages.

  Jake typed, 2 dangerous. Want out.

  Rand replied with, Agree. How?

  Jake had no immediate response. He knew the network officials were enjoying every minute of this delay. He’d already had a shouted conversation with the security chief who was equally worried, and said the band’s main exit route was now blocked by people who’d pushed through a barricade. They could clear them, but it would be a drama.

  No way out. Safer to go ahead.

  Rand came back with, Fuck.

  And Jake reluctantly gave the network the green light.

  It took another ten minutes for the show’s shaggy haired host to appear on stage where he proceeded to further excite the now wildly over-enthusiastic crowd, and another five minutes before Ice Queen came out and took their places.

  As Rand started a welcome patter, Jake saw two police cars and a wagon pull up on the street. The grins on the faces of the network people told him they thought this was an excellent idea.

  When they started playing, Jake knew Rand had changed the set list. He’d taken out the songs that tended to get people hyped-up and replaced them with a more laid back selection. The network was unhappy, and Jake had his first moment of satisfaction since they’d arrived.

  The changed set list had an effect but not the one Rand had hoped for. He’d thought it might keep things from getting too rough, but the opposite happened. A portion of the crowd, the hardcore fans, started chanting, “Darker Deep, Darker Deep” and the volume of the chant swelled until it threatened to overwhelm the amplified sounds of the guitars, keyboard and drums.

  Rand vacillated between giving them what they wanted and trying to find some other way to bring the heat and emotion down. He and Stu had a quick huddle, and with a nod to Rie, How and Roley they launched into Darker Deep. The audience went wild, singing along, screaming, dancing and pushing forward. Two people fell out of the fig tree, a school girl fainted in the front row and had to be lifted up onto the stage by security so she wouldn’t be crushed, and a fight broke out somewhere in the middle of the mix.

  While all this was going down he wondered vaguely if he was singing the right words. But when the fighting spread, he simply stopped playing and signalled the others to do the same. The song came to a jumbled, chaotic end. He breathed into his mic, “Hey, we want peace not war. We can’t keep playing if you people are going to beat the crap out of each other.”

  His comment scored a variety of responses, hisses, boos and cheers but made no dent on the increasing circle of fighting. The TV show host bounced back out on stage and tried to settle the crowd down, but he had a freaked out expression on his face and about as much authority as a blue budgerigar, so his voice just added to the din.

  Rand saw the coppers move. In seconds, an officer was ordering the network to shut the show down. That was good. This had gone too far. He unhooked his guitar. The guy with the mic was babbling about staying calm and moving to the exits. But a large mass of fans weren’t moving. He eyeballed Stu, who grinned back; the bastard was enjoying this. Rand wasn’t. His usual performance anxiety had curdled in his gut, now real fear gripped his chest. This was way out of order.

  The
network’s security team had formed a tighter ring at the stage edge, but their retreat off stage was still cut off—they were stuck. Instruments abandoned, they milled around, uncertain what to do. Stu had tight hold of Ceedee—he wasn’t grinning now—and Rie came to stand at Rand’s side. His heart was doing a thumping version of Metallica’s My Apocalypse.

  This was likely to get worse before it got better. He looked at Stu, “Get ready.”

  Then Rie started to sing—Soul Death, unplugged. She stepped away from his side and moved to the middle of the stage. He moved with her. She was a genius. Her powerful voice soared, giving the crowd something they’d never heard before and slowly changing their mood. He joined her, singing low notes to her high ones, then Ceedee, Jeremy and Stu’s voices added volume. The fighting at the edge of the mass brawl tapered off. People stilled. The sounds of shouting stopped, and eventually the hardcore fighters traded fewer and fewer punches and stopped. They kept singing while the cops ordered people out, starting with those on the street and at the edges, moving them on until there was a collective understanding the event was over and it was time to go.

  When they finished to sustained applause, there were still hundreds of people in the area, but they were calmly waiting to move off. It was over. Rand wiped a hand over his face. Fuck. Never again. Fame had its privileges. Getting mobbed wasn’t one of them. He’d aged five years in that moment between the fight breaking out and Rie opening her mouth.

  “Sorry guys,” he said, facing his band, all of them looking hot and edgy. There was nothing more he could say now. He had plenty to say later. He’d rip Ron Teller a new one. They milled around waiting for their exit to be cleared, all of them breathing easier when the security team visibly stepped down from their high alert stance. They split ranks, three men staying with them and three going to clear the exit to the side street and the waiting cars.

  But the minute the security team split, disaster struck. Rand saw it coming like a king-hit. A group of fans rushed the stage and hurdled it. He made a grab for Rie but a security guard cut him off. In seconds the stage was overrun. And she’d been separated from them by an excited mob.

  Jake had started making his way towards the stage when it happened. His relief morphed to dread in an instant. He yelled, hurling himself through the milling crowd to get to the stage. He saw Rand take a punch defending Ceedee while Stu fought a path to the exit. He could see fists flying and bodies going down. He couldn’t see Rielle and dread became a cold clutch of fear, and when he saw her roughly lifted above the heads of two men, it became an agony of panic. He screamed her name.

  He was still too far away to get to her. He could see her kicking and shouting as the two men dragged her to the opposite side of the stage from the exit. There were four cops in front of him. They reached the stage first, but he was hard on their heels. He vaulted its edge, coming up on his feet and fending off a punch and a kick, never taking his eyes off Rielle.

  The two men had her on the ground now and her screams were curses. She was fighting hard, kicking and clawing. From somewhere out of the melee, Rand appeared taking down one man with a barrelling tackle. Before the other had time to react, Jake was on him. A punishing combination of punches to his stomach and jaw, and the man was down and Rielle was in his arms, still cursing, almost climbing him. He moved fast, stopping only to see that Rand was okay, carrying Rielle through the exit, down the side path and into the last of the waiting cars.

  Rand was on their heels, panting and swearing, a bright mark blooming on his jaw line. At the open car door he put a hand to Rie’s face and said, “Jake, did you see Harry?”

  “No.” Jake lifted Rie inside and scooted in beside her.

  “I’m going back for her.” Rand slammed the door, thumping the car roof to signal the driver to move.

  Rielle was trembling, curled on the seat beside him. She’d lost her shoes, her hair was loose. She had red marks on her neck and bruises already forming on her arms. He reached out for her and she came into his arms, clinging to him, her face pressed into his chest. He rocked her gently, stroking her back.

  Fear and tenderness raged in him, making him hold her too tight, but dropping his voice to a murmur. “My God, Rie, are you hurt? Talk to me.”

  She took a shuddering breath. “I’m not hurt. I’m fine.”

  “I want to take you to the hospital.”

  She pulled away and looked up at him. “No, I’m fine. I’m bruised, I’m sore, but I don’t want anyone else touching me. Please, I want to go back to the hotel and stand under the hottest shower I can handle for hours.”

  He nodded and folded her against his chest, swallowing hard as she wound her arms around his neck and tucked her face into the hollow of his shoulder.

  “Just hold me, Jake. I want to feel safe.”

  He brought one hand to the back of her head and wrapped his other arm tight around her waist. He was shaking too from the horror of watching her being dragged away, knowing she might be hurt and he was too far away to do anything. He thought he might never be able to leave her side again. “You’re safe, Rie. No one’s going to hurt you.”

  She was breathing easier now, one hand tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’m pissed off. They were my favourite shoes. Someone is going to pay for that.”

  30. Danger

  When the driver coasted into Collins Street, Jake knew they had another problem. There was a crowd of media with cameras and microphones waiting outside the Luxotel driveway, ready to descend on them the minute they pulled up. Shit.

  The driver said, “Mate, want me to keep moving?”

  Jake wanted him to transform into a bloody tank and blast the problem away. He wanted to keep Rie tucked into his side and get her to safety, and never feel so washed in fear and wrung of hope again. Watching while Rie was attacked, not knowing if he could stop it was worse than any panic attack he’d ever had because it was real, not an imaginary threat, and because someone he cared for might’ve been hurt.

  He smoothed his hand down her back. She’d gone limp against him. “Yeah. Give them the slip. We’ll find another hotel to hide out in.” Ten minutes later, they pulled in to the quiet drive of The Mercury, and Jake helped Rielle out, holding her hand as they made their way to the reception desk.

  He asked for discretion and a suite and got them in swift order. All the way to the room, she kept a tight hold on his hand, her fingers threaded through his. She was still trembling and there was a jagged hyper-vigilance in her gaze; her eyes flitting sharply around, on the lookout for more trouble. Given what she’d just been through, she was coping well.

  It struck Jake how resilient she was. Her strength and capability having nothing to do with her armour, and unrelated to her tough girl act, instead coming from her very core. Thinking about it produced a kind of awe in him, and a corresponding shame for having made an issue of how she managed her appearance. Was it the book or the book jacket that was more important?

  In the suite, she released his hand, but didn’t move away from him.

  “Will you hold me?”

  He gathered her against his body, chasing her deep sigh with one of his own. Now they were safe. He’d have held her forever but she broke away and headed for the bathroom saying, “I need a shower.”

  That gave Jake time to hit the phones. He called Rand and got voicemail, leaving a message to say where he and Rielle were and warning him to avoid the Luxotel. He called Sharon to discover she was already at the hotel with the rest of the group. They’d beaten the media contingent and were in their rooms, shaken, stirred, bruised and angry, but essentially not hurt. He called Ron’s office, the publicist and the tour lawyer. He called the police and the network. He scratched out an inventory of the gear and instruments they’d lost. He rang room service and ordered coffee and food.

  When Rand called, he sounded frenzied, talking fast like he did when he was ready to go on stage and the adrenaline was pumping. “Is she okay?”

  �
��She’s says she’s not hurt. She’s so friggin’ brave I can hardly believe it.”

  “They don’t build them any tougher. It’s not just an act you know.”

  Jake was at the window; the Yarra River and the city spread in front of him. “Where are you?”

  “With Harry’s crew. I’m coming to you now.”

  “Sharon is with the others. They’re fine, shaken but not hurt. She’ll give us the all clear.”

  Rand said, “What the fuck happened, Jake?” with both the aftermath of shock and resignation in his tone.

  “I should’ve gotten you out of there earlier.”

  “Not your fault. I should’ve listened to my own head. I could see it was going wrong.”

  Jake watched a garishly painted gondola take on a load of tourists. Maybe that’s where he should be. Out there with the ordinary punters, not here with the performers where he felt responsible for things turning to shit. “If you want me out, I understand.”

  “Fuck no!” Rand sounded savage. “I need you to deal with this.”

  The gondola pulled out from the dock to begin its pleasure cruise, as out of place on the Yarra as Jake felt in the conversation. “No problem.”

  Rand said, “See you in ten,” and clicked off.

  Rielle ran the shower water hard, hot and long and she scrubbed her skin til it flushed pink and the ugly itch she’d felt from those hard hands that grabbed her rinsed away. It wasn’t the first time she’d been manhandled, but it was the first time security had failed to step in quickly. That had been really fucking scary. The two who got her were drunk, high, whatever, but detached from reality enough not to be thinking straight; not to know there was little chance of getting away with hurting her. She’d hurt them too, as well as she could, with a hard kick to the jaw of one, an eye gouge to the other; but two of them, that was dirty pool.