by Grace Lowrie
‘He’s gone,’ he said, slowly removing his hand from my mouth. Instinctively I moistened my lips with my tongue, tasting the salt from his skin and his eyes zeroed in on it. At my hip his groin stirred and my breath caught in my throat, heat spreading through me. I really wanted him to kiss me. Or did I? Maybe it was simply the drug in my bloodstream impairing my judgement. ‘You’re stoned,’ he said.
I had an urge to laugh. Here I was, illegally sprawled across a grave in a cemetery with a self-confessed bad guy, smoking dope and thinking about kissing him. As I started to giggle, Bay sighed and rolled off me. With my own hands I re-covered my mouth but I couldn’t stop, and as my quiet giggles escalated, my whole body quaked, tears streaming down my face. Bay shook his head and shushed me again, but he was grinning – a rare and uplifting sight to rival any artificial high.
Eventually my fit subsided and Bay offered me the sleeve of his sweatshirt to wipe my eyes.
‘Hungry?’
‘Absolutely starving,’ I said, standing up and dusting myself down.
‘Let’s go get something to eat.’
*
It was a different kind of crowd on the underground in the evening. Thankfully we’d missed the worst of the rush hour, mainly by loitering in the park and having a go on the swings, and now there were fewer pushchairs and a higher proportion of inebriated office workers clogging up the platforms and carriages.
As we sat side by side on the northern line, several attractive, stylishly-dressed business women eyed Bay openly. Even unshaven, scruffy and scowling, he was undeniably handsome, and the bad-boy effect was particularly potent on females whose inhibitions had already been lowered by alcohol. I experienced a childish sense of smug satisfaction at being his companion for the evening – which was pathetic. In an effort to counteract these feelings I smiled at a suited gentleman sat opposite me, but when he smiled back, Bay glared at him until the man promptly alighted at the next stop.
I’d never been to a Street Feast before, I didn’t know such a thing existed, but the place Bay took me to in Shoreditch was fantastic – a quirky assemblage of outdoor diners, bars and fast food outlets arranged over two floors around a central communal eating area. The whole place was decorated with artificial grass, parasols and fairy-lights and a DJ added to the party atmosphere. I ordered a ‘Yum Bun’; a soft steamed bun filled with slow-roasted pork belly, sticky Hoi Sin sauce and spring onions, while Bay opted for an enormous burger stacked with freshly barbecued meat and a mess of tasty-looking garnishes.
‘You’ve got sauce all round your mouth,’ I said cheerfully, picking up my coke can and taking a sip.
‘So have you,’ Bay said with his mouth full.
I half-heartedly licked my lips, but couldn’t stop smiling; it tasted too good.
In the crowd I caught sight of a familiar face and, taken by surprise, instinctively ducked down lower in my seat, initiating a curious lift of Bay’s eyebrow. But it was too late, she’d spotted me, and she was making her way over. Bay looked bemused as I swallowed hastily and wiped the corners of my mouth with a paper napkin.
‘Has it all gone?’ I asked him. I tried to rein in a flush as he perused my lips with a lingering gaze, and then nodded, swallowing his own mouthful of food.
‘Cally! I can’t believe it’s you! It’s been ages!’ I smiled as Marguerite descended on me with a big hug and delicate air kisses. ‘How are you doing?’ she said, pulling back to appraise me at arm’s length. ‘You look different.’
I wondered if she could tell I’d been smoking a joint only hours beforehand. ‘I’m good, thank you, really good, how about you?’ I said, nervously scanning the crowd over her shoulder to see who she was with.
‘Don’t worry, I’m here with work friends; no-one you know.’ Relief swept through me, I wasn’t ready to face Liam yet. ‘How is the flat-sitting going? You said everything was fine in your messages but it’s so long since we’ve actually spoken…’
‘Yes, everything’s fine – the plants and fish are still thriving; I haven’t killed anything…’ I tailed off. Marguerite wasn’t really listening to me – she was too busy glancing uneasily at my dining companion. ‘Marguerite, this is Bay, Bay – Marguerite.’
Bay drew himself up to his full, imposing six feet, dwarfing my petite friend as he flashed a devastating grin and proffered a greasy hand. Marguerite blinked under the visual assault of his smile and accepted his fingers on autopilot. ‘Charmed to meet you,’ Bay said.
I cringed as Marguerite masked her impulse to recoil in horror with a polite smile. ‘Nice to meet you,’ she said, snatching away her hand and stepping back.
Bay was still smiling as he sat back down and returned to his burger, his amused eyes passing casually between us.
‘Bay’s an artist,’ I said, as if that explained everything. Marguerite nodded distractedly and I passed her a paper serviette which she accepted gratefully and discreetly used to wipe her hand. ‘He’s really talented,’ I added.
‘What about you – have you managed to find work yet?’ she said.
‘No…’ My cheeks heated with the lie. ‘I’ve just been so busy with sightseeing and so on…’ In my peripheral vision Bay had stopped chewing and was listening intently, but I avoided his eye.
‘Oh, well, that sounds like fun, as long as you’re not getting unduly… side-tracked,’ she said, glancing at Bay again. What she really meant was ‘led astray’. She was doing what most people did – what I had done – judging the book by the cover. She saw Bay’s tattoos, piercings and clothes and assumed he was dangerous; the wrong crowd; a bad influence. In this instance most of her assumptions were probably correct – Bay was offensive, volatile, and almost certainly an addict. But there was so much more to him than that. The more time I spent with him, the more I admired his ‘don’t give a damn’ attitude, his dry humour and his raw, tumultuous emotions. Respect and affection were not freely granted by Bay – they were hard-won – rewards all the more precious for that. In short, he had become a friend,, and I had an urge to defend him.
‘No, not at all – it’s been great to let my hair down a bit and Bay’s been looking out for me…’ “Corrupting young innocents” his words from earlier crept through my mind, making me want to laugh. Marguerite looked unconvinced and I changed the subject. ‘How’s everything at home? How’s…’ I didn’t want to say his name.
Her eyes softened. ‘He’s not great, Cally, I won’t lie. He doesn’t say much – he never does – but it has hit him hard, I can tell. He’s been looking for you, he knows you’re somewhere in London, but…’ guilt filled my stomach, cold and soupy, ‘…I haven’t said anything, obviously…’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said.
‘It’s not me you should apologise to.’
‘I know, but I’m sorry for putting you in this position, really.’
She gave a small shrug of her shoulders. ‘We miss you at dance class, you know, it’s not the same without you…’ For the first time in the two-and-a-half months since I’d left, I felt properly homesick and tears pricked the back of my eyes. I hugged Marguerite again as I blinked them back. ‘Can’t you just call him?’ she said over my shoulder. ‘You don’t have to tell him where you are, but you could at least let him know you’re OK…’
I released her and took a deep breath to steady myself, aware of Bay’s curious and penetrating gaze on my face. ‘Yes, you’re right, I should do that.’
She nodded, searching my eyes for reassurance. ‘OK. Well, I’ll leave you to your dinner,’ she said, ‘but call me if you need anything, any time.’
‘Thank you, Marguerite – for everything.’
‘Nice to meet you, Bay,’ she said stiffly.
‘You too,’ he muttered unconvincingly, his attention fixed on me and all trace of humour gone.
‘Please don’t ask,’ I said, settling back at the table opposite Bay as Marguerite retreated into the crowd.
‘Drink?’ he said.
‘I�
�ve still got this,’ I shook my half-empty coke can.
‘A real drink.’
I finally looked Bay in the eye and the dark intensity of his gaze took my breath away; simultaneously surprising and soothing me with its heat, like stepping in front of a fire. ‘A double Jack Daniels and coke would be great, actually.’
‘Don’t move,’ he said sternly, getting up and walking away.
Chapter Twenty-six
On Monday evening I was settling on my bed with a selection of pencils and a sketchbook on my knee, when a classical piece of cello music floated unexpectedly out of the speakers and across my dingy flat. Cally positioned herself in the centre of a cleared space on the floor, standing upright, with her shoulders back, but her head down and her hands joined loosely before her. As the music swelled, she began to move with light steps and fluid grace, the full skirt of her summer dress fanning out around her as she danced.
This was no practice session; this was a ballet, properly choreographed and executed to perfection right in front of me. I sat speechless; mesmerised; paralysed. Actually not entirely paralysed – as the music grew steadily faster and louder, building to a crescendo, heat surged into my lap making me uncomfortably hard. Why did this girl do this to me? I don’t think I even blinked for the entire duration, not until the music faded and Cally finally came to rest on the floor, her chest heaving – the only outward sign that her graceful performance had taken any effort.
Willing my erection to subside, I wondered if Cally’s sudden return to her classical roots had been triggered by bumping into her friend from home the other day. I couldn’t recall her friend’s name – something long and posh-sounding – but she had mentioned dance classes. Interestingly, Cally had been too ashamed to admit to her job as a stripper, which had me speculating, yet again, as to why she was doing it. They’d referred to Cally’s ex-boyfriend too, though not by name. Had she called him yet? I itched to ask her about him, but it was too personal. We didn’t do personal. I didn’t do personal.
At length Cally raised her head and looked at me.
‘What was that?’ I said into the silence, my voice hoarse.
She rose to her feet, hands on hips. ‘Bach. Something I came up with for an audition a few years back.’ ‘You choreographed it yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was the audition for?’
‘A place in a dance troupe.’
‘You must have got it, if you performed like that?’
She smiled. ‘Yes I did, but I had to turn it down.’
‘Why?’
She shrugged lightly. ‘I had a job to do, bills to pay, a boyfriend… I couldn’t just drop everything and go off on tour.’
‘Fuck that, you could have found a way—’
‘Yes, well, I didn’t,’ she snapped.
Setting my blank sketchpad aside, I fetched a tumbler full of water from the kitchen sink and passed it to her. ‘So, what’s changed?’
‘What do you mean?’ she said, accepting the glass. Our fingers brushed and I tried to dismiss the jolt of energy that shot up my arm and ignore the sweet, tantalising scent of her sweat.
‘The stripping, your list… you’ve obviously dropped whatever you were doing before – why now?’
‘Oh. The opportunity to spend six months house-sitting in London, I guess,’ she said with a hasty shrug, water spilling from her glass. I could tell she was hiding something, but she changed the subject before I could push it. ‘So, did you get any sketches done, or would you like me to do some stationary poses?’ Her eyes darted to the blank page on my bed.
‘Let’s go out,’ I said.
*
It was late by the time we reached the club and a queue snaked right around the block, but I by-passed it, confident we could jump it.
‘What is this place?’ Cally said, eyeing the people in the line – a motley mix of metallers, rockers, goths and punks – with growing unease.
‘You’ll see,’ I said striding up to the door.
‘Bay,’ the doorman acknowledged me with a nod, his meaty hands automatically reaching to unhook the rope and admit us. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while.’
‘Ian,’ I greeted in return. His eyes did a visual sweep of Cally and then returned to mine, his brows lifted in surprise. I stared back at him as if daring him to say something, but he merely stood back and let us pass, Cally close on my heels.
The light was gloomy inside as usual, the floor sticky beneath our shoes where is sloped from the bar area right down to the stage, but most of the space was filled by hordes of people; most of whom were drinking beer from plastic cups and shouting at each other in an effort to be heard above the music. The atmosphere was anticipatory but relaxed – the roadies on stage were busy setting up for the headline act; the occasional thud of the bass drum thumping the air as they tested out the sound system. It was good to be back – better than I’d expected – I’d missed it; the raw aggression, grime and stench of a live metal gig.
But I was here for Cally this time – to shock her, to test her, to push her limits. I wanted to subject her to a corner of my dark soul now that she’d flaunted the pure beauty and innocence of hers. I needed to counteract the effect her ballet dancing had had on me; I wasn’t sure why I needed it, but I did.
Having ordered a couple of pints of lager at the bar, I handed one to her.
‘Thanks. I’m not sure I’m really dressed for this,’ she said with a downward glance at her red cotton summer dress, the small handbag slung across her body and the little black shoes on her feet. ‘It wasn’t on my list,’ she added with a rueful smile. God I was a heartless bastard.
‘You never know, you might like it… and if not, we can leave, OK?’
‘OK,’ she said, beaming back at me before taking a large sip of warm beer. She was right of course, she stuck out like a sore thumb and, much to my consternation, there were at least a dozen men in our immediate vicinity appreciatively checking her out. ‘So who’s playing?’
‘I’m not sure exactly – it’s unsigned bands on Monday nights, but the headline acts are usually pretty good.’
‘Great!’ Her eyes flashed with genuine excitement as she turned to face the stage. Abruptly the lights and music were switched off and we were plunged into darkness. I stepped closer to her, anxious not to lose her in the throng, and felt her jump as an electric guitar chord rang out. Blinding lights came up on the stage to reveal a five-piece rock band. The music exploded into the air around us and as the crowd roared and surged forwards, Cally surprised me by moving in with them. Lurching to follow after her, I elbowed others out of my way while Cally, jostled by people jumping all around her, grinned back at me over her shoulder.
The band were pretty good – you could tell they’d been playing together a long time – they sounded confident and cohesive – rock metal with a punk edge – reminding me of Green Day in the early nineties before they really hit the big time. I positioned myself a couple of rows back from Cally and found myself observing her rather than the musicians on stage.
I wasn’t too worried – she was chatting to two middle-aged, leather-clad biker types who were giving off harmless vibes, and she was far enough away from the mosh pit at the front not to be inadvertently sucked in. Besides, I was reluctant to stand too close to her. The sight of Cally here, rocking out with a rough bunch of blokes like me, turned me on. Dammit, every damn thing Cally did aroused me, as if she had a hotline straight to my dick – I couldn’t win.
The lead vocalist announced the band’s penultimate song, and the crowd jumped enthusiastically along to it, nodding their heads and shouting the words. Suddenly Cally was hoisted into the air by the guys around her and anxiety reared up painfully in my chest. Pushing forwards I tried to get to her, but I was too slow – calmly she spread her arms out wide and lay back onto the heads and shoulders of those around her, as if she had been crowd-surfing all her life. I watched, immobilized with awe, as she was borne away towards the stage
on a sea of bodies, in the raised hands of strangers, like a beautiful, modern-day Eurydice being carried off to the underworld.
I was no Orpheus, but as Cally disappeared from view, I launched myself towards the side of the stage, pushing and shoving my way through the masses, heedless of anyone I pissed off in the process, adrenalin pounding in my ears in competition with the music. I arrived just in time to spot Cally being handed out from behind the stage barrier by a bemused-looking security steward. Her eyes were wide with exhilaration and delight, but she appeared to be in one piece, thank Christ.
‘What the fuck!’ I shouted at her, furious.
Leaping forwards she threw her arms around me, laughing. ‘Oh my god, Bay, did you see me?’
‘Yes I fucking saw you.’ The sudden physical contact was unsettling but I hugged her close to me, shaking with profound relief. Pulling back she beamed at me with such joy and satisfaction that it was impossible not to return her smile.
I shook my head. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Nope,’ she said smugly.
‘Have you still got all your valuables?’
‘Yep.’ She held up her bag for me to see.
‘And no-one groped you?’
‘What? No!’ she said, her smile vanishing and her mouth dropping open in horror.
‘Thank fuck for that, let’s go,’ I said, taking her sweaty hand in mine and dragging her back through the crowd.
‘We don’t have to go yet,’ she shouted after me. ‘I don’t mind staying longer if—’
‘No, I’ve had about all I can take for one night,’ I shouted back. ‘Can’t take you anywhere.’
She chuckled and I shook my head again as I walked, lacing my fingers tightly and securely through hers.
