Metal Urge
By E.D. Wilbourn
Copyright © 2012 E.D. Wilbourn
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Authors note:
The Tower Bridge walkways were closed from 1910 to 1982 at which time the bridge was renovated and the walkways were once again opened to the public. I took artistic license and used the magnificent bridge and its walkways several times in my story which is set in 1976 because those scenes are an integral part of the storyline. I fell in love with the Tower Bridge and the view from its walkways during my first visit to London in 1987 and felt that the splendid bridge added a dimension to my story that simply would not exist without it.
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Metal Urge
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Chapter 1
1976
The mirror had fogged up again. Deanna Darmody swiped at the wet film, separating the fog into strips of moisture across her image. She couldn’t apply her make-up until the haze dissipated, but she wasn’t about to open the door and let in the bone-chilling cold. She shivered and wondered for the thousandth time why England had to be so damp and frigid. It was the beginning of May for God’s sake! She tried to imagine the hot Arizona sun shining down on her water dappled skin, warming her, and chasing away the chill that pervaded everything and everyone in the mossy old City of London.
“D!” Maggi Atwell, her roommate called, pounding the bathroom door impatiently. “What’re you doing in there?”
Deanna sighed, watching beads of moisture trail down her tired reflection. Two thumps sounded against the door as Maggi sang out, “Get a move on girl. London’s calling!” Reluctantly Deanna left the warm cocoon of the tiny bathroom. She hurried to find the thick terry bathrobe her parents had sent her last Christmas. As she wrapped herself in its soft warmth, Deanna heard Maggi humming some catchy pop tune in her bedroom across the narrow hall as she put the finishing touches of make-up on her pretty face.
Maggi stood back from the mirror and fluffed her long, dark hair, more than satisfied that she would turn heads tonight. She sat on her bed, strapped on a pair of black suede platform shoes and stood before the mirror for one last critique, turning round to assess every angle. A glossy black leotard hugged her generous curves while a black suede miniskirt showcased long, shapely legs. She slipped on several chunky bracelets and large rhinestone hoop earrings, adding sparkle to her model perfect look. “Watch out boys,” Maggi drawled and walked across the hall, leaning against Deanna’s doorway. “Okay D, let’s see what you’ve got.” She crossed her arms and waited for Deanna to come out from behind the mirrored closet door.
Deanna shut the door slowly and moved toward Maggi who appraised her like she imagined a judge would evaluate a heifer vying for a prize at the county fair. Staring at Deanna’s waist length, curly blonde hair still drying and beginning to frizz a little from the dampness, Maggi frowned. Her eyes traveled down Deanna’s long, striped tunic sweater belted at the hips with a heavy, brown leather Concho belt, down the tight denim bell bottom jeans, finally resting on her chunky platform Mary Jane shoes.
“You look like a freakin’ hippie, D,” Maggi grimaced. “It’s 1976, we’re in London, so where the hell is your fashion sense?” Maggi shook her head and walked away, clearly upset at her choice of clothing for their evening out.
Deanna took a deep breath and followed Maggi, realizing her friend’s mood had soured merely because she had failed her fashion assessment. “C’mon Maggi,” she laughed. “We’re going to some dingy pub in Soho, not the Savoy.”
Maggi slipped on a black suede maxi coat, the perfect topper to her ensemble and turned to Deanna who was struggling to pull on a brown, distressed leather bomber jacket. “You never know who you might meet,” she said, winding a black, glittery scarf around her neck. “If you had the slightest interest in meeting people that is,” Maggi sniffed, glancing back at her in disgust.
Deanna rolled her eyes and followed her outside, locking the door to their flat while Maggi tried to flag down a cab. Joining her disgruntled friend on the rain soaked sidewalk she desperately wanted to say something sarcastic and hurtful in reply to Maggi’s scathing comments but decided to let it go. There was an uneasy truce between them after she told Maggi that she thought Trevor Hampton, Maggi's egocentric boyfriend, was a total creep who was shamelessly using her. Maggi had defended him insisting that he had introduced them to some “cool” people in the music business, and he always seemed proud to introduce her as his “lady.” She knew it was hopeless. Maggi was in love with the guy and nothing she said would make any difference.
A flustered Maggi finally managed to stop a cab, and the two girls climbed inside. They rode to their destination in silence. Deanna hoped her sulking friend could shake off her indignation before they reached the pub. She didn’t look forward to another evening of walking on eggshells to appease Maggi Atwell.
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The pub was packed with every sort of misfit London had to offer.
Deanna pushed past the sea of sweaty, un-washed bodies, squinting in the murky light to find their table. Trevor would always be a complete jerk, but he had raised himself up a notch by arranging for the girls to have a table in front of the miniscule stage. Fortunately he wouldn’t be joining them because as he put it: he had better things to do than watch a bunch of wankers plod through trite, insipid rubbish they had the bollocks to call music. Instead he sent Maggi to be his eyes and ears, expecting her to report back to him if there was a chance that Beastrage, the band he currently managed, had any serious competition. It wasn’t likely. As their name implied, the band played a thunderous, brash, utterly meaningless type of music that had been aptly named “heavy metal,” a musical genre most Brits had never even heard of. Trevor believed Beastrage was going to take the music world by storm---Deanna believed otherwise. Scanning the smoke-filled room she noticed that the Mohawks, spiky hairdos, and glam rock holdouts definitely outnumbered the long-haired rockers. England was changing. High unemployment and stale politics had created an angry and disassociated youth. These “punks,” as they called themselves, thrived on loud, hate-filled music bent on anarchy and revolution. Songs about warlocks and witches, even Satan and his minions wouldn’t find an audience with these kids. Deanna sighed and shook her long curls away from her face. Music was supposed to be fun and make you want to dance, not draw blood.
Maggi sat down in her rickety chair startling Deanna out of her reverie. She handed Deanna a large glass of lager and started to speak just as the stage went dark. A barely audible voice hissed and crackled, and Deanna made out the words “urg” and “creep” just before noxious fog covered the tiny stage. It roiled and billowed out over the stage and into the audience choking everyone in its path. Thankfully it cleared quickly leaving no casualties; only a few coughing fits and shouted curses in its wake. On stage, shrouded in misty darkness, stood five leather-clad guys staring solemnly out at the crowd. Without warning the guitars roared to life, and the singer let out a banshee wail so razor-sharp and piercing it sent shivers up Deanna’s spine.
“Creeper, hells own evil spawn,” he growled,
Comes crawling
Before the light of dawn
To find you
And drag you to his lair
To feed upon
Your terror and despair
Once sated
He sends your soul to Hell!
To Hell!
To Hell!
The singer’s voice rose, ending in a blood curdling shriek as the drummer hammered out a beat s
o powerful Deanna could feel her bones rattle. The onslaught continued as the guitars thrummed wildly before matching the drummer’s pounding rhythm. The singer pressed the microphone against his lips whispering, “Creeper, Creeper” before throwing his head back with a howl:
Satan’s soul stealer
Guilty souls or innocents
To him it matters not
Creeper, Creeper
He condemns all souls to rot!
To rot!
To rot!
The last two words were a despairing cry which ended abruptly as the stage went black. The audience was completely silent for a few moments until a voice rang out in the darkness. “Fucking brilliant!” he shouted and scattered applause broke out. When the lights came back on the band waved their thanks and quickly disappeared behind the amplifiers.
“What was that?” Maggi asked.
Deanna lifted the glass of bitter lager with a shaky hand and looked at the empty stage. “I have no idea who or what that was.”
Chapter 2
The cab came to a screeching halt in front of the girl’s weathered, old building. When Deanna turned to ask Maggi for her share of the cab fare she saw that the girl was already out of the vehicle and rushing madly up the steps to get inside their flat. Maggi was on the phone with Trevor before Deanna had the chance to get inside, shut the door, and remove her jacket. She listened as her friend recounted the evening’s events concerning the band that she described as obnoxiously loud, creepy, and definitely a potential rival for Beastrage.
She encouraged Trevor to go see them and judge for himself. Maggi listened for a moment then hurriedly explained that she didn’t know the name of the band. Evidently Trevor was not pleased to hear this, and Maggi winced as he slammed the receiver down without a word of thanks or gratitude. She got up, brushed past Deanna, and went into her bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind her.
“What'd you expect?” Deanna muttered as she curled up on the couch in front of their tiny television, hoping to wind down from their evening out.
Unable to concentrate on the boring television program, she tried not to think about the lead singer but found it difficult not to envision his strained and sweating face as he sang that eerie song. After a few minutes she fell asleep to the sound of his provocative voice whispering “Creeper, Creeper” inside of her head.
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Soothing bubbles surrounded Deanna as she lay back in the hot, lilac scented water. Her afternoon shift at the hotel had been a nightmare. Thirty guests from Japan had arrived and not one of their bookings could be found. After hours of frantically searching the hotel reservation records and finally being forced to re-arrange existing guest reservations, the manager booked the tired, grumpy tourists into their rooms. For some unknown reason he seemed to feel the unfortunate situation was her fault, and she left at the end of her shift in tears. At last she was immersed in heavenly bubbles and totally relaxed.
“Let’s get a move on!” Maggi’s unwelcome intrusion grated on her last nerve.
She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs for Maggi to piss off but there was far too much tension already. She didn’t want to upset the delicate balance between them, especially after their last outing. There was no other choice but to give in and prepare herself for another evening wasted at some sleazy club. “I need to study for a test!” Deanna shouted in vain, willing to give it one last shot. It was no use. Maggi was a pro at blocking out anything she didn't want to hear.
Less than two hours later the girls were crammed into an even grungier, smoke-filled venue than the previous weekend. This grotty hole had the added benefit of loud, tinny muzak blaring from multiple speakers.
Deanna tapped Maggi’s shoulder. “Who’s playing?” she shouted in Maggi’s ear.
Waving a beer soaked flyer, Maggi pointed at the smeared ink. “Some group called Metal Urge,” she yelled back.
The name sounded vaguely familiar, but they had seen so many bands in the past months she couldn’t be sure this group was one of them. She tried to recall the name of the shrill, raucous band from last week’s fiasco but couldn’t. Deanna hoped it wasn’t them performing tonight. Not only were her ears still ringing, but she wasn’t the least bit comfortable with the way the lead singer made her feel. She figured rock musicians were all the same: strung out on drugs and sleeping with every wannabe groupie that made her way backstage.
“That guy is definitely bad news,” she said to herself, determined to ignore the way his sexy, black leather clothing hugged and defined his nicely toned body. She reached for her drink as the lights cut out abruptly, and the audience was once again cloaked in darkness, a cloud of smelly fog enveloping them. As the lights slowly flickered to life, they revealed five motionless men encased in swirling fog. Deanna laughed in disbelief breathing in some of the nasty miasma. Eyes watering and unable to take a breath, she began to cough.
“No way!” Maggi groaned, “Not those lunatics again!”
The stage lit up in a glare of blinding white as the sudden brutal musical assault rocked them in their seats when the twisted strains of a little ditty the singer called “Bone Crusher” washed over them in a palpable wall of sound. The battering continued with an ear splitting piece titled “Leather Angels.” Metal Urge launched attack after attack on the hapless audience, ending their set with an even fiercer rendition of “Creeper.”
The lead singer stood rigid, leather jacket gaping open. Sweat dripped down his bare, heaving chest, the droplets pattering against his thighs, staining his leather pants. He raised his arms and bowed his head, leather biker cap obscuring his eyes, accentuating flawlessly sculpted sensuous lips, a strong, sleek jaw line, and creamy, unblemished skin stippled by heavy beard stubble.
Deanna leaned forward, mesmerized. Her eyes followed a droplet of sweat as it traveled slowly down his chest and over his tight abdomen, heading for his impressive groin. Mouth dry, she tried to swallow as she gazed up at his shadowed face. He lifted his head and looked at her, expression indecipherable. She looked away quickly, unnerved by the notion that he might know what she was thinking, and even more disconcerting, what she was feeling. Maggi was talking to her and gesturing, but Deanna didn’t see or hear her. All her thoughts were focused on the lead singer of Metal Urge: the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
Chapter 3
“Why do we even bother?” Nigel snarled, tossing his leather jacket over the back of a worn out chair before sitting down heavily, the weight of disappointment pulling him deeper into an angry temper. He looked down at the sweat stains on his leather pants and grimaced. “We spend all our hard earned dosh on expensive equipment and these bloody clothes...why?” Irritated by his band mates’ silence, he continued heatedly. “So a bunch of pissed tossers can ignore us while we play our arses off?” He looked around at the others before flinging his arms out in frustration. “The wankers don’t even bloody care what we look, or sound like!” He stood up and stalked angrily to a tiny coal stove, tossing in a couple of coal briquettes. “Did anyone even bother to applaud tonight? It's bollocks!” He snarled. “For fuck’s sake!” Nigel shouted when he burned his finger on the stove’s door. He turned at the sound of soft snickering, and glared at the handsome blonde patiently replacing a guitar string. Nigel crossed his arms, staring at his band mate with increasing rage. The blonde man looked up at Nigel, neon blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “So, you find it amusing that we’re flat broke and failing miserably as a band, eh, Thom?” Nigel said sarcastically.
“Better answer him, Thom,” Alistair, the tall, dark-haired rhythm guitarist advised, barely concealing his own amusement at the singer’s tirade. One they had endured so many times in the past few months.
Thom turned his attention back to his guitar and shrugged. “Sorry mate, but we’ve heard it all before. In fact, I think you made the same speech almost word for word just a couple of gigs ago. It’s becoming tiresome.”
Nigel watched as the rest of the band members w
andered off towards the kitchen, dismissing him.
“Have a cup of tea, Nigel. It will help take the edge off,” Thom suggested, placing his guitar back in its battered case and making his way toward the kitchen to join the others. A few titters sounded from the tiny room, and Nigel grabbed his jacket, his anger reaching the boiling point.
“At least I bloody well care what happens to this band,” he said loudly. When he got no response he strode to the front door and shouted “Go fuck yourselves!” before slamming the door to the flat so hard the windows rattled. A light rain began to fall so he pulled his jacket collar tighter. He was hurt and dismayed by his mate’s lack of concern over the fate of Metal Urge. They had put their hearts, souls, and a tidy sum of their parent’s and friend’s money into the band. They were all so deeply in debt he wasn’t sure they could ever dig themselves out. He wanted the band to succeed---he thought the other lads felt the same way. Deciding against wasting his motorbikes’ last liter of petrol, he continued on foot daring anyone to approach him on the dark, silent streets. Ducking into a pub bearing the pretentious name of “The Hidey Hole,” he ordered a large scotch, although he could scarcely afford it, and knocked it back quickly, hoping to quell his anger. By the time he made his way back to the cramped, dingy flat in the wee hours of the morning, he had decided to quit the band and return to Bilston, his family home.
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The flat was dark when Nigel stepped inside. He was glad none of his band mates were still awake. He felt ashamed of his behavior yet he felt justified in venting his frustration. Metal Urge was going nowhere even though the band had a look and a sound that no other group had: not even Sheffield’s premier heavy metal band, Beastrage. Along with the leather clothing, amplifiers, instruments, rehearsal space, and the shoddy little flat they all shared, Metal Urge had scraped enough money together to pay for a poorly produced demo tape recorded at a second rate studio. They had hand-delivered copies to record companies and radio stations all over the British Isles, but to no avail. They were forced to recoup some of their losses by making questionable deals with greedy club owners for the privilege of playing their filthy dives for a mere pittance. Night after night they listened to drunken punters scream for them to “piss off” or “turn it down.” Sometimes when the band ignored the yobs and continued to play, the bastards retaliated by pelting them with beer bottles, lit cigarettes, and ashtrays. It was a miracle none of them had been injured.
Metal Urge Page 1
