Rising

by Lisa Swallow

  The girl stiffens.

  “I meant the band,” I say in a low voice. “Not your delightful self.”

  “Oh. Shit.” Despite her bravado, the girl’s hands shake. She roots around in a large bag and pulls out a small bottle of whiskey.

  This time when she drinks straight from the bottle, I lick my lips imagining my mouth around the bottle instead.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Ruby.”

  “Ruby from Ruby Riot. Cute.” I flick my fingers at her. “You dyed your hair to match your name?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Kind of?”

  “It’s not my real name.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  “What does it matter?”

  Our staccato conversation is accompanied by much more beneath the words. Ruby’s pale blue eyes get me. Completely freak me out. Why is she so lost?

  “You guys are good,” I tell her.

  “Thanks, I know.”

  “Wow, you’re hard to talk to.” I pull out one of Steve’s business cards and wave it at Ruby. “This is my manager. I’m helping him find a support act for the next Blue Phoenix tour, send him a demo.”

  Ruby looks at the card as if I’m handing her a bomb. “Blue Phoenix split.”

  I huff. “No, we’re taking time out. We’re touring again early next year.” I step forward, still holding out the card. “Gonna take it?”

  I’m close enough to inhale Ruby - her scent, her warmth, her loneliness - and close enough to see the fading bruise beneath the make-up on her cheek. For a split second, I want to reach out and touch Ruby’s face, stroke away the mark. One hand goes to her cheek, eyes warning me not to speak.

  Ruby snatches the card. “I’ll ask the guys. Jax - the guitarist - makes the big decisions.”

  Somehow, I can’t see anyone telling this chick what to do. “Sure.”

  Turning away, Ruby sits on the table and places her feet on the chair. Damn those boots are sexy, half way up those amazing legs. “And you can leave now.”

  “You can’t be found alone in a room with Jem Jones, huh?”

  “Yeah, exactly. Mind you, I always preferred Dylan. I might not have said no to him given the chance,” she shoots back.

  Burned. “It’s always Dylan.”

  Ruby parts her lips, as if she had an afterthought, but she doesn’t speak.

  I head to the door and open it, the buzz of voices and music from the bar enter the quiet space.

  No. Wait. I turn back. “Don’t waste the opportunity. You guys are good. Really, fucking good.”

  Ruby nods slowly, the curious look still on her face. “I was lying by the way.”

  “About the guitarist making the decisions for the band?”

  “No, about preferring Dylan.”

  When our gazes lock again, I’m dragged back to the place we belong; the one I saw behind her eyes earlier.

  But I’m not going there again, not for anybody. I can’t fix people. I only kill them, don’t I?

  “Sure,” I say and close the door on my way out.

  Chapter Two

  Ruby

  I’m late.

  I run from the bus stop toward my small terraced house, heart heaving, short of breath. Not because I’m unfit, but because I’m shit scared. He warned me. I’ve been late three times this week and it’s not my fault. Ben, who runs the cafe, asks me to stay and clean up later and later each night, attempting to persuade me to go out with him somewhere. I know why. He wants to talk to me about the bruises from last week.

  Dan’s slipping, leaving visible marks on my skin where before they were hidden. I’m slipping too, away from what’s left of myself.

  When the lights are off in the house, my breath rushes from my lungs in relief. Dan’s not home yet. He doesn’t realise I’m late. I unhook my black messenger bag from over my shoulders and dump it on the floor, pulling my phone from my pocket with shaking hands. What if Dan’s texted me, telling me to be somewhere else? The only message is from Nate, asking if I can make rehearsals this weekend. I don’t know if I can yet.

  I walk toward the lounge room and when Dan steps out of the kitchen as I pass, I stifle a scream and drop my phone. The hallway is dark, Dan’s face shadowed and his bulky frame between the lounge and me.

  “You scared me!” I pick up my phone.

  “Why are you late?”

  “Same as yesterday. Ben is being a dick and keeping me back late.”

  “Back late?” he steps closer. “Why?”

  The smell of Dan, the fresh scent of detergent and the powerful deodorant he uses, fills the space between us; it’s a nauseating reminder of last night, one that twinges the pain in my bruised shoulder. “I don’t know.”

  Dan catches my chin and yanks my face to look at him. “You told him about me?”

  This question has many answers. The fact I have a boyfriend? Or that he occasionally smacks me around when the psychological abuse fails? That I live with the man who helped me years ago, but who I now need help getting away from?

  “He knows I have a boyfriend, yeah.” I pull my scarlet hair over my shoulder and he catches my hand as I do, squeezing the delicate bones of my wrist. I wince. “Don’t. You’ll bruise me.”

  Dan runs his tongue along his teeth, sweeping a gaze up and down my thin figure. My blue jeans and tight, faded-to-grey Blue Phoenix t-shirt take an extra few pounds off me. He ignores my loaded comment about visible injuries. “I’m not worried about that, nobody else would be interested in you. What have you got to offer? Nothing.”

  “Have you eaten?” I ask him before the rant starts.

  “No, waiting for you. There’s nothing in to eat; did you go shopping?”

  Shit. I knew there was something I forgot. “No,” I say in a small voice.

  “What the fuck, Ruby? Why not?”

  “You could’ve picked some things up from the shop near the gym,” I reply, immediately regretting my words.

  Dan straightens. “I don’t do the fucking shopping! That’s your job! I gave you the money. Where is it?”

  I pull bank notes from my back pocket. He snatches them from me and folds the notes, counting. “You get paid today?”

  “Yes.”

  Dan holds his large palm out again.

  I dig around for the money Ben gave me. “I need to keep some, Dan, for…”

  “I’ll give you some when you’ve done the fucking shopping.” He thrusts some twenty-pound notes at me. “Make sure you get everything on the list I gave you.”

  “Now? I wanted to get something to eat.”

  “We don’t have anything to eat!”

  “Just some toast.”

  Dan straightens and leans closer. “You don’t have time.”

  Tonight I have to ask him about Friday, whether I can go to the gig. If Dan can’t come with me, I won’t be allowed to. I need to keep Dan calm, be who he wants me to be, and hopefully, he’ll say yes.

  “Okay, is there anything special you want?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but I’m stuck with you.”

  The way Dan looks at me, as if I’m an annoying insect he wants to squash, hurts. He’s not stuck with me; he could let me go. I could move on. I would move on if I could seize back the control Dan’s taken.

  Three years ago, when he helped me out of the abuse I’d stuck with too long, I let him take over. Dan told me if he looked after everything – money, housing, me – I’d be safe because nobody could take them away and threaten my future. That Dan was a different man, one who saved me from the gathering nightmares. I soon learned that I’d moved from one bad dream to a new one. Dan wanted someone he could control. Own. Before I realised, that person was me.

  Now I have new plans of my own, once I find the courage and means to see them through. My last attempt at leaving a couple of months ago failed; when his screaming abuse and attempt to shut me in the lounge room failed, Dan sat against the front door so I couldn’t escape. I don’t have
a key to our tiny backyard or the windows.

  I was trapped. I’m still trapped.

  Chapter Three

  Jem

  I dreamt about Liv.

  I fucking dreamt about her again.

  The dreams had stopped. The images looping around my head like a continuous horror movie retreated a month ago, the spectre of her death finally beaten. Last night I was there again. In the hotel. Drugged to the eyeballs trying to wake up my dead girlfriend. My broken girl who looked the calmest she had the whole time I’d known her.

  Calm? No, dead because of my drugs.

  What really fucking sucks is because my subconscious has such a tight grip on the memories, the fact I was high at the time is no defence against the torture my mind believes I deserve. So much of my life back then is a hazy blur, but that day is seared on my mind forever.

  Liv follows me everywhere the day after I have the dreams. Glimpses of her tucked into the armchair in the corner of the lounge, strung out, or reading, catch my eye but she’s never there. Screaming arguments encroach my memories, followed by images of holding and wanting to save her. Liv was twenty-one, a woman, but still a little girl in so many ways, stunted by her past.

  Days like these, the oblivion of the bottle seems the lesser of two evils - alcohol or drugs. Neither is in the house but both are in easy reach. Alone, unable to distract myself away from the coiling nightmare tightening around my chest, I get closer to walking out and getting something to numb the pain.

  Padding the room in circles in my bare feet, I scroll through the contacts on my phone. If I walk out of the door now, I’ll be back with something to obliterate the world.

  Therapist? Too tired for that shit.

  Bryn. The Blue Phoenix drummer is in the country, or he was last week, and he’s always ready to listen. I dial and wait, willing him to answer quickly.

  “Jem?”

  “Hey, Bryn.”

  “You okay, man?” asks my new go-to guy now Dylan’s on his endless holiday with the love of his life.

  In the past lead singer Dylan would be the first person I’d call. Not anymore. My relationship with Dylan is rocky at the best of times, we’ve only recently started talking again after my attempt to ruin his relationship with Sky.

  “You back from overseas?” I ask.

  “Yeah. What do you need?”

  A shitload of drugs. “Fancy another trip to London? I’m scouting bands for Steve. Wanna help?”

  Bryn makes a soft sound. “Steve has you looking for bands? In clubs?”

  “Yeah, I can handle it, Bryn. When we go back on tour, I need to be confident I can stay clean around this stuff.”

  “Hmm. Isn’t this a bit soon?”

  I settle onto the sofa and rest my head on the back, staring at the ceiling. Maybe. A month since I came back from Thailand, from my discreet rehab centre. Like the world didn’t know where I was. Back in my house in Notting Hill, I focus on writing new tracks but without the rest of the band to work with, I’m disconnected. The way Ruby Riot’s music vibrated beneath my skin last night is the most excited I’ve been about music for a long time. They remind me of the raw Blue Phoenix, a perfect blend of talent and synchronicity between the musicians. Hell, if I can focus on helping them make it, it could keep my mind off my other addictions

  “So, come babysit me.”

  “Seriously, Jem, think about this. Third stint in rehab, make this one count.”

  “So you don’t want to come over? I’ve found a good one. Check them out online: Ruby Riot.”

  “You’re complimenting a band? This is worth seeing. Okay, I’ll come over this evening for a couple of days.” He pauses. “You obviously need me to.”

  Trust Bryn to spot my real reason for calling.

  Bryn’s decision to come and stay lifts some of the darkness and compulsion to blot out the world. That and the fact he’ll be here in a few hours means I can’t exactly greet him when I’m stoned, can I?

  Chapter Four

  Jem

  Two Blue Phoenix guys are harder to hide than one. The Camden venue is bigger than the last place I saw Ruby Riot, and jammed with students. Most pretend not to notice us, if anyone thinks Blue Phoenix are old school, it’s these guys. This both suits and amuses me. On my way through, I check out some of the chicks and none of them responds. I’m long overdue getting laid and judging by their indifference, this could be fun. A challenge could be the thing to take my mind off obsessing about sex with scarlet-haired rock chicks.

  The venue owner gives Bryn and me one of the back rooms to hang out in. The chipped wall is decorated with band posters dating back years and it doesn’t take long to locate a tatty Blue Phoenix one near the top. I remember playing here. And I’m pretty sure I remember getting an awesome blowjob in this very room.

  “What you thinking about?” asks Bryn.

  “Old times.” I indicate the poster with my bottle of water.

  “Reckon this band could be the next Phoenix?” he asks.

  I choke a laugh. “Come on, nobody can be the next Phoenix. It’s like saying, ‘can Phoenix be the next Stones’. Close but not close enough.”

  Bryn shakes his head with a small smile. “Such humility, Jem.”

  “Have you listened to them? Ruby Riot?”

  Now he fixes me with a half-disparaging look, lips pouting slightly. “I not only heard but saw them, too, on YouTube. I can see one of the attractions for you.”

  “The chick? I wouldn’t rate a band based on how hot the singer is!”

  Bryn gives me a disparaging look. “If only I could believe that.”

  “But you heard them? You can see this is beyond my dick’s opinion?”

  “I’m winding you up. Yeah. Be interesting to see them live.”

  Five minutes into their set and I can see Bryn agrees. He doesn’t have to say anything for me to know the sound gets under his skin too. Again, Ruby’s voice travels to my soul, to the place we share that I don’t want to be. The crowd, a sweaty sea of black, is as spellbound as the last time I saw them play, and again I hover near the bar. Wearing a tank top and short skirt with knee high striped socks and kick-ass boots, she’s sexy as hell. I have a thing for huge ass boots wrapping half of a girl’s leg. I really, really shouldn’t picture them wrapped around me. Too late. I shift against my hardening reaction to her; one I bet a few other guys are having.

  I doubt Ruby can see me from here, but I want her to look at me. Instead, she spends a lot of tonight singing to the floor or the ceiling, hair flying around her as she moves around the stage. Oblivious. Despite the synchronicity of the band, she’s on the edge in her own space. It’s as if Ruby’s something rare the guys have captured and she won’t allow herself to be part of them. Not completely.

  A girl with long, dark hair sits on a stool nearby, facing the band. She’s petite, dressed in a short black dress that barely covers her ass and tits, and red and black striped leggings. Is this a thing? Chicks with stripy legs? She side glances me and her mouth makes an ‘o’ of recognition, so I nod.

  She smiles. I smile back.

  Awesome.

  Bryn’s halfway into the crowd, partly blended in although his height sets him head and shoulders above the others. Nobody notices. A lot of the guys are fixated on the vision of sexual fantasies incarnated in the girl who’d eat them alive. I can’t equate this girl with the ballsy voice and the meek girl held against the wall by her dickhead boyfriend or whatever he is. I can only hope she uses some of that strength to kick his backside, and soon.

  “You’re Jem Jones, aren’t you?” calls the girl over the music, as I approach her.

  “I guess I don’t need a lame chat-up line for you then.”

  “Try one if you like.”

  “No, sweetheart, I don’t need to.”

  She licks her bottom lip slowly, and trains her eyes on me. “I came here tonight because I heard you’d be here.”

  Aha. I move closer and lean against the wooden bar next
to her. “Oh? And why would that be?”

  “I have fantasies about sex with rock stars.”

  “You don’t mess around do you?” I say with a laugh.

  “Why play games? I bet you don’t.”

  “Oh, I do, interesting games…”

  The music fades as the band pauses, set finished and the encore cheered for.

  The girl sips from her glass. Seriously, did this chick come here tonight to fuck Jem Jones? Girls as forward as this set off my ‘media alarm’. Will our night be a double-page spread in the daily newspaper? Night? Huh. She’ll be lucky. I consider all this as I weigh up whether I’ll indulge her fantasies.

  Groupies come in several categories, some less pleasant than others, but this kind I enjoy. Wide-eyed and breathless, she introduces herself as Sara and tells me stories of her relationship with Blue Phoenix - you know, first heard us, first gig, blah, blah, and apparently tried to get backstage a few times, but never succeeded. I apologise and slide my hand underneath her dress. This kind of girl is my favourite type, pretends to be brazen, but melts into star-struck the moment I touch them.

  “I see you made a friend, Jem.” Nice timing, Bryn.

  “Sara.” I gesture between the pair by way of introduction.

  Her star-struck look grows. “Hey, Bryn.”

  Bryn picks up my coke from the bar and drinks. I bristle. “It’s fucking coke!”

  “Yeah, okay.” He sets the glass back down.

  “Don’t big brother me!”

  Before our exchange cools any further, I’m alerted by a familiar sound. The opening bars of “Rising”, Blue Phoenix’s first hit. I look over to the stage and Ruby is staring straight at me, one hand gripping the mic, the other on the stand. I count the beats before the lyrics start and every single one pushes another person around us out of my awareness.

  Usually when I hear a cover version of “Rising,” I cringe at how badly the lead guitarist fails to reach my expectation. This time I’ve no idea whether this guitarist does or not, because I’m waiting. Waiting to hear Ruby’s vocals, how she interprets the song I wrote with Dylan about getting through the fire and coming out the other side burnt but alive. Nobody ever sang the words with the same understanding Dylan has.