“Don’t be such a stodgy old bat.” Rae air-kissed her.
“Oh, hell, we may as well go.”
Rae had wanted to walk, but Emily would not hear of it. Yes, there were security cameras along Long Street, which was their main route down to the corner of Shortmarket and Long. Here The Event Horizon presided over that part of the city in all its rotted Victorian splendor, but she was not about to risk it in case something went wrong along the way. Although the city was the safest it had been in years, Emily wasn’t about to take the same chances her sister was wont to, walking about after dark.
Rae was less than pleased about having to ride on the scooter. “Everyone’s gonna laugh at us. Who knows what the Dogs are going to say when you park that thing next to one of their choppers?”
Emily struggled to keep a note of impatience from her voice. “I don’t care what a scummy outlaw motorcycle club thinks of my wheels. She’s far more venerable than some of those crappy bikes.”
Rae rolled her eyes and transferred the helmet from one hand to the other. “Must we wear these? It’s just down the block. Who’s gonna stop us?”
“Unlike you, I have no desire trying to explain to a police officer why we’re not wearing helmets, or pasting my gray matter all over the tarmac, for that matter. If you don’t wear it, you can walk down and I’ll stay here and get all this shit off my face, climb into my pajamas and curl up with a good book.” She didn’t add she’d probably spend the night pacing and sighing like a lost soul haunting the old house.
“Fine! But you park down in Greenmarket Square, okay?”
“That’s perfectly all right. I wouldn’t want to embarrass my Vespa by parking it next to those stupid motorcycles, now would I?”
The wind still raged outside, as it had since the day Simon had gone, but Emily was used to driving in the rush of air. It made her laugh when they flew down Kloof Street through the red traffic lights, Rae clutching onto her. The trusty old Vespa had belonged to one of her uncles, a mode of transport he’d used during the 1960s. That the scooter still ran well into the 2000s was a testament to its manufacturer.
Granted, the old thing needed her fair share of tender loving care, but it had been one item from her past she’d clung to, no matter how Adrian had sneered at the vehicle’s continued existence. Simon’s fancy-schmancy Alfa be damned, Emily had her own transport. Hell, she had some buddies in a renegade Vespa club. Perhaps she should take them up on their offer of a breakfast run soon. Maybe she’d meet someone who wasn’t so full of shit.
An unfamiliar lightness in her heart made her smile, and Emily took the cobbled Greenmarket Square a bit too fast. She stopped just before impacting with one of the granite pillars. After paying the uniformed car guard to take extra special care of the bike with the two helmets padlocked to its seat, they trotted up Shortmarket Street. Here a long row of choppers was parked, the chrome gleaming purple beneath the garish strip-lighting illuminating The Event Horizon.
The place had been there since forever, the three-story building dating back to the early nineteenth century. A turret stood at the corner, narrow windows on the second story painting golden rectangles in the night. Emily remembered that Gavin, the owner, lived there, but was glad she’d never had to decline an invitation up to his inner sanctum. The man was a creep of note, and she shuddered in delicious horror at the prospect that she might bump into him.
She had the added fear that Simon may well pitch up tonight, but by equal measure she doubted he would. A fifty-fifty chance. Although her stomach contained a tangle of eels, she decided she’d allow things to develop. The club was big enough she could slip out unnoticed if need be.
The Event Horizon had been painted black since Gavin took over in the late 1990s, the trimmings and ornate lacework on its Long Street-side balcony a deep purple. Mainstream Capetonians avoided the place like the plague, but it was a popular hangout for students during the day. It welcomed anyone who could put up with Lilith’s Dogs, a motorcycle gang that had kept the Hell’s Angels on the Foreshore as opposed to the center of town. Sure, the club could become a bit rough at times, but one always knew what to expect once over the threshold.
It might have been more than four years since she’d set foot in The Event Horizon, yet the same six-feet-tall bouncer hulked at the doorway and watched her with a suspicious gaze while he trailed an idle finger through his mane of flaxen hair. Everyone had called him Viking back then, and he nodded once as Emily and her sister passed him. They paused long enough to pay the twenty-rand entrance charge and receive their stamps.
The girl in the booth was someone Emily hadn’t met before, however, but she sported almost as many piercings as the last door lady. She regarded Emily with bored disinterest, but Emily had absolutely no doubt she’d been given the once-over and been found wanting. While Emily stowed her change in her purse, Rae and the woman shared small-talk, clearly on first-name basis with each other.
Inside the club, the music pounded, some sort of aggressive electro beat with almost poppy lyrics–the type that had not been popular with the main crowd when Emily had frequented this place. A bright white strobe immediately set her teeth on edge as she entered into the thick of things. If she spent enough time downstairs exposed to the violent flashes, she’d be tripping sans the benefit of narcotic substances.
Although she spotted some of the people she remembered from a few years ago, the majority were unfamiliar. The fashions were still the same: a predisposition toward latex, PVC, velvet, lace and satin, the faces white and lips dark with improbable eyebrows artfully drawn in.
The Event Horizon’s interior had not changed during her absence. Wall-to-floor mirrors ran right around the venue, and the tables and benches still looked as scuffed. The prerequisite murder of bikers remained in possession of one of the venue’s two pool tables, strategically placed so they could keep an eye on the door and their backs to the wall.
“I’m going to have tinnitus by the time I get home tonight, just so you know,” Emily shouted into her sister’s ear.
“Sorry, what did you say?” Her grin told Emily Rae didn’t require her to repeat the words.
Emily grudgingly bought Rae a beer, but turned her nose up at the boxed red wine. Some things would never change, she was sure, and the stuff would taste just as revolting as it had in the past when she’d quaffed enough plonk to sour her entire circulatory system for weeks on end. A cider would have to do, and she winced when she handed over her cash. The prices had certainly gone up.
Rae didn’t waste time, meeting one person after the other she obviously knew well, which left Emily feeling even more out of sync. Give her that much, she tried to include Emily, usually with an “Oh, this is my sister, Em,” whenever they met another batch of people. The conversation quickly turned to topics Emily had no knowledge of and she spent more time watching the faces around her than paying attention to what was being said.
The music was far louder than she recalled, heavier too. How anyone could make themselves understood over this cacophony was beyond her. She smiled to herself. When had she become the mother grundy?
Her mother’s lectures on “those dens of iniquity” returned to her. How the hell could she have been so excited about coming out to one of these places? Then again, was her life at present good enough for her? Surely there were better spots to hang out.
Emily nudged her sister hard in the ribs. “I’m going up to the balcony for air, okay?”
At Rae’s blank stare, Emily pointed upward, mouthing the word “out” in the hope she could communicate her intention. How the hell they could bear to shout at each other over the music was beyond her. She was in no mood to strain her voice just to make conversation.
Thumbs up. Good, that meant Rae had understood, and Emily slid past patrons who barely deigned to notice her.
She did catch the eye of some folks she remembered from a few years ago, though it amused her vastly that they didn’t recognize her at first. There, in the
corner, hunched Toby, the resident junkie, still looking remarkably well-preserved despite almost a decade of heroin abuse. He sat opposite Viv, or Vivienne, as the guy liked to call himself–Vivienne of the ratty hand-painted leather jacket and beret, the resident dealer. Emily shook her head. Maybe it was a good thing she’d left all these people behind her. She’d stay until her drink was finished then leave. The whole thing had been a horrible mistake. Emily could give Rae money for a taxi, or she could get a lift home with friends.
A precipitous staircase led to the first floor, which had been modified since her last visit. Here a smaller dance floor buzzed to classic Gothic tracks, at present She’s in Parties by Bauhaus. The balcony would provide a far less oppressive environment, for the smoke made her eyes itch and all she craved was a corner where she could hear herself think above the throbbing beat.
A figure with an outrageous velvet top hat jammed over an impossible mass of teased black hair held court in a corner, and brought Alice’s Mad Hatter to mind. Pale, vulpine features retracted into a black slash lipstick grin, hands flying about as he illustrated a story with exaggerated flair.
Ah, hell, she recognized him all right. Her stomach twisted and Emily tried to turn and slink back the way she’d come.
“Emmy! Is that you?” Jamie’s tone rose on the “you” and she was certain every face on the balcony turned to look at her.
Just great.
Emily summoned spirit from the recesses of her gut and forced herself to approach Jamie’s table, a fake smile pasted on her face. “Jamie. How are you?” This man was one person from her sordid past she did have reason to deal with from time to time. He also owned a bookshop and they sometimes helped each other source titles.
“Make space, make space.” Jamie shooed a near-identical pair of baby-doll Goth-girls off the bench next to him then patted the seat. Emily had no choice but to position herself next to him. One of the girls spared her a venomous glare before they minced back inside on too-high heels. Fashion victims.
After the typical air-kissing greeting and perfunctory hug, Emily resigned herself to Jamie’s third degree and the fact that the three remaining patrons seated opposite them across the table would hear every word.
“What have you been doing lately? Haven’t seen you here in ages.” Jamie’s gloved hand covered hers, squeezing lightly. He did not remove it and Emily didn’t want to upset him by giving the impression that he made her extremely claustrophobic.
“Just running the bookshop.”
“And that tosser you were dating?”
“That ended two years ago.”
“A friend of a friend saw him at Saints and Sinners a few months ago.”
Emily thought she’d die of embarrassment, glad for the layers of makeup that hid her blush. “Yeah, well, he kinda came out of the closet.”
“Oh, how delightful.” Jamie clapped his hands.
A small reprieve occurred when the bar lady came past to take a drinks order–one of the perks of sitting at the “high” table with all the “lords and ladies,” so to speak. Jamie temporarily forgot about her when some other people hovered for more inane conversation. She almost forgave him the proprietary arm he draped over her shoulder.
He wasn’t a bad sort, really, but not one she’d consider having something with…again. At least it hadn’t ended badly. Not that it had gone on long enough to get too creative. Out of all the guys she’d shagged, he’d been one of the more sensitive ones–but still a walking cock like all the rest. Maybe that’s why her ex had seemed so appealing when she’d met him. He hadn’t wanted sex, or not nearly as much as she was used to guys wanting her in that way.
Jamie was being nice enough, perhaps because tonight, after an absence of almost half a decade, she was a novelty. Jamie loved knowing he had first dibs on something everyone would no doubt talk about soon after. She didn’t have the heart to break it to him he wasn’t going to get lucky. Not tonight, not this time. She wasn’t a silly, barely legal sixteen-year-old anymore. That thought allowed her a small smile. The man had Peter Pan syndrome.
Her seat among the club’s pseudo VIPs also offered Emily the opportunity to catch up on some of the gossip, of who was dead–which sadly there were more than she’d expected–and who’d gotten pregnant. Hell, who’d gotten divorced already.
“Cape Town’s scene is too small,” she told Jamie. “If you draw up a graph or something, you’d probably end up with a spider web. Everyone’s connected.”
He paused a moment, his expression quizzical, then grinned. “That’s one way of looking at it, but really, does it actually matter? Adds a little excitement when you try to untangle all the liaisons.”
“It’s a bloody soap opera.”
A tall figure stepped onto the balcony at the precise moment Emily glanced in that direction. Maybe it was some sort of warped sixth sense that had told her to snap her head up, but there was no mistaking Simon, in all his unearthly splendor as the lead singer of Hellbound Heart, dressed in the trademark black rubber molded to look like dragon skin. His hair crackled about his face, an ebony halo, and full black contacts turned his eyes into that of some creature from the netherworld.
Jamie, true to form, leaped to his feet, all but scrambling over Emily to rush to Simon’s side. The same old brown-nosing Jamie, happy to play the lord of all he surveyed until someone bigger than him came along, where it would be fortuitous for him to be seen playing the faithful sidekick.
It felt as though someone had rammed an icicle down Emily’s throat so it lodged in her gut, impaling her to the seat. Her blood rushed to her ears and thrummed like a drumbeat in her head. To hell with Rae being happy to be here, Emily needed to get out. Now. Before Simon saw her.
If he recognized her, he’d assume she stalked him, yet another sad, desperate little fan-girl who tried to get his attention. There he stood talking, smiling and nodding with the small circle of fans who surrounded him, remote yet seeming unconcerned that he’d pretty much ripped her heart out a few days earlier.
After a last sip of her drink, Emily slipped out of her seat and kept to the narrow strip of free space on the balcony as she wormed her way behind the patrons who lined the area. This was where being short paid dividends. Emily hunched in on herself and squeezed past Jamie, whose gaze remained glued to Simon’s.
She couldn’t help but cast one longing look at the man. Did anything of the other Simon remain behind that pale mask?
He turned her way, his brow crinkling when he noted her.
This prompted Emily to shove past the Goth girl with Maya the Bee eyebrows painted on halfway up her forehead. The chick snapped a “What the fuck’s your problem?” at Emily as she all but tumbled down the stairs.
Vespa keys in hand without any clear recollection of when she’d fished them out of her bag, Emily reckoned she faced two problems: hightail it out of The Event Horizon and leave Rae behind to find her own way home, or waste precious time searching for her sister only to bump into Simon. Not that he would bother, but she didn’t want to take the chance.
As luck would have it, Rae chatted outside to Viking who, for once, cracked a smile at whatever Rae had to tell the usually impassive man.
Emily got a firm grip around Rae’s upper arm and jerked so hard at the smaller woman they both almost fell as they stumbled together from the sidewalk into the street.
“Jeezus, sis! What’s up?” Rae staggered as she fought to right herself.
Viking raised one blond brow at the commotion, a smirk playing across his Nordic features. Two bikers who nursed beers to his left paused in their discussion.
Emily shook her sister. “We gotta get out of here. He’s here.”
“Who?”
“Him.”
A broad smile flashed across Rae’s features. “But that’s awesome! You should go talk to him.” Then she became thoughtful. “I didn’t realize he’d be here tonight.”
Emily cast a desperate glance toward the door in case Simon would
be there, but it was still empty but for the bouncer. “We need to go. Now. I can’t face him. Not tonight.”
Her sister pulled loose from Emily’s grip. “Don’t be daft, Em. Go talk to him.”
“No way. I’m leaving now. Either you come with me, or you find your own way back, since you seem to know so many people here.” She turned and walked down to the square, sure her face was a shining red beacon to anyone who cared to look. Tonight’s drama had been the last item on her agenda. The back of her head itched and she wanted to turn around, much like Lot’s wife. What would she do if Simon had come down? Running now would make her look like a freak, but she quickened her pace, anyway. As much as she hated leaving Rae behind, she knew her sister would be fine, and as heartless as it was on her part, she couldn’t face the man. Not now. Not after Wednesday.
And now she’d caused a grade-A scene right outside The Event Horizon, which no doubt would have jaws flapping soon enough.
Emily’s hands shook as she unlocked one of the helmets from the Vespa. She paused long enough to give the car guard a ten-rand tip, because she didn’t trust herself to get silver out of her handbag without spilling all the coins on the cobbles.
The scooter’s engine growled into life on the second kick, and Emily gave herself the fright of her life when the machine almost popped a wheelie. At any rate, righting the scooter made for a dramatic exit, and she couldn’t be certain, but a tall, too-familiar figure came to a screeching halt in front of The Event Horizon’s entrance just as she whizzed by. Good God, what if she’d almost run the infamous Simon van Helsdingen over with a fifty-year old scooter? Imagine what the fangrrrls would say. They’d picket outside her house for months.
* * * *
Rae had almost followed Emily down to the square, but held herself in check. How the fuck was she supposed to get her sister to get out of her shell if she persisted in behaving like a right twunt in public?
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