by Anton Marks
Red Ground Estates
Surrey
21.15
Spokes sat in a room you could easily class as sterile, sweating in a terry gown and slippers. It was a space that was not far removed from what satellite engineers or bacteriologists would use, it would not meet their exacting standards of cleanliness but it was close enough for what he required. This clean room did not concern itself with microbes or microscopic impurities. Its purpose was to protect its users from mystical eavesdroppers, something he had picked up from a Native American shaman in Minnesota with a love for Bob Marley and gambling. Having the area built deep in a basement complex under his seven bed roomed Tudor Mansion, it’s existence known only to him, was an exercise in white magic and good old ghetto trickery. Thinking about it now, it was a slick move on his part. He brought in the engineers from Hong Kong, who constructed the basement complex to the highest spec. Then he had a young talented witch he was sleeping with briefly, destroy the paperwork and data referring to the planning permission at the council and then hypnotize the engineers into forgetting the job they had done. And with his rudimentary skills, he modified a sex spell he had been working on for months, Spokes was able to manipulate her grasp on reality and dreams at the moment of her orgasm, making her believe her good deed was an errant fragment of a dream looping in her subconscious. Not bad for a novice.
Spokes sat on a stool looking down on a plain chrome table with an ancient ceramic bowl filled three quarters with water. On either side of him were two thick red candles, whose length was marked with inscriptions, the wick crackling softly with an intense orange flame. The rest of the open planned gallery was shrouded in ever increasing shades of darkness; that made your eyes search for the outer fringes but found none while Spokes worked under a halo of light provided by a halogen spot above him.
In reality he should be much more careful with this piece of Gaelic prehistory. The reprobate Professor Angus McCracken had estimated it to be about five thousand years old and Spokes paid for his expertise as well as his silence. It was fashioned with a seer in mind, a kind of battery to help the prognostication talent see a clearer snapshot of the possible future. It came with an ancient how-to manuscript in Celtic cuneiform etched into a set of rune stones discovered with the dish. And these were the stones that Angus had translated. Thanks to extensive notes written by Darkman’s thieving ancestors reaching back for generations this was one of the very few items that required no prior magical experience and luckily for him proved to be useful.
He had used it about three times and the results weren’t always conclusive but that was more due to the inexperience of the wielder because truthfully any snatches of the future are an advantage. Winning a fortune on an accumulator bet for the Cheltenham Cup, winning a tasty wager on a knockout in the World Heavyweight Championship and losing a Premier Cup tie punt. Disrespectful it might be, especially after knowing its heritage, but this time its use would be for a more noble cause; his self preservation.
Spokes grinned to himself, amused by how effortlessly he had slipped into this other world of spells, spooks and sorcery. One he had not known even existed but now accepted as a part of his everyday life. And what was he about to do as nonchalantly as if he was taking a walk in the park had become uncomfortably normal. He was going to catch a glimpse of the future from his sweat and tears.
Literally.
He needed to meet those warrior princesses from the club; his ring-heightened intuition told him they were crucial to his continued survival. The ring had reacted in ways he had never felt before; ways he intuitively knew meant their destinies were to cross sometime in the future. What he had no idea of was its importance until an internal compulsion to meet them again started to build in him like a steam turbine, a throbbing yearning that he could not shake and one that had kept him awake at nights. Whether he understood it or not, he just felt his life depended on recruiting them to his cause, so he needed to find them first. Where would they be in the immediate future? And that was a question Spokes was about to answer.
It was now twenty three hours and fifty seven minutes after he had said the words, he dropped a newspaper clipping of that faithful night with the girls snapped up by a never say never paparazzi and watched it soak then sink into the bowl of water. He let the ripples settle. Spokes stared into the contents and watched his reflection and saw it distort into incoherence from his breathing and he let a sweat droplet hit the crystalline surface. Now he needed a tear drop in two minutes, for the spell to take hold.
He thought of Jimmy dying in his arms, thought of his mother dying of cancer in Jamaica and not being at her bedside as he had promised and in moments the tears came.
11.
Mixtapepage.com DJ Awards
After Party
Tuesday, July 17th
00.40
The Club Sodom lit up the Streatham skyline with an explosion of light. This was all reminiscent of the huge Hollywood opening nights of the Forties. Three huge spot lights glided across the under belly of the clouds overhead while the smaller versions irritated the patrons who preferred to be incognito as they crowded for entry.
Optimists’ every last one of them.
The DJ Awards after party had traditionally been an invitation-only affair which everyone knew and sponsoring radio stations also made it abundantly clear but the crowds still turned up. It wasn’t totally a lost cause because once the high rollers were inside whatever cubic meters of space that remained would be filled by the lucky few who had started to charm the bouncers from early. Cordons ran from the entrance to the curb side. The unusual sight of a phalanx of valets ushering the arriving glitterati from their cars was another association you linked with the US. It was a stark testament to the growing power of the black British music scene and its popularity. Some publicity-shy stars ran the gauntlet along the red carpet, others stopped and bathed in the attention, flanked by excited onlookers, television interviewers and the blinding flashbulbs of the paparazzi.
A gleaming white open top nineteen forty Oldsmobile was next to pull up to the curb. Three women stepped out of the road legend and handed the keys to a valet who had shuffled into the leather driving seat. Fitted brogues touched the asphalt in unison and with that prohibition Chicago had just landed in South West London.
The three women drew the wolf calls and the cameras immediately.
After their invitations were taken, they strode up the carpeted path, all three women decked out in very provocative variations of the classic grey, pin stripe double breasted suit with matching trilbies. To the onlookers they were stars whether they knew who they were or not. For the paparazzi they needed to know more and as the trio walked past the cluster of hacks chomping at the bit one desperate journo poked a microphone through the arm pits of a suited security man.
“Are you Mecca Records’ new signing and are you performing tonight?”
A tall elegant figure approached his microphone. Her jacket was open up to the level of her bra and the material hugged her breasts almost jealously. The reporter’s eyes seemed to be trapped in her substantial cleavage and the multicolored tattoo of a nine millimeter on her right breast. He looked up shakily and took in air. She took the trilby off her head revealing her corn row styled plaits framing mischievous brown eyes.
Patra smiled.
“We independent artist’s, baby. And that means we free from the corporate bullshit.”
“So what’s your group’s name?”
“You all ain’t heard of us yet but you won’t forget us in a hurry. Me and my sisters here are Bad II the Bone. Rememba dat. Aiight!”
She rejoined the group in a flurry of flash bulbs.
Their laughter was drowned out by the rising buzz of Club Sodom’s growing party people.
Those few minutes of interest from the paparazzi outside threw a totally different slant on tonight. The ‘star’ effect seemed to follow them into the club’s interior. The looks and nods of acceptance, the smiles, th
e respect. It was, as if they had passed a test of initiation at the door and could now be accepted into the interior.
And an impressive interior it was too.
The major companies had dug into their coffers to sponsor food and drink, making sure they used every possible inch of the decor to plug a DJ, artist, album or some related product or other. But even with an over-the-top need for promotion the plush venue shone out.
Once inside you could see the four corners of the building, there were no hidden crevices, no one could hide except amongst the revelers and VIP’s who demanded privacy would be cocooned in huge glass spheres that were elevated above the dance floor, suspended above the dancers like ants trapped in a soap bubble, their antics observed but their words lost to the music.
Forming a crescent to one side of the oval dance area was the chill out zone. The color of choice was red. It looked as if the carpet had been kissed by huge ruby lips and a probing scarlet tongue but instead they were groups of two semi-circular leather couches with a scarlet table in the middle. The Gravity bar just behind this looked as if it had been lifted, physically stuck to a whole section of wall and then tilted forward at a precarious angle. The bartenders skillfully prepared cocktails and served drinks with the aid of harnesses like high-wire performers. Lunatic punters collected drinks on cushions of air as they levitated down a line of short glass tubes.
You could see Patra’s eye light up as she collected three shots and handed them over to the rest of the posse. Suzy’s usual composure slipped away in very unladylike squeal of delight when the dark skinned soul crooner D’Marko slid over to her and whispered his hotel and room number in her ear, brushing his lips on her neck in parting.
Y had never seen her sister struggling to control herself from screaming and grabbing the poor boy. She had to hold her hand, remind her celebrities don’t do that kind of thing and hint at her long suffering boyfriend who was at home pining for her return.
Even if it was just for tonight, they were stars. Mr. Patel’s promotional machinery was in full swing too while they partied allowing them the freedom to mingle. Relax and enjoy themselves were the instructions. All in depth questions from interested parties should be directed to the GP Public Relations company and if they required details, he had furnished them with the appropriate business cards and marketing material
“No matter the consequences, follow your heart and do what you do best, tonight and every other night.” Mr. Patel’s words resonated with them as they armed their purses and clutch bags with business cards. At the venue eight gorgeous models both male and female wearing T-Shirts with the moniker Bad II the Bone emblazoned on it in silver lettering - the Roman numeral II was glimmering bones – engaged professionally with partygoers and handed out goody bags and flyers.
A Gappy Ranks track had just finished playing and Suzy and Y had left the dance floor to join Patra who was being chirped by two music exec types. They couldn’t have left her no more than five minutes and already her near empty brandy and coke had magically transformed itself into an elegant crystal flute filled with bubbly and a sweating champagne bottle lay nonchalantly in a silver bucket filled with ice.
She saw them approaching and filled two empty flutes.
“Compliments of Paradise Records, girls,” she said brightly.
Y shook her head in amazement and Suzy just reached for her glass, clinking it with the others.
“These two high rollers like our swagger and want us to send them a demo tape.” Patra continued.
Y spluttered in her drink and smiled weakly.
“They think I’m tripping when I say music is not our business.”
The sigh of relief came from Suzy’s obviously amused face.
“So what is the business of three ultra fit fillies, then?”
The voice that had appeared behind them had caused the two Paradise company men to blanche noticeably. The girls turned together to look into the pierced and tattooed simmering good looks of Elektra Blue, female rapper and celebrity hell raiser. Her voice was brandy and nicotine cured, slow and considered as if she had burnt a blunt before entrance. Her dress sense was all street and not contrived either, Suzy saw that immediately. Her demeanor was ultra masculine and if she had to guess Ms Elektra Blue knew how to look after herself in a tussle; just how she moved her six foot frame spoke volumes. Like a boxer devoid of an opponent - The Natural Disaster was her musical moniker and that Suzy could believe was her personality too. She needed no assessments from music journalists on the truth of that, she pronounced it loud and clear.
“Our business is pleasure.” Patra said grinning gamely.
“Now that is a fucking coincidence,” Elektra Blue said and glared at the two Paradise execs just beyond watching how this developed, nonchalantly giving them the finger. They turned their backs to her unspoken threat. “Where you from girl?”
The question was directed at Patra.
“Atlanta, Georgia, born and bred.” She said.
“Damn, I’m from Philly and I love you Georgia corn fed bitches but London, London is where it’s at.”
“Amen to that.” Patra confirmed.
I could just tell you princesses were looking for a good time, man.” She leaned closer to Y and in conspiratorial tone said.
“When it comes to pussy, I have a nose and a tongue for the job.” She licked her lips, showing the length and thickness of her tongue. She laughed throatily. Elektra then lowered her voice and said. “I don’t know but you just look like a woman who can scissor the fuck out of me. Am I good or am I good.”
Y glared at her, for just a second amazed she was meeting one of a few artists that brought a sense of immediate consternation to her mood. Why this couldn’t have been Usher was obvious, mush too easy. Instead she had to deal with Elektra’s well documented reputation as the L’Enfant terrible of the UK hip hop scene. Her antics had always seemed to rub Y up the wrong way. To her Elektra Blue was spoilt, misguided and dangerous and she didn’t give a shit about her talent. Her example was toxic.
“You don’t know me from Adam, why do you think I’d do anything with you?” Y asked.
“Chill, I’m Elektra Blue baby and I get what I want.”
With a practiced flick of her fingers she called over her ever present aides who were standing within ear shot.
Y shook her head in disbelief.
Maybe it was the shock of knowing that the papers had not exaggerated their numerous accounts of her behavior that had struck her into silence. Or was it, how tenuous her hold on reality was after being force fed her greatness by records exec’s and encouraged to live up to her Natural Disaster catch phrase.
“Mek we leave dis idiot gal yah. She is trouble.” Suzy said.
Patra folded her arms patiently, her sense of humor still intact and made eye contact with Y.
“She likes the shit outta you, though sugahh.” Patra grinned.
“Don’t….” Y threatened.
“What did Mr P say?” She cleared her throat and gave a passable impersonation of Mr Patel’s accent. “No matter the consequences, follow your heart.”
Out of earshot Elektra playfully hugged her two bodyguards around the shoulders. A haze of Armani V aftershave rose into the air as she patted their backs.
“I’ve scored again and you scroungers get to taste the sloppy seconds.” She leant on both their backs and spoke the words only they could hear. A maniacal grin spread on the lower half of her face like a time accelerated rash outbreak.
Then Elektra turned to face the girls again both hands outstretched, her business face on as she approached.
“My limousine is out front, the engine is running and inside I have four bottles of chilled Cristal and enough nose candy to keep you wet and willing all night.”
She held on to Y’s hand.
“Let me show you my London, hood London.”
Patra’s response was snap back sharp and decisive.
“Not my scene Elektra but I’m sure
you have a more than willing audience to choose from.”
Elektra shrugged.
“I’m an equal op. kinda chick but they ain’t you, though.”
As far as Elektra Blue was concerned a choice had already been made and she strode off with Y’s hands in hers, fully confident she would follow.
Complication number one happened rapidly.
Y’s hands slithered out of hers, making Elektra stumble forward, saved from embarrassment only by a pillar in her way.
The rapper didn’t turn around until she had composed herself. Then with an easy swagger and crooked smirk she approached the dark skinned warrior, again.
“No she ain’t?” Patra asked incredulous looking over at Suzy.
“She ain’t going to do what I think she gonna do.”
Suzy’s eyebrows arched
“No way.” Patra croaked.
“Way.” Suzy said calmly, just as Elektra Blue grabbed for Y’s arm.
“Let’s try that again, bitch,” she snarled, her big hands whipping out.
Complication number two unraveled.
Y held her ground and swung her torso right, Elektra’s hands plucking at thin air. Angered she swirled trying to back hand Y but she ducked low and stepped back out of harm’s way, the movement as graceful as a fifteenth century courtesan dance routine. Elektra simply did not see the finer points of combat she grunted, lips curled and eyes piercing and started swinging in Y’s direction as she approached.
“You don’t run from me. You don’t duck me,” she murmured, the force of the fists cutting through the air with whoop, whoop, whooshing sounds. “You fucking do what I tell you or you get hurt.”
Y stood her ground, blocking the clumsy fists being thrown her way and hearing some of her carefully applied sculpted nails snap and ping off.
“You bitch,” Y spat, looking at her spread fingers and the destruction of her masterpieces.
Pissed, Y got in closer and started slamming her knuckles into Elektra’s meridian points with speed and power. Each blow sending seismic vibrations through Elektra’s muscles causing her to shuffle backwards with every punch. Imagine hitting a charging rhino with a tranquilizer and watching it lose control due to the quick acting drug.