Queen of the Night

by Leanne Hall

  I think of the dog I saw playing with the dead tarsier.

  ‘Nah, you did the right thing.’ I watch Diana playing in the studio from the doorway. She’s crouched on the floor grooming herself, her cape spread around her like a puddle of tomato sauce. ‘She seems fine now.’

  ‘In a way I was relieved she was upset. At least it was a normal response. I wonder sometimes if I’m doing the right thing, raising her so close to Shyness. Half the time she has her head in the clouds. Yesterday she told me she had a conversation with a cat.’

  I have to laugh at that. ‘She is normal,’ I say, even though it’s not the best word to describe Diana. ‘She’s just very creative and imaginative, like you. She’d be like that anywhere. And I’m used to you living so close by.’

  ‘Diana could have started kinder this year, though. Some people are surprised I keep her at home every day. It’s hard to explain to them that there’s nowhere nearby.’

  ‘Who cares what people say? You’re a great mum.’ Telling Ortie she’s a good mum isn’t a substitute for saying sorry. ‘I want to apologise again for last night.’

  Ortie turns to face me, leaning against the bench. She flaps a tea towel at me. ‘You don’t have to, Jethro. It’s already forgotten.’

  I nudge her over so I can reach the stove to stir the sauce. ‘I have a surprise for you. So, ah…Blake is going to ride over here in an hour to babysit Diana so you can come to my gig.’

  ‘Really?’ Ortolan’s face brightens so instantly I know I’ve done the right thing. I wasn’t sure if she’d like me making plans for her. I thought it was worth the risk, though. She doesn’t get many nights out.

  ‘I know Blake has never watched Diana on her own before, but I thought it would be all right for an hour or so.’

  ‘It’s perfect. That’s so thoughtful of you. A few friends were going to pop over for a drink later, so we’ll all come.’ Ortie fishes a piece of spaghetti out of the pot and bites it. ‘Can you get Diana to wash her hands?’ ‘Sure.’

  I turn to fetch Diana from the studio, only to realise she crept into the kitchen while we were talking. She taps her beak against my leg.

  ‘I love Blake!’

  Thom is already at the Green Lantern Lounge for soundcheck when I arrive. There’s zero glamour to the Green Lantern when the lights are up. The black paint on the walls is chipped in too many places to count, the carpet is festering, and the varnish has worn off all the tables.

  I shake Vince the sound guy’s hand and join Thom on the low stage.

  ‘No Paul yet?’ I ask.

  Thom looks up. ‘Nice to see you too, bro.’ He finishes adjusting the mikes and gives Vince a thumbs-up. ‘Relax. Paul will show.’

  ‘We haven’t rehearsed for two weeks. I’ve got grounds to be concerned.’

  Vince comes over. He wears his jeans so ballcrunchingly tight he has trouble walking in a straight line. ‘This equaliser is fucked. I’ve gotta find the spare desk out back. You can take five.’

  ‘Beers,’ says Thom, and jumps down. I follow him to the bar. ‘You owe Maggie a drink for letting us use her car.’

  ‘Thanks for picking up the gear from my house.’

  He hands me a glass. ‘I can’t believe Lupe left Shyness,’ he says. ‘Feels like my childhood is over.’

  I snort. ‘You’ve always said she’s creepy.’

  ‘She is. All that voodoo shit gives me the heebie-jeebies. But her kebabs were awesome.’

  I point at his gut. I don’t have to apologise to him for calling him fat the other day. One good thing about Thom is he never holds a grudge. Too much effort involved. ‘It’s not going to hurt you to eat less kebabs, buddy.’

  Thom pats his stomach, rubbing his hand over a lurid floral shirt that smacks of Maggie’s influence. There’s beer froth around his mouth.

  ‘We can’t all be junkyard dogs, Wolfboy. You never get off your arse either, and you still look like you run marathons in your spare time.’

  The club is still empty, other than the barman drying glasses behind the bar, and Vince hunched over the sound desk. I drink my beer slowly, deterred by pre-gig stomach jitters.

  ‘Thom, tell me something. That girl Paul was seeing for a while—is that over?’

  Thom shakes his head. ‘Dude. You are so far behind. Ingrid and Paul broke up a month ago.’

  ‘Right.’ Ingrid, that was her name. I never met her but Paul talked about her nonstop for a while there. I’m ashamed I didn’t notice they’d broken up. ‘Do you think he took it okay?’

  ‘Bro, I don’t know. We don’t talk about that sort of stuff. That’s your job. If he wanted to talk about it, Paul would go to you.’ Thom doesn’t seem fazed by that, even though he’s known Paul as long as I have. He’s so laidback these days he’s almost horizontal.

  ‘Were they serious? Should I ask him about it?’

  Thom grins. ‘I think we should play this show first, before you go into the woods with Paul to play bongos and talk about your feelings. Actually, I think you should forget about the whole thing. If Paul wants to blubber on your manly chest, he’ll let you know.’

  ‘There’s no chance of that. Paul’s been avoiding me. I don’t know what I did wrong.’

  Thom nudges my arm with his beer. ‘Vince is giving you the signal. You’re up.’

  ten

  By ten o’clock I’m cross-eyed

  with the strain of watching the door. Paul still hasn’t arrived, but it’s not just him I’m looking out for. My breath catches every time I see a girl who’s the right height, or who has long dark hair. But it’s never her. Punter after punter drifts in, including Ortolan and her friends, and I should be happy, because there aren’t usually this many people for the opening band, but I’m not.

  Now that the overhead lights have been turned off the Green Lantern looks halfway passable. The lamps scattered through the club glow with the bare minimum of light to stop people from walking into furniture.

  Thom’s girlfriend Maggie sits with a table of City friends who are pretending not to gawp at the ghostniks. Ghostniks are tame by Shyness standards. They dress in all black, like mimes, but with more skulls. Skull earrings, necklaces, hats, tattoos, socks. What I like about ghostniks, and the Green Lantern Lounge, is that the owner always pays us on the night, and that the ghostniks are far too bored and anaemic to throw bottles at our heads. Too cool to clap as well, but I can live with that.

  Thom finds me hiding to the side of the stage.

  ‘How much longer do you think we can push it?’ I ask.

  He shrugs and sips his millionth beer.

  ‘What do we do if he doesn’t show?’ I ask.

  ‘Play as a two piece?’

  It’s a terrible idea. There’ll be nothing to keep us together without Paul on drums. Vince catches my eye across the room, and raises his eyebrows questioningly.

  ‘Okay,’ I say finally. ‘If that’s what we have to do.’

  ‘Oh. Not necessary.’ Thom points to the other side of the room. ‘The prodigal son returns.’

  Paul skirts the walls like a stray cat. I breathe out in relief. Thom starts plugging in leads.

  ‘Hey, Paul,’ I say, as he climbs on stage. ‘Cutting it fine, buddy.’ He’s wearing the same clothes he’s been dressed in for months: a threadbare stripy t-shirt and too-short suit pants. His shoulderblades poke out so far underneath his shirt they might be folded wings. Angels don’t wear circles as dark as bruises under their eyes, though.

  ‘Jethro. Thom,’ he mumbles, and heads straight for his kit.

  ‘See? He’s not pissed off at you.’ Thom thinks he’s speaking softly but I’m sure Paul heard what he just said. I look at Thom’s beery face and marvel that he can’t see how haunted Paul looks.

  I go to the rear of the stage. ‘I see the Neural Endings didn’t bother to make it for our set,’ I say to Paul. I wait for him to make his tired-but-still-funny joke about how the headline band should change their name to the Happy Endings, but he
doesn’t.

  ‘I’m ready,’ he says. He inspects his sticks. Paul has never had a good poker face.

  ‘Everything okay with you?’ I ask. I don’t expect him to answer me honestly. It’s not like we can go into it here in front of all these people.

  ‘Sure,’ he says. I catch a glimpse of his eyes before he looks down again.

  ‘Good. We’re starting with “Blacklist”.’

  We barely fit on the cramped stage. I scan the room for the last time. I knew it was a long shot that Wildgirl would come but disappointment still lodges heavily in my stomach. The message I left said none of the things I wanted to say or should have said.

  I flip my guitar strap over my head and try to focus.

  ‘We’re the Long Blinks,’ I mumble into the mike, to resounding silence. Paul counts us in, and we’re off. Even though we haven’t rehearsed properly for a while we still find each other easily. There’s nothing wrong with Paul’s rhythm.

  Every time we finish a song Ortie whistles through her fingers, and Maggie’s table claps. The ghostniks stare and drink wine. We fuck up a newer song but it doesn’t seem to matter. Even Paul begins to smile at his kit and nod along. The set races by quickly, until it’s time for the last song. We always play this one last.

  I take my guitar off and lay it on the amp. Paul taps out a driving beat and Thom starts up a squalling guitar racket. I grip the mike stand tightly with both hands. This has got to be loose and messy. I sing—

  Well, I was low

  And you were high

  And you said: hey, come on, boy

  Let’s fly

  Well, you were soft

  And you felt right

  And I said: love you, girl, for just

  One night

  I know I’m not getting it right. There’s no grunt behind my voice. I try to howl, I really do. To get my voice up on the high note and fill the room, but it doesn’t happen. Trying to start the car with a flat battery. The note comes out as a whimper.

  I turn away from the audience and come face to face with Paul behind his kit. Strangely, he senses exactly the right thing to do, and shifts the beat down a notch. Thom, after giving us an annoyed look, follows suit, stepping on his pedal and playing a simpler, quieter line.

  I repeat the last verse, then hit the chorus again.

  Well, we were young

  And full of fight

  Come and save me now

  From these long nights

  Dark days

  Dark days

  Without you, girl

  Without you

  Dark days

  The song’s barely over before Thom unplugs his guitar. I want to get off the stage as quickly as I can.

  It’s left to Paul to say into his mike, ‘Thanks, we’re the Long Blinks.’

  I can’t help myself after that. I step back up to the mike. ‘Yeah, I want to thank the Happy Endings for inviting us along tonight. You guys rock.’

  The ghostniks blink, and drift towards the bar.

  ‘That was different,’ Thom says, coiling his leads.

  After we’ve moved our gear off stage I get myself a beer plus one to spare, and join Ortie at her table. Thom sits with Maggie and her group. Paul dances on his own, moving with jerky marionette moves.

  ‘Great show,’ Ortie says.

  ‘You don’t need to lie on my account. We sucked.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you play, and you’ve really improved. I like your new songs.’

  I don’t agree with her, but I’ve learned to take compliments and shut up. My beer slides down fast.

  One of Ortolan’s group, a loud woman with peroxide hair, reaches across me and slaps Ortolan on the arm. ‘We don’t all have Ortolan’s business nous,’ she says to the man opposite.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asks Ortolan.

  ‘Buying into Panwood while property prices were still low.’ The blonde steadies herself by putting her hand on my leg. ‘I waited too long and now there’s nothing affordable left.’

  ‘It wasn’t nous, it was luck,’ Ortolan says.

  ‘The market’s gone through the roof,’ the man says.

  I pick the blonde’s hand off my leg. Ortolan’s fashion friends can be really annoying. I don’t want to join in their stupid conversation but it’s reminded me of the darkitect. I lift my glass, toasting myself. Here’s to sounding like a bourgeois twat.

  ‘Have you had anyone contact you about buying your place?’

  Ortolan’s drink straw pops out of her mouth. ‘I thought the sun would rise before you showed an interest in real estate, Jethro.’

  ‘No, I saw a man outside your shop the other day. He was checking out your building. I thought someone might have made you an offer.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. That’s nothing.’ Ortolan sinks into thought, before snapping to attention. ‘Look over there.’

  Paul hops and spins on the dancefloor, out of sync with the beat as if he’s hearing different music from the rest of us. People duck to avoid his flailing arms. A beatific smile is plastered on his face. I’m reminded of Diana flapping and squawking in her bird costume. The ghostniks point and smirk and whisper. I can’t decide if it’s sad or admirable that Paul doesn’t care what people think of him.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Ortolan asks.

  ‘Lupe asked the same thing. Thom thinks I’m imagining what a loose unit he is these days. All we can figure out is that he broke up with his girlfriend and he’s cut up about it.’

  Ortolan watches Paul in frowning silence for a minute before speaking. ‘You know, this is exactly what worries me about Shyness.’

  ‘Bad dancing?’ I try to lift the mood. Ortie doesn’t fall for it.

  ‘I’ve never told you this, but Paul kept in touch with me for years when no one else did.’

  ‘I sort of knew that,’ I say.

  ‘Even when I was overseas. But he hasn’t even said hello to me tonight. I waved earlier and he looked at me like he doesn’t remember who I am. I can’t help thinking that the Darkness wears everyone down gradually. I don’t want that for Diana.’

  ‘Paul’s a completely different person to Diana.’

  ‘Maybe when she’s his age that’s exactly what she’ll be like.’ Ortolan points. ‘Is that the Paul you know?’

  It’s not. Is this what Lupe was warning me about, the Darkness getting inside people? Thom may be pissed off that I can’t howl, but Ortie is probably pleased.

  ‘What if it’s the other way around?’ I reply, forming the idea as I talk. In my peripheral vision I see the Neural Endings moving onto the stage. ‘What if it’s the bad stuff inside people that makes the Darkness? What if we’re the cause, not the result?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Ortolan gnaws on the flattened end of her straw. ‘Either way, life is much better if you don’t let yourself give up totally, even when bad things happen. You need to find a balance between acknowledging what’s passed and getting on with your life. It’s hard but you have to at least try.’

  I know she’s thinking of Gram when she says this. A lesser person would have fallen apart when he died, but Ortolan seems forged in fire. I’m trying to formulate a response when she half-rises from her chair. Paul has fallen to the ground. He kicks his legs dead-bug style. Horizontal and still dancing. ‘Shit.’

  I make my way as quick as I can to the space that’s opened up around him. When I lean over him he’s grinning as if he’s having the time of his life. He shakes me off as soon as he’s standing again.

  ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry.’ He squints at me. Bleary eyes, feverish skin. He was fine when we were playing, so how did he get messed up so fast?

  ‘Let’s sit down for a while, buddy. You want some water?’

  Paul looks off into the far corners of the ceiling. ‘How come you always know when you’re awake, Jethro? How do you do that?’

  ‘What?’

  He rips away from me, into the th
ickening crowd. I let him go. I force myself to turn my back on him. I can’t talk to him when he’s in this state.

  When I make it to their table Thom has his arm around Maggie and holds her City friends in thrall. He’s telling them about the time the Kidds tried to roll him for his biker jacket, and how he fought them off with his bare hands. He doesn’t mention that the Kidds were all under ten, and that this happened two years ago. Somehow he manages to jam the car keys in my shirt pocket without missing a beat in his story. I grab an amp and head for the door.

  Maggie’s blue hatchback is the only car parked on the street. The pole of the no-standing sign next to it is weirdly shaped. Someone has strapped tin cans to it, using the plastic wrist ties you get at music festivals.

  The cans are filled with dirt and plants are growing in them. They’re flowers, I suppose, but they’re the strangest flowers I’ve ever seen. Jet black, with three large petals. Small black flower heads in the centre, and long whiskers that trail over the edges and down the pole. Aliens or monsters as much as plants. I take a photo of them with my phone.

  When all the gear’s loaded I take the keys to Thom. Paul is near the stage, thrashing about to Neural Endings, a band he’s only had bad things to say about in the past. They’ve built a clashing wall of sound that makes my brain hurt. The ghostniks have shaken off their listlessness and collide in the mosh. The beer has loosened my tongue. Made all my thoughts want to float out my mouth. I’m pushing through the crowd to Paul when I see a guy in a pale blue shirt moving in the same direction.

  Paul sees him coming and tries to force his way out of the crowd. Blue shirt closes in, but Paul pushes him away and shakes his head. Go away. When the guy tries to hand him something, Paul practically elbows people in the face to get away.

  I follow the blue shirt onto the street and tap him on the shoulder. He jumps and cowers, as startled as a rabbit.