Old Flames, Burned Hands

by McGregor, Tim

  She went to the window and looked down into the yard. Nothing different, nothing out of place. She pressed her brow against the cool glass and willed him to simply appear in the grass under the willow tree. Nothing happened. She collected her shoes and hurried down the stairs.

  Shane was washing his hands at the kitchen sink. He glanced up then snapped back for a second look. “Wow, look at you.” His face dropped. “Is it date night? Did we make plans?”

  “No.” Tilda gathered up her bag, scrounging the contents for her keys. “I’m playing a gig tonight.”

  His face dropped a little more. “A gig? TIlda, what the hell? You don’t want to give up the garage and now you’re playing a show? I thought you let all this stuff go.”

  “I’ve been doing this my whole life, honey. Cold turkey is harder than I thought.” Her keys jingled up from the bottomless pit of the bag. “The gig just came up. Thought I’d give it a shot.”

  “Are you sure? The last one didn’t go so well.”

  “I know. That’s why I don’t want that to be the last gig. This one will be better. I’d like to go out on a better note.”

  “Fair enough. Where’s the show?”

  She told him where it was and he made a face, as if tasting something sour. “Let me clean up,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, it’s okay. This one’s just for me. To say goodbye.”

  “Okay.” His eyes went up and down her a third time and he came up behind her, kissing the back of her neck. “Shame to let you go off alone all dressed up like that. You look hot.”

  She tried to slip away but he pulled her back in tight against him, his hands running down her hip bones. “Slow down, cowboy.”

  “Can’t. You feel too good.”

  She felt his lips on her bare shoulder, the warmth of his frame pressed up against her back and, despite everything, felt herself respond. Letting his hands go where they wanted to. Angled up against the sink, facing the window that looked out over the backyard. A shadow stretched across the yard, blocking the patio light momentarily before vanishing again.

  “I have to go.” She slipped out from his grasp and towards the backdoor.

  “Why do you always do that? Pull away from me?”

  “I’m late. I gotta run.”

  The disappointment on his face was palpable. “Hurry back after your set. Feels like forever since I touched you.”

  She gave him a wink as she went out the back. “I have to get my guitar.”

  The crickets shushed as she stood in the grass and let the heat of the moment pass away. Nothing moved nor stirred. Maybe it was nothing.

  Ducking into the garage, she folded the set list and tucked it into the guitar case. Tearing a page from the notebook, she scrawled out the name and address of the club, along with the time, in big letters and left it on the bench. Maybe Gil would see it. Lugging the guitar outside, she waited again but no form stepped from the shadows. A scowl clouded her features as she marched out the gate towards the street. The Pathfinder was parked at the curb. She unlocked the back and loaded the guitar in.

  “Where are you going?”

  Gil sat on the hood of the adjacent parked car, feet up on the bumper.

  “Jesus. Don’t sneak up on me like that.” Tilda swung door closed. “Where were you last night?”

  “I couldn’t make it.”

  Tilda stepped closer, wanting to touch his hand but he seemed cool and wary. “I thought I scared you off.”

  “That’s my line isn’t it?” He wagged his chin at her vehicle. “Where are you going?”

  “Remember the Porthole?” When he nodded, she said “I’m playing there tonight. For you.”

  “What?”

  “It’s just a short set, no big deal. You said you wanted to see me play one more time, so this is it. My last show.”

  She hoped he’d be surprised. A smile at least but there was nothing. His face drew cold and he slid off the car. “Tilda, that’s very sweet of you to do that for me. But I can’t go.”

  “Why not?” Expectations popped like birthday balloons. This didn’t need to be difficult. “I know the place is a bit skeezy but it’s all I could finagle. I did this for you.”

  His palms turned up, as if it was beyond his control. “I can’t go.”

  “Why?”

  “I just can’t. Don’t ask me why.”

  Tilda watched him take a step back, as if she was contagious. A sickly wash of shame flooded over her and she felt ill. Arranging the gig, overturning her vow to give up music, wanting to make him happy; all of it thrown back in her face. Was he playing a game here? Another power issue? “Your loss,” she said and reached for the door handle.

  “Tilda, don’t go.”

  “I have a set to play. Be there or don’t. Your call.” She climbed under the wheel and turned the ignition. In the rearview mirror Gil flared red in the glow of taillights and then receded in the distance as she pulled away.

  SHE DIDN’T WANT TO BE HERE, standing on the sidelines in a narrow bar with people half her age. Nursing a glass of the house plonk, Tilda considered leaving. Pulling a no-show in a smelly hole-in-the-wall, what a fitting cap to her failed career. But Ivan had already spotted her, waving to her from behind the bar. Hightailing it now was out of the question.

  Why did Gil refuse to come? Yes, his circumstances were weird (if not bizarre beyond comprehension) but he knew how gloomy and grim the Porthole was. Easy enough to find a dark corner and stay out of sight. Maybe all that talk about wanting to see her play was just that; talk.

  “Hey Tilda!” Ivan appeared at her side and touched her arm. “I’m glad you’re here. How do you feel about going first?”

  “I feel ill about it.” She hated going first, warming up an apathetic crowd. “I thought I was going third?”

  “Yeah well, the first two bands dropped out. I know you hate opening but you’re the strongest of the bunch. Start it off right, then play a second set later on.” He clapped his hands together in mock prayer. “Please.”

  Tilda looked at the stage, already set up with another band’s gear. “Okay.”

  She took her guitar to the stage, adjusted the mics and dove into the first song without an opening word to the crowd. Fisher Wife was an old tune originally performed with the Daisy Pukes and tweaked over the years to suit a solo performance but it still had a stomping honky-tonk vibe. The crowd shushed momentarily then the hum of chatter slowly crept back up. She had about half the crowd, the other half were a thousand miles away.

  Kicking into the second number with no preamble or intro to the audience, she was surprised at how good it felt to be onstage. No expectations meant no reservations. She simply didn’t care what the audience thought. Part of the crowd she had captured with the first song began to drift away, chatting up their friends or staring stupefied into their phones.

  Not bad for an opening slot but if this was her last show, she wanted all their attention. On the stage behind her sat another band’s gear, set up and presumably sound-checked. Including that Fender Strat on its stand. Shrugging off her acoustic, she picked up the Strat and slung it on. She signaled to the sound guy, who suddenly looked confused but reached for the board to turn up the guitar.

  The set list she had redrafted three times lay abandoned at her feet as she switched it up again. The guitar was crunchy and twice as loud, jarring the crowd to attention. That was better, she thought, as she launched into a song from the Gorgons era called ‘Kicking out the footlights’. It was a venomous tune and she let it rip. The anger felt righteous and most of the crowd sat up, giving her their eyes and ears. That was good but she wanted them all. And there was a song in her arsenal that just might do that.

  A wicked thrill zapped through her at the thought of performing the one song she had never played to a crowd. Adapting the chords of Gil’s song from acoustic to electric was simple enough but she wanted it dirtier so she kicked the fuzz pedal at her feet. The patter of the crowd evaporat
ed as everyone in the room sat up and turned to see what was happening onstage. Just a girl and a guitar. The simple love song, warped by buzz and distortion, forced even the most sullen-faced and self-absorbed to pay attention. It was startling to behold and so distracting that Tilda closed her eyes to lose herself in the moment.

  He was here.

  In the darkness behind her closed eyes, she could feel him in the room.

  It took a moment to locate his face amongst the crowd. Way at the back, in the darkest corner of the bar. The expression on his face was hard to decipher. Was it awe or shock? One moment joy, a pulse later frigid grief. He didn’t seem to register that she was looking right at him, his gaze taking in everything too fast to focus on any detail.

  It didn’t matter. The others melted away and she sang only to him. The song was almost twenty years old but right now, in this moment, no time had passed and she was sitting on the mattress in his dingy flat, singing it for the first time. Her heart knocked against her ribcage the same way it did then, she had to keep it strapped down before it choked off her voicebox. Everyone in the room held their breath. Bashing out the last note, she turned the guitar to the amp and let the feedback murder everyone’s eardrums.

  The stinging squelch faded and the sound of clapping rose up. Someone whistled. Redemptive? Maybe. Exhilarating and heady? Without a doubt.

  She squinted against the low slung stage lamps, trying to keep Gil in her sights. Wheeling the volume knob to nill, she unslung the guitar and set it back onto its stand and stepped down. Winding through the cramped tables, vaguely aware of people praising her set and asking about that last song. She moved past them towards the back of the room but lost track of Gil in the crowd. Swimming through the bodies, he appeared again. A blasted expression in his eyes.

  She pushed aside the last of the interlopers to get to him, hands reaching up to grip his collar and pulling him down to get at his mouth. His lips were cold but he pressed against her hard, hands pulling her in like he wanted to swallow her up.

  Voices murmured, someone cracked a joke. All of it white noise. Gnats.

  Tilda came up for air. “Change your mind?”

  “Do you know how often I dreamt about this?” He pinched her bottom lip between his teeth. “Thank you.”

  The buzz in the room died away as a band stepped into the footlights and took up their instruments. The wild-haired young man whose guitar she had borrowed leaned up to the microphone and cracked a joke about following a tough act.

  Tilda settled in to watch. Ivan swung past with a glass of the bad house red as a thank you. He asked Gil what he was drinking but Gil said he was fine and Ivan darted back behind the bar. She felt his hand mesh into hers and they watched the band. She leaned into him, feeling dizzy. It all felt so familiar; standing in the dark and watching someone play. It was now, it was twenty years ago.

  It didn’t last long. Something shifted in the room. Faces in the crowd turned back their way, craning their necks to look at them. No, she thought, not them. Gil. One woman after another stealing glances back at the man by her side. A few brazenly flashing him sly smiles or boldly waving at him to come talk to them. A few of the men too, bold and even more shameless than the women. Tilda felt her back go up and clenched his hand tighter, as if Gil would drift away, pulled into the tractor beam of those come-hither looks.

  It didn’t take long before other men were looking back too. The boyfriends or hook-ups started swivelling their heads to see what the hell all the fuss was about. Their eyes clocked Gil and turned instantly venomous, hateful even. Any threat, no matter how small or imagined, is hard to dispel once lodged in the male eye. A challenge to the overweening sense of their own status, a menace to be quashed and beaten down and humiliated.

  Gil squeezed her fingers. “We should go.”

  “Not yet.” Her hand responded with another squeeze to calm him. “Never mind them.”

  The band was halfway into their second number when the first woman slunk forward, batting eyelashes at Gil and asking his name. He didn’t even look at her and the woman rushed off, pretending she hadn’t said anything at all. The second woman cruised past with pretty much the same lack of tact. She received the same response. Tilda pretended not to notice but couldn’t help feeling some small thrill as her date brushed off these graceless advances. When, she wondered, had young women become so bold?

  “What the fuck, Romeo?”

  Tilda startled as a big man with a shaved head swung up into Gil’s face. The man’s bull neck was cabled up with tension, his whole frame tensing up and ready to spring.

  Gil tore his eyes from the stage to the man blocking his view. “What do you want?”

  “You, pretty boy. Making fuck-me eyes at my woman. Just how fucking stupid are you?”

  Gil cleared some room in the crowd to pass through and nodded to Tilda. “Time to go.”

  The man shoved the heel of his hand against Gil’s chest. Wide shoulders and thick arms, he outweighed Gil by a hundred pounds. “That’s right, nancy-boy. Run off and take your old whore with you.”

  Boom.

  Everything went to hell at that point. The sound of breaking glass ripped Tilda’s ears. The front window exploded and the muscled man lay sprawled over the sidewalk, shrieking as he rolled against the shards of broken glass. The crowd backed away in confusion.

  Gil was already pulling her out, tugging her towards the door, her guitar case clenched in his other hand. They stepped over the screaming man on the pavement and muscle-head cursed Gil as a faggot and vowed to kill him. Gil spun around and stomped his bootheel to the man’s throat and advised the man to shut his mouth before he got his skull pulverized against the curb. They were running down Baldwin and shooting up Augusta before Tilda could catch her breath.

  A figure stepped onto the street and blocked their path. An old woman with matted hair, clad in a heavy parka despite the heat. Tilda had seen her before, haunting the market and muttering to herself about Jesus and how everyone was going to Hell unless they repented. In her grime-stained hand was a cross fashioned out of sticks and duct tape with which she would wheel about as she warned sinners in broken English that Jesus was coming.

  Even at a distance, Tilda could smell the woman. A ripe tang of soured sweat and stale urine that only got stronger as they almost ran the woman over. The woman waved her cross and told them to repent but when her eyes fixed onto Gil, she cringed back and hissed. “Devil!” she shrieked, thrusting the splinterwood cross at Gil. “The devil here! The devil here!”

  Gil cut left, pulling Tilda away. The woman was still shrieking full volume and people about were turning this way, alerted to her screams. Tilda glanced over shoulder and saw patrons from the Porthole spilling out onto the puddles of the street.

  “Gil, stop.” She tugged at him to slow down. “This is crazy. We can’t run.”

  “We can’t stay. Come on.”

  “My car is here.”

  “We’ll come back for it.” He gripped her hand tighter and hurried on. A figure tottered out of the darkness and lurched towards them. Gil shoved the man away without breaking stride.

  It was all happening too fast. She pulled on his hand again. “Where are we going?”

  “Just keep up.”

  It wasn’t easy. Gil moved quickly, cutting down a laneway and then into an alley so dark she could barely see the pavement. Completely disoriented by the fourth turn, Tilda had no idea in which direction they were travelling.

  “Watch your head,” he said as they ducked through a break in a fence and emerged onto another alley. Buildings loomed before them, brick monoliths that were old in the Victorian era. Every window was dark. Past a loading dock to an unlit portico, a metal door squealing as Gil yanked it open and pulled her inside. The worn steps of the back stairwell creaked under each step, winding up three floors. He let go of her hand to dig into a pocket, producing a key that he slotted into the lock of a door of faded green paint.

  Tilda follo
wed him inside but when the door closed, she was left blind in total darkness. “I can’t see anything. Where’s the lights?”

  “What?” His voice somewhere in the pitch. “Hang on.”

  Her knee knocked into something hard so she remained still, listening to his footfalls in the dark. The rattle of something being jostled, something else falling to the floor. A match was struck and Gil’s face floated in its glow as he lit a number of candles. “Is that better?”

  She took a cautious step forward. The candlelight was too soft to reveal anything of the space she was in. The outlines of some furniture, objects stacked against the walls. “Where’s the light switch?”

  “There’s no power here.” He blew out the match and stepped away into the gloom. “Maybe this will help.”

  A drape was pulled aside to reveal a tall window, letting in the glow of city lights. Tilda scanned her surroundings. The space was vast, with tall ceilings like a loft, and it smelled of dust and old wood. A few mismatched pieces of furniture formed a sitting area in the middle but the rest of the room appeared to be haphazard storage. Metal shelving rose from the floor like towers, crates stacked here and there with no organization or reason. The wall to her left reflected the light of the candles in what she thought at first to be mirrors. A closer look revealed a bank of old aquariums running the length of the wall, the glass greened with desiccated algae, the inhabitants long gone.

  She took a step forward. “What is this place?”

  “Just a quiet spot,” he said, searching through the drawers of a desk.

  “Do you live here?”

  “Sometimes.”

  She crossed the floor and looked out the smudged window. The garish neon of Chinatown glowed up from below, the noise of the street leeching through the cracked panes. Her breath fogged the dirty glass.

  Gil leaned against a table in the center of the room, watching her.