If I was going to walk away from my career over this, I needed to know why. I’d made up my mind to confront her, to try and get some answers out of her. I just had to get her alone, without her watchdog there to get in my face.
I was in the middle of working out just how to go about doing that when Johnny and Camilla strolled through the hotel lobby. I almost didn’t recognize him. Johnny’s long hair was dirty, and his shirt—a faded Opeth tee—had several holes along the lower hemline. He looked like what I imagine Layne Staley did in his final days before his heroin overdose.
Camilla, however, looked incredible. Like a model, maybe, or a really well-paid escort. Her auburn hair shone in the morning light, drawing out the color of her eyes, which were hazel and brown, just like the night we first met. The contrast between the two of them was startling. Christ, I thought, she’s sucking the life from him.
“Good morning, fellas.” He stopped before us. “Want to go get some breakfast?”
Hank and Bobby mumbled in agreement. I hadn’t given much thought to food until he said something, and my stomach growled in reply.
“Great,” Camilla said. She winked at me. “I know a place a few blocks away.”
***
The diner was crowded, and we had to wait twenty minutes for a table. We made idle chit-chat in the meantime, nothing worth noting, and twice Johnny asked me if there was something wrong. I had a hard time looking him in the eye. Not just because I’d made up my mind about leaving—that was part of it—but also because he just looked ill. Older. Withered. What had become of my friend? Had I witnessed this happening every day and just not noticed? Or was this something that had occurred overnight?
For the first time in weeks I thought of Johnny’s mother, sitting in her room at the hospital, staring off into nothingness. She hadn’t been present in her own mind for years, and I couldn’t help but wonder if this is how it had begun for her. Perhaps this was how she’d begun her descent into madness, aging overnight, obsessing over a work of art that wasn’t meant for this earth. Maybe Johnny was just following in her footsteps.
No. I shook that thought away from my mind. Johnny was fine until Camilla latched onto him. I could’ve told her to fuck off that night in Texas. I could’ve kicked her to the curb as just another meaningless groupie.
But I didn’t, and I felt horrible for that. I felt responsible somehow, like I’d let him down by not protecting him from this horrible woman.
After we were seated and had ordered our meals, Johnny got down to business.
“So, like I said on the phone, I was thinking we could do a secret show. I know you guys are worn out from the studio and everything that happened, but me and Camilla have been talking—”
Hank rolled his eyes. “Shocking.”
“—and we think it would be good for the band if we put on a show to stretch our legs.”
We think. Meaning Johnny and Camilla. We. Not me, Hank, or Bobby. If I hadn’t been sandwiched between Hank and Bobby in our booth, I think I would’ve walked out of that little meeting.
“Since Reggie’s out of the picture, we have to start thinking about ourselves as a business.”
I cleared my throat and spoke up. “But Reggie isn’t out of the picture, Johnny.”
“Oh, yes he is,” Camilla said. She pointed to her nose. “I don’t want him anywhere near me.”
Johnny nodded. “Agreed. I want to replace him as soon as possible.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” I said. “He’s under contract, too, Johnny. The only way he goes out of the picture is if we take him to court. Do you want to do that? Do any of you want to do that?” I gave the table some room to breathe. No one said anything. “This is Reggie, guys. He got us this far. Kicking him to the curb is wrong. I don’t care what she says he did. None of us saw it happen. It’s her word against his.” I met her stare and frowned. If we’d been alone, I think she would’ve clawed my eyes out based on the way she was glaring at me. “In that sort of argument, he’s going to win every time. I do not trust her.”
Hank and Bobby nodded in agreement. Johnny leaned back and sighed.
“Guys,” he said, “all right, let’s discuss Reggie later. Can we get back to planning the show?”
“Planning?” Hank scoffed. “We ain’t even agreed to it.”
“Okay, yeah, you’re right. Just hear me out. Can you give me that much, at least?”
Johnny’s proposition was simple: we book a venue, invite some friends and journalists, and play the album live. The whole thing in its entirety. Nine Inch Nails did it during their first ‘farewell’ tour, joining the likes of Rush, Pink Floyd, A Perfect Circle, and a handful of others. “The difference,” Johnny said, “is they won’t be expecting it. They’ll be expecting a few new songs mixed with the ones from the EP.”
“Think about it,” Camilla said. “You get a couple hundred rock journalists at your show, and play them new material that won’t be available until next year. The hype alone will sell a million records. You’ll go platinum in no time.”
“Excuse me,” Bobby said, “but when did you become a record executive?”
Camilla only smiled at him, but the look in her eyes screamed murder. Johnny cut in: “She’s just trying to help, guys. I don’t understand why you have all this animosity toward her.”
“You don’t understand?” I looked at the guys, who appeared just as incredulous as I was. Was Johnny so blind that he didn’t see what was happening? “Don’t you remember the night in the hotel? Or the weird shit that went down in the studio? Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately?”
Johnny’s mouth hung agape as he turned his gaze from me, to Hank, to Bobby, and back to Camilla. He smiled and chuckled to himself. “No, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m being serious, Johnny.”
He took off his glasses and slammed his fist on the table. “So am I. I’m not looking to start a fight with you, Aidan, but goddammit, I’ll finish one if I have to.”
I honestly didn’t know what to say. I’ll admit I started to question my own sanity right then. Perhaps all of this shit was just in my head. Maybe everything we’d seen hadn’t happened that way after all. Never mind that Hank and Bobby had confirmed everything during our meeting with Reggie a few days earlier.
Camilla put her hand on Johnny’s. “Shhh, it’s okay. Calm down, love.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “Just one show, guys. Give me one show to organize for you. If it doesn’t work out the way you want it to, I’ll stay out of your business.”
Hank smirked. “And let’s say it does work out. What then?”
“Then you won’t have to look for a new manager while you wait out Reggie’s contract.”
Bobby and Hank looked at me, and I looked to Johnny. He smiled and took Camilla’s hand.
“My Yellow Kings,” she cooed. “My boys. I’ll take you to places you’ve never been. I’ll take you through Carcosa’s gates.”
The waitress brought our breakfast orders after that. Everyone else ate in silence; I only picked at my meal. Every time I looked at my pancakes, I thought of one of those red-robed things. I thought of holes. I thought of worms.
Carcosa’s gates. The thought of what lay beyond them turned my stomach. With my appetite thoroughly ruined, I got up and excused myself from the table.
***
Okay, so I’m going to put all my cards on the table here, Mr. Hargrove. I admit that what Johnny and Camilla were proposing did sound really cool. At the time, I don’t think anyone had played a full album live before it had even dropped in stores. We didn’t have to worry about bootleg recordings since every person on the guest list would be screened and checked at the door.
And to be honest, I couldn’t wait to play the new material. Out of this whole affair, I think the loss of the music is one of our greatest tragedies. What the music did to us was terrible, but it was also the greatest work we ever produced. Just talking about it now makes my fi
ngers itch, and I haven’t touched a guitar in years. If my hands weren’t so knotted with arthritis, I’d probably be strumming a few chords for you right now.
All of that said, when push came to shove, we agreed to do the show. I think all of us wanted an opportunity to do a ‘live fire exercise’ with the new material, and really see how it would resonate with people.
Camilla did have conditions, however. If we wanted to use the resources at her disposal (which were considerable for a so-called gypsy such as herself—one look at her lavish loft apartment told us as much), we had to agree to give her full autonomy over the set design. I remember thinking it all had something to do with Johnny’s sacred geometry placement in the studio, which speaks more to my naivety than anything else.
We never did find out where her fortune came from. In the days leading up to the show, Hank made a joke about her lady parts being made of gold as an explanation for her apparent wealth. As crass at it was, I admit I chuckled the first couple of times he told it.
Beyond set design, Camilla made that show possible, which is the exact position she wanted to be in. She knew Reggie was our checkbook, and that the record label never would’ve agreed to fund such a live show. It’s a wonder that Reggie didn’t cut off our funds and have us booted from the hotel. I still don’t know why he didn’t. Probably out of fear of retaliation. Camilla had had him locked up once for assault and battery; he’d seen firsthand what sort of bullshit she could get away with.
Camilla had friends, too. The owner of the club we booked was a short, slimy guy by the name of Vinnie Klorso. You know the type. If she’d told us he owned a couple of used car lots, I wouldn’t have been surprised. He kept his hair dyed jet black and greased back on the top. Bobby once told me he reminded him of his creepy uncle who always wanted a hug; I told him he reminded me of a shorter, slimier Mike Patton, without the talent or vocal range.
Vinnie owned a club down on the strip called The Hyades, after some ladies from Greek mythology. The place was tiny, one of those exclusive clubs that keep people waiting outside for hours, with a max occupancy of 250 including staff.
“The place is perfect,” Camilla told us during our tour of the place. “Spatially and spiritually. Can’t you feel the vibrations of the drapery here? They’re perfectly frail. It’s like you could just slip your hand right through them and touch the other side.” She’d sucked in her breath and let her eyes roll back. “This place is perfect for transubstantiation.”
A few weeks before, we would’ve rolled our eyes and said she was tripping out of her mind, but after the hallucinations we’d experienced in the studio, her words made us uneasy. There was a weight to them. Had we slipped beyond this ‘drapery’ before? I suspected we had, even if what we’d experienced had only felt like the worst kind of nightmare—the kind you wake up from clawing at your skin, terrified that what you saw is still with you, crawling across your body, suffocating you like a dark shroud.
“We can position candles here, here, and here.”
Vinnie interjected. “I hope you mean fake candles, Camilla darling. Fire codes and all.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Vinnie dearest.” She’d caught my eye and smirked. “Of course I mean the fake kind.”
This probably goes without saying, especially since the fire chief’s report has been public record for decades, but that was a bold-faced lie. She used real candles. Black ones.
“Vinnie, dear, will you have a problem with drapery hung at the back of the stage?”
“Not at all, Camilla darling.”
We were at the club for hours as Camilla and Johnny mapped out their plan for the show. Every inch of the place would be decorated in red and gold: Gold drapery, gold sconces for the candles, red banners everywhere, you name it. A giant golden throne would sit at center stage, just in front of the elevated riser from which Bobby would be drumming. The club staff—bartenders, waiters and waitresses, security—were to be dressed in red robes and white masks. Every one of our guests that night would be given a white mask at the door and asked to wear it for the duration of the show.
When she told us that, a wave of nausea crashed over me. Was this really happening? Had my nightmares come true? Camilla’s words raced back through my mind.
I’ll take you through the gates of Carcosa.
I want to help you take off your mask.
Together we will sing the song of the Hyades in the court of Carcosa.
Cold hands gripped my insides and squeezed. The world swam before me, a maelstrom of red and gold, faces with holes and worms, all spinning down the bloodied drain of an impossible cyclopean city.
“Aidan?”
I blinked and steadied myself. Camilla, Vinnie, and the band were all staring at me.
“Y-Yeah?”
“You don’t look so hot,” Hank said. “You all right?”
“Just need some air,” I said, nearly tripping over my own feet as I retreated across the open floor and back toward the exit. I made it as far as the sidewalk before I collapsed to my knees and vomited into the street. What little I’d eaten at breakfast left me in a runny, bilious blob, mingling with the trash in the gutter.
I don’t know how long I knelt there on the sidewalk. The noonday sun beat down upon me, and heat shimmered above the pavement. I peered down the boulevard, watching traffic crawl along toward the city. Her city. Los Angeles, Carcosa, it didn’t matter. This was her city now. Perhaps it had always been.
Somewhere in between the flickering folds of heat rising from the earth, I spied the tell-tale towers jutting just above the Hollywood Hills. They were thin cylindrical needles of unfeasible construction, sprouting to the air at bizarre angles. Crouched on the sidewalk, with spittle dribbling down my chin, I swear I could hear the hum of a thousand voices speaking in unison. Each syllable crawled across the hills, down across the paved hell of the Sunset Strip, and up into my ears, whispering words I never wanted to hear again: Take off your mask, Aidan. Take off your mask.
“I brought you some water.”
Camilla stuck a bottle of water in my face. I took it from her reluctantly, examining the seal around the cap before taking that first drink. Satisfied that it hadn’t been tampered with, I took two deep gulps before having to catch my breath. Water dripped down through my beard and pooled on the sidewalk below me.
“Thanks,” I gasped. I took two more drinks before the feverish nausea finally subsided. In that time, Camilla took a seat beside me. Her auburn hair radiated in the sunlight, and I noticed her eyes were different colors. Green and blue.
“The nausea will pass,” she said. “Carcosa has that effect once it gets into your head. But you’ll be fine soon enough.”
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?” she asked.
“The thing with your eyes. Contacts?”
Camilla leaned her head back and laughed. She never did answer that question, and to this day I have no idea what was up with the color of her eyes.
“Right,” I said, feeling foolish for even asking. I held up the bottle of water. “Is this supposed to be a peace offering?”
“No. It’s supposed to help you clear your head. So you can make up your mind.”
“Make up my mind?”
She placed her hand on my knee and squeezed lightly. “I know you want to leave the band. Don’t worry, Johnny doesn’t know. I haven’t told him, and I won’t.”
I didn’t even bother asking how she knew. By this point it seemed natural that she would know such things, and I wasn’t at all surprised.
“And you can leave,” she went on. “I won’t stop you. All I ask is that you play this final show.”
“What is it about this show? What is it about Johnny? Why him? Or us, for that matter?”
I expected her to laugh me off again, but to my surprise, she didn’t. Instead, I got an answer that chills me to my core every time I think about it.
“Because you are my way into Carcosa. I was cast out long ago, and
with your help, you will secure my return. And the key, my dear Aidan, is here behind your mask. Behind all your masks. This world is nothing more than a masquerade, and your music will help us all to remove the masks that obscure the truth of Carcosa’s golden light. A final reconciliation of this world and ours. Feel honored, my darling Yellow King. You will be home soon enough.”
And with that, she climbed to her feet and patted me on the head like the dimwitted child I was.
“Carcosa is calling, Aidan. I hope you’re ready. What you’ve seen thus far is only a glimpse of its glory. I can’t wait to show you the rest.”
I wasn’t ready then. I’m not now, and I never will be. There’s a cold fear buried deep within me that what I’ve seen is what awaits me after my life is over. That’s what I fear most about my impending mortality, Miles. In my worst nightmares, I’m one of those things worshiping at the golden altar of Carcosa. Worshiping not a king known as Hastur, but a queen who calls herself Camilla.
I’m terrified that when I pass off this mortal plane, I’ll find myself lost on those darkened shores, clad in robes and wearing a pallid mask that hides the cowardly truth of my essence: A stark emptiness, bottomless and rotted, fed upon by hundreds of crawling worms.
-TRACK 8-
THE FINAL RECONCILIATION
We were four days into rehearsals when Bobby asked the question. “What the hell does all this even mean?”
“Which part?” Johnny asked. He was in the middle of adjusting the microphone stand. One of the hired roadies had underestimated Johnny’s height.
“This,” Bobby said, gesturing around the stage. “The album. The art. All this gold shit. Half your lyrics are fucking riddles, dude.”
Bobby had a point, although I’d been able to piece together just enough to follow a narrative running through each song. Johnny, however, took a cue from his girlfriend and played coy, merely shrugging with a smile.
“Haven’t you been paying attention?” Johnny asked. “All will be revealed tonight.” He tapped his microphone. “Check-check, one, two, three . . . ”
The Final Reconciliation Page 7