by Simon Logan
“You’re late,” he says.
“Then we can go?”
But he’s already walking back towards the teenage girls.
As the two go into the club the city outside is crushed beneath the noise of the chatter of the crowds within as well as The Broken’s warm-up act: a four piece called Damage Sticks who look like they have been dug up from their graves and dusted off before being thrown on stage. Their set comes to an end, feedback ringing out over a smattering of applause and cheers.
Katja and Nikolai go around the back of the stage, a roadie about to get in their way before recognising Katja and letting them through. She leads Nikolai into the rear corridor where the rest of the band are already gathered.
“Where the fuck have you been?!” Joey shouts when he sees her.
“We’re due on in about five minutes,” Max adds as he slings the bass guitar around his chunky neck.
“I got here as quick as I could,” Katja says. “Had some stuff to deal with.”
“What, and it couldn’t wait?” And it’s only then that Joey realizes who she has brought with her.
“Well look who’s crawled out from under his rock.”
Nikolai remains behind Katja, head dipped.
“What the fuck is he doing here?”
“There’s your answer,” Katja says and nods past them.
Max and Joey turn to see three figures at the other end of the corridor, silhouetted by the green light of the exit sign above them. All that can readily be made out are the extravagant beehives which each one of them wears.
The three approach, each strike of their heels like a bullet being fired.
“You’re here,” Lady D, in the middle of the other two and wearing a skimpy leopard print number, says. “I’m impressed.”
She motions to one of her heavies who duly produces Katja’s guitar from behind their back, holding it up by the neck.
Katja looks at Lady D who raises her chin in consent then Katja takes the instrument.
“Now go do your thing and we can put this all to bed,” Lady D tells her, glossy pink lips tweaked into a smile “There’s a hot shower waiting for me and I’m not about to put it off any longer.”
“What’s going on, Katja?” Max asks. Joey remains silent, having backed away a few paces.
“Nothing,” Katja says, maintaining eye contact with Lady D.
Over the speakers comes the sound of Dimebag Dexter attempting to generate some applause for Damage Sticks, then starting his disinterested spiel about The Broken.
“It’s my fault,” Nikolai says, stepping out from behind Katja. His hands are clenched into fists at his side. “The debt is mine. I should . . . it’s up to me to pay.”
Lady D frowns, her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry, and you are?”
Now it’s Nikolai’s turn to be confused. “Uhhh . . . Nikolai?”
As if he’s making a guess.
“You trying to fuck with me?” Lady D asks, her tone darkening as her attention goes from Nikolai to Katja and back.
“I . . . no . . . I just . . . the debt . . . the debt’s mine. I’m the one who came to you in the first place. Wasn’t I?”
“Look, this has been a fucking long night so if you think you can all worm your way out of this then I can assure you I am in no mood to be played with. Whatever you think you’re achieving by covering for your little friend over there it isn’t going to work.”
And she points at Joey, who is quietly backing away. He stops when they all look at him.
“What’s Joey got to do with any of this?” Katja asks.
“Joey?” Lady D parrots, her tone disdainful. “I’ve already told you, don’t try playing games with me.”
“What the hell are you talking you about?”
Lady D lets out a sharp, irritated grunt. “That’s Nikolai,” she says, pointing again at Joey. “That’s the one who took out the loan.”
33.
“Hey, Nikolai, wait,” Joey says, jogging to catch up with the other man as he walks away from the small outcrop of run-down shed-style buildings. “You guys rehearsing again?”
“Uh, yeah,” Nikolai tells him without slowing his pace.
“Cool. You okay if I hang out again?”
“I don’t . . . didn’t Katja say she’d prefer it if you just stuck to the gigs?”
“Nah, you must have mis-heard,” Joey says. “Anyway, you ain’t done any gigs yet.”
“Soon,” Nikolai tells him. “Katja’s already sorting something out.”
“Yeah I know, she told me.”
“She told you,” Nikolai repeats. He crosses the street abruptly but Joey sticks close to him.
“Well, I overheard her telling you, more precisely,” Joey corrects himself. “Man, you guys are going to fucking kill when the times come though. Still reckon you could do with another guitarist though. Or another drummer.”
And he slaps Nikolai playfully across the shoulders.
“I think she wants to keep it tight,” Nikolai tells him. “But I’m sure if we ever need anyone . . .”
The sentiment drifts and his pace quickens again. Joey matches it.
“I’m just ribbin’ you, man,” Joey says. “Don’t even worry about it. I mean, I can play, sure, but not like you. So what you practising tonight? Anything new?”
“I don’t know,” Nikolai tells him. “Look, tonight, I don’t even know if we’re hooking up to play, we might just be talking about the first gigs and . . .”
“That’s fine, that’s totally fine by me,” Joey says.
They come the end of the block, the sidewalk crumbling into chunks of concrete and stone as if some creature from a daikaiju movie had stomped on it and destroyed whatever had been there before. The road fades into scruffy turf which leads towards a series of single-storey buildings in the near distance and from them is the muffled sound of guitar noise. The only other sign of life nearby is a takeaway van, the owner scrubbing at the folded-down service area with a grubby cloth.
Nikolai stops. “Seriously, Joey, there’s really not going to be that much going on tonight.”
Joey looks at him then nods. “Okay. Okay, sure. Then at least let me buy you a coffee before you start. Just in case the session turns epic?”
Nikolai shakes his head. “I don’t think—”
“Hey, man, I know you’re trying to get clean but I didn’t realize it extended to coffee,” Joey jokes.
“I am clean,” Nikolai corrects him.
“Sure, of course, that’s what I meant. But Katja’s not going to kick you out of the band because of a little caffeine is she? And you’re probably needing your hits from wherever you can get them now, right?”
Nikolai sighs, finally gives into Joey’s persistence. “Okay,” he says.
“Cool, you just go on ahead, I’ll grab them and catch up. I won’t stay if you guys need peace though—as long as you promise to let me sit in on the next session?”
“Fine,” Nikolai says, already walking away.
“Great,” Joey says then crosses to the takeaway van. He orders two coffees which the owner promptly delivers.
“Sugar and shit are over there,” the man says, indicating a series of plastic tubs at the far end of the service hatch then going back to his surface-wiping.
Joey puts the two cups down next to the tubs. He spoons a couple of sugars into each, a little UHT milk from an already-open container. Then he reaches into his pocket and takes out a little plastic bag of pills. He checks the man is still cleaning then drops two of the pills into one of the coffees. Then drops another two in. Then empties the bag into it. He stirs the coffee until the spoon no longer collides with the solid mass of the pills, then snaps on one of the lids stacked in a neat pile to one side.
He thanks the man and walks across the scrub-land towards the row of shacks and the sound of discordant punk music.<
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34.
Joey is backed into the doorway of a storage cupboard, Katja and Nikolai on one side, Lady D and her crew on the other.
“Come on, Katja,” he protests. “You know as well as anyone, once a useless junkie, always a useless junkie. He was bound to fuck up at some point. Better that it happened before you got any gigs organised.”
“I always knew you were a snidey little piece of shit,” she says. “I just never realized it was to this extent.”
“Don’t put this on me, I did you a favour.”
“Then let me do you one,” she tells him and swings the guitar at him.
It smashes into his head, throwing him back against the doorway and he bounces against the frames for a second or two before slumping to the ground.
It’s only then that they become aware of the shouts and chants of the restless crowd. A moment later Dimebag Dexter appears, flustered and sweaty.
“What the shitting hell is going on back here, I’ve been calling you for . . .” He stops when he sees Joey’s body, slumped and bloody. “What the . . . ? Do we have a problem here?”
“No problem,” Katja says quickly. “Just a little . . . disagreement.”
“Not the sort of disagreement which means that you aren’t about to get up there and play, I hope,” Dexter threatens. “Because if it is that sort then you are going to be in some serious bloody—”
“It’s fine,” Katja tells him. “Nik, grab his sticks.”
“His what?” Nikolai says, still taking it all in.
“His sticks,” Katja repeats.
Nikolai reaches down and slides the drumsticks from Joey’s slack hands. A single droplet of blood glistens on the tip of one of them.
“And who the hell are you?” Dexter asks. “The manager?”
Lady D crosses her arms, straightening herself so that she gains yet another inch over the little man. The two on either side of her do the same.
“Of a sort,” she tells him, her nostrils flaring. “I’m here to collect their fee.”
“Yeah, well, I got your money right here,” he tells her, slapping at his jacket, “and that’s where it’s going to stay—until you lot get out there and do what I hired you to do. You’ve got precisely one minute.”
And he storms off again, clearing the way for them to reach the stage. The crowd is booing now and there’s the occasional explosion of a bottle smashing against a wall.
“Well?” Katja says once he’s gone.
“Well what?” Lady D replies.
“The debt. It was never ours in the first place. This little fuckwit . . .”
“Took it out in the name of the band. Whoever he is—at this point I really do not care. Nothing has changed. The debt stands.”
“And she always collects,” one of the cross-dressing thugs adds proudly.
“The crowd are waiting,” Lady D says, using her glittery clutch bag to wave them on.
“Fine,” Katja says, slipping her guitar back on. “Let’s get this done.”
35.
The crowd milling around outside looks like the result of an explosion in a leather and metal factory. They flash and sparkle as they move beneath the lights of the Wheatsheaf’s shaky-looking entrance, the smoke from their cigarettes curling around proud mohawks and gleaming liberty spikes.
Bridget stops in her tracks, looks up at the scaffold-clad building suspiciously, subconsciously adjusting the fresh pair of gloves she has pulled on.
“Is this place safe?” she asks Stasko, standing beside her.
Steel struts and joists are bolted to the cracked exterior, fresh cement smeared around them. Ribbons of safety tape flap in the breeze.
Stasko ignores her concerns and hands the doorman enough money to cover their entrance then places a hand on the small of Bridget’s back and guides her inside. She feels a sudden claustrophobic panic as she is led into the darkened corridor beyond, a wall of noise tumbling up the passageway like a marauding beast, and she has to fight to keep the fear of Stasko knowing about what she has done that night in check.
They emerge into the performance area, noticing the empty stage at the rear of the room. Stasko continues to push her forward as if he’s a prison guard leading her back to her cell, navigating around the back of the crowds, past the bar and towards a pillar near the stage. A large piece of fabric hand-painted with the words Damage Sticks written across it is pulled down by a roadie. He bundles it up, throws it behind one of the immense speakers beside him, then sets to work rearranging the drum kit.
“What now?” Bridget asks but gets no response. She realizes that Stasko hasn’t heard her, her voice drowned out by the static-laden rock music being blasted over the loudspeakers. For a brief instant she considers slipping into the crowd, of losing him long enough to make her escape, but the thought falls apart when she thinks about what she’d do next. No, for now at least, she’ll need to play along.
She leans into him, cups her hand around his ear and repeats the question.
He returns the gesture to reply but his words are lost as the crowd suddenly roars and he abandons the response. Hands are raised and people start jumping up and down.
Bridget struggles to see past them but can just make out figures emerging onto the stage. There’s a crackling fizz of static as instruments are plugged in, a short burst of drumming and a couple of notes struck. The music being played over the loudspeakers fades out. The crowd shuffles as some push nearer and others prepare for a mosh pit, stripping off their shirts.
From somewhere off-stage the name of The Broken is announced with resounding disinterest and finally Bridget spots Katja as she steps up to the mike. The punk unzips the over-sized hoodie she wears and drops it to the ground, revealing a tight black top beneath from under which her neck tattoo emerges. Self-consciously, Bridget touches a hand to the side of her head where she had been struck and where it is still tender. But she’s not here for revenge, she doesn’t care about Katja one way or another.
Unlike Stasko.
As the first chords ring out Bridget can see how entranced he is, his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide. She recognises that look from the clinic, from him pouring over designs and photographs for one of those who has come to him for a secret treatment.
She’s pushed to one side by someone near to her, catches herself against the column and feels it shiver. She looks up, following the line of the concrete up towards the ceiling and notices more scaffold up there in the darkness.
Stasko nudges her and nods towards the stage then leans in towards her. “The drummer,” he shouts at her.
She follows his gaze between the bouncing, spike-haired heads in front of her, until she spots the man sitting at the drum kit.
The guinea pig. Nikolai.
She looks back at Stasko but he isn’t particularly bothered by the recognition, merely interested. His attention is already back to Katja.
She cups her hand around his ear once more and repeats her earlier question. “What do we do now?”
“We wait,” he shouts and this time she hears him.
He moves in front of her to get a better view whilst still remaining behind a large skinhead just in case Katja were to spot him and again Bridget has to suppress her desire to run. She looks around, at least wanting to know where the exits are in case she should need them.
And that’s when she spots the transvestite.
36.
In the crowd, Lady D can see the bobbing beehives of her girls, precisely positioned at each corner of the club. Despite her grudging respect for the fact that Katja has actually made it to the venue and is going through with the gig she isn’t about to assume that the girl has no more tricks up her sleeves and so isn’t taking any chances.
She’s standing on the small set of steps which lead up to the stage, away from the main crowds but closer to one of the stacked speakers than she is comfortable
with. She pins a finger in each ear as the song’s intensity grows, watching the drummer, the real Nikolai, as it turns out, slamming away at the kit. The drowsy nervousness that had been there earlier is now gone, replaced by determination and focus. The bass guitarist has his head tipped back, his jaw jutting out proudly, head nodding into time to Nikolai’s beat.
Meanwhile Katja barks and screams into the microphone before breaking away and thrashing at her guitar with a series of chuggy chords, slamming it against her thigh and pulling it around as if she were wrestling it rather than playing it. Even from this distance and in the low light of the club Lady D can see how the girl’s eyes glisten with pleasure, how they sparkle with a life that hadn’t been there previously. It’s the same look Lady D sees in her own eyes once she has doused herself in her makeup and put on her heels, her fake breasts, and her gaff.
The girl’s energy floods out across the crowds, feeding them, and despite the awful noise, even Lady D can’t help but smile.
The first song ends and there is a smattering of applause amongst those who are sober enough to notice. The debt collector ducks as a couple of plastic beer cups are thrown at the stage, what remains of their contents sprayed around.
It’s when she stands back upright that she spots the woman in the crowd, lurking by one of the concrete pillars near the stage, her stiff, unmoving posture in stark contrast to the jittering movements around her. The one who had dumped her with the fake. The CCTV freak.
Soelberg.
“Well, well,” Lady D says to herself, though the words are muffled beneath the ringing in her ears.
She catches the attention of Patty, eyeing up a beefy biker who has stripped to the waist as he orders more beers, then motions towards the woman. Patty pushes herself up onto her tip-toes, locating what Lady D is indicating. She mouths the word: Pinky?
Lady D nods, mouths in return: I want her.
Patty gives her a thumbs-up then vanishes into the crowd.
Nikolai’s drums tap out the intro to the next song. Lady D finds Lucille at the other end of the club and motions for her to cover the exit. The bass guitar kicks in.