Get Katja

by Simon Logan

  Lady D steps down into the crowd, giving up her vantage point and having to push her weight through the sweaty, beery bodies. One man refuses to move when he sees her, leering then reaching out for her breasts. On another night she might have broken his arm but right now she doesn’t have time for it, instead snatching his wrist and pulling him towards her then slamming her forehead into his nose. He drops as Katja’s guitar joins in, matching the notes of the bass, and he crashes to the ground before being swallowed up by the crowd.

  Lady D continues to push her way through, circling around so that she might get closer to the woman without being seen when she is suddenly shoved from behind. She tumbles forwards, splitting a group of teenagers huddled together around a shared beer, and before she knows it she is only a few feet away from her target.

  Soelberg spots Lady D and panic fills her eyes. She starts to turn then finds Patty, resplendent in a gold lamé dress and matching heels, standing right beside her. Soelberg looks back at Lady D. Lady D raises one finger and waggles it from side to side.

  Naughty naughty.

  Patty grabs her.

  37.

  Stasko is only vaguely aware of being pushed from one side to the other, of being shoved in the back and elbowed and shouted at by the crowd around him. Even the raucous music fades to a background drone. All he sees is Katja.

  The stage lights flash from green to red to blue and back again, flaring and exploding, variously illuminating the beads of perspiration that glisten on the girl. She screams into the microphone, the guitar hanging loose around her neck, both hands clutching it. He studies her exquisite architecture, watching the way her jawbone flexes and her forehead creases. Sweat pools in the pit of her neck, describing the outline of the tracheostomy tube which he had fitted there only a short while earlier, surrounded by her tattoo as if it were all part of some fine art installation. He watches the muscles in her upper arms flex as she goes back to thrashing the guitar, the curve of her spine when she turns around.

  The circle pit in front of him widens and he has to take a step back to avoid being dragged into it. He collides with someone, spinning him sideways, crashing him into another group of teens. The bottle that one of them is holding shatters on the ground and he angrily shoves Stasko back in the direction he came, the word asshole forming inaudibly on the lips of the girl beside him. Stasko reaches out a hand and steadies himself against a supporting column then looks up and the stage is gone, replaced by the bar. He struggles for his bearing for several moments, but just before he is about to turn to face the front again he sees Bridget—just as a pair of thick, hairy arms reach out for her.

  She’s too busy looking in the other direction, transfixed by something, her eyes wide with terror and she’s grabbed before she knows what’s going on. Her attacker leans forward and the arms belong not to a biker but to a transvestite wearing a sparkling gold lamé dress and cherry red lipstick. Bridget cries out, the sound lost beneath the chaotic thrash blaring through the amps, but her eyes meet Stasko’s. She reaches out for him over the shoulder of her cross-dressing abductor.

  Stasko pushes through the crowd towards her and collides once more with the group of teenagers. This time instead of shoving him back one of them grabs him by the collar and swings a fierce punch at his head. Stasko pulls away and the punch sails wide, connecting with a Hispanic man with a purple mohawk and a neck like a tree root. The man pounces onto the teenager as Stasko pushes past, keeping Bridget in sight as she is dragged into the crowd, but then another punch is thrown and an elbow connects with his temple.

  There is angry jeering and a bottle smashes, then another. Stasko tries to break through, Bridget and the Tgirl nowhere to be seen. He shouts her name then as he ducks another punch, the entire crowd around him now engaged in an exchange of blows. Someone picks up a dropped bottle and throws it at the stage and Stasko watches it sail through the air and smash into the bass player’s head.

  38.

  As she sings the final verse Katja becomes aware of a sudden explosion of movement in the crowd to her right, something which goes beyond the usual mosh pit antics. An instant later something flies through the air towards them and then there’s an audible thunk as it hits Max. The bassline drops out and he sways from side to side, grabs a stack amp next to him to stop himself from falling over.

  Katja looks into the crowd and spots the one who threw it, fists raised in celebration as fights continue to break out around him.

  Without missing a beat Katja takes two steps and throws herself from the stage, diving over the crowd and at the man. Those at the front reach up and grab her, unaware of the chaos going on behind them, pushing her backwards to let her crowd surf. Her amp lead snaps out of its socket so only Nikolai’s drums remain.

  The one who threw the bottle’s expression changes when he sees her coming, just a moment before she lashes out with the guitar and connects fully with his forehead. The crowd drops her and she crashes to the ground next to the man she just attacked, his eyes rolled back into their sockets and his fists still clenched in the ghost of celebration. She quickly gets to her feet, hands grabbing at her as she pushes her way back towards the front.

  A couple of bouncers part the crowd for her and haul her back up onto the stage, more to remove another potential source of trouble than through any concern for her safety, and not before one of them delivers a quick knee to her face. She crawls the rest of the way, blood dribbling from a split lip and Nikolai looks up in confusion, as if only just noticing that the rest of his band has stopped playing. Beside her, Max is slowly getting to his feet, blood trickling from a nasty gash in the side of his head.

  Katja reaches down to plug her guitar back in and something sails overhead, something which makes a whooshing noise as it goes. It smashes into the wall behind Nikolai and bursts into flames, leaving a trail of fire rolling down the brickwork. Katja turns back to the crowd, half of it charging towards the exit, the other half busy punching and kicking the living shit out of each other. She snaps the guitar lead back into place and the amps start to buzz with her feedback once more.

  She strikes a power cord, motioning for Nikolai to pick up the beat again. She looks at Max, now on his feet but pulling the bass from around his neck. She walks to him, shouts, “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Getting the hell out of here!” he shouts back, then holds up his hand to show her the blood from his head wound.

  Katja bares her teeth, stained red from her split lip. “What for?!”

  “What for? Look the fuck around, Katja!”

  Another bottle smashes into the amps beside them, this one thankfully lacking an ignition source.

  “It’s a little bit lively, that’s all!” she shouts back, thrashing another chord and letting it ring out.

  He shakes his head then throws the bass to the ground and stalks past her across the stage—stops suddenly and looks up.

  Beneath the hum of Katja’s power chord and the chaotic shouts of the crowd there is another sound—a low, ominous creak. Katja follows his gaze towards the temporary steel beams which criss-cross the Wheatsheaf’s ceiling.

  It looks as if they’re moving.

  “Oh shit . . .”

  39.

  With the sudden eruption of violence around her, Lady D is carried backwards by the crowd, away from Patty and from Soelberg. She fights her way back through but time and again has to duck away from a wayward punches and before she knows what is happening she finds herself next to the stage.

  Lady D pulls herself up onto the rear of the stage, lashing out with a heeled foot when one of the roadies grabs her, and gets to her feet. She surveys the room, searching for Patty or Soelberg but instead notices the club’s owner hurrying away down the rear corridor.

  “No you don’t,” Lady D says to herself and then charges after him. Something sails through the air and crashes into the wall behind her and, glancing back, she sees fl
ames are spilling down to the ground.

  Ignoring them she hurries down the corridor as the man struggles to open the locking bar to the emergency exit door. He sees her coming and his attempts become more frantic until finally the latch releases and the door swings open. Before he can escape, however, Lady D lands a hefty punch to the back of his neck. He’s thrown forwards and slams into the door, rebounding off of it and back towards the debt collector. She is ready for him, stepping to one side to let him stagger past just enough to deliver another blow.

  He slumps to the ground and she reaches into the coat pocket he had earlier patted when confirming he had the gig fee. She smiles as she touches the wad of cash and pulls it out. She thumbs it quickly to check the full amount then kneels next to the man.

  He groans softly when she strokes his head.

  “I always get my money, sweetheart,” she says, then stands up.

  Lady D retrieves her clutch bag from the spare mike stand she had hung it on before the gig and stuffs the cash inside. For a moment she hesitates, deciding whether to go back to see if Patty still has Soelberg or whether it even matters now she has her money, and it’s as she is still mulling the decision over that she becomes aware of the creaking noises.

  She ducks her head out of the corridor, back into the gig-come-riot, noticing the flames which are now spreading around the rear of the stage and climbing up to the ceiling, to the patchwork of beams that are supporting the place’s roof, beams which look as if they are beginning to bend.

  And she realizes that the place’s owner wasn’t just escaping to keep a hold of his money.

  “Oh shit . . .”

  40.

  The punches stop flying.

  The music is gone.

  Stasko is let go by the skinhead who had a hold of him and he follows his attacker’s gaze upwards.

  “Oh shit . . .”

  41.

  Bridget is shoved out of the crowd and towards the bar and crashes into the counter, the Tgirl still with a fistful of her bright pink hair. Bridget closes her eyes and braces herself for another series of blows but instead is dropped to the ground when the debt collector’s grip is released.

  High above, the sound of metal rending. Bridget opens her eyes.

  “Oh shit . . .”

  42.

  As Katja comes to, a vicious blast of fluorescent light floods in and her nostrils flare with the stench of disinfectant. She blinks and lifts her head enough to realize where she is.

  A hospital bed.

  A split second after the realisation hits she panics, certain that the mad surgeon has once again captured her, her thoughts swirl in a mist of confusion as she tries to recall if she had ever actually escaped. Then she thinks of Nikolai. Of the squat and the pink-haired nurse.

  And the gig.

  The building caving in on itself.

  She groans as her brain slowly sparks back into life, bringing with it an array of pain signals from nerve endings all across her body. Her throat and chest burn as she breathes in and she starts to cough. An almost deafening ringing fills her ears.

  Someone touches her arm and her hand is already balled into a fist before she recognises Nikolai.

  “Wait!” he protests.

  He’s standing beside the bed, his skin covered in a coating of sweat and dirt and one side of his face darkened with bruising, a deep cut at the centre of it. He puts a finger to his lips to quiet her. Katja’s vision finally clearing, she looks around and she’s not back in the surgeon’s dungeon—it’s an ER.

  Doctors and nurses scuttle around, dragging IV units and portable defibrillators behind them, calling to one another in that strange abbreviated language they share. The ward is lined with beds, some with curtains drawn around them, others revealing bloodied, battered bodies draped across them. Announcements crackle over the PA system in a constant stream and people are herded from place to place.

  “Can you hear me? Look at me, Katja.”

  She blinks again, his words muffled by the ringing in her ears.

  “We have to get out of here.”

  She waves him away, still trying to clear her head, trying to make sense of it all. Looking down at herself, she sees that she is covered in the same grime as Nikolai, her clothes singed and grubby. They all are. She swings her legs across the bed and almost loses her balance, slumping towards the floor. Nikolai catches and holds her until she is steady.

  “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  The truth is she doesn’t know. She eases herself away from him, waiting for new pain to shoot up her legs or back, but nothing comes. There is just the background buzz of the ache which envelopes her.

  “I’m okay,” she says finally, doing her best to look it and failing miserably. She waggles an index finger in each ear as she could knock the ringing sound loose.

  “We need to go—the Policie are on their way and fuck knows who else . . .”

  She stumbles past him before he can finish the sentence, tugging an IV line from one arm. He tries to put an arm around her for support but she pushes him away.

  “Which way?”

  He points towards a large desk at the opposite side of the room, almost lost behind the mass of bodies. More gurneys are being wheeled in, the devices and their inhabitants abandoned wherever there is space. Together they negotiate their way through it all until Katja stops suddenly.

  “What is it?”

  She looks down at a gurney, a sheet pulled up over the body laid on it and a dark patch of blood staining one side. Sticking out of the end of the sheet are a pair of large feet cradled in six-inch heels and attached to one of the heels is an identification tag. The name Jane Doe has been written on it then crossed out and replaced with John Doe.

  “That’s one way to get her off our back,” Katja says.

  There’s a burst of activity nearby and the two duck back against the wall as another body is wheeled through, one badly burned arm reaching out aimlessly, desperate for any sort of help.

  “Come on,” Nikolai says, pulling her after him.

  “Wait,” she says. “My guitar.”

  “What?”

  “My guitar,” she repeats. “Before the roof came down . . . I still had it on me.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m pretty sure we’re not going to be seeing the gig fee any time soon and I didn’t bring the fucking thing all the way from the island and spend what little cash I had getting it fixed up just so some thieving paramedic could keep it for himself!” she says.

  She snatches her arm away from him and stalks past Lady D’s body back to the bed she had awoken in. She pulls open the door of the small unit next to the bed but it’s empty. She then checks under the bed and behind it.

  “They put it all in a safe room,” Nikolai says. “Personal belongings I mean. Whenever there’s a big incident like this and a sudden influx of people they don’t have time to sort out all the possessions so they just bag it up and stick it in a safe room.”

  Katja stops and looks up at him.

  He shrugs. “I spend a lot of time in hospitals. You pick these things up.”

  “Uh-huh. And you know where this safe room is?”

  “Yeah. I’m pretty sure.”

  She holds up her arms in exasperation when he says nothing further.

  “Well let’s go find it so we can get the fuck out of here!”

  43.

  They hide around the corner from the room Nikolai had identified moments earlier, just long enough to see a nurse unlocking the padlocked door. He drops the green plastic bag he holds into the room then closes the door, snapping the padlock shut before rushing back into the ER.

  As soon as he is gone the two cross to the door, attempting to look inconspicuous. When she is sure nobody is looking Katja tries the padlock on the off-chance the nurse had been in too much of a rush to close it properly.

&
nbsp; No such luck.

  “Let me,” Nikolai says and she turns to find him standing next to her, unwrapping a scalpel still sealed in its sterile packet. He tears into another packet and takes out another tool, this one with a narrow hook on the end.

  “Where did you . . . ?”

  Nikolai nods at an instrument trolley a few metres away then goes to work on the padlock. Katja hurriedly positions herself in front of him, nervously watching the people rushing back and forth past them, spotting the a pair of Policie officers in their distinctive dogwitch-black uniforms at the end of the corridor.

  “Policie are here,” she says without looking at him. “Hurry up.”

  And as if on cue the lock clicks. Nikolai opens the door and lets her in, coming in behind her and closing the door again. He reaches for the light switch but Katja stops him.

  “Wait,” she whispers.

  Together they listen to the sound of four heavily booted feet stomping towards them, Katja’s shoulder pressed against the door just in case the Policie had spotted them and were going to barge in.

  “You still have that scalpel?” she asks, again in a whisper. She sees a glint of light as Nikolai holds it up.

  The footsteps grow louder. Louder.

  Then pass by and are swallowed up by the sounds of the ER.

  Katja flicks the light switch to illuminate the room. Nikolai stands next to her, the sweat rolling down his face mixing with blood from his wound and turning pink where it collects along his jaw. He’s still holding the instruments in his hand.

  “You and locks, huh?” she says.

  Then turns to the piles of plastic bags, all the same green colour as the one they had seen the nurse dropping in. Each one is held shut by little metal-lined ties of the sort you would normally seal a sandwich bag with and each one has a label attached to it, pierced by the tie. On the labels are names or physical descriptions.