Outsider (11 page)

Contrary to most groupies, her fixation was
solely for the keyboard player. It was actually a fixation by
default. The singer simply frightened her with the definite power
and the insane edge of her voice. On top of that, the red-haired
woman made a point of breaking glass glasses against walls and
windows and squashing plastic glasses under fancy black boots,
after every shot of tequila. That was absolutely too freaky for our
little baby dyke. In her eyes, Terri was a stage beast. Hang on a
sec, did this expression really exist in English or was it another
of her literal translations from the language of her childhood. In
the country Baby Dyke had left behind, the wild singer would have
been a
bete de scene.

Extraordinarily contrasting, Dawn was always
so quiet in her corner, so efficient with her electronic
paraphernalia, so radiant with serenity, looking so serious and so
intellectual, so oblivious of the world. It was definitely
reassuring for the barely-20-year-old, innocent groupie who
suffered from a bad case of shyness crossed with social
anxiety.

She wondered what Dawn’s voice sounded like.
She had heard her singing, but never speaking. Did she have a
specific accent, something slow and nasal, something bouncy and
hip, or the sound of rocks? Would she ever find out?

Baby Dyke would stand in a corner by the
stage. Well, here at the Greystoke there was no stage. The monitors
shaped a symbolical boundary. But she’d stand as close as she’d
dare, too nervous to dance. Besides, she was convinced that if she
danced, everyone would look at her and comment. And laugh. So, she
wouldn’t dance. Just as well she was now skint because she was very
afraid of misbehaving or behaving out of character if getting
drunk. Very afraid to be judged and condemned by the keyboard
player. No, no, she couldn’t take the risk of having her Goddess
rejecting her. To live among the shadows was a lot safer, even if
Dawn was to never acknowledge the existence of this petrified
admirer.

Baby Dyke looked around. The terrifying
singer was in conversation with an equally terrifying woman. A wild
dancer with loads of tattoos and a proud, green mohican. Well, more
yellowish than green tonight. Standing near another dancer, not as
wild, but pogoer. Baby Dyke would stand at the other end of the
dance floor. Tonight, it was a diminutive rectangle of floor.

She wondered if the gorgeous woman with the
so long black and white mohican, always wearing sexy, black clothes
and dancing on high heels, would be there tonight. The innocent
groupie had a rising tendency to panic when the stranger was
around. This stranger had a habit of disappearing with a woman in
tow at every gig. Baby Dyke hoped in hell she’d never be one of
those.

As a matter of fact, when Baby Dyke turned
around…

* * * * * * *

Tonight, she was wearing a strapless little
black number, matching the high-heeled boots climbing up to her
knees. Her dark eyes, as gypsy as ever, were enhanced with black
mascara. Hunger was almost a rumbling noise in her throat. She
exchanged a few words with the dark-pony-tailed woman working for
Second Look, looking around at the same time, checking the growing
crowd, searching for the prey she had been dreaming of for 22 days.
Tonight she would taste Sid’s blood; she would feed and feast on
the coppery sweetness hinted by the smell. Yes, Sid was right
there, with her tall friend, in the deep thralls of a conversation
with the red-haired rock singer. Deep thralls. The immortal
creature felt like impersonating a hissing snake. She could hear
the writer’s heart beating faster than normal. But Sid would be
hers tonight. By any means necessary.

The gypsy-eyed woman’s graceful walk took her
to the bar where the whole staff sported T-shirts claiming their
allegiance to the rock band of the night. Waiting to order a drink,
her selective ear was spying on the writer’s conversation.

Terri: “I read your story. I liked it!
Actually you write very well. You should get published!”

Sid: “Good. You don’t mind me killing you
then?”

Terri: “It’s ok, I get killed all the
time!”

Sid: “I’ve got another story for you.”
Digging an A5 envelope out of her bag. “But actually I don’t kill
you in that one.”

The barmaid asked the gothic spy for her
order, while Terri walked to her microphone to get a quick sound
check. Sid and Judy started to play paparazzi and shoot performers
and punters alike. Dawn smiled for the cameras.

* * * * * * *

Sid had already sipped some of her third
schnapps by the time Second Look made their slow start of the
night. A song about the eternal subject of your other half being
out late and not ringing you to let you know. Probably drinking. Oh
yes, Sid knew the story alright. Hers had a threatening phone call
added for good measures. She could laugh now, years later, thanks
to this song. About every song performed by the band could make her
laugh her head off, occasionally to the point of hysteria. Maybe
she should cut down on antidepressants.

The camera still in her hand, Sid started to
dance, singing along. She had done her homework, practicing with
the now in-built music tape in her walkman.

By the end of the third song, Sid had kicked
out of her black biker boots and red, spidery socks. Barefoot she
was even more at home in music. Even more obsessed, more possessed,
more belonging to music than ever. And now, she was also obsessed
with Second Look. Without obsessions her life would have been a
total void. At least she could play with her obsessions, and
currently Terri and Dawn were a great inspiration for her feverish
writer’s brain. She knew she needed to have a word with her
irresponsible psychiatrist and change antidepressants. She also
knew it was time to face the truth: she couldn’t hate Second Look.
She knew the truth deep down herself, she knew she’d have to face
it, sooner would be better than later. This band, in her book of
standards, was not good: they were disgustingly brilliant. They
were the band she had craved for back in her solitary teen years,
their absence had been the motivation to pick up a guitar and sing.
She loved them, but claimed to hate them, because she was not in a
hurry to feel the pain walking hand in hand with every truth about
her own life. And if she wanted to blame someone for the state of
her life, she didn’t have to look as far as Second Look, even if
Second Look were what she had always wanted to be. And could not
be. Because she was different.

Rather than acknowledging the decaying
reality of her singing career that the wild Terri was unknowingly
throwing at her with every breath, Sid decided to focus on the
keyboard player.

* * * * * * *

Baby Dyke had found enough coins in her back
pockets to afford a small glass of soda water. She needed the
bubbles like vampires needed blood. Lost in music, she divided her
attention between her Goddess and the sparse dancers. Sid currently
pogoing madly with her tall friend. The so-damn-sexy stranger
swaying her hips and keeping her shoulders almost motionless. Was
it because if you got started too wildly the high heels would shock
you senseless against terra firma? No, Baby Dyke was better off not
thinking about the stranger’s slender legs.

Her eyes moved along. A woman not taller than
herself, blonde, short-haired and probably blue-eyed, was
rhythmically swinging her hips and stepping one and two, on a
chronic basis. Next along after the pillar, a woman clad in baby
blue was hardly moving.

Manic Sid was dancing all over the place,
right and left, her bare feet never sliding across the slippery
floor. Occasionally stopping two seconds by a punter, then bouncing
away again. Her eyes hooking without locking with anyone’s, even if
crossing daggers. And rebounding more powerfully.

Baby Dyke was waiting for Dawn to sing, but
this was not to happen before the second set. Then she noticed that
tonight, the wild dancer was paying more attention to the keyboard
player than the singer…

(Second Set)

“
Who’s gonna fall tonight / Your guess is
as good as mine / Who’s gonna walk into her world / Who’s gonna
wish they stay in there / She knows you know”

(Catherine “The Been” Feeney)

Joy’s frustration was increasing by the
minute. Whenever Sid had stopped by her, she hadn’t made eye
contact. Whenever the mad dancer had looked at her, the gothic
woman had tried to weave her mesmerizing spell, but to no avail.
This was getting seriously tiring. She NEEDED to feed, but tonight
she wouldn’t give up. If she had to, she’d use inhuman means.

She found herself having to keep an even
tighter check on her frustration during the break, when Sid’s
friend came to her and introduced herself as Judy. Joy had to play
the game, her useful youthful good looks were to blame.

But then, Lady Luck suddenly struck in her
favour. The writer stopped near her, a visa card in one hand, and
asked Judy:

“Want a drink?”

“Yeah, another one of those.” Showing a
bottle of schnapps.

And then boring into Joy’s eyes:

“Want a drink as well?”

“I’m already pissed out of my brain!” Making
time, weaving the spell, hooking at Sid’s soul, at last.

“Well, you don’t have to ask for alcohol, you
can go for a soft drink, fruit juice, whatever!” Her brown eyes
searching Joy’s dark eyes, suddenly responding so easily and so
readily to the mighty will.

“A diet Pepsi then.” Smiling slightly.

What did Dawn’s voice sound like when she was
not singing, but just talking like anyone else? Baby Dyke cranked
up all her courage, felt her whole face go red and redder by the
second, probably a red akin to ripe tomato. She had to, she needed
to know, she wanted her Goddess to look at her, to talk to her, to
smile at her, to acknowledge her.

She walked to Dawn, who was just handing back
a fan’s copy of the 1995 CD to Terri for autograph. Baby Dyke
reached out with her own copy, mumbling her request. The keyboard
player smiled her radiant smile:

“Yes, of course! What’s your name?”

More mumbling from Baby Dyke. She felt
totally overwhelmed by the heavenly accent, an Irish-like
collection of rocks. She eventually gathered enough voice to give
out the proper answer:

“Dan.”

Dawn wrote a few words, signed and spoke
again:

“Let me pass it on to Terri.”

The wild-haired terror flashed her wildest
grin at Dan and added her piece of wits to Dawn’s. Baby Dyke felt
herself going pale.

* * * * * * *

When Second Look launched into the first song
of the second set, Sid was still at the busy bar collecting a
bucket load of schnapps to cultivate the degree of alcohol in her
blood. Good job she had left her bike at home. But by the end of
the song she was back, ready to offer a shot of tequila to the
singer. Terri grabbed the glass, swallowed the alcohol in one gulp
and threw the empty container against the wall. The glass crashed
satisfyingly. The drunken dancer gave her two thumbs up.

During the next number Sid felt that the two
partners in crime were not at their best. Probably because they’d
been constantly on the go for a week. Three gigs in the States,
flying back to London, three gigs in the suburbs and now
Teddington. There was only so much energy they could muster. Terri
lacked her usual Scorpio sting. No jokes about fancy lingerie
tonight.

When the singer stomped through Mercedes
Benz, she gave the audience only one go at the microphone, accused
them of being totally pissed and finished off the song, with her
own inimitable style.

And now, Sid’s favourite song, a tune with a
dark atmosphere, something that seemed to have an increasingly wild
effect on her. She had eventually let go of her camera to give
herself totally to the music and jump even more all over the
place.

Terri shouted in the mic:

“She is a wild child of rock’n’roll! She
could out-dance the pants of every man, woman, and child!”

* * * * * * *

Sid was one of these shortsighted people who
couldn’t be bothered with contact lenses or spectacles. She thought
her eyes were even more misleading to people since she had twisted
her last frame out of shape in a fit of despair. She found her
eyesight disconcerting at times but had other ways to get
information about people. She would scan their auras, trying to
understand the energies she would sense, but never with words.
Words were deceptive, bringer of doubt. Written words were ok
because she controlled them. It was why she had no clue about the
colour of Terri’s eyes, the colour of Dawn’s eyes, and barely knew
the colour of their hair. She had a tendency to view the world in
black and white.

She could sense there was something strange
about Joy. There was something in Joy’s aura that she had never
sensed with anyone else. But Sid couldn’t care less, Joy was too
feminine looking to really attract her attention.

Really?

So, when Baby Dyke got the song she had
waited for all along, Joy started to dance around Sid, swaying her
hips with all the languor she was used to, to Judy’s powerless
annoyance. Baby Dyke stepped back instinctively, her eyes riveted
to her idol. And Dawn was singing, singing:

“
Track number five’s got the voice and the
smile/ And the matching grey eyes/ She’ll drive you round and round
the bend/Night after night, after night/ You will run the miles for
her //

Track number five is the mystical siren/
Never, never calling your name/ You will run all the gauntlets for
her/ To look at you and smile/ You will fall blistering your
knees//