Outsider Read online

  If burning the bridges with her family and forfeit possible inheritance was part of her behavioural characteristics, harassing performers on stage was definitely not. Challenging them to slamming matches she was bound to lose? That was beyond her cautious nature. She was as good a singer as Terri Harley? So what. Terri Harley had been the one on stage and it had been her show. Sid generally respected that. Generally. Yes, “generally” was the operative word there. Because, generally, Sid was a respectful person, this was how she used to know herself. And now, who was she? She had named herself Wasgo, after a Haida mythical creature, because at times, she felt so intensely half wolf and half whale. And now, now she didn’t even care about the rumour she would unavoidably start at the next Second Look gig she’d attend. She knew people would whisper about her having a crush on the red-haired singer, regardless of her personal explanations; it had been so her whole life, but right now she didn’t care! What was happening to acting cautiously? What was happening to her pathological need for secrecy? She wanted to delight in creating and starting a rumour?! Sid was gonna give Terri Harley a bottle of mescal and she didn’t care what the entire shallow world was gonna think, say and claim. They could talk all they wanted; she didn’t give a bloody monkey! Drug-free, Sid would have analyzed and peeled off the shell to get at the kernel of truth: she couldn’t have a crush on the singer because she and Terri, being both performers, were equals. She was gonna give the Second Look singer a bottle of mescal because… Because in her demented mania she had promised to do so, and Sid, drugged-up or not, always stuck to her word. Because, maybe, even if the singer had dealt with her with mighty wits, even if Sid knew she didn’t have to, she felt she owed Terri Harley an apology. But was it for harassing her on stage or for ignoring the band eons after eons? Or was it, Sid’s favorite theory, because she would have owed Terri a bottle of mescal from a previous life?! Drugs. Sid was now thinking faster than she could process sentences and organize her speech, her brain buzzing at mach three, or five, or at the speed of light. She reluctantly promised herself to slow down for the young psychiatrist. Maybe she’d spell out the few difficult words for him, and she’d avoid mentioning the fresher trace of razor blade somewhere on the vast expense of her skin, the new bandage camouflaged under the left leg of her combat trousers. Not much space left actually with all her tattoos. But she always found enough virginity to slash a wound wide, from knee down to ankle. She had smiled blissfully at the dark-red blood suddenly gushing forth. She had dipped an index finger in the thickness and licked it, vibrating with a feeling akin to ecstasy. She hadn’t bothered with A & E more than previously despite the probable need for stitches. She kept everything she needed in her bathroom to avoid the frequently contemptuous attitude of the A & E people. Drugs controlling her manic episodes? Oh yes, they did control the razor blade, too, no probs. With a vengeance.

  She looked at the young, well cut man sitting a few steps away from her, cut out of brown suit and brown hair, and thought/knew, this guy could never understand that giving up a career as a performer was not a sign of failure. Oh, she did love singing and bashing her electric guitar on stage. Her only failure was in her lack of management. She would have done gigs seven days a week, twenty-four times a day. But she didn’t know how to sell herself. She didn’t know how to compromise. And now there was Second Look… How amazing. They had so powerfully impressed Sid the Blasé. Sid, music lover to the core, who had seen so many bands, heard so many voices, tasted so many styles. Quite a killing.

  Solitary Sid, whose most unknown and secret desire was so simply to be able to identify with someone, and who had spent most of her life searching for this elusive super woman who would validate her beliefs, and tell her it’s ok, you’ll be alright, and it would be true. And now there were two. The predatory wolf in her wanted to hate them, the sensible killerwhale wanted to love them.

  Isolated Sid, who couldn’t focus on music anymore, and who could only contemplate her beloved guitar, instead of picking it up and making it scream with cynical passion. Because drugs didn’t do anything for her musical creativity. Oh yes, they worked wonders on her writer’s mind. But couldn’t anyone see that if she was not singing, she was shutting down?

  Beyond music, there is only Death, she thought, but didn’t say it out loud, the ears of the psychiatrist from too low a caste to deserve the truth from higher levels.

  Shite, I didn’t know I could be so self-centered and so contemptuous. What’s happening to me? I need help. But who could help me.

  Outside, the sky was unforgiving blue and the sun heartlessly bright.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  (First Set)

  “Feeling mean / Checking the scene / Oh, I’m hot tonight / My body’s achin’ / Oh, feel like takin’ / A shot tonight.”

  (Nikki Lamborn and Catherine “The Been” Feeney)

  One hot night of British summer, the fantastic rock band, the one and only Second Look, were performing in a pub on the Chiswick High Road. If you were not there, you were square. Beware. Well, that was Sid’s thinking to the very least.

  * * * * * * *

  Alexi was not square, she was springy. She had come along with two friends, as boyish looking as she, or at least trying to be. The three of them were vaguely tattooed; with at least one prominent tattoo each, in full view on a bare arm: snake, dice, and dragon from the flash collection. Alexi had the dice. They had short hair and grey eyes. Otherwise, even if Alexi’s friends were both taller than Alexi’s 5’ 4’’ ¾, they all favored cut-off combat trousers, preferably black to show off legs obstinately pale.

  They were three of these all-faithful groupies following their beloved band all around London, even if they were not wearing any of the band’s T-shirts, a winking eye between the letter S and L in Old English script, or Terry’s and Dawn’s eyes.

  The band was most of the time these two equally talented women. Dawn was quiet in comparison, but an accomplished musician. Terri the singer was an unchallenged Scorpio with a voice as powerful as a spell and the most efficient and warm PR machine Alexi had ever witnessed. Terri knew most of the regular fans by names and was always generously giving out beaming smiles, pecks on cheeks and mighty bear hugs. Dawn was probably as friendly, she just happened not to be as outgoing as Terri. But always beware of sleepy waters.

  The music room was noisy, smoky, crowded, and alcohol was in many glasses under various guises.

  Alexi started to watch the crowd, scanning for landmarks, the usual groupies and the new faces Terri described as “Second Look virgins”. She spotted the unmissable green mohican with tattoos down both arms, savagely cutoff khaki trousers spilling out more tattoos but only on one leg. The other leg sported a long fresh scratch. Alexi had noticed her at a previous gig only two weeks ago. The stranger had spent the night dancing wildly on the rock beat, and harassing the singer in between songs. She had proven no match for Terri’s sting. The feisty performer had used the newcomer as a prop to make the audience roar with louder laughter. Presently Green Mohican was looking contrastingly shy and uncomfortable, while handing over to a very delighted Terri, a bottle of some alcohol, in the middle of a 5-minute soundcheck. Green Mohican hurried back to her corner by the paraphernalia stall.

  Then there was the big, busty blonde who claimed to be a good friend of the band, presently keeping company with a tall, long-haired creature whose cropped, black top revealed a smooth stomach as pale as the rest of her skin. The dark eyes were enhanced with dark kohl. The hair was a collection of black and white strands. The sides of the head were smoothly shaved to complete the gothic look. Alexi decided to cautiously categorize her as one more undulating body for the dance floor. Her friends’ return with bottles of schnapps prevented her from checking the footwear.

  * * * * * * *

  Green Mohican, who had decided that the name of Sid Wasgo was the name to stick with and every other identities were ripe for elimination on that very day, lived according to very few rules. Rule number one: d
on’t go to people; let them come to you (bait them if necessary but always let them come to you). That was only partially explanatory for her solitary life. She actually felt a bit low and part of her wanted to run away, run all the way from the Gunnersbury tube station down to the Hammersmith shopping centre. Only three miles. Her hip joints would have screamed hateful abuses at her and her motorbike would have felt left out and would have recriminated accordingly.

  Terri leapt off the stage and made Sid’s first rule worth resisting the voice of despair. She grabbed the stranger’s hand in her firm grasp and planted a kiss on each cheek. Sid could feel the solid strength; it was a warm and reassuring feeling. She briefly wondered how much time the singer spent working out at the gym. Terri was already talking:

  “Did you write the story?” The story where a rock singer was killed by a weredragon. Postal services had exceptionally outdone themselves. Sid put on an amused smile, at last back on familiar territory:

  “Oh, how did you guess?”

  “I liked it! I’m not quite sure about the end though.” Looking around: “Tonight I’m not sure if I’m gonna get killed or get fucked.” And rushed back to the stage. Leaving Sid to deal with the choice of vocabulary.

  She didn’t get a chance to wonder very long. A guy called out to her. Because of her green mohican. Usual line: he thought he had seen her before. He was an ex-punk. She was no punk, but let him sway on the waves of assumption. In the general hubbub and the loud soundtrack (Melissa Etheridge), her ears could hardly deliver the words and their meanings to her weary brain. The guy, who turned out to be a Mardi Gras reveler and therefore gay, making life simpler for Sid, was on and on about music. What punk bands do you like, what about the Sex Pistols and The Jam? No, Sid wasn’t so fond of them. She didn’t say so, but it was actually because she wasn’t fond of men. Marilyn Manson was one of the rare exceptions able to amuse her, but she didn’t say so either.

  “What’s your favorite band of the moment?” He asked.

  With her left thumb pointed back to the stage she answered:

  “They’re here tonight.”

  “And your favorite band of all times?”

  She thought hard, having decided to humour him (shit, too good for my own good):

  “Patti Smith Group.” Her favorite lullaby when she was 18 and the fairground would blast her ears out late into the night. Patti had always been there for her, helping her to forget the noisy world.

  The slightly speech-impedimented 37-year-old struck with his best ace:

  “You’ve got the hots for the singer! You gave her a bottle of whisky!”

  She corrected out of habit: “It was not whisky, it was mescal.” And laughed, suddenly aware that after all these years of rumours, legends and gossips, she was relaxed about the assumption. Or was it the drugs? Back in the nineties she had been credited with having the hots for Joan Armatrading. During her too long stay in stinky Paris she had been suspected of fancying her music partner (a very short musical association). And every now and then, she had been told she was crazy for quite a few of her favorite friends and acquaintances, mostly performers, for their gorgeous looks or their tattoos or their piercings or their shaved heads. When she had mentioned the name of the Bristol-based Rita Lynch, she had heard the comments behind her back. But today, her paranoia held at bay, she was beyond caring, and maybe beyond reach. So, why not adding Terri from Second Look to the fancy “hot list”. They would never figure her out. They would never understand that Sid, or whatever her name was, was obsessed with music, possessed with music and belonged to music. Her heart was probably somewhere else, she probably didn’t know where herself.

  * * * * * * *

  Meanwhile, Alexi, Lita and Jenny, were sipping their schnapps, contemplating an old Second Look sticker on one of the big speakers in front of the stage: the fuzzy profile of a smiling skull.

  “Cool!” exclaimed Alexi. “It would make a cool tattoo!”

  The tapestry against the back wall of the stage mesmerized Jenny. It reminded her of a childhood TV favorite. This mighty rider only needed a Z meaning Zorro across, instead of the name of the band.

  And then at last, Second Look were on stage, Dawn wearing a silver, shiny top, one of many stashed in her wardrobe, and Terri a sober, black T-shirt affiliating her with every possible bad girl in the world. One could expect her to live up to the label. She started haranguing the audience, counting the “virgins” sandwiched between the screaming groupies. Ah, the night was about to be great. After a few words of appreciation about the banners at their Mardi Gras gig the previous Saturday, Terri launched her voice into their first gripping number. One of the many variations on the will you be the one theme.

  A heavily pierced and tattooed woman got up and took the empty space between stage and tables, a look of beatification all over her face. Green Mohican joined in, rhythm had taken her body over. Sid’s second rule: never go on an empty dance floor, too easy, second is best. Alexi decided to wait. Lita and Jenny preferred a bit of a crowd.

  For the second song, the audience watched Sid dancing all over the floor, on her own, but proud and comfortable. Wild, free. Her eyes darting left and right. Crossing swords with the punters. Their eyes unknowingly transferring energy to her manic feet, her supple joints and her moving limbs. The more they looked, the harder she danced.

  By the time Terri started to go on about wearing the star of the sheriff, she had had a few shots of tequila and the crowd had warmed hot to her voice, to Dawn’s music, to the point of breaking their restraining chains and taking over the dance floor. Lita was pogoing just in front of the singer. Alexi, who, like everyone else wanted to give the singer “five” when she’d ask for it, was there, too. The ambiance was electric. Alexi’s eyes were everywhere, spying on Green Mohican and every woman with a touch of original style. And there was someone attracting her attention more than Green Mohican or the charismatic Terri for once. It was the unknown woman, whose black and white hair seemed to cascade down so freely and fleetingly to her waist. Whenever Alexi would try to catch her eyes, the stranger would disappear behind a boring dancer. But Alexi was sure, this woman whose looks were close to mesmerizing, this woman was occasionally gazing at her, gypsy eyes staring at her very soul.

  The first set ended and Jenny reminded Alexi it was her round. The unknown beauty had vanished.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  (Second Set)

  “Where are you / I’m looking for you / Heaven help you / When I find you”

  (Nikki Lamborn and Catherine “The Been” Feeney)

  To start their second set Terri didn’t bother with any fancy introduction. Possibly weary of Sid’s reactions, the writer having proven a bit of a wild card. Terri didn’t know that Sid intended to be on her best behavior by then. This was what Sid wanted to think, in her wildest dreams.

  The singer started stomping the stage with her heavy fancy boots, roaring loud and clear Janis Joplin’s acapella prayer to The Lord, just in case He’d be in a mood good enough to grant her wish for a Mercedes-Benz. She had swapped her Bad Girl T-shirt for a black, lacy one; maybe God will be more impressed. If not, it at least gave an extra opportunity for the crowd to stare at her quality tattoos. Dragons, uncoiling their long tails and spitting their fire, one on each arm, one Chinese, one Japanese.

  The whole audience thrived to sing along, and when Terri waved the microphone in their direction for the repeat of the first verse, they, of course, did badly, according to Terri’s standards, and she told them so! Ah, performers, the more talented, the harder on the fans.

  The success thundered in the venue, but next, it was Take a Little Piece of My Heart… She had the audience under a tightly-woven spell, in the palm of her hand. She had undisputed power over the enthralled groupies. Sid was watching on, more and more carried away by the music and increasingly overwhelmed by the denser and denser energy of the crowd, her eyes needing to hook into people’s eyes on a more intense basis, for an extra burst of ener
gy. In between scanning the crowd she was number one for audience participation.

  Terri opened the bottle of mescal between two numbers, shouted over the punters: “Thanx, Sid, wherever you are!” moved her head to her right side and spotted the writer who had cut herself an almost cozy corner in front of Dawn’s keyboards. The singer handed the bottle over and Sid, savouring the taste of Mexican alcohol, thought that every time tequila went down her throat, it always had something to do with the Second Look singer. Why not, at least, she’d be bound to keep sober.

  * * * * * * *

  The mesmerizing woman with gypsy eyes and gothic looks had, at first, focused her attention on the woman with the green mohican, tattoos and cut-off, kaki trousers. But this woman, despite an obvious sensitivity spilling out of her every pore, was in no way responding to her power of suggestion. She was somehow protected by the very music possessing her body, by the very voice tearing at her heart. Whenever she’d catch her attention, and the briefest moment should have been enough, the dancer seemed to amazingly gain extra energy and dance even more wildly. Ah, she would be no easy prey, she would be enjoyable prey.

  But song after song, the gypsy-eyed woman felt increasingly frustrated. Her chosen victim was more and more lost to her power, more and more lost to the world. It was getting seriously tiring. What cat-and-mouse game was that?

  Moving on to an easier quarry was becoming a safer bet. She needed to feed. The small woman with brown, short hair and grey eyes, who had been watching her on and off, would be that choice. So eager. An easy toy to play with, to tease, eyes flirting, maybe yes, maybe no, dancing bodies ideal props for a creature of great will. Just tantalize her, make her want, make her burn up with desire, pull her leash tighter and tighter.