Authors: Debbie Johnson
I can feel it oozing from them: their craving for applause, for money, for sex, for approval. For oblivion, in some cases, from the seething mass that lives inside their brains. I can feel it, and on a few occasions, I’ve seen it too: a casual hug at the end of the night as the roadies pack up their gear and wheel the amps into the back of the van. That’s all it takes, sometimes – that unrequested embrace. Then the blur appears, along with the vision – of them and their future. All very well when it involves a job at Costco or getting their girlfriends knocked up. Not so good when it involves needles and spoons and sordid corners of squalid rooms. Bad juju, and nothing I want to know about, thank you very much.
Hence me keeping my distance. And wearing long sleeves all the time, even on hot summer nights when the sweat threatens to drown me. The flashes don’t happen often, and there needs to be flesh-on-flesh contact to kick-start the spinning brain. I’ve picked up a few coping techniques over the years, and wrapping myself up like a mummy is one of them. Still, as long as I dress in black – the unofficial uniform of the music world – nobody seems to think it’s odd. This is also an environment that tolerates – in fact, encourages – the unorthodox: another thing that appeals to me.
As the tech guys came on stage to fiddle with the backline, I felt someone stand next to me. Felt it strongly, with such a tug that I had to fight not to turn round and stare at them. I’m usually hyper-aware of other people around me, logging them purely as obstacles to be avoided. But this was different. This felt … magnetic.
I gripped the beer bottle in my right hand and, in readiness, fished my mobile phone out of my pocket with my left. Like a good Girl Scout, I am always prepared to avoid human contact, although I am fairly sure that wasn’t in the Girl Scout handbook.
I glanced around for Kevin, the barman who usually kept an eye out for me, but he was nowhere to be seen.
‘You’ll like the next band,’ the man said in a whisper. A whisper I shouldn’t have heard so clearly, not with the near-nuclear noise levels in the club as the DJ kicked in, playing ‘Uprising’ by Muse very loud indeed. Loud enough that everyone else had to shout into each other’s ears through cupped hands.
Not this guy, though. Not Mr Whisper. His voice – tinged with the soft lilt of Ireland – came in loud and clear, like it was hot-wired directly into my head.
‘Will I?’ I asked, quietly, hoping he wouldn’t hear and would go away. Again, I fought not to turn around. I don’t know why. I just had the strangest feeling that I shouldn’t. Like I said, I’m weird.
‘Oh yes. They’re kind of Velvet Underground meets Mazzy Star,’ he said, naming two of my favourite bands. Again, I heard him, clear as day. And he’d heard me too, which was even odder.
I gave in. Couldn’t resist any more. Maybe he had hearing aids or something. I turned round to get a look at Mr Whisper, the man with the supersonic aural abilities.
He was tall, a few inches over six feet. Which meant that even at my five nine, I had to gaze upwards. Thick dark hair, just touching his shoulders. Shoulders that were broad and nicely filling out a skinny-fit black T-shirt that left little to the imagination. I suppose if I were built like Captain America, I’d dress like that too. A wide mouth, high cheekbones, and eyes that were … odd. Under the near-fluorescent tube lighting of the bar, they were an unusual shade of deep blue. Almost purple, in fact. Must be some kind of freaky contact lenses.
‘They’re not. Contact lenses,’ he said, smiling. Before I could wonder how the hell that happened and whether I’d accidentally said it out loud, he offered me his hand.
‘I’m Gabriel,’ he said. ‘Gabriel Cormac.’
I ignored his hand, held up both of mine to show they were occupied with beer and phone, did my usual apologetic grin as I lied and said it was nice to meet him. In fact, it wasn’t nice to meet him. It was scary and strange and it felt all wrong. And I was sure as hell glad I’d taken the time to prep my handshake-avoidance routine.
‘Nice tactic,’ he replied, nodding down at my hands. ‘Almost like you’ve done that before. Have you considered gloves?’
I stared at him, trying to decide what he meant. Did he know? Or did he just have a glove fetish? I couldn’t tell, and was left wondering whether I should leave to get a taxi home or hit him with the beer bottle. He was alarmingly gorgeous, and seemed to know far too much about me. Probably a hallucination, I decided. Let’s face it, it wouldn’t be the first time. Because when I’m not busy getting psychic future-flashes of random people’s lives, I sometimes see dead people. Or imaginary people. Or future people. I never quite know, and it never lasts long enough for me to figure it out – mainly due to the whole going-unconscious-and-falling-over thing that tends to happen just after.
OK. Deep breaths. Cool, calm and collected. That, at least, was the plan. I edged away from Gabriel a few inches. That tug I’d felt earlier was getting stronger: I actually wanted to touch him. And that is something that has never happened to me before in living memory. I have some vague images of my mother before she died: of hugs and cuddles and the holding of hands. But they are so painful, so raw and agonising, that I learned long ago to shut them down straight away.
Since then, since I was six, I’ve avoided physical contact with anyone. Even my nan, who took me in and raised me after my parents were killed. She’s a hard woman anyway, not given to physical displays of affection. Or any other kind, in fact. The one time she did touch me – a brief hand on the shoulder at the funeral – I saw her death. I saw her in a hospital bed, with tubes in her nose, and her heart beating on a machine. And I saw a woman I now recognise as the grown-up me, sitting next to her. Fun times.
Even back then, when I was little, I didn’t tell anyone. I knew they’d think I was nuts. Distraught after losing my parents. Unbalanced. All of which may well have been true, but it’s happened so many times since that I now accept it as a part of my screwed-up life. The lesson? Don’t touch people. Ever.
And yes, brothers and sisters, that whole not-touching thing has been fantastic for my sex life. My non-existent sex life. I may be the only twenty-six-year-old virgin left in Liverpool. Or possibly the world.
Now, out of the blue, along comes this man – this Gabriel Cormac – with his wry comments and his violet eyes and his white skin over perfectly sculpted biceps. Making me want to reach out and touch him. A lot. I clenched my hands into fists, and shoved them into my pockets.
‘Sorry, I can’t hear you properly,’ I lied, deciding avoidance was the best policy. Hey, it’s worked for years, why change now?
‘Yes you can, Lily,’ he replied, looking incredibly amused. And incredibly smug.
‘How do you know my name?’
‘I know a lot about you, Lily McCain. And you could know a lot about me as well, if you’d been polite enough to shake my hand …’
Yeah, I thought. Like how you die; the day you first cough up blood; how depressed you feel the night you decide to take that whole bottle of diazepam … all of which I’ve encountered before. Quite the head-fuck. And somehow, I had the feeling that the man with the eyes would have a very interesting future ahead of him. One I wanted no part of. He already seemed to know far more about me than I was comfortable with.
‘Anyway,’ he said, his gaze drifting over my shoulder and towards the stage. ‘The band’s on. Tell me what you think.’
Glad of the distraction, I turned away from his piercing look, and watched as the stage lighting – set to ‘moody’ – kicked in. The band was already in place, dark silhouettes against the purple haze. A spotlight homed in on the girl singer, and a collective ‘wow’ hummed through the audience. She cradled the mic like a lover, held it close to lusciously full lips painted a vivid blood red. Hair you could only describe as sable flowed in thick waves over her shoulders, trailing over creamy white skin to a dramatically plunging neckline. Boobs you’d kill for, or at least spend a good few grand paying Dr Feelgood to create for you.
She waited until the crowd stilled, which miraculously it did. Her voice purred into the mic, a whisper of liquid honey backed by a steady thrum of bass. A low murmur ran through the room as the pace picked up, a seduction of sound so sensual that I started to feel a responding thrum in my hips. I looked around the Coconut Shy. Everyone was watching her, even the bouncers at the back and the professionally bored girl who ran the coat check-in.
I looked back at the band, and let out a quiet yelp. They’d changed. They were … skeletons. The singer was nothing but bone, microphone grasped by yellowing metacarpals, the sable hair gone and replaced by the curved dome of a bare skull, glowing in the spotlight.
The enchanted swaying of the crowd continued, mesmerised. No recoiling in horror. No gasps of shock. I was clearly the only one witnessing this transformation. Lucky old me.
I knew what would happen next, and leaned back against the bar in preparation, feeling the beer bottle slip from my fingers and smash unheard on the floor. The buzzing started, then the heat, then the slow-motion slip from sanity. It feels like fainting, on steroids.
I woke up God knows how long afterwards, with my face resting against something warm and hard. Warm and hard, and pounding with a throbbing heartbeat. Strong arms around me; gentle breath on my face. It was Gabriel, and my head was nestled against his chest.
My instincts didn’t know which way to react: panic, because I was in a man’s arms, or regret because I knew I had to get out of them. And soon.
‘It’s all right, Lily,’ he said, that whisper straight into my brain again. His arms tightened slightly, pulling my body closer against his.
‘No, no it’s not … you don’t understand,’ I stammered, wriggling to try and break free, and succeeding only in increasing the contact between us. He smiled, his eyes hypnotic, and reached out to my face. He stroked my cheek, ran his fingers slowly along my jaw, held me still.
‘I do understand. And it’s all right. Just relax.’
I felt his skin burning into mine, and a whoosh of sensation I’d never experienced before. Like my nerves had been jolted with electricity.
I saw it then: the vision. Me. Him. Naked. Tangled in sheets, with a whole lot of kissing going on. My body on fire with need, his fingers stroking places that had never been touched before.
As quickly as it came, it went. I screwed up my eyes, tried to shake it from my mind. Reality. Back to it, pronto, girl. Get loose, get up, get away.
I clambered to my feet, holding on to the bar to keep myself upright, feeling about as steady as Bambi on speed. Realised, luckily, that nobody had noticed, and if they had they’d assumed I was just drunk. The band was still on, still human. Still holding the whole room in thrall.
Gabriel stood up with a lot more grace than I had, which I don’t suppose would have been hard. He looked at me quizzically, his head tilted to one side, the violet eyes shining from his undeniably beautiful face.
‘What did you see?’ he asked. ‘Was it interesting? Fun?’
I was so not going to answer that question, and instead, once I’d regained the power of speech, parried with one of my own. A big one.
‘Who are you?’
‘A friend, Lily. But more to the point – who are you? Did you know that Lily McCain isn’t even your real name? And what do you know about your parents?’
I slammed my fists into his chest as hard as I could, and shoved. I suspect it was only the element of surprise that made him budge, as I’m not blessed with superhuman strength. Just superhuman weirdness. I ran for the door, and out into the chill October night.
I stood in the street, heart racing, the driving rain slapping my face like dozens of icy hands.
I scanned the road for a black cab, felt the soaking splash of tyres hitting a puddle as a car screeched in response to my upraised hand.
I climbed in and slammed the door behind me, hard.
He was right, I thought, as the engine revved and the boxy black cab started to cut its way through the neon night. What
do
I know about my parents?
I headed for safety: the
Liverpool Gazette
office. Not home – where all I’d find would be a cold bed, junk mail, and the tangle of my own thoughts – but work. The place where I’d been gainfully employed for the last five years, and the place where I knew I’d find the closest thing I had to a friend.
The office is vast and open plan, mainly empty at night, like a call centre without the staff. And without the cleaners: a thick layer of dust always seems to coat everything, even the wide green leaves of the neglected potted palms that are scattered around the hangar-like room.
Even in the day, the lighting is industrial, due to the fact that there are no windows. The perfect working environment for the creative mind. Not.
I swiped my security card, nodded at the sole guard, who was busy reading a Jackie Collins novel at the front desk, and ran into the newsroom.
Clusters of desks were set up in small pods according to their function: news desk, reporters, feature writers, subeditors, designers. Upholstered swivel chairs that had seen better days were dotted around at various angles, as though invisible bodies had abandoned them mid-swing.
I heard Carmel on the phone, saw her leaning forward with her face in her hands, dark hair falling on to the desk as she sighed in exasperation.
‘Yes, Mr McCauley, I do understand. The alien invaders are coming, attracted by the wheelie bins. Because they’re purple. I get it. What I’d suggest is this – why don’t you go outside, and spray paint your wheelie bin a different colour?’
She paused, taking the opportunity to bang her head gently on the desk, then said, ‘Yes. I think orange would look lovely. Goodbye, Mr McCauley. Sleep well, and don’t forget to take those tablets the doctor gave you.’
She hung up and met my eyes as I sat down opposite her.
‘Aliens?’ I said, raising my eyebrows. ‘Again?’
The night shift at the
Gazette
is notorious for the freaks and weirdos that crawl out of the woodwork, feeling the need to communicate their fears and paranoia. You need to be part news hound and part psychiatric nurse to cope with it. It’s probably why I’ve always felt so comfortable there. I don’t have to come in to the office during the day, and by 2 a.m. my life seems comparatively normal next to the stories that pour in to Carmel’s ‘news’ hotline.