Thursday – 10th October – 7:10
pm
Now what
to do? The band had cancelled all gigs for the next ten days as some sort of
mark of respect. Respect? What did they know about respect? Ten days of
morning. Was that all Lorretta
deserved? All she was worth? It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense
anymore. But Mark had his ticket and he was ready; ready and more determined
than ever. He had crossed off the days, then the hours. Now it was only twenty
minutes until the doors opened. Cars rushed down the busy main road, their
headlights bright against the evening’s falling darkness. Was Damien there yet?
Probably not. Mark stood in the queue amongst the usual clan of crawling black
ants and stick insects. This was becoming familiar. He could almost see himself
getting used to this sort of life; waiting, earnestly for evening to arrive,
getting dressed in his finest clothes, spending hours preening, getting his
hair just right. Yes, tonight he even looked the part. He’d spent the whole
week shopping for clothes. And what a chore it had been. Usually, Lorretta
bought most of his clothes for him; a pair of jeans for his birthday, a jumper
for Christmas, a t-shirt now and then as a surprise, socks, underpants, (what
sort of man bought his own underpants?). He only shopped for important things;
a new lens, a better set of lights for his home studio, rolls and rolls of
top-quality film. Yes, these things he knew about – clothes and any sort of
fashion he did not. Did the new black jeans look OK? And the (also black)
shirt? What about the studded belt – and the skull & dagger bootlace tie?
Should he have got DMs rather than winkle pickers? His pinched toes old him
“yes”. Was the overcoat “cool” or not? It was certainly necessary tonight – and
not just to keep him warm. Was his hair OK? The countless rows of gels sprays,
mousses and styling lotions had left him baffled. His fingers were still
stained from the dye. He kept them firmly in his pockets. He surveyed the
crowd. Were those people looking at him for tips, or because he looked out of
place?
God,
he needed Lorretta. Needed her more than ever. More than anything. Sometimes,
he still couldn’t believe it was true. How he missed her. Yet he could still
see her everywhere he went, everywhere he looked. He still expected her to run
up and tap him on the shoulder at any moment – to turn around and see her
smiling face; to wake up in the morning and feel her warm body beside him; to
hear her in the shower or see her at the mirror, putting her make-up on. But
all this made his task even more important. Even more urgent.
The
crowd shuffled forward. Mark began to sweat like he’d never sweated before. His
heart beat like it had never beat before. His throat felt tight. Blood pounded
in his head.
The
outstretched hand took his ticket. He took the multi-coloured stub back and
quickly pocketed it. That would be a souvenir. Tonight would be the night that
he found out the truth. Truth? Truth? Was he going mad? Had Lorretta’s death
affected his mind? But he’d been having these crazy thoughts for too long now;
since before he’d gone to the States. Could he be right? It was all too absurd
to even think about. Strong arms felt up and down his body, in his coat
pockets, under his coat, up and down his legs. Nothing there. He was safe.
Approved.
He
was in the men’s loos, trap four, right at the end. Don’t want to be disturbed.
Someone had been here before him. He read the lines on the wall.
Take
me for what I am
And
that I be no more
Knew
those words. They were from a song. But which song? Third Denial was it called? He thought so. What did it mean? Surely
not.
Eager
fingers pulled at the lining of his coat. The hasty, ill-formed stitches gave
way easily. He reached down. There it was, in his hands; the tiny camera.
Quickly pocketing it, he made his way to take up position at the front of the
stage.
It
was nearly two hours later when the black curtain went up for the final time. A
wave of cold, green mist rolled towards him, the bright lights almost blinding
him. Mark could barely see the grass-covered mounds or the figure that stood
amongst them. A slow, solemn, familiar noise began to surround him.
Then there he was. Standing up. Feet still
in the coffin he had been seeking refuge in. He stepped out, vile words
emitting from his mouth.
Mark knew this song, it was The
Resurrection Dance. Oh, if only it were true. If only the dead could rise up again. Oh, it was sick, sick,
sick. There was his Lorretta, lying back in some London morgue, awaiting her
trip to the furnace – and this guy, this stupid, ignorant guy, was just simply
standing there making a mockery of death. It was horrible; sick and horrible.
It had to be stopped.
The music speeded up. It was in his ears,
his head, his whole body. It began to rumble and quake in his bones. His whole
being was alive; electrified. His eyes scanned earnestly for his prey, who was
now ducking and darting amongst the false mounds of earth and crumbling
tombstones. Behind him, the crowd was surging back and forth, pressing him in
rib-crushing waves up against the hard stage. Knees and elbows dug into his
back, arms hung limply over his head and shoulders. The crowd going wilder; Mark’s
ribs feeling like they were going to explode. One hand reached up to his neck
and felt under his collar. A good tug. The metal shape felt comforting in his
palm. Damien was lurching backwards and forwards, tempting and teasing. A foot
on Mark’s shoulder, a hand on his head. The pressure from behind increasing
then lessening again as Damien moved
away, to carry out an assault on another part of the front row. Then he was
back again. Back and kneeling down. Face to face; the hunter and the hunted.
But which was which? Mark stretched an arm forward, the crucifix glinted under
the lights, inches from the star’s face. Damien pulled back, almost as if in
fear. Realising what it was, he took the amulet swiftly from Mark’s grasp,
twirling it around by the chain, rising to his feet, and then letting it go,
watching it spinning forwards, over the heads of the crowd. Eager arms reached
up.
Once more, the singer returned, falling to
his knees in a tormented pose. He had his eye on Mark. Mark had his eye on
Damien. His eye! It was hidden – hidden by a camera!!
Mark hardly saw the two burly bouncers as
they lifted him roughly by the arms out of the crush, dragging him feet-first
backstage.
Less than thirty minutes later, Mark was in
his car heading back down the M4 towards London. An already-saturated
handkerchief dabbing at his bloodied nose. His broken camera on the seat beside
him.
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Created April 2001
Updated 1st December
2008
Webmistress Jackie Askew
Email jackie.askew @
clara.co.uk
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