1Iris music club, Camden, London
I raised a hand in supplication to the metal framework laddering the ceiling, mouth wide as if with pain, voice rising to the gloom. The sea of shadows before me stretches to the back of the club, where damp and mould cling to the walls like lipstick traces on a lost shirt. I search the people arrayed before me, my audience, my fans, my hate. Photonegatives of dusky dancers, awash with delicately smudged eyes, lovingly rouged lips in unnatural colours, hair back combed to a frenzy of blacks and neons that sways softly in time to my voice, which now dips and swirls, to twine yet again round the hypnotic rhythm of the reverb guitar. I can see the shadows already - not natural to this dank and beautiful club. But what in this place is natural? I smile to myself, a ghostly smile that is more like a grimace that exposes my teeth, as the sound of the music rattles around the room searching for escape. Gaunt and bone white, writing onstage. The flickering on the edge of my vision grows, and I know it is nearly time. I lunge sideways, drawing to a crouch to reach out to the bruised faces of those below me, expelling the last shred of air from my lungs in a long drawn out note that seems to echo dully round the damp chamber in the silence heavier than water. The sound lingers for a second, and I wait, heart stuttering as I feel everyone around me hold their breath. I pause and inhale fitfully, but I find no reward except the deepening of the shadows behind my eyes, which now seem to reach out into my life and snatch odd colours here and there - so for a second the bright red strobe light will appear dull grey, or the orange eye shadow of a daring fan will be white.
My breath is ragged as I chant the chorus to the drone of the bass line; the heady thunder of the guitar almost succeeds in chasing away the shadows for a split second. The words come unbidden to my lips and I fling them free to the hungry minds of the hundred children of the night, which fill the small club. The place is largely unknown, which is perhaps why our band managed to get a gig there. But I don't care about the number of fans, I don't even care about the music anymore, all I care about is the life. My throat is sore now; this is the last song we are due to perform as our pitiful stance as an opening act. My voice is the best there, probably the best that will ever be there. But no one answers me; the crowds stare and sway with their accusingly shadowed eyes that flicker from coloured to grey. Suddenly, my eyes lock with a pair that are not many shades of grey, but pure violet. I would know those eyes anywhere. But not here, not now…. my voice falters and dies, and I see the heads of the audience fly up in confusion. The guitar line groans a complaint - he is waiting for me to start the verse again, he is playing the bridge again and my cue is now. I miss it, because I have forgotten the words. I gape uselessly, my eyes fixed with amethyst ones that seem to penetrate my soul. Nothing else matters.
But the eyes are turning down, unsettled by my staring - as if they don't recognise me. He turns and walks away, shaking his head in mild disgust, silver gold lustre of his hair framing his luminously chiselled face. A glare replacing the smile I am so used to seeing. The smile only I can see. I am on the floor, the stage, and it is hard beneath palms. I have pulled the microphone from its stand and it clunks to the floor with a dull thud, barely audible over the determined strumming of the guitar, the echo of the drum as my band desperately try to pull the performance up around me. The blond head and swirl of leather jacket is gone, lost into the crowd of children and dreamers that cluster urgently round the stage. They know something is wrong, and so do I. I need to find him - I can't lose him, not when that life is so close within my grasp. I can't lose him, not now.
I turn away from the crowd and walk towards the back of the stage, the drummer and guitarist spare me confused looks, and my furious bassist breaks off his doomed repetition of our song to head towards me, reaching out to grasp my arm. I shrug free of his uncareful grip. I stride through to the back, through our dressing room, my black t shirt sticking to the sweat that drips down my back, faded hair the colour of a raven wing feathering in a frenzy round my jaw line, tight black jeans rubbing against my shoes with a rough noise that disturbs the dusty silence of the dressing room, just audible over the grumbling of the crowd outside. I hear footsteps and turn round just in time to be caught by my bassist. Heri stares at me with injured eyes, baby blue and large - they dominate his face above soft pink lips and silken coffee cream skin - a sugar candy confection pale as rain. Giving lie to the flush of anger that flashes dangerously in his eyes and burns his rounded cheeks, unable to take a breath.
"Tal, what do you think you are doing? What happened - we could have been great out there, we were great! Why…what…?!" I didn't have time for this, I wrenched my arm free of his tight grip - succeeding in causing uncomfortable amounts of pain, and stormed determinedly to the door I knew led to the audience.
I broke into a run down the hall, hearing the feet of Heri behind me, hearing his betrayed accusations that followed me like crows in the shadows that rose like a tide against my vision. I beat it back, although by sheer force of will. I make the doors and shove my way through the crowds of black fabric and silver teeth, waves of anger and confusing trailing me like insistent puppies. I pay it all no heed, searching and yearning for only one person. Only one face with one set of glowing indigo eyes. He is not there. I knew he would not be. The crowds part gratefully as I stagger towards the entrance, desperate, stumbling into the doors and falling outside to tumble into the rain. I don't feel its cold caress against my heated skin. The only thing I know is that the long street to either side is deserted - no figure waits for me. Only the every greatening tide of shadows at the edge of my vision wait to sweep me away, chattering with the acid rush anticipation. Strong hands grasp my shoulders with kindness and anger, a string of curses and bitter words herald me as I am dragged bodily back into the club. I don't even notice Heri's terrified eyes, uncaring off the hands that flutter frantically over my skin, worried and scared and confused. As childlike as his face shows him. I'm not even aware of Heri's existence.