It was a sunny day; much brighter and warmer than it had any right to be so early in the year. It was nearing the end of March, and he had spent most of the day roaming around the city centre aimlessly. Looking like any of a thousand as he rummaged through CD’s he couldn’t pay for and clothes he wouldn’t wear.
He was a nobody for all anyone knew, with tattooed arms and pierced ears he wasn’t so different from the others; they all wore their uniform of youth, all identical in their quest to be unique.
He had shaved his head to the skin some time before and it had just begun to grow back, along with a few days’ worth of stubble it gave him a roguish look. He sometimes caught the looks of women who passed him, believing he saw in some the mingled glint of fear and desire reflected in their eyes.
It would embarrass him if confronted with it, all his outward confidence and preeminence hiding the insecurities he always felt. All that smoke and not a lick of flame to back it up, but as it turned out, his bluff was about to be called.
The small music store had only one entrance and poor lighting, lending the grubby little place the look of a deep, dark cave as he stepped inside, making his way along the scratch-built racks of second-hand CD’s and vinyl. To his left a pit of light shone, a stairwell down into the shop’s basement, a sign above it swung slightly in the breeze from the open door, it read; ‘Alternative-Unsigned’. He looked around at the other people in the small record store, all of them buried in their respective shelves of music, and then he turned toward the narrow stairs.
Below the stairs wound down, the other end invisible around a curve of rough brick wall. He took a step, then another before he heard it, a low, moody melody accompanied by the most beautiful of voices.
On the third step the heel of his toe-capped boot slipped on the smooth worn concrete and his body toppled uncontrollably over. His head struck the wall with enough force to drive bright sparks through his skull, the world around him spanned and the wall rushed over and smashed into his head again. His head struck the steps and walls again and again, each one stripping away more consciousness until, when he landed at the never-ending steps foot; he was caught in a whirlpool of shapes and colours.
The first thing he knew of her existence was a small, strong hand wrapped around his arm, her weight pressing briefly against his side as she pulled him upright. He heard CD’s crash across the floor and a man’s voice cry out in annoyance. His head swam and slipped momentarily into darkness and, in a sudden moment of clarity he noticed the lovely music had stopped.
When he came to, he was on a large, torn couch that sat at the basements far end, and the first thing he saw were the steps that led up into the darkness.
Around him were shelves crammed full of every breed and category of music and format imaginable. Above the lights burned a comforting soft orange and not a sound was audible from neither upstairs nor the world outside. Then the clatter of plastic on plastic from the far corner beside the stairs broke the silence.
She turned and placed the CD’s back on the shelf and around her time seemed to slow as she looked over to him, her large brown eyes showing a frank curiosity. Her dark hair was brutally short, showing the light brown of her scalp. Her full lips curled into a smile, and she walked over to him. The baggy jeans she wore nearly covering her huge boots and, as if in comparison, her home cropped t-shirt barely covered her small breasts, the legend ‘Look Homeward Angel’ on it hardly twisted out of shape.
His eyes drifted over her, taking in the black scorpion tattoo that was half hidden by her white tops sleeve, and the thick scar that travelled from beside her navel, down the flat chocolate of her tummy to disappear under the thick, bunched waistband of her jeans. Her cheekbones were high and her mouth large, her lips plump and pale brown, naked of any colour. Her short, backcombed hair wasn’t the only thing brutal about her; her beauty was too, uncompromising, vicious. It had been no more than five seconds since he had laid eyes on her, but by that time he had already lost any battle that his common sense may have put up against his desire. If he had retained enough intellect to think with anything resembling coherence, he would have known that he had lost himself to this nameless girl.
“Are you feeling better?” She asked, and his mind swam back into his head. Her voice was quiet, little more than a sighing of words, but every note of her speech could be heard to perfection, and beneath them was the unmistakable tone of a woman who wasn’t used to talking to others.
The woman turned and walked back to the CD rack, placing the remainder of the fallen CD cases back onto the shelf. Her eyes wandered over them, a dozen clear plastic cases littering the basement floor. It was a simple, unremarkable act that a thousand people do in a thousand cities every day was elevated to a performance that no one could match on any stage.
With her chore finished she placed one hand on the displays edging, steadying herself as her gaze rose slowly to his face. The pressure of her eyes skating over his body, her lips parting slightly in a moist, laconic smile as her look met his own. Her free hand rose in the air and hung motionless a foot from his stomach and stunned, he found that he had climbed to his feet and walked over to her without realising it.
He stood bewildered staring at her slender fingers dumbly before a spark of awareness lit his mind and he took her hand in his own.
“Well, would you give a girl a hand?” She asked, hardly needing the help but enough of a lady to request it. She stood and he found her to be no taller than his shoulder, but her strength of character made her fill the room.
“Be careful, he can get nasty.” She said. “Don’t talk to him, don’t respond to him, just help me move my things, okay?”
He nodded.
It had only been three days, only seventy-two hours and only forty-eight of those awake but he had spent almost every minute of them with her; and he wasn’t entirely sure how that had happened.
The evening he had met her she had initially insisted he go to the hospital but this he had resisted; and her attempt was a half hearted one. Bolstered by that youthful belief in his own immortality he had told her he needed to get back home, and rest and he’d be fine the following morning; so, she had insisted on walking him home.
This he didn’t resist.
By the time they left the record store it was already dark, the stars seemed far brighter than they should have been, and the moon hung in the sky shining with a brilliance he had never seen. The walk took no more than quarter of an hour but felt far shorter and he was relieved when he opened his front door, and she asked if she could be invited in. For a moment he didn’t answer her, and she stood on the threshold looking far younger than her years. He had smiled a smile that had never felt more heartfelt and said, “You’re always welcome.” And she had walked past him into his home.
They had remained awake until the early hours of the morning talking, the conversation had moved from music to movies and then from movies to politics. She knew history as if she had lived it and philosophy as if she had read every paper ever printed; quickly he began to just listen without interruption contently listening to her near whisper as she commented on this and explained that and as the dark sky began to fade to blue she had asked to stay, he had said yes and they slept.
As he drifted into sleep it had occurred to him that he didn’t even know this strange woman’s name, but it felt unimportant as if she never really needed one.
When they awoke the sun had already sunk below the horizon, so they had woken to darkness. What greeted him was ten minutes of confusion tinged with a peculiar combination of anticipation and panic when he opened his eyes and saw her face. She was still sleeping on the couch next to him, her smell reminded him of barbecues his family had when he was a child, it was smoky and somehow comforting and some part of him realised he was in love.
But that was absurd wasn’t it, after only a day?
“Are you listening?” She said, this time he thought he could hear fear in her voice. “Patrick, are you listening?”
The use of his name snapped him from his reverie. She sang the name, rolling the A in a breathy sigh that made something in him flutter.
“Do not get into an argument with him; it won’t end well.” She said, her eyes unflinching and Patrick nodded.
Reluctantly she turned and approached one of the doors, her free hand resting on the handle she waited a moment, taking one deep breath; she swung it inward and led him through the door. Inside it was a house like any other, walls were papered, and pictures hung on them, the floor was carpeted, and chairs sat on it; there was nothing out of the ordinary and for a moment he didn’t see him. Then a shadow moved, and he saw the man that was sat on a leather upholstered chair in the far corner. The lamp beside him flickered and bathed him in a harsh arc of light, illuminating one side of his face.
His clothes were dark, as was his hair and he wore a small pair of circular blue sunglasses that hid his eyes entirely. His black leather jacket was worn to grey in places and the buckles and zips, once silver, were now rusted to a blood red.
He didn’t move, he didn’t twitch, and it was unlikely he was even blinking behind those blue lenses. His face was striking, almost beautiful in its simple perfection and the room was filled with his menace.
His name was Sebastian and immediately Patrick felt all the insecurities and anxieties he had ever felt was embodied in this perfect creature and through it he suddenly knew that he had never hated anything before; because he now knew what hate felt like.
Sebastian stood in a fluid movement so quick it appeared as magic, and Patrick knew that he had never really felt fear before either.
The second night he had spent with the woman he realised there was something deeply wrong with her. Again, she spoke with eloquence and again he was gradually reduced to silence with her knowledge and understanding; but there was something else between the words.
At first, he thought it might have been a figment of his imagination, then that it was perhaps something cultural he was misreading; but eventually he began to see something else.
Her speech was the perfect enunciation of a singer, each word carefully but effortlessly spoken without mistake; and Patrick began to see a performance in her words and this discovery bred an anxiety in himself that things may not be quite as they seem.
Are they ever? He asked himself. Are things ever what we believe them to be; much less what we dream they could be?
She never miss-stepped and never miss-spoke; and her perfection seeded his own distrust. They had spoken about everything, but they had not spoken about her and as he tried to rectify this her speech became disjointed and dull; and slowly he found himself doing all the talking and he knew there was something wrong.
He tried to undo what he had done, he tried to return to the strange magic that had unfolded the night before, but something had broken and even as he watched her sleep during the dawn of the following day he feared he had done something he could not undo.
“I was wondering if you would turn up.” Sebastian said in a slow, tired voice. “Didn’t think you’d have the guts to be honest.”
He shifted and stood up, sauntering over to a door opposite the entrance and kicked it open. Inside was a small bedroom, the bed unmade, and the walls painted a dark red that sucked up all the light. Beside the bed was a collection of bags and he pointed at them theatrically.
Patrick felt the cool of the woman’s hand slip into his own and a gentle tug as she moved towards the room. Sebastian glanced at their entwined hands and his upper lip twitched and fell, as if wanting to grin but lacking the energy.
“You work fast.” He said. His tone was flat, but Patrick thought he could hear a thin shard of pain there and he felt himself cruelly swell at the prospect.
“Pity you couldn’t find anything better, or what is he, a snack?”
She ignored him; letting go of Patrick’s hand and grasping two bags and passed them to him. There were five of them, a handful of belongings that struck Patrick as sad, too much for her to carry alone but only by a little.
“Leave him be, Sebastian.” The woman barked and with his free hand he slowly pulled his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, staring over the top of them at Patrick. His eyes were a pale blue so subtle that they may have been mistaken for white. For a moment Patrick was caught like a rabbit in headlight beams waiting for the thick tires of a car to squash it flat.
“Sebastian?” The woman repeated menacingly, and his eyes moved from Patrick, their gaze sliding over her, up her slim body to her face. “You leave that man be!”
Sebastian smiled and raised his hands, showing her his palms with an exaggerated flourish.
She turned to the door and walked over to it slowly, putting down the large bag briefly as she opened it. Patrick followed uneasily, fighting the temptation to look over his shoulder at the angry and obviously dangerous man.
“I want you to stay.” Sebastian said and for the briefest of moments Patrick thought he felt pity for the man; but this quickly passed.
“It’s good to want things Sebastian,” she replied, “it builds something you desperately need; character.” And with that she walked from Sebastian’s life.
The third night together he had begun to suspect, but a part of him, the grown-up part of him that pays bills and shopped for kitchen wares, would not let him think on it consciously. Instead, something at the back of his mind considered and pondered and this part of him understood it all by the time the front of his brain had even considered the issue.
When he woke, he realised he had missed another day, and the sky outside was a bruise of purple and red. She was still sleeping, and he watched her, wondering how long this pocket universe they had created together could last. At some point he would have to brave the day once more and he feared that the sunlight would burn whatever they had away.
He rose and made something to eat, and it may have been the smell of frying eggs that roused her.
To begin with she didn’t speak. She refused the food and watched him as he ate; as he did, she slowly began to talk, and Patrick learned two things: her name and the name of the man she was planning to leave.
The Inferno nightclub was exactly halfway between where she used to live and where Patrick did; and it was here that they headed, laden down with the five bags with which they had fled.
Patrick was under no illusion whether this is what had happened, she had stood up to Sebastian, she had stared the man down; but Patrick couldn’t believe that she had not been terrified the whole time. He certainly had been, and he was certain that if Sebastian had wanted to force them to stay, they would have been in trouble.
Instead of the main doors she led them around and down a flight of steps to a basement door through which they entered the Inferno with the aid of a plain white card she passed through an electrical reader. The door led to a corridor and the corridor lead through to a dishevelled room that looked a lot like a place to discard old sound equipment. Here she dumped her luggage and Patrick followed suit; and then she led through another door and up a flight of wooden steps.
He could hear the noise from the dance floor, the music filtered of everything but the bass through the wood and stone of the old building. When the woman opened the door at the top of the stairs the sound hit them like a physical thing, and it was all Patrick could do not to recoil.
The nightclub was packed, all two stories and three bars bursting at the seams with people of all types, men watched as she passed, their eyes moving to Patrick with what he thought was with tangible envy. She led the way, pushing up to one of the bars and raising her hand to the bartender. He smiled back at her, waving one hand curtly in reply.
“Lana!” He exclaimed loudly as he walked over, ignoring the waving arms of people trying to attract his attention. “I thought it was your day off?!”
“This is a social call Jack,” she answered, pointing her thumb in Patrick’s direction, “can you get my friend whatever he wants and me a pint of my usual?”
Patrick watched as the large man peered around behind the bar, his frown traitorously informing on his ineptitude, Lana laughed and pointed to a bottle beneath the bar and Jack grasped for it pouring her a drink and placing it on the bar in front of her. The drink was dark and smelt thickly sweet.
The huge man turned, and Patrick peered up at him fearfully.
“Lager.” Patrick said. “Any kind, thank you.” The man, Jack, turned from him and selected a glass. “You work here?” Patrick asked the woman beside him, the bodies around them both pushing her uncomfortably close. She drank half her drink in one go and wiped her lower lip with her thumb. Jack passed Patrick his drink and refused the money offered.
“I’ve been working here for a few weeks.” Lana replied and finished her drink. “I needed the money if I was to move away from Sebastian.” She peered around the room and spied one of the few empty tables. “Let’s sit down.” She said and led the way through the crowd.
The seats were half hidden in a curve of wall which arched overhead and for a moment Patrick was caught in the intricate shapes of its design. The colour of the brickwork identified it as a relatively new addition to the building but the domed ceiling, though superficially similar in design, was of a worn grey stone that appeared far older.
They sat and Patrick played his eyes over the room.
“It’s a reconsecrated church,” Lana said, sliding into the seat opposite him. She pointed over to the vacant stage. “That where the pulpit used to be.”
“I thought this used to be a cinema.” Patrick half shouted over the music and Lana shrugged.
“Yeah, it was. It was also a dance hall once as well as a theatre, the kind where they do plays; it’s been a great many things in its time. I remember once there was a small hospital here; but that was a long time ago.”
“A long time ago…” Patrick repeated, and Lana smiled.
“Yep,” she said, and it occurred to Patrick that his companion didn’t seem to need to shout over the music. “In another life…” She concluded dramatically.
“Are you going to stay.” He asked, and then decided to elaborate. “Stay at my place I mean.”
“If I can.” Was her reply.
Patrick nodded and smiled to himself.
Around them the night could be felt winding to an end and Patrick’s head pleasantly buzzed due to alcohol while his eyes and heart pleasantly buzzed due to Lana. She rose and excused herself, and he watched as she walked steadily across the room toward the ladies’ room to the one side of the bar. Patrick waited, peering around the barroom at the remaining couples that sat and chatted in their booths and then he reached over and raised his glass to his lips; then froze.
In the far corner, opposite the door to the main dance floor was Sebastian, half hidden in a small group of women. He chatted to one of them a moment then looked over to Patrick, sparing him the briefest of waves and a smile that could freeze lava. Patrick’s guts squirmed in his belly and his half-raised glass clattered as its base slammed down onto the chipped, worn table.
Patrick rose and pushed into the crowd. The music drowned out all other sounds but for the awful drumbeat in Patrick’s chest, even the sheer volume of dancing bodies could do nothing to make a dent through the curtain of frantic noise. He pushed his way toward the front, to the doors where Jack would be. Patrick bumped and ricocheting between the couples that moved over the floors worn wood, his head swimming with disorientated fear, his temples throbbing in time with the nightclub’s strobes. Finally, though halfway across the room from him, Patrick spied the huge man and Jack turned to face him almost as if he knew he was there, and a smile began to emerge on his lips, dying almost instantly when he saw Patrick’s concerned face.
Jack ran over, the crowd parting like the red sea for Moses and he clamped his hands around Patrick’s shoulders, leaning in to hear what he had to report.
Patrick’s mouth made the shape of the name ‘Sebastian’ in the deafening din from the gigantic club speakers and Jacks eyes grew wide. Jack caught Patrick by the shoulder and led him through the swarm of people. A door marked private looming closer.
They stepped through it and Jack closed the heavy door in their wake, effectively cutting off the din from the other room. They were in a narrow corridor, Jack leading the way down it, his broad shoulders nearly scraping the walls as he made his way to a particular door and let himself in.
With the activation of several switches the monitors bracketed to the bare bricks blinked to life and black and white images of the nightclub sprang to life, Jack slid his fingers over the controls and the images moved, flicking from camera to camera; Lana or Sebastian could not be seen on any of them.
Patrick cursed and Jack glared at him.
“Mind the language.” He said, his voice soft, and Patrick opened his mouth to curse again in defiance when he heard a familiar voice cry out. The two men turned as one, racing through the door and rushing further down the corridor.
Sebastian’s mouth twisted in grotesque fury as the man advancing on Lana. Without a thought Patrick flung himself forward, colliding with the larger man, slamming him into the far wall, an ancient door set into it rattling in its setting.
Sebastian’s hand wrapped around Patrick’s throat, lifting him with such ease he may have been a child in arms and with a flick his wrist Patrick was catapulted through the air, hitting, and skimming across the ceiling before colliding with the wall, rebounding onto the rough concrete floor.
Jack advanced on Sebastian, towering over the odious man, and Patrick grinned in his certainty of Jack’s triumph. Blows were thrown and parried, the two men moving with speed that defied Patrick’s dazed eyes. Lana rushed to the fallen Patrick and her slim but incredibly strong arms lifted him upright, Patrick’s head pressed against her shoulder over her breast.
Sebastian and Jack fought, against all reason the larger man losing the battle. Sebastian’s repeated blows wearing his bigger opponent down though Jack’s own powerful punches bore little impact on the smaller man.
Sebastian caught Jack at the throat, stunning him before driving his shaved head into the wall hard enough to crack one of the pitted red bricks and Jack fell to the floor in a limp pile of flesh and bone.
For a moment there was a silence that buzzed in Patrick’s ears. He could not hear Sebastian’s breath or Lana’s heart and that part of his mind, the part that didn’t pay bills or buy kitchenware grinned with understanding.
Sebastian descended on the couple, Lana torn from her feet by a handful of her hair, her lithesome body tumbling head over heels directly into the cracked wood of the old door at the corridors end, the door shattered into shards, and she crumpled on the floor, flakes of paint and motes of dust raining down around her.
Sebastian turned to her, and Patrick’s world swam as he rolled to his feet, his vision greying, his neck, and knees made of rubber as he grabbed a thick shard of wood from the broken door.
Patrick’s legs carried him forward as if of their own accord, the world dreamlike around him, his legs leaden. He raised the stake of wood and thrust it down, the tip piercing Sebastian’s back between his shoulder blades, the point ripping through his chest, blood spraying from the hole torn through his heart. Sebastian shrieked in a horrific bellow of pain and rage. His body toppling forward as if to slam into the wall.
Time slowed and Patrick’s jaw dropped open in dumbfounded amazement as he saw drops of blood from the man’s chest wound evaporate into dust. His hair breaking free and face shattering like a portrait in sand torn by the sea wind.
Sebastian toppled as if to strike the wall; but this did not happen. Instead, his body burst in a dry cloud of dust that itself broke into something as fine as a morning mist; leaving the stake of wood loose to clatter to the hard ground.
Patrick moved unsteadily to Lana’s side; their arms wrapped around each other. They stood like that for a long time, his weak weight supported by her preternatural strength as they watched the dust motes dance to the muted music from the nightclub above.