Bold as Love (10 page)

‘You two know what this is about?’

‘No idea,’ said Sage. ‘Power breakfast with Le Grand Grenouille.’

Ax frowned. ‘Where we’ll try not to say anything offensive.’

Fiorinda did not think Ax had yet recruited Sage to his cadre. They got on okay at the Think Tank, united in putting down Paul Javert; but there was too much previous between these two. Things like Sage describing the
Chosen
’s music as ‘complacent nostalgia’ in front of a tv audience of millions. People remember words of that kind, when the obscenities fade. And you wouldn’t think
cynical manipulative crowd pleaser
would have hurt Sage’s feelings, but it had. It was a difficulty in her life, because she really wished they could be friends.

Movie Sucré
’s long white bus had arrived overnight. Alain was waiting for them with Tamagotchi, obligatory Eurotrash kooky girl. No sign of the rest of the band. Alain was wearing a scarlet quilted jumpsuit with a Ferrari badge on the breast pocket. Tama, in pink flannellette pyjamas and a fisherman’s guernsey, was making coffee that smelled divine.

‘Where’s the others?’ asked Sage at once, as if he suspected an ambush.

‘Oh, they are in here.’ Alain patted a black box. ‘Figuratively. Too much is going on at home, we could not all leave civilisation in person.’

‘I fucking hope you said so on the tickets.’

Alain laughed. ‘Tickets! What tickets? Tickets for the Blue Lagoon? There are no
tickets
anymore, that world is over.’

‘So, why did you want to see us?’ said Ax.

‘Well, it is the question of the British Squaddie. We want you Ax, and your people, to know that we in Europe intend to deal with him strongly, and instantly, when the day comes.’

‘Um, you’re in Europe now.’

‘Europe before,’ said Tam, bringing the coffee. ‘Europe afterwards,
maybe.
In between, every country for himself. Hello Ax, we were in Shanghai with you. Alain was the brave little toaster, I was the cranky anglepoise.’ She put down her coffee tray, tipped her naked skull into Ax’s lap, and bared her muscular, tattooed forearms.

‘See my RP shunt scars, and now you want to see my new back flip?’

‘She’s such a clown,’ said Alain indulgently.

‘I am a fucking clown!’ sang Tam. ‘Don’t ever put me down!’

The English took their coffee, exchanging puzzled glances.

‘Afterwards? After what?’

‘We prefer not to deal with Pigsty.’

‘Pigsty?’

‘
Oue
. I prefer to talk to you. Direct, offhand, like this, it’s the best way. But we don’t reveal any details and we understand it’s the same with you. Only, when the violence starts there will be no time to discuss tactics, so you should know and accept it will be “open season” as you say, on those fucking mindless animals of yours, from the Baltic to the Sahara.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Ax, ‘What violence? I am not into violence.’

Tamagotchi sighed impatiently. ‘That’s fine,’ she muttered in French, rolling her eyes. ‘Fine.’

‘Well—’ said Alain. He looked into Ax’s face, head on one side. ‘Well, this is very curious. Ax, I think you will have to change your mind. This is not going to be a Velvet Revolution. As you will soon find out.’

There was a pause. ‘Hey, Fiorinda,’ said Tam, eyes sparkling. ‘Did you eat the shit?’

‘I was there,’ said Fiorinda. ‘I certainly inhaled. But I did not put anything in my mouth.’

Then they were out of the bus, dismissed so abruptly they were still clutching their coffee beakers. ‘What was
that
about?’ wondered Fiorinda.

‘Organised trouble,’ said Ax. ‘Brewing in London and other venues. Alain wanted to know what I know. Which is nothing, so now he’s happy. What you said, Fio: a few burned out cars, a few casualties, back to business as usual. That’s not for me. I’m in this for the long haul.’

Fiorinda headed off, leaving them together; hoping for rapprochement.

‘Fucking frog-eaters,’ said Ax. ‘I hate the way they always talk English.’

‘With those chichi accents. They could easily pronounce it properly.’

‘If they felt like it.’

They stood together, self conscious. It was hard to know what to say when there was no one else about. The skull’s demeanour was forbidding.

‘Sage,’ said the Ax, nothing daunted, ‘About Fio—’

‘Shoot.’

‘If she wants to fuck you as well, at some point, I thought I should tell you that would be fine. There’s nothing exclusive going on: I’m happy if she’s happy.’

‘No.’ Sage did something, which didn’t involve his hands whatever it was, and the skull vanished. His natural features: wide nose, full lips, wide-spaced blue eyes, a close cropped fleece of yellow curls, made a rare public appearence. ‘No,’ he repeated, face to face. ‘I’ll stick with playing the big brother. I think it’s more what she needs. If I’d wanted to have her, I shoulda ignored the ribbon, shouldn’t I. Only I know why the kid wears it, see.’

‘So do I.’

‘Well, you’re a heartless bastard then.’

‘I don’t think so. I think it’s okay, me going with her. It seems to work.’ He glanced down at Sage’s unmasked hands, one with mere stubs for the two outside fingers, the other lacking the two first fingers and half the thumb. ‘So that’s what they look like. Tough. Was it the infant meningitis? I read you had that.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Good job you’re into mixing, Sage. You’da been in problems if you’d wanted to play a guitar.’

The skull reappeared. Curiously, its expression was now almost affectionate.

‘Right, Ax. Well spotted.’

In the first week of December the Counter Cultural Think Tank was up for a full scale political reception. It was to be held in a prefab venue, installed specially for the purpose on the edge of Hyde Park. Here the great and the good of the CCM would gather to meet the Home Secretary’s radical rockstars. The Prime Minister was going to turn up. Paul was inexpressibly proud and excited. Most of what was supposed to be ready for D day was not going to happen. There was
no way
the English were going to have their national identity cards in time. Petty border disputes, and the division of capital assets, would grumble on for decades. But Paul’s initiative on the Countecultural problem was reckoned to be a great success. It had captured the public imagination.

Pigsty was equally thrilled. He took an obsessive interest in the details: the carpet, the paintjob in the prefab venue, the floral decorations, the buffet, the dimensions of the stage. Nobody else was keen. Only Pigsty Liver and the Organs were to play. The rest of them were doomed to stand around making small talk with an assortment of government suits and the Green Nazi aristocracy. Didn’t sound like fun. But pity the poor VIPs, invited to meet some of the best radical talent in English Indie music, and subjected to nothing but a brainless, derivative Organs set.

The event started at dusk, on a cold day of heavy cloud and still air. Around the prefab sleek dark cars cruised onto the grass, and disgorged those guests who felt they could get away with personal transport hypocrisy. Farther off, beyond the metal barriers and armoured police, clusters of campground folk stood and stared: some waved banners and placards.

Security checked everyone at the door. Fiorinda, who had come up from Reading with
Krool
, endured the scan and bodysearch, surrendered her phone and went off alone. The Grrls were ardent networkers, they’d be circulating: Fiorinda didn’t want to play. For a while she listened to Paul Javert, who was talking to another suit about the wonderful team he had created. We’ve done
nothing
, she thought. Absolutely nothing, except fill in some slack moments on the tv, and talk drivel to interviewers. We haven’t even agreed on a decent name.

The
Chosen
arrived in a body. Paul zoomed over to intercept Ax: brought him back to introduce him to the PM.

‘Axl Preston, lead guitarist from the
Chosen Few
. Axl, because your parents were big Stone Roses fans, isn’t that right Ax.’

‘Guns ’n Roses,’ said Ax sadly.

‘Ax is our Lennonist,’ said Paul. ‘He comes up with some killing lines, so witty—’

The two men, with identical wide, fixed, shallow smiles, stared at Ax expectantly, like dogs begging for biscuit.

Fiorinda moved away, grinning to herself. Poor Ax. He had not been looking forward to this event. Arguably there were people here who were actually doing what Ax talked about, and that must be so frustrating. Especially since they were
doing it all wrong
. She wandered, spotting the Heads in their skulls, Rob Nelson and the Eyes looking very flash; but she didn’t want to join anyone. How strange that something like the Counter Cultural Think Tank could get itself an existence, a website, a place in politics, articles in the papers, headed notepaper, stacks of tiring documents, when the content of the package
was nothing
. Most of the Lords and Ladies of Misrule were in very correct evening dress. Probably the smoothest ones were the nutcases, secretly behind the most ruthless, humans-must-commit-mass-suicide (or if not we’ll help them along) eco-terrorism. But here they were, looking dead pleased to have been invited. How insane.

Torn between longing to be introduced to the Prime Minister and feeling completely, defiantly out of place, she drifted over to the potted palms by the buffet table, where she bumped into Cecile Hunt, the Think Tank suit who had endeared herself to many because she so obviously detested Pigsty.

‘I should introduce you to someone,’ offered Cecile.

‘No thanks. I mean, yes, I suppose—’

‘I
hate
these things.’

‘So do I. What’s the point of a party if you can’t get drunk.’

‘You can get drunk, Fio. Go ahead, be a rebel. What else were you hired for? Look at Ken. He’s going to be legless in about ten minutes.’

But she didn’t want to be drunk, not here. In any case, the milling about was over, it was time for the musical entertainment. Pigsty and the Organs moved on up. Security men stood in front of the double doors, only exit or entrance (isn’t that a fire hazard? wondered Fio) from this crowded room. Pigsty was wearing vr goggles, leather jodphurs, jackboots: a new, shaggy Afghan waistcoat open over his six-pack belly; the chains between his nipple rings swinging and glinting. He strode to the front of the stage, the image of a cleaned-up but still deliciously scary Countercultural Monster.

‘And now,’ he roared. ‘All you RAVERS. It’s time to GET DOWN!’

The lights went out. There was a drum roll, and a fusillade of wild bangs, yells, crackles like machinegun fire: an incredible, shapeless racket. Typical Organs, thought Fiorinda, a bored sigh rising in her throat.
Get down
! wailed someone: grabbed her and dragged her to the floor.

Some lights came on again. Her knees were warm and wet. She was crouching in a pool of blood. Cecile lay beside her, face upturned and eyes wide open, the side of her head and her lower jaw blown away.

Where had the gunmen come from? Through the roof? The prefab was full of choking smoke, coloured smoke from the stage act, grey smoke that smelled of cordite: no, they must have come through the doors but how? How did they get past the security? How many of them were there? Three? four, five? People were running, pushing and fighting each other, to the other end of the prefab: but there was no exit that way, no way out. The gun men were going into the crowd, like shepherds among blundering sheep, still firing. There was Ken Batty, the Think Tank’s earnest politico, lying on the floor screaming, a horrible mess of blood and grey, puddingy stuff falling out of rip in his belly. There was a man in a dinner jacket, trying to crawl and falling on his face, oh God where’s Ax…?

…and then right by her she saw someone dragged out from under the buffet table. It was Martina, blood in her dreads and all over her Red Sonja jerkin, but who was that holding her? It was
Pigsty
. He held Martina and snogged her, very deliberately, mouth all over her face, hand inside the laces of the jerkin, squeezing one of her tits as if he was trying to wrench it off: then he hauled off and shot her in the jaw. Fiorinda backed away, staring, electrified, her mouth open…and someone grabbed her again. Not Cecile, Cecile was dead. It was Fereshteh the ghazal singer, dark eyes gleaming through the eyepiece of her veil, drawing Fio with an iron grip into the shelter of the palms. There they stayed, clinging to each other.

Somewhere off in the distance, sirens began to wail.

They were found, and hauled out. The room was full of the sounds of people crying and screaming, full of a confusion of moving bodies; the air smelled foul. The men who hauled them out looked like hippies from the campground. They were not rough, only insistent: they hustled the two young women out of the prefab. Fiorinda thought they were being rescued, she kept saying
I’m all right
, because she thought the hippies should go back and rescue someone worse off. But then they were bundled into the back of a small van. No one else in there with them, no windows. Sirens all around but they could see nothing.

The women didn’t speak to each other.

The van didn’t go far. They were delivered into a big tent, one of the Hyde Park indoor venues. It was brightly lit: the slick heavy duty membrane of the empty floor shining like the surface of a black pool. Pigsty was on the stage, holding a big hand gun. With him were the Organs, and some other hippie goons of the same hard-nut type, armed with automatic rifles. Allie Marlowe was up there too, looking very frightened. Down on the floor near the stage, surrounded by more goons, stood a small group of people Fiorinda recognised. There’s Rob Nelson, in his electric blue suit, all bloodstained. There’s DK the DJ. There’s those silly boys, Chip the black cherub, Verlaine with his ringlets; there’s Roxane Smith—

There’s Sage and there’s Ax. They’re alive.

Sirens were yelling wildly out in the Park. There must be a whole fleet of police cars and ambulances, whoever had called them: converging on the scene of the shooting, rushing to sort out the survivors from the dead. Pigsty didn’t take any notice of these noises, nor of his Think Tank colleagues. He was watching the back of the tent, waiting for something. Another vehicle pulled up. Two more hippies appeared, holding a man in evening dress between them. It was Paul Javert. They brought him up to the stage. There was blood on his face, hard to tell if he’d been shot or just beaten up.