Get Katja (11 page)

Lady Delicious parks the van in its usual safe spot and walks the short distance home barefoot.

A combination of adrenaline and the light rain which still falls has cleared her head somewhat but also makes her more acutely aware of the aches and pains now wracking her body. She goes inside and flicks on a light. She thinks of the shower which still awaits her and is tempted to just forget about her plans for revenge but instead opts for a bottle of vodka on the kitchen counter. She downs a mouthful, stinging the grazes on the side of her mouth as some of it dribbles out but she accepts the pain, lets it revive her further.

She looks across at the guitar she’d taken from the punk earlier that day, leaning against the wall next to a potted cheese plant.

Then, still groggy from the drug, she takes the vodka with her through to her bedroom and stares at herself in the full-length mirror mounted on one wall. Shakes her head in disgust.

She opens her bag and takes out the syringe which had only minutes earlier been lodged in her neck.

She has another swig of vodka then caps the bottle and throws it onto her bed. Peels off what remains of the dress and takes off her wig. She examines the hairpiece, brushes dirt from it, de-tangling it with two fingers before placing it onto one of several polystyrene dummy heads then pulls on a dressing gown. Notices that one of her false nails is broken.

“Motherfucker,” she murmurs.

She tilts her finger from side to side then looks closer. Close enough to see the scraped skin cells of her attacker buried beneath it.

“Good,”
she says
.
“I hope it fucking hurt.”

She uses a cleanser to remove her makeup, stripping herself back even further, until there is nothing of Lady D left—at least not on the outside.

And now it is another reflection staring back in the mirror.

“Welcome back, Frank,” he says to himself. “But I’m afraid you won’t be here long.”

He’s about to take another swig of vodka when there’s a knock at the door.

So there’s DeBoer on the other side of the desk, the scratches on his arm still gleaming, still a little wet. Fresh.

“They’re genuine,” he insists as Frank examines one of the bills. “You don’t seriously think I would . . .”

“No,” Frank says. Then he stops, the bill still pinned between two fingers. “But it looks like whoever you got it from wasn’t giving it up lightly.”

And he nods at the scratches on DeBoer’s forearm.

The detective shrugs. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Clearly,” Frank says.

Then reaches into his dressing gown pocket and takes out the syringe. Lays it on the table before them, on top of the cash.

DeBoer just stares at it, uncomprehending. Then he looks up and the colours drains from his face.

He doesn’t say anything. He
can’t
say anything.

Frank lets it all sink in a little further before sliding open the top drawer of his desk and reaching inside. DeBoer, still frowning, still desperately catching up on what exactly is going on, raises his hands before the gun is even out.

“Oh shit, Frank, I didn’t . . . I mean . . .” His words disintegrate and he shakes his head. “It can’t . . . you can’t . . .”

“You broke my nail,” Frank says.

And shoots DeBoer.

“What time is it?” Katja asks.

They push their way through the crowds coming out of the small movie theatre they have been holed up in ever since splitting from Nikolai’s squat.

“Coming on for ten,” he tells her. “How far is it from here?”

“Not far,” she says, quickening her pace. She feels more secure in the baggy clothes but at the same time ridiculous, not at all herself. She has the top zipped as far as it will go and the hood pulled up, her head dipped and her hands in her pockets. She walks as quickly as she dares to without drawing attention.

Nikolai tries to keep up.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Stop asking me that,” she says as they leave the crowds behind. “Look, I’m just going to get the gig done, get the money, pay
your fucking debt
then . . .”

Then what?

She isn’t thinking that far ahead.

“It’s just up ahead,” she says, changing the subject.

They cross the street, the traffic light but the rain now heavy, and hurry towards a building isolated from those around it by plastic barriers. Scaffolding climbs up the building’s walls like metallic vines, the brickwork charred, the posters which had once adorned it now burned and peeling and pasted over with warning signs.

Outside is a small group of bikers, their rides parked on the street, and an even smaller group of teenage girls, designer stockings tattooing their skinny legs with spiderwebs and dizzying patterns. The girls pass a cigarette between one another, flirting with the bouncer, and neither they nor the bikers look up as Katja and Nikolai pass.

“Hey.”

They both freeze.

“You two.”

Katja turns to see the bouncer coming towards them.

Nikolai leans in, whispers “What do we—”

“Just shut up,” Katja whispers back. Then, to the bouncer, “Yeah?”

“Hood down,” he says, his hands still firmly planted in his bomber jacket’s pockets, jaw working on a piece of chewing gum.

Katja takes her hood down. The bouncer looks from her to the poster on the wall behind her, the one which is repeated all over the entrance.

“You’re late,” he says.

“Then we can go?”

But he’s already walking back towards the teenage girls.

As the two go into the club the city outside is crushed beneath the noise of the chatter of the crowds within as well as The Broken’s warm-up act: a four piece called Damage Sticks who look like they have been dug up from their graves and dusted off before being thrown on stage. Their set comes to an end, feedback ringing out over a smattering of applause and cheers.

Katja and Nikolai go around the back of the stage, a roadie about to get in their way before recognising Katja and letting them through. She leads Nikolai into the rear corridor where the rest of the band are already gathered.

“Where the fuck have you been?!” Joey shouts when he sees her.

“We’re due on in about five minutes,” Max adds as he slings the bass guitar around his chunky neck.

“I got here as quick as I could,” Katja says. “Had some stuff to deal with.”

“What, and it couldn’t wait?” And it’s only then that Joey realizes who she has brought with her.

“Well look who’s crawled out from under his rock.”

Nikolai remains behind Katja, head dipped.

“What the fuck is he doing here?”

“There’s your answer,” Katja says and nods past them.

Max and Joey turn to see three figures at the other end of the corridor, silhouetted by the green light of the exit sign above them. All that can readily be made out are the extravagant beehives which each one of them wears.

The three approach, each strike of their heels like a bullet being fired.

“You’re here,” Lady D, in the middle of the other two and wearing a skimpy leopard print number, says. “I’m impressed.”

She motions to one of her heavies who duly produces Katja’s guitar from behind their back, holding it up by the neck.

Katja looks at Lady D who raises her chin in consent then Katja takes the instrument.

“Now go do your thing and we can put this all to bed,” Lady D tells her, glossy pink lips tweaked into a smile “There’s a hot shower waiting for me and I’m not about to put it off any longer.”

“What’s going on, Katja?” Max asks. Joey remains silent, having backed away a few paces.

“Nothing,” Katja says, maintaining eye contact with Lady D.

Over the speakers comes the sound of Dimebag Dexter attempting to generate some applause for Damage Sticks, then starting his disinterested spiel about The Broken.

“It’s my fault,” Nikolai says, stepping out from behind Katja. His hands are clenched into fists at his side. “The debt is mine. I should . . . it’s up to me to pay.”

Lady D frowns, her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry, and you are?”

Now it’s Nikolai’s turn to be confused. “Uhhh . . . Nikolai?”

As if he’s making a guess.

“You trying to fuck with me?” Lady D asks, her tone darkening as her attention goes from Nikolai to Katja and back.

“I . . . no . . . I just . . . the debt . . . the debt’s mine. I’m the one who came to you in the first place. Wasn’t I?”

“Look, this has been a
fucking
long night so if you think you can all worm your way out of this then I can assure you I am in no mood to be played with. Whatever you think you’re achieving by covering for your little friend over there it isn’t going to work.”

And she points at Joey, who is quietly backing away. He stops when they all look at him.

“What’s Joey got to do with any of this?” Katja asks.

“
Joey?
” Lady D parrots, her tone disdainful. “I’ve already told you, don’t try playing games with me.”

“What the hell are you talking you about?”

Lady D lets out a sharp, irritated grunt. “That’s
Nikolai
,” she says, pointing again at Joey. “That’s the one who took out the loan.”

“Hey, Nikolai, wait,” Joey says, jogging to catch up with the other man as he walks away from the small outcrop of run-down shed-style buildings. “You guys rehearsing again?”

“Uh, yeah,” Nikolai tells him without slowing his pace.

“Cool. You okay if I hang out again?”

“I don’t . . . didn’t Katja say she’d prefer it if you just stuck to the gigs?”

“Nah, you must have mis-heard,” Joey says. “Anyway, you ain’t done any gigs yet.”

“Soon,” Nikolai tells him. “Katja’s already sorting something out.”

“Yeah I know, she told me.”

“She told you,” Nikolai repeats. He crosses the street abruptly but Joey sticks close to him.

“Well, I overheard her telling
you
, more precisely,” Joey corrects himself. “Man, you guys are going to fucking
kill
when the times come though. Still reckon you could do with another guitarist though. Or another drummer.”

And he slaps Nikolai playfully across the shoulders.

“I think she wants to keep it tight,” Nikolai tells him. “But I’m sure if we ever need anyone . . .”

The sentiment drifts and his pace quickens again. Joey matches it.

“I’m just ribbin’ you, man,” Joey says. “Don’t even worry about it. I mean, I can play, sure, but not like you. So what you practising tonight? Anything new?”

“I don’t know,” Nikolai tells him. “Look, tonight, I don’t even know if we’re hooking up to play, we might just be talking about the first gigs and . . .”

“That’s fine, that’s totally fine by me,” Joey says.

They come the end of the block, the sidewalk crumbling into chunks of concrete and stone as if some creature from a
daikaiju
movie had stomped on it and destroyed whatever had been there before. The road fades into scruffy turf which leads towards a series of single-storey buildings in the near distance and from them is the muffled sound of guitar noise. The only other sign of life nearby is a takeaway van, the owner scrubbing at the folded-down service area with a grubby cloth.

Nikolai stops. “Seriously, Joey, there’s really not going to be that much going on tonight.”

Joey looks at him then nods. “Okay. Okay, sure. Then at least let me buy you a coffee before you start. Just in case the session turns epic?”

Nikolai shakes his head. “I don’t think—”

“Hey, man, I know you’re trying to get clean but I didn’t realize it extended to coffee,” Joey jokes.

“I
am
clean,” Nikolai corrects him.

“Sure, of course, that’s what I meant. But Katja’s not going to kick you out of the band because of a little caffeine is she? And you’re probably needing your hits from wherever you can get them now, right?”

Nikolai sighs, finally gives into Joey’s persistence. “Okay,” he says.

“Cool, you just go on ahead, I’ll grab them and catch up. I won’t stay if you guys need peace though—as long as you promise to let me sit in on the next session?”

“Fine,” Nikolai says, already walking away.

“Great,” Joey says then crosses to the takeaway van. He orders two coffees which the owner promptly delivers.

“Sugar and shit are over there,” the man says, indicating a series of plastic tubs at the far end of the service hatch then going back to his surface-wiping.

Joey puts the two cups down next to the tubs. He spoons a couple of sugars into each, a little UHT milk from an already-open container. Then he reaches into his pocket and takes out a little plastic bag of pills. He checks the man is still cleaning then drops two of the pills into one of the coffees. Then drops another two in. Then empties the bag into it. He stirs the coffee until the spoon no longer collides with the solid mass of the pills, then snaps on one of the lids stacked in a neat pile to one side.

He thanks the man and walks across the scrub-land towards the row of shacks and the sound of discordant punk music.

Joey is backed into the doorway of a storage cupboard, Katja and Nikolai on one side, Lady D and her crew on the other.

“Come on, Katja,” he protests. “You know as well as anyone, once a useless junkie, always a useless junkie. He was bound to fuck up at some point. Better that it happened before you got any gigs organised.”

“I always knew you were a snidey little piece of shit,” she says. “I just never realized it was to this extent.”

“Don’t put this on me, I did you a favour.”

“Then let me do you one,” she tells him and swings the guitar at him.

It smashes into his head, throwing him back against the doorway and he bounces against the frames for a second or two before slumping to the ground.

It’s only then that they become aware of the shouts and chants of the restless crowd. A moment later Dimebag Dexter appears, flustered and sweaty.

“What the shitting hell is going on back here, I’ve been calling you for . . .” He stops when he sees Joey’s body, slumped and bloody. “What the . . . ? Do we have a problem here?”

“No problem,” Katja says quickly. “Just a little . . . disagreement.”

“Not the sort of disagreement which means that you aren’t about to get up there and play, I hope,” Dexter threatens. “Because if it
is
that sort then you are going to be in some serious bloody—”

“It’s fine,” Katja tells him. “Nik, grab his sticks.”

“His what?” Nikolai says, still taking it all in.

“His
sticks
,” Katja repeats.

Nikolai reaches down and slides the drumsticks from Joey’s slack hands. A single droplet of blood glistens on the tip of one of them.

“And who the hell are you?” Dexter asks. “The manager?”

Lady D crosses her arms, straightening herself so that she gains yet another inch over the little man. The two on either side of her do the same.

“Of a sort,” she tells him, her nostrils flaring. “I’m here to collect their fee.”

“Yeah, well, I got your money right here,” he tells her, slapping at his jacket, “and that’s where it’s going to stay—until you lot get out there and do what I hired you to do. You’ve got precisely one minute.”

And he storms off again, clearing the way for them to reach the stage. The crowd is booing now and there’s the occasional explosion of a bottle smashing against a wall.

“Well?” Katja says once he’s gone.

“Well what?” Lady D replies.

“The debt. It was never ours in the first place. This little fuckwit . . .”

“Took it out in the name of the band. Whoever he is—at this point I really do not care. Nothing has changed. The debt stands.”

“And she always collects,” one of the cross-dressing thugs adds proudly.

“The crowd are waiting,” Lady D says, using her glittery clutch bag to wave them on.

“Fine,” Katja says, slipping her guitar back on. “Let’s get this done.”