One Way or Another (2 page)

In early January of 1982, with stars in my eyes and butterflies in my knickers, I attended my very first rock gig. Australian Crawl performed at Bombay Rock, a gritty nightclub on the darker edge of Surfers, down the river end of Cavill Avenue. Posters of touring bands plastered the concrete walls and a narrow ramp lead to the front entrance. When a big name came to town, the queue of punters could wind all the way up to the Pacific Highway, inching its way towards the bouncers on the door.

Inside, the smell of beer and sweat was stale but sweet. Lights beckoned from the two bars, one upstairs, one down, glasses and bottles glistening behind the busy staff. Up against the stage, the dance pit was thick with tanned young people stomping and pogo-dancing to the tracks spilling from the DJ deck. Strategically placed fake pot-plants provided receptacles for their cigarette butts and vomit. The whole place reeked of a summer hangover, the stench of sea-salt and coconut oil spilling from day into night. Paradise by strobe light.

We had chosen a busy night, hot and humid with the smell of a storm in the air. The young surf-rockers from Mornington Peninsula belted out unintelligible lyrics to a hypnotic beat while I pressed against the stage, a tidal wave of kids pushed up behind me. The band gyrated and sweated and the sound possessed my body, writhing through my veins like an erotic python.

After worshipping my idols from the floor I abandoned my friends with tunnel-visioned determination. I would take my virginity backstage and thrust it at whichever musician wanted it. They had played me into a frenzy and I figured one of them could damn well put that fire out.

I wore a tight pair of stonewashed jeans and a pink and grey sloppy joe. My feet were interred in unimpressive Kmart sandshoes. My mother still supervised my wardrobe and I couldn't see her going for the brazenly slutty look of the groupie uniform. The diehard rock lobsters lined up at the backstage door looked more the part, tottering on white high heels and squeezed into impossibly tiny white miniskirts. Their fringed leather mini-jackets framed leathery brown cleavages and each sun-bleached face wore an entire make-up department. In truth, I had never given much thought to what a real groupie looked like. My confidence took a nosedive as I lined up with the others, all of us hoping for a chance to rub shoulders or more with the band.

At the front of the queue I spotted Lyn Barron, a
Playboy
centrefold and local celebrity. I recognised her from her frequent appearances as a page-three girl in the
Gold Coast Sun.
Sensing that my chance to find true love with a sweaty musical god was slipping away, I figured I might as well get at least a brush with celebrity and force a B-grade Playboy Bunny to say hello to me. Shuffling my way forward, I boldly introduced myself.

Lyn blinked and looked confused, but she was gracious and asked who I was going backstage to see. Just then the door burst open and a stocky roadie scanned the perfumed selection before him. He nodded to Lyn and licked his lips. Lyn smiled her beautiful smile, put her arm around my shoulder and said, ‘She's with me.' In a flash we were ushered into the hallowed hallway leading to the Holy Grail – the Green Room.

My stomach was in knots and I needed to pee badly. The stark fluorescent walls and concrete echo seemed surreal. Lyn asked my name and in a blur of faces introduced me to the band, as well as a few vaguely familiar beautiful people. I stood gulping like a goldfish, feeling suddenly ridiculous. Dressed more like a teenage boy than a glamorous bird of paradise, I accepted a glass of champagne and knocked it back fast. I had walked into one of my own fantasies.

Soon I was attempting to make small talk with James Reyne. He was so good-looking and smelled so unmistakeably
male
, I was tongue-tied. Brad Robinson, lead guitarist, introduced himself. No-one seemed to notice that I didn't belong. In fact my strangely casual attire was so different from the norm that it seemed to attract more attention than the standard groupie cleavage.

Surprise at how easily I had invaded the party threatened to overwhelm me, but I pushed it aside and embraced the evening. More champagne. More flirtations. A few canapés. My plan had been to stay at my friend Fiona's house after the gig, but I had warned her that if I disappeared backstage she should leave without me and tell her parents I had decided to go home. My God, I couldn't wait to gloat to the other Vultures.

Suddenly it was announced that the party was travelling back to the Golden Gate, a luxury high-rise two blocks north where the band was staying. I ended up in a car driven by Guy McDonough, guitarist and songwriter, a little ferrety fellow with a nice voice. Within minutes he had lightly rear-ended another car in the convoy, to everyone's amusement. As we sped through the glittery dazzle of Surfers Paradise, the gaudy neon signs blinking seductively, I shut my eyes and opened them again in disbelief.

Back at the band's apartment, the atmosphere was charged with a tense eroticism. James Reyne lay on a bed and held court while people lazed about on the floor. It became clear that Lyn was his prize for the evening. They were mischievously familiar and it seemed she was his Gold Coast girl of the moment. The girl-in-every-port cliché appeared to be the rule for these young rock stars. James was cocky but in a self-deprecating way and I warmed to him. He seemed somehow detached from his fame, perhaps even a little embarrassed by it – although the perks obviously entertained him.

All of the guys in the band seemed to be attached to attractive blondes – except one. He was my only shot. He seemed a little shy and self-conscious, mirroring my own uncertainty. Having chosen my target, I went to work. We made eye contact across the room and I sent out loaded vibes. A wry smile tugged at his mouth and I knew he could read my thoughts. It didn't take much psychic ability. Our tennis match of eye play continued until finally he sauntered over to where I sat on the couch. I had not practised a seduction routine and yet it slid along perfectly, like a beautifully choreographed dance.

‘Hi. You look lonely.' (Let's have sex.)

‘I don't really know anyone.' (Fine. You'll do.)

‘Want to come down to my room?' (Right now?)

‘Sure.' (Sure.)

He was handsome, I thought as I studied his profile. So much more mature than my schoolboy mates. A man. A real man. He held my hand in the elevator. A big warm hand. It was about then that my nerves began to jingle-jangle. Tiny electrical currents were firing about my body and my face felt flushed. I felt out of place, like a girl masquerading as a woman. At fifteen years and eleven months, I was just shy of being ‘legal'. My designated Initiator didn't seem to notice or mind and I wasn't going to volunteer my date of birth. If he'd asked, I'd have said I was seventeen. Seventeen was an acceptable age. But he didn't ask. He didn't say very much at all. He did ask me what I did for a living and I told him I was an actress. He liked actresses, he replied. Little did he know I was right in the middle of an award-winning performance and he was the prize.

The Initiator's room was basic but comfortable. I poured a lemonade while he rang his full-time woman in Melbourne. Not wanting to alert the unsuspecting woman to the fact that an under-aged tomboy was about to be de-virginised, I was careful not to make much noise.

It was all very businesslike. I hadn't chosen him because of some pulsing chemical attraction but because he had a ‘vacancy' sign in his eyes. He was attractive but not really my type. Rod Stewart was my type. But he
was
a rock star and he'd been on
Countdown
. It was the sexual equivalent of an arranged marriage. He met certain vital criteria and now he was my designated guide.

As he led me to the bedroom, I tiptoed behind him on jelly-fish legs.

‘Light on or off?' he asked.

‘Off,' came my speedy response. I didn't want him to see the alarm on my face.

I sat on the bed, rigid and numb. My heart was tap-dancing in my chest and my hands were shaking, so I sat on them. The Initiator stripped down to nothing, like it was all in a day's work. The light from the hallway spilled across the carpet and formed a halo around his nakedness. ‘It' seemed impossibly large and I began to have second thoughts. I'd assumed it would be about the size of a finger, but this thing was standing up like a ridiculous new limb. The Boys Light Up and how!

The Initiator sat beside me and his hands feathered through my hair as he leaned forward to kiss me. His tongue and lips felt bigger and bolder than the few I'd previously sampled. I lay down, but when his warm hands slipped my jeans over my hips I had a moment of panic. It didn't last long. I'd felt stage fright many times before and knew it would only help my performance. Embarrassment soon gave way to urgency as he tinkled his fingers over my ivory flesh, doing things I'd only ever done to myself.

I let my own hands explore his hard edges and strong muscles and felt like an uneasy adventurer, delving into uncharted territory. With a deft movement he knelt between my thighs and I took a deep breath, shut my eyes tightly and waited.

It didn't hurt. I opened my eyes in surprise. I'd been braced for pain but it was more of a friendly invasion. I'd done a fair bit of horse-riding as a young girl and suspect that might have played some part ... or perhaps God had built me without a hymen. What worried me most was whether I was supposed to move beneath him or just lie there. I rocked with him a little in case that was the done thing. It all seemed a bit mechanical. There was no earth-shattering explosion of stars, just a fuzzy feeling of warmth and connection. The whole thing was over in a few minutes.

‘Was that good for you, then?' he whispered into my ear.

‘Ahh … yep. Fine.'

The poor fellow had no idea he'd just sponsored my promotion into adulthood.

The Initiator asked me if I wanted to have a shower with him, but I got dressed, thanked him for the sex and returned to the party. No-one noticed that I had taken that great leap for womankind except perhaps Lyn, who gave me a conspiratorial smile.

*

It was something of an anticlimax, I thought, as I walked home in the early hours of the morning. The cars sped down the highway. The neon lights winked at me. A police car screamed by, its red lights pirouetting like a fiery ballerina. Did I feel different? Yes. I felt a little bit more worldly. I felt like the door to a secret chamber had been opened to me. Had I found what I expected? Not really. I'd expected a rock star to be something special. Something magical and larger than life. But he'd just been flesh and blood. Warm skin. Nice lips. Polite but insipid.

I'd made it through the wilderness but to be honest, Andy Gibb was better!

My debut as a bona fide groupie launched me into uber-popularity amongst the St Hilda harlots. I had fired the pistol and the race was on. The other girls were disadvantaged by their status as boarders but began plotting rock and roll adventures for the school holidays. By the end of the Easter break Rhonda was leading the pack, the blood of hapless rock stars dribbling down her gorgeous chin.

Rhonda spent every second weekend with her family in Brisbane, which greatly expanded her selection of venues. Before long she was mixing with INXS and gleefully regaling us with juicy stories. Although they were perched on the brink of international glory, at this stage the young band was still playing the university circuit.

The Vulture Club developed a manifesto. Groupies had to be focused and unemotional. We were hunters and collectors. Falling in love was not an option. It was an edgy hobby, not a way to find a long-term boyfriend. Truth be told, a rock star in real life would make a hopeless partner. Far better to be a rock and roll mistress than a rock and roll missus. Musicians were junk food, not a proper nutritious meal. Good and bad for you at the same time, like a plate of greasy chips and a bottle of red, red wine.

These young men became our imaginary friends. We circled saucy bits in the pages of
Cleo
and
Cosmopolitan
, having graduated from
Dolly
, which was far too juvenile. I learned in black and white about fellatio and cunnilingus and realised there were more ways than one to skin a rock star. Some of the things we read about were hard to imagine. But we tried very, very hard.

Rhonda's modus operandi was slightly different from mine. She targeted the road crew. ‘No-one loves a roadie, but oh how a roadie can love' was her motto. It was an indirect route that often paid off.

Tammy was spunky and hilarious but she was more of a spectator. She loved the stories and the bands but as far as I know she kept her legs firmly crossed, most of the time.

Caroline was our moral compass, always keeping us from going too far and worrying about the potential dangers of our sordid pastime. She was a warm and funny girl with a smile that could melt an iceberg.

My parents were old-school and much stricter than others. I had a curfew of ten o'clock on weekends and my father insisted on dropping me off and collecting me from wherever I was going. As most headline acts didn't start until after ten, I had to think laterally if I wanted to get to rock gigs. My parents were tucked safely into bed by nine every night. My bedroom had a window. It didn't take long for me to see some wonderful possibilities.

Australian Crawl were back in town. On a cool Thursday night in August, I pushed my luck and dressed in a more enticing outfit, although I was still favouring the gothic tomboy look. I carefully and ever so quietly removed the flyscreen from my window and crawled out, crept down the garden path and stole stealthily through the night, over the three bridges of Monaco Street and up the well-lit highway to Bombay Rock.

Walking through the dark felt dangerously exciting. I pushed away all thoughts of the infamous ‘hitchhiker killer', who had murdered a string of girls on the Gold Coast a few years earlier. I had even attended the funeral of one victim, who had been a student at my primary school. The serial killer was still at large but I told myself firmly that I was walking, not hitchhiking.

At Bombay Rock I recognised a blonde bimbo from the previous party and made her my best friend for the evening. There was safety and a measure of success in numbers. Already a little tipsy herself, Kirsty bought me a vodka and orange and filled me in on her impressive list of achievements. The vulture culture was all about competition. She claimed to have bedded Rod Stewart's drummer, which left me speechless. To be so close!

‘Ooh and Rod's sooo charming and funny,' she smiled, rubbing in the salt.

Since my opening act at the Golden Gate, opportunities had been slim. Rhonda was streaking ahead of me and I needed a win with a real musician to stay in the game. I was ravenous and desperate.

Eventually a roadie appeared at the backstage door – but this time he was carrying a list. My curly blonde friend was on the list. I was not. Of course I wasn't. I don't think I'd even bothered to introduce myself officially to the Initiator. There was no sign of Lyn Barron and I was left at the door, lost and humiliated.

I wandered out into the cool night and moped about, unsure what to do next. Fronting up to the Golden Gate might have worked, but what if the band was staying somewhere else this time? Downhearted but still determined, I walked aimlessly around to the back entrance of the four-storey building.

Suddenly somebody tugged at my sleeve. I turned to see a bearded fellow – a lumbering, hairy giant.

‘You trying to get backstage?' he asked shadily.

I sized him up. Unkempt and with a slightly manic look in his eyes, he could have been a homeless person. Late twenties, about six foot two, possibly a little mad.

‘I know a way in. You go up here.' He pointed up a concrete wall to an unfinished window on the third floor. Bombay Rock had been constructed some years earlier but the developers had not yet opened the top two storeys. It was a dark monolith, a largely windowless mass above the well-lit lower levels.

My desperation overshadowed my apprehension, so I smiled and urged him to show me the way. I followed him down a narrow alleyway to a drainpipe and we politely introduced ourselves before scaling the wall. He was Mick. He went first and his bulk was surprisingly agile. He reached back down to help me and I clambered after him like a little monkey. His hand was firm and he seemed to know exactly where he was going.

After landing on the cold cement floor of what appeared to be a concrete bunker, I took a moment to catch my breath. The huge, cavernous space was dimly lit with dusty light globes, abuzz with hyperactive moths.

‘We follow it round to the staircase and down a flight of stairs and the doors lead straight backstage. No-one on the door. We can just wander in and join the party. I do it all the time,' he grinned confidently. Dusting myself off, I followed him across the grey expanse. Music thumped below, reverberating up my spinal column. A bad smell hung in the air like the aftertaste of dead rat.

As we rounded a concrete pillar and the stairs came into view, Mick turned suddenly and violently grabbed my wrist. It hurt. My Mickey Mouse watch snapped and clattered to the floor. His eyes burned and his sharp teeth hissed from behind his bristly beard. Panicked, I struggled and made some terrified noises. Mick just laughed.

‘Don't bother screaming. No-one can hear you up here.'

He was right. Not only would no-one hear me scream, but this unused corner of the world might not be visited by another human for years. My parents would assume I'd been kidnapped from my bedroom. No-one would know where to look. I was as good as dead. The situation hit me with such force I could picture the headlines.

‘Skeletal remains found in Bombay Rock may be teenager missing since 1982.' A strobe of blue lights exploded in my brain, threatening to shut it down. A stealthy numbness invaded my body.

Managing somehow to wrench my hand free, feeling the bruises seeping across my wrist, I stumbled to the staircase. Mick followed fast. At the bottom of the stairwell were two huge metal doors, firmly locked from the other side. Panting and frantic, I was cornered. Mick lurched down the stairs and grabbed me, forcing me to the ground. He pushed himself between my legs and his rancid breath came in hot bursts against my face.

I don't know where my inspiration came from in the next few moments, but my stupidity at getting myself into the situation was matched only by the brilliance of my self-rescue.

‘What are you doing, Mick?' I asked with Oscar-worthy confusion. ‘I thought we had something nice going on between us. Don't wreck it now.' I batted my eyelashes and gave him the smile of an innocent.

‘What? Whaddya say?' He paused and pulled back to look at me.

‘I really like you. Let's do this properly. I don't want to do it here. Let's go to the beach, hey?' I gave him a coy but knowing look. ‘It's my first time and I want it to be special.'

He was biting his bottom lip.

‘Are you for real?'

‘I really like you. I thought you liked me too. I'll shout you a coffee and we can have a really nice time on the sand. I like you.'

He sat back on his haunches and looked at me. All the acting classes I had ever done came down to this moment. I smiled, my lips twitching in time with my hammering heartbeat. Finally he smiled back. I wasn't sure if it was a real smile or a murderous leer.

‘Cool. Hey, I'm really sorry about your watch.' He pulled me to my feet.

Touching my hair, he spoke gently.

‘Hey, you're pretty. So, you'll really let me do it to you on the beach?'

‘Sure, Mick,' I lied. ‘Come on, let's get out of here.'

We walked up the stairs and he held my hand. Picking up my watch, he tried to fix it but shrugged his shoulders and gave it back to me sheepishly.

‘Sorry.'

We clambered back out the window and down to the rear driveway. As we rounded the corner, I bluffed.

‘Hey, Mick,' I said as casually as possible. ‘I've just got to let my mates know that I won't be going home with them.'

He stopped and frowned, not sure whether to buy my line. My pulse threatened to deafen me.

‘Fine,' he agreed reluctantly. ‘I'll come too.'

The doorman had disappeared for the evening and just a few stragglers remained, watching the roadies packing up the gear. I had no idea what I was going to do until suddenly Brad Robinson, the guitarist, strode across the room. I hurried over to him, hopeful that he might remember me. A glimmer of recognition flickered across his handsome face.

‘That guy over there just tried to rape and kill me,' I blurted, bursting into tears.

As soon as Brad looked across at Mick, the man realised he'd been double-crossed and fled. Brad put his arm around me and shepherded me backstage, offering me a much-needed drink. I refused his offer to call the police. I was sixteen and my parents would have been informed. I didn't see that as an option at all. Traumatised, I was in no mood to party and Brad arranged for a pretty roadie to take me home. I got him to drop me one block away and I padded home through the dew-damp grass. Crawling back into the safety of my bedroom and carefully replacing the screen, I fell into bed and prayed to the God I didn't believe in, thanking him for my life.

*

My parents wondered at my listlessness during breakfast.

‘Bad dreams,' I muttered.

No word of a lie. Perhaps I had met the hitchhiker murderer after all.