Doctor Who_ Earthworld - Jacqueline Rayner [30]
The trips must have some major publicity machine going. No more Elvis: every Twentieth-Century London Zone wall had a ‘Fitz Fortune’ poster pasted on it. Fitz was pictured in purple crushed velvet, raising a knowingly sexy eyebrow to the unseen crowd; full-length in black leather, microphone in hand; in high-necked Beatle suit (and, more disturbingly, a Beatle haircut in place of his scruffy locks), and with an all-girl blonde backing group who looked suspiciously familiar. The first was Fitz’s favourite: he thought the unknown artist had definitely managed to capture the essential him. He wondered if he could half-inch one for his room back in the TARDIS. If he got out of it all alive, of course. At least the posters didn’t say FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY.
The concert hall was superb, a far cry from Molly’s in Soho, where he used to strut his funky stuff when he was much younger and another person. He had a dressing room with a gold star, and a big bowl of lavender-scented talcum powder (be assumed this was another historical detail they’d misinterpreted somehow, but didn’t want to enquire too deeply – or perhaps stars really did have talc in their rooms, you know, in case of pop star’s foot or something, and he just didn’t know about it ’cos he hadn’t been one). He flirted briefly with the 56
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idea of escape, but there were giant gold robots outside the door. And they’d given him a Fender-Stratocaster with FITZ! painted on it in glitter, so if he had to go, this was as good a way as any.
He’d changed into a gold lamé suit and black silk shirt, all a perfect fit. He looked in the mirror before he left the room. Cool. Damn cool.
The gold robots led him out to the stage. He was expecting to feel ridiculous –
him in front of an audience of three. But the lights were shining so brightly into his eyes that he couldn’t tell who was out there. And the atmosphere – it wasn’t the echoing silence of a near-empty room: it was the hush of anticipation. He stepped forward to the microphone, and played his first chord. And suddenly, to his great surprise, Fitz Fortune lived again.
He gave them ‘Groovy Weekend’, ‘You Broke My Heart, Bikini Girl’ and ‘Upside Down in Venice’, his all-time classics. He gave them ‘Song for Sam’, which he’d meant as a romantic gesture, but she’d said the title sounded like a serial killer. Then a medley of his personal hit parade: ‘Shakin’ All Over’, ‘Three Steps to Heaven’, ‘Chantilly Lace’ and, in a brief moment of desperation, ‘(I wanna be) Bobby’s Girl’. He finished the whole thing off with a frantic, sweat-soaked, shimmering rendition of ‘Twist and Shout’, and yelled his thanks to the audience.
The crowd went wild.
The lights dimmed. There were robots to each side of the stage. Fitz dived into the audience and began to run as fast as he could towards the far end of the hall. To his surprise, there actually was a bit of a crowd in the auditorium
– perhaps some of them were even real. They were on their feet; a standing ovation. Boy, how they’d loved him. But he had been good. Better, he’d been great. A happy memory to while away his time when safely back with the Doctor. Which would be soon, soon, soon. . .
He was halfway down the aisle now, and he could hear a triplet screaming in rage – Antarctica, his mind said, but he wasn’t turning to look. The screams were picked up all round – but hey! They weren’t screams of rage, they were screams of delight, screams of worship. . . The crowd was surging towards him, arms outstretched, crying out its love for him. He pushed his way through, not caring if he was breaking hearts as he went. They grabbed at his clothes, his hair, tearing out bits from the roots. How come all pop stars weren’t bald?
Nearly there, nearly free. The triplets’ voices were distant, the crowd was preventing them getting through. He was going to make it. Fitz ‘Freedom’ Fortune.
Killing Queens
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Nearly there.
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