Doctor Who_ Rags - Mick Lewis [42]
‘Alkies kill brokers in cemetery tool massacre? You mean that 102
wine bar?’ He tucked his head down, slipped a fag between his lips, tilted his head back up.
‘Yeah, great Clint impression. You really are cool, maan...
‘You’ve read the headlines too? But do you know anything else that’s not in the papers?’
‘Like?’
‘Like why they did it. And was it anything to do with the tour?’
‘Now why would it be anything to do with the tour?’
‘You read the papers.’ She was becoming annoyed by his laid-back attitude. ‘You know what was written: you tell me.’ This was just a hippie with a different hairstyle; there was nothing new or radical going on with this lot. Glue instead of dope. Anarchy in the UK? The same old shit, more like.
Except she knew it wasn’t. She was seeing them in the mundane setting of daylight comedown from the night before.
There was no band to stir up the vibe. This was the convoy relaxing. You couldn’t maintain that wild energy all the time. She contained her disappointment; she wanted confrontation, controversy, quotes, for God’s sake.
Was that all she wanted?
‘Some rich bastards got chopped - that’s all that happened,’
Dog Style finally replied. ‘You expect us to give a shit about that?’
‘And the band?’ She glanced over at the truck. The roadies had strolled off to fiddle with the amps and speakers which were still roosting amongst the graves.
The punk shrugged. ‘What are you suggestin’? That the winos were fans? Got a little carried away by their enthusiasm with the music, decided to take out their pent-up aggressions on a bunch of stuck-up stockbrokers?’
‘Something like that, yeah’ She stared him straight in the eye.
He smiled.
‘Then you ain’t as dumb as you look. Now, if you excuse me, I gotta take a piss.’ He was unzipping as he rose to his feet. She took the hint and turned away. Well, maybe she had some quotes after all. But she knew she could never settle for just that. The cattle
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truck was the source of the mystery. The band were still in there presumably, and the only time she ever saw them come out was when they played a gig. She began stepping through the multitude of hippies and punks and misfits of all descriptions who were squatting on the grass or on the bonnets of battered vehicles. The roadies were busy, so she’d take a look for herself.
She got within four yards of the cab of the truck and could see nothing inside. She moved closer. The windows were opaque with dried mud, only a small section of the windscreen clear of the filth, and the cab was pushed too close into the trees for her to be able to walk round and look inside from that angle. She decided to check the back doors.
The huge padlocks securing them were rusty but firm. She fiddled with them distractedly for a moment, and then noticed the hole. She bent to peer through it.
The stink made her recoil. She felt her gorge rise, and coughed fiercely.
Decomposition and cabbages. She forced herself to look through the hole again. Blackness. She waited for her eye to adjust, and then...
Another eye was staring back at her.
An eye beyond the door.
An eye... an eye that could belong to no human... no animal.
No screams, just total paralysis. This eye was grey as snail flesh, without iris or pupil. It blinked, stone-like lid closing then lifting to stare again. Something reached inside Charmagne’s chest and molested her heart. She felt raped by that filthy eye but, like someone caught between sleep and wakefulness, could.... not... move.
‘See something you like?’
The voice broke the spell. She turned, collapsing against the corrugated steel door. The giant chief roadie was standing there, massive arms folded, dirty grin on his face. He unfolded his arms and, leisurely reaching out one hand, crushed her right breast casually, cruelly.
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‘Cos I sure see something I like...’
His raucous laughter followed her as she stumbled blindly towards the cemetery gates.
‘Nice and catchy,’ Derek Pole said as he slid the Daily Mirror across the crumb-strewn café table towards