Page 16 of Electric Boy

“I dunno. Pens?”

“Pens?”

“Turkish Delights? Whatever. I don’t know what women like. I don’t know any.”

Mel finished her coffee and snuffed out her cigarette in the small butt molehill that had formed in the ashtray. She’d had enough girl-talk for one day.

Chapter Ten: Rock Me Amadeus

Julian was uncharacteristically nervous before their show that Saturday. Backstage, he kept peeking around the curtain, looking out into the crowd as if searching for someone.

It better not be Aisling, Rahul thought darkly. If those two were going to get back together this soon, he was going to have to officially put his foot down. How one put down their foot “officially” as opposed to “sternly” or “demandingly,” he wasn’t sure. He’d have to cross that bridge when he came to it.

He was just about to do a little preliminary foot-down-putting to show he meant business, when Julian dragged them all out on stage a good ten minutes before they were set to go on. After they began playing, however, all of Rahul’s concerns melted away in the heat of Julian’s tremendous performance.

Whatever nerves were coursing through his veins had given him some kind of superpower, the Earth’s yellow sun to his Superman.

Julian was always brilliant on stage, in Rahul’s opinion. He was the draw of The Knicker Brigade (or were they Freaky Love Rhombus this month?). Rahul had come to terms with that long ago. Rahul liked music. It wasn’t theatre, but it was the next best thing. And nothing could quite beat the electric fizz he felt under his skin when performing on stage next to Julian. Julian had a natural knack for music, unlike Rahul, who’d spent years studying the piano, the guitar, the violin, all at the direction of his mother who had once hoped to be an orchestral performer herself. Julian could hear rhythm and progression in his head the way few people could. But that wasn’t what made him a genius on the stage.

When Julian got on a stage, whether in front of five people or five hundred, he became larger. Everyday Julian was charming, off-beat, ephemeral, attractive. When he was performing, all of his qualities were dialled up louder than Rahul’s guitar. He was rhythm in motion, he was fluid music, he was pulling shapes out of the air. The movement of his body was just as much an instrument in the band as the drums or bass. It’s why Rahul felt they could never work on record. You needed to see Julian writhe on beer-damp floorboards. You needed to watch as he wrapped himself in the microphone cord and kicked the high-hat with a platform boot. You needed to feel the spittle land on your face as he spat plosives out at the astonished crowd. It was why they were ahead of their time and doomed to find glory only after their untimely demise.

Tonight, all those things that made Julian exemplary were magnified in a way Rahul had never seen them. He’d become accustomed to the scorn of the audience, come to terms with the fact that Beach Massacre Holiday would never be mainstream or easily digested by the masses. Tonight, though, even the pedestrian patrons of the Mango Club were entranced. Not a single person present, not even Rahul himself, could look away. The lines of his arms through the air were poetry. The words that emerged from his painted lips were shapes that hung almost tangible in the air. Even the daft blouse he wore was a part of the music.

His energy was electric, and it spread to each member of the band in turn, even the perpetually apathetic Mel. It was unspoken, but somehow they each agreed to give it their all. Because they couldn’t let Julian down, not when he was like this. Rahul lost himself in the music, in Julian. When the singer would twist in his direction, he could see his fringe clinging damply to his forehead, his eye makeup running with sweat, and his broad, infectious, infuriating, absolutely gorgeous grin on his face.

One of Rahul’s calluses split as his fingers danced across metal cords, but he barely noticed. It wasn’t his hand but his heart that was doing the hurting.

When the set was finally over, the crowd went wild, something they’d never done before. Not a single bit of rubbish had been thrown at the stage the entire night. Julian even hung around to give a great big bow rather than hurry off pursued by an angry mob.

“We’ve been The Cannibal Sharks,” Julian shouted into the microphone over the din of cheers. (Oh, so that’s what they were this month.) “And if you stick around after the show, we’re gonna be selling our demo. Cheers, mother-lickers!” He tossed the microphone into the crowd -- something he probably wasn’t supposed to do -- and sauntered off the stage.

When they regrouped backstage, their ears were still ringing with applause, their skin aglow with success. Was this success? Rahul had no idea it felt this way, having never experienced it before. Rahul was filled with such pride for the band, for himself, but, above all else, for Julian, that he was actually feeling rather weepy. He was on the verge of grabbing the shorter man and pulling him into a crushing hug, when Julian stopped dead in his tracks. His already luminous face lit up bigger and brighter than Rahul had seen in ages. Brighter, certainly, than it ever had for Aisling.

“Michael!” he exclaimed, rushing suddenly forwards. “You made it!”

Rahul’s gaze followed him to a large, blond man in his mid-thirties bedecked in an expensive suit and fashionable glasses. Rahul was alarmed to find the man was as tall as he was -- taller, even, in the right shoes. And good-looking enough that Rahul immediately recognized him. Not just from Julian’s brief description of him being “as good-looking as an American actor” (which, regrettably, he was), but because he was the sort of man you took notice of. Even if he insisted on sitting in the darkest booth at the darkest end of a working-class pub.

Oh yes. Rahul had seen him before. He’d seen him watching Julian. Week after week. Looking like he wanted to eat him for dinner. This was the man who’d “rescued” Julian from a bar fight? Rahul believed it even less now. A shit-faced Julian, vulnerable and flirty, stumbling out of the pub with a man who’d been scoping him out for months. There wasn’t a doubt in Rahul’s mind that this “Michael” had taken Julian home and had his… way with him. And poor Julian, drunk out of his gourd, had been none the wiser.

“Guys!” Julian proclaimed to the band, dragging the man forwards by his elbow. “This is Michael. He’s the one that saved me from getting clobbered and freezing to death in an alley.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Michael said, all straight white teeth like bathroom tiles. “You were smashing tonight. Really top-notch.”

Kwambe and Mel were nodding politely as they situated themselves on the threadbare sofa by the window where they smoked their usual post-gig spliffs. Rahul took the opportunity to steal forwards and whisper urgently in Julian’s ear, “Can I have a word, please? In private.”

Julian gave him a quizzical look but turned to Michael and said, “Just a sec,” before following Rahul to the far back corner of the tiny greenroom.

* * *

Michael’s eyes lingered on Julian as he was led away by his sour-faced friend. Julian’s band wasn’t necessarily Michael’s style, but he had to admit that they had a contagious sort of energy. Especially Julian, who’d been captivating up there in his too-tight trousers and ridiculous frilly top. Now, after the show, Julian was positively radiant. His face was damp and his cheeks flushed red, hair tousled and inviting. He looked like he’d just had an amazing shag, and it made Michael rather impatient to get the two of them out of here.

But Julian was having a word with his bandmate and had left him with the little lady and the cheerful drummer. They were occupying the short sofa, so Michael perched himself on the windowsill, letting the cool draft from the partially opened window quench his incessant desire.

“You rescued my brother?” Mel said on an exhale of fragrant smoke. Michael resisted the urge to fan it away. Ah, brother and sister. That explained the likeness. What was quite a fetching appearance for a man was rather unfortunate in a woman, and he pitied her slightly.

“I did. I’ve told him he ought not drink quite so much. If I hadn’t been there, he would’ve found himself in quite a sticky situation.”

“You can’t be there for all his sticky situations. Or you’d have to be attached to him at the hip,” the drummer said in a jolly way which made the insult sound more like a fondness. “I’m Kwambe. Rahul’s flatmate. Oh, and the drummer of course.” He extended his hand for Michael to shake. His grip was firm and a little moist.