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He’d been up there about forty minutes and a respectable crowd of about twenty-five thousand had gathered to hear Problem Children, when Rielle acted.
Neddy started grinning when he heard the pulley motor engage but instead of his trapeze lowering, he was getting a visitor. A mysterious visitor in a black cloak and hood which made her look like a medieval monk. When her trapeze drew level with Neddy’s, Rielle pushed back her hood, making a bunch of people start screaming her name. She gave the audience a quick wave. Rand would not be happy she was out here pre-show.
Over surprised claps and whistles, she said, “You having a nice time, Neddy?” as cameras flashed at them.
He had crazy eyes and he must’ve wanted to curse at her, but he saw sense. He blew out a breath and clamped his mouth closed.
“Oh, I see.” She rocked her trapeze easily back and forth. “Cat got your tongue.”
This wasn’t going well for him. He must have decided it’d be better to humour her. “I’m sorry,” he blurted.
“Oh, really, what for?”
“For, er, taking the part.”
Rielle gave a wave to the crew standing down below. “No. You’re only sorry you got caught.” She rode her trapeze to the stage. On the ground, she said to Bodge, “Bring him down when he’s worked out what he should be sorry for.”
The big silver-haired roadie hitched his pants. “That might take a long time, Rie. Jake said I should bring him down if they,” he jerked his thumb towards the audience, “really start throwing things. Security isn’t happy about this.”
She looked up at Neddy and laughed, and as she left the stage with a flourish of the cloak that hid her first costume, he started yelling, “I’m sorry you got stuck. I’m sorry you were inconvenienced. I’m sorry I didn’t replace the fucking part!”
The punters went quiet as soon as Neddy started yelling, desperate for the light entertainment of hearing him—hoping Rielle might come back. She hid herself in the wings while they clapped and cheered disproportionately loudly for a man dangling from a trapeze yelling words they had trouble hearing. And they kept on clapping when he was brought down, red faced and angry, and when they welcomed Problem Children to the stage it was as though they’d already been warmed up by a support act.
It was going to be a great night.
Beside her Bodge said, “Maybe we should do that every night.”
Jake jammed his earplugs in as the first gig of Ice Queen’s This Side of Purgatory tour kicked off with the moving parts of their industrial construction zone set whirring into life, lit dramatically in shades of red and yellow. He was grateful for them when Rand began a blistering guitar solo from on top of a raised piece of staging. He was joined by Stu and Roley and the three played an extended version of the song that gave the tour its title.
Five minutes in, the rest of the group were on stage, with the exception of Rielle. The music and the anticipation built. Rielle was the Ice Queen and everyone in the stadium had paid to see and hear her and a sense of expectation throbbed through the night. It throbbed inside Jake too, now he’d see what she was made of as a performer.
She had her own entrance riding down from the rigging on the trapeze, adding her voice to the song. She wore a skin-tight red cat-suit, slashed across her hips, back, and arms to reveal her pale skin. It looked like it would reveal more of her every time she moved—and she never stood still. She wore thigh-high black patent leather boots and her trademark red hair was wild and streaked with silver. A vivid vision of her dressed like that on the back of Bonne tickled Jake’s brain. Dream on. On the video screen close ups you could see her violet eyes and red lips. She was saturated energy; she was dangerous and glorious and like the punters, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
When she touched down, the band shifted straight into the next song, fast paced and hard edged. Rielle screamed the lyrics with Rand and Stu either side of her and Ceedee, Jeremy and Brendan providing supporting vocals. Roley was on the keyboard now and How was already a lather of sweat at the drum kit.
When the song crashed to an end Rielle called, “Hello Adelaide!” and got a rousing cheer. “This is the first gig of our twenty-three city tour.”
Rand broke in, “Twenty-five cities.”
She cut Rand a look. The one that could liquefy metal. Jake felt it in his knees. She said, “Shut the fuck up,” and fifty thousand people laughed.
Rand shook his head in an exaggerated way. “I tell you Adelaide, when your ki
d sister asks you to join her band—run.” There was more laughter. Jake looked at Bodge and Tef and saw his own lip-splitting grin mirrored.
Stu said, “Yeah,” and in turn each of the band members echoed that ‘yeah.’ Then Stu added, “I thought it was your band, Rand,” starting another round of ‘yeahs’.
From the mosh-pit there were calls of, ‘I love you, Rand,’ and ‘I want your baby, Stu’. Even funny man Roley got a verbal love note and came out to the edge of the stage to ham it up, while behind him, Rielle gave Rand a push and he pretend-stumbled—How giving him a drum beat and a cymbal crash to accompany his footfall, and the female portion of the audience screamed.
Rielle yelled, “You didn’t come to see us fight, you came to hear the music, right?” and pumped her fist to the accompanying shouts of assent. Jake exchanged another look with Bodge. There were other things he could be doing, but they’d wait. Getting this new experience of Rielle—like a fresh breath, like an unconscious blink—wouldn’t. She belted out the opening refrain of the next song and the band followed her in.
Four more songs into the set and Rielle came off stage for a costume change. She brushed past Jake to get to Bodge who had a bottle of water, a towel and an enormous grin ready for her. She flashed a quick look at Jonas, got a thumbs up, and slipped back to her dressing room to change.
She was back on stage in less than four minutes, this time in a body-slick short black and silver dress and ankle boots. Four more songs til the break and then they’d all have twenty minutes to get prepared for the tougher second half.
From where Jake stood on the side of the stage with Jonas, Glen, Ron Teller and a couple of journalists, things looked to be going well, and sounding even better. No foul ups technically. The closest they’d gotten was How knocking a mic stand over, but a fleet footed Teflon scampered across the stage and righted it without incident. Everything was looking good at the front of house as well. No punch-ups, no fainting, no call on the St John’s Ambulance guys yet, and security was having an easy time of it after being worried about the whole Neddy thing earlier.
“She truly does rock,” said Glen.
