Result One dry, hardened slum through the P4 route and we are drained. Glancing at the marble staircase at the entrance of the Academy, she grasps my arm firmly and drags. I choke on a breath when astounded by the visuals; these are “stroboscopic lights”. The two-man band is getting ready to play and she confesses to me that she’s feeling “very ill”. Jealousy courses through me as men, endless men, are bumping into my left leg, my right arm, each carrying a girl in their hand; each girl a porcelain doll in ripped jeans and a baggy t-shirt. This is their “rock” wear. Tonight is their “rock” night. She’s adamant on drinking regardless of how she’s feeling and she leaves me, disillusioned and so awake, to order a drink. The barman smiles; she’s obviously cracked out a knee-slapper, probably dazzled him with shocks of blue eyes. Another guy bumps shoulder-first into my waist. I thought I was short. The house lights flare up only to dismally shut down again and these are signals. The crew are alive; it’s time for the band. The drummer paints the pulse of the evening - she shakes her flawless pale face in anguished ecstasy, and I am still rubbing malevolent, pointed shoulders with the Brixton elite. “Hey, I’ve paid stalls too, pal”, some goofy American with a handlebar moustache sourly decrees when I lead my pathetically miniscule revolt against the tyrannies of ardent shovers. Expensive lager drips from cheap plastic onto my shoes and a curse can’t stop itself from hurtling out of my mouth. I delight in thinking of a reason to join the party (the creases in my cheeks will tell), but I’m cordoned off by these damned inhibitions. She’s very ill. I brought her here and I shall try to perform at my protective best, without being possessive or romantic or any description of over-emotional, to look after her. Her blonde streak smacks me in the face on her return, causing a temporary pained blindness. “£4”, she replies and I take a sip. With a bit of luck, perhaps I will too fall ill and this night can draw to a close and a sigh of relief. Dorothy leans into my ear and militarily reports on the situation. “I hope they play it”, a jutting grin invades my gaze, “Seriously, I need to fucking hear it.” Song after song in their set tumbles into the crowd, a beach-ball filled with beery cigarette breath floats solemnly from flailing hands to unsuspecting heads. Each number flung from their repertoire triggered a slight lapse in her half-smile, then quarter-smile and then two-sixths, upon discovery of it not being the one she needs to hear. Should I feel responsible? Give me two minutes; I’ll find the tour manager and throttle him until an arrangement is made. Vocals of gravel screech through a velvet wave of bass as I reach for the quart bottle of scotch I hid in my belt earlier. My vocals become gravel as the drip of alcohol percolates through my throat and creates a sumptuous heartburn, evolving into a delicate nausea. I turn to her and the nausea is turned up a notch: I have literally only turned around, just the once in the past half an hour, to take a sip and she is already being sent sweet nothings through darkness, permeated with follow-spots, by a complete tool in a Harrington jacket. Her ears aren’t just burning – they’re napalmed. I’m livid yet abstinent of expression. This night is an eruption of trend-setting pus and this expedition, true to my innermost fallacies, was worthless. If my eyes were tuning forks, there could be some form of getting visual headway of what he’s saying to her. “Stroboscopic lights” I have to blame for this. Instead they’re pitchforks, and they are stabbing him in his forehead. Inwardly exploiting the negativity surrounding my every notion momentarily, I drum up a neatly timed flashback: An airbed lies in a corner of an expansive kitchen and the windows on the far side are gammed up with washing machine condensation. We’re sharing a bottle of Sailor Jerry’s with my Uncle Cliff. He winks at me when she tells him she’s a vegetarian and she’s going outside for a smoke, and the next minute Cliff’s gone upstairs to sleep and we’re fucking on the airbed. For four hours. Am I going too slowly? Is she bored? She said that she’s slept with more people – is she faking? Next we’re walking down the road, hand in hand, and I wave her off when she gets on the bus with her suitcase. I caught her smile in the bright April noon; thank fuck she’s satisfied. I refrain from eating meat for an entire and happily mid-length week, short through feeling yet long through yearning. Another sip, another ache in my thyroid and Harrington Boy takes full awareness of the pitchforks (he nearly shears an eyebrow off with their sharpness). The tuning forks pick up a distant and volatile stammer; my chest swells in full recognition of his climactic fear. He brings the nothings to an ultimatum and they are left bare, sour and still very much nothing. She toddles up to me after, gives me a queasily sugary grin before proclaiming “Alright?” I’ve got too much to say and I stick to my abstinence. The gig ends and the song she wanted to hear live through pain of illness hasn’t so much as sent a note lobe-ward. We head back to the stop and await the hawkish, clumsy vehicle we arrived on. Ten minutes before it comes I spin; bowing my head and I brush my lips along the side of her face. She coolly and coyly dips her head in, releases a billow of menthol from her red mouth and proudly informs me that she gave the lad her number. I wait for the bus without as much as another word, and this time I don’t wave her off.