Hester:Come out to the lounge when you’re ready. I’ll have a little cup of something warmed and ready for you.
I balk at that, knowing that it’s going to be some of the fresh blood supply Elliott dropped off earlier this evening. It’ll remind me of him.
Me:I’ve lost my appetite.
Hester:You need to feed. Just a little. To keep yourstrength up.
Me:Fine.
Alone in my room, I curl up on the bed, nosing for Elliott’s scent on the pillow. But someone has stripped and remade it since it was streaked with arterial blood. It must have been Floss. That was thoughtful. But no, I’m still pissed off at her. And at Hester. Even though she was nice enough to bathe me. I bat at my head with my hand. Arrrrgh. This fucking buzzing ...
When I’m dressed in a French Connection T-shirt and low-rise skinny jeans, the thought of going out into the lounge and facing everyone after my wailing and fainting fit makes me shudder. I hate showing weakness. I’m the strong one. The practical one. The one who’s been keeping us fed via Elliott all these years. Maybe that’s why Alexander targeted him because he knows he’s the linchpin of the group? Take him, and we’re forced out of hiding and into the streets, looking for food. And easier to pick off one by one.
But Alexander had the chance to kill me tonight, and he didn’t. The curious look on his face when he tasted Elliott’s blood and his remark ‘How intriguing’ give me the barest smidgeon of hope that my thrall is still alive and kicking. It’s then that I realise what the buzzing in my head is. I let out a cry of stunned relief.
Now I know I’m going to need everyone’s help, and it’s that which forces me to head to the lounge. Everyone looks up as I walk in, jaw clenched. Floss and Damian are holding hands on the couch. He’s white-faced and nervous. No surprise there. I notice he’s wearing a spare pair of Elliott’s jeans and his old Duran Duran T-shirt they’ve found in my wardrobe. Motherfucker. Elliott loves that T-shirt. It’s even signed by the band. I grind my teeth. But Hester gestures to my chair, which has a mug of blood in front of it. I give her a stiff nod and take a seat.
No one says anything as I take a long swallow of warm blood. It slips down my throat and warms the cockles of my long-dead heart. A heart that, I’m afraid, has been compromised many years ago, and I haven’t admitted to it.
Somewhat revitalised by the blood and feeling less inclined to scratch Damian’s eyes out, I lean back in my chair and cross my legs.
‘Right. Listen up, bitches. Elliott’s alive, and we’re going to rescue him.’
Chapter 3
Elliott | Edinburgh, 1983
I’m used to running around like a headless chicken on concert night, but this gig at the Royal Highland Exhibition Hall has been particularly stressful.
First, Andy kept breaking guitar strings at the soundcheck this afternoon, and the guys ribbed him about having sausage fingers. He’s sensitive about his hands, so he got in a tizz and stormed offstage. Then when he’d been hugged by everyone and apologised to, they continued. But Simon had been nursing a sore throat since Manchester, so his voice sounded pretty rough. He decided to power through and gargle Epsom salts before the show, so I had to source a bag and get it sent to his hotel room. A couple of speakers blew for no reason, and then Nick’s synthesiser wasn’t triggering properly, which took ages for the keyboard tech to sort out. It seemed to be one thing after the other.
And this weather wasn’t helping things. It was pissingwith rain when we arrived tonight and colder than a witch’s tit. God knows why we had to come to Edinburgh in December. Sure, the Scots want to see Duran Duran play live (who wouldn’t?). But there’s been no thought for us lackeys who have to sprint around outside, doing various jobs. By the time I’d finished, my nuts were practically frozen.
Don’t get me wrong. As a roadie for the most famous band on earth right now, I love my job and wouldn’t change it for the world. But I’m still jet-lagged from Australia, where the Sing Blue Silver Tour started in November. So far, they’ve played eleven concerts in five weeks, and this is just the beginning. A gruelling schedule of concert dates is planned throughout December up until Christmas. Then we’ll be in Japan and USA until April next year. Which is fine. It’s what I signed up for. But part of the issue I’m having is that a few of the security team quit as they couldn’t hack it. So I’m helping out their crew too, and I completely understand what they’re dealing with.
Trying to keep the band protected from these fans is a nightmare. The boys can’t even relax backstage after a concert because these women are fucking feral and storm the corridors, looking for them. They want them to sign their tits. They want their sweaty towels. They want the water bottles that they’ve sucked from. Want, want, want.Most of them we manage to herd off at the pass, but a few do escape through. The uproar from those who don’t makes my hair stand on end and my dick shrivel. I’ve even taken it on the chin a few times when they’ve lashed out in their distress. I imagine this is what it was like for the Beatles: the screaming, the crying, the fainting ... the punching.
Thankfully, the band is playing their final set now. Two more songs to go:‘Rio’and then‘Girls on Film’. Then they’ll make a run for it out the back way. No hanging around tonight. They’re heading straight to the hotel on their tour bus. We’re off to Leeds tomorrow, and it’s going to be an early start, so there’ll be no partying for the band or crew. Everyone needs to arrive without hangovers for the afternoon soundcheck at Queens Hall.
I’ll join them after I’ve tidied up. Their dressing room looks like a bomb has gone off in here with all their outfits, towels, and discarded water bottles. I consider hoarding a few and making some money off of their lip imprints, but in the end, I bundle them all into a black rubbish bag for the cleaners in the morning.
By the time I’ve finished, my eyes are drooping, and I’m looking forward to my bed. The thought makes me laugh a little. What am I, 23 going on 83? When I leave the dressing room, I’m not expecting to see a wall of hormonal women in the corridor as the security has been tighter here. Butthere are still twenty or so hanging around.
A ripple of anticipation goes through them when they spot me in my leather jacket with teased-up blond hair sauntering towards them. But then someone calls out, ‘It’s nae Simon! It’s nae even Nick!’ There’s a rumble of despondent groans.
I get this a lot because I dress like Simon does. And I don’t want to blow my own trumpet here, but I’ve been told I’m as good-looking as he is. I’m not his height of six feet two, but near enough at five foot eleven. But that doesn’t make a difference to the fans. I’m not him. Usually, it’s a minor irritation, and I brush it off. But tonight I’m tetchy because I’m tired, and these Duran Duran fans are soooo demanding.
Strolling up to them, I say in a loud voice, ‘You’re wasting your time hanging around, ladies. I’m their roadie, and the band isn’t here. They left an hour ago. So you might as well go home.’
‘I don’t believe you. They always hang out backstage after concerts and meet their fans.’ A blonde girl at the front of the group puts her hands on her hips and scowls at me. She’s eye-catchingly pretty with scarlet lips and shaggy blonde hair à la Bonnie Tyler. She has a raspy voice like hers too. I can’t help staring at her, taking in the sparkly tight green top, short black skirt, and spike-heeled leather bootswrapped around long slender calves. The other women throw me dark looks and mutter.
‘Yeah, I bet he’s lying.’
‘Let us meet them.’
‘We paid good money for our tickets.’
‘We’ve been waiting to see them.’
