She scoffs. “You were never a Scout. They don’t have badges for manipulation.” But a smile tugs at her lips, barely visible in the darkness.
The road leads us farther around the hill range and her fingers twist in her lap as we reach the harbour heads, waves crashing into the rocks below.
“Relax. If I wanted to murder you, I’d have done it already.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.” I turn down a gravel road, headlights catching the hulking shadows of the old buildings. “We’re here.”
The bass hits us before we’re even out of the car. A deep, primal thud that vibrates through the chassis. Ophelia’s head tilts, following the sound.
“What is this place?”
“Old gun emplacement and barracks from World War Two.” I come around to her side, offering my hand. “Now it’s where the cool kids come to get fucked up on a Saturday night.”
The empty buildings loom above us, graffitied concrete and rust stains, windows dark except for an occasional strobe of coloured light. I lead Ophelia through a gap in the chain-link fence, following the surge of bodies towards the music.
Inside, the rave is in full swing. Strobing lights turn the crowd into a stop-motion film. Bodies jerking and swaying, hands raised, faces slick with sweat.
The DJ works from a platform of wooden pallets, headphones clamped over their ears, fingers dancing across the mixer. The bass is so loud it replaces my heartbeat, pounding through my sternum.
Ophelia freezes in the doorway, overwhelmed. I lean close to her ear, shouting over the music.
“Dance with me.”
“I can’t see anything.” But she’s not protesting, not really. Her body is already responding to the rhythm.
“You don’t need to see. Just feel it.”
I pull her into the crowd, into the crush of sweat and chemical energy. She’s stiff at first, self-conscious, but I keep moving, giving her no choice but to follow. The music shifts, drops into a faster beat, and something in her loosens.
She starts to dance alongside me.
It’s not graceful, but it’s genuine, freeing. Her arms lift, her hips sway, her head falls back as she surrenders to the sound. The strobing lights catch her white hair, turning her into something even more ethereal and strange than usual.
Her stamina outlasts mine and an hour later, I step back, giving her space, positioning myself where I can keep watch.
One guy stumbles too close, and I intercept him with a shoulder check that sends him sprawling. Another sidles behind her and I’m there before he can make contact, my hand closing on his wrist hard enough the bones grind together.
“Fuck off,” I mouth, and something in my face makes him cut and run.
Ophelia doesn’t notice, lost in the music. Her eyes are closed, a smile on her face that I’ve never seen before. Unguarded. Free. I memorise every detail, wanting to capture her in this moment, and hold it forever.
Alive and moving and mine.
She opens her eyes and finds me in the crowd, her smile widening. When I take her hand, she comes along willingly, and I lead her past the graffitied concrete wall, ending up by the twin harbour cannons.
“You like this style of music then?” I ask. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”
“This would’ve been a disaster if I didn’t.” Ophelia swings herself up onto the iron mounting. “But I like most styles of music.” Her voice turns wistful. “I used to dream of being a music producer. What about you?”
“I’ve never dreamt of being anything much.”
“You should.” Her legs swing and I hoist myself onto the cannon beside her. “With your voice, you could be a star.”
“Oh, sure.”
She elbows me. “I’m serious. With that deep baritone and your looks? No one would care what you’re singing.”
