Anne. When we get to a sort of main road that could sort of be a little nearer the centre of town I pause to glance down either side of the street, and for the first time this evening -evening? I check my watch, it's two in the morning- I have a hint of awareness at where I am.
-Come on.
Christies grasps at my arm absent-mindedly, like a parent helping a child across a road. The road, though, is mainly empty. There's a distant roar of engines coming from the general direction of the motorways outside the city and I kind of know where I am. When we're at the island in the middle of the road a motorbike comes out of the darkness on the left of Christie, zooming past us so sudden and loud that I step back instinctively. There are two people, a driver leaning forwards and a passenger in a similar helmet clinging on. Genderless, people are, with helmets on. Pretty, slender figures flying through the night. As the rush of air that comes with its velocity washes over Christie he shuts his eyes, apprently breathing in the fumes it leaves behind it. The black fog shrouds him and when his now tired-looking face comes back into my view I can see he's muttering something, head tilted back and eyes still resting. His brow is furrowed and he looks like the passing of the vehicle took the life out of his mind when it sped down the street.
-Oh...fucking hell.
-What?
He sounds so very drained I'm almost worried.
-Nothing. I just...don't you just hate people who drive motorbikes? They always turn out to be the worst type of people. I just loathe them, honestly. As a general rule, never trust them.
-I've never found that, personally...
The subject has obviously left Christie's mind because he doesn't listen to my retort, and walks across the road without a word.
There's a familiar feeling as we wander down past the buildings, very few with lights on. It's the feeling that I would probably call the precursor to a hangover. Tonight, it's a hangover of events. It's the walking in the dark, streetlights are orange and the light is purpley-blue, really pretty but it sort of echoes the feeling in your head, the thinking that there was life maybe two hours ago, and now it's gone, but sometimes little bursts of colour stalk out of the shadows, when they laugh it sticks out uncomfortably because the world that they think they're in no longer exists for you. Intoxication keeping them in a good place and you get a sharp sense of understanding about how relative situations and settings are. All individual perception. This is my own theory of relativity, it's really quite interesting.
Cassie is holding onto Anton's arm for warmth, I assume, still behind us. They make quiet conversation, seemingly trivial. Cassie is in a good mood and Anton's dark attitude towards Christie has returned after its momentary dissipation on accounts of his aquisition of fiscal rewards from Christie's gloved, scheming hands. About ten minutes has passed since the motorbike when they stop by a turning.
-Nice to meet you, Anne.
-You too.
Cassie hugs me, and it's not that painful.
-And you Anton, nice to meet you too.
-Well, what else could you possibly say in a situation like this. Maybe I'll see you again in a more normal way in the future.
Anton's voice is heavy with sarcasm but he smiles at me a little, after giving Christie a pointed glare.
-Unlikely.
-Fuck off, Christie- I'm hereby banning you from kidnapping me in the middle of the night. Next time, I'm calling the police.
-Like it was of my choosing for you to accompany us, Anton. Get a grip on yourself. You're a hindrance. I'd appreciate it if you made an effort to not shag the people I find useful.
-You weren't exactly complaining when-
-This conversation is over, Anton.
Christie's voice is cool as he turns around, linking his arm through mine as I've put my hands in my pockets because it's cold. I'm irked by this assumption that I'm fine with him touching me but I can't bear moving my frozen fingers.
-You didn't give me the chance to be a gentleman last time, I'm walking you home.
-Right. Because such a chivalrous action compensates entirely for the fact that you broke into my house and stole my cleaning products.
-Your standards are far too high, my girl. I'm better than most.
-And are you going to give back the knives you took from my kitchen?
-You can have these three.
He pulls out of his pocket one that's alarmingly large and two smaller blades as we approach my door.
-And what are you keeping?
-Your codeine, surplus painkillers, including the cocodamol and valium that you shouldn't have, and don't need. Two small knives, and as yet unidentified bathroom chemicals. One of them is blue, that's my current favourite. I think I could kill someone with it.
-Okay. Is there any way I could get into trouble as an accomplice or something?
-I never get caught.
-Right.
He takes my shoulders and I try to wriggle out of his grasp, but all he does is kiss me on either cheek.
-Good bye, Anne. Sleep well.
He leaves. I can't think of anything to say anyway, because even if I could he wouldn't have listened. I watch him disappear for about five seconds before opening the door and ascending the very long staircase. It seems a little threatening, that horrible floor of mottled grey-turquoise lit by grey white strip bulbs and edged in stainless steel, which is not stainless, it's stained with the footprints of every inhabitant's evening, every evening, since the building's conception. I feel the wieght of the night on my back as I begin the ascent to flourescent heaven.
Yves. The wind invades the black helmet that covers my ears, sending ice through my hair. I'm very grateful for my coat and the fact that I've wrapped myself as tightly as possible around Gabriel, half out of fear for my life and half out of the fact that it's him.
The feeling as the engine hums underneath me is really quite celestial. I feel very high up as my feet cling to the grooves in the rubber covered pedals they rest on. My fingers are as tightly linked as possible at the waist of the driver, he might have muttered something about not being able to breathe earlier but I don't really care because motorbikes don't have seatbelts and I'm not keen on falling off a vehicle moving at this speed.
There is, of course, this intense and inescapable feeling of impending mortality but simultaneously, this is a very exhilarating experience. I realise as we speed down an empty motorway (Gabriel had previously said something about taking a longer route) that I've never done anything remotely unsafe in my life before, and this is clearly not a typical practice of suburbia-dwelling shop assistants. After quite a while of being able to look nowhere but the back of Gabriel's neck or have my eyes screwed shut I finally muster up the courage to turn my head. What I see, when I look to my right is something quite unforgettable. The winter sun is huge and red, a massive scarlet orb that might as well be Mars, it is gradually disappearing behind November forests, bare and skeletal trees poking imperfections into the hilly horizon that faces the city, and over these fields that are bathed in this luminescence looks like a painting of a surreal world where purple fades into yellow, forgetting its destiny to be a common heathland and melting into the transformation that the setting sun promises. This transformation into something incendiary, something glittering and unnatural and at odds with conventional ideas of the habits of British countryside.
Soon, the woodland grows more intense, sparser pines collapse into coniferous lakes, the dark seeming to come from behind them somewhere, or more accurately, inside them, sweeping outwards as if the whole scene is a toy, a drawing, and in a giant universe someone dropped indigo ink into the heart of it.
I look across the skies as the sun disappears, the yellow turning to pale blue of midday, and that turning to darker and darker blue until a gold gleam returns as a kind of roof of the city that's now far away. It sparkles under the precipice on which the road lies, we're spiralling down to meet it, and because I can't see the two scenes at once the beautiful industry and electricty appearing seems like it can't have this apparent symbiosis with the patchwork landscape that lies serenely on the other side of it, submitting to the darkness with the will of a compliant lover, meeting it halfway through the galaxy and allowing tiny points of white light to reveal themselves, undress above the darkening fields.
Now, I see the stars on one side and somewhere above my head the whole sky turns upside down to show me orange stars below me. The night is gloriously clear, and the city is singing in celebration. As we speed down a hill and my stomach lurches in that weird rollercoaster way I feel ecstasy at the proposition of forever being able to fall into the centre of it all.
I realise, as we shudder to a halt for the third time since I got here that once again my eyes are closed in a very dreamy manner. We're outside a door inbetween three or four boarded-up buildings on either side which look kind of a little bit suspect.
-Are you going to take me into an abandoned building and murder me?
-Absolutely.
Gabriel places his hand in mine, tangling our fingers together, and I notice that he's holding his leather gloves in the other hand, having removed them on dismount. I wonder if this is so we're closer again, the air around us is impossibly cold and I'm sure he wouldn't usually have taken off his gloves. I'm grateful as I will warmth into my palms, trying to battle the frustrating lack of circulation that's preventing me from feeling his touch entirely.
The door opens with a creak, and I am led up a narrow, steep staircase, carpeted, with graffiti and sticker advertisements on the dirty beige walls either side of us.
When we reach the top of the staircase, Gabriel lets go of my hand to wrestle with a door handle and a key. After a lot of shaking the thing, it swings open with a loud bang.
-This is work?
-This is work. I need to get that door fixed.
I follow him in as he deftly avoids the rusty nails that stick out ominously from the side of the door. When I take a look at the room, I have to turn around to make sure I'm still in the same place I was two seconds ago.
What faces is an expansive, brightly lit space that's probably actually better described as a hall. It is luminous, one wall has a large mirror hanging from it, making the unexpectedly huge space seem even larger. The contents of the room, though, are its most impressive feature.
At the back of the room, under tasteful spot lighting is a black electric piano, and on either side are four guitars of different varieties hanging from wall stands. There are a few framed posters on each wall, colourful art prints and faded pictures of musicians under dazzling lights. There's huge amounts of very complex looking machinery here, a big dark grey box with silver sections and hundreds of dials, and around me, everywhere, loads and loads of wires. I can come to about one logical conclusion right now, so I decide to voice it.
-You're a musician.
-I write music, yes.
-And you brought me here because...
-I want you to listen to the music, yes.
-Are you sure I won't distract you? I always hear about artists getting all isolated when they write stuff.
-I'm not an artist. You're a good distraction. I'm not writing stuff now, I'm playing stuff.
-So you have people here all the time?
-No.
-So I should feel special?
-Yes.
Gabriel's face is illegible as he grapples with various leads on the floor, untangling and plugging things in.
-It's not very good.
-What's not very good?
-The stuff I do. In fact, maybe you don't need to hear it...
-No, no really, I do. Let me hear it. I'm sure it's fantastic.
-It's not fantastic.
Ah! I recognise this tone of voice with that flickering of the eyes. He's uncomfortable.
-You're uncomfortable.
-No I'm not.
-Yes you are. I want to hear it, Gabriel. If it's terrible, I'll say something nice and non-comittal, like, 'that was interesting' or one of the many other expressions the British have invented for polite ways of telling somebody they're shit.
-I'm so very comforted by that promise, Yves. You wouldn't believe it.
He's settled down a little now, sitting on the piano stool with one of the guitars in his hand.
-Sit.
He motions to a chair just behind me.
-I'm very far away from you here, I can't see your eyes.
-It's better.
I give a juvenile pout, but he ignores me and looks down, and begins to play.
I shouldn't be surprised by how deftly his fingers glide over the strings extricating every complex melody and correspondant harmony they possibly could, but I still am. I suppose it's not a difficult conclusion to reach that his singing voice might be as beautiful and as infused with danger as when he speaks, and I suppose the extraterrestrial relationship each word has with another isn't too foreign a concept when considering the manner in which he talks, but still, somehow, I'm wonderfully bowled over by what he presents to me now.
Not a corner of the music is abandoned when he reaches in and pulls out the heart of every tiny note that he plays. There is no overwhelming emotion left untouched as he falls through a chorus with intricacies enough to disengage any revered composer's works, nailed to a hundred histories. There is no story left untold, no clearer way he could express to me...what? Something about himself. Something that couldn't be given such clarity any other way. Every minute detail of his head seems to have been delivered to me in the most heart-rending manner, I understand now the masked confusion, some frustration, the genius, the want to hide things with his language and attempt at distance, and most worryingly of all the desperation that comes with the way he seems to have let me past all of that. It's almost like he was waiting for me. Waiting for someone to be objective, the only way he could ever let someone as close as I'd love to think I am to him. It's unnerving, and as he finishes, he keeps his head down.
I'm overcome with the urge to rush to his side but I don't see him appreciating that.
-That wasn't interesting.
He looks up in mild alarm.
-I thought you said you'd be nice?
-No no no I mean that was incredible, not interesting, incredible. Amazing. Beautiful. I don't know, you're better at words than me. God, I can't quite believe you. I can't quite believe you exist.
-Hm. Well, that went better than I expected, I suppose.
His voice is all self-depreciation but the curl of his lips shows me he's slightly pleased. Obviously just trying to get as far away from that sudden demonstration of the fact that he has actual human feelings as possible. I personally don't want this moment to escape my grasp.
-What's the song about?
-I don't know, many things.
-And did you mean it?
-Obviously, otherwise I wouldn't have written it, would I?
An irked tone tells me that that's the truth he's trying to escape.
-Can I come over there?
-If you're careful.
His eyes follow my feet, hawklike, daring me to go anywhere near anything electrical. I do my best to affect his catlike elegance. When I reach him, obstacles almost neatly avoided, he lays he guitar down next to him and takes up a small section of the seat he's perched on, body hunched over his knees with his hands clasped tightly on his lap, I can see his skin growing impossibly paler where he's digging his nails in. He stares resolutely at a spot on the floor in front of his feet.
He cuts such a folorn figure right now, a picture of childish obstinacy, defiance at having to admit something about himself. He's completely ridiculously icy but I wrap my arms around his thin figure to try and melt him. Stubbornly, he remains in this position, but leans a little into my arm.
He's so absurd, intent on being cross with me for following instructions, but as I play with the hair at the back of his neck I feel so happy to have someone so beautifully insane in my life.
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