This story takes place in September 2004
Chapter One
I hit the fire door with the palm of my hand so hard, it slammed the wall and the boom echoed back up the stairwell. I stepped out into afternoon sunshine, it was a bright but cool early autumn day, but beads of sweat shone on my forehead and my shirt clung to my skin. My cheeks burned like embers and I panted as I tried by drag myself under control.
I leant against the bare brick wall, running my hands through my hair and drew in a deep lung-full of cold air. I held it until my heart began to slow, then blew it out through pursed lips.
I rubbed my eyes with my fingertips before staring across the street, suddenly conscious that I was drawing the attention of passers-by. I tried to smile at a middle-aged woman who fired me a nervous glance, but it even felt more like a grimace. She turned away and scurried off.
I turned to step out onto the pavement, but instead swivelled around and kicked the door with the toes of my black boots. The pain that flashed up my leg brought a moment of clarity that focussed my mind.
I pulled the door back open and looked up the stairwell to the first floor that led through reception to my office and immediately felt my anger rise again.
"Fuck it." I murmured, turning again into the street.
They can fucking well do without me for the rest of the day
, I thought and headed up the hill towards my apartment. My mind replayed the meeting on a loop, and I watched myself storm out before I said something that jeopardised my job,
if
, I reminded myself, I hadn't done that anyway by leaving - not even pausing long enough to retrieve my coat, I realised as the wind bit through my suit jacket.
I stuffed my hands into my trouser pockets and hunched my shoulders against the cold. Almost subconsciously, I stepped through the doors of a pub suddenly in need of a drink to cleanse the day away.
I helped the door shut with the sole of my foot and blinked heavily, again rubbing my eyes with my fingertips, finally feeling in control of my anger.
The bar was all but deserted, it was only about 4 o'clock after all, but I realised after a moment of staring unashamedly that I recognised the girl at the bar. In fact, I had a ticket to her gig the following night and I dimly recalled that tonight was a free night in her schedule.
Just as well
. I thought as I approached the polished wooden bar. I could see from her posture and an empty shot glass that she was hitting it hard, already drunk and showing no signs of stopping.
She signalled to the barman with a dismissive wave and he re-filled her shot glass with ice-cold Absolut straight from the freezer, took her money without a word and then turned his attention to me.
"Hiya. Bateman's please mate."
"Pint?" I nodded as I rested my elbows on the bar and saw the girl drain her glass in one and wipe her lips dry with the back of her hand.
The barman placed my pint on the brass drip tray as a tablespoon of creamy head slid down the side of the glass. I slipped onto the high stool and saw him glance cautiously at the girl, probably wondering if she was going to be trouble.
"Anything else, mate?" he asked in a broad south Australian accent. I nodded.
"And another one of those." I said pointing at the empty shot glass. He shrugged, his body language said simply,
Your funeral
, and he refilled her glass before taking the note I offered him between the polished wooden beer pumps.
Our eyes connected via the Guinness branded mirror that hung behind the bar. I raised my glass in a toast before taking a few large mouthfuls. The girl returned the gesture, this time restraining herself to just half the shot.
"Thanks." She murmured, eye contact still only established via the mirror.
"Mind if I join you?" I asked standing, ready to pull my stool across the couple of feet of scratched oak floor that separated us. She shrugged and looked at the space between us, swaying slightly as her legs dangled in free-air, not long enough to reach the footrest that circled the stool's legs.
"Free country I guess." She slurred, still staring into the mirror.
I dragged my stool beside hers, the metal feet scratching bright new scars in the wood.
We sat in silence, just two afternoon drinkers in need of a hit. She finished hers and I polished off most of my pint, the alcohol buzz beginning to relax me and she smiled weakly at me via the mirror.
I turned to face her.
"So," I said, breaking the silence, "what's this all about?" I asked, gesturing to the dry shot glass.
"Shit day." Her tone was gruff, suggesting any conversation would be one-sided.
"Now that I can drink to." I said and poured the rest of my beer down my throat, in three swift gulps, "Vodka?" I asked as the barman made his way over. She just nodded.
"Maybe just one more." She said, the veneer finally cracking and a smile breaking over her pale pink lips. The barman poured the vodka into fresh shots with a flourish, the thick glasses frosting with contact with the ice-cold spirit.
I loosened my tie and picked up my glass, holding it out towards her. Our glasses met with a dull clink.
"Shit days and cold cures." I toasted.
"Cold cures." She replied in a North American drawl and we both drank. The freezing spirit slipped smoothly down my throat, hit my stomach and spread through me like a fire-storm.
"Well," I started as the burn manifested into a warm glow, "my name's Philip and I know why my day was shit, but" I hesitated, "what's fucked yours up so badly? A multi-million selling album. A sold out tour. You're life must be a nightmare!" Having made it clear that I knew who she was, I extended my hand towards her and she shook it weakly. Her hands were small and cold and disappeared completely within my long fingers.
"Hi Philip," she said, her words like treacle, "my day's just been a pack of crap. I don't even know if there'll be a fucking show tomorrow." She shook her head, closed her eyes and drained her vodka, tipping her head back so far I thought she would topple off the stool.
