apparently. I reapplied my lipstick for the fifteenth time. I drank a bit more wine. I changed my mind, then changed it back again.
In the end I was there just before midnight, as instructed, clutching the Jack Daniel’s I’d bought because I’d read that Janis Joplin had drunk it, at the door of the tall town-house on Lawn Street. My belly squirmed with nerves. The lights were all out as I rang the doorbell and I thought for a horrid second they’d forgotten me – or perhaps it was all a nasty joke to get me stumbling around town in killer heels like a drunken fool.
The door opened a crack.
‘Password?’
‘Pardon?’ I said.
‘Password,’ the voice drawled impatiently.
‘I don’t know the—’ I began, and the door started to close.
‘No, wait.’ I had a flash of inspiration. ‘X?’
The door hovered – and then opened just wide enough to let me in.
‘That’ll do.’ Black-tipped fingernails grasped my arm, and pulled me through. The door slammed behind me. I was in.
I followed the tall girl called Lena, whose hair was now pink and who wore nothing but a bra and bondage trousers, down a white hallway into a very minimal room. The floorboards were painted black, the walls red, and there was no furniture at all apart from a red velvet divan, a black granite coffee table and long white curtains. It all looked like a stage-set, particularly as a hundred candles flickered and guttered in the breeze from the French windows. The room was terribly hot and music swelled from the expensive stereo in the corner, some kind of opera I didn’t recognise. A few people I didn’t know stood round the corners of the room, drinking, smoking, mostly silent. Everyone seemed to be wearing black and it was clear everyone was nervous, although there was a certain loucheness to most of them. They eyed me with feigned disinterest and chose to ignore me. Lena lit a chillum and handed it around.
James appeared, and I headed towards him gladly. He was wearing a dinner suit that rather drowned him, despite his stocky frame, and he too seemed on edge. His nervousness surprised me, and made my own heart thump more.
‘This is all a bit weird,’ I whispered. ‘What’s going on? Where’s Dalziel?’
‘He’ll be down in a minute.’ He eyed me warily. ‘You look nice.’
‘Nice?’
‘Good, I mean. Very good. You look like one of those girls in that Robert Palmer video.’
‘Do I?’ I was flattered. ‘Just need a guitar to get me going.’
‘You’ll need a bit more than that tonight,’ James said, producing a hip flask. ‘Drink?’
‘Thanks.’ I took a swig and choked. ‘God. What the hell’s that?’
‘Hell is right, you innocent,’ he scoffed. ‘Never tried the green fairy?’
‘Fairy liquid?’ I was confused.
‘Don’t be bloody stupid,’ he laughed. ‘Absinthe.’
I obviously looked blank.
‘All the French Impressionists drank it.’ He was impatient. ‘Toulouse-Lautrec lived on the stuff.’
‘Toulouse who?’
‘Painter. Very short man, Paris, turn of the century. Dancing girls? Fucking genius.’
‘Oh, I know.’ I was relieved. ‘Cancan dancers?’
A church clock nearby struck midnight. James took another swig and pocketed the flask. ‘It’s time,’ he whispered reverently.
‘Time for what?’ I giggled nervously. ‘Are you going to turn into a pumpkin?’
‘Shh,’ James’s brown eyes were dilated in the candlelight. ‘He’s coming.’
The door opened slowly and Dalziel walked in. He looked ridiculously sophisticated in a tight-fitting black suit, a pristine white shirt, his blond hair sleek, his long bony face deathly pale apart from two spots of high colour on his cheeks, his eyes ringed with kohl. When he turned I saw he had attached to his back a pair of beautiful angel wings that looked like they were made from swan’s feathers. He really was quite unlike anyone I had ever met. Five or six beautiful boys and girls, all wearing black, all in varying states of undress, followed him into
In the end I was there just before midnight, as instructed, clutching the Jack Daniel’s I’d bought because I’d read that Janis Joplin had drunk it, at the door of the tall town-house on Lawn Street. My belly squirmed with nerves. The lights were all out as I rang the doorbell and I thought for a horrid second they’d forgotten me – or perhaps it was all a nasty joke to get me stumbling around town in killer heels like a drunken fool.
The door opened a crack.
‘Password?’
‘Pardon?’ I said.
‘Password,’ the voice drawled impatiently.
‘I don’t know the—’ I began, and the door started to close.
‘No, wait.’ I had a flash of inspiration. ‘X?’
The door hovered – and then opened just wide enough to let me in.
‘That’ll do.’ Black-tipped fingernails grasped my arm, and pulled me through. The door slammed behind me. I was in.
I followed the tall girl called Lena, whose hair was now pink and who wore nothing but a bra and bondage trousers, down a white hallway into a very minimal room. The floorboards were painted black, the walls red, and there was no furniture at all apart from a red velvet divan, a black granite coffee table and long white curtains. It all looked like a stage-set, particularly as a hundred candles flickered and guttered in the breeze from the French windows. The room was terribly hot and music swelled from the expensive stereo in the corner, some kind of opera I didn’t recognise. A few people I didn’t know stood round the corners of the room, drinking, smoking, mostly silent. Everyone seemed to be wearing black and it was clear everyone was nervous, although there was a certain loucheness to most of them. They eyed me with feigned disinterest and chose to ignore me. Lena lit a chillum and handed it around.
James appeared, and I headed towards him gladly. He was wearing a dinner suit that rather drowned him, despite his stocky frame, and he too seemed on edge. His nervousness surprised me, and made my own heart thump more.
‘This is all a bit weird,’ I whispered. ‘What’s going on? Where’s Dalziel?’
‘He’ll be down in a minute.’ He eyed me warily. ‘You look nice.’
‘Nice?’
‘Good, I mean. Very good. You look like one of those girls in that Robert Palmer video.’
‘Do I?’ I was flattered. ‘Just need a guitar to get me going.’
‘You’ll need a bit more than that tonight,’ James said, producing a hip flask. ‘Drink?’
‘Thanks.’ I took a swig and choked. ‘God. What the hell’s that?’
‘Hell is right, you innocent,’ he scoffed. ‘Never tried the green fairy?’
‘Fairy liquid?’ I was confused.
‘Don’t be bloody stupid,’ he laughed. ‘Absinthe.’
I obviously looked blank.
‘All the French Impressionists drank it.’ He was impatient. ‘Toulouse-Lautrec lived on the stuff.’
‘Toulouse who?’
‘Painter. Very short man, Paris, turn of the century. Dancing girls? Fucking genius.’
‘Oh, I know.’ I was relieved. ‘Cancan dancers?’
A church clock nearby struck midnight. James took another swig and pocketed the flask. ‘It’s time,’ he whispered reverently.
‘Time for what?’ I giggled nervously. ‘Are you going to turn into a pumpkin?’
‘Shh,’ James’s brown eyes were dilated in the candlelight. ‘He’s coming.’
The door opened slowly and Dalziel walked in. He looked ridiculously sophisticated in a tight-fitting black suit, a pristine white shirt, his blond hair sleek, his long bony face deathly pale apart from two spots of high colour on his cheeks, his eyes ringed with kohl. When he turned I saw he had attached to his back a pair of beautiful angel wings that looked like they were made from swan’s feathers. He really was quite unlike anyone I had ever met. Five or six beautiful boys and girls, all wearing black, all in varying states of undress, followed him into
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