The Devil's Tattoo (2 page)

“Zoe?”

“Shit, Dee,”
I cursed, looking away.

“Who you
checkin
’ out?” he winked at me. He saw where I was looking
and whistled. “The Strokes, huh?” he said almost sarcastically. “Since when are
you into indie guys?”

“Since when
does it matter?”

“Since I knew
you.”

“You’ll know
my fist in a minute.” When I looked back, the guy was gone and the bar was
almost closing.

"You're
so volatile," Dee said, putting his empty glass on the bar.

"You
know who we have to thank for that," I snapped and instantly regretted it.

Dee frowned
and linked his arm through mine. "C'mon,
Zo
.
I'll walk you home."

"Sure,"
I said, giving his hand a squeeze and making a mental note to see if I could
get a ticket to that Stabs gig I saw advertised.

The first
thing I did when I got home was go onto the
Corner
website and buy a
ticket to the Stabs gig. The second thing I did was
swallow
my fear and get the tram up to Richmond the next day. The third thing I did was
hand over my ticket and go inside.

I'd be lying
to myself if I said the mystery bass player didn’t intrigue me. I caught myself
thinking about him when I brought the ticket to the gig. It was all wishful
thinking on my part. I would never know him. I mean, I'd never approach him in
the first place and why would he look twice at me? How could you go up to a guy
in a successful band to say hi when they probably think you're another groupie
looking for a
quickie.
And I don't think I could ever
have a quickie with a stranger, no matter how hot they were.

I stood
awkwardly in the semi-dark as people milled around me. No one looked at me and
no one would probably remember me, but I still felt uncomfortable.
Alone in a crowd.
I busied myself looking around, waiting
for the support band to come on.

The thing I
hate about this venue… I mean dislike. Hate is too strong a word for
architectural detest. There is a pole right in the middle of the floor.
Right behind the mosh.
Sucks if you get stuck behind it,
worse than inadvertently positioning yourself behind the only seven-foot tall
bloke in the whole place. What a stupid place to put a pole. What I do
like about 
The Corner
 is the curtains. It makes the whole
experience feel like you’re at the theatre. These red velveteen curtains
that swing
open and closed after each support. Who’d stand
at the philharmonic anyway?

My phone
vibrated in my pocket then, saving me from staring vacantly at nothing. That’s
what I dislike about going to shows on my own. Not knowing anybody and standing
around between sets. I mean, what do you look at? Get a drink so you have
something to do.

The text
said, 
Look behind you
. It’s from Frank. Frank is the drummer in a
punk band called The
Deadshits
 and to tell
you the truth he is the least
deadshit-est
of the
lot. I turned around and there’s Frank behind me with four bottles
of Bulmer's balancing in his arms trying to launch himself onto me
laughing like a madman. He's got a shaved head and wears an assortment of
flannel shirts and he's buff, all muscle. Tonight it's a blue shirt with beat
up black jeans. Frank kills me, he really does, but I’m glad to see him. He's
one of the few who seemed to like me.

"Thanks for
the drinks," I joked and took two from him before they ended up on the
floor. "Why you got so many? I didn’t think I’d see you here."

"Zoe,
babe! I know this guy in the support, put me on the list." He hugged me
and slapped me on the back and gestured to the bottles in my hands. "Keep
‘
em
and drink up!"

This is the
thing I love about Frank. He's hard as nails, but over the top generous. He
makes everyone feel included. He stood beside me and called out to some guy who
was walking past with his girlfriend trailing behind in her stiletto heels and
tiny dress. I looked at her and I looked at me and it's no wonder I get along
with guys better.

To be honest,
people at gigs kind of annoy me. There are always groups of girls dressed up
like they are going to a mainstream club, high heels and all. And somehow I
always stand behind the people taking the piss out of the support bands. Bands
that are just starting out and just good enough to get a great slot, you can
tell they are stiff on stage. What I hate are people in the crowd trying to be
funny about it and not giving them a go.
Laughing and not
listening.
Plenty of times I've heard these bands and later on they've
got headline slots and become the next big thing and the same people suddenly
think they're amazing.

In this case,
the support is a whiney Joy Division/Smiths wannabe band. I swear the
singer wants to be Morrissey on a bad day. They're okay, but have to find their
own thing.

Despite the
crowd, I do love to go and see bands. I like to watch them play. I mean, really
watch. How they play their instruments, how they move onstage. I like to see
what they do, so I can try it when I get home. What I don’t like especially is
if the songs sound the same as on their record. Like they are all miming to a
backing tape. It’s about the moment, isn’t it? The feeling and emotion of
whatever song they're paying, the little variations in the vocals, an added
riff or drum fill that makes it a unique experience. That's what I love.

As the
curtains begin to close on the support band, someone shoved me from behind and
I turned around to glare, but they're whispering in my ear, "Zoe, sweet
lips."

I get an
eyeful of Dee laughing like he's a comedian and slapped him playfully on the
shoulder. "What are you doing here?"

"Frank got
me in," he winked, taking one of my drinks and I knew he thought I was
here because of that guy. What I didn't admit is that he's right.

"Hey!"
I protested.

"Hey,
yourself," he elbowed me and took a swig and offered it back.

"
Eww
," I feign disgust. "I don't want it
now."

As much as I
keep to myself, it's nice to have someone here to talk to between sets and hang
out with. Before long, it's time for the main act to come on.

The Stabs is
made up of four guys.
Two guitar players, bass and drums.
They play straightforward indie rock, nothing overly complicated, but whoever
writes their lyrics is a genius. Each song plays out like a story and it's hard
not to get sucked into it. The crowd was going nuts and the mosh pit at the
front is jumping so much, the floor felt like it was shaking.

What's also
hard not to get sucked into is watching the bass player. My eyes glue
themselves onto him and I can't find it in myself to look away. I watched
his fingers slide across the strings and my mind wandered to imagining them
doing something else. I'm suddenly horrified at the image in my head and force
myself to look away.

"That
guy," Dee whispered in my ear, "is Will Strickland. He's bad news
Zo
Zo
.
Wom
-an-
iser
. Takes it and leaves it, from what I've been
told."

"I'm just
looking," I told him, because I was. The last thing I needed was an
unattainable crush on a known
womaniser
.

What happened
then was this Will Strickland, known man-whore, looked at me watching him, but
kept on staring while playing the song. The thing about someone staring at you
is that you have the overwhelming urge to look around to see if there’s someone
else behind you. In this case I'm jammed between Frank and Dee and a few
hundred people. I raised my eyebrows and he raised his. Then I looked away kind
of embarrassed. You read about these kinds of things in soppy romance novels or
in hipster chick flick movies. The lonesome plain girl in the crowd and the
handsome indie guy in the popular band chases her despite all the advice not to
from band mates and vice versa. Then again, people shouldn’t read too much into
a look.

The show was
that good, it was over before I knew it. The singer and drummer seemed to milk
the encore a little too much, but I mean, who wouldn't? As people started to
mill around and leave, Frank shot off into the mass and left
me
and Dee
to our own devices.

"What
did you reckon?" he asked.

"Pretty
good," I said. "I liked them."

"Why'd
you come here,
Zo
?"

I scowled at
his question. "I wanted to see a band."

"Plenty
of other bands on tonight, you know."

"Then
why are you here?" I snapped.

Before we
could get into a fight, Frank reappeared with another guy.

"This is
Chris," Frank clapped the guy on the shoulder. "Bass
player extraordinaire."

"Hey,"
he said and shook my hand. He seemed nice enough. He's got sandy blonde hair
that fell in his eyes and a kind smile.

"Oh, you
were in the support, right?" I asked, suddenly
recognising
his face.

"Yep.
Empty Hands."

Frank
sniggered and Chris shot him a warning glare.

"I like
it," I shrugged.

"It was
nice to meet you, Zoe," Chris said. "I
gotta
go take care of the gear." He shoved Frank in the shoulder playfully as he
disappeared into the band room.

"C’mon,
Zoe! Stick around for at least one more drink!" Dee picked me up around
the waist and I had no choice but to agree. He seemed to have let go of his
earlier outburst and I'm thankful.

The security
guard came in and attempted to push the last few punters out the door as we
went into the bar next door.

I know
staying around would mean a high likelihood of the guys from the band sticking
around as well. I felt a bit on edge about it. The last time I met someone from
a band that I liked turned out to be a real idiot. Then it
kinda
ruined their music for me. I can’t listen to
any of their records without thinking about how much of a twat that guy was.

"That
guy keeps staring at you," Dee whispered in my ear. "By the
bar."

I glanced
covertly to my left, and there is Will Strickland himself with the wild curly
hair quickly glancing away.

"If he
so much as talks to you, I'm punching him in the face."

"Dee, I
admire your protectiveness, but I don't think that'll be an issue."

"Why?"

"He
wouldn't talk to me in the first place."

I could see
he was torn between reassuring me of the opposite and his obvious need to keep
scumbags away from me.

"Don't
worry," I said. "I know."

"I
reckon we could give them a run for their money," he stated
matter-of-factly.

"What?"
I turn around.

"I
reckon we could form a band ten times better than The Stabs. Frank?
Wanna
play drums?"

Frank’s eyes
light up. "DO I?"

"Zoe,
you can belt out a tune." Dee looked at me with his big eyes. The same way
he did when we were twelve and he wagged school and wanted me to cover for him.

"Shit,
Dee. There's a difference to fronting a band and singing like an idiot in the
car." Shit, the last time I sung in front of a crowd was never.

"C’mon,
Zoe! Just give it a shot.
Just one shot.
I’ve got some
songs we can work on." Those eyes again.

"You are
a manipulative asshole."

"I’ll
take that as a yes. Pick you up tomorrow
arvo
."

"Tomorrow?"

"No time
like the present." He slapped me on the back and I choked on my cider.
"Hey, that Chris guy plays bass, right?" He looked around the bar and
wandered off when he saw him.

Somehow, I
think I'd just been tricked into joining a band.

CHAPTER TWO

WILL

The one thing I hated about life was
that it took every opportunity to kick you in the gut. Then it smacked you
again while you're down for the count.

Pushing my curly hair out my eyes, I
pulled out the copy of
Beat
I'd picked up and found the article they'd
printed. It was the typical ad for 'we've got a gig come and see' type
thing. Being interviewed was fast becoming my least
favourite
part of being in a band people wanted to know about.

Ahead of Saturday
nights show at
The Corner
,
we caught up with Will Strickland, one fourth of the band The Stabs, to see
what they're up to next.

That interview had been full of the
stock standard questions about influences, the next album, when are we going to
tour again. The same inane stuff over and over. I remembered saying a lot
more interesting things, but when they give you a third of a page for nothing,
I guess they could write whatever they wanted. At least I wasn't misquoted. The
facing page had a full-page
colour
ad for our gig
tonight. It still flipped me out, seeing stuff like that.

Right now, I was on my way to sound
check at 
The Corner
 in Richmond. We were doing a couple
of shows just to tide us over until the next tour. We all thrived on the high
of being on stage, playing to a packed out venue. When I got up there, I could
just lose myself and after all the shit with my ex, it was the only thing I
wanted.
To lose myself.

I'd been floundering for far too long
and music was the only way I knew how to deal with it. Trying to fix something
that was irreparable had destroyed me. Ending it had taken a new kind of
courage. Now I didn't know what to do. So, chucking myself headfirst into the
band was it.

I wasn't sure where I'd be if it wasn't
for The Stabs. I played bass, though when we'd started I'd been going to
Uni
studying Filmography. I wanted to be the next
Tarantino, but music took over the day we were signed and it had been
recording, touring, interviews, photo shoots and all kinds of crazy stuff
since. I dropped out, but still wanted to at least make a film clip for the
band at some point. Just had to find the time. Now that we were about to start
recording again and commercial success was trickling in, there was less and
less.

My phone vibrated in my back pocket and
I pulled it out. It was a text from Pete:
Where are you mate? We're at
The Corner already.

I texted back:
I'm coming now.

Pete was my best mate. We've known each
other since prep. You know, since we were six. We grew up on the same street in
a small country town, went to the same schools, hung out all the time. We'd
even formed our first band together. He was this tall guy, messy hair, always
had a hoodie dragged up over his head, but he was one of the nicest guys anyone
was ever likely to meet. He was the guitarist and lead singer in the band.

The other guys that made up The Stabs
were Louie and Sticks. Louie we met when we first moved to Melbourne eight
years ago. He's this clean-cut alternative guy, slicked back
quiff
and traditional tattoos all over him. He plays
guitar. And Sticks was a mate of Louie's to begin with and when we needed a
drummer he helped us out and ended up sticking around. He was a typical
meathead drummer, shaved head and buff. I mean, I'm pretty built, but no one
has anything on Sticks.

It wasn't long before we began playing
together permanently and formed The Stabs. The rest was history.

In a couple of weeks we were going to
start recording our third album and go on yet another tour. We're all extremely
lucky that we're able to play music for a living. I mean, not everyone makes
it. We've played some amazing gigs, met some amazing people and been through a
lot.

We'd played heaps of gigs at
The
Corner
, so when I finally got there and walked in, it felt like home. Sound
check was the easiest thing for us. We'd done it so many times, it was just a
matter of getting the gear right, then letting the sound guys do their thing.
We
were
a well-oiled machine
.

Upstairs, the guys were talking
non-stop about the new songs and how excited they were. Usually, I'd be just as
amped up as they were, but I found my mind wandering and my focus
shifting. Truth was, I still didn't feel like myself. I picked at my food,
but downed my beer. Life just seemed… pointless right now.

"You okay, mate?" Pete asked

"Yeah," I slumped back into
my chair. "I'm just…" I shrugged.

"Something'll come along and
change everything when you least expect it."

"You reckon?" I grimaced, not
sure about that.

"I reckon. Shit, when we start
recording things will be awesome."

"I hope so."

"Bloody hell, Will. Cheer up
mate," Sticks kicked me under the table. "We're on soon. No moping in
the corner of the stage. I've still
gotta
look at
ya
."

His words managed to coax a laugh out
of me and I shook my head, but by the time we were ready to walk onto that
stage, I'd picked myself up enough to get on with it. Right now, all I had to
think about was the gig and if I didn't perform, the rest of the guys would
suffer for it. Time to get my ass into gear, big time.

The thing I like about playing a show
is that moment
right before we go on, the lights go
down and the crowd cheers. It's a quiet moment of anticipation. When I was the
one in the audience, it was my
favourite
bit as well.
Going to see huge bands from overseas, watching them walk out and pick up their
instruments. It was that feeling of knowing what was about to happen that got
me every time.

We played the opening two songs of our
set and I was back in the game. The music was so familiar to me, the notes just
came without any thought and I was free to look out over the crowd and see the
effect our music had on all of those people. The way they sung back the words.
The way they jumped up and down. The way they got into it. My eyes flew over
the crowd.

That's when I saw her. She was tall and
slim,
her long almost-black hair was pulled into a
haphazard braid flipped forward over one shoulder. She wasn't moving or doing
anything. Maybe that's why my eyes had latched onto her. She was my type, more
than my ex had been. This woman was a rocker and I was indie through and
through. I had wild curly hair and beat up combat boots and an arm of tattoos
and I found myself imagining how we'd look together. I wondered how her face
would light up when she smiled.

She was standing in-between two guys,
but her eyes were plastered on me.
Running all over, burning
right into my skin.
As I played each song, I
realised
she wasn't only watching me play, she was checking me out and had been for six
songs straight.

When her eyes locked with mine, I
couldn't look away. She raised her eyebrows as if she was questioning if I was
actually looking at her. So, I raised my eyebrows. Yes. Yes, I was. To my
surprise, she shifted uncomfortably and looked away.

I don't know what the hell it was about
her, but for the rest of the gig, she was like a beacon of light in the crowd.
No matter how many people jostled her, I could still manage to find her again.
My heart thumped a million miles an hour and it was like I was falling head
first into my pent up sexual frustration. What did Pete say earlier? When I
least expected it something would come along and change things.

As soon as our set finished, encore and
all, I hurried from the stage to pack up our gear while Pete and Sticks milked
the crowd for every last drop of applause. Sometimes they really were full of
themselves, but they were my brothers. Let them enjoy it.

I fumbled with the latches on my guitar
case and shoved leads into their bags, not caring if they knotted. I hoped to
God that when we went out to the front bar, she would be there. If I saw her,
then she might be real.

Pete was watching me with a confused
expression on his face as I bashed about in the band room. He probably thought
I was losing it and to tell you the truth, I think he was right.

When we were done, the guys followed me
out to the front bar, my eyes scanning the crowd of people that had stuck
around. At first I didn't see her and this odd sensation of disappointment shot
through my gut. So, now I was hallucinating? Lost and floundering in my
Groundhog Day life, I was dreaming up beautiful women? I was beginning to worry
about myself now.

Sitting at the bar, I ordered a beer
and ran a hand over my face. A loud burst of laughter drew my attention back
across the bar and there she was.
The relief that she was
real sliced through my chest and I heaved a sigh of relief.

She was with a group of guys and they
all seemed to be friends. I watched carefully, trying to figure out if one of
them was her boyfriend. The tall guy with the
quiff
looked very familiar with her, but he didn't move to wrap his arm around her
waist or lean in for a kiss. Maybe they were just good friends?

"Do you know her?" Pete
asked, noticing that I'd been staring.

"No."

"Why don't you go over there,
then?"

I looked at the guys she was with and
didn't like that idea. They'd hardly left her side all night.

"What's up?" Pete prodded,
when I didn't make a move. He knew me better than anyone and could probably
tell I was worked up about something.

"Nothing." Truth was, there
was something different about her. It was like she was untouchable. If I went
up to her now, one of two things would happen. One
;
her male friends would beat me up. Two; she'd shoot me down, thinking I was
only after one thing.

I was stuck in an impossible place. How
could I go up to a beautiful woman like that and not have her think I was after
sex? Well, I was in a way, but it was more than that. I wanted to know her and
suddenly it didn't matter how much of a wreck I'd been and how much I didn't
want to go down that road of hurt anymore. I would have risked it for this
woman who I didn't even know.

When I finally worked up the courage to
look at her again, she was gone. The disappointment must have been clear on my
face, because Pete shoved me with his shoulder.

"Next time," he said.

I hoped there would be a next time,
because I think I just developed a blinding crush on a mystery woman.