Bebo

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	Verse 3
	Verse 3 We dragged out boxes, crates and baskets, and inside these were candies, drinks and other fun illegitimacies. Nick took several handfuls of lolly pops and shoved them into the side pocket of my already abused shoulder bag. I pitied the poor thing, but my shoulder was feeling worse. I felt like a mule. Nick had decided that his payment would be halved, and he’d get the majority of his favourite sweet instead. The rest of us would sell the other products. Well, it was more like exchanged. People would swap a blanket for five chocolate bars, repair your roof or give you an air-bike reverberator for cases of alcohol. Money wasn’t used in Olsen; we were at the stage where we realised we couldn’t eat coins and notes. No doubt Silver City still traded with it, but in Olsen it wasn’t worth the materials wasted on it. We selected the best things, the most interesting things, and set them aside in spare crates to carry to the concert site. “Nick,” Seth began. “There’s too much here, go get your bike to carry some.” “Lazy arse.” Nick complained, but he got up and dusted the dirt off his knees. “We’ll take the rest up now. It’s…” Seth glanced at his watch. “Six thirty-five. We have twenty-five minutes to get there and set everything up, ‘kay?” Nick nodded reluctantly and left. Seth hauled up a box and placed it in my arms, making me sag under yet more weight. “Come on, we need to set up those magnet packs.” It was a fifteen minute walk to the concert site. We only encountered one Mincer; its lights were dead, and it slumped, only held up by savage legs embedded in the hard earth. It didn’t stir even when I kicked it. It deserved it, ugly waste of metal. I put one magnet pack down there on Seth’s instruction, hidden under some corrugated iron and pushed into the wet, soft soil beneath. We’d need to place them in areas the sun didn’t cook. I dotted them along the journey, under piles of debris and inside doorways of old buildings. One was snug inside a cracked flowerpot that had oriental swirls sweeping across it. It was the easiest trip I’d ever had into the Old Sector, but then Nick would argue that I find the trouble, and not the other way around. Seth ordered me to plant the magnet packs all around the parking facility that the concert was hosted in, like a ring of protection. And as I was doing this I saw the first people turning up. The band’s drummer slunk toward me, his burly arms covered with tattoos, a writhing mass of ink that continued up onto his cheeks and head, the only hair he had spiked up in a bright red Mohican. He nodded at me through the descending darkness as he passed and I returned the greeting. Next were couples and singles, and groups from three to eight. Goths, punks, strange outfits or warped versions of things we knew. A group of boys walked past me, talking in rushed whispers, clad in a mockery of the Consortium’s secret police uniform. The trousers were cut to shorts or ripped at the knees. Smart military jackets had arms removed, anti-Consortium signs painted on their backs and badges with slogans for freedom and anarchy pinned where the buttons should have been. I loved it. Girls were in flares that could fit two people, or huge puffy skirts that exploded out in blacks, greens and purples. Some lugged guitars or pretend microphones, ancient African drums and players with headphones dangling from them. They didn’t work, but they made the statement loud and clear. Chains, safety pins, key rings and skulls passed in a strange parade of colour and life. This was what we were defying the law for. This was what we wanted life to be. I hurried to plant the magnet packs, and prayed to my Fat Nerd God that they would work. For one night, just one night, I asked him keep us safe and allow us to have some fun and revel in rebellion. Darting back to the concert site, I gasped. Music was already pumping; loud bass and electric guitar topped by throbbing drums. Lights, beams of all colours of the rainbow, shone out as beacons, like a lighthouse. And fairy-lights, tiny ones for Christmas trees –that was the picture on the box at least- and big ones ringed by fluff or flowers or Ancient Chinese lanterns. They hung everywhere, a huge spider web of shining bulbs. As I fought my way through the crowd and the crush of the over-populated doorway, I heard Nick address the masses from the microphone onstage. I pushed onwards and was spewed out near the left wing. My brother’s hair shone in a green light, making it look kind of like holly and berries, and he had a bowler hat on that was covered in buttons. I shook my head; the guy was a nutcase. “Isn’t it great to be here?” He called out over the bobbing heads. The crowd screamed back their answer of ‘hell yeah’! “And what a great night it is, one small triumph over those bastards at the Consortium, right?” I joined in with the whoops; no-one there had any love lost between them and the Consortium. “We can thank Seth, once again, for ridding us of the Mincer pest for the evening. Thanks. Bloody metal vermin, but still, despite them, the place looks like someone bombed fairly-land, the bands sound loud and we have alcohol. Just the way we like it!” Another rush of cheers from the crowd. My eardrums suffered that night, but we were all prepared for that and the hangovers that would come in the morning. “But we have to remember the bitter reasons we come to these gigs. The casualties, the victims, the families taken for ‘re-education’. And tonight, honouring one of the greatest minds of our time, the revolutionary Billy Joe. They shot him and they burned him, and then hid it behind accident claims and state funerals. Well we know the truth, and we’re not having a funeral tonight. We’re going to honour him with what he loved best, what he lived, fought and died for; the music that ran his life, and the parties that made it worth living. Mike is going to play something on the guitar, the first song Billy learnt, I ask for a minute of silence, please.” The crowd eased, taking on at once an air of respect and sombre reverence. Some clasped their hands, I saw his sister weeping, and I watched Mike play and heard the notes drift through the parking lot and out into the night. That night had been a massacre, Billy had been shot onstage along with many others in the crowd. It had stopped concerts for the next two months, and we still didn’t know how the Consortium’s Secret Police found out about it. The notes ended, and an eerie silence descended, not unlike the heavy night outside. Nick took the mic slowly. “Goodbye Billie, dive bomb them for us with your angel wings now, ‘kay buddy? And with that, I officially declare the Billy Joe memorial party…open for business!” The band started up with a rocky guitar solo, and people started dancing insanely. Cans of beer and liquorice sticks passed over my head, distributed through the people, and I worked my way through toward Ry. She was dressed in a black corset top with lace and frills, and had ripped fishnets under a black leather skirt, which disappeared into the biggest, baddest, most flame-encrusted, buckle-fastened boots ever to grace the Earth. She was our resident Goth. Black mascara eyes studied me through chin-length black hair and a fringe that covered half her face. She didn’t stretch her neon-blue painted lips into a smile for me, but she did nod in my direction. “Heya Ry, it’s gonna’ be a great night, huh?” “Yes. A fitting way to spend the rest of one’s days, before the planet turns to dust like the vampires of old.” I didn’t take any notice of the comment. Ry was all things dark, in fact she even ordered that her name, Rosemary, be changed to simply the last two letters because she didn’t want to be associated with ‘women or flowers’. She was also absolutely convinced that the world was going to go poof and die on us. And soon. “Totally. Who’s playing?” “The Lost, Eternal, FYH, Me and My Accordion… The usual. Two new ones too.” “That’s good.” “And Amos, we have more people than ever from Silver City.” I looked at her dubiously. People never usually hailed from Silver City, not at our gigs. I hoped that they were all here to simply have a good time like the rest of us, but my heart told me the likelihood would be very different. “Like who?” I asked, peering at faces, both familiar and new, and trying to gauge whether or not they were a threat. “Like that group over there.” She signalled toward a few teens who were watching the celebration half immersed, and half nervously poised for flight. They were mostly boys, but there were two girls among them too. I guessed they were going out, or something to that effect. They all looked out of place in very plain, monotonous clothes in which they would have blended in anywhere else, and one of them made eye contact with me. I thought he gave off the impression he would fight me if I aggravated any of them. “Well then, they’ll need a welcoming.” I answered carefully. Ry smiled sadistically. “And an interrogation, to see if they’re here as spies for the Consortium.” She suggested, playing with the lace on her top. “That too. I’ll fetch The Drummer.” As I left her she was watching them like some torn, demented hawk, and I lost sight of her in the party that was then in full swing. I had several people randomly hug me and exclaim how wonderful the party was, but of course none of it was down to me. For safety, no-one really knew who ordered the events and locations. It was more secure to have secrecy within the ranks. The Drummer was sat offstage as the protégé he was training boomed his heart out on the crate-made structure. I sidled up to him and we sat in silence for a while, him sipping his cider and me twiddling my thumbs. I watched to make sure our exchange wasn’t being viewed by any of the newcomers. “Hey Drummer.” “Amos.” He replied, throatily. He turned his steady gaze on me and I laughed nervously. “Yeah, well…We have some newbies from Silver City. I said they needed a welcome, Ry said we should check them out.” He nodded and placed the cider can on the edge of the wall. It was precariously close to the three-man-high drop on the other side, one which fell into a spiky pit of ancient rubble. I tore my gaze from the splendiferous view and the not so splendiferous drop, and began to make my way back through the throng. It was easier with The Drummer, the people parted like a tide on either side, making way for him. I’m not sure if it was his bulk or the strange aura of control he had about him. Ry gave us a look as we passed, and she ghosted behind us to listen in on the conversation, ready to raise the alarm should anything be found amiss. I tapped the nearest boy on the shoulder. He was taller than I by a good head or so, but his hair was the same sort of dusty blond. His was oddly cropped though, floppy and pulled back from his eyes in a curtain parting fringe. Mine was spiked and fell into my eyes constantly, and the wasn’t the only difference. His eyes were a dull grey, and he was paler than the usual people I talked to. Then again, it was hard to see in the strobe lights. “Hey there.” I began with a smile. “I’m Paul, and this is Bill.” I motioned to The Drummer, and those around us cogged on to what was happening thanks to the fake names. We were a close-knit community and everyone was known by name or affectionate dub. “Uh, hi. I’m Cory. This is Mark, Alice and Sheila. We wanted to come tonight, it’s okay, right?” He asked, forcing himself to act confidently but showing his uncertainty anyway. I smiled at him again. “It’s alright as long as you just answer some security questions, everyone else here has answered them at some point too.” “Sure.” “Okay. First, we know you’re from Silver City. We have no connections there, how did you find out about tonight?” I asked seriously. I was worried there was a leak; if these kids could find us, what was the chance of a trained professional man-hunter finding us too? It was a million in a hundred, that’s what it was. “My cousin has been coming to these for years. It took us ages to find this place and get in…” “Yeah, well tell your cousin not to be so offhanded about leaking our information next time.” The Drummer ordered quietly. Cory laughed nervously, much as I had, and nodded his ascent. I didn’t envy his position, The Drummer was scary, that’s why I’d brought him along. “Okay, next, why are you here?” “We heard you playing once, completely by accident, and loved it. Plus we hate the way this world’s being manhandled by the Consortium. We want to fight.” It was my turn to laugh, the kid was bonkers. “We don’t fight. That’s suicide, they outnumber us, have better equipment than us…and even if we were willing to jump headfirst off a cliff, they can threaten the families we would leave behind. No, fighting’s not something we do here. Just little protests by way of illegal substances and loud noise.” “Oh.” He deflated, and bravado left him. I could tell he’d been expecting some fairytale guerrilla organisation that fought gallantly to the sound of drums against their oppressors. Well reader mine, the truth is we were cowards. When I said Billie Joe died at a massacre, I meant it. There were no battles when blood was shed, just murders. “So, still want to be here? If not, we’re going to have to make sure you don’t lead anyone…” I saw Cory’s face, a mask of horror, before I heard the boom and registered what had happened. Smoke filled the area that the lights had lit, and there was a curious moment of silence. People trying to understand why the band had stopped, what the boom was, unable to see over the heads of other dancers. The lead singer was shaking, sweat dripping from his face and legs looking as steady as a bridge made of jelly. He tensed and dropped the mic, and the screaming started. I turned and stared through the chaos and confusion at the gaping hole in the wall and the stairwell emitting people like scurrying ants. Secret Police uniforms, these ones without the badges and the slogans. The Consortium had found us again, and so soon. My heart wept and I knew we were going to die, every one of us, then and there or the next day. Now or tomorrow.
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