Getting Real

No way out. Safer to go ahead.

Rand came back with, Fuck.

And Jake reluctantly gave the network the green light.

It took another ten minutes for the show’s shaggy haired host to appear on stage where he proceeded to further excite the now wildly over-enthusiastic crowd, and another five minutes before Ice Queen came out and took their places.

As Rand started a welcome patter, Jake saw two police cars and a wagon pull up on the street. The grins on the faces of the network people told him they thought this was an excellent idea.

When they started playing, Jake knew Rand had changed the set list. He’d taken out the songs that tended to get people hyped-up and replaced them with a more laid back selection. The network was unhappy, and Jake had his first moment of satisfaction since they’d arrived.

The changed set list had an effect but not the one Rand had hoped for. He’d thought it might keep things from getting too rough, but the opposite happened. A portion of the crowd, the hardcore fans, started chanting, “Darker Deep, Darker Deep” and the volume of the chant swelled until it threatened to overwhelm the amplified sounds of the guitars, keyboard and drums.

Rand vacillated between giving them what they wanted and trying to find some other way to bring the heat and emotion down. He and Stu had a quick huddle, and with a nod to Rie, How and Roley they launched into Darker Deep. The audience went wild, singing along, screaming, dancing and pushing forward. Two people fell out of the fig tree, a school girl fainted in the front row and had to be lifted up onto the stage by security so she wouldn’t be crushed, and a fight broke out somewhere in the middle of the mix.

While all this was going down he wondered vaguely if he was singing the right words. But when the fighting spread, he simply stopped playing and signalled the others to do the same. The song came to a jumbled, chaotic end. He breathed into his mic, “Hey, we want peace not war. We can’t keep playing if you people are going to beat the crap out of each other.”

His comment scored a variety of responses, hisses, boos and cheers but made no dent on the increasing circle of fighting. The TV show host bounced back out on stage and tried to settle the crowd down, but he had a freaked out expression on his face and about as much authority as a blue budgerigar, so his voice just added to the din.

Rand saw the coppers move. In seconds, an officer was ordering the network to shut the show down. That was good. This had gone too far. He unhooked his guitar. The guy with the mic was babbling about staying calm and moving to the exits. But a large mass of fans weren’t moving. He eyeballed Stu, who grinned back; the bastard was enjoying this. Rand wasn’t. His usual performance anxiety had curdled in his gut, now real fear gripped his chest. This was way out of order.

The

network’s security team had formed a tighter ring at the stage edge, but their retreat off stage was still cut off—they were stuck. Instruments abandoned, they milled around, uncertain what to do. Stu had tight hold of Ceedee—he wasn’t grinning now—and Rie came to stand at Rand’s side. His heart was doing a thumping version of Metallica’s My Apocalypse.

This was likely to get worse before it got better. He looked at Stu, “Get ready.”

Then Rie started to sing—Soul Death, unplugged. She stepped away from his side and moved to the middle of the stage. He moved with her. She was a genius. Her powerful voice soared, giving the crowd something they’d never heard before and slowly changing their mood. He joined her, singing low notes to her high ones, then Ceedee, Jeremy and Stu’s voices added volume. The fighting at the edge of the mass brawl tapered off. People stilled. The sounds of shouting stopped, and eventually the hardcore fighters traded fewer and fewer punches and stopped. They kept singing while the cops ordered people out, starting with those on the street and at the edges, moving them on until there was a collective understanding the event was over and it was time to go.

When they finished to sustained applause, there were still hundreds of people in the area, but they were calmly waiting to move off. It was over. Rand wiped a hand over his face. Fuck. Never again. Fame had its privileges. Getting mobbed wasn’t one of them. He’d aged five years in that moment between the fight breaking out and Rie opening her mouth.

“Sorry guys,” he said, facing his band, all of them looking hot and edgy. There was nothing more he could say now. He had plenty to say later. He’d rip Ron Teller a new one. They milled around waiting for their exit to be cleared, all of them breathing easier when the security team visibly stepped down from their high alert stance. They split ranks, three men staying with them and three going to clear the exit to the side street and the waiting cars.

But the minute the security team split, disaster struck. Rand saw it coming like a king-hit. A group of fans rushed the stage and hurdled it. He made a grab for Rie but a security guard cut him off. In seconds the stage was overrun. And she’d been separated from them by an excited mob.

Jake had started making his way towards the stage when it happened. His relief morphed to dread in an instant. He yelled, hurling himself through the milling crowd to get to the stage. He saw Rand take a punch defending Ceedee while Stu fought a path to the exit. He could see fists flying and bodies going down. He couldn’t see Rielle and dread became a cold clutch of fear, and when he saw her roughly lifted above the heads of two men, it became an agony of panic. He screamed her name.

He was still too far away to get to her. He could see her kicking and shouting as the two men dragged her to the opposite side of the stage from the exit. There were four cops in front of him. They reached the stage first, but he was hard on their heels. He vaulted its edge, coming up on his feet and fending off a punch and a kick, never taking his eyes off Rielle.

The two men had her on the ground now and her screams were curses. She was fighting hard, kicking and clawing. From somewhere out of the melee, Rand appeared taking down one man with a barrelling tackle. Before the other had time to react, Jake was on him. A punishing combination of punches to his stomach and jaw, and the man was down and Rielle was in his arms, still cursing, almost climbing him. He moved fast, stopping only to see that Rand was okay, carrying Rielle through the exit, down the side path and into the last of the waiting cars.

Rand was on their heels, panting and swearing, a bright mark blooming on his jaw line. At the open car door he put a hand to Rie’s face and said, “Jake, did you see Harry?”

“No.” Jake lifted Rie inside and scooted in beside her.

“I’m going back for her.” Rand slammed the door, thumping the car roof to signal the driver to move.

Rielle was trembling, curled on the seat beside him. She’d lost her shoes, her hair was loose. She had red marks on her neck and bruises already forming on her arms. He reached out for her and she came into his arms, clinging to him, her face pressed into his chest. He rocked her gently, stroking her back.

Fear and tenderness raged in him, making him hold her too tight, but dropping his voice to a murmur. “My God, Rie, are you hurt? Talk to me.”

She took a shuddering breath. “I’m not hurt. I’m fine.”

“I want to take you to the hospital.”

She pulled away and looked up at him. “No, I’m fine. I’m bruised, I’m sore, but I don’t want anyone else touching me. Please, I want to go back to the hotel and stand under the hottest shower I can handle for hours.”

He nodded and folded her against his chest, swallowing hard as she wound her arms around his neck and tucked her face into the hollow of his shoulder.