Influence Read online

  ‘Stay and have a coffee Amy, tells us about that awful school you guys go to,’ said Janice elbowing Maggie. Panic surged through Lizzie suddenly remembering her expulsion and realising that Amy might be about to expose her secret. Between Queen’s and the events in Oxford Lizzie was starting to feel the pressure of keeping so many secrets. She had heard through the grapevine that Blair had not involved the police, the rumour being that as his father was a relatively well known politician and had considered the news of his son beaten by a girl to be unwise, and so she thought she was in the clear on this particular fib.

  ‘Leave her alone, I’m sure Amy’s got better things to be doing,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘Yeah, I mean no thank you, I don’t have better things to do, it’s just that I actually have a lot on. Promised to help Eric with - my brother Eric I mean - with stuff for the gig. So I’ll see you tonight I hope Lizzie, and it was lovely to meet you,’ said Amy giving Janice and Maggie and embarrassed wave. Lizzie showed Amy out apologising for the other two.

  ‘You’re going tonight young lady, I want you out of this house and out from under my feet. Now you be a good girl and go get drunk and irresponsible with your friends, you hear me?’ said Janice when Lizzie returned.

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  The Mill was a little arts and conference centre at the edge of town. It consisted of a collection of small function rooms and an auditorium. It was also home to Miller’s Bar, which solely housed Banbury’s music scene. Lizzie had never been, but had always been curious. She was yet to experience live music, other than the odd school concert which she was certain didn’t qualify, Janice and Maggie would talk at length about various gigs they had been to and always with sufficient enthusiasm as to make her jealous. A small Rock scene had developed in Banbury, Lizzie had been told, a few local bands had emerged and she had been tempted to find out more, however it wasn’t the sort of thing you just turned up to on your own.

  What to wear was the first hurdle, and Lizzie wished she had taken Amy’s number to get her opinion on the matter. Several wardrobe changes, and a final resigned request for advice from the ladies later, and Lizzie had opted for jeans, a Sonic Youth T-shirt and the bare minimum of makeup, an elaborately contrived effort into creating an effortless arbitrary look.

  The days had been getting warmer and nights lighter and Lizzie was surprised at just how early it felt. She had somehow missed the onset of summer shut up in the house for the previous week.

  She wasn’t afraid, as such, to go out, but so much had happened in the last few months and almost all of it was depressingly morbid; it just felt easier to stay away for a while. She wondered how Vic was doing, she would have to make a point of visiting him soon, and perhaps she would tell him about events in Oxford, perhaps she wouldn’t, was it fair either way?

  She heard the Mill a long time before she caught sight of it, a low frequency pulse reverberated intermittently, sound checks she guessed. By the time the Mill did come into view the other instruments had joined the noise, an incredible din filled the air and she could only wonder at just how loud it was likely to be inside. Groups of teenagers in threes and fours sulked and smoked together outside the centre, a few of them carried guitars and most of them carried beer. Lizzie entered the strangely sober red brick building, an unlikely looking venue for Rock music, and followed a group of girls, who had made a considerably greater effort in their appearance than she had done, up to the first floor. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting to find, but the narrow room, already claustrophobic with bodies, was not it.

  Miller’s bar stretched a good distance in length and lacked width but did not lack atmosphere. The bar itself filled the far wall and was busy with dubiously young looking music fans. There was a small raised stage along an adjacent wall and Lizzie was instantly mesmerised. The drum kit monopolised the space and the other musicians setting up jostled for position. A surprising mix of people sat at the tables which skirted the far edges of the room. Maggie was wrong to think they would have felt old here, many of the faces looked far older and they also looked perfectly comfortable. Those standing, waiting for proceedings to commence, grouped themselves together in small huddles like clans at a gathering.

  ‘Lizzie, you made it,’ Amy appeared as if from nowhere.

  ‘Yeah just about, hi Amy,’ Lizzie’s priority was to check what Amy had decided to wear and was relieved that she had elected for a very similar choice, although she suspected there had been a more genuine lack of effort on her part. ‘Good crowd,’ said Lizzie, hoping that it was.

  ‘Not bad, although you should see the place when there’s someone good playing,’ replied Amy almost whispering the last half of her sentence. ‘Eric, come here, this is Lizzie, my friend from school.’

  ‘Sup,’ greeted a tall boy of about nineteen Amy had grabbed as he had tried to pass. As much as she and Amy had tried to appear languid in their style this guy had really nailed it. Long dark brown hair, which might actually be lighter in colour than it seemed had it been remotely clean, covered one half of his face. A battle scarred woollen jumper hung from him in shreds revealing a band t-shirt underneath which Lizzie couldn’t quite make out through the various holes. Lizzie suspected he probably smelled as bad as he looked. That said he was handsome and she would have been perfectly willing to hold her breath to get a little closer.

  ‘Go get us beer,’ instructed Amy, sounding far more like an elder sister than a younger. Eric tutted.

  ‘Fine but gimme money.’

  ‘I have money,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘No you do not,’ said Amy handing her brother a note. ‘I invited you.’ Eric disappeared into the bar throng.

  ‘He’s… nice,’ said Lizzie, watching him go.

  ‘And he knows it, the big ponce,’ said Amy catching Lizzie’s meaning.

  ‘So when’s his band on?’

  ‘They’re on last. I hope you can stick around that long, there’s three bands on before them, but they only have half hour sets.’

  ‘Yeah, no trouble. Headlining eh? They must be good?’ said Lizzie.

  ‘They’re okay, but going on last isn’t the big deal it sounds, it’s kind of a poison chalice really. See, the other bands bring a small devoted crowd with them,’ Amy pointed at the small clusters of people and Lizzie now saw them for musicians and connected fans. ‘It’s really rude actually, once they’ve played they should stick around and listen to the other bands, but half the time they just bugger off. So the best slot to get is to go on first, that way you get the biggest crowd. Trust me, by the time Eric’s band goes on half these losers will be gone.’ Eric returned with two plastic pint tumblers three quarters filled with beer.

  ‘If Mum smells that on your breath, it’s nothing to do with me,’ said Eric. Some little blonde girl was tucked under his arm, a hand pushed through one of the jumper holes to end up God only knew where.

  ‘Relax bro. Have a good one,’ said Amy.

  ‘Did he go to Queen’s too?’ asked Lizzie once Eric had been dragged away by the blonde.

  ‘No,’ laughed Amy, ‘he went to a comprehensive, Mum and Dad gave up on pushing him down that road a long time ago.’

  ‘But you’re okay with it?’ Amy shrugged.

  ‘Yeah, why not? For all that it’s a pain, it’s a good school and it has a great music programme.’

  ‘Does it? I didn’t realise, what do you play?’ Lizzie was a little embarrassed at just how little she knew about her new friend.

  ‘Piano, have done most of my life, grade eight now.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Lizzie, she had to guess this was a commendable achievement from the obvious pride in Amy’s voice.

  The drummer clicked his sticks together four times signalling the start of the night’s entertainment. Lizzie and Amy shuffled backwards as the crowd eased forward toward the stage. The sound check had been loud, louder than expected but as the first band – Razorblade Bath – broke into their opening number a wall of noise hit Lizzie
like a slap. Their sound was heavier and angrier than Lizzie’s taste would normally subscribe to but they were, none the less, impressive. The band was relentless and unyielding, never taking any more than a few seconds between numbers, barely giving the crowd any opportunity to show their appreciation. The punk – metal fusion meant that songs were short and punchy and by the time their thirty minutes were up it was anyone’s guess how many numbers they had amassed. The small crowd who appeared to have been with the band had formed a little no go area in front of the stage where they pushed, slammed, grabbed and, once or twice, accidently headed butted each other. At the end of the set there was an enthusiastic, but brief roar and the band left the stage without ever saying a word to the crowd. Lizzie was surprised to find that she was a little out of breath.

  ‘It’s the bass,’ explained Amy, ‘way too high. It sort of interferes with your heart rhythm, really messes with you.’

  ‘No shit, feels like I’ve been punched in the tits.’

  ‘What?’ said Amy sure she had misheard.

  ‘Nothing, they were good though, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve seen them before. Not my kinda thing at all, but you have to respect what they do,’ Amy said sagely.

  ‘It’s the first gig I’ve been to,’ admitted Lizzie, beginning to shout as the next band took the stage and started tuning up.

  ‘You’re kidding me? But you love your music.’

  ‘I just never had the opportunity, and the last few years, well they’ve been a bit of a mess. Listen, you’ll know far better than I do, but are they supposed to sound so…’ Lizzie searched for the words without sounding like she was insulting the band ‘so all at once? I mean I can’t even really make one instrument out from the other,’ Amy laughed knowing exactly what she meant.

  ‘It is very different from a CD, you get that even with the best bands. Usually it’s far better than a recording but here it’s always the same; it sometimes starts out okay but you can guarantee that every prima donna in the band will be constantly telling the guy at the sound desk there to turn their mike or instrument up claiming they can’t hear it. Before you know it they’re all up to bloody eleven and it’s like noise soup.’

  After the intense performance from the first band the second had a lot to live up to. They failed. They were mostly acoustic and entirely forgettable.

  The third band – Gutter Grin – were better. Lizzie was excited to see that the lead singer was a girl, the only band to have a female anywhere in their line up. They gave a solid performance and the singer had a good voice but lacked stage presence, or it may just have seemed that way as she was upstaged royally by the band’s bassist. Impossibly tall, and with side burns that would be the envy of a Cornish farmer he owned the stage and the singer had to constantly be on her guard for a flailing guitar head or dreadlock of which he sported four, sprouting from the centre of his otherwise shaved head like a tropical plant. As their last song drew to a close the bassist drew their particular crowd close to the stage before leaping on to them. In a venue with hundreds of fans closely packed it would have been a spectacular way to end a show and Lizzie had seen many a wild stage dive on television, however, here at the Mill three poor followers managed to keep him aloft for a few seconds before collapsing under his considerable weight. It was simultaneously the most ridiculous and most entertaining thing she had ever witnessed.

  Amy’s prediction had proved true and by the time Eric’s band came on the crowd had dwindled to somewhere around half, with the majority now congregated at the bar. Eric was the only redeeming feature of his band, and even then only because he was good to look at. His own skill as a guitar player was at best average, but Amy enthusiastically sang along and cheered raucously between songs. Lizzie tried her best to support, not so much the band, but Amy who may have felt self conscious with her otherwise solo appreciation efforts.

  A broken guitar string needed changing in between songs and Lizzie took the opportunity to find the bathrooms. There was now a larger crowd in the corridor outside the bar and within the toilets than within the bar itself with interest in the gig waning, Lizzie had to push her way through. She parted bodies, almost all of them far bigger than her, and opened the door to the ladies, something caught her eye as she did so.

  A pair of eyes directed at her caught her attention. She stopped and looked back through the crowd of loiterers searching. At first she saw only a sea of bodies, but then they parted just enough for her to catch a glimpse of a hooded figure with a familiar large frame, eyes just visible within the shadow of the cowl were aimed at her. A surge of fear ripped through her, but her view was instantly interrupted by a large girl stepping in front of her clearing her throat to indicate she wanted Lizzie to move aside to let her into the bathroom. Lizzie stepped back into the corridor and concentrated her gaze back across the swarm of people, finding the figure, now with back turned making its way through the crowd. She shuffled forward ready to pursue when again it turned to face her. She stopped, heart pounding. The figure dropped the hood, as the boy underneath was handed a tumbler of beer by a friend and laughed at some joke.

  She fought her way to the sink, splashed her face and looked at herself in the mirror. The bright light of the bathroom made her realise she was a little drunk. She told herself to get a grip, convinced she was, by reasons of paranoia or inebriation, seeing things.

  She found Amy back in the bar just as Eric’s band were finishing a Nirvana cover, three out of the four bands had at least one, including two tired sounding versions of Smells Like Teen Spirit. Eric’s band finished their set to a vastly diminished crowd, this however did not stop Amy delivering a rapturous, if largely lonely ovation which Lizzie, at least, tried to match.

  A glum quiet replaced the noise of the bands and Lizzie’s ears whistled in protest at the change.

  ‘They were great,’ Lizzie lied. Amy screwed her face incredulously.

  ‘Who were you listening to?’ They both laughed and followed the few remaining people out into the cool night air. They were joined soon after by Eric and his blonde limpet. ‘You guys were great,’ said Amy, patting her brother on the shoulder and casting a glance at Lizzie. ‘Can we drop Lizzie off?’

  ‘Sure, but I need to hang about for a bit and get the gear loaded up,’ said Eric squirming as the blonde’s amorous arms disappeared into the shredded jumper.

  ‘Can you wait for a bit Lizzie?’

  ‘Actually I’m fine, it’s a short walk and I could do with the fresh air to be honest.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure, honestly, I’ll be home in less than ten minutes. But listen, thanks so much for tonight, you’ve no idea how much I needed that.’

  ‘No, thank you for coming, I usually have to stand there on my own feeling like a right Billy no mates. Do something again soon?’ said Amy pulling Lizzie in for hug, her arms liquid from the beer.

  ‘Absolutely, any time,’ she said.

  They parted ways and Lizzie couldn’t help having a good, cautionary look around as she set off for home. She decided to stick to well lit areas and avoid any risky shortcuts. It occurred to her that it had been the first evening since that night in Oxford that she hadn’t found herself pondering it, dissecting every second. Now that she was alone again however, her thoughts found their familiar line of analysis and self-doubt.

  She had become obsessed with trying to apply reason to the events that night and a ritual of reflection had become a bad habit. She would attempt to explain it to herself; the candles, had there been some gas supply she had not seen? Her reaction to the chanting, could that be explained away by some group hysteria psychology? And the figure - could she have imagined the whole thing? Or embellished it into something it wasn’t?

  Perhaps it was the alcohol, maybe the impaired hearing, or the reverie, but by the time Lizzie heard the steps behind her, in a flat out run, it was already too late.

  She barely had time to turn her head when she was slamme
d in the back sending her sprawling face first onto the concrete of the supermarket car park she had subconsciously cut through. The pain of the loss of skin from her palms and her cheek barely registered, only panic and flight instinct.

  She frantically tried to push herself from the ground, her feet slipping as they fought for purchase. She had just managed to raise herself when the second blow came, a punch to the side of the head. It sent her back to the floor, hard. She felt her glasses smash into her face and fall in front of her in pieces. A nauseating sensation flooded her head, all other senses were now locked down in shock. But pain she could still feel, a vicious kick to her ribs confirmed that. The boot lifted her into the air from her hands and knees position. She landed on her back, all breath battered from her. She gulped, in vain, for air and lifted an outstretched palm in front of her a plea, and an attempt at protection. The figure loomed into blurry view.

  Slowly.

  No urgency.

  He raised his boot for the finishing blow, and as it crashed into the side of Lizzie’s skull she knew in her heart, with sickening certainty, that this was the last thing she would ever see.

  Seventeen

  Lizzie opened her eyes in hospital. She knew instantly it was a hospital and she knew which hospital, but since she was staring at the floor she didn’t know how she could be so sure. The vinyl flooring looked nicotine stained, mottled yellow and grey. The slow and even metronome beep of a heart monitor was the only sound. She realised she was not in bed but on an uncomfortable plastic chair, the bed lay before her, one impossibly thin arm hung from the side, wires and tubes attached making the arm look like that of a string puppet. She knew to whom the arm belonged.

  There she lay, her mother, skeletal and tortured. A rubber bag hung on display at the side of the bed half filled with dark brown puss above a layer of blood, separated by their gravitational weights like a macabre cocktail.

  The light was wrong, far too dim, it struggled to find the corners of the room, it felt like emergency lighting all amber and poorly powered. Lizzie leaned forward and took her mother’s hand, for a moment it collapsed lifeless limp and cold in her own, defying the life confirming rhythm of the heart monitor, but slowly the fingers curled around hers.