Free Access Restricted by Alice Severin

all.

Chapter 7
    I had the cab drop me off on Camden High Street, just past the corner. It all looked about the same, grotty, busy, a bunch of kids sporting punk pink Mohicans hanging out by the Tube station, private school kids with their skirts hiked up as high as they dared trying on sunglasses and buying the little transgressive bits of paraphernalia that would make them feel like they were breaking out. Nothing changes, I thought. And the tourists with maps and cameras, and the older women dragging behind their shopping trolleys, going home from a trip to the frozen food store, Iceland, after getting their pension cheques. Two frozen fish fillets, a packet of biscuits, tea, and a pint of milk. The mini gangs dealing drugs, some actually dangerous, and the police hardly ever moved them on. The metal lovers, so pierced up and tattooed that they couldn’t get any other job besides handing out flyers, killing time and making a few quid until the next gig. Yeah. Plus ça change, and all that.
    I walked down the pedestrianized street, by the few stragglers selling junk from their hastily put up stalls, with the red striped tarps overhead, and the two homeless guys sitting in a doorway, drinking from a huge bottle of cider. The pub was right on the corner, white paint, some graffiti here and there (Liam rules!). I went in and the smell of old beer soaked carpets made me gag. Jesus. It was even worse than the last time I’d been in here. I nodded to the guy at the bar, and went to the other side. There they were. Three guys, one with a beard, fairly average and nondescript, dressed in jeans and flannel and t-shirts. One guy, a bit older, already losing his hair. That must be Rod, who I’d spoken to on the phone. And then the girl. They hadn’t even noticed me. They probably hadn’t noticed anyone else since the day she came into their little orbit. Super blond, big blue eyes, hard mouth prettified under a dollop of shiny red lipstick. She was wearing a dress that reminded me of what Julia Roberts wore at the beginning of Pretty Woman . Total hooker clothing. No bra, big tits. Yeah, no wonder no one really cared if she could sing. Their ears had no blood supply, it was all down in their cocks. Man. What a set-up for these guys. They needed a hook, because they weren’t star quality, and she needed some safety, and most importantly, some guys who would tell her she was great. All the time.
    Of course, she noticed me first. Her eyes narrowed. This was the type that didn’t pray at night before bed for good things and world peace, but practiced her cutting put-downs. I quailed a bit inside, and crushed it. Turn it around. Let’s see what you got bitch. I’m writing your future.
    I grimaced, and walked over to the table. I smiled at all of them and looked at the manager, holding out my hand, waiting for him to stand up. No. He didn’t. Idiot.
    “I’m Lily Taylor, you must be Rod, nice to meet you.”
    “Oh right, Lily, Rod, we talked on the phone.” He finally extended his hand, and I took it. It was clammy, and spongy. I was thrilled when he dropped it to point out the members of the band. “That’s Jim,” he said, indicating the guy with the beard, and the big eyes. He probably wrote the songs, we’d see. “This one’s Andy,” pointing out the big blond with the glasses. He, at least, stood up to shake my hand. Something to go on. Maybe we can get a few sentences strung together out of him. “And Joe,” stretching out his moist hand towards the guy with the curly ginger hair. “And of course,” he said, his smile oozing across his face, “our star, Fee.” I smiled at her and watched her stare at me evilly, then suddenly burst into a big smile.
    “Oh Rod told me we were being interviewed by The Core magazine! I’m so excited. Really.” Her accent was incredibly thick, bouncing up and down as much as her boobs, which seemed to have a life of their own. “You’re not who we expected though.”
    Oh here