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The Medicine Dolls were once described as The B52’s in a bad mood. And they quite liked that comparison.
Greg’s hair dominated the corner of the bar where he stood with Noddy and Bex. Greg was the vocalist and guitarist, but it could be argued that his hair was the band’s actual front-man. Dark and spiked high like an angry lion’s mane, it stood out even in Valhalla. The nightclub, not the mythological Viking hall. Although chances are, it would have been unique there too.
“You need to get the balance right.” The voice came from behind his fringe. “Too much sugar, and it gets messy.”
He balanced a teaspoon of sugar above a glass of emerald liquid, waiting for the absinthe to drain back into the glass. His dragon-embossed Zippo hovered nearby, ready to set the drink alight.
Noddy and Bex shared a smile, then tossed back their own sugarless glasses, slamming the empties down on the bar.
Greg sighed. “A little patience never hurt anyone.”
Noddy poured another round while flames engulfed Greg’s disintegrating sugar cube.
“To Edgar.” Bex raised her drink in salute. The other two raised their glasses, Greg blowing out the flame before pointing the bottom of his glass at the ceiling.
“Was sorry to hear about that,” Noddy commiserated. “Always hoped to make it down to Cape Town to meet the little dude.”
“He was a legend.” Bex poured another round. “You would have loved him. He and Spike would have been best friends.”
“How is your psycho bird these days?” Greg asked.
Noddy smiled. “Still psycho. He and Girlyfriend had chicks a few weeks ago. At first, Spike was the best father in the world. He would bring them to visit, and take food from my hand to go feed them. Then his territorial instincts kicked in and he chased them away.”
“Fuck, I hate it when they do that.” Bex distributed the full glasses.
Noddy shrugged. “I haven’t seen the babies for a while. But Spike’s still around.”
Greg shook his head, an impressive sight in any setting. “I seem to recall that Mick hated that fucking bird.”
Bex nodded. “Only room for one psycho in a place like this.”
*
“AH NEED TO GET OUT, man. Back on the streets. Ye know? Ah’ve been gone too long.”
Dirk sat on the edge of the bed. Mick didn’t look good. Hell, he’d never been much to look at. But with bandages wrapped tight around his skull – fewer than before, but still more than was normal – he looked like an extra in a horror movie. And when he spoke, those black teeth...
“Christ, dude, you just came out of a coma. I thought you were dead, make out. Let the doctors keep an eye on you for a couple of days, make sure you’re okay.”
Mick had learned quickly not to shake his head in conversation. He pointed instead. “Don’t ye get it? Can’t ye understand what Ah’ve been through? Ah was all alone in there, man. Ye have no idea. No fucking idea. Ye wouldn’t have survived, Ah can tell ye that for nothing. And where’s Janine? Ah told ye, Ah need to see her.”
Dirk, on the other hand, was able to shake his head as much as he liked. He did so now. “Chill, boet. You did survive. And you survived coming off the bike. So give them another couple of days to make sure you survive this, too.”
Mick’s eyes lit up. “Aye, the bike. Did ye find them? What am Ah saying, of course ye found them. Did they plead? Did they beg? What was it like?”
“Let’s just say it’s been handled.”
Mick’s neck muscles stood out with the strain of keeping his head still. “Who was it? Another gang? Those Brakpan bastards trying to take me out of the picture?”
Dirk raised both hands. “Jesus, would you calm the fuck down? It was nobody. A nonentity. Civilians. And believe me, they’ve been punished for what happened.”
Mick sat back, reaching for a glass of water at the side of the bed. “Aye, well, let that be a lesson, then. A statement. Ah’m back. And things are gonna change around here, sure they are. Now could ye call that cute wee nurse outside the door, there? Ah think mah brain might be bleedin’ just a wee bit.”
*
BEX STRUMMED HER BASS. The Medicine Dolls set hadn’t started, but already there was a crowd gathering in front of the stage. Mostly male, and mostly on the bass player’s side. Gorgeous blondes with haunting voices, Jim Morrison tattoos and fishnet stockings had that effect on Valhalla regulars.
Noddy was looking for his own gorgeous blonde. Janine hadn’t arrived yet for her shift. Dirk wasn’t around to explain why she was late, so Noddy’s mind had spun into unhealthy speculation. Was she sick? What had the doctor said? There were times when Noddy wished he had a job and an office and a normal life, where people could reach him when something happened. These times were few and far between. But today had been one of them. In fact, today had been all of them.
He looked across at the bar. Sylvana, the other barmaid, caught his eye and shook her head.
Then Greg bounced onto the stage, launching straight into Girls and Poison, kissing on the dancefloor, lines in the bathroom. Anyone seated in the club shot to their feet, Doc Martens and pixie boots all drawn irresistibly towards the hottest band to ever come out of Cape Town.
Noddy let the riptide pull him along. Maybe watching the band would take his mind off Janine. He raised his bottle, letting the beer bubbles mix with the absinthe in his gut, shooting alcohol straight into his bloodstream.
The tall individual standing next to him chose that exact moment to lurch backwards with a whoop of laughter. His luminescent yellow Hawaiian shirt sleeve caught the bottom of Noddy’s beer and spilled it over his face and chest. Even onto his sleeveless denim jacket.
Noddy looked down in horror. The club receded on all sides, everyone on the dancefloor vanishing from his sphere of consciousness. There were only two people left in the world, as time slowed and blood pounded in his ears. He could feel each heartbeat, distinct and separate, blotting out all other sounds. Even the band.
What was this oke even doing here, in a place like Valhalla, with his dayglo beach-wear and his ridiculous top hat? It wasn’t right.
Noddy knew he had to make the world a better place. He smacked the hat from its perch atop the long black curls. Before it hit the floor, Noddy had poured the rest of his beer over the man’s greasy hair and the circle of bandages that had been concealed under the hat. He could see each individual drop as it splashed off the oiled ringlets and carried on down to his shoulders, making beautiful colours and rainbows in the red and blue strobe lights from the stage.
Then the real sights and sounds of the club flooded back as the dude hunched his shoulders in the time-honoured “this is what happens when I’m wet” movement.
Noddy laughed.
The Hawaiian turned around, shoulders still hunched. He was no longer laughing. He reached a hand towards his hair in disbelief, eyes growing wider as his fingers confirmed the signals his scalp had been sending.
Noddy saw the widened eyes at the same time he noticed the Elastoplast across the man’s broken nose. Something about the look of those dilated pupils, combined with the tropical ensemble he was wearing, looked familiar.
The Hawaiian felt it too. Noddy watched in fascination as the eyes morphed from rage to confusion, through recognition into doubt, before returning via certainty to rage. Brows furrowed. Bloodshot eyes shot to the left. Head tilted to the side. Corners of his mouth turned down. Then a finger raised in a Eureka moment, and Noddy caught the memory as if by osmosis.
The alley behind Mike’s Tavern.