AnCatKatie
Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
This came out way more angsty than I expected. Things are moving forward a bit faster and in a weirder direction than I thought.
***
"Wake up strange and take the walk downstairs
Hit the pawn up on the corner and pay for my rent
You know that I could not believe my own truth
Just show them what I choose, got nothing to lose
Yeah yeah and it’s O.K.
I tie my hands up to a chair so I don’t fall that way.
Yeah yeah and I’m alright.
I took a sip of something poison but I’ll hold on tight."
—Foster The People, "Helena Beat"
Stone cold all over his body woke him up. He’d pillowed his jacket under his head but couldn’t feel it anymore. Inside in a single room were crammed Tommy, Helena, Ace, and London. There was another room next to it—Ciarán asked why couldn’t everyone else stay in that and gotten an imperceptible tightening of eyes, teeth, clenching of fists as a response. “No floor,” Lou had said matter-of-factly. “You’d fall away.” And Ace had wiped his palms on his jeans and London’s face had eased.
Ciarán hadn’t noticed that Corinne looked troubled after that little exchange; they’d all looked a little troubled. “Don’t be stupid,” she’d whispered in the thick night, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and closing her eyes. At the other corner of the roof, a lit cigarette spread a look of exhaustion over Lou’s face. Blocking the stairwell, dark shadow against collapsing tiles, Spider bundled arms and legs together tightly and Ciarán had watched the city breathe and listened to the rumble of traffic beyond.
Now the morning had gone cold and grey and he wondered why he’d even left Ireland. Looking over, he saw only Lou—Lieutenant?—was left on the roof. Ciarán’s jacket was bundled under his head, a few flecks of ash fallen over his face. Ciarán frowned and rubbed frozen arms then picked his way over to the stairwell. Inertia of only one place to go. Which was quickly changed: something yanked and hurled him out of a straight path. He straightened up at the bottom of the stairs, arms shaking, eyes wide.
“What the fuck was that?” Ciarán managed to pop out of his mouth in startled Gaelic.
He charged up and grabbed Spider angrily, his fingers digging into her shoulders, and began to open his mouth to—
A sudden pressure on his own shoulder; he was spun around. Calmly Lou said, “Don’t.” His face, too, was reddened from the cold, and he still had Ciarán’s jacket. Ciarán tried to obliterate the sudden sharp return of that fighting instinct that had propelled him through his younger years. Fuck it. He drew Lou aside and said sharply, “She took my fucking money and now—“ That selfsame hand clamped over his mouth.
“No.”
They glared at each other for a moment. The sketchy girl giggled nervously. Freezing morning air made the hair on Ciarán’s arms stand up. He looked down and found the other boy was barefoot: he jabbed his heel into soft skin then found himself in a headlock and just as fast released. Ciarán breathed out and pushed past the two to head downstairs, low uncontent voices above parting over his head.
A thin voice, probably Spider’s: “He should have been inside in the first place.”
Yeah, he should have. He’d have been warmer.
“What was that. That. You. Money.” a deeper, fuller voice. “You led him here?”
“I had my reasons.”
…What? Ciarán stopped walking and stilled against the wall, stairs blocking him from above view.
“It’s alright. I trust your judgment.” Apologetic.
“Yeah, that’s about all, isn’t it. Why won’t you try, Avery?” Disappointed.
“Don’t call me that. I can’t. You know it doesn’t work that way. We’re not like that. I don't love you, never will. Not like that.”
“I guess there’s no chance for either of us then. In a few months it won’t matter.”
“Come on. If he goes in he’ll be alright.” There was a long silence.
Then Spider’s voice softly. “For a time. For a time he will.”
He waited, straining to hear more. He felt like his face would be brick printed by how hard he was leaning against the wall. Trying to imagine what that all meant, he was startled by unexpected movement again. He’d been leaning just beside the doorway, not realizing it was open. Picking himself up, he entered the warm bubble of air, feeling the cold and the tightness of his head dissipate.
**
Ace didn’t turn around when someone entered; he could guess it was the new kid, and wanted to tell him to leave. Instead, he clenched fingers around an egg he cracked into the pan, and turned his back on the kid. He couldn’t stop his eyes from talking. Really, he felt fine.
He heard London raise his head and ask Ciarán about Ireland—“don’t give me that bullshit. I know you came from there directly.” Heard a bit of lassitude in the British man’s voice. Ace closed his eyes, knowing who lay next to the voice on the couch. Little embers of feeling. The softness of Helena’s skin. Her sleep-tired smile not for him. The stolen moments came easier with his eyes closed, but they shot open again. He stopped the eggs from burning in time. Salvaged them, pushed some food in the new kid’s direction, and let his own eyes rest in heated trails. Irritation briefly distracted him: Tommy was giggly and, stupid kid, asking how hard he’d have to push before he fell out the window. Maybe Lou should be in here. Tommy was Lou’s kid, right? Then again, Ace wasn’t sure. He did know though—feeling a warm spike in his stomach, watching Helena drag the boy away from the window and move him to the couch—London moved his feet so Tommy would fit—there, irritation again—where Helena fit in the scheme of things.
He looked at her lazy not-quite awake smile, and the red dye fading from her hair. The ineffable shot of warm light across her cheeks, just blood and vessels leading back to the heart but a bit more than everyday anatomy to him. That heart mattered more than Ace’s casual dismissive knowledge of the blood—sudden regret—the veins—sudden ache—the skin— sudden wish—the body—sudden need. That heart was his. And he didn’t know how long it would last.
I’m doing this for you, he thought hard and spoke through a glance, reaching under the sink and pulling out a bottle. It burned straight into his stomach. He coughed then drifted then burned, and caught her eye.
**
“Can I have some of that?” Ciarán asked when he saw Ace pull out a bottle of something or other. He ached something fierce for drink and London was questioning him just a little too much. Glad to pull away and walk back over to the tiny counter at the edge of the kitchen, Ciarán sat down and saw an odd look in the guy’s eye. He couldn’t place it. Maybe it was that they both hated each other yesterday. That must be it. Something of that fierceness had receded in Ace with the light of day; he looked younger, the thin writing tattooed on his fingers reflecting in his eyes that had let go of some wariness.
There was a pause. Then, “Sure, why not,” Ace said and handed the bottle over. In its reflection Ciarán watched the boy lean thin elbows on the counter and look over back where Ciarán had came from.
The alcohol burned and spat sparks into his body that left him a little shaky. Ciarán could normally hold his drink. Perhaps it was the huge empty hole left from being away from all the drink back in Ireland…he’d expected this to be as terrible as whatever he’d coughed up backstage when he’d been invited a peek at ZooTV.
He put the thing back down. “That was something,” he blinked. Ace nodded and took the thing, drinking it all down to Ciarán’s amazement, and his eyes not leaving Helena’s face, said shortly, “Fuck off.”
Ciarán heard that as directed to him, however, and went back to the rooftop. He lay down full length and looked at the city. Clouds drifted over his body. Too many streets wound and rewound around the building. Cars burnt trails into the sky. He finally looked back towards the stairwell, because footfalls were coming closer: Spider ghosted beside him and said briefly, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” Ciarán snorted, but she shook her head and raised an eyebrow.
“I would have done it all the same.”
“Well, fuck you.”
She gave him a look. “You don’t know what you’re getting into. But that doesn’t matter. Sit back, relax and—“
He got up and stormed back downstairs. This girl irritated the hell out of him.
“Do you guys ever leave?” he turned his head back to ask.
“Well, where do you think Mats would be if we never left?” London asked, giving him a glance. “Or Corinne, for that matter?” He looked troubled. Ciarán continued downstairs. Lou followed him. It was weird, but Ciarán could sort of sense his presence. Where exactly he was behind him. It should be the other way around, if Lou had actually been in the army. Ciarán wasn’t sure. But he felt the molecules condensed into substance, the flesh, the heartbeat, the sadness, the warning. It confused him.
Expecting a full room, Ciarán asked, “Where’d the other two run off to?” then saw it was only Ace looking pissed off. He felt Lou’s eyes crinkling and Ace’s eyes tightening. The kid who’d given him so much trouble yesterday looked really really concerned about something. And angry about something else.
“Go ask London. No, wait. He’s probably f—No, go ask him,” Ace said harshly and pointed towards another room. The one that apparently had no floor. That no-one went into. Ciarán had heard sounds from inside, but they hadn’t been anything like…that.
“He’s just pissed,” Lou said quickly. “Drunk,” he clarified, and Ace rolled his eyes.
“Right, they’ve left the premises,” Ace rolled his eyes again. “Fuck ‘em. Whatever they’re doing. It’d be much more effective to show you.”
“What they’re—“
“No. Where the others have gone.” Ace smiled tightly. “I have two guesses and one’s probably right.”
Lou opened the fridge quickly before they left, grabbed some food and stuffed it into their hands. “Might take you a while,” he said. It seemed he wanted to join them and search, but something was keeping him behind. Ciarán had that weird sense again, but then they were out the door.
Baltimore was beautiful. If that was still where they were. Beautiful and thin and hard. Dirty red brick, collapsed buildings, paint peeled away and gaping doors. People shivered in and out of them. A few blocks down, houses cut in perfect cakelike rectangles sat proud and fat and chill. Ciarán looked at the sparse leaves in the trees and felt the air warming up around him. Ace walking beside him was a man of few words.
“So what do you guys—“ Ace shook his head, cutting Ciarán off.
And, “Baltimore’s very different” was met with silence.
Then, “You mean America.”
“No, I’ve been here before,” Ciarán crossed his arms. “Well, not here. I’ve been to the other end.”
“It’s different,” Ace said shortly.
More silence. More blocks. This time storefronts that stretched for what seemed like hours. Tiny postage-stamp sized buildings with old lettering and the sharp coercive smell of butter, onions, meat, chocolate, wine. Then the gaping doorways with the obligatory lone figure not meeting their eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Ciarán asked finally, getting the right question this time.
“Nothing.” A look down. Ace’s pockets were stuffed full of something. Something that drew him onwards.
They found a park that shimmered in the blind haze of midafternoon, the wetness on the grass evaporating. As Ace looked around for people who weren’t there, Ciarán bent down and felt the grass. Little teardrops and little pricks of grassy stubble met his hand that grasped for something less malleable. He closed his eyes, feeling the low long repetitive thud. Feeling that need to escape still there though he’d escaped. He still wanted to unfold the world and pound away at it. He wanted to chase down something he was missing, that would only respond to the synchronicity of the drumbeats.
He opened his eyes. A slightly frantic Ace stood over him. “They’re not here.”
“I don’t see why they’d have to be here.”
“It’s usually here.”
“What is?”
“Where he won’t look.”
“What?”
Nothing.
“Come on.” Ace grabbed his arm just between his elbow and his wrist and propelled him out of the park. Indignance flared through Ciarán but he let it dissipate and race away with the clouds now just threads on the smoky horizon.
“I can think of just one other place. If not, that’s where I’m going.”
“Alright,” Ciarán sighed. He asked for, and received, food, and absently stuffed it into his mouth, feeling homeless.
Five blocks later they came to a subway. Only a few people waited to go somewhere. Ace stood at the top level, squinting a moment. He looked into the bushes.
“Why?” Ciarán asked.
“That’s where I found Corinne. Puking her guts out. She was really sick. I don’t know, maybe she was attached to this place.”
“That’s a long shot.” He eyed the grimy walls nearby. “If I was here I’d want to leave.”
“Not me.” Ace grinned wolfishly, and jerked his head towards the opposite end of the wall. There seemed to be a huge hole towards the bottom. The concrete was jagged, some pieces eggshell thin and looking sharp. Before Ciarán could say “wait a minute,” Ace dropped his legs through the hole and then it was just tattooed fingers gripping the concrete and then those let go. Not there long enough for him to decipher the writing.
“Come on down. Aw, fuck, new kid...whatsit…drummer. Just put your legs through and jump.
“If I die it’s on you.”
“Not bloody likely.”
“Not bloody likely I—shit!”
He hurtled down and slammed into a dim twisting tunnel sort of place. Graffiti everywhere looked at him with dull eyes. Bold blood-thick paint warned intruders away. Ciarán winced at his scraped palms.
“You alive?”
“…Yeah. Why the shite are we down here?”
“Because this is where he won’t find me.”
“Who?”
“Shut up, new kid.” Ace looked away from where he was sprawling against the wall. “Almost wish I smoked,” he muttered. Then, “wait.”
He rummaged through his pockets then looked up at Ciarán. The whites of the other boy’s eyes in his oddly shaped head glowed in the relative darkness. Whatever it was, the discontent, the anger, the outrage, the sadness or the worry, whatever was bothering Ace was clearly defined on his face now but Ciarán still had no clue as to what it was. He just saw the weight of the boy’s eyelids closing and opening again.
“You’ve got to make sure we come back at the right time. Before nightfall. I may not want to leave. I may start talking shit. Just make sure I go back, a’right? And if Corinne or Mats show up,” he looked doubtful at that, “they can help.”
“What are you—“ He saw a flash of something long and thin, and something unfamiliar, and the cords in Ace’s neck tensing as he punctured his arm.
“Making sure his fucked up shit doesn’t kill me,” Ace said a moment later before his eyes loosened their grip and he floated and Helena was gone, and London and his plans were gone, and the new kid’s ceaseless concerned chatter reminded him of when Tommy had been born.
“I know I fucked up, Helena,” Ace said before his eyes closed. He felt the new kid’s fingers checking him for a pulse. “I’m getting us out of here,” Ace said to her but with his eyes shut there was blackness confusion and Helena wasn’t Helena, it was someone skinny and unforgiving carrying him home.
***
"Wake up strange and take the walk downstairs
Hit the pawn up on the corner and pay for my rent
You know that I could not believe my own truth
Just show them what I choose, got nothing to lose
Yeah yeah and it’s O.K.
I tie my hands up to a chair so I don’t fall that way.
Yeah yeah and I’m alright.
I took a sip of something poison but I’ll hold on tight."
—Foster The People, "Helena Beat"
Chapter Five. Zooropa.
cold in the overground/dreamer dreams, she never dies/two hearts
cold in the overground/dreamer dreams, she never dies/two hearts
Stone cold all over his body woke him up. He’d pillowed his jacket under his head but couldn’t feel it anymore. Inside in a single room were crammed Tommy, Helena, Ace, and London. There was another room next to it—Ciarán asked why couldn’t everyone else stay in that and gotten an imperceptible tightening of eyes, teeth, clenching of fists as a response. “No floor,” Lou had said matter-of-factly. “You’d fall away.” And Ace had wiped his palms on his jeans and London’s face had eased.
Ciarán hadn’t noticed that Corinne looked troubled after that little exchange; they’d all looked a little troubled. “Don’t be stupid,” she’d whispered in the thick night, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and closing her eyes. At the other corner of the roof, a lit cigarette spread a look of exhaustion over Lou’s face. Blocking the stairwell, dark shadow against collapsing tiles, Spider bundled arms and legs together tightly and Ciarán had watched the city breathe and listened to the rumble of traffic beyond.
Now the morning had gone cold and grey and he wondered why he’d even left Ireland. Looking over, he saw only Lou—Lieutenant?—was left on the roof. Ciarán’s jacket was bundled under his head, a few flecks of ash fallen over his face. Ciarán frowned and rubbed frozen arms then picked his way over to the stairwell. Inertia of only one place to go. Which was quickly changed: something yanked and hurled him out of a straight path. He straightened up at the bottom of the stairs, arms shaking, eyes wide.
“What the fuck was that?” Ciarán managed to pop out of his mouth in startled Gaelic.
He charged up and grabbed Spider angrily, his fingers digging into her shoulders, and began to open his mouth to—
A sudden pressure on his own shoulder; he was spun around. Calmly Lou said, “Don’t.” His face, too, was reddened from the cold, and he still had Ciarán’s jacket. Ciarán tried to obliterate the sudden sharp return of that fighting instinct that had propelled him through his younger years. Fuck it. He drew Lou aside and said sharply, “She took my fucking money and now—“ That selfsame hand clamped over his mouth.
“No.”
They glared at each other for a moment. The sketchy girl giggled nervously. Freezing morning air made the hair on Ciarán’s arms stand up. He looked down and found the other boy was barefoot: he jabbed his heel into soft skin then found himself in a headlock and just as fast released. Ciarán breathed out and pushed past the two to head downstairs, low uncontent voices above parting over his head.
A thin voice, probably Spider’s: “He should have been inside in the first place.”
Yeah, he should have. He’d have been warmer.
“What was that. That. You. Money.” a deeper, fuller voice. “You led him here?”
“I had my reasons.”
…What? Ciarán stopped walking and stilled against the wall, stairs blocking him from above view.
“It’s alright. I trust your judgment.” Apologetic.
“Yeah, that’s about all, isn’t it. Why won’t you try, Avery?” Disappointed.
“Don’t call me that. I can’t. You know it doesn’t work that way. We’re not like that. I don't love you, never will. Not like that.”
“I guess there’s no chance for either of us then. In a few months it won’t matter.”
“Come on. If he goes in he’ll be alright.” There was a long silence.
Then Spider’s voice softly. “For a time. For a time he will.”
He waited, straining to hear more. He felt like his face would be brick printed by how hard he was leaning against the wall. Trying to imagine what that all meant, he was startled by unexpected movement again. He’d been leaning just beside the doorway, not realizing it was open. Picking himself up, he entered the warm bubble of air, feeling the cold and the tightness of his head dissipate.
**
Ace didn’t turn around when someone entered; he could guess it was the new kid, and wanted to tell him to leave. Instead, he clenched fingers around an egg he cracked into the pan, and turned his back on the kid. He couldn’t stop his eyes from talking. Really, he felt fine.
He heard London raise his head and ask Ciarán about Ireland—“don’t give me that bullshit. I know you came from there directly.” Heard a bit of lassitude in the British man’s voice. Ace closed his eyes, knowing who lay next to the voice on the couch. Little embers of feeling. The softness of Helena’s skin. Her sleep-tired smile not for him. The stolen moments came easier with his eyes closed, but they shot open again. He stopped the eggs from burning in time. Salvaged them, pushed some food in the new kid’s direction, and let his own eyes rest in heated trails. Irritation briefly distracted him: Tommy was giggly and, stupid kid, asking how hard he’d have to push before he fell out the window. Maybe Lou should be in here. Tommy was Lou’s kid, right? Then again, Ace wasn’t sure. He did know though—feeling a warm spike in his stomach, watching Helena drag the boy away from the window and move him to the couch—London moved his feet so Tommy would fit—there, irritation again—where Helena fit in the scheme of things.
He looked at her lazy not-quite awake smile, and the red dye fading from her hair. The ineffable shot of warm light across her cheeks, just blood and vessels leading back to the heart but a bit more than everyday anatomy to him. That heart mattered more than Ace’s casual dismissive knowledge of the blood—sudden regret—the veins—sudden ache—the skin— sudden wish—the body—sudden need. That heart was his. And he didn’t know how long it would last.
I’m doing this for you, he thought hard and spoke through a glance, reaching under the sink and pulling out a bottle. It burned straight into his stomach. He coughed then drifted then burned, and caught her eye.
**
“Can I have some of that?” Ciarán asked when he saw Ace pull out a bottle of something or other. He ached something fierce for drink and London was questioning him just a little too much. Glad to pull away and walk back over to the tiny counter at the edge of the kitchen, Ciarán sat down and saw an odd look in the guy’s eye. He couldn’t place it. Maybe it was that they both hated each other yesterday. That must be it. Something of that fierceness had receded in Ace with the light of day; he looked younger, the thin writing tattooed on his fingers reflecting in his eyes that had let go of some wariness.
There was a pause. Then, “Sure, why not,” Ace said and handed the bottle over. In its reflection Ciarán watched the boy lean thin elbows on the counter and look over back where Ciarán had came from.
The alcohol burned and spat sparks into his body that left him a little shaky. Ciarán could normally hold his drink. Perhaps it was the huge empty hole left from being away from all the drink back in Ireland…he’d expected this to be as terrible as whatever he’d coughed up backstage when he’d been invited a peek at ZooTV.
He put the thing back down. “That was something,” he blinked. Ace nodded and took the thing, drinking it all down to Ciarán’s amazement, and his eyes not leaving Helena’s face, said shortly, “Fuck off.”
Ciarán heard that as directed to him, however, and went back to the rooftop. He lay down full length and looked at the city. Clouds drifted over his body. Too many streets wound and rewound around the building. Cars burnt trails into the sky. He finally looked back towards the stairwell, because footfalls were coming closer: Spider ghosted beside him and said briefly, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” Ciarán snorted, but she shook her head and raised an eyebrow.
“I would have done it all the same.”
“Well, fuck you.”
She gave him a look. “You don’t know what you’re getting into. But that doesn’t matter. Sit back, relax and—“
He got up and stormed back downstairs. This girl irritated the hell out of him.
“Do you guys ever leave?” he turned his head back to ask.
“Well, where do you think Mats would be if we never left?” London asked, giving him a glance. “Or Corinne, for that matter?” He looked troubled. Ciarán continued downstairs. Lou followed him. It was weird, but Ciarán could sort of sense his presence. Where exactly he was behind him. It should be the other way around, if Lou had actually been in the army. Ciarán wasn’t sure. But he felt the molecules condensed into substance, the flesh, the heartbeat, the sadness, the warning. It confused him.
Expecting a full room, Ciarán asked, “Where’d the other two run off to?” then saw it was only Ace looking pissed off. He felt Lou’s eyes crinkling and Ace’s eyes tightening. The kid who’d given him so much trouble yesterday looked really really concerned about something. And angry about something else.
“Go ask London. No, wait. He’s probably f—No, go ask him,” Ace said harshly and pointed towards another room. The one that apparently had no floor. That no-one went into. Ciarán had heard sounds from inside, but they hadn’t been anything like…that.
“He’s just pissed,” Lou said quickly. “Drunk,” he clarified, and Ace rolled his eyes.
“Right, they’ve left the premises,” Ace rolled his eyes again. “Fuck ‘em. Whatever they’re doing. It’d be much more effective to show you.”
“What they’re—“
“No. Where the others have gone.” Ace smiled tightly. “I have two guesses and one’s probably right.”
Lou opened the fridge quickly before they left, grabbed some food and stuffed it into their hands. “Might take you a while,” he said. It seemed he wanted to join them and search, but something was keeping him behind. Ciarán had that weird sense again, but then they were out the door.
Baltimore was beautiful. If that was still where they were. Beautiful and thin and hard. Dirty red brick, collapsed buildings, paint peeled away and gaping doors. People shivered in and out of them. A few blocks down, houses cut in perfect cakelike rectangles sat proud and fat and chill. Ciarán looked at the sparse leaves in the trees and felt the air warming up around him. Ace walking beside him was a man of few words.
“So what do you guys—“ Ace shook his head, cutting Ciarán off.
And, “Baltimore’s very different” was met with silence.
Then, “You mean America.”
“No, I’ve been here before,” Ciarán crossed his arms. “Well, not here. I’ve been to the other end.”
“It’s different,” Ace said shortly.
More silence. More blocks. This time storefronts that stretched for what seemed like hours. Tiny postage-stamp sized buildings with old lettering and the sharp coercive smell of butter, onions, meat, chocolate, wine. Then the gaping doorways with the obligatory lone figure not meeting their eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Ciarán asked finally, getting the right question this time.
“Nothing.” A look down. Ace’s pockets were stuffed full of something. Something that drew him onwards.
They found a park that shimmered in the blind haze of midafternoon, the wetness on the grass evaporating. As Ace looked around for people who weren’t there, Ciarán bent down and felt the grass. Little teardrops and little pricks of grassy stubble met his hand that grasped for something less malleable. He closed his eyes, feeling the low long repetitive thud. Feeling that need to escape still there though he’d escaped. He still wanted to unfold the world and pound away at it. He wanted to chase down something he was missing, that would only respond to the synchronicity of the drumbeats.
He opened his eyes. A slightly frantic Ace stood over him. “They’re not here.”
“I don’t see why they’d have to be here.”
“It’s usually here.”
“What is?”
“Where he won’t look.”
“What?”
Nothing.
“Come on.” Ace grabbed his arm just between his elbow and his wrist and propelled him out of the park. Indignance flared through Ciarán but he let it dissipate and race away with the clouds now just threads on the smoky horizon.
“I can think of just one other place. If not, that’s where I’m going.”
“Alright,” Ciarán sighed. He asked for, and received, food, and absently stuffed it into his mouth, feeling homeless.
Five blocks later they came to a subway. Only a few people waited to go somewhere. Ace stood at the top level, squinting a moment. He looked into the bushes.
“Why?” Ciarán asked.
“That’s where I found Corinne. Puking her guts out. She was really sick. I don’t know, maybe she was attached to this place.”
“That’s a long shot.” He eyed the grimy walls nearby. “If I was here I’d want to leave.”
“Not me.” Ace grinned wolfishly, and jerked his head towards the opposite end of the wall. There seemed to be a huge hole towards the bottom. The concrete was jagged, some pieces eggshell thin and looking sharp. Before Ciarán could say “wait a minute,” Ace dropped his legs through the hole and then it was just tattooed fingers gripping the concrete and then those let go. Not there long enough for him to decipher the writing.
“Come on down. Aw, fuck, new kid...whatsit…drummer. Just put your legs through and jump.
“If I die it’s on you.”
“Not bloody likely.”
“Not bloody likely I—shit!”
He hurtled down and slammed into a dim twisting tunnel sort of place. Graffiti everywhere looked at him with dull eyes. Bold blood-thick paint warned intruders away. Ciarán winced at his scraped palms.
“You alive?”
“…Yeah. Why the shite are we down here?”
“Because this is where he won’t find me.”
“Who?”
“Shut up, new kid.” Ace looked away from where he was sprawling against the wall. “Almost wish I smoked,” he muttered. Then, “wait.”
He rummaged through his pockets then looked up at Ciarán. The whites of the other boy’s eyes in his oddly shaped head glowed in the relative darkness. Whatever it was, the discontent, the anger, the outrage, the sadness or the worry, whatever was bothering Ace was clearly defined on his face now but Ciarán still had no clue as to what it was. He just saw the weight of the boy’s eyelids closing and opening again.
“You’ve got to make sure we come back at the right time. Before nightfall. I may not want to leave. I may start talking shit. Just make sure I go back, a’right? And if Corinne or Mats show up,” he looked doubtful at that, “they can help.”
“What are you—“ He saw a flash of something long and thin, and something unfamiliar, and the cords in Ace’s neck tensing as he punctured his arm.
“Making sure his fucked up shit doesn’t kill me,” Ace said a moment later before his eyes loosened their grip and he floated and Helena was gone, and London and his plans were gone, and the new kid’s ceaseless concerned chatter reminded him of when Tommy had been born.
“I know I fucked up, Helena,” Ace said before his eyes closed. He felt the new kid’s fingers checking him for a pulse. “I’m getting us out of here,” Ace said to her but with his eyes shut there was blackness confusion and Helena wasn’t Helena, it was someone skinny and unforgiving carrying him home.
so it's easier to write about...
