Outsider Read Online Free PDF Page A

most of the regular
fans by names and was always generously giving out beaming smiles,
pecks on cheeks and mighty bear hugs. Dawn was probably as
friendly, she just happened not to be as outgoing as Terri. But
always beware of sleepy waters.
    The music room was noisy, smoky, crowded, and
alcohol was in many glasses under various guises.
    Alexi started to watch the crowd, scanning
for landmarks, the usual groupies and the new faces Terri described
as “Second Look virgins”. She spotted the unmissable green mohican
with tattoos down both arms, savagely cutoff khaki trousers
spilling out more tattoos but only on one leg. The other leg
sported a long fresh scratch. Alexi had noticed her at a previous
gig only two weeks ago. The stranger had spent the night dancing
wildly on the rock beat, and harassing the singer in between songs.
She had proven no match for Terri’s sting. The feisty performer had
used the newcomer as a prop to make the audience roar with louder
laughter. Presently Green Mohican was looking contrastingly shy and
uncomfortable, while handing over to a very delighted Terri, a
bottle of some alcohol, in the middle of a 5-minute soundcheck.
Green Mohican hurried back to her corner by the paraphernalia
stall.
    Then there was the big, busty blonde who
claimed to be a good friend of the band, presently keeping company
with a tall, long-haired creature whose cropped, black top revealed
a smooth stomach as pale as the rest of her skin. The dark eyes
were enhanced with dark kohl. The hair was a collection of black
and white strands. The sides of the head were smoothly shaved to
complete the gothic look. Alexi decided to cautiously categorize
her as one more undulating body for the dance floor. Her friends’
return with bottles of schnapps prevented her from checking the
footwear.
     
    * * * * * * *
     
    Green Mohican, who had decided that the name
of Sid Wasgo was the name to stick with and every other identities
were ripe for elimination on that very day, lived according to very
few rules. Rule number one: don’t go to people; let them come to
you (bait them if necessary but always let them come to you). That
was only partially explanatory for her solitary life. She actually
felt a bit low and part of her wanted to run away, run all the way
from the Gunnersbury tube station down to the Hammersmith shopping
centre. Only three miles. Her hip joints would have screamed
hateful abuses at her and her motorbike would have felt left out
and would have recriminated accordingly.
    Terri leapt off the stage and made Sid’s
first rule worth resisting the voice of despair. She grabbed the
stranger’s hand in her firm grasp and planted a kiss on each cheek.
Sid could feel the solid strength; it was a warm and reassuring
feeling. She briefly wondered how much time the singer spent
working out at the gym. Terri was already talking:
    “Did you write the story?” The story where a
rock singer was killed by a weredragon. Postal services had
exceptionally outdone themselves. Sid put on an amused smile, at
last back on familiar territory:
    “Oh, how did you guess?”
    “I liked it! I’m not quite sure about the end
though.” Looking around: “Tonight I’m not sure if I’m gonna get
killed or get fucked.” And rushed back to the stage. Leaving Sid to
deal with the choice of vocabulary.
    She didn’t get a chance to wonder very long.
A guy called out to her. Because of her green mohican. Usual line:
he thought he had seen her before. He was an ex-punk. She was no
punk, but let him sway on the waves of assumption. In the general
hubbub and the loud soundtrack (Melissa Etheridge), her ears could
hardly deliver the words and their meanings to her weary brain. The
guy, who turned out to be a Mardi Gras reveler and therefore gay,
making life simpler for Sid, was on and on about music. What punk
bands do you like, what about the Sex Pistols and The Jam? No, Sid
wasn’t so fond of them. She didn’t say so, but it was