Читать книгу Not My Daughter - Suzy K. Quinn - Страница 14

After my sister left me at the Crimson gig, I followed a tide of fanatical, oddball hangers-on. They swept me out of the stadium and towards the east car park, where the band’s tour bus waited on gleaming tarmac.

The girls were obvious groupies, shivering in knee-high boots, Wonderbras and short skirts. The boys were boggle-eyed and acne-ridden under shaggy, Michael Reyji Ray haircuts. They were a fun and sweet crowd, all glossy-eyed and talking about the gig.

I talked music too, but I was there for something more. Something deeper. Love. Wholesome, honest, authentic love. Michael and his music had cured me of cancer. His lyrics spoke to my heart and soul while I was in hospital. The words were written just for me. And I loved him.

It was dark and freezing that night, but excitement kept us warm as we huddled outside the east car-park stadium doors.

I said silent prayers, shivering in my oversized denim jacket – the one I’d decorated with band patches and sharpie silhouettes. Please, God, please. Let Michael grace us with his holiness.

Just after midnight, it happened. The black-painted fire doors flew open and out came Michael Reyji Ray, Paul Graves, Alex Sawalha and a dozen crew members dressed in black ‘Crimson’ T-shirts.

We all screamed and cried.

Michael walked a little ahead of the other band members, looking thoughtful, hands in greying jeans pockets and walking on bare feet. The way the band and crew had arranged themselves around Michael – he was a king with his subjects.

Michael walked past all the half-dressed girls in short skirts and knee-high boots, his face still apparently deep in concentration.

And then a miracle happened.

Michal noticed the illustrations on my jacket and stopped walking. His eyes followed the long, hard sharpie pen lines and crosshair shading. ‘So what do we have here then?’ he asked, voice scratchy and deep. ‘A little artist. Is this me?’

‘I … yes,’ I stammered, grinning like an idiot. ‘This is you. And this is Sid Vicious. And David Roger Johansen.’

‘The New York Dolls?’ Michael asked. ‘You like them, do you?’

I nodded and nodded. ‘I love them. I love punk music.’

‘A little American punk princess.’ Michael pushed his sunglasses into his hair and took my face in his hands. When his eyes met mine, I felt like I’d been hit with something. He had unwavering, kaleidoscope eyes that saw everything – hopes and dreams, pain and fear. They were the most amazing eyes I’d ever seen and they were looking right at me.

Then Michael put one square, flat palm high on my chest, right over my beating heart. He held his hand there for a moment, then spoke to me again in his gravelly voice.

‘Do you know what?’ Then he sang. ‘I fee-eel a soul connection.’

The girls beside me swooned on my behalf.

‘You’d better come with me.’ Michael grabbed my hand, and I felt his calloused guitar-player fingers against my palm.

‘Where?’

‘To the tour bus.’ Michael pulled me across the car park and I stumbled behind him, grinning like an idiot.

‘Wait,’ I said, looking back at my new-found friends. ‘Just me?’

Michael held my hand tighter. ‘Just you, Cinderella. I’m taking you to the ball.’

Together, we walked over freezing tarmac to the tour bus.

The ground seemed to lay down under Michael’s bare feet. To glow with every step he took.

I kept glancing at Michael and giggling like an idiot. Yes, he was definitely the most handsome man I’d ever seen. A little bit careworn up close. Smaller than he looked on stage. And a lot older than me. But so, so handsome. I was in the company of music royalty. Music royalty was holding my hand.