He Said/She Said(11)
I sighed. ‘Is there any good news?’
Ling wrinkled her nose in thought. ‘Well, the chill means that people want hot drinks. We’ll still run at a loss, though. We might even pack up a day early, just enjoy the sound systems instead— oh for fuck’s sake I’ve gone past it.’
She slammed on the brakes. I braced my legs but others in the back were thrown hard. ‘Sorry!’ Ling called over her shoulder. She reversed carefully around a thickly shrubbed corner and then doubled back on herself before turning into an unmade road. ‘This is another reason why no one’s turned up,’ she said, as we bounced over rocks. ‘The locals aren’t exactly overjoyed about the festival and they’ve started hiding the signposts. Not just the ones they’d made for Lizard Point Festival but the actual official signposts saying where all the villages are and stuff. I can’t tell one dirt track from the next.’
‘That’s the problem with the countryside,’ I said, as we disappeared into a tree tunnel; leafy green shadows swam like fish across the windscreen. ‘Not enough proper landmarks. We need a nice McDonald’s on the middle of a roundabout or something.’
We came out of the tree tunnel to find a huge perimeter wall of aluminium panels. There were more police, including one on horseback, at the entrance. The van was searched thoroughly for stowaways and casually for drugs by two burly men in high-visibility vests; paper tickets were exchanged for wristbands. Ling and I continued alone, the catering sticker in the van’s window giving us access across the fields. The van bumped over uneven ground, past a funfair and a huge blue tent hung with bright gold streamers. All the staples of the music festival were there. Flags, drums, a falafel stall, fairground rides and a bare-chested man on stilts covered in woad. But without a crowd, it just looked like the fall-out of some kind of humanitarian disaster. There was literally tumbleweed wheeling across the yellowed field.
Ling parked the van next to our tents; little red dome for them, bigger green pointy one for me and Kit. I unzipped the door, the familiar sound from camping holidays and festivals past, to see two clean sleeping bags zipped together and laid flat on a double airbed. A drying towel gave off a faint smell of soap.
Our stall was set up under an oak tree, a wide navy tent with an open front. Mac stood next to a bubbling tea urn. A disco ball spinning above him threw diamonds of light across his face and I could smell the soft cinnamon scent of chai, the spiced tea we all drank back then. Wind chimes hanging from the branches tinkled but there were too many of them to be soothing.
‘Still time for word to get around,’ he said into his mug. But it was less than twenty hours until the shadow.
Kit emerged from the mysterious interior, carrying a rubbish bag. He hadn’t shaved since I’d last seen him and his stubble stood out like sparks against skin.
‘Hey,’ I said softly. He was so locked in gloom that it took a split second for him to take me in; and then a smile transformed him, and I felt the usual pride at being the one to pull him out of a bad mood. He let the bag drop to the floor and, when we kissed, I could feel myself uncoil.
‘You smell nicer than I expected,’ I said.
‘Rory’s opened up the farmhouse, you can pay to have a hot shower,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ scoffed Mac. ‘Two days in and the weekender hippies are discovering the limits of their own hygiene.’ He said this as if festering in your own dirt was something to be proud of.
‘Ignore him,’ said Kit. ‘It’s the best four quid I ever spent.’ He turned to Mac. ‘And I don’t blame Rory. We’re not the only ones losing money this weekend.’ He tucked a wisp of hair behind my ears. ‘How’d the interview go?’
‘Ok, I think. We’ll see.’
‘I bet you were brilliant,’ he said detachedly, looking up as a huge grey cloud scudded overhead.
‘The cloud might go,’ I said. ‘You never know, the weather forecasters get it wrong all the time.’ My reassurance bounced off him; he grumbled about clouds and showers until something else caught his attention. ‘Oh, what’s going on here?’ He twiddled a knob on the urn. ‘It’s buggered again, there’s a loose connection round the back. You stay here, have your drink, while I fix this.’ He kissed the top of my head and vanished around the back of the tent.
Mac sparked a long, thin joint. I took a long drag to take the edge off London and reset my mind, then passed it to Ling. I could take or leave drugs in those days, I prided myself on it. Addiction already had its fangs sunk deep into Lachlan. I saw it crouching in wait for Mac, and thought myself lucky not to have the disease. I didn’t realise of course that my poison was within me, chemicals that my brain could manufacture at the slam of a door or the strike of a match. The stress hormones of adrenaline and cortisol, when pumped in sufficient quantity, rival anything you can smoke or swallow. Within a year of the Lizard, I would envy those who could dry out in rehab. When you suffer from anxiety, you carry an endless supply.
Still, I was pleasantly fuzzy by the time Kit came back, having won his battle with the troublesome hose. Mac waved the joint under his nose.
‘Come on, Kit. Snap you out of your strop.’
‘I want to keep a clear head for the eclipse,’ said Kit haughtily.
‘But it’s not until tomorrow,’ said Ling.