I Was Born for This(53)

If Rowan is injured.

I didn’t get to meet The Ark.

I didn’t get to tell them anything.

I didn’t get to thank them.

All I have is the image of Rowan’s bloodstained face.





They are all around me. They are touching me. Reaching for my arms, my hands, my face. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I close my eyes. I put my arms over my face. I don’t want to see them.

I am dragged into the flood.

I try to stop listening but I can hear them all. Someone screaming that they touched me, laughing, they got to touch me. Another screaming away from me, telling people to move, give him space, stop pushing. Someone is saying, ‘Don’t worry, Jimmy, we’ll help you, we’ll get you out.’ Someone else is saying, ‘Oh my God, he’s so beautiful in real life. Jimmy, we’ll help you. Stop pushing. Give him space. He is so beautiful.’

I try not to make any sound but I can’t breathe and I’m scared. I’m going to die. I get pulled one way by the flow, yanked another by someone’s fist on my hoodie. I feel it rip. I can’t stop the tears emerging from my eyes, I can’t make my heart stop pounding, I can’t do anything, I can’t do anything—

‘ROWAN!’

One single bellowing cry of Rowan’s name sounds above everything else, despite the noise. It’s so loud, so full of panic and pain and so different to the other shrieks, that I lower my arms from my face and open my eyes to look.

Cecily Wills has risen above the crowd like Poseidon emerging from the ocean.

She must have climbed on someone, or found a chair to stand on or something, because she’s at least two metres above the ground. She reaches out with one arm over the crowd, which I then realise is in the direction of Rowan, who has somehow almost made it to the door. Rowan reaches out his hand towards her over the heads of the crowd, his hand and arm smeared with blood, but can’t quite reach far enough, and the tableau of them both reaching their arms out towards each other reminds me of that Michelangelo painting, The Creation of Adam, where God is reaching out to man.

The bodyguards fight through the crowd, pick him up round the waist, and carry him towards the door.

In the time that this is happening, two girls seem to have been trying to fend off the rest of the crowd from coming near me. They’re both a lot smaller than me, and look younger too, and I’m not really hearing anything they’re saying any more, but they keep pushing away the people who are either forced closer to me or are trying to reach me. I’ve finally hit a wall and I keep my back to it, feeling the cool wallpaper on my fingers, and then start edging along it, not really sure where I’m going, just that I need to get away.

When my hand finds a door handle, I open it and fall back inside without a further thought, slamming the door and locking it, and then I spin round, intending to find a corner to hide in or a sink to crawl under, but instead I am faced with a girl.





I nearly shit myself when the door bursts open, and then nearly shit myself again when I realise who has entered the bathroom.

I am faced with none other than Jimmy Kaga-Ricci.

Jimmy Kaga-Ricci.

The heart and soul of The Ark, the band that has ruled my life for the past five years.

He is only a couple of metres away from me.

Looking right at me.

This cannot be real.

I must have hit my head.

Or I’m dead.

My head wouldn’t make up something like this, would it?

I know I have a lot of daydreams and fantasies but I would never imagine Jimmy like this. His hoodie has been ripped and there are tears glistening on his cheeks. He’s got a bandage wrapped round his hand – did he just do that now, or did he have that when he got here?

He looks scared too. He doesn’t look like himself without the airy smile that I always see in the photos and videos. He’s frowning, eyes wide and alert, like a frightened rabbit. He doesn’t seem to be able to catch his breath – he’s breathing abnormally fast – and he’s shaking. Visibly.

Of course he looks impossibly beautiful too.

I desperately want to hold him.

But he doesn’t know who I am. Of course. He has no idea who I am.

I’m just another featureless face in the sea of people screaming his name.

I take a small step forward and start to say, ‘Are you okay?’ but I only get to ‘Are you—’ before he stumbles back against the wall and stammers, ‘D-d-don’t come near me.’





‘Don’t come near me,’ I say, unable to stop myself. Fuck. I need to be polite. I try to reach inside myself and pull out the Jimmy who smiles, says hello, how are you, would you like to take a picture, but I can’t. He’s gone; he’s dead now. I can’t breathe properly. Please, God, please help me.

What if she hurts me? What if she takes a picture of me? What if she tries to kill me? She doesn’t look scary but they never do – she’s tall, though, taller than me, so she could probably kill me with a few punches. She’s smiling. Smiling. Is it a nervous smile? A sympathetic smile? I’m panicking too hard to tell.

I sink down onto the floor, my legs giving way. She’s not moving. She’s not coming any closer. Good. Please. I look at the door. It’d be worse out there. I can hear them shouting. Jimmy’s in there. Don’t go in there, Jimmy’s in there.