Rock n Roll Babes from Outer Space (22 page)

Iggy lay on his back. Revor was stretched out on top of him and, by gently wriggling, they were slowly rubbing all their nipples together. Considering Iggy had six and Revor seven, three of which were now pierced, this was a particularly sensual exercise. ‘Mmmm. That feels sooooo good, little fellow. Bay beeyucan dryvmy ka.’

Like all lovers, Iggy and Revor were developing a language of their own.

‘Yissymg unnabi asta,’ Revor replied, ‘Nbay bee ayl uvyoo. Mind scratching behind my left ear for me? Ahh. That’s it. Ta.’ His eyes were spiralling like pinwheels in a cyclone.

Iggy laughed. ‘Oh, Rev,’ he sighed, looking into those mad little orbs. ‘Ever heard the Underground Lovers’ song “Your Eyes”? They wrote it for you.’ Iggy bounced Revor off, rolled over, gently swatted him to the ground, took one of his three lemony nipples in his teeth and nibbled. ‘Yaw eiff, yaw eiff…’ he hummed, his lips vibrating against Revor’s tummy, causing him to gasp and giggle.

‘Zaza kynde huhshall o vathawuld too niyt!’ cried Revor breathlessly.

‘Anitz feelingud lykluvazi nluf,’ replied Iggy contentedly from between closed jaws.

‘There they are,’ Saturna motioned to Skye. Skye stood on tippy toes and peered over Saturna’s shoulder at the
two pets, curled up together in the junk closet. She stifled a giggle at the sight.

Back downstairs in their room, Saturna lit a musk candle and bent to kiss Skye on the side of her neck, where Doll’s latest bite mark was still healing. ‘Let me put some aloe vera on that, Dark One,’ she said.

‘Pets and girls,’ Skye mused, as Saturna massaged the ointment into her skin. ‘At least there’s two categories of life form in this house that don’t have problems with the concept of relationships.’

‘We’re only on this Earth for a short time,’ Saturna replied, wiping her hands and turning down the bed’s black satin sheets. ‘It’s foolish not to make the most of it.’

‘You know, the funny thing is, I do believe that Jake thinks that in his own way, he
is
making the most of it.’

‘Maybe he is,’ Saturna conceded, unzipping Skye and watching layers of velvet and lace slither sensuously to the floor around her naked ankles. ‘Maybe he is.’

Jake had a full day planned for Monday. First, he needed to pop into the bank and check that his dole money had come through. Then…well, that was about it, really. He set the alarm so he could get an early start. The telephone woke him first. Trring. Trring. Jake groaned and pulled the pillow over his head. Trring. Trring. He dragged the pillow off again and listened groggily for the pitter patter of other feet going to answer the phone. Silence on the pitter patter front. Trring. Trring. Maybe whoever was calling would give up. Hold on! Maybe whoever was calling was Baby! Wrapping a towel around his waist, Jake made a mad dash for the phone. Before picking up the receiver, he let
his breathing settle. ‘Uh, hel-lo?’ he murmured, playing the sexy sleepy voice thing for all it was worth. In his experience, it was virtual big bucks.

‘That Jake?’

He knew the voice. It was Tracy, the woman who booked bands for the Sandringham. Blunt as the needle on an old gramophone, Tracy didn’t have much time for niceties. Like ‘Hello’, for instance. He pictured her sitting in her little office above the bar, a cigarette dangling out of the corner of her black lipsticked mouth, one hand threading through her unruly shag—an
ironic
haircut—the other white-knuckling the receiver as though it might run away if she loosened her grip.

‘That’s Jake,’ he confirmed with a sigh, sexy dropping out and leaving sleepy to handle the call.

‘D’I wake you? It’s Trace.’

‘Mm. Wozza time?’ His tone was reproachful.

‘Eleven-thirty,’ she snapped. Tracy was not easily intimidated. Her job involved saying
no means no
to any number of rock wannabes who made up with persistence what they lacked in talent and originality. ‘Not exactly the crack of dawn, Jake,’ she observed dryly, taking a drag on her cigarette. ‘I think you need a
real
job.’

Jake let that one go. He knew it was her standard way of stirring musicians. No one got up before well into the afternoon if they didn’t have to. She should know that. ‘Wazzup?’ he yawned.

‘Heard the gig on Sunday went
off,
’ she whistled. ‘Best response we’ve ever had to anything since I’ve been here anyway, and that certainly feels like a lifetime and a half.’ Tracy was twenty-five. She’d been booking the Sando for four months. ‘So I’m not gonna hassle you for not letting me know about the change in lineup. You know the drill.
Anyway, we want both bands back as soon as possible. Week Saturday’s the earliest I can book you in. Howzat suit?’

‘Yeah, great,’ said Jake, cheered. Saturday night. That was a real break. Bosnia had been doing occasional Sundays and weekdays for ages.

‘Wanna give me a contact for Rock n Roll Babes from Outer Space?’

‘I can pass on the message. I’ll be seeing them. They don’t actually have a phone.’

‘Joking! Not even a mobile?’

‘Nup.’

‘Unbelievable. Uh, Jake. Mate.’

Jake pursed his lips philosophically, waiting for the blow. When some people called you ‘mate’ it didn’t mean ‘friend’. It could mean sucker, wallie, dickhead, fuckwit. It could also mean the speaker, the mater, as it were, needed a favour from the matee and, what’s more, knew it wasn’t exactly going to make the matee’s day.

‘I’d, uh, like to have the Babes headline. You’ll be the support, mate.’

‘…’

‘Is that okay with you?’ Her tone implied it didn’t really matter if it wasn’t.

‘Yeah, whatever,’ he replied. One part of him, the not-that-I’m-looking-for-it-or-anything-but-if-success-came-knocking-on-my-door-I’d-say-come-in-dude-where-you-been-my-whole-life part, was outraged. ‘What?’ it frothed. ‘We’ve been at this for years and these girls blow in and we encourage them and help them and get them their first gig and then we just stand back and watch while they shoot on past?’ Then there was the Unreconstructed Male that lurked in the dark corners of even the most
enlightened psyche and came up with sentiments as embarrassing as they were unspeakable. Like,
but they’re
GIRLS
for fuck’s sake! And we’re
BOYS
! It’s not fair! It’s not fair!
But another part and, happily, the biggest part of Jake, was clapping its flippers and spinning a ball on its nose out of pure glee. The Babes were awesome and Baby was
so
cool. She was a fucken star and he’d be happy just tuning her guitar. And besides, maybe when he told her, she’d give him a big kiss, and one thing would lead to another and one thang would lead to another and…

‘Week Saturday then.’

‘Week Saturday.’

Slipping back into bed, Jake found it hard to fall asleep. He sat up, rolled his dreads for a while, and surveyed his clothing kingdom. He leaned over the side of the bed, searched for the least filthy pair of underpants, examined them briefly, turned them inside out and pulled them on. One of these months, he really needed to do his laundry.

Maybe not. The Newtown Festival was not far off. Two years ago, at the height of their sewing phase, Torquil and Tristram had made up a huge swag of clothes to sell there, and stuffed them into one of those big green garbage bags the night before. But on the morning, being not much better at mornings than Jake, they accidentally grabbed the wrong bag, the one with all their laundry. As it turned out, they sold every last piece, even items of underwear so crispy they crackled, and socks that not only were capable of walking down the street on their own, but had developed full-blown personality disorders. As it turned out, the twins were able to keep for themselves the clothes they’d sewn, and still made enough profit to buy new daks, a case of beer and a dozen CDs. They never looked back. In fact, they looked forward to a Golden Age when
all the people of Newtown—for only in Newtown was such a thing conceivable—simply passed on to each other their old clothes, and thus regularly acquired new wardrobes without ever needing to wash them. The following year Jake had chipped in his clothes as well as his sheets. Shit. He still hadn’t replaced the sheets. He’d have to get some new ones if Baby was to…if they were to…

Jake considered this possibility in detail. He pushed and pulled and rubbed and stroked it. Mmmmm. Those
antennae.
Oh, man. Mmmm. Where were the tissues when he needed them? He noticed the clock. Twenty past twelve. He really ought to get up. Yawning, he pulled the covers back over his head. Just ten more minutes and he’d be outta there.

Running feet thundered on the bridge overhead. A door slammed. An eerie quiet pervaded the Earth-bound craft. Suddenly, screams rent the air. Qwerk jumped. He could feel his ichor run cold. More screams.

‘Not the liquid oxygen!’ someone squealed. ‘Don’t stir the liquid oxygen!’

What in Quagaar was going on? Preparing for the worst, Qwerk signalled to two of the borgs. They took the stairs three at a time, hooves clattering on the metal rungs, council truck meets Pablo Percusso. The screaming stopped as suddenly as it began. He threw open the closed door only to be greeted by a roomful of guilty, grinning faces. The aliens were watching a video of
Apollo 13
that some Alpha had abducted from Video Ezy on his last trip to Earth a year ago. Aliens, as a rule, found Tom Hanks devastatingly attractive. Most of them had already seen
the film at least fifty times and could recite the dialogue off by heart. It was second in popularity only to
Independence Day.
They’d put the vid on pause at Qwerk’s approach, and now all sat contrite, waiting for his upbraiding to finish so that they could return to their film. ‘OK Houston,’ whispered a Zeta Reticulan solemnly, ‘we’ve a problem here.’ Someone giggled, and then someone else did, and soon the whole room was pffpffpffing with suppressed laughter.

Qwerk sighed, a shimmering little vibrato of a sound, exited the room, and closed the door behind him. The video resumed and, shortly afterwards, so did the screaming. Qwerk returned to the control room, and put his head down on the console.

God, this was trying. Wasn’t there any way to get the other aliens to behave themselves?

God, this was trying. Wasn’t there any way to get the other aliens to behave themselves?

God, this was…

Qwerk sighed again. God clearly was not going to come to his aid on this one. Sometimes he thought God didn’t like him very much. It was a depressing thought. His eyes darted to the speedometer. Phew. Just under the limit.