Road Dust

Close my eyes reaching deep within my dreams,

Deep in my reflection of a distant memory.

Number One Son, Hourglass

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The balls of Lily's feet ached, her dusty calves burned and her chest was tight with the bitter taste of petrol fumes. Lily found her back pack had gained weight upon her back the farther she walked and sometimes - when she took time to look up at the sky and then at the ground - she was tempted to go back.

Lighting another crooked cigarette, she ducked her head, greasy hair tucked inside her hood and moved on. There was no going back. It wasn’t long before she reached the motorway, before the sights became unfamiliar, the tags of forgotten street gangs became unknown and the dust made her sluggish and hack.

By the evening she was sucking on her last cigarette, coveting the warmth and sanctuary of the children seated in the back of their cars, their parents alert at the wheel, Capital FM blaring from one cracked window and Sinatra through another.

The most extraordinary thing happened as she sat on the street - forcing her hoodie into her backpack, crushing her already bruised books of poetry - a van pulled up beside her an a tanned face leaned out of the window, “need a ride, pretty girl?”

Lily blinked up at the stranger, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, his teeth bright white and perfect. Her eyes slid slowly across the van- black and unmarked - and then back to the man who had a distinct American accent, she recognized from late nights of watching Dallas on her dusty 17 inch TV screen.

“You need a ride?” He asked again and she watched in silent anxiety as the van door slid back and three faces stared out at her, curious and assessing.

“Yeah,” she heard herself say.

“Wait, dude I have to take a piss,” one said brushing past Lily as she got to her feet.

“Well get in,” the driver said and his companion’s faces remained smooth and politely curious, shuffling to make room. The interior of the van was dark and cool, there were no seats but it was packed with hard guitar cases, a snare and cymbals.

She slid into the dark and coveted the cool air, a relief from the oppressive June heat and city pollution. “I’m Page Palmer, that’s Blithe, Jinx and the guy taking a leak is Styx.”

Blithe was in the driver’s seat, the back of his head was dark, black and shiny, he didn’t bother to look round and Lily was grateful to be saved the introduction. Jinx was smiling crookedly at her, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his head resting against the back of Blithe’s seat. He waved lazily, barely muttering a greeting before settling back to nap, though I suspected he was listening carefully to every word.

“You guy’s a band?” She asked, her voice husky with lack of use and too many cigarettes.

Page Palmer chuckled, taking off his glasses to look her in the eye - his eyes a shade of sky blue - she stared back, “yeah, we’re in a band.”

The almost unbearably skinny, white-blond haired Styx climbed clumsily into the van and slammed the door, closing them in momentary darkness. Panic. Lily held her breath.

A dull light flicked on, Styx’s eyes glowed hazel like her father’s and she looked away focusing on the faded stickers across their instruments, bands she had listened to and had worshipped, branding their instruments.

“What's your name?” Styx asked opening a bottle of water and spraying it across Lily‘s cheek, a drop mixing with the dirt of her skin fell like a tear.

“Lily,” she replied.

“Beautiful,”he produced a pack of Hamlets, “you smoke, honey child?” She took one without hesitation, head bobbing as he held the light to the tip, “where you heading?”

“Anywhere you take me,” she said, peering at him through a halo of smoke. He gave a crooked smile, exchanging furtive glances with the other greasy haired, sparkling Dixie-land devils of the road.

“We’re playing London,” Jinx said, his voice alert and filled with pride.

Lily shrugged, chewing on a fingernail tasting the salt-sweet grit of the days with her tongue and sat in silence as they inspected her with prickly hot, prying eyes.

“Ever been there?” Blithe asked from the front, Lily turned to him, met his eye in the rear-view mirror and nodded. She had been there, drowned there and died.

“I used to live there,” Lily said and stubbed the cigarette on the ground beside her, her mouth suddenly thick and inconsolable.

“You don’t want to go back do you?” Page Palmer asked, his mouth lilting in a commiserating frown, “you running away?”

Lily got to her knees, her hand sliding on the back of his chair, “you going to throw me out?” He smiled, leaning closer, smelling so different from Lark. He smelt of sandalwood and smoke, hotel soap and hair gel. Her fingers brushed the stiff spikes of his hair, leaning forward until she could feel his breath in her mouth, cigarettes and spearmint and the stale undercurrent of beer.

He chuckled and it was as warm and syrupy as his accent, the deep south, it made Lily think of the thickness of southern comfort and days drenched golden and lazy. “No, kid, we won’t kick you out.”

o

Nothing was a creature of mystery and, as Lark was later to discover, seduction. With extraordinary long lashes that veiled dark thoughts, restrained behind the glistening layer of his eye and small, sardonic smile that twisted his lips.

He was sprawled across Lark's bed, laying in a tangle of Lark's sweat and spit stained sheets, staring at the older boy as if he knew a secret.

"How long do you think we have to ourselves?" He asked, his voice soft and as smooth as silk strings. Lark turned toward him, startled and looked anxiously at the boy on his bed. He recovered with a small, silent shrug. "Are you afraid of me, Lark?"

Lark glared at him, the memory of Lily perched on his bed, staring at him with a needle gaze, taking him apart as she taunted him with the same words are you afraid of me, Lark? "What are you doing here, man?"

"We don't spend enough time together," he murmured, "I think its about time we started writing some new material." Lark nodded absently though his mind journeyed elsewhere, it fled in desperate search of Lily and the familiar panic infused him, what if she never came back?

Nothing read Lark by the lilt of his mouth, the crease of his brow, he knew exactly what he was thinking. Lily had intrigued Nothing too, but then many people had been curious about Lily. He could imagine, her spit as addictive as heroin, her lips as sweet as lies and as deadly as poison. The last night Nothing had seen Lily, he had looked into her eyes and felt as if he were staring at his own reflection. It was the darkness, the disappointment and despair. Her fingertips glittered like diamonds as her cold hand clasped his and forced him into a tight embrace. He remembered her smell, the mix of shampoo and moisturiser, her vodka breath hot on his lips as she whispered, "take care of him."

He sat now in Lark's room, his nostrils flaring as he sucked up the taste of him, memorised his face, his hair, his possessions as if they all belonged to him now.

Lark's head bowed, his lips working in absent song, thinking of what Nothing had said that morning and it was true, Lark did not smile anymore, "Lily...she always said out generation's biggest disease was apathy."

Silence passed between them. Lark, too afraid to look up but Nothing knew of the inevitable curiosity. With practised grace, he crawled toward Lark, black hair sliding provocatively over his cheeks, his serpent eyes gleaming as his lips parted in anticipation and offering.

Lark could taste his pulse, heavy in his throat, thick like his fear, a bitter churning in the pit of his stomach and it came form the strength of his lust and his longing.

Nothing's mouth was lightly salted and tasting of Cronenberg, Lark hesitated, his tongue uncertain upon his lips but Nothing's, impatient, came to seek him and their tongues swirled together. They spoke silently of commiseration and comfort.

Later Lark lay stretched on his back, his eyelids sealed and searching desperately for images of Lily, the warmth of her palate, her lips distorted around his cock, her tongue stroking him, her fingers teasing him but it was Nothing with his head buried between Lark's thighs. The sight made him want to weep.

I'm not gay, he thought in the middle of it, he's the one sucking my dick.

Knowing it was Nothing, knowing that it was his beet tarnished mouth wrapped around the most sensitive part of him, a forbidden pleasure, it made him come violently. Nothing's head rose above him, his lashes at half mast in lazy pleasure as he licked away every last drop of Lark from his lips.

Time had no meaning in the hours which they spent together, skin, lips, tongues and teeth scraped and tasting one another's flesh. They came to know each other intimately and for a moment thoughts of Lily and the outside world were forgotten and this inner sanctum of sensation was washed with sweet, bitter alcohol and come.

Sometime in the morning, to the sound of sirens and a mellow song playing on a distant radio, the boys fell asleep in each other arms, their flesh simmering gently, drained and drifting.

The feeling of guilt crumbled like the crust that sealed Lark's lids as he opened his eyes and greeted the sun that beat against his billowing curtains.

He felt Nothing stir against his chest, his hair prickly against his skin, his stubble cheek sliding gently through a puddle of his own drool that marked Lark's stomach like a brand. "What time is it?"

"Early," Lark mumbled, his mouth felt thick and reluctant he reached over for an old bottle of Budweiser and swigged heartily before hacking.

Nothing chuckled and lifted his arms to embrace Lark loosely, his eyes remained closed and his mind drifting in a pleasant haze. The warmth of his triumph suffused him, the same power he found in the aftermath of an orgasm. It was his victory.

Lark's hand found Nothing's hair and he whispered, "I have to take a piss."

o

During the coarse of the night, Lily listened patiently to their stories, mesmerized by their words, their accents, their mouths curved to disguise the fear they could not hide from their eyes.

They were lost, just as she was through she knew the places they named with reverent tongues. Those words held magic for these boys, it lit their eyes and spoke of distant dreams. Lily hungered for a mere flicker of it to brighten her gaze but the magic had long since faded.

For now she took the time to memorise their faces, their voices and names she rolled around her tongued like poison sugar candy. She would savour her time spent in the cramped little van between the warmth of these stranger’s limbs before the inevitable moment they would throw her away, another person’s broken plaything.

That night she slept with her head against Jinx’s legs, his knees twitched beneath her arms and once that night she felt a cool, rough fingertips explore the small of her back.

They drove all night, the engine hummed steadily beneath her thighs and for once she slept until morning.

A bright flush of light fell through the front window and across her lids until she was forced to move, to open her eyes and found the back of Page Palmer’s blond head, the strands falling across her cheeks.

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Please Read "Caged Birds" 1 and "The Dead Mile" 2