Torn

9

When the time finally came, Tunnel Vision was packed. It wasn’t just full. It wasn’t just standing room only. It was packed. From his view behind the stage’s brand-new curtain, Devin could see all the way to the twin exits at the back of the tunnel. Even so, all he could make out of the mob was a sea of arms, torsos, and heads pushed together so tightly he couldn’t figure out which appendage belonged to which body. He did catch flashes of blue uniforms and caps.

“The police are here, too,” Devin said. They’d seen three squad cars parked outside when they arrived. That was most, if not all, of the city’s small force.

“Yeah.” He heard Cody chortle behind him. “We’ve got a police presence, because Torn is too freaking cool.”

Devin shook his head. “It’s not because Torn is all that, Cody. It’s the murder. Remember, we’re only famous because Karston died.”

“Now, maybe,” Cody said. “But soon it’s gonna be the music.”

Cheryl sat behind her drum kit. She stretched up her long arms, folded them behind her head, and bent forward, getting her muscles ready for the gig. “Bates said we’re way over the safety limit, and they’re spilling out into the parking lot,” she said. “They’re afraid of a riot.”

Devin’s mind went to a story his mother kept telling him about a fire in a rock club years ago where ninety-six people died.

Cody eyed him. “Terrified or jazzed?”

Devin thought about it a second. He was still furious at Cody for his behavior at the funeral parlor, but if they were going to play together, he might as well talk to the guy. “Both,” he said.

Cody blew some air between his lips. “Fence hugger.” He twisted his head toward the others. “You guys?”

Cheryl also said, “Both.” There seemed something strange in the way she looked at Cody.

One Word Ben, strapping on Karston’s bass, nodded his agreement. “Both.”

Cody chuckled. “Well, I guess we are really Torn, then.”

Do you ever shut up, Cody?

“Two minutes,” someone shouted.

Devin moved back from the curtain and sat on the stool they’d brought from the garage. That was Cody’s idea, too. He figured people would recognize it from the video. Half the crowd out there had video cameras, hoping to catch the little orbs when they played. The other half had probably shown up to see the kids they thought were killers.

The whole thing made Devin queasy: the fact that the show was advertised as a memorial, the fact that it would be the first time they played “Lying to the Angels” live. The question remained: Was this really how he wanted to become famous?

But he knew, in the end, as Cheryl had hinted and Cody had said, all the accidental notoriety could only provide a boost. In the end it would be the song. His song. Well, his and Cody’s, now that the so-called chorus had been worked in.

Freaking Cody, fixing his song.

And, technically, it was his and Cody’s and his grandmother’s. Devin caught an image of Namana sitting by his bedside, stroking his head as she sang, warning him to be good, be good, be good, with a stuffed toy lying beside him on the pillow. As he lifted the Ovation, now fitted with pickups, he eyed Cody, wondering if his anger showed. “Respectful, right?”

Cody made his face somber to the extreme. “You know it.”

Cody strode to his spot behind the central mike, stretched, and yawned like a carefree dog; then he stood straight, looking…respectful.

How does he do that? Devin wondered. Does he not feel? Is part of his brain just missing?

A rush of sound enveloped them. Devin saw the curtain rope scrape against the pulley, but couldn’t hear it. The applause was too loud. The thick cloth rose and there they were, exposed to wave upon wave of approval.

They ripped through a few songs: “Face,” “If It Doesn’t Kill You,” and the cover of “Hey Bulldog” that Cody had been dying to play. With One Word Ben on bass they were tighter than ever, and they had more than enough numbers for a full twenty-minute set.

Playing without Karston was like having lead weights removed from his hands and head, a feeling that made Devin feel sick and even angrier at Cody for being right.

Through it all, through every song, the crowd kept chanting, “‘Lying to the Angels,’ ‘Lying to the Angels’!”

They were planning to do another few numbers first, but the chanting had grown too loud. Finally, Cody put his head down theatrically, then raised a single finger to quiet the crowd. After a moment, it actually worked. When the sound dropped enough, he spoke softly, somberly, into the mike, saying only, “For Karston.”

The space was flooded with sound: a torrent of slamming hands mixed with wild shrieks. It got so loud, the cops in back shifted nervously. All the while, Cody just stood there, the picture of sadness, holding his head down, letting the tip of his white hair touch the mike. Cheryl and Ben were like zombies, expressionless. Devin figured he looked the same, but also knew their dull shock would be mistaken for something deeper, like mourning.

They all waited for the new round of applause to die down. Devin had no real sense of time, but he’d have sworn it went on for five minutes. And what were they cheering for? Not Karston, whom none of them had really known. Was it all just for the creepy haunted song? Was it for death in general?

Some in the crowd finally realized Torn wasn’t going to play until they stopped, so loud shushing mixed with the roar. As the shushing rose, the roar quieted. For a second, only the shushing was left, like a host of strange hissing insects. Then it, too, faded.

The whole crowd, the whole huge crowd crammed into the converted train tunnel, fell completely, totally silent.

Cody gave a nearly imperceptible nod of his head. Cheryl clicked her sticks four times. Devin started finger picking.

It was the most complicated thing he’d ever played in public. It started on an E minor. On the second measure, Ben came in on Karston’s bass.

As Devin stayed on the E minor, Ben walked down to D-sharp, D, C-sharp. Together, they hit a C and a G, right on time. Funny, Devin thought, we could never play this song “for Karston” if Karston were playing. Cody came in with his raspy, deep voice:

Sun is low, the sky gray, gray, gray,

All day’s colors gone,

Your heart beats slowly, drowsy eyes,

Soon your dreams will come.

It was amazing. It wasn’t quite the melody as Devin had written it—Cody was improvising as usual—but it was low and mournful, and the wildness in Cody’s voice sounded like it was being held back by thick chains of sadness.

Devin joined in on the verses. He was sort of a control track for Cody’s total improv, reminding himself how the song had actually been written.

After the second verse, Cheryl slammed out a hard steady beat and Cody went wild with his shrieking chorus:

So now I’m lying to angels,

Lying to the angels, baby…

If the crowd had been excited before, now it went insane, hooting, hollering, and throbbing as if everyone had been twisted together into one giant, monster thing. Devin couldn’t hear himself play or sing. He had no idea if he was on tempo, but it really didn’t matter. The moment had blown past the song.

This was usually where Devin would pull back into himself, watch himself watch himself, but not this time. Whatever had grabbed the crowd grabbed Devin, too, mixing with his anger at, and awe for, Cody. He played hard, frantically. It felt as if all his frustration, fear, and rage were flooding out his fingertips and his throat, out into the speakers and the world, calling out into the void, hoping something would answer, but not knowing, or caring, what it would be.

So lay your head down, rest, rest, rest,

And when the angels ask,

Tell them just how good you’ve been

As long as the darkness lasts.

When Torn finished “Lying to the Angels,” the crowd started roaring again. Devin thought it was a more subdued, thoughtful sound, as if the song had moved them, but then realized they might just be tired of cheering.

What he didn’t kid himself about was the slew of foul language that came from somewhere in the back. Scanning for the source, he thought he saw some fists and arms flying. In seconds, a swarm of blue swept toward the spot, shoving people out of the way and into one another as it went.

Cody saw it, too. “Be cool, people,” he said into the mike, but the only effect of his announcement was that the people jammed in front now tried to turn around to see what was going on. Near the stage they were so tightly packed, some couldn’t even manage that. For the moment, their frustration expressed itself as a pained wriggling, but Devin feared it could quickly turn ugly.

The angry shouts continued, with more voices joining. The police, frustrated at being unable to get through, grabbed some of the people in the crowd. The people, probably not even realizing who was grabbing them, fought back. More fists flew.

The group up front looked ready to panic. It seemed everyone was.

“Wow, this is turning into a riot,” Cody said.

“Let’s play,” Devin said, hoping a song would distract at least most of the crowd. Cody, who actually looked a little frightened himself for a change, nodded. Devin turned up his volume and slammed the first chord of “Chili Bone Finger” on the Ovation. Nothing came out. The power to their amps had been cut.

As the shouting grew louder, Devin looked around the stage, perplexed. He saw Allen Bates frantically waving them toward the back room. One Word Ben was already unplugged and heading offstage, Cheryl following. Cody looked at Devin, shrugged, unplugged his guitar, and walked off. Devin couldn’t do anything but follow.

The sounds behind them grew louder and more chaotic. Bates raised his voice. “It’s a mess. We’re being shut down. They’ve got more squad cars coming. Don’t worry, everyone will be all right, but I want you guys out of here. Come on.”

Devin and Ben laid down their guitars, but Cody refused to let go of his Les Paul as they followed Bates through the back. He pointed down a flight of stone steps that led into a small dank tunnel.

“You want us to go down there?” Devin said. Alone?

“Where’s it go?” Cheryl asked.

“It’s an access tunnel to the children’s furniture store, built back when it used to be a warehouse,” Bates said. He was in a hurry, casting nervous glances back over his shoulder as his cell phone vibrated and chimed. He grimly ignored it, fished out a key, and handed it to Devin.

“Your folks dropped you off with your equipment, right?”

Devin nodded. It had been meant as a big show of support. They were all supposed to go out for steak dinner afterward, a treat from his father.

“I’ll make sure they get out of the club and I’ll have them pick you up in the parking lot out in back of the store,” Bates said. “Until they show up, pretend you’re the Beatles and try not to be seen.” The phone chirped and buzzed again. Bates looked back and forth nervously. “You’ll be fine. No one knows about the tunnel. I’ve got to get back before they destroy the place.”

He whirled, but before he could leave, Cody called to him. “So, Allen! Still want us back next week?”

Bates gave him a weird grin. “Ha. Yeah. If I can afford the insurance.” Then he vanished toward the noise, flipping open his phone as he went.

As a group, they shrugged and walked down the steps. The air felt cold after the heat of the lights and the crowd. The sounds, now above them, seemed far away. After using the key on a big green fire door, they climbed another set of steps and emerged into the quiet furniture store on its main floor, facing the display windows.

The scene was surreal. All around them were cribs, bassinets, and mock children’s bedrooms. Red and blue lights flashed through the windows, casting strange shadows and giving the walls eerie, alternating colors. Looking outside, they again saw the three police cars at the front entrance to Tunnel Vision. Quite a presence for the small local force, but Devin guessed they were probably curious about the song, too.

Then again, it was way too few police to handle the crowd that was already on the street. It looked like it was the mess Bates had described—People were flooding out, walking in the middle of the avenue. They looked dazed and tired, but at least they were leaving and no one seemed hurt.

Devin didn’t know what to think. Cheryl was clearly upset. One Word Ben looked ashen.

Cody was ecstatic.

“This is great! Amazing! We’ll hit all the local papers. Maybe the story will even go national. We could have a record contract by the end of the week!”

“And if people die in a stampede?” Devin said in disgust as he flipped open his cell. “Don’t you ever quit?”

Cody’s Les Paul, still strapped to him, wobbled as he pivoted toward Devin. “Will you cut it out? Can’t you just enjoy something for a change?”

“Which part am I supposed to enjoy? The riot? The fight with the Slits? Karston’s murder at my house? You know, some of those people think I killed Karston.”

There was an anger in his voice that threatened to rise into rage.

Cody shrugged. “Well, our fight with the Slits was pretty cool, wasn’t it? You felt good after that, didn’t you? It’s like your ass is always half empty!”

“Do you mean my glass?”

“Whatever.”

Devin exhaled and punched “1” on his speed dial, trying to crush the phone with his thumb as if it were Cody’s face. Bates was on the case, but their parents had all agreed to sit together at the show, and Devin promised to call if there were any change in plans. This counted as a change in plans.

His mother’s pained voice filled the speaker, rising above the shouts behind her. “Where are you? Are you all right? Everyone’s worried sick!”

Devin imagined his band-mates could hear every word.

“We’re fine, Mom. Mr. Bates took us to the furniture store next door. You all okay?”

“Oh, thank God!” she said. “We’re good. We’re still inside. The police are taking everyone out in groups. They’re very distracted. It doesn’t look as if they’ve handled this sort of thing before and there doesn’t seem to be enough of them. We have to talk about this. I don’t know if I want you leading this kind of life.”

Devin rolled his eyes. “Signal’s breaking up, Mom. Can’t really hear you. Pick us up in the parking lot in back of the store.”

“Honey, our car may be blocked. Sit tight and we’ll be there just as soon as we can.”

“Okay.” Devin snapped the phone closed and looked at the others. “It might be a while.”

“Told you we should have driven ourselves,” Cody said.

“What do you mean we? When did you get a car?” Devin shot back.

“Whatever.”

One Word Ben moved toward a wall switch. “Lights?”

“No!” Cheryl said. “The crowd will see us. It might start more trouble.”

For the first time, Devin noticed she was shaking. He came up and gave her a hug. “This is all pretty freaky, huh?” she said.

“We’ll get past it,” Devin said. He pressed his lips against her forehead.

She stiffened. Cody seemed annoyed by the display of affection.

What’s that about?

“I’m going to go take a leak,” Cody said.

He started walking toward the rear of the huge store, shifting his guitar so it was slung over his back.

“Just make sure you use the bathroom,” Devin called after him.

“Ha ha,” Cody answered, his voice already seeming far off.

One Word Ben wandered among the cribs, idly swatting the stuffed moons and teddy bears dangling from the mobiles. Their long shadows swirled across the room, forming bizarre twisted shapes on the walls and ceiling.

Devin turned back to Cheryl, feeling bad about how scared she seemed. Torn. It was all Torn’s fault. Maybe she was realizing that now; maybe she’d finally had enough of Torn.

“We can quit, you know,” he said softly. “We’d still be together, even without the group.”

She furrowed her brow at him like he was crazy. “No,” she said. “I don’t want to quit. I’ve been practicing drums for years. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve wanted to be famous and play in a band. This is my dream.”

Her words felt like a cold glass of water dumped on his head. All at once he realized Cheryl’s commitment was never just to him; it was to herself, to her drumming. He felt like a total ass.

She looked at him, confused, as if she were seeing him for the first time, too. “I thought it was yours, too. I thought that was something we shared. You do want it, don’t you? I mean, you’re so talented. You couldn’t just want to throw that away, could you?”

It was the conversation with Cody all over again. He shrugged, feeling himself on the fence yet again. “Yeah, I guess, but…”

A loud scraping from above echoed through the large open space, making all three heads turn upward toward the darkness. Unlike the muffled shouts and movement on the street outside, this sounded closer, more intimate.

Familiar.