19 Flames, Lucan, Kev
"I think I'd like to get outside for a while," I say, caressing the white marble balusters of the staircase as she and I climb upstairs. "Touch the ground, see the sky, for a dose of reality." There's a problem with this idea, however: anticipating media speculation about us and our hide-out, Jason instructed us both, in GN head office, to stay hidden here inside the Metropolitan throughout our stay in Asbury Park. "I mean, I see the sense in Jason's curfew, but I know I'll be able to hypnotise anyone we meet outside into not spreading the news of our presence here. After all, I made Marc set the whole broadcast up, so I don't think this would be too much of a challenge in comparison."
Alaia frowns. "Let's not jeopardise anything." We stand in the unlit corridor outside our rooms. "It feels late, but it must only be about ten o'clock. Seems everyone here has finished for the night. Evelyn didn't look as if she wanted to sleep yet, though ... didn't you think?"
"She was just going back with Rik. I must say, I'm still wide awake."
"You know what we should do. Get on with preparing for Thursday's broadcast—right now, preferably. You know how little time we have."
I raise my hands, shrugging. "What can we do right now? You know that's not going to happen tonight. It's just not the kind of thing that happens, is it? So let's not sweat it."
We stare fixedly at each other, through the shadows, for several seconds.
"Ah, fuck it, let's go out," she says.
"All right, you've persuaded me."
Five minutes later we leave our rooms, go back down the staircase, tiptoe through the deserted hallway and slip out into the open air of Asbury Avenue. A naughty children's sense of escape from school overcomes us, and we skip to the right across the empty road, stifling giggles in the dead quiet. A nearly full moon pours light through the warm air. This strange little town is our oyster—where shall we go?
We turn left at random, down Heck Street. Towards the end of this short block a voice calls "Hey!" and a tall, slim, African American guy lopes over to us from the stoop of a run-down residential hotel on the left. He's in his late twenties, with alert, restless eyes. He stops dead, staring at me. Following the cliché, his mouth falls open. "Shit!" he cries, steps back, then leans forward again to peer at me. "Damn! Was that you on TV tonight? That Sound & Vision thing? Was that you? I was just watching you!"
Well, this is a great start to our secret stroll. I nod warily.
"Goddamn! You just bust my head. Who are you?..."
I recall Marc insisted that the broadcast explain nothing about either Alaia or me, but merely showcase her voice and my face, without explanation. His best idea, I thought. "Jaymi," I say, holding a hand out.
He looks down at it and shakes it gingerly, as if it might come off. "Flames..." He turns and directs a low whistle behind him. A car engine purrs into life, just beyond the hotel, and a black Cadillac with its roof down rolls unhurriedly around the corner. "This is Lucan," mutters Flames.
As the car creeps towards us, the presence of the man in the passenger's seat is so strong that the driver is eclipsed: lit with shocking clarity beneath the yellow street-lamp, his overpowering eyes, set in a strong, handsome black face, flick from Alaia to me, from Alaia to me, from Alaia to me. He's in his mid-twenties, wearing a black vest, very powerfully and smoothly muscular, with his hair shaved almost down to nothing. This is the face that Flames and the driver and anybody else who may appear will obviously obey: there is so little question about this, that I very nearly laugh. The Cadillac glides to a standstill beside Flames. Still looking from me to Alaia, the man in the passenger's seat smiles, slowly, and his smile spells trouble, violence, sex and danger. He opens the car-door and steps up onto the narrow grass verge between the pavement and the road. A full two metres tall, wearing black jeans and black combat boots, he raises one hand easily, rests it on the nape of Flames's neck and squeezes hard without effort; Flames's shoulders rise, he grins, laughs and half-crumples down. Not looking back at him, Lucan saunters over to Alaia and me, plants himself right in front of us, legs apart and arms crossed, and looks us up and down without speaking. A big, flat, golden crucifix hangs from his chest, whose bulk quite dominates my field of vision, so close to me has he parked himself. "What the fuck are you doing in Asbury?" he growls in a deep voice, grinning down insolently at me.
So he saw the broadcast too. I was wondering.
"Hi Lucan," I murmur, and without moving I unfurl at him a look that's hypnotically controlling to the absolute maximum. His grin disappears, he stares daggers for an instant ... and then you grow stiller, Lucan, don't you, as I pull out all the stops and aim the fiercest blast of power I can muster through my eyes, as much as I have ever emitted. I do this not for amusement, but because it's clear you're someone for whom it will be advisable that I do so: both because of your own willpower, which will try to dominate me if I don't dominate you first, and because the others here will take their lead from you. Through the excessive voltage I'm directing at you, I'm hoping this process will be very short, because I don't want it to disrupt our exchange and make you lose face in front of the others. I therefore have no time, right now, to drag you and me around any of your head, as I did with Marc and Alaia. I simply convey two simple messages to you, with enormous force and clarity: you will ensure that our stay here remains safe and low-key, and there will be no bombardment of us with questions.
I cut this intrusive gaze off dead, and see him snap back into the present, swaying slightly. "What the fuck are we doing here?" I echo him, filling up the pause in which he now regains his bearings. "Good question!" I put my hand on Alaia's shoulder. "Well, I guess we're just passing through." Lucan nods, summons up his grin again and turns back to face his companions. I am pleased that despite the pause, our flow wasn't too broken; and despite his continued aura of defiance, I can see our pecking order has been established and my requirements have been impressed upon him clearly.
Our attentions are distracted by the driver, who emerges from the Cadillac and ambles towards us with a kind of heavy waddle: when his right leg steps forward, his bulky mass leans slightly to the right, then back to the left as his left leg takes a step. In his thirties, black, his heavy thick-set face is sluggishly chewing gum. He stops, looks me up and down, spits his gum out onto the grass verge and glances at Lucan. Then he inspects Alaia. "Look at that pussy!" he says in a coarse, mocking voice, "I'd like to dick her." Alaia folds her arms, with her iciest you wish expression on her face. "I'd like to pork her, but you know me, I could fuck a stab-wound."
"Kev, hush," says Lucan.
"Yeah, Kev, you're being a little slow here," says Flames. "If you take your finger out of your ass, you may recognise someone from the TV tonight?" and he points at me.
"And Alaia was the voice you heard," I say, pointing at her.
"You could say we weren't expecting you," Flames answers me, and glances up at Lucan.
Kev frowns and shifts himself nearer to peer at us, especially me. Presumably seeing the truth of Flames's reference to the television, Kev goes quiet. "Man," he mutters, seeming not to know what else to say, then mumbles on inaudibly, shifting from one leg to the other.
I have scant wish to see anything inside him or to hypnotise his ugly presence, if I can possibly avoid it, and I'm glad to see it's unlikely to be necessary. For both Flames and Kev clearly take their cues from Lucan, whose next utterance causes Kev to stare at him in surprise, perhaps in reaction to its unexpected level of welcome and respect: "You heard of Downstairs?"
"Downstairs? No," I say.
"It's a bar," growls Lucan. "Let's go. Flames, get in the back with Sound and Vision."
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For some nice reviews and interviews about The Imagination Thief, in The Guardian and elsewhere, see http://www.rohanquine.com/press-media/the-imagination-thief-reviews-media/
For a quick synopsis of it, see http://www.rohanquine.com/home-the-imagination-thief-novel/synopsis-and-characters-list-the-imagination-thief/
For the 12 Films in The Imagination Thief, see http://www.rohanquine.com/video-books-films/12-films/
For the Audio-book version and the Video-book version of each of its 120 mini-chapters, see http://www.rohanquine.com/home-the-imagination-thief-novel/audiobook-tumblr-wattpad/
For links to the retailers, see http://www.rohanquine.com/buy/the-imagination-thief-novel-ebook/ and http://www.rohanquine.com/buy/the-imagination-thief-novel-paperback/
And for its Amazon pages, see http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Imagination-Thief/dp/0992754909 and http://www.amazon.com/The-Imagination-Thief/dp/0992754909
The Imagination Thief is about a web of secrets, triggered by the stealing and copying of people's imaginations and memories. It's about the magic that can be conjured up by images of people, in imagination or on film; the split between beauty and happiness in the world; and the allure of various kinds of power. It celebrates some of the most extreme possibilities of human imagination, personality and language, exploring the darkest and brightest flavours of beauty living in our minds.