Dead Again (An Asylum Tale)

[Content Warning: strong language]

When Andrea had told Deakes the job was at Platform Nine, he had expected a train station not the hell in which he now found himself.

No room to breathe, people crammed shoulder to shoulder. Oppressive heat, weighted with the acrid mix of perspiration and beer. Darkness which was only intensified by strobing lights. A perpetual haze that clouded his vision and stung the back of his throat.

But the worst of it was the noise. Discordant sounds hammered at his skull. The cry of the crowd crawled under his skin. A guttural voice intoned words he could not decipher but instinctively knew professed evil.

From the outside, Platform Nine purported to be a venue for live events. Right now it was given over to the dregs of society: dressed in black leather; neck and face tattoos; pierced noses, eyebrows, tongues and napes.

Andrea leaned close to Deakes, her face macabre in the dancing shadows, and shouted, ‘I love the way this one ends.’

She turned back to the stage, to the death metal band who captivated the audience. The lead singer – if singing could be used for the horrific sounds he was uttering – dropped to his haunches and pointed out at the crowd. His voice lowered and stretched one syllable which Dekes presumed was, ‘You.’

The music faded away, leaving the one note resonating through the room. As the voice died, the lights went out and the crowd’s yelling increased. People beside Deakes jostled him as the circle pit stumbled in the darkness.

Deakes was sure that an indoor venue should not entertain a circle pit, but he figured the delinquents who liked this kind of music cared little for health and safety. They had been unconcerned when the centre of the audience had start running in a circular motion, moving haphazardly and uncoordinated, thrashing their bodies in time with the noise thundering from the speakers.

The audience was at rest now that the music had stopped. The place was far from quiet though: myriad conversations, shouted to be heard after the ear-piercing music; whoops of joy; shrills of laughter.

Three white lights appeared on the stage, bobbing at head height. Roadies, torches strapped to their heads to free their hands, transformed the stage. Guitar stands were removed, amps pushed away, the drum kit rolled to one side to reveal the main act’s more elaborate setup.

Behind him, someone screamed, setting Deakes’s nerves on edge. Is this the reason Andrea had brought them here? he wondered.

He knew pop psychology married heavy metal music to devil worship, but he had always believed that to be propaganda created by right-wing church evangelists. Perhaps he had been wrong, and there really was a link between this frightening music scene and blood pacts with demons.

The head-mounted lamps drifted off stage. The crowd quietened in anticipation.

Deakes sensed movement on the stage then, with no warning, bright crimson light flooded the audience and a guitar chord jumped into his ribcage. The guitarist, a behemoth of a man with wild hair and beard, tattoos covering his arms and chest, leered at the crowd as his fingers jumped across the frets. To his side, a bass player flicked at the strings, setting the pace of everybody’s heart. The drummer, a scrawny kid of about nineteen, his long hair already slick with sweat, thrashed at the snares and cymbals around him.

In the centre, dressed in a white Cradle of Filth t-shirt and black leather hot pants over fishnets, a slender woman took the microphone. She flicked her head, tossing her ivory hair over one shoulder, and breathed in to the mike.

‘Hello, metalheads. We are Dead Again and we’re here to rock your fucking world!’

Deakes groaned. He envisioned another set of abysmal noise and indecipherable lyrics.

After banging her head in time with the rhythm through the intro, the singer lifted her head and screamed into the microphone.

The note that issued from her mouth, captured by the mike and intensified through the speakers, wrapped around Deakes, enveloped him, made him the centre of the room. Of the world. His soul brightened, his pulse quickened. Her voice was that of an angel, alive with pleasure and promises.

Beneath her voice, the music was melodious. Striking, important. He knew that the songs the band were delivering were a truth, whether or not they were fact. He was enraptured. By the time the set ended, Deakes was converted. Dead Again was the best band the world had ever seen, surpassing The Beatles or The Rolling Stones, outshining Oasis or Pulp.

When the final song reached its crescendo, guitarist and bassist thrumming madly, drummer moving so fast his arms were a blur, and the singer maintaining a high note for many seconds, Deakes’s neck ached and his throat was sore. Despite not knowing the words, or even liking this style of music, he had thrashed and sang along for an hour.

The band left the stage and the house lights came on. He turned to Andrea, grinning like a child who had just discovered sugar. She took his hand and pulled him toward the stage.

‘We’re not done yet,’ she told him.

The reason for their visit to Platform Nine came back to Deakes. Somewhere in the place was a cryptid who they needed to convince to relocate to ARC. He scanned the milling crowd, looking for potential targets. To his conservative eyes, any one of them could be a creature in hiding.

Most were the longhaired, unwashed type he associated with rock festivals. A couple stood with their arms around one another, so many face piercings between them Deakes reckoned that kissing would require tactical planning. Two young women held hands as they shuffled along, their torn clothes revealing tattooed skin.

Andrea waited for the audience to disperse, then led Deakes up the side stairs and onto the stage. They passed roadies who were dismantling equipment, went through the wings to the backstage corridors.

‘I take it the cryptid we’re after was not in the crowd,’ Deakes said. ‘Are the whole band cryptids?’

‘Just Dust, the singer. She’s a siren.’

‘You keep using terms like I should know them. What’s a siren?’

‘They have power in their voices. In mythology, they’re often said to entice sailors to their deaths on rocky shores.’

That made sense to Deakes. He hadn’t been converted into a heavy metal fan after all, but had been supernaturally persuaded to like the music. Still, temporarily liking thump-thump music was better than meeting a watery end.

They reached the dressing room. Dead Again were not famous enough to require security. Andrea opened the door and pulled Deakes inside. He steeled himself for what he was about to see. Human rock bands were renowned for their raucous behaviour backstage. Who knew what debauchery a cryptid-fronted group could get up to.

The ivory-haired singer leaned against the far wall, glaring at the young drummer sitting between two groupies on a battered couch. He had one arm around each of them as they fawned over him, their hands running up and down his slick chest and caressing his neck.

Dust moved her glance from the sofa to the opening door. Her eyes flashed for a moment, then a scowl settled on her face.

‘Andrea.’

‘Hello again, Dust,’ Andrea answered. ‘I see you already found us two.’

The girls looked over at Andrea and Deakes, the joy which had lit their faces replaced with uncertainty.

‘Just keeping them warm for you,’ Dust said.

‘What’s happening?’ one of the girls asked.

‘Ladies,’ Andrea said. ‘I need you to come with us. We can take you to a safe place where your special needs can be catered for without risk of discovery.’

‘What needs?’ the same girl said. But the resignation in her friend’s eyes told Deakes they knew what Andrea was talking about. Even though he didn’t.

‘Game’s up, bitches,’ Dust said. ‘We know you’re vampires.’

The girl who had been speaking stood up. ‘We’re leaving now.’ She pulled her friend to her feet and dragged her toward the door.

Deakes took a step back as they approached, wishing Andrea had told him to bring garlic and crucifixes.

Dust started to sing. The effect was immediate. The girls stopped in their tracks, their faces devoid of emotion.

‘What’s happening?’ Deakes whispered so only Andrea could hear.

‘The siren song. She’s persuading them to stay.’

As Dust infused the air with soft words of bitter longing and elusive acceptance, the women turned to her. Slowly, they sank to their knees, gazing up at her. The lament continued though it did not ensnare Deakes. Her voice was sweet and fragile, but the meaning was lost on him. His heart was not stirred as it had been when Dust had performed on stage.

When the song ended, the second vampire took her companion’s hand. Tears glimmered in her eyes.

‘We must go with her, Sloane,’ she said.

Sloane looked from her friend to Andrea, then to Dust. ‘How did you know?’

‘Did you think it was your idea to come backstage to drain Will?’ Dust said, pointing to the drummer. ‘I called to you during the show, invited you here.’

The penny dropped in Deake’s mind. Dust used her supernatural voice to find candidates for Andrea. ‘You tour the country looking for cryptids,’ he surmised. ‘You’re working for ARC.’

Dust’s head snapped to him. Her eyes narrowed and bored into his. ‘No fucking way. Not after Eddie.’

Andrea stepped forward and interjected. ‘We can talk about Dust’s motivations another time. Right now,’ she looked the vampires, ‘I just want to take you somewhere safe. Will you come with us?’

Sloane looked from Andrea to Dust again, doubt in her eyes.

‘Yes,’ her friend announced, and resignation settled on Sloane’s face.

Andrea smiled and guided Sloane to Deakes. As she took the other girl’s arm, she glanced back at Dust and said, ‘Thank you.’

‘I don’t do it for you.’

‘I know. And my promise stands. One day, I will find out what happened to Eddie.’