Read Rainbow Bridge for Free Online Page B

really pissed off.’
    ‘We could quietly cancel your tentshow—’
    ‘Nah, I’m fine. It’s these blackberry crushes, they make me quarrelsome. One more and I’ll be on the canvas. D’you ever envy them, Ax? The normal rockstars?’
    ‘Nah. I had my time in the sun. I’d only be embarrassing myself by now.’
    ‘Me too. I was born to burn out young, it’s what makes me so romantic. But I worry about our next generation (she was thinking of Areeka). Art for a cause is such a mug’s game. If you’re the real thing you just get shot, if not, pointless career death.’
    She was twenty-four. I will see your name in lights again, he thought.
    ‘Why are we still alive?’ he wondered aloud. ‘I can’t remember.’
    ‘No one can say we haven’t tried.’
    They raised their glasses, in silent accord, to the friends in this long struggle they would never see again. To all the stupid rockstars who’d got physically involved, when anyone could see all you had to do was talk the talk, in Crisis Europe. To every melodramatic fool who ever dared to be something other than a dumb pop idol. And the roll call stretches back, into the dim history of the twentieth century—
    Hey, compadres. Long live Futuristic Utopia.
    The bar crowd saw them toasting each other, which raised a cheer. Then Sage walked in, immediately followed by the huge and awesome Gintrap, with entourage. The amiable metallers were not supposed to be here. The official acts were supposed to stay in their trailers, until they were bussed to a special area backstage. But the Trap claimed it was okay, the Chinese were cool. Thrilled with themselves for being at Ashdown, rubbing shoulders with the rulers of the Reich, the non-Few rocklords prattled happily, a daft ego boost. Boje Strom trashed Rosamond at length. Dessy Foumart, the Trap’s old-style girly frontman, spectacularly hammered, needed to know what the Minister for Gigs had thought of ‘Save Your World’ (Why should I try to?), an ancient and punishing Heads track which the ‘deliberately crude’ ones had mined, in the creator’s absence, for its buried lyrics, and an unsuspected jolly tune.
    ‘’S fine ,’ growled Sage, folded onto a barstool, all arms and legs; downing his second pint. ‘I couldn’t give a bugger, Des, an’ I hope it goes platinum. But I tell you what. If you ever give that shite treatment to ‘Colour of Stars’, or ‘Arbeit’, I am personally gonna have to invade your stage an’ kick your fucking head in.’
    ‘Oh fuck, I would be honoured. I’m selirious, Sage. I would be honoured. That would be the greatest, greatest moment of my life.’
    ‘What happened to you?’ murmured Fiorinda, as the flood of clean shiny hair, clean shiny clothes and clean fingernails dropped the two of them and swirled around Ax, fucking ace the President was still alive, and hey, fuckin’ great tattoo!
    ‘I got waylaid by Dian Buckley.’
    And Marlon is missing, he thought. But that’ll wait until we’re on our own.
    ‘ Dian Buckley? You’re kidding. What the fuck’s she doing here?’
    ‘Tell you later.’
    ‘Is it bad?’
    ‘Of course.’ Sage’s glass was empty: Mrs Brown from the Anchor at Hartfield immediately delivered another. ‘Thanks… Oh, I don’t know. She’s having problems adjusting, as aren’t we all. Her General fixed her up with permits, she’s with the press corps, but she was wandering around loose on our site. It’s okay, I walked her to their gates, she’s safe. I need a kitten to hug, lemme have Min. Can we go home soon?’
    But they stayed, joining the outlaw revelry, getting used to being with people again; cravenly reluctant to go out into the wet dark, where who knows what might be waiting. It’s karma night, there are demons abroad, clawing around.
    Demons, daft music biz spats and Dian Buckley, we must be in business again.
     
II
    In The Cities, Flower Gardens
    By midmorning on the second day of Ashdown, illusory peace and calm