To Love And Be Loved

Chapter 5

Victor walked back home with a smile pasted on his face. It was raining heavily and there was no one on the streets. He pulled his hoodie off and let the rain soak his locks, wash over his face, drench his clothes and seep into his boots. It felt like freedom, it felt invigorating.

It felt like pushing a needle through his skin.

No, that wasn't him anymore, he thought. He was past that stage.

He usually went to the coffee shop on Saturday mornings when there was usually very little or no customers, and it was just a six minute walk from his loft. It was his sanctuary of sorts whenever he needed some alone time. Rose, the former staff had kept his secret. The new lady in the shop had surprised him.

At first he had expected her to scream, jump at him and demand he sign an autograph like any crazed fan of his would, but she just stood there like he was just another customer. Just another regular person. And it felt good, being away from all the attention.

Cassie. Her name was Cassie. Though she didn't have Yvonne's ever ready camera face, she was pretty in an innocent way. She had short dark hair that curled around her temples and large brown eyes.

He was surprised by the innocence he saw in those eyes. He must have been like that once.

He arrived at the loft, wet, and with a smile on his face. Davies was at the door, waiting and Yvonne had left.

"Are you ready?" asked Davies.

"As ready as I'll ever be," said Victor.

An hour later, he was sitting in his studio apartment which took the whole of the second floor. A mass of equipments; pianos, guitars, drums, synthesizers, stood by a corner. Two isolation booths were by the side, empty. The studio took up more than half the space.

Victor had always thought of a studio as the place where magic happened, where instruments were tested to their limits and voices sang till they were hoarse. There was no better feeling than making music. That feeling of the microphone before him and the song lyrics in his hand was indescribable. He was the maker and the creator.

The rain had stopped and the sun had begun to slowly peek out of the dispersing gray clouds. It reflected through the tall glass windows, bathing the place in a dull orange glow. Thunder still rumbled outside even though the rain had stopped half an hour ago. Victor thought it sounded like the heavens were belching.

Davies walked in, rubbing his hands together. "Here they come," he said. Then, he added with a grimace, "try to be friendly, at least."

A moment later, the door opened and a lady walked in. Her skin was a light shade of brown and she had a sleepy expression on her face. There was a tattoo on her neck --around her jugular -- and a gold stud piercing through her nose.

"Hey," she said. She had a deep nasal voice, as if she had a cold.
Victor didn't reply. She looked like the first person the NDLEA will bust on a drug raid.

"Hey, Leila," Davies said. He turned to Victor. "Leila is the drummer."

The door swung open again and two guys walked in. One looked like he had been mauled by a pack of angry dogs. He was all ripped shirt and jeans. The other wore a Fedora hat and looked like he was on the set of The Adjustment Bureau.

"And here is Francis, the keyboardist." Davies pointed at the Fedora hat guy. "And this is James, the guitarist," he pointed at torn jeans guy.

Band.

The word made Victor's stomach turn in nauseating circles. These three weren't his band. His band was one-third dead and one-third in rehab.

Victor pointed at James. "You can go."

"Wh... What?" Davies spluttered.

"I don't need a guitarist," he said to James who was staring at him, smile frozen on his face. The smile was slowly turning to disbelief. It reminded Victor of an ice cream slowly melting, falling off its cone with a snail's pace.

"Vic, Jones wont be happy," said Davies.

"Its my album," said Victor. He pointed at Francis; the Fedora hat guy. "Play me something."

Francis' mouth opened and closed several times. "Um...okay," he said.

He looked like a fish gulping water as he moved to the piano, quickly. He was a smart kid.

Will, Black Division's keyboardist had been a gifted pianist, a child protégé. He played the piano like he was pouring his soul out; with his hands dancing across the keys, his eyes closed and an expression of utter bliss on his face.

Sitting there, Victor realised there could never be a better pianist in his eyes than Will.

Francis played a riff from Black Division's second song.
It was good, but it wasn't Will.

"No, something else. Something more funky," said Victor.

At least everyone deserves a second chance.

Francis played something else. It was fast, pop and funky. But it wasn't Will. Will who played Beethoven's HammerKlaiver for fun.

I want Will.
I want Will.
I want Will.

But Will was gone and so was Black Division.

"No, thank you. Bye." Victor stood up and made for the door. Davies was fast behind him.

Francis looked like he wanted to cry. "What the..." he began.

"Vic." Davies started. "Listen, you need to set your priorities here. Remember, this isn't an indie label."

Victor raised his palms up. "Don't worry Davies, I'll work something out."

"The drummer?"

"Oh," Victor turned back inside to look at the drummer; she sat smoking by the window. Her brown skin glowing like molten bronze in the sun. "She'll do."

He walked to the elevator and Segun's bulky frame fell behind him.

"I've got a party to attend," said Victor.

Segun grunted and pressed the elevator button.

Victor felt a yearning deep in his gut as the elevator moved, but he knew he couldn't go down that path.

Deep in his heart, he yearned for a needle.

But the needle had broken Black Division. The needle had broken him.

He'd never forget Will convulsing on the stage and Sam staring with open mouthed horror at his brother, unable to do anything. The crowd screaming, ignorant of what was happening.

They found the needle at the height of their fame and it was their end.

NDLEA means National Drug Law Enforcement Agency. Their  job is to bust drug users and traffickers in Nigeria.