Lamb To The Slaughter Rik scowled at the reflection in the mirror. He pinched at the skin around his eyes, pulled at the corners of his mouth. There had been a time when he had looked into the mirror and not recognised the man staring back at him. The skin pinching began as reassurance, but now was daily ritual. It was him. Not the face that stared out of the covers of magazines and posters that hung in the windows of almost every record shop. Not Rik Travis, teen idol and successful pop star, but Richard, the quiet boy at school who nobody really ever wanted to be friends with. He then gradually began to put on his stage make up, caressing the creamy liquid that evened out his pale, blemished skin. Carefully encircling his eyes with black kohl, and little Richard stared back at him no more. It was almost a year ago that he and many others thought he had lost whatever ‘star quality’ that got him picked out of millions back in the late nineties. The band’s success had gradually declined, it didn’t help that their manager had decided that ‘his boys’ were not making enough money for him. The journalists, even the fans had claimed that they had their day. Rik had succumbed to the trappings of his fame. The drugs were too easy to get hold of, the drink numbed the pain of wanting another fix. Even the sex was just another hit he had to obtain. Rik was at the bottom and looking up. But then Bob Watson had walked into his life. He remembered Bob’s thick, chubby arm holding him steady as he pushed him into a taxi one night. “Go home, get yourself some rest and don’t leave your flat until I call, lad.” He had said kindly, but there had been enough firmness in the voice to make Ricky do as he was told. Bob put him into rehab, got him thinking about his music. It spurred Rik into remembering how much he had wanted to sing, so desperately, so much that he would sign a dotted line on a piece of paper that gave Bob Watson the copyright of ever song he wrote, and a whopping forty percent of his increasing fortune. Tonight’s show was Bob’s idea. “A year as a solo performer, we’ve got to celebrate lad, give those fans of yours something back.” Bob had gripped him in the same way he had on that night. Funny how comforting it had seemed back then, now it almost suffocated Rik. It had been a tiring year. Rik hadn’t had a moment to himself, but it was worth it, if only to see the look on Bob’s face as another single reached the top ten. But Bob had promised him a holiday, even left a couple of those glossy brochures in his dressing room. Rik wasn’t really bothered where he went, as long as there was a bed, but more importantly, peace and silence. Rik wanted to smile at the rather sad and tired reflection in front of him, but felt that he had better keep the expression until he was out on stage. His fans didn’t want to see him miserable tonight. Well, that’s what Bob had said to him when Ricky had looked rather down hearted about playing this unexpected gig. Already Rik could hard the chants from the crowd. They had let them in a little early, a favourite ploy of Bob’s. “Get them hungry, wanting you so desperate it’s hurting them.” He had hissed at his prodigy. Rik had been fascinated and repulsed by the expression on Bob’s face, as he had said this. He was a hunter, sniffing out his prey, rubbing his hands with greedy delight. Rik was something to be bought… and sold. “Ten minutes Rik.” Somebody yelled from outside. Rik breathed in and out steadily, a calming technique he had acquired from his therapist, (Bob’s advice, though he had rather enjoyed spluttering out the peculiar things that came into his head once a week to a stranger). Rik stood up, gave a final glance to his appearance and walked steadily to the door. It was almost complete black in the narrow corridor. Rik felt Bob’s hand grasp his forearm firmly. “That’s it Rik, this way lad, they’ve waiting for you.” Bob seemed eager to push him forward. Rik hesitated for a moment. This was the time he always felt nervous, but usually that was the necessary adrenaline that helped with his performance. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what he felt tonight. Perhaps it’s was Bob’s all too keen eagerness to thrown him to the mercy of the crowd. Tonight, it might have been the crowd itself. But he had little choice; Rik didn’t fight Bob’s second push. The stage lights blinded him at first. Rik stumbled through the haze of yellow, his ears filled with the roar of voices. At momentary intervals women screamed. He walked forward a little more and with relief grabbed the unsteady security of the microphone. Without an introduction and with no other instruments he began to sing. His voice sounded feeble yet touched the audience enough for them to be quiet for a while. But then the band started, the crash of drums, the high pitched whine of the electric guitar knocked Rik back into consciousness, his voice grew, he clung to the microphone stand as if this spindly stick was his only support. The crowd loved it and showed their appreciation in loud whoops and yells. Rik squeezed his eyes tightly shut, trying to lose himself in the words he sang. “I’m your lamb to slaughter I’m a sacrifice at your alter I’m a victim of your torture…” Some of the fans even sung the words; he tried his best to ignore them. Tonight he wanted only to hear himself, to contemplate the words he had written. He walked closer towards the edge of the stage, a thousand sets of eyes watched him, their hands were raised as if in prayer. He heard some girl cry out his name, there was a strange desperation in her voice and he couldn’t help but sought her out. He reached out for her hand. Rik was quickly pulled into the crowd, too quick even for Bob, who hadn’t noticed what was going on until it was too late. But he held out those fat arms and prevented the bodyguards from rushing forward. This was too good an opportunity to cut short now. “Let them have their idol boys.” He hissed, smiling as he envisaged the headlines in the tabloids the next day. Rik appeared still to be in his trance. The band played on, with Bob’s encouragement, but he no longer sang. Hands covered his mouth, they caressed his hair, and he even felt someone trance the contours of his lips with the tip of their finger. Actually fingers and hands seemed to spread all over his body. He felt someone pull at his shirt, this seemed to encourage some of the others, until Rik felt the material rip, the warm turbulent air of the crowd created goose pimples on his naked arms. He watched as bits of this shirt were snatched, the fragments passed around like the wafers at a communion. A woman let her hand wander over his naked chest, he winced as this hand drew its nails into his skin, he attempted to pull it off, but it seemed too strong. The hands that had, only moments before caressed him with such adoration now gripped him tightly. Rik looked up desperately, the band played on and he could just about see Bob peering out from beyond the wings of the stage. He called out, but the roar of the crowd was too loud. He was sure he could see Bob light up a cigar and stare quite calmly at him. Somebody had wrested his shoes off, this too were passed among the fans as if they were some kind of Godly relic The sudden sharp pain came unexpectedly. He opened his eyes, to find that his left had been blinded; he managed to get a hand free from somebody’s grasp. He looked in horror at the blood. A fan, somebody in this very audience had ripped the earring from his eyes brow. Rik opened his mouth too scream but he was silenced by a hungry kiss. He felt the tongue battle with his own, pressing so hard it felt as if his jaw was breaking. Another bout of pain, this time from his head. He was sure he heard somebody in the crowd yell, “I’ve got a piece of his fuckin’ hair.” He looked around, just in time to see the face of a young girl press closely to his own. Her eyes were wide, shiny with excitement, she smiled, but Ricky thought she resembled some kind of wild hungry animal. He felt her lips kiss his ear, gentle at first, but suddenly she bit on the lope, gnawing deep into the flesh. Something else gnawed at his neck, he felt their teeth, sharp, like a wolf’s. The crowd seemed to be swallowing him up. Try as he might to lift himself out of the sea of arms and hands, he didn’t have the strength to do it. With each attempt his fans pulled him further down All the while the band played on, Rik’s number one song… ‘I’m your lamb to slaughter’.
Copyright © 2003 Tanya Lloyd |