Hard Strings

Hard Strings

TW: sexual violence, attempted rape

Kathy was a busker at Charing Cross station, she sang and played guitar at the bottom of the escalator. Under the old clock she played a heart song. She wore a faded sweater, patched up denims worn trainers. She played a £2000 Taylor acoustic. Her fingers ran up and down the frets searching out notes of exquisite tenderness. She sent them spinning over the heads of hurrying commuters until they settled on them burrowed into their souls and compelled them to listen. She shook her gypsy locks at grannies and blinked her thanks to businessmen who filled her cap with coin.

Crowds faded and flowed, the rush hour mass dissolving to late night revelry. Now she played harder sounds, fragmented chords, the rhythms rocked, and half stoned clubbers whooped and hollered as they passed. A hoodie blew her a kiss that bounced off her cheek. Those night raiders would come her way again, tumbling down escalators as the clock hands touched the morning.

He came as she finished playing. He came as the last tube sparked off into darkness. He came with a low thunder.

   “I’m Max,” he said. “I think you sound great, come and see me tomorrow.”  He dropped a five-pound note into her cap, handed her a card and was gone.

Kathy studied the card. “Max Redmayne Record Producer” it read, together with an address somewhere in central London. She smiled, picked up his fiver and tore it into little pieces, and then headed home.   

The address on the card was not the address of a recording studio, it was the address of his flat. It was an old trick Max liked to play on women. When he opened his door to her the following morning, she was smaller than he remembered, fit looking, dressed in black, freckled and fierce. He thought her face looked familiar. On her right arm was a small tattoo he couldn’t quite make out. She sat down and uncased her guitar, it was a beautiful sunburst, it flashed at him. She began to play, her long fingers stretching over the fretboard fingering notes he had only ever dreamt of. He learned she had studied in Thailand. He began to ask more questions, but she said little to him.

 “Who taught you to play?”

“You studied in Thailand?”

“What did you study?”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

She stopped playing then and looked at him.

 “I came here for an audition, at least that’s what I thought this was about.”   

 He got up. “Sure, Er would you like some coffee?” 

She stared hard at him.

“I’ll take that for a yes.”   

In the kitchen Max put water into the red kettle. Every night for weeks now he’d watched her set up from the edge of the tunnel. Laying her guitar case open, standing her cap inside, her long fingers twisting the tuning pegs of the instrument. He could feel them on his groin He had turned away several times, fighting himself but a memory stuck within him, always bringing him back. She had leaned over to pull something out of her case and her t-shirt and sweater had risen up at the side. A patch of bare skin. The kettle was hissing softly, wisps of steam beginning to appear. He opened his cupboards, tea, coffee, sugar. Where was it? With a dry mouth he began walking through into the bathroom. He raided the shelves and cupboards, cursing himself for what he already knew, he was out of Rohypnol. Max had a sudden urge to wash his hands, he caught sight of himself in the mirror, scarlet faced and panting, and quickly looked away. When he returned trembling to the kitchen the red kettle was boiling.

Kathy was still playing when he came back into the lounge. He set down the coffee and sat beside her. She smelt of fresh apples. 

   “Exactly what kind of record producer are you, Max?”  She asked quite suddenly deadening the guitar strings with her right hand.

 “What do you mean?”

 “I’ve seen nothing in this room to suggest you’re in the record business.”

  “So maybe you’ve taken a big risk coming here.”  

She stood up and reached for her jacket. “Nothing much for me here then.”

“There is for me though.” He got to his feet and moved towards her.              

 “Back off Max.”  

He made a grab at her breast.

  “Back off right now Max!”

He couldn’t help smiling to himself. She looked so small; the Rohypnol would not be necessary after all.

He lunged at her again. Something blocked his vision for a few seconds, and he felt a light touch on his eyebrow. It was the ball of her right foot! He watched in amazement as she withdrew her leg and pivoted back upright.

 “What are you some kind of ballet dancer?” He laughed.

The last thing he remembered was the sight of her bobbing lightly on her toes. Then a shock wave exploded in his head and his face slammed into the floor, his right eye bruised and bloody. Through the pain and stench of the carpet he thought he heard her voice.

 “Muay Thai, she murmured quietly and almost to herself. That’s what I studied in Thailand.”

Something like a bayonet twisted in his guts. Muay Thai or Thai Boxing, the art of eight limbs, one of the fiercest martial arts in the world.

She held a photograph down before his bloodied vision.

 “Recognise her? This is my sister, she came to see you and she trusted you, remember? Well surely you remember her guitar, Max?” 

He could make out the tattoo on her arm clearly now, it was a Tiger.

He heard her gather up her things. Just before she left, she bent down and squeezed his shoulder, that was the worst part, then the door slammed and a crushing silence struck him in the heart.

Max was dreaming. In his dream he approached a guitar playing girl in a bloody sunset. She played him torturous sounds on a Taylor acoustic, and ran her calloused fingers up and down his spine.