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Murdoc blinks into the blue darkness of his shared bedroom as Hannibal shakes him awake. The pins on his leather jacket rattle with the movement of his arm and, from what he can see of his brother’s silhouette, his hair is done up in those big stupid spikes.
“What time is it?” Murdoc groans, lifting his head off his flattened pillow.
“You wanna see a show?” Hannibal says.
“What?”
“There’s a basement concert happening tonight, you wanna see it?”
Murdoc sits up and scratches his head through his wild mop of hair, wincing at the tenderness of a bruise. “Yeah, right. If this is another stupid trick where you lock me outside for shits and giggles, I’m not falling for it again.”
“What would I have to gain from that? I lock you outside in the middle of the night and you pitch a fit, wake dad, and he beats my arse? Use your brain, knobhead.”
What does he have to gain from any of the torment besides a cheap laugh? Though, it’s a fair point. Even Hannibal can’t be stupid enough to push his luck with their dad now— He’s on thin ice as it is, Murdoc considers, as he tries to wriggle his fingers under the cast on his left arm to scratch an unreachable itch— after the stunt Hannibal pulled earlier this week.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes! Do you wanna go or not?”
As tantalizing as the offer sounds, it’s not uncommon for Hannibal to extend a promising hand only to yank it away and laugh. “You’re joshing,” Murdoc sneers. “I’m not even old enough to get in.”
“No, but this place doesn’t give a shit, as long as you slip them an extra tenner.”
Murdoc squints at him with suspicion. Now that his eyes have adjusted to the dark, he can see Hannibal’s in his full getup: plaid highwater pants and enough chains to lift the Titanic off the seafloor. If this is a trick, he sure is committed to it.
Hannibal tosses a garment onto Murdoc’s head. Murdoc frees himself from it and holds it up with his intact arm to inspect it: Hannibal’s denim vest, riddled with safety pins and hand-sewn patches.
“You can wear that so you don’t look like such a bellend,” Hannibal says. “Come on, they’re not gonna hold up the show waiting for you. Get dressed.”
Murdoc tosses his moth-eaten blanket off and climbs out of bed, padding over to his dresser to scrounge through his sparse hand-me-downs for something suitable to wear. Hannibal busies himself fussing with his ridiculously gelled hair in the mirror, as if it could possibly have fallen out of place with its cemented texture.
“I don’t have anything!” Murdoc whines.
“Shh! Just wear all black!”
Murdoc selects what he assumes to be a black jumper and trousers— though it’s hard to tell in the dark. He struggles fitting his cast arm into the jumper, his frustrated noises finally pulling Hannibal’s attention away from his hair. Murdoc scrunches his face through the sharp pain shooting through his arm as Hannibal begrudgingly helps with his sleeve. Murdoc puts on the vest successfully by himself and Hannibal steps back to scrutinize his outfit.
“This place doesn’t bother checking IDs, but you gotta at least try not to look twelve.”
“I am twelve, what else am I supposed to do?” Murdoc huffs. It doesn’t help that he’s barely four-foot-nine, and Hannibal’s vest drapes off his scrawny shoulders.
“If you keep talkin’ to me like that, I am locking you outside,” Hannibal threatens. He picks up a black eye-pencil from his nightstand and kneels down to Murdoc’s level. “Now hold still.” He clamps one hand on top of Murdoc’s head and rubs the pencil along the invisible mustache hairs on his lip. Murdoc tries his best not to move despite the tickle until Hannibal releases him.
“You better not be making me look stupid!”
Hannibal thrusts the mirror at Murdoc for him to see for himself. Murdoc, cringes at his newly-mustached reflection.
“I look stupid !”
“But you don’t look like a baby. It’s a glimpse into your future, mate.”
He sure hopes not. Though, Hannibal did try his best to make it look natural– it’s barely there, more closely resembling the facial hair of his more developed classmates who push him around. He was fully expecting a cartoonishly twirled villain mustache, and was surprised to see otherwise.
“Alright, let’s go,” Hannibal says, hushed. He picks up his boots— the ones that probably weigh half as much as Murdoc— then pauses. “Hold on,” Hannibal whispers. “I don’t trust you to walk quiet.” He crouches down. “Get on, until we’re outside.”
Murdoc obeys, hooking his lone arm as tightly as he can over Hannibal’s shoulder.
“Do not fall off.”
“Don’t drop me.”
Hannibal stands up— he’s not strong, as their dad often complains about, but Murdoc weighs about as much as a grasshopper. He creaks open the door, and waits a moment before slowly stepping out. Murdoc holds his breath as if it would make them both invisible as Hannibal creeps past their dad’s room, the blessed sound of his snoring palpable through the door. Hannibal inches his way down the stairs, his legs shaking as he realizes it probably would have been easier to let Murdoc follow behind, but he risks dropping him if he tries setting him down now. Murdoc’s arm cramps from holding himself up, but he doesn’t dare to loosen his grip. The memory of this week’s incident on the stairs re-ignites the ache under his cast, and he shuts his eyes.
After what feels like a pilgrimage, they reach the front door at the bottom step. Hannibal turns the knob, wincing at its squeak, and steps outside, only letting go as it shuts with a whisper. Murdoc slides off his back, stumbling slightly as his shoes hit the concrete step.
“Fuck, mate, we did it,” Hannibal says, a wave of pleasant surprise washing over his face. He holds up his hand to Murdoc for a high-five, which Murdoc gleefully tries to return— his hand swipes dead air as Hannibal yanks his away at the last second.
“Dickhead!” Murdoc spits.
“Come on, I wanna get a good spot,” Hannibal says, pulling on his boots. He lightly shoves Murdoc as he starts walking.
The streets are empty with only the occasional car passing by, enveloping them in the yellow beam of its headlights. Every time, Murdoc is certain one of the drivers will be their dad, ready to pull up beside them and yank them into the car for the wholloping of a lifetime. He sticks close by Hannibal, so close on his trail he keeps stepping on the back of his boots by accident. He wants to reach out and hold onto Hannibal’s jacket in fear one misstep will get him left behind, but it feels too childish to do so.
“You’re really taking me to a show?”
“No, I’m taking you to the zoo and dropping you off in the monkey cage so you can finally be with your own kind,” Hannibal says. “Yes, I’m taking you to a show. Now stop asking or come up with more interesting questions, pipsqueak.”
“But why? You never do anything for me.”
Hannibal doesn’t answer at first, instead opting to light a cigarette. “It’s about time you get to see a show for yourself. Give you something to brag about to your schoolmates so they won’t think you’re such a loser.”
Murdoc steps on the back of his boot again, this time on purpose. It trips up Hannibal, who pauses as if contemplating turning around to give him a swat on the ear, but instead fixes his shoe and keeps walking.
“We’re almost there,” Hannibal says. “Stick beside me on the right so the bouncer doesn’t see you. If they stop and question you, commit to the bit and act insulted that they assume you’re a kid. As of right now, you’re sixteen with some sorta height deficiency, got it?”
“Right,” Murdoc says.
“So stop clinging to me like a baby.”
Murdoc shoves his free hand into his pocket and mimics Hannibal’s slouched posture and scowl.
The noise of the venue precedes it, as they can hear the crowd and sound-check from down the block. Murdoc takes his position on his brother’s right side as they take their place in line. He cranes his neck to get a glimpse of the punks gathered around the brick building— boys with striped tee shirts and shaved heads, girls with splotchy bleached hair and studded boots, safety-pinned ripped clothes and cigarette-stained fingers, a skunky smell hanging in the clouds of smoke around them. As the line inches closer and closer to the door, Murdoc’s heart pounds, threatening to jump out of his chest and run back home. Feeling a few suspicious eyes peering down on him, he pushes away his urge to cling to Hannibal and expose his childish anxiety. Commit to the bit, as Hannibal instructed.
“Oi, Hannibal,” Murdoc says in his deepest voice. “Hand me a fag, will ya?”
Hannibal gives him a dirty look. “Get your own, pips— dickhead.”
“Oh, come on, mate, what about what you said about…” Murdoc mouths the last part: committing to the bit .
Hannibal scoffs and hands him an unlit cigarette. “You owe me a pack for that one. Get your own light.”
Murdoc takes the cigarette, and deems it satisfactory enough to tuck it casually behind his ear as if saving it for a smoke break later. He crosses his arm over his cast and leans against the brick wall, getting into the groove of his older character. What would a sixteen-year-old Murdoc do? He certainly wouldn’t let this tosser at the door question his right to be there.
“Hold it. No kids in here,” says the bouncer, holding up a big, meaty hand in front of Murdoc’s face. His heart stops— but he’s already snuck out, and Hannibal’s been true to his word for once, and he’s not about to turn back now.
“‘Scuse you ,” Murdoc growls. “I’m sixteen! Christ, if another bellend mistakes me for a kid! You never seen a short bloke before?”
“Yeah,” Hannibal adds. “My friend hears it enough, you gotta give him shit too?”
“I’m gonna need to see an ID,” the bouncer says.
“You didn’t check anyone else’s ID!” Hannibal argues.
“And that bird you just let in can’t be scraping five feet. She could probably run under a horse and not have a hair out of place on the other side!” Murdoc says.
“You’re holding up the line,” the bouncer says.
“ You’re holding up the line!” Murdoc says. “Wasting my bloody time, couldn’t spot the difference between a kid and a bloke if one jumped out and bit ya.”
The bouncer grunts in annoyance and defeat. What kid would have the audacity, anyway? “Fine. But I’m telling the bar not to serve you.”
“Fine by me, I’m not paying to drink the watered-down piss here anyway,” Murdoc says, strolling ahead as Hannibal slaps the money into the bouncer’s hand.
If there’s anything a Niccals knows how to do, it’s building a hill of lies to die on.
Murdoc’s heart still races as Hannibal elbows his way down the stairs to the basement for a spot close to the stage. The last time he had felt a rush like that was when he hurled that string of insults at Tony Chopper that earned him his broken nose. Since he walked away from this one with his nose intact, it’s safe to say this is an even bigger win. Hannibal cackles and slaps Murdoc on the back.
“That was a bang-up performance, Mo!” He says, grinning. “You could sell some git the shoes off his own feet!”
Murdoc smiles, wiping the sweat off his face with his sleeve.
“You’ve got a knack for being a stubborn, horrible, little pest, it’s about time you put it to good use,” Hannibal adds– if the complement is too genuine, the little bugger will let it get to his head.
“You had a role in it,” Murdoc says. “Who knew an idiot like you could act on the spot, too?”
Hannibal flicks him on the forehead. “Watch it, twerp, I can still make you sleep outside.”
Before Murdoc can retaliate, the crowd cheers as a punk with sunglasses and a safety pin through his ear steps up to the microphone on stage.
“How are we doing tonight?” He announces in a hefty Manchester accent, and the crowd cheers again. “You lot better be ready to go all night, because there’s no sleeping in Stoke! Now give our first act a warm fucking welcome: The Dead Head Moths !”
A lanky girl with choppy orange hair and a thick nose ring takes his place at the mic, a four-stringed guitar slung across her shoulder. Her jeans look as if she’d run them through a woodchipper before she put them on, and her black bra is visible through the large tears in her tee-shirt– the fabric still in tact has hand-scrawled text, reading: “ I had an abortion this morning, how’s your day ?” From Murdoc’s point-of-view, she looks to be seven feet tall.
The band wastes no time with an introduction– the drummer clacks his sticks together and the strings scream through the amps all at once, each one competing to make their impressions. The girl squawks into the microphone, her ramshackle teeth on full display as she strums out deep, buzzing notes on her guitar. The other guitarist, a guy with a buzzcut and snake tattoo, seems to be the one playing the main riffs, while she takes up the steady, velvety notes in the backdrop. Her sardonic voice and the clanging drums are the main attraction, but Murdoc can’t help but tune in to the thrumming riff coming from her amp, which happens to be the one closest to his spot. The thrashing and shouting of the people around him threaten to knock him down, but he doesn’t tear his attention away from her. It isn’t until the song ends when Murdoc finds himself back in the present. He looks around to make sure Hannibal is still by his side, and he is– equally transfixed by the singer.
“God damn ,” Hannibal says, seemingly to no one.
“Hello, Stoke!” the girl caws over the noise of the crowd. “You can call me Moth! Or whatever you want, as long as you call me! That was our song, Fuckingham Palace , and if you like it, buy our vinyl after the show! If you don’t– shove it up your ugly arse!” The crowd laughs, and she strums out a low riff that vibrates through Murdoc’s soul. “This next one is called Snakebite .”
Song after song, each one is as cacophonous as the last, and Murdoc shouts along with the rest of the crowd– his broken arm, spiteful schoolmates, frigid house, and wrathful dad tucked away in a different world that he can stomp into the concrete floor like the punks’ cigarette butts. The energy of the audience heats up the room to the temperature of Hell, and people peel off layers like it’s far from November. There are no windows– time does not exist here.
“Thank you for having us, Stoke! You’ve been a bloody amazing crowd!” Moth shouts into the mic, her ginger hair stuck to her forehead, her chest heaving as she catches her breath. “I could kiss every single one of ya! Our time together is over, but stick around for the next act– our good friends The Blunt Objects ! Goodnight!”
As the band starts packing up their instruments, Hannibal pulls Murdoc’s hair to get his attention.
“I gotta take a piss. Come with me.”
“What, you can’t do it on your own? We’re gonna lose our spot!”
“Dad’s already gonna kill us if he finds out we’re here. If I lose you too, he’s gonna dig me up and kill me again.”
Despite Murdoc’s protest, Hannibal takes him by the arm and pulls him through the crowd in search of a bathroom, bumping into people and pushing them aside until they come across a narrow hallway housing two rooms, with “birds” and “blokes” carved into their respective doors. Miraculously, they’ve made it before anyone else could get there, so there’s no line.
“You need to go?”
“I’m fine,” Murdoc grumbles.
“Right. Stay put!” Hannibal orders before shutting the door behind him.
Murdoc crosses his arms and leans against the wall, listening to the next band set up their instruments and do their sound check. Hannibal might have no problem standing further away from the stage– he’s tall enough to see over other people. Murdoc will be stuck with the exciting view of the back of a jacket, or perhaps the seat of someone’s pants if he’s especially unfortunate. He’s so busy lamenting his front-row seat, he doesn’t notice the girl brushing by him to get to the ladies’ room.
“Aren’t you a little young to be here? How the bloody hell’d you get in?”
Murdoc looks up and feels his heart skip a beat as Moth looks down on him. His shock must be apparent on his face, because she laughs.
“Ah, don’t mess yourself, love, I won’t say nothing. But you’d better be careful. This kinda crowd can get pretty intense. I hope you’re not here by yourself.”
“My brother,” Murdoc manages to choke out. “He’s in the bathroom.”
Now that she’s standing in front of him, she doesn’t tower over him like he thought she would. Her black, painted-on eye makeup is smudged under her eyes and her shirt sticks to her back from sweat. She has freckles.
“What’s your name?”
“Murdoc.”
“What happened to your arm, Murdoc?”
Murdoc looks down at his cast and hesitates before answering: “Fell down the stairs.”
“And no one’s signed it?”
Murdoc shakes his head.
Moth reaches into her back pocket and produces a black marker. She motions for him to give her his cast, and he obliges. She uncaps the marker with her teeth and scrawls MOTH in black letters over his forearm, along with a drawing of a moth with a skull on its back.
“I broke my finger at a show last year and still played bass through the pain before going to hospital. Don’t do a stupid thing like that. It’s still crooked,” She says, holding up her lopsided ring finger to show him.
“You were really good, though,” Murdoc says, his face hot. Moth smiles.
The men’s room door opens behind Murdoc and Hannibal steps out, shaking water off his hands.
“No wonder there’s no queue, that loo is so gross you’re better off pissing yourself,” Hannibal says, before freezing when he catches sight of Moth.
“Thanks for the warning, love,” Moth says. “This your brother?”
“Uh, yeah, sorry if he’s bothering you. Hey, you were smashing back there! You don’t see a lot of bass players who sing too, that’s really somet–”
“Nah, he’s cool,” Moth interrupts. “Take care of him, will ya?”
Hannibal roughly pulls Murdoc into a side-hug, his jacket zipper jabbing into Murdoc’s cheek. “Oh, yeah! Figured I’d take the brat to his first show. He’s had a rough week, hurting his arm and all. He’s a little ankle-biter, but hell, he’s gotta see a real rock show.”
Wanker , Murdoc thinks.
“Hope it was a good first impression,” Moth says, opening the door to the ladies’ room. “Maybe if you catch us again, I can get the rest of the band to sign the other arm.”
“Yeah! We’ll see you at the next one, for sure!” Hannibal says to the closed door. “God, she’s fit.” Hannibal cuffs Murdoc on the back of the head. “She was right here and you didn’t say nothing to me, you little shit?”
“Ow! You got to talk to her!” Murdoc says.
“You heard that, right? She said she’d see me next time? I think that means she’s into me. You think she’ll be looking out for me at their next gig?”
Murdoc rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure out of every bloke here, she’s hot for the one with stupid hair and his fly open.”
The feedback of the mic rings throughout the basement, and the emcee starts introducing the next act.
“Oh, fuck!” Hannibal says, frantically zipping his fly and grabbing Murdoc by the arm. As they rush back to the floor, Hannibal leading the way and barreling through the crowd, Murdoc stares down at the autograph on his cast, his mouth still dry and his ears still hot. Maybe the band will get big and the cast will be worth millions, or maybe they’ll fizzle out and it’ll be just another piece of plaster to be sawn off when it’s time to get a new one– no matter the outcome, nothing matters outside the microcosm of this night.
“ I wanna hear you make some noise for The Blunt Objects! ”
Murdoc rests his cheek on the back of Hannibal’s neck, his eyes closed and arm limply hanging onto his brother’s shoulder. Hannibal stops periodically to hoist him back up whenever he starts slipping.
“Mo, either hold on or walk on your own,” Hannibal says. “I’m not helping if you fall off and crack your head open.”
Murdoc mumbles a non-response as Hannibal stops once again to re-adjust.
Hannibal knows he’s lost track of time and they should’ve been home hours ago, as the blue dawn rises above the brick buildings. Very soon, lights will flicker on, cars will return to the streets, and smoke will pour from chimneys. He has a sinking feeling in his stomach that their trek home is a death march. This week has been screw-up after screw-up. Hannibal hears what the hell were you thinking? as often as his own name. His answer is usually the same, I don’t know . Setting off firecrackers, filching lighters from shop counters, jumping out to scare his little brother as he’s running down the stairs– he doesn’t know what he’s thinking, but I don’t know has worn thin long ago. This, however, he did think about. Sneaking the kid into a midnight basement show is stupid, but it’s a stupid idea he’s bothered to toss around in his head for a few days.
As they turn onto their street, Hannibal sees a lone yellow light in the window of their house. His heart sinks down to his Doc Martens. It’s bad enough Murdoc’s arm is his fault, but now he’s dragged him into trouble with him. On one hand, a beating split between the two of them might not be as bad, and Murdoc might get off easier with an already broken arm. No , this is Hannibal’s mess. As much as he has thought about the consequences, he still hasn’t come up with what he’s going to say. He’s never been good at excuses, and I don’t know won’t spare him or Murdoc. This was all my idea, I made him go, leave him out of it is a suitable start as any. Hannibal stops and hikes Murdoc back up onto his back. They’re almost home, and Hannibal considers waking him, but decides to let him sleep one last minute. He watches a silhouette interrupt the yellow glow of the window. Hannibal takes a deep breath, and marches the final stretch back home.
