AN: Thanks to emleng93 on tumblr for pointing out the appropriateness of "Train in Vain" for Tom's situation/feelings!
August 1993
The first time she sees him out is in the pub where their bands played together, where they met. How fitting, she thinks. They ignore each other, calibrating their movements to stay at opposite sides of the room, but she can feel his eyes on her like a weight. Talk about the oppressiveness of the male gaze. Finally she can no longer bear the tension and turns to meet them.
They share a long, electric look, suffused with resentment and not a little longing. He breaks it off with a jerk, turning and walking into the hall that leads to the toilets. She goes after him.
She catches the men's room door just before it closes, slamming it to behind her and twisting the lock. They hover a few feet apart for a silent moment. Then their bodies are pressed together, his mouth hard on her neck. That's going to leave a mark, she observes, not caring.
She's wearing a skirt, a short one. He drags the hem of it up her thighs, his hands groping her flesh. She gasps when one finds its way inside her knickers. He rubs her with desperation and no finesse; it's too much, and she twists away from his touch. He's straining against his trousers. She undoes them and shoves her hand inside, stroking him roughly. He lets out a low growling sound.
"I want to fuck you," he mutters into her ear, the first words they've exchanged. Or did he say "destroy"? She's not sure.
She scowls into his eyes, an inch away from hers. "So fuck me," she challenges. He boosts her up onto the vanity, hastily moves her clothing aside and shoves himself into her with a grunt.
Their coupling is urgent and animalistic, all gritted teeth and guttural noises. She squeezes her eyes shut, meeting his violent thrusts with her own, straining, striving for a conclusion-
Her eyes snap open. "Shit," she spits into her dark bedroom.
She lies there for a few minutes, waiting to see if the itch will dissipate and allow her to go back to sleep. It doesn't. Finally she reaches down to take care of herself. Images and sensations from her treacherous subconscious flood in: his rough hands, his bruising lips. The cold blue blaze of his wounded eyes. Less than a minute later her body arches, stiffening, then relaxes. She rolls over and drifts off.
-ooo-
When they actually do meet it's much less dramatic. Tom spots her almost as soon as he walks in the door. She's standing off to the side of the stage with her friend Anna, talking animatedly. He goes up to the bar and buys a lager, vacillates about whether to try speaking to her. She's undoubtedly seen him by now.
We can't ignore each other forever, he decides: may as well rip off the plaster now. He scans the room, not finding her, then turns around to see her coming toward him with a determined look. All right, let's get this over with.
"Hi," he greets her. His mouth's suddenly a desert.
"Hello." She gives him a guarded smile, then her eyes leave his face to dart around the room. "I wondered if I'd see you here."
"Oh?" This isn't awkward at all, no. "So how've you been keeping?"
"Fine." Another look over his shoulder. Clearly she can't wait to get away. "Well. It was nice seeing you," she lies. She waits for him to nod assent, then turns to walk away.
"Sybil." Before he can think about it, Tom shoots his hand out and grasps her wrist. She looks down at his hand like it's a snake, but he won't get another chance. "I'm really sorry," he tells her, "about everything."
She regards him intensely for a moment, her expression unreadable. He releases her arm, but she stays where she is. Finally she blinks and presses her lips together. "Thank you," she says. She hesitates, as if she's going to speak again, but then just turns and goes off into the crowd.
-o-
"Feel better?" Anna asks, when she gets back to their spot by the stage.
Sybil grimaces. "Not really."
"Well, least said, soonest mended. That's what my mum always says." Anna hands back Sybil's glass. "Drink up. Band's about to start."
-ooo-
The next week Tom gets a postcard. On the front is a view from the floor of the auditorium in the Grand Theatre, rows of gently shining bulbs climbing up to the ornate central chandelier. On the back is a terse message:
Tom -
I'm writing because when I saw you last week, I didn't say what I meant to. I don't want for you to think that I don't realise I wronged you, or that I'm not sorry. I want you to know that I do, and I am.
Sybil
It doesn't give him as much satisfaction as he thought it would, an apology from her. The impersonal tone; the fact that it's tangled up in double negatives and mixed tenses: both lessen its impact. He keeps the card anyway.
-ooo-
Sybil settles into a rather ascetic lifestyle. Fall term starts near the end of August, and the final year is demanding, so she can't go out much if she wants to keep her marks high. She still volunteers at the clinic on a limited schedule, and whatever free time she doesn't spend studying is earmarked for the band. Practice and gigs are some of the only times she even drinks. She's surprised-and not displeased-when it occurs to her in mid-October that she hasn't been drunk since summer. She falls into bed exhausted almost every night, too busy even to think of men or sex very often, let alone pursue them. Even her hurt over Tom fades into a background ache. Alec rotates out of her hospital at the end of summer, and despite being as over Tom as she thinks she ever will be, she does not ring him.
She feels like she's in a holding pattern until she graduates. She doesn't want to go into public health administration; she'd rather be a nurse. But that would mean throwing away half her degree and going back to school, and that's a paralyzing thought. So she makes no plans and applies for nothing. She starts entertaining the idea of concentrating on music more seriously, going on tour with the Rough Riders and maybe even finding another band. She begins noodling around on her acoustic during spare moments at home, coming up with chord progressions, humming and then singing countermelodies. Writing lyrics; dismissing them as the immature ramblings of a naive little girl; tearing them out of her notebook and crumpling them up. Writing more.
Anna invites her over for dinner one weekday evening. Sybil's met Anna's fiance before-she and Anna have visited him at the pub several times-but he's either been asleep or at work whenever she's gone to their house. John Bates is several years older than Anna and rather handsome despite his mildly pockmarked skin. Sybil likes him: he's as reserved as Anna is bubbly, but has a subtle sense of humor and a kind smile. They're obviously gone on each other, constantly exchanging little touches and in-jokes, but they're one of those couples who manages to make the third wheel feel welcome.
Sybil arrives at their house early and the three of them hang out companionably in the kitchen, Anna and Sybil drinking wine and eating cheese, giving bits of it to the cat, while John stirs bolognese at the stove. Sybil inquires about their wedding plans ("Anything with the word 'wedding' anywhere near it costs ten times as much," Anna complains) and John asks Sybil how school is going ("I'll be done in May. That's how").
The telephone rings as they're dishing out the salad. "Don't touch that," John snaps before Anna can do more than twitch towards it. Sybil looks at the table, uncomfortable. She's never even seen the two of them disagree before, much less heard him use such a sharp tone.
"It's her, isn't it?" Anna's voice is tense.
"I'd wager so, yeah. She was ringing and hanging up all day while you were at work."
"Who's this?" Sybil ventures, once the phone stops ringing.
Anna sighs and rolls her eyes. "John's ex heard he was getting married and decided she wanted him back, or if she couldn't have him back, to make his life miserable. She's mounted a... a campaign of harassment."
Sybil just nods.
"You know, it's only a matter of time before she shows up here," Anna tells her fiance. "She'd better hope I'm not here when she does."
John smiles tightly. "I rather hope you are. I'd quite like to see that."
"I'm serious. Fucking Vera." Anna spits out the name with more venom than Sybil has ever heard in her voice.
The phone begins to ring again, and everyone at the table stiffens. Anna jumps up and rips the cord out of the jack. "Well, she won't ruin our dinner," she says briskly, forcing a smile, taking a gulp of her wine before she sits back down.
But a pall has settled over the room. Sybil's mind turns to love gone wrong and all its repercussions. She supposes she's lucky: Tom could be ringing her every twenty minutes. She could be the one calling, the one who can't let go. That would be worse in a way. She almost feels sorry for Vera, the unwanted one, whoever she is.
"So you're coming in to lay down tracks Friday and Saturday, then?" Anna asks brightly. Sybil nods; she's booked studio time for the Rough Riders. "I'm on those days, so I'll probably be in there with you. Adjusting mics and getting water for the engineer." She rolls her eyes.
John squeezes her hand. "They'll have you be lead on something soon."
"Not bloody likely," Anna scoffs.
"They will on our demo, if I ask them to," Sybil says. "Won't they?"
"They might at that. You sure you trust me?" Anna raises her eyebrow and smiles.
"Of course. You've been working there ages, right? You've got to have learned something."
Anna punches her playfully. "Seriously, though, I'd love it if you did ask them."
"I'll ring tomorrow. I am a paying customer, after all." Sybil grins at her friend.
-ooo-
For his part, Tom does not live monkishly. He throws himself back into the band, into the scene. Sack Thatcher has been signed to a tiny label, a local one, not one of the ones they gave their demo in London. They book more gigs in Leeds and the surrounding area, record a set of songs for an EP that they'll put out after the new year. Tom goes out to see or play shows, drinking copiously and coming home to write furiously, still three-quarters pissed. He awakens hung over more often than not, his desk covered in typed paper with incomprehensible notes scribbled in the margins. He even keeps some of it.
Tom's editor at the Independent shuts him down on the IRA story-too much potential for blowback-but encourages him to keep contributing arts and culture stories and to dip into local politics. For now, it's enough. He finds that the more he writes about music, the more he likes it. Leeds has a fertile scene and he's got plenty of connections.
He strikes up a with-benefits arrangement with a girl named Lila, a leggy brunette who's even less interested in a serious relationship than he is: he only ever hears from her after eleven. She rings once or twice a week to summon him over. She's told him in passing about her fiance, an army sergeant stationed in Belfast. The irony is not lost on either of them. He still thinks of Sybil more than he wants to. It usually happens in the space between three and six lagers, so he tries to close that gap quickly, with a few more for good measure: otherwise he'll do something stupid like ring her up at one in the morning. He thinks of his father, how at his age Bill was probably also honing his drinking skills to a sharp point, the better with which to gut himself. Tom can't bring himself to care much. He's bleeding coping.
One morning early in autumn he wakes up, head splitting, to find his room festooned with torn-out cassette ribbon and a screed in his journal detailing his and Sybil's relationship in fabulously inebriated fashion: lots of all-caps and profanity. He hadn't even realized he still had that mixtape.
-ooo-
Even though it's a Sunday, Sybil makes an exception to her informal no-going-out-and-getting-arsed rule for Halloween. There's always a show somewhere in which local bands channel famous classic ones, learning their songs and dressing the part, and it's loads of fun. This year it's Gang of Four opening for The Clash... who just happen to be played by Sack Thatcher.
It's fairly easy for Sybil to rationalize going. Her friends will be there; it'll be a good show; it's bloody Halloween, and what else is she going to do-dress up as a sexy witch and go to Hard Rock Cafe to get hit on by tourists? And after all, it's been ages and she's over him! Really.
Still, she arrives late to minimize the potential for awkwardness. When she and Gwen and Ethel come in everyone's already bouncing around to the opener-of course the Leeds kids know every Gang of Four single. Ethel's still staying impressively sober, but she orders a Guinness: to celebrate the Rough Riders' successful recording session, she says. Gwen and Sybil get liquor drinks and Sybil's done with hers in record time. Apparently my nerves need a bit of steadying, she thinks sardonically, winding her way back to the bar. So far, however, the coast seems clear of Tom or any of his fellow band members.
The three of them talk band business. They've still got to lay down vocals and mix the recording, not to mention mastering and duplication and deciding what they'll do with the thing once it's done.
Sack Thatcher comes on stage and it's amazing: they're almost unrecognizable. The swagger, the clothes, even the hair (did he bleach it? Sybil wonders), are all exact copies of the source material. And that's before they even start playing.
They launch into "I'm So Bored with the U.S.A." and the room goes wild. Most of the set is drawn from the Clash's early records, though they do play "Rock the Casbah," to the crowd's delight. Doug, playing rhythm guitar, actually does a decent mimicry of Joe Strummer, and of course Hinksy throws himself utterly into becoming Mick Jones.
Sybil's tipsy enough to join the dancing throng before the stage for a while, but not enough to get right up front. When they start "The Guns of Brixton"-Tom's singing voice sounds nothing like Paul Simonon's, which isn't a bad thing-she withdraws to the edge of the room, even though she knows he won't see her from the stage, not in this packed crowd. Watching instead of dancing makes her reflective. Halfway through "Train in Vain" she thinks Tom should be singing this and suddenly the pub seems terribly crowded and smoky and so she fights her way to the door and outside onto the pavement.
The air's clearer out here. A sprinkling of stars struggles through the light beating up against the sky from the city, and Sybil leans against the side of the building and looks up at them. She fights against the certainty that she's a horrible person. "You didn't stand by me / No not at all..." She knows that the letter she sent him wasn't even close to adequate. But there are only so many words that can be said about a thing, and it will have to be enough.
She considers just walking home, but it's a lonely thought and she shakes it out of her head. She came out tonight to have fun and be around people, and that's what she's determined to do. So she goes back inside.
She runs into Gwen, looking for her. "I thought you'd left!" Gwen shouts over the music. "Are you all right?" Sybil nods and mimes tipping a glass into her mouth, the universal signal for "I need another bloody drink." Gwen follows her to the bar and they drink shots. Ethel has vanished, but Sybil's feeling soft enough around the edges to take an optimistic view of the situation. She's probably not doing coke in the toilet, Sybil thinks, giggling a little. She could be out shagging someone in a car.
Their frontwoman is still not back by the time Clash Thatcher finishes their set, and Sybil's getting a bit concerned. She checks the toilets, just in case-no Ethel. She goes outside and walks around the building to the car park, surprising a group of kids passing around a joint, but not finding Ethel. Sybil heads inside to check once more before giving her up... and there she is, perched at the bar with a pint. Surrounded by members of The Clash.
Sybil quickly picks out Tom leaning on the bar on the far side of Doug, with whom Ethel's flirting madly. The frontman looks gobsmacked at his borrowed sex appeal. Gwen's there too, on Ethel's near side; Sybil goes and sits next to her, commenting into her ear, "I think our Joe Strummer's going to wear that leather jacket every night for the rest of his life!"
Gwen glances over and giggles. "It does look pretty good on him," she admits.
"We should do this next year! Play a show as The Runaways or something. We'd have more offers than we knew what to do with," Sybil half-jokes, and they both laugh uproariously. She glances up in time to see Tom's gaze flick over to her in the bar mirror. She catches his eye and widens her smile, which had been fading, and nods to him. It's enough to break the ice. He sidles over, can in hand, to say hello. He's a bit blurred as well, Sybil notices; it probably accounts for the lack of awkwardness. He's obviously feeling good: playing a show that goes well is as much a high as any drug.
"I didn't know you could sing so well," she says to him.
"There's a lot you don't know about me," he replies easily. Flirtatiously, she'd think if she didn't know better. Which she reminds herself that she does, despite the warmth in the slightly bloodshot eyes pinning her to her barstool. "So what are you supposed to be?" He asks, indicating her costume. It's not much of one: a form-fitting long-sleeved black shirt and trousers, hair skinned back, black eyeliner sweeping out towards her temples.
"I'm a cat burglar," Sybil tells him. "I didn't feel like putting in a lot of effort." That makes him laugh. She'd forgotten what a nice smile he has. Her stomach twists a little and her face starts to prickle, so she smiles back hard and dumps the last of her drink into her mouth, sucking liquid out of the ice. "That was a smashing set," she says.
"Thanks. When are youse playing again?" He waves a hand to encompass the three Rough Riders lined up at the bar. They've got a show next week, though as it turns out Sack Thatcher is playing somewhere else the same night. Tom promises he'll come to the next one; Sybil wonders if he actually might.
Tom notices his bandmates drifting away. "Well," he says, "see you soon."
"See you," she replies blandly, and he moves off. She watches him go sidewise, reflecting that Doug is not the only one who looks good in close-fitting jeans and a leather jacket.
Gwen, who's been studiously involved in talking to Ethel, looks back at Sybil. "Nice to see you two getting on so well," she remarks.
Sybil shrugs. "No point in us hating each other, is there?"
-to be continued-
Appendix E: Halloween 1993 setlists
Gang of Four
Natural's Not in It
I Found That Essence Rare
Not Great Men
What We All Want
Outside the Trains Don't Run on Time
Contract
Anthrax
Capital
Ether
Damaged Goods
Clash Thatcher
I'm So Bored with the U.S.A.
Safe European Home
Lost in the Supermarket
Complete Control
Rock the Casbah
The Guns of Brixton
Clash City Rockers
Janie Jones
White Man in Hammersmith Palais
Guns on the Roof
Train in Vain
Career Opportunities
Tommy Gun
Jail Guitar Doors
London Calling