For a Song [#Wattys 2015]

Chapter 10

Hilly

So let's just say that things between Dylan Dorian and I were not off to a great start. Really, he would have been well within his rights to leave me to get home by myself, crushed bike or no crushed bike. And I would have been well within my rights to strap him down to a chair with a bright light shined on him like in the movies, yelling I know you stole the song, dammit, just confess. But perhaps we could be reasonable about this. That's what I'd intended right? When I'd employed the help of Phil the lawyer to draft a letter for me. Of course I'd blown that avenue somewhat now because of all the yelling I'd done last night. But I could be cool. I could be reasonable.

"I don't know Bristol very well," Dylan Dorian said gruffly. "Mum doesn't moor here often, so I'll need to you to guide me..err...what was your name again?"

"Hilly."

"Hilly?"

"Yeah," I said defensively. "That's my name. It's a name."

"Short for?"

"I'm five six, it's a reasonable height," was my cagey answer. I was always slightly cagey when getting on the subject of my full name. Another disservice my parents had done me early in life. "Hilly is fine."

"Okay, Hilly, well if you could give a little help."

"Head towards the uni. We're just across the downs, in Clifton- it's near the halls of residence. And there's no point pretending to me. I know what you did," I said the minute I got in the camper van. Oops. There went cool and reasonable.

The van smelled like the houseboat. Weed and scented candles abound. Perhaps that could explain why Dylan Dorian's mother was so chilled out about having random, seemingly crazy people in her house. She simply lived in a constant state of highness from the fumes radiating off of the furniture. It's not like houseboats are particularly roomy or known for the quality of the air flow.

The engine roared to life as Dylan Dorian sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes before saying in a tired voice,"Just drop it, now. There's no one else around."

"You drop it," I countered while the van pulled out of the Marina and I guided him along the street.

"I don't need to drop anything."

It's bad but I felt a bit of a thrill when he sniffed in sharply and his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. I was getting to him- deep down beneath that butter wouldn't melt exterior I had managed to touch a nerve. I'd rattled him. I could crack him, if I pushed hard enough. I was sure I could.

"Yes you do!"

"No. I. don't!"

Though I stuck my chin out at him, truth be told I was weary. Righteous fury took it out of me- though I know it doesn't seem like it. From my behaviour you might assume that I do this all the time, yell and get drunk. You might think that, yeah, I really must be crazy and all those other things I'll be painted as. But ordinarily I'm not. Ordinarily I'm the sort of quiet person who takes things on the chin. Who would never ever be in a car with Dylan Dorian of all people, talking back, being an asshole. But there was a variable. And the variable was my sister. "Tell the truth," I demanded.

Maybe if it was my song I wouldn't have even cared. But it wasn't my song. And it sure as hell wasn't his either.

"You want the truth?" said Dylan Dorian. "Fine. Here's the truth...." My breath caught in my throat as I thought, finally, I was getting somewhere. That there and then I would get the validation I'd been so desperate for.

"For A Song was written in a hotel in Nova Scotia. We'd just done a shitty show with a shitty audience-they kept saying, play Rivers and Rocks. Do Rivers! Do it! Christ, I was so sick of Rivers and Rocks. But I would have done it, just to hear them applauding us again. Jon kept trying to push the new material even though it was bombing and I was pissed at him. And this girl I... I" he stopped short, almost embarrassed. Not a look that suited him, not very Dylan Dorian at all. "I was just pissed at everyone," he recovered.

"Anyway, Jon got wasted, came into my shitty hotel room and said we were on our way out. It was all gonna be over soon and all anyone would ever ever want us to play was Rivers and Rocks. And I believed it that night. The band was dying. And Jon and me sat down and wrote For a Song. Because we needed one," he looked at the road and murmured wistfully. "So badly."

I listened to the cascade of bullshit tumble out of his throat, marvelling at how good a performance he gave, wrinkling up his brows, voice going heavy in the appropriate places. It was damn believable, an audience might have loved it. But I was not sold, not one bit. "That's a good story. I bet your fans lapped it up."

"Actually, we've never told anyone about that. Shit," he cursed under his breath and let out a bitter laugh as he turned to me. "Well there's an exclusive for you. Why don't you just sell that now and be happy you got a bone?"

"Maybe I will," I said snottily, though I knew I wouldn't. That wasn't what I was after- I just wanted to rile him up even further, make him as frustrated and broken as I felt. Not just about the theft but about deeper things too, that I didn't talk about so that I could pretend they weren't there. "Spirit."

Another nerve, "Don't call me that," snapped Dylan Dorian. "You don't get to call me my name. Only my friends call me my name. Only people who know me call me my name."

"Spirit is your name?" I laughed cruelly as this nugget slipped out. "Your actual name? I thought it was just something cute your Mum called you. Like...it was on the register at school and everything? Your teachers called you Spirit and you had to answer. And you made fun of my name..."

Dylan- Spirit- curled his lips up and stuttered messily," You...I...I I'm driving the car. I'm...famous," which sounded so pathetic when he actually had to say it. "You...shut up."

The drive wasn't that long as it turned out. For a city, Bristol is pretty small and it only took a short while before we approached my street. Our house was one of many brown townhouses in a neat little block, originally built in the late 18th century. Whatever fond memories I had of it, of playing in the green front garden, pinning butterflies to the windows and playing with my sister on the little balcony had long been erased and it no longer felt very much like home. Surprisingly, Dylan Dorian had an oddly negative reaction to it too.

"This is me," I announced and his lip curled again.

"Oh you've got to be kidding me!" he laughed bitterly again. "God you really are a piece of work."

"What's that now?" I snapped. Because that was really rich coming from him.

"This whole bit about the song? I thought it was because you needed money. I was almost feeling sorry for you to begin with. But I guess I was wrong because clearly your folks have enough of it."

I gaped. Why was he still doing this? Had he somehow actually managed to convince himself that he hadn't stolen my sister's song. Nevermind me being crazy, there was only one nutball in this van and he was called Spirit.

"So it was just an attention thing? Okay fine. You win. You got my attention. You got a car ride and I'll sign whatever you like and then you can go back to your sad little rich girl life and leave me the hell alone. I'm not afraid to take out a restraining order. I know how to get one."

"You are the worst person in the world," I told him in a low voice. "It's not my song. It's Izzy's song, my sister. She wrote it."

"Well that's impossible. My cousin and I wrote it. I remember, I was there. Look, have you stopped to think your sister is just having a joke on you?"

"She's not! She's dead!"

That stopped Dylan Dorian in his tracks pretty quickly. He pulled back to gape at me, at least having the grace to look like he was sorry for me. But then the look disappeared and he looked out at the house and away from me ,mumbling coldly, "How do I even know that's true?"

I was done. I couldn't put myself through the torture anymore. Savagely, I pulled open the door to the camper van, making sure to give it the loudest slam ever as he called, "You're welcome!"

"This isn't over," I screamed on my front path before he could leave. "You won't stop me, Spirit!"

"You really are just a nutter," he told me, shaking his head. "It's a real shame."

"Oh yeah, why's it a shame?"

"Because last night your version of the song was incredible."

And with that he pulled away.