Rock n Roll Babes from Outer Space by Linda Jaivin Page B

his fingers, knuckling his head and making popping noises with his mouth. The twins were nothing if not percussive. They were Bosnia’s rhythm section. Tristram played bass and Torquil played drums. Sometimes Torquil played bass and Tristram played drums. In fact, they could play anything. Their bodies, plate-glass windows, the lids of garbage bins, lamp posts, the top of twelve-year-old heads. And they did. By the time they finished, passersby, including the boy’s mother, had thrown $6.35 in change at their feet. ‘Easy as,’ remarked Tristram as they advanced on their favourite Leb-roll shop with a bouncing gait, counting the coins as they went.
    Soon, Torquil was wiping chilli sauce from his mouth with the back of his hand and Tristram was munching down the last of a felafel roll. ‘What’s the time?’ asked Torquil.
    Tristram glanced at his watch. It was twenty past three. ‘Late as,’ he accused.
    ‘Well get a move on then, you slacker bastard.’ Torquil flicked the boa at Tristram. ‘So what did Jake have to say for himself, disappearing like that last night? What happened to him? Or should I say,
who
happened to him?’
    ‘It was aliens, apparently.’ Tristram raised an eyebrow.
    ‘You mean aliens as in foreigners?’ Torquil was confused.
    ‘No. Aliens as in
doodoodoodoo doodoodoodoo
.’ Tristram sang the Twilight Zone theme.
    ‘Aliens as in
doodoodoodoo doodoodoodoo
?’
    ‘Aliens as in
doodoodoodoo doodoodoodoo.
He says they performed sexual experiments on him.’ Tristram drew a circle around his ear with a finger, the yoonal sign for loopy as.
    ‘Yeah, right,’ Torquil laughed. ‘That’s one thing I don’t get about aliens,’ he said. ‘Why would they come all the way to Earth for that? Don’t they get enough sex in outer space? Oh, g’day George.’ They came to a halt in front of where George stood belly-bent over his treasure trove. ‘Watcha got there?’
    ‘Tummy toners. Which one are you?’
    ‘Torq. Torquil.’
    ‘Right,’ George pointed a fat finger at each in turn. ‘Torquil. Blue. Tristram. Purple. When you’re not colour coded anybody tell you apart?’
    ‘Nup. Not even us,’ conceded Torquil cheerfully.
    ‘Every time I begin to develop a bit of individual personality,’ complained Tristram, ‘he just turns to me, inhales hard and
whoop
there it goes. Sucked right up through his nostrils and into the bloodstream. Then it’s, like, his too. Spooky.’
    ‘Bullshit,’ argued Torquil, punching his brother lightly on the arm. ‘That’s you. The human hoover.’
    Slowly polishing a machine part with a greasy rag, George studied the twins. Tristram was wearing a frock again. Interesting. They’d once told him their father was Egyptian. Later, in one of his books, George read that Egyptians traditionally believed that twins were connected somehow to the star Sirius.
    ‘Do you two ever think about aliens?’ George ventured.
    Torquil glanced at Tristram. What was this? International Alien Week? ‘All the time, George,’ he said,straight-faced. ‘As a matter of fact, we’re right into aliens at the moment. Jake was apparently kidnapped by some last night.’
    If George had had any hair left on his head, it would have stood on end.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Torq! Trist! Get your fucken arses over here!’ Jake’s voice thundered across the yard from next door. ‘Chop chop.’
    That tattoo. George was about to say something when Tristram cut him short.
    ‘Gotta go,’ Tristram shrugged. ‘Catch ya next time, George.’
    ‘Yeah,’ said Torquil. ‘Dad’s calling.’ Taking his brother’s hand, they turned and skipped off home.
    George sat down on the ground with a thump. It was all happening. He was sure of it.

    The babes were now approaching the eternally popular Cafe Da Vida, its latte-laden tables spilling out onto the pavement, its customers jargling and laughing, plotting and scheming. At this particular cafe, nearly everyone was an aspiring, has-been or even