“Good evening,” she shouts.
“We have to stop meeting like this!” I laugh, but when she leans forward indicating that she can’t hear I simply shrug to show that it is of no importance.
The music is cheesy house and the dance-floor has divided into two distinct zones. The muscle boys at the far end, and everyone else, the trannies, the girly-boys and the fully clothed on our side, near the bar.
Tom touches my shoulder and leans into my ear. “So?” he asks.
I nod. “I said! You’re right.”
He shakes his head. “The skin cream?” he asks.
I laugh again. “I don’t know!” I say. “I forgot.”
He pouts petulantly.
“He’s a twat though,” I say.
Tom nods.
“Disappointing,” I add.
I dance half-heartedly and watch Belinda grooving her hips until the DJ fades into a track I know, Late Night Alumni’s Empty Streets. I start to groove seriously and watch as Tom and Belinda do the same.
When a hand touches my shoulder, I turn. It’s Jimmy grinning stupidly at me. I pucker my brow in surprise, unsure how to react.
“Hey,” he shouts, addressing me, then Tom. “Is that true?”
Tom dances forwards and smiles at him. “What?” he asks.
“Did this twat bet? Did he bet that I’m not me?” Jimmy says.
Tom laughs and nods his head exaggeratedly, in time with the music.
Jimmy slaps me on the back and laughs. “OK, sorry mate,” he says. “I thought you were taking the piss.”
I shake my head and smile back.
Jimmy nods. “That’s cool,” he grins with an exaggerated nod. “That’s really cool.”
I nod.
“Hey man!” he laughs. “I’m made up,” he says. “I’m really made up!”
Still grinning, he grooves through the crowd and takes up position at the shoreline, where the sea of semi-naked muscle-bunnies meets the land of the clothed.
Tom leans towards me and says, “He isn’t made up. He’s off his fucking head!”
I nod. “Yeah, he seems cool though.”
I glance across the dance-floor and Jimmy gives me a grin and a thumbs-up.
The music shifts and speeds. A laser creates a green ceiling of light just above our heads.
Cigarette smoke swirls, caught in the light like clouds in a fast-forward sky. People lift their hands, irresistibly drawn to break the beam.
Belinda grooves ever more seriously and starts to pout. Actually, I realise, she is starting to gurn, starting to produce the strange lip movements that go with ecstasy.
I wipe my brow.
“Fucking hot!” Tom shouts.
“Take your top off!” I say, hopefully thinking of the swirling hair on his chest.
He shakes his head and nods towards the muscle boys. “Too much competition!” he says.
A jet of dry ice fills the air, and momentarily everyone disappears. The green laser ceiling becomes a brilliant swirling mass.
As the fog fades, I see that Belinda has Tom’s T-shirt. She’s waving it above her head.
Jimmy reappears through the mist, I watch him dance and flashback to the Small Town Boy video clip. I realise that he still moves the same way; still makes the tight little digging movements of the eighties.
That song! It defined a new era. An era when an out and out gay record could feasibly become a major hit. What optimism that simple success gave us.
People are moving from the bar to the dance floor, squashing us ever closer. Tom’s chest is tantalisingly close. I let my arm brush against his skin.
He moves towards me and lays a hand across my back and shouts, “Stop it!” in my ear.
I’m amazed that he has noticed. I shake my head and decide to bluff. “Stop what?”
Tom steps backwards and starts to dance, starts to do the same little digging movement with his arms.
“That!” he shouts, nodding towards Jimmy. “He’ll realise!”
I grin dumbly. It’s true. I’ve reverted to my 80’s college dance, the Jimmy Somerville chicken wing. I make an “oops” face and force myself into a different movement; but it’s surprisingly hard.
A bare-chested guy pushes towards me from my right and then elbows me out of the way. He inserts himself into the space between Tom and myself.
I feel irritated, but I look at the shape of his arse, the smooth back descending into low cut blue jeans, and decide it’s not so bad.
I glance up at Tom, try to catch his eye, but he’s not impressed. In fact, he’s frowning at him. I see that Belinda is glaring too, and moving forwards.
Then I see the man lean towards Tom, see him start to speak. My antenna is registering trouble, something about the man’s stance, the way he’s stretching his shoulders, spreading his feet, making himself look bigger, like a cat arching its back.
He reaches out and blocks Belinda’s path with his left arm. Tom’s face shifts to an expression of outrage; Belinda knocks his hand away and steps forward again. In her boots she’s actually a good four inches taller than him.
“Why don’t you fuck off to the children’s corner,” I hear her say.
The man pushes her sideways with his arm. He pushes her hard and she totters and wobbles in her high heels. For a moment it looks as if she has found her feet, and she sways in a circular motion, seemingly finding her centre of gravity. But then she teeters backwards once again and collapses into the crowd.
“I wouldn’t fuck you if you begged me,” the guy spits. “You fat bastard!”
A clearing is forming around us. Tom shakes his head, his mouth open, apparently lost for words.
Unsure how to react, I move towards Tom’s side, but the guy blocks my path with his right arm, knocking me backwards.
People have stopped dancing, most are watching the dispute, some look concerned, some amused, excited by the action.
Belinda reappears and she’s crimson with anger. She pushes between Tom and his aggressor and points a finger at the man’s chest. “Honey,” she says. “You so need to fuck off.”
“Who the fuck are you?” the guy shouts.
“And perlease, get a plastic surgeon on those ears!” she laughs.
He lurches towards her, but as he raises his arm, as he moves his hand back to punch her, his elbow sweeps an arc only inches from my face, and without thinking, I grab it, spoiling his swing.
He shakes me free and using his left hand instead, places his hand, fingers stretched, across Belinda’s face. In an obscene gesture he simply pushes her from the picture.
Tom looks around, and apparently seeing someone he knows, shouts, “Do something! Get the fucking bouncer!”
The guy has now turned to face me. I note he has a scar across his forehead.
“Another one!” he says. “Who the fuck are you?”
I get my first glimpse of his blue eyes. They hold a bottomless rage, a deep unhappy drunken madness I’ve seen somewhere before. And I know that there’s no clever answer, no easy way to stop this spiral of violence. He’s out of control.
I swallow hard and instinctively pull my glasses from my nose, and slide them into my shirt pocket. But just as I stretch my neck, just as I prepare my body for action, the music stops and the dance floor is drenched in a blinding white light.
Momentarily distracted, the guy glances left and right, then a huge bouncer – with arms the thickness of my waist – pushes me out of the way and grabs him by the shoulder. He looks like Steve, the bouncer from the Jerry Springer show; in fact the whole scene looks pretty much that way.
“Enough!” he shouts.
The guy points at Tom accusingly. “He started it! That fucker there!” he says.
The bouncer nods at a colleague who grabs Tom’s shoulder. “OK, you too,” he says.
Tom shakes his head. “Me?” he says, looking desperately to me for support.
“He’s not…” I start, but the bouncer is ignoring me.
> I touch him lightly on the shoulder, something he doesn’t like at all. He turns jerkily and glares at me.
“Get your fucking hands off me!” he says.
I lift my hand. “Sorry! I say. “But he didn’t start this.”
Belinda steps forward. “It’s not our problem,” she says, “It’s the prick with the big ears.”
Big Ears lurches towards her again but the bouncer grabs him by both shoulders and pulls him back.
The security staff look at one another, and, seemingly having communicated without words, the first one reaches for my shoulder and the second places a hand behind Belinda, pushing her forwards.
“OK, all four of you then. Out!” the first one says.
“No way José!” Belinda shrieks, prising off his hand, “Fuck you!”
A third guy appears wearing a headset. “What’s happening here?” he says.
Tom, Belinda and Big Ears all shout at the same time. The result is an incomprehensible cacophony of shrieking.
I turn to look at the guy with the headset, but he is leaning listening to someone, to Jimmy. He nods as he listens and then glances up, first at Belinda, and then at me.
He leans towards the big bouncer, says something low, something inaudible. Again, the two staff stare at each other, and then in a single movement, they release Tom and Belinda before grabbing Tom’s aggressor and bustling him towards the door.
“I’ll fucking ‘ave you!” the guy shouts, as the two men literally carry him up the stairs.
I catch Jimmy’s eye. As he slips back into the crowd, he winks at me.
The lights start to dim again. Tom pulls on his T-shirt. He looks pale and ghost-like.
“Shall we fuck off as well?” he asks.
Belinda who is still red faced, forces a smile. “Hey, come on boys,” she says. “We’re a team!”
She feigns holding a gun in the air and says, “Charlie’s Angels, look out!”
Tom grins weakly.
“Anyway, Tom!” she says. “You don’t want to leave yet. Let them get rid of Big Ears first.”
The man with the headset steps up to Tom, leans into his ear and says something before readjusting his headset and walking away.
Tom shrugs at me. “Might as well stay,” he says.
I reach in my pocket for my glasses and realise my hand is trembling. “Well, actually I could do with a stiff drink,” I say, glancing at the bar.
Tom smiles weakly. “Well, that’s a happy coincidence,” he says. “The owner just offered us a free bar.”
Belinda pouts and wiggles her shoulders as she gets back into her role. “Hon,” she says. “Never refuse a blow job, and never refuse a free drink. Mine’s a double Bacardi. With Coke.”
Tom sighs and nods at me. “You?”
I shrug. “I’ll come with you,” I say.
People are moving back onto the floor, but still talking a lot about the incident, still sneaking surreptitious glances at us.
Tom pulls his T-shirt down and we push through to the bar. He glances down at himself and tugs on the T-shirt again.
“You look fine,” I say.
He smiles. “I shouldn’t let it get to me,” he says with a shrug.
“Is he the guy you had trouble with earlier?” I ask.
Tom nods. “I refused to sleep with him. It was ages ago though…”
“Well, you’re in a relationship,” I say. “It’s not even like it’s an insult…”
“No,” Tom interrupts. “This was even before Antonio. I refused him because he’s a cunt.”
I grimace.
Tom nods. “No he is. He’s a bare-backing, bug infecting, evil fuck.”
I frown. “Another bare-backer?”
Tom nods and laughs angrily. “Yeah, right. And guess who his best mate is?”
I shake my head.
“That evil fuck you were talking to in Legends.”
I nod. “You already knew that guy then?”
Tom nods agitatedly. “Yeah. Those two fucks wanted to share their gift with me.”
I shake my head. “That’s crazy. That whole scene is madness.”
“So now, every time I see him he says something insulting, something about how unattractive I’m looking. The tosser.”
I rub Tom’s shoulder. “Poor Tom,” I say.
Tom sighs again. “Yeah, well, as I say. I shouldn’t let it get to me.”
I shake my head. “Nah,” I say. “You really shouldn’t. You’re the sexiest guy here.”
Tom laughs.
I nod. “You are.”
Tom laughs again. “You’re not coming on to me now are you?” he says, the rage in his eyes fading, the twinkle returning.
I give a little laugh. “If you were single I would,” I tell him. “If you were single, I think I would do everything I could possibly think of to come on to you.”
Tom breaks into a grin, and then turns to the barman and orders.
As we wait for the drinks, he says, “You know what?”
I shake my head and raise an eyebrow. He smiles, stares into my eyes, and blinks very slowly. It’s the same expression my cat makes when I speak to her.
“If I was single, I’d let you,” he says.
I smile sadly at him. “Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
Profound Discoveries
When I eventually leave the club, the owner pats me on the back.
“I’m really sorry about before,” he says. “I didn’t know you were Jimmy’s mate.”
I nod at him, fraudulently thinking, “I’m not.” I can feel myself swaying slightly and I wish he would just open the door.
“No problem,” I say. “And thanks for the drinks,” I add.
He pushes the door, forcing against the small crowd gathered outside.
I gasp. Rain is plummeting from the sky. A wall-to-wall sheet of rain.
“Jesus!” I exclaim. “When did that happen?”
“That’s why we call it Storm!” the owner laughs.
A man with a shaved head and bushy eyebrows turns to me and shakes his head. “Dunno where it came from,” he says. “But I ain’t going anywhere till it stops.”
I regretfully glance behind me at the staircase, but the door closes pushing me into the group.
I hesitate for a moment considering my options: return to the club, stand here, get soaked… But then a huge drip lands on my temple.
I steel myself and push through. “Make way!” I shout.
“You’re bloody mad mate,” laughs the guy with the eyebrows.
It’s warm, and for a moment, the rain actually feels pleasant.
The 4am streets are deserted and the street is filled with white noise, the hammering, rushing, gushing of rain hitting cars, tarmac and me. Water is sliding down streets, bubbling out of blocked drains, and gushing in glassy sheets over the edges of gutters.
I head to the seafront, skirting along side walls trying to avoid the worst of it, but it’s pointless and by the time I get to the end of the tiny street I am already drenched; my shirt is clinging to my torso and my feet are squelching in my trainers, producing foaming squeegee bubbles with every pace.
I run across the road and stare briefly at the pier, ignoring, then actually starting to revel in the rain.
An occasional wind is gusting salt towards me, and the street-lamps are dappled by the halo of falling rain.
I turn my face skywards and open my mouth, then turn and start to walk briskly homeward.
Rain is trickling down my back; it’s the only unpleasant sensation it’s creating, but it makes me shiver, so I start to walk faster, then break into a jog.
It’s a peculiar feeling jogging, and I realise that I haven’t run anywhere for years, probably not since my twenties.
As I run, as I watch the rain falling past the sodium streetlamps as I see it rhythmically squelch and squirt away from my feet as they hit the pavement I start to feel high.
I run past a set of traffic lights and see the reflecti
ons on the tarmac shift from green to yellow to red. I stare out at the sea and laugh a little madly, a slight note of hysteria entering my voice.
The intensity of the rain increases, and I grin at the thought that it is truly madness to be out in this. It’s like standing in a shower cubicle fully clothed. I get lost in the sensations of my feet in their watery housings, at the feeling of the water trickling down my face, over my lips.
A song from the nightclub slips into my mind and I start to hum, then sing the words as I run. “I’m alive, and it’s amazing, I’m gonna let my joy shine out…” I sing breathlessly.
Is it the evening with Tom, or the words he said? Is it a chemical phenomenon caused by beer, or adrenaline or endorphins? Could it be atmospheric: the moon, the rain, or positive ions? I don’t know where the feeling comes from, but I don’t remember ever having been happier. My brain is united with my body; I feel thoroughly wholly me, not only present in my mind, but in my hands, my chest, my pounding feet.
I’m grinning madly and my eyes are wet and salty and the world is wet and salty with sea and spray and rain, and together we are one, we are good, and it is wonderful.
I arrive at the house panting madly and stand for a final moment outside the house, wondering again where it appeared from, wondering how the weather can move from a clear moonlit night to a downpour in a couple of hours, then I push in through the door and close it behind me, silencing the madness of it all.
I take off my shoes in the hall. In the lounge I realise that my jeans are still dripping, so I take them off and put them in the kitchen sink.
Halfway up the stairs, I drunkenly pull off my shirt and hang it over the banister.
In the bathroom, I lean against the white tiles and stand beneath the boiling water of the shower for what seems like a few seconds. Only when the water runs cold do I wake up and cut the flow.
As I step from the shower I slip and steady myself by hanging onto the curtain, but it comes away in my hand. I giggle, pull a towel from the rail and drop the curtain on the floor.
I stumble into my room and am about to throw myself on the bed when I see Jenny. She’s sleeping on her back and her mouth is wide open and for some reason this strikes me as hilariously funny.
Sottopassaggio Page 12
