by Cain Hopwood
Simon took a last scan around and everything looked ready. “OK guys, I’d say break a leg, but I think that’s already happened tonight so I’m not going to tempt fate.” That got a few smiles from the dancers, though Daryl didn’t respond to the quip. With nothing more to do Simon retreated to the wing to wait for the music to start.
Simon didn’t hear the scores that Izzy and Owen got, but he did hear the applause so they must have been good.
Once that had died down Alfie’s deep chocolaty voice came over the PA.
“Well folks, for our final contestant tonight we have a very special treat for you. Not only is our last dance the argentine tango, the dance of passion, but our celebrity will be dancing with his partner for the very first time. Somewhere in this audience is his partner. He has never even laid eyes on her, she could even be sitting right next to you.”
Alfie paused and Simon could imagine the spotlight searching the audience.
“For that my friends is the beauty of the tango. Even two people who have never danced together can still make pulses race, and temperatures rise.” Right on cue the curtain slid back, the lights came up, and the first notes of Hernando’s Hideaway launched from the PA.
Jade had chosen that piece of music very carefully. Not only was it instantly recognisable as tango. But the Galah school musical last year had been The Pyjama Game. She’d figured that at least all the mums and dads in the audience would be familiar with that particular song.
The couples on stage with Daryl had started to act their parts, and as the first one began to walk off into the opposite wing Simon snuck a look out at the audience from his wing to see where Daryl’s partner was. It was hard to see past the lights, but the half of the audience that he could see were all still sitting down.
They were now ten seconds into the number, and the second couple were preparing to leave. She should have been onstage now making her way into ‘Hernano’s Hideaway’ but Simon couldn’t see anything. He caught the eye of the girl in the first couple, now offstage and watching the performance. “Where… is…she?” he mouthed.
She squinted and looked out from her wing. Then she turned back to Simon and held both hands palm upward as if to say, who knows.
Scenario’s spun through his head. Maybe Fay hadn’t instructed her before she’d left, maybe she’d tripped, maybe she was late. Then he realised that it didn’t matter what the reason was. They had to deal with the here and now, so with an effort, he pushed the rising panic to one side.
By now the third couple had left and the fourth were making to go. Soon Daryl would be completely alone on stage. She should have definitely been visible by now and sidling up to Daryl.
Time seemed to slow as Simon took stock of what he had to work with. Of the four couples in the wings he knew for a fact that none of those women could tango. They were all adult dancers from Fay’s jazz and tap classes. And, despite Jade’s attempts to create a tango scene in Galah, they’d never got the bug.
The final couple had now joined him in the wing, and Daryl was completely alone on stage. His mystery partner was nowhere to be seen. He turned to look at Simon and the look on his face nearly tore Simon’s heart in two. Simon felt like he’d just staked a puppy out in the searing midday sun with not so much as a bowl of water.
The intro drew to a close and as the words “Hernano’s Hideaway, Ole” thundered across the audience Simon made the call. He wasn’t going to let Daryl stand out there like a statue for the whole number. He couldn’t put a stop to the music but he could put Daryl out of his misery, and get him off the stage. Because, it didn’t look like he was going to leave on his own accord.
He gritted his teeth and walked on.
Eight quick steps had him at Daryl’s side. Daryl was still looking out into the audience, searching for a partner who Simon knew now would never come. He reached up to grab Daryl’s shoulder and take him offstage.
The moment Simon’s hand brushed Daryl’s shoulder, Daryl reacted as if he’d been touched by a live wire. He jumped and before Simon knew it Daryl had him locked in an embrace. His right arm was held straight out and Daryl had him around the waist with an iron like grip. Then, like an automaton he began moving through his routine.
Simon had no choice but to follow. Daryl might have been moving like a machine, but his leads were strong and obvious and, after a couple of bars, Simon found himself getting back into the flow of following tango. Simon wasn’t much of a follower. But, in the arms of someone with as much mass and muscle as Daryl, Simon could have been a shop mannequin and still make a good showing.
“Daryl, what are you doing?” he whispered.
Daryl was just staring over his shoulder with his mouth locked into a plastic stage smile that Fay would have been proud of.
“Daryl,” Simon hissed.
Then, as if in a daze Daryl looked down into Simon’s face and he seemed to come to. Without breaking step he blinked, focused, looked Simon straight in the eyes and recognition flooded across his face.
Then he stumbled, and Simon expected him to recoil at having another man in his arms. Simon started to fall backwards, but instead of letting him fall Daryl pulled him closer and picked up the routine again.
But now Daryl’s movements had intent, even passion. The robot of moments ago had shed its tin skin and a true tanguero had emerged. Again Simon had no choice but to follow. This time though it was because Daryl was dancing with him, focussed on him, and the feeling was exquisite. Within a couple of steps they had their mojo back and Simon began to feel like an extension of Daryl’s body.
Simon knew Daryl’s routine by heart, but only as an observer. And while that knowledge might have helped if Daryl were struggling, the connection they had was strong, so Simon just let himself go. He let Daryl draw him into a close embrace, and he surrendered to the dance.
Like a flat lined patient Simon observed himself as if from above. He saw himself doing ocho’s and giro’s and felt his leg flick up in gancho’s and boleos. But it wasn’t just him that was completely absorbed by the dance. Daryl was dancing in a way, and with an intent, that he’d never ever demonstrated in rehearsal. With all the pressure, the nerves and the audience watching, it was rare to see someone shine on stage so brightly that their rehearsals looked drab by comparison. But that is what Daryl did.
Unless, Simon thought, it wasn’t the stage. Maybe, just maybe, it was the partner.
And at the end of the number Simon had his answer. As the last notes of Hernano’s Hideaway faded they held a classic tango finishing pose. Simon’s leg was wrapped around Daryl’s in an enganche and they were nose to nose.
Then, Daryl turned his face ever so slightly and kissed Simon. It wasn’t a long drawn out tongues and all kiss, but it was no peck. And, in one beautiful moment, Simon understood exactly why Jade had never made any traction whatsoever in trying to bed Daryl.
Chapter Thirty-Four
There was just a single, solitary person clapping in the whole audience. But whoever they were they clapped, and clapped, and clapped. Simon looked out into the audience trying to squint past the lights. The only movement of any kind was on the judge’s table. And if the scrapes and bangs coming from the PA were any indication, it sounded like someone was trying to find a microphone.
“Brilliant, just bloody brilliant,” slurred Kristine into the mic.
“Bloody disgraceful is what it is,” said a loud belligerent voice from the audience. “I didn’t pay eighty bucks to see a couple of poofs get it on.”
Simon winced, but then he hardened his heart and stood just a little straighter.
A chair scraped.
And then another. People were getting to their feet, and Simon was fairly sure that it wasn’t because he and Daryl were about to receive a standing ovation.
“Sit down y’ ungrateful pricks. I’m giving it a ten.” Kristine fumbled with her score cards and dropped the mic making a bang like a gunshot.
The audience froze. Kristine held up
two cards, then bent over to speak in the mic, now rolling around on the table. “’n Fay gives y’ a ten too.”
“You can give it what you like you drunken slapper, but I’m giving that pathetic show the thumbs down,” said the unknown voice.
There must have been a microphone on somewhere near the heckler, maybe he was sitting near the video camera. From the stage Simon couldn’t identify who he was, nor where he was sitting. But however it happened, his words were carried outside to the tailgate party.
Even through the concrete walls of the hall Simon could hear the yelling as Muzza, and the Goats supporters outside, reacted to their beloved captain being called pathetic. From one of the judges they might have shrugged, grumbled and accepted it. Like a suspect call from a referee during a game. But to hear that from a mere spectator? Well that just wouldn’t do.
“Oh shit!” Kristine said, her mic still on, as the doors to the hall flew open with a bang so loud that it was probably heard down the road in Berooma.
Muzza, followed by a tidal wave of Goats players and supporters, entered the hall at a run. Chairs, tables waiters and security were all batted aside with equal disdain as he rounded the big concrete wall and skidded to a stop.
“Where’s the gutless fucker who said that?” bellowed the big ugly prop. The equally ugly crowd at his heels roared their support and the windows in the hall rattled.
“Who are you calling gutless you fat piece of shit,” yelled back the voice. As the heckler yelled out he took a couple of steps towards Muzza, and Simon recognised him from the pub. He was a shearer, or at least he drank with the shearers, and he was as big as Muzza. He was also well known for being regularly turfed out of the Galah pub for fighting. And, based on the number of big hats on the table, he had plenty of his shearing buddies with him. Not that it looked like he needed them.
Muzza’s lip curled up. “Jesus fucking Johnson, might’ve known. Surprised a big man like you is at a dance concert though, all dressed up too. Maybe you’re a fag yourself huh?”
Simon’s shoulders slumped.
“It’s OK, he’s just winding Jesus up,” Daryl whispered. “Muzza’s OK.”
The big shearer’s eyes grew round and his face went as red as a beetroot. “I’m…No…Fag,” he roared. To make the point clear he upended the table in front of him sending drinks, flowers and leftover bits of dessert crashing to the floor. The crowd parted like the red sea, leaving just one row of empty tables between Muzza and Jesus.
Muzza raised his fists. “Come on then you good for nothing lazy arse shearer.”
This wound Jesus up tighter than a tick on a pig’s tail. “Shearers? Lazy? Let’s get him boys.” And with that, he took a couple of steps forward and kicked over the one remaining table between him and Muzza.
Muzza was the kind of rugby player who was always ready to take the initiative. If he had to run straight into a wall of seven foot islanders, then that’s what he did. One, admittedly large, shearer was barely a challenge as far as Muzza was concerned.
So as soon as Muzza saw the barrier between them kicked aside he knew what to do. He lowered his head, and like one of Owen Melia’s prize bulls charged Jesus. He drove one shoulder into the big shearer’s ample gut and pushed. He drove Jesus back like he was trying to single handedly roll the Goats ruck over the Bush Pigs try line with only seconds till the full time whistle.
The speed and momentum of the charge caught Jesus completely by surprise. Arm’s flailing, he windmilled backwards under the assault. They barrelled into another table scattering empty bottles of VB all over the floor.
Both men went down and by the luck of the draw Muzza ended up on the bottom. Six and a half feet of shearer landing on top of him must have winded the big prop because he didn’t move. Not to miss an opportunity, Jesus started punching Muzza in the head. One, two, Jesus’s fist hammered home with a crunch that sounded like old Fatty’s cleaver slicing through a loin chop.
“Muzza!” Daryl yelled. He took two steps and leapt off the stage.
Daryl sailed through the air with the grace of a ballerina and landed on one of the tables abutting the stage. It was in the row that included the shearer’s table, and it shuddered under the impact of Daryl’s landing. But Daryl had hit the ground, or the table, running and before it could collapse he stepped to the next table, and then the next.
Of course his acrobatics didn’t come without consequence. With every step he took, wine glasses, beer bottles and half empty plates were scattered, smashed and sent spinning across the floor. And as he landed on the shearer’s table, he knocked over the vast numbers of rum and vodka bottles that they’d been drinking. Many of which weren’t empty.
Simon didn’t see exactly what happened then. He saw Daryl leap down off the table to Muzza’s rescue when a sheet of flame surrounded them. Thinking back later he figured it must have been a tea light igniting the spilt spirits.
Whatever the cause, the cheap paper tablecloths, some of which were soaked in OP rum lit up with a ferocity that caused Simon to take a couple of steps back. The fire seemed to leap from table to table, and the room filled with screams as the patrons made for the exits.
People recoiled from the fire, looking for any way out. But, with the stage left fire exit blocked by the newly erected green room platform, everyone on the stage side of the fire had nowhere to go.
So, instead of going out the door, they streamed up onto the stage itself. Before he knew it Simon was carried along with the teeming masses into the wings and out into the back stage area.
By the time he popped out the back stage door the fire in the main hall had reached furnace like temperatures. Tables, chairs, curtains and even the stage itself all fuelling the inferno.
Suddenly Simon thought about Daryl. He looked around, but tall though Daryl was, he was nowhere to be seen. Then Simon realised that the fire had started between them, so it was unlikely that Daryl had escaped by the back door. So he shouldered his way through the people milling outside and started making his way around to the front of the hall.
It wasn’t easy going. For one thing there was a fence blocking the way. And once he’d scaled that, he was in the car park which was full of cars, trucks, and frightened people. Everyone was going in the opposite direction to him. It seemed to be taking forever to push through the crowd. Off in the distance he could hear the sirens approaching.
He pushed harder giving up on any pretence of politeness and shouldered his way past the last of the fleeing patrons. Finally he caught his first glimpse of the front of the hall. The big glass doors were swinging on their hinges, and black acrid smoke was pouring out. A few last stragglers were staggering out of the doors. Amongst them, Simon caught a flash of green.
“Muzza!” Simon yelled, and ran over to the big prop. His Goats jersey was black with soot, and he was bent double coughing up a lung. “Are you OK? Where’s Daryl?”
“Don’t…know,” Muzza said between coughs.
Simon whipped his head back and forward trying to see Daryl, but all he could see were patrons. Even the CWA ladies all seemed to have fled the scene.
As he stood there wondering what to do the Galah fire engine came barrelling down the middle of the car park and skidded to a stop. The chief leapt from the cab and addressed the crowd.
“Right, everyone clear away. We’ve got to get hoses in here, and if you not injured, get out of the way. If you are injured, or you’re looking after someone who is, the ambulance is not far behind us. So sit tight.”
Simon sidestepped as the chief went bolting past to survey the scene. He turned and waved his crew forward and more firemen pushed past. Before he knew it Simon was pushed back into the crowd milling around the hall, and any chance of finding Daryl was lost.
Soltada
[sol-tah’-dah], (lit. “Released”).
A move in which the embrace is broken enabling the leader or follower to execute a figure on their own (such as a turn).
Chapter Thirty-Five
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Four people died in the fire. It was the worst death toll in a fire in living memory for Galah. The first victim was one of the CWA ladies, Glenys. She’d been backstage and had been knocked on the head by a falling prop in the stampede out. The second was a visitor from out of town, a friend of one of the Melia clan.
The last two victims were Jesus and Daryl. Simon had interviewed the fire chief the next day and, from what the chief could tell, they’d both died from smoke inhalation. Jesus’s leg had been broken, presumably by Daryl when he’d jumped off the table to Muzza’s rescue. The smoke had been so thick that they hadn't been able to find the exit.
They’d died right next to each other. Simon didn’t know exactly what to make of that. But he chose to believe that Daryl had been trying to help Jesus to the exit.
And that was how Simon wrote it up in the paper.
With everything that had happened the week had been a busy one. A good number of people had minor injuries, including Betty. She’d sucked back a couple of lungful’s of smoke before she could get out. She’d been on oxygen for twenty-four hours, and in hospital for most of the week. Bruce had been at her side the whole time, so it had fallen to Simon to produce the whole paper that week.
The funerals for the three local victims had been the following Thursday, and the whole town was in attendance. It was a sombre affair, as funerals usually are. Afterwards the Goats decamped to the Galah pub and put on a wake such as Galah hadn’t seen in a generation or two. They made a concerted effort to drink the pub dry, and given that they had Tom down to just light beer and forex, they must have come close.
With everything that had happened, Simon didn’t really feel like making the trip out to Bruce’s to watch their regular television show. He wasn’t really feeling very sociable. But it was the last show of the season, and he did want to see it. Besides, he had a few questions for Fay, and with everything happening he hadn’t seen her all week.
