by Zoe Sharp
Despite the chill of the evening – it was February, after all – the boys were all wearing tight little vests that showed off how many hours they'd spent down the gym, or untucked luridly coloured shirts that tried to hide the fact they didn't know where the gym was. The girls looked like they'd come out in their nightdresses. God, I felt old.
A new set of lights swept into the car park, and Jacob's rusty old cream Range Rover pulled up next to where I'd parked the bike. Clare waved through the window as she killed the motor and hopped down out of the driver's seat.
“Hi,” I said. I nodded to the car. “I thought for a moment Jacob had changed his mind about coming.”
“Oh no,” she replied with a little grimace. “He drew the line at just lending me the car.”
I eyed the skimpy little frock Clare was nearly wearing as I dumped my helmet on the Range Rover's back seat. “The way you're dressed I won't ask why you didn't come on the bike.”
She looked down at herself with a wry smile. “It would have been cold, wouldn't it?” she agreed, then nudged my arm. “Come on, Charlie, lighten up.”
“Lighten up? You'll be beating them off with a shitty stick looking like that and I'm the one Jacob's relying on to get you home in one piece,” I grouched. In view of her glam appearance I tried to do something with my untidy mop of pale reddish blonde hair, but it spent too much of its time stuffed under an Arai bike helmet to pretend to have a style now.
She grinned at me again. “Don't worry, if we walk in holding hands they'll all just assume we're gay.”
“Yeah,” I said sourly, “and I don't have to ask which one of us they'll think is butch.”
Clare locked the Range Rover's door and linked her arm through mine. “Well,” she said, a smile dimpling her lovely face, “we should both be safe then, hmm?”
To start with, we nearly didn't get into the New Adelphi Club at all. Gary's new boss man had employed some very useful-looking door staff. Two big guys I didn't recognise, which came as a bit of a surprise really, when I think about it. I thought I knew all the local hardcases.
Clare didn't have a problem. They waved her through staring at her legs so hard that afterwards I doubt they would have been able to pick her face out of a line-up.
I didn't merit such appreciation. I just got an arm like a steel girder across my path as one of them grabbed hold of the front of my jacket.
“Oi, can't you read?” he demanded. He jerked his head to the six-inch square sign half-hidden behind him on the wall, which was headed “Dress Code”. “No leather jackets and no denims!” he stated, stabbing a finger at the appropriate lines. God knows what he would have done if he'd known about the Swiss Army knife I always kept as an emergency tool kit in my jacket pocket.
I looked down at the meaty fist screwing up the leather. He had gold sovereign rings on three out of four fingers and a blurred blue tattoo disappearing up his wrist into the sleeve of his dinner jacket. It reappeared again over the top of his shirt collar, an indecipherable squiggle just to one side of the knot of his clip-on bow tie.
I couldn't help getting the feeling that if Clare and I had been dressed the other way round, she probably would have still walked straight in, but now wasn't the time to lose my rag. I always have the greatest respect for someone whose pain threshold allows a tattooist to stick so many needles into their neck.
“How about you let go of me and we'll start this again?” I said, keeping my voice reasonable.
“How about you just fuck off and come back when you're properly dressed?” he sneered, shoving me backwards half a step.
“How about you learn to pick up your teeth with broken fingers?” I shot back. He was pissing me off big time, and this was not professional behaviour. He was muscle and menace, not the right material for working the door. They should have kept him in a cage somewhere until they needed real trouble sorting out. I didn't think I qualified for the strong-arm tactics straight off.
“Hey, what's going on? You causing problems already, Charlie?”
We both turned, which is not easy when you've got someone practically lifting your feet off the floor.
It was Gary. He was wearing a white dinner jacket to distinguish himself from the underlings, and trying to look like Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. I don't think he quite pulled it off.
“It's all right, Len,” he said. “Charlie Fox is OK. I know her. What's the problem?”
The doorman slowly, and with great reluctance, uncurled his fingers from my jacket and put me down. “She's not properly dressed,” he muttered, a bully caught in the act by one of the teachers. He didn't quite shuffle his feet, but he came pretty close to it.
Gary gave me a studied glance. “That's about as properly dressed as she gets,” he said, flashing a quick smile. “I think we can bend the rules about the jeans just this once, but the boss man's in tonight so you'll have to lose the jacket,” he told me apologetically. “I'll check it for you.”
I shrugged out of my jacket and let him hand it over to the cloakroom staff. Len stood and glared at me like a lion that hasn't made a kill for weeks and who's just been whipped back from a freshly slaughtered antelope.
The other doorman was also dressed in a dinner suit, and sporting that comedy blend of joined beard and moustache that just circled his mouth. The rest of his head was shaved smooth of hair. Both of them were wearing walkie-talkies with clip-on mics and earpieces. Curly wires disappeared under their jacket collars.
The bald doorman had been leaning against the wall during the whole exchange. His only energy expenditure was to chew gum. He made no moves to get involved on either side. Now he grinned at me slyly as Clare and I passed through into the bowels of the club. It made my scalp itch.
“You'll have to tell me what you think of the place now it's been re-done,” Gary yelled down my ear over the thunderous beat of the music.
The narrow entrance way had opened out into the club proper. It had changed so much since I'd last been inside the old Adelphi that if it hadn't been for the unaltered façade I'd have thought they'd pulled the whole place down and started again.
We'd come out on what was now the first level, overlooking the basement dance floor. I looked up and saw the cellars weren't the only thing that had become open plan. The ceilings of the next two floors up had been partially dismantled, revealing bars and more dance floors. I didn't want to be impressed, but I couldn't help it.
Clare and I fought our way through the crush to one of the bars on the next level up where Gary gave us both a drink on the house. The full extent of his generosity became apparent when I looked at the prices, even though Clare just had a glass of dry white wine and I stuck to mineral water.
“So, when's the karaoke start?” Clare asked him, leaning close so he could hear her over the din.
“Oh you're going to have a bash at that are you?” he said, preening under the attention. Like most fellers he had to look up slightly to make straight eye contact with Clare. Particularly when she was wearing four-inch heels. “That's terrific,” he told her. “To be honest, it's been a bit slow to take off. The girl who's won it the last three Saturdays in a row isn't much cop, but she's got enthusiasm. The crowd seem to like her.”
He offered to take us up to the smaller dance floor where the contest was taking place and introduce Clare to the DJ who was in charge of it. “Dave Clemmens is a scream,” he said. “Just tell him what you want to sing and he'll look after you. No trouble.”
We followed him deeper into the club, up a winding spiral staircase. Out of habit I checked out the nearest exits as we went. Dave the DJ held court at one side of the raised stage area on the other side of the floor. Gary guided Clare across with his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. I was deemed strong enough to make my own way there unaided.
Dave was another of those blokes who obviously spent more time admiring himself in the mirrors down at the gym than he did slouched in front of the TV at home. He'd worked hard on the van
ity muscle groups, emphasising his biceps and pecs.
As Gary introduced us to him, his eyes flickered from Clare's face down her body to her legs and back again, with a slow smile forming on his lips as he offered her his hand.
“Delighted, Clare,” he said, holding on to her fingers slightly longer than was necessary. Clare gave him the sunny smile of someone who's used to eliciting such a response from men.
The stare he treated me to was less driven by lust, more by curiosity. I could see him playing mix and match with the relationship between the two of us. Frankly, I didn't much care what combination he finally came up with.
He soon switched his attention back and started asking a few questions about Clare's background. Had she sung before? Had she entered a competition like this before? She answered them all easily enough, leaning forward to talk to him. “So where are you from, Clare?” Dave asked now, scribbling notes on a pad balanced in front of him. His other hand worked the controls of the deck with the sureness of long familiarity.
“I live near Caton village, just the other side of Lancaster,” she said.
“Uh-huh, and what's your phone number?” It was tagged so neatly onto the back of the other questions that Clare nearly fell for it, opening her mouth to speak, then closing it again quickly. She shook her head with a smile and wagged her finger at him.
“Ah well,” he said, “you can't blame me for trying.” He checked the list on his pad. “You'll be up last, but there's only eight tonight, so don't stray too far. If your friend wants to stay about here she'll get the best view.” He put just enough emphasis on the word friend to give it a whole host of meanings.
I smiled sweetly at him and said nothing.
He shrugged, reaching for his microphone. “OK, ladies and gents, this is what you've been waiting for! Another chance to hear the least-talented people in the area step up to the mic and make arse-holes of themselves!”
I was surprised at the intro and didn't try to hide it. Dave grinned at my reaction.
“OK, first up, as always is the reigning champion from last week. Where is she? There she is, can't carry a tune in a bucket, but what she lacks in being musical, she makes up for in volume and guts. Step up to the mic, Susie Hollins!”
Despite this remarkable lead-in, the girl who scrambled up onto the stage was flushed with excitement rather than anger. She was pretty in a conventional sort of way, medium height, blonde streaks running through naturally dark hair, and a blouse that went see-through enough under the artificial lights to show the generous cut of her bra.
There was something vaguely familiar about her that I couldn't place. Funny how you can never recognise someone out of context. I frowned while I dredged through my memory files, but came up empty.
Now, Susie stood fiddling with the microphone and primly adjusted her micro-length skirt as Dave gave his spiel about her.
“You all know Susie. She works behind the meat counter at our local supermarket, and she can weigh out my sausages any time! She's here tonight as usual with Tony – give us a wave, Tone – there he is! Got your own groupie, haven't you, Sue? Mind you, with a voice like this, she needs all the help she can get. Give it up now, ladies and gents, for Susie Hollins!”
Susie launched straight into her number with plenty of gusto, but Dave was right. She did need a watertight container to carry the tune. She didn't have the range to hit the high notes, or the breath control for the phrasing of the song.
Still, you had to hand it to her, she was up there giving it her all, and the crowd were cheering her on. Or maybe they were just trying to drown out the sound of her voice.
One thing was for certain, though. Susie Hollins may have been no great shakes as a karaoke singer, but I didn't think that was reason enough for anyone to want to kill her.
Two
Susie finished her song, bright-eyed and breathless. Dave shook his head at the reception she got, including a very possessive kiss from Tony. He'd elbowed his way to the front of the crowd while she'd been doing her bit. The way he dived on her mouth the moment she hopped off the stage was like a brand.
Tony was short and stocky, with eyebrows that met in the middle over the bridge of his nose. He looked thick as a brick. He was also well on the way to being plastered, and as he pushed his way up to speak to Dave, I carefully stepped back and gave him room.
“We'll be at the bar when you need us,” he told Dave arrogantly, one arm draped round Susie's shoulders.
Dave replied with a quick gesture of fingers to forehead that could almost have been taken as a salute. Judging by the wink he gave me, it was more likely to have meant “dickhead”. Tony didn't seem to notice. He steered Susie away and they swaggered across the dance floor.
The contestants that followed demonstrated clearly why Susie had won so often and so easily. In the kingdom of the blind, she was definitely the one with the monocular vision.
Seventh up was a spotty teenager who clearly thought he was a star in the making. “There you go, ladies and gents,” Dave commented as he left the stage, “perfect boy band material if ever I saw it – can't sing and can't dance, but I wouldn't be surprised if he had a recording contract before the night is out.”
There was general laughter and he paused to nod to Clare. She smiled nervously, clutched quickly at my hand, and was up on the stage. There were a few whistles of appreciation which Dave waved into silence.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but settle down, boys. This is Clare Elliot, and it's her first time up here on karaoke night at the New Adelphi Club, so go easy on her, OK?” There were raucous shouts at that and Dave grinned at them. “Clare's an accounts secretary for the local paper, lives in Caton, and – sorry to disappoint you, boys – but she's already spoken for.” He looked at me as he said that. I held his gaze levelly and gave it back to him without additions or subtractions.
“So, here she is, and even if she turns out to be as tone-deaf as the rest of you lot, at least you can put your fingers in your ears and enjoy looking at her. Give it up now for Clare Elliot!”
As the cheers died down I realised that I'd no idea what song Clare had chosen. It took me a couple of beats of the introduction before I recognised “Cry Me A River”. Clare paused a fraction to gather herself, then closed her eyes and started to sing.
Life's a bitch, isn't it? Not only had Clare been front of the line when looks and brains were handed out, but she'd been right up there in the queue for vocals as well.
The familiar words of the song came out clear and powerful, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. To begin with there was a stunned silence. By the time Clare reached the first chorus it was obvious she was far and away the best there.
I felt someone jostle my arm and glanced sideways to find Tony had returned from the bar, dragging a disgruntled-looking Susie with him. He didn't look any more attractive when he was gawping, and her prettiness had disappeared in the face of jealous spite.
“She's a ringer,” Susie swore. “That bitch is no amateur. They've brought her in just to stop me winning again!” Her voice had that slight slur of someone who's approached the evening's drinking not as the designated driver.
Tony wasn't so good at expressing himself in words, but he managed a couple of things of an earthy nature that only succeeded in making him sound more ignorant than he had before. Susie stood fuming visibly for another half verse, then resorted to violence.
As she launched herself at the stage, Clare stopped singing and gave a squeak of fright. Susie tried to snatch the mic out of her hand. I looked round for security, but there was no sign of anyone near. Even Gary was long gone.
When Clare had asked me for moral support, I didn't think this was quite what she had in mind. I had already started to move when Susie backhanded Clare across the face. Oh shit.
The stage was a couple of feet above the dance floor, which gave her an advantage of superior height. I evened up the odds by bringing Susie back down to my level. I simply grasped hold of one le
g, swung her round off her feet, and let go.
She had no idea how to break a fall and she landed, hard, on her backside a couple of metres from the stage, showing her underwear to the world. A space in the club goers appeared magically around her. Everyone backed away to the edges of the floor. It was clear I was going to get an audience rather than any assistance.
I stepped between the two women with my hands spread to placate. “Come on now, Susie, don't make trouble,” I said. “Just leave her alone.” I had to give her a chance to back down, otherwise if I damaged her I was going to be neck-deep in trouble.
Susie cursed as she scrambled to her feet. She was quite a bit taller than I was, and she had me easily in weight. My only advantage was complete sobriety and the sort of blacklist of dirty tricks that I definitely don't teach to my pupils.
