by Nick Corbett
“This makes Peckham look idyllic,” says Archie, not entirely joking.
Joe spots a venue, between converted railway arches, and they head for it. Expensive cars begin to line the street. A chauffeur sits in a Mercedes, reading the Peckham Chronicle. There’s a Bentley with a chauffer speaking on a mobile phone. A Daimler, the chauffer is fast asleep on a reclined seat. The flash cars look conspicuously out of place in such an industrial scene. Archie is getting excited.
“At last, we’re going to be where the action is.” Joe is feeling a little nervous about getting three people in with one ticket. He turns to Sam.
“If there’s any problem getting in, we’ll say you’re my partner.”
“Okay,” replies Sam, looking really pleased.
“What about bloody me getting in if there’s a problem?” says Archie. “Why can’t I be your partner?”
“Pretend you’re his personal assistant,” replies Sam, calmly.
“Sod that, I’ll be your art buying agent, okay?”
“Whatever,” says Joe. For a moment he wonders if he should just give the ticket to Archie and Sam. He could go home, have a quiet beer, get an early night. But they’ve come so far, perhaps they should at least try to get in.
“Why are there so many bouncers Joe?” asks Archie.
“I don’t know, I’ve never been here before,” replies Joe, curtly, and then he adds, “I suppose it’s because it’ll be packed with celebrities.”
Brutal looking security men with fat heads are all around them, speaking into walky-talkies. One of the bouncers holds open a stainless steel door, fitted into one of the railway arches. The friends enter.
“Good evening,” says Joe to the doorman.
“Ello geezer. Alright?” growls the doorman.
“Top notch mate, top notch,” says Archie with a flick of his wrist and a nod of his head.
They’re standing in a dimly-lit, stark reception area. Two stunning young women, one blonde and one brunette, sit behind a large desk. An older woman, with spikey blonde hair and orange trousers, walks up to the desk. It’s Stacey McCall herself, the famous artist whose work they’ve come to see. Stacey looks Joe up and down, turns to Sam, then back at Joe again. She talks to Joe in a strong Manchester accent.
“Are ya comin in love? Come on, the party’s just beginning to rumble.”
The blonde receptionist steps out from behind the desk.
“May I take your coat madam?”
“Oh, I’ve never been called madam before,” says Sam giddily. Joe and Archie frown with embarrassment. The receptionist smiles coldly, she proceeds to take all their coats for which they are given paper receipts. Sam looks slightly distressed.
“You okay?” whispers Joe.
“Just feeling a bit overwhelmed, you know, meeting Stacey,” she gasps.
Joe notices that Sam has exactly the same spiky hairstyle as Stacey.
The blonde receptionist ushers them through a set of double doors. They are shocked by the noise that hits them. It’s a raucous party. They have entered a cavernous hall, packed with people, excited, drunk, squealing, screaming with laughter. The walls of the hall are finished in rough brick. There is an impressive, very high, vaulted ceiling, sparkling chandeliers hang down from it. At Joe’s feet is a floor of polished white concrete. He cups his mouth with his hand, places it against Archie’s ear.
“Nobody’s asked to see our invite!”
Archie winces at the shot of hot breath down his ear. He then answers Joe, using the same technique.
“I know! It’s like a zoo in here! I love it!”
The last words are shouted so loudly into Joe’s ear, they hurt. Joe clenches his fist as if he’s going to hit his friend. A few curt words are exchanged, although it’s impossible to hear exactly what’s being said over the hullabaloo. Sam remonstrates for the boys to pull themselves together. Then she spots where Stacey McCall is, encircled by a group of admirers.
Everyone looks like a supermodel, except for Archie, Sam, and Joe, who look pale by comparison. The friends are in awe of their surroundings and in need of a drink. Archie points out where the bar is. They wind their way through the roaring throng, it’s so packed that Joe holds onto the back of Archie’s shirt and Sam holds onto the back of Joe’s shirt. They notice familiar faces from television, a couple of footballers from the England squad. They reach the bar where glasses of champagne are arranged in readiness for them. Joe, Archie and Sam each down a glass of free champagne with such undignified haste and giggling, it’s obvious they’re neither glitterati nor art buyers. Attractive hostesses are milling around, they top up their empty glasses. Archie notices some of the other guests giving them a funny look. He stares back at them, grabs hold of Joe.
“Mwah-mwah-mwah. Dahrling! Mwah-mhah,” he says, theatrically.
Joe looks worried.
A room off the main hall contains the art of Stacey McCall, and it’s all for sale. It’s getting late. Most of the guests want to socialize now they’ve looked at the exhibits. However, Sam is determined to see her idol’s work. She drags Joe and Archie away from the bar. Joe is quite interested to see why Stacey’s work has created such a stir in the media. They walk under a brick archway, enter a large exhibition space.
“I’m glad there’s less people in here,” says Joe.
“Yeah, I can actually breathe now,” replies Archie.
“And I can hear what you’re saying,” adds Sam.
The friends take a moment to stretch their limbs. Black screens are arranged all around them, upon which hang twenty or so paintings. Serious art buyers are still examining the exhibits; these people are very stylish. A spotlight shines upon a woman’s hand, her finger sparkles like a rainbow. She’s wearing a big diamond. Sam marches up to the first exhibit. Archie and Joe follow like sheep. They all inspect a tall painting of three black dots in the middle of a white canvas. Suddenly, Stacey McCall, the artist herself, appears from nowhere, she pushes them out of the way. No word of apology. Stacey converses with a middle-aged man, an American, quite short, has a goatee beard. All that Joe can now see is the back of this man’s head. Joe steps sideways, he decides to observe the artist rather than her art. Stacey looks searchingly into her painting. The American strokes his beard.
“It’s an ironic continuation of romanticism. Do you get it?” Stacey asks the American, but he just strokes his beard. Then in a broad Texan accent, he drawls.
“So, argh, how much d’yah want for it Stacey?”
“Ya’wot?” Stacey is flabbergasted.
She runs both of her hands through her spiky hair.
“Yer know what the price is, it’s on ya list! Yer shouldn’t be asking an artist about money anyhow, don’t yer know that?”
The American is undeterred.
“Yeah, but what the heck, what about if I was to give yah cash and right now? How much?”
Stacey is angry now; she throws her head back, stomps off. After a few paces she turns around, her voice is shaking with rage.
“You ain’t havin it!” She stamps her foot. “You just aint ‘avin anything of mine, ever!”
Archie turns to Sam.
“Oh, she’s very Haute Couture”.
Sam flashes a stern look at him.
“Can’t you show her a bit of respect? Can’t you see she’s upset?” Sam looks longingly towards Stacey as she disappears through the archway. The American buyer continues to look at the art, as if nothing untoward has happened. Stacey’s agent comes rushing over to him, a very respectable looking middle-aged lady, who’s anxious to redeem the sale.
The friends take a moment to reflect upon Stacey’s tantrum and then proceed to the second piece of work. It looks like a child’s painting of a dinosaur but with a real kidney attached to it. Joe stands with his arms folded, grimacing. Archie stands beside him, stroking his chin;
“What do you think of it Joe?”
“It’s weird isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t say it�
��s weird, that’s a bit judgemental.”
“What would you say? You don’t like it do you?”
“I don’t have to like it to respect it.”
Joe can’t take much more of this.
“Let’s split up, I’ll meet you at the bar in twenty minutes, okay?”
The others agree.
Joe wanders off to the far corner of the room. He notices something unusual. There’s a faint thumping beat, it seems to be coming through the concrete floor. He can feel something through his shoes, it’s as if the floor is vibrating. It’s a curious sensation, like a very mild earthquake. Joe walks back through the archway and the general din makes it impossible to perceive the underground rumbles. Joe feels out of place, everyone else has someone to talk to. He stands alone, feeling a bit awkward. He nods and smiles at a pretty waitress, she comes over and speaks in faltering English.
“Can I ‘elp sir?”
“Oh, yeah, listen!”
“I’m listening!”
Joe mouths each syllable clearly, to ensure he’s understood;
“What-is-go-ing-on-down-there?” He points to his feet. The waitress looks confused.
Joe points to the floor again.
“What-is–go-ing-on-down-there? What-is-the-rum-bling-sound?”
Understanding illuminates the waitress’s face.
“Oh, yes! Yes, there iz a club under us, is owned by same man, okay? You can go to it if you want.”
Joe looks curious.
“How do I get there?”
The waitress gives him directions; he needs to go down a small staircase, descending from a corner of the hall. Joe can just make it out, behind a group of people. He thanks the waitress and departs to have a quick look. He traverses through the crowd and descends the steps, ignoring the “private” sign.
Joe finds himself in a small hallway. It’s all painted black. There’s just one door off it. The rumbling earthquake is louder. Joe opens the door; it’s heavy, made from solid metal, like the door to a walk-in meat freezer. Wet, hot air smacks him in the face, and a wall of music assaults his ears. Joe steps back, shocked. Then he goes through the doorway, into a cloud of sweat. The metal door closes behind him.
The air is humid and heavy. It’s difficult to breathe or to see anything. The bass is so loud that Joe’s body vibrates with it. He is standing on a very wide balcony, containing a lounge area with sofas and chairs. His eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. People are standing and sitting in groups. There’s a bar at the far side of the balcony; three men sit on stools. In front of Joe, along the edge of the balcony, is a metal balustrade. He takes a few steps forward, tentatively peers over the edge. He is surprisingly high up. It is very dark, but he can see he’s in a vast hanger. There is no telling how high or long it is, because its dimensions disappear into blackness.
Joe is about thirty feet above the main floor level. Beneath him are literally thousands of scantily dressed revellers. They are dancing wildly, blowing whistles, embracing each other, waving their arms in the air. It’s a massive rave, a heady combination of heat, noise and flesh, one amorphous mass of humanity. Everyone is losing themselves in the music. Joe feels his heart beating violently. It’s the late 1990s; up to now the rave scene has somehow passed him by. These people are clinging on to the bitter end of that scene. It feels dangerous, but exciting.
A dark-skinned man carrying two fancy cocktails walks over to Joe from the bar area. He’s got a proprietorial air about him; he’s aged around forty.
“Av a drink? Enjoy!” he shouts into Joe’s ear, as if he’s an old friend.
Joe accepts the drink. He’s got a strange wild look in his eye, like a racehorse in the starting pen. A vein in his temple slightly throbs through his skin. He is confounded by his surroundings, still taking in the possibilities of the place. The man waves his hand in front of Joe’s face to get his attention. Without thinking, Joe knocks back some of the drink. Then, as best he can, he indicates he wants to get to the dance floor. The man points towards the far end of the balcony, where two DJs control the music, amongst a mass of electrical equipment. Next to them is a metal, industrial staircase, leading down to the rave. Joe has decided not to find Archie and Sam just yet; first of all, he’ll indulge in the rave, just for a little bit. The dark man walks back to the bar, his friends greet him with cackles of laughter and a pat on the back. Joe makes his way to the dance floor, negotiating his way around sofas and huddles of people.
Joe clambers down the steep, metal steps. The back of an enormous security man blocks his way. Joe taps him on the shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to notice. After an inordinate wait, the fat bouncer gets out of the way. Joe launches himself into the rave. Young men and women greet him with smiles and embraces, as if he’s some long-awaited star. Joe is carried away by the swaying mass, drifting far from the staircase. The excitement is intoxicating, his heart races. People are dancing beside him, stroking him. Something strange is happening in Joe’s head and chest. Adrenalin pumps through him. A warning bell rings in his head, his vision blurs. In his mind’s eye he sees the cocktail he was given. His instincts are being pulled.
Let rip, be a part of the rave.
A quieter voice warns him. Leave, immediately.
Now he is feeling queasy.
Joe is desperate to clear his head and to drink some water.
What time is it?Where’s Archie?
He notices a disturbing, vacant look in the eyes of the man dancing beside him. He spots a toilet sign; there will be water there. He pushes his way through the throbbing mass. Young people are lying lifeless on the floor, along the edge of the dancers. One of them grabs Joe’s foot. He’s about the same age as Joe. There’s a strange expression upon his face. He looks sick; goes into some kind of a convulsion. Joe is concerned. He squats down beside him.
“What’s wrong with you mate?”
Suddenly, the dark man who gave Joe the cocktail appears, right in front of his face. He glares angrily at Joe and then he pushes him.
“Leave him alone!”
“Eh? What’s it to you?” Joe doesn’t wait for an answer. He turns back to the young guy on the floor, who’s trying to say something. His pleading eyes meet Joe’s, just for a second, then he convulses again, as if he’s going to throw-up. Joe feels increasingly light headed, but he wants to help this guy who’s totally wasted.
“Leave him alone!” says the dark man again, pushing against Joe’s shoulder. He looks brutal. The young guy on the floor grasps Joe’s shoe, he looks desperate. Joe wants to ask him what he’s taken, wants to help him, to tell him life doesn’t have to be like this. It’s impossible to talk properly and Joe’s own head is getting cloudier. It’s getting hard for him to think at all. Joe staggers to his feet; legs are wobbly.
“Just piss off!” mouths the dark man savagely in Joe’s face, then he’s communicating with someone through a tiny microphone.
The fat bouncer is making his way over. Joe is in danger. He’s got to get out of here. Head thumping, trying to focus, pushing through the sweating, dancing crowd, Joe looks for a green exit sign. It will be his escape route. He staggers between bodies in the darkness.
“How-do-I-get-out?” He mouths the words to a ghostly figure, neither male nor female. The ghost doesn’t answer, just tries to dance with him. Joe asks someone else, there’s just a vacant smile. The bouncer is getting closer, throwing people out of his way.
“How do I get out?” Joe keeps asking the same desperate question. There’s a guy who looks like Luke, is it really him? He’s pointing through the darkness. Joe heads in that direction. There’s a green exit sign in the blackness. He rushes towards it, pushing away sweaty, grasping arms. Joe stands in front of a doorway, there’s a “NO ENTRY” sign. He pushes it open; an alarm rings. He enters a dimly-lit, carpeted reception area. Several security men, with enormous heads and bodies, stand in front of him. Joe looks straight ahead. There’s another line of doors beyond the bouncers, with a green emergen
cy exit sign and another “NO ENTRY” sign. It takes all of Joe’s strength to march forwards. He squeezes between the bouncers, pushes down on the bars on the doors, lunges forward. A louder alarm is triggered.
“Hey where’s he come from?”
“Dunno”
“What’s he up to?”
“Are you gonna stop that lad?”
“Dunno.”
Joe staggers out. The cold night bites his face. The fog remains in his head. He keeps putting one foot in front of the other. He has left his jacket, but nothing could bother him less, they can burn it for all he cares. He is staggering down a dark street, he doesn’t know where he is. He stumbles on a kerb, there’s the canal, he doesn’t want to go there. Somehow he keeps moving forward, fighting off sleep. He finds the sanctuary of a bus stop. A red blur emerges out of darkness. He wants to wave it down, but first he must rest, on that lovely plastic seat; sleep consumes him…
Far below the high vault of Waterloo train station, directly beneath the large clock that hangs in the middle of that vast concourse, is a solitary ginger dot, gently swaying in front of a customer information screen. It is Archie. The minute hand of the clock moves to the vertical. It’s half past eleven. Several darker dots appear beside the ginger one. Archie is joined by a family group. They are standing unusually close to him, seeking solace. The mother wears a headscarf. The father and their young sons wear poorly fitting suits. Four battered suitcases stand beside them. The smallest boy looks up at Archie, big brown eyes. Archie is oblivious to the fact he’s under surveillance. The father holds a piece of paper close to his eyes. Written upon it is the address of his brother, who left their native Pakistan ten years ago. Two drunken, dishevelled men in creased business suits join them at the information screen.
“How many pints have I had Trevor? My missus is going to kill me if we don’t get the last train.”
“I lost count after five.”
“We were supposed to ‘av one cheeky pint, remember?”
“Hey! That’s our train, we’ve got three minutes, come on, run!”
