by Gary Davison
The procession disappeared down the bank with many of the crowd following. Gregg and Cam were holed up on the other side of the road next to a food trailer. We weaved through the crowd towards them.
“Have you ever seen anything like this?” Cam said, checking the programme.
“You’ll have to speak up,” I replied, cupping my ear.
“I’m tone deaf from Bob Marley’s crew over there.”
“Space coming free!” Amber shouted, pointing towards the monument.
We jogged down East Road Boulevard, dodging between trees and leapt onto the small triangle of grass vacated by four cavalry soldiers.
The park was split into quadrants by paving stone footpaths leading to the monument. The monument was of some hero on horseback, and the steps leading up to it were prime seating because you could see down the bank where the official marches carried on. We were on the edge and well shaded by the trees that lined all three sides of the park. I felt much more relaxed here, everyone just chilling out, into their own thing.
Monument Boulevard, on the opposite side to us, was much wider than East Road and Riverside Boulevards, with stalls down one side, punters down the middle and street performers jockeying for supremacy on the other side. I watched a clown follow a family from top to bottom mimicking the father’s every move and expecting payment for his efforts. The father was a big bloke with a grey crewcut, his son and daughter both lanky and in their early-teens; he looked like he’d arrived at the wrong festival and was eager to be away. Red-faced, he eventually turned on the clown and the performer scuttled away into the crowd.
There were plenty of people smoking joints, just hiding them when the police passed, so Cam knocked up between his legs and we kept watch. I was fascinated with the man sat along from us. He was in green army uniform, wearing a white John McEnroe headband and sat in a canoe with a cooler full of beer, playing the air guitar. He never spoke to anyone, just merrily strummed away on his imaginary cords. I watched him for a good twenty minutes and I swear he never looked up. I mean, he had to be on acid or some other hallucinogenic drug. Had to be. Not unless he was a proper nut.
After we read the Fat Tuesday programme, Cam filled us in on gay festivals, and how expressing yourself and being free was what it was all about. Apparently, everyone taking the festival seriously had something to say, whether it be a protest or to celebrate, or just to show the world how warped they could be. Personally, looking at some of the fuckers, I reckon they just dress to shock without having any real meaning. Take that one walking past dressed as a Zulu. Honestly, you’d think he’d just walked straight off the battlefield. It wouldn’t surprise me to see Michael Cain in hot pursuit. Now how the fuck can that mean anything?
“Get a load of this,” Gregg said. “Some serious fucking issues or what?”
An elderly woman, in her sixties, on an ancient bike with front basket, wearing a scruffy wedding dress, came bombing down the road. She was up off the seat giving it big licks, flashing her yellow teeth at us as she went down the hill. Two lads on mountain bikes followed, both wearing cropped fur coats, knickers and suspenders, bras, green curly wigs and beads around their necks. A group of middle-aged men and women in straw hats and black cloaks wandered down behind them. There was unrest in the park and people started making their way up onto East Road.
“Here,” Cam said, showing me the programme. “Another parade’s starting.”
It was nearly half two, so it had to be The Tractor Boys next. We went up onto the boulevard, then onto the side of East Road, which was lined with police and stewards, and cordoned off with waist high red cones and rope. There were two police on horseback making their way through the crowd from the town square towards us, gently breaking them up. We were five from the front, pushing and shoving, trying to look up the street. Air horns sounded and the tail-end of the unofficial marchers cleared the way, leaving the road empty.
Suddenly it felt like the whole town was shuddering under the roar of engines. It went right through me and I jumped up to see what was coming. Harley Davidsons, Nortons and Triumphs rounded the corner in a ten-wide convoy, a skull and crossbones Rockers banner held aloft. The crowd were going crazy and Amber and I were doing the pogo to see over the mass of fluttering flags. A stars-and-bars tractor followed, pulling a colossal statue of a Greek God drinking from a gold chalice. The men riding the trailer were all decked out in black leather pants and waistcoats, bare-chested and wearing sky blue bandanas. The women were in shorts and leather-studded bras and cat woman masks, cracking whips at the crowd.
The bikers started passing us and we burrowed our way forward. Up close, they looked real mean: black potty helmets, mirrored aviator sunglasses, black and grey beards, silver rings covering their knuckles as they revved their engines and looked solemnly ahead. There was a huge three-wheeled bike in the middle, royal blue with yellow flames down the side, and the monster driving it must have been twenty-five stone. He had a long grey ponytail and was wearing the same sky blue bandanna as those on the trailer. The bird riding sidesaddle was a blonde stunner.
As the trailer pulled alongside us, cowgirls in white suede waistcoats, ten-gallon hats, knickers and suspenders, and knee-high black boots surrounded us, The Dirty Dozen stamped on their backs.
“Throw me something, mister!” one yelled, pushing past me. The fat biker hanging over the trailer shook his head. The brunette elbowed herself some more space and ripped open her waistcoat, releasing a whopping pair of tits; thrusting her shoulder blades back, she proudly offered them up to the biker, who immediately threw her a skull and crossbones plastic mug. The cowgirl was ushered to the front and wine pumped direct into her mouth from an old fashioned hydrant, and the fat biker leant down and kissed her, all tongues, copping a good feel of her tits as he did.
The resulting stampede of topless gunslingers sent us flying and just before I hit the deck I managed to grab the back of someone’s jacket and pull myself up as the crazy fuckers surged down the bank taking me with them.
Turning against the tide, I desperately searched for Amber, but it was impossible to stand still. We bottlenecked at the park entrance and I forced my way towards the town square and out into the thinning crowd.
I ran back to where I’d last seen Amber, frantically trying to find her.
Then I saw the paramedics running across the road with a stretcher. I sprinted towards them, smashing people out the way, images of thousands of boots relentlessly trampling her face into the road. The police were stopping anyone getting near, but I barged past, then sharply turned away when I saw the old woman in the filthy wedding dress being given oxygen. I lifted my hands up, apologising as I walked away.
I jogged back to where I had lost her, and there she was, standing on the corner no more than ten-feet away. A well-built kid was standing in front of her, protective arm stretched out touching the wall.
“Thanks, thanks, honestly I’m fine,” Amber was saying, trying to get past his arm.
I knocked his arm away and grabbed her. “You all right?”
“Spence!” She lept into my arms.
I turned around, keeping hold of her hand.
“Thanks again,” she said to the lad.
He was about the size of Gregg, maybe a bit taller and stockier, black hair jelled up in a spike, big fat slavery lips. He was in dark jeans and a red basketball vest, sporting a Maori tattoo from shoulder to elbow.
“No worries,” he said, bending down and kissing her on the cheek. As he straightened up his hand slowly fell from her side onto her arse. “You know where I’m staying if you want to call over.”
“You fucking what?” I darted straight for him, fists clenched by my side.
“Take it easy, Big Man,” he said, hands up. “I take it Amber’s not your sister?”
I didn’t answer, just stared him out. He slapped me on the shoulder hard enough to lift my foot off the floor. “No offence, mate. You can’t blame a guy for trying, can you?”
&n
bsp; He winked at Amber and walked away, dragging his feet, nonchalantly checking over his shoulder. I watched the fucker until he joined his pals outside a bar.
We walked down onto East Road Boulevard, keeping an eye out for Cam and Gregg. The park was packed but there was no sign of them.
“Shall we go for a drink?” Amber said. “Them two could be anywhere.”
I shrugged.
Amber steered me past the town square, across Church Street and into the dark alleys of Abbotsvale. The first pub we came to was The Trinity. We took a seat outside under the yellow parasols and ordered two beers and sat in silence.
I wasn’t thinking about the arsehole. I was thinking about Amber and what the fuck she got up to in the hour after work every night. Every night. A regular thing going on, which she told no one about. And how the fuck did that kid get her name so quickly?
“Let me guess,” Amber said, sipping her beer. “It’s my fault for letting him pull me off the floor and saving me from certain death. Then I flirted outrageously with him and gave him my name and number?”
“He got your number as well, did he?”
She pushed her stool away and came and sat on my knee and gave me a kiss. “Can I just say, I love you for it, Spencer Hargreaves. Absolutely… love… you…”
“Now that’s more like it!” the barman squealed, coming towards us. He was wearing a white t-shirt and black jeans with a black and gold Moet & Chandon piny. He was about five-seven, gaunt, with a black skinhead. He gently placed two purple, green and gold shot glasses on the table. “On the house.”
“Nice one,” I said, quickly averting my eyes from his when I saw the green eye shadow.
“Can I just ask you,” Amber said, holding the shot glass up. “Why is everything at this festival purple, green and gold?”
He spelled it out on his fingers, “Justice, Faith and Power. Tell me this isn’t your first Fat Tuesday?” We nodded. “Dominic!”
A short bald chef, with a couple of day’s growth, duck-walked towards us. On reaching our table, he dabbed at his sweaty face and with a heavy foreign accent said: “They refuse my shots?”
“Mardi Gras virgins.”
“No!” Shock-horror.
They both pulled up a chair.
Amber coughed after downing the shot. “Wrong way,” she spluttered.
“First timers,” the chef mused. “What do you think?”
“Unbelievable,” Amber said. “Where does everybody get their ideas from?”
“Kyle!” the chef snapped, and the waiter scurried off towards the bar. “This is our big day. People from all over the east coast come here to have their say and, of course, they do in the most flamboyant way.”
“Surely every person in fancydress hasn’t got issues?” I said. “I mean, some people, dressed like… like… him!” It was a Zulu with a big fuck-off Afro, carrying a banana stalk, with a lard can tied to his head. “I mean, he must’ve just watched a few late films last night and knocked that outfit up with whatever he could find in the kitchen this morning.”
“Zulu Social Aid, formed in New Orleans way back in the 1900s,” he said, nodding, “Ah, ha. African Americans were banned from official marches on Mardi Gras so they formed their own organisation.”
The waiter returned with more beers and a bottle of shots.
Amber removed her cap and re-did her ponytail.
“Beautiful hair,” the chef cooed. “You really should get dressed up for tonight, it’s crazy after the boat ceremony.”
They made us feel so welcome, downing shots, telling us the history of Fat Tuesday and other celebrations around the world that were held on Mardi Gras.
“Fat Tuesday,” the chef explained. “Is Mardi Gras in French. And Carnival means removal of the flesh. And real carnival people remove their flesh to show who they are on the inside. Some people come here not knowing who or what they really are, but often leave with the answers.”
The bar was starting to fill up and after a couple of air kisses the chef waddled back inside, leaving us with the bottle of shots.
The Trinity was on the corner of one of the dark alleys and the sun was sprinkling the pavement in front of us through the trees. There was hardly any breeze. Amber and I were playing footsie under the table with people watching. Somewhere in the distance, deep into Abbotsvale, a band was playing reggae music. Occasionally, heavy drums drowned out their chilled out vibe.
“What do you think’s happening back home?” Amber said.
It had been sixteen hours since we’d robbed Vaseys and after stepping through the stone archway into Fat Tuesday, it hadn’t crossed my mind.
“They’ll be onto us. Got to be, haven’t they?” I lit us both a smoke and filled our shot glasses. “But if they can’t find us…” I trailed off, watching two blokes, and I mean thickset bikers or builders, one with a trimmed black beard, the other wearing a leather jacket, kissing. They weren’t in fancydress, just two regular blokes getting stuck into each other on a Saturday afternoon.
The streets were so narrow in Abbotsvale that the action was always right up close and every second is compulsive viewing.
I looked across at Amber: hair in a loose ponytail, Zorro mask lifted up onto her forehead, tanned arm lying limp on the table, feet stretched out, smoking.
“Are you worried?” I asked her.
She shrugged. “Are you?”
I shook my head.
We drifted back off, people watching.
Amber rocked forward in her chair. “It’s weird,” she said, criss-crossing her legs with mine. “I feel like I’ve been here forever. Like last night never even happened.”
“I know,” I said. “Last night was double heavy, so fast, the adrenaline, but, I don’t know, it doesn’t feel real now.”
We were outsiders here, watching the carnival people, mesmerised at their willingness to show the world their hopes and beliefs, their joys and pains, releasing themselves into this make-believe world where everyone and everything was accepted. Sat here, I realised that us, in our jeans and t-shirts, cards close to our chest, were the strange ones. I was also well pissed off the shots.
The bar and streets around us were emptying as the parade passed by a few blocks away. Amber pulled her stool up and we sat side-by-side, legs stretched out, resting on the metal railings. The two burger-flippers from the food trailers met in the middle of the road for a smoke. We could hear the reggae music again.
Amber was fidgeting with my hand. She dropped her head onto my shoulder. “I shouldn’t say this, but I couldn’t care if I never saw anyone else again. Cam, Gregg, Dad, Emma, no one. As long as I’ve got you.”
I can’t remember how I got started. Everything was mixed up. I wanted to tell her about the money and the company but found myself talking about John Ellis, and how he turned people against me at school. How I knew even then that I wasn’t the same as them. They would never have accepted me no matter what I did. I told her what it felt like the first time I found out people talked about me behind my back. How I tried to put it right, face the music, but my father wouldn’t let me. I told her how dominant my father was, how well off he was, and that all he ever wanted was his son to be like him. And all I ever wanted was to be like everyone else.
Amber had had it the same when a scandal broke about her mother when she was about eight or nine. She remembered thinking it was impossible, that they had the couples in the street mixed up, but it was true, her mother was having an affair with the bloke across the road. Amber had run home from school that day, desperate for her mother to quash the rumours. She’d opened the front door to complete silence. The kitchen was at the end of a narrow hallway and her father was sat at the table. She ran to him and he hushed her. Amber said she didn’t fully understand the situation back then, only that she felt lost.
Amber and Emma were sent to their room when their mother came home. They waited for a big argument, but it didn’t come. Neither did their mother to explain the predicament the
family was now in. It was their father who gently knocked on the door, sat on the end of her bed and pulled his two girls close, and explained that he would be going away for a while until things settled down.
“It was breaking his heart, Spence. Not only that she had done it, but that she wanted it to continue. He’s a proud man and it was humiliating him, but he wouldn’t give up on us and he still wanted my mother back. She strung him along, in front of e-everyone…” Amber was crying freely now, “all he ever wanted was to love us and she betrayed him. I’ve tried to understand it. I have. But she was so heartless wanting it to drag on and hurt him. His face in the kitchen, how could she hurt him like that?”
Amber swore she’d never get married, that it was a sham, and if you loved someone you didn’t need a ring, just each other. We were plastered and she was ramming it home about commitment and how she would never be like her mother and if we ever wanted to be with someone else we’d break up first. No lies, no cheating, total honesty with each other.
I told her about switching to a private school at eleven. I left hardly any friends behind at the old school and gained none at the new one. I fell into the ‘new money’ category and I was way behind academically, which I loved because it pissed my father off big time.
When Amber went to comprehensive school things died down. But back where she lived, there was an attitude towards her and her sister, mostly from the parents.
By the time Amber told me about leaving home to go backpacking, we were slurring every word. Money, the company, why I never told them (she didn’t need that explaining she said), why I thought I was being followed, why I hated my father, most of the reasons anyway, how I loved Margaret the nanny. Fuck’s sakes, with Amber sitting astride me on the stool, arms around my neck, it all came out in stuttering, sobbing clumps.
Another bottle of shots appeared on the table: on the house.
