25
Mainly dry and sunny. Some mist and fog patches will form in places, especially in the south-west
GOOD EVETIDES! I slap Rave’s shoulder.
Sirrah! He slaps me back.
Best?
Please, mate.
He orders at the bar. Busy tonight. The paint-spattered decorators are on their stools. Still not quite dark outside but here, with all the lamps glowing, might as well be Christmas. The main crowd are not yet partying. Getting them in early we are, a nose in front. Plus we want to bags our usual table – best vantage point, see them coming all directions.
I check my hair in one of the pub brasses. I look like the minging Cheshire cat. I’m wearing my D&G shirt, my new jeans; feeling sharp. We’re going on of course, after this. Not decided where, as yet. Probably Liaisons.
Lethal!
Raven has streaming pints at the ready.
Cheers, Ravester.
I carry them to our table. A song comes on and I have to break my stride so I don’t look like I’m walking to the beat. One of them girl singers. No one to ask which song it is, just Ned at the table.
Cheers, I sign.
Cheers, Gog. Ta, he signs.
Raven joins.
Cheers. We raise.
Good evetides.
We raise to the grizzly.
All who sail.
The ale sinks, hits the spot. We relax, partake of. Raven’s hairsprayed cones bob as he moves to the music. I check my hair. RokHard has done the job but my fringe has a habit of going curly when my back is turned. Ned doesn’t have this problem, his hair shafts straight down either side of his brain, not a kink to be seen. He glances back at me. He looks normal in that shirt, another D&G, you’d never know he was such a div.
I thumb him. He thumbs-up back. Good boy.
Rave’s got some coins. Quick gamble on the fruits, don’t mind if I do. We leave Ned to guard the table.
Around about the time the big ladies arrive with their mini husbands, we’re ready to roll on out of this joint.
Adios, amigos. Hasta luego. We return our glasses to the bar.
Cheers then, Keith.
Mind how you go.
We walk to the Rowntree Road. Chilly eve but dry. There are stars.
Look! I point them out. Millions looks like.
We stop by the playing fields to see if we can identify a constellation or two. Harder than you think. Constellations look easy on tea towels and mouse mats but they’re complicated in the actual sky.
Shine down on me, cries Rave, spreading his arms. Ned spreads his arms too, walks in a circle. He laughs up at the sky, some kind of private joke between him and the universe.
I jump up, grab hold of the football goal; I try to swing, recapture my youth, perchance. I hang there under a million stars.
Could be the Big Dipper, says Rave, pointing up.
Then again, I say. Rave knows less than zero about constellations. You can’t just make them up. My arms are killing. I drop to the ground. Nothing else here. We move on.
Ned won’t let the stars drop. He trips over every kerbstone, gazing up, pointing, head in the clouds.
Come on! I have to wave to sign him.
Bit of a trek to Duke’s Hill Road, longer in the dark.
Have we gone the wrong way, fellow Saracens? Rave wants to know. He lifts a cone of hair, looks around. We wait while Ned takes a wazz behind a Vauxhall Viva.
Finally. The bright lights. Buonasera. We cross at the Belisha beacon. Busy, even at this time. I bet my hair’s gone curly. We stare at the neon sign. Rave says they’ve spelt Liaisons wrong. Too many i’s? We can’t decide. We careth not.
A rugby scrum at the bar. Rave is tallest because of his hair, but it’s me who gets served in the end. Ned is enjoying himself. He can feel the beat through his bones, makes him grin. The lights are blue. They shine through glass pillars, even the bar is glass, like we’ve arrived at the North Pole.
No tables available. We line up against the wall with our drinks and take in the scenery. Too loud to talk. I notice Rave’s drink has got leaves in it, mint I think. I ordered a cocktail too, apple martini. Ned’s got a rum and Coke. Always gives him bad dreams, but you only live once.
I notice all three of us head-bobbing so I stop, three battery hens, for f*cks. No one seems to have noticed. I scan for girls. A few in groups, some with boyfriends. They all look nice. A big cheer goes up in the corner and we turn. Everyone seems to know each other.
Imbibements? Rave shouts.
Why not? The eve is young.
Rave collects. Ned necks his rum and Coke, hands over his empty. Rave sets off into the crowd. We watch his uppermost hair cone travel like a fin through the sea of heads.
Ned burps.
Gog! How goes? he signs. He grins. A good situation, he signs. I thumbs-up. I nod. I feel like a knob to tell the truth. Don’t know why. Too old for this place.
A white laser panics over our heads, looping the room and back again. Ned jumps up, applauds, points it out, tries to catch it.
We’re at a table. We now have a camp, a base. We guard it. The music is louder but we don’t bob. We sit heavy as rocks. We must concentrate, follow the laser, wait for it to illuminate a pretty girl. Maybe she will come to our base, sit with us. The laser is zagging about now. Too fast. No sooner do you see a pretty face before the thing skids off, lighting up bald patches, back of someone’s throat, some bloke’s arse. I stop watching it. I stare at the opposite wall instead.
Same again? Rave asks.
No mate. I’m all right.
Ned jerks out of his trance.
Please please, he signs. Extra ice. Ta, he signs.
I screen my mouth from Ned with my hand. No more rum! I shout at Rave.
I am alert, but motionless. A Komodo dragon. I am guarding the table. Every few minutes I have to shout: Yes, these seats are taken! People go on asking.
Ned is on the illuminated dance floor. He sidesteps around the perimeter of the square, waving his arms and peering into girls’ faces. His smile is so wide the laser dings off his teeth as it flashes by.
Rave is twitching to the music in one corner, not quite on the actual dance floor, maybe half a shoe. His hair wangs about, slicing the air. In front of him a girl with nose piercings bends carefully from side to side to the music, like she’s operating a loom. I can tell he doesn’t fancy her because he’s staring over her head towards the bar. I wouldn’t say this was a bad night, per se. Just different.
I glance at the other tables. I smile at a girl with shiny lips, she smiles back. I look away. Ay-up Lee. I turn for a second look. She’s still looking, but so’s her boyfriend, not smiling. I turn away.
On the dance floor I can no longer see Raven. The pierced girl is still weaving away. Maybe he’s in the Gents. Ned is dancing with a girl. He sways his body, throws his fringe out of his eyes. She is lovely, dark, delicate, twisting like seaweed. She watches Ned as she moves. Oh well. Good onya, knobhead. No point dwelling.
Lethal! It’s Rave. His hair slices towards our table.
Look who I’ve got!
Behind him is Lorelle. She waves. My heart explodes against my ribs. I sit up.
Well hello! I shout.
Hello, Lee! she calls.
She sits down at our table. She seems tiny, under-dressed. Her make-up glitters.
What would you like? yells Rave.
Watermelon Margarita please!
Rave is the night’s unchallenged hero. This is his fifth sortie to the bar in unpredictable conditions and despite a shrinking cash fund.
How are you?
Fine! Yeah. You?
You look lovely!
Do you come here a lot?
Yeah! Yeah!
She sits back, takes it all in. She looks like she’s been dipped in magic dust, even her hair. She fixes her glossy eyes on me.
Want to dance?
*
WE ARE STILL kissing on the street at throwing-out time. We fall against walls, lamp posts. It is not possible to stop kissing, now we have started. She stands on her toes. She touches my jaw. She tastes like roses. From the corner of my eye I see Rave, his hair is nuked, it swings like a broken cable, and Ned, his arm around Raven’s shoulder. Noddy and Big Ears. We stroll. Me and Lorelle learn to kiss as we go.
Come on! shouts Rave.
We stop near the all-night garage for Ned to be sick.
Shall we get a minicab? Lorelle says.
I don’t tell her I can’t afford it, that we’re all cleaned out, brassic, less than.
OK you? I sign Ned.
Great! he signs back. Good days, Gog!
How long have you known sign language? Lorelle asks. Don’t you speak Spanish as well?
Spanish, a bit of Italian, I say. I put my arm around her. I clear my throat.
Un poco, I say. Arrivederci. Buenos dias. Donde estan los bandoleros?
Woooooo! she says.
At the John Bell Business Park crossroads we go our separate ways. I offer to walk Lorelle home.
Sirrah! Lethal! Adieu, mate. See ya, Lorelle.
Rave and Ned womble off to the right while I take the left with the most stunning florist in the world.
What a beautiful night, I say. Look at the stars. The Big Dipper that is, by the way.
She takes off her shoes and tucks herself inside my jacket. This night is a night above all nights, a classic noche. I don’t share this information with Lorelle. All good things come to those who wait.
We kiss in the shrubbery outside her house, we scuff up the path and kiss against her front door.
You have to go, she says. No funny business.
She lives with her mum.
No, no. Of course, I whisper. Flattening her against the door, pressing my thigh between hers.
Night, Lee.
Night. Night, then.
I back away down the path. I feel noble. I want to say something poetic. I can’t think what.
Buonasera. I say. Buenos tardes. See you anon.
She disappears inside the house.
As I walk home I think, You nonce. See you anon? The only blot on an otherwise minted evening.
I can’t sleep. I boil the kettle over and over. I have a shower at twenty past four a.m. I don’t even know what anon means. Anonymous? Why would I see her anonymous? Knobbery. I wait till the sky lights up and then I send her a text:
Ther r butifl things in this world + ther is u. Lee.x U r 1drfl.