20.
I had hoped to sit in the quiet bar and reflect. I’d have been quite happy to do that for an hour or two, in lieu of attending a noisy, boisterous seventies party.
Clement ensured it was never an option.
Nine o’clock and the party is in full swing, although I’m reluctant to participate. I have secured a table in a dark corner where I can watch the evening unfold and remain anonymous. It suits me just fine.
There must be over a hundred people crammed in the public bar. A mobile disco has been set up in the opposite corner from my table, and the space where the pool table stood is now a makeshift dance floor. The disc jockey’s voice is loud and irritating, as are the tracks he deems suitable to play.
As I watch the ever-growing number of people attempting to dance, Clement returns, holding a tray.
“These should liven things up,” he says, placing the tray on the table.
Laid out are ten small glasses, each containing a clear liquid.
“Ten shots for a tenner,” Clement beams. “Couldn’t resist it.”
“Ten shots of what exactly?”
“Dunno. I think the barman said Sambuca or something like that.”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“Who cares. Ready?”
“Ready for what?”
He plucks two of the miniature glasses from the tray and places one in front of me.
“Down in one. Then we move on to the next.”
“This seems highly irresponsible, Clement.”
“Exactly. Grab your glass.”
Despite my reticence, I surmise it would be ill mannered, and probably futile, to decline his generosity. I tentatively take the glass between my thumb and forefinger, and raise it to my nose. There’s a strong scent of something familiar but I can’t quite place it.
“Ready?” Clement booms. “Three…two…one…”
I tip the clear liquid into my mouth and swallow. The taste is not unpleasant, nor as harsh as whisky or brandy.
“Next one.”
I am aware of the concept of downing shots but I don’t understand the reasoning behind it. Surely if one wanted to consume a drink in such quantities, why not simply order one large glass? It would make far more sense.
Nevertheless, I down the second shot.
“Again.”
The third, fourth, and fifth drinks are subsequently dispatched in a timely manner. I am none the wiser to the appeal.
“Your round,” Clement orders. “Same again.”
“What? You want more?”
“It’s only fair, Bill.”
“I really…”
“Go on, get ‘em in.”
I slope over to the bar and return five minutes later with another tray of glasses.
“Do you think we should pace ourselves this time?” I ask.
“Nah, think of it as Dutch courage. By the time you down these, you’ll be chattin’ with the chicks in no time.”
It feels a hollow claim, but as Clement already has his sixth glass at the ready I don’t appear to have much say in the matter. Five more shots are quickly dispatched.
So much alcohol consumed in such a short space of time — surely not a good idea. Clement disappears for his umpteenth cigarette of the evening, leaving me to ponder my reckless actions. Minutes pass and a melancholy haze descends; not unpleasant but I fear it’s the calm before the storm. I decide to switch my phone off, for fear I might send a drunken text to Gabby, or even worse, one of my colleagues.
I stare at the dance floor which is now heaving with revellers. I’ve always considered dancing to be a peculiar pastime, and one I’ve never had cause to participate in. Is it a function we’re able to instinctively execute, like walking, or must it be learnt, like swimming?
I watch on with mild fascination.
The record ends and the disc jockey introduces Mamma Mia by ABBA. His choice of track is met with an enthusiastic cheer. As the music begins, bodies bob up and down, and arms sway. Feet shuffle left and right, back and forth. It’s an unsynchronised melee of obvious joy.
It looks enticing.
I tap my feet beneath the table. Somewhere from the deepest recesses of my mind, the words to the chorus spring forth. The foot tapping increases in intensity as I find myself singing along; substituting the words I don’t know with alternatives unlikely to be found in the Oxford Dictionary.
Probably the Sambuca, but an inner-glow develops.
All too soon the record ends. I’m disappointed. The disc jockey announces the next record to an even louder cheer — Tiger Feet by Mud. I know the tune but the words are a mystery.
Clearly a popular choice, the crowd swells. Then I spot him; stood on the very edge of the dance floor.
“What are you doing, Clement?” I slur to myself.
It soon becomes clear this particular piece of music has an accompanying set of dance moves. With legs astride, thumbs are tucked into trouser pockets, elbows pointed out. The actual move involves bending forward with alternate thrusts of each shoulder. This is followed by a series of steps where the back leg crosses over the front in an approximation of stepping backwards and forwards.
Despite the apparent simplicity of the moves, many on the dance floor appear unable to master them. One man has them down to a tee though.
I have no idea if Clement’s moves are correct, but they certainly have a fluidity to them. He moves with surprising grace for such a big man; a fact not lost on the gathered crowd as some try to copy him while others simply stand and watch, clapping in time to the music. Unsurprisingly, many of the gathered crowd, and the most engaged, are female. How does he do it?
The track comes to an end with a raucous cheer and more clapping. Half a dozen women buzz around Clement but he waves them away and barrels through the crowd towards the disc jockey. Words are exchanged and Clement makes his way back to the centre of the dance floor.
The disc jockey’s voice booms from the speakers.
“You wanna do that again?” he roars.
The crowd cheers to confirm they do.
“This time we’ve got a request for somebody to join us on the dance floor,” the disc jockey continues. “Where are you, Bill? Come on!”
The crowd turns and faces scan the room in search of Bill so they can get on with enjoying themselves. All those people waiting for him — poor Bill has my sympathy.
What occurs next is the stuff of nightmares. Clement points in my direction and every face in the crowd follows his finger. Realisation dawns.
I’m Bill. Shit.
This can’t be happening. I can’t dance. I don’t even know if I’m capable of standing unaided.
“Bill! Bill! Bill!” chant the crowd as they clap in time. Stood in the centre of the braying masses is Clement — a broad grin on his face.
There is one door out of the public bar and it’s situated the other side of the dance floor. I am trapped, again.
You utter bastard, Clement.
The chanting becomes louder, the clapping more intense. In my drunken mind, a plan forms. I’ll go over there, and once the music starts and their attention is elsewhere, I’ll make my escape. Simple, but hopefully effective.
I stand up and the crowd cheer. As excruciatingly embarrassing as the situation is, I find a smile and even a timid wave as I shuffle slowly towards them. As I get within fifteen feet, Clement breaks through the crowd and steps towards me. He reaches out a hand and clasps my upper arm like a vice.
“Come on then, Billy Boy,” he yells.
I’m unceremoniously pulled into the very centre of the dance floor. It appears my plan is about to be stamped upon by dozens of feet; primarily of the tiger variety.
The music begins and another cheer goes up. The crowd tightens around me, closing off any hope of escape.
As the guitar riff builds, Clement leans forward and shouts instructions in my ear. “Just copy me. You’ll be fine.”
I stare up at him in much the sam
e way I might if Usain Bolt had suggested I could be a world-class athlete just by copying him. Before I can argue, I’m taken through the moves which I attempt to replicate, each with toe-curling awkwardness.
Further advice is proffered. “Nobody gives a shit if you can’t dance, Bill. Just relax and enjoy yourself.”
With little alternative, I try.
Then, a minute into the song, something remarkable happens. No doubt aided by the sheer volume of alcohol in my bloodstream, I actually start to get some rhythm going. My movements are still jerky, and several times I step when I’m supposed to thrust, but there is definite progress.
Against all expectations, I feel a sudden rush of euphoria. I’m actually dancing and nobody is staring at me, nobody laughing at me. It is an intoxicating sensation unlike anything I’ve felt before. It engulfs me and thoughts of Gabby, of my father’s infidelity, and my tedious career are all lost in the moment.
All too soon, the track ends and the disc jockey’s shrill voice bursts my bubble. He declares the buffet open and a stampede ensues; the dance floor left empty besides myself and Clement, and two middle-aged women.
“Bill, this is Jackie and…”
“Sandra,” one of the two women shrieks.
I look up at Clement and he winks. “These two lovely ladies are gonna join us for a drink.”
Lovely is pushing it. Ladies a blatant mis-description. Jackie is the same short-dressed woman I spotted with Clement earlier, and she appears to have claimed him now; her arm locked around his. Sandra must be close to fifty; her dress too short and makeup too heavy. Still, I suppose it might be nice to have some female company.
“Right. Great,” the new carefree, drunk version of me replies.
Our odd foursome heads back to the table in the corner.
“You make yourselves comfortable, girls. We’ll get the drinks in,” Clement says. “What’s your poison?”
“Bacardi and coke, doubles,” Jackie replies.
Clement nods towards the bar and I take his lead. As we wait to be served, he offers his insight on our new friends.
“Got ourselves a couple of right sorts, Bill. Play your cards right and I reckon you’re in there.”
Under any other circumstance, I’d already be assessing the practicalities of such an endeavour, and the morality. And given my recent experience, it is also beyond foolish to even consider such a liaison. However, my drunken self appears less concerned.
“Oh. How lovely.”
Armed with two pints and drinks for the apparent ladies, we return to the table. They are, if nothing else, grateful. As soon as Clement takes his seat, Jackie sits on his lap and drapes an arm around his shoulder. For one horrifying moment, I fear Sandra might do the same. I cross my legs, just in case.
My lap out of bounds, Sandra leans in and attempts conversation.
“Thanks for the drink, darling,” she slurs. Incredibly, I suspect she’s even more intoxicated than I am.
“You’re most welcome.”
She leans in further. “You’re really posh.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah. You got manners like a proper gent.”
“Thank you.”
“I love your voice. Like those blokes from Downton Abbey.”
I look beyond her shoulder where Jackie is attempting to eat Clement’s face. I need to keep Sandra talking, should I befall the same fate.
“Never watched Downton Abbey, I’m afraid. What other shows do you like?”
While I wait for her to answer, I keep my mouth protected by sipping my ale. I really shouldn’t be consuming more alcohol but I’m not taking any chances.
“Ooo…lots of things,” she purrs. “I love watching porn, too.”
I almost choke. “Oh, that’s…nice.”
I suddenly feel a hand on my knee. Sandra stares at me with what I assume is supposed to be an alluring smile. The hand then moves up my thigh. If she thinks anything is likely to stir, she’s much mistaken.
Before I can return to my pint, it happens. Her mouth engulfs mine and a squid-like tongue invades.
Shocked into inaction, I consider how best to react? My sober self would immediately pull away, but I find myself strangely flattered by Sandra’s attention. She’s no oil painting, but then again, neither am I. Clement’s words of advice return. He was right on that occasion so maybe I should just relax and enjoy myself.
To hell with it. I embrace Sandra’s probing tongue as her hand unzips my fly.
“What the fuck?” a voice suddenly roars.
I pull away.
Two men are stood to the side of Sandra. Both have receding hairlines and jowly faces. Neither looks happy.
“Can I help you?” I enquire.
“That’s my ex you’re fucking around with,” the one on the left replies.
“Ex? Ex what?”
“Girlfriend, you muppet.”
I stare up at him, annoyed as much as confused. “If you’re no longer in a relationship with Sandra, I fail to see why our liaison is any of your concern.”
Judging by his deepening scowl, I fear my statement has not clarified the situation. He takes a step forward.
“No, Barry,” Sandra pleads. “Leave him alone.”
Barry chooses not to heed Sandra’s advice and steps even closer.
“Get up,” he orders.
“Why?”
“I’m not gonna punch a man sat down.”
“I’ll stay here then, thanks.”
It seems Barry won’t take no for an answer as he moves towards me. He grabs a handful of my pullover, and before my brain can engage a reaction, pulls me to my feet. One of his hands releases the hold on my pullover and a fist is formed. I’m pretty certain I know what’s coming next.
As Barry’s arm winds up to deliver a punch, a voice pulls his attention momentarily.
“Oi! Dickhead.”
Clement unleashes a ferocious jab into Barry’s ribs. He instantly collapses to the floor and assumes the foetal position, clutching his stomach. I turn to his companion, and not unsurprisingly, he’s already scampering away, leaving Barry to suffer on his own. Some friend.
Clement nods in my direction before returning to his chair. “Where were we?” he says to Jackie, matter-of-factly.
It appears Sandra is more concerned with Barry’s welfare than continuing our petting, so I console myself with a large gulp of ale. As I drink, I spot a troubling sight from the corner of my eye.
Barry’s companion has returned with reinforcements — four of them to be precise.
“Shit. Clement!” I yell.
He turns to the cause of my panic. “For fucks sake,” he grumbles.
Jackie is unceremoniously removed from his lap before he clambers back to his feet.
Faced with five men intent on causing harm, my own expression would be one of abject fear. Clement on the other hand, appears mildly irritated at the interruption. As the group of men edge ever closer, Clement picks up the chair and raises it above his head, as if weightless. The unfortunate chair is then slammed into the floor with brutal force, splintering into a dozen pieces. The leg remains in Clement’s hand; a club-like weapon.
The five men converge around us.
I have never been involved in a physical altercation. Not even close. I am no coward though and despite my inebriated state, or possibly because of it, I get to my feet and stand next to Clement.
“What you doing, Bill?”
“There’s five of them. I’m not going to stand by and watch you get battered.”
“Sit down you soppy git,” he snorts.
“Absolutely not.”
Barry’s companion steps forward. “You two are gonna get the kicking of your lives.”
Clement turns to me, any hint of humour now gone. “Don’t get in my way, Bill. I’m going for shock and awe.”
Before I can object, he pushes me backwards with such force, I fall flat on my backside. In the very same second, Clement enacts his battle pl
an.
His use of the chair leg is devastating. Barry’s companion is the first to go as Clement ducks down to evade a punch and cracks his makeshift weapon across the man’s kneecap. Two of the men then try to take Clement from either side. The first is instantly floored as the chair leg meets his testicles. Every man in the room, myself included, winces. The second man fares no better as Clement straightens up from his crouched position while simultaneously delivering an uppercut to the man’s jaw.
If I thought he was graceful on the dance floor, it was nothing in comparison to his prowess while fighting.
One of the two men still standing tries to catch Clement off guard by throwing a punch from the side. The big man must have seen it coming though, and stoops just in time. He retaliates with a vicious haymaker that connects with the assailant’s cheek. The final man spots an opportunity and decides a swift kick might succeed where punches have failed. His left leg swings towards Clement’s nether regions but fails to reach the target. Clement grabs his foot and lifts it a few inches higher. The helpless man is forced to hop on his standing leg while Clement smiles at him.
“An eye for an eye,” he growls before promptly kicking the man in his now woefully exposed testicles.
More wincing ensues.
At some point during the fracas the disc jockey must have fled his post. The silence in the room is absolute for a moment, eventually punctuated by the sound of gasps and shocked mumblings, not to mention the groans of the five incapacitated men.
Clement drops the chair leg and helps me to my feet.
“Think the party might be over, Bill.”
The shear unadulterated violence I’ve just witnessed doesn’t tally with his casual manner. I look across the bloody scene. The five assailants are now in various states of suffering and strewn across the floor like fallen soldiers on a battlefield; their wailing and groaning now the only sound in the quiet bar.
“I think you’re right.”
We step over one of the groaning men and the crowd parts like the Red Sea. Nobody says a word as we leave.
Back outside, beyond the killing fields of the public bar, we’re greeted by two sounds: the howling wind, and the distant wail of sirens.
“Old Bill,” Clement suggests.
Wrong'un (Clement Book 2) Page 16