Love on the Dancefloor

by Liam Livings

  Paul was with Rob, both staring at me, neutral facial expressions; not a smile, not a frown, but exactly in the middle.

  Rob gestured. “Follow us.”

  “What about…” I flicked my gaze to the receptionist, who was staring deeply into the computer screen, tapping loudly on the keyboard with her clackety nails.

  Rob grabbed my hand and led us through the double doors into a room filled with curtained cubicles. He pulled back one of the curtains, pulled us through and closed it behind us.

  Slinky Simon lay, head raised, in the bed, his eyes closed, an oxygen mask on his face and a stand of clear liquid with a tube going into his arm. A grey kidney-shaped bowl rested on his chest as the blue and white sheets rose and fell.

  “He’s breathing.” I stared at Rob.

  Rob squeezed Simon’s hand. “’Course he’s fucking breathing. That’s why he’s here.” In a whisper, he continued, “Might not be if he wasn’t here.”

  I asked what had happened, why he wasn’t awake, what the doctors had said, and Rob tried to explain, saying he hadn’t really followed what the staff had said as his Spanish was a bit rusty—“Well, a bit non-existent to be honest.” He laughed quietly.

  “You’re fucking laughing. He’s almost dead and you’re fucking laughing?” I grabbed Rob by the throat. “Is it you? Dodgy fucking pills, is it? I fucking told you. I said don’t get ’em from the dodgy fuckers in the club. But would you listen? I said we’d had enough, but no, you went off and scored some more. What I had wasn’t enough. You’re one greedy fucker, you. Laughing. It’s not some fucking joke. He could die.”

  Paul separated us, said it wasn’t helping anyone and there was no point blame-storming at this stage; best we waited for the doctor, to hear what the prognosis was.

  Rob, tidying up his stretched T-shirt and standing in the furthest corner of the cubicle, said, “Yeah, prognosis. That’s what we want. Prognosis.”

  Willing my whole being not to jump across the bed and over Slinky Simon, I clenched my fists and asked, “Do you even know what a prognosis is?”

  There was an enormous silence, the only noise Simon’s breathing.

  “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

  At that, a junior doctor not much older than we were, pulled back the curtain, stood next to the bed, looked at us three, then said, in slow English with a thick Spanish accent, “You are not his family, I think.”

  I explained he was over for a holiday business trip and his family were in the UK; we were his friends on the island, so could he tell us how bad it was, please?

  “It helped when we knew what he’d taken. When your friend—” he looked at Rob “—told us he has taken ecstasy.”

  Rob crouched forward and made a shushing noise.

  I rolled my eyes and said, “I think that ship’s sailed.” I turned back to make eye contact with the dishy doctor.

  “He is very lucky, your friend. He fainted because he was not drinking enough water. He danced and danced and did not drink.” He pointed to the clear bag of liquid on the stand. “This will help.”

  Rob said, “So it wasn’t a dodgy one?”

  “What does this mean?”

  Rob mimed swallowing a pill.

  “We do not know. We cannot know without more tests, which is cost for you. I have worked here since the start of summer and this—” he pointed to Simon in the bed “—is normal. Water will fix it.”

  Looking at the doctor with a frown, I said, “Will he be all right? Nothing permanent, no brain damage?”

  He shook his head. “No. He can leave in a few hours when the fluids are in him.”

  “Why’s he not talking?”

  He explained they’d had to lightly sedate him so they could give him the fluids and settle his heart rate, which was very high when he’d arrived. He’d be awake soon.

  “Thank you.”

  “The receptionist will settle your account.” He left.

  Rob, his head in his hands, said, “Fucking payment? What’s that about, eh? How we meant to pay for it? I’ve not got any money. I’m out here on his credit card. I’m sponsored by Slinky Simon Air. All the time. Couldn’t have come otherwise. It’s all my fault. I should have never said to him to get more from that geezer in the club. You’d already sorted us out. I think Simon was a bit put out, as it goes, you two knowing more people here than he does. That’s why he asked me to get some more. Should’ve said no.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “Calm down. It’s easy to say that now. Hindsight, always with crystal clear vision. He’ll have travel insurance, or a credit card, or both. Let’s focus on what went right, not what went wrong. OK?”

  We stood, silently, like three not-so-wise men around the bed of baby clubbing Jesus, staring at Simon as he gradually got his Slinky back.

  ***

  Once Slinky Simon woke, they sorted out payment and I rang his girlfriend to say he was fine; she didn’t need to fly out to see him, but he wanted me to tell her what had happened.

  “Fuck! Is he dead?” she asked.

  “No, he’s alive. Talking to Rob now.”

  “I’ll fucking kill him myself. No, actually, I’ll kill Rob, then I’ll kill Simon. I told him he’d do this one day. I said law of averages, he’s gotta overdo it one night.”

  I said nothing.

  “I’ll get on the first flight tomorrow. Thanks for ringing. He’s in so much trouble when I see him, fucking reprobate.” She cried quietly down the phone. After a few moments, she said, “It’d be so much easier if I didn’t love him. You know?”

  “I do.”

  “Bye.” She put the phone down.

  As I caught everyone up on the girlfriend phone call, Rob and Paul tutted.

  Slinky Simon listened, a small smile spreading on his face. “I suppose I deserve it, really. She loves me.”

  We left Rob and Simon talking about arrangements to meet the girlfriend the next day.

  Paul and I drove home in silence, well into the next normal day of people going about their business—buying food, going to work—like ordinary people who didn’t stay up all night. The madness and debauchery of last night well forgotten, I reached across the car and grabbed Paul’s hand, squeezing it tight. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  We drove in silence for a few roundabouts and sets of traffic lights. As we approached our building, I couldn’t stop the thought leaving my body any longer. “I love you and I don’t want to lose you.”

  “I know. And I love you too. I take care of myself. Plenty of water, no dodgy dealers.”

  “There are other ways I could lose you.” I couldn’t look him in the eyes as I knew I would crumble, end up in a pile of tears and snot. I stared straight ahead now we were parked just outside our building.

  “I’ll never cheat on you. I promise. I cross my heart and hope to die.”

  From the corners of my eyes, I saw he was crossing his heart. I wiped a tear with the back of my hand. “I don’t want you to become another casualty of clubbing.”

  “You know I won’t. I don’t. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “There’s other ways you could lose yourself.” I swallowed hard, blinking my eyes quickly to stop the tears rolling down my cheeks.

  He leant across the car, kissed my cheek and said, “I love you. That’s all you need to know.” He got out the car. “I might go for a walkabout to blow the cobwebs away because sometimes everything feels a bit close. But you know I’ll always come back to you.”

  I nodded and trailed after him, wondering why he had to go away, why I made him feel like everything was ‘a bit close’, but he’d already told me he’d never had a long-term boyfriend before. The longest relationship he’d managed was three months and Paul had ended it because the other guy was too clingy, always in Paul’s face.

  Turning to me, he said, “Let’s close the blinds, wrap up in the duvet and go to sleep.”

  I followed him to the apartment where we did just th
at, but I couldn’t stop one thought floating around my head: whether it was already too late and I’d already lost Paul to clubbing.

  ***

  I later found out that Slinky Simon’s girlfriend stayed for three days. She bollocked him, saying if he ever did anything like that again she’d never forgive him and it would be over. She slapped Rob and told him he should have known better, I wasn’t sure why. Slinky Simon tried to laugh it off, saying it was an occupational hazard of club promotion, but his girlfriend wasn’t having any of it. A few days later, we waved the three of them off at the airport with promises they’d return later in the season, but it was highly unlikely.

  A few nights later, as we were getting ready for a set at one of our clubs, I asked Paul if he could take it easy tonight, just for once. Maybe we could do something the next morning have a brunch picnic together on the beach.

  “Might do. Why you asking?” His back was to me as he busied himself with something in our box of records and CDs.

  “Don’t disappear in the middle of the set, all right?”

  He turned to face me, all sleeveless vest and big pocketed shorts. “Once. I did that once.”

  “Twice, actually—three times if you count when you were pulled out by that guy you said you knew but didn’t and then came back half an hour later as you were coming up on a pill you’d dropped with him.” Quietly now, I said, “Three times.”

  “I didn’t realise you were my mum.”

  “I’m not your mum, not that she’d give a shit. I’m your boyfriend. I love you. I’m trying to say you need to take it easy or one of these nights the wheels are going to fall off.”

  “You look after your wheels and I’ll look after mine. All right?” He turned away, his back to me again.

  “We’re a team. Me and you. The gay DJ couple of Ibiza. People ask for us to come. They know if we’re there, it’ll be a party. We are the party, they reckon. But I don’t want to become the party at any expense. Why would we throw all this away by being stupid?”

  “I’m not being stupid.”

  “We start getting shit reviews of our gigs, we’ll soon be dropped by the clubs. Don’t think they’ll keep us on. This shit is fickle. Slinky Simon told me. You’re only as good as your last gig. A few shit ones and we’ll be out, back to London working in some shop. How’s that sound?”

  He turned to face me. “We came here to escape all that dull grind, didn’t we? And look what we’ve made for ourselves. I can’t believe you’re talking about going back to that. That’s the last thing I want. Don’t you understand that?”

  “That’s why I want to protect it. Make sure we don’t lose it from some stupid mistakes.”

  “I’m just enjoying myself—enjoying the euphoria, enjoying the lack of routine, living for the music. If we’re playing it or dancing to it, it doesn’t really matter, does it? We don’t need the clubs, we could stay out here and work as waiters, whatever. It doesn’t matter. Your auntie Luella made sure of that.” He reached into the wooden box on the bedside table, pulled out a small, clear plastic bag of white pills, took out two, handed me one and necked one himself.

  “We’re not even there yet! It’s not even eleven and you’re dropping. How the fuck are you meant to play the set we planned if you’re permanently fucking banjaxed?”

  “Take a chill pill.” He offered the remaining pill to me.

  “Not yet. That’s not the answer to everything, you know.”

  “Depends what the question is.” He shrugged, his hands facing upwards either side of his body.

  “What’s that even meant to mean?”

  “Nothing, everything. Something. I dunno. It’ll be fine. They love us we can do no wrong. We’ve got the latest tunes to include, it’ll all be fine.”

  “Yeah, cos I went to the only record shop on the island that sells this sort of music and made sure I bought them. And why did I go on my own?”

  “Can’t remember. You getting dressed?” He stared at me, looking me up and down.

  “What’s that got to do with what we’re talking about? And don’t you go bringing Luella’s money into this. That was for me. To enjoy, to make good use of, not so we could lay around all day in the sun slowly spending it on partying.”

  “She’d have disapproved?”

  “Not of the drugs. You know that. But the laying about, the not getting on, yeah, I reckon she would, as it goes.” I put my hands on my hips, puffing up my chest, not quite believing I was having this same conversation with him.

  “It won’t come to that, trust me. It’ll be fine. We’ve got the new tracks, we’ve got the crowds, we’ve got the promotion—I did some wicked flyers for tonight, did I show you? And I am the number one party-planning go-to guy on Ibiza.” He smiled.

  “Who said that?”

  “People.”

  “Yeah, but who, though?”

  “Jessie.”

  “I said I didn’t want anything to do with him. He’s a dodgy icky fucker, and I’m not having anything to do with him.”

  “You did say that, but I sort of bumped into him, and he asked me to help him with the promo and club decorations for the opening night of his new club—the one he talked to us about. He’s paying me loads-a-money!”

  “Is there anything I can say to stop you doing this?”

  “You don’t own me, Tom.”

  “I know that, Paul.” I knew we were in trouble when we both started using each other’s names in speech. “But we’re a partnership, a couple. It’s about compromise and checking in on each other for stuff like this. Isn’t it?”

  “I thought you’d be happy for me. You know how much I enjoy the party planning. This is my big chance, a launch of a new club under new management. Everyone’s gonna be there. It’s gonna get, like, ten thousand or more. It’ll be like those orbital parties we used to go to, only much slicker. That’s where I come in, see?”

  “That’s all he wants you to do? Nothing dodgy? Nothing about serving up or any of that shit?”

  “I promise.” He turned up the getting ready to go out music on the CD player, took my hand and we danced in the middle of the living room. He kissed me, pushing a pill into my mouth with his tongue like we sometimes did on the dance floor of crowded clubs to avoid the eagle eyes of bouncers.

  I swallowed the water he handed me, wishing there was another set of eagle eyes looking at our relationship; someone who could help me look after Paul, ensure he didn’t move any farther from his tether, any farther away from me than I feared he already had.

  ***

  We played our set. Paul stayed with me in the DJ booth the whole time, but he did take another two pills. I joined him for half but refused any more, wanting to keep a clearish head for mixing and changing the records so I could watch the reaction of the club as I responded to their collective mood, manipulating them like a conductor does his orchestra; my tools were the records and music I chose.

  We walked home. I walked slowly while thinking about how another night’s work had gone; Paul ran around me like an excited puppy on a lead. He was chatting at twenty to the dozen about some guys and girls he’d met at the bar who were going to ring to meet up later for a beach party, and how Jessie had said if he did well for this club night launch, he wanted him to be in charge for all his club promo and interior dressing, and wasn’t that great, wasn’t that wonderful…

  Because I was one and a half pills behind him, I trudged along listening to his chatter, watching his eyes as he ran around me. I knew half of what he was saying would never come to anything; it was just codshit clubbing banter. I wondered if what he was saying about Jessie was true too. I didn’t want to piss on his fire as I knew how much this meant to him, and how he’d wanted something of his own rather than just another thing he’d latched on to me for, like the DJing had been. Not that anyone in Ibiza knew that’s how it had started, but as Paul had said, he knew, and he always would.

  PART 3

  CHAPTER 15

  YOU
KNOW WHEN you reach the final straw? The thing that makes your mind up: that’s enough, you have to get out of this situation and can’t put up with it any longer? Well, the first time I had one of those moments was the night of the fire.

  A month or so later, we were having a rare night off. Since Paul’s club launch had been a triumphant success and Jessie had done as he’d offered, Paul’s club dressing had taken off. When we weren’t DJing together, he was usually busy doing that, but that night, fancying a change, we’d gone to a large club in Ibiza Town, a taxi ride from our place: somewhere we could go out and not be recognised at every turn.

  We were in one of the smaller rooms that radiated in a circle off the main dance floor, dancing to some happy house, waving our hands in the air and we definitely didn’t care, when a bell rang accompanied by water spraying from the ceiling.

  Having been to a fair few foam and outdoor parties, where this sort of thing was usual—except the bell, now I think about it—we carried on dancing.

  Paul pulled me closer, kissed me, pushing himself into me as the water soaked my hair and body.

  It was cool water, and many people jumped onto tables to get closer to it.

  The bell continued ringing, and it occurred to me everything may not be quite as it was meant to be. Pulling Paul with me, I walked through the doors to the balcony above the main dance floor. The black smoke hit me as I opened it. Water sprayed from the ceiling in there too, and men in black suits were pushing screaming people towards the exit. The side door opposite ours, which led to another small niche dance floor, had smoke billowing from the gap under the door.

  Paul was dancing behind me. “Wicked.”

  I coughed, put my T-shirt up to my mouth. “No, not wicked. This place is on fucking fire. We need to go. Fucking now!” I grabbed Paul’s hand and walked back into the small room we’d come from. It had emptied of people, the floor covered in water, beer bottles, plastic cups of discarded drinks and bits of clothing. But at least the air wasn’t smoky in there.