In true Mod spirit, however, he was a terrible snob and if a tune offended his taste, he’d stop dancing and hang around the bar until it was over. As Bobby was getting more beers in, Steve couldn’t help himself from looking around intently in the hope that Jeanie might be amongst the crowd but after clocking at least three girls with a similar black bob, he realised that he needed to stop his chemically-enhanced imagination running away with itself.
After three or four mediocre tunes that all reminded him of Joy Division, Molly’s Chambers by Kings of Leon came on. Bobby was still waiting to get served at the bar but Steve felt like mingling with the revellers, especially as the tune had exactly the type of rhythm that he liked dancing to.
Steve was adept at feigning a lack of interest in what was going on around him on the dance floor but he felt a tantalising sense that a fair-haired girl in a red ‘Vintage Vinyl Saved My Soul’ t-shirt seemed to be making an effort to dance closer to him. She had a sweet, apple-cheeked face and Steve thought that she looked quite like an Eastenders actress from the 90s that he used to fancy. His instincts proved right and soon the girl was dancing right in front of him and looking right into his eyes. She lent closer.
‘Didn’t think you Mod dudes liked this sort of thing.’
Steve gently put his hand on her neck as he spoke into her ear.
‘Sometimes a fella just wants to shake his ass around a dance floor and ye can’t always be fussy about what yer shakin’ it to.’
The girl giggled flirtatiously.
‘Sounds like you put your ass about a little too indiscriminately… I’d watch that.’
Steve laughed.
‘Yeah, I might catch indie wanker disease if I’m not careful.’
She scowled in mock indignation.
‘I’ll have you know that some of my best friends are indie wankers.’
The Kings of Leon tune started cross-fading into Apply Some Pressure by Maximo Park and Steve grimaced.
‘Talking of indie wankers, I aint dancin’ to this shite… fancy a drink? Sorry, I didn’t catch yer name?’
‘I’m Sally but everyone just calls me Sal. And yours?’
‘I’m Steve. It’s nice to meet ye Sal. C’mon, let’s get away from this dross. It’s offensive.’
Sal pulled a face and gave the music a thumbs-down sign in solidarity.
As they walked towards the bar, Steve saw that Bobby was engrossed in conversation with a wasted-looking guy with an impressive afro who had appropriated the bottle of Becks that was intended for him.
The throng at the bar had thinned and Steve quickly got another Becks and a rum and coke for Sal. They managed to secure a couple of seats at a candle-lit alcove at the rear of the club.
Steve now felt pleasantly drunk but still quite lucid as the effects of the MDMA wore off. Sitting next to Sal, he could see that although she wasn’t his usual sultry brunette type, she was an attractive girl and her open, smiley manner made him feel relaxed and upbeat.
‘I’m guessing you’re from Northern Ireland… you sound just like Colin Murray off the radio or that ginger comedian bloke, whatshisname…’ said Sal.
‘Patrick Kielty’ said Steve, cringing. ‘Nice to be mentioned in the same breath as those A-listers. Anyway, I’m not really a showbiz fella, more a practical type so if ye know of any jobs goin’, I need to fund the rest of this wee seaside break.’
‘I’m a teacher so I don’t know how much use I’d be with your job-hunting’ said Sal. ‘… but I could ask around.’
‘Ach I’m sure I’ll have nae bother finding somethin’. So anyway, who are ye down here with?’
‘Oh, just tagging along with a mate and her boyfriend… think they took pity on me or something… knew I needed to get out instead of just lying around watching my West Wing box-sets.’
Sal explained how she’d split up with a long-term partner five months previously and was just tentatively venturing back into the singles world.
‘Thing is, I’m pretty self-contained and I’m busy at work during the week but weekends can actually be the hardest… reading the Sunday papers on your own with just Radio 4 for company can really bring on the self-pity sometimes, you know.’
‘You’re breakin’ my heart here, Sal,’ said Steve with a grin. ‘C’mon, you’re not gonna be single for long… you’re lovely… ye know you’ve got really kind eyes, don’t ye?’
‘Thanks,’ she said coyly. ‘Windows to the soul and all that. Either means I’m kind-hearted or just too bloody soft, eh?’
Steve looked at her gentle blue eyes intently and concluded that unless his gut instinct was badly betraying him, this girl didn’t have a bad bone in her body. He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear and kissed her. Her soft lips eagerly met his and he felt a thrill more real than anything the drugs had offered him earlier.
After their kiss, Steve put his arm around Sal and they held hands as they exchanged stories about their respective lives in Belfast and Brighton. It was getting close to 2 am and lights started to go up. As the other clubbers began filtering out, Steve could see Bobby sat by the bar on his own, supping the remnants of his beer.
‘Hey Sal, guess I’d better have a word with the fella I came down here with.’ He nodded towards where his new friend was sitting.
‘So you’re a mate of Bobby’s then? That’s Brighton for you… never mind six degrees of separation, it’s usually just one. My ex, Rich, used to play bass in Bobby’s band. Bit of a local character is our Bobby boy. Overdoes the partying a bit too much, bless him, but he’s got a heart of gold.’
‘Well I’m glad you approve of the company I keep, Sal, ‘cos it would be nice to see you again.’
‘I’d like that too, Steve. Bobby has my number if you want to get in touch.’
They briefly kissed again before Sal got up to join her friends who were waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. Before leaving, she waved over to Steve again and blew him a parting kiss.
9
Emerging from the club to the sound of seagulls and drunken laughter, Steve and Bobby agreed that they were both feeling peckish. They walked across the road to a fast food place where they each ordered a burger and a can of Coke. They got a window seat and watched random characters in various states of intoxication stumble along West Street.
‘Have been meaning to ask ye somethin’ Bobby,’ said Steve.
‘Fire away, boss.’
‘Thing is, I haven’t sorted maself out with anywhere to stay and was wonderin’ if I could crash on yer sofa tonight. There’s a youth hostel in Brighton aint there? Was thinkin’ of checkin’ in there tomorrow.’
‘Well you’re in luck, boss. My flatmate’s staying in New York with his girlfriend and won’t be back until the end of August. I could do with the extra cash so if you reckon you could manage fifty quid a week, you can have his room for a while as long as you leave it like you found it.’
Steve shook Bobby’s hand.
‘It’s a deal, mate. Yer a lifesaver, so ye are. I’m pretty well house-trained actually. Ye know the Mod motto, ‘clean living under difficult circumstances’? Well that’s me to a T, so it is.’
‘Well that’s handy, boss, ‘cos I’m a bit of slob myself,’ laughed Bobby. ‘C’mon, let’s make a move. I’m meant to be on site tomorrow at eight. Got a bit of labouring work at this big Regency gaff that needs gutting.’
‘Jesus, yer gonna feel like shit havin’ to do some hard graft after a night on the tear,’ said Steve, shaking his head.
‘I can handle it… get to the caff for about quarter-past seven, couple of bacon sarnies and some strong coffee with three sugars and I’ll be right as rain.’
The streets were nearly deserted as they walked along Western Road towards Bobby’s flat on Lansdowne Place. At the junction with Montpelier Road, a homeless guy was lying at the corner outside Waitrose supermarket and Steve reached into his pocket to chuck him a few quid. As he did so, a couple of crop-haired geezers in over-sized trainers
and tracksuit bottoms appeared from round the corner. One was thick-set and swarthy and wearing a Liverpool top; the other was pale, lanky and rat-faced with an Abercrombie & Fitch t-shirt. They walked straight up to Steve and Bobby.
‘Alright lads, ‘ows it goin’?’ said the stockier of the two, blocking Steve’s way on the pavement.
‘I’m fuckin’ doin’ rightly mate but would ye mind gettin’ outta my way?’
Bobby chipped in.
‘C’mon lads, we’re just on our way home… we don’t want any hassle.’
The guy refused to budge.
‘Just hand over your fuckin’ cash you cunts and we’ll be done with ya.’
Steve stood his ground and screamed in their faces.
‘Look, you arseholes… yer not dealin’ with some student poofs here… I’m from fuckin’ Belfast so don’t try ‘n pull yer hard man bullshit with me… get the fuck outta my way or I’ll knock yer fuckin’ ballix in!’
With that, the rat-faced one produced a blade from his pocket and shoved it against Steve’s throat.
‘Listen, you cunt… I don’t give a fuck if you’re from downtown Bronx… givvus your fuckin’ wallet, now!’
Steve stood rigid with his arms dangling at his sides as his assailant rummaged in his pockets.
‘What have we got here then?’
He opened Steve’s wallet and grabbed a bunch of notes out of it.
‘Fuckin’ ‘ell… he’s got some ‘undred quid notes here and a few fifties… ‘
No sooner had he grabbed the cash than the muggers were sprinting eastwards down Western Road, leaving Steve and Bobby standing there, stunned.
‘Fuckin’ ‘ell, boss… don’t tell me that’s the sum total of your cash.’
Steve crouched down to pick up the discarded wallet from the pavement and looked up at Bobby as he checked its contents.
‘Well mate… lets just say that I’m well and truly fucked.’
10
When Steve awoke in Bobby’s flat at around ten, he was on his own and a night of fearful dreams had left him feeling disorientated and anxious. He went into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea and found a set of keys, a map of Brighton and a note.
Chin up Belfast Boy. I’ll ask the guv’nor at work if he could do with an extra pair of hands so we can sort out your cash-flow problems. Not much grub in the house but you can get a good fry-up in Belchers. I’ve marked it on the map. Also marked the North Laine area which is coolest place to go for a stroll in this town. How fuckin’ good a host am I, eh? Should be back about six. P.S. Flat could do with a bit of a clean if you want to help earn your keep!
The note cheered Steve up and he realised that being befriended by Bobby was one plus that he could draw from the last few days. He made his tea and wandered around the flat as he supped it. Bobby wasn’t kidding about it needing a clean. There were ashtrays full of old roaches, empty beer cans and Sunday papers still strewn across the living room floor.
The room was dominated by a 1968 poster of The Beatles that Steve recognised as a still from the promotional film for Revolution. Behind the TV there were shelves crammed full of rock ‘n roll biographies and DVDs of comedy classics like This is Spinal Tap and Monty Python and the Holy Grail plus assorted football anthologies. A proper lad’s ‘back to mine after the pub’ kind of flat, he concluded
Steve set about tidying the place up. Once he had, and with the blinds pulled up and sunlight streaming through the Victorian sash windows, it revealed itself to be quite an attractive flat with stripped wooden floors and original cornicing on the high ceilings. If Brighton was the kind of town that someone like Bobby could afford to live in a place like this, it couldn’t be all bad.
Steve made himself another cup of tea and flicked through Bobby’s CDs. He pulled out Five Leaves Left by Nick Drake.
The plaintive melancholy of the album seemed perfect for Steve’s mood and halfway through the song River Man, he began weeping. Despite everything that had happened to him since Friday night, all the turmoil had remained bottled-up so the outpouring came as a welcome release. Steve knew the tears weren’t just for Doug and he felt slightly ashamed when he realised that some of them were shed over a fistful of notes that a pair of scumbags were now probably spending on charlie or smack.
After cleaning up the flat and washing a sink-full of dirty dishes, Steve headed into town with Bobby’s map folded in his back pocket. He didn’t really fancy a fry-up so he sussed out a route so he could head straight to North Laine via Western Road and North Street. He was hoping that he might spot some locations from Quadrophenia along the way but nothing he saw sparked any recognition.
By the time he reached Gardner Street, Steve had realised that the type of people who would attract curiosity in Belfast because of their quirky appearance seemed to be the norm in Brighton. He’d never seen so many tattoos, piercings and outlandish fashion statements on display in such a concentrated area. On one hand he was impressed by the ‘anything goes’ atmosphere but at the same time his Northern Irish contrariness made him feel that it was a little too easy to be an individual in Brighton. By its very nature, true rebelliousness needs something to kick against and what would provide a rebel with grist to the mill in a place like this, he wondered?
Walking along Kensington Gardens in the sunshine, his brain went into the default mode of hoping he would spot Jeanie and, just like in the nightclub the previous evening, there was no shortage of look-alikes who’d momentarily set his pulse racing until he realised that it was yet another cutie with a dark bob and a slim physique.
‘Snap out of it!’ said a voice in his head. ‘Listen to yer higher self, ye twat… this Jeanie thing is just piling on the misery… Johnny was right, you’ve got enough on yer plate already… c’mon, think positive… yer miles from where Trevor and Donzo might find ye, in a place where no-one gives a fuck what ye look like or what religion ye are… Britain’s San Francisco… that’s what they said in that travel supplement, remember? Down by the seaside… yeah, the sea… that’s what ye need!’
On Sydney Street, Steve stopped the first friendly face he saw – a hippy woman with a raggle-taggle pair of kids trailing behind her.
‘Sorry to bother ye luv, was just wonderin’ what’s the easiest way to get to the seafront from here?’
The hippy woman smiled. ‘Oh I love that accent… Irish, yeah? Well it’s dead easy… just turn round and keep walking in the opposite direction and you’ll be there in about ten or fifteen minutes.’
She looked at Steve intently for a few moments.
‘Are you okay, man?… I’m just getting an energy off you like something’s troubling you? You’ve been through some bad shit, aint ya?’
Steve was taken aback but touched.
‘Well that’s true… been through a bit of a rough patch, right enough.’
She lightly stroked the side of his face.
‘Maybe meditation would help you… find somewhere quiet and repeat a mantra… you could try ‘Om ma ni pad me hum’.’
‘… or as they say back home, I could just take a big wise-up tablet.’
The hippy woman looked confused.
‘Well whatever works for you, man. Just take it easy, yeah?’
One of the kids was tugging on her flowing Indian dress and she smiled again at Steve before walking towards The Dumb Waiter café where a guy with dreadlocks was sat at the window beckoning her to join him.
Steve followed her directions and soon he was on Ship Street where the sea became visible for the first time. He crossed Kings Road and went to lean on the railings so he could survey the coastline properly. Looking east, Steve experienced a child-like thrill to see the tacky splendour of the Palace Pier and felt magnetically drawn towards it, not least because he was getting hungry and knew that it would be somewhere he could get some fish and chips.
On the pier, Steve rummaged in his pockets and was pleased to discover that he had about a thirteen quid’s worth of change. H
e wandered the length of the decking, scoffing his food and looking disinterestedly at the gaming machines and tourist tat. Having seen the North Laine hipsters earlier in the day, Steve was struck by how the folk strolling on the pier seemed a different breed altogether.
‘So this is where all the square fuckers and out-of-towners come, then,’ he thought. ‘Time to find somewhere where a fella can get a dacent pint.’
He left the pier and walked westwards along the promenade until he came to the Fortune of War where groups of happy-looking twenty-somethings were congregating to enjoy a late afternoon drink in the sun.
Steve got a pint of Guinness in a plastic glass and took it onto the beach. He found a spot as far away from the gaggles of students and day-trippers as he could find, sat down on the pebbles and feasted on the view.
So here he was; a Mod sitting all on his lonesome on Brighton beach. Just like the part in Quadrophenia when Jimmy comes back to the scene of an earlier triumph only to find desolation and a drug-fuelled identity crisis. Only Steve didn’t feel like that. Despite everything he’d been through, with the taste of Guinness in his mouth and the sunshine on his face, he felt pretty good. He liked the way the light was catching the sea, he liked the sound of seagulls and boozy laughter and the smell of deep-fried doughnuts. Just as he knew that he liked three-button jackets with narrow lapels, The Small Faces, booze, George Best and good-looking brunettes with bobbed hairstyles, in that moment he realised with total certainty that he liked Brighton.
11
‘Oi!, wakey wakey. You’re gonna have to get used to early mornings, boss… the guv’nor will be expecting some punctuality and hard graft on your first day before he decides if he’ll keep you on.’
A mug of tea was placed at Steve’s bedside as he yawned and mumbled his thanks to Bobby.
‘Really appreciate this, mate… I won’t let ye down. I know you’ve stuck yer neck out for me sayin’ I’m a good worker ‘n all… I could be a useless numpty for all you know.’
Die Hard Mod Page 3