And the birds kept on singing

by Simon Bourke

  “Pegs, you ready?”

  He heard the voice but ignored it; it could wait, everything could wait.

  “Pegs, man, are you alright?”

  He forced himself away from this magical vista. It was Ginty, lovely little Ginty with his innocent face and his secret romance with his mother.

  “Ginty,” he said softly, taking his friend’s hand and nursing it gently.

  “You okay, man?” Ginty asked, mildly perturbed.

  “Yeah, Ginty. What’s happening with you?”

  “I’m grand. We’re heading to the nightclub now, come on.”

  “Okay, Gints,” said Pegs, putting an arm around his friend. “Where’s Seán?”

  “He’s right here,” Seán said, appearing out of the ether.

  “Seán, man, where were ya?”

  “Ah, just here and there,” he replied with a smile.

  The two friends looked at one another, each checking to see if the other was feeling it. They didn’t need to say anything, it was all there in their eyes, and it said: Best yokes ever.

  7

  As soon as they entered Moody Blues, everything fell into place. The fidgeting anxiety of the pub disappeared, to be replaced by a sense of rapture, of freedom. The dance floor was already full of faces just like theirs; happy-eyed, contented souls, high on love, high on life. Thumping bass-lines reverberated throughout the club, the music seeming to rise up from the floor and pulse through their bodies, compelling them forward in a series of contained, controlled movements. The song changed key, the bass softened and an ear-piercing falsetto instructed the crowd to ‘reach up’. They did as they were told, roaring their approval as the lights went down and the music slowed to a halt. For a few seconds there was complete silence, only the whistles of the revellers breaking the spell. The DJ had them in the palm of his hand, the only decision being when to release them. Just when it seemed he’d left it too long and the crowd were about to revolt, he set them free, spinning the record back into action. Moody Blues exploded into life, born again, the cheers and whoops of euphoria audible even over the crashing house music.

  They quickly ordered some drinks and left them with Ginty as they made their way onto the dance-floor. Cathal looked on with a tinge of sadness as they joined the party, went off to another dimension, or whatever it was they did. He wasn’t jealous; he could have had a Speckled Dove if he so desired, he could have been right there with them, wild-eyed and joyous. But his life was different to theirs now. He was at college, Trinity College, and he had worked hard to get there; he wasn’t going to waste his opportunity. He was going to get an economics degree and then a decent job. What would become of his friends, though? Where would they end up when the party was over? Seán worked in a department store and, while Ginty didn’t look down on his vocation, it didn’t strike him as the kind of job with good career prospects. Pegs accompanied his father on painting and decorating jobs a few days a week, and spent the rest of his days in bed. Their attitude to life was different to his; they thought only of the here and now. As long as they had enough money to go out every weekend, they were content. Ginty was already thinking of his future; he had it all mapped out. Once he’d graduated, he planned to travel for a few years; America, Australia, mainland Europe, get some life experience. Once he’d got that out of his system, he’d return to Ireland, Dublin probably. He’d take a well-paid job, start saving and eventually return to Dooncurra, with a wife in tow, to start a family. He hoped they’d all still be friends by that point, thought they would be. Chances were, even then, that they would still be doing the same thing, living in the moment, not thinking about the bigger picture. Well, fuck it, if they were still in shitty jobs and spending all their money on booze and drugs when they were forty, they’d still be his best friends. Who cared what you did for a living? Good friends were for life and these would always be his. Ginty sank the last of his Guinness, slammed the empty glass on the table and went to join his friends on the dance floor.

  “Hon Ginty!” Seán called out, as the little man busted moves that could only have been learned from some weirdos in Dublin.

  Seán moved over beside him, trying out some moves of his own. If they could only see him now, Daryl, his grandmother, Leanne, they’d realise how wrong they were about him. He wasn’t a sicko or a loser or anything like that; he was cool, a good guy, a nice lad and by fuck could he dance. Pegs and Hooch joined them, brothers in arms, dancing in sync like extras from Saturday Night Fever. If you’d told them a few months ago that they’d be in Moody Blues behaving in such a manner, they’d have laughed at how gay it sounded. They were blokes, and if they danced it was only ever in an ironic way. But the pills had changed all that. They’d liberated them, made them realise that expressing affection for your fellow man didn’t have to be gay. They might have been stuck in crappy Dooncurra but their minds were being broadened, albeit thanks to synthetic drugs made in some dodgy factory in Poland.

  “I’m gonna go up there, Pegs, up on the stage.”

  Seán nodded in the direction of the upper level of the dance-floor, an area of the club everyone called ‘the stage’. It was only ever populated by impossibly hot women and the occasional lothario who never lasted long in such esteemed company.

  “G’way, boy, don’t go up there.”

  “I’m going, Pegs. I’m going up.”

  Pegs shrugged his shoulders; if that was where Seán wanted to go he wouldn’t stop him, but he’d keep an eye on him. He knew what those women were like, leading on young lads like Seán and then acting all innocent when their headcase of a boyfriend came up and beat seven shades of shit out of the hapless paramour. That wouldn’t happen tonight, not to his friend. Seán wasn’t concerned about any of that though, the thought of a jealous boyfriend watching while he bumped and ground with their beloved meant nothing to him. He was going to join the glitterati; this was his moment. He could do anything tonight, and the presence of a dozen long-legged, large-breasted babes wasn’t going to overawe him. If anything it would be the opposite: they’d be overawed by him. He stood by the side of the stage savouring the moment, waiting until the time was right. A couple of lads were already out there trying their luck, fuelled by the same substance as Seán; let them try, he’d show them how it was done. He strode confidently into the middle of the floor, the lights beaming down and exhibiting him to the peasants below. It was brighter here than in the rest of the club, and just walking across the floor made you feel the centre of attention. One or two of the women looked at him curiously, their faces betraying their thoughts. What the fuck is he doing up here? This isn’t the place for any old punter. Seán took no notice of them; who were they to judge him?

  He found a spot away from all the others and began doing his thing. He shimmied his way across the floor, languid and insouciant, arms, legs, hands and feet in perfect harmony. He wondered if anyone below was watching; he wouldn’t blame them if they were. The thought of being watched spurred him on. He didn’t even care about the women; this was just about being up here unafraid. He wouldn’t stay for much longer. It was fine for a few minutes, but eventually people would start to wonder who the fuck he was and what he was doing up there. All he wanted was a taste of the glory.

  “Well, boy, you’re some little dancer, do you know that?”

  His nostrils filled with cheap scent, chewing-gum and cigarettes. One of the girls was talking to him. It was a distraction he could do without; this was just about him and the music.

  “Cheers,” he said, looking at her for the first time.

  She was familiar. He thought he’d seen her walking round town pushing a buggy, or in the passenger seat of a souped-up Mitsubishi. She was the kind of woman who usually terrified him: dominant and aggressive, world-weary and jaded. But up here, right now, she was just another soul seduced by the power of those magical pills. She was attractive; not a natural beauty, not classically pretty
but attractive. The first thing he saw was a shock of long, dark hair which cascaded over her shoulders, loose and untamed; it had a life all of its own, its movements independent of the head to which it was attached. Beneath that was a face so full of contradictions that he didn’t know what to make of it. Harsh eyebrows, dark and mystical, cut a swathe across her forehead, giving her the appearance of a mildly irate witch on the hunt for ingredients to add to her cauldron. Her wide, flaming nostrils seemed to pulsate before his eyes, opening and closing with mechanical regularity as they hungrily sucked in air. Amidst all this severity lay something endearing, a softness which hadn’t yet been eradicated by life’s travails. She was vulnerable, he could see that, like someone wishing to be saved but determined not to cry for help lest there be no response. He imagined that away from here, on a regular night at home, away from all this madness, she might be considered wholesome.

  Tonight there was nothing wholesome about her. She wore a small furry top, or was it a bra? He couldn’t tell, but it just about covered her cleavage, while exposing her midriff and revealing a couple of tattoos on her belly. Further down, a pair of shorts, gold like the ones Kylie Minogue wore in that video, and boots, fluffy like her top, which looked incredibly difficult to dance in. It made for a quite thrilling package, one he would definitely have liked to unwrap. It had been just himself and the music up to now, but he was willing to allow her into the inner sanctum if she so wished. It was clear to Seán that she was there too though, in the same place that he was; the Speckled Doves. Her eyes seethed out from her skull, their pupils so large he couldn’t make out the colour of the irises, and her mouth jerked up and down as she pummelled a piece of gum to death. Oh, she was there all right.

  “Some yokes, aren’t they?” he said.

  “Unreal, boy,” she replied, taking a spot beside him and resuming her own peculiar style of dancing.

  She wasn’t the best mover, but as he looked her up and down he knew, that although not really his type, he wanted, no needed, to devour this woman. Sex was usually the last thing on his mind when he was on Ecstasy, but she screamed sex, hollered it from the rooftops for all to hear. Chances were she was a bit of a slapper, like all the girls up here, but he had no problem going where dozens had gone before. They continued dancing together for a while longer, exchanging the occasional smile. As time passed and she stayed right there beside him, he began to consider his prospects. She’d approached him, talked to him and was dancing beside him; these were positive signs. He found it difficult to read women at the best of times, never mind when his thoughts were chemically altered, but this looked promising. For whatever reason, this woman appeared to be into him. He was having such a good time that it didn’t matter either way; if he got off with her, great, and if not, no harm done. Maybe that was what she liked about him? His cool exterior. That and his sensational moves obviously.

  “I’m Danielle,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “Seán,” he replied, taking and kissing it.

  She moved in front of him, blocking his view as she strutted her stuff to the crowd below. But she was giving him a different view, something that no one down there could see. Right before him, just inches away, were a pair of long, tanned legs, and an arse which explained why she wore those little gold shorts. This was her money-maker, her tour-de-force, her show-stopper. It was mesmeric. A proper arse, just the way he liked them, plump but firm, round, but not overly so. He had to touch it, he couldn’t resist, but what about playing it cool? Leave her sweat it out for a bit, he thought; then she moved closer, her buttocks now only millimetres from his midriff. Cool or not, he couldn’t wait any longer. He cupped her cheeks gently with both of his hands and waited for her to protest, but she danced on undeterred. She moved even closer and began grinding against him. Jesus Christ. He looked over her shoulder at the rest of the dance-floor. They were looking now all right; Seán McLoughlin getting his freak on with Danielle in the gold shorts. Take that, Dooncurra! He could see Pegs waving up at him, grinning widely, two thumbs up. That was what he loved about his friend; there was never any bitterness or jealously, he was always happy for his friends, wanting to share in their successes. Seán smiled back almost shyly and returned to the matter at hand. Now she was arched against him, her shoulders on his chest, sliding up and down the length of his body with her arms around him. He bent down to kiss her but it was too awkward, the angle was all wrong, so he grabbed her by the waist and spun her round. They shared a brief, druggy smile and then kissed, not a full-on, ‘I must have you’ kiss, but a more refined, circumspect, brushing of the lips.

  “Not here,” she said, taking him by the hand.

  They stepped off the floor, away from the limelight, into a quieter, more secluded area where you could have a conversation if you so wished. There wasn’t a whole lot to say. He kissed her again, this time with everything he had and she responded in kind, her jaw grateful to have a new outlet on which to work. It was all he could do to stop himself from yanking down her shorts and taking her there and then. If he played things right, maybe that would come later.

  “Mmm,” she purred as they parted. “I knew you’d be a good kisser.”

  He smiled, saying nothing; to talk would be to jeopardise this.

  “Come and meet my friends,” she said, dragging him over to a corner of Blues he’d never been in before; an exclusive area, populated by people beyond his reach.

  Seán enjoyed the moment; walking through the club with this half-naked, leggy brunette. Lonely single men gazed on enviously. It was all he could do to prevent himself from patting them on the head and saying “There, there,” as he passed.

  “This is Seán, everyone,” she said, guiding him to a seat and sitting down beside him.

  There were eight people in the booth, all older than him, in their middle to late twenties. They nodded and waved in greeting, a couple of them going so far as to stand up and shake his hand. It was all peace and love here too; the Speckled Doves had reached every corner of Moody Blues tonight.

  Danielle put her hand on his knee and fixed him with a meaningful stare. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but took it as an invitation to devour her once more. There had to be a chance of a ride here, surely, and if so it would be unlike any ride he’d had before. This was a woman, not a girl. She was certainly older than him by a few years, and no doubt infinitely more experienced also. He had to get her into bed; failing that, down an alley or up against a tree in the park.

  “Will we go back out dancing?” he asked when they came up for air.

  She smiled indulgently. “You love your dancing, Seán, don’t you?”

  “I do,” he said, rising from his seat. “Want something to drink?”

  “Vodka Red Bull,” she replied automatically.

  “Back in a sec,” he said, planting another kiss on her lips. “Don’t go anywhere now.”

  He floated off towards the bar. She was his now; buying a drink signalled ownership. All he had to do was get the drink, bring it back and place it beside her, then there’d be no doubt. But when he returned a few minutes later, she was nowhere to be seen. He looked at where she’d been sitting and wondered if he’d blown it somehow. Maybe she’d had a chat with one of her friends and been talked out of it. It was his own fault for leaving her there on her own; what had he been thinking! Well, he wasn’t going looking for her; he wasn’t desperate, but more than that, he didn’t want to find her in someone else’s arms.

  “She’s just gone to the toilet, love; she’ll be back in a sec.”

  A woman was talking to him, one of Danielle’s friends.

  “What?” he said.

  “Danielle said to tell you she’s gone to the toilet, and she’ll be back in a sec.”

  He smiled at this kind woman, this bearer of great news.

  “Cool,” he said, nodding his head. “No problem.”

  Panic over, he took a
couple of gulps from his bottle of cider and went to the side of the dance-floor, ready to return to the fray. All he needed was his companion. She returned moments later, still his, and together they rejoined the sweating throng. Seán searched out Pegs and Hooch and introduced them to his new squeeze. Both were only too happy to accept the hugs and kisses which accompanied the greeting.

  “We’re having a session back in my mate’s house,” she said. “Ye’re all invited.”

  Pegs and Hooch nodded enthusiastically; a session sounded good to them. To Seán, though, it was more than good; it was exactly what he’d wanted to hear. Yes! he thought, fucking yes. A session meant a house, which meant a bed, which meant...well, he could only imagine what that meant.

  They spent the rest of the night dancing together, occasionally breaking off for beverages and bouts of passion. He allowed himself to relax; she wasn’t going anywhere now. When the lights came up, they returned to their seats, to her friends.

  “Who’s your new fella, Dani?” one of the girls asked with a smile.

  Something about her tone unsettled Seán but he chose to ignore it.

  “This is Seán,” Danielle said, throwing her arms around him dramatically, “and he’s a sexy little bastard!”

  Her friend grinned suggestively, and there and then Seán knew he would get what he wanted. Those legs, that arse: he would be exploring them all. Now it was just a matter of getting to this session and finding an empty bedroom.

  8

  “Who lives here?” Seán asked incredulously.

  “Maggie and her fella.”

  “Jesus.”

  They were the first to arrive, Danielle acquiring a set of keys, presumably from Maggie or her fella, and shoving Seán into the first available taxi.

  “It’s some place,” Seán said, walking through the open-plan living room and into the kitchen. “They must be minted.”