by Max Frick
many-headed solid block of people to some vague point up near the front.
‘To there,’ he said. ‘Come on.’
It was as though these people didn’t exist for him. Where Billy saw an impenetrable mass, Tony saw nothing at all, and he seemed to think he could effortlessly cut right through them; cut right through them as a pang of truth or conscience sometimes, catching us unawares, can effortlessly cut us right through to the core, taking not a blind bit’s notice of whatever ad-hoc half-truths, falsehoods and fictions our cowardly hearts have, over the course of a lifetime, garnered together from a hotchpotch of sources (all second hand) and tightly knitted into a protective weave around themselves, each thread reinforcing the other, all forming a coherent, convenient, comfortable whole, which, having lain long enough to take root and seem organic even to ourselves (it is completely manmade and can be modified at will), becomes the value system, the synthetic moral code by which we live our lives, enabling us to blend, belong, call empty full, misery happiness, failure success, etc; a sharp pang issuing a stark reminder that we are not, despite appearances, all that we once hoped to...
‘Ho!’ barked Tony. ‘What are you fuckin standin there dreamin for? Come on!’
He waded into the crowd, and, sure enough, the people did what they could to get out of his way (the truth is always easier to ignore than to confront). He was siding truculently between them, pulling at their shoulders with a ‘mind yourself there, mate’ or a ‘watch out the way a wee bit’ or even a ‘come on, man, move, eh?’ and they would step aside with nothing more than a disgruntled click of the tongue or a half-hearted ‘hey’ or some other such sundry bleating. Billy followed in his wake repeatedly apologising.
They fought their way close enough to the front to guarantee entry into the club, but not so close as to be spotted by the vigilant bouncers and singled out as troublemakers, Tony keen to ensure that things went according to plan.
They were right in the thick of it now, standing chest to back with the people in front, back to chest with the people behind and roughly shoulder to shoulder with each other and those on either side. Cocaine had fuelled Tony’s temper but as its effects began to wane, his anger, in inverse proportion, continued to rise; and as he was nudged and jostled and bumped and shoved it rose higher and higher still; and as his toes were stood on and his heels walked up (especially that of his bad foot) it shot intermittently up to previously unscaled heights, up past his clenched fists, up past his gritted teeth, and up, all the way up, to his blazing eyes.
‘Look,’ said Billy suddenly. ‘There’s Daz and Pabs and them.’
Between the food vans and the ragged fringe of the crowd, filing along one by one in aloof parade were Daz, Pabs, Coshy and a number of others, all pub regulars. Daz in front had the peak of his cap pulled sullenly low over his eyes, Pabs behind was pulling a souvenir t-shirt over his own clothes and holding a balloon by its upright string, while Coshy was trying to figure out the best way to tackle a candyfloss. A few of the others were also carrying souvenirs and whatnot. They were bypassing the queue and making straight for the barriers.
‘Fuck sake!’ said Tony. ‘Make a fuckin day of it, why don’t you! Wait a minute… Are they gettin in?
A section of the barrier was opened for them like a gate and they were admitted, with a stern but respectful nod from the bouncer there, into the buffer zone.
‘They fuckin are as well! Come on! We’ll get in with them!’
Tony, followed by Billy, pushed, pulled and scrambled his way to the edge of the crowd and hurried towards that same section of barrier, reaching it just in time to see the last of the group disappearing in through the double doors, balloons, candyfloss and all. The neon sign on the roof was glowing a little more brightly now.
‘We’re with them, mate,’ said Tony to the bouncer.
The bouncer stared straight past him, as expressionless as a palace sentry.
‘Em, we’re with them,’ said Tony again. ‘So if you’ll just, eh, you know.’
He tapped the top of the barrier.
The bouncer stared straight past him, as expressionless as a palace sentry.
Tony turned to Billy.
‘Cunt’s deaf! Maybe it’s a Walkman he’s wearin.’
‘Aye,’ said Billy, ‘that's the attitude that'll win him over.’
‘Seriously, mate, we’re here with Daz. Open this thing, will you?’
Still no response.
This ‘exchange’ was beginning to irritate Tony.
‘Do you not believe me? Is that it? You can go and ask him if you like. Go. Ask him.’
Still nothing.
‘Ask him! Go and get Da... Pabs. Go and get fuckin Pabs out here! Peter. Peter Brown. Get Peter out here. He’ll tell you. Tell him Tony Drake’s waitin outside. Drako. Tell him Drako.’
The bouncer stared straight past him, as expressionless as a palace sentry.
‘Come on,’ said Billy. ‘He’s not goin to let us in.’
As frustrated as Tony was, he was still loath to jeopardise the plan.
‘So you’re not lettin us in, then...? All right! Fine! We’ll play it your way! We’ll go and wait in the queue like every cunt else if that’s what you want! But when we do get in I’ll be sure and tell Daz that you’re the reason we’re late! See what he’s got to say about that, eh?’
Had the corners of the bouncer’s mouth twitched at this, ever so slightly, as though he was struggling to suppress a laugh?
Tony, displaying near miraculous self-control, turned away, and cursing under his breath (which made a sound like steam escaping) began limping back to the back of the queue.
‘Did you just say you were goin to tell on him?’ said Billy.
‘Fuckin shut it, right!’
They fought their way back into the thick of it.
‘Watch yourself, there!’
‘Sorry,’ said Billy.
‘Get out the way, will you?’
‘Sorry,’ said Billy.
‘Fuckin move it, eh?’
‘Really sorry,’ said Billy.
The cloud overhead was more dense and dismal than ever and the deep dark blue of the sky visible through only the narrowest of apertures. The pressure in the air steadily continued to build.
From somewhere in the crowd a lone voice piped up:
I’ve been up, I’ve been down
I’ve been a fool, I’ve been a clown
It was quickly joined by several others:
I’ve done things that other men
Will never do
Then twice as many again joined in and arms were being raised:
I’ve tasted pleasure, tasted pain
Felt the sunshine, felt the rain
Then twice as many more, with more arms, and swaying now:
But I’ve always come back strong
I made it through
Until soon the entire crowd, arms raised, was singing at the top of its voice and swaying in unison:
I know what it means to fail
I’ve been through hell, I’ve been to jail
I’ve suffered, rode the fashions and the fads
But one thing will remain
I will always stay the same
Just one of the lads
Just one of the lads
Just one of the lads
Tony was livid.
‘Is some cunt up there havin a fuckin laugh at me, or what?’
Billy affably allowed himself to be swayed along with them, though he didn’t raise his arms (well, once, briefly, but only to provoke Tony, whose reaction was as expected). Tony, meanwhile, was doing his utmost to stand stock-still. Whenever the crowd swayed ‘to’ he would, at just the right time, shoulder aggressively fro, and whenever it swayed fro he’d shoulder to, his face a travesty of calm and innocence as he stared straight ahead, determined not to draw attention to his actions. But as the second verse was begun with even more gusto than the first, and this prolonged attrition, this constant friction showe
d no sign of stopping, his already threadbare patience was in danger of being worn right through. This continuous rubbing back and across him in front and behind was like a bow being pushed and drawn over the increasingly taut cord of his nerves; pushed and drawn, pushed and drawn, scraping out the same off-key note over and over again in an ever heightening pitch, shriller and shriller with each oscillation, severing the cord one strand at a time, fraying it more and more, and more and more, pushed and drawn, pushed and drawn, higher and higher, shriller and shriller, strand by strand until finally, inevitably, suddenly it would SNAP! with the most almighty twang and reverberation.
‘They better fuckin...let us in soon! That’s all I can...say!’
‘That’s just comin on half-eight now,’ said Billy. ‘Try relaxin, man. Go with the flow, eh?’
‘No fuckin...chance!’
The sing-a-long ended after one last repetition of the chorus and the car park was engulfed beneath a roaring wave of self-congratulatory applause, which had gradually fallen away to a ripple when it suddenly swelled again to full volume. The doors had just been opened.
Immediately the back of the crowd surged forward and the front of the crowd pushed back in response, those on the outsides pushed inwards and the whole became more tightly compact than ever. Up at the front, people were being ushered in four at a time, and as the mass inched its way forward only the tiniest of shuffling steps was possible. Four by four, inch by inch it trickled through the funnel. Progress was slow, very slow, painfully slow in Tony’s case, but, eventually, he and Billy reached the funnel’s stem.
‘NEXT FOUR, PLEASE,’ called a tuxedoed doorman, and a bouncer