Chapter 10
Late the next morning, Matthew lay huddled beneath a blanket, with curtains drawn and the lights off. The door to his room opened without warning and a chambermaid appeared on the threshold.
The moment she spotted him in bed she backed away sheepishly saying: ‘I’m very sorry, sir, I didn’t know you were here. I’ll come back later.’
‘It’s all right,’ Matthew mumbled, eyeing her in the gloom. ‘Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be gone.’
The woman nodded and wheeled her trolley away.
Driven to act, Matthew clambered out of bed, put on a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt and entered the bathroom. He washed his face and brushed his teeth without care, largely avoiding his reflection in the bathroom mirror. After running a comb through his hair, he picked up his wallet and tied a jumper round his waist.
As he stepped into the corridor, the chambermaid’s trolley was unattended several doors along. He walked in the direction of the lift only to find Daryl, the porter, heading towards him. The porter was carrying a bag from the fast-food restaurant where Matthew had eaten previously and his face alit on seeing him.
‘Morning, Matt. How are you doing?’
‘Fine, thanks. And you?’
‘Me?’ The porter looked around as if to make sure they were alone. ‘On top of the world.’
Unnerved a little by the new-found informality, Matthew motioned to the bag. ‘An early lunch?’
‘It’s not mine. One of the guests sent me to fetch it. Some big shot staying down the hall from you. He’s properly minted, but practically lives off this stuff. I should be in for a decent tip, though.’
‘Won’t it be cold by now?’
‘He’s got a microwave oven in his room; I should know, as I was the one who lumped it up here. So, did you find the gallery yesterday?’
‘The art gallery, yes.’
‘I know plenty of other museums, if you’re interested.’
‘Thanks, but not today. Today I just need to be somewhere quiet, you know, away from ... people.’
‘That’s kind of difficult in a city like this.’ The porter smiled. ‘I suppose you could head to Rowntree Park. It’s just the other side of the river, a ten-minute walk away, and it’s lovely in the sunshine. It even has a boating lake, if you fancy a paddle.’
‘And it’s a nice place to chill?’
‘It’s usually very peaceful. I sometimes go there in my lunch-break.’
At the end of the corridor, a bell sounded and the lift door slid open. An elderly couple emerged and immediately the porter straightened his posture and modified his tone. ‘If you’re interested in visiting the park, sir, it’s well signposted. It’s pretty difficult to miss. Well, sir, if that’s everything, I’ll be getting on.’
Then, with a nod of subservience, the porter proceeded along the corridor, leaving Matthew to walk past the elderly couple towards the lift.
Descending to the ground floor, he stepped onto the street, where the bright sunshine and malodorous river stench made his stomach muscles tense. He stopped at a newsagent kiosk and purchased a tabloid; then, heeding Daryl’s advice, he crossed the bridge and followed the signposts to Rowntree Park.
Within twenty minutes he was sat on a well-tended lawn beside the small lake, thumbing through the newspaper as it rustled in the breeze. As promised, the park was tranquil and unthreatening, with scattered trees helping to filter the bustle of the city. The only disturbances occurred when a cyclist or skater would career along the pathways, kicking up small clouds of dust in their wake.
The opening pages of the tabloid were dominated once more with stories of the soccer star who had bedded the lingerie model. Matthew’s gaze lingered on further pictures of the girl, although her semi-naked body failed to stir much emotion.
On page nine he found an article about Tony Wisely and today’s article was more downbeat than previously. According to the report, the actor’s condition had deteriorated and an eminent doctor was quoted that his injuries were so severe that the worst should be expected.
Finding little else of interest in the tabloid, Matthew soon became bothered by the fierce sunlight that beat down and so decided to walk around the lake. About a third of the way round, he stopped to gaze over the concrete promenade wall into the water.
Along the pathway a cyclist was fast approaching and Matthew looked up in time to see a pigeon swoop low and fly directly into the bike’s wheels. There sounded the flutter of wings against spokes and a flurry of grey feathers was kicked into the air.
‘Dumb fucking bird,’ the cyclist shouted over his shoulder, his speed unaltered, while behind him the upended pigeon recoiled on the floor.
Keeping his eyes on the bird, Matthew watched as it righted itself and stood motionless on the pathway, as if stunned and disorientated. A second bicycle hurtled by and swerved to avoid it, but not even this could produce much animation in the creature.
When the pigeon did at last move, instead of flying away, it walked towards Matthew and the lakeside. Coming within a couple of paces of him, the bird inched between the concrete pillars of the promenade wall and promptly stumbled off the edge. As it plunged into the water, it at last seemed to recover some sense and flapped its wings desperately. But no matter how hard it tried, it could not get airborne or raise itself onto the concourse.
A woman passer-by noticed the plight of the flailing bird and stopped to help. Crouching, she reached between the wall pillars and carefully lifted the pigeon from the water. With the dripping creature in her hands, she looked accusingly at Matthew.
‘What’s the matter with you? Why didn’t you help the poor thing?’
He shrugged. ‘I thought it would be all right on its own.’
‘It would have drowned if someone hadn’t helped. Shame on you, you uncaring bastard.’
Shaking her head with reproach, she carried the pigeon to a nearby bench and sat with it. Cradling the creature in her hands, she stroked its breast and mouthed words of encouragement. Matthew stood for a while absorbed by the spectacle of woman and bird, anxious to see whether she would succeed in reviving the stricken animal. When the lady shot him another disapproving glance, however, he awoke from his reverie, tucked the newspaper under his arm and strode forlornly away.
Completing a circuit of the lake, he exited the park in the same place he had come in and headed back towards the river. Before long, he arrived at the bridge adjacent to his hotel. Instead of crossing, however, he remained on the opposing bank. He walked along the riverside past modern flats that were visible from his room. Standing before the entrance of one of the buildings was a camera crew: a cameraman with camera perched on his shoulder, a soundman wearing headphones, and an attractive woman holding a microphone. Just as Matthew approached, the cameraman swivelled towards him and the lady raised her microphone.
‘Hi there,’ she said, stepping up, ‘we’re from Capital Newsline and we’re seeking people’s opinion on the most desirable places to live. Is there any chance you could spare us a minute?’ The woman batted her heavily made-up eyelids.
‘I guess.’
The cameraman and soundman took up position and signalled that it was OK to proceed.
‘Right, sir,’ the lady began, ‘could I ask where you’re from?’
Matthew paused and looked to the ground. ‘Orchid Hill.’
‘You’re a long way from home. What do you think about the flats behind us?’
‘They’re OK,’ he said and gazed round at them.
‘Would you personally have any desire to live here, if money were no object?’
‘Probably not.’
‘But these are some of the most sought-after properties in the capital.’
‘They’re too close to the river.’
‘Surely that adds to the appeal. A view of the river is a premium.’
‘The views are fine.’
‘Then, what’s the problem?’
‘Just, on a day like today,
the river smells like an open sewer.’
The interviewer smiled and lowered the microphone.
‘Well, sir, thank you for your time. I think we have the footage we need.’
Matthew shrugged nonchalantly and walked on.
He continued round the sweeping curve of the river until he lost sight of both his hotel and the camera crew. He was already regretting the decision to stop, wondering how his parents would react if they ever saw the footage.
Eventually, he arrived at a bridge that would bring him back to the north side.
As he walked across, the realisation struck that he would probably emerge in the vicinity of The Golden Bottle nightclub. A shudder of anxiety palpated his heart and he quickened his pace, trying to put distance between himself and that scene of woe.
Sticking to the riverside promenade, it was not long before he arrived at his hotel. He went straight to his room, where he found the bed had been made and his discarded clothes had been hung in the wardrobe. He spent the rest of the afternoon watching television and dozing, worn out by a walk to which he was still unaccustomed.
At eight o’clock he showered, while afterwards it was his stomach that reminded him how little he had eaten all day. Outside, the sun was already lowering in the sky and he decided to head for the fast-food restaurant and be safely returned before darkness fully descended.
Ignoring his aching legs, he walked swiftly towards the take-away restaurant and was soon approaching the beggar in the cowboy hat. As before, the beggar pleaded for a donation, to which Matthew gave his customary shrug of apology. Once inside, however, as he sat eating a chicken-burger and fries, he could not get the image of that wounded pigeon out of his mind. A feeling of futility washed over him and left him so embarrassed that, after he had finished, he returned to the counter and ordered a hamburger and fries to take away. He then proceeded outside to the beggar.
‘Here you go,’ he said, laying the bag of food at the huddled man’s feet. ‘I didn’t know what you wanted, so I got you this.’
The beggar reached for the bag and smiled.
‘Cheers, mate. You’re a saint. A bona fide, fucking saint.’ He took a handful of fries and stuffed them into his mouth before holding the bag to his benefactor. ‘Do you want some?’
‘No, thanks. I’ve just eaten.’
The beggar grabbed another handful as Matthew turned to go. ‘Hang on a minute, Guy. Where you heading? You going disco-dancing again?’
‘No, not tonight,’ he answered, pausing.
‘Why not? It’s Friday night, for fuck’s sake, the best night of the week. What about The Golden Bottle? You not going back there?’
‘No. I won’t be going back there. I had a bit of trouble with the doormen.’
‘I’m not surprised. I know they can be nasty sons of bitches. I’ll show you a decent club, if you want.’
Matthew watched as the beggar continued to feed handfuls of fries into his mouth, noting the grease that accumulated on his beard.
‘I’m not in the mood, thanks. Maybe some other time.’
‘Go on,’ the beggar insisted. ‘Let me finish my burger and I’ll take you somewhere cooler than fuck. A favour for a favour, if you know what I mean.’
‘What sort of club did you have in mind?’ Matthew hesitantly asked. ‘Not that I’m interested, of course.’
With a sudden jolt of activity, the beggar wiped his mouth on his sleeve and clambered to his feet. ‘Fuck it, I’ll take you there now. It’s only ten minutes walk. I can eat on the way.’ He reached and grabbed an untidy rucksack that was hidden among cardboard boxes and slung it over his shoulder.
‘There’s no need,’ Matthew responded. ‘I told you, I’m not in the mood for a night out. Apart from anything, I’m not dressed for it.’
‘Guy, you’re dressed just fine. I ain’t taking you to a shit-hole like The Golden fucking Bottle. Where we’re going they’re not fussy about clothes. They don’t give a fuck. I mean, they let me in and I don’t exactly dress for the opera, do I?’
‘Thanks for the offer, but not tonight. Who knows, maybe tomorrow?’
‘Guy, listen to me: This club is open once a month. Tomorrow will be too late. It’s now or never. I tell you what, come and check it out and if you don’t like it, you don’t have to stay. It’s a fucking club, not a prison.’
The beggar was already setting off and beckoning him to follow. Matthew remained where he was.
‘Well, come on, Guy. The party’s this way. One night only, remember.’
He waited a moment longer before, with his heart jarring his ribcage, he followed the bedraggled man.
The beggar stayed always a couple of steps ahead as he led him along the main thoroughfare and into a narrow but well-lit side-street. Eating as he went, the man had to swivel and walk sideways whenever he wanted to speak.
‘Like I told you before, Guy, there’s no man knows this city like me. I’m a walking, talking A to Z, I tell you. So, what’s your name?’
Briefly Matthew wondered whether he should lie.
‘Matt,’ he said. ‘And yours?’
‘Me? I’m the original man with no name. Just like the bloke in the film.’ He tipped his stetson with his free hand.
Remaining on constant alert, especially now the sunlight was fading, Matthew kept distant from his guide, mindful of the possible need for a rapid escape. Thankfully, there were plenty of people walking the streets and he relaxed a little as they emerged onto another bustling thoroughfare. Aside from the safety aspect, another reason to maintain a distance was the fact that the beggar stank strongly of body odour and petrol.
‘How long have you been living on the streets?’ he asked as the beggar discarded the empty burger wrappings into a bin.
‘Forever, Guy. Sometimes feels like that, anyway. What about you? What’s an out-of-towner doing alone in the big smoke?’
‘Just looking for a good time, I suppose.’ Matthew feigned a smile. ‘Alcohol, women, whatever comes my way.’
‘Women?’ The beggar’s eyes widened. ‘Fuck me! If I’d known you were looking for women, I’d have taken you some place different.’
‘Like where?’
The man winked. ‘There’s this place I know where the women are cheap and easy and they do the job properly ... anything you want, if you know what I’m getting at.’
A few hundred yards along they came to a halt outside a boarded-up shop-front that had a wooden door. Pasted across the wooden frontage were numerous flyers advertising an event called ‘The Angelic Beast Club Night’.
‘Here we are,’ the beggar said and rapped his knuckle against the narrow door.
‘Is this it? It doesn’t look much like a club to me.’
‘Chill out, Guy. I guarantee this here’s the coolest disco in town.’
A small oblong slit opened in the door at eye-level and from inside, the sound of a faint drumbeat could be heard along with the bark of a dog. A pair of eyes looked at them briefly before a bolt was loosened and the wooden door pulled open. Standing in the narrow, raised doorway was a thickset man wearing jeans and a bomber jacket.
‘All right, Geezer? How’s it going?’ the beggar said with a wink to the doorman.
‘Cowboy Joe,’ the man answered genially. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’
‘Been keeping my head down. Minding my own. You know how it is.’ He turned to introduce Matthew. ‘This here is Guy, a good friend of mine. He wants to have a look round the best fucking club in the city.’
‘Fine. Step inside. It’s a bit early, but things will liven up in a while. We’re expecting a sell-out.’
Placing a hand on the crown of his hat, the beggar stepped through the doorway.
Matthew, meanwhile, lingered outside, doubts filling his mind and nerves rooting him.
‘Well, come on, Guy,’ the beggar insisted. ‘The party’s this way.’
‘I don’t know. I told you, I’m really not in the mood.’ br />
‘Sure you are. Sure you are. You’ll have a brilliant time once you’re inside. You’ve got to have a look now you’re here.’
Inhaling a deep breath to calm his racing pulse and cursing his sudden bravado, Matthew nodded and followed him into the gloom.
Standing just inside the door was the man who had first greeted them, while a second doorman, similarly dressed, stood holding a leash attached to a Rottweiler dog. Although the dog had ceased barking, the meanness of its expression left Matthew in little doubt as to its potential ferocity. Just beyond them, a third man was sitting to a table adorned with a lamp and a portable cashbox.
Matthew followed the beggar to the desk.
‘Listen, Guy, you’re gonna have to pay me in, as well. Life on the streets ain’t a barrel of laughs, you know.’
‘OK,’ Matthew nodded.
Baulking slightly at the entry fee, which was twice as much as he had paid to enter The Golden Bottle, Matthew handed over the cash for them both without comment.
‘Stick to downstairs, boys,’ the man at the desk told them. ‘Upstairs is out of bounds.’
Peering into the dim expanse before them, Matthew could see racks of empty clothes-stands adorned with countless hangers, as well as the silhouettes of numerous mannequins. On the right hand side of the room, a staircase led downwards and was intermittently illuminated with strobe lights. The heavy beat of bass and drums fizzled and crashed up to them.
As the pair descended the narrow rickety stairs, Matthew became disorientated by the increasingly booming music and flashing lights. At the bottom of the staircase, a cellar with blackened walls opened out, arches giving onto numerous separate chambers. They entered the wide deep room from where the music emanated and were confronted by twenty or so people who were dancing amid the flashing strobes. A disc jockey console was set up at the far end of the chamber, either side of which were four enormous speakers pulsing and vibrating with bass and synthesised melodies.
Remaining only briefly in the archway, the beggar soon mimed to Matthew that he wanted a drink and led him into another side-chamber. This room was better-lit and was protected from the direct blare of music. Housing a couple of tatty sofas and a few low chairs and tables, the room also contained the makeshift counter of a bar, behind which stood a man whose face was heavily pierced.
The beggar greeted the barman as if an old friend.
‘All right, Geezer, how’s it hanging? Pour me a whisky ... and make it a double.’ He raised his voice to be heard above the music. ‘And Guy here will have ...’
‘I’ll have a whisky, too,’ Matthew answered. ‘A whisky and coke.’
‘Good taste, Guy. Good taste.’
While the barman poured from a bottle without a label into two white plastic cups, the beggar placed his rucksack on the floor and turned to Matthew. ‘So, how do you like it, this place?’
‘It’s all right. Weird sort of club, though. Upstairs it looked like a disused clothes shop.’
‘Got it in one, Guy. That’s exactly what it is. The club-night can be held anywhere in the city. Any shop, warehouse ... anywhere that’s empty. It’s been in this cellar a couple of times before but might not come again.’
The drinks were placed before them on the counter and Matthew paid for both without waiting to be asked.
‘Cheers, Guy, that’s very kind of you. You’re a very generous man.’
While Matthew reached for one of the plastic cups, his companion began bouncing lightly on his toes and clapping in time with the music. The smell of his sweaty body soon filled the heavy air. After several seconds of this makeshift dancing, the man reached for his neat whisky and sipped it meagrely.
‘Ah, lovely. That’ll keep the cold out tonight, and no mistake.’ From his rucksack he produced a small flask and poured the remaining whisky into it. He scrunched the plastic cup in his fist and tossed it to the floor. ‘Right, Guy, time for me to make a move.’
‘What, you’re going already?’
‘Sure am, Guy. If I don’t get back to the fast-food joint, some bastard will steal my pitch. Then I’ll be screwed, for sure. Now, you have a good night. And remember: If the pussy doesn’t come begging tonight, pop and see me and I’ll sort you out with some real ladies. You know where I’ll be.’
He bent and picked up his rucksack, tucked the flask inside, then patted Matthew on the shoulder. ‘Catch you later, if you’re lucky.’
Turning, he walked out towards the staircase they had descended some fifteen minutes before.
Alone now, Matthew briefly attempted to talk to the man behind the bar. The pounding music made prolonged conversation difficult, however, and soon the barman had to serve some new arrivals to the room.
Gathering his whisky, he went and stood in the archway to the main dance area. More people were dancing than before and he watched their manic, hyperactive moves. He was quick to note the casual manner in which the dancers were dressed, contrasting starkly to clients at The Golden Bottle.
The heat generated in the main cellar was intense and soon he returned to the quieter, cooler area of the bar. After purchasing another whisky and coke, he sat on one of the sofas close to an extractor fan. Hardly anybody was entering the bar and of those who were, the majority came solely to purchase bottled water, which they took with them back to the dance room. The only reason Matthew himself was drinking, he guessed, was so that he did not have to sit completely idle.
He had been sitting alone for close to forty-five minutes and his whisky – the third of the night – was tasting sourer with every sip. His head was throbbing with the incessant music and he was finding it impossible to relax. He was seriously contemplating a return to his hotel when a girl who had just visited the bar suddenly came over.
‘Hi,’ she said above the din.
Matthew noticed her glaring eyes and wide smile. His gaze drifted to her green T-shirt, upon which was written the motif:
NO is not an option
‘What are you doing out here on your own?’ she asked, and kicked his foot playfully. ‘Why don’t you come and dance? That’s where the action is.’
‘I’m all right here, thanks.’
‘Oh, don’t be a sourpuss. You need to get some life in your body ... let the music shake you.’ Again, she nudged her foot against his.
‘Dancing’s not really my thing, I guess.’
‘Everyone likes dancing. What’s different about you?’
‘Maybe if the music were different.’
‘Like what, for instance?’
‘I don’t know. Something with guitars.’
‘Guitars?’ she smiled. ‘You’re not going to hear many of those tonight, my dear. Plenty of bass, though. Come on, get up and let’s see your moves.’ She took hold of Matthew’s elbow, lightly pulling him to his feet.
Reluctantly allowing himself to be raised, Matthew took a deep sigh. ‘All right, I’ll come with you.’
‘Too right, you will,’ she asserted. ‘And you’ll love every minute, I guarantee.’
She hooked her arm through his and led him beneath the archway and into the main dance room. Snaking their way between the hectic, flailing limbs of other dancers, they were soon standing before two of the massive amplifiers.
Matthew had built up a sweat just arriving there, although it was nothing compared to the perspiration he saw pouring off the foreheads of others. The air inside the room was thick and oppressive, with the contrasting odours of perfume, sweat and cigarettes vying for supremacy.
While the girl began bobbing in time with the drumbeat, Matthew initially struggled to follow the rhythm. It did not take long, however, before he was jarred by the ferocity and loudness of the music into a bouncing action that mimicked those surrounding him.
‘See. Who said you couldn’t dance?’ the girl shouted into his ear, a smile arcing her lips.
Being so close to the amplifiers rendered conversation all but impossible. Instead, Matthew put all his en
ergies into dancing, trying to subdue the self-conscious thoughts that had plagued him since he had been dragged there.
He managed close to thirty minutes of energetic, uncoordinated movement until fatigue overwhelmed him. While he had no wish to abandon his partner, his heavy legs and breathlessness forced him to submit. He succeeded in attracting her attention and mimed that he was going for a drink; she, meanwhile, nodded and continued her relentless dancing.
With his T-shirt now drenched in sweat, Matthew fought his way across the dance floor alone.
When he arrived at the bar, out of breath and light-headed, he bought a whisky and coke and finished it with two gulps. He bought another and stood in front of the extractor fan, revelling in the generated breeze. With his temperature cooling, yet still inhaling deeply to replenish his lungs, he decided to return to the archway of the dance room. From there he was able to spot his former partner despite the increasing throng of bodies.
He had been standing passively for almost fifteen minutes when the girl finally stepped off the dance floor and approached him.
‘There you are,’ she said, her forehead glistening with sweat, although scarcely out of breath. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to. What’s the matter? Weren’t you enjoying dancing with me?’
‘Yes, it was good, thanks. But I needed a rest. How you can keep going for so long?’
‘Chemicals, my dear. That’s what chemicals were invented for.’ She took hold of the plastic cup in his hand and raised it to her nose. ‘What are you drinking? Smells disgusting.’
‘Whisky and coke.’
The girl shook her head in disapproval. ‘That’s clearly your problem. That stuff will drag you down.’ From her pocket she produced a small white tablet, which she held in front of his eyes. ‘This, on the other hand, this will bring you round.’
‘What is it?’
‘Just what the doctor ordered.’
‘I think I’d rather stick to my whisky, if it’s all the same.’
‘You’re being a sourpuss again. You should learn to go with the flow. You’ll love it, really you will.’ She pushed the tablet into his open hand and closed his palm around it. ‘Have this one on me. You don’t know what you’re missing till you try. Now, come with me, the dance floor’s calling.’
Pulling him inside the noisy, throbbing chamber, she scarcely gave him time to down what remained of his drink. He slipped the tablet into his jeans pocket and allowed himself to be dragged to the centre of the room.
This time, however, he could endure no longer than twenty minutes of dancing. Amid the intensifying heat, his limbs became heavy and his eyes began to sting, irritated by perspiration and cigarette smoke alike.
To excuse himself on this occasion, he pointed towards his groin and mouthed a breathless ‘Toilet’ to his companion. The girl’s hair was now dishevelled and she too seemed out of breath – certainly more so than earlier. Nevertheless, she nodded with half-closed eyes, turned away and carried on dancing regardless.
Seeking the lavatory, he passed into a side-room that he had not entered before and leaned against a wall, trying to recover his breath. His T-shirt was sopping wet and stuck to his body like a second skin. Although this room was thick with sweet-smelling smoke, there was a fan that created much needed ventilation. He could make out the faces of others in the room, most of whom were dragging on rolled-up cigarettes. In the farthest corner, sitting behind a small desk with a table lamp, was someone he thought he recognised. He eyed the man closely, noting the mop of dreadlocked hair and nose-ring.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, finally approaching the desk, ‘but you’re Paul, aren’t you? Paul Evian?’
‘That’s right.’ The man gazed up through the accumulated smoke.
‘I’m Matt. Matthew James. I live near your parents in Orchid Hill. Remember, we met on New Year’s Eve?’
‘Oh yeah. Well, I’ll be buggered! It’s a small world.’ He reached and shook Matthew’s hand. ‘How are you doing? You look kind of knackered, if you don’t mind me saying.’
Matthew wiped his forehead. ‘I’ve been dancing. It’s a bit hot out there.’
‘You’re not kidding. This place is a proper sweatbox. You’re a long way from home, my friend. What brings you to this neck of the woods?’
‘I’m just here for a few days. A kind of holiday, I guess.’
‘With family?’
‘No, I’m here on my own. I’m staying in a hotel by the riverside. What about you? I didn’t expect to find you in a place like this.’
‘Why not? I’m not over the hill yet. I can still get down with the youngsters when I want to. Actually, tonight I’m working. I told you I’m a drugs counsellor, didn’t I? Every now and then I get sent to clubs, underground raves and such, and hand out leaflets and offer advice. Try to make sure kids are being sensible and know what they’re taking. There’s a lot of bad shit making it on to the streets these days.’
‘Do people listen?’
‘Those who want my advice can take it. As for the rest ... Anyway, I get to hear some pretty cool tunes and generally chill. It beats spending the day in an office, I assure you.’ From a bottle of water on his desk, he unscrewed the lid and took a swig. ‘And how’s life treating you?’
‘Fine, I think. Yes, good.’
Before he could expound further, one of the doormen approached the desk.
‘Excuse me a moment, Paul, but there’s a kid outside who’s fainted. Maybe you could come and have a look, make sure she’s all right.’
‘You do realise I’m not a fucking doctor,’ Paul responded.
‘Yeah, but you’ve got more idea than us.’
‘All right, I’ll come and check her out.’ Getting to his feet, he patted Matthew on the shoulder. ‘Sorry about this, buddy, I’d better make sure she’s OK. I’ll tell you what: I should be around for another half hour or so; come back and we’ll have a proper chat.’
‘Right.’ Matthew nodded and stepped aside. ‘By the way, Paul, do you know where the toilets are?’
‘Just down there on the left.’
As Paul had indicated, the lavatory was located at the far end of the corridor: a grubby little room with a single toilet and washbasin. The floor was sopping with water, forcing him to tip-toe, while the overhead light flickered to the dull thud of drums. After relieving himself, he held his fingers under the tap coolingly before wiping them on his jeans for lack of paper towels.
When he headed back into the club proper, he returned to the main chamber in search of his companion. The place was fuller than ever and he failed to spot her amid the crowd. He spent fifteen minutes on the periphery, waiting to see if she would emerge. When she failed to appear, he went instead to the bar. He bought a whisky and coke and scanned the room.
In the far corner, reclining on one of those tatty sofas, he saw his former companion embracing a man, their lips locked passionately. The man’s hand was caressing the girl’s bottom and his fingers were slipping into the pocket of her jeans.
Matthew eyed them for a few seconds before turning to the bar and swallowing a mouthful of drink. Angered and embarrassed, he finished what was left of his whisky and proceeded out of the room. He lingered by the bottom of the staircase, pondering his next course of action, when Paul descended and greeted him.
‘You all right, Matt? Thinking of leaving already?’
‘Thinking about it, yes.’
‘To be honest, I’m going to make a move, myself. Sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk. I don’t want to be here when the next crisis occurs.’
‘Crisis?’
‘Yes, that kid I went to see, she looked in a pretty bad way. Her heartbeat was doing somersaults and her temperature was way too high. We called an ambulance, just to be on the safe side.’
‘Will she be all right?’
‘It kind of depends what she’s taken ... and how many. I assume you’ve been sensible tonight, not taken anything bad.’
‘Me?
No, just whisky.’
‘Whisky: the most dangerous drug of all.’ The man smiled. ‘Changing the subject, are you still going to be in town tomorrow?’
‘I think so.’
‘Do you have plans?’
‘Not yet. Why?’
‘It’s just that a few friends are coming round for drinks and a bite to eat. You’re welcome to drop by. Depending on how the evening goes, we might head out somewhere afterwards. Show these kids a thing or two about partying.’ From his pocket, he pulled a pen and a scrap of paper. Using his knee as a rest, he scribbled something before handing the scrap to Matthew. ‘That’s my phone number. Give me a call tomorrow and let me know if you want to come. It would be cool to see you. Right, I’m going to collect my things and make a move. We’ll speak tomorrow, I hope.’
As the man walked off, Matthew was left standing at the foot of the stairs with the piece of paper in his hand. Studying it, he saw scrawled beneath the telephone number a couple of crosses that looked like intended kisses. He folded the paper and tucked it in his pocket, then returned to the bar to buy another whisky and coke.