9. Rhapsody in Moonlight
The statues are starting to twist and crack
They’re wondering if she ever coming back
The square was already filling up with the usual Saturday night crowds by the time Mark and Sarah-Jane made their way to Romeo’s. They never went out too early; Mark could not see any point of getting tanked up before going on to a nightclub. The market clock peered down on the statues of the Council House and in a booming voice roared out the hour of nine o’clock.
Chesford square was a central meeting place for the people of the city and its environs. With the Council House on one side and the cathedral church of St Michael’s behind it, the other three sides filled with bars, restaurants, cafes and coffee houses, an innovation in the area and rapidly becoming very popular, particularly with the student clientele. The council seemed to like the idea of young people drinking coffee and readily granted planning permission for new establishments. They based their support on the misguided notion that more coffee houses and fewer public houses would reduce violence. Unfortunately, this was not the set of ‘Friends’. This was reality. In Chesford, fights would break out if you combed your hair the wrong way!
In the daytime, the square provided rest-bite for busy shoppers, at night and particularly weekend nights it became a Mecca for the youth of the area. Indeed, later in the evening many of them lie down on the pavement, presumably praying, but not necessarily cognisant of the direction in which they faced. Teenagers milled around appearing not to be doing anything in particular under the watchful eyes of the local constabulary. In fact, since last weekend, there had been a dramatic increase in police numbers, (Most constables could now count up to ten without using their fingers!). Any would be burglar would be well advised to commit their crime in the suburbs on a Saturday night, and thus reduce the already low chance of being apprehended. Although of course there is a one hundred percent chance of being caught if you are driving a motor vehicle, as the police are able, with the use of new technology to smell a car that is 2mph over the speed limit from over five miles away. The modernisation of the police, with the use of computers and electronic gismos has improved the crime statistics dramatically, in dealing with serious crime. Now, only minor misdemeanours such as street mugging, burglary, rape and murder are untouched by the new broom that sweeps through the British Police force and we can all feel a lot safer in our beds that Pc Plod is out there nicking all the evil motorists before they slaughter us in our own homes.
Romeo’s was one of the new Coffee Houses, so beloved by the establishment. Mark led Sarah-Jane into the dimly lit premises.
Smoke-laded dust hung like a cloud of locusts in the coloured spotlights as they turned in tune to the loud nondescript music. The sort of noise, sorry music that the media call ’middle of the road’ so named because it always sounds as if it is being played on the central reservation of the M1 or a roundabout on a busy bypass. I am sure there is a program there somewhere: “Traffic Island Discs” Just think of the celebrities we could use and on which roads to put them in the middle of, - a wicked thought, but for now back to Romeos.
“Hi Mark” Paul and his gang were already seated by the window, unlike Mark he always started early. Sarah-Jane went over to the table to join in the incessant bubble of nonsense in which young women indulged. You know the really important topics of life, like the size of Emma Jones nose or Marsha Thomson’s’ backside, or whether David Smith got into so and so’s knickers last night. Mark went up to the counter to get two cappuccinos. Paul and Alan quickly joined him, anxious to find out all he knew about the other night, and desperate to get away from the annoying ‘girl-talk’, which is specifically, designed to drive men to distraction.
“Heard any more about John Simmons?” Paul asked.
“No not since I spoke to the police – did they talk to you yet” Mark, returned.
“Yeah nothing much, just general stuff, give ‘em statement though. Heard was an overdose”
“Same as that but who’s the girl who stabbed him, where’s she fit in?”
“Jennie, he used to go out with her, bit of an old tart” Paul was very informed on ‘old tarts’, it was one of his specialist subjects - Paul Reynolds, University of Life reading ’Slappers and old Tarts’ here is your starter for ten.
“I heard he owed her, something to do with drugs,” Alan offered.
“Nah, she’s always been the same she’s just mad for it. She’s twisted. Always has been”
Paul replied Mark picked up the tray with the coffees and turned to make his way back towards the window seats.
“Going up tonight,” inquired Alan changing the subject.
“Course, nowhere else is there” Mark responded.
“Always good for the totty, we can’t all cradle snatch like you” Paul joked digging Mark in the ribs, he was continually joshing with his friend on the subject of Sarah’s age.
“Lay off her – she’s older than most of the kids up there, you know that” Mark snapped back.
(In fact Sarah was well above the fifteen-year-old average age for the local nightclub scene)
“Touchy! Touchy! Don’t gets so sensitive you should know by now we all think the world of you two, like an old married couple, just jealous that’s all. Come on; let’s link up with the others, and they pushed their way through the writhing bodies with Alan clearing the path for Paul and Mark to carry the drinks back to the table by the window where the girls sharpened their claws and gossiped their garbage, and the lads admired the preening hordes.
Saturday night a teenage feast, sore eyes disturb the mighty beast
Bouncing flesh parade the walk. Smiles and laughter: women’s talk.
Alcohol dull senses sigh: stocking tops and a glimpse of thigh
Too young to vote but not to love, dresses that fit just like a glove.
Yawning eyes on socket stems: stiletto heels and rising hems.
Lashes, lipstick, lace and scent,
…………………. I wonder where childhood went.
Bob had spent the night at the little bed and breakfast on the edge of town. He was not sure how long he would stay so he booked in for only a couple of nights initially. He did not reckon much on staying in watching the box on a Saturday night - he never did go a bundle on Cilla Black, so he thought he would sample the delights of this godforsaken place he now found himself to see how it compared to Newcastle. He was disappointed. Chesford square did not compare to the ‘Big Market’. To be honest Chesford does not compare to anywhere, for the kids who could not get in at the Roostertail there was nefarious other establishments: Egberts, Greens and The Universe for example, most of dubious character, and the most popular place was the railway station, which took you to out of town to somewhere interesting.
After casting his vision over the bustling scene of nubile teenagers, jostling for position and filling the air with the scent of young love, alcohol mist and body sweat, Bob went into the Rock Café next to the cinema. There was no particular reason he chose it, although being a canny northerner it may well have been the sign that read £1-50 a pint. It was a karaoke type bar thus Bob was able to exchange Figaro driving his cavalier for Beelzebub and the devils’ sideboard. He enjoyed the night, contrary to his expectations and forgot the raison d'être he was here. He put Lucy out of his mind whilst the music washed over him and the beer spun its web within his brain - and his liver. It did its job well. The five years he was attempting to resurrect disappeared under the flood of amber nectar. The injustice he felt at his wife’s departure buried itself beneath a raucous rendition of a Bryan Adams song, which two girls, who should have been in bed hours ago were slowly murdering
Ultimately, the artificially induced euphoria gave way to depression and Bob, as was his habit, began pouring out his troubles, his life story, together with his insides at regular intervals, to anyone who would listen. The place soon emptied. Well it was two o’clock, but the bar-staff were very grateful to Bob for helping effect a quick evacuation of the premises. After a brief argument with himself about the state of the country and whose fault it was that he was here in the first place, he stumbled back into the square, tried to ask directions of a waste-bin and spent five minutes chatting to the statues. The fact that he never received a reply did not seem to bother Bob as no one ever listened to anything he said anyway. He soon mingled with the bubbling crowds waiting to sample curry and kebab with extra chilli.
The square was probably busier at this time on a Sunday morning than any other time. All the clubs, bars and restaurants emptied their clientele into the small plaza to the mercy of the fast food shops and ‘salmonella vans’ parked on every corner. You could get curry, of sorts; tepid pork batches; burnt roast potatoes, soggy chips, jacket spuds, under cooked chicken, and kebabs of every description and hue all served in cardboard trays with the same disgusting gravy and none of which you would eat if you were sober. Stationed at each of the food outlets were two riot-equipped policemen in yellow fluorescent jackets standing like banana bodyguards waiting for the inevitable fights to start. An argument over a girl, not enough onion on a beef-burger or just someone looking at the wrong person at the wrong time might spark them off. - The real cause of course was nothing of the sort. - The white vans would be busy tonight!
Fortunately, for Bob Simpson his key-fob had the address of his digs on it so it was not too difficult to avail a taxi and get a lift home. The fact that it was only walking distance did not seem to bother the cheerful cabby. He was used to drunks on a Saturday night, particularly out-of-town ones. The B & B was a dead give away). Three times round the Ring Road and £7-00 later Bob was dropped off outside the No 6 Moore street. He sidestepped the vomit and manoeuvred passed the young couple locked in frantic embrace to put the key in the lock.
Hark! I hear the morning dawn,
Curries’ multi-coloured yawn.
Hair dishevelled, tights are torn,
And yet another suckers born.
By 10-30 pm, Mark and Sarah-Jane together with their entourage had moved to the Roostertail.
If you went too late, it meant long queues and if you went too early, nothing was happening. Mark wanted to be earlier than usual tonight, to get a table away from the main dance floor, in one of the alcoves. It was a good place behind the pillars to observe what was happening, to be part of the scene without getting too involved. It was divorced from the main action plus of course, he was a romantic at heart and the privacy suited his mood. To be honest he had not really wanted to come at all after the trouble a fortnight ago, but realised it would give him an opportunity to see Enoch, that and the fact that Sarah had insisted, flashing her lovely brown eyes and turning Mark’s resistance to putty.
“Bunny’s on tonight” she had said, “We must go”
Bunny Joe (what sort of a name is that?) was a circuit rave DJ with a growing reputation club-land. The music was loud and basic. A primitive beat designed to stimulate the nerve centre in the brain and alienate everyone who was over twenty. Mark went up to the bar and left Sarah-Jane with two of her girlfriends. By the time he got back, she was dancing.
Spotlight shed your shadow onto the violet floor of the Roosters’ jaws.
The hypnotic monster leaps to the pounding of the metronome;
and they dance.
Tomorrow is another day, but she is here and he loves her.
Record-spinning alcohol to blind the swaying mind with music;
and they dance.
Webs of suspect dreams hanging from the ceiling of the hall.
Wait, here comes the usic-man with his basket of lies;
and they dance
Mark put the drinks down on the table and took the opportunity to seek out Enoch Harlem. He was easy to spot in his red suit, leaning against one of the pillars talking to a girl in a green top and a belt; well it looked like a belt anyway. Mark puzzled as he approached his target why girls wore skirts so short they could not sit down without revealing what they had for breakfast and then spend all night pulling them down in an attempt to get them to reach their knees. He cast the query into the dustbin of the universe along with the other great mysteries and made his way through the squirming bodies dancing to the hypnotic rave music of Bunny Joe. Music, and the term is used very loosely here, that is only truly appreciated if you were drunk, on drugs or totally insane, and preferably all three! Mark did not like the noise; he hated the cacophony, like his father, Johnny; he loved the old soul of the Sixties: Otis Redding, Aretha Franklin, Sam & Dave. “We knew how to enjoy ourselves” he could hear his father now as he walked over to attract his quarry’s attention. “No need for mind bending drugs in our day” Mark always found his fathers’ words funny as he always believed the drug revolution had started in the Sixties. Johnny would have none of it.
“Hi” Mark said shouting over the din” Can I have a word”
“Sure, Markie lets slip over to the Blue Room”
The Blue room was a section of the club used as a restaurant in the week and a ‘chill out’ area on ‘Rave’nights, it wasn’t exactly quiet, but at least it was free from smoke haze and you could see each other, which made lip reading easier. Once away from the deafening cacophony of white noise Mark asked Enoch about the police and John Simmons. Enoch was not initially forthcoming, so Mark tried a different tack “I know but you always seem to have you finger on the pulse in this town, I thought if something was going off you’d know” He tried to sound casual.“if you hear anything let us know mate”
“Pigs bin to see you yet bout Simmo?” Enoch grinned through gleaming dentistry.
“Yeah, given them a statement” Mark replied, “What’s going on Enoch?” he continued.
“Look I don’t need to get involved, they watch me, everything I do is legit, but they watch.
Jeannie was seeing Simmo that’s what the row was about, she flipped, I’d lent her some readies to get shut of Simmo, and she owed him big time”
“I’m worried about Sarah-Jane” Mark interrupted Enoch’s’ flow. He wanted to see if there was any reaction from Enoch. There wasn’t!
“Look mate Sarah’s cool she’s got her head screwed on” Enoch answered “No! I’m more worried about what happened to Simmo”
“Well the inquest is next week, overdose I heard said Mark
“I dare say, but take it from me pushers don’t generally become users. Simmo was clean; yeah he smoked a bit and the odd tab, who doesn’t? But nothing heavy, know what I mean?” Enoch grunted and turned his head the door had opened; the girl with two-inch waist and a skirt to match had come looking for him to buy her some more vodka.
“Enoch, just before you go, who supplied John Simmons?”
“Listen Markie my boy, if I knew that don’t you think would have told the pigs?” he laughed loudly. Actually no, Mark didn’t think he would tell the police even if their panda car were on fire. Enoch was typical of many young blacks, never mind a chip Enoch had a sack of King Edwards on his shoulders. Mark wandered after Enoch and the waif and went back into the main club. He was not really any further forward but he wasn’t going to get anything else from Enoch, he knew that. He glanced at his young lover as she swirled in the fog of lager and thumping drums. The ultra violet light picked up the white shirts and lace on the tops as it swished around the room, whilst any guys with dandruff made a hasty exit.
Her white nylon sweater shows up under the lights of the sky,
and she is still living in the light of my mind;
as they dance.
The fish of her mind swim round in their pool of silver water
and the smile that comes from beneath the ring of hair;
as they dance
……………………………….
The Fat Man picked up the telephone and answered the rich dark voice with his curt brusque manner “That’s what I pay you good money for – sort it!”
The receiver scrambled an answer back “I don’t care whose fault it is, just sort it. And don’t call me here again, use the mobile” He hated being disturbed at home, particularly on a Saturday night; worse still, he abhorred incompetent people. Forty-two years he had been in business in this town, forty-two years man and boy, people liked him and respected him in the town. Jack Forman was a name they all knew and liked. He attended all the correct functions and cultivated all the proper contacts.
He could not afford another mess up, not now just when he was running for the council. “I seem to employ idiots” he said aloud, refilled his brandy glass and lit a cigar. He heard his expected guests arrive as their car nosily scraped over the gravel drive, the security lights came on and he went out to greet them.