Discoredia, page 10
“I’m on my way, darling.” The sobbing stuttered, then stopped.
“Really?” It hurt that she could doubt him.
“Really. I’ll be there in half an hour if the traffic through town’s okay.”
“Thanks Dad. Love you. Bye”
“Bye sweetheart.” The phone beeped twice and was dead.
He would have to go straight to the Club from Carmen’s. There was a suit, shirt, shoes and tie in the office and he could grab a shower in the VIP washroom if he had time.
He hoped he could calm Shelly down. The last time she mentioned the dream, the only time she had mentioned the dream, he bit her head off, told her to get out and leave him alone. It had been hard for them both. She had forgiven him after a few hours, as she could see how much he hurt, not just from the constant headache trundling along with his drinking, but also the hurt in his heart. She forgave him due to the love between a child and parent, and the resilience of a child who doesn’t understand what is going on around them.
THE dream. One she couldn’t totally remember, other than to know it was bad. She said something (or was it someone?) visited her then moved on. That it was, or they were, evil. That it, they, left her alone and took Mummy.
He hadn’t wanted to hear any more and was relieved when she said sorry. Promised that she wouldn’t mention it again. How harsh of him to force the guilt upon his child, but his grief, and the Whisky, clouded his judgment.
He was relieved it had never been mentioned again. He put it down to a child’s way of dealing with loss. A defense mechanism to blame some manipulative, otherworldly force, rather than accept the cruel reality of the real world where things happened for no good reason.
The fact she claimed to have had the dream before hearing of her mother’s needless slaughter? That was an aspect he had either failed to, or refused to, recognize. She must have been confused over when she had actually experienced the dream. After all, why wait so long to tell him? Had he really been that unapproachable? But that was then. Now he would let her talk, however long it took. Things were okay at the club. Steve would have been in touch otherwise. And Woodrose? No time to dwell on that lunatic now, he’d done enough of that over recent weeks. His daughter needed him and this time he would be there.
CHAPTER 15
As Warren undertook the relatively short, yet extremely inconvenient, journey to see his daughter, ravers from across the length and breadth of the United Kingdom had reached various stages in their preparations for the night ahead.
In Skegness, Donna Parker was trying to decide whether to dump her boyfriend, Carl, for his best mate Liam, whom she had been seeing behind his back for the past six weeks. She looked at her outfit in the mirror: the skintight black jeans tucked into her white knee high boots with the 2-inch heel. The tight white Bench t-shirt. The diamond earrings Carl had bought for her, and the white gold bracelet she’d told him had come from her Aunt, but was really from his number one pal, the one who was shagging her without any hint of regret. Fuck it, she thought, and decided to keep them both on the go for a while longer.
Danny Davis also had diamonds on his mind, but his thoughts were aimed toward the giving of such stones, rather than their receipt. He checked, along with his chewing gum, cigarettes, wallet and ticket, that he also had the ring he bought for his girlfriend Becca. The diamond was measured in points, not carats. The band was gold, not the platinum she had wanted, but it was all he could afford. Nonetheless, he was sure she would be happy. He was going to propose at twelve, and was considering asking if he could do it on stage. By the time he had made the ten minute walk to York station, where they arranged to meet, he’d checked his pocket another five times.
Ryan Sanderson in Leeds was busy stuffing his Zippo lighter full of pills so that he could smuggle them into the club. Stevie Jones in Liverpool was having a full-blown row with his mother and screaming at her to accept that he was a raver, not a fucking drug addict. The bag of white powder she’d found in the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms that morning suggested otherwise. Lara Dobson and her twin sister Zara were shopping in Birmingham for new tops to wear, and Ben Drake in Newcastle was trying to organize a lift after his car broke down the day before. Tim Carlyle didn’t know where he was, he was fast asleep on a coach somewhere between Glasgow and Discoredia, and five seats behind him sat Simon Harrison, laughing his head off at the latest Mr. Does-What-You’d-Love-To cartoon playing on his PSP.
Different people from different places, aiming to come together at Discoredia to greet the New Year. Some had degrees, even masters; others could do little more than sign their name. Many had full time jobs, but many were on the dole. Many were single; others were married with kids. Most were, in essence, good people; some were not. They represented all walks of life, all types of background, and all types of personality. Six thousand ravers, black and white, rich and poor, it didn’t matter. That was part of the attraction, that they all had one thing in common, their love of hardcore. They would dance together, sing the words to the tunes, and shout the MCs lyrics. They would shake hands and share a bottle of water, sometimes with people they normally wouldn’t give the time of day. They would see in the New Year before parting again, perhaps to meet at another rave somewhere down the line, perhaps to never meet again.
As Warren drove into town Danny Davis checked the ring in his pocket once more. While Tim Carlyle dribbled onto his shoulder, and dreamt of screwing Christina Aguilera, Simon Harrison laughed even louder as he re-watched Mr. Does-What-You’d-Love-To snap and throw a man from a moving train for talking too loudly into his mobile phone. And as all of these occurrences transpired parallel to one another John and Chris Beasley were doing what all brothers do best: fight. Not a real fight, a play fight. And they were doing it in the concourse of the service station.
It had been Emma who asked for the break in their journey, and while she nipped into the Ladies, John put his arm around his brother, and thanked him.
“What for?” Chris asked.
“You and Emm haven’t argued so far. Means a lot.”
Chris smiled and his brother smiled back. It was a touching moment, but as a family, they were not a great one for sentiment. The moment was fleeting.
“Oh shit,” said John.
“What?”
“I’m fucking stuck.” John replied.
“What?” said Chris, despite realization dawning across his face.
“Glue Babies,” said John.
It was an old game, if it could be called that, and they played it since they were small, although it had been a long time since either last called it.
“Fuck off,” said Chris, but his grin gave away his true feelings.
“No serious. Glue Babies.”
The premise behind the game Glue Babies was that the players acted as though they were small children stuck together with extremely strong, yet stretchy glue, hence the name. The players would then pull apart stretching the imaginary glue until it reached the limit of its perceived elastic properties, at which point they would run into each other at full pelt, colliding at the point at which they had been originally “glued”. During the resulting collision they would invariably get “stuck” to each other elsewhere and would once again attempt to pull free. The game generally continued like this until either one of them got hurt or, in the old days, Mum or Dad shouted at them for banging around like baby elephants.
It was therefore in keeping with the game that John pulled his arm away from Chris’ shoulders, pretended to strain, and then slapped his forearm across his younger brothers back. This prompted Chris to put his hand onto his brother’s chest, just to the right of where Emma had recently shed her tears.
“Fuck off,” he said again, laughing. “Shit, now I’m stuck.”
He pulled his hand away. Made a horrid straining sound, and thrust his palm into his brother, who gave an exaggerated stumble backwards before launching himself back at Chris, the result being them both falling to the floor and laughing so hard they began to cry. They continued like this and completely ignored the man trying to sell RAC membership, who shouted, “Stop fucking about.”
They only stopped when they noticed Emma watching them roll around on the floor, fighting as though they had regressed back to their childhood.
“You two done?” she asked. Even Chris found her smile appealing. Perhaps she wasn’t that bad after all.
“Yeah,” said John as he brushed down his jeans. “They should clean this floor more often.”
“Serves you right getting covered in crap, y’ bloody hooligans,” Mr. RAC called after them.
Chris showed him the middle finger for his trouble. Emma’s smile began to fade. “Let’s go, he doesn’t seem too happy.”
“Who gives a rat’s arse?” said Chris, receiving a glare from Emma as he spoke.
“Come on,” said John, putting a muscular arm around each of them. “Time to jog on anyways.”
They returned to the car and Chris quickly settled himself on the back seat and began rolling a joint. Emma looked at John, her face full of love, but also fear. Fear that this could be their last adventure. She loved it when they went away, be it for a weekend at the Lakes, or a journey to Alton Towers, or a trip to a rave. The thought hit her that this could be their last journey. A journey made with nothing but a route taken from an Internet route planner, which would almost inevitably get them ninety five percent of the way before getting them hopelessly lost. She feared they would never again load up the boot of their old Fiesta and that their time left together was short. Neither of them mentioned it, but the ominous headlines on the board outside the service station had been impossible to miss: TENSION OVER IRAN INCREASES.
They looked into each other’s eyes saying nothing, yet saying everything. There was no need to speak.
“Love you babe,” he said.
“Love you, too.”
They hugged and got into the car.
“Ready to roll?” John asked, as he turned the key and the engine coughed into life.
“I am,” said Chris.
* * *
As John and Emma got into their Fiesta, Wendy Wilson and Gabby Brown were getting into Wendy’s Clio, the one her tight fisted father bought, taxed, serviced and insured. He’d also forked out for the Sat-Nav system that Wendy was currently setting up.
“Don’t you know the way, dear? All you have to––” her Dad was cut off mid sentence.
“Of course I know. I just want to make sure this thing works before I go somewhere and get lost. There all set.” Wendy sat back looking quite pleased with herself.
The driver’s side window was down. Her father leaned through it and passed her a £20 note. “Have a good time the pair of you, get yourself a soft drink out of that, and a proper one for Gabby.” The note disappeared into Wendy’s pocket and Gabby doubted very much that she would see her share. Wendy managed to mumble a thank you––bloody Scrooge, didn’t he know twenty quid bought next to nothing these days?––and wound her window up. Without looking at her father, or her mother standing on the porch, she raised her hand in a halfhearted wave and set off. Gabby looked back and gave a proper wave and a big grin as Wendy pointedly enquired, “You got any money for petrol? I’m nearly out.”
They filled up at the end of the road and stocked up on the essential supplies, Rizla papers, lip balm, chewing gum, and Red Bull for the journey home. With the provisions purchased, they began their journey proper.
“Take a left turn.” A computerized voice said; it was already irritating.
“Take a hike and shut up, you tart,” said Wendy as she turned it off.
Despite knowing full well that Gabby was wearing new clothes––black combats with silver flowers embroidered down the left leg, a plain black strap top, and a pair of white Adidas trainers––Wendy asked if she would be getting changed later.
“No, just staying as I am,” she replied, running her hands through her impeccably straight hair. The cattiness of the remark wasn’t lost on her, and she knew exactly what a bitch her best friend could be. But bitch or not, Wendy was fiercely loyal and protective and that meant a lot. It was a shame her family weren’t the same. And besides, Wendy was fun and the night ahead was sure to be eventful if previous nights were anything to go by.
“Guess you are?” she asked in reply, casting her eye over the holdall on the back seat.
“Gonna stay in this for the tour,” she nodded to emphasize the brilliant white Golddigga tracksuit she was wearing, “and change for the main event.”
“Going over the top as usual?” Gabby enquired.
“Cheeky bitch!” Wendy was smiling now. Something about raving always made her cheerful and Gabby wondered why that was. The sense of adventure? The sense of being part of something? A kind of belonging? Or an escape from an otherwise mundane, average life? She wasn’t a psychologist and doubted she would ever get the answer, but the answer wasn’t important. What was important was her friend, the selfish, bitchy, friend sat next to her in yet another new tracksuit. It was good to see her happy.
“Got ma boots, skirt, top, tights, sleeves, body glitter, LED bracelet, ribbons, glow sticks. Gonna be wicked.”
“Great. No wonder you need such a big bag. Don’t come into the gabber room or you’ll get stomped on. Sure you don’t want to go to Gatecrasher instead?” Wendy could be a bitch, but Gabby wasn’t averse to a little cheek either.
“Whatever.”
“Should be an awesome night,” said Gabby, and she began to rummage through the CDs in the glove box. “Fancy some tunes? How about Robbie Long, shouldn’t be too hard for you.”
“Go on then but we’re listening to Styles next or you’re walking.” The pair of them laughed.
Gabby put the CD in and began to skin up on its case. Dave came through regarding the dope; she expected Wendy to remove her stash from the teddy bear pajama case, which sat on top of her wardrobe, but he’d let her down as far as pills were concerned.
“I’ve got half a g of coke and a quarter of MDMA powder, but we’ll need to sort pills there,” said Wendy, as if reading Gabby’s mind. “Shouldn’t be a problem, though.”
Gabby didn’t think it would be. It never took Wendy long to score. She let the music take her as she wandered about the people; it was half the fun. The lines of destiny of over six thousand people were converging toward a single location at a single point in time, and her and Wendy were but two of them. She knew it would be a night she’d never forget.
CHAPTER 16
Shelly came running out of the modest, semi-detached house Carmen shared with her mother the moment she saw the Land Rover pull onto the drive. She was opening the driver’s door before he applied the handbrake. He gave his daughter a hug and walked with her hand-in-hand. Inside the house they shared a sofa.
Carmen met them at the door before vanishing into the kitchen to make tea, but Warren doubted she would be back before either he or Shelly called for her. He had mused momentarily on what a fine young woman she had grown into, from the awkward teen who first sat for Shelly some years ago. His reminiscence was short, and also a touch painful, as he remembered taking Elle to the cinema where she spent the whole film checking to see if Carmen phoned. She hadn’t that night. Nor on any occasion since. Not until today.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. Better now,” she hugged him again and snuggled against his arm. “It seems silly now, but I was terrified when I woke up. I’d fallen asleep in front of the TV and… and…” she began to sob. “Sorry Dad, I know you’re busy.”
“Now, now sweetheart.” He stroked her hair, which everyone said was so like her mothers. “Steve has everything under control, I called him on my way over. Wipe your eyes and tell me about this dream. We should have discussed it before now so let’s get it over and done with.”
And so she began.
She told him that the dream was different this time in that it seemed like she was remembering it from the first time, rather than experiencing it again. The first time felt like the dream was actually happening, but this time it didn’t seem the same. He nodded to show an understanding, which he didn’t possess. None of what she was saying made sense, but wasn’t that to be expected when discussing a dream? And then she told him of the dream itself.
* * *
It was a bright summer’s day and she was flying down a coastline of tall white cliffs topped with lush green grass, which was calm compared to the waves crashing against the cliff’s base. She saw an old man standing in the grass in long white robes. He had long white hair mingling into an equally long white beard. He looked like the wizard in the film with the Hobbits: Gandalf; he even had a wooden staff in his hand.
A question formed in her mind, “Who is this Gandalf? Another druid such as I?”
She knew the question came from the old man and wondered if she should speak or think the answer. Before she could attempt either she heard the sound of a horn and saw four horsemen appear on the horizon. It was hard to get a good look at them as they approached, as the sun reflected off their armor, but she could see their red pennants blowing in the wind. The sun glinted from something each rider drew from his side; the knights had drawn their swords. She knew she was safe, she was a good twenty feet from the cliff edge, but what of the old man?
Turning her attention toward the druid she thought he had vanished, but on closer inspection she saw that in his place sat a large white rabbit, or was it a hare?
“We shall meet again,” the voice spoke in her mind and then the rabbit/hare was off. Running along the cliff edge, the knights in pursuit. She doubted that they would catch it, their horses were blowing heavy steam from their flared nostrils and the rabbit––no, hare… she was certain now––was pulling away.
