Discoredia, page 20
“Come to me.”
An audio hallucination to go with the visual. He leaned toward her. She pulled further away from the blokes back with her wings folded behind her shoulders. And he could smell her, the smell of her scent, the exact same aroma as the sweet perfume he bought from Boots and sprayed onto his pillow each night. Christina––a beauty to behold, to hear, and to smell. He closed his eyes and kissed her lips. His tongue registered the salty taste of sweat.
The punch sent him reeling and he fell to the floor. Rubbing his chin, he looked up.
The man who hit him had turned back to face the front, content that the freak who licked his back had been dealt with; he resumed his rhythmic jogging on the spot to the music, his fists pumping as if shadowboxing.
Tim shook his head, dazed from the blow to his jaw. His vision came back into focus and he looked again at the man’s back. Christina was still there, looking down at him. She shook her head, and diving from the man’s back, attacked him.
He could feel talons clawing at his face and he raised his hands; the angel had become a harpy. He pushed the demon, which Christina had become, away from his face, but the wings, leathery and bat-like, were too strong. Her face changed to that of an old hag, bruise-purple lips, yellow teeth. The harpy spat at him and he felt the spit burn into his flesh, the smell of it burning mingling with the rotten putrid stench, which pervaded his nostrils. He tried to push it away, no longer a she, just a demon, but it attacked again, sinking claws into his flesh and dripping acid from its mouth.
The man with the angel tattoo felt a kick to the back of his leg and turned around. The lad he’d punched was writhing on the floor. He watched as Tim Carlyle gouged out his own eyes and tore apart his cheeks with his fingernails before lying motionless.
The man with the tattoo, virtually unaware of his role in the sadistic opera, which the night had become, turned to watch the DJ and jog on the spot some more.
CHAPTER 30
Following her argument with John, Emma settled for a drink, a hot dog, and a seat outside. Beneath one of the many patio heaters it was cold, but relatively quiet. She didn’t feel like celebrating the New Year, she would rather mourn the passing of the last. What did the future have in store? Would she still have her beloved John next year? Or a cemetery plot to visit, and a picture and medal on the mantelpiece to remember him by? Did he think she was stupid? She watched the news and read the papers as much as anyone, and it was obvious that destination unknown couldn’t be a good thing. There was too much tension in the world for that. If it were a couple of months in Cyprus they would have told him straight away. Destination unknown meant somewhere dangerous, somewhere deadly, somewhere he might get killed and come back from in a box.
She tried to make her mind off things by people watching from her seat in the corner of the courtyard, but everywhere seemed to be populated by couples: a couple doing helium, a couple rummaging through the two for a tenner CD-packs. Even the pair who sold her the hotdog and lukewarm can of Sprite seemed to be a couple.
Her melancholy was compounded further by a piece of unbelievable misfortune: she witnessed a proposal of marriage and its acceptance. Danny Davis took the mic from the crappy MC in the courtyard and asked Becca––the greatest girlfriend in the world––to marry him.
Emma knew nothing of Danny and Becca, but was envious all the same. Jealous of the way they hugged after she said yes without a moment’s hesitation. Part of her felt guilty that the green-eyed monster found it so easy to get to her, but couldn’t help it.
The pair left the DJ box. She could hear them talking as they walked past her to the cloakroom, deciding to go home and tell their parents straight away and share the moment with family, rather than six thousand strangers all off their heads. Watching them come back with their coats and leave, she wished that she and John were leaving too, that they had never even come in the first place.
She checked her watch, almost twelve, another eight hours, and she really wasn’t in the mood. It was also getting cold, and threatening to snow. She decided that the chill-out room would have to be her designated refuge, but she wasn’t going in until after twelve. She didn’t want to see in the New Year; its promise was too bleak. With her heart heavy with sadness, she sat waiting for the moment to pass.
The courtyard was almost empty. A minute to twelve. The only people outside were the vendors and a handful of ravers who couldn’t handle it inside, after shooting through their drug addled minds, losing the plot. One guy was wearing a t-shirt with a liberty cap mushroom on it and the words I’m A Fungi To Be With written across the top. She questioned why she was still here why she hadn’t just called a taxi and left.
She watched an old man, and four men dressed as monks, enter the courtyard. She watched them cross it before entering the main hall. She heard the sound of the crowd bursting out of the room as they opened the doors, before falling quiet again as the doors closed behind them.
Emma considered them an odd bunch, but she’d seen stranger outfits at raves, people dressed as robots, cowboys, nurses, even people dressed as suitcases. However, the old man in front looked particularly out of place, more like a soldier or a copper than a raver, more so in his leather overcoat. John would say he’d be sweating like a paedo in a nursery in that. He could be crude at times.
Maybe the man was a DJ? Unlike Chris she didn’t recognize them by sight. Or maybe a business associate of Mr. Charlton’s? Perhaps the generous man who’d sent the free champers?
Suddenly fireworks exploded overhead, startling her from her thoughts. Seconds later the music in the hall kicked in at a level that must have been deafening inside. It was clear as a bell in the courtyard, as opposed to the muffled THUD THUD THUD she heard earlier. Was it because the music outside stopped? Possibly, but it still seemed ludicrously loud and unbelievably fast––certainly not Ravealot’s usual style, even she knew that.
The cold was getting to her and she stood, heading for the chill out room. Before she could open the door it swung open, almost knocking her over. Out of the doorway shot one of the door staff, cursing at his mobile phone.
“Fucking piece of fucking shit. No network coverage, my arse. I need the police, Christ, the frigging army, fucking connect… FUCKING CONNECT!”
He was hysterical, yelling at the phone as if it could actually pay attention. “Oh okay, I’ll connect you then if it’s that important. Very sorry.” The phone beeped in his hand until he threw it at the wall. Emma, without thinking, stepped forward and slapped him. Hard. Harder than Steve slapped Warren moments before.
The doorman looked at her. Gary, his badge read.
“Calm down, Gary. What’s going on in there?” The music was getting louder and faster, it had begun to hurt her hearing.
“Madness, that’s what. Fucking madness. People are on fire and all sorts of shit. It’s the pills, spiked they are. Cut with some mad shit to turn everyone into monsters and make ’em go mad. Have ya got a phone? We need the police. We need the bleedin’ army.”
“That’s absurd,” said Emma, in an extremely school ma’amish tone. “Seems to me it’s you that’s gone crazy.”
He looked at her. “You think what you like, but it’s true.” His own tone and pitch were steady now. He sounded as sane as she did. “I was there when Warren told Steve. The drug was going to kick in at twelve and it did. The whole batch must’ve been contaminated. Woodrose is behind it, working for Al Qaeda or some other arseholes, if you ask me. You should get out of here. Come with me, we can go and get help.”
“You go,” she said. “Call the police as soon as you get a signal, if your phone isn’t broke.” She looked at it on the ground; the battery was off but it may still work. “I’m going in to find my boyfriend.”
“Don’t you believe me?” Gary asked as he moved to retrieve his phone.
“Doesn’t matter. I need to find him.”
“Your call, but you’ll see things differently as soon as you open that door.” With that parting statement he ran off, attempting to rebuild his phone as he went.
Emma had no idea what to make of it, had everyone gone mad? Only then did she realize that she slapped the poor deluded man. It wasn’t like her, but she’d had a drink or two. Besides, he was acting crazy and she’d done him a favor.
Must have been him who was spiked, she thought, and opened the door.
CHAPTER 31
Her intention was to head onto the VIP balcony and try to pick John, or Chris, out from the crowd. The stairs were blocked by a group of men, all of whom seemed to be undressing her with their eyes, and as such, she revised her intentions and headed for the other side of the club, and the stairs to the balcony at the other side. It was an unfortunate decision. Had she headed up the stairs she would have found her target immediately. As it was, she headed in the wrong direction. A cruel twist of fate, one which should come as no surprise, considering the events of that particular evening. Good fortune had taken the night off.
John was searching for Emma. The old guy on stage, who was now, by some trick of magic, a young guy, loosened his grip on the crowd. Even then, the majority continued to dance, ignoring the horrific acts perpetrated around them. Others ran for their lives, but John had seen a number of them stopped by those under the control of the man on stage, and given a simple choice: dance or die.
Madness, not quite chaos, for the man on stage maintained his insane hold over the crowd, but madness all the same. John was desperate to find Emma before anything happened to her. For a moment he thought he saw her, but the glimpse was fleeting, obstructed by five blokes. One on one he could deal with them, as a unit they would beat the shit out of him. His training had taught him that real fights aren’t like a Segal movie; the bad guys don’t come one at a time.
He turned away from the stairs, toward Steve and Warren. He wanted to grab the owner of the club turned asylum, and demand answers, but decided that discretion was the better part of valor. He didn’t want to tangle with Steve, and settled for a simple, “What the fuck’s going on?”
“It’s the Pandemoniums. They’re fucking everyone up, no time to explain, but we could use a man like you. We’ve got to take out that fucker on the stage.” Warren headed for the stairs to his office as he spoke. He looked like a man on a mission.
“Can’t do. You sort your own shit, but I’ve got to find Emma.” His mind was racing, if there was something wrong with the Pandemoniums that meant…
Warren spoke, interrupting his thought, “Fair enough, but if you want to protect her you’ll need more than your fists.” He stopped on the stairs and addressed John directly. “Come with me.”
John looked at Warren and then at Steve, who shrugged his broad shoulders as if to say, I’m just following orders. John looked at the group of men on the stairs. He had no idea what Warren had in his office, but if it came to it, anything he could give may prove not only useful, but vital. “Okay, but I ain’t fucking around. Come on. Quick.”
The three of them ran upstairs to the office. Warren unlocked the door and locked it again as soon as they were inside.
“Time to tool up, boys,” said Warren. “If we’re going to get through this we need to deal with the head of the snake, and the body shall wither.”
Steve and John knew that Warren meant the guy on stage, but were concerned by Warren’s manner. He seemed to be enjoying himself a little too much. John put it down to the stress of the traumatic situation and the adrenaline he released to deal with it. Steve put it down to a mixture of adrenaline and the coke. Warren definitely seemed hyper, as he danced from one foot to the next whilst opening the safe set into his office wall.
“Voila, Aladdin’s Cave,” he cried as the safe swung open, revealing two shotguns.
“What the fuck are they doing in there?” said John.
“Oh, I was shooting this afternoon and didn’t have time to go home before coming here. Turned out for the best though, didn’t it? Guns and ammo aplenty.” Warren passed Steve a gun and a couple of boxes of cartridges. He took the second gun himself.
“And for you, Johnny Boy, we have this––” He walked over to his desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out a pistol.
This time it was Steve who looked surprised. “Where the hell did you get that?”
“Bought it off that Hungarian lad who did the doors for us over the summer. Had it at home for protection, but brought it here after that fucker out there paid us his initial little visit.”
“You never told me.”
Was John imagining it, or did Steve really look hurt as he said that? “Thought you may not agree but as it turns out, I was right. Going to need more than that asp strapped to your ass to sort this lot out.” Warren said as he passed the pistol to John.
John studied it. It wasn’t a make he was familiar with. A Tokarev 7.62 mm, according to the engraving on the barrel, and the clip held a stingy eight rounds. It looked old and battered, but the mechanism was clean and well oiled. When Warren passed him enough bullets to fill his pockets, he felt far safer than he had before. He tucked the pistol into the back of his trousers and let his t-shirt hang over it. “Look, thanks, but I’ve got to find Emm.”
“That’s understandable, John.” Warren headed to the door and unlocked it. At the other side of the room Steve was holding his earpiece against his ear; something on the radio was grabbing his attention.
You rescue the fair damsel and we shall slay yon foul demon.
Warren smiled at this and John was worried that he was falling over the edge. Perhaps becoming as dangerous as the “foul demon” he was preparing to slay. But that wasn’t John’s concern. Warren and Steve could pop a cap in anyone’s ass, so long as he got Emm and Chris out.
Chris. He was trying not to think too much about him. He had a bellyful of those pills and God knew what sort of state he would be in. He took Warren’s hand, shook it and left.
“Ready?” asked Warren, turning to Steve.
“Best put the assassination of Woodrose on hold. That was Mike and Paul on the radio. They’re on their way to blow the rest of the fireworks.”
The rest of the fireworks. Warren was a firm believer in being cost effective, and the economies of scale, frequently buying in bulk to secure a discount. His purchase of the fireworks had been no exception, and only a small proportion of the container full he imported from China had been used on the stroke of twelve. The rest were stored above the technicians’ room in the opposite corner of the club. Warren and Steve were aware that such an explosion would make one hell of a bang, and it was safe to say that the stockpile of pyrotechnics, fired as a whole, would tear the top from the north tower and shower debris onto the club like a meteor storm.
“Let’s go then,” said Warren.
The north tower was down the stairs, across the VIP balcony, through the VIP bar, into the small backroom, and onto the lighting gantry, which ran along the back of the stage to the technicians’ room. They set off running, passing the old school room to the virtually deserted balcony.
Then they stopped. The balcony was deserted save for a single figure: a stocky youth who could have been a younger version of Steve. In each hand he held a broken bottle. He raised the left one to his cheek and began cutting himself with its jagged edge, before putting it to his mouth and taking a bite.
“You may not pass,” he said. Blood ran down his chin from his lacerated lips as he spoke.
Steve stepped forward, the shotgun held at hip height. “Gun beats bottles, you lose. Now get the fuck out of our way son, before you get hurt.”
The youth spat a mouthful of rich red blood onto the carpet. “You may not pass,” he repeated, his voice a dull monotone.
Steve edged closer.
BOOM. The sound was clear despite the pounding music in the hall below, and Steve felt the pellets whistle by his left ear. The bottles in the youth’s hands shattered as he flew backwards into a heap on the floor. BOOM. A second shot pushed the body backwards along the floor and the acrid smell of gunpowder invaded Steve’s nostrils.
“Warren, what the fuck? You shot him.”
Warren was busy reloading.
“Warren!” Steve was shouting now, his face a bright red.
Warren looked up. “What? My ears are ringing, mate. Forgot the ear defenders, didn’t we.”
He clicked the twin barrels of the gun back into place. The music was still pounding, and even without the gunshot, Steve doubted Warren would be able to hear him unless he got closer. He walked over to him.
“You shot him!” he shouted, and pointed at the prone body at the far end of the balcony.
“Yeah, best to give him both barrels, don’t you think? Make sure and all that. Thought he was going to go for you.”
Steve was incredulous. His boss had literally blown away the guy in front of his very eyes, but then again, he may have proved too much to handle. He was big enough, and had youth on his side to counter his own advantage of experience.
Warren moved toward the rail of the balcony and raised the gun to his shoulder, taking aim.
Steve reached over, grabbed the barrel and pulled it away.
Warren looked at him with a puzzled expression. “Why did you do that Steve? Almost had Woodyroo there in my sights. Could take him out and save the day.”
Steve pointed at Woodrose. He was surrounded by ravers, who were loving every minute of being live on stage at the event of the year. “How many of them were you going to pepper with shot?”
Warren bent over and looked, studied, evaluated, and spoke. “Bout six, I reckon. Collateral damage, I think they call it, but see your point. It’s not like I’m a Yank. Say no to friendly fire. Plus, if I only wounded him, he may take flight, need a good clear kill shot. Good thinking, Steve I’d be lost without you.” He patted Steve on the back.
