Discoredia, page 3
Drugs were his escape. He was short, skinny, and didn’t have what girls looked for, whatever that was. Maybe it was his age? Being the youngest in the year at school meant he was always the smallest, weakest, and judging by what he’d seen whilst getting changed for P.E, the last to hit puberty. He only avoided being the class victim because of his violent temper, and by virtue of a big brother. The combination of curse and blessing made people think twice about taking him on, despite his puny stature.
His reputation for being a bit psycho followed him to college, which he occasionally attended. It was there he discovered cannabis. His beloved herb was a welcome alternative to the demon drink, which had always made his bad temper worse. Being a dope smoker brought him into contact with other outsiders, outsiders he regarded as the only real friends he ever had. For him, his self-prescribed medicine cured him of his adolescent fury, and from his love of weed he graduated to the harder stuff. Granted, he was by no means an addict; he hated junkies. But he wasn’t shy when it came to a little chemical indulgence, nor were his new found friends.
Unfortunately, the man he was on his way to visit was not one of those friends. An acquaintance yes, but friend? No. Frank O’Mara was frightening. Frank was in his forties, or maybe fifties, and was a step up, a big giant-size step up, from his other visits that afternoon. Chris would never admit to being scared of anything but he was scared of Frank and he knew it. Ste, Stu, Porter, Logger, all around the 20-year-old mark (he was still 19) and very small scale. In fact, other than Walker, his buddies were only dealers in the sense that if they had chance to get some weed, or pills, or speed, or whatever, they would get some for themselves, and a bit extra to sell on to their mates. If they were skint they sold on for a profit. If not, they sold so they had someone to get blasted with. Jimmy was a bit more, a full time dealer and benefit claimant, but in the grand order of things even he, with all his big ideas, was a nobody. Frank, on the other hand, was a dealer, pure and simple. It was his living, his business, and he was very, very, serious about it.
According to local folklore, or gossip if you prefer that term, Frank O’Mara had left his Irish homeland after the paramilitaries had requested a share of his business, a request he politely, yet firmly, declined. This prompted them to take a share anyway, he retaliated, less politely, and more firmly, with a bat, and they in turn upped the stakes with the threat of a sawn-off shotgun and life in a wheelchair. Realizing he was being pushed out, and with no realistic chance of fighting back, he had moved to pastures new to peddle his wares. Everyone in town knew Frank, and most knew, or thought they knew, what he did. He didn’t seem to work but often went on holidays abroad, business trips to those who knew better, and drove a brand new Discovery. Apparently he ran a hundred square mile territory for the big boys in the city, and had seen off the competition with methods similar to those used to push him out back home. His bat carried a lot more weight with people who didn’t keep AK47s under their beds. Rumor also had it that he had a son, who was some sort of boffin, living in Holland and manufacturing drugs for his father to import and sell, but Chris had no idea if this was true or not.
Normally the drugs Chris and his friends purchased had been through a couple of other smaller scale dealers before they got to them, and this was how they liked it. They were well aware that virtually everything originated with Frank but, regardless of their bravado amongst themselves, they had little interest in having too much to do with real criminals. Admittedly, there were a couple of other main dealers in town, who probably paid a cut to Frank rather than be cut by him, but Chris only knew their names and nothing more, particularly important stuff like phone numbers and addresses. Frank, on the other hand, he did know, and not just as the local drug baron.
Frank had dogs, at least Chris assumed he had dogs, as he regularly bought dog food from the pet shop on Market Street where Chris worked on Saturdays. And he assumed it was dogs plural due to the fact Frank regularly bought a few sacks, and never the cans. The matter that no-one had ever seen Frank with these dogs was explained by an assumption amongst Chris and the other staff that they were of a banned breed, pit-bulls or something, and were guard dogs rather than pets, but this begged the question of exercise. Maybe a treadmill? Alternatively, maybe Frank had a big garden. Couple more minutes and Chris thought he may find out. Part of him didn’t want to know. He doubted Frank had Chihuahuas.
Despite the apprehension Chris felt as he trudged across town, Frank had never actually given him any reason to be scared of him. He was actually very good natured and polite. It was his reputation that made people, Chris included, fearful. There were almost as many stories and urban myths surrounding him as Chris smoked Js, and sometimes the comments he made suggested he knew more about Chris than he would have liked. “You look a bit tired there Christopher lad, maybe you should try some herbal tea. Or have you already tried that?” and that kind of thing. Surprisingly, Frank’s accent wasn’t that thick but the odd word did have an Irish touch to it, an unmistakable lilt that turned there into dare and that into dat. Frank had lived in town for a good ten years so the accent probably faded over time.
A quick turn onto West Garth, over the pedestrian crossing, onto Dale Road and into Vale Close and there was Frank’s house. The house was nice, but not too big, and if it did have a garden, it was at the rear. The Discovery, which he often loaded for Frank, despite being half his size and never getting a tip, was out front. He hoped it was a good sign, an indication that Frank was home and that his trek across town hadn’t been in vain.
He flicked back his hood, glad that the rain had eased before he had got completely soaked. This was enough of a gamble without him looking like a drowned rat, and he tried to walk with a straight back rather than the slacker slouch his mother was constantly droning on about. He took a deep breath. How the hell did you do this?
“Hi. Remember me from the pet shop? Well I understand that you’re a drug dealer and I need some pills please.” Shit, what was he doing? His mates would worship him if he pulled it off but what if Frank didn’t like house calls?
“Sure lad, come in” then bang, baseball bat over the head, “Now fuck off and don’t come ’ere n’ more y’ bastard.” He started to wish that John was with him as he’d always felt safer in the company of his big brother. But John wasn’t with him, it was just him, and be it brave or stupid, he wanted some pills.
There it was on the wrought iron gatepost, number 3, definitely the right house, a little piece of information picked up from the phone book and evidence that, despite what his mother said, he did have some initiative. He reached his hand out to the latch, his heart was beating too fast, momentarily he considered turning and running, but what if he had been seen? Surely Frank had cameras and he would recognize him straight away. If he ran off, what would he say the next time the regions premier purveyor of illegal substances came into Pets Planet, the best, i.e. only, pet shop in town? “Sorry but I wanted some drugs but was scared so I legged it. Would you like me to help you to the car with those?”
“He is not available boy,” said a voice behind him, startling him from his thoughts and causing him to turn sharply on the spot. This voice certainly wasn’t Irish. It was as English as the Queen even if someone, perhaps Kev, had once told him she was a Gerry.
“But…” Chris stammered before suddenly realizing that he didn’t have a clue what to say next. “But what? Spit it out,” inquired the man.
The man before him was at least six foot two, thin as a rake, and dressed in an extremely smart and expensive looking black suit with a white shirt and a navy tie held in place with a gold pin. His hair was white and parted on the left and his skin was pale, you could see the veins pumping beneath it, slow and rhythmic. Behind him was a large black car. Chris thought it may be a Bentley, with the engine still running and whoever had been driving still sat in it, although he couldn’t make them out very well for the tinted glass. How come he hadn’t heard the car? He hadn’t been too keen on coming here to start with but he liked this even less. This was weird. And didn’t veins usually stay in one place? He was certain the one in this guy’s temple was working its way down his face and toward his ear like a blue worm.
The man looked at him, then smiled. Or at least the corners of his lips turned upwards, the lips never parted. Yes, a smile, but somehow unsettling, sinister, wrong. “Oh, I see. You require some of Mr. O’ Mara’s merchandise do you not? Well, as I have already announced, he is not available as he and I have some business to discuss, but since you have come so far, and in this pitiful weather, perhaps I can provide you with a little something?” Chris said nothing. He didn’t like this. Not at all. “I shall take your silence as acquiescence boy, as I haven’t the time to extract an answer from you. Here.” Without any real awareness that he was going to do it, Chris held out his hand and the man dropped a clear bag into his upturned palm. Looking down he saw that it contained…
“Put it away.” The man snapped before Chris had realized what he had been passed. “I do you a favor and you show the whole fucking world. Get it into your pocket before I take it back. And mention this to no one or I shall see to it that you never mention anything to anyone again you pathetic little piece of shit”. His tone was full of menace, the words tipped with venom, and his eyes, the pupils kept changing color. Not like lights switching; it was more gradual, like a kaleidoscope being turned. Black, red, blue, green and yellow all swirling together, holding him transfixed and scaring the shit out of him. What the fuck was going on? Suddenly he was glad he’d used the toilet at Stu’s otherwise he could quite easily have wet himself right there on the street outside Frank O’Mara’s front gate. Was he having a flashback? He hadn’t had acid for months, but his head was hurting and he felt sick to the bottom of his stomach. Where was his brother when he needed him? Probably fucking around in a ditch somewhere. John wouldn’t be afraid; nothing scared him.
Then the smile was back, the storm passed. “Christopher, Christopher, please accept my apologies, a rather troublesome day has irked me somewhat. Staffing problems. Hopefully my meeting with Mr. O’Mara shall brighten things a little, as he may have the answers I am looking for. I am also anticipating some good news on the research and development front. Just the sort of thing that would interest you, in fact. Be on your way and enjoy Valhalla. I’m sure that you shall.”
That was it. A complete sense of terror had gripped him. How did this guy know who he was? Where he was going at the weekend? And those eyes, normal now, but he could see them changing color in his mind, while the veins in the man’s temple wriggled around them, alive in themselves, and not just a part of this terrifying stranger.
The man meanwhile opened the gate and walked toward the door. Was he? Yes, whistling a jolly little tune while he walked. The door opened before he got to it, yep, cameras, and Frank glared at Chris, partially bringing him out of the total state of confusion in which he had found himself.
In a daze, Chris walked out of Vale Close and then, coming to his senses, ran through Dale Road and onto West Garth before the stitch in his side got too much. He stopped, leaning on the wall that ran along the boundary of the town cemetery to catch his breath. An undertaker, that’s what the guy looked like. Maybe Frank killed someone and he was collecting the body. Shit, what had he just witnessed? Anything? Nothing? It was getting too much. Chris never needed a joint so much in his life. Carefully, fearful of what he may find as his imagination raced into overdrive, he took the bag the man had given him out of his pocket. At once he was both relieved and considerably pleased to see a good-sized block of cannabis resin and at least a dozen little white pills. He checked one and saw a dove clearly imprinted on the side. Weird or not, it seemed that the old guy had sorted him for the weekend.
He set off again, initially with the aim of going back to Stu’s, but he ended up smoking alone behind the bus station, as he couldn’t think of an explanation to give as to where he had got the gear. He certainly didn’t want to mention his strange encounter at Frank’s gates. Didn’t want to think about it. He knew the man would somehow know if he talked and that was a gamble he didn’t want to take, but, by half past five, it didn’t matter. The dope had wiped the experience from his mind, or at least pushed it to the back. He’d set off to Frank’s then turned back because of the rain, he was sure of it, wasn’t he? Christ he needed to cut down. His head was in bits. He was getting so confused he’d forgotten he had some pills anyway. Found ’em in his pocket on the way home, just enough for the weekend.
CHAPTER 5
“Awkward bastard,” Warren muttered. His office may have been brightly lit, but his mood was as black as the ink he used to scribble another name on the pad before him.
Normally he loved working out the set times for a major event. To his mind, organizing the running order was like a DJ choosing which records to play in order to take the crowd on a musical journey. Too much of one thing could ruin a set, just as too many similar sets could ruin a night. The mix had to be just right. A few anthems here, a bit of hard dance there, some gabber to keep the stompers happy, a bit of old-school for variety, all the ingredients for a top night.
Unfortunately, New Year’s Eve was the worst night of the year. DJs and MCs who might have a couple of bookings in a night at other times could be playing four, five or even more sets spread right across the country. Taking all of their individual requirements into consideration was a logistical nightmare, a nightmare made worse by the remote location of Discoredia. Since he had little option but to book the top acts for New Year, not to mention opening night, he had to bend over backwards to accommodate everyone. Already inflated fees were increased that much more. A helicopter had to be laid on from the nearest motorway service station, all requests for particular times were being given full consideration, and when you thought it was all sorted some twat rang you to say they needed to change things.
* * *
Two hours, and eight phone calls later, he was feeling a bit better. A medieval jester would have been proud of the juggling act he performed to keep everyone happy. Eleven sets in the main room, nine of sixty minutes and two of ninety. Six sets in the gabber/techno room, five of sixty and one of ninety. The club residents playing the midnight set in the main hall, and a special midnight PA. in room two. A couple of artists for the old school room were yet to be confirmed, but he wasn’t too worried about that, things were as good as sorted.
All he needed to do was update the Discoredia website and Facebook page, log onto a handful of forums, USH.net and happyhardcore.com for starters, post a tweet or two, and announce the set times to the world. Actually, better make that provisional set times. Once out there, the running order would spread across the web without him having to do a thing. The Internet was a great tool for advertising, but if you screwed up, everyone would know before you realized yourself. A couple of bad events and you could be out of business.
Getting up from his desk he walked over to the far side of his office, plugged in and turned on the TV and then, using the remote, switched to PC mode. The computer keyboard was wireless and kept in a drawer beneath the Chess set. It was the game he and Steve had been playing nearly a month ago, no nearer completion. He logged on when his mobile rang, or to be more precise, began playing an old hardcore track that sampled the trademark Nokia ringtone.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon. Am I speaking with Mr. Charlton?” The voice was soft, almost a whisper. It was also a voice he didn’t recognize.
Prior to setting up the new club, he had kept his mobile number closely guarded, but it was vital for business now. There were no phone lines for miles and rather than pay for B.T. to install one he struck a deal with one of the mobile companies to stick a transmitter onto the east tower.
“Yes, speaking,” he replied, careful to mask his irritation at being disturbed. At least until he established to whom he was speaking.
“Ah, excellent. My name is Mr. Dylan and I am calling on behalf of my employer Mr. Woodrose. He wishes to arrange a meeting to discuss a lucrative business proposition.” The voice was very soft, enticing, and although Warren had no idea what this “proposition” was he already wanted to say yes. This definitely wasn’t like the calls he got from call centers in India, where they called him “Mr. Warren Sir” and didn’t understand Anglo-Saxon phrases like “Fuck Off.”
He paused for a moment, why did he feel so eager to agree to whatever this Mr. Dylan wanted? Why did he feel compelled to say “yes of course” rather than ask for more details? He rubbed his forehead as if massaging away the effects of that voice, that soft, soft voice, at the other end of the line. With effort he managed to ask, “What sort of proposition?”
“As I said. A very lucrative proposition,” was the reply, with such an emphasis on looocrative that it verged on the comical. Or did it? There was something else about the voice. There was no hiss or lisp like a cartoon snake, but the tone seemed so serpentine. Soft, hypnotic, measured and calculating. Warren struggled to concentrate.
“I’m afraid I’m very busy at the moment. If you can give me some details I’ll be able to consider setting up a meeting but otherwise…” the sentence was left unfinished but the meaning was clear.
“Of course, Mr. Charlton. Mr. Woodrose is a businessman like yourself, who wishes to market a new product by virtue of distributing some free samples. He feels that the opening of Discoredia would provide an ideal opportunity to carry out this exercise, and is willing to pay handsomely for the privilege.”
Warren was about to ask exactly what this “new product” was, but before he had a chance to speak, the soft, silky, tones of Mr. Dylan spoke up once more, answering his question before he had a chance to ask.
“Unfortunately I cannot give you any more details, other than to say that the sum that Mr. Woodrose is willing to pay for allowing him to carry out this exercise is sixty thousand pounds. In cash. May I take the liberty of informing Mr. Woodrose that you are willing to meet with him?”
