Boy A by Jonathan Trigell

discos, no family weddings, no parties, no clubs, no front rooms, no miming in front of the bathroom mirror. Never. Jack is not even sure that he could dance as well as the few foot-lifting marginals. How could he? Where would he begin?
    One cluster fascinates him. They stand half on the steps that lead down to the sunken circle. Their hands and fingers move rapidly, but out of time, too fast even for the DJ’s raging BPMs. When the strobe starts the cluster’s movements stop altogether, or at least it seems that way to Jack. They just appear in position. Like a series of strange still photographs. It is only when one gives a thumbs up that Jack realizes. Not dancing but signing. They are all deaf. A club within the club. Where the conversation-killing music makes their disability an advantage. Jack wonders if they can still feel the base up their spines, like he can.
    Then he spots her: Michelle is down there, dancing with Claire and the small dark-eyed girl and a couple of the lads. He watches her easy movements, she isn’t an amazing dancer, not like the hip grinders, but she is effortless, unencumbered. She has an unpractised grace that makes the tiny girl beside her seem almost ungainly. Maybe feeling his eyes on her, Michelle looks around to meet them; herponytail wafts down to her shoulder like a feather boa. She smiles at him and waves him down. For a moment Jack sees himself striding down there, strutting – no, slinking – like John Travolta. He sees the crowd parting slightly to let him pass, waiting, anticipating his moves. But Jack has no moves, and the vision sinks away from him. He shakes his head at Michelle, trying to keep up his smile and mouths ‘maybe later’, which he doubts she gets from that distance.
    Michelle keeps dancing, but facing his way. She is wearing a black dress that shows miles of her milk-gum breasts. Jack can feel his pulse in his throat.
    ‘She wants you bad, my friend,’ says Steve the mechanic. Jack had almost forgotten he was there. ‘If you want to go there, then go there. Don’t pay too much attention to Chris. Yeah, he’ll probably rag you for a couple of days, but that’s life: you know what they say about fat girls and mopeds. But that Michelle’s a good lass. Brainy, too, there’s more to her than meets the eye.’
    Chris comes back, face split with a grin like a grapefruit, before Jack can find out what ‘fat girls and mopeds’ is supposed to mean.
    ‘D’you get them?’ Steve the mechanic asks.
    Chris nods. ‘I’m out of beer though. Come on, Dodger, your round.’
    Jack heads off to the bar. This is starting to be a very expensive night. Does it always cost this much to go out? Five or six hours ago he was the richest he’d ever been in his life. Now he seems to have drunk a big chunk of that wad.
    He’s a little unstable on his feet as well; but despite the strangeness of everything, he’s more at ease than he can ever remember being. He’s spent the last seven years in a state of permanent tension, looking for clues as to who’s going to kick off, screening his words for fear of being stained a nonce, watching for where to sit and when to shit and waiting to breathe. Now he feels relaxed. Maybe it’s thedrink, but he’s suddenly sure that no one’s going to rumble him. It’s all going to be all right.
    He has a problem finding Chris and Steve the mechanic, when he gets back to where they were. But he spots them a wave away, where they’ve secured a high round table. Chris leans on it with accomplished nonchalance.
    ‘Cheers, Dodger,’ he says, relieving Jack of a bottle of Bud. ‘Now open your mouth and close your eyes. I’ve got a present for you.’
    Certainly alcohol is a big player, but there’s more than this, maybe it’s trust in Chris. Maybe Jack’s just used to obeying orders. Whatever the reason, he does what he’s told. He feels a lump on his tongue, which tastes somewhere between salt and sulphur, and when he’s told to