monosyllables. He leaned against the door and crossed his arms. Well, I say arms but they were more like legs. His legs were like legs too, but the kind you find on a rhino.
‘Is there an entry fee?’
He looked me up and down with the speed he might read The Very Hungry Caterpillar . My hair went grey waiting for him. ‘You ain’t comin’ in.’
‘I need to speak to Barry. Barry Liptrott.’
‘Oh, really, what about?’
‘I wanted to ask him where he buys his shoes.’
He actually gave my feet a look.
‘What are you?’ I said. ‘A bouncer, or his secretary? Or his bumboy? What, exactly?’ I wasn’t altogether sure he was human, but he had opposable thumbs, so I was ready to give him the benefit of the doubt.
His face collapsed like a pie crust with too much air underneath it. ‘You say one more thing, I’ll fucking wear your face for a mask.’
‘I just–’
He had a good punch on him, I’ll give him that. I landed on my arse and rocked back till I could see the coils of rust swooping across the sky, where exhaust fumes were reacting with the sunlight. I stayed there for a while. It was quite pleasant, until blood began to leak down the back of my throat. I sat up and felt my teeth. Still there. My lip was split, though, and the pain was so sharp, so intense, that I could feel it a couple of feet in every direction from the epicentre.
Just then, Jonathan Dayne swung into the car park in his Jaguar XJS. A sticker on the boot read: How’s My Driving? Dial 0-800-EAT-MY-SHIT . Jonathan Dayne, aka Knocker, owned Lava Java. And he had more form than the Inland Revenue.
‘Knocker,’ I said, jovially, as he stepped out of the car, the cheeky glottal part of his name helping to pebble-dash my shirt with blood. I was almost happy to see him.
‘What do you want, scummo?’ He slammed the door and the car rocked unsteadily on its ancient suspension.
‘I want you to call off this no-necked bison-fucker and then invite me in for headache tablets and vodka.’
‘I don’t work here any more, dickhead,’ Knocker said. ‘I sold it last year. I’m just here for a salsa lesson.’
I groaned and drew myself up to my intimidating five foot nine and a half as the single-cell organism in a suit came at me.
‘It’s okay, Errol,’ Knocker said, holding up his hand. ‘I’ll deal with him.’
‘You’re such a good Samaritan, Knocker,’ I said, ‘but I can take care of myself. Muscle-bound fuckers like that, they go down easier than perished elasticated knickers on a skeleton.’
‘Comedian,’ Knocker said, entering the club and not hanging around to see if I was following. ‘Always so fucking quick, no wonder someone gave you a pasting. I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often.’
‘Touché,’ I said, and decided to stop talking for a while, at least until I got some eighty-proof analgesics down my neck.
* * *
I waited at the bar for him to finish his lesson. They had Grey Goose, which was a surprise, so I ordered a vodka martini. I stared at my bloody mouth in the mirror, and got the first one down me quick. I like it in a chunky glass with two blocks of ice and a sliver of lemon peel, if I’m not drinking it straight from a shot glass, but here I was glad to have it how you’re supposed to have it.
I checked out the other frugger-buggers who were gearing up for their dance lessons. Some of them even wore the proper shoes. There were a couple of nine-to-fivers reading their newspapers over a beer and a sandwich, before heading back for another four hours of Rich Tea, Facebook and group memos. Not the kind of place that actually needed a bouncer, but after midnight anything was possible: fights, bloody dance-offs, salsa slayings…
‘Another?’ the bartender asked. I nodded, to save my mouth, and he mixed the drink. He gave me a napkin for my mushed-up mush, and I nodded again. Good bartenders don’t just serve you drinks; they’re all about comfort. They know the right things
‘Is there an entry fee?’
He looked me up and down with the speed he might read The Very Hungry Caterpillar . My hair went grey waiting for him. ‘You ain’t comin’ in.’
‘I need to speak to Barry. Barry Liptrott.’
‘Oh, really, what about?’
‘I wanted to ask him where he buys his shoes.’
He actually gave my feet a look.
‘What are you?’ I said. ‘A bouncer, or his secretary? Or his bumboy? What, exactly?’ I wasn’t altogether sure he was human, but he had opposable thumbs, so I was ready to give him the benefit of the doubt.
His face collapsed like a pie crust with too much air underneath it. ‘You say one more thing, I’ll fucking wear your face for a mask.’
‘I just–’
He had a good punch on him, I’ll give him that. I landed on my arse and rocked back till I could see the coils of rust swooping across the sky, where exhaust fumes were reacting with the sunlight. I stayed there for a while. It was quite pleasant, until blood began to leak down the back of my throat. I sat up and felt my teeth. Still there. My lip was split, though, and the pain was so sharp, so intense, that I could feel it a couple of feet in every direction from the epicentre.
Just then, Jonathan Dayne swung into the car park in his Jaguar XJS. A sticker on the boot read: How’s My Driving? Dial 0-800-EAT-MY-SHIT . Jonathan Dayne, aka Knocker, owned Lava Java. And he had more form than the Inland Revenue.
‘Knocker,’ I said, jovially, as he stepped out of the car, the cheeky glottal part of his name helping to pebble-dash my shirt with blood. I was almost happy to see him.
‘What do you want, scummo?’ He slammed the door and the car rocked unsteadily on its ancient suspension.
‘I want you to call off this no-necked bison-fucker and then invite me in for headache tablets and vodka.’
‘I don’t work here any more, dickhead,’ Knocker said. ‘I sold it last year. I’m just here for a salsa lesson.’
I groaned and drew myself up to my intimidating five foot nine and a half as the single-cell organism in a suit came at me.
‘It’s okay, Errol,’ Knocker said, holding up his hand. ‘I’ll deal with him.’
‘You’re such a good Samaritan, Knocker,’ I said, ‘but I can take care of myself. Muscle-bound fuckers like that, they go down easier than perished elasticated knickers on a skeleton.’
‘Comedian,’ Knocker said, entering the club and not hanging around to see if I was following. ‘Always so fucking quick, no wonder someone gave you a pasting. I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often.’
‘Touché,’ I said, and decided to stop talking for a while, at least until I got some eighty-proof analgesics down my neck.
* * *
I waited at the bar for him to finish his lesson. They had Grey Goose, which was a surprise, so I ordered a vodka martini. I stared at my bloody mouth in the mirror, and got the first one down me quick. I like it in a chunky glass with two blocks of ice and a sliver of lemon peel, if I’m not drinking it straight from a shot glass, but here I was glad to have it how you’re supposed to have it.
I checked out the other frugger-buggers who were gearing up for their dance lessons. Some of them even wore the proper shoes. There were a couple of nine-to-fivers reading their newspapers over a beer and a sandwich, before heading back for another four hours of Rich Tea, Facebook and group memos. Not the kind of place that actually needed a bouncer, but after midnight anything was possible: fights, bloody dance-offs, salsa slayings…
‘Another?’ the bartender asked. I nodded, to save my mouth, and he mixed the drink. He gave me a napkin for my mushed-up mush, and I nodded again. Good bartenders don’t just serve you drinks; they’re all about comfort. They know the right things
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