The Way Out by Vicki Jarrett

chairs, all kept in their place by thick metal bolts through the legs into the floor. Near the ceiling, the old chandeliers and mirror balls that used to spill a confetti of light over the dancers below, had been replaced with blank white globes, like dead planets. Life had moved on.
    The memories this place sprung on her at times disconnected her from the here and now, as if time itself was some kind of puzzle she’d never be able to solve without going mad. All the same, being at the bingo was still better than sitting at home, waiting for nothing to happen. It always did. Then that nothing would become a something – an emptiness that pressed in on her, making her heart race and her hands shake. That was when the other, darker thoughts would creep out of the corners and torment her with detail.
    The lights dimmed as Colin again climbed the steps to the caller’s raised podium. The chatter died down. People coughed and shifted their feet in nervy anticipation.
    Saturday nights were serious money, the sort of money that could change a person’s life, if you wanted it changing. Their club linked up with a dozen others across the country and all the prize money was pooled, so your chances of success were much lower but if you did win, the jackpot was far bigger than on an ordinary night. Enough to take a good long holiday in Australia, as Mary had pointed out more than once. Like Dora hadn’t worked that out for herself.
    The silence stretched tight as all heads turned towards the podium. Colin was obviously savouring his moment as everyone hung on the very edge of his silence. He delivered his line with gravity. ‘Eyes down for the National Game.’
    The electronic board mounted on the wall at the far end of the hall lit up in a simulated star burst which dissolved to reveala grid within which the lucky numbers would be illuminated as they were called.
    â€˜Sixteen. One and six, sixteen.’
    She scanned her card for the number. Never Been Kissed . Colin was under orders from club HQ not to use the lingo. More games could be played each session without the frills. But Dora remembered them all, whether she wanted to or not.
    She remembered walking into the Palais de Danse on her sixteenth birthday. Like stepping inside a giant hollowed-out wedding cake at Christmas – all creamy columns and layered balconies decorated with pink and white mouldings, the edges trimmed with lights.
    Charlie only had a couple of years on her but seemed much older. His swaggering walk, Italian suit, the hank of black hair, heavy with Brylcreem. She knew he got into the fights that broke out in the dark recesses under the balconies where a dangerous current of young men circled like sharks. He would have cuts on his knuckles, maybe a graze on his face, a hint of swelling around his mouth. Somehow this only made his gentleness with her more overpowering. She’d been such an eejit. Never been kissed, right enough. When he dipped his head down to her and spoke softly, rested his hands on her waist, she’d felt a fierce desire to be a damn sight more than kissed. If this was love, it wasn’t about hearts or flowers. It was all hot breath and sinew and need.
    â€˜Seven and eight, seventy eight.’ Heaven’s Gate .
    She’d gone outside for some air. Really she was looking for Charlie.
    Outside, the front of the Palais was a large rectangular slab of art deco with thin leaded windows and a triangular gable overfour columns. Behind the façade, the hunched barn of the main hall squatted like a shameful secret.
    â€˜Dora! Over here.’ He was leaning against the side of the building, smoking. His face flared in the glow from the burning tip of his cigarette before falling back into darkness. ‘Come on, I’ve got something to show you.’
    Around the back of the building, among the empty crates and rubbish bins, they slid together into a darkened doorway marked Deliveries Only. A