already deserted his face.
Rodney leans back to fully enjoy this moment. ‘Loosen up, Mark.’
But Mark is already sprinting for the auditorium, shouting: ‘Don’t go! I’ll be back.’ When he does get back some thirty minutes later, they have gone. Their unfinished drinks are still on the table. He proceeds to ring them several times the next day. Each time an answering machine kicks in.
They don’t return his calls.
* * *
Ursula, still sitting at the bar, witnessed the chain of events occurring in the main hall.
Once Mark had left her to join the Coles, the barmanmade sure her glass was always charged. She never asked; he never spoke. As she slid slowly into inebriation, the antics of Cyril and his audience made for perfect entertainment.
It all happened very suddenly.
Cyril was on course for achieving the record, despite the increasing elasticity in his legs, when he abruptly lurched backwards, then forwards and spewed up over the baying crowd. Unfortunately most of it splattered the neo-Nazis. That done, he reversed into the trolley of glasses, which were smashed to smithereens. The three assistants panicked, started screaming and one of them, while running from the stage, tripped and knocked over one of the beer barrels. This barrel, in turn, hit the other one and together they rolled in every direction, spewing lager as they went.
Meanwhile Cyril had staggered back to the footlights, where he teetered momentarily on the edge. One of the barrels took him from behind, catapulting him straight into the rabble. Boozed to the gills, they had been waiting for any excuse to move from rabble to mob. Now they had it.
Battle lines formed with surprising speed between those with shaved heads and those with hair – any hair. It was like a rerun of the English Civil War. Tattooed arms and fists hammered away like steam pistons – one of which hit a fire alarm.
Ursula switched her gaze to Mark, as he left the Coles and ran into the hall. There, a scene evoking Hieronymus Bosch awaited him. He steadied himself before making a dash forthe stage. Ursula meanwhile turned back in time to see Rodney and Susan fleeing through the fire-exit doors.
Then something magical happened, or so it seemed in her alcoholic haze. It started to rain. She held out her hand to see if this was real. It was.
She looked up, almost expecting to find the roof sliding back to reveal billowing clouds and maybe even a rainbow. But life isn’t like that for Ursula. Ugly reality haunts her every moment.
The sprinklers had been activated.
* * *
Tempers are instantly cooled in the ensuing downpour.
Neo-Nazis and bikers are no different to the rest of us when it comes to sartorial matters. They, too, like to look nice in their butch uniforms. Who knows what the chemical spray will do to their leathers and chains?
So the hall empties in no time.
From the stage, Mark thanks the drenched stragglers for coming, announcing that he’s hoping to bring a ‘Bed of Nails’ attraction to this venue in the near future.
He finds Ursula still in the now deserted bar. The sprinklers continue to play over her but she makes no attempt to move. Her wet black dress glistens like jet.
She appears to be weeping.
But it’s difficult to tell.
nine
W aves crash over the sea wall on to the esplanade. Two small figures, huddled in winter coats, make their way along on the leeward side, passing through hoops of light thrown by the street lamps. Mark has his arm around Ursula. She sings to herself while Mark talks to himself.
‘Rodney was lying. The shit was hiding something, I know it. I had him right in my sights when that arsehole Cyril chose to fuck everything up.’
Ursula’s rendering of ‘Signed, Sealed, Delivered I’m Yours’ is barely audible now.
Mark raises his voice in an effort to convince himself. ‘My gut tells me that something went seriously wrong on that course.’
‘So what?’ Ursula has ceased singing.
Mark cannot believe his
Rodney leans back to fully enjoy this moment. ‘Loosen up, Mark.’
But Mark is already sprinting for the auditorium, shouting: ‘Don’t go! I’ll be back.’ When he does get back some thirty minutes later, they have gone. Their unfinished drinks are still on the table. He proceeds to ring them several times the next day. Each time an answering machine kicks in.
They don’t return his calls.
* * *
Ursula, still sitting at the bar, witnessed the chain of events occurring in the main hall.
Once Mark had left her to join the Coles, the barmanmade sure her glass was always charged. She never asked; he never spoke. As she slid slowly into inebriation, the antics of Cyril and his audience made for perfect entertainment.
It all happened very suddenly.
Cyril was on course for achieving the record, despite the increasing elasticity in his legs, when he abruptly lurched backwards, then forwards and spewed up over the baying crowd. Unfortunately most of it splattered the neo-Nazis. That done, he reversed into the trolley of glasses, which were smashed to smithereens. The three assistants panicked, started screaming and one of them, while running from the stage, tripped and knocked over one of the beer barrels. This barrel, in turn, hit the other one and together they rolled in every direction, spewing lager as they went.
Meanwhile Cyril had staggered back to the footlights, where he teetered momentarily on the edge. One of the barrels took him from behind, catapulting him straight into the rabble. Boozed to the gills, they had been waiting for any excuse to move from rabble to mob. Now they had it.
Battle lines formed with surprising speed between those with shaved heads and those with hair – any hair. It was like a rerun of the English Civil War. Tattooed arms and fists hammered away like steam pistons – one of which hit a fire alarm.
Ursula switched her gaze to Mark, as he left the Coles and ran into the hall. There, a scene evoking Hieronymus Bosch awaited him. He steadied himself before making a dash forthe stage. Ursula meanwhile turned back in time to see Rodney and Susan fleeing through the fire-exit doors.
Then something magical happened, or so it seemed in her alcoholic haze. It started to rain. She held out her hand to see if this was real. It was.
She looked up, almost expecting to find the roof sliding back to reveal billowing clouds and maybe even a rainbow. But life isn’t like that for Ursula. Ugly reality haunts her every moment.
The sprinklers had been activated.
* * *
Tempers are instantly cooled in the ensuing downpour.
Neo-Nazis and bikers are no different to the rest of us when it comes to sartorial matters. They, too, like to look nice in their butch uniforms. Who knows what the chemical spray will do to their leathers and chains?
So the hall empties in no time.
From the stage, Mark thanks the drenched stragglers for coming, announcing that he’s hoping to bring a ‘Bed of Nails’ attraction to this venue in the near future.
He finds Ursula still in the now deserted bar. The sprinklers continue to play over her but she makes no attempt to move. Her wet black dress glistens like jet.
She appears to be weeping.
But it’s difficult to tell.
nine
W aves crash over the sea wall on to the esplanade. Two small figures, huddled in winter coats, make their way along on the leeward side, passing through hoops of light thrown by the street lamps. Mark has his arm around Ursula. She sings to herself while Mark talks to himself.
‘Rodney was lying. The shit was hiding something, I know it. I had him right in my sights when that arsehole Cyril chose to fuck everything up.’
Ursula’s rendering of ‘Signed, Sealed, Delivered I’m Yours’ is barely audible now.
Mark raises his voice in an effort to convince himself. ‘My gut tells me that something went seriously wrong on that course.’
‘So what?’ Ursula has ceased singing.
Mark cannot believe his
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