Another Life Altogether: A Novel - By Elaine Beale Page 0,96
the agony I felt at witnessing this scene. He looked away toward Dizzy. She was moving slowly backward, toward the door.
“God, I’m sorry, Stan, I really am,” Tracey said, trying to help wipe his jacket.
Stan pushed her away. “Stupid fucking bitch,” he muttered.
Tracey stepped back, swinging the whiskey bottle in my direction. Without even thinking, I reached for it. “Here, Trace, I’ll take that for you,” I said. I grabbed the bottle with loose enthusiasm, swinging it widely so that, with the bottle’s mouth pointed outward, whiskey splashed in a wide, liquid arc around the room.
“Jesus! Fuck! Shit! Christ almighty!” A chorus of expletives sounded as everyone around me was doused with a generous spray of whiskey. And then a chaos of churning bodies and flailing limbs as boys wiped dripping liquid from their faces and pushed wet hair out of their eyes.
“Jesse, you idiot!” Tracey yelled, rubbing at the splotches darkening the fabric of her blouse.
“Yeah, she’s a fucking idiot, all right,” Stan barked. “There’s hardly any fucking drink left, and that fat bitch has got away.” In the anarchy prompted by the whiskey shower, Dizzy had fled the cloakroom.
“You think she’s going to tell the vicar, Stan?” Greg asked.
Stan rolled his eyes. “Where do you think she’s gone, you fucking bonehead? To powder her fucking nose? Of course she’s gone to tell the vicar.”
“Christ,” Greg said. “I hope he doesn’t chuck us out.”
“I’m not worried about that,” another boy added. “I just hope he doesn’t phone my dad.” At this, a disconcerted mumble traveled around the room.
“I’m sorry, Stan,” I said. “I didn’t mean to …” I let my words fade as Stan turned to look at Malcolm and Ken.
“You breathe a fucking word about someone trying to burn you, Kenny,” he snarled, “and I promise you that I will make you sorry you were ever fucking born. Besides, everybody here will say it was you that was causing trouble, right, lads?”
Everyone around me nodded.
“I won’t say anything, Stan, I promise,” Ken said. “Malcolm won’t say anything, either, will you, Malcolm?” When Malcolm remained stonily silent, Ken tugged on his arm. “Don’t say anything, Malcolm. Please. I don’t want any trouble. And Stan didn’t really hurt me. It was just an accident.”
“All right, Ken. For you, I won’t say anything.”
Relieved, Ken scurried toward the exit. But Malcolm paused before he made to leave, sweeping the room with a look of disgust. When his eyes finally met mine, I thought I detected a subtle shift in his expression—a hint of curiosity and, possibly, recognition—before he turned away and marched out the door.
THE ROOM IN WHICH the disco was held had that oppressive, institutional feeling that comes with khaki-green walls and narrow windows that have been painted forever closed. It was stuffy and crowded and its innate dust and disinfectant odors blended with the smell of bodies and breath. In the front, on a stage backed by a banner that read FRIDAY NIGHT IS BINGO NIGHT: JOIN US AT THE REATTON DERBY AND JOAN CLUB, the dj stood behind a console of three colored lights that flashed in rhythm to the thumping music. Most of the dancers were girls assembled in little circles on the dance floor. The boys flanked the walls, their hands stuffed into their pockets, their heads bobbing with the music’s beat.
Tracey and I wandered out of the cloakroom and found the Debbies sitting on a row of chairs near the stage. Dressed in full Bay City Rollers regalia (tartan-trimmed jackets and half-mast trousers, tartan socks and shiny platform boots), they were easy to spot. “Where the heck have you two been?” demanded Debbie Masters.
“Getting a bloody lecture from the vicar,” Tracey responded, plunking herself down in one of the empty chairs. I sat down beside her.
“Why? What happened?” All three of the Debbies looked eagerly toward us.
Tracey rolled her eyes. “This idiot,” she said, sticking her elbow in my side, “managed to spray whiskey round the entire room. So when the vicar comes in it smells like a bloody brewery. God, you should have heard him go on and on.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” I protested. “And it wasn’t me who brought the whiskey here in the first place. Besides, the vicar was just as bothered about the smoking—”
“Oh, shut up, Jesse,” Tracey snapped.
I felt stung. “No need to be like that. If Stan and Greg hadn’t started trouble in the first place, if they hadn’t been picking on Ken—”