Image was one of the sleazier clubs in town, nestling in the heart of the downtown industrial area. It wasn’t the kind of place your mother warned you about, but only because she had no idea that such places actually existed outside of Dante’s third circle. Every Saturday and Sunday morning, shortly after dawn, the underground club would belch forth a stream of punks, skins and headbangers, who would blink wonderingly at the sunrise, shake their heads to clear the last of the alcohol from their brains, then stagger off to lay low until it was time to start all over again.
I had been there last night, but honestly couldn’t remember a thing after bumping into the two big lads on the roof. This might have been somehow related to the bottle of tequila they’d been passing around, although even that was hazy. Could have been vodka. Or petrol.
I managed to reach the balcony, grabbing my colours on the way and searching through the pockets for a pair of shades. Mick’s flat was on the first floor, giving him an alternative exit whenever the authorities decided to raid the place. Unfortunately for society in general, most of these “raids” were false alarms. Like this one.
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