“So there we are,” said Damien, “the five of us, coming out of the Moulin Rouge, around 3 in the morning. We get outside, and we see that Sam’s got blood all over his face. Now, Sam might be a bit strange sometimes, but even he doesn’t walk around with blood all over his face. I mean, he isn’t Polish, is he?”
There were a couple of grins at this, as we looked around to see whether Rafael was in the club. There were four of us sitting around a table. Damien had grabbed it after some skins had got up to go to the dancefloor, and Ian and I had joined him on our way back from the bar. Morag had come through with her promise to buy me a drink. In fact, with her newfound prosperity, she had sprung for an entire round. About half a pint of that had accidentally ended up in my lap, for which she had, of course, apologized most profusely. I thought I had gotten off lightly.
“So we ask him what’s happened, right? And he says that some cunt just hit him as we were walking down the stairs. For no reason.” Pause for a drink. “So, I go back up the stairs, but the bouncers won’t let me back in. Now you know me, I’m normally quite a peaceful sort, but I was starting to get a bit tense here.” More grins around the table. Damien’s “peaceful” personality was well known in the Irish.
“So I explain that we want to see this guy that did it, just to find out why. You know? And all this time, Sam’s just standing against the wall, wiping blood off his face, shaking his head, and we’re all feeling, like, sorry for the guy. He’s a mate, you know?”
As I raised my bottle for another sip, someone slapped me on the back of the head, spilling another mouthful in my lap. The roar of laughter that followed could only have come from one mouth.
“Oi, Mick. You want a drink? Morag’s buying.”
The leader of the Aryan Knights placed his fists on the table and looked around. A barbed wire tattoo snaked around his left arm from wrist to shoulder, with swastikas and eagles claiming the spaces between. A picture of a chain spiraled up his right arm. A real chain looped around his waist, held in place by a huge combination padlock. We all knew that the combination was set to open with just one click of the dial.
Behind him stood half a dozen smaller clones, trying to look hard. One of them was wearing a Sisters of Mercy shirt, which just didn’t make any sense to me at all. What was the world coming to?
“Not tonight.” He raised his eyes and scanned the dancefloor. I could practically smell the aggression pouring off him. “Tonight I’m just looking for a fight.” He picked up Damien’s beer and had a swig, then handed it back and winked. “You girls behave yourselves now.”
Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available from www.amazon.com/author/burning
Till next time. Cheers.
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