Phil Rickman - The Wine of Angels

Jane screamed, ‘ He’s got a knife! ’

And the room went quiet.

‘Lights,’ someone snapped. Dean Wall’s arms went slack and Jane stepped away as the strobe stopped and the main lights came up.

Barry, the manager, ex-SAS, came across the room like a small tank. Behind him, Lloyd Powell.

‘Who shouted?’ Barry demanded.

Jane looked across at Mark. He was a slight, quiet-looking, mousy-haired boy. You tended not to notice him. Both arms hung by his side, the hands empty. Could she have been mistaken?

She looked away from Mark and across at Barry. ‘Sorry. I thought someone had a knife.’

‘One of these boys?’ Lloyd Powell wandered over, hooked out a chair with his foot to see if anything had been kicked under it. Lloyd looked pretty cool in a timeless sort of way; he was the only guy here who could get away with wearing a patched tweed jacket over his jeans and denim workshirt.

‘I didn’t really see,’ Jane said. ‘There was just a sort of flash. But with the strobelights ... Sorry.’

‘All right,’ Barry said. ‘You.’ Stabbing a finger at Dean Wall then Danny Gittoes, then Mark. ‘Out.’

‘Aw, come on, man.’ Dean stepped away from Jane. ‘We was only havin’ a laugh. Tell ‘im, Lloyd.’

‘You’re outer line, boy,’ Lloyd said sternly. He folded his arms, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Barry.

‘Out,’ Barry said. ‘Now.’

Danny Gittoes stood up and edged towards the door. Some of the kids began to move back towards the walls. Dr Samedi stood protectively in front of his main console. Dean Wall didn’t move.

‘You’ve got five seconds,’ Barry said, like they were terrorists or something. ‘And that includes the door closing behind you.’

It was starting to look nasty. Then Colette was there.

‘Ease up, Barry.’

There was silence. Jane reckoned that every man in the room must be looking at Colette, including Barry and Lloyd. She looked like she’d stepped out of one of those moody, sexy, Sunday-supplement fashion spreads, one of the threadlike straps of her tight, black dress just parted from the shoulder, a perfect dab of perspiration in the little cleft over her top lip. She looked about twenty-seven and drop-dead gorgeous.

‘I’d be prepared to bet these lads are not on the guest list,’ Barry said stiffly. ‘You know your parents’ rules.’

‘One of my rules, Barry,’ Colette said, ‘was that the word parents would not be mentioned in here tonight, yeah?’

‘Sorry, Colette, but they pay my wages. We have a guest list, nobody comes in they’re not on it.’

‘These are local guys,’ Colette said. ‘We don’t want to be seen as snobbish, do we?’

Dean Wall leered at Colette. ‘Tell the bastard, darlin’. These ex-SAS guys, they en’t got it out their system, see. They’re jus’ lookin’ for innocent people to beat up.’

‘Shut it, lad.’ Barry’s lips barely moved.

‘What you gonner do? You got a Heckler and Koch down your trousers, is it?’

Danny Gittoes laughed feebly.

‘Don’t push it, boy,’ Lloyd Powell said.

Dean turned on him. ‘Shit, Powell, I thought you were a mate.’

‘You’re outer line, boy.’

‘Colette, look ...’ Barry lowered his voice. ‘It’s getting late.’

‘So it is ...’

Colette’s eyes were shining with a steady, steely light that didn’t seem quite natural to Jane. Had she taken something? Well, of course she had. The eyes turned on Barry.

‘I mean, I know you army guys like your early nights, but you’re in the catering trade now, Baz.’

‘Just there’s a little ceremony planned,’ Barry said uncomfortably.

Colette gave him a hard stare. ‘What did you say?’

‘It’s your birthday party.’ Barry blushed. ‘We’ve got this ... cake.’

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Colette looked appalled. ‘Who’s idea was that? ’

‘Your mother’s.’

‘Jesus wept!’ Jane saw Colette’s fists clench. ‘How old they think I am? Six?’

‘Please,’ Barry said. ‘It was supposed to be a surprise.’

‘Jesus Christ? ’ Colette’s whole body went rigid and Jane saw tears of outrage and betrayal spring into her eyes. ‘They’re not coming? ’

Barry gritted his teeth. ‘Just for a few minutes.’

Colette began to breathe rapidly, her breasts rising half out of the shiny, black dress, bringing a half-suppressed whimper out of Dean Wall.

‘I’m sorry,’ Barry said.

‘You little toad, Barry,’ Colette spat. ‘You little fucking toad. You lied to me! They lied to me. What time?’

‘It’s after midnight.’

‘I mean what time are they coming, shifhead?’

‘Just before one,’ Barry said. ‘Look, Colette, you’re their daughter – you can’t blame them for wanting to share just a few minutes of your party.’

‘Balls. They just want to wind things up while the place is still intact and embarrass the piss out of me at the same time.’

‘Come on, love, you’d be winding up by then, anyway.’

‘Like fuck we would.’

Colette strode away, the tips of two fingers to her mouth, thinking hard, that cold light in her eyes. A rock slide of emotions came down on Jane, a giddying combination of nervousness and extreme excitement.

She watched Colette approach Dr Samedi, the whole room in a hush. Everybody looking for the first time tonight, Jane thought, like kids, unsure of how they were supposed to react to the hostess throwing a wobbly. Colette was speaking quickly to Dr Samedi, who started to back away, making sweeping motions with his hands, Colette pursuing him, her voice rising.

‘... getting half a fucking grand for this, Jeff, remember?’

Dr Samedi glanced wildly from side to side, at the spread of his equipment, and Colette carried on advancing and talking ferociously at him, until he had his back against one of the big speakers, his top hat fallen off, and he seemed to concede, submit, whatever, his head nodding wearily. Colette smiled grimly, walked back to the centre of the room.

‘All right. Everybody listen up. Seems some of you are not, like, considered suitable.’

Dean Wall whooped.

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Colette waved a dismissive hand. ‘Wall’s first taste of fame, very sad. OK ... So if some of us are not welcome, I think we should all go, yeah?’

‘Thank God for that,’ Quentin sighed. But Jane suspected he was being seriously premature.

‘It’s not a bad night out there, right?’ Colette said.

‘Could be better,’ a boy shouted bravely.

‘It will be. I reckon we get out of this shithole, take the action into the streets, yeah?’

There was half a second of hesitation before the roars of enthusiasm started gathering their meaningless momentum.

‘Struth.’ Barry rammed his hands into his jacket pockets, glared at the floor. Jane was standing quite close to him now and she heard him mutter to Lloyd Powell out of the side of his mouth, ‘You better tag along with them, mate. I’ll make an anonymous call to the police.’

Jane thought, Uh-oh.

MERRILY MOVED INTO the dark kitchen, carrying the poker.

The Aga chuntered smugly in its insulated world. She laid a palm flat on one of its hotplate covers, held it there until it felt uncomfortably warm.

What else could she do? Pinch herself? Did that really work? In the event, as she pulled away, she tripped on the edge of the rug and ... ‘Oh shit? ’ dropped the poker, bumped her knee violently on a hard corner of the Aga, sending a bullet of pain spinning to the top of her head.

She staggered to the switches, slammed on all the lights, bent down, rubbing hard at her knee. Apart from severe pain, what other proof could you give yourself that you were, in fact, fully awake, not dreaming?