Lee Rourke - Vulgar Things

Soon, one of the dancers, a tall, skinny girl with a strange accent, possibly South American, walks over to me.

‘Would you like a private dance?’

‘Well … Well … Er …’

‘Are you shy?’

‘Erm …’

‘I won’t bite you …’

‘I’m waiting for someone …’

‘Another girl?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who?’

‘Laura …’

‘Laura?’

‘Yes, Laura …’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s her stage name?’

‘What?’

‘Does she work here?’

‘I just know her as Laura … She said I could call … She told me to meet her here, that she’d be waiting for me here …’

‘Laura?’

‘Yes.’

‘Nobody works here called Laura, darling …’

‘Are you sure?’

‘What?’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘But …’

‘Are you sure you don’t want a private dance?’

‘Yes.’

She shrugs and walks away. I watch her return to her group, she says something about me, but I don’t mind. One of them points at me, I smile, she turns away, saying something back to the girl I was just speaking to, then they all look over at me and I have to look away myself. When I return my gaze they’re all still looking at me. I don’t know what makes me do this, but I raise my glass at them all, in a moment of personal defiance. I turn away again, happy. The lights at the back of the room dazzle my eyes. I step back to the far wall and lean on it, nonchalantly, like I’m part of the furniture. I decide that I’ll wait for her here, leaning against the wall at the back of the club feels right, I feel safe and comfortable, like I don’t care who speaks to me or what I hear. I know Laura will appear, she needs help, she’s in trouble, of course she’ll turn up, she needs me. Maybe she’s hiding from the men in the black Mercedes too? Maybe that’s why she’s late. I sink back into the wall. I close my eyes and listen to the music, then the music drifts and I concentrate on the thud thud thud of its beat through me, inside me, then my head drops, then my whiskey glass drops …

Then it hits me: what if the men from Toledo Road are in this club? Part of the club? Own this club? I straighten up, scraping the shards of glass by my whiskey-stained shoes over to the wall out of harm’s way. I walk over to the bar, shaking, and try to look through a door behind it, to see if there’s an office there, or somewhere they could be watching me, waiting for me: nothing. It’s not a film, I remind myself. It’s not a film. This is real, right? I try to calm myself. Nothing. I wait for Laura and order another whiskey.

aggressive behaviour

The bar is busy now. Before I know it I’m having to queue at the bar for another drink. The bar staff are obviously used to the crowd, but I’m not; people are bumping into me, standing on my shoes, and I’m having to apologise for things I haven’t done. I become increasingly frustrated, as more and more people jostle to get served, an elbow here and an arm there to block other people’s paths. Eventually, I’m served. I order a double whiskey, so I don’t have to go back. I try to stand where I was before, where I had a nice view of the entire bar, but it’s impossible to get over to that side of the room. So I stay where I am, close to the bar, surrounded by eager drinkers, all of them male.

Almost immediately a young lad, covered in tattoos, all up his arms and neck, begins to talk to me.

‘What’s that?’

‘This, it’s my rucksack …’

‘I didn’t think they let schoolchildren in here …’

‘Pardon?’

‘Are you a skater?’

‘What?’

‘What’s in it, your fucking homework?’

‘Homework … Ha … Yes … Homework …’

‘It looks fucking stupid in a place like this.’

‘Oh, it’s just a bag.’

‘A fucking rucksack …’

‘Oh, well …’

‘Are you a faggot, or something?’

‘What?’

‘Take it up the shitter, do you?’

‘…’

‘Pussy.’

‘…’

I push through the crowd, my heart pounding. I head to the other side of the long bar. Luckily, a girl starts to speak to the lad and he doesn’t follow me. He’s unsettled me, though, and I begin to shake. I can’t stop it. I look over to where the lad was standing — he’s taken the girl over to his friends, who all look the same: chequered shirts, high collars, short hair parted to the side, bottles of beer. He’s laughing along with them, his arm around the girl. He seems happy, in spite of his aggressive behaviour towards me. Maybe that’s his idea of humour? A good night out? Accusing random men of being homosexual? I sink back against the wall, in a corner near the door, where it’s darker and I don’t stand out. I gulp my whiskey down, forgetting my plan. It goes straight to my head. I take another gulp and finish it, my insides burning; there’s nowhere to put the glass, so I put it by my feet. When I straighten up to look around the bar a rush of blood fills my head, it feels like my brain is swelling up, drowning in whiskey, it makes me dizzy, but I manage to control it. As I refocus I notice Laura is standing in front of me with a big smile on her face.

‘You’re here …’

‘I’m drunk …’

‘I didn’t think you would …’

‘I always keep my word …’

Her hair’s tied back, or combed back and pinned with something, I don’t know. Her face is heavily made-up: black eye-liner around her large eyes, almost like it’s smudged on purpose. She’s wearing a flimsy top and a short skirt, which could have been underwear for all I know. I figure she’s arrived here by car, or maybe she’s been here all this time, somewhere in the bar, as she looks untouched by the elements outside. Her smile soon fades and she grabs me by the arm.

‘I need to speak with you …’

‘Right.’

‘Come with me …’

‘Right.’

She pulls me through the crowd, holding on to my arm; we walk through the group of lads, the guy with the neck full of tattoos stops what he’s doing and watches us, as she escorts me into the Ladies. I turn around to look at him just before the door closes after me and we step into a cubicle; he’s staring at me, a mix of jealousy, curiosity and hatred in his eyes.

‘In here … In here …’

She shuts the cubicle door behind us.

‘We’ll get caught …’

‘Ssssshhhhh …’

She seems nervous, jittery, her eyes darting to and fro.

‘I need to speak to you …’

‘What is it? … What’s wrong?’

‘I’m in trouble … You were kind to me …’

‘In the flat?’

‘Yes.’

‘I knew it was you …’

‘I’m in trouble …’

‘Who with?’

‘Them …’

‘Who?’

‘Those men …’

‘From the flat?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s wrong? What’ve they done to you? Are they holding you against your will?’

‘I’m in trouble with them …’

‘What is it?’

‘I need money … To get away from them.’

‘Yes … Yes … Yes … we can go … we can both get away from here …’

‘No, that’s not safe, I need to get away first, on my own … Then you can come.’

‘Where do you need to go?’

‘To Tirana …’

‘Where’s that?’

‘In Albania … I need to get back there as soon as I can …’

‘You need me to help you?’

‘It’ll cost money, I have no money … I have to pay money to people to help me get back, to take me, good people …’

‘How much?’

‘…’

‘How much do you need?’

‘I need three thousand eight hundred … That’s how much. It’s so much, I don’t know what to do.’