Michael heard the thump of his heart over the drums, as it bounced around his chest clattering into his rib cage. He rubbed his palms, trying to stem the slickness which was coating them. He felt his trousers cling to the backs of his knees where the sweat pooled before cascading to the cuffs of his now wet socks. The girl – Holly she said – was still speaking to him. He tried to focus on the green-purple kaleidoscope of her eyes for fear he would be caught lingering on the caramel orbs which climbed over the edge of her blouse. She had taken a seat, at the behest of his friends who had made themselves scarce enough that he was shitting himself on how to maintain her interest on his own, yet had managed to stay close enough that he was further shitting himself about the probability of royally cocking this up as they watched. Michael intensified his focus on the hypnotic colour shift, desperately trying not to glance down at the tattered denim with which he could see her playing. He fantasised about the fabric spontaneously unravelling. Suddenly he worried that he was starting at her too hard – he looked down at her hand. He worried he shouldn’t have looked. As he rushed his eyes back to hers, he feared he paused at her breasts. Michael felt his mouth cloying – quickly he grabbed his beer and drank. It coated his throat with momentary relief before immediately seeping through the pores in his hands and legs. All the while he panicked, he could hear himself talking; offering coherent sentences which were accepted and often repaid with a light laugh and the lift of a delicate hand to cover glistening lips. He felt as if he was hovering above his own body, watching himself spectacularly not cocking this up. Perhaps it was the green-purple back and forth which had sent him into a trance. It was real wasn’t it? He cast a look towards Kevin and Dave for reassurance and saw manic grins and thumbs up. It was real. He was talking to this incredibly beautiful women. This Holly.
Holly laughed. She wasn’t sure why she had started the conversation. Or why she had accepted the seat or the drink. Normally she didn’t talk to guys in this bar – certainly not when Dean was there – but there was an honesty and innocence about Michael and his smile. Of course, she could see in his eyes, in his fidgeting and sweaty palms that he was nervous. He kept looking at her tits and starting at the bare patches of skin visible through her jeans. That he was sexually attracted to her was obvious; if his behaviour wasn’t proof enough, the nub of the erection which pointed at her was. But she didn’t mind. He was funny and, while they hardly needed said when a pulsing hardon was on display, he hadn’t resorted to any of the oft-heard banality about her eyes, or lips, or presence, or even tits and arse, with which she was usually served. She liked Michael – she might also even have liked the two chesire idiots who hovered behind her.
Ciara saw him stare at the girl. He probably thought he was subtle, though he wasn’t. He clipped his sentence and shuffled so that he could glance to his left where she sat at the bar. Ciara would admit that it was hard not to stare at the girl. If Ciara had been wearing her white blouse and blue jeans she would have looked like she was wearing a white top and blue jeans – but that girl made them look as captivating as a photo on a travel site, of white sands and clear blue waters. Her sharp cheekbones and fluttering eyes were the lighthouse which acted as a beacon to the seascape. Ciara knew she was in a different dimension to this girl, but the boy had been talking to her. It was the small of her back in which he’d placed his hand just moments before. She wished the bar would swallow up the beautiful girl but, more, she wished that the boy weren’t such a pig. Why do all men think with their dicks? How could he believe it was acceptable to barge into her evening, for he and his friend to insert themselves into the conversation the girls were having and then to constantly look away from her, just because a better pair of tits and a tighter ass had parked themselves on the other side of the dance floor. She wished she could meet someone who didn’t salivate over girls, who didn’t objectify them with their leers. In spite of all that though, what Ciara really wished was that the boy would stop looking around and just pay attention to her. “So,” she placed a hand on his upper arm and rubbed the back of his tricep, “you must play some kind of sport?” He locked eyes with her and bared his teeth in a proud smile as she pulled him towards her and pressed her pelvis against his leg.
Dean buried himself in the sofa with comedic effect. The springs had long ago lost their ability to rebound and crouched in tight coils within the wooden frame. He slouched back into the cushions while his legs rose up and out bending at sharp angles, giving him a cartoonish appearance of long skeletal limbs and short stubby body. The dark eyes glared out between his pointy knees and slimy spikes of hair. He stared straight ahead, daring people to look his way, gesturing grotesquely at those who did. He listened absently to his friends arguing about football and lying about their sexual conquests. He lifted the glass to his lips and was greeted by only froth and air. The sofa refused to cooperate as he attempted to lean forward and place the glass on the low table, his stubby body unable to reach past the pipe cleaner legs. Frustrated he simply dropped the glass on the floor, flicking his wrist to add greater momentum as it tumbled downwards. The shatter interrupted a fictitious story of fellatio in a car park. “You need another drink Dean?” “What does it fucking look like?” “Ok… ok… I’ll go to the bar.” As the henchman staggered to his feet, another goon interjected. “Didn’t Holly go the bar?” The crack from Dean’s neck was as loud as the breaking glass. He whipped his head around “She did. Where the fuck has she gone?” “I’ll… I’ll… I’ll go check” the man on his feet ventured, desperate to step away from Dean’s temper and the tension which had suddenly ensnared the group. As he peeled away, he heard Dean grinding the broken glass into the floor.
The big boy could feel her warmth on his leg. He felt his own blood move towards his crotch and fought his penis as it began to stir. He mentally praised himself for his t-shirt selection that evening. He winked at his friend and curled his palm upwards, tensing his arm as her fingers played over it. His friend laughed aloud, shrugged and threw his arms around the girl closest to him. The shock in her face was evident, but it quickly passed and their lips were slipping off each other within seconds. The big boy draped his arms by his side, playing the game and forcing Ciara to pull herself closer into him. He lowered his head and waited for her to come to him.
The henchman crept back up the low set of steps. “I thought you were going to get me a drink.” Dean spat the words at him and pushed his trainer sole harder into the glass. “Yeah, Dean, no, bad news man… Holly’s at the bar… she’s with some bloke… yapping away… he’s all over her… like I don’t know what’s going on… but…” The tension in the circle was chased out by Dean’s fury. He threw off the shackles of the sofa and popped to his feet. “Ah here Dean,” an inebriated friend piped up, “Holly can chat to whoever she wants. Sit down and have a drink.” Dean turned slowly to face the man who now cowered in his chair, cheeks reddening and beads of sweat staining his pale skin. His head wobbled as he laughed up at Dean. He heard the thwack of skin on skin before he felt Dean’s palm rip over his face. His blotched cheek now bore a vivid handprint, four white fingers ringed in crimson. The sweat rolled over his brow and into watering eyes. Dean spun on his heel and pushed past his other pals. “Let’s fuck this cunt up!”one shouted and cheered as they chased Dean down the steps.
Michael was back in his body. His socks felt like they had been freshly dropped in a bucket of ice cold water, but his sweat glands had relented, or perhaps simply run out of fluid to disperse. He’d gone from shrinking in his chair to leaning forward on one elbow, matching the demeanour of Holly. When she rubbed his leg, he felt the erection grow but his boxers caressed. Soft cotton sheets enveloped his penis where earlier that night the thought of Kerry had cut through his loins. A little clumsily he returned the compliment, desperately trying to make it seem as if he were well-practiced in the art of caressing a denim-encased leg. He caught his watch in one of the rips. It tore the hole a few strands wider – he froze but she laughed uncontrollably. He could have tried to kiss her but there was something about her which said ‘our first kiss shouldn’t be leaning on a bar which at least two people piss against every week’. Instead, he used his lips to ask “Holly – can I get your number?” Holly’s eyes disappeared behind the purple masks, before they reopened wider than before. “Jesus! No!”
Michael’s body deflated. He felt himself crumple inside and fall to the floor. Faces and shapes danced around his head amidst green and purple camouflage. He felt himself hovering above his own body once more, watching himself stare at Holly as she began to explain that she just enjoyed talking to him, what did he think that she was interested in him? They had met in a bar with teenager’s playing Led Zeppelin for god’s sake. He was leaning against piss-stained timber and she was actually here with a hidden camera TV crew for some kind of social-experiment-cum-slapstick-laughalong at his expense. Then he felt the soft leather of what felt like a shoe tickle his ribs, followed quickly by what he was very certain was a human foot, and with a great deal more force. Like when an internet call hangs and rushes to catch up with itself, Michael heard the fast-forwarded sounds of glass shattering, over his own head, knuckles cracking his face, shouts and swears of abuse, Holly screaming and crying. “No! Leave him alone!” As the shoe withdrew and took the air from his lungs with it, he felt a smile play across his face – Holly wasn’t saying no to him!
The floor was disgusting. The dirt from people’s shoes mingled with crushed peanuts and glass. God-knows-how-old vomit was crusted into the cracks of the wood. She could feel and smell the vodka in her hair. Though it was fresher than the rest of the ground-level detritus. The little black straw pointed at her accusatorially a few feet away. Ciara wriggled sideways, trying to pop herself back to a standing position without flashing the bar. But her top hung low, weighed down by spilt drink and embarrassment, while her skirt rode high at the back, desperate to minimise its contact with the fetid mix reserved for the shoes, the lowest standers in the clothing hierarchy. “Jesus Ciara, are you alright?” “My God, what a bunch of assholes?” Each sentence rose with incandescent questioning rage. But none of the girls knelt to help Ciara up. Nor did the boy against whom she had been pressed moments ago. As she stumbled upright, amidst ineffectual fawning, she looked around trying to see where he had gone.
Dean felt the blood run back over his knuckles and down his forearm as he pulled back another blow. The attack was vicious and fast. He landed several punches in quick succession, opening his scars from previous assaults. The blood mixed freely with that of his victim. He felt it matt in his armhair but also felt it coarse through his shoulders as he swung again. He heard the barman and other patrons yelling at him to stop, but he could also hear Holly’s pleas. They enraged him and acted as coal to the engine which drove lithe pistons back and forth. He watched the skinny fucker cower on the floor, holding a limp hand up trying to cover his face. Dean could see the pleading in his eyes. The fear. The deranged smile curled over his face, lips peeling back like the skin of a lemon. He felt the power to decide when a victim’s suffering is done. He stepped forward fist cocked thinking ‘nearly… but not yet’. And then he felt his smile driven out of place, his lower jaw wrapping under his ear in a picasso-esque movement. Dean tottered like a new-born calf, rage battling confusion. His nose exploded across his face and he fell over the crawling escapee, taking his place among broken glass and felled stools. Two arms bulging like freshly-fed pythons and a straining t-shirt hovered over him. Dean’s vision clouded, streams of involuntary tears cascading into the slack jaw which hung like a resting puppet from the strings of his tapering sideburns. He choked on the tears as oxygen competed for space in his throat with blood that worked its way backwards, confronted on the outside with a mangle of bone and cartilage. Blinking he saw the pythons fighting his crew. Tears, blood, pain. He blinked again and saw an army of smaller reptiles, jutting from angular torsos and tight t-shirts. Punches raining upon his men and still he couldn’t stand.
“Everybody out of the fucking way!” Vin thundered through the crowd, shouldering onlookers aside. In truth he hadn’t moved as quickly as he should. The call from the bar came as soon as they saw Dean heading the march towards Holly – as soon as she’d taken a seat beside Michael the ‘tenders anticipated trouble. As Vin moved in, he saw the powerful youth leave a prostrate girl and give chase. He smiled to himself when he saw the punch land, delighted to see Dean pirouetting into the wall. But he hadn’t figured on it descending into chaos. Railing cymbals were on the brink of being drowned out by shattering glass and more of the bar was beginning to notice the outbreak. Vin drove a foot into the leg of one of Dean’s gang and wrestled the biggest boy away, trying to keep hold of his ripped t-shirt while taunts of being a pathetic bully were sprayed at the fallen Dean. As Vin manoeuvred the big boy away, he saw Dean lunge. The boy shifted sideways, leaving Vin in the firing line. The broken bottle slashed through the hand which held the boy and he shouted skywards like a wounded bear. Dean thrust again, slicing wild at air, but the boy was too nimble. The third time he went for the boy, Vin threw an elbow into his face and, though there was no nose or mandible where a nose or mandible should be, he felt a satisfying crumple nonetheless.
Marcus hadn’t noticed the chaos until he saw Jimmy spin from his seat, a pint having been tipped over his back and his chair knocked to the floor. For a moment, as Jimmy stood fists clenched by their sides, Marcus felt his command over the audience slip and he held the microphone stand limply. The draw of the fight rippled through the crowd and eyes looked towards the source of the commotion. His bandmates were oblivious, lost in their performance and thundering on through the song. As Marcus lifted the mic to his mouth, preparing to say something, concerned that he bore some level of responsibility for controlling the actions of his audience, he saw the group of boys who had been pounding shots and chatting up girls storm into the midst of the fight. They were swiftly followed by Vin who had things under control in a matter of seconds. Marcus cast his eyes back towards Jimmy, who sat once more in his chair, eyes straight ahead and foot tapping. Marcus’s heart lifted and his assurance remerged. As the music crescendo he howled into the mic.
Back-up security arrived to escort the gangs from the bar, Vin unintentionally emulating Napoleon, as he pinned his hand under inside his shirt trying to stem the bleeding. Staff righted furniture and made a cursory sweep of broken glass. Kevin and David searched for Michael, confused over which trail of blood to follow. On tip-toes, Ciara watched the boy’s head bob through the crowd and out the doors. She felt her virginity tighten it’s grip as the heads of those around her bounced back into the frame and he was out of sight. He hadn’t even told her his name.
Already, heads had turned back towards the stage.
Peter McFeely 
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