Chapter Ten

 

Friday April 25th – 10.05pm - ‘The Cat & Whistle’ Performance Area.

 

He promised me that he’d stopped smoking; no self-control that boy.

Pippa, that new girl of his smokes as well, so that’s not helping.

Ok, so he’s got a great voice anyway, but the fags can’t help can they?

I watched Julius and Pippa walk into the corridor towards the covered smoking area about ten minutes ago and couldn’t help thinking that they look good together though.

Perhaps she’s the one?

Our voices are good together as well, a good mix of his classic tenor with its natural vibrato and my more bluesy affair as he refers to it.

Harmonies are definitely our strong point and they are meshing well tonight; feel strong.

I look at my watch, nearly ten past, he should be back any minute, probably having one last drag and a snog, randy little bugger.

Still, she is rather lovely so good luck to him.

I check over by the corridor entrance, no sign of them yet.

Young love.

The smoking ban has definitely made a difference though, no more breathing in great lungfuls of toxic chemicals every time you inhale before a note, and no more late night showers when I get home after the gig, all my clothes going straight into the washing basket.

And The Cat is definitely a smoker’s pub although Dougie reckons that takings are actually up since the ban?

The covered smoking area that he had put in ‘at great personal expense’ must be paying dividends?

I glace sidelong over to Grinders table and am surprised to see it empty, although his black bomber jacket is still draped over the back of his chair.

I can also just make out Chloe’s brightly coloured wool bag on the floor by the chair opposite.

No sign of them at the bar either, although I’m not surprised about Chloe as I’m sure I’ve never seen her buy a drink before.

And now that I think of it I’m positive that neither of them smokes, so where could they be?

Both in the toilets?

Unlikely, Grinder would not leave his table intentionally unattended I’m sure?

Still, more important things to think about than those two misfits.

I turn over a page in the gig book to the first song in our second set, a Green Day number called ‘Good Riddance’, a song that I take the lead vocal on.

In our early days Julius always liked me to start the set and now, despite his well-earned confidence, it’s become a bit of a tradition.

I glance over the familiar lyrics and take a sip of the weak orange squash that I always drink during gigs.

Despite all the rock and roll legends, most serious singers don’t use alcohol during a performance; it dries the throat too much.

After the gig, well that’s a different story.

And, as any seasoned performer will also tell you, as the gig progresses you become increasingly attuned to the vibe of the room, registering momentary lulls in conversation, disparaging looks, encouraging smiles, unconscious feet tapping, faces silently mouthing the lyrics in fact anything that might indicate approval or otherwise.

Your fragile ego will be fully exposed as you lay bare your soul in the performance and will be sensitive to the whims and moods of the listening masses.

This is a phenomenon that affects me acutely and I look up, immediately aware of the shift in atmosphere, although to be fair the shift is none too subtle.

The previous hum of conversation in the large room has ceased, to be replaced by a bass rumbling like a freight train before it emerges from the tunnel.

The sound is emanating from the corridor and rapidly increasing in intensity as all eyes turn to the entrance.

But nothing could have prepared us for the explosion of noise and bodies that explode into the room mushrooming out from the narrow corridor into a melee of spitting expletives and thrashing arms and legs.

A table in the path of this human storm crashes over, chairs flying to the side, glasses and bottles bouncing onto the beer stained carpet, its occupants just managing to avoid the collision, reversing rapidly towards me in panic before breaking for the door.

The storm rolls forward to the front of the performance area, patrons scattering before them, and another table loses its battle with this irrepressible force, legs splintering, glasses trodden underfoot by Nike trainers and heavy boots.

I realise that, once again, my only escape would take me either straight through or dangerously close to this whirlwind of violence, only this time I am all alone.

I feel my throat drying, heart rate increasing and bowels tightening as the fight or flight reflex takes a grip, although the fight element is not strong in my case and flight is impossible.

A pair of blood- mad eyes fixes me from the edge of the melee and I become aware of a high, eerie keening noise close by.

And as, to my eternal relief, they turn away from me, my presence registered, then dismissed, I realise that the ghostly sound is coming from me.

Bowman’s wooden stave whistles through its deadly arc before making meaty contact with Grinders buttock just as he head butts a small stocky youth carrying a wide bladed knife.

I watch in fascination as the knife spins away like a silver fish cast back into the river as the face explodes, blood spurting from the ruined nose and cheek.

Ignoring the blow from the heavy stave, Grinder lashes back with a steel toed boot and makes firm contact with Bowman’s shin who lets out a howl, and hops backwards before tripping over the remains of a table and sitting down heavily amongst the wreckage. Another howl follows as his hand finds a broken glass and as I look away he is frantically trying to pick a large shard from his palm.

There are three youths still around Grinder and I recognise one as Blondie, Bowman’s partner at the last fracas.

They all seem understandably reluctant to rush and overwhelm the huge panting figure and the attacks come in darts like sharks tearing at a whale.

I see the flash of steel from Blondie’s fist and a crimson line appears on Grinders exposed upper arm, a thin tide of red staining the top of the white polo sleeve.

Grinder seems to ignore this as he lunges forward at another of the assailants before twisting back towards Blondie his left hand locking on the wrist carrying the knife, his right clamping onto Blondies throat propelling the huge figure up onto his toes.

Blondie’s legs are splayed as he tries to keep his balance and in that terrible moment I can see exactly what Grinder has in mind.

I don’t actually see the contact, it’s too quick, but the shock registers on Blondies face immediately as Grinder releases him to sink to the floor, hands clutching desperately at his shattered testicles.

I look down and see Blondies knife laying at my feet, its blade stained red.

I think of trying to toe end it away but can’t and the keening sound is getting louder.

The head-butted youth is laying still and Blondie has just been sick before curling into a silent foetal ball. The other two youths are now keeping a discreet distance, but I notice Bowman rising to his feet again, the wicked stave still clutched tightly in one meaty fist and a red stained grimy handkerchief wrapped around the other one.

He glances over to the main door and smiles. The pub now only contains a handful of mesmerised customers who are either too fascinated or too shell-shocked to have departed like the rest, but their numbers are now swelled by half a dozen more youths in the same street costume as Bowman and Blondie.

Grinder follows Bowman’s gaze and for the first time I see resignation on his massive, scarred bloody face. One eye is nearly closed, his mouth gashed and his left arm is smothered to the elbow in blood from Blondie’s knife wound.

Then, to my horror he looks round at me, his one and a half eyes fixing me as he had done before.

Oh, please God he doesn’t want me to help him does he?

I see his eyes soften as if he recognises my dilemma and a grim smile appears followed by an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

He turns quickly and strides towards the corridor, keeping the broken table between him and Bowman and I realise what his strategy is; easier to keep them off in the narrow space and surely even Dougie must have called the police by now so it might not be for too long.

Bowman beckons the newcomers over, looks down dismissively at the two injured figures on the floor then they all follow after Grinder as he disappears out of sight.

Bowman and his group start to bunch up as they approach the entrance, a noticeable and in my opinion totally understandable reluctance to be the first to enter.

Bowman shakes his head, sweat flying from the long lank locks before stepping into the corridor followed by two of the braver ones.

I realise that I should take this opportunity to make my own escape by I can’t. I am surrounded by the two still figures lying in front of me and the terrible knife at my feet and I know for sure that if I am touched by any of them I will surely die.

I hear shouting from the corridor then Bowman and his cronies rush out, sprint across the room and crash out of the door.

The woman’s scream galvanizes me into action and I step gingerly over the knife and move to the back wall. There is no way that I am leaving the pub when Bowman might still be around, although the speed of his exit suggests that this is unlikely.

Anyway I’m on legs of rubber and I don’t think I’d make it that far.

As I slide down the wall, I am proved right and I try and stop the keening noise from starting up again.

I am staring impotently at the corridor entrance when Rhiannon walks out, scans the room at eye level, not noticing me, then faces the back wall where I am sitting to hide herself from the rest of the now almost empty pub. She has a small thin knife in her hand and both her hand and the knife are bloody. She quickly wraps it in a blue handkerchief, pushes it deep into her shoulder bag then wipes her hand frantically on the inside of the brown coat that she is wearing before turning and leaving the pub in a dozen quick strides.

I push to my feet as the thought that Julius and Pippa are back there somewhere hits me hard.

Got to pull myself together, they might need help; but as I walk towards the corridor I can’t feel any contact with the rough carpet and have to look down to make sure that all is working as it should be.

As I reach the entrance my legs nearly give way again and I grip the door frame for support.

The scene inside the corridor is straight from Dante or Macbeth.

Chloe is sitting on the floor her thin back pressed to the wall, her dark blue blood stained jeans draped across another pair of legs facing in the opposite direction. She is making a sound similar to the one that I have been trying to suppress although deeper in tone.

I can’t see the body that the legs belong to as it is obscured by the figure kneeling over it; a figure that I now recognise as Julius.

As he straightens up I can see the blood on the leg of his jeans and on the arm of his white shirt.

I can also see a thin bladed knife gripped tightly in his right hand.

He looks to the back of the corridor where Pippa is standing, her hand pressed tightly to her mouth in horror and then back to me, his handsome features a mask of despair.

I register the police sirens only seconds before the front door bursts open and the pub starts to fill with blue uniforms.

But Julius seems oblivious to this new intrusion and looks back down; the knife still gripped tightly, a mirror to the rigor mortis that will soon affect the prone figure lying so still on the grubby floor.

And that rigor mortis will follow is an absolute certainty, as even in my tremulous state, amid all the turmoil of the last ten minutes, of one thing I am sure.

Grinder is dead.