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“So there we are,” said Dirk, “the five of us, coming out of the Horny Dragon, around three in the morning. I’d picked Mick up outside the prison, and we drove straight to Hillbrow to let the celebrations begin. It was Mick’s idea to go to this place, after everywhere else had shut or kicked us out.
“We get outside, and we see that Mick’s got blood all over his face. Now, Mick has his problems, but even he doesn’t walk around with blood all over his face.”
Dirk stood in his favourite spot, behind the bar in Valhalla. The nightclub, not the mythological Viking hall where warriors slain in battle feast under the watchful eye of Odin the All-father. Although Dirk could have been mistaken for a Norseman, with his long hair, unruly beard and arms full of tattoos.
The bar was always packed. Dirk would pick a spot, strike a pose, and entertain his patrons while they converted their wages into his profits. Not to be outdone, he often converted those profits immediately into even more empty bottles.
“So we ask him what’s happened, make out? And he schemes some oke just klapped 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 bar. Dirk’s “peaceful” personality was well known in Valhalla.
“So. I explain that we want to see this guy that did it. Tune him what what? Make out? And all this time, Mick’s just standing against the wall, wiping blood off his face, shaking his head. He’d been dipping into his own stash, so he’s well gone by this time. But we’re all feeling, like, sorry for the guy. He’s a china, make out?”
Noddy raised his mug for another sip. Valhalla regulars had their own skull beer mugs, kept behind the bar and clearly marked with the non de plume Dirk had assigned when he christened them a regular. Although sometimes bottles had to be used instead, when these were being disinfected.
“Next thing, the club empties. Must have been fifteen, sixteen okes pouring out onto the street. And the big mother who owns the place, and the restaurant next door – you all know the dude, long black pony tail, broken nose staggering all over one of those faces you just want to hit - he walks up to me. Sticks his cheesy grin right in my face. I could smell what he had for breakfast, know what I mean? And I swear, he fucking growled at me.” He drained the last of his drink. “Whose round?”
Janine was already there, sliding beers along the bar. Noddy reached for her tattooed arm but she was too fast, gliding across the room after throwing a significant look in Morag’s direction.
Thirst slaked, Dirk carried on. “So I ask him, make out, why’d he lay into Mick like that, for no reason. And he schemes ‘Because he hit me with a pool cue. And when my bouncers pulled him off, he called me a bitch.’”
Noddy had to laugh aloud at that. It was typical of Mick’s less than civil attitude to life. He had a habit of initiating chaos wherever he went. Like Sid Vicious reborn.
“At which point I started to lose interest in following this line of inquiry, make out? But Mick’s moved off up the street, he’s a safe distance away, and he shouts ‘Well, ye are a bloody bitch!’ And you can guess how it went after that.”
Noddy had heard the story before, from another of the lads involved, and, by all accounts, it had not gone well. The Horny Dragon being, of course, the hangout of the kick-boxing champions from the training gym across the road. These boys had started flying through the air, chopping and dropkicking anything that moved. Dirk had been alright. He could handle himself. Years of running his own club had made sure of that. But the rest of them had come away with some interesting cuts and bruises to show to their friends.
All except Mick, who had missed the whole thing. He was already walking away, laughing at the anarchy he had unleashed in the street.
Dirk sighed. “I love the dude, make out? But he isn’t the same after that stretch he did inside. I could see it straight away. In his eyes. He’s harder. Colder. It’s like some part of him didn’t come back.”
“Do you think he’s going to come back now?”
Dirk straightened his shoulders and fixed his interrogator with a hairy eyeball. “Christ, behave yourself. Of course he’s coming back. What kind of question is that? What would we do without his obstinate Irish arse?”
Noddy looked above Dirk’s head at the space that had been cleared on the wall. Valhalla’s normal décor was an assortment of old record covers and medieval weaponry. But here and there was a set of colours, nailed to the concrete. Jackets, denim or leather, some with sleeves, some without. The equivalent of wearing your heart on your sleeve. Or at least on your back, in the form of patches and badges. Nailed to the wall of the owners’ favourite club after death, they became a humble tribute to the fallen heroes who lived on, at least in spirit.
Dirk had cleared a space directly above the bar shortly after the accident. Between an AC/DC cover and a Motorhead double album. No-one had said a word.
Nobody spoke now, either.
Until. “Janine. Set up another round and take these ugly bastards’ money.”
The blonde moved back towards them. “Yes, sir. Immediately, sir.”
Dirk’s eyebrow raised. “Noddy, your wench is disrespecting me again.”
“Me, sir?” Janine’s eyelashes fluttered. “No, sir. Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” She winked at Noddy as she pulled on the draught tap and filled his mug.
Dirk topped up his own drink. “Anyway,” he grumbled, “they’re bringing Mick out of the coma tomorrow. Then we’ll see if he’s suffered any brain damage.”
“How will they be able to tell?” someone asked from the audience.
Dirk’s evil eye stopped the laughter almost as soon as it started.
“Still can’t believe the guy in the car didn’t even stop.”
Dirk acknowledged this comment with a nod. “Bloody cage drivers. But don’t worry. I got the license number. We know who did it. And Mick will want his pound of flesh.”