Doctor Who_ Beyond the Sun - Matthew Jones [75]
It could mean only one thing.
She looked over the balcony. Two tiny blue-sequined figures were moving in time to the gentle shuffle of the introductory bars. Tameka and Emile were making a bid for their fifteen minutes of fame.
By the time she had reached the dance floor, Emile and Tameka were lip-synching the repeated refrain of the chorus. Tameka caught her eye and winked. Emile executed a perfect twirl and then waved excitedly. At first Bernice had to push her way through the crowds, but as people began to notice her outfit they moved aside. A path opened out in front of her leading up to the stage. The revellers clapped along with the song. Aware of every eye upon her, Bernice did her best to strut confidently towards the bright spotlights. She mounted the stage just as the first verse came around.
Turning to face the audience, she gestured melodramatically at the swishing, blue-sequined figures on either side of her and lip-synched:
‘Everyone can see we’re together . . .’
Scott picked up Emile and Tameka’s uniforms, which they had left strewn across the floor of the room. The profiteers didn’t take care of the clothes they wore. Perhaps, Scott thought, because they weren’t their own. Weren’t theirs to keep, and so not of value.
Scott was rooting through a pile of clothes when he pulled out a grey uniform which had been stuffed at the bottom. Plain grey. It was a moment before he realized what he was holding in his hands. A moment before he felt the first prickle of fear.
Someone in the building was a collaborator.
They went down a storm. Bernice’s coordination didn’t get any better but the audience assumed her wooden feet were part of the act and laughed along with her as she kept missing her cues.
The partying collaborators quickly succumbed to the pleasures of ancient American disco music.
As they danced, Bernice was aware of more grey-uniformed figures appearing in between the revellers in the audience. She was ready to make a hasty exit as the last notes of ‘I Will Survive’
faded out and the audience roared with approval.
The applause didn’t die, but instead turned into chanting. Emile grabbed hold of Bernice’s hand as she teetered down the steps at the side of the stage in her heels. His round face was flushed with the excitement beneath his blonde wig. ‘Listen to them: they’re begging for it. Can’t we do an encore?’
Typical. They were in the lair of the enemy and all the boy could think about was pushing his fifteen minutes of fame into half an hour.
Tameka clattered down the steps two at a time, clutching her bulky Krytell Stowaway in one hand and her wig in the other. Her long dark hair had been pinned back to her head with grips.
‘You’re gonna have to wait till the talent contest at the freshers’ ball, boyee. That’s if we ever get back to St Oscar’s.’ She nodded towards the main doors, where a group of uniformed collaborators stood. ‘And I spotted some of our pale friends loitering in the hall.’
Bernice had a sneaking feeling that Iranda had decided not to make good on her promise.
They were spotted as they tried to slip out of the building through the kitchens. The three friends simultaneously kicked off their heels, hitched up their skirts and made a dash for it.
‘Keep together,’ Bernice ordered as they emerged into the large, newly landscaped gardens at the back of the building. Holding hands, they jumped over a low wall and dropped down on to the edge of a neatly mown lawn, landing softly. For a moment they crouched quietly in the darkness.
The moonlight turned the grass a soft silvery grey. It was cool and wet beneath their stockinged feet. There was no sound apart from their heavy breathing and the distant thump of music.
‘Bernice, look,’ Tameka hissed, pointing to a tarmacked area on the other side of the lawn.