Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [42]
Gonzo came back excited, wearing my jacket. He handed me the bright orange Puffa.
“You can bury me in that if you want,” I told him. “Otherwise, no chance.”
“I met two birds checking the coats. They’re off for a kebab and I’m buying.”
“Classy stuff, Gonz. What’s that got to do with my jacket?”
“They were laughing at mine, the tarts. Come on, just until we leave the kebab house. I’ll pay for your grub. If I haven’t pulled by the time we leave you can have it back.”
I shrugged. The choice was to let Gonzo wear my jacket or try to rip it off his back, and I was tired. Gonzo started jogging on the spot, his dreads bouncing on his shoulders.
“Yeah yeah yeah.”
We left, pausing on the steps outside to watch the entertainment. A girl, puce with embarrassment or rage or a combination of both, was screaming abuse at an older man who was dragging her into a silver-grey Merc SL. It took me a couple of seconds to realise the older guy was Conway. His face was flushed, jabbing a finger at the big bloke who’d been with his daughter inside the club. The big bloke was standing on the steps, hands on hips, like he’d reached the end of a catwalk.
“I’m not telling you again!” Conway’s voice was a strangled snarl. “Next time it’ll be you in the back of the car! Fucking pervert.”
He looked around, trying to work out exactly where the catcalls, the jeering, was coming from. His eyes caught mine. He looked away, came back to check out Gonzo and Dutchie, and got in the car, which roared away down the street.
“What was that all about?” Michelle wanted to know.
“Jail-bait,” I said. “Still at school, I’d say.”
Gonzo clicked his tongue.
“Shame.”
The sleet had stopped. The temperature had plummeted. Stars glittered against a clear black sky. Gonzo spotted the girls from the coat check, one wearing thigh-length PVC boots, the other chewing gum and looking bored. He sallied forth.
We piled into a booth in the kebab house and chewed on the plastic food while Gonzo tried to impress the two girls. Their ages combined would hardly have made up his, and they spent the best part of an hour giggling at his efforts. Then, without any visible sign of communication, they stood up and left. Gonzo stared after them, nonplussed.
“Are we right so?” Dutchie asked. Michelle was snuggled against him, head on his shoulder, eyes closed.
“Yeah,” Gonzo said. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He winked and tapped his breast pocket. “Just taking a whizz.”
He disappeared in the direction of the toilets. Dutchie looked at me.
“He on something?” he asked.
“You sit where you are,” Michelle ordered without opening her eyes. Dutchie grinned, started reminiscing about chemically inspired mayhem. Twenty minutes passed. Eventually Dutchie did the decent thing and went after Gonzo. Thirty seconds later he sprinted back around the corner, face drained.
“Harry!” He sounded choked, breath coming short. My first instinct was that Dutchie had got into a row, that a fight was brewing. Then I caught something in Dutchie’s eye that told me there was no fight, that whatever was wrong was very, very wrong. I bolted out of my seat.
The urinals were empty, the stench of ammonia blinding. Dutchie pulled me down the line of cubicles, pushed in the door of the last but one. Gonzo was slumped between bowl and wall, jammed into the narrow space. Shaking hard, head back, face bathed in sweat. A thin line of blood trickled from one nostril. Concrete settled in my stomach. I pushed past Dutchie into the cubicle, tugging at Gonzo’s arm.
“Get up, you fucker!” He was heavy, way too heavy, and it took a huge effort to dislodge him. When I finally pulled him loose he flopped forward onto the floor, face down in the piss, the sodden toilet paper. The blood mingled with the piss. A pink stain ebbed from his face.
“Is he…?”
“How the fuck would I know?”
“Take his pulse.”
“Where the fuck is his pulse?”
“His wrist!”
“I know it’s his fucking wrist! Where on his wrist?”
“How the fuck would I know?”
“Jesus!” I groped at Gonzo’s wrist but