Departures (9 page)

He knew what his problem was, of course; he wasn't a smooth talker. Gibbons had a clever tongue, and Fitzy played off him. Together they made a formidable team; there was simply no room for Jim when the other two went into action. He'd considered going out on his own once or twice, but somehow the idea of breaking up their partnership had always seemed disloyal. The three of them had grown up together, gone to school together, been in fights together against a whole range of rivals, foreign and homegrown; it didn't seem right to fall out over something as foolish as who had more luck with the girls. But then Gibbons had been done for armed robbery and
Fitz's girl got pregnant, and the responsibility for the decision was taken out of Jim's hands. Nobody could expect him to wait around for the child to be born or for Gib to get out on parole, especially not now that he was working again and had a bit of money for a change.

He paid the two pounds to the bouncer and jostled his way through the crowd to the bar. With a pint in each hand he weaved between tables and around couples locked in embrace until he found a free corner to set the glasses on. The air above the dance floor was thick with perspiration; condensation had formed on the lights which hung from the ceiling, and the shadows of the droplets speckled the bright splashes of colour on the floor. He drank deeply, surveying the room over the rim of the glass and bobbing selfconsciously to the band behind him. As always the music was painfully loud; in the brief pause between numbers his ears rang with a thin, high-pitched sound, the same whine that lingers from a sharp blow to the head. Above him the strobe lights spun off a blond girl in sequins who stomped and gyrated below. Not bad, he thought. She'd've turned Gibbons's head.
Hold me back, Jimbo; temptation's in motion, and I'm giving in
. . . .

“Would you believe it's all for the drummer? You'd not see her up there if the D.J. came back.”

There was a girl beside him, small, dark and trim, watching the blonde with sisterly concern.

“You know her?”

“Oh, aye. We're together. We're mates from school.”

She continued to stand beside him, calm, relaxed, the sleeve of her blouse just brushing his arm. He cleared his throat.

“So she fancies the drummer, then?”

“Not half. She's only been to every gig he's done, and he's in three different bands at the minute. It's cost me a
flippin fortune, so it has. And I'm not that keen on them myself.”

She shook her head, smiling, her eyes still on her friend. Jim stared at her mutely, wondering if he'd met her somewhere before. It seemed so easy, talking with her, not at all like the conversations he usually had with girls. Perhaps she'd mistaken him for someone else? Puzzled, he glanced away, caught sight of his open mouth in a mirror and quickly clamped it shut.

She was drinking wine but her glass was nearly full so he couldn't offer her a drink. He wanted to say something but his mind was cluttered with the too familiar.
Come here often? Cigarette?
The music stopped in a tangle of wire and steel; the band announced a ten-minute break, and the dancers reluctantly dispersed.

“Here she comes,” the girl said. “Don't let on we were watching her, now.”

The blonde was headed in their direction, fanning her flushed cheeks with both hands. She seemed to know a great many people, and her progress was impeded by the young men and women who reached out or hailed her as she passed. Someone was showing her a wallet-sized snapshot when she caught her friend's eye and made a face, plucking at her blouse.

“Jeezuz, it's effin hot in here!” she said as soon as she reached them. She exhaled loudly, her breath cider-sweet. She looked parched, and his own glass was nearly empty so he swallowed the rest hurriedly and turned back to the women with a nervous smile.

“Do youse want somethin?”

The blonde pushed the damp strands of hair away from her brow with a languid gesture and looked him over, her eyes strolling. Then she craned her neck around him as if he blocked her view and scanned the room beyond.

“Here, Angie,” she said, “was Gerry lookin for me?”

“Now, Denise, I haven't a clue. I've been speaking to this fella here. I didn't bother with the band.”

The blonde shrugged and smiled dismissively, then turned back to Jim. “Alright, then,” she said, “mine's a Pernod and lime. What do you want, Angie?”

The other girl shook her head. “I'm alright, thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Go on, Angeline. Have somethin expensive.”

“We'll be over there,” Angie told Jim firmly. “And you, don't be cheeky.”

When he came back with the drinks the two women were seated at a long crowded table against the far wall. Denise was chatting with great animation to the boy beside her, and even Angie was smiling and nodding in the company of someone else. He felt a pang of disappointment, unexpectedly strong. But the women parted to make room when they saw him, and though the glasses sloshed dangerously he managed not to spill any as he squeezed his way in.

“The band?” he asked Angie. He handed her a fresh glass of wine and she smiled.

“You didn't have to, you know; cheers. Anyway, I don't know who theseuns are. They were here when we sat down.”

Denise twisted round to him, her hands still on the other boy's knee. “Ta,” she said, raising the glass he'd brought her. “Ta very much. What do they call you, anyway?”

“Jim.”

“Right, Jim. We're doing a survey. Which do you prefer—bikini briefs or boxer shorts?”

“What, for fellas?”

“Would you go with a woman who wore boxer shorts, Jim?” She elbowed the boy beside her and he grinned.

Jim thought for a minute. “Boxer shorts, I suppose.”

“And why's that, Jim?” Denise asked seriously. All the boys at the table were grinning now, too. “Choose one: A, comfort. B, style. C, easy access.”

Jim smiled stiffly while the others laughed, his embarrassment turning rapidly to annoyance. I should've just kept away from this one, he thought bitterly. Now the other one'll think I'm a fool.

“Take no notice of her,” Angie said, “she's always a bit mad on a night out. She's alright really, when you get to know her.” She smiled. “So. Tell me about yourself. What do you do all day?”

So he told her about the new job, about his boss and the other lads, about what it was like to drive a fork-lift compared to a car. She was still learning, she told him, didn't like it much, found changing gears the worst. Cars were too expensive all around, they agreed, but it was worth it to be able to just get up and go away. They chatted about holidays and where they'd travel if they could, about the price of airfares and houses and how they liked to spend their money when they had any spare to spend. She was a waitress, she said, in a Chinese restaurant in Botanic Avenue, and the tips were desperate.

“What, you work with all them Chinks?”

She pursed her lips. “With the Chinese, yes. It is a Chinese restaurant, after all.”

The concept was genuinely interesting. Jim set down his beer. “But isn't it . . . you know. I mean, aren't you the only . . . ?”

Angie laughed, then sighed and looked at him as if she were trying to think of a simple way to explain something
which should have been perfectly clear. “You mean the only white girl?” He nodded. “Well, actually, Denise works there, too.”

Jim snorted; he could just see that one serving up prawn crackers and chicken fried rice. He shook his head. “I couldn't do it.”

Angie shrugged. “They're just people, Jim, same as you or me. Anyway, you get used to it after awhile.”

The band returned, and the throb and pulse of music shook the room again. Jim moved closer to Angie, positioning himself so he could listen as she spoke and watch Denise at the same time. Her handbag sprawled on the seat between them, revealing a compact and lipstick, a few crumpled tissues, the wide plastic teeth of a purple comb, and a photo of herself looking much younger without any make-up, sitting cross-legged in front of an armchair, a laughing infant holding onto her sleeve. By accident she jostled him and they both apologised, Jim out of shame, fearing he'd been caught on. But Denise had linked arms with the boy beside her, and Jim watched as she dipped her glass down the front of her blouse and rolled it slowly against her skin. With difficulty he looked away.

“Here, you,” Angie said. “She'll be alright on her own for awhile. Or don't you know how to dance?”

Embarrassed, he rose quickly, and followed her out onto the floor. The music was soft and slow now, an old tune not of the band's own composition. Angie danced well, and Jim was beginning to feel the effect of three swift pints on an empty stomach; his feet felt light in their new dress shoes, assured and agile, unable to do harm. They'd switched off the strobe and slow arcs of green, red, yellow and blue now swam across the floor and over the faces of the patrons who stood with their backs against the bar. He liked the feel of his palms against Angie's body, the way
her blouse shifted beneath them as she moved. The music was still loud enough to make conversation difficult; Angie had to lean against him and speak into his ear, chatting about pop groups and videos, the best places in town to go for a meal. He closed his eyes and listened to her, answering with an ease that surprised him when she paused. He had a sudden vision of their getting married, of settling down with her, providing for the children she would bear him, looking after her and them as they all grew older and the demands on their time together became less strident and mundane. The set ended, and when Angie hugged him he clasped her to him tightly, not wanting to let go.

She smiled up at him, her chin resting lightly against his chest. “Well. That was really nice.”

“No, wait a minute,” he said, catching her arm as she turned away. “You'll break it.” Somehow her necklace had snagged on one of his buttons; he squinted at the knot in the uneven light but he couldn't see where it began.

“I guess we're attached,” she joked as the band returned to its previous volume and the strobe light again began to spin. The floor filled quickly as the music gained momentum; the two of them moved gingerly step by step until they were standing in a steady beam, then studied the problem as best they could while couples and trios of lovers and friends twisted and swung around them.

“Can you unbutton it?” she shouted above the din.

“No, it'll just go through the hole. How about you, can you undo it?”

“
‘
Fraid not; you've got the clasp in there.” She pointed to the knot.

They looked at each other sheepishly for a minute, the floor throbbing beneath them. Across the room Denise was dancing with a small, thin man whose gaze was fixed on his shoes.

“What's up?” she mouthed, dancing towards them, her partner trailing awkwardly by her side. Angie pointed first to Jim's shirt and then to her necklace, made a tugging gesture with both fists and shook her head ruefully in reply. Denise's laughter could be heard above the band.

“Nice one!” she called to Jim as she moved back into the crowd. “Very nice!”

“Never mind her,” Angie said loudly. “What do you want to do?”

“I think I've almost got it,” he shouted back, struggling with the fraying thread which held the button in place. The sudden snap jerked them apart; the button came off and the chain unravelled smoothly of its own accord. Abruptly the band switched to a faster beat, and Jim grabbed Angie's hand and pulled her towards the bar.

“Good thing your mummy hadn't mended that yet,” she teased him as he paid for their drinks.

“Here! I do me own mending, thanks very much.” He took a quick gulp of beer and wiped his lips on his hand. Angie was straightening the small bends the knot had put in her chain, and his own fingers ached to brush the hair from her face. “I'm good about the house,” he ventured recklessly. “And I like kids.” In the dim light of the dance hall he wasn't sure if she blushed.

She excused herself and followed after Denise, who was waiting for her at the far end of the bar. She took Angie's arm and bent towards her ear; Jim saw her answer with an embarrassed smile, shaking her head without conviction and only half-shrugging the question off. He drained his pint and ordered another, feeling warm and happy. Gib had been right about the Abercorn. He gazed fondly at the people around him, wondering why he and Fitz hadn't come here more often instead of wasting their time in the pubs on the Road. He hadn't realised how tired he'd been
of their familiar faces—all the girls he'd grown up and gone out with for ages. It was so good to get out, to meet other people. He felt rich and magnanimous, buoyed by a tenderness which could embrace all humanity. He chuckled softly; Gib would've told him it was only the beer.

“What?” Angie asked as she moved in beside him. She'd put her hand on his shoulder climbing onto the barstool, and the small gesture of intimacy made him swell with pride.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just thinking, that's all.”

“What about?”

About the way you looked coming towards me just now, he almost told her. No other girl seemed nearly as pretty. There was something about Angie that made everything easy, and abruptly he wondered if she were Born Again; the one or two other people he knew who had that same power to affect those around them were all recently Saved. Even Denise was less brassy around her. The blonde would be good for Gibbons, Jim decided; she was as mad as he was but she'd still calm him down. He pictured the six of them a few years from now in a new-smelling car, he and Angie, Fitz and his girl, Gib and Denise, ordinary married couples with their children on their way to the seaside for a bank holiday weekend.

“How's the necklace?” he asked instead.

“Oh fine,” she said. “I'm always doing something like that—breaking things, knocking things over. The first time I wear a new dress I always spill something on it. True confessions,” she said sheepishly.