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The book:
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Excerpted from The Dying of Delight by Clare Sudbery. Copyright © 2004. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Disclaimer: Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is unintentional and purely coincidental.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll
The buzz of excitement started before we even reached the door, with ticket touts and hopeful liggers milling around outside. Inside, a throng of people pushed through to the dance floor and a thumping bass underlined a cacophony of shouted conversations. We joined the flow of bodies towards the beat, finding ourselves only slightly less squashed when we got through the bottle neck and out into the cavernous room.
“I can’t see a thing!” I craned my neck to get a glimpse of the stage, which was a good hundred feet and thousand people away.
“We’re going to push our way to the front!” Andy was clinging on to Milo’s arm and bobbing up and down with excitement.
I looked warily at the heaving crowd, and felt a glimmer of panic at the thought of being trapped at the front. I looked behind me at the large stacks of unused speakers and PA flight cases at the back of the hall. “I’ve got a better idea! Here, Milo - give me a leg up.”
Up we all went. There was just time for us to admire the perfect view of the stage, before I started to feel a wobbling in my bones. I raised hands to either side of my face and I thought I could feel a tremor as my pupils dilated. I swayed slightly and stared ahead, trying to use a focused gaze as something to steady myself against. My fingertips tingled and burnt against my cheeks, and then it started. A vast seismic ripple moved quickly from my feet to the top of my head, rattling my rib cage like an orgasm on its way up.
Mouths were opened wide, faces were turned. “My God, was that some bass or was it an earthquake?”
And then again. And again. Speaking impossible. Deep sub-sonic pulses gripping the crowd, eyes to the front in mass hypnosis. The vibrations, the reverberations, penetrating our skulls. Each pulse a mother’s heartbeat sending waves through the waters of the womb.
Warm in the womb, warm in the womb. There was a man, down on the floor. Couldn’t dance, but dancing as though he could. Head nodding, arms flapping, torso twisting, gyrating blissfully and secretly, hugging hugging hugging himself, his own private world in a public gaze.
More motion, at my side. Niamh speeding up, arms and legs spiky, but in the right direction. Foxy, funky and fun to watch.
Not enough space, up there. Niamh needed down, onto the floor, to shimmy and shive. Shiny bra top, gold hot pants, strutting her stuff.
A large sweaty man, closer and closer. Niamh, sensing his presence, opening her eyes. Smiling, and he was there. Grabbing around the waist to grind his hips into hers.
Me, alert, head bobbing. Niamh, my Niamh, uncomfortable. Polite smile, just polite, but the man, ugh, the man. All of a sudden, forcing his mouth onto hers.
Me, down on the floor in a flash, tapping the man, tapping his shoulder. What’s he doing to my Niamh how can he who does he think he is.
Niamh, smiling lazily. “Hiya gorgeous!”
Good, stopped him.
“You’ve got one hot sexy friend.” Yelling in my ear, hot sweat dripping on my neck.
“She’s not my friend!”
“What’s that?”
Standing on tiptoe. Lips nearly touching earlobe, yuck. “She’s not my friend, she’s my girlfriend!”
Dragging her out, into the bar. Bright there. Noisy. Smelling of beer.
“Thanks. Totally crap kisser.”
“Why didn’t you just tell him, tell him, to fuck off, ‘k off?”
“Didn’t seem polite.”
Niamh’s eyes rolling back into their sockets, head on my shoulder. “You’re my hero.”
“You’re a magnet for dickheads, sheisters, shee-eyesters.”
“Seamus.”
“No, not me, saying nothing.”
“He hit me yesterday.”
Oh no. Bad news. No bad news. “He’s a bastard. He’s bad. Nasty.”
“I’m sorry.” Niamh, reaching out. My friend.
But another one, a new arm, snaking around from the side. Got to be a nice arm. No more nasty men, want nice ones.
Milo.
Milo, friend, huggable.
“Niamh bastard dickhead boyfriend Seamus.”
“Seamus is all right.”
Niamh, squirming. “Yes, but…”
“She’s just manipulating you, as usual.”
No, no arguing. Back to happy thoughts. “Oh, hey hey, don’t know, E’d to fuck, not doing arguing.” Head, rocking. Eyes, rolling. Not doing arguing.
“Yeah, chill out man,” Niamh, not doing arguing.
Milo gone. Good.
Niamh and Silver, sitting in a tree. Aitch ewe gee gee eye en gee. Warmth, softness, happiness.
“Let’s go dance.”
Back to the dance floor. Eyes shut, moving to the beat. Sway, bump. Sway, bump. Ouch. People, people, too many people. Pushing past all the time. Getting in the way.
Avoiding the people, getting back up high.
Oh good, Andy. “We’re line dancing!”
No space to stand. Sitting down on the edge. Feet dangling down above a balding head. Oh look, another one. How many bald heads? One, two, three… counting good. Numbers feeling nice in the head. Four, five… pretty lights over there. Losing count. Five, six… no, counted him already.
Gangly man on a stage. A gig, yes, a concert. Forgot about that. Nice dreadlocks, rhythmic words, enchanted voice. Nice energy. Nice to be up there. Give something beautiful to the world. I want I want I want. To be good, to be that good. At something. To stir people up.
Intense. All the stimuli coming in at once. Lights, sounds, emotions, heat. Needing to escape. So many arms to help me down. Nice people. Go to the toilet, quieter in there. Calmer.
Floating slightly with every step.
Flash.
Different in here; in your face. Bright strip-lit noise. Smiles, lipstick, hair and glow sticks. Legs not working, sitting on the floor. Head slumping on chest. Coloured patterns swirling, distant bass shaking buttocks. Background chatter, domestic and comforting.
Head not staying still. Bobbing and weaving, its own little dance.
Open the eyes, just to see.
Pair of red and black stripy tights and big DM boots, sticking out one side.
“Minnie the Minx.”
“That’s right.”
Looking up, to see who. Short spiky hair, big smile.
“Izzy to my friends.”
Patting a stripy knee. “Nice legs.”
Wobble wobble rush, and over, tipping over. Whoops, right into new friend’s lap. Lie dreaming for a while, Izzy stroking shoulders. Izzy’s hand up arm. Stroking bicep, fingers brushing breast. Mmmmm, tingles. Move closer to the nipple. That’s right. Wow, that bass back again. Rocking through the floor. What a waste, should be dancing.
“How long have we been here? We’ll miss the gig!” Grabbing Izzy’s hand, pulling her up. “My God, you’re tiny.”
Very little room on speaker stack now, but pushing, pulling doing the trick. Standing jammed behind Izzy. Izzy, sitting on the edge. Izzy’s head brushing thighs. Too many manic elbows. Moving closer. Sitting down, legs astride Izzy’s, arms around waist. Izzy gurgling happily.
My hands under her breasts. Her hips wriggling back, echoing deep into groin.
Izzy, craning head round. Eye contact. Wow. Heart flying-fish leaping into wild dry mouth, turning, popping and squeezing.
Kissing Izzy’s neck.
Another contraction between the legs.
“Did you know,” having to shout, “that women have contractions all the time?”
“Really?”
“Called Braxton-Hicks. When you give birth they’re stronger, but they were there all along.”
“Look forward to the next one.”
Wiggle the hips, tingle the thighs.
“Think sometimes they’re all the time.”
Read the other extract.
Read some autobiographical extracts.
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