I'm far too close. Richard would lecture me, tell me that I'm opening the door far too wide, that I've virtually invited him inside, let him roam freely inside my home. He would tell me that I have a choice, and I'm taking the wrong one.
I don't seem to be listening any more - not to the voices in my head that I should be listening to, anyway. I glance to my left, then to my right. There are only a few people walking on the street, mainly moving slowly, weighed down by plastic bags. They're oblivious to my existence. There is a path to the side of the building, a narrow dark alleyway. I step around dried sick and sprinklings of dog muck. The wall looks unsteady, like it could easily collapse under my weight. I take my chances. Pressing my hands down against the top layer of bricks, the rough corners dig into my palms like jagged glass. Lifting my body and then raising my leg, I take a deep breath. I've no idea what or who I am lowering myself down onto on the other side. Thankfully, my feet touch down onto a flat surface.
It is just like a tiny abandoned garden that could belong in any terraced house. The back door was only used as an emergency exit, where the burly bouncers with fat bellies threw people out and applied whatever punishment they thought was applicable in the circumstances. Different rules in those days. The wooden door looks flimsy, like it has been rotting from the elements. I raise my knee and then kick the door. My foot goes straight through. Hopping on one foot, I pull the door. It comes away in my hand. I glance around, twisting my head as far as it will go without causing serious damage. It must be out of habit, for there is no way anybody can see me, no way anybody could be watching.
Only a few slivers of light enter through the cracks in the walls and the windows. I find my way through touch. My hands brush against the walls. I step on something soft. I stumble and fall. The side of my face is flat against the floor. I lie like that for a few moments, surprisingly at peace in the solitude of this darkened corridor. Something brushes against my skin. I flinch and pull away. Jumping to my feet, suddenly no longer at peace, I realise that I'm not alone. Rats scamper around on the floor next to my feet. I hurry to the front of the building, using some sort of sixth sense or, more likely, just moving forwards.
The entrance is much wider and, thankfully, much lighter. I remember queuing up outside, our bodies in a straight line, pressed against the wall of the building, heat blowing from the extractor. The bouncers, dressed as penguins, sometimes asked for ID, sometimes not; it depended whether they were bored, depended if they wanted to impress some young lady. You knew you were inside when you smelt the stench of feet on the thick, musty carpet. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling was surprisingly impressive, amazingly out of place. I always took a quick, discreet glance at myself in the long mirror at the opening to the club. It depended just how many drinks I'd had whether I smiled or snarled at my own reflection; when I was completely sober, I tended to wince. There was always an air of anticipation and hopeful expectation, though. This could be the night.
I came here a few times, looking for her, looking for the girl I told my dad about. I only found her once again, but it wasn't in this place. After that I knew I'd never find her again.
My expectation is even greater today, in the middle of the afternoon, in the club that has been shut for years. I have no idea what I am going to find.
It is like discovering a ship that has been abandoned and untouched at the bottom of the ocean. Everything is still how it was. Everything is still in place. The tears in the blue sofas allow chunks of foam, like ice cubes, to gather in small piles. Metal rails surround the wooden dance floor. It looks small and sad now it is empty of hot, sweaty, gyrating bodies and handbags on the floor. The long mahogany bar curves around two corners.
I am instantly taken back to that night.
Back to 30th June 1988.
I see him now. I know he isn't there, that it isn't possible, that he is just a figment of my imagination, but it feels like I could reach out and touch him. He rests against the bar, his open denim jacket exposing a crisp white tee-shirt underneath. He casually thrusts out his crotch, like he just doesn't care. His hair is cut short at the sides and is swept across like a giant wave on the top. It is amazing because, even though clearly he is beautiful, he is so calm and placid that he does not draw attention to himself.
Nobody notices me, either, but that is not necessarily deliberate. I sit on a hard wooden chair, hidden away from the raucous crowd by a pillar. My legs are parted, my hands pressed against my thighs. I pick up my pint and pull my head back but I'm in such a rush that I miss half my mouth. The lager fizzles down my chin, staining my tee-shirt. I put the glass back with a thud. I open my hands and
