A tiny blue moustache was glued above her upper lip.
Jim’s face took on that drippy gormless expression that is so often worn by men who have fallen suddenly and hopelessly in love.
“Are you all right?” asked the beauty.
“Oh,” went Jim and, “Mmm.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m fine,” shouted Jim.
“That’s good. I thought you were going to chuck up.”
“No, I’m fine,” Jim shouted some more. “No, hang about. How do you do that?”
“I usually put my fingers down my throat.”
“No, I don’t mean that. I mean how do you do what you’re doing now?”
“What am I doing now?”
“There!” shouted Jim. “You did it again.”
“What?”
“Well, I’m having to shout above all this racket, but you’re just speaking normally, and I can understand every word you’re saying.”
“It’s just a way of projecting your voice. My brother taught me.”
“Wonderful,” shouted Jim. “I’m Jim, by the way.”
“I’m Litany,” said Litany.
“Have you come to see the band? Are you here with your, er, boyfriend?”
“You don’t have to shout. I can understand you. And I’m with the band and I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Groupie, thought Jim.
“And I’m not a groupie.”
“Of course you’re not.”
“I’m the lead singer.”
“I’ve been really looking forward to seeing your band,” said Jim. “I’ll be right down at the front.”
“Oh, really?”
“Absolutely. Can I get you a drink or something?”
“No, thank you.” Litany shook her perfect head. Her perfect hair, of a colour somewhere between this and that, moved all around and about. It wasn’t exactly big hair, but it had many big ways. “The beer’s rubbish here. I’d much prefer a pint of Large.”
“I could run to the Swan and bring you one back. Or we could perhaps go together.”
“I have to play. There’s a lot of fans here tonight.”
“Yes.” Jim now made a somewhat thoughtful face. Which was a great improvement. “How come …”
“How come what?”
“How come you’re not being mobbed? How come you’re just sitting down here with me and no one’s bothering you? How come there’s not a big mob of adoring fans gathered about this table?”
“Would you like there to be?”
“No. But …”
“It’s something else my brother taught me. I’ll tell you about it some time. Over a pint of Large, perhaps.”
“Oh yes,” said Jim. “Oh yes, indeed.”
“I like you, Jim,” said Litany. “You’re everything I hoped you’d be.” And on that mysterious note, she rose from Omally’s chair, smiled at Jim and melted into the crowd.
Pooley lifted his can of beer and emptied the contents down his throat. And just for a moment, only for a moment, mind, the thin warm ale took on the taste of a cooling pint of finest Large.
And then a great cheer went up from the mob, as the mob became aware that Litany was among them and Jim got another elbow in the ear.
And then John Omally returned.
“Bastards,” he said, reseating himself.
“Pardon?” shouted Jim.
“Bastards,” shouted John.
“Any particular bastards, or just bastards in general?”
“Big-haired bastards, they wouldn’t speak to me.”
“Perhaps they didn’t take to your old chaps routine.”
“They mocked my suit.”
“My suit?”
“Your suit, then. But mock it they did.”
“Well, it is a really horrible suit. Which is why I’ve never asked for it back.”
“I’ve a good mind not to manage them now.”
“That’ll teach them!” bellowed Jim.
“You might as well push off, then.”
“No, that’s all right, John. You push off, I’ll stay a bit longer.”
“What?”
“I think I’ll stay and watch the band.”
“What?”
“Just a couple of numbers.”
“What?”
“Did you get her autograph?” It was Geraldo, the big fat fellow in the black T-shirt and shorts. His tiny voice squeaked very loud, in order to make himself heard.
“What?” said Jim.
“That’s my line,” said John.
“Litany’s autograph. That was her talking to you, wasn’t it? I didn’t recognize her until she got up.”
“What?” went John.
“He was talking to Litany,” squeaked Geraldo.
“Who is Litany?” John bawled back.
“Just a friend,” said Jim.
“What?”
“She’s the Gandhis’ lead singer. Your mate was chatting her up.”
“I never was.”
“You were what?”
“Oh, all right. I was talking to her. She does this really clever thing when she speaks, she—”
“Bastard!” shouted John. “I turn my back and you’re diving in to steal my job.”
“It wasn’t like that. She came up to me. I didn’t know who she was. I think she fancies me and—”
“Blue moustache tonight.” The big fat fellow pointed to his face. “Always a blue moustache on Tuesdays.”
“What is he going on about?”
“She was wearing a blue moustache.”
“A woman with a moustache?”
“Blue one,” Jim shouted. “A Clark Gable, I think.”
The big fat fellow shook his big fat head. “A Ramon Navarro.”
“Did he wear a moustache?”
“On Tuesdays he did. A blue one.”
“You’re mad!” shouted John. “The pair of you. Stone bonkers.”
“I think I’ll just slip down to the Cellar.” Jim made down-a-ways pointings. “I’d like to get up close to the stage.”
“I’ll come with you,” Geraldo squeaked as loudly as he could. “I don’t want to miss the incident.”
“What incident?” Jim asked.
“The famous incident, of course. That’s what we’ve come to see.”
And on that mysterious note, the fat fellow did his bit of melting into the crowd.
“Oi, wait for me,” cried Jim, attempting to melt but failing dismally. “How do they do that?” he asked John.
“It’s all in the elbows. Here, I’ll show you.”
“Wait for me, then, oh damn.”
Jim did not get up close to the stage, although, given the dimensions of the Cellar, nowhere was particularly far from the stage. But Jim was about as far away as it was possible to be. He was last man in, which also meant he would be first man out and first man to the bar come the intermission, but that afforded little or indeed any pleasure at all to the aspiring fanboy. He squeezed himself against the wall and held his nose against the pong of unwashed armpits.
He bobbed up and down for a bit, hoping for a glimpse of Omally, but gave that up when a chap in front threatened to punch his lights out.
“I hate it here,” said Jim to himself. “I hate it, hate it, hate it.”
And then all the lights went out and then the voice of Sandy one-twoed through the mic and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, they’re here, your own, your very own, Gandhi’s Hairdryer.”
And there was a scream of feedback, a great dark howl from the crowd, the lights burst on and the band burst into action.
Jim could manage a bit of a “Whoa” as the sight and the sound hit him bang in the face.
On stage stood Litany, surely taller, surely even lovelier, and flanked by fellows in black. She wore white and they wore black and they had great big hair. And they had really fab guitars and they did all the right movements and the drummer at the back beat seven bells of shit out of the old skins and the speakers pumped out mighty decibels and the music and the song and the heat and the smell.
And Jim came all over funny.
He could see them moving up there on the tiny stage and he could feel the rhythm as the big bass notes jumbled up his stomach and rumbled in his skull, but he seemed to hear and taste and sense and smell much more.
And it was all so much and all at once. It didn’t build up slowly. It didn’t rise to a crescendo. It was just right there. Instantly. In your face. In your bowels. In, right in.