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It’s not normal, thought Fat Charlie. That’s what it’s not. He was not even trying to keep up, merely attempting not to be left behind.
He could still taste the bitter wine on his tongue.
He became aware that a girl was walking along beside him. She was small, and pretty in a pixieish sort of way. She tugged at his sleeve. “What are we doing?” she asked. “Where are we going?”
“We’re mourning my father,” he said, “I think.”
“Is it a reality TV show?”
“I hope not.”
Spider stopped and turned. The gleam in his eyes was disturbing. “We are here,” he announced. “We have arrived. It is what he would have wanted.” There was a handwritten message on a sheet of bright orange paper on the door outside the pub. It said on it, Tonight. Upstair’s. KAROAKE.
“Song,” said Spider. Then he said, “It’s showtime!”
“No,” said Fat Charlie. He stopped where he was.
“It’s what he loved,” said Spider.
“I don’t sing. Not in public. And I’m drunk. And, I really don’t think this is a really good idea.”
“It’s a great idea.” Spider had a perfectly convincing smile. Properly deployed, a smile like that could launch a holy war. Fat Charlie, however, was not convinced.
“Look,” he said, trying to keep the panic from his voice. “There are things that people don’t do. Right? Some people don’t fly. Some people don’t have sex in public. Some people don’t turn into smoke and blow away. I don’t do any of those things, and I don’t sing either.”
“Not even for Dad?”
“Especially not for Dad. He’s not going to embarrass me from beyond the grave. Well, not any more than he has already.”
“‘Scuse me,” said one of the young women. “’Scuse me but are we going in? ‘Cause I’m getting cold out here, and Sybilla needs to wee.”
“We’re going in,” said Spider, and he smiled at her.
Fat Charlie wanted to protest, to stand his ground, but he found himself swept inside, hating himself.
He caught up with Spider on the stairs. “I’ll go in,” he said. “But I won’t sing.”
“You’re already in.”
“I know. But I’m not singing.”
“Not much point in saying you won’t go in if you’re already in.”
“I can’t sing.”
“You telling me I inherited all the musical talent as well?”
“I’m telling you that if I have to open my mouth in order to sing in public, I’ll throw up.”
Spider squeezed his arm, reassuringly. “You watch how I do it,” he said.
The birthday girl and two of her friends stumbled up onto the little dais, and giggled their way through “Dancing Queen.” Fat Charlie drank a gin and tonic somebody had put into his hand, and he winced at every note they missed, at every key change that didn’t happen. There was a round of applause from the rest of the birthday group.
Another of the women took the stage. It was the pixieish one who had asked Fat Charlie where they were going. The opening chords sounded to “Stand by Me,” and she began, using the phrase in its most approximate and all-encompassing way, to sing along: she missed every note, came in too soon or too late on every line, and misread most of them. Fat Charlie felt for her.
She climbed down from the
stage and came toward the bar. Fat Charlie was going to say something sympathetic, but she was glowing with joy. “That was so great,” she said. “I mean, that was just amazing.” Fat Charlie bought her a drink, a large vodka and orange. “That was such a laugh,” she told him. “Are you going to do it? Go on. You have to do it. I bet you won’t be any crapper than I was.”
