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“No.” She waited a beat. “I suppose not. But you do.”
The leather seats in the back of call-me-Richard’s BMW were as soft as butter and soaked in the rich scent of money. Though I scarcely noticed, seeing as I was on my way to a Pogues concert with Alexander Valentine. After the rum and coke we’d shared in his bedroom, he trod the fine line between tipsy and drunk, although he tried not to show it in front of his dad. I’d pushed Denise’s worrisome observations to the back of my mind—she was jealous about the concert; annoyed I hadn’t gone back to hers; she messed with my mind because that was what bored, fucked-up emo kids did for kicks.
Over the background purr of German engineering, call-me-Richard chose to share with Alex some pearls of wisdom. He ran through a benevolent list of parental warnings, such as “don’t put your wallet in your back pocket”, “stay together”, “don’t become embroiled in any argy-bargy”.It was kind of cute. Alex’s embarrassed grunts of, “Shut up, Dad, I’m eighteen now,” were even cuter. Call-me-Richard had forgotten to add ‘avoid boys trying to turn you gay’ to the list, and so I didn’t mention it either. Alone on the back seat, I tipped my head back into the headrest, closed my eyes, and pretended this was my real life.
The long queues to get into the venue buzzed with energy. A few older guys and some women milled around, but on the whole it was groups of blokes in their twenties, lairy lads braving the frigid night air in vintage band T-shirts and Doc Martens. Enveloped by raucous beery laughter and an occasional whiff of weed, I felt both very young and very grown-up. As we shuffled to the head of the queue, my excitement swelled.
“Shall we see how close we can get to the stage?”
Alex side-eyed me, chewing his lip. “Come on, Alex!”
Fuck, the Pogues were in town, and I had a ticket! I wanted to be close enough to count every single one of Shane’s rotten grey teeth.
“Yeah, if you like. Will we able to?”
“We’ve got standing tickets. We can go anywhere. It will be a bit of a scrum, but I’m game if you’re up for it. Anyhow, I thought rugby was your thing?”
Our tickets were accepted and ripped in half. Alex eschewed buying beers at the bar, on the grounds we weren’t going to leave our spot at the front to go for a piss. His actual words were“to spend a penny”,which wasn’t adorable at all. Simon once told me that drunk blokes at football matches couldn’t be arsed to queue for the bogs, and just pissed where they stood on the terraces, which would have horrified Alex.
The civic hall filled up fast. A warm-up band were on, and a frenzied Irish jig—all penny whistles and uptempo crashing drums roared through enormous speakers. As the lights suddenly dipped, a deafening chanting started up from the crowd, and a nervous thrill raced up my spine. Alex clutched my arm and jerked his head towards the stage. His eyes glittered with excitement.
“Shall we get ourselves up there, then?”
Heeding his father’s warning we stick together, he adopted a vice-like grip on my forearm and muscled through, dragging little old me in his wake. Thank god for broad rugby shoulders. As we edged closer and closer to the mosh pit, a mass of sweaty bodies closed in, gobbling us up. Alex squeezed my wrist even tighter, twisting his head around to check I hadn’t escaped his deathly hold. Not a chance.
The edgy and restless vibe for the warm-up band had nothing on the instant Shane struck the first hoarse note of ‘Sally McLennane’. He might as well have dropped a match to a stick of dynamite. Thousands of impatient hungry fans exploded into ear-splitting pandemonium, the brash tones of the opener lost in a mass of euphoric blokes stomping and surging to the front of the stage. My own hysterical scream sheared off as, all of a sudden, the crush of bodies squeezed the oxygen from my lungs. And just as quickly, my excitement switched to panic.
I flailed wildly, stumbling from the press of sweaty men at my puny back. Trampled to death at a Pogues concert was not how I saw my life ending. Desperately, I tried to remain upright, but shrieking with terror I stumbled again, convinced I’d be dragged under. A hefty punch in my side threw me off balance, the floor rose to greet me before, thank fuck, Alex’s strong arms scooped me upright. More pummelling from behind; like a heavy flower on a too thin stalk, my head bounced around on my neck. I fell back onto Alex’s chest and he briefly caught my waist, only to be tossed around, again and again, as each rendition of the chorus brought a fresh wave. Somehow, Alex dragged me in front of him, grasping me steady by the hips, then held firm, an unmoveable rock behind, each shove and tumble slamming my head safely backwards onto the pillow of his solid chest.
The concert stayed fucking wild, even as the crowd surges palled, a writhing mass of untroubled craziness from start to finish. For an hour and a half out of time, pissed-up men lost themselves in a morass of harsh rhythms and pounding drums. A pause button on drab lives, a fleeting escape from reality. Escape from mortgages, rent payments, nagging wives, aged parents, rising unemployment figures, car tax, broken washing machines, abusive fathers, soulless futures. Being gay.
Ninety minutes flashed by feeling more like ninety seconds. One minute I was chanting along with the rest of the mob to ‘Streams of Whiskey’, the next I was propelled through the fire doors into the brutal sharpness of a wintry night, with Alex Valentine at my side. Heeding his father’s words to the letter, Alex clamped his hand around my wrist as if his life depended on it. An army of wrecked fans headed down North Street into the city centre, sweeping us along with them. Looking up at Alex, I caught a flash of white teeth, as his face split into a huge grin. When he finally let go, he slung his bare arm across my shoulders. Damp blond hair hung in messy clumps across his forehead; his ubiquitous polo shirt was pulled askew at the neckline. Spilt beer stained the collar. Tearing my gaze away was nigh on impossible. He was the most breathtakingly beautiful and sweatiest creature I’d ever clapped eyes on.
“Oh my god, Matt, how fucking brilliant was that?”
Shocked, elated, and high on life, I laughed so hard at his swearing I tripped over a kerb. Catching me, he swore again, then dragged me even closer, and his embrace tightened, resembling more of a headlock than a hug. For the briefest sliver of time, hot, wet lips pressed a smacker against the corner of my mouth.
I almost believed it hadn’t happened. My vision blurred at the edges. The world stood still, the concert goers swirled soundlessly—danced even—around me, choreographed in slow motion. My legs continued to propel me forwards, regardless. None of it could be true. An adrenaline high, that was all. I must have dreamed it. Alex Valentine wasn’t now staring at me in horror. Eyes wide, he was not biting his lip, releasing his hold, turning away. Alex Valentine had not kissed me on the corner of my mouth. I could not taste the salt from his skin.
We had an hour to kill before call-me-Richard’s prearranged pick-up time. Following the hordes, we found ourselves in a town centre pub, the sort of spit and sawdust place even Simon hesitated to enter. But none of that mattered, because Alex Valentine had kissed me. And in any case, half the concert goers were in there too, pushing out the regular clientele of ageing alcoholics spoiling for a fight.
Along with everyone else, we gatecrashed a rowdy hen night in full swing in the room upstairs—a hundred people crammed onto a dancefloor designed for fifty. A crush of bodies surrounded us, as if we were back at the gig, except with shite eighties disco pouring through the speakers. Abba repeatedly questioned“did my mother know I was out?”, as Alex used his bulk to get served at the bar. No, my mother did not know, but she didn’t give a shit anyhow. And I most definitely wasn’t out.
Alex knocked back both double rum and cokes, and I swiped a three-quarter full bottle of Diamond Blush from a girl’s table when she went to the bog. Then scouted for more. I wanted my brain to switch off, a veil drawn over my eyes. I didn’t want to see Alex Valentine’s stunned, horror-struck face. In that anonymous scruffy pub, squashed up against a load of pissed strangers, Matt Leeson, a closeted, petrified, seventeen-year-old toerag-liar, just wanted to block out the world and fucking dance.
Shimmying onto the dancefloor, I loosened the leash and let my inner gay diva fly. Patrick fucking Swayze had nothing on me. Like a restless dog chained up for too many hours and starved of exercise, I gyrated my hips and wiggled my arse as if it were attached to a piece of elastic. Abba segued into Blondie into Donna Summer then into Barry fucking White. The Bluebells sang ‘Young At fucking Heart’,and I belted it out as loudly as anyone. Swallowed up by a swarm of red-faced women in pink sashes, some of whom fondled my arse, I caught occasional glimpses of the top of Alex’s blond head and his impassive face as he sipped another stolen Diamond Blush, watching me. Always watching me.
The inevitable slow dance—some George Michael shit, heralded my cue to disappear, Cinderella-like. I guessed it was close to the time we were supposed to meet Alex’s dad anyhow. Breathless and sweaty, I stood in front of him, only for him to immediately turn away, not meeting my eye. Unsure what else to do, I trailed behind down the narrow staircase, running my fingers along the concrete wall dripping with condensation, and out into the pub carpark.
“Sorry, Al, I lost track of time. We’re not late, are we?” It was all I could think of to say.
He shook his head, staring down at the pavement. “No, we’ve still got about five minutes.”
“In that case, do you want to tell me why we’re walking as if we’re gonna miss the last bus?”
I jogged to keep up. And still, he didn’t look at me.
“God, I must have been more pissed than I thought,” I began again. “An adrenaline rush after the concert. Dancing like that with those women. I never dance in—”
