The Blueprint (10 page)

‘Um - how does
the drunk guy know my name already?’ she demands.

‘Actually, I
think he’s talking about his girlfriend,’ Freddy interjects,
gesturing towards me. I nervously glance towards the girl in the
red dress. Something about the glint in her eye makes me concerned
for Johnny’s safety.

‘He wants to
fuck her,’ Charlie explains, with his usual degree of tact. Freddy
lets out a roar of laughter. The two of them have been peddling
that theory ever since Johnny send Liz a quasi-romantic drunk text
on his evening out last month, much to their amusement and Johnny’s
mortification. I’m not all that bothered about it, to be honest; I
get worse texts off Charlie when he’s sober.

‘God, uni
couples don’t know how good they have it,’ Elizabeth - the new one
- says, ignoring Freddy and turning towards me. ‘It’s going to cost
me three figures to go down to see Alfie. I’ll be lucky if I get to
see my boyfriend two weekends a month. If he was up here, he
wouldn’t be ditching me to watch his mate’s shitty band.’

Charlie
reaches across the table and pulls the tray of shots out of the new
Elizabeth’s reach.

‘
Personally
,’ Phoebe cuts in, placing her third tequila
glass back down on the table, ‘I think that if you can spend
twenty-four hours a day with someone for a month and still find
them interesting, you should be concerned about how easily
entertained you are.’

‘You’ve used
that line once already this week,’ Liz the Second cuts back,
condescendingly. ‘You’ll change your tune when you grow up and fall
in love with somebody.’

‘Romantics are
like one-legged people, always looking out for some other
one-legged mother fucker to lean up against,’ Phoebe drawls lazily.
I could swear that, just for a fraction of a second, she glances in
my direction.

‘Weeeelll…’
says Charlie, slapping his legs and rising up out of his chair.
‘There’s something for you all to mull over while we go get some
more drinks. His gaze falls to me. ‘’Gis a hand, mate.’

As we’re stood
waiting at the bar, he has a cursory look over his shoulder, then
says in my ear:

‘Y’know, I
think I might be in love with her.’

‘Apparently
she isn’t the biggest fan of that sort of thing,’ I reply.

‘Okay, maybe
not love, but I do
really
wanna fuck her,’ he grins.

I groan at the
prospect of being kept awake all night by the relentless shaking of
the walls. Charlie pinches my cheek.

‘Don’t worry;
you’re still my little silver medal.’

Charlie pumps
all the money he got paid for the gig back into the Governor’s Arms
with a monomaniacal fervour which makes me hope he never discovers
heroin. As the bell for last orders dingles, he pulls out his
wallet, but finds only fifty pence left waiting in there for him.
This quickly gets eaten by the quiz machine, as we try to use our
expensive educations as a means of converting one silver coin into
a last round of drinks. As you might predict from the fact that I’m
studying the least trivia-friendly subject possible and Charlie’s
studying as little as he physically can, this does not go
particularly well.

‘So which of
you girls is buying?’ Charlie asks. They all look at each other,
but no volunteers emerge. He rolls his eyes. ‘What the fuck
happened to feminism?’

‘I prefer not
paying for drinks to gender equality, if I’m honest,’ one of them
whispers to Elizbeth II. I silently admit that, yeah, I probably
would as well.

‘Germaine
Greer would be rolling in her grave,’ Charlie replies.

‘Germaine
Greer isn’t dead,’ Freddy points out.

‘Where were
you when we were doing the quiz machine, smart-arse? Fine, if
nobody’s willing to be generous, shall we mosey on down to the
club?’ Charlie suggests. We murmur in agreement. Phoebe picks up a
leather jacket from the floor - Freddy does the same thing with
Johnny - and we all file out onto the street.

‘You’re paying
to get me in, right?’ Charlie asks me as we walk along the
Quayside.

‘I suppose I
can stretch to that,’ I smile back at him. ‘We might have to do a
drinks heist when we get in there though; I think the entrance fee
will basically clear me out.’

‘No worries;
we’ll call it a dry run for the bank job.’

‘It’s not a
bank job, remember?’ I reply, with a jocular grin.

‘Oh yeah,
course.’ He lights up a cigarette, then closes his eyes for what is
probably too long to be referred to as a ‘blink’. ‘We need to get
in there as quick as possible,’ he says. ‘All this tequila is
dangerously close to turning on me. I’d say you’ve got half an
hour, tops, before I start telling you how much I love you, and
start dry-humping that Phoebe bird’s leg.’

I take a
moment to thank God that I dodged the shots and switched onto
shandy before the band started. Even if it did cause Phoebe to
label me a ‘big sissy girl’.

‘How much did
all that set you back?’ I ask him.

‘However much
I got paid for the gig,’ he answers. ‘Bout ninety quid, I’d
say.’

‘You know, I’m
starting to think Freddy might be on to something with this whole
communism thing.’

‘I’m pretty
sure that agreeing with Freddy on anything is grounds for me to
have you sectioned.’

‘Our house is
basically communist, though, isn’t it? It works pretty well for
us.’

‘Yeah, but
we’re also planning on doing an armed robbery next month, but I
wouldn’t recommend that everyone else in the world start doing it
as well. Speaking of which; we need to start getting our rag-tag
band of criminals together, don’t we?’

‘You’re still
maintaining we’re gonna do that, huh?’

‘The wheels
are already turning, my friend.’

The tone of
voice that goes along with this comment makes me somewhat uneasy,
but I don’t pursue the topic any further, because the nightclub is
drawing into view. The queue outside is relatively quiet, which I
suppose is to be expected, since we’ve turned up to a place that
closes at 4AM at half past two. As I come up alongside them, I can
hear Freddy giving Johnny some last tips on masking how incredibly
hammered he still is, despite having not had a drink since
midnight.

‘Alright mate;
you want to get your ID out ahead of time, so you’re ready to show
it to the bouncer. Don’t make eye contact with him, otherwise he’ll
see how out of focus your fucking eyeballs are, but you don’t want
to
avoid
eye contact with him, either, because that looks
suspicious… No - God, no - not like that. You look like someone
who’s just realised he’s shat himself. I tell you what; I’ll keep
talking to you as we come up to the entrance, like we’re having a
conversation, so you don’t have to look at him for more than a
couple of seconds. Don’t you say anything back, though, because you
can hardly string two fucking words together. That sound like a
plan?’

Johnny, taking
the ‘no talking’ advice to heart, simply nods.

‘Good. Now,
can you get your driving license out yourself, or do you need me to
do it for you?’

Johnny points
at Freddy. Freddy rolls his eyes.

‘Jesus, the
things I do for you kids.’ He begins to reach towards Johnny’s back
pocket, but his hand suddenly freezes. ‘Just to make sure,’ he
asks, with his eyebrows furrowed, ‘you didn’t
actually
shit
yourself just now, did you?’

Johnny shakes
his head in an earnest, and rather adorable, fashion.

‘Just
checking.’ He yanks the wallet out of Johnny’s bum, plucks out the
driving license, and returns it to its original home. ‘Now,
whatever you do, do
not
drop this, understand?’

Johnny nods
determinedly. He’s got the facial expression of a man on his way to
the gallows, but he is at least managing to stand up unsupported,
now. How long that’ll last, though, is anyone’s guess.

The group of
girls we’re with - minus Phoebe, who’s now behind me, talking to
Charlie - all get safely inside, and start preening their hair in
the foyer mirrors whilst they wait for Phoebe to join them. I’m the
first one of the boys through the gauntlet, and I begrudgingly ask
for two wristbands at a tenner a piece. That’s the thing about
communism; it’s only good when it isn’t your money being handed
out.

‘Got ID mate?’
I hear the bouncer say from over my shoulder. I look round just in
time to see Johnny lose his purchase on his license as he goes to
hand it over. It splashes into a puddle by the metal crowd
barrier.

‘Sorry…rain…slipp’ry,’ Johnny mumbles as he bends down to pick it
up. Half a second before it actually transpires, I realise what’s
about to happen. Down Johnny tumbles, as though it’s been
determined by fate, into the puddle with his driving license,
taking the crowd barrier with him.

The
CRASH!!
of metal clattering against cobbles rings through my
ears. As I go to look at Charlie, I notice that the crowd barriers
- all five of them - are attached to one another. I gulp.

CRASH!!

CRASH!!

CRASH!!

Mine, Freddy
and Charlie’s heads all turn towards the doorman, simultaneously,
wondering which one of us he’s going to give the People’s Elbow to
first.

CRASH!!

The bouncer’s
face doesn’t even twitch, he just says:

‘Not tonight,
lads.’

‘Guess that’s
my cue to go get a cheeseburger,’ Charlie announces. ‘By the way,
if anyone here caught that on video, I’d be very grateful if you
could put it on the Internet for me.’

The bouncer
shoots me a glare.

‘That means
you, too.’

‘I don’t
suppose reasoned argument is going to change your mind, is it?’ I
ask. He shakes his head. I shrug. ‘Can’t blame a boy for
trying.’

The other
girls, laughing their arses off, beckon Phoebe to follow them
inside. Shit, they’ve got two free wristbands she can have, now.
Phoebe glances at me, Fred and Charlie walking off towards
Northumberland Street - we’re taking Johnny with us, of course, but
what he’s doing can’t really be described as ‘walking’ - and she
says to her friends:

‘Actually, I
quite fancy a burger now, now.’

Since my brief
exchange with the bouncer left me a bit further behind than the
rest of them, I’m the only one who hears Elizabeth II mutter,
‘Slag,’ as Phoebe jogs to catch up with Charlie. I stop walking,
and bend down to untie and then re-tie my shoelace.

‘At least
we’re rid of her, now. I think that one’s strictly a fresher’s week
friend,’ the other girl still remaining in the foyer responds. ‘You
know she gave that twat my phone number? It’s like being a hooker’s
secretary.’

Elizabeth’s
laughter disappears as they pass the velvet rope and go inside the
club, and, leaving my shoelace untied, I run to catch up with
Charlie before I find myself alone in the darkness.

The Best Laid
Plans.

‘You're
turning me into a criminal, when all I want to be is a petty
thug!’

• Bart Simpson
  

RECRUITMENT

My eyes
suddenly ping open. I jerk upright in my bed as my Sunday morning
doze is cut short by the realisation that something incredibly
embarrassing happened to me last night. Then I remember that the
embarrassing thing happened to Johnny, not me, and I let my head
fall back onto the pillow. A couple of, if not embarrassing, then
definitely peculiar incidents
did
occur after I left you
hanging, though, but it was getting late and I was too drunk and
tired to continue narrating.

So - where
were we? After half an hour of walking in the pissing sleet, we
finally made it onto Northumberland Street. Freddy gave up trying
to drag Johnny after ten minutes and about 100 metres, at which
point he bundled the little drunk into a taxi and they both sped
off into the night. It was only when we were five paces away from
the golden arches of MacDonald’s that Charlie remembered he had no
money left. I’d squandered all mine buying tickets to the club we
never saw the inside of, and - despite the fact that she clearly
said she wanted a burger earlier, and the fact that she hadn’t
bought a drink all night - Phoebe’s pockets were apparently empty,
too. Charlie was surprisingly undeterred by this obstacle between
himself and whatever mealtime lives between three and five in the
morning, because his tequila-sodden brain had provided him with a
plan. He asked me and Phoebe to club together whatever spare change
we had. We did - it came to just over a pound. I asked whether he
was going to try to haggle with the person behind the counter, but
he told me not to be so silly. He had a more Jesus Christy, loaves
and fishes kind of scheme in mind.

Once he’d
relieved us of our shrapnel Charlie disappeared off down the
street, leaving Phoebe and I to stand alone in the drizzle.

‘So, I-’
Phoebe started to say, but at that moment Charlie reappeared,
grinning and holding a guitar he’d borrowed - or perhaps even
stolen - from a busker. He gave it a cursory strum, grimaced,
fiddled with the tuning pegs a bit, and tested it again. After a
few iterations of this he seemed happy with the sound he was
getting, whereupon he plucked the bowler hat off Phoebe’s head,
placed it on the driest spot of pavement he could find and threw
our collection of loose change into it.

‘You need a
little something to get the ball rolling,’ he explained to me, with
a wink. I guess that motto applied to crowds, as well, because when
he started playing the fact that we were standing there watching
apparently gave the people leaving MacDonald’s permission to slow
down and see what was going on. Things started off sluggishly; I
could feel my cheeks getting hot as Charlie crooned his upbeat but
out-of-tune little ditty, whilst those walking by turned their
heads as they passed, as if to ask, ‘what is that twat doing?’
Eventually, though, a pair of drunkards came alongside and began to
join in the singing. As though they’d dragged him in by the scruff
of the neck another person joined in, too, and then another. The
disease spread outwards from there, until even the relatively sober
were adding their voices to the impromptu choir. When he could be
sure he had them ensnared, Charlie unleashed the old pisshead’s
serenade, ‘Wonderwall’. As the chorus came in he just stood there
strumming the guitar while a dozen people bellowed the lyrics back
at him.