"Blah de blah de blah Information Superhighway blah de blah de blah vibrators."
Forbes was doing his impression of Welsh television. He and Kevin were slumped in a side-room of a pub in the village. There was a TV blaring high up in the opposite corner tuned to the Welsh language channel and Forbes was taking the piss out of it, a little too loudly for Kevin's taste.
"Blah de blah de blah Sonic the Hedgehog blah de blah de blah Breville sandwich toaster blah de blah de blah power steering blah de blah de blah internal combustion engine blah de blah de blah horseless carriage blah de blah de blah crack cocaine blah de blah de blah games theory of economics blah de blah de blah bootleg CDs blah de blah de blah doggy-style sex blah de blah de blah PVC bondage outfit blah de blah de blah wormhole in the fabric of the space-time continuum, just outside Cardiff. I mean what is the point of a language that doesn't have a word for any post-1930 concept?"
"I rather got the impression that you didn't approve of any post-1930 concept. Maybe you should live here."
"That's a disturbing thought. I may have to revise my stance. I'd hate to think I had anything in common with the Welsh."
"Keep your voice down."
It was their day off and they had been here all afternoon. The villagers had as yet made no attempt to lynch them but there was no guarantee they would not start. The locals in the pub were all of superbly misanthropic and lycanthropic cast, all storm-dark visages and uninterrupted eyebrows. It was like a casting call for the part of Heathcliff in a production of Wuthering Heights in some special reform school for excessively hairy juvenile delinquents. "Look at those earthy brutes," Forbes had said admiringly. "I feel like we're inside one of Catherine Cookson's wet dreams."
When they had first approached the bar the landlord had looked them up and down and said, "We don't accept television sets here."
"But I can prove their existence," said Forbes, blinking in surprise.
"Last one of your lot who came in here tried to pay for a drink with a television set," said the landlord.
"He was, perhaps, labouring under the understandable belief that some sort of barter system was still in operation around these parts," said Forbes. This had not gone down too well.
It was now getting on for seven o'clock and the two of them were pleasantly shitfaced.
"I have been thinking," said Forbes, "that it is about time we moved on from this one-horse dorp. I mean the camp and this area in general. It is no place for a couple of likely lads like ourselves. Do you realize we are almost the only remaining members of the original Chuck Wagon posse?"
This was true. Attrition had thinned their ranks considerably of late. Evans had been sacked after getting pissed in a nightclub and executing an energetic paso doble with a wheelchair-bound holidaymaker. Carlos had been sacked after attempting to help a female diner who had spilled tomato ketchup on her lap; he had offered her a napkin with the words, "You want a fannypad?" Jack had been sacked by Desmond a week ago after failing to turn in for a morning shift; he was still in the camp, however, hiding out in a girl's chalet and being smuggled food by sympathizers, spending his days in plotting like a Jacobite prince in exile and vowing to return and wreak revenge on Desmond. Veronica had been sacked by Palmer for her part in the Garfield scandal but immediately re-hired by Dai Thomas to serve him as PA in his new position as Head of Catering; her duties were nebulous but seemed mostly to consist of sitting next to him in the camp nightclubs squeezing his cock. Seamus had transferred to another section, Big Richard had saved up enough money and returned to his suburban rut, O'Rourke had disappeared without word one day after seeing someone who had recognized him from his shady past. They had been replaced by a trio of interchangeable Manc scallies who talked only to each other, and a tall and cadaverous middle-aged man named Dennis, who had the sepulchral air of an undertaker or a particularly disillusioned family retainer; when he did occasionally crack a joke it was as unexpected and hilarious as someone cutting a fart in a cathedral. His story was that he had once been the head waiter of a top London hotel but had got drunk one night and attempted to kidnap one of his wealthy patrons.
Kevin and Forbes were indeed getting to be old hands. They had been there just over six weeks now; this was by far the longest amount of time Kevin had spent at any job and he felt that some form of recognition for his long service, such as a gold watch, would not have been amiss.
Forbes, he had noticed, seemed to have started to consciously or unconsciously try to get himself sacked. He had, for example, taken to doing what Kevin had wanted to do the first day, read on duty. It was mostly just when things were slow and he had at first tended to be circumspect about it, but a couple of times recently Kevin had seen him reading from a book held in one hand while serving food with the other. Another thing he had done had been to sabotage the specials board. He had chalked a long phallus extending from the cowboy's midriff and written 'Chomp on Panhandle Pete's Jumbo Sausage'. Desmond had spotted this several hours later and blown his stack, but the crime had not been brought home to Forbes, despite his having left what Kevin considered a fairly obvious calling card, in that he had also taken the opportunity to amend the word 'vittles' to 'victuals'. Forbes had also taken to using the restaurant's half-hearted Western motif as justification for lapses into frontier manners; taking orders, he would often pull up a chair at the diners' table, sitting on it the wrong way round with his arms folded on the back rest, saying, "Mind if I park my britches here a moment, partner? I'm plumb tuckered out." So far he had escaped reprimand for this, but yesterday Desmond had caught him reading on the job and things had not gone well.
"Desmond really gave you the wrath of Jehovah yesterday, didn't he?" said Kevin.
"Indeed he did. He bawled me out for five minutes and confiscated a quite valuable copy of The Unbearable Bassington until the end of the day. He actually had the effrontery to take hold of my arm, the filthy little peasant, as he imparted some banal piece of North country work-ethic wisdom. And he called me a fop."
"He didn't."
"He did! Something must be done about him," said Forbes darkly. "I hate and hate him. I've half a mind to join Jack's bunch of desperadoes. I shall be avenged for that indignity somehow."
"Life's too short to bear grudges."
"On the contrary, it's too long not too."
Kevin glanced at his watch.
"We'd better start thinking about getting back soon," he said. "Can't be late for the works do."
"Oh, God," groaned Forbes. "The departmental bonding session. I'd quite erased the prospect from my mind."
In order to boost morale and foster team spirit Mr. Palmer had organized a staff outing for that night to the Xanadu Club, the camp's flagship venue. As well as the usual acts by the camp entertainers the club stage was to be graced by a troupe of professional dancing girls and a stand-up performance by one Billy Bradwick, an odious second-division TV and nightclub comedian of the end-of-pier school. All the Chuck Wagon workers from Desmond to George were going.
"Must we go?" said Forbes plaintively.
"Yes we must," said Kevin firmly."It would be too cruel on Palmer not to. Besides, he's getting the drinks in." Besides which, he might have added, Rose would be there, and he was feeling just drunk enough to do something about her. He had done nothing so far besides stare at her longingly and note with alarm further evidence of a fixation on her part with the oafish security guard Gary.
"Well there's no rush yet," said Forbes. "We'd better get some food before we go."
They ordered some food, a process slowed somewhat by Forbes enquiring as to the availability of various outlandish dishes more likely to be found on the menu of the Gavroche in London.
Shortly after the food arrived and they started to eat an unusual thing occurred. A man came into the room, turned off the television, and set up a small DJ's console on a table in the corner, with miniature speakers with flashing lights on the side. Then he removed all the other tables and put on a record. Almost immediately a group of a dozen or so dispirited-looking young people trudged in, dressed for the most part in clothes that had been the mode ten or fifteen years before, and started to sway to the music in the middle of the room. Soon Kevin and Forbes found themselves eating in the middle of a dancefloor. Forbes started to punch the air in time to the bassline, hand still clutching a fork with chips impaled on it.
"Make some noise for your DJ," he enjoined the youngsters as he and Kevin left the room.
They had one more drink and headed for the bus stop, which was at the far end of the other of the village's two proper streets. Apart from the pub they had just left and two others exactly like it, the village boasted two tea shops cum fudge emporiums, each containing identical tweeded and powdered old ladies and a stock pair of sou'westered walking-holiday types, a shopping strand featuring miniature versions of most of the standard British high street chain-stores - a WHSmith's, for example, the size of Kevin's bedroom at home - the most dismal few yards of harbour he had ever seen in his life, inhabited by some very lame and depressed-looking seagulls, a small museum of ancient Welsh coins, and a cinema the size of a church hall that opened once a week to show films of which Watership Down was a fair example of both subject matter and vintage.
To get to the village they had walked down three miles of winding road, without verges and bordered on both sides by tall bramble bushes, into which they had had constantly to fling themselves to avoid being run down by the Land Rovers or possibly just Land Rover which kept hurtling round the corners. "Camp patrols out looking for us," said Forbes. "They're worried our money has escaped." He had then gone into a long aria about the camp being the perfect set-up for corporations to ensure they got all of their workers' wages straight back and how everyone would live in similar compounds or sealed communities when the conglomerates had finalized their takeover of the world, most of which Kevin missed because he was busy pulling thorns out of himself. Just as they came in sight of the village they had to leap into the bushes again in order to avoid being run down by the twice-daily bus from the camp they had decided not to wait for.
According to Kevin's watch they should have missed the last bus going back by a couple of minutes, Forbes having dragged out his last drink almost certainly for this purpose, but it had waited for them.
"We knew there was two of you not accounted for," said the driver.
"No sense fighting it, the works do it is, then," said Forbes as they sat down. He looked at Kevin thoughtfully. "We never did get you off with anyone, did we? Unless you count that abortive and rather impersonal bout of sword-swallowing with Veronica. Perhaps we can find you some pliant damsel tonight. How about Rosy Probert? Old Rambling Rose?"
"Rose?" Kevin turned away to hide his blush. "Nah, she'd never go for me."
"Of course she would."
Kevin's heart started to race. "Why do you think that?" he asked with studied casualness. "Has she, er, said anything?"
"Not about you, but you're just her type."
"You reckon?"
"Certainly. I mean, you've got a pulse, haven't you? She's had everything else on camp. Bound to be your turn sooner or later."
"Balls," said Kevin, a little shakily. "What are you talking about? She even turned Jack down."
"She was just playing hard to get, seeking to inflame his passions further. She shagged him in the toilets in the staff bar two nights later. Most acrobatically, by all accounts. All these rural girls go like rabbits as soon as they hit puberty. They learn it from watching the animals."
"Yeah, she looks like a goer, Rose," said Kevin with a belated and rather flimsy grin. Of course he's joking, you idiot, he told himself. Even if it had been true, he decided, it would have changed nothing. All it would mean was that, instead of him teaching her about sex, she could give him a master class. He spent the rest of the journey in trying to decide how he would declare his passion to her tonight. By the time they got off at the camp gates he had more or less settled on the words 'I would trade everything I have ever known or had for a single kiss of those rosebud lips.'
En route to the Chuck Wagon they bumped into a lad they knew from Yorkshire who asked them if they wanted to come for a smirk. So they went round the back of the staff bar and had a couple of smirks.
When they got to the Chuck Wagon they found most of the rest of the staff already assembled in readiness for the big night out. As soon as they stepped through the door Desmond charged over to them belligerently.
"Where the fucking hell have you two been?" he demanded.
Kevin looked at his watch. "I thought we were only going over there at half eight."
"There's no call for that language, in any case," said Forbes. "You should be grateful we're here at all. Acting the charade of being some sort of extended family to Palmer is entirely optional on our part, you know."
"You two are going over to the Xanadu right now," said Desmond. "And you're not coming with us, you're working there."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard. They're short-staffed and you two are filling in for them. Here's yer chits for yer uniforms. You should have been there twenty minutes ago."
"Surely you jest," said Forbes.
"No fucking jest, sunshine, now move it."
"Why us?" asked Kevin.
"Because I fucking say so, that's why. You two never pull your weight around here, make a change for you to do some real work for once."
They found Palmer in his office fretting over his dicky bow and tuxedo.
"Sorry about that, lads, but there's nothing I can do," he said distractedly. "There was a fight in the Xanadu last night, terrible business, they had to sack half their staff. Every department's got to chip in until they can get some replacements. Can't leave them short-handed, what with the Billy Bradwick thing tonight and all sorts of company big-wigs being on the camp at the moment."
"But why us?"
"Well, you two are the most experienced lads I've got now, it's a compliment in a way. Besides, everyone else has been working all day, hardly be fair on them to ask them to start working again at night, would it?"
"It's not fair on us to miss the staff do."
"Ah, you'll be able to sit down with us when you get a minute, I'll see you all right for a drink. All you're going to be doing is getting drinks orders for the people at the tables. Shouldn't be much of that when Billy Bradwick comes on, you'll be able to sit down and watch the show with us. You'd better get over there now. I say, lads, is my dicky straight?"
Kevin looked at Forbes.
"Well what a five-gallon crock of shit," said Forbes in disbelief.
Glumly, Kevin and Forbes trudged over to get their new uniforms - white shirt and black kecks - got changed, and reported for duty at the Xanadu Club. There they were swiftly and bad-temperedly inducted by the Xanadu's equivalent of Desmond, and very quickly Kevin found himself plunged into one of the most nightmarish work experiences of his life.
The Xanadu Club was a vast building. There was a bar at one end and partway down one side, and at the other end was the stage on which the entertainers performed. In between there was a large number of tables where the clientele could be waited on and served with drinks. Tonight the club was packed for Billy Bradwick's appearance and there were not nearly enough waiters and waitresses to go round. Instead of getting off their arses and going to the bar for themselves many of the people at the tables were taking the delays out on the staff. These were mostly just the people Kevin saw every day in the Chuck Wagon but drink and poor service were turning them belligerent. At every trip to and from the bar he was shouted at and physically manhandled by people who demanded he take their orders next. Things were complicated further in that he was supposed to stick to his assigned section near the stage; if he didn't, the people there would be neglected, but if he did he felt sure that before long the people in other sections who were grabbing at him as he rushed past them would tear him limb from limb. There was also much scope for fuck-up with this job. The bill had to be kept straight and both table and chalet or caravan numbers written down on the bar's copy of it. Then there was the more basic problem of getting the right drinks and not spilling them on the way. Kevin had always been someone who not carry even two pints from a bar at an arthiritic pensioner's pace without spilling most of the one in his left hand. The metal tray he had been provided with was of little help to someone of his limited sense of balance and hand-eye co-ordination. By about his third stride towards his destination little waves of drink would be slopping out of their various glasses, landing in different glasses and slicking down the tray, and if he had to attempt anything like a cornering manouevre all the glasses tended to go whirling round the circumference of the tray as though in a centrifuge. On one journey from the bar, when he had attempted a slightly faster gait than usual and had his elbow jogged by an equally harried waiter speeding in the opposite direction, he arrived at his destination to find the two pints of lager he had been bearing were now little more than two half pints. Fortunately, the people he was delivering them to were a polite elderly couple who hadn't shouted at him at all, so he plonked the half-empty glasses down in front of them defiantly and rushed off again. Halfway back to the bar a nagging suspicion came to him that what they had ordered had not been lager but a pint of bitter and a small port and lemon anyway.
Then there was the absolutely elementary problem of getting served at the bar in the first place. Every foot of the bar was covered by a waiter or a customer demanding to be served, the bar staff were even more dementedly overworked than he was, and Kevin had long been a sufferer of that tragic syndrome known to barmen as 'negative bar presence'. He soon learned to assert himself, however, and before too long had actually pushed someone aside in his frantic desire to be served next, admittedly only a very small and rather feeble waitress.
On one of his first trips to the bar Kevin noticed that the section of the bar along the side of the room was clogged up by a line of twenty or more lads ranged along it. They didn't seem to be enjoying themselves much, standing almost silently with their backs to the bar drinking lager slowly and staring watchfully into the middle of the room rather than at the stage. He didn't have time for idle speculation and thought no more about it. He got an explanation, however, when, after an hour of being constantly on the go, he sneaked into the staff bog to have a very necessary cig. He found his erstwhile workmate Seamus, who had transferred here some time ago, already in there doing the same.
"Top of the fucking evening to you, Seamus, how the fuck do you stand it here?"
Seamus grimaced. "A little dab of speed helps. It's not always like this, though."
"Believe you had a big kick-off last night."
"Yeah, well, we might get the sequel tonight. You've noticed the big rowdy group of lads sitting in the middle of the room shouting and making a nuisance of themselves?"
Kevin nodded. The group in question were being particularly abusive when he failed to stop to take their orders and one of them had tried to trip him up when he'd gone past them carrying a trayful of drinks and had very nearly succeeded.
"You've noticed the large security guard presence?"
Kevin had. The camp guards did indeed seem to be in in force, both in bouncers' outfits and their normal uniforms.
"You've seen the gang of lads standing against the bar staring into the middle of the room and hardly drinking anything?"
Kevin nodded.
"The rowdies in the middle were acting like that last night. I don't know where the fuck they come from or who the fuck they think they are but they're bad news. They were groping the girls and tripping up the lads and giving us loads of abuse. One of our boys had enough and told them their fortune and a punch was thrown. The next thing half the staff were in there mixing it with them. The kapos broke it up but it carried on outside. Eventually they stopped it, and they told two of the rowdies to start packing and all of our lads who were involved got the boot. The guys standing by the bar are our lads who got kicked out. They've come back looking for a rematch. I don't know if security haven't clocked them or if they're hoping to leave them until the end of the night. They were thrown off camp but they all got back in over the fence at the bottom. They're looking to get even with the security boys as much as with the rowdies, because they were out of order last night, really kicked the shit out of some of our boys. The rowdies want another go at the security guards too, for kicking their mates out. And the security guards want another go at the rowdies, because one of their boys got hurt and they didn't get much chance to dish out any punishment last night before senior management stepped in."
"Should be interesting if it kicks off again."
"If it does, don't get caught in the middle."
"Well I was gonna leap in and start bashing people."
"No, I mean it, just crawl under the nearest table, it'll be rough."
Kevin returned to work to find things had grown even more hectic in his absence. Reinforcement staff drafted in from other camp venues were expected by the minute but there was as yet no sign of them. He was constantly harassed and rushed off his feet. It was a quarter past ten before he got a chance to go over and spend a minute with the rest of the Chuck Wagon staff, who were sitting at a couple of long tables pushed together over against the wall to the left of the stage, and only then on the pretext of clearing away their empty glasses. Mr. Palmer recognized him as one of his own with surprisingly little difficulty and insisted he hang around for a bit and sneak a quick glass of wine with them.
"Join the merry crew," he invited.
Kevin thought that 'merry' was not quite the apposite word. He sensed he wasn't really missing much here. While no-one looked exactly suicidal, the staff outing did not seem to be the social event of the year. For the most part they were sitting around quietly sipping their drinks, with an occasional outburst of terrible forced jollity. They at least had plenty of alcohol, being permitted to go behind the bar and serve themselves. Kevin helped himself to the wine and fell to admiring his colleagues' going-out gear. Rasputin was wearing a suit that Kevin had last seen being worn by someone who was trying to beat Jason King up in an episode of Department S. His hair had been combed and his beard specially fluffed out to look like Lytton Strachey's. Desmond was dressed like and had the facial expression of a 1930s colliery manager the day after a particularly harrowing mining disaster. Palmer's dinner jacket had been designed for someone with differently sized shoulders than his - more normally shaped and symmetrical shoulders, perhaps - and he looked as though he was about to go into a Richard the Third impression. He seemed to be enjoying himself, though, even if no-one else was. "Bloody good night, eh?" he kept saying. "We should do this more often." The only other person who was having as good a time as Palmer was Albert the dishwasher. He was drinking lots of wine and his eyes were shining and he was beaming a lot and responding to everything anyone said with a very enthusiastic "Um!" On the other side of Albert, Skanky George, wearing what looked to be a demob suit, was having a shit time. He slumped sulkily in his chair glaring with hatred at the camp entertainer who was currently performing, a transvestite act who specialized in getting members of the audience up on stage and playing rude games with them.
"I didn't come here to watch this bloody pansy," muttered George in disgust. "When are the girls coming on?"
Brian, sitting across from George, nodded his agreement and stared at the drag artist with equal loathing. "I'm much fucking funnier than he is," he muttered resentfully. "I could have this lot eating out of the palm of me hand if they'd give me the chance." Brian had applied for a transfer to the entertainments staff several times but had been firmly rebuffed.
Rose was wearing the blouse which Kevin had eventually had to pay a girl who lived in a room down the hall from him a fiver to repair. Sitting next to her wearing a leather SM outfit was Veronica, who had joined them for the night. Dai Thomas was at a table nearby with some senior camp managers and the visiting company bigwigs; from time to time Palmer lost his ebullience and scowled in his direction with venomous loathing. The two girls were sitting at the end of the table nearest to Kevin; leaning against the wall nearby flirting with them were a trio of beefy security guards. On the girls' other side were the three new Manchester scallies, who were also trying to flirt with them and were not pleased at the competition, muttering amongst themselves and looking hostilely at the three bouncers. One of the scallies shook his head and sighed. "I don't think I care for this much," he said.
Kevin decided to join in. "You look very lovely, Rose," he said when he had a chance.
Rose blushed and looked modestly down, cheeks dimpling sweetly, and murmured thankyou.
"I wouldn't be surprised if you tapped off with some lucky fella tonight," said Kevin.
Rose tittered, looked up at him briefly, then looked down and dimpled again. "Who would want me?" she murmured.
For a second Kevin thought that he was going to say that he would, but in the end he bottled out and turned his attention to Rasputin instead.
"You're looking very smart tonight," he told him.
Rasputin also blushed and lowered his eyes coyly and murmured thankyou. It was quite an alarming thing to see a seven-foot monster do.
Kevin finished his drink and went back to work. Things were becoming even more nightmarishly busy. He didn't know if the reinforcements had turned up yet but more and more customers certainly were. Every available chair was taken and it was three deep at the bar. Those customers at the tables who felt they were being neglected were becoming even more aggressive with the staff. Kevin was fortunate in that his section in front of the stage was for the most part populated by largely good-natured Liverpudlians, the main group of whom he had already established a rapport with while waiting on in the Chuck Wagon the past few days. Far from getting impatient with him, one of the older and jollier of them had slipped him a tenner earlier on and told him he'd get the same again at the end of the night if he continued to look after them. Some of the younger and drunker lads right in front of the stage tried being loud and out of order with him about the delays but most of them responded well when he gave a few joking excuses for the situation. Anyway, these seemed to forget about drinks when the scantily clad dancing girls came on and started writhing about in an extremely erotic fashion. It suddenly occurred to Kevin, however, to wonder how Forbes was faring. Forbes, he had just remembered, had been assigned to a section right in the middle, right where the rowdies that Seamus had warned him about were. He looked about until he located his lanky figure. Sure enough, Forbes was right in the thick of things, and seemed extremely flustered and stressed-out. He seemed, in fact, to be having some sort of altercation with one of the rowdies. Well, there was little Kevin could do to help him. He confirmed the details of the order he had been taking and headed for the bar.
Yelling for service at the bar he found himself standing next to Gary and an equally thuggish-looking fellow security guard, who were leaning with their backs against it watching the erotic dancers. Over the hubbub of the bar and the orgasmic moans and jungle-beat of the dancers' music he heard them talking.
"Good stuff this," said Gary to his mate, unselfconsciously adjusting his cock. "The arse on that one."
"Have you got anything lined up for tonight?" the other one asked Gary.
"I've not had a chance. If all else fails I can always fall back on old Rosie."
"Have you had her, yeah?"
"Fucking hell, have I had her. Fucking rampant bitch. One night a few weeks back she made me rip her fucking blouse off her, fucking buttons popping off and everything. But she's been a fucking millstone round me neck ever since. I reckon I'll fuck her again tonight for old times' sake and then fuck her off for good."
It took a few seconds for it to sink into Kevin that they were talking about Rose, his Rose. For some reason he felt a hot burning blush come over his face and neck. He felt his right hand clench into a fist and then open again when he remembered the size and occupation of the man he was thinking about hitting. Examining his feelings, he decided they consisted of outrage on Rose's behalf and a cold, moral, self-righteous anger, devoid of jealousy, directed at Gary, which was almost certainly misguided and unfair, and which if he was to translate it logically into practical action, if he had had the power to do so, would result in him physically forcing Gary to propose marriage to Rose or at least fuck her as much as she wanted him to, which was absurd. About Rose, he found, his feelings were the same as ever, except perhaps that she could get someone else to sew her fucking blouse in future. 'Get your beefcake to mend your clothes, my sweet,' he thought with affectionate bitterness.
With a mental hey ho, colour returned to normal, Kevin went back about his duties.
It was getting on for eleven o'clock when he saw Forbes again. Billy Bradwick was coming on in a minute; the dancers were singing a song about how great he was. Kevin was on his way back to the bar with a trayful of empty glasses but was going by way of the Chuck Wagon staff's table hoping to be offered another glass of wine. He got there to find Gary had joined the trio of loitering bouncers and was in grinning attendance on Rose. He was telling himself that he really didn't care about that when he heard a commotion behind him. He looked round to see that one of the rowdies was yelling at Forbes and Forbes was yelling back. Forbes raised the tray of drinks he was carrying to a great height and dropped it to the floor with a crash. He came storming over to Kevin. He was shaking all over.
"You wouldn't believe the things those animals just called me!" he snarled, chest heaving with anger. "How dare they speak to me like that!"
"Calm down," said Kevin, quite alarmed by Forbes' rage.
"Don't tell me to calm down! I've just realized how much we need some form of fascist government in this country to keep people like that away from me! No, we need genetic engineering to eliminate them in the womb!"
He snatched up someone's glass of wine and knocked it back then started to fumble with someone's cigarette packet. Most of the Chuck Wagon staff were gapingly intent on the dancers' gyrations but Desmond had noticed Forbes.
"Put those down," he snarled. "Get back to work, you bloody fairy."
"And you can fuck off as well!" yelled Forbes, pointing at Desmond. "You'll be first against the wall, you evil little northern turd!"
"Right," said Desmond, "you're sacked." He beckoned to Gary. "Get him out of here."
"Okay," said Gary.
"Don't worry, I'm going," said Forbes.
Gary grabbed Forbes by the arm. Forbes wrenched himself free, eyes blazing.
"Don't touch me!" he screeched. "Take your filthy hands off me, you neanderthal!"
Gary grabbed Forbes again and twisted his arm behind his back. Forbes yelped in pain and struggled against him. Gary increased the pressure.
Kevin stood there for a second watching and then sighed and upended the drinks tray he was holding so all the glasses slid onto the floor.
"Hey, fuckhead," said Kevin to Gary, and when he looked round twatted him in the face with the drinks tray for all he was worth.
There was a resounding metallic clang and Gary crumpled to the floor whimpering and holding his hands to his face.
The other three bouncers advanced on Kevin with fists clenched. "You're fucking dead now," said one of them, and Kevin supposed that, yes, he probably was, but that was when Rasputin made his move. Rasputin gave a terrifying wordless yell and vaulted over the table to stand in front of Kevin. The bouncers moved back a step uncertainly. Rasputin picked Gary up by the upper legs and, swinging him round in a wide arc at chest height, used him as a club to knock down the other bouncers one after the other. He then proceeded to hurl a number of chairs at their heads, often with people still sitting in them. All the time he was making Godzilla-like roaring noises.
A phalanx of other bouncers came charging over. Rasputin waded into them, laying about him with whatever bits of furniture and inert bodies came to hand. Then the two Welsh chefs rose with one accord and went to Rasputin's aid. Then the three Manc scallies got up and leapt into the fray too, primarily sticking to putting the boot into those bouncers Rasputin had laid out already.
Then all hell broke loose. The sacked staff who had been loitering at the bar seized their opportunity. Half of them came rushing over and started to lay into the security guards around Rasputin, while the rest went steaming between the tables and launched a surprise attack on the rowdy lads in the centre section. More security guards appeared and flung themselves into that fray, laying into the rowdies and the ex-workers alike while the rowdies fought back with equal even-handedness. Soon large parts of the club were engulfed in a pitched three-way battle. The air was thick with shouts and screams and flying chairs, tables and bottles.
Mr. Palmer stood up.
"Er, people," he called nervously, "let's have some togetherness, now, er, team spirit, eh?"
Dai Thomas was standing nearby. He was looking very shaken because he had been one of the people who was still sitting in his chair when Rasputin had picked it up and thrown it.
"Can't you control your staff?" he said to Palmer.
Palmer stared at him for a few seconds and then came round the table and walked calmly over until he was face to face with Thomas. Then he butted Thomas. That large domed head swung like an inverted wrecking ball. Unfortunately he connected with the top of Thomas's head rather than his face. There was a sickening crack of bone on bone and the two of them dropped poleaxed to the floor.
While Kevin was still trying to take this development on board there was another one to contend with. Jack suddenly appeared out of nowhere, charged over with a berserk cry, grabbed hold of Desmond by his lapels, dragged him out of his chair and right across the table, hurled him to the floor, threw himself on top of him, and proceeded to beat the shit out of him with a maniacal energy.
All around the battle raged, spreading by the second as hitherto uninvolved bystanders became entangled. Kevin and Forbes stood unharmed in a small pocket of calm and watched the melee. Suddenly Kevin felt someone clutch hold of his arm from behind. He whirled round with fist raised ready to smite whoever it was. It was Albert the dishwasher. His eyes were shining and he was pissed out of his tree.
"You know, we've never really had a good talk, you and me," said Albert.
They weren't going to now, either, because just then a stray bottle sailed through the air and hit Albert on the head with a resounding clonk.
"Um!" he said in surprise, and crumpled to the floor.
One of the Manc scallies saw what Jack was doing to Desmond. He came over and tried to push Jack aside so he could have a go at Desmond. Jack looked round and smacked him. Soon Jack and the Manc were fighting over who should be allowed to beat Desmond up.
Big Chief was standing against the wall nearby, staring nervously at the raging bedlam. He spoke into his walkie-talkie.
"Overlord from Big Chief," he said. "Mr. Brixton in Forum One."
The showgirls had stopped singing and dancing and were huddled together as if for protection as they watched the spreading mayhem. Kevin saw the short rotund figure of Billy Bradwick appear on stage. He walked over to the microphone to make a plea for sanity.
"Come on, ladies and gentlemen," he said. "Settle down, eh? I'm not going on until you settle down."
Large parts of the auditorium were still uninfected by the fighting but no-one was paying him any attention. Billy Bradwick shrugged and walked off.
That was when Brian saw his chance to seize the chalice of destiny. He rose from his chair, went over to the stage, climbed up on it, and walked across to the abandoned microphone with calm self-assurance. He checked his willy was in place and spoke.
"Well now, ladies and gentlemen," came Brian's amplified voice, "Billy Bradwick seems to be indisposed at the moment, but maybe I can fill the gap." He turned and winked at the nearest chorus girl. "I'd like to fill someone else's gap an' all. 'Ey, close your legs, love, I can feel the draft. Seriously though, folks, Brian Bingham's me name, Blackburn lad born and bred, and I don't claim to be in the same league as Mr. Billy Bradwick, but I know a joke or two." Without any further ado Brian launched into his act. "My mother-in-law, what a cunt..."
Jack had decked out the Manc lad and was methodically pounding Desmond again. A short distance away Kevin saw Veronica and Rose fighting with another girl, pulling her hair and scratching at her face. He never found out why. Across the room he saw the goat charging madly through the midst of the chaos.
"My wife's twat..." said Brian.
Brian was succeeding where Billy Bradwick had failed, in gaining the attention of at least some of the audience. The ringsiders at least were gaping at him in disbelief.
Kevin looked around for the rest of the Chuck Wagon staff. Skanky George had disappeared somewhere. Only the gloomy ex-head-waiter Dennis was left, sitting at the end of the table still peaceably sipping his pint. Just then a man who had been hurled or punched came staggering over from the fracas nearby and collapsed on all fours near Dennis's feet. He shook his head dazedly and looked up at Dennis as if trying to evaluate whether he was a potential enemy or legitimate target. With hardly a glance at him, Dennis absently reached out and took hold of his hair with one hand and casually slammed his head against the wall. The man fell unconscious. Dennis went back to his pint.
"There were these two Pakis shagging this spastic..." said Brian.
"Overlord from Big Chief. Brixton is now code red imperative. Request extra refreshments."
"...and one says to the other, oh bud bud..."
A group of Asian holidaymakers on the right hand side of the stage were taking exception to some of Brian's jokes, yelling and jumping up and down and shaking their fists. Brian changed tack.
"'Ey, you'll like this one. What djer call a Scouser in a suit? The Accused."
There was a loud roar of outrage from the tables at the front of the stage. Brian seemed to mistake it for a roar of approval.
"Why do seagulls have wings?" he grinned, rubbing his willy frantically. "So they can beat the Scousers to the tip. Thankyou, Missus."
Suddenly a large number of the tables in the front row were overturned and most of the people who had been sitting at them swarmed up on stage and jumped on Brian.
Then Skanky George climbed up onto the stage. Kevin wondered what the fuck he was going to do. He soon found out. George went over to the nearest dancing girl, put his clawlike hands on her breasts, and started to honk vigorously. The girl screamed and ran off. Leering and cackling, George grabbed a handful of another girl's arse and she screamed too. Soon all the girls were screaming and running back towards the wings with George chasing after them, claws at the ready and tongue hanging out of his slimy toothless maw.
Dennis finished his pint, got up and started to walk off.
"I'm off to loot the bar," he said lugubriously to Kevin and Forbes as he passed them. "Anyone care to join me?"
The only ones untouched by the madness, Kevin and Forbes surveyed the mayhem and destruction all around.
"This is all your fault," said Forbes.
"That was the first time I've hit anyone ever," said Kevin.
"You must be pleased with the results."
Kevin decided Desmond had probably had enough punishment from Jack. He went over and tried to pull Jack off him. Jack looked round wildly as if to hit him, then stopped when he recognized Kevin.
"Oh, it's you," he said. "Go on then, have a go." He moved aside and gestured for Kevin to take his place.
This thought had not occurred to Kevin. He crouched down over Desmond's prone and unmoving form. Thoughtfully, experimentally, and altogether gently, Kevin punched Desmond in the chest. From out of nowhere Desmond's fist shot up and slammed into Kevin's jaw.
"Oh, get out the way," groaned Jack disgustedly, pushing Kevin aside. He got back on top of Desmond and went back to work.
Kevin went over to Mr. Palmer. He appeared to be unconscious. Kevin shook him gently.
"Mr. Palmer?" he said. "Are you all right?"
There was no response. Kevin knelt down by Palmer, cradled his head on his lap, and started to stroke his hair.
Forbes came over.
"Mr. Palmer, he dead," said Forbes. He turned and gazed at the scenes of carnage and bloody destruction now engulfing the entire club. "The horror," he whispered, "the horror."
It was a night of shame for the Elysian Fields holiday camp. The riot Kevin had sparked off resulted in 47 arrests, £18,000 worth of damage to the Xanadu Club, and the sacking of a large part of the workforce, including every last one of the Chuck Wagon staff. There were 38 hospitalizations, including Gary, Desmond, Brian, Mr. Palmer, Dai Thomas, Albert, Billy Bradwick, who had his jaw broken backstage by a juggling club wielded by a hysterical chorus girl who mistook him for George coming to get her, and Big Chief, who was savaged by the goat.
In the circumstances Kevin decided that, all things considered, it was probably best not to ask for a reference.
Kevin and Forbes had a small amount of money saved up. They decided to go to Amsterdam.
Chapter 10
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