17

He needs to sit down. He doesn’t care if it makes him look old, he needs to sit down. His legs feel like they’re on fire; he can feel how red his face is. The sweat is pouring through his greying hair, making it stick to his forehead. The headache from the thumping music is now so familiar that he hardly notices it. He can scarcely imagine his life without it. He goes to the bar first. Another bottle of beer. Expensive, but he doesn’t care. It’s all that’s keeping him going right now. Winter is just drunk enough to keep his patience. Just miserable enough not to be angry. He finds a little empty table off to the side and sits at it. Long gulps of beer. How many bottles so far? Who cares?

Occasionally the movement of the dancers in front of him will create a little gap through which he can see her. She’s still dancing with the same man. The friends they arrived with have all splintered off in other directions; some have already left. Winter has tried to keep up with her, to stay close. Even that has been to no avail. Some young buck with a head full of styling gel and big ideas danced his way across to her. He didn’t even have to say anything. He just started dancing close to her. Winter stuck around for ten humiliating minutes and then went for a beer.

There are men in the business who know how to handle slick young men like him. They would let him dance away with the young lady all he wanted. They would wait for the man to leave the club, and follow him out. Then they would kick the shit out of him. Put him in hospital. Scar him for life. That would get the message across. They were no doormats. He is. This kid – twenty-two or twenty-three – walked up to his girl and made him look pathetic. It made him angry. Another bottle of beer. Back to the table. He hasn’t felt this anger rise in him before. The more he drinks, the more convinced he becomes that the anger is a good thing.

A couple of dancers move away. He has a good view of her now. She’s pressed up against this young man. He’s whispering in her ear. She’s laughing. She has her arms round his neck, dancing as if they’re the only ones in the room. They look like young lovers. His hand moves down. It rests on her bottom. She doesn’t appear to notice, still dancing. She’s still moving her back end as if his hand isn’t groping it, Winter thinks sourly. How many people here know that she and I live together? How many people have I been humiliated in front of? Again. Hardly the first time. A man half his age. Making her smile in a way that he can’t.

He wants to get up, to go over there. Say something? Maybe. Maybe just pull her away from him and make her dance with her partner for a change. She wouldn’t understand. She’d say he was making a scene. She’d say that he was humiliating her. Him humiliating her. What a laugh. She’d say it, though. And she’d believe it. How can they not be exhausted? He just wants to go home. Another bottle of beer. Expensive. Complain? Nah, just drink. Obliterate everything. Destroy the world and then you don’t have to be in it any more. Let them have their fun. Let them have their world. There is no fun for him. No place for him. What time is it? He can’t remember to look at his watch. Timeless.

Someone comes across to the table. A woman. Not as young as Zara. Not as pretty. This woman is in her thirties. She’s trying too hard. Her hair dyed to within an inch of its life. A tan that certainly wasn’t acquired courtesy of the Glasgow sunshine. She’s dressed in clothes that Zara would wear. It flatters Zara; her body’s more attractive than the little clothing that covers it. That isn’t the case for this woman. Less is more doesn’t apply.

‘You on your own?’ she asks Winter, sitting down beside him. She looks sympathetic. She looks desperate for affection.

Winter puts his hand out and presses it on top of hers. Be a gentleman. A woman who cares. It doesn’t matter if she’s not perfect. Why did you ever think you deserved perfect? Why did you kid yourself that you could keep perfect?

The woman talks for a couple of minutes. She isn’t as drunk as he is, but she is drunk enough that it takes her two minutes to realize that he’s barely capable of speech any more. She sighs. Another bust. He had looked sweaty, but presentable. A man of an age that she might appeal to.

‘I’m gonna go,’ she says to him, patting his hand.

‘No. Go. Not you too. She treats me that way. Not you.’

The woman sighs again. Another complete loser. She really can pick them out of a crowd. It isn’t even a joke any more. Oh well, one consolation: she isn’t the most pathetic specimen in the place. There’s always someone worse off.

Had he fallen asleep? He isn’t sure. It feels as though something has changed. Time has leapt ahead without him. No, couldn’t have been asleep. How could he have slept with that noise? Not possible. The woman has gone. A woman came across and sat with him. Now she’s gone. Or had he dreamed that? A nice woman. A woman who cared. It must have been a dream. There was no such thing in his life. Only when he slept. Perhaps he had slept. He looks across the dance floor. Is Zara kissing him? Both his hands are on her backside. Winter gets up from the table. Go over and say something. Go on. Tell them both what you think. Give that little shit a good thrashing. Make him look pathetic, instead of you. Let her see that you’re every bit as much a man as that little prick. The bar is closer. One more bottle of beer.

He has no idea of time. He knows that he needs to go to the toilet. He gets up and looks about. Strobe lighting. His legs are weak. He sits back down. He can hold it until they get home. Surely it won’t be long until they go home. What time is it? If only there was some way of finding out. People are dancing in front of him. He can’t see her any more. She’ll still be there. Dancing all night. Dancing with another man. Kissing another man. She will take the other man home. Winter knows it. She will insist on taking him home. Back for ‘drinks’. As per bloody usual. This time he’ll say no. This time he’ll put his foot down.