Something on
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Writing extracts by Rosa Barbour |
Something on
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Writing extracts by Rosa Barbour |
Extract from The Bat Cave
☾⋆ ‘They’re not bagpipes, actually.’ Ryan’s face snapped up towards Nick’s, his eyes narrowed. ‘Aye they ur.’ Another punter drawled a long cocktail order in Nick’s general direction. He nodded, easily procuring a glass jar of bright muddled raspberries from a high shelf above him. Ryan, who was hard of height and seemed to have taken the jar-reaching (and Nick’s general Australian-ness) to be the official heralders of battle, squared his shoulders. ‘How can they no be bagpipes? I mean they’re… It’s… clearly… fucking… bagpipes.’ He took a steady pull of his pint, momentarily soled by the quality of his reasoning. ‘Scottish band, The Church,’ he added to the gamine girl with a pretty pixie crop who sat perched on the bar stool beside him. She was (and she knew it) the real reason for the utterly bizarre display of mismatched machismo unfolding before her. ‘It’s a guitar. With an effect on it,’ Nick offered mildly, dividing the dark, glutinous mixture between four enormous crystal tumblers. I watched as the girl swivelled her petite body slowly clockwise on her stool. After being crossed daintily all evening in the direction of Ryan, her legs now opened like a rare, pale flower towards Nick. Despite the huge dark bar that stood between them, her body language had spoken its whispered invitation. Ryan looked briefly panic-stricken, then made a rather repulsive lip-smacking gesture that I assumed was supposed to be an impressive scoff. ‘Aye. I think not. This was the 80s, son. Don’t think they were making guitars sound like bagpipes in the 80s, somehow. No. Don’t think so, somehow. Don’t think so, son.’ Nick, ignoring this, leant into the bar to further the craft of his luminous gin Brambles. The deep violet lighting caught his face, bringing out the planes and angles which had been, until now, obscured by shadow. Presently, as he chopped blackberries with an enormous silver knife, he raised a hand to wipe his chin, leaving a vivid trail of liquid along his jawline. The pixie’s petals bloomed further. I wondered if Nick could smell their perfume yet. ‘Well, it’s an 80s Fender,’ he said mildly, ‘with an 80s E-bow on it, recorded on an 80s Syclavier.’ He grinned very briefly at the girl, ignoring Ryan completely in flagrant, hilarious disregard of the fact that the entirety of the spoken conversation had been between the two men. Despite his formidable looks, Nick’s smile was boyish – would have been innocent, even – if it wasn’t for the pointed white canines which now caught the gleam of the slow disco ball that cast its night-time glitter over the dark basement. The effect was quite alarming. ‘Synths!’ he finished, cheerful. The fairy girl giggled, delighted. Ryan’s displeasure was complete. ‘They’re fuckin’ bagpipes. Scottish band, The Church. Hence. Bagpipes.’ Nick smiled at him, then the girl, then shrugged briefly, dressing his glasses with Crème de Mure. Ryan, wild-eyed now, drew his pint - which had been almost full seconds ago - to his lips. Squinting from my viewing spot across the floor, I noticed with a quick thrill that the glass was now empty, save for the inch of foamy dregs at the bottom which swilled like sea-suds towards his lips. In his confusion, Ryan leant so far backwards to catch the booze that he fell, quite spectacularly, from his stool onto the floor. In the ensuing chaos, Nick signalled quickly at the girl to make her escape. She stared at him for a moment, then dashed off into the night, her pale legs gleaming as they disappeared up the stone stairs that lead from the basement up to the pavement, and freedom. ‘They’re from Sydney,’ offered Nick, just loud enough to reach Ryan from on high as he flailed like a cockroach beneath him, attempting, like many before him, to get to grips with The Bat Cave’s polished marble flooring. Nick caught my eye for the first time all evening, finding me immediately at my spot next to the juke box, where I liked to pretend sometimes that I was ‘dusting it off’. ‘Help me close tonight, would you?’ He glanced briefly down at the various vivid drinks bejewelling the surface of the bar. Before my eyes, they each filled to their brims with clear liquid. The dark berry juices pooled up into the booze, dancing like spilled ink in water. I caught my breath, stuttered a response, but Nick had faded again out of the purple lights, along with the final otherwordly strums of Under The Milky Way. www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Q6nKP10j4s
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