this, it transpired, was where they were going. We were surrounded by black—black clothes, black hair, spiked and shaved and sculpted.
Black make-up on both men and women, applied in a way that Bobbi Brown would not have endorsed.
There were a lot of spikes everywhere too—hair, jewelry, even on backpacks. Almost no one wore normal shoes.
All Hallows’ Eve, I thought. Raymond returned from the bar with a plastic pint of beer for himself and, without having asked, something paler for me.
“Cider?” I shouted, over the din. “But, Raymond. I don’t drink cider!”
“What do you think Magners is, you daft bint?” he said, nudging me gently with his elbow.
I sipped reluctantly—it wasn’t as nice as Magners, but it would do.
It was too loud to converse, so I scanned the room. The stage was small and raised only a meter or so from the floor.
When I came back here, assuming Johnnie Lomond would be standing front and center, he’d be able to see me easily,
even if I were forced to position myself halfway back in the crowd.
Cupid does, presumably, need a tiny nudge sometimes. The audience started making a collective animal noise and surged forward.
We stayed where we were—the musicians were now on-stage and had begun to play.
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