Transference: A brutal and lyrical Manchester crime thriller (John Black 2) (The John Black Thrillers) by John Bowie

Author:John Bowie [Bowie, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bristol Noir
Published: 2020-05-22T00:00:00+00:00

10

Slight Return

I passed through an Irish bar on a corner by Canal Street, paying my respects with a pint of Guinness and a double Jameson. It’d be rude not to.

A group of shiny security bomber jackets glinted at me in the one faded light, as I neared the red brick archway entrance to The Boardwalk.

The punters; a mass of mainly shirted men, and those that were barely men in t-shirts. They spewed in and out of the place, holding fags and pints. In constant flux, with a swagger as if their pockets were being held down by giant weights in their pockets. This happened whilst supposed giant testicles meant they had to keep a constant bouncing gait. They swung along, arching their legs with each step. These steps carried the mass of constant drunken momentum and excitement: for a band coming on, a girl they almost talked to, the next song, their new jeans and...the drugs they were about to come up or down on. It was a fake-branded mess of Ben Sherman, Fred Perry and Adidas.

The closer I got, the more I felt like an impersonator of my past self; that I shouldn’t have dared the attempted slight return. Those on the doors and in the shadows would think so too — so brazen of me, foolish of me, suicidal — so dead of me...

Having expected a rough-down, frisk or interrogation by the door staff; there was none of it. I seemed to glide in unnoticed — a ghost. Just a dull-dirty-shade-of-nearing-middle-age that’s too much of a nothingman for that self-obsessed night-life crowd. The bouncers were blinkered, distracted as well.

I went under the radar amongst the rest of the herd as they all tried desperately to be the exact opposite to me. Wanting to be noticed, they pranced around like apes; hoping to be the next King Monkey.

A group of three girls, a rarity in amongst the dick swingers, conveniently distracted and pussy-blinded the door staff to my presence. And so they let me pay and drift effortlessly in — a mere faded image of my gangland past.

A vaulted ceiling and an arch of more red brick continued inside like a giant cancerous brick lung. It heaved to and fro with the city’s hum, its people and traffic outside. The cavern of a space expanded and contracted as the people inside got more drunk, intoxicated and high. They were its tumours, getting more terminal with each passing moment. They stuck to the walls, bar and floor.

Like all nights like these, at some point I was sure it was going to kick-off. I added to the smoke that engulfed the space and all those spaces between. It was on the bricks, mortar and our clothes.

Small and claustrophobic, there was a bar at one end and a stage at the other. Toilets doors complete with drug touts and people-watchers were to the side. A cloud hung above and occasionally reached down thickening above our heads — an inverse drowning.

I listened

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