The Cure’s music is still running through my head, now it’s Love Cats.
I’m fizzing to the zany beat.
It’s Friday night and the city’s pubs are emptying – folk heading to nightclubs – others swaying – weaving through traffic – mainly black cabs.
A blasting horn blows away the rhythm. Someone shouts an obscenity – we laugh and now there is a new beat to the night.
We cross the square where couples stand close – crowds huddle closer – just chilling. A taxi rumbles by – too close to the cobbles for those chillers – they jeer – the beer adding expletives to their language. The cab does a U-turn – heads towards the hail of a punter across the road.
We sidle by – work our diagonal path to where the neon beckons – sky-high champagne glass tipping towards red lips. We step up our pace, the click of stilettos on cobbles brings back the Cure’s tempo – the smell of my boyfriend’s cologne wafts my way – in my head, it’s Friday and I’m in love.
Somewhere over to the right a screech of brakes and a thudding so loud, it bounces off the buildings surrounding the square. A woman screams – the crowd surge towards the place – we stand on the spot my head now empty of music, stomach tense with foreboding. Flames light up the square – stately facades become witnesses to the horror below them.
A face I recognise is running towards the accident – I leave my new love to catch up – calling his name – smashing through the chaos – the roar of fire deafening – smell of burning oil – I shout my brother’s name – he’s frantic – searching for the other, younger boy – out for the first time with the lads.
Blue strobes highlight sweat – sirens smother cries – joy when the lad answers – sorrow for those who do not.
(c) 2024 Pat Barnett.
