I queued at the bar, trying not to gawp at the transvestites at my side. All false fingernails, cascading curls and feather boas. The Joan Collins look. I finally got served and sat nursing my orange juice, as my watch crept slowly round the dial.
Half-past one and I’d had enough. It was a relief to breathe cool fresh air. As I walked towards the car, a group was coming round the corner. Four men. One of them must have said something funny and there was an explosion of laughter as they reached the door. I glanced back. They were illuminated by the light from the coloured carriage lamps. The man nearest to me turned back to his companions and I caught a glimpse of his face. It was Martin Hobbs.
The door opened and closed behind them. I ran back. Heat, smoke and noise hit me like a wall. I craned my neck, looking for Martin. I spotted him at the other side of the room. The group were squeezing into seats, while one of them set off for drinks. Martin was by far the youngest in the party. The other three men were in their fifties, I guessed. At Martin’s side sat a man with craggy features; he looked like Kirk Douglas with grey hair. Next to him was a gaunt man with sunken eyes, thinning hair, a long face. And returning from the bar with a tray of drinks was a short, stocky man with a pudding-bowl haircut and lots of jewellery. I studied them for a while, wondering which was Martin’s partner, or pimp. Mind you, if they’d only just arrived it seemed unlikely that Martin was working here. Just a group of friends relaxing? Maybe. Even so, I wanted to approach Martin on his own.
I found a free high stool at one end of the bar. From there I could watch them easily enough. The conversation mainly involved the three older men. Occasionally Martin joined in, usually in short energetic bursts, waving his arms around a lot and laughing. At one point, the gaunt man leant over and slapped his arms down. It wasn’t a violent act. Just as if he was restraining an unruly child. A little later, the gaunt man leant over and spoke to Martin, passed him a ten pound note. Martin nodded, got up and made his way to the bar. My heart began to putter in my chest. My head thumped in response. People were queuing two-deep at the bar, shouting conversations above the din from the disco. I slipped off my stool and edged along till I was standing next to Martin.
‘Martin.’
He turned to face me, a puzzled look on his face. His eyes were bloodshot. He struggled to focus.
