It’s later than the night before – and the bar is busier. We begin handing out leaflets and stop to explain whenever anyone asks questions.
One young woman, with dreadlocks and milky skin, says, ‘Oh, my God.’ She puts her hand on her chest, just below her neck. ‘You must be completely devastated. That is so awful. Not knowing. How would you cope?’ She turns to her friends. ‘Like with Madeleine, yeah? Not knowing.’
She may be right but I don’t need the melodrama, the avid interest that smacks of ghoulishness. She starts asking questions but for once I don’t elaborate. ‘It’s all there,’ I say, pointing to the leaflet.
‘And that’s all you know?’ She shakes her head, looking like she might cry.
I walk away without replying.
* * *
After our stint at the Ducks, we visit a noodle bar popular with the friends, in the adjacent tower block.
‘The food is good,’ Shona says. ‘Big portions, too, and low prices.’
Bradley checks with the owner if we can put leaflets on the tables and he agrees.
The gay club, known by its street number, 141, is ten minutes’ walk away. Like the other places, it’s housed in a tower block, this time on the eighth floor. It is dance night and the thump of bass shakes the ground and travels through me as we come out of the lift.
The woman at the door, Kimmie, is happy for us to take leaflets round and tells us to leave some extra with her: she’ll put them out during the week. She knows Lori and Dawn. ‘I can’t imagine,’ she says to me. ‘Anything else we can do, you just shout.’ Her sympathy brings me close to tears.
The dance floor isn’t very big and there’s a crush of people, arms in the air, filling it. There’s no dress code and outfits vary: people in T-shirts and jeans, in stunning frocks, others in leather and PVC. On stage the Chinese DJ is dressed in a white three-piece suit and top hat, which must be unbelievably hot, and has a face painted like an elaborate mask. I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman.
The few revellers who aren’t dancing sit in the booths around the dance floor drinking, snogging, having conversations, mouth to ear, to be heard. By the time we leave, my ears are ringing. Kimmie wishes us all the best and tells us to take care.
At our next stop, Hokey’s, a cocktail bar on a busy street, blue neon characters glow on the sign outside and large black catfish patrol inside a tank bathed in orange light at the entrance. Behind the glass doors it’s velvety dark but I can see more of the neon signs. Bradley talks to the doorman, who listens and takes a bundle of leaflets.
