Burning Roses

Chapter Four-1

Chapter Four

Peter was on the door at the Irish, chatting to Carol and Alan. For free entrance and as many drinks as he could handle, the big biker made sure that no-one would sneak in without paying.

“Alright, sunshine?” I gave him the horned salute as I strolled past his table. “Ian here yet?”

“He’s in there somewhere. Hoi! C’mere!” For such a big lad, Peter was remarkably fast. He managed to shoot to his feet, toss his beer into his left hand and grab hold of Morag with his right, before she even knew he was there. “That’ll be three bucks, love.”

“I’m with him.” She nodded after me as she tried to jerk her arm from the monster’s grip. I could see her free hand twitching towards that inside pocket where she carried her blade. Things were about to get interesting. I would have stayed to watch, but I was in serious danger of sobering up.

“Never seen her before. Think she’s been stalking me.” I threw this over my shoulder as I headed for the bar. Holding up an empty hand to Phil the barman, I caught a glimpse of Morag being carried out the door, still struggling to free herself. Peter’s reputation as warlord of the Hell Rats was at stake if she got past him. But she wouldn’t miss a night like this. She’d be back.

The Irish Club was situated above the Hillbrow Squash Courts, on the corner of Pretoria and Edith Cavell streets. There was no signboard. No fluorescent lights. No indication to the casual passerby that there was anything at all above the courts. Except maybe for the r****e spilling out onto the street in between sets, a heaving, sweating mass of hair and tattoos, denim and leather.

The place had started off as a social hangout for Hillbrow’s Irish community. Until one of the members in Pentagon had mentioned to his boss at American Express that he played in a band. The boss happened to be on the Irish Club managing committee, and it just so happened that they were looking for a band to liven the place up. One quick audition in an empty club later, everything had changed. Friday nights, it was still a bar. You could take along your favourite bootleg tapes, and listen to them while having a drink or two with your mates. But on Saturdays...

On Saturdays there was a stage built out of beer crates. Two or three of the heaviest bands in Joburg would be sure to turn up. There had been festivals, starting early in the day, where a dozen or more bands would gig one after the other, through to the small hours of Sunday morning. Desecrated Altar had played a few times. Midget Submarine. 2 Dogs Funking. The Blast. And Stretch had blown everyone away during one of these festivals with his table-hopping guitar-shredding extravaganza.

Ragnarok was on stage now, all attitude and swagger, ripping through a GBH cover. Everybody loved Ragnarok. Loud as f**k, no posing, hair flying as they banged their way through the set. And they’d brought their fans with them, bouncing around in the moshpit, waving their beers in the air and playing air-guitar. The rest of the audience stood or sat around, nodding their heads to the beat. I had to smile when I saw that Dean was back on vocals, performing double duty as he pounded away on the drum kit. Dean could have performed as a one man band if he had enough arms and legs, being more at home on guitar. But the current guitarist, on loan from Helter Skelter, played note-perfect AC/DC and Maiden covers, so Dean had opted for the back of the stage in this particular grouping. Ragnarok’s regular singer was still recovering after he’d seen a patched biker stash a g*n inside the cistern of a toilet in a Rockey Street bar. He’d snuck in to take possession of the weapon after the stranger had left, only to bump into the same stranger and a few of his patched brothers on the way out. Even if the g*n had been loaded, it wouldn’t have helped him during the short but intense lesson in personal property that followed.

“Howsit going?” Damien handed Phil a couple of tickets and slid me a beer, grabbing another one for himself. Molly sold tickets from her cage at the door, and these were exchanged for drinks. A simple way to get around licensing laws. Of course, an entire roll of tickets had been liberated during the first metal night, and anyone who was anyone now had a bundle of them stashed in an inside pocket.

On Fridays, Phil was a tuxedo clad doorman down at Dino’s Bar & Grill. The place was known to be a bit of a dive. According to Phil, with his Dublin brogue and his 70s afro, once the drink started to flow, if the boys wanted to fight, he let them.

“Cheers.” I tossed back my head, letting the golden liquid pour down my throat, flushing the adrenaline from my alcoholstream. “Ah. That’s better.”

The club was packed. There was the regular crowd of animals, hogging the tables spread throughout the room. Then there was the odd old Irishman, glued to a stool at the bar and clutching his glass of Jamesons in case one of these young hooligans got to it. And there was the alternative crowd, including a pack of skins, a bristle of punks standing out above the milieu, and a coven of goths. Even some dressed in medieval costumes. A pair of dark red robes huddled in a far corner, behind the main goth contingent.

“Look at those legs!” Damien shared my taste in gothic women. Although neither of us limited ourselves to any specific subculture – that would have been selfish. “Not the blonde. She’s a Butterface. The one next to her.”

“I’ve tasted better. Can you see a number tattooed on her arm?”

“No.”

“Not one of mine, then. You can have her.”

Damien and I had known one another since our short-lived and ill-fated stint at university. It had been a wonderful time, full of new experiences and opportunities for personal development. But neither of us had so much as seen the inside of a lecture hall. No, I tell a lie. I had seen the inside of a lecture hall once. But it hadn’t been one of my lectures. I’d gone along with my roommate, who had had to attend this specific class to avoid having his bursary cut off. We’d taken the scenic route, via the campus pub, and I’d taken a fancy to the public telephone outside the classroom. So I’d ripped off the handpiece and taken it in with me.

Let me tell you from personal experience that chemical engineering lecturers have no sense of humour, whatsoever. This one wouldn’t take any one of the calls that came through, even when his mother called to complain about the way he was dressed.

Coincidentally, that roommate hadn’t passed any of his year-end exams. A nonevent that was followed by a curious spate of fires in the men’s dormitory. Which might explain why he had ended up selling tampon earrings and cats ear necklaces at fleamarkets on Saturday mornings.

“What about that one over in the corner, talking to Catherine?”

I had a quick look. “Too thin for my taste. That’s practically bulimic.”

“Nice. KFC woman.” I frowned at him till he explained with a shrug. “Finger l*****g good.”

From across the room, I caught a glint of steel through the smoke starting to build up under the ceiling. The club had had ceiling fans once upon a time, but too many pool cues had been swung above the head in victory, and too many chairs had been moshed across the room. Besides, a night out wasn’t the same without waking up in the morning smelling of stale cigarette smoke.

Uncle Venom was approaching. He didn’t have to use the same sideways motion as the rest of us when moving across a crowded room. People just seemed to move aside as he got near. I think it had something to do with the six-inch nails he wore sticking out from the black leather band covering his left forearm. Or maybe it was the razorblades hanging from various badges on his colours. It might have been just the fact that he was... Uncle Venom.

Once he had gained the bar, he reached for the closest beer. Being experienced clubgoers, we held onto ours, but some poor sod had left his bottle on the counter. This redheaded, bespectacled animal drained half the contents in one gulp, and smiled at us as the last few drops dribbled down his beard.

“You ladies coming out to the farm tomorrow?” he squeaked in his broken voice. This was one of the many traits he had which made it hard to keep a straight face while talking to him. “We’re having an open day, for special friends. You’ll like it.”

Behind him, Scottish Jimmy was being held back by Gene and Yuri. We could see from his face that it was his beer that had been liberated.

“You guys playing?” asked Damien. The bearded one was in a death-metal band with a couple of mates – for some obscure reason, they had elected him to be the singer.

“Not tomorrow. Too much other s**t going on.”

“We’ll be there, then,” I promised, smiling.

“Sam around?” Damien asked.

The man shook his head. “He’s busy organizing a new amp for the band. We blew the last one.” Then he smiled, finished the beer and tossed the bottle over his shoulder before striding off across the room once more, parting the crowd before him.

“Something to look forward to. Speaking of which...” Damien nudged me as he pushed himself off the bar and headed towards the stage. A female singer had joined the band, wearing what looked like a layer of spray-paint. As I glanced in her direction, I saw a green mohawk bounce in the door, dark eyes flashing around the room. I headed for the gents.

*