Rockoholic, Page 3

  11:44 A.M. — A group of girls and one curly-haired boy in a green school blazer join the line. “Is this the Regs queue?” Green Blazer Boy asks, acting all drunk. Then I realize he is drunk. He takes a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from inside his blazer and swigs it, making a face like he’s drinking acid. It’s morning and he’s, like, fourteen? He laughs like all lads like him do, hur, hur, hur.

  11:45 A.M. — “That’s it, I’m going to have to go into town,” says Mac, clapping his hands. “Or else my Visa’s going to run off without me. Do you need anything?”

  I shake my head. “Can’t you wait another hour?”

  “No wayski. I’ve waited this long.” I sigh, then quickly regret it cos I know what Mac’s going to say. “You wanted to get here early. Get talking to people. Make the effort. I’ll be back about one with some munchables.” He pulls his iPod from his coat pocket and puts it in my hand.

  “Don’t take up all the battery, and guard it,” he squeezes my freezing hands around it, “with your miserable, empty, dried-up husk of a life.”

  I brighten immediately. “OMG, you sure? You are a legend.”

  “What’s a friend for?” he says, finger encircling the pinky-yellow friendship bracelet on his wrist, one I made for him. “Keep it quiet, though, eh, Presh? They’ll all want a piece of me.”

  I shuffle through Mac’s iPod. I come to a song I’ve heard him singing before, by some band called Van Morrison. He sings it to me cos I’ve got brown eyes like the girl in the song. It’s not screamy like I’m used to, but it’s OK.

  12:02 P.M. — A blonde girl in a “Team Gatlin” T-shirt goes along the line with a box of donuts and offers them to people. I say no. They’ve probably been injected with something.

  12:15 P.M. — Pigeons peck the cake crumbs. Can’t stop listening to that Van Morrison song.

  12:39 P.M. — I can’t ignore the fact that I really need the loo. I think I might just have to pee myself and send Mac to town again to buy me some more cargo pants.

  1:04 P.M. — Mac reappears with a bargain bucket of chicken, chips, beans, corn on the cob, and coleslaw. I nip across to the cinema for a wee and when I come back I sit on the pavement and tuck in to the vegetarian options in the bucket. My mouth is flooded with the thought of chicken. I pick at the most vegetarian part of a drumstick, the skin, as Mac shows me what else he’s bought — black skinny jeans, Topman T-shirts, lace-ups, a leather jacket, and a silver belt. He hands me a small white bag. Inside it is a zipper clip of that zebra from Madagascar. Mac still thinks I’m into zebras and presents me with trinkets like this whenever he sees one. I haven’t told him about the llama thing.

  “Aw, thanks,” I say, taking it. “Did you text Alastair?”

  “Uh, yeah. I’m meeting him at the record store after lunch.”

  “Good,” I say, attempting to attach the zebra clip to my fleece. “At least you’re not on your own. And you’ll go round his place for tea, yeah?”

  “Yes, stop worrying. You could come into town for a bit, if you wanted?” I shake my head. “Didn’t think so. Not that worried about me, then,” he sniffs, taking over and attaching the zebra zip pull for me since my hands are so frozen they’ve lost all function. “Go on, can’t you come in just for a bit? Someone’ll hold your place, won’t they? Do you want me to ask?”

  “No, I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying put until those doors open.”

  “All right, keep your hair on,” he snaps. “Pardon me for wanting to spend some time with you.”

  “Mac, this day is about the concert, OK? Nothing else matters.”

  He mumbles something as he looks away and it sounds like, “Don’t I know it.”

  “You know I can’t leave. Look at the queue now. I’m sixteenth of sixty.”

  Mac sighs. “You won’t get any closer. The first fifteen will get the best spots at the barrier.”

  “Why d’you say that? Don’t say that. I’ve got as good a chance as they have.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” he says, with more than a hint of haughty. He looks away from me and sniffs the air. “I’m going to dump this lot in the car and go back in for round two.”

  “Are you in a mush now?” I ask him.

  “No,” he snips. “Just fed up. So you’re going to stay here until seven o’clock tonight, just sitting on the pavement?”

  “No. I might stand up for a bit.” I smile, but he doesn’t. “Anyway, think of all the shopping you’ll get done without me getting in the way and moaning. Bet you’re in your element.”

  “I miss the moaning. It’s not as fun on my own.”

  “Well, you won’t be on your own for much longer, will you?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “If you’re meeting your cousin?”

  “Yeah, I s’pose.” He’s all jittery and the longer I stare at him the pinker his cheeks get. “You are meeting him, aren’t you?”

  “I told you I was, didn’t I? Do you want anything else in the meantime?” He’s doing everything he can not to look at me.

  I shake my head. I haven’t lost the use of my voice, I’m just cold.

  “Right, I’m off, then,” he says. “River Island’s got a sale on. I’ll see you later.”

  I watch him wander off out of sight. He can be so weird at times. One of the Shining twins is suddenly very close to my side and smiling at me. Her hood is still up.

  “Your boyfriend must really l-l-love you, to hang around all day and not even have a t-t-ticket,” she says, juddering with cold, or it could be a stammer, I’m not sure.

  “He’s just my friend,” I say and try to smile. Our two-line conversation comes to an end, seeing as I make no effort. I’m a bit anti-boyfriend. None of them live up to Jackson so what’s the point? I’ve only done it once with Seth Chambers from school, and it was rubbish. His family was downstairs watching Britain’s Got Talent. I’d spent years dreaming about losing my virginity and, when it happened, it was all over before Simon Cowell let that middle-aged unibrow woman know if she’d made it to the semifinals. Sex is a waste of time if it isn’t with someone like Jackson. If it isn’t with someone I love as much as Jackson. And that’s impossible.

  1:57 P.M. — I offer the bargain bucket to the Smiley Shining Twin, who’s reading a battered copy of Jane Eyre. Scary Shining Twin just sits on the wall and stares at me, but Smiley Shining Twin seems pleased. Effort made. Check off that box, Jody.

  2:03 P.M. — The platinum blonde girl next to me in the “Team Gatlin” T-shirt waves excitedly and knocks my cold chips out of my hand. I apologize (WTF?). She has that glossy hair that I want. The kind of hair that model had, the one Jackson went out with. I’ve tried everything but my hair just won’t gloss. I’m just destined to be overweight and un-glossy.

  2:06 P.M. — A seagull shits in the bargain bucket.

  2:21 P.M. — Mac’s back, talking to Team Gatlin about how Superdry is overrated. He used to wear it, until everyone else started wearing it, then he went off it. He’s so fickle. They talk for ages, swapping makeup tips and shopping bargains and trying to remember lines from Mamma Mia! They’re acting like lifelong friends. He’s got his back to me. He’s so annoying when he ignores me. Really winds me up. I can’t help it if this is the most important day of my life so far. Why’s he being so pissy? I don’t like it when Mac talks to other girls. It just reminds me there are girls out there who’d be a better best friend for him. Chatty, pretty girls who like shopping.

  2:37 P.M. — Mac takes over from me so I can go to the cinema loo again, and asks me to grab a leaflet of showtimes while I’m over there, which I do. When I come back, he announces he’s going to see this Jennifer Aniston rom-com. Our section of the line has bunched up where people are mingling, getting to know each other. Small Redhead offers me a swig of vodka. I shake my head and play with the moon rock.

  Something above catches my eye. Mac’s waving out of the window at the top of the cinema. Part of me wishes I was with him. We don’t get to do much stuff o
n our own anymore, not since his mum went back to working full-time. We’ve usually got to bring Cree along, so we have to go to some playground or petting zoo. We always have a good time, though. A laugh. I’d be laughing now if I was with him, not freezing my tits off sitting on the pavement. I force myself to remember why I’m here. I try sketching to kill time, but my fingers are too cold. I put Mac’s iPod on instead and find a Regs song, “Plug It Up.” I close my eyes. Eyes on the prize, Jody, eyes on the prize.

  3:25 P.M. — Commotion surrounds me. A warm sensation creeps down the sides of my head. Laughter. I must have nodded off. People are squealing and scattering away from me. I pluck the earphones out and slowly start piecing the awful puzzle together. Green Blazer Boy has puked on my head.

  3:26 P.M. — I stand up, my head hanging over, hot frothy sick running down my scalp and neck. Green Blazer Boy is apologizing and laughing at the same time.

  “It’s OK, it’s not that bad,” says Smiley Shining Twin. “There’s not that much of it.” She’s pouring her bottled water over my hanging head and tearing out pages of OK! magazine to scrape my hair with. Scrunched-up pictures of Pippa Middleton and one of the Kardashians flutter about my feet.

  “I’m really sorry,” the Green Blazer Boy keeps saying, but he’s laughing with his friends.

  I’m so angry, I swear I can feel my own stomach acids spitting inside me. What if Jackson pulls me out of the crowd for a duet now? I’m going to stink of some moron’s digestive juices and put him right off. “You aimed for my head, you shitwit.”

  “I so didn’t, oh my God, I so didn’t, I didn’t even see you ’til the last second.”

  Shining Twin finds my face under my hair. “Do you want to clean up? I’ll hold your place.”

  “No, it’s OK. Oh God.” I remove Mac’s iPod from my pocket to inspect it. “Stupid prick,” I grumble in Green Blazer’s direction. He slumps down against the wall, dribbling mouth, pale as a window.

  “Is the iPod OK?” says Shining Twin.

  “Yeah, just surface splashes. Don’t tell him. This thing means more to him than I do.”

  3:41 P.M. — The iPod’s still working, thank Cobain. I stick it on shuffle. The first song is that one from Annie that Mac sings all the time, “It’s the Hard-Knock Life.” There’s a burning in my throat and I want to sink inside the hood of my fleece and cry my eyes out.

  5:24 P.M. — The cinema’s all lit up and streetlamps are coming on. Smiley Shining Twin now has a pair of pink leg warmers on over her wrists. She is also now blonde, and she’s tossing her long black wig from hand to hand. Other Shining Twin is sitting on the wall, knees hugged in, shivering. She still has black hair and large black-painted eyes. She’s glaring at me. I’m a bit scared.

  5:48 P.M. — The sky’s completely dark. A Mercedes rolls up and a group of girls spews out, all squealing like mosquitoes. I’m in such a bad mood and I can’t shake myself out of it. I stink of whiskey puke, I need the loo again, and I can’t see an end to this queuing lark. And then, to make matters worse, I notice a girl from the Mercedes is wearing the eBay shirt like mine. I’m supposed to be the only one here wearing one!

  6:09 P.M. — I feel the last Curly Wurly in my thigh pocket. The discovery briefly lifts my mood. I take it out and rip open the top but the whiff of my sicky hair puts me off, so I stuff it back inside.

  6:23 P.M. — A shudder of excitement, or maybe it’s just cold, ripples through my body. It’s getting close now. The scalpers have turned up. Short men in baseball caps and striped track pants, shouting up and down the line. “Regulators tickets. Come and get your Regulators tickets here.” Everyone just ignores them. People in suits and skirts and high heels clip-clop back from town. I look behind at the queue. It is endless now. There are hundreds of people lining up far into the distance behind me.

  Mac appears in the crowd and pushes his way toward me. I’m so happy to see a familiar face, I want to cry. Must be the emotion of knowing that I’m finally so close to getting inside.

  He notices my smell straightaway. “God, who’s vommed?”

  I nod toward Green Blazer Wanker, who is lying along the wall a few places down, his arms over his eyes. Said Green Blazer is propped under his head as a pillow.

  “It’s coming from you,” says Mac, laughing. “You stink. Has he thrown up on you or something?”

  “Yes. And he just stood there and laughed. He’s pretty out of it, though.”

  Mac stops laughing. A flash of realization appears on his face. “Were you wearing my iPod?”

  I pull it from my pocket. “It’s fine, it didn’t get wet. It was in my pocket.”

  Without a word, Mac barges his way through the gathered knot of people until he gets to Green Blazer Boy and yanks the blazer from under his head so his skull falls back on the wall.

  “Hey!”

  Mac leaps up onto the wall and leans down and grabs the boy’s T-shirt, pulling him to his feet, wincing at his breath. He gets right in his face. He’s so tall and fit-looking compared to Green Blazer Boy, who’s all pale and as limp as a rag doll.

  “Keep your puke to yourself, all right? Else next time, you won’t be drinking out of that bottle, you’ll be having it removed. Got it?”

  The boy nods and Mac pushes him back into the leafless bush behind the wall. Mac comes back over to me, still grimacing like he’s just picked up something really dirty.

  “Oh my God, why did you do that?” I ask when he comes back.

  He shrugs, pulling his hand sanitizer from his coat pocket. “Because you didn’t.” His face is hard and he’s looking back in the direction of Green Blazer Boy, shaking his head. He would have looked quite heroic, if he hadn’t been hand-sanitizing. He offers me some.

  I hold out my hands. “That was a bit manly.”

  “Well, I’m a man, aren’t I?” he says, scratching his nose with a black-varnished fingernail.

  “I meant to ask, how was the movie?” Some security guards are talking into CB radios through the windows of the building. It’s nearly time!

  Mac shoves his fingers into his pockets. “Like you care, anyway. You’re practically fizzing.”

  “I can’t help it. It’s nearly seven o’clock. We’ll be going in soon.”

  “Must feel like you’re getting paroled. OK, well, have fun. I’ll see you later.”

  “OK. Thanks,” I call out as he melts back into the crowd. He says something and puts his hand up but before I can ask him to say it again, he’s gone.

  7:00 P.M. — We’re all bunched around the doors. They’re going to open any second now. Yellow-shirted security people have appeared and big fat bald men in black shiny jackets are barking out orders not to push and not to run once we’re inside. My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Mac.

  “I’ll text you when it finishes, about eleven, I reckon. See the lamppost opposite the pub, the one with the orange sign on it?” I twist my neck around and look across the road to the pub, then across to the lamppost. “I’ll park by that. I’ll put my hazards on.”

  “OK. See you —” But the phone goes dead.

  It’s taking ages for them to open the doors. It must be almost quarter past now. I feel for the ticket in my fleece pocket next to Grandad’s moon rock, make sure it’s still there. Mac’s ticket.

  7:15 P.M. — The crowd swell is incredible. I’m part of this vast wriggling worm of people all desperately trying to be the first through the tiny double doors. Some older girls from “The First Fifteen” try to tell the black-jacket security men that people are queue-jumping. They don’t care — they’re too busy chewing and being bald. And then, after twelve hours of waiting, everything happens. People push, girls yelp, doors open, bags are searched, people push, girls run, men shout, “Don’t run.” “No running.” “Crowd surfers will be ejected.” Doors open. People push. And then my adrenaline kicks in and I race to the front of the huge indoor arena.

  “No running!” someone shouts. But I don’t stop running — I keep on, pelt
, pelt, pelt, and pump my arms until I make the final lunge for the barrier, slamming into it and gripping on tightly. Never mind the dodgy looks I’m getting from the blonde on one side of me and the bob haircut on the other. Never mind that I’m winded. I don’t care. I’m where I need to be and for the first time today, I’m happy. I’m so happy I’m here. This is where it’s all going to happen. I’m going to sing the loudest. I’m going to stretch my hand out the farthest. He’s going to notice me.

  The opening act, Beckon Gallow, is rubbish. Like a load of little boys jumping around demanding sweets. But I guess we all expected that. No one is here to see them, anyway — they are just the last hurdle between us and the heaven that is The Regulators.

  I’m crammed in like a cow in a pen. The other cows pinned in around me surge forward. I have to go with them — there’s nothing else I can do, unless I signal to one of the Yellow T-shirt Guys at the front to pull me out, but only desperation calls for that and I’m not giving up yet. Not until I’ve seen Jackson. A crowd-surfer kicks my head as he passes over the top of us, but I can’t complain. Water is thrown at us from the front like we’re starving orphans. At one point, a jet of water squirts me hard in the face, I assume to cool me down, but it just makes me temporarily blind.

  Smiley Shining Twin must have attached herself to me. Every time I turn around I see her.

  “This is amazing!” she screams in my ear.

  I blink the water out of my eyes and nod as she flings a plastic cup of ice-cold water over her head. I don’t think it’s amazing at all. I’ve queued all day in the freezing cold and now I’m penned in like I’m waiting to be slaughtered, mooing along with the rest of them. I’m not even watching the opening band anymore — I’m concentrating on not passing out. Somehow I’ve drifted away from the front barrier and that hallowed row in front of Jackson and the catchment area for his sweat or his spit and now I’m all at sea and there’s nothing to hold on to.