Free Boy A by Jonathan Trigell Page B

important after all. Michelle’s sure to come around, isn’t she. She doesn’t understand at the moment, that’s all. And every time he moves, he still gets a bolt of joy along his limbs. He can’t not move, really. It’s like the music’s making him move.
    ‘Plenty more fish, Dodger,’ says Chris. ‘Come on, let’s hit the floor. I feel like I’m coming up now.’
    Jack is drawn down to the sunken garden by the footsteps of his friends. Chris selects them a place in the spotlight shade of a pillar, and immediately starts to dance: weaving a wild Spanish style, out of keeping with the House that’s playing. He grins like he’s taking the piss, and spins about to eye the birds that dance behind him.
    Steve the mechanic dances more tentatively, small gestures to the beat. Which is getting stronger. His feet look rooted to the ground except for occasional sideways slides. Jack watches him. Clumsily copies him, diluting already modest moves.
    Michelle has not returned to the little group she was dancing with before. Jack finds that it really doesn’t matter. He feels on top of the world. Dancing is easy, he’s a natural. He knows he’s high but he couldn’t help it, could he? And all the pain has gone now. He is not threatened by anyone. Since it can never happen again he might as well just enjoy this once to the max. There’ll be plenty of time to make up with Michelle. He’s got the rest of his life, hasn’t he? He’s got his whole life ahead now. Steve the mechanic pats himon the back, and clenches into a half-hug. And Jack is sure that this moment will never fade. Everything is possible and wonderful. Nothing can ever go wrong again.
    But the ginger bloke from the toilet is poking into the air at Jack. Moving towards him, bewildering him, shaking his confidence just when he thought he could dance. Just when he was slipping some new expression into his rented routine. Jack thinks that ginger bloke is laughing at him, pushing hands towards him, mocking him. He tries to copy ginger bloke’s moves, mirroring to make himself less vulnerable. Ginger bloke seems to like this. His eyes sparkle and he exaggerates his dance: hands all over the shop, like an orangutan doing kung fu. Jack keeps copying, really loving it, realizing that ginger bloke was being nice all along. Not laughing at him; dancing at him. Friendship floats between them, Jack can feel it. Like he feels the strobe lights in his hair.
    He spends two hours at this elevation. In this state of elation. Buoyant in a world populated by dancing strangers, who are no longer strange. With his friends Chris, and Steve the mechanic, and ginger bloke, and girl with flares, and other girl with blue highlights and a vest that looks like fish scales. There are others too who may not quite be friends, but must at least be acquaintances because they dance nearby.
    They all clap and cheer when the music finally stops, and by the power of their collective will they force the DJ to play two more tunes. It is generally concluded that these are the best tracks of the night. And Jack is happy to agree with ginger bloke, that the evening has been: ‘Well pucker.’
    ‘Listen, mate,’ ginger bloke goes on, shielding his eyes from the sudden rise of the house lights. ‘I’m mates with the organizer, and there’s going to be a massive after party. You gonna come?’
    ‘I’m with my other mates,’ Jack says, thumbing behind him to where Chris and Steve the mechanic have got an arm around each another.
    ‘Bring ‘em, man, bring ‘em all. Look, I’ll give you a wodge of tickets, you’re all right you.’
    From the back pocket of baggy trousers, he produces a stack of tickets like a TV gangster’s bill-fold. He peels off six and hands them to Jack.
    ‘If you need more come back to me, yeah,’ ginger bloke says. ‘I’m s’posed to have given ‘em all out anyway.’
    He saunters off into the thick of dazed clubbers, to distribute more tickets among the