Free The Blue Book by A. L Kennedy Page B

woman are hidden in amongst these strangers and having their fun, a tight fit so that they’re cosy, no matter what. They could do this forever, the pair of them – if forever could be reached – swapping and making the codes: the counting, the signals and counter-signals – like kiss against kiss.
    They’ll give the full show tonight, a good one – no one will ever understand how good. A night to remember all ready and dancing in them, wanting to start now, to play: they can feel it like breath on their necks.
    A night made of what they have on file from last time and what the man’s found out since he arrived – this in the days before Facebook, Twitter, before lives were bent over for better inspection everyfuckingwhere. The man has to work for what he knows, gather overhearings and gossip and newspaper cuttings and In Memoriams and graveyard tours and averages, statistics and guesses that are always educated – unless he and his love just busk it, improvise – unless they’re riding the room and it’s racing them somewhere and they let it. And they like the riding and racing – it’s what they perfectly do and – for this evening – they’ll be doing it in the Church of Eternal Love, Light and Hope.
    Says so on the posters and the song sheets – Eternal Love, Light and Hope upstairs and to your left, second floor of the Municipal Hall.
    Have to be upstairs if you’re after Eternal Love, Light and Hope, stands to reason.
    He takes it they didn’t go for the Hope, Eternal Light and Love option – H.E.L.L. not being quite the initials they’d prefer.
    Shouldn’t knock it, though – either you tour the churches or else it’s the pub function suites – clattery stage and a star cloth background if you’re lucky – might as well be a stripper, ventriloquist, some shaky-handed magic boy wadding silks into his thumb tip, clanging a dove pan – no dignity there.
    Not much here, unless you bring it – which we do.
    His crowd’s in and he’s had a look round – it’s the usual selection of regulars, virgins, occasionals, desperates: big women in sparkly tops, short sleeves on hefty arms, purple spangles and silvers and pinks, butterflies, starbursts, little girl images of fun.
    No black, you won’t see black unless it’s on a sceptic: the way they insist on mourning for everyone else: all pain, no consolation and fucking smug.
    But no sceptics tonight – tonight is leather jackets, smokers’ coughs – lockets and bracelets and necklaces with names on and even more so for the men – they get the heavy gold, thick links, substantial watches, the sovereign rings and Mason’s symbols, Pioneer symbols, Union symbols, AA symbols, lettered fingers and swallows inked on the webs of thumbs and solo earrings – whole libraries of themselves set out on offer – and the loud shirts and fastidiously well brushed hair. Mainly women here, though – this a matter for women, a women’s mystery – chatting women, raucous women, thoughtful women – little love heart tattoos, or coloured stars – in couples and groups and outings: family resemblances, office parties – borrowed clothes, shared clothes, pinched clothes, eBay clothes – styles of make-up – special friends – and they’re giddy, nervy, anticipating – good night out – they’d like to be entertained and have no commitment, not noticeably: they’re keeping it light-hearted, they imagine – but odd silences, nevertheless – curiosity, mild interest is what they’d admit to – they’d explain how they’re nobody’s fools, would love it to happen, a contact, they’d be overjoyed, they’d be put at rest, but nobody’s bought and sold them – even the man hasn’t bought and sold them – they’re going to keep an