Discoredia, p.11
Discoredia, page 11
The hare and his pursuers disappear into the distance before she resumed her leisurely flight down the coast. After a while she came to a tower in the sea, with a beacon aflame upon its top. She wondered if it was an ancient lighthouse, but before she could study it further she was inside; her location changed in the instantaneous way dreams can produce.
She was on the top floor, in the master bedroom. The bed was huge, and within it lay a man and woman, only partially covered by the white sheets. A breeze blew in from the window to her left, sending the white curtains that surrounded the bed into a swirl of motion from which the druid emerged.
He removed a silver dagger from his belt and leaned over the sleeping man. She couldn’t see the handle of the dagger, but she guessed from the wings that formed the crosspiece of the hilt that it would be shaped like the head of a dragon, similar to those horrid things her father collected. The blade was curved and notched near the base and looked razor sharp. She hated the sight of blood but something within that dreamtime intuition told her that this man’s blood had to be spilt, that it must be allowed to flow from his neck and form a pool on the floor for the good of all.
But the woman was stirring, rolling onto her back. Long red hair falling to either side of a face as white as the curtains around her, as white as the druid’s beard, as white as driven snow, yet far from pure. Her eyes remained shut but her blood red lips moved, incanting a spell as she slept.
The druid began sweating. Perspiration dripped from his brow onto the blade he held millimeters from the man’s throat; he was incapable of moving it further.
She could see the pulse in the man’s neck, pulsing toward the blade as if taunting it. The druid’s sweat was pouring, dripping onto the man’s face, yet still he slept, as did the witch by his side who continued to mumble her arcane enchantment.
“Do it, for God’s sake, do it.”
Shelly was incapable of moving further.
The artery pulsed again, touching the blade but the cut never came. So much seemed to rest upon that cut. A few millimeters down and a few more across was all that was needed, so little an amount, yet far too much.
One of the knights from the cliff top entered the bedchamber and drew his sword. The sword had a black blade, which looked more stone than metallic. Stone or metal, the light reflected off it with a malevolent shine as the knight made for the bed, walking past Shelly as though she wasn’t there. Perhaps she wasn’t.
The witch continued to mutter, the druid, still sweating heavily, began to choke, and the man spoke in his sleep from a mouth betraying a wicked sneer. “Leoneedis, Etopey has begun to irritate me. Execute him.”
The execution of the druid seemed almost unnecessary, as the old man had fallen to his knees with his head bowed and his breath rasping. He continued to choke, and Leoneedis walked forward, his head moving from side to side, as if trying to decide from which angle to deal the killer blow.
The face of the old wizard was purple and his eyes bulged from their sockets. The murmuring of the witch grew louder and Shelly felt her throat tighten, as if the increase in volume was increasing the scope of the spell. She began to panic, began to cough and splutter and it seemed that the spell had done it’s work.
The druid, Etopey, was unconscious from the lack of oxygen to his brain, and at the mercy of the knight behind him.
Leoneedis raised his weapon; its jagged blade glinted in the light like stars in an inky back sky. He raised it further and prepared to cleave the old man’s skull straight down the middle. The witch’s mumbling came to an end. The pressure in her throat was gone.
Shelly Charlton screamed.
The man and his witch awoke. The spell was broken.
Leoneedis, the knight, heard the scream, yet he was unable to see anyone else in the room. The witch sat up and Shelly recoiled at her beauty, which contained such evil; she seemed to look straight through her.
The man however, he saw her at once. Saw her and fixed her with a glare powerful and laden with spite. She felt that, if it hadn’t been a dream, she would be dead. So she screamed again, and again until she was awake and in her room. Terrified.
* * *
“That’s a fair dream, sweetheart,” said Warren, as his daughter finished her tale. She was pale and almost out of breath after recounting the dream to her father. She was also amazed at how clearly she could recall it.
“But it was only a dream. Or a nightmare, really.” Warren continued, his tone soft and gentle. “Just a nightmare, made up of stuff from books and DVDs, and you watched Lord of the Rings beforehand, hadn’t you?”
“But there was more,” said Shelly, her eyes wide and moistening with tears.
“Go on then,” Warren smiled, time was passing by but it was good to get this out in the open. Wizards and witches, wasn’t that a pretty standard nightmare for a child who’d perhaps watched certain things a little too early and had a voracious appetite for books on all manner of subjects?
“Well, that’s what the dream was like the first time, and the second time it was like remembering the first time but––” a couple of sobs and then she composed herself. He could see the willpower she was using to keep her emotions in check and he was proud of her. Elle would have been, too.
“This time was like remembering,” she stated again. “But the first time was real. I was so scared when I woke up and then I realized.”
Warren couldn’t help but take a furtive glance at his watch.
Upon seeing this, his daughter’s resolve intensified further. “The man from the bed was in my room staring at me and I couldn’t move. He was evil and his stare was powerful. You remember that Gorgon in the book on myths Mum gave me? The one that turned people into statues by looking at them? Well, I bet he could have made her blink. It was awful. He stared at me from the shadows in the corner of the room. He said, ‘You shall suffer, little bitch,’ then he was gone.”
Now the tears came again in floods. “He killed Mummy, didn’t he? He came out of my dream because I stopped them from killing the druid, and he got me back by killing Mum.”
For Warren this was enough. He grabbed Shelly by the shoulders and looked into her face. “No he didn’t.” He sounded harsher than he meant to but this wasn’t easy for him either. “People don’t come out of dreams like Freddy bloody Krueger, all that’s make believe. You had a nightmare, that’s all, and you must be confused about when you had this nightmare. You had it after your Mum.” he caught himself just as he was beginning to shout and pausing, took a deep breath to compose himself.
“Damn right your Mum was killed by a monster, but a human one, not a dream one.”
Now he was crying, too. He held her close and his tears eased as did hers. “It was just a dream darling, try not to worry. I’m sorry it’s taken till now to talk about it, and it’s understandable. You’ve been through a lot, but it was just a nasty dream.”
As if sensing that the storytelling was done, Carmen entered the room with a couple of mugs of tea. She smiled at Shelly “All sorted?”
“No. I want to go with Dad. I don’t want anything else bad to happen.” The response surprised both of them and Carmen looked more than a little worried.
“You know you can’t come to the club.” It was out of the question, he had his own bad feelings about the night ahead without this to consider.
“But I need to be near you. I won’t stay here.” The determination in her voice was clear and Carmen looked across at Warren. He would have to pay her extra after all this hassle and she was already on double time.
Then an idea came. “Near you” she had said; not “with you,” and that was a desire he perhaps could fulfill.
“Well it depends on Carmen,” he began, “The Caretakers Cottage is two minutes from the club. It’s furnished and ready to be used, and there’s no one there at the moment. The pair of you could stay the night; there’s satellite TV and a DVD player. All the comforts of home, although the cupboards are bare so you may need food.”
The cottage probably had more comforts than Carmen’s modest home, and would soon be home to the family he hired to look after Discoredia when not in use, but they weren’t due to start for another week. Shelly looked doubtful, but Carmen stepped in at the right moment.
“And we could watch the fireworks from there, couldn’t we?”
Her enthusiasm was infectious and Shelly smiled. “Okay.” she said. The deal was done.
Five minutes later Warren was on his way to the club, leaving Carmen and his daughter to follow later. He gave Carmen the key to the cottage and a £50 bonus for her inconvenience. As for Shelly, she didn’t wanted to let him go but didn’t fuss.
They’ll be fine he thought. The cottage was lovely and they would get a good view of the fireworks, a good view of everything if they figured out how to work the monitors and CCTV equipment. Yes, they would be fine. He could concentrate on the night ahead. He thought about calling Steve but decided against it, as he hated looking like he was over-managing. Steve would call if there was anything wrong, and he would be there soon enough anyway. For the first time since Carmen called him, he began to relax. Sure, there was that tightness in his stomach, that trepidation of how the night would unfold, and whether it would be a success, but at least his daughter was okay. Shook up, but okay. He put his foot down and cruised just over the limit. His castle was calling.
CHAPTER 17
It wasn’t snowing, but that which had fallen in the last flurry had settled, and the heavy grey clouds above looked pregnant with more to follow. The gritting lorry was pulling out of the car park, its orange lights flashing away on the cab roof, and Steve raised his hand to wave goodbye. The car park hadn’t been on their list, just the road through the forest, but the bottle of Famous Grouse he offered persuaded them to give the car park the once over. They also left a stack of traffic cones and a nice pile of grit salt outside of the main entrance. Steve supposed the salt would be needed for the courtyard if conditions got too bad. Tripping may be on the minds of those due to arrive in the next few hours, but it wasn’t the kind that you get on black ice they would be interested in. A first aid room full of pilled-up ravers with broken arms was best avoided.
He was about to head back indoors to the warmth of his office––5:15 pm, time for a cuppa––when a red Clio tore out of the forest and across the car park. Before he finished the thought, fucking boy racer, he realized that the driver and passenger were female. The car slowed, slid a little on the gravel, and came to a stop with the THUMP THUMP THUMP of the stereo continuing until the engine cut out. Steve headed over and the driver poked her head out of the window, “Hi, we’re very important people!” she exclaimed, sending her friend into a fit of giggles.
“So am I,” said Steve, putting on his best meet and greet face. Fucking Warren leaving this shit to him. “Welcome to Discoredia ladies, I’m Steve.”
“I’m Wendy,” said the driver as she slid out of the car.
“And I’m Gabby,” said her still giggling passenger. Unsteadily, she got out of the car and walked around it.
He could smell the cannabis they had been smoking, and with an eye for detail honed by years of door work, he took in their appearance at a glance, filing away their particulars for future reference.
Driver, Wendy: white tracksuit, blonde hair in bunches (naturally fair but with a bit of help, perhaps), short, slim and quite pretty, but wearing a bit too much make-up––not troweled on, but not subtle, either. Passenger, Gabby: black combats, plain top, long straight dark hair, touch taller and broader than her friend and also a touch prettier, with a contrasting less is more attitude to the old war paint. He had nothing more than a professional interest in their looks, but surmised that a younger man undoubtedly would, and presumed that between them they would probably break a few hearts over the next few years.
“Pleasant journey?” asked Steve, as he cast his eyes over the tickets Wendy passed him and mentally checked them with the serial numbers he was expecting.
“Yeah, okay,” said Wendy. He marked her down as the nominated spokesperson for the pair and wished the other VIP winners would arrive soon. Smalltalk was not his cup of tea, especially with a couple of stoned teenage girls. Thankfully, his wish was granted, as an old maroon Fiesta made its way out of the trees and into the car park. The speed it was travelling at was slower than the Clio but if anything, the THUMP THUMP THUMP of the stereo was louder and faster, techno rather than hardcore.
The second car held three passengers, and the driver again took care of the introductions to Steve and the girls. John: well built, close cropped hair, camouflage cargo trousers, striped polo shirt. Chris: shorter, younger, hands in the pockets of his black jeans, red hoodie with HAZARDOUS WHEN WASTED emblazoned across it, and Emma: black stilettos, blue skinny jeans and a tight mustard yellow top, an inch or two short of meeting each other, a smart white jacket and neat ponytail. He filed away these details like those he had of Wendy and Gabby, the former of which had smiled at John in a way that clearly hadn’t gone down well with Emma. Boyfriend and Girlfriend there then, thought Steve.
After the obligatory ticket check, Steve apologized on Warren’s behalf for not being there to greet them, due to an unexpected family matter. He explained that he would have the pleasure of giving them the guided tour of Discoredia, and should they need anything over the course of the evening, any member of staff should be able to contact him via their internal radio.
Steve gave the grand tour a number of times, for a number of reasons––for the Council, the Press, new staff––and he felt more comfortable giving it than making general conversation. He began with, “This… this is the Car Park,” and spread his arms out wide, the gesture bringing a smile to each of those in the little band before him. Happier than the Environmental Health and Safety Fascists he showed around, he thought. With the ice broken, and time ticking on, he turned toward the club, the castle, Discoredia.
“Okay then, so, right in front of us is the gatehouse,” he gestured toward the three-storey tower in front of them. “The turnstiles and pay booths are through that gate, the administration office is directly above, and my office is on the top floor. I also control the lever for the portcullis, which we can drop if the police turn up to carry out a raid.” The joke was one he often used, and which often got no response, but on this occasion his audience laughed; the two young girls stood arm-in-arm, giggling as though it was the funniest thing they ever heard.
Warming to his task, the girls’ mood seemed infectious, Steve continued. “To the right,” he gestured toward a two-story tower, separated from the gatehouse by a wall topped with battlements and interspersed with the type of slits the defenders of a real castle could fire their bows through,, “is the VIP parking for your cars, and to the left,” another gesture, another stretch of wall, another two storey tower, “are the facilities for the coach drivers, canteen, lounge, sleeping area and such.”
It was getting cold and none of the VIPs were in winter attire. “If you would like to put your cars inside?” Wendy and John agreed and Steve walked to the VIP parking and opened the heavy wooden gates, allowing them to drive inside.
* * *
“What’s upstairs?” asked John as they waited for Wendy to touch up her make-up before continuing the tour.
“Nothing at the moment,” said Steve, who added observant to the mental file he was building up on the youngsters currently in his charge. “Although there is a connecting passage to the main building. We aim to use it as the VIP entrance for the DJs and such.” With that, he walked outside, and the VIPs followed him toward the regular entrance. “We’ll go this way though, it gives a better view of things, and it’s not like there’s any queues at the moment.”
The group walked through the turnstiles, which were already manned by a middle-aged woman with her head in a magazine, and into the courtyard before coming to a halt. Steve said nothing in order to allow the impression of the club to sink in. The courtyard stretching before them was big; John put it at about three quarters of the size of a football pitch. It was a hive of activity. Merchandise stalls were being set up and filled with tape packs, CDs, whistles, horns and all the other usual paraphernalia associated with raving. Food stalls were also being set up and entertainers, some on stilts, some breathing fire, and some doing both, were practicing their routines. It was like a medieval fair updated for the twenty-first century. Huge spotlights lit up the area from its four corners, darkness had fallen some time ago, but the sky had also cleared and the moon and stars above shone just as intensely.
“Impressed?” he asked, and took their silence as agreement. “If you look at the floor you will see the Hardcore Walk of Fame,” his gesture lead their eyes to a number of golden stars set in the themed concrete paving of the courtyard. In the middle of each star was a signature set in the concrete, and a plaque below indicated the DJ’s name. Marc Smith, Stu Allen, Demand, M-Zone. “We’re going to add each artist as they play the main room, but to get the ball rolling we’ve already done the ones for tonight.”
“Where’s Styles?” asked Wendy.
“Over there between the helium stall and DJ booth.”
“Gabby, get y’ phone and get a pic of me with it,” shouted Wendy, who was already halfway to the star of her idol.
Gabby, giggling less frequently now, did as instructed.
* * *
“Done?” asked Steve with a smile as they sauntered back from their photo opportunity. The girls smiled back. Music had begun to play and Steve pointed out that some DJs were not on the flyer, Thumpa, Clipper, Haston, Smash, Benson, and a couple of others would be getting a slot in the courtyard in an unadvertised New Breed capacity.
Now reassembled, the group walked toward the main building, with Steve talking as he walked. “There are four towers in front of you, two front and two back, and each is three stories high, although that one on the right is slightly taller.”
