Rain Dance

I respond to the idiotic claims that homosexuality causes floods the only way I know how - in the form of a story.

~

“A church wedding would have been nicer,” he overhears a second cousin saying at the reception. Callum suspects this distant relative would also have preferred there be a bride, as opposed to the two young men in suits who made their vows this afternoon. He makes a mental note to strike the cousin’s name from his Christmas card list.

He didn’t even want extended family at the wedding; it was Mitchell who insisted they have everyone there. His new husband (Husband! He can’t get his head around the word) has a much more genial and forgiving nature. In fact, the only flaw of his that Callum is still working on correcting is his tendency to drop grammatical clangers from time to time.

“Shame about the weather,” somebody closer to the top table remarks – Callum thinks it might be Mitchell’s auntie. In this instance he is inclined to agree. Torrential rains have turned the hotel grounds into a swamp, making any outdoor photos completely out of the question.

A nasty little thought squirms to life in the back of his mind. Something ridiculous and half-forgotten. A story from the paper a few days before the wedding. A politician with views that skew towards the radical claimed that the government’s decision to allow same-sex couples to marry was the cause of the recent extreme weather conditions ravaging the country. Mitchell dismissed the councillor as “Old Testa-mental”, and used the article later that day to line the cat’s litter tray. And Callum didn’t give it another thought. Until now.

“Don’t be stupid,” he mutters to himself, pouring himself and his new hubby (ugh, no, ‘hubby’ is too saccharine, he decides) another generous glass of champagne. He is rescued from his own dark thoughts by the sound of a spoon tinkling against a glass.

“Good evening, everyone!” Bellows his best woman, Ros. Oh, lord. He’d forgotten about this part. It has kept him awake every night this week. He’s never been any good at it, no matter how encouraging or patient Mitchell is as a teacher.

“What are we calling you guys now – Mitchum? Callell?” Ros shrugs. “Anyway, ladies and gentlemen, please be as upstanding, as our newlyweds take their first dance.”

Callum lets Mitchell lead him by the hand onto the dance floor, and the song they took weeks to agree on begins to play; ‘You’re My Best Friend’. Because, as Mitchell said at the time, their wedding just wasn’t gay enough.

As it turns out, dancing in front of everybody he knows isn’t that bad. He steps on Mitchell’s feet a couple of times, but for the most part his awkward shuffling is met with dewy eyes and heartfelt smiles. The song is almost over when he hears the maniacal laughter. He spies the culprit at the back of the room; a guest he doesn’t recognise in a bright blue suit and derby hat. He is throwing back his head and laughing, clapping his hands, and hopping from foot to foot like an excited child.

“Bet you wish we’d stuck to close friends only,” Callum whispers in Mitchell’s ear, nodding towards the dancing madman, who is attracting the attention of the other guests.

Mitchell frowns.

“I have no idea who that is,” he replies. “I thought it was one of your old uni mates?”

Callum shakes his head. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

“Well let’s ask,” Mitchell says. “Looks like he’s coming over.”

And so he is – the curious blue-suited gentleman is now at the edge of the dance floor, observing the newlyweds and chuckling away. Once he notices that they have stopped dancing and are, in fact, staring at him in utter bemusement, he steps forward.

“Mind if I cut in?” He asks Mitchell, not even waiting for a response before grabbing Callum by the hand and spinning him around.

“Who the hell are you?” Callum asks, trying his best to be angry but finding that all he feels is relief – his feet finally seem to know what they’re doing, and he is matching this lunatic step for step in what can only be described as an epileptic jive. The music is louder than before, faster, and the other guests are soon sweeping onto the dance floor to join the revelry.

Thunder can be heard over the music, as it rolls across the sky outside.

“I’m Ba’al,” says the intruder. The apostrophe rings in Callum’s ears. “But you can call me Bill.”

“Ba’al,” Callum echoes. “What kind of name is that?”

“A very old one,” Bill replies, clicking his fingers in time with the beat. “It means all sorts – thunder, rain, lord of the heavens. Take your pick.”

“You’re insane,” Callum says, twisting his hips. Bill just laughs.

Mitchell reappears, refreshed champagne flutes in each hand. “Everything alright here?”

“Fine,” Callum answers, taking one of the glasses. “I’m just dancing with God.”

“A god,” Bill corrects, snatching Mitchell’s champagne and knocking it back. “We’re like the public sector. There’s loads of us.”

“Well you weren’t invited,” Mitchell says, “but you’re more than welcome to stay and enjoy the disco.”

“I might just do that!” Bill squeezes Mitchell’s cheeks as if he were a particularly cute toddler. “And is there a spread?” Mitchell nods, unflappable as always. Callum is less inclined to accept this ludicrous turn of events.

“That crazy bible-thumper was telling the truth about us, wasn't he.”

“It’s true,” Bill says, smile faltering, standing still for a moment. “Your union has made the gods weep.” Callum’s heart begins to sink. “But,” Bill continues, “these are tears of joy falling from the sky. Mankind is finally making the progress we have long known you capable of.”

“Huh,” Mitchell murmurs. “Even gods end sentences on prepositions. How about that.”

The rain god hoots with laughter once again, before moseying off through the ecstatic throng in the direction of the buffet.

~

Last Dance At Yoko's (Part 1 of 4)

The first time Charlie Gillespie found himself in the past, he blamed it on the drugs.  A curious mix of Bell's whiskey, the red and yellow caplets prescribed for anxiety by Dr Clarke, and a couple of slightly less legal party favours purchased from his old acquaintance Twig in the pub.  Of all the possible side effects, travelling through space and time was not one he had been particularly prepared for.

It started on a Thursday morning.  Like a lot of mornings recently, Charlie woke up hungover, in a bed that was not his own, next to a girl he only vaguely recognised.

“Morning,” she whispered in his ear.

“Morning…” he mumbled back, trying to decide if he needed to be sick or not.  Her name was... Shit, what was her name?  He wanted to say Jor-El, but he knew that was the name of Marlon Brando’s character in Superman.  Janelle.  That was it.

“…Janelle.  Morning, Janelle.”

She was a good looking girl.  A damn sight prettier than some of the women he’d found himself waking up with in the last six months.  As she got up from the bed and covered herself with a robe, Charlie spotted a rose tattoo on her left shoulderblade.  Was that why he’d gone home with her last night?  Because that tattoo had been visible in her revealing dress?  Her dark skin and hair were a factor too, he supposed.  Not forgetting those gold hoop earrings.  Little things that might have made her look enough like Alicia to fool him in the hazy stupor of karaoke night at The Crown.

Alicia.  The one and only girl Charlie had ever loved.  Not that he ever told her, mind.  He’d thought himself exempt from that kind of sappy gesture, even when it really counted.  And now it was too late.  Alicia was gone, and here he was, trying to get high enough to fashion a decent simulacrum out of some random girl in a bar.

“Breakfast?”  Janelle asked from the bedroom door.  Charlie shook his head and tumbled from the bed, reaching blindly on the floor for his clothes.  A look of understanding formed in Janelle’s eyes.  She was disappointed, but far from surprised.

“I have to get to work,” Charlie offered, lamely.  She didn’t even need to believe the lie if she didn’t want to.  He dressed quickly and was soon out of there.

The morning that greeted him as he left the building was bright and unforgiving.  Charlie pulled up the collar of his jacket and retrieved his iPod from the pocket.  One of these days he was going to lose or break that thing, and he dreaded to think what the walk of shame would be like without it.

Charlie lit a cigarette and put the player on shuffle, hoping to blast away some of the cobwebs before he got home.  He could feel the ill effects of everything he had taken last night waiting for him just out of sight, like an albatross.  Biding their time to hit him when he least expected it.

A song came on that he didn't remember adding: "I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor".  Old enough now to qualify as a classic, which meant it belonged on an entirely different playlist.  Charlie couldn't hear this song without thinking of uni, of how he had gone from loving it to hating it as the DJs played it to death.  And of course, like everything else at the moment, it made him think of Alicia.

The moment her name entered his head, the moment he began to picture her face, Charlie felt the albatross swoop in.  The cigarette dropped from his fingers.  The Arctic Monkeys suddenly sounded very far away.  The edge of his vision frayed into darkness, as if he were about to faint, and then it happened.  Charlie felt a jolt, a pang in the pit of his stomach, and the world around him vanished. 

For a split second, he was terrified.  He thought he was dead.  Then, in the blink of an eye, he felt something solid under his feet, and the world came rushing back in a surge of colour and sound.  Charlie promptly dropped to his knees and vomited.  He felt hammered.  It took him a few moments to scramble to his feet and realise that the pounding he could feel wasn't in his head - it was the rhythmic thump thump thump of a nightclub.  He looked around.  The walls weren't closing in on him like he'd first feared; he was simply in a toilet cubicle, standing next to a small puddle of sick.  With aching, trembling fingers, Charlie slid back the bolt on the cubicle door and stepped out into the room

The sight of urinals filled him with relief; he hadn’t blindly stumbled into that sacred territory marked “Ladies”.  It looked like any gents lavatory in any club.  He could be anywhere.  Charlie couldn't remember the last time he'd blacked out so completely. It was a small miracle that any bouncer in their right mind had let him come in, the state he was in.  Charlie rinsed out his mouth at one of the sinks, then stumbled out of the toilets and into a red, tunnel-like hallway.

An oft-cited cliché tried to form on his tongue, but he struggled to get the words out.

"Toto," he rasped.  "Kansas."

He was dreaming.  He had to be.  The garish pop art on the walls, the sticky floor, the smell of aniseed and cigarette smoke...  There was no mistaking it; he was in Yoko's. 

"Impossible," he said, clearing his throat.

"You what, mate?"  A young man leaning against the wall looked up from his phone.

"Is this Yoko's?"  Charlie asked.  The man laughed.

"Had a bit too much have we?"  He finished texting, then met Charlie's eye again.  "Yeah, we're in Yoko's."

A dream, Charlie decided.  Definitely a dream.  Because Yoko's never opened in the day. Yoko’s was miles from here. Yoko’s closed its doors for good almost two years ago.  And yet…  He couldn’t recall ever having a dream this vivid.  The smells, the sounds.  Most of them quite unpleasant.  Charlie wandered further down the red corridor, towards the music.  Déjà vu did not even begin to describe what he was feeling.  Already seen?  Already lived, more like.  He had spent longer than he cared to mention in this smoky corner of Carrow, off his head when he should have been working to achieve something other than a third class degree.  It had been a second home to him… and her.  Always her.

Charlie emerged into the club itself, where the Arctic Monkeys were blearing from the sound system, almost as if to greet him.  “I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor.”

He needed a drink.  Or a dose of anti-psychotics.  But he’d settle for a drink.  Charlie made his way through the sparse crowd to the bar, and ordered a double whiskey.  He knocked it back before realising he didn’t have any money.

“Fuck,” he muttered, patting his jacket and jeans knowing full well he would find nothing there.  He smiled uselessly at the barmaid, a skinny blonde with a hard, thin mouth, while trying to think up some excuse or platitude.  Before he could come out with anything, he saw a slender hand push a ten pound note across the bar in the direction of the blonde girl.

Charlie knew that hand.  He knew those polished red nails, the white gold pinkie ring, and the tiny scar on the thumb (from an incident involving lots of wine and a noble attempt at making bacon sandwiches).  Charlie looked up at the owner of the hand.  She smiled, and then she slapped him.

“Where the hell have you been?”  She asked furiously.  “I’ve been waiting here like an idiot for over an hour.”

His cheek burned where she had struck him.  Definitely not a dream, then.

“Alicia,” he said, “I don’t understand.”

“What’s not to understand?”  She asked.  “We arranged to meet here at nine and you didn’t show up.  Again.”  She signalled to the barmaid for another shot and then necked it, wincing slightly.  Neat spirits had never agreed with Alicia; she was a rosé girl at heart.  She slammed the glass down on the bar, as if to punish it for the vile taste of the whiskey, and then returned her glare to its rightful recipient: him.

Charlie remembered this row.  He remembered this whole evening.  It was the last night of university.  Tomorrow, they would both leave Carrow; Alicia would go home to London and Charlie would go back to Bristol, and they would never see each other again. 

“Alicia,” Charlie whispered, and then he said something that could not be heard under the din of the club.

“What?”  She asked, leaning in.  Charlie repeated himself, but she shook her head and held her hand up to her ear, sidling ever closer. 

“You’re dead,” Charlie shouted into her ear.

The beat stopped.  The bar that Charlie was leaning on vanished, and Alicia disappeared along with it.  Charlie fell into darkness, grappling for a hold on something, anything, before colliding with something hard and flat.  It might have knocked him out cold, or he might have awoken straight away – he couldn’t be sure.  All he knew was that when he opened his eyes, he was lying face-down on the living room floor in his flat.

~

To Be Continued
Read Part Two