Read Online John the Revelator by Peter Murphy - Free Book Online

beer and grimaced at the bitter gassy taste and watched the dancers. A man in a swanky blazer-shirt-and-tie combo did a duck-walk. Jamey nodded at a big square-headed lump of a lad dressed in a shirt and slacks. Despite the heat, he had a jumper knotted around his neck. Car keys dangled from his belt loop like talismans for attracting girls. Jamey pumped his knee in time to the rhythms pounding from the sound system.
    â€˜What do you think of this music?’ he shouted.
    Some hyperactive dance track, repetitive beats, vocal speeded up.
    â€˜I told you, music’s not really my thing.’
    Jamey affected his sceptical look.
    â€˜For someone who claims he’s not interested in music, you seem to pay very close attention to it.’ He shook his head in lamentation. ‘Sometimes I think you were dropped here in a Martian pod.’
    Jamey was right, but I couldn’t explain how I felt. Something about music seemed dangerous to me. It felt as though if I wasn’t careful, it might overwhelm my senses, swallow me up.
    Sunburned mountainy men slouched on the periphery of the floor, arms folded or hands thrust in their pockets, observing the action like sad silverbacks. Girls strutted and gyrated. Discombobulated lads tried to get their attention by mincing and face-making and throwing mock Travolta shapes. Jamey scrunched up his nose, obviously unimpressed by their moves.
    â€˜You ever notice how posh people can’t dance?’ he said.
    I didn’t answer. I’d always thought of Jamey’s family as kind of posh.
    There was a guy with crutches sitting on a corner bench. His right leg was in a cast and his face was pinched and coated in straggly red beard. A white singlet exposed wiry arms crudely tattooed with Indian ink, and he cradled a large bottle of Smithwicks between his thighs. Every so often he used one of his crutches to hike up dancers’ skirts, and they recoiled and cursed at him.
    I nudged Jamey.
    â€˜Who’s the gimp?’
    â€˜Billy Dagg. Nasty piece of work.’
    â€˜What happened to his leg?’
    â€˜He got impudent one night upstairs in Donahue’s.’
    A sort of window hatch opened beside the bar, and within seconds a queue had formed.
    Jamey handed me his meal ticket.
    â€˜Dinner is served,’ he said. ‘I got the drinks in.’
    I was going to ask him why they served food this late, but didn’t want to appear like more of a hick than I already was. Something to do with the licensing laws I figured. I lifted my pint and hurried across the floor to get in line for the hatch. The queue shuffled towards the window like convicts on a chain gang. Somebody jostled my elbow, spilling beer over my wrist and hand. I turned and saw the big African-looking bloke towering over me.
    â€˜Howya,’ I said.
    He nodded.
    I wondered if any girls saw me talking to him, would they think I was his friend and ogle me too. We shuffled forward a bit more.
    â€˜So,’ I said. ‘Where you from anyway?’
    He blanked me.
    I made it to the front of the queue. The girl behind the hatch handed me napkins and plastic cutlery and two paper plates heaped with chicken and mashed potatoes. I ferried them back to our spot beside the dance floor and handed Jamey his plate.
    The DJ, a gangly bloke with a ‘70s footballer haircut, interrupted the dance music to put on a slow song with a church organ melody. The floor cleared and just as quickly refilled with couples that began to dance close and kiss and grope each other’s hair and backsides. The slow song gave way to a sort of melodramatic ballad with a really long saxophone solo. Jamey put his empty plate under the chair and wiped his mouth.
    â€˜John-boy,’ he yelled into my ear, making it whine. ‘Have you ever had a girl?’
    â€˜Say again?’
    I had heard him fine.
    â€˜Have you ever, y’know, thrown the gob on anyone?’
    â€˜Not yet.’
    â€˜You’re