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

sprawled in his chair, sipping the dregs of his pint and examining his fingernails. He noticed me staring.
    â€˜What?’ he said. ‘It’s a crap song, man.’
    Across the floor, Billy Dagg used his crutches to lever himself upright. He stood and glared at us.
    â€˜Jamey.’
    â€˜I see him. Relax.’
    The national anthem ended in a clash of cymbals. Billy Dagg hobbled towards us, black eyes blazing. I stared, sort of transfixed, as he came closer and planted himself before Jamey.
    â€˜Better men than you died so that music could be played,’ he said, ‘and all you can do is sit on your hole and look smug, ya little
cur!
’
    Jamey drained his glass and got up.
    â€˜C’mon, John,’ he said.
    We hurried into the hall and collected our jackets from the cloakroom and stepped out the front door, but Billy Dagg was blocking our way. Beer soured in my stomach. All the bouncers were inside routing the couples smooching in corners. We moved sideways, like we were trying to get past a wicked dog. I needed to pee really badly. Billy Dagg’s fingers whitened on the grips of his crutches and his biceps bulged.
    â€˜Don’t think I couldn’t hammer the lard out of both of you with the one hand,’ he snarled, hobbling after us down the drive, the crutches making spazzy rhythms on the gravel.
    Jamey stopped and turned.
    â€˜That’d hardly be a fair fight, Billy. We couldn’t very well hit a cripple.’
    Billy Dagg moved fast for a man on crutches. He balanced himself on one and swung the other at Jamey, who caught the rubber-castored butt between his hands and held tight. For a moment the two were locked in a bizarre tug o’ war. Jamey called out to me, his voice calm.
    â€˜John, help me out here, man.’
    I lunged for the other crutch and got a hold of it. Billy Dagg cursed and roared. It was ridiculous.
    â€˜Count of three,’ Jamey yelled. ‘
Three!
’
    He wrenched on his crutch and I wrenched on mine and we jerked backwards like we’d pulled apart a huge Christmas cracker. Billy Dagg wobbled a bit and fell onto his front. He began to claw at the gravel, ranting and foaming at the mouth as he tried to get to his feet.
    We legged it down the drive, ran until we lost ourselves in the warm night, darkness like soot on our skin, sweating and sobered with fright, running until our chests burned and we had to stop to catch our breath.
    Jamey bent, hands on his kneecaps. He was wheezing like an old man.
    â€˜Stitch,’ he gasped. ‘I need a rest. Got any smokes?’
    I checked the packet.
    â€˜Just the one.’
    We passed the cigarette back and forth. Jamey considered the last few smoke-able millimetres.
    â€˜Leave us a scald,’ I said.
    He shook his head.
    â€˜We’ll split it.’ He considered the tapered red tip of the fag and carefully tapped off the ash. ‘Open your gob.’
    â€˜What for?’
    â€˜Just open up.’
    He dragged deep on the cigarette, flicked it away, grabbed my head and clamped his mouth onto mine and hawed smoke down my throat. Then he put his fingers under my chin and pushed my gawping mouth closed.
    I doubled up coughing, smoke coming out of every hole in my head.
    â€˜For future reference,’ Jamey said, ‘that’s a blowback.’
    He set off down the road.
    We walked through the new estates that had sprouted on the outskirts of the village, gravelled driveways and neatly mowed lawns and security lights that winked on as we approached and flicked off after we’d passed. Soon the houses began to look like clapboard replicas of themselves. Above us, young summer stars glimmered in an inexplicable sky.
    â€˜I’m starving again,’ Jamey said. ‘Must be the adrenalin.’
    â€˜Or else you’ve got worms.’
    Jamey rolled his eyes.
    â€˜We could get something at my place,’ I said. ‘Maybe some toast.’
    â€˜I’d murder