Girls Like Funny Boys

Chapter One

JOHNNY GOODWIN

invites

TO DOOMSDAY

at the Tiger Club, Fortitude Valley

Saturday, October 11, 1986, 8pm-1am

R.S.V.P.

Johnny tucked his eighteenth birthday card invitation into a shirt pocket and trotted down the front steps of his home.

Hopefully the night would turn out nothing like Catherine Roberts’ seventeenth birthday party a few months ago. Boy, had that bash stiffed. Hardly a surprise, given her uptight parents had hung around to ensure the place remained booze-free. A house party with oldies and no grog.

Christ.

People had killed time by slumping on the furniture until Ken Price supplied the deathblow by spilling grape juice over Catherine’s daggy pink frock. To say she’d turned on the waterworks was an understatement. That girl had started wailing, a caterwaul so persistent there was no way Mental As Anything could compete on the living room’s portable cassette recorder.

About twenty people had then chosen to demonstrate their concern by slipping out to the pub. The sight of a cross-eyed father trying to console his damp daughter remained the highlight of a shindig that had since passed into Year 12 folklore for its dullness.

Johnny ambled along the tree-lined street as homely noises streamed from the open windows: tinny radio music, cutlery scraping on plates, peals of laughter, a TV car chase. Occasionally he glanced up at the thousands of bats flapping untidily back and forth across the pink-tinged sky. He turned onto Shafston Avenue as traffic sped toward the city centre via a charmless tangle of grey metal otherwise known as the Story Bridge. Beneath it the Story Bridge Hotel squatted on a hairpin bend of the Brisbane River.

It was nearly seven o’clock. Johnny chewed his bottom lip in front of the pub’s main door. It was going to be a good night, the party being the last chance for everyone to let their hair down before next month’s exams. He took a couple of deep breaths and walked in, nodding at the pretty bartender. She smirked as he caught his foot against a table leg.

‘JOHNNY!’

The cry barrelled down from the pub’s far end. Richie was draped over a barstool with the dregs of his beer going flat in front of him as six or seven mates raised their glasses. As he walked toward Richie, they bellowed:

‘Why was he born so beautiful,

Why was he born at all?

He’s no fuckin’ use to anyone,

He’s no fuckin’ use at all.’

Johnny flashed his finger. ‘Aah, get lost!’

They cheered, returning to the telly’s rugby league highlights as he sat next to Richie.

‘Hey, thought you weren’t coming, man! You stop off to root that blonde behind the bar at the Shafston?’

Johnny laughed. It was always good to see Richie. ‘Come off it, Rich. I had her last month and told you then she was crap.’

Richie laughed, almost slipping from his stool. ‘That panto. Pure gold. You’re a legend, mate. A comedy legend.’

‘Oh, you remember my panto, then?’

Richie grabbed his arm. ‘Your take on Turley. You’re stood there with that fuckin’ stupid hamster bedding stuck to your cheeks for his sideburns and you’re saying...’ He cleared his throat in a bid to imitate the geography teacher’s high-pitched drone. ‘What do you find down a coalmine? Eh? C’mon, boys and girls, what do you find down a coalmine? No...?’ He tried to keep a straight face as Johnny enjoyed the slurred impersonation. ‘Well, I’ll tell you, boys and girls. It’s coal. That’s what it is. It’s coal.’ He slumped on the bar, banging a fist.

Johnny looked on, experiencing the usual flush of pleasure at being reminded of his loosely themed Wizard of Oz Christmas panto. It had been an hour-long romp featuring many thinly disguised teacher impersonations as they journeyed along the Yellow Brick Road to see the Wizard (Principal Lockridge, of course). Johnny had wanted in from the moment he’d seen Simpson, the goofy drama teacher, pin a handwritten note to the common room’s bulletin board. Still, he’d surprised himself at the inaugural lunchtime meeting by volunteering to write it.

As it turned out, he’d taken over the production. The show had come alive in his hands, his enthusiasm quickly infecting others. There didn’t seem to be anything better than dreaming up ideas, bouncing them off people and capturing all their intricacies on the page. Throughout it all, he’d known he was onto something. Those teachers weren’t going to forget Johnny Goodwin’s panto in a hurry.

Turley had turned out to be a good sport when it came to his sledging. Not so Mrs Cutter. She was far less pleased at hearing the Yellow Brick Road had been blocked by what was thought to be a beached whale but was nothing less than her good self having an impromptu sun bake.

Johnny had suspected the fiery music teacher was touchy about her ballooning weight but he’d run with the joke anyway. Maybe the beached whale gag had been a gratuitous insult; maybe she needed to lighten up. Hell, maybe it had something to do with her bawling at him in class for failing to appreciate the difference between a treble and a bass clef. The bottom line was he hadn’t wanted to compromise.

And if he’d known she was going to storm out on the verge of tears, would he have dropped the joke? Probably not.

Threatened with suspension by Deputy Principal Markham, he’d been forced to read an apology in assembly the next day. Instead of being contrite, he’d loved the fuss; an edgy reputation was born. He would never forget all those kids staring up trying not to smirk as Mrs Cutter and her wounded dignity stood stiffly nearby. There was also a sense he’d bitten into the apple.

It was now a question of finding a way to build on the panto’s success.

Richie pulled himself off the bar, recovering from his burst of mirth.

‘Long as I live, John, I’ll always remember that panto. Always. Happy birthday, mate!’

‘Thanks, Rich.’

‘Fuck, haven’t even offered you a drink. What’re you having?’ He waved to get the bartender’s attention, drained the last of his beer and ordered a VB as Queensland scored a try and a cheer went round the pub.

Across the room a tall girl with a ragtag Cyndi Lauper hairdo slipped some coins into the CD jukebox. The fuzz-toned guitar riff of the Stones’ Satisfaction kicked in as Johnny studied her arse to see if she were wearing panties.

‘How long you been drinking, anyway?’

Richie exhaled. ‘Since ’bout two. Had a few beers at Carter’s. Anyway, look at this.’

He held his hand out to indicate its steadiness before two women in miniskirts walked in and he lost interest in any remaining attempt at demonstrating sobriety. The petite women oozed confidence, forming a striking pair with their long black hair and short blonde bob. They ordered two white wines in heavily accented English, revealing they were French, and sat by the Frogger machine. Richie picked up his schooner, briefly closing his eyes.

‘What you reckon, John? You like French women?’

Johnny glanced over as they clinked glasses. ‘French women...? Dunno, mate. All look the same to me bound and gagged.’

Richie spluttered into his drink, falling backwards. ‘Bloody hell, Johnny! Wish you’d cut it out!’

Johnny looked on, satisfied with the joke. He loved to make people laugh, especially Richie. He was one of those guys that everybody was always glad to see, especially the girls. His easy-going nature, swarthy skin and dark mop of hair (that gave the impression he’d just tumbled out of bed) won them over before they even knew it. He’d not long returned from a Byron Bay surfing holiday with Math Carter and was looking tanned and fit.

‘What’re you doing having devious thoughts about other women, anyhow? Thought you were married off.’

Richie stopped laughing and sipped his beer. His eyes always seemed to soften whenever Nicola was mentioned.

‘Allowed to look, aren’t I? No different from any other bloke. You know Nic’s the one for me. Only messin’ round.’

‘So, how long’s it been now?’

Richie shrugged, pushing the ashtray around. ‘Coupla years, I guess.’

The answer was vague, but Johnny got the impression he knew exactly how long. Throughout most of school Nicola was one of those girls that the guys hadn’t thought much of. She’d been a bit podgy, nice enough to talk to and way above the Gina Woods of this world, but nothing special. No one had guessed she was going to blossom into such a striking-looking female. Except Richie, of course.

‘Better be careful, mate. My brother started seeing a girl in school ‘n’ ended up marrying her.’

Richie shook his head, smiling. ‘Haven’t even thought about anything like that. We’re not stupid. Just taking our time and enjoying it.’

‘You really like Nic, don’t you?’ Richie dropped his gaze. ‘How come she’s so special?’

Richie shrugged. ‘Dunno. Ev’rything ’bout her. She... She just makes me feel good, that’s all. When I’m with her, everything seems like it’ll be... I feel strong, like I can kinda do anything. Anything at all. It’s weird.’

They sat in silence, Johnny as lost as ever.

‘What ’bout you, John? Got yer eye on anyone?’

‘Nah, I’d like to get my hands on a few though. And my tongue!’

Richie nodded, the joke falling flat. ‘Don’t worry, John. You’re a star of the stage now. It’ll all come together soon. You’re too good a bloke.’

‘Yeah, sure...’

Math Carter and the rest converged on them.

‘Whoa! Johnny!’ Carter roared, grabbing him round the shoulders. As usual for a big night out he was wearing a pastel suit jacket with the sleeves rolled up. A white T-shirt, acid-washed jeans, Nike trainers and an unconvincing attempt at designer stubble completed his Miami Vice look. ‘Are we gonna have a piss-up tonight or what? I wanna see you crawling, my boy!’ Carter let go and held out a hand.

‘You’ve already done that, Math,’ Johnny said, turning to shake. ‘Remember? When I was sweet sixteen?’

Carter threw his head back. ‘How could I forget? You were so funny that night, John. Should’ve seen yourself!’

‘How the fuck could I have seen myself? I was on another planet. Don’t even remember that sly bastard of a barman feeding me a banana.’

Carter roared again. ‘You were just sat there zonked out with this fuckin’ nana in your mouth, hanging onto a blackboard menu and asking anyone who wandered past where you could get a chicken curry!’

Johnny couldn’t help laughing. Tales of his inept drinking often amused the boys. He took a mouthful of VB, turning to Richie.

‘No vodkas in here, are there?’ Johnny couldn’t taste anything so he turned back to Carter. ‘Ever woken with sick in your hair and your pockets and your shoes?’

Carter grinned, running a hand through his blonde highlights. ‘Yeah, when Pricey chundered over me last Christmas.’

The reply wasn’t much of a surprise. Whenever there were bodily fluids being spilled they usually belonged to Ken Price. There was a story going round he’d flashed his cock at some Year 10 girl on the hockey pitch. Two weeks ago he broke a guy’s nose in a subway fight. No one knew if the yarns were true but they all added to the guy’s anecdote-studded reputation.

‘Where is that galah, anyway?’

‘Meeting us over there. ’Bout nine.’

‘Great. Looking forward to it already.’

Carter barged across to grab his schooner. ‘Gonna get this down you or what?’ He looked at his watch. ‘You been here ten minutes and you’re still on your first. Well, I’ve had a word with everyone and we don’t think it’s good enough. Do we, boys?’

They noisily agreed. Several hands gripped Johnny’s shoulders, demanding the schooner be downed.

‘Ah, come on, boys! You know I’m ratshit at this sorta thing.’

Carter shoved the glass into his hand. ‘Get it down ya!’

Knowing it would be useless to protest any longer, he drained the glass after two aborted attempts to rapturous applause.

JOHNNY HAD NEVER DRUNK at the Tiger Club, even though it was only a few clicks from his Kangaroo Point apartment. An earlier check had revealed a public bar, a small bowling alley and a ‘special functions’ room with a dance floor and bar. The place had seemed ideal (especially as it had a reputation for turning a blind eye to underage drinking) while it only cost one hundred bucks with another forty for the DJ. Of course, it was hardly the Brisbane nightspot but it wasn’t a toilet either.

Anyhow, he’d always been puzzled why Carter and Richie loved some of the Valley’s pubs but dismissed others as ‘dives.’ As long as they served beer and had somewhere to park your bones they all seemed pretty much the same. Mind you, a couple of Gary Glitter records on the jukebox always helped.

Johnny knew his party had a good chance of being something special. He was the oldest kid in school, the only one having an eighteenth. In Year 8 he’d contracted Ross River Virus on a camping trip, a debilitating illness that forced him to recuperate at home. His teachers had supplied coursework and assignments but studying had proved impossible. Most days his swollen joints had ached too much, his listlessness sucking out the inclination to even flip open a textbook.

After four months (and course after useless course of anti-inflammatory pills) he’d decided to repeat Year 8. Two months later he’d shrugged off the virus, leaving him with an occasional flare-up and a loathing of mosquitoes, but at least there’d been a silver lining. Would he ever forget taking his seat in English behind Angie Everson? Sometimes when she linked arms or just rang up for a drunken ramble, mossies didn’t seem so bad after all.

By now he’d sunk four schooners. Four was always his marker and whenever he went over that he entered dangerous territory. He was pretty poor at holding his drink, convinced it was connected to his skinniness, and usually wanted to spew in the morning. Sometimes he wondered why he did it. Still, he felt OK and the invigorating walk across the Story Bridge into the Valley had filled his lungs with fresh air.

The others were trailing behind as he neared the Tiger Club with Carter and Richie. From behind its paint-peeled doors Olivia Newton-John’s thin voice insisted on getting animal. Then they were stopped − or rather interrupted − by some kind of bouncer. He was a shabby old man in a grey overcoat with a dog-end glued to a corner of his trembling mouth. Johnny handed over his invitation.

‘Coming for a jig later?’ Carter chirped, causing the old guy to wheeze, shake his head and wave them away. ‘Watch out, he might have you with his walking stick!’ Carter flipped up his Ray-Ban Wayfarers and pushed past. ‘Yeah, PAR-TEEE!’ He thumped through the swing doors, arm draped round Richie.

Johnny watched them go, pausing to read the blackboard on his right that said there was a special function on. He stared at his name before rubbing his eyes and walking into the hall. The main lights were almost glaring. The DJ was playing records to himself because no one was dancing. A handful of people sat around talking; most didn’t bother to look up. They were the ones he’d asked along to fill out the place or because he’d gone to their dos and felt obliged. In fact, most were dorks, the kind of people he wouldn’t be too bothered about if they were put to sleep. Angie wasn’t there anyway and no one got up to greet him.

He looked at his watch. Five-past nine. Less than four hours for his party to turn into something other than a sequel to Catherine Roberts’ snorefest. He strolled to the bar, nodding at a couple of dorks.

‘Get me a Four X will you, Math?’

‘No worries, John. How many doubles you want in it?’

‘Just bring it over to the table.’

He turned away, glimpsing the face Carter pulled, and smiled at some more dorks. He sat on a chair, struggling to get his knees under the table. Olivia Newton-John’s overheated vocals gave way to a lucid Sting stating his case on Every Breath You Take. What a party. Then he was yanked back, his knees smacking into the table’s underside. Ken Price’s prominent nose and wispy beard came into upside-down view.

‘Hey, Johnny, I got you a birthday present! Aren’t I kind?’ He let go of the chair and walked round. ‘And why aren’t you dead yet?’

Price’s laugh revealed large yellowed teeth as he removed a bottle of Smirnoff and an envelope from his jacket. He threw the card at Johnny but placed the bottle down gently. Johnny was surprised he’d gone to the expense of buying some vodka but more than likely he’d nicked it. Price was erratic, a little bizarre, and one of those people who found it impossible to express friendship through any other emotion than outright hostility.

Of course, he could also be very funny, such as the time he’d set up a business venture in the tuck shop to sell porno mags to the younger kids (‘Roll up! Roll up! Get your gash here!’) Or when he’d been threatened with expulsion by Mrs Markham after buying a toy helicopter for his manual arts exam and trying to pass it off as his own lovingly crafted creation by roughing it up a bit with a few hacksaw and chisel marks.

‘Go on then, open it,’ he urged. ‘You’re gonna love it!’

A Codeine tablet was taped to the left-hand side of the card with the instructions:

1. DRINK BOTTLE OF VODKA

2. SWALLOW TABLET

3. DIE!!!

The sugary verse had also been altered:

May you have the shittiest birthday

The worst there’s ever been

And may the future bring you an untimely death

Now that you’re eighteen

CONGRATULATIONS??!!

‘That’s very touching, Ken. Very touching indeed.’

‘Yeah, thought you’d like it. Can I have a swig?’

Johnny handed over his less-than-a-minute-old gift, doubting he’d see it again. Unless, of course, Price took the trouble to smash him over the head once he’d finished. Johnny re-read the message and slid it back into its envelope. Best not show mum that one. Carter drifted back to the table with his fifth schooner.

Dangerous territory now.

He took a sip and decided it was about time to ask the DJ why he was playing shite records. Johnny got up and walked across the (still bare) dance floor to the far end of the room. He climbed the two steps onto the stage, slopping his beer on the top one. The chubby ponytailed DJ had kept an eye on him, indicating to deposit the schooner on a table before coming closer. Johnny did as requested and turned to find he’d slipped off his headphones.

‘What do you want?’ he barked, slipping a single into its tatty sleeve.

‘I’m Johnny.’

The DJ scratched his chin. ‘Well, good for you, son, but what do you want me to do about it?’

‘It’s my party.’

He quickly reached across to shake hands. ‘Sorry, mate, didn’t know. Shithouse with names. Happy birthday. Darren’s the name and deejaying’s the game! Hope you have a great time.’

‘Thanks. Get that list I sent?’

Darren turned to fiddle with the back of a speaker.

‘I got it but, er, I don’t carry much of the stuff you asked for. Not too much demand for Gary Glitter and Sweet...’

Johnny stifled an urge to wrap one of the feebly flashing rope lights around Dazzling Darren’s throat.

‘But I wrote on the list if you couldn’t get hold of any of ’em you were to tell me so I could bring ’em.’

‘I did phone. But there was no answer.’

He’d said it too quickly, looking like the sort of bloke whose concern in life didn’t extend much past where the next schooner was coming from.

‘So, I’ve gotta put up with all this Olivia Neutron Bomb shite, have I?’

‘You been drinking, son?’

‘Course I have. It’s my fuckin’ birthday.’

He held up a palm. ‘Hey, now slow down. No need to get like that. The stuff I’ve got is really kicking. People love it! Anyhow, I’ve got some of the records you wanted. I’ll play ’em later when the party’s slamming. OK?’

He relayed all this cheerfully enough, labouring under the impression he’d corrected his earlier error and it didn’t matter anyway. Johnny turned to go as the club’s swing doors opened. His parents and assorted relatives walked in, looking out of place. He walked up, not in the mood for polite chat.

‘Hi, mum. Dad. Uncles. Aunties. Thanks for coming.’

‘That’s all right, darling. Are you and your friends having a nice time?’

His mother kissed him. He felt embarrassed. He always did kissing her in public. ‘Yeah, everything’s great. I’m having a great time. Thanks for everything. It’s great. Really great.’

He shook hands with dad as uncle Rodney from Maryborough stepped across. He was a rather pompous man with a well-trimmed goatee beard and bushy white eyebrows.

‘Do you call this music, young Johnny? It’s got no melody! Why can’t you youngsters like Glenn Miller?’

Johnny smiled wanly and turned to his two aunts, who were cowering from the sonic disturbance behind their husbands. The last time he’d spoken to them was two Christmases ago when mum forced him to ring and say thanks for a flowery jumper and a soap-on-a-rope.

‘Are you all staying for a drink?’

‘Yes,’ mum replied, squinting and covering her ears, ‘but we’re going to take it outside. It’s a bit too loud for us in here!’ She gave Johnny the once over. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? You look a bit peaky to me. How much have you had to drink?’

‘Oh, don’t start, mum! It’s my birthday. I’ll be all right. Promise.’

She nodded. ‘Well, OK. I’m all for you having a good time but I don’t see any point in taking it to excess. You just be careful, that’s all. Have you seen Don yet?’

‘No, is he here?’

‘Yes, he’s outside talking to some friends. No doubt they’ll be in later. We’ll see you later too. OK? And Susie’s just fine.’

They moved toward the bar after dad winked and slipped him ten bucks. Johnny watched them go, wishing they’d leave. He felt terrible to think that way after they’d paid for everything but couldn’t help it. He headed back to his table, passing a couple of dorks droning on about the Amiga’s advantages over the Commodore 64. Christ, it was a party and they were debating bloody home computers!

He sat back down. Everyone was falling about with laughter as Price took a drag on a cigar through a nostril and exhaled smoke through his mouth, illustrating his well-honed talent for accomplishing things that had no conceivable point. As Johnny waved away the smoke, he was tapped on the shoulder. He turned to see the green, cat-like eyes of Gina Wood.

She smiled and bent forward to peck his cheek. ‘Happy birthday, Johnny!’ she said in her half-lisping voice. ‘I got you a card.’ She flicked her long raven hair and clasped her large hands.

‘Thank you very much, Gina,’ he replied, unable to shut out the murmurings of the others despite the pounding music. The card read Kindest regards, Love Gina XXX. ‘That’s... I... really wasn’t expecting anything.’

‘It’s the least I could do. Are you enjoying yourself?’

She crouched, resting on her haunches to continue the conversation. Her legs were too far apart. There was a hole in her black tights just above the left knee. He felt a hot urge to poke a finger in it. Price finished entertaining to whisper: ‘Go on, Johnny son, get your tongue in.’ The others laughed and the room whirled a little. Gina didn’t seem to hear.

‘Was that your dad who was just in here? He’s cute.’

Johnny laughed, a little loudly. ‘Yeah, sure, he’s all right.’

He wished she’d leave him alone. He wished she wasn’t wearing tights. He stared at her lopsided mouth and the way her fat lower lip jutted out. It was so red it bordered on purple, the colour of strawberries on the turn.

‘Can I buy you a drink later?’ she said. ‘And promise me you’ll have a dance?’

Gina flicked her hair again. She was generally unhappy and a touch hypochondriacal, having few girlfriends. Even they seemed to hang around with her out of a sense of duty but at least they were a damned sight kinder than the boys. Most of them dismissed her as ugly and ‘weird’, especially the way she always wore black. A bit of a dog in fact, but she wasn’t anywhere near as bad as that. Her hesitantly parted hair was a touch greasy, although with a little attention it could morph into a shining asset. She stood five-seven, having supple long legs and perfect tits. However it was her deathly white pallor, large nose, weak chin and droopy eyelids that let her down. The end result gave her a vacant look, like some kind of sleepwalking witch.

‘I’ll see what I can do, Gina. OK? Catch me later.’ He smiled, vision bumping over her tits as she stood.

‘Well, you’d better,’ she said, mock-wagging a finger. ‘I’ll only come back and ask if you don’t.’

He nodded again, his head flooded with images from that late afternoon three years ago when he’d abandoned a kickabout with his mates to sneak into the school gym. Gina, a promising gymnast, was due to practise her floor exercises under the harsh tutorage of Miss Jones, the haggard PE teacher and suspected lesbian. There was talk of Gina being good enough to win national championships and maybe even join the Australian Institute of Sport. Perhaps become the school’s answer to Nadia Comaneci. Her gymnastic prowess was all part of her bewildering reputation. Of course, he could’ve found some genuine reason to watch but how would he have explained that to his mates?

Gina’s reputation was set in concrete. She was ‘weird’, a bit of a dog. There was no excuse for wanting to see her go through her practice routines.

And so he’d walked up to the wooden vaulting horse in the corner of the empty gym, his damp hands pulling off its padded top. He’d hopped inside and replaced the lid, knees hard against the wooden base as his eyes adjusted to the musty gloom. A carry hole in the horse’s side had provided the perfect fisheye view. And then he’d waited, the slanting sunlight throwing golden bars across the blue gym mats.

Eventually she’d padded barefoot into the hall. He would never forget the way her lustrous black hair (tied with a pink scrunchy) contrasted against the white leotard, an image only intensified by the full breasts, tantalising hint of nipple and the downward curve of her stomach. Watching her limber up as she waited for the strident Miss Jones the temperature inside the wooden horse had dramatically risen, especially when the sun’s rays began striking his hidey-hole. He’d slipped his shirt off, sweat trickling down his body as he took shallow, dust-filled breaths.

At one point she’d approached the horse, panicking him into thinking she was going to discover him by trying to wheel it into the centre of the gym. Instead she’d carried on with her warm-up just a few metres away, bent over with her back to him, legs crossed at the ankles as she clutched her shins and stretched. He’d been mesmerised by her twitching muscles and the chocolate-coloured oval mole on the back of her left thigh. Most of all, he’d loved the detail-revealing leotard riding up into her secret places.

He’d imagined standing behind pressed against her buttocks, reaching round to place his palm on her stomach, teeth next to her neck as his fingers slid down the warm convex of her underbelly. What happened next was shameful – he knew it was shameful − but he’d done it anyway, trying to control his telltale breathing as the rivulets of sweat ran down his face. The rest of her vigorous workout was a blur, although he was surprised by her precision and grace as she’d spun across the gym mats.

Johnny jerked backed to the present, watching Gina’s stoop-shouldered retreat across the Tiger Club. She always seemed to shuffle without purpose on worn-down shoes with her feet turned inward.

‘Ooh! Had a lucky escape there, mate!’ Carter crowed. ‘I’d still pop down the doc’s though and have a shot of penicillin if I were you. Just in case, like.’

‘Shut up! There’s nothing wrong with her. She’d be fine if you bastards left her alone!’

‘Rubbish! She’s a slag!’ Carter swigged his schooner. ‘Probably get pregnant soon and spend the rest of her life raising a little army of bastards!’

Johnny wanted to stick up for her but somehow couldn’t as Carter hit his stride.

‘What’re you defending her for, anyway? Christ! Didn’t you ever see Pricey’s photo?’

Johnny gave up. There was little defence against Ken Price’s picture. Ken had drunkenly stumbled into a darkened room at a house party, unable to remember taking a photo. For months the film had remained undeveloped until he’d taken it to the chemist’s and was stopped in his tracks by one frame showing a lowlife called Mike Cooper lying on his back, his trousers bunched around his hairy shins. Gina Wood was sitting on top, her broad back to the camera, apparently having sex.

Ken had brought the damning evidence into school and showed everyone. At one point he’d even pinned it onto the common room notice board, although was at a loss to explain how a copy found its way under the staffroom door. The news had spread like wildfire. Gina was labelled an utter slag and went home in tears, although Cooper only had his leg pulled about being ‘caught out’.

‘She made a mistake, that’s all,’ Johnny said. ‘Ain’t you ever made a mistake at a party?’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Carter replied, barely containing himself, ‘but it’s never been caught on bloody film!’

The table dissolved into laughter as Johnny grasped Gina was a lost cause. What did he care anyway? He downed the rest of his Four X and shoved the glass at Price.

‘Get me ’nother one, will ya? As you’re drinking all me bleedin’ vodka.’

Ken grunted something and screwed the top back onto the bottle.

The main lights went out and the disco lights pulsed into life, accompanied by a cheer. A couple of girls got up to dance as DJ Dazzling Darren urged encouragement. Johnny watched them gyrate and grabbed a half-smoked cigarette from Carter. He didn’t smoke but felt like one now. He drew heavily, blew smoke across the table and closed his eyes. He felt weary and a bit pissed.

The appalling music was hurting his head and everything had an unreal quality but at least the party was ‘slamming’. A lot of people who never bothered with him in school were waving or making some sort of distant effort to say hello but their bland faces irritated. Where was Angie? He wanted to chat but couldn’t see her so he shut his eyes again and wished he was somewhere else.

‘G’day, Johnny. You having a sleep?’

He opened his eyes. Tracey Williams’ agreeable face smiled in the gloom. Not as good as Angie but she’d do. Her hair had been short and boyish but she’d started experimenting with mousse and now it was big, spiky and sticky-looking. She’d also taken to wearing lace gloves and dangling crucifix jewellery. It seemed to be part of some sort of rebellious phase; he’d been more than a touch baffled by her rumoured dalliances with Ken Price. Johnny sat up as she handed over a card.

‘Hi. Thanks for coming.’

‘That’s OK. Go on, open it.’

Johnny slit the top of the envelope and pulled out the card, squinting to read its front. This card contains intimate secrets and an image that may prove shocking to the inexperienced. He opened the card. Beneath the phrase SAFE SEX two strongboxes were humping doggy-style with the bottom one gasping: Ooh baby, you’ve got the right combination.

‘You OK, Johnny?’ Tracey grasped his hand. ‘You don’t look too good.’

Ken Price dumped a schooner by Johnny’s trembling arm, enthusing he could make out the bartender’s ‘dead chewy’ nipples through her blouse. Johnny knew he was going to cry. He realised there was nothing he could do as the angry surge of tears began their momentum. The monotonous noise of the party faded as he looked at Tracey. She understood and took his hand.

‘Come on, John, we’ll go outside.’

She led him childlike through the crowd, unable to prevent the odd reveller from asking if he were all right. He ignored them all, trying to stave off the imminent flood, while studying Tracey’s big hair. They passed the shabby old bouncer doing his best to guard the doorway. Out on the brightly lit steps the fresh air seemed to smack him in the face. Tracey stopped at the perimeter of the Tiger Club’s car park, sitting alongside on a low crumbling wall.

‘What’s the matter, Johnny? Eh? You can tell me.’ She kept hold of his hand, trying to catch his gaze.

‘She’s gonna die!’ The tears came so suddenly he could barely see Tracey’s face.

She stroked back his fringe, shushing as she produced a tissue. ‘Who’s going to die, John?’

He couldn’t speak, letting snot stream down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his arm and looked at the mess of transparent glop.

‘Tell me, Johnny. Who’s going to die? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.’ She dabbed his eyes with the tissue. ‘Please.’

‘Susie’s gonna die. She had a stroke and she’s not going to make it. I know it! I know it! I KNOW IT!’ He gulped down the warm heavy air, unable to look at her face.

‘Oh, Johnny, I’m sorry, but how do you know she won’t pull through? Hmm...? Anything could happen. She might be up and about again in a few days. How do you know she won’t be all right? Eh?’ She continued to wipe his face, giving him the sodden tissue to search for another.

He gestured. ‘Because I KNOW that’s why! I should be with her now. Not here. It’s all wrong!’

‘You should be here. It’s not wrong at all.’ Tracey’s voice had become firm. ‘It’s your eighteenth birthday party and you’ve a right to celebrate. If Susie could understand that, then I know she would. I daresay you’ve already been with her all day. You’re entitled to a few hours off. You’re just upset, perhaps a little tired, and had a bit too much to drink, that’s all. Everything’s bent outta shape. Susie’s fine and you can see for yourself later on.’