Who Wants a Rewind?

Who Wants A Rewind?

'Who wants a rewind?' the garishly clad emcee intoned as a classic 'old skool' bass line dropped from the nightclub speakers. Empty words were printed criss-cross over his red suit. 'I said, whowantsafreakingre-wind?' he restated. The gnarling crowd of clubbers all cheered, save for Michelle. She felt she was being addressed personally. 'Whistle crew! Yes-yes.' He intoned, interrupting her focus. It was early into her shift and already she was sat guiltily half perched on a stool. Admittedly it was from a carefully chosen vantage point just diagonal from the deejay booth, which offered her an unobstructed view of proceedings, but regulations were regulations irrespective of fatigue: security staff were not allowed to sit.

'On the ones and twos - mixing it up in a wicked stylee.' Spouted the emcee cryptically. It was as if the guy was informed, somehow responsible for events, even. It was as if, behind his incessant chatter - a rhythmical string of nonsense associations - he knew, was somehow privy to proceedings. (The rumours had certainly abounded). It was embarrassing enough now recalling events, without being continuously reminded.

'Takin' you back, back to '97'.

Ever conscious of herself, she tugged at her pressed clothing and fiddled with her left ear. The last thing she wanted to do was go back to 1997. What a freaking nightmare! It seemed that the crowd had other intentions and, as big as her ego sometimes felt, she was outnumbered. 'Here-we-go-now.'

With a flick of the wrist the deejay spun the record back, the stylus triggering a flurry of squeals. In that fleeting moment all surrounding was reversed, as if the turntable was motionless and the grooved vinyl disc was revolving the room.

Rewind.

Rewound

The distant steel thunder of bass rumbled expectantly as Michelle and her acquaintance shuffled along in the February bite towards the club entrance all the while being cajoled into line by the abrupt team of door supervisors. Lauren was turned away from Michelle, and had been so averted for the last fifteen. Some ginger haired bloke in an oily motoring baseball cap was attempting to 'chat her up'. He had an excess of gold onyx and sovereign rings on his tattooed hands, and he jittered as he spoke. Continually he stole glances at Lauren's plumpness from beneath his peak. He didn't seem to have full control of his eyes.

Lauren feigned ignorance; she was too busy leaning forward so that another group of lads could see down her top to her ampleness. Occasionally she would sense the intention in her idolater's gaze and playfully look back over her shoulder. This made him shift anxiously from one foot to the other. Thrusting his hands into his bomber jacket pockets, emblazoned with the name of a guy called Scott, or something like that, on the breast pocket, he'd stare at her challengingly until she ignored him, before resuming his former pursuits.

Despite her usual protectiveness, Michelle must have become distracted at some point because the next thing she knew both Lauren and her new acquaintance were engaged in some kind of a discussion. Fortunately, given the inanity of events, Michelle couldn't hear a word either was saying, whatever they were talking about. It was more of a sexual transaction than a conversation, only without the point of sales machine. It certainly didn't seem worth sharing.

He had lit a cigarette for her; she guessed that was how it started. Occasionally the odd spoken fragment would drift across to her '-subishis', 'geeza I know', 'cheapest in Essex'. Whatever it took, Lauren would talk about it; no matter whether that was cars, or fast food, or fast food away in cars. The dialogue was all just a means to an end. That end was imminent. The guy slipped one hand into her pocket and they began to 'snog'. It was a brief clinch and moments later Lauren was parting with him, as if already in receipt. Even now too much time had elapsed as the baritone voice of the head door supervisor interrupted.

'Come on. Break it up lovers. Save it for inside: it's nice and dark upstairs'. A ragged scar ran the length of his cheek. Lauren tensed at the sound and cowered a little behind Michelle. The last thing either of them wanted was to be denied admission after being kept waiting for so long. They were already taking enough of a risk. 'Let's see them ladies: I.D., please.' Fortunately, Michelle had just turned 18. Lauren had an older sister. A brief pat down and a frisk from one of the female attendants and Michelle was allowed in. Lauren lagged behind as she tangled with her beaded purse straps.

Michelle's feet were throbbing by the time the sticky heat of the club hit her. One of her shoe heals was loose, leaning precariously, so that she stood awkwardly. Her lower back was killing her, right around her kidneys. Bleeding market traders; the footwear had cost her the best part of fifteen quid as well.

A momentary vacuum as Lauren threw the doors open forced a rush of thick air into her face, as she made her entrance. Together the pair wound their way through the rope barriers that guided them into the cloakroom area. The air was heavy with an unusual leafy aroma. Warm bass frequencies absorbed them, making both their rib cages quiver and loins flutter.

The building, a giant steel container - part way between a warehouse and a small aircraft hanger - housed an overblown lounge (complete with outsized sofas) permitting just over five hundred people, maybe eight hundred at capacity. Divided over two floors by an inverted Y shaped staircase, which split behind the main dance area and separated the ground floor from the upper balconied mezzanine, the only indication of the building's structure was an exposed ceiling revealing a corrugated roof bisected with steel girders. It was from here that a complex hydraulic lighting rig hung, which would descend at opportune moments throughout the evening. Tonight, a Thursday, the upper V.I.P. area, distinct only in its exclusivity and a surfeit of mirrors, was closed, limiting their movements to two of five bars.

Even at a brief glance, Michelle could just about see that the venue was deserted. She never could understand why they were always kept waiting outside for so long. She certainly felt tense. It was obvious by the long delay that their baseball capped associate never made it in. More than likely he hadn't met the dress code. Despite them both being permitted entrance, the door policy was usually stringent, particularly of late, for some reason. She guessed the shiny laminate 'Sex it to the Max' flyer stating: Right. Of. Admission. Reserved, or R.O.A.R, had something to do with it. For once, Michelle had to concede. She'd much rather wear her jeans than the wardrobe of ill-fitting hand-me-down dresses with which her cousin had supplied her. Unfortunately, 'bouncers' weren't so accommodating of non-conformity; just doing their job, naturally.

Judging by Lauren's flippant attitude, she didn't seem fazed by her acquaintances disappearance; it would undoubtedly keep her options open. Besides, she seemed to expect his departure. Michelle was just glad to be inside, and safe from the elements. Disembodied tablecloth patterns (or was that tea towel prints?) surrounded her, occasionally illuminated from above by accentuating spots dotted around. If she'd had to look at the back of another branded shirt for much longer she would've clobbered someone. As Lauren would put it, even in heels she was only a weave over five feet, and the patterns were working havoc on her bleeding pupils.

Before she'd even oriented herself, Lauren was dragging Michelle to the nearest bar. It was packed from end to mirrored end with alternate ill-fitting suits and straps waiting a staining; their youthful owners desperately craving the intoxication the sticky fluids promised. Each jostled to be noticed by the flustered bar staff - the momentary assertion garnering its own sweet reward. Thrusting her chest foreword, Lauren squeezed her way between two cropped haired figures; a ruddy ten-pound note folded between her immaculately varnished fingernails. She proceeded to wave the currency at the barman whilst Michelle propped herself against the bar, facing into the dim confines of the building. Lauren's crooked reflection looked unnoticed into an alternate venue, silent and flickering.

All around voices were struggling to be heard. Girls reeled as this month's partners leaned close into their ears, an arm wrapped around their waist as they hollered expletive nothings at them. 'What's?' were volleyed back and forth as friends tried to explain that they were venturing across the room to the rest room. Blokes repeatedly asked each other if they wanted a drink before submitting to the din and, choosing mime instead, indicated a necking of beer. The pub was a place for talking, not here. Clubs were intended for other things, as little of it was occurring at this early hour. Even so, the dance floor area was littered with a smattering of brave, or careless, individuals strewn across the routinely buffed.

Lauren was still having no luck getting served at the bar. She jumped up and down, jiggling her large glittered and pursing her glossed lips. It was only then that the barman acknowledged her.

'-at -an I -et you?'

Michelle wanted diet something. Lauren waited for the barman's lips to stop moving before ordering two bottles of the latest alcoholic beverage of choice. Michelle never consumed the stuff. As if to confirm why, a plump guy in a leather jacket and a sick spattered shirt staggered past her and almost collapsed into her arms.

'-oiltsh... I needpish.' He blurted.

She gave him a bemused look.

'Qui... Needpish.' He reiterated.

Her brain scrabbled to decipher his approximation of words. He made to speak again but was stopped by an emetic bolus that bubbled up bilious in his mouth as he opened it to utter. Retching, Lauren shoved him in the direction of the door marked with the simplified representation of the male form. He was already undoing his zipper as he swerved across the chewing gum encrusted carpet towards the little figure. A bored giggle of girls, each in imitation of one another, squealed as the oaf fell through them with his member out. A doorman, espying the scene from afar, dashed towards him. Himself in one hand, the inebriated punter took a swing at the rippling black suited figure, only to miss, as two of the gent's colleagues, with the reassuring clang of release, directed him by the armpits to the nearest point of egress. Suave.

Lauren was still struggling with the drinks and failed to notice any of this. The barman had brought her over three bottles of the wrong lager, and was halfway through opening them before, her arms flailing wildly, she managed to explain to him his error. She tried to read the display on the till once he'd brought a new selection over, but the numbers were jumbled. Instead, the barman showed six fingers and the note was exchanged. After fiddling with the top of the bottles, Lauren carefully selected one of the poppy concoctions, tottered over to Michelle and extended it thumb-over-rim to her.

'I wanted a bottle of...' she iterated in protest over the din.

'Not tonight you don't. We're getting munted.' Lauren countered. (Whatever that meant). She needed to get 'off her face' to forget her ex-bugfiend Chris or Steve; whoever her last dismissal might have been. Upon this occasion, Michelle decided not to argue. She'd already been waiting long enough. Lauren wouldn't hear her protests anyway. Besides, what harm would once do?

'Wha...sthe ...-fference... -tween -em? ...re both ...-esame.'

Lauren shrugged. Michelle took the plastic imitation bottle offered to her and downed a swig. It tasted simultaneously sweet and metallic, as if it had already been regurgitated.

'I'm going for a dance.' Lauren stated.

She didn't ask if Michelle was joining her as she strutted towards the club's undulating centre - Michelle didn't dance, never did - she was merely a convenient chaperone, of her own allowing of course. She was always so uptight about something; always protesting. She could barely even let go enough to move most nights. Instead she sat timidly on a stool at the edge of the dance area beneath a plasterboard mock Greek column, her solitary drink before her as she watched everyone regress.

On the opposite side of the steel separating barriers, the girls danced with their backs to the blokes, who stilled themselves to pounce. The fellas game for some 'tottie', here the courtship ritual had been reduced to its essence. You didn't have to worry about conversational rules, or whatever. The guys would simply await the briefest glimpse of eye contact before sliding in with the crotch jam. If they weren't pushed away (and often even if they were), they would encircle their target's waists and poorly attempt synchronisation. Sometimes the girls would allow this for a while before shoving their way through elbowing bodies to the opposite side of the building. Some of the guys were lucky and their newly acquired partners would turn to face them and slide a naked thigh between their trouser covered legs.

This one time Michelle had seen this guy - he must have been drunk - physically part a couple mid-ways through a clinch and start 'snogging' the unsuspecting guy's partner. It all seemed a bit wrong to her, but Michelle had heard at college that such encounters were a good thing. Lauren wasn't exempt from such desires. In fact she was a prime example. She was presently groping some skinny white bloke against one of four podiums surrounding the dance floor. He had his hand up her skirt. That was her third conquest of the night. Michelle didn't understand how Lauren could do it; a succession of sexual donors one after the other after the other; all those different tongues; all that saliva, all those clammy hands.

She watched the blokes in the blinking glow of fruit machines at the outskirts of the club as they rejoiced in their accomplishments; all huddled together smoking and punching each other's arms, sharing in their victories. Meanwhile, the conquered made adjustments to their attire whilst awaiting another willing candidate to, once again, relieve the frustration of pent up hormones.

Michelle sat with her hands in her lap. She watched as those whom were coupled gradually filtered off the dance floor to find a sofa to share with another dripping entanglement. Those that remained resigned themselves to dancing as a release. Many leaned against the railings. If they weren't already, things were beginning to get messy; hair that was once slicked flat with plastic tub ectoplasm was now sprung up in unkempt tufts, and eye make-up that once accentuated blossoming facial features now formed gothic smears around stinging eyes. Un-tucked and unbuttoned, wobbly footed with the leather soled slip, they slopped their liquids.

Suddenly, because it always is, with a flickering of lights, and an abrupt cease in the music, all movement stopped. Everything fell silent, aside from an electrical hum, and the whooping and howling of a boisterous few. Sulphurous smoke hissed from strategically positioned machines close to the floor. The deejay, who also served as a makeshift lighting technician, was teasing them in a game of music response. The emcee accompanied proceedings, his rhymes and catchphrases - a derivative melange of slang, patois and colloquialisms - providing punctuation.

'This one's for dee laydeez. All dee sexy, sexy lay-deez.'

Feedback whistled from his microphone. Everyone faced the deejay booth, affixed like Limas at an altar, glaring anxiously expectant.

'This one's for dee laydeez and all dem wearing dee thongs.' His bright white teeth flashed as he licked his lips. 'Yes-yes. Even dee fellas.' He quipped. At least these guys didn't insult them over the address system.

The deejay unleashed a staccato of syncopated beats and the barely restrained crowd surged forward. By now a good number of the lads were topless and perspiring heavily. 'Wait for it.' He implored.

Another fractured burst of sound followed. A few more people twitched around the outer edges of the room.

'I said, wait for it.' He repeated. The crowd literally buzzed in anticipation. 'Yes- yes - Herewegonow... ready to rinse it out? Lay-deez... hold onto dem booties.'

The deejay looked at the emcee. Something crackled between them. 'Let - me - see - those - hands - in - the - air! One-two-three-four....' It seemed that this one could count.

The deejay released the vinyl and the speakers flooded into life. Sweaty bodies crushed against one another. Those whom usually feared bodily contact, unnerved perhaps by the unfamiliar surge of feeling it brought, now, minus inhibitions, huddled close. Coloured beams cut through the smoke, intersecting the undulating mass. Lauren began to feel dizzy with all the exertion. As she sat seemingly on her own, her vision began to blur. It was so humid. She held her half empty bottle in her hand as bass frequencies rolled across her nerves in deafening waves. Her feet tingled from the vibrations transmitted through the chair legs.

As the music cross-faded she felt that her body would un-knit as the subsonic frequencies rattled from the speakers; that the vibrations would somehow shake her molecules apart, returning her to some kind of eternal flow. Her eyeballs quivered in their sockets. She glanced at her shaky hands. The lines were jumping off her palms and shuddering in the air, causing green light trails to flicker across her line of sight. The room flashed white.

Somewhere between instances time had skipped; almost like she'd fallen through something. Lauren's face, twisted with panic, filled Michelle's vision as disconnected sounds floated towards her. Someone was speaking. The utterances were incongruous with the delayed movements of the face before her. She failed to register.

'...ere, ...ake ...isss.'

Michelle felt something being thrust into her hand. It was Lauren's designer purse. She looked hard at it, trying to discern what the dark lump jumping across her palm was, before absentmindedly dropping it into her handbag. The next moment Lauren's warm black hands wrapped softly around Michelle's tiny wrist. They lingered there for a moment, clammy. Then she was gone. Another brilliant flash illuminated the room.

Now Michelle was in a different section of the building. She couldn't work out where, but the pitch of the room was different. People slid past her, their heads spinning. The next instant she felt something clamp her arms tight behind her and her feet were lifted off the ground. The carpet writhed beneath her. Fluorescent lines slivered across each other like neon serpents. She tried to stamp on them but she couldn't tell which legs were hers. The room bowed and the floor bulged towards her. The contortions were too much for her to stomach. Something nasty launched out of her guts, seeming to invert her insides. Luminous chunks rotated before her, suspended in the air. Then her world began to roar. Cold air rushed at her in torrents from every angle.

Following the din from within, the dawn silence whistled in her ears ferociously insistent. Somehow she had made it outside the front of the club. A car park, lit by the dull amber of streetlights, stretched out before her. It was empty aside for a lone sporty hatchback, with its windows blacked out, parked across a deserted bus shelter. Muffled music thumped from inside. The near silence out here was unbearable, (what with such a violent eversion). Her ears squealed with the blown ring of tinnitus. She tried to cover them, but her limbs were held fast by even stronger arms. A voice like a found distorted tape spoke to her.

'She's come to.' The voice belonged to a doorman standing alert just in front of her. His hair was thinning. It was the same guy with the scar from earlier. He wore a headset and black leather gloves. Where had he come from? 'There's no use struggling, love.' He informed her. His voice had returned to normal. Obviously Michelle wriggled harder.

'Let the freak go of me you munt!' Her words felt distant. The presence behind her didn't budge. His swollen gut remained pressed into her bared back. The head doorman laughed. A voice spoke loud in her ear:

'All those drugs and she thinks she's superwoman!'

The other doorman chuckled at his own joke, out of turn mind. 'Just calm down, we're holding you for your own good.' In her peripheral vision to her left, another girl leaned against the wall a few feet away. She was struggling to stand up whilst a friend tried to hold her down.

'Dunno how she managed to get so much stuff past us. I reckon she must have had it up her thingy.' The restraining doorman pondered. Lauren kicked at his shins, the minor discomfort only serving to make his grip tighten.

'I don't know what the freak you're talking about. I haven't taken anything'. She exclaimed. The bouncer in front of her pulled a purse from his pocket. He tipped several pills out into his thick hand. 'What are these then?' he asked.

'I don't know'. She replied. 'They're not mine.'

'They were in your purse.' He affirmed.

She continued to attempt to wriggle free. 'Just let go of me you big gorilla!' She pleaded to her captor. 'Honestly, that's not my purse.'

His colleague continued. 'It was in your handbag.'.

'Seriously, I don't care where you freaking well found it. That's not my purse.'

'Then you won't want the money in it,' he retorted. He then proceeded to unzip a small pouch in his sleeve in which he concealed the pills. 'You were so caned an hour ago you thought you saw apes.'

It was probably you guys thought Michelle. As if momentarily reminded of an evening's passing by the recollection, she went limp in the gentleman's arms. 'An hour ago?' She sighed. She usually accounted for every moment.

'We've just managed to calm you down. Who knows how many "disco biscuits" you'd been munching on, but we just saved your life. If we hadn't got that water into you when we did who knows what might have happened.'

Oblivious to the severity of his last comment, Lauren tried to placate them. 'Please let me go. Honestly, I don't know what you're talking about.' Someone vomited nearby. She could hear the retching.

'Sorry love, no can do.' A voice reiterated from behind her. She jolted her body back and forth but there was no use in squirming. Resigning herself to her fate, she quit struggling.

'Come on. I didn't do anything.' She whined.

'We don't want you hurting yourself now love, do we?' The scarred figure replied.

She spat on the floor. 'You're hurting me right now.'

Exceptionally tolerant of her protestations, given the circumstances, both of them laughed.

'Don't you have regulations, or something?' She inquired.

'Try keeping still.' They answered in unison. Michelle gnashed her teeth. 'Thinking of dishing them out was you?' Probed the second.

'I'm not a drug dealer,' she protested. 'Why won't you listen to me?' Neither of them acknowledged her. 'What's wrong with you? You freaking deaf, or something, you autistic goon?' By now the commotion had drawn the attention of a few others and a small crowd was gathering.

'She's a gutsy one, isn't she?' The first doorman observed in good spirits.

'This is assault.' Michelle yelped, looking across at a girl gawping at her from midst the group just ahead of her. 'Call the police.' She barked hoarsely. 'These two are assaulting me.' The curious onlooker averted her gaze in mock disgust. Both doormen chuckled.

'They're already on their way love. We've just called them. For your protection, of course.'

Steeling herself for another exertion, Michelle began to thrash and kick desperately until one of her arms came free. Her hefty captor looked astonished at her near escape. She jabbed an elbow toward his rib region but his grip didn't loosen. He grinned complacently only to feel the force of the back of her head in his face moments later. Usually such a blow would hurt. Momentarily stunned by her arrogance, particularly for her sex, the doorman relinquished his grip. Michelle managed to twist enough to get her heel into his groin and thrust her foot upwards twice. Taking full advantage of the opening, she made a break for it just as her attacking heal snapped from her shoe. Her ankle twisted at an odd angle. Instantly, she dropped to the asphalt floor - so much for a getaway.

From her grounded position she had an un-obscured view of a squad car as it tilted towards her, its arrival signalled shortly after by the sound of approaching sirens: immediate response. By this time, the club manager - a small Italian man in a white suit - had made an appearance, and was stood, illuminated by the blue neon from the sign above, in the annexe just outside the club, liaising with one half of his staff, whilst the other scraped Michelle from the curb. Less an assailant, she momentarily resumed some of her former zeal. 'Ain't that cute! Two big boys like you called a third of the police force out just for a little girl like me. Betchya proud.'

The first officer, spiky haired and uniform in a fluorescent yellow jacket, approached with his colleagues, an Asian woman, and a greying man, following at a slight distance. All turned in the direction of the officer in charge.

'I'm very sorry about this officer. It's happened again; twice in three nights.' The manager consoled. The officer waved the comment aside as he scanned the scene.

'So what's the score here then?' He enquired to nobody in particular.

Michelle spoke first. 'These two assaulted me officer'.

'Assault!' The doorman echoed incredulously.

The manager motioned for stillness. The second door supervisor - surprisingly lucid given the late hours of his profession - interjected. 'We're doormen, officer. She was off her face on something. It's within our remit to enforce the security of the club: for their safety.'

'Okay. We don't need your job description.' The officer replied with his hands up in protest.

'I'm not on drugs!' Michelle insisted.

The officer raised his eyebrows and placed an assured hand firmly on her shoulder to calm her. Nobody had said that she was. 'All right, love. Don't make it worse for yourself. We'll sort this.' Then discreetly muttered as an aside to his female support: 'She already seems shaken up enough. We'll settle this at the station, and then drop her home: possible section 329.'

The drunken girl, who had been puking throughout the ordeal, was squatting against the wall with her knickers around her ankles as a trail of steam rose up from beneath her. Her underwear was stripy pink. Her buddy was trying to hide behind a tree.

A maelstrom of static and unintelligible fragments of speech burst from the officer's CB radio interrupting the tenderness of the moment: 'I'll take the girl. You and Officer Shulgin speak to these two gents', he commanded, gesturing to his male colleague, and then motioning to the doormen.

'What?' Michelle exclaimed. 'You can't do this. This isn't fair.'

As she was being escorted over to the vehicle under a modicum of necessary duress, Michelle made her final inquiry: 'aren't you going to do something? You can't let them get away with this. I've been set up!'

The officer sighed with dismay. 'This is well within our jurisdiction young lady. Let me assure you, everything is already in process; very much in process, m'dam.' The last thing she noticed before losing consciousness was the first officer's communication device, as they hoisted her limply into the police van. Lauren was nowhere to be seen. She'd no doubt had a great night.

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