At the gig
October 9, 2011 § Leave a comment
First thing he knows about it is two security guards hauling him over the barrier. No time to argue, or to tell that girl next to him he’d see her in a bit. One of the guards, the fat one with bad tats down his arms, has the boy’s arm twisted up and he’s pushing the boy along so there’s no choice but to stumble and be shoved towards the exit.
Just high spirits, really. Just having a laugh, right? Two weeks into uni, freshers’ week spiralling on, and someone said this gig was on.
He’s not even had that much to drink. Well. He’s had enough that the guard’s fist piling into his bony ribs once they’re out of sight will feel more like pillows being plumped, and his journey down the staircase will seem more cushioned than tomorrow’s bruises will admit. Enough that even though he knows he should probably shut up, he can’t resist one last jibe as the door opens and he’s pushed through.
His mam was always telling him. She’d say his mouth would get him into proper trouble one day. Said he never knew when to stop.
The guards gather round and the sound of the music outside drowns out anything else he might have to say.