Chapter Text
June 1993. Manchester.
It's just nearing ten in the evening on a humid Tuesday, and Liam is taking himself on a one man pub crawl through the dimly lit backroads of Castlefield.
The soggy air clings to him and intermingles with his sweat, making him feel like a dog that's been left out in the rain. He scowls and wipes a damp hand across his damper forehead. At least the sun has sunk far below the skyline, pulling a rich, velvety, midnight blanket behind it. The incoming night should cool him down soon enough.
Fuck this. On the daily he'll get about five hundred 'Eeyare Liam, you comin' to the pub or what?'s from Bonehead or what's-his-name down the road or a cousin he hasn't spoken to in a dog's age. He might be offended that everyone thinks he's readily available for a night out seven days out of the week, but truthfully he's usually already at the boozer, on his third pint before anyone else has arrived. Outside of rehearsals, he hasn't got much to do apart from pissing away the few quid he gets from the dole and waiting for something exciting to happen to him.
But no one's called him today, the one time when he's got fuck all else going on. No rehearsals. No dirty jobs from Dad. No housework for Mam to do while Liam lounges around and smokes a fag while keeping her company. And Noel's off doing fuck knows what, so now Liam's left to wander aimlessly until he accepts the wasted night for what it is and sulks back home.
Liam's only companion tonight is a rock he kicked all the way from Picadilly Station, knocking it into the wooden slats outside the first pub he came across and forgetting it until ten minutes later when he lumbered out one pint heavier and a quid lighter. He'd spotted it, scraped it out of the side garden with the toe of his shoe, and dribbled it down the pavement as he searched for the next pub to dock for a lager. Every grand punt he delivers sends it skittering up the road like a slimy sewer rat, and with each of these kicks he expects for it to find its way under a car or down a drain, never to be seen again. But even as his steps become more sticky, vision blurring just enough to make the damp, dour roads glow warm under the soft light of the streetlamps, that stupid little rock always finds its way back to him. Or he finds his way to it. He's not quite sure which of them is trapped in the other's magnetic field.
It's like his very own North Star, guiding him to the best underground pubs Manchester can offer. And Liam knows they're the best, because he's graced each and every one of them with his venerable presence. Since he sauntered out of school with his four GCSEs tucked proudly under his belt, he's had an awful lot of days where he's got fuck all to do, and he does count drinking among some of his more serious hobbies.
The solo bar hopping starts to take a toll after the third pub. They're beginning to blend together. Same warped, yellowed glass in the windows, same gungey orange lighting, same tired selection of lagers. Liam used a rare bit of self control to restrict himself to one pint apiece, unless he could find something to convince him to stay longer. Nothing’s bitten so far. He’s bored, and barely even buzzed. They must be watering down the lager.
Liam would fancy a new pub like something straight out of one of them Narnia books, a joint with proper tunes and an easy-going atmosphere hidden away in an old bookcase somewhere. Maybe in a record shop. Yeah, that’d be fucking mega, a hybrid pub-music shop with live bands and enough lager to make him go fucking blind. Definitely an idea to hang onto in case he ever gets sick of the band craic.
Which he won’t. He’s a good singer, having a laugh with his mates, even if they do leave him in the mud sometimes. It’s probably ‘cause he’s the youngest and they all like to take after Noel, even though it was Liam’s idea to start a fucking band and get their name carved into the Great Wall of Fucking Proper Rock’n’Roll.
Liam just needs another hobby. Or a new mate. Someone cool to talk to, when the barhopping gets so old and wrinkly it starts to forget its own name. Someone he can run his pub-cum-record store with, who won’t take the piss out of him for ending school only a few years ago, who ain’t too busy doing boring adult shit like waiting in line at the dole office to go for a pint.
He’s got his rock for now. A little congealed bit of chunky asphalt. It sails through the air like a dream after it meets the toe of his trainer, arching high in the sky before spider webbing a tall, gold framed window belonging to an uptight hotel diagonally across the street.
Liam freezes. Shit.
A bellboy sprints out to gape at the damage. Liam jolts, spins a near 180 degrees, and books it, the vision of the bellboy blinking spottily in the corner of Liam’s eye like a camera flash.
If he manages to slip right under the real bellboy's nose, the phantom in his vision is hot on his tail. A bit like the owner of that dinky corner-shop in Burnage, whose business model has been thoroughly challenged by Liam and his older brothers down the years, who gave up on the physical chase and started cheating by sending the bill for Liam's stolen loot straight to Mam's letter box. Liam lets out a giddy laugh at the nostalgic thought as he flies through the streets. He's not bothered with swiping rubbish just for the sake of it anymore. Not when he's got music growing deep, waxy roots into his ears, cementing in his mind that soon he'll be proper rich and famous and everything will be handed to him on a silver platter.
He loses steam as his feet yank him further and further East, down to the Wharf where the city is quiet and idle even in the daytime. As Liam slows his energy shifts towards thinking about the type of fame that will find him. The kind that spills out of stadiums and electrifies the night sky into a bright haze.
He squints. Not unlike the one beaming out of that new venue a few blocks over from here.
Liam studies the electric glow lighting the night sky down the road. Like the reverse of a thundercloud rolling through an otherwise clear, peaceful day. Must be someone proper cool on tonight with a light show of that calibre. Liam can hear the riot of screaming and cheering from half a mile away.
He’s not got much else better to do, and he might have a belligerent bellhop after him, so he turns his leisurely jog in that direction. Without his rock, his natural instincts kick in and draw him towards that big, flowering light like a moth to a flame.
That’s going to be him, one day. At the epicenter of a light show exactly like that, hundreds of thousands of fans screaming his name as he crosses his hands behind his back, bows his legs, and belts up into the sky.
He takes a few back roads between buildings, passing graffitied murals of Manchester’s finest. One slimy brick wall depicts Ian Brown turning his nose up at him while another immortalizes Mark E. Smith with two fingers raised so high they nearly cover the apathetic sneer twisting his face.
Liam tips his head to each of them in turn, gathering small blessings for his own fame and fortune from music deities past and present.
It’s getting almost too dark to see, so he’s got to be careful he doesn’t step on any broken glass or leftover needles or come face to face with some street rat who’s even more down on his luck than Liam. His ears perk up as a low roar of crowd chatter grows louder. He’s nearing the venue.
He finally rounds a corner and uncovers the source of the commotion. It’s a bit like creeping through the jungle searching for remains of an ancient, long dead civilization only to find it not only alive but extremely fucking crowded.
There’s got to be well over a thousand birds buoying down the street, giggling and clasping their hands to their chests and smiling dreamily or fanning the sweat from their flushed faces. An impromptu sing along has broken out, something poppy and sugary sweet and somewhat familiar but nothing Liam can easily make out.
He must have just missed the show. A shame, he might have liked to learn a thing or two from whoever was on.
Not that he needs any advice—not at all. Liam’s well aware of what kind of future lies ahead of him. It’s paved in gold and dusted with blow, with busty, bikini-clad women waving at him from the end of it. It’s going to hit him full force, any day now, and he certainly won’t need a posh light show to emphasize what everyone can see coming out of him like primordial tree sap.
As if attuned to the contents of his mind and eager to help realize them, more birds come pouring out of the venue in droves. They continue to jam themselves into the already crowded block. To Liam’s chagrin, far too many of them have brackets winking like glitter from their teeth and baby fat smoothing out their cheeks. Liam winces. Not really his ideal choice of company.
There’s a large, battered matrix sign sitting in the middle of the pavement, cutting a fork into the rushing crowd. The orange text rolls across. CASTLEFIELD BOWL WELCOMES TAKE—
Liam’s shoulder is clipped before he can see the rest. He turns his glare to a woman who looks close to his mam’s age. She raises her pencil-thin eyebrows, blinking discordantly and giving Liam a salacious grin that suggests the collision was no accident.
“Fancy the show, lovey?” Her breath smells like how Liam’s mouth tastes, stale and sour and dull around the edges. “Or are ya one of them backup dancers? Got the face for it, strapping young bloke like you—”
Liam shakes her hand off his arm and curls his lip. “I ain’t fucking backup nowt. And I don’t shag nans.”
She scowls but releases him from her boozy grip. Liam watches her stumble away. What would Mam say if she saw him speaking to a woman like that? Even if she’d had that dodgy look in her eyes like she was angling to tear him apart? He’d get a clip round the head for sure, a bollocking, a lump in his throat. Noel would just laugh and laugh.
He backs into a nearby alley to avoid any more handsy, corn-haired mams in the crowd.
It’s dark here. There’s a large door sagging into one wall, rust melding it into the brick, though it’s about a foot and a half above the ground. Anyone who steps out of that thing for a smoke will trip and break their neck if not careful. Across from the door is a big metal skip, green paint peeling away and falling to the ground like ash. It’s awfully cramped. Liam doubts he could spread the span of his arms comfortably without running into either wall. The far back is closed in by another solid concrete wall.
Liam grimaces. Cozy. He’s evidently fucking trapped himself, bang on. He’s stuck here unless he fancies another foray into that dense ocean of preteen girls. It’s like they’re raining down from the sky. Liam imagines that if he poked his head out and squinted down the street, he’d see Noah’s arc coasting on top of their heads.
He might have to stop here for the whole night. At least until the storm clears up.
His nose itches. He closes his hand around a packet of fags in his pocket, wetting his lips with his tongue as he tries to remember if he’s got his lighter on him.
Leaning against the corner, he watches the crowd drift by. No one spares him a second glance. That’d fuck him right off on another evening. But tonight there’s something bigger than himself settling over Manchester’s infrastructure. Liam can’t quite put his finger on what it is. Something is in the air, on the tip of his tongue. Noel’s bird was saying something about summer equinox and the planets aligning or some nonsense, but the buzzing in his head feels like it's coming from somewhere beyond the mob of fans. The air feels heavy.
Squinting back at the venue, he can’t quite see that matrix sign from here. BOWL WELCOMES TAKE—
There’s a sudden bang behind him, the sound of a metal door slamming against the brick wall, followed by a large thump as something tumbles headfirst into the large rubbish bin.
“Fucking christ—”
Liam swings himself away from the corner, the hair on the back of his neck springing up in a contrast to the way his body moves slowly and inelegantly. He peers into the abyss of the alley, bright streetlights still boring green, flickering holes into his vision. He blinks them away to squint into the darkness.
There’s a silhouette, stumbling around with its hands clutched to its head and letting out pained groans. Sounds like a bloke. A low, guttural whining sound rings out, the vague outline of the wide metal door narrowing and moaning until it shuts with a relieved huff.
“Shit—” The figure lunges back to the door, grabbing the knob just as it closes. Liam looks on, swaying against the wall. The cover of darkness keeps the bloke’s face well hidden, but there’s an unmistakable rattling noise undercutting a desperate no no no no please please please— and Liam feels a laugh bubbling up at the back of his throat.
Sorry cunt. Liam has no qualms about the snort he lets out because he’s been in the very same position loads of times, what with Dad locking him out of the house for staying out too late or skipping school or what have you. Everyone has to have a kip on the ground now and again, whether or not it’s them that’s making the choice to do so. It’s good for character.
Evidently, the sympathy he has does not translate properly as he laughs out loud. The figure whips his head towards him, and Liam doesn’t need his vision to adjust to know he's sending him a dirty look.
“Mind the step.” Oh, Liam wants to get his teeth knocked in for sure. Could be proper. Maybe after they sort each other out, he'll have that drinking mate he's been after.
Sure enough, the bloke stops giving the doorknob a handy and starts marching towards Liam. Liam squares his shoulders and puffs his chest out. Some documentary Mam had been watching mentioned making yourself look big as possible to ward off angry bears, should you happen to find yourself in a situation where you're face to face with one. It has yet to work on any of the dickheads Liam’s locked horns with, but he's sure it'll get one of them to back down at some point.
Only, maybe his vision is fucked no matter what time of day it is. And his ears. Marching towards him, the sweaty lad isn’t glaring him down like he means to flatten Liam’s nose against his face but rather letting a chuckle out of his brightly twisted lips.
“Didn’t mean to crash your gaff like this,” he says, jerking his head back towards the dingey alley. “Was looking for the loo. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
Liam blinks at him. “I don’t fucking live—” His brain catches up only half a second too late. He scowls, shoulders retreating back down. “Fuck off,” he insists with what he hopes is enough vitriol to make up for his (for the moment) dulled ability to know when he’s being fucked with.
“Righto,” the bloke agrees, tipping two fingers to his temple and swooping them out in salute. “Funny, I was actually just on my way to fuck off, cheers for the reminder.”
Liam frowns as he steps past him towards the street. Bit fucking rude of him to not wait for Liam to come up with a proper retort, but that could take all night what with the sudden bout of brain fog that’s come over Liam.
There’s something unnerving about this bloke. A subtle itch beneath Liam’s skin, behind his eyes as he squints at him. He’s moving too quickly for Liam to get a proper look, but he feels he knows him from somewhere, has seen his face before, like he’s a classmate from all the way back in primary school who’s grown into someone just barely recognizable.
Liam almost voices his objection when the lad steps over the threshold separating the alleyway from the pavement. Get back here, I ain’t done looking at you.
But there’s no need. As soon as he cranes his neck around the corner, he jolts back. In the blink of an eye, he whisks back past Liam to duck behind the skip, the faint, cool smell of his sweat lingering in the air.
“What’s—?”
Liam’s attempt to turn around and voice his confusion is interrupted by skittering footsteps scraping up the pavement. Three birds around Liam’s age appear at the opening of the alley, chests heaving with excitement, eyes wild and desperate.
“Robbie!”
“—swear I just saw him—”
“He was—oh—”
They pause and take on various expressions of disappointment and confusion when all they find is Liam staring blankly at them.
“Hullo.” He nods at them, attempting to pull out his most charming smoulder. But he’s just a touch too drunk at the moment, mouth curving into a hostile sneer instead.
The three of them recoil like he’s just spat at their feet. One of them is wearing a t-shirt that's a few sizes too small for her tits, a gang of shirtless blokes striking various semi-erotic poses stretched across her chest.
They quickly scurry back into the crowd, calling him things like ‘bastard’ and ‘creepy fucker’ under their breaths. It’s not Liam’s proudest moment; looks a bit shit getting caught lurking in a dark alleyway with loads of birds hanging about. Liam should go.
“Are they gone?” a hushed voice calls out. Oh right. This cunt. Liam looks back to find him crouched on the ground, peering out from behind the skip.
Liam nods. “Mates of yours?”
The bloke’s nose scrunches up as he grins. “Sure seems like they wanted to be, don’t it. Give us a hand, would you?”
Christ. Liam considers telling him to fuck off but finds himself stepping forward to help him up anyway. Call it charity. Or a sign that he’s going soft. The bloke brushes off the seat of his trousers, and without so much as a cheers mate he’s back to vigorously jiggling the door handle.
“Fucker,” he spits at the door, kicking it when it doesn’t budge. He thrusts one hand into his hair, the other planted on his hip, then sends Liam a manic grin. “Mate, I’m in a world of shit right now.”
Familiarity whips across Liam’s chest, leaving him momentarily disoriented. He’s seen that grin before. A snapshot. That exact look—cheeky, obnoxiously bright, teeth bared and lips peeled so far back that his pink gums and soft inner cheeks are exposed. But where…?
No, he can’t have. He chalks the uncanny feeling up to being talked to like best mates when really the only reason he’s in this alley is because of the ocean still sweeping down the street. He doesn’t know this cunt. A lot of the satin-shirted pretty boys that come through Manchester hoping to be the next Morrissey have a similar sort of hopeless romantic look, and Liam isn’t exactly arsed enough to tell one from the next.
“Sounds rough,” Liam says noncommittally, not yet sure whether or not he’s really interested in engaging.
“I mean it. I reckon I’m about to be hung out to dry.”
Brilliant. Liam looks longingly back towards the street, still packed dense with dreamy sighs and off-tune pop songs. He huffs. “You and half of Manchester. Dole office opens tomorrow if you’re that worried.”
Out of the corner of his eye, the bloke shakes his head dramatically, black hair swaying vigorously. “I ain’t worried about getting sacked. Nah, what's waiting for me is much worse.”
Liam chances a full glance back at him. He’s got his eyebrows raised all the way up to his hairline, mouth pursed tightly as if to convey the urgency and importance of the matter.
“Right,” Liam responds. “Well, good luck with that.” Maybe the venue has shuttle buses set up to take people to the outskirts of the city. Maybe it has one he can take back to Burnage.
“Oi, hold on!”
Liam groans, foot raised and mere inches away from the pavement beyond the alley. There are a lot more pubs on his agenda, ready to be reexplored, but apparently even if he’s not boxed in by the bird rapids he’s still stuck on this cunt’s fishing line.
He turns back and frowns at the bloke, a little surprised to find him leaning casually against the doorframe with an easy smirk despite the clear stream of panic Liam heard in his voice.
“We’ve only just met and you’re already walking out on me. My da’ waited a whole eleven years before he tried that one.”
Despite himself, Liam feels the corners of his lips twitching. Odd. “Why? Was he sick of your ugly mug?”
The bloke nods, shoulders softening slightly now that Liam’s turned fully back to face him. “Oh, mate, when I tell you I was a minger of a child I ain’t taking the piss.”
Liam finds that more than a little difficult to believe. This bloke is far too…well, Liam’s never been one to go around complimenting lads on their looks (mostly ‘cause most people around here could scare paint off walls with just a glance) but this cunt has something about him that makes it hard not to stare. His floppy fringe is loose yet cut perfectly. With his wide, light colored eyes, he gives off an innocuous boy-next-door impression, only muddied by the smug curl at the corner of his mouth. It’s like a Ken doll wished to become a real boy and has been living in the real world for a few grubby years. He also appears to be glowing. There’s a sheen to his skin and swooping hair that catches what little moonlight is pouring in from above, though it’s probably just sweat from the sticky nighttime.
“Fuck are you supposed to be, then?” Liam asks him, like how he would a dog that’s come up to lick his hand. All nice-like, cause he’s a nice bloke at heart.
The lad huffs out an amused laugh. “Yeah, right.” Liam cocks his head, and another moment goes by before his grin drops into a surprised purse and he straightens up against the door. “Oh, I thought you’d—oh.”
Liam frowns. “You’ve got a name, right?”
He nods vigorously, smile embarrassed but coy. “It’s Robbie.”
Oh yeah. That's what the bird with the tits called him.
Robbie turns, idly tracing the door handle with the tip of his finger, giving it a tap to make sure it’s well and truly locked. “Suppose I should ask you the same?”
“Liam,” Liam grunts, now busy shaking a cigarette out of his pack. He lights up as Robbie cranes his neck out of the corner of his eye.
“Give us one?”
Liam thinks for a moment. “Nah,” he decides on, though only to see how Robbie will respond.
And he’s not disappointed. “Tight fucker. Bet you save on soap by licking yourself clean.”
Smoke rushing out of his nose, he presses his lips together to keep from smirking. “Yeah and then I give your nan a nice, wet snog.”
Robbie steps forward, hands falling open in front of him with an easy grin. “Come on, lad, don’t make me beg.”
Liam won’t. A few moments later, Robbie’s pinching one of Liam’s hard earned cigarettes between his fingers and drawing in a smooth breath as he lights up with his borrowed lighter. “Cheers,” he sighs, relief manifesting as smoke tendrils curling in the air.
Liam watches him, tilts his head back to breathe his own smoke into the sky. It intermingles with the cloud Robbie’s already got going. The night has cooled significantly, evening air wicking the moisture from his skin. Despite the softer temperature, Robbie’s hair and skin are still shimmering with a thick layer of sweat, like he’s gone for a run through a lake.
He said he was looking for the loo, but that doesn’t explain much. Liam might think he made him up in his head with how suddenly he appeared. Maybe this alley has a magnetic effect on sorry twats drifting through the night, pulling them in ‘cause it knows they haven’t got anywhere else to be.
Well, Liam doesn’t. He’s still not sure about Robbie.
But he shouldn’t complain. Hasn’t he been looking for a drinking partner all evening? Maybe this is the universe sending one (albeit a vaguely irritating one) his way—and he’s been too distracted to notice. Why else would he seem to fall out of the sky, materializing from nowhere in a dead-ended alley on a cooling night that smells like ale and wet paint and sweat? As dry and thirsty as Liam’s lips have become, smoking with someone else is usually preferable than being alone.
He wishes he had his rock, something to fidget with to stave off the inevitable awkwardness that sets in upon meeting someone for the first time.
“So. What’s a cunt like you doing in a place like this?”
Liam blinks, a little startled that Robbie’s voicing the question that’s been on the edge of his tongue for the past minute.
He raises his fag. “Smoking.”
Robbie knocks his shoulder into Liam’s. “I know that, dickhead. I mean before that.” He gestures to the street, so brightly lit and full of life that their alley probably looks like a black hole in comparison. “Ogglin' them birds out there? Lucky I stepped in before you had your hand down your pants, eh?”
Liam sneers at him. “Is that what you came out here to do?”
“Oh, yeah. Looking to settle down with a nice girl, heard this is the way to do it. Apart from…” Robbie gestures towards himself. “…you know.”
Liam follows the path of his hand as it sweeps down his body. Beneath a baggy linen vest, he’s wearing a blindingly white button up and equally loose fitting trousers, looking effortlessly casual. Yet there’s a clean crispness to the folds and rumples in his kit, like they’ve been ironed and sewn in that way, making him look like he’s walked straight off the set of The Hitman and Her: Rapture Edition.
“Know what?”
“You know.” Robbie waggles his eyebrows.
“I don’t.”
“Oh.” Robbie deflates. “Thought you might have been playing the long game in taking the piss.”
Liam flicks some ash off his cigarette. “What’re you on about?”
Robbie shakes his head. “Nowt. Just figured you’d have seen me around before.” Popping his cigarette in the side of his mouth, he steps back and sets his legs apart cartoonishly wide, spreading his arms out like a starfish and banging them into the walls. “I’m outrageously famous, you see.”
Liam scoffs. “Mate, if you’re famous, then I’m the next Queen of England.”
“Well if that’s the case, your highness, maybe I ought to be asking for more than just a fag. Where are my taxes going? Straight into corgi breeding, I’m sure. Reckon I’m owed a bit of that palace I’m paying for."
“You’re a chatty fucker, aren’t you.”
“That’s what they say, yeah. Blessed myself at my own baptism and all.” Robbie provides the visual by flopping his hand about in a half-arsed Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
Liam bobs his head before dropping his gaze to the ground, teeth clenched hard to keep a straight face. This Robbie bloke might just be a proper laugh, but Liam’s not about to give that away for free.
“I were out for a stroll,” he says, tracing a star pattern in the muck on the ground with the tip of his trainer. “Saw all them lights in the sky and thought I’d come have a look.”
His admission goes unacknowledged for a few moments longer than is customary, prompting him to look up. Robbie’s got this gleeful look on his face like Liam’s just let something big slip out. He's practically generating an electric current, making Liam’s hair stand on end and the back of his neck prickle.
“What?” he asks, unnerved.
Robbie shakes his head, passing the cuff of his sleeve along his temple. He’s still awfully sweaty and a little flushed. “Nothing. Have you got the time on you?”
Liam holds out his watch. Robbie steps forward and leans in for a look, the flame of his cigarette gleaming both in his eyes and in the watch’s reflective surface. Smoke billows from his nose as he breathes out, brushing over Liam’s skin. An odd feeling manifests in Liam’s stomach, making him shiver. Must be from the breeze that’s just curled down the alley, blowing through the rubbish littering the slimy ground.
“Oh dear,” Robbie sighs, more smoke enveloping Liam’s wrist. He straightens back to his full height. “Just as I’d worried.”
“What?” Liam asks again, flexing his fingers into a fist to rid himself of the shaky feeling that’s just settled over him.
A scream rips through the air. Thousands of them do, all at once. Liam flinches away from the sound, getting ready to duck in case this is the beginning of World War III.
Robbie barely seems to notice the noise. Well, he does, but his reaction is more akin to that of a boy whose mother has just bellowed for him to get downstairs right this instant. He grimaces, taking one long pull off his cigarette before flicking the smoldering end away. Bowing his head in front of him like he’s using it as a dowsing rod, he steps over to the corner and peers around it. “Come on, you.” He beckons Liam over. “I’ll show you famous.”
Liam drifts up beside him. Robbie’s got several inches on him, so the scene takes place in the curve between his neck and shoulder.
What had once been thousands of girls swirling about in light up jewelry and stark white band shirts is now maybe a hundred or so, and they’re all swarming around the venue’s entrance like they're readying to storm it down. The flimsy barricade tape holding them back looks about as secure as a paper fishing net. A car is nestled against the curb across the street, blocked off with its motor running and seeming to cower in fear from the sheer racket the girls are making. They’re vibrating so much it’s making the air tick back up in temperature.
Liam fights the urge to clamp his hands over his ears. He chances a glance up at Robbie, who’s completely unfazed by the noise apart from the slightly pinched look on his face. Liam drags his eyes back over to the crowd, curious to see what all the fuss is about.
Squinting, he can vaguely make out a few blokes at the center of the crowd, signing autographs and posing for pictures as they drift towards the car. Each of them are dressed in similar white, baggy kits, hair and beaming faces visibly shining with sweat even at a distance.
Some posh pop group then. Christ. Liam shouldn’t have bothered wandering over.
“My boys,” Robbie sighs, biting the inside of his cheek with a sorry shake of his head. “Look at them. Completely lost without me. Seem miserable, don’t they?”
Liam wouldn’t say that, exactly. They look knackered but satisfied with themselves. Any self-respecting lad would if he was surrounded by that many screaming girls. Though Liam’s not really sure what’s got them so excited. This band, whoever they are, there’s nothing particularly special about them. They’re fit and in shape and have stylish haircuts and all, but give them a day or two without showering and they could blend in with any of the prats that hang around here.
They all have a sharpish aura about them, though, a sort of underlying hum emanating into the air around them. A low buzz stirs in Liam’s chest the longer he looks at them. It feels part manufactured, part rough and raw, and it’s not unlike having Robbie’s cigarette smoke billowing over his hand, the shaky sensation inside him.
There’s a crack in their perfect, triumphant image as one of them picks his head up and looks back at the venue’s entrance, bottom lip pulled anxiously into his mouth. He turns to speak to one of the other blokes, who shakes his head and shrugs, then continues to glance around.
“Aha!” Robbie straightens up from where he’d been bent over, a crumpled ticket stub in his hand. “Street rubbish. Lucky someone weren’t feeling too sentimental tonight, eh?”
He smoothes the wrinkles out of the ticket and hands it over for Liam to have a look. On one end of it are bold letters spelling out Take That, and on the other are five lads in leather gear smirking and posing for the camera.
“Sexy, ain’t he?” Robbie points at one bug-eyed bloke second from the middle.
“Alright,” Liam scoffs, shoving the ticket back at him. “So you’re in a band.” He nods over to the rest of the group down the block. “Why ain’t you with them over there?”
“Told you, I took a wrong turn. The building’s a bloody maze.” He presses his lips together, surveying the scene. “Suppose I could make a run for it now. But more than likely I’ll be torn to shreds by them girls out there.”
His point is immediately made quite clearly as one of the band members gets his collar snagged by a fan’s unruly, clawing grip, his courteous smile quickly turning into an uncomfortable grimace as he politely tries to free himself. It takes another member coming over and flashing a dashing grin her way to get him loose, and then the four of them are quickly shuttled into the awaiting car by their security.
“I was meant to be in that car,” Robbie laments as it drives away. “Nigel’s going to cleave my bollocks off with gardening shears.”
“Who?”
“My manager. Devil incarnate.”
“Sounds like a cunt.”
Robbie laughs, cautiously creeping back into the alley as the crowd of birds disperses. “You don’t know the half of it. Suppose I needed a break away from him anyway.”
Liam nods, following after him. “So, I take it you’ve got fuck all to do now?”
Robbie adopts those wall-to-wall starfish arms again. “Looks like it.”
Liam takes a final puff of his cig before flicking it in the same direction as Robbie’s. “D’you fancy a pint?”
“Oh mate,” Robbie breathes a sigh of relief, “more than fucking anything.”