Creative writing submission from the Rest Less community – submit your entry here.
So, there it is. The door I’ve been searching for for the past hour in the drizzling rain and the cold. Now I’ve found it it’s hardly worth the search. Fifty-eight Benson Street. It’s in one of those districts that has not so much been planned, as just happened and is not quite sure why it did or who wanted it. Probably lots of people wish it would simply go away.
A row of heavy, drab, green metal bars, looks like the entrance to a cell block, a row of rusty metal spikes leering at me from the top. Hard to see what it’s protecting anyway. A short alleyway, blue brick paving, and blue brick walls with slime and weeds oozing out of both. There’s a door at the end, the lower half covered with embossed metal sheeting, narrow frosted glass panels covered by heavy gauge weldmesh, and figure 58 scrawled above that in green paint. There’s assorted graffiti on either side too, but let’s not go there. And there’s a smell of damp, rancid putrefaction. It’s the sort of entrance that invites you to try and get in if you can but warns you that there’ll be nothing worth having if you succeed.
There’s no bell to ask to be let in, much less a welcome mat. My arms aren’t long enough to reach the door and knock on it.
I can hear bumping and thumping noises and see shadows of different colours drifting across the frosted glass.
Why am I here at all? Because Colin invited me. I met Colin for the first time last night, Friday night in The Dragon, where I was spending money I couldn’t really afford to stave off the boredom of a contractor just arrived in a strange town and waiting for his first wage.
Colin had got involved with me in a vague sort of way and spoke to me for a while. He was also casually involved with another crowd of people in the bar, who didn’t get involved with me at all, but I did get an invitation to a party. What was the occasion? Two Barrels of beer. I’d said yes. I didn’t fancy Saturday night in a dingy furnished room with a choice of ho-hum telly, so I agreed to come here and bring a bottle. So here I am, clutching a bottle in a carrier bag.
There’s a sound coming along the street. Footsteps – they look as if they might be fellow revellers and they’re heading this way. Perhaps they can get me in – at least I’ll be out of the rain even if the party isn’t up to much.
A tall man is leading the group towards fifty-eight, enveloped in a very long black coat and wearing enormous boots festooned with metal skulls, spiked metal strips, and shiny buckles. He is talking on a mobile phone. Some of the others are wearing long coats, some are in short coats, others are huddling under a big umbrella, and those who don’t fit are just huddling and shivering.
Mobile man stops his phone call and looks at me. Long spikes of hair above the long coat, designer stubble and false bushy-green eyebrows gesture menacingly.
“You seeking somebody fellah?”
“Well yes. I’m looking for Colin.”
“Well, what about him?”
“He invited me to come.”
“Why?”
“He said there was a party.”
“That’s as maybe. Why did he invite you?”
“I met him in The Dragon last night. We talked and he invited me.”
“So why are you stood out here? Do you not have his mobile number?”
“No. Just the address. There’s no bell.”
“That right? No bell. No mobile. So, you’re stood here. Just like that? And who are you anyway?”
“My name’s Kevin. What’s yours?”
“Mickey Mouse.”
Suppressed sniggers and grins from the crowd of people behind him.
“Well, it’s up to Colin, I suppose. Hope you’ve brought a bottle – no use if you haven’t.”
I show him the contents of the bag I’m carrying.
“Alright, I suppose. It had better be. We do things right here, understand.”
Another mobile call.
“Hey, Colin! Are you going to open the door or what man? It’s taters out here.”
There’s a noise of bolts being drawn and a key turned, the door opens and Kevin emerges in party finery – ripped jeans hanging from his waist in festoons, a shaggy beard and hairstyle all of his own design and a tailcoat that has seen better days and probably many unfortunate owners. It also happens to be a loose fit. It looks as if it’s going to be a rather bohemian evening. There’s a loud clang as the gate flies open and we finally file in out of the rain.
There’s a long flight of rickety stairs leading up from the door to the first floor. People are sitting, standing, and semi-reclining on the steps and it feels like stepping over giant tree roots in a moonlit forest.
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