Short Stories

KAREN'S SAVIOUR

I noticed her hair first because it was glossy and mostly the other women's hair was dull with lacquer. It snaked in dark blonde coils to her shoulders. She should have had bigger hair, say like Charlie's Angels. Big hair of that quality would have looked stupendous, instead at the front it hung around her face and as the evening went on it got flatter and more untidy.
She was in her late twenties; squashed into hipster, black leather trousers and a skin tight, see-through shirt. She wore her clothes with the confidence of a woman who'd once known her figure was desirably voluptuous. That must have been at least a kilo ago. Her name was Karen.
"Karen, what you having?" someone asked.
"Vodka tonic."
Later in the evening the bar ran out of tonic.

Better say now, while all this observation was taking place I was standing in the flea pit of a ballroom at the end of Hastings pier. I hadn't been able to get one of the chairs arranged around circular tables at the edge of the dance floor so I had to stand, my back against a barred and padlocked fire door. Each time I moved, my feet came off the carpet with a nasty sucking sensation. Outside it was December and freezing cold, inside stifling. The ballroom was packed, at least a thousand people, ages ranging from twenty to sixty, women dressed up, men dressed down. Because it was near Christmas some of the women had sparkling deely-bobbers in their hair.
I was there because I didn't want to be at home on a Saturday night. I knew no one. I'd dressed all wrong - for the cold, in woolly trousers, a cardigan over a polo neck jumper and my anorak. I kept the lot on because I didn't trust the cloakroom staff, they were tossing the coats just anywhere and getting the ticket slips muddled up with the raffle tickets they were selling.
I watched the dancers, I watched the group, I tapped my plastic beaker with my index finger in time to the beat but as the evening wore on more and more I found myself concentrating without appearing to, on Karen.

After noticing her hair I'd seen her face. She was lightly tanned. Not a fake, tanning salon tan more as if she had some Mediterranean blood. Nothing really special about her face, nose thin and a good shape, mouth thin but again a good shape, eyes, brilliant green with an expression - nothing as extreme as despair or beaten down - they were shuttered as if nobody was going to read what was going on behind them.
Her table filled up. Most of the tables had been reserved by the local retail outlets for a staff Christmas outing. Karen's was for a south coast restaurant chain. They all seemed to know each other. There was the usual mix, about eight men and women around Karen's age, two older guys and an older woman who might have been a manageress. I recognised her as possibly a lesbian like myself. She wore quite a bit of eye make-up, a mustard coloured, slippery blouse that kept falling off her shoulders, black trousers, sandals, chunky jewelry, still you get to sense these things. Twice during the evening she looked over at me and I looked back. We both broke eye contact at the same time, letting our gazes drift away quite naturally. Twelve people, thirteen chairs. Everyone happy, animated, in the early stages of getting drunk.
The support group went off and were replaced by sixties and seventies sounds; Tavares, Marshall Hain, The Real Thing, The Temptations. Then Hot Chocolate, 'You Sexy Thing'. I groaned. Chair occupiers scrambled to their feet. At a table on my left a middle aged man with a huge beer gut straining his skin tight tee shirt began to simulate sex with one of the deely-bobber women. I was just about to see if the crush at the bar had diminished when a short man in a smart blazer pushed through the heaving crowd. He came round the back of Karen's chair, poked her shoulder, she looked up and he jerked his thumb towards the dance floor. She shook her head. Her jerked his thumb again, more insistently. Without looking at anyone she stood up and followed him. They were swallowed up by the dancers. I went to the bar.

I was away some time. The ball room bar was packed six deep with people waving tenners so I went outside onto the pier, past the bouncers, big blokes in big boots and mega-big overcoats. I found the Pub on the Pier and waited for about ten minutes to be served which I didn't mind as at least the temperature was near normal; my feet warmed up, my body cooled down.
I forgot about Karen. It was still the start of the evening, only about ten o'clock, my interest at that point could have disappeared. I stood at the bar. A woman stood next to me. Her face was a carefully prepared mask, dyed black hair sprayed into shape and held. She had the ferocious tan that made her skin look lightly pockmarked. I looked away. Didn't take much notice of the men; loud voices, fahking this, fahking that, stupid cahnt!
Returning with my drink to my station at the fire doors coincided with the emergence of Karen and the blazer. He was ahead of her. Went to his chair while she peeled off and took an empty chair further round the table. He gave her a hard stare. She kept her head down. While we'd all been away someone had refilled the glasses and she grabbed her glass and knocked the contents back fast, then she began to talk to the older woman.

I'll tell you a bit about the blazer. He must have been fifty, short, and stocky build. His head was bullet shaped emphasized by the close cut of his vigorous, iron grey hair. He wore polished, slip-on shoes and grey trousers, a blinding white shirt under the blazer and a club tie. Old fashioned in that way rich blokes can get away with. The others at the table were polite but not really at ease with him which made me think he must be their boss.
Karen was getting drunker quicker than anyone else at her table. I noted a protective tenderness amongst the rest of them. The drunker she got the more vulnerable she became.
Time passed. People went walk-about. The closely held boundaries of each party began to merge. The bloke with the beer gut asked Karen to dance. When she stood up she was a head taller than he was, her breasts came just below his chin. She laughed. He buried his face in her breasts, grabbed hold of them and wobbled them against his cheeks while she stared over his bent head with a dead expression on her face. The older woman stood up, I'll call her the manageress . With great good humour she inserted her arm in between Karen's breasts and the bloke's face so he had to step back. As he did so, the manageress latched onto his shoulders and smoothly drew him out to the dance floor. The blazer was on his feet, he took hold of Karen's arm and shook it, "What the fuck do you think you're up to? Well?"
"Well what?" She brushed his hand off her arm like she was brushing away a speck of dirt. She sat down. Before he could reach the next chair the manageress was back and sitting in it.
About that time I started to take more notice of the manageress. She had short hair and a smoker's face; angular and lined. She settled herself sideways and Karen leant back against her. After a while she casually draped her arms around Karen's shoulders. Then the manageress lit a fag; she pulled on it before gently putting it between Karen's lips. They were like two people who'd just enjoyed good sex.

The night should have been interminable. It wasn't, it shot past. Each time I looked at my watch another big segment of time had ticked away; ten, eleven, midnight. The main band was due on. People were going out to the chippy and coming back with burger and chips. The blazer was eating chips from a styrofoam carton. At one point he leant across the table and offered Karen his fingers to lick. She knocked his hand away. He came back at her, pushing his middle finger at her mouth. She shook her head, her lips tightly sealed. Each way her face turned, his middle finger followed. Almost then...I saw myself grabbing him by the collar and slamming his chip greasy face into the table top. Karen unsteadily scraped her chair round to face the dancers. With a laugh he sat back, took out a white handkerchief and wiped his hands.
What next? The raffle followed by the main band. The raffle was a good raffle presided over by Snow White from the pantomime at the White Rock theatre across the road from the pier. The ticket holders got really excited. I saw a foot spa, a giant Body Shop basket, and a six pack of Asti Spumante being carried past me to the Deely-Bobber table. Karen's table hadn't bothered to buy raffle tickets so they all looked bored. The manageress went off with one of the guys to get more drinks. Snow White started to talk about the pantomime running for another ten days and how the tickets were ten pounds, twelve pounds for the circle, with special rates for children. Someone yelled, "Piss off now, darling", and lobbed a plastic cup.
Twelve thirty. The ballroom lights dimmed, the stage lights switched off. There was a drum roll while smoke from dry ice seeped across the stage. Red spots drilled the smoke. Eight blokes ran on stage. I recognised three of them from the support band.
"Do you want to rock?" they shouted.
"Yes", we shouted back.
"DO YOU WANT TO ROCK?"
"YEAH!"
"THEN LET'S ROCK", and they creaked into Jumping Jack Flash.
Karen climbed unsteadily onto a chair and began a belly dancing routine. From the crowd she picked out a bloke who looked a bit like the actor, Alfred Molina. He'd won a four foot high teddy bear in the raffle. Alfred had a nice face. I put him down as middle management in a caring, sharing building society. He held teddy in front of him and worked teddy's arms so they waved at Karen and in return she undulated her whole body and made sexy passes in the air for teddy's benefit. Everyone was laughing. It looked innocent and funny. Then she fell off the chair. Not gracefully, the chair tipped up and her leather clad legs shot up in the air as her bum hit the ground. Alfred and teddy bear rushed over to help her up. She was ok. Laughing and rubbing her backside.
He got her to her feet and she fell forward into teddy's arm, resting her head on the bear's shoulder while slipping her hands under Alfred's jacket. At this point the blazer retrieved her. He sat her down and then he sat down next to her. She wouldn't look at him, he stared at her averted profile. He put one hand on his knee and the other on Karen's knee. His head was as close to her face as he could get it. Her expression was blank as if she'd cut him and everything else out. Suddenly she noticed that the buttons of her shirt were undone to below her bra - you could see nearly all of her breasts. With difficulty she did up two buttons. It took her ages to get button through button hole. All this time he continued talking steadily to her although I don't know how she could hear because the music was so loud. At one point she held out her hands, palms up against him like she was pushing his words away. I noticed her nails; they were false, long, squared off and painted silver with a tiny diamond above each cuticle.
By then I'd moved nearer, stood at the edge of their table, rocking slightly to maintain my balance. I was very drunk. My circle of awareness had reduced to Karen and mister blazer, mister bullet head, mister in your face intrusive.
Karen jerked her chin up as if she was trying to keep her head above water, her eyes everywhere searching for....blue sky, a hero? All I needed was one look, a plea to step in. I rehearsed the words, "Is he bothering you? Are you ok? Nobody owns you."
I looked into her eyes but she didn't see me. No I can't exactly say I looked into her eyes because her eyes wouldn't be looked into - nowhere in her face did I read a plea for help. Her head tipped higher and higher to get it out of his range while he kept on rabbiting.
I searched the crowd for the manageress. She was part of a circle dancing to the band's lousy rendition of Brown Girl in the Ring. They were all singing along. Even the manageress was singing though she seemed too world weary to relish a sing-song. She didn't look happy. None of them in the circle looked that happy. Nothing like the Deeley-Bobber crowd who were so happy they might start fighting soon.
The blazer took hold of Karen's wrist and yanked her to her feet. He pulled her towards his all-dancing, all-singing, unhappy staff. They broke the circle and let the two of them in. The manageress was on one side of Karen, the blazer on the other. The manageress took her hand while he kept his grip on her wrist. Between them they stopped her from falling or from just slipping down onto the floor. Karen didn't really dance, she jerked about like a badly controlled puppet. Her shirt had ridden up and there were glimpses of white fleshy stomach. I sat at their empty table, in the seat Karen had just vacated. I drank what remained of the vodka in her plastic glass. Now there was no sign of Karen or the blazer or the manageress, they'd gone deep onto the dance floor. I saw Alfred Molina with his teddy bear. He looked well pleased with the bear as if he'd found a friend. He saw me watching him and he grinned, lifted the bear's paw and waved it at me. I didn't smile at Alfred, I smiled at his bear. I waved back.

On my way home. Three a.m. Early morning's are one of the best times - when the town's almost deserted. Not quite. The odd taxi purring by. A few clubbers on foot, shouting, swearing or just heads down and dogged for their warm beds.
I was about to turn into St. Mary's Terrace when I saw the two of them, the manageress and Karen. They were heading away from me, both very straight and tall but holding their bodies carefully as if they'd had a skinfull - arm in arm, their shoulders touching or stopping the other from falling over. Karen wore a leather coat with a fur collar and the manageress was in loose tweed,
I had an appointment on the hill with another insomniac but I decided that could wait. I thought I'd only be a few minutes, they didn't look capable of walking far. I had to pace myself - they were walking very slowly. I paused to tie my boot lace, I paused to clean my tinted glasses. We were in St. Georges Street. At last they were stopping, the manageress rummaging in her shoulder bag for something, I presumed a key. Yes.
Not a bad house, Blinds at all the windows, the original victorian tiling on the steps leading up to the front door, red and black checkerboard pattern. The manageress was managing better than Karen. She was up the steps and putting the key in the lock while Karen clung to the wrought iron gate.
The manageress half whispered, "Karen, for god's sake..."
"I'm sorry Frankie, I can't manage the steps, I'll have to crawl."
They seemed to be at an impasse. Didn't look as if the manageress wanted to navigate back down the steps to get to Karen. She said despairingly, "What am I going to do with you?"
"Can I help?" was out of my mouth and floating in the ice cold air.
Karen didn't look round. The manageress did her best to focus on the voice. She said, "Could you just give her a hand up the steps - she's not very well."
I lifted Karen's hand from the top of the gate and slipped it under my arm, "Come on. Lean on me."
She started singing, "Lean on me, I'll be your strength, I'll help you carry on... How does it go?"
I hauled her up and through the front door. The manageress switched on a light in the hall, "Could you bring her through to the kitchen?"
She didn't wait for an answer, strode off. I did notice as she strode she touched the walls to keep her balance. In the kitchen the phone began to ring. Gently I deposited Karen in a wicker chair. The manageress picked up the receiver, "Yes we're home. No, Karen's fine. Talk to her on Monday." She put down the receiver, "Just bugger off", she muttered reaching for the kettle.
Karen was smiling, at me, at the manageress. It changed her whole face.
"And you are?", she said.
"Your saviour."
"Who says I need saving?"
"I do."
"And you are?", she said.
"Your saviour."