Get Pissed, Destroy

The hall smelled of lager and sweat and the kind of anticipation that had nothing to do with music. Danny stood at the edge of the stage, shirt torn at the collar, mic cable looped like a noose round his wrist. The crowd was drunk and loud. Spud was tuning his guitar, badly. But that was the point now. Punk didn’t need tuning. It needed noise.

The new lads —Dean and Micky— were already threatening someone in the front row. Proper East End geezers, all knuckles and sneers. Danny felt like a fraud beside them, his suburban softness hidden behind safety pins and eyeliner.

He hated the music. Hated the shouting. Hated being spat on.

But at least the gigs were bigger now. College halls. Youth centres. Even a support slot at the Electric Ballroom last month. He could almost pretend it was worth it.

Tonight’s set was short and brutal. Three chords, six songs, one broken mic stand. Danny screamed until his throat felt like sandpaper. The crowd roared. Someone threw a half pint. It missed.

Afterwards, he stood at the bar, sweat drying into his shirt, throat raw. Spud was chatting up a girl in a bin liner dress. Dean was nicking crisps off someone’s table.

Then he saw her.

She was with a group of sixth form girls, all smoky eyes and lip gloss, laughing at something on the jukebox. She wore a denim jacket over a glittery top, flared jeans and strappy sandals. Her hair was Farrah Fawcett perfect: feathered, golden, bouncing when she laughed. He heard her friends call her Julie.

She looked like she belonged in a disco, not this pit. Danny felt something twist in his gut.

Julie saw him. Her friends did too.

One of them said, loud enough to hear, “Ooh, it’s Sid Vicious’s cousin.”

Another added, “Bet he smells like chip fat and regret.”

Danny walked over, playing up the sneer.

“Didn’t know they let schoolgirls in,” he said.

Julie raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know they let singers in who can’t sing.”

He smirked. “You didn’t mind last time.”

Her friends giggled. Julie didn’t.

“That was a long time ago,” she said.

“Two years.”

“Feels like twenty.”

They ended up outside, near the bike racks, away from the noise. Julie lit a menthol cigarette. Danny didn’t ask for one.

“You hate it, don’t you?” she said.

“What?”

“This punk thing. All the shouting. The spitting.”

Danny looked at the ground. “It’s a gig.”

Julie exhaled. “You used to sing. Properly. That Bowie song.”

Danny winced. “That was a different life.”

Julie looked at him. “You’re not like them.”

Danny laughed, bitter. “I’m not like anyone.”

She stepped closer. “You’re not happy.”

He looked at her. “Are you?”

She shrugged. “I dance. I laugh. I don’t scream into microphones.”

He wanted to kiss her. Wanted to tangle his hands in her hair. Rip her jacket off. But he didn’t.

She kissed his cheek instead. Soft. Brief. A sticky hint of strawberry.

“Grow up,” she said gently. Then she walked back inside.

Danny stayed in the dark, watching the condensation forming on the hall windows, blurring the flicker of disco lights. A bass line throbbed through the walls. A sense of a party going on without him.

He still couldn’t find it within himself to cry.