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theadventuresofjoshandlaura · 2 years

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CHAPTER 2: Edit 1 Last Updated (12:26PM 14/3/2022)

8:45PM

“I’ve worked up an appetite, to think we’ve come this far without fading out, let me go to the bar for some scotch eggs and scratchings,” Josh announces mid-conversation, now realising he needed refuelling to be able to sustain his attentions with Laura. “Let me get them! I have to go to the loo anyway, and you’ve paid for everything else!” Laura exclaims, finally seizing an opportunity to break from the bantering and fix herself up. “Well okay then, sounds great.” Josh duly accepts as Laura bolts off to find the restrooms. “Meet me back in that front room we started in, the one downstairs – better not have these leeches picking our scratchings aye?” Josh quickly adds, making his move to try and gain some long-awaited seclusion. “You read my mind!” Laura yells as she hustles away back into the alehouse.

The group had sprawled outwards, now scattered across the buildings’ upper balcony looking over the Thames. The green-grey cityscape had already blushed its pinks and oranges in the setting sun, having now expired to a sullen navy blue. Dimly lit by the faint glow of the many thousand distant lights beyond the riverbank, the electricity had almost beckoned Josh over the balcony railings – he felt a sudden urge to burst through this parapet and into the London skyline. Perhaps it was instinct, as he began wondering how long they’d been at the pub. It was still not late, but having arrived at the nights’ juvenile beginnings – there was a clear changing of the guard. With the cover of darkness came the eccentricity of subcultural life, and a rather niche crowd of East End’s grime disciples had populated all the dancing floors.

It was clear enough that these kids, as good as they looked; were not bonafide, inner-city London contemporaries that looked the part but had never had to fight for anything of meaning. They had inherited the cold swagger of Grime in the East End, yet had imbued it with the hyperactivity of their native dance music in remaining unfettered by actual oppressions. To identify is to be, or so they like to think. As Josh scanned the balcony across these youths, he had already diagnosed them as a fugazi. Merely an unruly tokenism of young liberty, that lacked cause – willing to inherit stylisms, but showing nothing of the spirit of their predecessors. Gone was the raucous calamity of grime, in its place standing the corporatized facsimile of something formerly raw and unpolished. Department store threads had amassed in a sickening sight, for not one piece of original material was to be seen – everything donned in either Polo Ralph Lauren or Tommy Hilfiger insignia. A movement that started with a revolt on prosperity and opulence had now regressed back under the puppet strings of villainous autocrats. Transgression had become a marketing tool.

Disgusted at this sight, Josh stumbles towards the door, now realising that he is in dire need of some food; he had no time for punch-drunk love. He spots Celeste beside the upstairs bar, and checks in with her; hoping herself and Marty had become weary of their surrounds aswell. “Have you seen your man? Laura and I were going to split in fifteen for a stroll,” he inquires. “Shhhh. What’s wrong with you? You know we don’t tell people about it.” Josh looks around as if scanning the room, leaving Celeste puzzled. He suddenly snaps back into gear “Well I don’t see anyone around here giving a shit about it, so let’s move on; are you coming?”.

“Yeah we’ll catch up later once I find Marty,” she replied.

Josh grabs a handful of peanuts and throws them back with his whisky, promptly slamming his glass on the counter and sauntering on as he tries to muster some energy in expecting Laura downstairs. The pub had now filled out with the unfolding of the evening, and he had to briskly bump his way through the crowd of youths; resembling dodgem cars entirely comprised of drunkards. Finally reaching the stairwell, he hesitates; realising that he has an ace in the hole for such signs of lethargy, and reaches for his pouch. Gone.

“Shit!” Josh says, mind suddenly racing, a bear woken from slumber.

“Don’t panic, Laura won’t mind! Will she mind? Fuck, I can’t believe I lost it, you fucking idiot Josh! Why do you always screw a good thing right when it might make you happy? Godammit! Shit, where’s Marty? He’ll fix me up again! I better find Marty before we go! Thank god for Marty! Maybe she won’t care, just talk to her first. Shit what do I say…”

Only narcotic delusions would permit such distorted thinking on Josh’s part, yet we can say in this instance; he doubled-down and committed at the exact time he’d folded so many times before. Whilst he’d learned by now to feign confidence, to the point people assumed he exuded it; when it came down to the tough stuff, he’d crumbled. On another night, he might’ve scuttled home, or called Laura a cab, or simply let it affect the rest of his night. But on this night, he was now ready to fight to see this night through, to see things through, regardless of how. Josh stumbled down the stairs, leather skidding off dark wood corners as he barely keeps footing; encapsulated by the erupting paranoia he was trying to resolve and put aside as he descended. The schism of thoughts slowly diffused, as he plunged into the all-encompassing smoke and white noise of a hundred strong regular patrons bantering away – seemingly unfazed by the density of unruliness.

The room was lit with a soft glow, the Victorian fixtures slowly being rendered useless, increasingly and brutally bisected by the crude, bright, green neon that radiated from behind the bar. Whilst music had dictated the flow of the impressionable youths upstairs, the jukebox down here had been unplugged for lack of useability. You could barely hear yourself think, let alone someone else talking to you. Seeing as he’d now stumbled into the carcinogenic fog of Wapping’s second-hand smoke, Josh pulls a cigarette from his pocket, feeling relieved he’d bought a fresh pack that morning, and places it between his lips. “It’s like a war down here,” he chuckles to himself as he pulls his lighter from his coat and sparks the smoke. Surely Laura’s there with the food by now, it’d felt as if he’d taken eons to get back down to her, seconds feeling like minutes feeling like hours in his head. He started to get back into his groove, and couldn’t wait to see her.

Josh squeezes from the stairs through the crowd, about seven feet until he reached the table by the entranceway that they’d begun their night. A nice enclosed space between panelled dark wood and framed pictures, it was a rare indoor grotto, a refuge, amongst the open sea of lawlessness unravelling. Fights were starting to break out, glasses were beginning to smash, and the air was quickly souring with the floor soaked in perished liquors. He doesn’t see Laura, yet the table is inexplicably clear; so he hustles over to make sure to save the space for her. So focused on this task, it wasn’t until he crash landed into his seat; that he looked up and saw exactly who he didn’t want to see, one of the hoodlum regulars at the Roosters. This man had snake-like yellowed-green eyes, dark almost-black hair and an olive complexion - clearly genetically Sicilian, though in London. He’d come to confront Josh, who had no option but denial - knowing that his face was concealed by the gas mask even outside the boxing club.

“Christ mate! You scared the shit out of me! Do I know you?” Josh growls, immediately trying to misdirect the situation in blunt denial. “Don’t play stupid with me Giosué…” Josh flippantly cuts the man off. “It’s Joshua buddy, and I need you to go before I-” The man takes control of the discussion, becoming impatient with Josh’s dismissive antics. “Gio, don’t play with me, the Boss wants to know something” he exclaims manner-of-factly, only to be met with the same resistance. “It’s Josh! Who is this Gio? Your Boss has mistaken me for someone else” he retorts.

The man slams his fist to the hardwood table, sending ashtrays rattling and coasters scuttling across the surface. “Enough! To think I give you the chance to explain yourself. I hear you’ve been up at the Rooster causing trouble with your ritzy college pals. Now I’ve seen the footage, and I told the Boss it wasn’t you, but seeing this attitude I regret it.” The man finally explains, almost between closed teeth as his blood began to boil. Josh notices this and quickly changes tact, realising animation would only draw further suspicion “I’m sorry, here let me buy you a drink. I just legitimately have no idea what you are talking about.” Josh says as he motions to the bar staff to his rear for two pints. “So pray tell, what went down at the Rooster, and how is this coming back to me of all people?” Josh now calmly asks, having resolved his aggression for the moment with the thought that Laura may return at any second.

“A bunch of kids sprung the Roosters Club, hollerin’ and wailing with gas masks on, disturbing my Boss’s good friend Gianluca’s place of business. One of the kids, a liberal, yuppie artist type, was dumb enough to stream the whole thing on twitch; Mr. Lombardo’s son saw the video, saved it and sent it to the boys and I, hoping we’d ‘make amends’” the man says, quoting that last phrase with the gesture of his fingers - as to imply that reparations here were euphemistic for a more violent implication. “Aside from the dumb bitch broadcasting her involvement, we couldn’t pin a single other name; aside from a vague hunch from one of the boys that you were waiting outside.”

It had not mattered at all to Josh that the man had recounted the event verbatim to life; because he’d made the mistake of losing leverage. Josh now knew what was known of the event, and refined his story. “Let me put it to you this way, do you think I’m dumb enough to spring a Boxing Gym?” Josh positions. “Sure, I know Celeste through University, but that doesn’t mean I’m putting myself on the line for a bloody social media post! What is the gain in that! Use your head man!” he furthers, now in full stride with his artificial line of reasoning. “I’m sorry Josh mate, I did spring ya there. How about we finish these beers and I’ll get out of your hair. It all sounds ridiculous now.” the man concedes.

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(jump cut to Laura, as she leaves Josh.)

8:45 PM

“You read my mind!” Laura calls as she hurries away to the bathroom, now brimming with excitement that she finally would have some space with her date.

Laura starts pacing towards the back of the upstairs bar, to where she had seen a lavatory, and bolts with the sight of the electric yellow signage ‘RESTROOM’. She pushes on the door only to find it doesn’t budge an inch, it had been locked from the inside. “Occupado!” cries out a voice from behind, it sounded like a man. Embarrassed, Laura jumps back from the door and scuttles off towards the stairwell, laughing to herself as she recalibrates. She looks around the room, and observes the same crowd of grime tinged youths, noticing Josh in the distance, who was leaning over the baluster looking across the Thames. Now back in the present, she shifted her focus back on the room. Fair to say she wasn’t repulsed by the crowd with nearly the dismissive arrogance that Josh would show in a few moments now shrouded in his psycho-narcotic schisms. She was however curious, about the same conditions that had infuriated Josh; she had never before come to the den of proletariat youths, and these kids seemed of little difference to her own crowd, emblazoned with the arms and insignia of luxury brands and high market items. Egregious designer tracksuits, custom sneakers, luxury label caps, gold-link chains; she was a little taken aback at the difference between this and the rough and rowdy chorus of delinquents she expected - as per the narratives she’d inherited as a descendant of wealth.

Laura slides between the groupings of youths, almost unnoticed as she precisely manoeuvres her slender frame as not to disturb anyone’s conversation. As she finally reaches the stairwell and peers down the void, Laura realises that in sprawling upwards to the scenic top deck, they’d largely missed the bubbling crucible of the rowdier main bar. She was hit with a wave of indecipherable noise, the gaggle of a near hundred-strong patrons bantering at volume in anarchic symphony. It was hardly a surprise, any pub of a Friday Night would see such crowding; but she cursed to herself as she realised the upstairs bathroom was her best shot, and the disgruntled man had still clearly not emerged, as a sizeable queue had now gathered at the door. She looks out the window, and notices a gathering across the street, lights illuminating from the blackness beyond a vine-covered brick wall in the old Hydraulic Station. “Perfect! An event! I’ll slip by unnoticed.” Laura races down the stairs and across the street, and starts pacing along the wall to find an entrance. As she hustles across Wapping Wall, she pulls out her phone to see what the particular event would be.

“Survey of Kazakhstani Artist Saule Suleimenova: A Journey to Find True Kazakhness”. What on earth! Laura mumbles to herself as she browses her phone, taken aback by the peculiarity of the event she was about to crash – even if only for a few minutes. As she spots the gates ahead, a wave of nerves rushes over her; a tingle spreading outwards from the very core of the spine. Now desperate for some form of half-sanitary bathroom, standards dropping by the second, she decides to commit and not let this hiccup ruin her night with Josh. Suddenly, she stops dead in her tracks, realising she might have something to help her pick up the pace.

From her quilted leather and gold-chain wallet, she pulls out a small pearl coin purse, shaped like a scallop shell. Snapping the jaws of the tiny clam open, she pinches a small baggy from its gullet – Josh’s missing speedball. It had fallen from his pocket on the balcony, and rather than hand it back, she’d planned on pulling it back out once alone; perhaps to try and teach him a lesson, perhaps just flirtatiously trying to keep the night alive – either way she’d forgotten all about it. Without confidence to whip out credit cards to start meticulously arranging crop lines of angel dust, Laura takes a tiny pinch and tosses her head back, promptly dropping it in to her right nostril and inhaling as hard as she could. With a shake of the head, feeling the burn on the back of her throat; Laura kicks in to gear, pupils dilated and systems shocked by the stimulant – she charges on towards the lights ahead. Just as she wonders whether there will be security or the like to negotiate with, she is stopped in the street, some ten feet short of the gate, “Identification please”.

A security guard donned entirely in black was standing there in the street, diligently vetting the incoming wanderers for any troublemakers. Without careful attention, all that could have been seen of the man was the fluorescent security tag dangling from his neck. “Sure thing, no worries” Laura replied cheerfully, making sure to keep a pleasant façade despite her inner anxieties. The security staff took one glance at the card, and handed it back to Laura. “One moment please.” he calmly states as he walks over to the gate, and talks to someone over the intercom radio – only to urgently motion her over with the wave of his hand. “Sorry for the trouble miss, have a good night” he says, and extends his arm laterally as to welcome her onto the grounds. “Oh! Okay, but don’t I-? Okay then, thank you sir! Have a great night yourself!.” Laura says, puzzled by her clearance to walk on the grounds. Suddenly it hits her, her parents were administrative heads of the body responsible for restoring the Hydraulic Station into an events and arts venue. She stops dead in her tracks, and hustles back to the guard that had greeted her, hurriedly yanking the fifty dollar note that Josh had given her from her purse. “Excuse me” Laura cries out, “could you please help me with something; I’ve got to be honest with you, I’m just here for the ladies room, I’m desperate and need to get back to my date” Laura pleads.

“Follow me miss”, the guard replies with a sheepish grin, escorting her to the nearest staff bathrooms. “Thank you for this, here take this, for a drink when you knock off.” Laura gratuitously replies, to which the guard is taken aback. “Well you have a good night then young lady, and that’ll make two of us. Thank you for the tip,” the man beams. “You are most welcome,” Laura replies as she hustles into the bathroom.

As she sat on the lavatory in the strip-neon lit bathroom, she was trying to recall her father’s mentioning of the site; and assumed it was still only partially restored. Around her was beautiful glazed forest green subway tiling, all cut between heritage fixtures of patinated brass. Despite the clear luxury, the lighting was still that of a working site; entirely illuminated by the grotesque plastic shiver of those cold-coloured neon bars. As she finishes up, she snaps back into focus and panics; wondering how much time had passed, assuming she’d taken an eternity. 8:52PM. Only four minutes had elapsed since she’d stepped foot on Wapping Wall – “this damned powder” she says to herself, now realising how affectatious the substance was. Relieved, Laura now set her sights back on finding Josh, now brimming with excitement.

She pauses to look into the mirror, promptly digging makeup out of her purse and touching herself up in her now gaining nerves. She was about to have the moment she’d anticipated all week, finally.

Laura bounds back out of the building, out of the station grounds, and now hit a brisk walk back towards to Prospect of Whitby. As she reaches the pub, standing across the road by the vine-smothered wall, she again checks her phone for the time, 8:56PM. Phew. She looks up, and sees Josh in the upstairs window, looking transfixed in thought and preparing to climb down the stairs. Realising she’s made it just in time, Laura runs inside, hoping to go and order their bar snacks before he came down – only to find that by the time she ran inside and peered around the corner, Josh was already sitting there at their table.

She creeps around the back of the floor to the far side of the bar, as not to be seen by him. She’d rather not have to explain where she’d been and what happened to his quid. “Two scotch eggs in brown sauce, a bowl of scratchings and a Guinness please,” Laura says to the bartender, as she waits eagerly for their customary culinary tokens into the night beyond the pub.

______________________________________________________________________

“Alright, thanks for the pint mate. I’ll straighten the Boss out, what are the odds anyway… hang on a sec,” the Man says to Josh, “Who is that?”. Josh turns to see Laura, scotch eggs and drink in hand, walking towards them from the bar across the room. He looks back to the man, who is scanning Laura up and down, with a wry smile developing from the right corner of his mouth.

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notes:

Laura returns with the food, and Josh feels sick. He realises that though he kept his mask on, Laura had hers off until they’d reached the Rooster and he clicked into gear. He spots a look in his brothers eye as they are introduced, and knows the gig is up - the brother smells blood, and what’s worse he’s now tried to lie his way out of it. Recognising his position of authority, the brother suddenly puts on a cheery facade and buys J&L a round. As he feigns some pleasantries with Laura, Josh then pukes up the beer and scotch egg he’d just consumed to try and settle his nerves. The brother leaves, not without signalling to Josh that he’ll see him later.

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