“It had to happen really,” says Molly with a smug grin on her face.

   “Ah, shut up,” I say miserably. Though she is right. It did have to happen.

   “Temper temper,” cuts in Murray from behind his pint. “You tuned up?”

   He nods towards my guitar which is propped up against the table between me and Molly. I sigh ruefully   and let my eyes wander around The Pink Pony pub.

   “Yes, Murray, I am tuned up.”

   Molly turns to Murray and Roper who aren’t even bothering to disguise their glee, “I’m really looking forward to this. How about you guys?”

   “Definitely,” says Roper. He looks at me and wipes beer froth from his chin. “I’ve never heard you at all.”

   “You’re not missing much,” I say. “Trust me.”

   “You only have yourself to blame,” says Molly. “You should have turned up for Ruff’s gig; then you wouldn’t have lost the bet.”

   “I couldn’t,” I say weakly. “Something came up, didn’t it.”

   “Ohhhhh…yehhh….” says Molly, placing a palm to her forehead, “…that’s right. You and Meredith were too busy getting down and dirty for you to step into a pair of strides and come and see your friend’s band play–”

   (I open my mouth to defend myself but it’s a futile move)

   “–despite telling said friend that you would be there. It was even your idea.”

   I remain silent.

   “You know what,” pipes up Murray, “I’m stunned Ruff even bothers with you at all.”

   I give Murray the daggers, “I know the feeling…”

   At that moment there is a hard slap on my back and most of my beer says hello to my crotch. Ruff kneels down next to me.

   “How’s it going?” he asks, “Feeling nervous?”

   I shake my head, “I’m good.”

   “Bollocks,” scoffs Murray. “You’re bricking it.”

   “I’ll be bricking you in a minute.”

   “What…me? Your number one fan? That hurts.”

   I look at my watch and then back to Murray, “Isn’t there an STD you should be catching somewhere?”

   I wipe beer from my trousers and turn to Ruff.

   “When are we on?”

   “Well,” says Ruff, “The Sick Driscolls are up in about twenty minutes…” he stands up “…straight after you.”

   Ohhhh, no. Ohhhh no no no no. I shake my head.

   “I’m not doing a solo set,” I say.

   Ruff slaps me again, “It’ll be fine. Just get in the zone.”

   “Yeh, come on,” says Molly, mimicking Ruff, ” ‘get in the zone‘!”

   “So who is on after you then?” asks Roper.

   Ruff coughs, “We’re supporting a band from Somerset called Mother Mary Licks. I think they’re a bunch of tosspieces.”

   “‘Mother Mary Licks’?” says Molly, crinkling her nose. “What a shit name.”

   “I know,” says Murray. “Anyone would think that there’s this guy somewhere spending all his time sitting on his arse trying to come up with ridiculous names.”

   “Anyway,” says Ruff returning to me. “You need to come and do a line check. Is your guitar in tune?”

   “Yes,” I say irritably. I finish what’s left of my beer and pick up the guitar case. Molly gives me a wink.

   “Break a string.”

   I ignore her and do the short stroll to the small stage in the corner of the pub. I unsleeve the electro-acoustic Fender and Ruff plugs me in. Then I look out in front of me. The Pink Pony is about three quarters full. Some punters are eyeing me, most aren’t bothered or aren’t noticing that anything is about to happen. I sweep to my left. Molly, Murray and Roper are sitting in the alcove with loud smiles on their faces. I mouth the word wankers at them and they give me a synchronized triple thumbs-up.

   “Play a chord,” says Ruff.

   I pull the plectrum that’s weaved into the srings and give the sound engineer a slow E. Ruff looks across to the other end of the pub and pats me on the shoulder.

   “Good to go,” he says and trots off the stage.

   I stand there motionless for a few moments. Now the whole of The Pink Pony seems to be eyeballing me. I don’t actually feel nervous, if I’m being honest. Just very empty. I decide to forget the small talk and just start playing…

   ….I’m singing a song called ‘She’s Whispering’, which I think I wrote when I was around twenty one. For the whole three minutes or so the audience is no longer there and I almost feel as though I am somewhere completely different to everyone else. I am barely aware of my own voice or chord changes.

   Then, something catches my eye during the coda. I turn my head slightly and see Roper sliding down in his seat until he is under the table. Then his right hand pops back up like a periscope and begins to point frantically. I follow his finger.

   “Ohhh, shiiiit…” I mutter into the microphone.

   At the far end of the bar, near the doors, I can see Jora and Colleen ordering drinks. They have their backs to the stage and seem to be keeping intimate company with a pair of Bullet-heads; all Grade Ones and arms like rolled-up Beanos. I suddenly realise that I’ve reached the end of the song. I say a thankyou very quickly and swiftly turn my back on the pub before Jora and Colleen have a look. During the moderate ripple of applause I see a curtain and what appears to be a Fire Door behind it. Ruff is standing behind the curtain, clapping and nodding. Still with my back to the pub crowd, I edge crab-like across until I’m behind the curtain.

   “I can’t go back on,” I say in a loud whisper.

   “Course you can,” says Ruff, “that was really good. It’ll get easier.”

   “Sod the performance,” I snap. “Remember those two old sorts me and Roper shagged a few weeks back?”

   Ruff chuckles and nods, “Yeh…?”

   “They’re at the bar.”

   Ruff goes to peer round the curtain but I grab his shoulders.

   “So what?” says Ruff.

   “We didn’t part on the best of terms,” I say. “Now I’m going through the Fire Door.”

   “You can’t,” says Ruff. “It’s painted shut.”

   “Then cover me,” I order him, ” and don’t use my real name.”

   Ruff sighs and steps out onto the stage. I take my guitar off and press myself as flat as I can against the useless – and illegal – Fire Door.

   “Okay, people,” I hear Ruff say into the microphone, “let’s have one more show of appreciation for…Johnny Zodiac!”

   There follows a rather more muted round of applause from the audience.

   “Next up, The Sick Driscolls,” announces Ruff, “so sit tight.”

   Ruff comes back.

   “How am I going to get out of here?” I say. I’m starting to feel slightly claustrophobic stuck in this corner.

   “Wait until we’ve set all our gear up,” says Ruff. “I’ll get Rocky to put his bass amp next to the curtain. You’ll be able to crawl out behind us back to the table.”

   I nod vacantly as Ruff heads back across the stage. I sneak a peek while he is talking to the bass player, Rocky Jones. Through the crack between the curtain and the wall I can see that Jora, Colleen and their beaus are still rancid and still propping up the bar at the far end of the pub. Roper is still under the table. His right hand is trying to grab hold of his pint which is being slid around the table by Murray. Molly is on her phone.

   Rocky Jones slides his huge bass amp right up to the curtain without acknowleding me. Henwood is sorting out his drums whiile placing a half-eaten pasty on the snare. The lead guitarist, Nixie Burke, is adjusting her tee-shirt under her thick leather guitar strap. As they are doing their soundcheck I decide to make my move.

   I leave my Fender resting against the Fire Door and drop to my knees. Leaning forward I proceed to crawl along the tight alley between the wall and Rocky’s amp. As I reach Ruff’s amp I hear him count in.

    The Sick Driscolls launch into a song which I think is called ‘Tell It To Me Again’. I’m close enough to Henwood’s crashing drums that my brain could possibly split open like a Chocolate Orange. As Ruff screams towards the first chorus I slither down into a gap where the stage doesn’t quite meet the wall and pull myself along. Just then, the remains of Henwood’s pasty bounce off the snare drum during a fill and land on the side of my neck. I grimace and give a brief violent shake to throw them off. Then I continue until I’m behind Nixie’s towering Marshall amp. Our table is right there; another couple of feet and I’ll be under the table with Roper. I can see him squatting there, his collar turned up due to excess lager dripping down from the table rim above his head. I note that Ruff appears to have stacked the band’s flight cases into a low wall and I pull myself across until I’m squeezing under the table. Irest against Molly’s tights; I feel her kick my back so I pinch her leg.

   “We have to get out of here,” says Roper.

   I punch Roper’s arm, “Why did you have to steal Colleen’s false teeth?”

   “Why did you say Jora was fat?”

   “That’s not what I said,” I retort, then decide that arguing whose fault this is is totally pointless. “Let’s just lay low. Maybe they will move on after one drink.”

   “Okay,” nods Roper.

   This is really uncomfortable. The Sick Driscolls finish the song and the pub cheers. Murray sticks his head under the table.

   “They got more claps than you did,” he smirks.

   “How would you like to eat the table,” I say.

   “But then you’d have nothing to hide under,” he says and disappears back upstairs.

   “Well,” I harrumph, “this is a terrific night.”

   “Don’t worry about it,” says Roper. “Rock and Roll.”

   I bring my knees up to my chin and rest my head miserably, “It’s hardly glamorous, is it.”

   I hear Ruff speak again.

   “We’d like to continue with a new song. It’s called ‘Guilty Of Driving Under The Influence Of Love’.”

   “Oh, god,” I moan. “They’re not going to play that are they?”

   The song, a loud, sprawling rocker, begins and Roper leans in close to me:

   “Hey,” he says, “do you reckon that if you twist round a bit you could see Molly’s knickers?”

   Molly’s hand suddenly appears between us, slaps Roper in the face, then returns.

   At that moment, as Ruff wails his ludicrous lyrics, four sets of legs appear before us at the table.

   “I know those shoes…” Roper whispers with sudden dread.

   Four chairs are dragged over and Jora, Colleen and the two Meatheads sit down opposite Molly and Murray, facing the stage. I put one hand over Roper’s mouth and the other over my eyes.

   “I can’t stay under here all night,” I mutter after a few moments. I let my hand drop from Roper’s mouth.

   “What are we going to do?” he asks.

   “We’ll have to make a break for it.”

   “Noooooo….” whispers Roper through gritted, panic-stricken teeth. He grabs my sleeve but I shrug him off.

   “Be brave,” I say paternally.

   I crawl towards the last chair in the row upon which sits one of the women. I ease myself past it until I’m about half way out. At that moment I look up and see Colleen’s seventy-something scraggy face peering down at me. Her mouth widens to reveal a very badly fitted pair of brown dentures. As she starts to squawk the alert I spring forward, but for some reason Roper is holding on to my ankle and I trip and fall headlong into a neighbouring table, sending drinks and various savoury snacks up in the air. Roper scurries out from under the table just as I hear Colleen say; “There’s those cheeky bastards who stole my teeth!”

   As I pick myself up and grab on to Roper, I notice Jora half-standing and staring at me with an expression of shock and contempt. The two Bullet-heads are a little slower off the mark and so we make a run for it through the pub audience. And The Sick Driscolls, like the truest of professionals, play on.

   We make it to the doors and burst out into the chilly night air. Roper makes to cross the road but I get hold of his coat and pull him. We run up the street and head down a narrow side road. In the distance I can hear the voices of the Bullet-heads shouting what I expect are the usual, unimaginative knucklehead insults and expletives.

   We turn left again at the end and we’re on a residential road. It’s at times like this I’m reminded just how out of shape I am; not that are too many times like this. Something in one of the big front gardens catches my eye and I yank Roper onto the driveway with both hands.

   “In here,” I whisper urgently and we climb under some thin tarpaulin and into the shadowy hideout of a small speedboat. Then we sit tight and listen.

   After a short while we hear the Bullet-heads walking up the street. They stop at the end of the driveway and grunt almost intelligebly:

   “<I reckon they went the other way>”

   “<Yeh. Unless they jumped in a cab>”

   “<Yeh. Shall we have a look down here then?>”

   “<Dunno.>”

   A mobile with a crap ringtone.

   “<Alright luv?>”

   Pause.

   “<No, we reckon they jumped in a cab….I know. Cowardly bastards.>”

   Yep, that’s us.

   “<Okay, we’re on our way.>”

   We hear their voices fade back into the night. I massage my face.

   “Close one,” whispers Roper.

   “I’m never, ever getting drunk with you again,” I say and climb out of the boat.

   We walk down the avenue at a swift pace to put as much distance between us and The Pink Pony as possible. I read a text message on my phone.

   “Molly and Murray left the pub just after us in case that lot put two and two together,” I say. “They’ve gone to The Cloisters.”

   “It’s a shame really,” says Roper. “There were some fit women in the Pony.”

   “Maybe you should just go back and grovel to Gussie,” I say tiredly.

   “Although,” continues Roper, “there was this one strange looking bird there.”

   “What strange looking bird?”

   “You didn’t see her? She had a great body. But she just had a really square head…”