Daniel Eagleton
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“You knock yourself out there, amigo,” called Graham. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re fucking welcome, mate.”
He waved a bottle of Jose Cuervo over his shoulder. “Anyone for tennis?”
Henry climbed into the front. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Graham looked at him and smiled, real emotion on his face. He was drunker than the rest of them combined.
“Nice to see you cunts,” he said, wistfully. “Been stuck with a right bunch of no marks, I have. Most boring band in the country. Couple of nights on the nose candy and they’re out of the picture. Fucking kids today, mate. I’m telling you, no stamina. I was forty fucking years old last month, so they’ve got no excuse.”
“Nice to see you, too, mate,” said Henry.
They pulled away, the van spluttering under the strain. Graham plucked a salt seller from among the empty cans and fast food wrappers strewn the length of the dashboard.
“Here you are, my son.”
Henry poured a tiny ant-hill of salt granules onto the back of a fist.
“Know where we’re going, then?”
“Leave it to me, matey,” Graham shouted, cheerful again. He gave Henry a dead arm. “The fucking student ball, you bastard! Hey, Julian? The fucking student ball, or what? Since when did they let the likes of us into a party like that, eh?”
“If it’s good enough for George Michael…….”
“Did George Michael play it did he? Fucking hell.”
“…….then it’ll do for us, won’t it!”
Graham floored the van, hunched over the wheel, floating between lanes. Henry took a hit on the tequila bottle. Just like old times. Almost as if the last year and a half had never happened.
“Hey, what do we have here?” cried Julian, behind them.
Henry glanced over his shoulder. Julian had found a banjo. He threw the strap over his head and after tuning it quickly, began to play one half of Dueling Banjos. Imran’s face lit up at the sound, the sight of Julian, stood there in the back of the van, wobbling around, his fingers moving like strange insects. Even Henry had forgotten how good Julian really was. It had been a long time since he’d heard him play.
A rush of inspiration and Henry vaulted the front seat. He landed in the back and grinning at Imran, snatched the cigarette from his lips.
“Gimme those fuckin’ bongos,” he coughed, sucking down a lungful of smoke. Imran handed him the bongo set, and in a crouch, Henry held it between his knees, pounding them with the heel and palm of each hand. Imran cracked another XXXX, catching the foam projectile with his lips. He slapped his thighs and stomped his feet, completely out of time with the music now filling the small space.
“Hot diddly-dang,” bellowed Graham, in the rear-view mirror. “That horse sure has got a pretty mouth!”
They continued like this until they got a riff going, something new, a couple of chords and a beat, that kept going until Graham shouted: “Oops. Hang on!”
Suddenly everything in the back was pitched from one side of the van to the other. Banjo strings snapped with a dull twang, and Julian, Henry and Imran became a fast heap under fire from various airborne musical instruments.