16. Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
Cillian sipped his pint and did his best to look like he was having fun. In truth, a night dressed in a black wig, shades, and an all-in-one rhinestone-studded Elvis costume at the local rugby club was not his idea of a good time.
Beside him, Jack, Solly and Daniel were engrossed in chat about the latest proposed road development. Opposite, Luke and Nick discussed the highs and lows of their latest building project. Cillian had no interest in either conversation.
What he could enjoy were the costumes. Nick and Luke were both dressed as the ugly sisters from Cinderella, while Jack had come as Cinderella herself and Solly as the fairy godmother. For reasons no one could explain, Daniel was dressed as Paddington Bear. Cillian had got off lightly as Elvis.
‘Right.’ Jack slapped his palms against the table. ‘I think it’s about time we get this party started, don’t you, lads? Who’d like a round of shots?’
Cillian spluttered into his pint at the looks on Nick and Luke’s faces.
‘Shots?’ asked Luke. ‘Jack, have you ever drunk a shot in your life?’
‘I’ll have you know, young man,’ said Solly, climbing to his feet, ‘Jack and I knew how to have a good time well before you were more than a twinkle in your parents’ eyes.
’ He pulled a wallet from somewhere in his taffeta skirt.
‘Come on, brother, let’s get a round in and show these youngsters a thing or two. ’
Cillian, Luke, and Nick sat in stunned silence until Solly and Jack returned with two trays, one loaded up with pints of beer and the other with multiple shot glasses.
‘Here we are.’ Solly dished out the drinks. ‘You seem to forget, boys, that I was in the Navy. It’s been a while since I did anything too extravagant, but I’m sure I could still drink you all under the table.’ He smirked at their staring faces.
‘Now there’s a challenge.’ Jack grabbed a shot glass and downed it in one.
By the time the rugby club bar had filled with thirsty drinkers and the corner of the room was set up ready for karaoke, all the glasses on their table were empty. Cillian wobbled slightly as he crossed the room to the bar to order another round.
He’d severely underestimated Jack and Solly, and fully intended to sneak a quick pint of water before going back to the table. He doubted they’d approve of such antics.
When Cillian arrived with the tray of drinks, Solly was in the middle of recounting a time he and Jack had stolen their father’s best bottle of whisky and taken it to the beach.
‘What happened when he found out?’ asked Luke, his words slightly slurred.
‘Let’s just say,’ said Jack, ‘if you were to pull down my trousers right now, you’d still see the scars.’
Nick winced and grabbed a pint from the tray.
‘Do you fancy a bit of karaoke tonight, Cillian? Elvis?’ asked Nick.
‘Well, hell yeah I do,’ said Cillian, in his best southern American drawl.
Before Nick could reply, there was a whine of feedback as the man in charge of entertainment tapped the microphone to check it was working.
‘Right,’ he announced, ‘karaoke is open for business. Who’s going to start?’
A giant of a man, with a full beard and a belly straining to burst out of his shirt, marched up to the microphone.
‘Ah, Neville. Now there’s a surprise. Wouldn’t be karaoke night without you kicking off proceedings,’ said the owner of the setup. ‘And I think we can all guess what song you’re going to start with.’
Luke sniggered, and Nick grinned at Cillian.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘You’re going to love this,’ said Nick.
As soon as the first bars of “Boy in Love” sounded, Cillian wanted the ground to swallow him whole.
To be fair, the singer’s voice wasn’t the problem.
It was the song – the same song he’d had to sing what felt like a million times over the past year.
The song that was utter shite but somehow sent his teenage fans round the bend.
‘Why don’t you get up and join him?’ Nick grinned. ‘Can you imagine? The poor guy would probably keel over with shock.’
‘I’ve sung that song enough times to last a lifetime,’ muttered Cillian, downing half his pint in one go.
The crowd of drinkers, not a female teen among them, seemed to be enjoying the song.
Cillian wondered why. All he could think about was how cheesy it was, how devoid of any real meaning, how like a million other songs played on commercial radio, almost indistinguishable from one another.
Just because it was his bestselling single to date didn’t mean it was good.
It certainly didn’t mean he was proud of the achievement.
As the song dragged on and on, Cillian wished he could get up and leave. He glanced at Jack and Solly. They were settled in for the night, and if Cillian were the first to leave the stag do, he’d never live it down.
When the song came to its sentimental last lines and the burly singer took his bows, Cillian relaxed a little. After another three performers had taken to the stage, he didn’t take a lot of persuading when Nick asked him to get up and sing. After all, no one was going to recognise him in this gear.
As soon as Nick and Cillian crossed the room, the compère grabbed the mic and announced, ‘Elvis has entered the building!’
A roar went up from the seated drinkers.
Nick wrote the song he wanted to sing on a piece of paper and showed it to Cillian, who nodded.
‘You can do the moves?’ Nick asked.
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Cillian. ‘Of course I can do the moves.’ He bent his knees and gave a quick thrust, much to Nick’s amusement. ‘We’ll take a verse each, shall we?’
‘I thought you were doing this alone,’ said Nick.
‘Oh no, you’re not getting out of it that easily.’ He shook his head, grinning. ‘Come on, we’ll do it together. I’ll go first, and you take the second verse.’
The first bars of “Jailhouse Rock” kicked in, and a cheer went up from the assembled drinkers. Men started climbing to their feet and soon the middle of the bar was filled with swaying bodies looking unnervingly like chickens pecking for food.
When Cillian started singing, the excitement reached fever pitch.
He couldn’t believe the joy of being someone else for a night.
Here he was, dressed in a cheap Elvis suit singing covers, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun.
And it had nothing to do with the shots Jack and Solly had plied him with.
It was a disappointment when the song ended. Cillian and Nick exchanged triumphant high fives and were about to step down when the compère shook his head.
‘You boys stay there,’ he shouted over the hoots and clapping, refusing to take the microphone.
Cillian and Nick looked at each other again and shrugged. They moved swiftly into “A Little Less Conversation”, much to the delight of the men on the dance floor.
Cillian was aware of the many phones recording the moment for posterity. For once, he didn’t worry. His Elvis outfit was like a cloak of invisibility, hiding the Cillian McDonaugh who crooned sappy love songs.
They ended up staying on for five songs, the crowd only calming when they finished their impromptu set of dance floor fillers. When Cillian and Nick made to leave the stage, hands clapped and feet stamped to chants of ‘one more song!’
‘Alright.’ Cillian took the mic once more and tried to hide his Irish accent beneath a poorly executed American one. ‘Only if you lot join in as the choir.’
Nick stepped back, letting Cillian take control of “Always on My Mind”.
Several men reached into their pockets, pulling out lighters, causing the barmaid to panic and start flapping a tea towel in the direction of the fire alarm.
Arms raised in the air, the drinkers delighted in taking on the part of the choir.
Cillian sang, closing his eyes when they filled with tears. It didn’t matter he was wobbly on his feet from drink. It didn’t matter that the wig itched his scalp. It didn’t matter that he was singing someone else’s song.
He threw his arms out and belted the lyrics at the top of his lungs, finishing to rapturous applause and more than enough offers of drinks that, if he’d accepted them all, he would’ve ended up in a hospital bed.