Chapter 32
It’s a good thing that Owen and Josh are with us, or I’m not sure if I would have ever found Martha Jane’s. We walk straight through one of the cosy cafes tucked inside one of the wonky builds in The Warren, weaving past guests clutching drinks in metal goblets.
We approach a large fireplace at the very back of the space. It sits undisturbed and unlit. And thank God – as Josh gets to his knees and crawls directly into it.
‘I am not in the correct attire for this,’ Hennie mutters, looking down at her flares.
I fight a smile hearing Josh’s loud protests of disgust as he disappears behind a dark curtain inside the fireplace.
Elliot gets to his knees to crawl through the opening before me. He disappears behind a second black curtain, obscuring whatever is happening on the other side. Following after them, I ignore the stale smell of dust as the black fabric drapes over my back, unveiling the sight of Martha Jane’s.
I take in my surroundings and briefly question what the heck I’m looking at. Then Elliot is in front of me in a flash, offering a hand.
‘So, are we meant to be inside the chimney or something?’ I ask, tucking my hand in his so he can pull me to my feet.
Hennie emerges behind me. I notice with a grimace that a dark scuff has made its way onto her flared leg, and decide it might be best to inform her later. Lest she attack the fireplace.
‘I like it. It’s cosy but it also feels a tiny bit like I’m in hell,’ she says as I pull her upright.
She’s not wrong. I look up at a spacious, circular tent held together with thick wooden beams. They encircle the space and meet in the centre above us to intertwine and wrap around each other in a bizarre and freakish pattern, almost resembling wood that’s been burning in a fireplace for hours, leaving behind charred shards.
The thick orange canvas of the tent transforms the light filtering through it into something deliciously cosy and warm.
Thick red ribbons hang across the ceiling and walls, leaving dozens suspended above our heads.
It feels like autumn embodied in a single space – but while it’s strangely cosy, it’s also just as Hennie had described: inexplicably hellish.
There’s a gap in the opening of the tent at one side where I guess an accessible entrance and fire exit would be. My cheeks start to heat up – the warmth of the sun has penetrated the walls of the tent and combined with the many bodies inside, it feels close to stifling.
‘To bar!’ Josh announces, making his way towards it.
The bar is huge, circling one edge of the tent, and it’s already surrounded by thirsty customers.
Blackboards dangle behind the bar staff’s heads with a different drink on each one.
I can see three, called The Justin, The Vincent and The Oliver.
The Vincent has been illustrated in chalk: a jam jar with a red cocktail umbrella and a violently red concoction inside.
The ingredients listed below include: whiskey, chilli liqueur, blood orange juice, lime juice, and their finest hot sauce.
‘Good heavens,’ I mutter.
‘Are all of these drinks designed to give your mouth third degree burns, Ham?’ Hennie asks.
‘Yes, babe, of course,’ Josh chimes, tapping the bar with anticipation. Owen points out another blackboard to me.
‘If you want the least hot option, the Cameron is pretty easy.’
I nod, grateful for the recommendation. ‘What’s with the boys’ names?’ I ask.
‘It’s all about the tale of Martha Jane,’ Josh explains, casting his hands out as if we were about to share a mystic tale of great significance.
‘On the outside she’s all cute and wholesome and has the cosy cafe out front going on.
But every man she’s ever married disappears without a trace.
So the legend goes that she killed them all in cold blood and burned them in the fireplace. ’
‘So the cocktails are named after her dead husbands?’ Elliot asks.
‘Sure are. All seven of them,’ Josh confirms.
I look around for more dead husband drink options and catch the eager eyes of a man to my right, also waiting for a drink. I quickly look away.
‘So, what’ll it be?’ Owen asks us.
There is, indeed, a milder option combining cucumber, lime and syrup with tequila and just a hint of hot sauce. Probably my best bet for staying alive.
‘A Cameron, please.’
‘Solid choice,’ Owen replies.
‘In the interest of self-preservation,’ I say. ‘These are on me, by the way.’
Owen tries to protest but I wave him off. I owe everyone here for one thing or another. It’s the least I can do.
Hennie chooses The Vincent along with the rest of the group: the spiciest option.
As the dazzlingly pretty barmaid with wild golden curls disappears to make our drinks, two crewmen emerge from behind the bar carrying a small, wooden stage between them, placing it perfectly in the centre of the tent before rushing backstage again.
The barmaid reappears with four glasses filled with fiery red liquid, and one golden one.
My delightful golden cocktail gleams in a thick, wonky glass, begging me to taste it. After I’ve paid for the drinks, I cautiously take a sip and find myself wincing at the rush of heat hitting the back of my throat. Given this is the ‘mild’ choice, I’m thankful to Owen for the recommendation.
This is confirmed when Josh takes a sip of his Vincent and immediately splutters, taking deep breaths. Owen turns away from us, politely covering his mouth as he’s hit with a coughing attack.
Elliot’s drink still sits in front of me on the bar. I slide it towards him with a wicked grin and he stares down at it with dread.
‘Oh my God, they made it even worse,’ Josh croaks, clutching onto Owen’s shoulder. ‘Get a medic.’
Hennie’s eyes water mercilessly as she fans her face.
I always wonder why people choose to do this themselves, but ultimately feel I should at least try to be supportive.
‘You alright?’ I ask, giving her a pat.
She nods, still looking pained. ‘It tastes illegal.’
‘Is it strong? Or just hot?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘But I’m definitely talking a little slower.’
‘It feels like my mouth is gone,’ Josh says with wonder. He doesn’t sound unhappy about it. ‘Is that charming bald man going to appear and start asking me thoughtful questions?’
I nudge Elliot and look at his glass meaningfully. He relents, taking a generous gulp. It’s impressive how unaffected he seems until his face crumples and he spins away from me to cough.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he splutters, his voice breaking. ‘Are you trying to kill me?’
‘You chose it.’ I smirk. ‘And that’s not out of the question.’
He stands close to me again with his eyes twinkling in that way I’ve come to adore. ‘I wouldn’t put it past you,’ he says, his voice still sounding ravaged. He puts his glass back down on the bar delicately, as if he fears that the drink might suddenly leap back up into his mouth if disturbed.
In the corner of my vision I notice the man next to us turning to me again, this time with heavy eyes and a lopsided grin. When I see his eyes travelling down my body, my automatic response is to stiffen and look pointedly away. Something heavy settles in my stomach.
But within seconds, Elliot’s body curves around mine as he reaches for his drink again. He plants himself at my side, leaning his hip on the bar. His closeness would be startling enough, but the fact that he doesn’t move away from me has me standing up straight and barely breathing.
The staring man is now completely blocked from my view, to my relief. And Elliot is so close I swear I can feel his breath on my cheek.
The others take their time with their punishing drinks while I sip mine guiltily. Elliot and Hennie both try their best to get me to taste theirs but I am adamant in my refusal. Josh is breathing in loud, frantic bursts when he finishes his first, his face blotchy.
‘Let’s take these somewhere less public,’ Owen says, his voice cracking. ‘People are staring at us.’
He isn’t wrong. People waiting at the bar watch with amusement as Josh continues to gasp with his hands braced on his knees.
Hennie reaches for my glass with a wince as we follow the others to the opposite side of the tent, Elliot still walking close behind me. She greedily takes a sip of my drink, tipping her head back with a tortured sound, and I can’t help but hide a laugh behind my hand.
We all turn to the centre when the background music is suddenly replaced by a male voice calling for the crowd’s attention.
‘Hello everybody, how are we doing?’ he says in a deep Irish accent.
The crowd cheers in response and gathers around the man standing on the small, circular stage in the centre of the tent.
He’s sporting a thick, dark beard and a brown cap forced over the top of his curly hair.
Two more band members amble onto the stage, one armed with a drum and the other with an accordion.
‘Thanks for coming, we’re Fizzy Robinsons,’ the front man says, sounding, if anything, a little disgruntled to be here. He taps his guitar and counts in the rest of the band to begin.
Cheerful strumming of the guitar sings out over the speakers, closely followed by the bright sound of the accordion to match.
As the lead singer begins to sing, it takes me a second to realise it’s a cover of a song from the nineties that I must have heard hundreds of times on the radio.
Everyone around us starts to sing along but no one sings louder than Josh, who claps his hands over his head and shouts his interpretation of the tune for us all.
As the chorus kicks in, several members of the crowd near the front of the stage start dancing together in pairs, linking arms to swing each other around before switching sides and taking the arm of whoever happens to be next to them. I anticipate it coming before I even see her move.
‘Come on, come on, come on,’ Hennie begs, practically vibrating on the spot.
She knows I’m not able to say no to that eager expression, so I roll my eyes playfully and offer my hand to her.
Without another word, she grabs it and launches me towards the increasing number of people skipping round in circles. And then I am flying round and round with Hennie’s arm tucked firmly in my own, laughing and screaming at the speed.
It’s not long until Owen and Josh join us, leaping and bounding into unsuspecting strangers’ arms. I think Josh even throws a poor girl over his shoulder and starts whirling her round at some point during the song. I decide not to question it as she seems quite happy to be there.
Owen makes me hoot with laughter at the improvised dance moves he starts weaving in – leaping and kicking his legs up as high as they will go, forcing his partner to do the same.
There is, however, someone missing.
I break off from my partner and start worming my way through the small crowd, keeping my eyes fixed on Elliot so he cannot run away from me.
When I reach him with a crazed grin and extend my hand out to him, he just looks down at it with fear.
He shakes his head and attempts to wave my hand away. Sadly for him, I will not be giving up.
‘Come on, champ,’ I say, wriggling my fingers impatiently.
‘No, no – really, I can’t dance,’ he cautions.
‘I don’t care,’ I whisper with wide eyes as I clasp his hand in mine and pull him behind me towards the dance floor.
‘You should,’ he replies, sullen. ‘I might injure someone.’
‘You’re fine. You’ll thank me later for the serotonin boost.’
He just groans in response.
Hennie flies past me as we rejoin the group and goes straight for Elliot, securing her arm through his before jovially skipping around him.
Something delightfully warm melts in my insides as I watch them dance together and a reluctant smile reaches his lips.
I yelp as an arm unceremoniously wraps around mine and before I know it feel myself being swung around and around with considerable speed.
I can tell from the velocity alone that it’s Josh – I’m still learning that this man does not do things by halves.
I spot Elliot moving towards me with a wicked look in his eye as Josh promptly lets go. I can’t control my grin as he tightly loops his arm through my own and begins to spin us on the spot, moving faster and faster until I splutter with laughter.
‘I warned you,’ he says, his eyes alight.
Letting go to switch from our right arms to our left, I briefly let myself enjoy what it feels like to cling to his body so tightly as we whirl around again.