Solace of the Road by Siobhan Dowd Page B

screen, only the seats were not even one-tenth full. And no wonder. The film was a turkey, flat out.
    I’d have preferred Titanic any day.

Eighteen
The Clone Zone
    When the lights came up, I yawned and strolled out into the evening. The air smelled of Indian food, and people lounged round like the night would never come. As for the Clone Zone, it was a whole different story. Men in suits and shades stood at the door like they were robots protecting their space rocket. A queue had formed and the doors were open. Boys –some shrimps, some big – and girls – loads of them, in tight tops – nattered non-stop. The place was high with ten types of perfume.
    I was in business.
    I parked behind a gang of ten screeching like they were already inside drowning out the music. I let the lizard slip halfway down my arm to look more casual. I stuck out like Dumbo the Elephant with nobody to talk to. I stood in line and counted my fingernails. Then I remembered the mobile. I could always pretend I had credit. I could always pretend Grace or Trim was on the other end. So I got it out, switched it on, and started nattering into it big time.
    ‘Yeah, Grace,’ I crooned. ‘Flat-out gorgeous … What’s that? … Yeah. Too right … Ireland. Yep. That’s where I’m headed. Mam’s waiting. She’s got me this dancing job, all lined up … You’d better believe it, hon, because—’ A beep on the phone interrupted me. Voicemail. So I pressed 1 and Fiona’s voice started up.
    ‘Holly. Holly? Where are you? I just got back. I just found the note, Holly. I don’t know what this is all about. Please ring me. I’ll try again in ten minutes and then, well, I’ll have to phone Rachel, Holly. Please ring me. I’m sorry I was late, I— ’
    I didn’t listen to any more. I threw the phone back in my bag like a hot coal. I whistled through my teeth and the line started moving.
    I shook my head to get Fiona out of it, only her bleating voice was like a bad sofa-spring digging into me.
    Close to the doors, I got nervous. I remembered the time I’d gone clubbing with Grace and Trim and had to run. Grace got in because she was five foot nine, then Trim did because they were short of boys, but I’m just average height and a girl, so the bouncer asked me for proof of my age and I had to scram. Grace was wild. She didn’t want to go in with just Trim on account of Trim acting like a head-case. So she ditched out, then Trim did. That was the night we raised hell on the street instead and I landed in the secure unit and it was all that bouncer’s fault.
    When I got to the front this time, one of the clones raised his shades and stared at me. I knew not to lookaway. I stroked the ash-blonde locks and smiled. He nodded and waved the gang in and me too, thinking I was with them. The boys stopped at a ticket booth to pay but not the girls. They breezed through like they owned the place and I coasted along with them, a grin from ear to ear that I’d made it. Another clone thrust me a card.
PRESENT THIS AT THE BAR FOR YOUR FREE DRINK
    Being a slim-slam girl really got you places.
    Inside, it was a factory. The music thudded like heavy machinery. The ceiling was low-slung with pipes and wires, and two searchlights swooped the space. An empty dance floor winked with different colours, lit from below. It had squares of red, black, blue, yellow, and never two together, like the house doors on Mercutia Road. The bar was sleek and silver with mauve lights and upside-down bottles. Men in black vests hip-hopped behind, pouring things out for a line of girls. The sofas near it were covered with zebra-stripe fabric.
    I looked around and cruised to the bar.
    I knew what to ask for. Grace told me about this shot called Baby Guinness. It looks like Guinness, but it’s actually coffee liqueur and Baileys. It’s dark and creamy and Grace said she liked it because it’s sweet and black like her and I wanted it, because I’m Irish and Guinness is our