Its floors are sticky with decades of sweat and spilled beer; it always smells of smoke despite the ban, and the fire exits are rickety old metal steps corroded by rust. I’d had many very fine nights there myself, in a different lifetime.
After I finish talking to Steph, I decide that I will simply go and find Martha, and bring her home. I don’t know why I’m freaking out so much – but some kind of instinct is telling me that this is important. That if I let this one slide, it will be followed by an avalanche. That I’ll never get her back again. I’m sure I’m over-reacting, but trust that instinct anyway.
Wearing flannel pyjama trousers, Kate’s Glastonbury hoodie and my Crocs, I march all the way to the club. I’m slightly out of puff as I arrive, and definitely out of patience. By the time I bump into Steph, I probably resemble a furious gnome who buys her clothes in a charity shop.
“Did you see her go in?” I ask, after we’ve said hello. “Because you know she’s only 16 … they shouldn’t be letting her in at all …”
“I know, I know,” she replies, placatingly. “And this place is overdue a raid. But I didn’t actually see her go in, no, so there’s nothing I could do. You know how it is.”
I nod. I do know how it is. When I was younger, I adored the fact that the doormen at The Dump didn’t pay too much attention to how old you were. I was coming here from the age of 15 onwards and nobody ever batted an eyelid. All it took was seventeen layers of foundation, a push-up bra, and a lot of attitude.
“Wish me luck,” I say, trying for a smile, “I’m going in.”
I stamp over to the doorway, and see a large, beer-bellied man with a shaven head, smoking a cigarette and looking at a video on his phone. I try to walk past him, through into the dingy entrance I know so well, but he holds out a hand and stops me.
“Do you have ID, love?” he asks, with half a smile. He probably thinks he’s being funny. On a normal night, I might think it was funny too.
“I’m 38,” I snap back, glaring at him. I’m feeling angry now – angry at the whole world. Me and Martha have more in common than she’ll ever understand. “And I’m looking for my … my daughter. She’s only 16, and I think she’s in there. Bet you didn’t ask her for ID, did you?”
The bouncer takes a smart step back, and I realise I’ve been right up in his face. Or his chest at least, which I’ve also been poking with my finger as I spoke. I’m not a tall woman, or a big one – truth be told I could fit into Martha’s clothes if I was so inclined – but in my experience, most people are a little bit afraid of an angry ginger. Especially an angry ginger who looks like she’s just got out of bed, and could explode like a nuclear missile at any moment.
This man is almost a foot taller than me, and probably weighs in at twice the amount. But I am not in the slightest bit concerned – I have the eye of the tiger, and he’s going to hear me roar. It’s funny how easily I slip back into this: the tough girl; the angry girl; the girl who takes no shit and is always ready to rumble. The old me, in other words.
“Okay, okay, calm down …” he says, now completely backed up into a corner, holding his ham-sized fists up in a gesture of surrender. “Go in and look for her. I won’t even charge you. And if she is 16, I’m sorry – I do check IDs, honest, but the quality of the fakes these days is unbelievable …”
I back away, and clench my fists at my side. His co-operation has taken the wind out of my sails, and I realise that I’m more angry with myself than him. It’s not his job to keep Martha safe – it’s mine. And I’m not doing it very well.
I walk in, and despite its many revamps, it still somehow smells and feels the same. I know where Martha will be – the freak show dancefloor. The place for the indie crowd, the rock crowd, the retro crowd.
I clomp down the narrow stairs, passing clubbers wearing Vans and DMs rather than Crocs, all of them sporting very fine eyeliner, even the boys. There’s a lot of black, and facial furniture that makes Martha’s few piercings look tame. They stare at me with a mix of confusion and hostility, and I realise that I must look insane: my age marks me out as someone’s mum, but my random clothes and crazy lady hair mark me out as someone who needs a crisis intervention team. I smile and wave just to scare them more. Young people, eh? They always think they invented weird.
As I descend, I hear the music change from the thumping rhythms of hip-hop to the thrumming guitars of a Muse track. I recognise it immediately: Uprising. An absolute killer of a song, all that clapping and beeping and ‘screw you world’ chorus-ing.
The room is dark, and only half full. It’s a Wednesday night, after all. Most Goths and emo kids are safely tucked up in bed. The ones that are there, though, are going wild – the dancefloor is throbbing with shuffling bodies, dark hair being swirled around, arms waving in the air, a steady stomp of feet on wood beating in time with the song. A strobe light plays over them, picking the dancers out in individual flashes: a pair of excited eyes beneath black eyebrows; a grinning face singing along; a dark fringe swinging from side to side; fists pumping the air in communal rebellion as the chorus grinds on: we will be victorious…
I have a moment of pure excitement: some kind of emotional muscle memory, or maybe a flashback to simpler times. Times when this was my tribe, too – when I would be out there stomping and swirling and bursting with the thrill of it all. With the music and the dancing and the sheer amazing possibility of what the night might hold. Of knowing that no matter how bad it all was in the outside world, here, with my people and my songs, it could still all be okay. Better than okay. It could be amazing.
The song draws to a triumphant close, and I scan the crowd as it does that weird between-tracks pause, where everyone waits for a second to see what the next choice is going to be, and whether they want to dance to it or not.
I spot her, standing in a small circle of shadows, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders. The strobe passes, and for a split second it focuses on Martha’s face: glistening with sweat, grinning, eyes ecstatic. 16 years old, and drunk. High on life, and God knows what else. 16 years old, dyed hair, piercings, surrounded by older kids who are more extreme versions of her. 16 years old, but to me, forever a little girl.
I want to rush over, and wrap my arms around her, and sing the Postman Pat theme tune with gusto. I want to take her home and feed her fish finger sandwiches, and let her sleep in her Stephanie wig and her Shaun the Sheep pyjamas. I want to tell her I love her, that I will always love her, that she is my whole world. That I would die for her. That I would do anything to protect her and keep her safe.
As I stare at her across the room, I feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. Here, in this place, where Kate and I used to dance and sing and laugh and drink, always believing that we were somehow immortal, it feels okay to cry. It feels right and proper, like some kind of tribute to be paid to the memory of my dead best friend, and everything we meant to each other.
Kate is gone. I am alone. And Martha needs me.
All of this happens in a split second, the tears and the sadness, so sudden I almost fall to the ground. But I can’t do that. I need to get my girl, and get us both home.
A Foo Fighters song has come on, and the crowd is dancing again. I walk across the dancefloor, beer-sodden toes slipping around in my plastic shoes, shouldering people out of the way, weaving through the gyrating bodies. I walk towards her, and her friends, and they all turn to look at me.
Martha’s face falls into a place somewhere between anger and embarrassment, and the tribe tries to close in around her. I’m guessing they know who I am. I’m sure she’s told them stories about her control-freak fake-mother, and I’m sure they’re sympathetic. Somewhere, somehow, I’ve become The Man – how ironic.
One of them, a tall, skinny