Dahlia - The Velvet Witch and Her Dark Spirit

PART 3 - TATTOO FREAK

Ruben takes over the driving and pulls away from the thick skid marks with a huff and a moan. I light two cigarettes.

"Here, have a smoke."

He takes it and grunts.

We arrive at the Millennium Dome twenty minutes later and park where the catatonic attendant instructs. Ruben sparks the joint from earlier and smokes it in silence. He's still salty from the downhill rallycross incident.

We mosey over to the entrance gate, where a pencil-thin lady is deftly ripping tickets at the head of the queue. A jacked-up security guard stands behind her. He has arms thicker than my body and a look as though he is one of the possessed souls they keep talking about in the news. I wonder if he knows the soul that keeps humming to me.

Ruben's bouncing on the spot while he tries to figure out the best way of giving me a telling off for my automotive indiscretions. The bouncer mistakes his anger for something else and grows suspicious of his behaviour. I don't tell Ruben he's watching because it'll make him act even fruitier.

I take the lead as we get to the head of the line to shield Ruben from the killer's gaze. The deadly combination of no brains and too much brawn is about to go on show. The ticketer reaches for ours, but Goliath shoves her out of the way and knocks the poor woman over. As I reach to help her, he slaps my arm down.

"What's wrong with you? On something?" he thunders at Ruben, then turns to me and says, "What about you? Bit of Charlie? Pills? Let's see what's in those pockets, boys?"

He points to where my cigarettes are jutting out as a vein on his head gets ready to burst. We're in trouble here.

"Just a pack of Marlboro, mate," I say, trying to keep myself in check.

"I'm not your mate, mate. Now let's see what you got."

With a hundred eyes on me now, I struggle to free the wedged box from the depths of my pocket.

"See, just a pack of smokes," I say as though it's obvious and there's no need to keep looking.

"Open 'em up. Show me inside."

Jesus, we're about to lose several hundred quid of gear and probably catch a beating in the process. A daring and all-in mercy dash is our only chance of escape. As the adrenaline begins to dump into my system, time slows to half speed. I pray Ruben will realise what's happening and keep up. But before I know it, Ruben's hand shoots over my shoulder and snatches the pack. He then darts under the bouncer's arm, spins the ticketer out of the way, leaps over the low fence and hoofs off it into the crowd.

The bouncer stumbles forward after missing his grab at Ruben. With few options left, I leapfrog the off-balance beast and set off after the bandit. I clear the fence without concern but land in front of a food trolley. I ricochet off it and smack my ribs.

"Stop, you little fucks," the Beast screams.

I look back to see if the danger is gaining on us. His face is red and wild with rage as he attempts to clear the fence. But it catches his lumbering mass and sends him tumbling into the dirt. In a last-ditch attempt, he throws his radio at us, missing by inches and leaving a football-sized dent in the side of a curry van.

We dart between a group of revellers, cut around some more vans, shoot across a short field then disappear into a sea of people. El Beasto grabs his radio and yells down it before pelting the broken thing again. We cut through the crowd and slow to a walk where the mass of human meat fills in our tracks.

"I think we're good," Ruben says through heavy breath and a stupid grin. "Got to wake up pretty early in the morning to get ahead of us."

I smile at my lad as he passes back the smokes.