𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒 ➢ JOHNNY ROTTEN

TWO

In the women's bathroom at Dingwalls, tucked away in the farthest stall, Marion leans close to Viviane Albertine. The white powder on the narrow ledge of the toilet paper dispenser shimmered under the flickering fluorescent light, Viv's driver's licence dividing the speed into thick lines. Viv, three years her senior, had always been the wilder one, and yet, Marion found a grounding presence in her. Viv was like the older sister she never had.

Tonight, Dingwalls was about to vibrate with the sound of New York—the Ramones. Marion knew Dingwall's like the back of her hand, the place steeped in her teenage years. From Kokomo to Dr. Feelgood, the long room with its equally long bar had been a constant in her life since she was fourteen.

Last night's missed opportunity, the Clash's debut, had sharpened Marion's hunger for this evening. The Ramones were authenticity in an era where such a thing was becoming a rare commodity. They owned their sound, their image, their identity. No pretensions, no facades—just the raw purity of being unabashedly themselves.

Joe had been heralding the Ramones' arrival all week. There was no question; they would all be there. It was a pilgrimage of sorts, a collective acknowledgment of the Ramones' undeniable influence.

Viv then passed a rolled note to Marion. With a practised tilt of her head, she welcomed the sharp intrusion of speed. The burn, an old adversary, clawed its way through her sinuses.

"Christ, I'll never get used to that," Marion grumbled, grimacing as she leaned back against the graffiti-laden door.

"You love it," Viv teased, her voice raspy as Marion handed the note back to her. Viv then took her turn, head bowed in a moment of chemical worship.

Exiting the stall into the larger bathroom area, Marion made a beeline for the sink. She wasted no time, her mouth gaping under the tap's meagre offering. The water, metallic and lukewarm, did nothing to cleanse the chemical invasion.

"This water's shit," Marion muttered, spitting into the basin.

"Everything tastes like shit after a line," Viv chuckled.

"I need a beer. This is bloody awful," Marion said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her face still puckered in distaste.

Marion and Viv emerged from the bathroom and out into the Dingwalls. The floor was sticky underfoot as Marion's eyes scanned the room for the comfort of a familiar face.

"Come on," Viv's voice sliced through the din, her hand latching onto Marion's wrist.

"So, how's it going with Mick?" Marion asked, nudging Viv as they weaved through the bodies. She knew the answer, or at least the contours of it.

Viv's relationship with Mick was a pendulum that never settled, always swinging between passion and fury. And with Mick's recent behaviour toward Keith, the scales of their relationship had tipped once more toward tumult.

"He's being a right arse again," Viv muttered. Their drama was something Marion had observed since the days of teenage naivety, now a seasoned observer at the ripe age of eighteen. "Maybe I'll dump him tonight. Serve him right."

Marion raised an eyebrow, an acknowledgment of the play they'd all watched too many times. "Until next week, then?"

Viv's laughter was sharp, but not unkind. "Shut up. Let's go get some beer."

Approaching the bar, Marion leaned forward, calling out for two pints. The bartender, a burly man with tattoos crawling up his arms like ivy, nodded and took the crumpled notes she handed him.

The bartender returned, sliding the pints across the sticky surface. Marion took a greedy gulp, the bitterness of the beer mingling with the chemical residue, a strange alchemy that was both repulsive and deeply needed. "God, that's good," she confessed, setting her glass down with more force than necessary.