Now there were meat markets of a different kind, where young men could hook up with young women on any given night of the week. Jake observed some of them off out that evening: gaggles of girls wearing shiny skin-tight dresses that barely came down past their waists, clutching tiny handbags, already clearly drunk (not that he could talk after last night), tottering on high-heels, wearing make-up the Joker would have been proud of. Similarly, the lads out on the pull: skinny jeans and shirts open to their belly buttons practically. All they were missing were the medallions and flares and it could have been the 1970s rather than this day and age.
Jake heard the music being pumped out, the thumping bass that would have made your internal organs vibrate if you were close enough to it. Saw the flashing lights, all the colours of the rainbow. Mesmerising, drawing people in as effectively as those sirens used to do to the sailors of old – and there’d be just as many crashes later on. Perhaps not on rocks, but people crashing into each other. Dancing to begin with, then later in alleyways and in flats; bodies crashing against each other in another way. Kids who hardly knew each other, screwing like it was some sort of hobby or pastime, a new sport.
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