of a shame that one of your colleagues tried to kill himself, isn’t it?’
‘Of course,’ Billy said. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
Silence between them. The canteen was virtually empty. The whole building was virtually empty. This business couldn’t last. Martha wondered how she would earn a living in the future. What would all the journalists do?
‘Speaking of death,’ Billy said, ‘how’s the obit desk going?’
‘Depressing,’ Martha said. ‘I had a weeping widow earlier. And a weird guy who seemed obsessed with my surname, then hung up.’
Billy shook his head. ‘Never tell them your name unless you have to.’
‘So I’m learning.’
Billy checked his watch. ‘I’d better get back, got some death announcements I could be prepping for tomorrow, get ahead of the game.’
‘Yeah, me too.’
‘What are you doing after shift?’ Billy said.
Martha had been waiting for that question. ‘V has twisted my arm to go see her wrestle.’
‘Really?’
‘Want to come?’
Billy smiled.
26
Summerhall was packed.
Martha drank her pint and looked round. They were in a large concrete box, a former abattoir, apparently, still with some of the fixtures and fittings mounted on the walls – big, rusty rings cemented in place, chains and hooks hanging down. There were three hundred people in the room, arranged on cheap plastic chairs facing a wrestling ring in the middle. It was dark, with strobes flashing, and some cheesy death metal bouncing around, guitar riffs echoing and arguing with each other.
The crowd was made up of metal fans and comic-book geeks, plus some obvious friends and family of the wrestlers, kids with large foam hands. We’re #1! The bar was doing a roaring trade. Martha smiled as she soaked it up. She had no idea this world existed, in Edinburgh of all places. The atmosphere was completely non-threatening, like a pantomime for grown-ups.
Billy and Cal were next to her, talking to each other. She’d asked Cal about tomorrow, he was cool to chum her to the Royal Edinburgh even though it was an eight-thirty appointment. Who the hell wants to get their mind reset at half eight in the morning?
Tonight was a good distraction. So what if she had a hangover tomorrow? In a stupid kind of way, she figured the ECT would wipe her hangover away too. So really, she had a free pass to drink as much as she liked.
That way madness lay.
She looked at the running order for the night. It was a mixed bill, male and female, six bouts between them. V was second up. Her wrestling name was Vengeance. The picture of her was awesome. In a black spandex bra and hotpants, with her thick black fringe and grimacing for the camera, she looked like Joan Jett raging on steroids. Her opponent was someone called Buttercup, who looked three stone heavier than V and had a Mohican, arms covered in tattoos and a thick waist exposed in a spangly gold outfit. Skull-crushing thighs.
Cal nudged her, eyes wide. ‘This place is crazy.’
The death metal faded and a booming voiceover began rabble-rousing, getting the crowd hyped up. It was low-rent stuff but it worked. Martha found herself going along with it, ironically at first, but she got sucked into the call and response like everyone else. Billy and Cal were the same, whooping it up.
The first fighters came out to thudding hip hop. Wolf against Viper. Martha shook her head. Really? Both guys had tidy beards and shoulder-length hair and were wearing tight shorts, sweatbands on their wrists and comical grimaces.
But once they got down to it, there was some serious intent. OK, it was pantomime, but Martha found herself admiring the athleticism of these cartoonish guys. She couldn’t climb a turnbuckle and leap off. She couldn’t do a forward flip through the ropes onto the concrete floor. Who was she to mock them?
‘This is awesome,’ Cal said over the crowd noise. ‘You think Viper might let me check out his trouser snake afterwards?’
Martha pursed her
‘Of course,’ Billy said. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
Silence between them. The canteen was virtually empty. The whole building was virtually empty. This business couldn’t last. Martha wondered how she would earn a living in the future. What would all the journalists do?
‘Speaking of death,’ Billy said, ‘how’s the obit desk going?’
‘Depressing,’ Martha said. ‘I had a weeping widow earlier. And a weird guy who seemed obsessed with my surname, then hung up.’
Billy shook his head. ‘Never tell them your name unless you have to.’
‘So I’m learning.’
Billy checked his watch. ‘I’d better get back, got some death announcements I could be prepping for tomorrow, get ahead of the game.’
‘Yeah, me too.’
‘What are you doing after shift?’ Billy said.
Martha had been waiting for that question. ‘V has twisted my arm to go see her wrestle.’
‘Really?’
‘Want to come?’
Billy smiled.
26
Summerhall was packed.
Martha drank her pint and looked round. They were in a large concrete box, a former abattoir, apparently, still with some of the fixtures and fittings mounted on the walls – big, rusty rings cemented in place, chains and hooks hanging down. There were three hundred people in the room, arranged on cheap plastic chairs facing a wrestling ring in the middle. It was dark, with strobes flashing, and some cheesy death metal bouncing around, guitar riffs echoing and arguing with each other.
The crowd was made up of metal fans and comic-book geeks, plus some obvious friends and family of the wrestlers, kids with large foam hands. We’re #1! The bar was doing a roaring trade. Martha smiled as she soaked it up. She had no idea this world existed, in Edinburgh of all places. The atmosphere was completely non-threatening, like a pantomime for grown-ups.
Billy and Cal were next to her, talking to each other. She’d asked Cal about tomorrow, he was cool to chum her to the Royal Edinburgh even though it was an eight-thirty appointment. Who the hell wants to get their mind reset at half eight in the morning?
Tonight was a good distraction. So what if she had a hangover tomorrow? In a stupid kind of way, she figured the ECT would wipe her hangover away too. So really, she had a free pass to drink as much as she liked.
That way madness lay.
She looked at the running order for the night. It was a mixed bill, male and female, six bouts between them. V was second up. Her wrestling name was Vengeance. The picture of her was awesome. In a black spandex bra and hotpants, with her thick black fringe and grimacing for the camera, she looked like Joan Jett raging on steroids. Her opponent was someone called Buttercup, who looked three stone heavier than V and had a Mohican, arms covered in tattoos and a thick waist exposed in a spangly gold outfit. Skull-crushing thighs.
Cal nudged her, eyes wide. ‘This place is crazy.’
The death metal faded and a booming voiceover began rabble-rousing, getting the crowd hyped up. It was low-rent stuff but it worked. Martha found herself going along with it, ironically at first, but she got sucked into the call and response like everyone else. Billy and Cal were the same, whooping it up.
The first fighters came out to thudding hip hop. Wolf against Viper. Martha shook her head. Really? Both guys had tidy beards and shoulder-length hair and were wearing tight shorts, sweatbands on their wrists and comical grimaces.
But once they got down to it, there was some serious intent. OK, it was pantomime, but Martha found herself admiring the athleticism of these cartoonish guys. She couldn’t climb a turnbuckle and leap off. She couldn’t do a forward flip through the ropes onto the concrete floor. Who was she to mock them?
‘This is awesome,’ Cal said over the crowd noise. ‘You think Viper might let me check out his trouser snake afterwards?’
Martha pursed her
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