Blue lights

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Mike Bridges: Blue Lights

Blue Lights

Not-Nick has a torch in his face.

Our Cheshire-style maniac driver has pulled us up next to young trees protected by

black wire. He turns to the back and speaks, shining light on each face in turn: Mr Pie,

Diggidy Dan, Duck and me.

This is it. Big ole fuckin’ Tal-y-Bont.

He turns away fiddling the ignition, briefly flashing the lights on a propped up

car bonnet dripping the words THIS WAY in black paint, lighted now by a burning oil

drum.

Not-Nick wide eyes me.

Vincent…catch.

He throws a yellow and pink bum-bag full of various powders pills and liquids

as I register the hardening bang of close techno rattling off the van. My first time

dealing at a rave. Images of the flashing blues and twos half a mile back are stuck in

my mind. I scratch the tiny itches creeping up my arms.

Wanna rollie?

A freshly sealed rollie from the Jaggeresque beak of Duck’s mouth is brought

to my drying lips. I take it with a dab of MD from my powder filled pocket feeling the

night lurch as people emerge from the trees like worker drones heading to the

factory’s distant lights and pounding hammers. Outside various voices scream past

through the Welsh trees carrying oddities from glow-sticks to jesters hats, babies and

drugs. One man runs close to the van with others trailing behind.

G’wan, Ianto!

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Get the fuckers, boy!

Go for it, mun!

Not-Nick shines the torch after the running man.

Crazy Taff bastard.

You can’t call them Taffies, man. That’s not cool.

Mr Pie carefully rushes a lolly through his whiz bag like questionable over-

the-counter dib-dab.

Ye fuckin PC prick!

Mr Pie goes back to his sherbert as the MD gets me shifting and tapping along

to brain-filling drums. Bright sparks shoot through the sky trailing witch cackles while

little fires dance amongst the trees; the flames flicker to the good people running past.

Duck pulls out a tour guide and begins flicking through.

Not-Nick stares at him.

Why you got a tour guide?

Why not?

Not-Nick’s bottom lip pops forward.

Hmm, furry muff furry muff.

I smile leaning my head against the rattling-in-techno van and close my eyes to

get the music in the green land of Wales.

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The Duck’s Quack 1:

Tal-y-bont of the Brecon Beacons, 7 miles outside Aberystwyth, lies in stunning

flatland where three green valleys meet. Waterways and waterfalls scatter the rolling

jagged landscape interspersed with canals and streams. Their moisture leaves a thin

mist in winter and the summer sun shimmers on the restless water from wildlife above

and below.

I watch Duck chase Not-Nick into the woods.

Mr Pie is next to me waving his arms and swaying in rhythm to the off beat snare of

the maddening field. I stretch my spine clicking it left to right and scope for punters as

the bass shakes my gut and sends vibrations to my thighs. A group of early to mid-

twenties men march by.

Coke, pills, amyls.

The head of the group approaches.

Charlie, fuckin poofs drug, likesay? Pills ye radge.

Pound each.

Aye, six a-th’ cunts. Well be back tellin’ ye if dese are effin shite, likesay?

Aw mate, these are lovely. Dancing on them right now.

Ye shandy swillin’ panzy. Ye wouldnae know a pill if it were shoved up ye

shitter.

Yeah alright enjoy your night.

I hand over the pills, my heart fluttering from the first deal. I calm at seeing

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Duck in a Not-Nick headlock, Mr Pie and Diggidy heading off towards the music. I

follow on with shoulders wriggling under my jumper.

Coke, pills, amyls.


The town boasts a man-made reservoir that provides haven to a host of migratory and

indigenous wildfowl and wildlife, while the surrounding mountains give protection to

peregrine, falcon, dippers, raven and kingfishers. On a clear day you can see local

huntsman standing on the mountain side, guns snug in arms, waiting for the game-

season birds to fly. The lush green valleys containing this life are still unspoiled and

natural.

I make it to the main field of Tal-y-Bont, Duck and Not-Nick close behind arguing

over the mud-covered shirt, Mr Pie and Diggidy lost to the masses. Fifteen pills left

and I drop one heading over to the concrete barn shaking in the bass with the rafters

ready for breaking. The red glow behind windows in a black-bricked mansion flicker

in the distance. The fire silhouettes the people dancing around to the same step, beat

and thump, some jump through the flames others stand swirling fire on rope while

shirts of the smiling yellow faces spin madly around me. My gut moves sideways and

I stumble slightly smiling at the people around. One man holds me mutters a few

words then smiles off away and I smile my world back. The mix of speed pills amyls

and madmans run round the hive of field barns and electronic-synths. Generators

whirring with the buzz of cables keeping the mix together.

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Stop standing around you dick, get selling.

Eyes roll up as I turn to Not-Nick with spliff in mouth talking through smoke

blowing chimney like. He passes the gleaming end of the joint burning my palm

before I spin it back round and start toking. Not-Nick grabs me by the shoulders

swinging me towards the barn leaving a fresh-from-fighting muddy Duck to find

whatever a Duck needs at a rave, water-nests or something. Diggidy runs up behind

me as Not-Nick gets inside the barn.

Vince you still selling?

Yeah.

Give the shit back. Chill out for the night.

Feel bad though.

Fuck it Vince. Hand it back and laugh with us. He’s our driver, not your

fucking pimp…why’s a raver like a writing desk?

Shu’ up Dan.

I head to the barn crowded in smoke and lights with a DJ in chamber all

yellow and green, spinning one deck backwards and forwards creating a sharp rewind

making me want to run in an out of the barn. A topless girl hangs from the rafters legs

hooked round swinging and waving her arms. Not-Nick joining me to get his perv on.

Got any amyls left? Sold mine to an Irishman.

Yeah, hang on.

I hand the bum-bag over and run off before he has time to give it back.

Diggidy‘s words mixing with the night. The barn is a crazed hive of people running

some jumping others standing all loving. Smells of sweat perfume aftershave and the

sulphates in my nose hairs. The bass has me swaying changing the rhythm of my

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heartbeat moving as one with the DJ. Heart and beat all one movement. Fall about in

the mix.


Permits from the Information Centre can provide fun-fishing for the younger or first-

time fisherman, giving them a chance to catch roach, perch, dace and chub. The

experienced have a chance to ditch the choppy waves of the ocean for a relaxed, sat by

a river kind of a day.

Beautifully situated, beautifully green: Tal-y-bont.

The Origin of Mr Pie

Ian stood outside his house rolling a spliff before getting on his bike.

He took his usual route past St Augustine’s before reaching the long straight of The

Avenues. A down hill ride he smiled all the way and his reefa-filled beard rustled in

the wind. He rode on then felt a vibrating in his pocket, and believed it to be a

muscular twitch. He jumped up the curb and stopped next to a bench, then proceeded

to rub his thigh. He found a lump What’s that? My Phone!? A text was his vibrate.

Ham, u comin?

He pondered ham confused yet amused due to the smoke surrounding his person. He

realised then 4 2 6 are the numbers used to spell his name. He sprang up to ring the

Stan to tell him of his textual error. The Stan answered Ian! Ian said Stan. Then Ian

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continued You called me ham. Then Stan went What? Ian said The text. Stan carried

on Ah, we’re eating pie see? Ham pie. Ian thought then said Ham pie is Ian pie, in the

world of predictive text. The Stan said Get your arse over here Pie, football is on.

Diggidy marches off and I stare at the girl he was pointing at.

She sitting cross-legged with a man in dreads standing over her. Me looking round

with body and eyes trying to work things through. Diggidy now gone with the rest

missing.

I look back to the girl and we catch eyes. Her gaze goes down with a toothed

smile. My gaze most likely spinning in circles a vibrating mess. I get up rocking on

my feet towards her the fire sobering my thoughts in fear of falling in flames. I get

there sweat drenching every part of me but I delight in her glistening skin of sweat

beads over her face and bare arms. Her eyes pure-white with black and no colour,

chestnut hair tied back she stares at me, head to one side and opens her mouth.

You actually going to say anything?

Standing here like melon forgetting the social niceties of engaging the female

in conversation not gawping at her ponytail. I shove my hand out following on with

carefully chosen words.

Hi.

Hello.

Her hand meets mine shaking in agreement of meeting like we’d solved the

world’s hunger crisis and disbanded nuclear weapons. Her hand tacky from the

ecstasy sweats.

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What’s you name?

Vincent.

You don’t look like a Vincent.

You don’t look like a Bassett Hound. They’re such sad dogs.

She squints and bites her knuckle. My left eye twitches and I bite the inside of

my mouth.

You okay?

Yeah, just bit the inside my mouth.

She laughs and pats the ground beside her while a battery-metal taste fills my

mouth. I sit down taking a sip from a can of lager in my hand then spit out the

contents.

Shit! Sorry that’s our ashtray.

The random beauty giggles as I spit towards the base of the fire. The

dreadlocked man behind me laughing to the back of my head. I search my pocket for

my hip flask unscrewing the cap to drink the weird shit mix of screg ends from bottles

left lying round Not-Nick’s flat. I cough out a sentence.

You want any?

She takes the flask and swigs spitting it back out.

Fuck! What is that?

I don’t know but I think I’m blind.

I wave my hand in front of my face swimming in the gaze. She takes a long

drag on her cigarette and speaks through smoke.

So, what do you do Vincent?

Student.

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Of what?

I swig my mix.

Nuclear physics.

She cocks her head.

I don’t believe you.

Neither do I. Was selling earlier but lost my bum-bag to a man in a barn, or I

gave him it…either way I’ve lost my bag.

Who you here with?

Friends.

Where are they?

I search round as if they’ll pop up, and almost fall over. She pulls my arm

bringing me back to sitting.

I don’t know where they are. Came in a van driven by a nutter. He scares me

but means well.

The van man?

Was stuck in his flat last night. Only one I know who drives. My friends

hate him but I could do with money since she left me. You understand.

Not really.

She sighs, smiling. Her hand around my arm bejewelled with colourful glass of

greens yellows and oranges in a bracelet and I smile at them.

You seem nervous Vincent.

Do I.

You’re shaking a lot.

I am and did not realise. My body shaking wildly. Arm muscles tensing and

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shivering. I look at her. She grabs my hand pulling me towards her, stomach-

adrenaline attacking like butterflies as I semi-pucker for a kiss. She brings a guitar

pick of white powder to my face and I bend breathing in the mystery.

Freshly cooked up this morning.

I fiddle with my nose trying to get it all up and I stare at the balloons moving

round in the distance. Colours flitting through the distance. Lay back and feel the

warmth of the fire.

Jess’s Moment

Jess sits with her parents, watching them watching the tele.

She fiddles with her beaded-glass bracelet waiting for her Dad to yell some kind of

slur at the screen.

Fuckin’ nuke the lot of them if I was in charge ey? That’ll stop ’em killin’

our boys.

Jess shifts in her seat placing more weight to her left side instead of answering.

There is no answer.

Honestly, nuke ’em then deal with the consequences.

Her mum nods in agreement not taking her eyes away from the Afghani man

yelling into the camera holding his dead child. The news switches to another story.

Fuckin’ drug addicts the lot of them out there. They grow that heroine shi’

out there.

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Her mum nods again unknowing of the drug trade herself. Its influence. Its

culture. Its universal oneness between users. Jess thinks of the night. The state of her

mind through clarity in drug connections. No bombings no killing just empathy

beyond empathy. Those awkward conversations become nothing but natural.

She fiddles her beads louder making her Dad turn round.

You still watching this.

She looks up.

No. Turn it over if you like.

The channel switches to men falling in water.


“In the summer, things come alive in Tal-y-bont. The warm weather wakes up mother

nature.” - Alex Chalk

“With the second lowest crime-rate in Wales, tourists will enjoy a plethora of peace

amongst the Welsh countryside.” - Officer Howell Lloyd

The village shop in Tal-y-bont offers a good selection of walking guides and the

Tourist Information Centre in Brecon provides excellent advice and a further range of

maps and guides.

Tal-y-bont Tourist Office Chairman

Simon Davies

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“Wow,” said Kayla. And then, “wow,”

again. A third “wow” convinced me,

she really was impressed.

I stick my head up to see the face of Pie.

No smile or teeth shown. Determination and worry. I’m raising on my stilt legs and he

tugs my right arm not moving under own steam but pies. I trying to say to Mr, girl. I

try saying girl. Want to speak with mystery woman but the beard helping me is too.

His beard a wonderful thing. Try and grab it. Grab.

Don’t worry Vince, we’re getting out of here mate.

Girl by fire. She was nice can be with her? There’s a tingle and I turn to Mr

Pie stroking his beard reaching for words matted in it carefully choosing in my head;

he needs to understand.

Pee.

Mate we can‘t, police are here. Shit’s getting raided. Fire broke out. Can you

walk?

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Screams and shouting around. Clicking noises. Sobriety in confusion. The

mansion’s red windows growing. Pie drags me along my legs refusing to work. Head

pulling together. A man falls next to us with man shouting over him.

Aw Jesus. You dirty bastard. Fucking disgusting that. Could you not have

just waited?

The man who fell, his nose and bloody, his back in brown leaking from the

toilets. I begin laughing, straightening upwards, as Pie runs to help and I find a near

empty banker’s bag hanging out my pocket. I lick the thing clean and start rubbing

myself working the drug through my system tracing back the steps to the fire getting

trippy on the bumpy ground to find the girl.

Whoops of sirens and more screaming and crying but the girl I’ll soon find. I

bounce along to the fire the last lick of the banker’s bag coursing through the blood

and come to the fire with questions ready, puns and charm and chat up lines, readying

to get the girl and get high, stay in nice tent, not no van with fermenting men. Fuck the

police.

The fire now dwindling holds no sign of the mysterious girl. No sign of

anyone. Piece together more memory. Where’s Pie? Not even the can ashtray that

blackened my mouth is here. The screams become louder and my heart begins a

double rhythm to the already hectic sirens bounding out the trees the people appearing

grabbing their items and various things off others. The people batter into me. Hitting

me. The exit of the hive clogged with everyone trying their escape crawl and click

over each and every one. The lights of the mansion now a deep red hell staring down

at the dark field of minions. The black block silhouetted against blueing early sky.

Insectoid unfamiliar faces push passed me rocking my body the need to run starts up.

A fire brewing in the nearby barn. I run.

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I rush past each step gaining faster legs to find someone I know. My hands

start flicking into the palms and the skin dries with sweat rising in the forehead drying

everywhere else. The playful dance of the shoulders now aching as I run past the barn

trying to get to the van or a known face and I rub my neck bounding under over trees

broken beer bottles crushed cans needles wooden crates tents guy-ropes, tripping over

fornicating ravers so high and unknowing with dieing glow-sticks creating an

alleyway. Old fires failing and new ones starting with thud of car doors echoing

through the trees now menacing chasing me further through the woods.

This has to be the fucking way.

More noises groans a woman in screams the odd child whimpers and shouts. Keep the

step up the van or a face will come. Snapping and breaking I stumble over more

people face down. Out with the chemicals. I take one step forward and fall two steps

back with more people hitting and running. Their eyes wide and staring at everyone

and everything. Names shouted. They grow tall as I fall small. I’ll sit and catch the

breath but more people come from the trees moving towards. Insects with lights,

angler fish in sea. Shining lights on each man and woman in turn, clicking and

squawking through radios and torches. Black and white fluorescents. More blue in the

distance the people coming nearer. One runs towards and floors me in a slam throwing

me over, giving me metal bracelets.

Fuckin knew they’d come this way ay?

Aye, get-a fucker in-a van.

Bleeding gyppos an pill-eads up yere. What’s your name boyo?

Vincent.

Dun look like a Vincent to me, look more like a Tracy or a Stephanie.

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I weaken in the arms of the dragging-me policeman and get thrown into a van.

How will I get back from Wales? The others gone disappeared arrested or in van?

This night’s escape running into blue of uniform men. People in great times taken

inside by blue lights and placed behind black bars. This white and blue van in

darkness with morning chorus.

Wonder what the parents will think? Endings are hard to make sense of.

I rest my head.

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Blue lights