A Curious Encounter (Or Two)
Jan. 27th, 2006 02:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
undyingkingI saw on the local news the other day that a guy had been found dead in the river in Chelmsford, having been at Dukes nightclub earlier on in the evening.
This took me back a bit, because when I was a teenager growing up there, I used to hang around at Dukes pretty regularly. It was what I guess is typical of small-town clubs -- ropey, but you've nowhere else to go, so there you are. Because it was the only one in town, all the rival youth factions were forced to meet there, and there were frequent standoffs -- and occasionally worse. It wasn't unusual to find the pavement outside liberally smeared with blood.
The biggest faction at that time was the Casuals. If you're not old enough to remember them, these were guys who dressed smart-casual in Fred Perry shirts, Pringle jumpers, wearing loafers and always white socks. They were a sort of post-Mod I guess. They were renowned for being violent -- maybe a precursor to today's Burberry-clad hooligans.
I was an indie kid by the time I'm talking about, having got over my unfortunate New Romantic phase. We used to drink in a pub called the Prince of Orange, on Moulsham Street, along with the punks, Goths, and other people of broadly the same persuasion. We were not renowned for our violence: quite the opposite in fact.
Anyway, this one time wasn't anybody's birthday or anything, just an ordinary summer Friday night. We'd been drinking and chatting -- the music wasn't really for dancing to, it wasn't that sort of club -- and not concentrating. But it seems that a bunch of Casuals had been giving us the eye. We found this out on the way out.
It started with a bit of shoving and some harsh words, but once we were out on the pavement it turned into a scrap. The bouncers were ignoring it -- they'd called the police, that was the extent that they got involved in these things. One of my friends went down quite quickly and a big guy was enthusiastically shoeing him in the ribs. I shoved him off, but got belted round the face myself by someone coming in from behind. I turned round to react, and saw that to my right another friend -- I'll call him Mark -- was just staring into the eyes of a Casual who was about the same size and shape as him -- tallish and skinny.
Mark was a curiosity even by our standards. His chief claim to fame was that he'd once been run over by a train: he was down on the line trying to steal a Warning: Do Not Trespass sign, heard the train coming, was too drunk to climb back onto the platform, so lay down between the tracks, reasoning that it would pass safely over him. Well, he survived, but he didn't half have a lot of broken ribs.
Anyway, we could hear sirens by this point, so we broke and ran. I had to grab Mark's arm to bring him along: he seemed transfixed by the gaze of this Casual he was facing off. As we ran I panted out: What the hell was that about? Why were you looking at that guy?
Mark waited until we'd got away and slowed before answering. It was me, he said. He was just like me. Not just to look at, I mean he was another me.
I hadn't thought the guy looked all that much like him, but I hadn't been staring as closely, of course. What do you mean? Another you how?
An identical twin maybe. Or from an alternate universe. I don't know. He just was, that's all. Mark looked down at his shoes: he seemed tired. I suppose we all were by then, the adrenaline was wearing off.
Are you OK? I'll walk back home with you if you like.
No, that's fine, I'll be all right. He set off, shambling as usual, into the dark streets.
The next time I saw Mark was nearly a year later, at Liverpool Street. I'd moved away by then and I was coming back through London to visit my folks: he was getting onto a commuter special on the Southend line. He was wearing a nasty blue suit and tie. Hey! -- Mark, good to see you, how are you doing? I said. Where the hell've you been all this time?
He blanked me: and it didn't look like it was deliberate, just that he'd forgotten who I was. Which was not possible: we'd known each other for years. I was stood almost in front of him though, so he couldn't ignore me completely. When he was right beside me I grabbed for his arm. Mark, it's Mo -- how are you?
Erm, right, he said, although to be honest he still didn't look like he recognized me properly. Things are a bit different with me now. Here -- and he thrust a piece of screwed-up paper into my hand, then pushed past and got on his train.
I didn't look at the paper until later: I was still trying to take it all in. It turned out to be a ten-pound note, which was a lot of money back then. I broke it up at the station buffet, but on the way back I wished I hadn't: I wished I'd checked it to see if the Queen had different-colour hair, or a scar, or something like that. Maybe it's sometimes better not to be sure, though.
This took me back a bit, because when I was a teenager growing up there, I used to hang around at Dukes pretty regularly. It was what I guess is typical of small-town clubs -- ropey, but you've nowhere else to go, so there you are. Because it was the only one in town, all the rival youth factions were forced to meet there, and there were frequent standoffs -- and occasionally worse. It wasn't unusual to find the pavement outside liberally smeared with blood.
The biggest faction at that time was the Casuals. If you're not old enough to remember them, these were guys who dressed smart-casual in Fred Perry shirts, Pringle jumpers, wearing loafers and always white socks. They were a sort of post-Mod I guess. They were renowned for being violent -- maybe a precursor to today's Burberry-clad hooligans.
I was an indie kid by the time I'm talking about, having got over my unfortunate New Romantic phase. We used to drink in a pub called the Prince of Orange, on Moulsham Street, along with the punks, Goths, and other people of broadly the same persuasion. We were not renowned for our violence: quite the opposite in fact.
Anyway, this one time wasn't anybody's birthday or anything, just an ordinary summer Friday night. We'd been drinking and chatting -- the music wasn't really for dancing to, it wasn't that sort of club -- and not concentrating. But it seems that a bunch of Casuals had been giving us the eye. We found this out on the way out.
It started with a bit of shoving and some harsh words, but once we were out on the pavement it turned into a scrap. The bouncers were ignoring it -- they'd called the police, that was the extent that they got involved in these things. One of my friends went down quite quickly and a big guy was enthusiastically shoeing him in the ribs. I shoved him off, but got belted round the face myself by someone coming in from behind. I turned round to react, and saw that to my right another friend -- I'll call him Mark -- was just staring into the eyes of a Casual who was about the same size and shape as him -- tallish and skinny.
Mark was a curiosity even by our standards. His chief claim to fame was that he'd once been run over by a train: he was down on the line trying to steal a Warning: Do Not Trespass sign, heard the train coming, was too drunk to climb back onto the platform, so lay down between the tracks, reasoning that it would pass safely over him. Well, he survived, but he didn't half have a lot of broken ribs.
Anyway, we could hear sirens by this point, so we broke and ran. I had to grab Mark's arm to bring him along: he seemed transfixed by the gaze of this Casual he was facing off. As we ran I panted out: What the hell was that about? Why were you looking at that guy?
Mark waited until we'd got away and slowed before answering. It was me, he said. He was just like me. Not just to look at, I mean he was another me.
I hadn't thought the guy looked all that much like him, but I hadn't been staring as closely, of course. What do you mean? Another you how?
An identical twin maybe. Or from an alternate universe. I don't know. He just was, that's all. Mark looked down at his shoes: he seemed tired. I suppose we all were by then, the adrenaline was wearing off.
Are you OK? I'll walk back home with you if you like.
No, that's fine, I'll be all right. He set off, shambling as usual, into the dark streets.
The next time I saw Mark was nearly a year later, at Liverpool Street. I'd moved away by then and I was coming back through London to visit my folks: he was getting onto a commuter special on the Southend line. He was wearing a nasty blue suit and tie. Hey! -- Mark, good to see you, how are you doing? I said. Where the hell've you been all this time?
He blanked me: and it didn't look like it was deliberate, just that he'd forgotten who I was. Which was not possible: we'd known each other for years. I was stood almost in front of him though, so he couldn't ignore me completely. When he was right beside me I grabbed for his arm. Mark, it's Mo -- how are you?
Erm, right, he said, although to be honest he still didn't look like he recognized me properly. Things are a bit different with me now. Here -- and he thrust a piece of screwed-up paper into my hand, then pushed past and got on his train.
I didn't look at the paper until later: I was still trying to take it all in. It turned out to be a ten-pound note, which was a lot of money back then. I broke it up at the station buffet, but on the way back I wished I hadn't: I wished I'd checked it to see if the Queen had different-colour hair, or a scar, or something like that. Maybe it's sometimes better not to be sure, though.
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no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 05:35 pm (UTC)You know I wont be able to sleep tonight, trying to figure out what happened to your friend Mark and his mirror-universe doppelganger.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-31 08:57 am (UTC)As for "Mark", sadly the true story isn't quite as interesting: last I heard he was working as a computer programmer in Abingdon. But I can dream...
no subject
Date: 2006-01-30 02:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-31 08:39 am (UTC)