K.R.MILTON

Fiction writer and proud Manchester Bee

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Girls and Boys

 A cue stretches from the door of my club to the next club down. August and I walk up the side listening to people who haven’t chosen to dress appropriately for the night moan and sigh. Others watch us as we head to the front. A few revellers are trying to chat up the stocky guards at the door.

 They groan as we walk in without any word from the guards. The club isn’t open for a few minutes yet. Enough time to get some drinks in. For free, of course.

 I stand at the bar ordering a handful of drinks to be delivered to us throughout the night. There will be no chance to get in by the time the doors open. August orders a few ciders, swaying to the music, dancing alone on the lit-up dance floor, with two young lanky drag queens in six-inch, platform heels. Blur’s Girls and Boys playing on the loudspeakers.

 As the doors open, we walk to the private booth and sit together. The drag queens go to welcome the crowd, to stamp hands and pull in revellers looking for the next club to go to. We start drinking and watch the clubbers.

 Canal street has always been a place I felt I could go to as a young adult. One of the only places it felt alright to be in as a gay man. But it has come a long way since. Safer and cleaner. More welcoming. Brighter. Lights twinkle in the trees in rows outside. The canal is lit by lights from the long row of clubs, reflecting it like a distorted mirror. It’s good to see that so many people of the LGBT community and open-minded people are still so welcome here.

 There is a homeless man used to live on the short strip. A rainbow flag and flower necklaces adorned his tent. His smile was just as bright as the lights. He isn’t there anymore of course. A lot of men, and women like him, most of which became good friends to locals, are no longer living in the city.

 For a city with diversity, it can go against its own people as quickly as it can accept them.

 The clubbers steadily fill the club, dancing and swaying under the flashing lights, blowing whistles. A small group of girls huddles in one corner. A group of boys does the same on the opposite side. Boys flirt with girls and boys. Girls flirt with boys and girls. New relationships are made, and others are lost. A few fights take place. The bathrooms are backed up by people snorting the very drugs I had worked to spread around the city.

 This club. My suits. My penthouse. They are all a façade for the dark seedy underground of the city. You will never know that is there, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t. Not even August knows what I really work as.

Manchester has her shady secrets.

And so, do I.

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Alright

 The rumbling on the roads changes to clattering and chatting as I open the brass handled door to the Lost Dene. August heads in first, making a beeline to our usual table on the far end. I order a coke and a cider, paying and taking them over to the table August is waiting at. He’s made himself comfortable, all his bags to his right under his coat.

 “Do you know what you want?”

 “The usual,” he says with a cheeky grin, I nod and walk back to the bar, “cheers.

 I order the food before I sit back down again. Two chicken tikka masalas, with rice, poppadom’s and mango chutney. A delicacy of ours when we come here.

 This is our place to come. Not posh enough to be a restaurant. Not common enough to even be simple pub food. It used to look different from this. Bland, dark colours with floors that stick to the soles of your shoes. Now they’re somewhat clean, with a pink-beige on the walls and reupholstered seating.

 A hipster’s paradise.

 “I wanted to ask,” now seems like a better time than any, “If you would move in with me. You don’t have to, I don’t want to rush you, but…” I sigh, running my finger round the top of the glass, “Well, I’d like you to have a bigger place. There’s two rooms waiting, and I have no one to”-

 He stops me, placing a hand over mine still messing with the glass.

 “I’d love to.”

 My chest swells and I grin like a madman.

 “Great. Tomorrow then?”

 “That soon?”

 “Yeah.”

 He nods, blushing. We lean across the table to kiss. A woman dressed in all black comes over with a basket carrying sauces and cutlery. She smiles and walks away without a word.

 The flatscreen to our right is being watched by two men in red United shirts, clinking their bottles when someone one screen kicks the ball. Their cheering and words come out as gibberish. This is nice. Sharing time with strangers. It might bother other people, but I guess in a city this big, you can’t go two metres without bumping into someone you either do or don’t know.

 I remember the first time we came in here. We had just had a lovely day in the nearby Science and Industry museum. We needed something to eat and weren’t mithered about where we went. The Lost Dene had had a deal on; two meals and drinks for seven quid and two deserts for a fiver. It became out go to spot from then on.

 Our food arrives not long after. Huge plates with rice and sundries with little metal bowls holding the meat and sauce. Delicious.

 We ate and talked. We laughed. We cheered along with the rest of the pub when someone scored. Even if we weren’t watching the game ourselves. We stayed until the sun set, and neon lights replaced those in shop stores. We left full.

 Alright.

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Charmless Man

  Words are printed on the underside of concrete steps in Afflecks Palace.

 Take a step in the right direction.

 No racism.

 No homophobia.

 No sexism.

 No transphobia.

 No disablism.

 No alteraphobia.

 No violence.

 Love.

 Peace.

 It’s a good message, printed on black paint in white, army-like font. Words are covered by feet going down, and by by ours as we ascend to the first floor, in search of something new. This red brick building a haven for anybody who doesn’t fit into a mainstream lifestyle. Goths, wiccans, hipsters, rockabillies, moshers and punks come here on the daily. I think I’ve seen the odd closeted chav now and then too.

 You can find the latest overpriced goodie or a bargain. On the first floor there is a wide selection of items. The lifestyles merge one into the other. It’s like a four-floor indoor market, catering to the odd, the strange and the daring.

 August heads into a shop selling second-hand vintage clothing. A prissy looking girl sits behind the cashier desk, her hair in a loose messy bun. I head in to help pick out some plaid shirts that August is looking at. He holds some up to himself, I choose the right. He holds one up to me. I laugh and shake my head,

 “Nice try,” I place it back on the rack, “I know I’m going for a carefree look, but not that loose.”

 He smiles and picks up a few more, walking to the desk, “I thought they would suit you.”

 The girl smiles sweetly and packs the items. August pays. I take the bag from him, not minding being his mule for the afternoon. We walk through a narrow path between two clothing and jewellery stalls, past two smiling goths in full black leather with silver studs.

 We head to the right, down two steps to another part of the maze-like building. Another concrete staircase to our right, decorated with posters on the walls and a statue of a bee on the lower landing. To our left is a poster stall selling band merch and pop culture badges. We walk round it and come to another stall with a door. The floors are original wood. Wooden tables are placed round, holding little boxes and bowls full of loose beads and charms. August saunters round, choosing a couple of rainbow beads, Swarovski crystals and random charms. It’s like Aladdin’s cave.

 “What are you making?”

 “I’m not sure yet,” he says, filling up a small basket with his findings, “Just whatever comes to me.”

 I’m jealous of his creativity. I was never like him. Even when I was younger and enjoyed walking round Afflecks on my own, I’d just grab whatever was in at the time… whatever everyone else was wearing.

 I pass a twenty to the cashier, paying for August’s items, dropping the plastic bags into the bag I’m already holding. We saunter out and down the stairs to the front, out onto the bright but busy street.

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Don’t Look Back in Anger

  Tarmac covers the cobbled streets. Deansgate is one such place. Concrete paving is a façade, covering the ground once walked on by soft soles and carriage wheels. Replaced to hold the foot traffic of Manchester’s residents and visitors and the hundreds of cars that pass down this road daily. I don’t find it strange, having lived here since I was born. A talk with a Mormon girl the other day changed my perspective. She came from a small town in America. Quiet and peaceful, where fifteen cars would be a traffic jam. She was stunned by just how busy the city was.

 I had never noticed. I found it odd how she shared her views of religion with little to nothing bad said. Not only is it busy here. It’s diverse. Look at a map of Greater Manchester. Ask a Jew where he or she lives. Ask a Christian. A Muslim. A Buddhist. You will see the different territories, like the many burrows of a rabbit’s den with the city acting as common ground.

 Keep your views to yourself. They won’t go down well here in the centre. Homophobic views are quickly put down during our yearly pride festivals. Rainbow flags paint each window and post. The Manchester Bee, our symbol will change its yellow and black stripes to depict every colour. We are varied in our sexualities. Our religions and tastes and social class.

 Take me for example. I’ve worked my way up from our council house in Rochdale, watching Dad learn from the man that would one day mentor me. I went from running through the streets from police as a “good” Christian boy to running the streets as a faithless man.

 And August?

 He was raised in a detached home in the country. Moving here changed him like it had with the Mormon girl.

 And yet… With all our differences. We were affected together when a coward of a man walked into the lobby of the Arena in 2017. We mourned the twenty-two we lost despite not ever knowing them. We came together in the aftermath despite our differences. We were strong together. We held each other up. And the bee, our bee depicting us as team workers and hard workers, became a symbol of hope as well.

 We walked to a cobbled street. A man in a green apron stood with buckets of flowers round his feet. August chose a bunch of twenty-two mixed flowers. I paid. We walked back down the street and continued up Deansgate, talking and walking hand in hand. Smiling wide despite the memories. The fear we still felt as to whether these seemingly safe streets were just that. Or if it was just an illusion.

 We made it to the arena and lay our flowers at the foot of the steps. We remembered in silence. I thought about the young people who were left shaken. I thought about the song mourners hand sung at the vigil.

 Oasis - Don’t look back in anger.

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The song I used as inspiration behind the Sit Down blog short story

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Sit Down

  I wait for August, sat on a white metal bench. The water to my right looks murky from here, reflecting the colour of industrial red brick merged with new-build steel and pane glass. This is one of the most peaceful spots, even with the surrounding beeping of cars and rumbling tyres. Elbow’s One day like this comes to mind. She might be a sprawling, bustling city, but Manchester has her beauty. Just this morning I could see the skyline from my penthouse. I saw where I worked. I saw new buildings coming to be. I saw the daily rat race.

  Even now men and women in cheap suits rush past me, their hands clutching overpriced coffee and knockoff designer bags, overfilled with paperwork. The white bridge behind me taps with their feet. Leaning back, I fold my legs, watching the people walk past the canal to the bridge, enjoying a nice stroll or resting on one of the many benches. I’m looking for one, a young man with bouncy brown hair, lanky and pale. I play my game of eye spy until long arms wrap round my shoulders and I smile at the lips on my ear,

  “Morning Vince.”

  Smiling, I close my hands over August’s wrists, leaning my head back to kiss his cheek.

  “What happened to coming that way?” I say, gesturing to where I had been looking. He lets go, coming around to sit by my side. “I took a detour. If you can call it that.”

  “Not really, it’s a trek from yours to here either way.”

  “I thought I’d surprise you.”

  He sits with his legs crossed, resting his head on my shoulder.

  “Weird to see you in denim and not a suit.”

  I smirk, “Where do you want to go then?”

  “Afflecks Palace.”

  I stand, taking his hand mine. We walk steadily down the decorative paving, down to concrete stairs in need of being replaced. That’s the thing about Manchester. Everything old stands as a monument of its past. Other buildings are forgotten, replaced in time with little thought to the memories or significance they held. True Mancunians will soon fall with them, replaced too with new people from the south drawn to city life. We will be pushed out into outskirts. Rochdale, Bury, Salford… Unless, of course, you get lucky enough to live amongst the emerging elite and workers such as myself.

  I’m a hard worker. Not like the men who build or work behind a desk or stock shelves. I’m in charge of a handful of men. I’m in charge of the running of products that make the city’s nightlife stay active until the early hours. I’m in charge of my own club in the Gay Village. And you won’t know who I am. You won’t know what I am when you see my Rolls Royce Wraith rolling past Piccadilly. You won’t know what I work as walking in my jeans or designer suits. But there’s no doubt that I’m here.

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Vincent Thorn

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Calling card of the Northern Roses

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22/5/2017

Those poor twenty-two,

Lives stolen by a coward.

We bees won’t forget.

Flowers and balloons,

Song: Don’t look back in anger

Sung by the mourners.

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My Home

Manchester: my home

A concrete jungle built high

Brushing smog filled skies

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This story series will follow the Northern Roses. Told through the voices of gang leaders and their lovers, Beautiful Mine follows the every day lives of these characters, in and around their home city of Manchester.

Use #vincentthorn, to find the specific posts

I hope you enjoy. :)