"Whitecross Calling" Page 19

 "Whitecross Calling" Page 20

with a weird collection of Urban Neo Fascists, Punks, Techno Junkies and Anoraks to get in. A bigger collection of hooks, spikes, studs, green hair, no hair, and painted leather jackets would be hard to find this side of Nebworth. (These events really do seem to bring them all out!) I’d called the organisers the day before just to confirm the big man was still coming, Nathan had knocked out some official looking Club ID badges for us and there we stood, "loaded for bear" as they say in the U.S of A.

Eventually (would you believe it we were twenty minutes early!) we were allowed to jostle our way in. For some reason which no one seemed able to explain at the time, a Robert De Niro look alike (Well I think he was a look alike) stood in the entrance hall handing out programmes. I took one and smiled.
"Gratzzi," I said.
"Youa what?" he muttered defensively in a mock Italian accent.
On the basis that it’s really not wise to smart ass The Godfather, I moved on quickly.

The hall - for those requiring a panoramic description, was filled with traders stalls, and must have been about a hundred foot square with a huge domed gilt ceiling. Near the back of the room an elevated stage section containing a table, a collection of decomposing rubber heads and a microphone, held the promise of delights to come. Several old Reunion 96 faces had turned up, amongst them our man Ray Armfield and that redoubtable conventioneer Adrian Hulme. We stood and chatted for a bit, a small clique of Survivors fans amongst a whole sea of Zombie type people. (They had the bad grace incidentally to look at us as though we were the

weirdo’s!) Time ticked on, traders sucked money out of a largely captive audience. More time ticked on. In desperation I hunted down one of the organisers. "Look is Mr McCulloch actually coming," I demanded. He gave me a confused smile. "Who...?" he said.
Slowly I made my way back to Lynne wondering how I was going to explain this one...!
"Look Lynne," I started boldly. "Well the fact is he might not be coming after all. You see I’ve just spoken to that I broke off at this point because Lynne seemed to be taking the news rather badly. She’d gone completely white about the gills and she was staring fixedly over my shoulder into the crowd.
"Behind you," she hissed through a rictus like smile. "He’s behind you!"
Fearing I’d stumbled into some sort of bizarre pantomime I turned slowly, wondering what the potential joke could be. The crowds parted, and there at a stall barely six foot away stood the man himself - calmly buying a magazine from a stallholder, like any other mortal would you please!
I seemed to slide closer to him, across the parquet flooring -without moving my legs, as though dragged by an invisible magnet, desperate to attract his attention yet somehow dreading the prospect.
"Gerk," I said.
Somehow the excitement had disconnected the brain to mouth controls (so what’s new). I tried again. "Guk." Nope no good. Desperately I looked around for help. Lynne swam into view.

Now I have to take a break from the narrative at this point, in order to establish some basic character background. Lynne was a bad mother. No I’m sorry she was, it has to be said. You