Imogen showed the girl on the door of the nightclub her
police ID and was waved forward into the club. She felt a rush of adrenaline as
they entered; this was her thing, this was who she used to be. It was hard to
rebel against her flighty mother when Imogen was a teen. Irene Grey would waft
around wearing bright, multi-layered skirts and cardigans, smoking pot and
occasionally flashing the neighbours as an act of protest. When Imogen was
small her mother had insisted on dressing her in much the same way. As soon as
Imogen could, she’d started wearing a pair of baggy black skater pants and a
hoodie, partly to fade into the background, but also to make sure everyone knew
that she was nothing like her mother. She would go to the local goth clubs, and
her mother became increasingly concerned that she was exhibiting the same
mental health issues that she had. The opposite was the truth; Imogen was just
trying to pull away from Irene, to become an individual in her own right.
She tugged now at the clip in her hair and let it fall onto
her shoulders. For the first time in a long time she felt like a traitor,
slightly uncomfortable being here on duty. Here to disrupt the enjoyment rather
than take part in it. The goths she had known were all quite anti-authority.
She tousled her hair a little and clocked Adrian staring at her curiously. She
doubted he had ever set foot in a place like this in his life. Girls in short
skirts, corsets, excessive theatrical make-up. Men in motorcycle masks,
tight-fitting clothing and eyeliner. There were a few people who didn’t fit
into either category at a cursory glance.
‘How did you know about this?’ Adrian shouted to her above
the music.
‘I know lots of things. Besides, I was going to come anyway,
the band they have on tonight are pretty decent.’
‘You like this?’
‘Oh yeah, I like this.’
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