Moving House

Once, Ant would be still going on Saturday morning from the night before. Now, years later, he was up early after a good night’s sleep, ready to help with a house move - he needed the cash and a friend-of-a-friend had been asking for people. He was heading to work at a time of day when once he would be heading home.

They were meeting at a posh flat in a building that was once a supermarket. The person moving hadn’t prepared much, but his life was minimalist enough that the four of them packed everything within two hours, while the guy worked on his laptop. Ant didn’t know the others, so he didn’t tell them about the rave he’d been to this building before it was redeveloped – dancing in puddles of water that reflected the lights, and the police didn’t arrive until after it was winding down. Good times.

There was only room in the lorry for three people, so Ant had to walk to the new address. It was OK, he wasn’t part of the regular crew. At the other end, the lift was out, which mean hefting everything up eight flights of stairs, and the others didn’t think the guy was the sort to tip. From somewhere in the building. Ant heard the doof-doof-doof of a techno track. It was the sort of music he’d loved. Hearing the beat, he became certain the block was familiar, but then he’d hung out in houses all over town.

Wherever Ant walked around Brighton, he saw the ghosts of parties. Those times were long gone, and every sound of heavy bass through the walls made him miss them. A time when he’d never be sure where he would crash out. The houses all laid out the same inside, all across the town - people claimed techno all sounded the same and never complained about how similar all those houses were.

Sometimes Ant tried persuading his old mates to come out, but they always had excuses. He knew he ought to go out by himself. Lots of clubs would turn away an old guy on his own, but he never liked snobby clubs anyway. For him, it was all about welcoming everyone. That was the best thing about rave, it didn’t matter who you were, rich or poor. It’s what ended football violence. The hooligans would rather hug at a rave on E than fight.

At the bottom of the stairs, Ant looked at the stained glass above the door, and he recognised that image of a dove taking flight, that he’d definitely been here before. He’d lost his friends, ended up hanging out with another group and been invited to hang out after. They’d been mates the night before, but they were strangers when they woke him the next day with a cuppa. He’d been passed out on the floor against the sofa, and it was now Sunday and they wanted to clear up before getting ready for work. They gave him a couple of fags and a lighter too, to encourage him on his way. At the bottom of the steps, the setting sun glowed through the stained glass. On the other side of the door, the van, more things to carry upstairs.