🪩 Silent Disco

“Oi, Paul. You coming to the demo?”

I press the phone against my face. It’s Sabeena. My best friend a.k.a. boundary pusher. I slink over to my bedroom window and hush my voice. “What demo,” I whisper. “I’ve got college all day today.”

She’s always getting me into trouble.

“Sack college. This is more important. Roko Industries got planning approval.”

“So?”

“They’re building more skyscrapers. We can kiss goodbye to social housing anywhere near the center.”

Her words and enthusiasm drift over me, but they don’t land. I’m honestly not sure what she means. I just know it’s politics, Sabeena’s number one topic.

Except for clubbing, that is.

“I can’t,” I say firmly. “We’re still on for tonight though, right?”

“Of course.” Sabeena’s grin is as big as mine, I just know it.

“See you there then.” I pause. “Oh, and let me know how the demo goes.”

She’s always trying to rope me into some new venture. Sometimes I say yes. But not right now. The thing is, ever since I’ve been hanging out with Sabeena, I’ve been falling behind with college. Last week Ms. McDonnell called me into her office. If my grades slip an inch further or I miss another day, I’m out.

It all started when I bumped into her in Piccadilly Gardens last summer, for like the first time ever. I’d just bought a new pair of baggy trousers from Afflecks, this dock-off alternative market in the Northern Quarter, when—yes—I tripped over them. Sabeena helped me up, her green eyes sparkling above her dark freckles and olive skin when she saw my Cradle of Filth T-shirt. We went for coffee, and we’ve been inseparable ever since.

Sabeena introduced me to Rockworld, this club that stays open all night on Fridays. It quickly became our second home. First there was the honeymoon phase. And now? Who am I kidding, I still love it. But twelve hours until doors open. Ugh. I have to make it through advanced math and double German first.

Friday always drags.

After six hours of deathly boring calculus and subjunctives, I finally make it to the train station. A cold wind rips up, shaking the sad flowerpots. Not the weather to be marching on a demo.

On the opposite platform, three young teens dressed in The North Face jackets, baseball caps, and tracksuit bottoms heckle me. “You fucking goth. Are you a fag?”

I bite my lip, trying not to laugh at their stupid performance. I raise my middle finger as the train pulls into the station. They’re yelling, causing a scene now, but I don’t care. The train will depart in seconds.

I sit down and inhale the train chair smell—cleaning fluid mixed with stale school dinners. Then I rub the manky condensation off the window and scowl at them. Mascara, glow bands, and bright-blue hair is too much for them, I get that. The train shunts off and matchbox houses pass me by, depressing at any time of year, but especially bleak in the January darkness.

Me and Sabeena love Rockworld because it isn’t like other clubs in Manchester. The music is wicked. What I like about it there, I remember Sabeena saying, is that it’s so relaxed. You can be anything you want to be.

But Rockworld isn’t without its issues. Some people just go there to take drugs. We call them the Spaceheads, and I give them a wide berth. Then there’s the straight-edge crew—mostly former Spaceheads. They pride themselves on making it through to the end of the night drug-free. Like what an achievement.

My favorite group is the die-hard fans, the Metalheads. They’re mint because they love the music. And fun to hang out with except when dropping irritating factoids about their favorite bands.

Occasionally a scally or posh kid from the suburbs drops in. They usually assimilate fast or leave twice as quickly as they arrive.

And our crew? We’re kinda in the middle. Social butterflies, that’s us. There’s one person I really dislike, though. This Spacehead called Lucy. Okay, so maybe I’m jealous because Sabeena’s started hanging out with her more, but something’s not right about her. And I don’t want Sabeena getting into drugs.

The train blasts into Manchester Oxford Road Station and Sabeena’s waiting for me on the platform, snowflakes melting on her faux-fur-lined hoodie and jeans. It’s never that cold here, but when it snows, everything feels peaceful and your bones ache like mad.

“All right,” I say with a grin. Sabeena is my Manchester this last six months. People think we must be dating. If I weren’t like 90 percent into guys, I would be down with that, but we’re besties.

“How’s it going,” I say, flashing her a cheeky grin.

She scowls, like she’s had a shite day at college. “Same old. It feels like ages since I saw you last.”

I chuckle. “It wasn’t that long ago. Sounds like you need to chill.”

I’d seen her last Saturday, when we got chucked out of the Arndale for some low-level thieving (only from corporations, mind) and loitering, sliding down the escalator rails to Market Street.

Sabeena always pushes things a bit too far. Especially on nights out. And me? I let her. I’m the one who has to pull back, stop things from getting too out of control. And I can’t let that happen, with all the trouble I’m in at college. But Fridays are my release.

Sabeena straightens her back. “Listen up, mister, you need to relax too. You’ll nail the exams.”

I nod slowly, and we mooch on down the stairs packed tight against the viaduct, which shudders as a train arrives. The dark, the lights, the snow, and her coat create an electricity. But as we scoot into the shadows, I can’t help but feel that something is slightly off. Something I can’t put my finger on.

“Wait up,” a voice shouts from behind me. I spin around to face the Salisbury—this pub where the Spaceheads hang out before clubbing—and spot Lucy.

My eyes narrow. “I thought we were gonna meet you there?” She’s at least five years older than us, which is also a bit sus if you ask me.

Lucy beams a fake smile at me, then a warmer one at Sabeena. “I texted, said I’d come to the station.”

“Right,” I say casually, judging her with my stare. She’s trouble.

I look up to Oxford Road, where young women in short skirts and heavy makeup are keeping pace with men in designer shirts. So binary. My mind shoots back to the stupid scallies at the station.

The snow gets a little heavier.

“The Salisbury looks dead,” I say, nodding at the pub. “Maybe the Spaceheads have actually gone inside and bought something?”

Lucy huffs. I really wish I could figure her out. But I can’t deny it, she has this charm, this energy. Green eyes, purple hair dye, skin paler even than mine, and with bloodred lipstick. Lucy is hot, there’s no denying that. I don’t say it though—calling yourself bi or pan is trendy here, and I’m anti-the-alternative-mainstream, if that’s even a thing.

Sabeena folds her arms together, teeth chattering. “It’s too fucking cold to chill outside here anyway. Can we go straight to Rockworld?”

Lucy nods firmly. “Wise move,” she says, glaring at me.

Unwise move, I think. Talking at me like I’m under her thumb.

Sabeena starts walking. “Wait. I need something light to eat, and sugar for later, to keep me awake.” She grabs my arm and pulls it toward her warm, furry coat, the tips of the fur damp with melted snow. “Come on, this week’s gonna be special.”

“Just don’t go disappearing on me this time.” Especially not with her. I roll my eyes. Last week she vanished for ages, then told me this mad story about a hidden room in the club. I spent the whole time looking for her, but nothing. “Why did you do that?”

She hesitates, then her green eyes lock with mine. “I’m sorry, I—you know how time just flies there? I—” She brushes a thick snowflake off her faux-fur hoodie. “This week we’ll hang out together all night.”

I smile, all smug, at Lucy.

We head past the Palace Theatre, smartly dressed people queuing to get in, some shivering in the cold, others wrapped up in thick coats, then arrive at the familiar Tesco store and make our way inside.

The bright light makes me wince. I’m a wannabe vampire, after all.

Okay, so the blue hair is achingly pop punk, but I’ll dye it black again next year for Halloween.

A tropical blast blows bakery smells around the entrance, and my stomach rumbles. Sabeena and Lucy speed around the aisles, picking up jelly beans, water, and some chewing gum and vapor rub for the Spaceheads. I don’t know why Sabeena looks up to them, and to Lucy. They’re kind of sad. But she’s a dabbler, an experimenter. I am, too, but I have to be more cautious right now.

We leave, head back out into the arctic chill, then dive down an alleyway next to the supermarket, proper hidden. Lucy taps on a black door and a tiny Plexiglass window opens. The moment they see us, the door swings open.

Rockworld is Manchester’s open secret.

We inch through the door.

It slams shut behind us.

Dum, dum, dum.

I snap my eyes shut for a second and let the bass filter through my mind. Then I hold out my hand and place it on Sabeena’s shoulder. We continue down a dark corridor, through a foyer with navy-blue ceilings and tired red paint peeling off the walls, then hotfoot it to the main room.

I take in the surroundings. The room is packed with goths, punks, emos, mosh kids. Spaceheads and Metalheads all mixed together. Everyone dancing at their own rhythm, heavy metal beats leaching out through massive speakers.

“Are you okay, mate?” A finger pokes me in the stomach. “Know where I can get any pills?”

Fuckin Spaceheads. “Not my poison,” I reply, forcing a smile. I take a step back and the green-haired grunger wanders off. The music alone carries you through till dawn.

My mind flashes back to last week. Just try half of one, Sabeena had said, crumbling a pink speckled pill she called a unicorn with her thumb. I flashed her an evil glare. She took it anyway, and that’s when she disappeared.

I felt used, dropped by her.

“We stay together tonight,” I repeat, biting my lip. “And no pills. They don’t suit you.”

She nods slowly. “We agreed,” she replies. “And I respect that.”

I grab her hand. We dance by the massive speakers, then slink over to a row of tired black leather barstools beside a billiard table. A slender punk with a green mohawk is playing against a butch goth in a corset and short tartan skirt. It’s not clear who is winning. The music switches to nu-metal, and I groan. The grunge teens—surfing on the giant bass speakers, hands outstretched—quickly exit the room.

I order a cranberry juice and vodka, slump into a sofa, and relax. Eventually, “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails plays. I get up and dance with Sabeena and Lucy, our bodies rocking to the beat.

We exit the main room via the dance floor and head to the foyer, inhaling its peeling black linoleum and red-painted walls. It’s full of teenagers and mosh kids, chilling out and chatting among themselves. In one corner there’s a bunch of emo kids with carefully styled black hair and rainbow bracelets. By the ancient Pac-Man machine, a couple of goths in their early thirties are hanging out.

Sabeena catches my gaze. “Wanna go dance? It’s gabber hour in the goth room?”

That stuff is hardcore. Hard pass from me. “I’ll sit this one out.”

“OK,” Lucy says, with too much enthusiasm. “See you later.”

Lucy winks at Sabeena, then the pair disappear into the screaming gloom of the goth room. A sick feeling creeps across my stomach, remembering last week. I’m paranoid she’ll disappear again. And this place, alive with new faces every week, but longtime clubbers aren’t coming as much as they used to. As if they’re disappearing.

I should just chill here in the foyer. But I get up anyway.

I shuffle out along the corridor, then take a sharp left turn into a room coated in ultraviolet paint. Lasers cut through the dark, a violet UV glow emerging from the ceiling. An angel in white spandex is drinking Newcastle Brown ale from a bottle. I look down, my black hoodie now coated with speckles dancing in the UV light. I pull my hoodie up over my face and sit down at a table, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible… but let’s be honest, the room is small.

A few songs later, Lucy and Sabeena rock up to my table and take a seat.

Lucy gets straight to it. “Lighten up, Paul.” She flashes me an ice-cold glare, then fishes a small plastic bag out of her pocket. She forms a cup with her hand, then half a pill, white with blue speckles, a teddy bear imprinted on it, drops into her palm.

“I know what you’re looking for. A trip someplace. Take this, and I’ll show you.” My fist clenches. I know Lucy is aware I could get chucked out of college, and she’s suggesting this? I’d never accept dodgy drugs from anyone, let alone her. But Sabeena looks at me pleadingly. Part of me wants to play along, for her sake.

Sabeena seriously needs to audit her friends here.

Lucy drops the crumbling pill onto my palm. I stick my tongue out and place it on there, then I close my mouth and deftly stick it under my tongue. As soon as Sabeena and Lucy leave to dance again, I subtly spit it out.

We dance. I feel nothing.

Then things happen fast. Lucy nudges me, beckons us both to follow her. I swear she studies my eyes carefully—I have no idea what she’s looking for. We move back out to the foyer.

“You, stay here,” she says.

Sabeena’s buzzing, dancing, full of energy.

“I think we should go home,” I say to Sabeena, my eyes locked on Lucy. “Together.”

“Sabeena go home? In that state? No chance,” Lucy replies. She taps my shoulder. “You need to take a seat. And chill.”

The bass thuds.

Dum, dum, dum.

I get up to protest, but Lucy knocks me down.

“We’ll be back soon.”

They leave and I follow them again, letting the crowd swallow me up. I feel like the decisions I make right now—heck—the decision to even be here, is shaping my future in ways I can’t imagine. I make a beeline for the main room, where I’d sworn a secret door had been the week before. But nothing. This club is confusing, a labyrinth. But a building layout can’t change from week to week. Can it?

I rap my fist against the wall, but it feels solid. An emo kid flashes me a glance, assuming I must be a Spacehead.

I wander through the corridors again, super busy now, looking for them both. Last week, Sabeena just reappeared. That’s all I can hope for now.

I glance down at my watch.

02:37.

Still pretty early, yet the club feels emptier than usual. I find a quiet corner so I can make a plan to find Sabeena. I’ve asked everyone I know here.

I squint, then by the massive speakers, maybe twenty meters away from me, I spot Lucy. Alone.

I dart over. “What’s going on?” I say. “Where’s Sabeena?”

Stone-faced, she says, “Come with me.” She holds out a pair of earmuffs. “Put these on. I’ll take you to Sabeena.”

She lifts a hand, beckons for me to follow her. And then everything goes black.

I come round, vision blurry. I’m in a dark, confined space, like a shed or—oh my god, this is a DJ booth. The earmuffs lie on the floor beside me. A black tatty leather barstool looms to my left, above it DJ decks. In the upper far corner above the decks, TV screens flash images of the different rooms. I stare, half hypnotized. The main room is near-empty—it must be late. I pad my pockets, searching for my mobile.

It’s not there.

What the fuck?

I try to stand up, but my legs are weak. This has to be Lucy, her stupid teddy bear pill. I grab the edge of the work surface, haul myself up, then spin around, away from the monitors, the chair. Plexiglass cuts my booth off from the dance floor. When I see the scene before me, I freeze.

A group of people, at least twenty, are on the dance floor. But they’re not dancing, not moving. I don’t think they can see me. Their eyes are glazed over, unblinking. But that’s not the maddest thing about them.

They are completely frozen, arms locked into contorted positions. I focus and make out the hairs on one guy’s arm, like an insect trapped in amber. Pale faces, some mouths clamped into a laugh or grin, others scared. More than spooked—they look petrified.

A sick feeling shoots up from the pit of my stomach. And then, near the back of the room, jammed among them, I see a pair of green eyes staring back at me—Sabeena.

Catatonic.

That’s the word my psychology teacher used once. Locked in position, like someone took a photo of them dancing. Disco lights flash red and purple and blue.

“Sabeena,” I cry out, rapping my hands against the Plexiglass.

I swear her left eye twitched when I shouted, but I honestly have no idea if she can hear me. I shout out, wave, but no reaction. I cast my gaze around the room. It’s as if each person’s soul has been ripped away.

This place is messed up.

I scan around, searching for a way out, then throw my weight against the booth door. Lucy must have brought me here. But why here? Why not the dance floor? My mind flits back to what happened in the goth room. I spat out the pill. I look around the booth for some clue, anything that will help me. The DJ decks—controls? Maybe Lucy didn’t bank on me waking up.

Whatever, I can’t take any risks now.

My bottom lip is moist, metallic, and salty. I dab it. Blood drips off my finger. I glance up again at the monitors and search through the live feed, through all the different rooms. Then I see her.

Lucy’s in the main room, talking with what looks like one of the club bouncers.

Frantic, I punch several buttons on the DJ decks. The colored lights move and muffled music blasts out through the speakers. Red shifts to green, strobe lights flicker, and the frozen dancers shift to a fresh position, catatonic again. The flashing makes their bodies shake and arms jerk, in a cruelly fragile way. Panicking, I turn the strobe lights off, and they freeze again.

The eerie thing is, despite the smiles, the grins, the fear and despair on their faces, they strike me as emotionless.

I try knocking on the glass again.

“Sabeena, Sabeena!”

But nothing.

Desperate, I punch all the buttons. Then, at the back of the room, I see the wall start to move. I crouch.

It’s Lucy. She’s wearing earmuffs too, but hers are pink, not black like everyone else’s.

She cannot see me. Or can she?

She stops in front of a grunge rocker dressed in an old Nirvana T-shirt. Heart-Shaped Box.

Now she’s heading over here. I’m on the floor already, hiding, biting my lip again. I peek up, my gaze just reaching the bottom of the Plexiglass. She can’t see me. No. Or she’s pretending not to. It’s like she’s checking things, treating the clubbers like robots, like objects that need fixing. She’s studying them.

I lean back and consider my options. My best strategy is to play unconscious. I hear the jangle of keys, the door creaks open. I sit stock-still, my eyes near-closed.

Lucy sold drugs to the Spaceheads, that much I knew. She kinda fit in here, but also didn’t. I know that feeling.

But this room, this place—it’s another level of dark.

I stay mock unconscious as she places the earmuffs over my ears again. I hear a crackle, then a deep voice whispers to me, tells me to stand. I get up, afraid of what might happen if I don’t.

My little finger starts to shake. Lucy can’t see that. I must walk mechanically. I lurch forward, out of the booth, and the voice leads me to a spot on the dance floor. Lucy is back in the booth, but I can’t see her now. All I see is a mirror and the light and colors. The lights begin to flash and then red, green, purple dots appear in front of my eyes. I can feel myself being lulled into a gentle trance, but I fight it.

If I go under, how can I help Sabeena, help everyone else? The strobe lighting flickers, drawing me into a trance, but I keep struggling against it.

My finger starts to twitch again. Shit. She can’t notice. I think of school, of college, the deep mess I’m in right now, and I laugh. If I get out of here, I ain’t never coming back.

Then Lucy dashes off, disappearing through a door at the back of the room.

This is my last chance, my only chance. I need to bring Sabeena out of this trance, and we need to get out of here to safety. I rip off the headphones, run over to her, and wave in her face.

Nothing.

“Wake up, wake up,” I say.

Nothing.

Stomach heavy, I leg it back to the booth. This time, Lucy’s left the door open. Schoolgirl error. I dart to the controls and search for the strobe button. I press it, and everyone shifts position. She’s left a silver business card on the side. Roko Industries. The pieces start to connect.

I rush back to Sabeena, wave, shout, remove her headphones, play punch her. Still nothing.

“Last resort,” I mutter, then sock her a punch to the stomach. She gasps, then stares at me. “Where am I?”

It worked! “Not sure,” I say. “But we have to get out of here. Fast.”

“Lucy said we’re going to the fourth room, a fourth room?”

“This is the fourth room, for sure. And we need to leave. Now.”

Sabeena looks around. “Why are these people standing like statues? What’s going on?”

I bite my lip. “I’m not sure. Some kind of experiment? Lucy… she works for the developers. The same ones you were protesting against. Come on.” I zip toward the door.

“We can’t leave these people here, not like this.”

A pang of guilt surges through me. “It’s not safe here.”

Sabeena walks over to the guy in the Heart-Shaped Box T-shirt. “We have to try.”

A creak at the back of the room. A door opening.

“We need to leave,” I mouth.

Lucy blocks the exit.

“Stop,” she says. “You’ve seen too much.”

“Too much?” I scramble for words. “What the hell is this place?”

“Some questions are better left unanswered,” Lucy says, seething.

“Try me.” I hold my palms out. “It’s not like we’re going anywhere. You’ve won. So try me.”

Lucy scowls. “Your counterculture is destroying the city. Waifs and strays on the streets, graffiti, drugged out people polluting the city center.”

“You’re the one handing out pills.”

“Pills aren’t the problem.” Lucy says, proper dismissive, then pulls out a knife. “So I’ll ask you just once to put the headphones back on.”

I stare at the headphones. Fuck. “Sabeena,” I grit out. “The headphones!” I turn to Lucy. “You can’t kidnap people, bring them here like this.”

Lucy points at the frozen people. “These young people, they all have creativity we can use to rebuild the city, make it a better place. That’s what the headphones are harnessing. And we’re keeping them safe, off the streets—”

“Now!” I shout at Sabeena and rush forward, knocking Lucy over, pushing through the door and out, out into a hidden corner of the goth room. “The doors, quick!” I scream.

A sick feeling creeps over me again. The club owners must be in on this. And they have bouncers, security.

The club’s nearly empty, the music downbeat, just the dregs remaining. A few people dancing to an old Cranberries track; a handful of strung-out goths and moshers scattered around on tables and chairs or slumped against walls.

We lurch toward the foyer, and I grab Sabeena’s hand. I run out of the club, dragging Sabeena with me. Lucy stops at the club entrance. “You can’t leave this club. Not really,” she shouts.

It’s still dark when we rush out of Rockworld, not looking back, the now-thick dusting of snow slowing our progress. We push through a bunch of rave kids. A Spacehead goth chewing on a pacifier, a green-haired punk cradling a teddy bear. We skid forward, pushing toward St Peter’s Square.

Sabeena takes the lead. We take a sharp turn into an alley then another, then down by the canal, making sure we’ve lost Lucy. We end up in Chinatown, the bakery just setting up for the day, blowing a sweet doughy scent. I try to catch my breath, and we sit down beneath the tall arch with its red posts and golden painted dragons. Manchester always feels different on Saturday mornings and today is no exception. The buildings have this pixelated fuzz to them, the air feels gloopy, time slows down. It’s mostly the effects of sleep deprivation.

Everything feels hyperpixelated in the snow.

I tilt my head back and stare up at the Chinese arch, my mouth catching stray snowflakes that melt on my tongue. Stars cloud the edge of my vision, and I briefly wonder if Lucy drugged me. But I don’t care. We’re safe. For now at least.

A street cleaner whirs up and down the road. It must be like six in the morning now. We leave Chinatown, walk toward a greasy spoon café and push our way inside, the doorbell jingling as we enter. I hug Sabeena. “You should eat something. You look pale. Like proper ill-pale.”

Sabeena nods. I order us strawberry milkshakes and a burger for myself.

We sit down at a white Formica table. The saccharine scent wakes me up. “What the fuck happened to us last night,” I say, staring at Sabeena, then outside. My brain is scrambled, and I’m on edge, as if caught in a glitchy computer program. A mixture of feelings rip around my body—freedom, excitement, despair, guilt… and dread.

I push all those feelings aside.

The greasy stench of burger and gherkins hangs in my nose. I can’t hold back anymore. I have to vomit. I run to the café toilet and retch. But I’m not sure we’re out of danger yet.

“Take me through it,” I say, sitting back down at the Formica table. What happened when you left me?”

Sabeena tenses. “I can’t remember anything except Lucy giving me the headphones and then… black.” She straightens up in her seat. “Do you think Lucy will follow us, that she knows where we are?”

A fuzzy sensation ripples along the back of my neck, like little jolts of electricity. I hesitate. “Not sure. We should move on. My mate works at the bead shop in Afflecks. There’s a back room where we can hang out. We’ll be safe there.”

“Here.” Sabeena presents me with the milkshake I’ve barely touched. “You should drink this. You need the energy.”

I nod, reluctant, and take a loud slurp. We leave the café and sprint toward Afflecks, the alternative market we never steal from. When we reach Piccadilly Gardens, I freeze.

“What’s that,” I say, pointing to the distance.

On the horizon, black Tetris blocks appear from nothing, tall skyscrapers growing taller by themselves; no builders, no parachutes, no cranes. That is… impossible. I look up at the pixelated skyscraper growing taller by the minute in the distance, as light gusts of snow curl and blow across my vision.

A flash of lightning.

Thundersnow? No. That’s not lightning. It’s strobe. Acidic milkshake tugs at my throat. And then I remember the words Lucy said: These young people, they all have a creativity we can use to rebuild the city.

“Freeze.” A voice shouts. “Return to scene one.”

The world around us stops moving and then vanishes to gray.

I blink.

And we’re back in the fourth room.

Trapped.