Reign on Cloud Nine.

By Dean Monet

The UK's answer to Maupin's, `Tales of the City.' Cloud Nine takes us on a brave, breathless and bawdy romp through a world of gutsy glamorous drag queens, and cut throat gangsters.
When the world has turned its back on you, there is one place you can go to find family, Cloud Nine. The newest nightclub on London's South Bank and the epi-centre of a new purposely built gay village. Its creator, one time international drag star Trixie Lix; queen of the village and Momma to all that work there. There's Tye from Birmingham, the thirty something manager who's starting a new life after the homophobic murder of his life partner. Then we have Alf a six foot, Afro-Caribbean lovesick doorman. We also marvel at the ageing foul mouthed cleaner, Joan, who is fiercely protective over her friends and the family at Cloud Nine.
The latest of the Cloud Nine family is Mickey, a troubled teenager trapped by his gangster father, Jimmy Loney, into a life of violent crime and sexual abuse.
We also get to meet the sharp wit of Lady Alice `Nana Love' Lovett, the anti-establishment Lady of Little Munch, and her vengeful niece Lady Victoria.
Families can be formed in the most unusual of places, Trixie and her family at Cloud Nine take us on an explosively funny journey, with more plot than a vegetable garden, their story will make you laugh and cry, but will definitely make you want to visit....
CLOUD NINE...The home of the misfit.
Cloud Nine is like a gritty, sequined, urban Jackie Collins. (Samantha Tongue-Editor)

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Oct 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467001816

Dean Monet

Dean Monet was born in Birmingham in 1967. He attended the local comprehensive, where, at the age of sixteen, he wrote his first short play, “The Hospital Visitor,” the success of which was followed by two further plays, “To Be or Not to Be . . . an Actress” and “The Stuffing from the Pig.” Dean has also acted on television and onstage. In 1988, he relocated to London, where he worked as a residential child care worker and studied child protection at the University of East London. After meeting his husband, William John-James, Dean returned to Birmingham at the beginning of the nineties, where he studied counselling at the Solihull College. Having finished the trilogy Reign on Cloud Nine, Dean is now working on two further projects, one being a children’s book based in his hometown and the other a book of short stories with revenge as the theme.

Book preview

Moving On

My name is Tye William James. I am thirty-five. I am a survivor. I am strong enough to do this! he said sternly to himself in the mirror. However, his face was betraying what his mouth was saying.

He didn’t want to leave this place—he had been happy here; that was, until that horrid night. The last of the boxes had been filled and placed outside the front door for the removal men. He scoured the room to see if there was anything he had forgotten; apart from the things he was leaving behind, such as the wall-mounted mirror and the old, worn CD player, he was all but done.

That’s it all loaded mate, we’re off. We should arrive in London in about two hours.

You have the address?

Yes, Connaught Road, Leytonstone?

That’s the one.

With that, the driver left. Tye watched as the large lorry chugged its way up the hill and out onto the main road. He then returned to finish the last of his packing. The large suitcase was ready to be locked, and all designer shoes were placed neatly in plastic bags—after all, these were Prada.

I need motivation, that’s what I need.

Tye fumbled through a small pile of CDs and pulled out ‘A Thousand Violins’, a dance track recorded by a drag queen he had seen perform a few years back. The camp disco beat began a chain reaction of dance moves and head bobs. His attention was grabbed by the clock on the wall—it was a large African design, a gift from his lover’s mother.

The phone began to ring; he turned down the volume on the drag queen and answered the call.

Hello babes, came the voice from the other end.

Patsy darling, you okay?

Never mind me, how you doing? I wish you’d let me come over and help, I hate to think of you doing this alone.

I’m fine. Look, we had the ‘bon voyage’ party last night; I just need to do this part on my own, you understand, don’t you?

Of course—how’s it going?

I was just wondering about the water jug clock, should I take it?

Wasn’t it from Ben’s mom?

Yes, she brought it back from Africa for us. Oh hell, I’ll just take it. I’m worried about Ben’s babies, do you think they’ll be okay in the back of the van?

They’re plants for fuck’s sake, they’ll be fine! Promise me you’ll call me as soon as you get there?

I will, honey girl. I have to go, still things to do.

The two friends bade farewell and Tye returned to the job in hand. He climbed on a chair and removed the clock from its mount. Blowing the dust from its face, he smiled at the monstrosity and laid it against the suitcase. Then he returned to the CD player and changed the disc. While the music played, he had one last run around with the duster.

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Barbra Streisand was nearing the end of her greatest hits. It was time to leave.

One last number for the road, Miss Streisand? he asked, searching through the small pile of music. He pulled out the soundtrack to Funny Lady.

Come on boys, let’s hear it for me! he smiled at the CD player.

The music swirled around the room. Tye slipped on his Ted Baker shoes, checking them in the mirror as he did. Next came the French Connection jacket, black and soft to the touch; once again a check in the mirror.

The motivation-song came to its dramatic conclusion; it was time to leave for the station.

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The cold wind whipped around Tye’s face as he approached the top of the hill. The rucksack he was carrying over one shoulder dropped to the floor, and he turned around to say his last goodbye to Woodnorton Drive. The trees that lined the road were bending to the command of the strong winds, and even from this distance he could still hear the whistling from the gaps in the double-glazing. He smiled to himself, remembering the first night him and his partner, Ben, had climbed into their bed after a long day of moving furniture and painting. They had been exhausted and, just as they were slipping into unconsciousness, the wind had begun to whistle through those gaps, making an awful whining sound like a bagpipe player warming his instrument.

He lifted the heavy rucksack, smiled once more at his former home and walked to the bus stop.

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The journey into Birmingham city centre took the usual twenty minutes-twenty minutes of body odours and screaming babies. As he stepped from the bus, Tye looked up at the iconic Rotunda building; it appeared grey and dishevelled in the driving rain. The crowds bothered him, they were swarming all around him; his heart began to race. He walked as quickly as he could towards New Street Station—it seemed to be the only survivor of the redeveloped Birmingham; the Bullring had long gone and a new, sparkling, modern shopping mall stood in its place.

As Tye approached the main doors to the station’s concourse, a loud voice directly behind him made him cower slightly.

You fucking mutt, why don’t you watch where you’re going… cunt!

I’m so sorry! Tye apologized, assuming the aggression was aimed at him. The large skinhead screwed up his face and snarled, I ain’t talking to you, you fucking Muppet!

Tye jumped out of the man’s way and stood flat against the wall; the man hurried past, still cursing under his breath. Tye now felt dizzy with panic; the crowds seemed denser and their noise seemed fierce. Like a mouse running for cover, he scurried across the concourse towards the huge screens displaying the train’s timetables. He studied the monitors, found his platform and hurried along with the hordes.

He stood on platform 8a for twenty minutes before the train arrived. Relieved to see the carriage he had entered wasn’t so busy, he found his reserved seat and huddled up against the window, making sure he left his rucksack on the seat next to him so nobody could sit too close. Tye sat tense and sweating, hoping the train would move soon so nobody would have to sit opposite him, either.

The train juddered, clanked, and finally whiplashed passengers into a forward motion. Tye closed his eyes and sighed. He was travelling backwards, watching the signs as they swished past the window; Birmingham New Street, Birmingham New Street.

As the last sign flew by, he took a deep breath and a tear welled in his eye. His face contorted as he tried to stop the saltwater spilling down onto his cheeks.

That’s enough! he whispered to himself, that’s enough, no more tears, it’s time to shake yourself up and get on with your new life! He forced himself to smile.

The train left the station’s darkened tunnels, and rain began to stream down the windows in a horizontal dance. The city looked bleak and grey in the downpour. A man in the next compartment was shouting about someone knocking him sideways; the din broke the monotonous sound of the clacking train track. As the shouting grew louder, Tye began to tense—he couldn’t see the man who was bellowing, and this made him nervous. He got to his feet and hurried toward the toilet between the two carriages.

Once inside he bolted the door, panting; the panic attacks always came upon him quickly like this. He banged his head against the door twice.

Tye… ! he shouted, Get a fucking grip!

He turned on the taps and frantically began to splash water on his face. After a good soaking he looked up at the mirror and smiled.

I don’t know why… , he began. I see them in the movies splashing water on their faces when they’re stressed and in the movies they look cool, refreshed and ready to move on. Yet all I’ve managed to do is wet my rollneck and get water stains on my Ted Bakers!

Reassessing the situation, he decided on the Streisand method. He smiled at his reflection.

Hello gorgeous! he said to himself, and began to sing a medley of Barbra Streisand songs—loudly.

Suddenly the door banged open into his back.

In a high-pitched screech, he exclaimed, Someone in here! Spinning around he found himself nose to teat with a six-foot-tall Asian guard.

Are you okay sir? It sounds like you need help!

Tye’s face turned three differing shades of red as he tried in vain to squeeze past the vast man.

No I’m fine; it was just a touch of Streisand!

The guard looked puzzled.

You know, Babs… Barbra, Barbra Streisand?

There was no sign of recognition from the guard; in fact, he had started to back away from the singing toilet dweller. Still, not one for letting go easily, Tye began to sing louder, this time directly into the face of the retreating guard.

People, people who need people . . . Papa, can you hear me? You really don’t know Barbra Streisand at all, do you? The guard slowly shook his head.

And here I am, having a Yentl breakdown right in front of you!

Now the guard began to bear a look of annoyance.

I think I’ll just go back and sit… . Tye, like his words, trailed off.

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Watching the picturesque countryside flashing by the window, Tye smiled to himself as he thought of Ben, and how he would have laughed at the whole Streisand situation. He lifted his head and looked around the carriage; asides two little old women sitting near the far end, the carriage was empty. He reached round to the front of his rucksack, still sitting on the chair beside him, and opened the front flap.

After fumbling inside for a moment, he pulled out a tightly-bound notebook of brown, well-worn, faded leather, full to the brim of papers, photos and memories. Tye pulled at the knot in the leather bootlace that held the book together and pulled a photograph from the back. He stared at the image for the longest moment; this time there was no stopping the saltwater, as tears spilled down his flushed cheeks.

The picture was of Ben, his partner of ten years; it had been taken during a short holiday in Weston-super-Mare and Ben was standing on the beach, his vest top displaying his muscular six-foot frame. His size made their dog, Babe, standing next to him, look even tinier. She was a cross collie Tye had bought Ben for his birthday. They called her their first child. Wherever Ben went, Babe went too; they were inseparable, and when Ben took Babe out, she would walk obediently, without her lead, at his side. He had even trained Babe to play tricks on approaching strangers—he would say, Now! and Babe would attack the bottom of his trousers as if trying to drag him off into the undergrowth. As the strangers got closer, Ben would ask, Is this your dog? The strangers would say ‘no’ and hurry away in case the rabid dog turned upon them too. When Babe died after six years of their friendship, Ben was inconsolable with grief.

I’m trying to move on, I am Ben, I really am! Look at me, sat on this train bound for London. I don’t know a soul there, I have no job and to top it off, I’m singing Barbra Streisand songs to a guard!

He smiled at the picture and wiped the tears from his cheeks.

I miss you Ben; I am so scared. I wish you were here with me, you would know what to say to make me feel… well you know how you would be. Hey, if you’re with Babe give her a big hug and tell her I love her! He kissed the photograph and dropped it onto the table in front of him. Tye then reopened the leather notebook and took out a faded piece of newspaper.

He studied the headline which read; ‘Homophobic Killers Still At Large!’ He stared at the print and his eyes moved slowly down the page to an inset picture of his lover. Ben.

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Ben had owned a small newsagent’s shop on Hurst Street in Birmingham’s gay village; the small kiosk stayed open late to catch the passing nightclub trade. One particular night, Tye had been out with the girls from work and had gone to the kiosk to get cigarettes on his way home.

In romances, it is said, love at first sight is like a bolt of lightning striking you; well, that was exactly how Tye would describe the first time he laid eyes on Ben. He was rendered inoperable; he had never seen anyone so beautiful. Ben had a cheery disposition and spoke to everyone like old friends, with a smile so wide and warm.

Tye was standing, unable to take his eyes off the god serving, until inevitably he reached the front of the queue.

Ben smiled. Tye’s mouth slackened. Ben raised one eyebrow. Tye said, Can I help you?

I think I’m supposed to say that, Ben giggled.

Of course you are!

So, can I help you?

Yes, Tye replied, still slack-mouthed.

So… what can I help you with?

You’re lovely!

Excuse me?

I mean, you’re welcome!

What? Ben was now giggling harder. Tye’s friend Patsy walked forward.

I’m so sorry about this, she said, pointing at her gaping friend. He’ll take a packet of cigarettes!

Ben reached behind himself without taking his eyes off the gorgeous, dumbstruck and blushing man in front of him. He grabbed for the cigarettes and handed the packet to Patsy.

Yes, that’s very nice love, but I wanted cigarettes not tampons! Patsy laughed.

Now it was Ben’s turn to blush. He made the switch, and Patsy handed Ben the money.

There’s ten honey, and by the way, this is Tye and I’ve put his phone number on the back!

Thanks! Ben responded with childlike glee. Tye’s embarrassment was escalating; this was mainly due to the increasing number of nightclubbers queuing behind him. Ben looked at the banknote and, using a biro, copied the phone number to his hand. Then, winking at Tye, he said, Thank you… . Tye, is it? I might just call you… . if that’s ok?

To which Tye replied: Yupety—doperty—hoo!

Patsy smiled at Ben and took Tye by the shoulders, moving him away from the kiosk.

What did I just say to him? Tye asked his friend.

I think the phrase was: yuperty… doperty… hoo!

Yeah, that’s what I thought!

The next day, Ben called and asked Tye out. They decided to try the new Caribbean restaurant. They met for pre-meal drinks in the Australian bar on Hurst Street, near the Hippodrome Theatre. They never made it to the restaurant and from that day on they were hardly ever apart.

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Tye and Ben were together for exactly ten years; it was on their anniversary that Tye had been assaulted outside the bar in which their celebrations were taking place. He had stepped out for a cigarette, and had been gone for some time when Ben went to find him.

In the darkened corner of the neighbouring shop front, Ben saw Tye slumped against the door; blood covered his clothes and his face was unrecognisable from the violent beating that had taken place.

Ben’s booming voice had yelled out, but Hurst Street was unusually quiet and nobody came to his aid. He had been bent over his lover’s unconscious body, attempting to lift Tye into his large arms, when he felt a blow to the back of his head; he couldn’t work out what had happened. It was the voice behind him, calling out, Queer-loving nigger! that made Ben turn.

This time he saw the hammer raised above the man who’d struck him, and he punched the assailant to the floor with his fist. Then, to his right he saw the second of his attackers and the machete that would puncture his lung.

He fell to his knees.

Fucking queer. Back on your fucking knees, where you belong!

Those were the last words he heard before the gun, exploding into the back of his head, ended his life. Then the assailants had fled at the first sound of sirens, assuming they had killed Tye too.

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For the past two years, since Ben had died, Tye’s grief had made him a prisoner of misery; then, on the day Ben’s mother came to visit, she instantly recognised the pain and trauma Tye was suffering and said to him, Look at you child, look what they have done to you. Isn’t it enough they have taken Ben away from us? Don’t let them have you. I miss Ben too honey child, but he would not want us to waste away pining for him—he would want us to move on. Remember him by all means, but honey, it’s time for us all to be moving on.

He rebound the notebook and tucked it back into the rucksack; then he took the black-and-white photo from the table, kissed it, and placed the picture close to his heart in the pocket of his shirt.

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After an hour, the train pulled to a stop at London Euston. Tye looked out at the drab station and patted his chest. I’m moving on! he whispered. He picked up the rucksack, retrieved his suitcase from the baggage hold and made his way to the exit. Opening the carriage door, he took a deep breath and stepped down from the train. Slowly he began to walk along the noisy platform and with each step he whispered, I’m moving on… I’m moving on.

Moving On Too

The hacking cough scattered the seagulls that hung around the run-down dwelling which, in just three weeks, would become Cloud Nine, the South Bank’s latest nightclub. The club was owned by none other than Trixie Lix: the one-time queen of clubland.

She was now fighting with a new lock on the front door and using her nail file in absence of a key. Trixie had been out, celebrating her courtroom triumph. She had won the right to build her own entertainment capital, as she called it. The court battle had been with a local building firm that claimed Trixie acquired the land through bribery. It was not true, of course—but it did look suspicious, considering she had been intimate with the councillor who dealt with the sale of the land. Trixie was adamant she did not blackmail the married man with photos of him in a naked jousting contest. Whether just the existence of the photographs—depicting him naked on top of an eighteen-year-old model swinging a double-ended dildo—was enough to persuade him to sell the land cheaply to her only he would know, but she certainly did not blackmail the man.

She had been successful in lifting the injunction that had stopped her building her dream, a dream of opening London’s first purpose built gay village. She thought it a stroke of luck that she had also known the judge—of course, it had been in his wilder days/nights. She remembered he preferred his steeds to be of East Asian descent.

Having left her home in fine, glamorous splendour, she’d now returned fifteen hours later looking like an air crash survivor. At this point, Trixie realised her mistake regarding the nail file. She called the door something in gibberish and then started attempting to unlock it with a lip balm. It took almost an hour for Trixie to get through the front door; she then crashed out half-clothed on the workmen’s coveralls that lay next to the freshly-varnished bar.

During her unconscious period of cradling a tool belt, Trixie’s drool travelled upwards on her backward-hanging head and had matted the glue from her false eyelashes together. Loud banging on the front doors startled her awake. She screamed when she could not open her glued eyes. Jumping to her feet, she attempted to run, but having one leg wrapped around said tool belt and the other missing a glittered stiletto, she quickly ended up back on the floor. Still squealing with panic from the overnight blindness, she crawled headfirst towards the open trap door which led to the cellar.

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After three hours under observation at St Thomas’ Hospital and with a cracking headache, Miss Trixie was back at Cloud Nine barking orders at the workmen. Not one to be seen without her face on, she was dressed from turbaned top to varnished toe as Norma Desmond, as she found that when terminally heterosexual men are challenged by such a being, they tend to be rather unusually polite and accommodating.

After another hour of banging hammers and buzzing saws, the front doors swung open and in walked her best friend in the whole world, Lady Alice Lovett. Or, as Trixie called her, Nana Love.

Nana Love was dressed in a long, flowing, flowery maxi-dress, her pale complexion highlighted by the subtle blend of rouge and cherry lipstick. Her long, silvery grey hair had been scraped off her face and tied loosely at the base of her neck with a wine-coloured crushed velvet ribbon. On her head, she wore an oversized velvet hat which flopped down the sides of her face, which was mostly concealed by a pair of large dark sunglasses. Over the crook of one arm swung a large patchwork bag of sorts; it was in fact a large bundle of patchwork material tied together. She carried everything in it. Letters, photos, shoes and a change of clothes, including underwear. Everything except the kitchen sink, so the saying goes; however, she did carry a set of new faucet taps, three rubberised plugs and a couple of old washers.

She walked gasping into the darkness of the club, removing her glasses, then noticed Trixie and strode towards her, relieving herself of a full-length velvet coat en route. The two embraced and Trixie kissed her friend so gently and so lovingly on the cheek. Nana Love backed up and looked her friend up and down. With furrowed brow, she began, My dear, you look like the council dressed you!

Trixie smiled and replied, And you, you old goat, look like Woodstock exploded all over you! The two women laughed and hugged again.

They sat down in one of the semi circular sofas facing the stage area; Trixie called to one of the bar staff to bring coffee and settled down. Feet tucked underneath herself, she began by pointing out the bottom cleavage of an electrician, hovering in front of them above the stage. Nana shook her head in disapproval, then let out a slight titter. Trixie attached a cigarette to an overstated holder and said, Only God herself knows how I got home last night; one minute I’m sipping a Bloody Mary just reaching to have a pinch of a stripper’s arse—fantastic night—then the next thing I know I’m back here, hair piece Velcroed to the bar, eyes superglued together and I go arse over falsies into the bloody cellar!

Nana Love arched one eyebrow. Lifted her tea, blew gently into the cup and