Solitude Creek

Or, even better, stop them before they grew into a full-blown threat. Whatever it took.

CHAPTER 17

None of those on Kathryn Dance’s Deck had heard of the disaster in Sheffield, England.

Stuart Dance was now explaining: ‘I was in London as a research fellow.’

Dance said, ‘I remember. Mom and I came over to see you. I was seven or eight.’

‘That’s right. But this was before you got there. I was in Nottingham, lecturing, and the post-doc I was working with suggested we go to Sheffield to see a game at Hillsborough Stadium. You know football — soccer — fans can be pretty intense in Europe so they would host the association semi-finals in neutral venues to avoid fights. It was Nottingham — my associate’s team, of course — versus Liverpool. We took the train up. My friend had some money — I think his father was a Sir Somebody or Another — and got good seats. What happened wasn’t near us. But we could see it. Oh, my, we could see.’

Dance became alarmed as her father’s face grew pale and his eyes darted toward the children, to confirm they weren’t close. He seemed edgy, reflecting the horror he was experiencing at the memories.

‘It seems that just as the game was about to start, Liverpool fans were clustering at the turnstiles and were agitated, afraid they wouldn’t get in. Pushing forward. Someone opened an exit gate to relieve the pressure and fans surged inside and made their way to a standing-room pen. The crush was terrible. Ninety-five, ninety-six people died there.’

‘God,’ Steve muttered.

‘Worst sports disaster in UK history.’ Nearly whispering now. ‘Horrible. Fans trying to climb on top of everyone else, people jumping over the wall. One minute alive, then snuffed out. I don’t know how they died. I guess suffocation.’

‘Compressive asphyxia, they call it,’ Dance said.

Stuart nodded. ‘It all happened so fast. Ridiculously fast. Kick-off was at three. At three-oh-six they stopped the game but almost everybody who died was dead at that point.’

Dance recalled that the deaths at the Solitude Creek roadhouse, though fewer, had taken about the same amount of time.

Stuart added, ‘And you know what was the scariest? Together, all those people became something else. Not human.’

It was like they weren’t people at all — it was just one big creature, staggering around, squeezing toward the doors …

Stuart continued, ‘It reminded me of something else I saw. When I was on a job in Australia. I—’

‘We’re hungry!’ Wes called, and he and Donnie charged to the table. Several of the adults jumped at the sudden intrusion, coming in the midst of the terrible story.

‘Then let’s eat,’ Dance said, secretly relieved to change the subject. ‘Get your sister and the twins.’

‘Maggie!’ Wes shouted.

‘Wes. Go get your sister.’

‘She heard. She’s coming.’

A moment later the other youngsters arrived, accompanied by the dogs, ever optimistic at the possibility a klutzy human would drop a bit of dinner.

As Dance, Maggie and Boling set the table, she told those assembled that her friend, country crossover singer, Kayleigh Towne, who lived in Fresno, had sent her and the children tickets to the Neil Hartman concert taking place next weekend.

‘No!’ Martine hit her playfully on the arm. ‘The new Dylan? It’s been sold out for months.’

Probably not the new Dylan but a brilliant singer-songwriter, and ace musician too, with a talented backup band. The gig here in town had been scheduled before the young man’s Grammy nomination. The small Monterey Performing Arts Center had sold out instantly after that.

Dance and Martine had a long history and music informed it. They’d met at a concert that was a direct descendant of the famed Monterey Folk Festival, where the ‘original Dylan’ — Bob — had made his west coast debut in ’65. The women had become friends and formed a non-profit website to promote indigenous musical talent. Dance, a folklorist by hobby — song-catcher — would travel around the state, occasionally farther afield, with an expensive portable recorder, collect songs and tunes, sell them on the site, keeping only enough money to maintain the server and pay expenses, and remitting the profits to the performers.

The site was called American Tunes, a homage to the great Paul Simon song from the seventies.

Boling brought the food out, opened more wine. The kids sat at a table of their own, though right next to the adults’ picnic bench. None of them asked to watch TV during the meal, which pleased Dance. Donnie was a natural comedian. He told joke after joke — all appropriate — keeping the younger kids in stitches.

Conversation reeled throughout dinner. When the meal wound down and Boling was serving Keurig coffee, decaf and cocoa, Martine cracked open her guitar and took out the beautiful old Martin 00–18. She and Dance sang a few songs — Richard Thompson, Kayleigh Towne, Rosanne Cash, Pete Seeger, Mary Chapin Carpenter and, of course, Dylan.