The simile of an old police car light spun around, radiating blue flashes across the dance floor. 'Last chance - get your requests in,' the DJ urged the club goers.
The floor was packed with people dancing to EZ Rollers' "Back to Love", some singing along with the soulful vocal, others completely lost in the beat. Jazz closed her eyes - she was barely conscious of her surroundings as she concentrated on using her body to interpret the music through movement.
The track was coming to an end when Yvette returned, shouting in her ear, 'It's on next.'
Fat Boy Slim's "Slash Dot Dash" came on. The dance floor cleared.
Jazz closed her eyes again, hips swaying, shoulders rocking in double time to the sublimely furious drum beat, feeling the pulse of the bass. As the guitar kicked in, she began to swing to her head from side to side, sending the long mane of hair whipping around her shoulders.
The furious rhythm eased off, briefly. Jazz's nostrils flared at the scent of Chanel No. 5 overpowering her L'eau d'Issey. She opened her eyes to find Yvette had closed the gap between them and was mirroring the gyrations of her hips. Yvette's wide, dark eyes flashed mischief as they locked with hers and Jazz felt a twinge of jealousy at the fullness of her friend's pouting lips. She could never be sure if Yvette was just teasing her, or if she actually desired them to fulfil some lesbian fantasy.
Yvette turned around and Jazz synchronised her movements so that they were dancing back to back. Jazz noticed the men staring at them longingly, mouths agape as they salivated over the sight of them - a hot blonde and a sexy black girl shaking their thing together - it made Jazz feel sexually empowered.
During the brief intervals when the pace relented, they circled each other, flirting outrageously and bumping chests, their competitive natures bringing out the best in both of them.
As the backing chorus kicked in, Yvette pumped her arms in a frenetic imitation of go-go dancing - Jazz followed her lead.
Jazz revelled in the thrill of abandoning all inhibition and succumbing to pure primal instinct, as she expressed her sexuality through the pounding percussion.
The guitars finally faded out to make way for the sound of thunder and lightning. As they picked up their bags, Yvette grabbed Jazz's hand and dragged her into the toilets. They skipped and bobbed their heads in time with the hypnotic bass line of Stereo MC's "Creation", and entered a cubicle, giggling at nothing in particular.
'You first, Jazz... you can warm the seat for me.' Yvette started to comb her Afro.
Jazz hitched up her dress and settled on the seat.
'Jazz...!' Aren't you wearing any…?'
'I forgot to put them on.'
The mutual giggling fit erupted again as Yvette clumsily balanced on each high heel in turn while hitching up the leopard print hem to remove her knickers. She placed them in her bag then took Jazz's place on the seat.
Jazz stood facing the door and brushed specks from her black leather dress, "Ooh yeah - yeah, yeah." She heard the toilet flush then felt Yvette embrace her from behind. Yvette's chin settled on her right shoulder: Jazz felt her breasts being gently cupped and lifted.
'How about staying at mine tonight, chick?' Yvette whispered in her ear.
Jazz sobered a little, feeling torn between excitement and trepidation; she couldn't help thinking about what it would do to their friendship.
'Come on, Jazz - you know you want to.'
'All right, then. So long as you still respect me in the morning,' she teased.
Jazz opened the door and moved to the sinks preparing to touch up her makeup. Yvette grabbed her wrist again and dragged her away. 'Never mind that...'
They paused by the dance floor to watch a man in a camouflaged beanie hat stomp his feet in time to the drums while rocking his head to the rhythm guitar, one foot kicking out to the side or a knee rising each time the cymbal was struck. As the drummer woundup, the dancer turned on the spot in circles, feet kicking out in all directions.
'Come on, Jazz!' Yvette led her along the long dimly lit passage to pass couples talking secretively, the men making promises they would never keep. "That's just the way nature planned it".
Their boots thudded up the basement steps accompanied by the pounding percussion of N.E.R.D and Jason Nevins' "Rock Star" club blaster.
Back on the street, Jazz shivered as the breeze cooled the perspiration coating her skin.
'I can't believe we missed it,' said Yvette, forming her right hand into the shape of a gun and pointing it at a couple of passing men. "Fucking posers..."
The men looked intimidated and hurried on. Jazz couldn't help giggling.
'You wanted to go, Yvette.'
'Come on, Jazz. Dance with me.'
They bounced up and down in unison, shaking their heads like punk rockers. Passers-by eyed them with a mixture of admiration and resentment.
Yvette finally relented and dragged her round the corner, saying, "No-one Ever Really Dies."
Jazz cursed at the sight of the long taxi-rank queue. Two drunken young men got into a fight at the head of the queue, both swinging their arms wildly like windmills, but failing to make much contact.
A boy racer type car screeched to a halt beside them and the passenger window wound down.
'Yvette, all right?' called a youth wearing a baseball cap. 'Wanna lift?'
'Hiya, Dev. Yeah, cheers.'
Dev got out and tilted the back of his seat forward. Yvette pulled Jazz into the back seat. No sooner had she shut the door than the car shot forward, wheels spinning.
'Oh, I hate cars like this,' Jazz moaned.
'What is it?' Yvette asked.
'Skyline GT-R,' the red-haired driver announced proudly, and sparked up a spliff.
'Oh, right,' said Yvette, obviously none the wiser.
The fresh air had made Jazz feel the effects of the Bacardi Breezers and her head began to slump on her chest. Gun shots sounded - they made her start a little. Then she noticed the driver fiddling with the volume control on the stereo and soon realised it was Shy FX & T Power's "Everyday". The deafening drum and bass blasting from the speakers, along with the street lights flashing by, made her feel giddy.
At Yvette's insistence, Jazz forced herself to join her in dancing with their upper bodies and arms. Dev and the driver occasionally shouted: 'Soundboy!'
Yvette offered her the spliff. She tried to refuse but Yvette wouldn't take no for an answer. 'Come on, chick - it'll get us in the mood for later.'
Jazz took the cone and sucked tentatively on the damp roach, aware of Yvette's hand sliding up the inside of her right thigh.
The car headed into the suburbs, picking up even more speed.
'Can't you slow down?' Jazz pleaded, but her voice was drowned out by the throbbing bass.
The sound of wailing police sirens emitted from the speakers. "If you a rude boy..." chanted the driver.
Yvette took the spliff and passed it back to Dev before turning her attention to Jazz once more. Jazz found herself forced into a tongue fight, reluctantly at first, but she soon responded ravenously.
'Wicked!' shouted Dev. 'Go on, girls, get proper stuck in.'
Jazz responded instinctively to the boy's encouragement, desperately struggling to match the passion and resist the forcefulness of Yvette's squirming tongue.
The car swerved slightly, making them rock on the seat before straightening up again.
This time Jazz knew the sirens were for real, even before she opened her eyes and noticed the flashing blue lights.
The Nissan's powerful engine roared and accelerated - the car shot forward went into a slide, to drift around a tight curving bend without too much loss of impetus. Jazz wiped her chin and looked round to see the police car struggling to keep up.
'Just pull over,' Yvette shouted at the driver.
'I can't,' he shouted over the music. 'I'm banned and we've got a bag of weed.'
'Turn the fucking music down!' Jazz shouted.
He launched the car at a sharper corner, but was going too fast. Jazz saw the front of a building hurtle towards them and screamed.
The car was brought to a sudden halt with a bone-jarring crunch and the screech of tortured metal.
Yvette had been catapulted into the back of the front seat and looked unconscious, except that her neck was contorted at a strange angle. There was no sign of Dev.
Jazz realised that she was pinned into the seat, even though she wasn't wearing a seat belt - she looked down to see a copper pipe impaling her stomach. Still, she could feel no pain other than in her neck. It all seemed surreal, like a dream sequence.
She looked up to see a football sized chunk of masonry swinging above the driver's seat, like a pendulum, suspended from a thin piece of reinforcing wire. It was dripping blood. Blue lights illuminated the brick dust floating in the air.
But at least the music had stopped.