Mark and I joined some of the other kids by the shaded side of the party tent - Mark called it a 'marquee' - and watched Tasers and Tarantulas on an inflatable screen. It was a terrible film, though the final scene with the drunken sheriff attacking the pregnant spider-queen with a broken chopstick was pretty funny!
When the credits rolled, Mark shouted "show time!" and herded us into the marquee. Ravenous, the thirty-or-so partygoers descended on the buffet tables lined up against the southern side of the tent. The air was redolent of satay skewers, blueberry pancakes, sausage rolls and candy floss. A pandemonium of clowns worked the tent, churning out balloon-robots, performing magic tricks with cards and coins, and handing out layered mocktails to the guests.
From the northern side of the space, farthest from the buffet, an elderly Japanese DJ spun out mashes of top ten and 60s rock from a dual-turntable on a raised podium. A smoke machine was affixed to the top of the DJ station and spewed a waterfall of vanilla-scented fog-plumes into the tent. Retro-green and red lasers twirled up and down the tent wall next to the podium in time with the beat.
To the immediate right of the marquee's entrance stood a round table on which sat a double-layered ice-cream cake shaped like a UFO. Orange chocolate Martians pocked the cake's upper deck in lieu of candles. I'd wolfed down at least 10 party pies and quaffed three mocktails, and we still had the birthday cake to go!
From the dance floor in front of the DJ's podium, Mr Barker's Events Manager oversaw the whole shebang. Mrs Kroker, though not tall, was blonde and curvy. A relative newcomer to Quakehaven - she and Tim had moved to town when Tim was about 10 - she was popular with the kids, and particularly so with the kids' dads.
"AK Events," was scrawled in white letters across the front of Mrs Kroker's tight black T-shirt. A fob watch hung from the belt of her silver miniskirt. From time to time, she would look at it and shout into her headset microphone: "Stay On Message," whatever that meant.
After we finished our feast, the clowns escorted us all to assigned seats. We sat along two parallel, backless benches, like pews, in the centre of the marquee.
My place was between Mark and Tim on the bench closest to the entrance. The less popular kids sat on the other bench, facing us. The obvious cool bench/loser bench divide was typical of Mark - he loved to rank us. More than a few of the kids on the loser bench looked mystified with their classification, and I'm sure most of them wondered how I'd made it to Mark's bench at their expense. I hadn't even been invited to Mark's last birthday.
An old wooden beam pocked with six lit candles swayed above and between the pews, suspended by rope. It was cool, but a bit creepy, like a dungeon's lighting rig. A constellation of tiny silver strobe-lights on the ceiling flashed twice - Mr Fisk had obviously managed to fix them - then the room darkened into a deep, foggy purple. The music turned funky.
A white spotlight cut through the purple haze and Mrs Kroker appeared at the DJ's side on the podium. A lectern rose from the floor in front of her. Under her left arm, Mrs Kroker held a large, golden box. She clapped twice and the music died. Like military cadets, the clowns snapped to attention then marched out of the marquee in formation. Mrs Kroker lent forward to speak into the lectern microphone, but her headset screamed with feedback. We all screamed back and laughed.
"Boys and girls," said Mrs Kroker, tearing off the headset and glaring at the oblivious DJ. "It's time for the games. We're going to start with pass the parcel. Timothy, come up here and help mummy kick things off."
Mortified, Tim stood up, trudged over to his mother and seized the gold parcel from her manfully. Even under the violet light, his face glowed beet-red. "Say thank you to mummy," shouted Mark, as Tim resumed his seat next to me, and we sniggered, thrilled with his embarrassment.
Mrs Kroker nodded to the DJ to restart his mix. But, before he could spin the first track, Mark jumped up onto the bench, grabbing my jersey for balance. With his free hand, he pointed at the buffet and bellowed: