Louder

The woman rushes in just as your friend gets up to take a piss and check out the bar options. Her face is smug and you'd think she were pretty if not for the mullish looking toddler straddling her hip. The kid looks to be in need of a nap and on the brink of tears and you know, you just know, that this is going to ruin your night.

She takes her seat on your left and bounces the sullen toddler on her knee a few times as the music in the venue gets louder, the crowd singing along to some pop song you're too out of touch to have heard yet. The kid's upper lip wobbles and your friend gets back just then with two cold beers and starts shouting at you about some bloke attempting to sell him the good splif. You take the drink and try to keep your attention away from the child that is growing more and more upset. You hate it. You hate that it's here. You hear the voice of your wife raging about how unsafe this is for a child and you want to admonish this woman but the opening chords to Bohemian Rhapsody have you pulled out of your seat and swaying beside your mate as you both start to sing along. The woman's face scrunches as beer sloshes from the plastic cup in your hand and lands on her dress but you decide to ignore her from now on, basking in the experience of singing a classic with a crowded stadium. She glares at you and raises her finger to her lips, hissing out between her lips for you to tone it down and you laugh. This woman has obviously never been to a concert before.

As the lights dim the crowd roars and you hear the woman attempt to console the by now very upset child she has balanced on her knees, trying to sooth it through the crashing of the drums through the speakers that are bruising even to your more developed ears. 'Poor kid', you think, before throwing your arms out and roaring along with the other 60 odd thousand concert-goers.

The kid screams too.

Not that you care about the child anymore. It's not your problem, you didn't pay good money to care about some mother's poor life choice. Sure, it's terrible for the child, and that little voice in your head that sounds like your wife is admonishing you, but neither of those are important enough for you to do anything.

The screaming of the crowds die down but the screaming of the child only becomes louder, and a few of the spectators around you curse the woman or the child or both but the show does go on. You sing and you dance and you cheer and the woman tries to comfort the child and looks to be getting more fed up with the comments thrown at her for not being able to control her child and being stupid enough to actually take a child into this kind of environment.

Concern starts to take root as the child quiets, but you realise it's only because they seem to have lost their voice. Oh well, you think coldly, it happens a lot at concerts. You certainly won't have much of a voice in the morning. Nothing a little Lemsip can't cure. There’s snot and drool coating the woman's arms and dress and you feel somewhat vindicated. You're surprised the kid even has enough lung capacity for the screaming it has been doing.

You're at the halfway point and your friend has gone to get a fresh beer and you see the woman try to connect the child's mouth to her tit, with little success. You know from experience how hard it is to feed an angry child (your wife will never let you live it down). Experts say that the best way to calm a child is to offer it food, but they've never shoved that child into an incredibly loud space full of unfamiliar people and flashing lights and smoke and heat and noise everywhere. You're surprised the kid's even still breathing at this point, though by the look on the mother's face it might not be for much longer.

'Selfish bitch' the voice of your wife echoes in your mind, and you agree wholeheartedly. The child is clearly distressed. If it were your kid, you'd have been out at the first sign of distress - your workmates think you're clueless but you'd do anything for your baby girl, even if it meant missing a concert you'd paid for months ago.

The music gets louder and the child looks closer and closer to actively passing out, and you make an executive decision. This kid needs out, and if that bitch won’t take care of her child then you will. As a parent yourself, you feel it well within your right to take offense at this woman’s antics, and intervene before the worst happens.

You get out of your seat, head bopping along to the heavy bass as it shakes through your body. The security guard at the end bottom of the stairwell gives you a questioning glance and you gesture him outside. He follows along in your wake and you explain the situation, and your concern for the toddler’s health. You make your way back to your seat with the guard in tow and the woman glares at you throughout the guards questioning.

She shakes her head, and the man shrugs and leaves. She sneers at you before smugly returning her attention to the show. Your rage is intense, and you can feel it throbbing through your veins just as the bass throbs through your feet through the floor. You stalk back to your seat beside her and make sure to be twice as obnoxious as before. Twice as clumsy with your drinks, twice as likely to jostle the woman, and then an idea hits.

You jab your mate and tell him to check his phone, where he finds a message detailing his part in the action that is about to unfold. He nods, tipsy but eager enough to help. You throw the rest of your beer on the ground and turn to him, false fury collapsing your more jovial countenance as you push him, almost gently. He is by no means gentle when he shoves you back, forcing you to fall in the direction of the woman and child. She barely manages to get out of her seat in time, clinging to the child as your best friend straddles you and starts shaking you in apparent violence. You claw back at him and remember your last sparring session and make a mental note to plan another soon.

The child is back to wailing again and ‘at least it’s alive’, you think mildly. Your friend drags you up and you go along, but before you can think to stop it your friend has rounded on the woman, clutching the distressed toddler tightly to herself and your mate gives her a verbal lashing that has the crowd around you stone silent.

The guards arrive, the three of you taken outside, the woman in tears and the child distraught. Maybe now she’ll think before dragging an innocent child into something like this.