by Maria Goodin
“So, what do you like? Rugby?” Max persisted, as if this was the only sport played in private schools.
“Yeah,” nodded Michael, earnestly, “I’m the prop forward.”
Max looked him up and down wordlessly, taking in his narrow shoulders and delicate frame. Then Michael smiled, and Max, realising he was joking, laughed.
“You had me there for a moment!”
I was relieved to see Michael employing his usual deadpan humour, but Tom only raised his eyebrows, unimpressed.
“Michael really likes music,” I interjected.
“R ’n’ B? Hip hop?” asked Max hopefully. Tom and I told him all the time that his music was garbage.
“I’m not sure,” Michael said. “Anything, I suppose.”
“Like what?” Tom pressed. “Which bands?”
“Um… I don’t really know the names of that many bands. But I sometimes hear stuff I like. Like when I’m in shops or…I don’t know, just out places.”
Max and Tom flashed each other a discreet frown, although not so discreet that Michael didn’t spy it.
“My dad doesn’t really like me having music on in the house,” he explained, uncomfortably. “Well, not unless it’s his kind of music.”
“Which is what?” asked Tom.
“Classical stuff mainly. Mozart, Beethoven, Bach.”
“So is that what you like?” asked Tom, a smile playing at the edge of his lips.
Michael shrugged. “It’s okay, I suppose.”
Max nodded encouragingly. “Cool, everyone likes different things.” But after that even he wasn’t sure what to say and the conversation ground to a halt.
I squirmed. This wasn’t going to work. I had school in common with Michael if nothing else. We could joke about teachers and other students and all the stupid things we were made to do. But none of that was transferrable, and the gulf between my old friends and my new one suddenly seemed too big.
We remained quiet, Tom returning to his magazine, Max tutting that the game he wanted to play wasn’t uploading, and me picking at a bit of cotton hanging off my sock. Only the music playing on Tom’s stereo saved us from awkward silence. Michael, sitting crossed-legged on the rug, looked painfully aware that this social experiment was failing. He hummed along quietly and didn’t look up for some time.
“I like this,” he offered finally. “Who is it?”
“Who is it?!” spat Tom, incredulous.
“Guns N’ Roses,” Max quickly stepped in. “You could say Tom’s a fan of old metal.”
“Classic metal,” Tom corrected him, “it’s timeless.”
Michael nodded thoughtfully and Tom raised an eyebrow at me, as if to say an unfamiliarity with Guns N’ Roses had pushed things beyond the limit of his tolerance. I glared at him in a way that suggested he was pushing me to the limit of mine. He rolled his eyes and sighed quietly.
“Do you know Metallica?” he asked, grudgingly.
Michael’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully and then lit up. “‘Nothing Else Matters’?”
“Yeah,” nodded Tom, surprised. “So you do know some decent music.”
“I love that song. I don’t know how I’ve heard it…”
“You’ve heard it,” said Tom standing up, “because it’s one of the greatest fucking songs ever written.” He swiftly scrolled through his iPod and the song in question started to play through the speakers. Then he picked up his guitar and sat on the edge of the bed.
Max and I exchanged withering looks. Heavy metal was a passion that neither of us really shared, and while Tom was a decent guitar player and singer, he wasn’t quite as good as he thought. Michael, on the other hand, looked enraptured, and hummed along with increasing confidence as Tom played. In contrast to Tom, his pitch was spot on.
“You sing?” asked Tom, when they reached the instrumental.
Michael nodded, and I was so desperate for him not to set himself back by explaining he was a chorister that I quickly interjected.
“Michael plays keyboard, too. He’s really good.”
Michael looked at me, confused, and I shot him a warning glance. It was actually classical piano he played, but I didn’t think Max and Tom needed to know that right now.
“I’d really love to learn the guitar,” said Michael.
“So why don’t you?” asked Tom, still strumming along.
Michael shook his head, dismissively. “My dad thinks it’s a waste of time. He gave me the choice of violin or piano. Plus, they don’t teach guitar at our school.”
Tom shrugged. “I’ll teach you, if you want.”
Michael smiled sadly. “Thanks, but there’s no way my dad would buy me a guitar.”
“I’ve got a spare one,” said Tom.
“My dad still wouldn’t give me the money for lessons.”
Tom frowned at him like he was out of his mind. “I’m not gonna charge you, you idiot.”
Michael grinned. “That would be incredible. I’d just need to make sure my dad doesn’t—”
“Screw your dad,” said Tom, suddenly turning up the volume and jumping up onto the bed as the next track came crashing through the speakers. He started headbanging and pretending to rock out on his guitar. “Your dad needs to get with the music!” he shouted.
Michael smiled up at Tom like he was some kind of god.
Max jumped onto the bed next to Tom and started playing air guitar. I felt a wave of relief wash over me, hopeful that some kind of bond was being forged, and hopped up there with them, rocking my head in time to the music and playing the imaginary drums.
“Come on, Blondie!” Max shouted at Michael.
For a moment Michael looked shy, but then he too climbed onto the bed and started miming into an imaginary microphone. All four of us were jumping, banging our heads and rocking out on our imaginary instruments, and I could just about hear Tom’s mum yelling at us from downstairs.
Suddenly there was a loud crack, and we tumbled on top of each other as the centre of Tom’s bed folded in. We looked at each other in stunned silence.
“Shit,” said Tom, examining the way his bed now dipped in the middle. “That’s not good.”
Michael looked to each of us, eyes wide with horror.
“That’s rock ’n’ roll, baby!” shouted Max.
He threw his head back, letting out his characteristic, contagious, big belly laugh. Tom sniggered, I hooted with glee, and then suddenly all three of us were in peals of raucous laughter. Michael studied us for a moment, clearly shocked that this was how the rest of us spent our Saturday afternoons, before breaking into a grin and starting to laugh along. When Tom’s startled mother appeared in the doorway, there we were, arms and legs flung over each other in a heap on the collapsed bed, laughing uproariously at the ceiling.
I remember that for a while there was nothing but the sound of our breathing. Then I could hear them talking again: deep, hushed voices, mumbling behind the shed. There was a sudden thud and a cry of pain; another boot in the side for their victim. I winced and closed my eyes tight, clutching at the polar bear that was wedged between the four of us, squeezing its cheap, under-stuffed body. Someone shouted in a foreign language, a strict order to stop. He had already told them once and was losing his patience.
When I dared open my eyes again, Tom was staring straight at me, his eyes steely and shining. It was almost dark now, but I could see what he was trying to communicate to me: Let’s go, quietly, slowly. I nodded and looked to Max and Michael, both wide-eyed and frozen. A silent agreement was reached and we carefully extricated ourselves from the huddle. Ever so slowly, we started to feel our way across the hardened earth, heads bent, straining to see the ground beneath our feet, at pains not to tread on anything that might crackle or snap. I flinched at each tiny crunch of the earth beneath our trainers.
And then I felt the hand on my shoulder. Hot and heavy, applying just enough pressure to stop me.
I turned quickly and found myself staring up into a pair of pale,
narrow eyes. They reminded me of the eyes of a snake. I opened my mouth, ready to tell the others to run, but they had already ground to halt in front of me, stopped in their tracks by a tall, lanky figure.
We were hemmed in.
“What are you boys doing?” asked the lanky figure in a slow, thick accent.
No one answered. My heart was drumming fiercely and my head was racing, trying to think of a way out of this situation.
“He asked you a question,” said Snake Eyes behind me, squeezing my shoulder a little tighter.
I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
“We got lost,” said Tom, “we were trying to get to the canal.”
“Oh, lost,” the lanky man nodded, “you boys don’t want to be lost out here in the dark on your own.”
“No, there are some strange people around,” said Snake Eyes, gripping my shoulder, his accent slightly subtler than his mate’s, “you wouldn’t want to run into any of them. Come. We have a nice fire going. Come join us.”
I saw the whites of my friends’ eyes darting about in the darkness as we looked to each other.
“Thanks, but we need to get going,” said Tom. He took a few steps forwards, and Max and Michael made a move to follow. The hand on my shoulder gripped me tighter and held me still.
“We insist,” the voice behind me said. I watched as the lanky man shifted in front of the others, blocking their path.
With a sudden surge of panic, I realised that we weren’t going anywhere.
“We really need to get home,” said Tom, anxiety creeping into his voice.
“Are you the only one of your friends to talk?” asked the lanky man. “Can they not speak?”
We all stood silently, not knowing how to respond.
“’Course they can speak,” said Tom on our behalf.
“But you are the leader, yes? Like me. All groups need a leader, yes?” His voice was slurrying and he laughed as if his comment really amused him. “I like leaders. I am leader of my friends, too. Come. You bring your friends to meet my friends.”
He reached out and put his arm around Tom’s shoulder.
“We need to go,” I said suddenly, fear making me weak in the knees.
“Yeah, we do,” agreed Max.
“Yeah, sorry,” Michael mumbled, ever polite.
“I don’t think so,” said Snake Eyes behind me. “You see, I think we might have a problem. I think you might have seen us being – how shall I say – a little heavy-handed with one of our friends?”
“We didn’t see anything,” said Max.
“No, nothing,” agreed Michael.
Both men laughed.
“Well, that’s good,” said the lanky man – the Leader – “because, you see, to outsiders it may have looked a little unkind. But that is only because you do not know the context. You see, this friend of ours, he has been a very bad friend. He has betrayed our trust. And when this happens a leader must take action, do you not think?” he asked, addressing Tom. “They must show that they are not to be messed with.”
Tom was silent, as still as a statue, the arm of the Leader still draped around him. A surge of fear rushed through me and I wrenched myself free from the grip on my shoulders. I had no plan, I didn’t know what I was doing, I just knew we had to get out of here.
“Come on, let’s go,” I said, pushing Michael and Max forwards. As I stumbled past Tom, I grabbed his arm, “Come on, Tom,” I urged, yanking at him.
But Tom pulled his arm free and stayed where he was. I turned towards him, confused. What the hell were we meant to do? Go with these people? What other choice did we have but to try and walk away?
But then I spotted the glint of the blade.
The Leader had a knife in his hand, dangling casually from the hand resting on Tom’s shoulder.
My stomach felt like it was going to drop right out of me.
The familiar hot, weighty grip settled back on my shoulder once more.
“Come,” said the voice behind me, “let us all be friends together.”
I remember flashing the torch one, two, three times.
“I don’t think he saw,” said Tom beside me, his face white in the glow of the street lamp. “Do it again.”
“No, look he’s coming,” said Max.
A window at the side of Michel’s house opened and we watched as one leg emerged and then the other. He lowered himself carefully onto the pitched roof below, shuffled down the sloped tiles on his bottom, turned over onto his belly and then disappeared from our view, hidden by the garden wall. In a few seconds he would emerge through the side gate.
“I’m gonna live in a house like these when I’m older,” mused Tom, looking around him at the large, detached houses lining the wide, leafy avenue.
“Yeah, right,” Max scoffed. “Good luck with that.”
“What? I can get this if I want to.”
“By doing what?”
“I dunno. Whatever these people do.”
“These people didn’t go to Allenbrook. They’ll have come from some posh school like St John’s. If anyone’s gonna get a house like this it’ll be Jay.”
“Why should he be the only one?”
“’Cause he’ll be the one to get the best qualifications. That’s what his parents are paying for. Plus he’s got the brains.”
“I’m easily as smart as Jay.”
“Yeah, but you go to a shit school, so tough luck for you.”
“So what? I work hard. I’ll go to a shit school and still beat Jay in my exams.”
“No, you won’t,” I muttered, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my jeans. It was too cold to be out tonight and this wasn’t really where I wanted to be.
“I bet you I can do better than you,” insisted Tom.
“Bet me what? You don’t have anything.”
“God, why do you two always have to turn everything into a competition?” groaned Max.
“I’ll bet you fifty quid,” said Tom, sticking out his hand.
“It’ll take you forever to earn that when you’re working in McDonald’s,” I told him.
“Ha ha. Go on. Fifty quid says I do better than you.”
“Whatever.” I shook his hand unenthusiastically. “You better start saving.”
“Hey,” said Michael, jogging up to us, “where are we going?”
“The park,” said Tom.
“I don’t wanna go to the park again,” groaned Max, “it’s boring.”
“Not if we liven things up a bit,” said Michael, reaching inside his jacket and pulling out a bottle.
Tom unzipped his own jacket and also pulled out a bottle. “Great minds think alike,” he grinned.
We lay on the tennis court looking up at the night sky, our heads swimming pleasantly, our bodies warmed by the alcohol. We’d talked about football, music and video games. Michael still had a lot of gaps in his knowledge, but he was catching up fast and he’d slotted into our friendship group so perfectly that it was hard to remember a time when four had been three. It was like there had always been a space there for him, just waiting to be filled.
“How much d’you reckon your house is worth, Blondie?” asked Tom, rolling over to light Michael’s cigarette.
Michael took a long drag. “I dunno,” he shrugged, “not that much. A million maybe.”
The rest of us laughed.
“Not that much!” we spat.
“It’s not that much compared to some of the other houses round our way. Or some of the other kids at school. Some of their families have serious money.”
“Tom wants to be as rich as your dad one day,” explained Max. “He bet Jay fifty quid he’d beat him in his exams.”
“Which he won’t,” I added. Apart from on the running track, I’d never been a competitive person – except for when it came to Tom. He drew it out of me, and so far it had always been to our mutual benefit, forcing us both to push ourselves just that bit harder.
“Well, you’ll probably all do be
tter than me,” Michael sighed, “I’m thick as pig shit.”
I tutted despairingly, hating the way he always put himself down. He wasn’t thick – far from it – he just lacked confidence, getting so flustered and overwhelmed by schoolwork that he seemed to stop functioning properly.
“Aren’t you gonna go work for your dad anyway?” asked Max. “In which case what does it matter how you do in your exams?”
“Yeah, you’re set for life anyway,” said Tom, a little bitterly. “You’ll get a job and an inheritance.”
“I don’t give a crap about the money,” said Michael. “I’d give it all up to not have to work with him.”
“So why don’t you?” said Tom. “He can’t force you.”
Michael didn’t answer. His relationship with his dad seemed complicated, and none of us could quite get our heads around it. We all had the impression that his home life was a source of unhappiness, so it seemed best not to talk about it. We were his friends – there to cheer him up, take his mind off whatever problems he might be having. It was the same when Max’s dog got run over, or when Tom’s dad was hospitalised, or when my grandfather died… A good laugh with your mates was always the fix.
“Did your mum work, Blondie?” asked Max.
“She was a model,” Michael replied.
“No way!” chimed Max and Tom simultaneously.
“Yeah. Not, like, a famous one, but—”
“Was she hot then?” asked Tom.
“Oh my God, Tom, I can’t believe you just asked Michael if his mother was hot!” exclaimed Max.
“His dead mother,” I pointed out, and all of us – including Michael – laughed at the tastelessness of it, while Tom insisted it was a reasonable question.
“Actually, your mum was pretty stunning,” I said, once the laughter had died down, “from the photos I’ve seen.”
“Well, that was well before she got sick,” said Michael. “She didn’t look much like that at the end.”
We all fell silent for a moment. I reached out and pinched Michael’s cigarette from his fingers. I knew I shouldn’t smoke, but occasionally, when the temptation was there…