Nightingale Point

by Luan Goldie

  Malachi allows his head to fall back onto the beaten sofa, the plush long gone from previous owners, and puts his hands over his face. There’s got to be an easier way to get by than this.

  ‘Get it together,’ he says to himself. He wonders if there’s anything he can do to get some cash in. Well, there are things: someone had talked about selling knock-off TVs, and he’d also heard rumblings about single men with British passports being paid for taking part in bogus marriages. But both these things seem to come with a lot of risk. And Malachi has a lot to lose if things go wrong.

  There’s no other option; it’s time to call Nan. The last thing he wants to do is stress her, or make her feel like she’s made a bad decision leaving him in charge here, but what choice does he have? He needs to watch the money more closely this month. He wishes he never bought that pair of pink and lilac running shoes for Pamela – they were so expensive. But her old ones were almost worn through and she seemed serious about taking up running again once she recovered from her injury. He wonders if she’s allowed out to run in Portishead. She’s probably not allowed to do anything there. Anyway, after what happened between them Pamela probably threw the trainers off the roof. She must hate him after what he did, how he denied her. It hurts to imagine her feeling this way; it’s so far from how she was at the start, back when she was completely into him. He misses those early days with her, when her dad worked long hours and she had freedom. Back when being in this flat, in his bedroom, felt like they were a million miles off the estate and away from all their problems. They would lie in bed and allow themselves to believe it would all work out, that her dad would relax and let go of whatever his prejudice against Malachi was.

  He wishes he could stop thinking about her, stop using his memories of them together as a place to escape to. But how can he? When everything here and now is so challenging, so dull and so lifeless without her? He wants her back, back here in the flat with him, talking to him and making him laugh. He can’t stop thinking about those wintery afternoons; he can’t stop imagining he is there again.

  ‘It’s so cold. What time does your heating come on?’ Pamela had asked as she came back into the bedroom.

  ‘It doesn’t.’ He didn’t want to weigh her down with money problems, to soil their time together by talking about a situation he felt was drowning him.

  She jumped back in the bed next to him and shivered. ‘Your brother’s home. He didn’t seem too pleased to see me here. Asked if I had permission from my dad to have a sleepover.’

  Idiot. Malachi laughed. ‘He’s a wind-up. Ignore him.’

  ‘He doesn’t like me.’

  Malachi was never quite able to work out what his brother’s problem with Pamela was. Especially as Tristan was always going on about Malachi having a girl and now he had one.

  ‘I try with Tristan. I really do. But he openly yawns every time I speak to him,’ she said. ‘He does it on purpose.’

  Malachi stifled a laugh. It did sound like the kind of thing Tristan would do. ‘He’s not used to someone other than himself getting attention, that’s all.’ Malachi put his arm around her and twisted a lock of her hair around his finger.

  ‘You’re not scared of my dad, are you?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘It depends. What did he do to your last boyfriend?’

  ‘I told you, I’ve not had boyfriends.’ She moved away from him then, as far as the single bed would allow, and he braced himself to hear bad news. ‘But when I first moved to London one of the youth coaches from running club called my house to ask me out.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, Dad answered. He went nuts because the coach was twenty-one.’

  ‘So you do like older guys then?’

  She picked up the pillow and hit his shoulder with it. She was constantly trying to play down their age gap, it embarrassed her, but to him it wasn’t an issue, she felt so much older, more mature than most of the girls he met at university.

  ‘Dad accused the guy of being a predator, almost got him fired. He said if I saw him again he would send me back to Portishead. That’s always the threat, sending me back.’

  ‘The coach thing is a bit dodgy, though. It’s like that teacher and student barrier. It’s not meant to be crossed. Let’s wait till you’re out of school, then you can tell your dad.’

  Malachi pictured it often, the first time he would meet her dad, Jay, properly. How it would be awkward at the start but eventually Jay would be won over by the fact that his daughter was with someone about to gain a university degree, someone with goals and ambitions, someone who would look after Pamela and make sure she was always happy.

  She shook her head. ‘He never needs to know. It’s not worth the aggro.’

  This issue, it was the only thing that ever annoyed him about her, this feeling that he needed to be kept hidden. It didn’t make any sense, especially when they talked about long-term plans, the trips they would take, the cities they would work in and the home he would design for them in some perfect location far from the city. But none of that stuff could happen if their relationship was to remain a secret.

  Malachi hated to give a voice to the thing in his head, but it was there and wouldn’t go away. ‘So apart from my age, there isn’t anything else your dad would have a problem with about me, is there?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean, Pam. Don’t make me ask you outright.’

  She pulled her hair up into a ponytail and looked away. ‘Mal, I’ve told you already, he’s not like that. He doesn’t like me seeing anyone. Black, white, purple, green.’

  ‘You say that, but have you ever heard him say that?’

  ‘He hates everyone and everything. He wants me sitting in the living room, right under his nose, where he can see me. I’m all he’s got.’

  Malachi nodded. It wasn’t a conversation worth ruining their afternoon for. ‘So, you wouldn’t want to live with your mum again?’

  ‘She doesn’t want me. She’s got her new life now, new husband, new job. Why would she want her teenage daughter messing it all up? She always made Dad out to be the bad one, but he’s the one who looks after me. He’s a little over-protective sometimes, that’s all.’

  Malachi pictured her dad waiting at the front door for her to return home each evening, ready with his interrogation about where she had been and who she had been with.

  ‘A little over-protective?’ he says.

  ‘Dad’s sister got pregnant at fifteen and it ruined her life. He doesn’t want me going the same way.’

  ‘That would never happen with us.’

  She rolled back into the bed next to him. ‘Boys are troublesome.’

  ‘Except me. I’m the least troublesome boy you could have found.’

  ‘Really? We’ll see.’

  Why did he allow himself to mess up so badly with her? How could he let her dad get the better of him?

  He needs some air, some perspective. He scribbles a note for Tristan: Gone out for a walk. Need to clear head and goes out. As he walks down the stairs he hears humming on the third floor. Shit, Beryl must be tending to her plastic garden again. He could do without being caught up listening to her go on today.

  ‘Hello, Mr Long Legs,’ she calls.

  ‘Hi Beryl, can’t stop.’ He catches her disappointment as he runs past and immediately feels guilty; swears to pop by later. Beryl, like most women in the block of a certain age, seems to have a certain fondness for him. Tristan says it’s sometimes like Nan has them all on payroll for interfering.

  He takes the steps two at a time till he reaches the ground floor.

  ‘Your lifts are out again?’ he shouts towards the open door of the caretaker’s cubbyhole.

  A grey head pops out, mop in hand. ‘What did you say, son?’

  ‘The lifts are out.’

  ‘Yep. Both on the blink.’ The caretaker smiles, as if having announced some welcome news. ‘And you’re not the first person today to point that o
ut to me either.’

  The sun is searing, it’s full summer already and Malachi’s clothes feel too heavy and warm for the day. He hadn’t even registered the seasons change.

  There’s a crack of laughter from by the car park. He spots Tristan, glowing in his white shorts and T-shirt, with the local hoods. Malachi doesn’t want to be called over to touch fists with them like he is part of their group, like he won’t, later on today, have a go at Tristan for associating with them. He jogs off quickly across Sandford Road and out onto the green. He looks back at Nightingale Point and counts up the floors to Pamela’s flat, half expecting to see her on the balcony, chewing her ponytail and observing the world below. But of course she’s not there, she’s gone. He didn’t expect to still feel this way, a month on. He thought being without her would have gotten easier, that he would have stopped missing her. But every day it seems to get worse.

  There are more people than usual on the grass. Some look prepared for the weather, with supermarket food, blankets and sunglasses. Though most, like him, are caught off guard and look uncomfortable in their dark colours and too-warm clothes. Malachi used to love summer; him and Tristan would sit out on the balcony and suck on the coloured chunks of ice they would make themselves by pouring diluted juice into ice cube trays. Mum loved the summer too; it made her want to get out of the house. He can’t remember her depression ever taking hold during the summer months. But then he tries not to remember too much about her.

  It wasn’t planned but when he looks up he realises he’s walked all the way to the swimming pool, the place he and Pamela first started talking, and across from it the café where they spent so much time together. He walks in alone and sits at the usual table, hidden near the back. With Pamela it was always a milkshake each and a plate of chips to share – his one extravagance.

  The waitress comes and buries a hand in her thick curly hair. ‘Hey, honey,’ she says overly familiar, ‘ain’t seen you in ages.’

  Pamela used to tease Malachi about the waitress having a crush on him.

  ‘Where’s your girlfriend today?’

  ‘Oh.’ His head falls to the side and he feels an overwhelming desire to confess all to her, just for someone to talk to, but it’s not in him to do that. ‘She’s around. You know.’ He pulls his gaze away from her face to the blue evil eye at her neck.

  The woman smiles and wipes the table. ‘Trouble in paradise?’ She asks so gently he feels he might break.

  ‘Ah, actually … Well, we broke up.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ The crumbs fly from the table onto his lap as she pushes about a blue cloth. ‘Well, it won’t take you long to find someone else. I’m sure they’re lining up.’

  But he doesn’t want anyone else, he wants to sit here with Pamela and share a plate of chips and laugh about last week’s episode of Father Ted. It hurts being here, reliving all those times they sat in this very booth, getting to know each other and making plans.

  He puts his head in his hands.

  The waitress comes back over and puts a milkshake on the table. ‘On the house,’ she says, tapping his shoulder. The kindness of it, of her and the way she looks at him, reminds him of all those teachers and social workers who would give him extra attention when they knew his mum was having a turn for the worse. It’s not empathy, it’s pity, and it still breaks his heart.

  He can’t bear to see the pink glob of powder at the bottom of the glass so he drinks it to the halfway point. He misses Pamela so much. He’s not going to be able to concentrate on studying this afternoon. He can’t imagine being able to concentrate on anything ever again. Not without her.

  ‘Get it together,’ he mumbles. ‘Get it together.’

  He knows he can’t speak to Pamela now; she surely wouldn’t want to hear anything he’s got to say. But maybe, just maybe, he can speak to her dad.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Chapter Eight ,Elvis

  Elvis runs across the field to the other side. On his way he passes some girls who are sunbathing with not a lot of clothes on, some friendly drunk men, and an old man who walks a giant, scary dog, which he does not stop to pet. He pulls open the door of the phone box and shields his eyes from the photo cards of women with their breasts exposed.

  He cannot remember George’s phone number and Elvis wishes he had spent more time trying to learn it and less time flapping the laminated sheet in the air. He takes his notepad from the pocket of his grey shorts and flicks through the pages to see if the number is written down in there. It isn’t. Instead, the notepad is filled with other important information, such as what takeaway dish is best from Express Burger (quarter pounder with chilli sauce and salad) and what time the postman arrives on his floor (8.57 a.m.).

  It is too hot inside the phone box and it smells of wee, so he steps back outside. Elvis wonders if Archie, his friend from the Waterside Centre, was telling him the truth when he said that teenage black boys were dangerous. Archie had warned, ‘You can’t live on a council estate. It’s full of bad black boys that will try to stab you.’ Archie is Elvis’s best friend. Elvis misses Archie. He also misses the Waterside Centre. He misses the small bathroom attached to his bedroom, the paintings of lily ponds in the hallways and Tuesday night bingo with Bill.

  As he stands outside the second emergency phone and looks across the green he sees the Filipina nurse he knows coming towards him. This makes him smile again. She lives in his block. Elvis likes her as once, when they were in the lift together, she told him a long but nice story about storms in the Philippines. The Filipina nurse is so small and Elvis always has an urge to pick her up, but he knows you cannot do that to strangers as it will scare them and some short people do not like to be reminded that they are short.

  ‘Hot enough for you?’ he asks as she walks quickly towards the bus stop. But she is in a rush today and has no time to stop and chat about storms. She needs to catch the number 53 bus because that goes to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital where she works. Elvis hates the Queen Elizabeth Hospital as it is where he went when his arm was broken by the car that time and it hurt so badly and he screamed and cried. Then, worst of all, he bit a nurse, which made him scream and cry all over again because he had done something so terrible.

  Elvis’s leg hurts now from where he bashed it on the stairs. He looks down at the purple bruise on his glowing white skin and wishes the Filipina nurse had time to look at it for him, but the 53 now pulls away with her on it.

  If Elvis tells George, his care worker, all the things that have happened today, maybe he will make him go back into assisted living. Elvis does not want to go back into assisted living. He has only been living alone six weeks, which he knows for sure because he puts a red dot on his calendar each morning.

  His glasses will not balance on his face correctly because the left arm is all bent, so he puts them in his pocket along with the packet of Euro ’96 stickers he bought yesterday, then he slowly walks back across the green. He likes the way Nightingale Point gets bigger and bigger the closer you get. He looks up a few times to feel the sun hit his face. It feels lovely. But because he is a ginger he should not get too much of it. One summer Elvis had fallen asleep in the sunshine without his coconut suntan lotion on and his skin had burnt red raw, even his eyelids.

  He crosses Sandford Road carefully, after looking both ways and listening for traffic, then heads into the estate. A group of teenage boys sit on the wall that lines the car park; one has a very impressive beard and Elvis wonders if he has a special little brown comb for it like his Sikh friend Mandeep. Some other boys cycle about and laugh loudly, and one sings a song Elvis does not know but would like to. In the middle of the group he notices the bad black boy from the stairs again, the one with the zigzags in his hair who pushed Elvis earlier and made his glasses all bent.

  The boy has a bright blue ice pole hanging from his mouth, the kind Lina bought Elvis last week when she was in a happy mood. Elvis has an idea. He stops and gets out his notepad. This is his chan
ce. He will make a description of the boy so that he can report him to George and then maybe even to the police. He sketches the boy’s white trainers, white shorts, white T-shirt, and shiny diamond earring. The trainers are very difficult to draw correctly. He scribbles them out and tries again. He looks up to check what the laces look like and it is then he sees that all the boys are staring at him.

  Rumbled.

  He tries to place his notepad back in his pocket inconspicuously and pretends to be very busy kicking the stones from the path into a neat pile. Which is a very valid job.

  ‘What were you drawing there, fatty?’ a voice from the wall calls.

  Elvis says nothing, just concentrates on making the path straight. Of course he knows it is rude to ignore someone, but then it is also very rude to call someone ‘fatty’.

  ‘Oi, I’m chatting to you,’ the voice calls again.

  Elvis feels a little bit scared now and no longer wants to kick the stones back into place. He wants to go home. Two of the boys cycle over. One of the bikes has colourful spokes that go click clack click.

  ‘What you drawing?’

  Elvis tries to remember what is best: to ignore or to lie. He chooses to ignore and tries to squeeze himself between the two bikes and off towards home, but he is not as small as he thinks and his T-shirt gets stuck on one of the handlebars. Maybe he is a fatty. He wriggles free and starts to walk away fast.

  ‘Why you walking off? I’m talking to you, brer.’

  He feels someone grab him and pull at his shorts. His notepad is pulled from the pocket. The biker, who Elvis really does not like and is very scared of, now holds the notepad and flicks through all the pages of Elvis’s important information about what takeaway dish is best and what time the postman comes. Then he stops and begins to laugh. He shows his friend, who laughs as well and shouts, ‘Oi, Tris, is this man your bum chum? Didn’t know you were into gingers.’