Nightingale Point

by Luan Goldie

  The notepad is cycled back to the wall, where each of the boys has a look and a laugh.

  ‘Please,’ Elvis says, ‘can I have it back?’

  The boy with the impressive beard lets out a laugh, which sounds like the little girl who lives next door. He then stuffs his free hand down the front of his jogging bottoms, which is not socially acceptable no matter how much your penis needs to be adjusted.

  ‘Please, can I have it back?’ Elvis repeats, this time slightly louder than the last. He really does want it back.

  But the bearded boy ignores him and hands it to the bad black boy from the stairs, who looks at it, then shouts, ‘Is this meant to be me?’

  Elvis does not want to look at the boy’s very angry face, so instead focuses on the shiny diamond earring and the bright blue stain across the – otherwise – very white T-shirt.

  ‘What’s your problem, man? First you’re spying on me in the stairs and now you’re drawing pictures of me.’

  The other boys gasp; some laugh quietly.

  ‘Eh, Tris, this is proper creepy. This brer been stalking you?’ one of them says. ‘That’s some gay bunny boiler shit.’

  Elvis plans to grab the notepad very quickly, then run into Nightingale Point and up all the stairs and back into his perfect flat with all his perfect things, but as he reaches out the bad black boy grabs his fingers and twists them. It hurts. Elvis screams. He breaks free and tries to run away but two of the boys on bikes block his path. The bad black boy comes forward and starts to rip each page from the notepad and scrunch them up. Finally, he flicks the notepad over into the car park. The boys all laugh and the bad black boy hoots with them.

  ‘Sicko,’ he shouts.

  ‘Don’t let him get away with it, Tris,’ says the bearded one.

  Elvis is very frightened of being hurt again. He wraps his arms around his head and squeezes his shoulders up to his ears. The bad black boy takes a step closer but instead of pain Elvis feels a glob of wet spit cover his lips and chin.

  The boys all laugh and the bad black boy shouts, ‘Stay away from me, you fucking retard.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Chapter Nine ,Tristan

  The boys hover around the wall in order of importance, headed by Ben Munday, who sits in the shade offered by Nightingale Point, pride of place. He’s got on the latest Air Jordans, the type of footwear Tristan can only dream of owning.

  ‘What’s up, Tris? You look nuff prang,’ asks one of the younger boys from his bike.

  ‘Aw, it’s this heat.’ Tristan wipes his brow with a flourish but is embarrassed when he discovers the back of his hand glistening. ‘What you lot saying then?’

  ‘Chilling,’ answers the boy.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Chilling.’ Tristan relaxes a little, allows his shoulders to drop. What’s twenty quid anyway? Ben Munday probably has so much money he doesn’t even remember lending it. Now that’s the kind of flex Tristan needs to be on. This relying on your big brother for handouts thing is getting long. Really tedious.

  ‘Here.’ One of the older boys hands Tristan a blue ice pole from a striped off-licence bag.

  Ben Munday stands up and fusses with his hands down the front of his joggers, then pulls out a small washing powder net filled with £10 bags of cannabis. Tristan swears he can smell the weed, heated up by this boy’s groin. The thought is kind of repulsive.

  ‘Eh,’ one of the cycling boys says, ‘you seen Mustafa from Barton Point about? I’m gonna get him today, y’know.’ He punches one fist into the other.

  ‘For real?’ Tristan feigns interest, distracted by the tightness of the wrapper on the ice pole. He puts it between his teeth and tries to rip it.

  ‘He tried to chat up my sister. Man needs to be taught a lesson. You know me, how I protect my family and that.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, get him good,’ Tristan says as he battles with the plastic seal. It bursts open and a blue juice sprays across his T-shirt. ‘Shit.’

  The boys laugh.

  ‘You look like a sanitary towel advert.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, man.’ Tristan is furious. ‘This is clean on.’

  ‘You were asking for it wearing that much white,’ Ben Munday says.

  The toxic-looking blue colours the pavement as Tristan throws it to the floor. He leans down to wipe the bright drips off the trainers he takes so much pride in keeping spotless.

  ‘Eh, Tris, you know him?’

  ‘Who?’ He licks a finger and scrubs it along the stain. As he looks up he spots the man in the Elvis T-shirt from earlier in the stairwell. But this time he’s got a book out, a notepad or something, and is scribbling away. The boys cycle over and take it from him. Then they burst out laughing. Tristan tries to work out what’s going on.

  ‘Oi, Tris,’ one of the boys shouts back, ‘is this man your bum chum? Didn’t know you were into gingers.’

  ‘What’s he on about?’

  The notepad flaps by their sides as they cycle back and then pass it along the group. Each face breaks into laughter as they see whatever is written and Tristan waits for his turn to get in on the joke.

  Elvis T-shirt follows. ‘Please,’ he says, ‘can I have it back?’

  Ben Munday shoves a hand back down his pants before letting out his one uncool trait: his high-pitched laugh.

  ‘Please, can I have it back?’ Elvis T-shirt reaches out for the notepad but it’s finally passed to Tristan. The pencilled figure has lines shaved across its hair, a star in its ear and two skinny legs sticking out of a pair of big shorts. Tristan isn’t sure what he’s most annoyed about: that he’s been spied on again or the unflattering portrayal of his physique, especially as he’s been putting in up to sixty push-ups a night.

  ‘Is this meant to be me?’ It’s humiliating, especially in front of Ben Munday. The heat creeps up behind his ears like a siren signalling the imminent loss of his temper.

  The boys cackle and their energy builds behind him.

  ‘What’s your problem, man? First you’re spying on me in the stairs and now you’re drawing pictures of me.’

  He hears a gasp.

  ‘Eh, Tris, this is proper creepy,’ says one of the boys on the bike, the spokes on his wheels click-clacking as he rocks back and forth. ‘This brer been stalking you?’

  Stalking. That’s exactly what this is. Elvis T-shirt tries to grab the notepad but Tristan gets hold of his fingers and twists them tightly. He doesn’t really want to break the guy’s fingers, but this needs to hurt. He hopes he will know when to stop. Thankfully, the fingers are slippery with some kind of grease and slip from his grip. Elvis T-shirt looks proper scared now, huffing and almost in tears. He tries to run but the bikes block him, as if holding him for Tristan. For what? Not like Tristan is gonna fight this big idiot here in front of everyone. Ben Munday nods towards the notepad, as if giving the go-ahead. Tristan begins to rip out the pages, tearing at the little illustrations of postmen and bowls of food that appear alongside the scruffy handwriting. Then he flicks the notepad over into the car park. He laughs with the boys and shouts: ‘Sicko’.

  But Ben Munday isn’t smiling; he’s shaking his head like he’s witnessed something substandard rather than business being taken care of. ‘Don’t let him get away with it, Tris,’ he says.

  Elvis T-shirt now has his arms wrapped around his head. Despite being scrunched up, he still has a few inches on Tristan. He takes a step closer and isn’t sure what to do, how to make the biggest impact. Then it comes to him. He closes his eyes as he launches the spit. The boys gasp, someone snickers, there’s even the slap of palms. He’s done the right thing.

  ‘Stay away from me, you fucking retard,’ he shouts, and Elvis T-shirt wipes his face, then takes off in the direction of Nightingale Point.

  ‘That’s how to do it,’ Ben Munday says, smiling. ‘You gotta watch yourself with them care-in-the-community people.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Tristan agrees. He looks up at the flats and hopes no one saw what happened. Malachi
would kill him. ‘Well, man, I need to go get changed – can’t be walking about like some tramp. Not my style.’ He knocks fists with each of the boys. Ben Munday grabs Tristan by the shoulder and shakes him playfully; a proud smile breaks through his thick, curly beard.

  Nightingale Point feels hotter than when Tristan left it, so as well as a blue ice pole stain, he feels the sweat seep into the cotton at his armpits. Nastiness.

  ‘You again? Up, down, up, down,’ the old biddie on the third floor says. She sits on a dining table chair out on the landing, surrounded by a mess of plastic plants and flowers. The sight of her dentures makes Tristan queasy as she smiles at him. ‘No wonder you’re so skinny.’ She tuts. ‘Get yourself outside. Too hot to stay in. Bet your lot are used to it, though, ain’t ya?’

  He pauses and retraces his steps back down. ‘What?’

  ‘The heat. You know.’

  Is she serious? Old people have no filter whatsoever.

  ‘I tell you, young man, once it got so hot here I could have fried an egg on the floor.’ She points down to the narrow strip of grey concrete in front of her and sways. ‘Szzzz.’ She laughs. ‘I sat out here with your nan that day. If she was here now, she’d be sitting out here with me. A lickle tipple of rum.’ The woman mimics what he thinks is meant to be a Jamaican accent and laughs like a schoolgirl.

  He rolls his eyes, trying to remember a time when his church-going, twin-set wearing nan would ever have sat out with his woman. There’s no chance. Between working at the library five days a week, running around after Tristan and Malachi, and ferrying their mum back and forth to her hospital appointments, Nan had no time for anything other than standing in Mary’s kitchen and complaining about life. That’s Tristan’s overriding image of her: tired, shoes off, tights in all weathers, holding a mug of tea and giving Mary a rundown of her ailments.

  ‘When’s your nan coming back?’ the woman asks.

  ‘Nan ain’t coming back for a while.’ Nan stuck out life in London for over forty years; she damn near swam back to the island the day she felt Malachi was old enough to look after things. Nan always said life in the city was ‘nothing but bad luck and bad weather’. Guess she had more than her fair share of both.

  ‘Well, tell her I’ve got the rum in the cupboard for when she does, hee hee.’ The woman giggles again.

  He waves off her comments, then carries on up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  Once home, the flat is stifling, the windows all closed. He pulls off his T-shirt and starts to fill the sink, adding a bit of bleach, before spotting a note on Malachi’s abandoned pile of books. If it’s the shopping list, Tristan’s definitely going to add a few meal ideas of his own. Instead he feels inspired to write and rap.

  ‘Baby come and get this champagne and lobster, you’re dining with the mobster, some curry goat to finish, and I know you’re gonna want more. Hmm, don’t quite rhyme.’ He crosses it out. ‘I need to handle business, get this money, you see, before Mal turns me into fucking fusilli.’ He sighs. ‘I’m getting worse. Off my game today.’ On the back of the paper there’s a note from Mal.

  Gone out for a walk. Need to clear head.

  When did he leave the flat? Tristan hopes Mal didn’t see him with the wall boys. Or with Elvis T-shirt. Tristan will properly be in the shit if that’s the case.

  ‘Who goes for walks round here anyway?’

  He goes to the mirror and takes in his profile. Yeah, he looks good, but that pigeon-legged depiction was kind of hurtful. Working out at home isn’t enough to get the kind of Tupac body he’s aiming for. Only a gym membership will do the trick.

  ‘Check out my abs, built to last, come rub my chest, let me feel your arse.’

  Tristan drops to the ground and starts doing push-ups. He’s hitting his flow when the door knocks. He jumps up, then tiptoes over, half expecting the police to be standing on the other side. Surely spitting at someone isn’t a crime? He’s not too sure. But on the other side of the spyhole is Mary’s husband, David Tuazon.

  ‘Smooth motherfucker,’ Tristan says as he unlocks the door.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hey, man.’ Tristan can’t remember David ever shaking his hand before. Up until he was about twelve he can’t remember David even acknowledging him directly. Only ever through Mary, and this often took the form of a questioning murmur about what those kids were doing in his home again.

  Tristan gives a proper firm handshake, to which David pulls away and laughs. ‘My, how you have grown.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Tristan puffs out his chest and taps it. ‘I’ve had my Weetabix, innit.’

  ‘Either you’re hot or I am interrupting something?’

  Tristan, so used to his own nakedness, shrugs his shoulders. ‘Hot,’ he explains. ‘I ain’t seen you in over a year, man.’ There’s a fake-looking Louis Vuitton suitcase in the hall.

  ‘I’m looking for my wife. She’s not home.’

  ‘She gone work, innit. Saturday late shift.’

  ‘Ah. So.’ He runs his hand over one side of his hair; he has so much of it. ‘I’ve had a long journey. I am keen to get home and get some rest. I can never sleep on planes. You know how it is, so uncomfortable.’

  Tristan nods like he understands, despite never having been on a plane. His own passport, ordered for a school day trip to France that he couldn’t afford, still sits expectantly in his chest of drawers, each page pristine and unstamped.

  ‘I need the spare keys. I assume you have them?’

  The keys, yes, he remembers vaguely, but can’t remember anyone saying David would be back. He fears he’s losing his memory at fifteen and vows to give up smoking weed after the bank holiday weekend.

  ‘Oh yeah. Course. I mustn’t have been listening ’cause I really didn’t catch Mary say you were here.’

  ‘That’s because she doesn’t know. Well, she knows I’m on my way but I didn’t say when. I wanted to surprise her.’

  Tristan leaves the front door wide as he looks around for the keys on the coffee table; the cool green leaf key ring he added makes them visible among the dullness of Malachi’s architecture books.

  David inspects the key ring. ‘Thanks. See you later. Say hello to your brother.’

  Tristan pulls a tight smile as he shuts the door.

  ‘Dickhead.’

  He takes the windows off the safety latches and pushes them all wide open. The phone rings, startling him. Month to month it gets cut off so he’s always shocked when the thing actually works.

  ‘Hallo?’

  ‘Tristan?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘It’s Pamela.’

  ‘What is this? All the old ghosts are popping up today.’ He untwists the phone cord and walks back over to the mirror. ‘What you want?’

  ‘I need to speak to Mal.’ She has a desperate edge to her voice. It reminds Tristan of all the times he walked in on her and Malachi holding hands, knee-deep in a conversation about how much they loved each other. They were so intense.

  ‘He ain’t here. He’s gone out.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. He never goes out.’

  ‘Well, you been gone a month; people change.’

  She sighs into the phone. ‘I really, really need to talk to him.’

  ‘For what? Can’t you find some mug in Portsmouth to buy you trainers?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that. And I’m from Portishead. But I’m not there anymore. I’m upstairs. Got back a few days ago. Is he really not there?’

  Tristan huffs.

  ‘Okay, listen. I need you to give him a letter from me. Will you come up in about fifteen minutes?’

  ‘Do I look like Royal Mail to you? Post it!’ Tristan doesn’t want to go back to being the third wheel in their relationship. He’s only just got his brother back.

  ‘Please. You don’t understand what these last few weeks have been like.’

  She rabbits on, blah blah blah. He rubs his lower abs and wonders how much it would cost to get a tattoo across
them. Maybe some scripture or something. Some Chinese writing.

  Pamela is now crying down the other end. He has better things to do with his bank holiday.

  ‘Look,’ he cuts her off mid-sentence, ‘why you giving me this breakdown of your relationship? I ain’t Martin Bashir. What do you want from me?’

  ‘My dad’s locked me in,’ she says. ‘So, please, come up and take the letter.’

  He flops down on the sofa, wondering if he should help. Pamela did make Malachi happy while it lasted. It was good for him to get his lanky leg over something, even if it was her. But the drama of them was exhausting, all the crying and the constant threat of her crazy dad hanging over everything. Tristan used to get proper paranoid whenever she was in the flat and the door would knock; he was almost waiting for her dad to bust in and kick Mal’s arse. Or worse. So when Pamela up and left for Plymouth it was sort of a relief.

  ‘Tris? Will you help me?’

  ‘I’m busy,’ he says, and it’s true. Who has the time to go running about, trying to fix up other people’s love lives? Tristan’s not sure if the whole thing was even worth it. He knows plenty of hotter girls that would give it up for less than Pamela. A lot less. We’re talking a bag of chips here.

  ‘Tristan, please, come on. It’s not going to kill you to leave your flat for five minutes.’

  He purses his lips and remembers how Mal pestered him to find out who Pamela was after seeing her run around the field like a hamster in a wheel. It was unusual that he took an interest in any girl, but then he’d been so busy since Nan left, trying to juggle studying and ‘playing dad’. Tristan was glad when Mal gave that up. Finally they started up their Donkey Kong tournament again in the evenings. Except for the times when he would be sneaking about with Pam, probably kissing around the back of the bins or something, or sharing a milkshake in that nasty little café near the swimming pool.

  ‘Why won’t you help me?’ she pleads.

  So pathetic. But they did kind of like each other and it was rare of Malachi to do anything other than frown most days.