Bitter Sixteen

by Stefan Mohamed

  I laughed and went into the explanation again, the leaving books and the signing of shirts and the Record of Achievement ceremony and the Prom and Kloe. Everything apart from Kloe sounded impossibly silly and almost meaningless by now, so I tried to get it all over with as soon as possible, and all the while, at the back of my head, I was thinking about Freeman. About all the questions I should have asked him. And about what he’d said.

  Probably best not to tell anyone about our meeting.

  And when has that ever been a good idea?

  Rarely if ever. All the same, though, it seemed harmless to keep him to myself for a while. I could tell them about him if and when he became important. Right now he was interesting, but that was about it.

  Yeah. That’s it.

  Finally I finished the story, along with my hot chocolate fudge cake and ice cream. I wasn’t sure if it was because I’d told it all now, or because I’d really let loose that afternoon in the building site, but I was starting to feel much more sorted in my head, and made a promise to myself that this was the last time I’d do this particular monologue.

  It’s all me, me, me with you, isn’t it?

  Yeah. It’s all you, you, you with me.

  Everyone was silent for a bit. They’d all said the right things at the right moments (I had also added the story of Performance Night, as I was starting to call it, because Skank hadn’t heard it and Connor and Sharon had only had a majorly abridged version), but now none of them really knew what to say to follow it up. I could sympathise. I wouldn’t have known what to say, either. Luckily Eddie had the perfect silence-breaking idea, signalling Ray and ordering more drinks. When Ray returned with the tray of beers – Daryl’s had a straw – Eddie raised his in a toast. ‘To the end of school. Good riddance. I always hated the place.’

  I laughed, and we toasted and clinked our bottles, although Daryl sort of shuffled his around with his nose rather than raising it. Everyone made sure to clink with him, though, and we drank, and I felt the stigma of the twentieth of May washing calmly away.

  When the bill came, they all insisted that Daryl and I shouldn’t have to pay – it was their treat for us. Skank wanted to pay for everybody, but they wouldn’t let him. They wouldn’t even let me see how much it cost. It was nice, but I also felt bad.

  Be the kid. You’ll pay them back one day.

  Finally we stepped out into the street, full and a tiny bit tipsy. It was a little before ten and almost completely dark. Skank lit a cigarette and Sharon looked at Connor. ‘What now?’

  Connor shrugged. ‘How about Blue Harvest?’

  Eddie looked up from tying his shoelace. ‘Blue Harvest? That’s the best idea you’ve had since . . . well, since recommending that rather tasty Czech lager.’

  ‘Damn right,’ said Connor. ‘None of your heathen English water.’

  ‘What’s Blue Harvest?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ll see,’ said Sharon. ‘It’s definitely the best idea. Come on.’

  ‘I think I’m going to take a rain check,’ said Skank. ‘I’ve got a load of cats at home who never learned how to be self-sufficient.’

  Ah yes. Schrödinger, Felix, Doraemon and Miss Kitty Fantastico. Skank had told us all about his cats.

  ‘OK,’ said Connor. ‘Later, dawg.’

  We exchanged goodbyes and Skank told Connor and me not to worry about coming in tomorrow. ‘Shop won’t be open,’ he said, blowing out smoke. ‘I have some things to do.’

  Connor nodded. ‘OK. See you.’

  ‘Laters,’ said Skank. ‘And thanks. Mighty fine shindig.’ He turned and walked off into the darkness.

  ‘So,’ said Daryl. ‘Blue Harvest, eh?’

  Blue Harvest turned out to be a jazz bar one bus ride away. It didn’t look like much from outside, just a windowless front with a wooden door and Blue Harvest written on the wall in dim blue neon, but when the door opened and Connor led us inside, Daryl let out a whistle. ‘Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,’ he said.

  I’d never been to a jazz bar, but as far as I was concerned any jazz bar that didn’t look like this had no business calling itself a jazz bar. The place just looked cool. There was a round, shiny black stage with a piano and a drum kit at the back, where a lone female saxophonist was playing something lovely and laid-back, and an even shinier bar adjacent to it, with racks and racks of bottles behind. A very pretty lady (girl?), probably approaching the end of her twenties, was standing behind the bar watching the saxophonist. The walls were lined with pictures of musicians with their instruments, and there were small black metal tables all around the floor with three chairs to each. There was only a handful of other patrons, all of whom were drinking, surprisingly enough. The lady behind the bar exchanged a wave with Eddie, and we all pulled up chairs and sat down.

  ‘This place is awesome,’ I said.

  ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet,’ said Connor. He looked at Eddie. ‘Game?’

  Eddie inhaled sharply and shook his head. ‘Ooh . . . I don’t know, mate.’

  ‘Come on!’ said Connor. ‘You lot got me to sit down and do Connor’s Teatime Requests on Stanly’s guitar! And you get paid for this.’

  ‘Wrong tense. I did get paid for this.’

  ‘Paid for what?’ I asked, raising my hand. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ said Sharon. She grinned and put a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. ‘You probably definitely should.’

  Eddie looked at me, then at Daryl, then at Sharon, then at Connor. Then he looked up at the stage, and his eyes rested on the lone saxophonist for a minute. He nodded slowly and stood up with an air of resignation that was obviously an act. I could see that he was excited. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ He walked over to the bar and had a quick word with the girl, who handed him a key, then he disappeared through a door at the back.

  I looked at Connor. ‘Is Eddie going to sing?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  We went up to the bar to get drinks. ‘Hi, Hannah,’ smiled Sharon.

  ‘Hiya,’ said the barmaid. ‘What can I get you?’

  Sharon order a Sea Breeze and Connor ordered a vodka on the rocks for himself and a tequila for Eddie. ‘Eddie drinks tequila?’ I asked. I don’t know why I was surprised. Connor nodded. ‘He can drink just about anyone under the table and still walk in a straight line. Ridiculous. Wish that was my superpower.’

  Daryl didn’t want anything to drink, and I selected a random beer, which turned out to be some sort of ale for grown-ups. It was tasty, but more potent than I was used to. ‘You guys know the barmaid, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Her name’s Hannah,’ said Connor, sipping his vodka. ‘She and Eddie went out a while back. Pretty serious. They were thinking about moving in together, getting joint ownership of this place.’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  Connor looked at me. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think I mean . . . what happened?’

  ‘Nothing happened, particularly,’ said Connor. ‘They broke up. Nothing nasty about it. They’re still good friends.’

  ‘Her brother didn’t help,’ said Sharon.

  ‘Brother?’ I asked. Ooh, gossip.

  ‘It’s not for us to say, really,’ said Connor. ‘I’m sure if you ask Eddie he’ll —’

  ‘— be incredibly awkward and evasive and not answer the question properly?’ I said.

  Connor laughed. ‘Something like that.’

  We watched the saxophonist in silence until Eddie came back. He was carrying a small black case under his arm which he set down on an empty table. He opened it and started to assemble a clarinet, and suddenly I remembered my conversation with Mum, and it made sense. I watched with interest. I don’t know much about clarinets, but it looked pretty expensive and classy, and he assembled it deftly, blowing a long, low note that had a
syrupy richness to it. He played in harmony with the saxophonist, who nodded at him.

  ‘Nice,’ said Daryl.

  I looked at Sharon. ‘Is he good?’

  She smiled. ‘He’s not bad.’

  Eddie stood at his table pressing the keys of the clarinet, warming up his fingers, watching the saxophonist. She finished with a swinging number and we all applauded, whistling loudly, and she grinned widely as she bowed, flushed and sweating. She put her instrument away, stepped down from the stage and walked over to Hannah, who had what looked like a Bloody Mary waiting for her.

  ‘So Eddie used to play here a lot?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Connor. ‘Before he and Hannah started to think about running it together.’

  I wondered what had happened between them. Connor had been a bit too quick to gloss over it. And Sharon’s comment about the brother . . .

  Keep yer beak out, Bird. See any of your beeswax round here? ’Cos I don’t.

  Oh shut up.

  Eddie walked up to the stage looking nervous but confident, his shirt sleeves rolled up, hair artfully messy. He adjusted the microphone and spoke into it. ‘OK. Um . . . I’m going to need a bit of a hand. Hannah? Will you do the honours?’

  Hannah grinned and folded her arms. ‘What’s it worth?’

  Eddie seemed to think for a moment. ‘I’ll buy you a drink.’

  ‘I own the bar, you berk!’

  Eddie nodded. ‘OK. From a different bar, then.’

  Hannah considered, then shrugged. ‘OK.’ She stepped out from behind the bar, walked up on stage and seated herself at the piano. They tuned up, and Eddie nodded and leaned in to the mic.

  ‘OK. This one’s a tune you’ll all know, probably. Just to get you into the swing of things.’ He turned and said something to Hannah, who nodded and played a series of chords that sounded familiar. Then Eddie came in with the melody, and I knew it instantly. ‘Day Tripper’ by The Beatles, albeit jazzed-up to high heaven.

  The two of them sounded great together. Hannah was no slouch on the piano and Eddie was more than a bit not bad on his clarinet, and when their first number was over they received a standing ovation. They busked some old Sinatra-style standards, some random bits and pieces, a couple more Beatles numbers and ‘Petite Fleur’ by Sidney Bechet, which I recognised because it was a favourite of my American aunt Susan, and when they’d finished that, Hannah called Eddie over and whispered in his ear. He laughed and nodded, and they started to play a waltzed-up version of ‘Zorba’s Theme’, which is one of those pieces that everybody knows even though nobody ever seems to have seen the film. The whole room cheered. The saxophonist went up to join them for this one, and she and Eddie improvised lots of little riffs that spun around each other, intricate little ornaments and inter-weaving harmonies, and Hannah joined in, her fingers dancing effortlessly across the ivories. They gradually upped the tempo, the audience clapping enthusiastically in time, and Eddie and the saxophonist screamed a harmonised crescendo, and as Hannah’s last cascade of piano notes finally brought the thing to a halt the room erupted again. They received another standing ovation, and I clapped and whooped until my hands and throat were sore. Eddie gave Hannah a hug – you could definitely see that there were some lingering feelings there – and shook hands with the saxophonist, then cleaned and disassembled his clarinet and came back over to our table. He downed his tequila in one, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and grinned. ‘I’ve really missed that.’

  ‘That was fantastic,’ I said, holding out my hand. I might have been a bit tipsy. ‘Bloody amazing. Totally . . . I mean absolutely, just totally . . . just a total beast.’

  ‘“Beast”?’ asked Sharon.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Um . . . beast.’

  ‘Still got the magic touch,’ grinned Connor.

  ‘Well,’ said Eddie. ‘I try.’

  ‘And not just with the clarinet,’ said Daryl. ‘I could see the way Hannah kept looking over at you, and the way she hugged you. She still fancies the pants off you, mate.’

  This was greeted by a half-amused, half-awkward silence. I could see both Connor and Sharon fighting valiantly not to laugh, but I couldn’t manage it and corpsed magnificently, which set everyone else off. When the laughter subsided Eddie managed an embarrassed grin and ruffled the fur on top of Daryl’s head. ‘Thanks, mate,’ he said. ‘Cheers. Always worth hearing the dog’s opinion.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  I SPENT THE NEXT day watching TV and practising with my powers. Connor had received one of Eddie’s mysterious calls and disappeared, and Sharon was working, so Daryl and I were left alone. I had purchased some vintage Power Rangers action figures from the shop with my employee discount, and now I was psychically making them act out situations randomly barked at me by Daryl. ‘Red fight green!’ he’d yell. ‘Red do a backflip! Green’s drunk all of Zordon’s secret hooch! Tango! Cartwheel race! Twerking nine to five! Do the dance of joy!’ Admittedly my attempts looked like primitive stop-motion, as I still wasn’t quite dextrous enough to move multiple limbs independently at the same time, but with every new instruction I felt like more walls were breaking down, like I was getting closer to complete mastery. By the time everyone got home I had my Red and Green Rangers doing a passable interpretation of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ routine, and although they didn’t find it quite as side-splittingly hilarious as Daryl and I did – God knows why – they were still appreciative.

  Yeah, wicked skills. You’re more than ready for a superpowered fight to the death with a child-devouring monster.

  Skank wanted us in the shop again on Saturday, which was totally miserable because it was a horrible day. The heat was incandescent, the humidity unbearable and it was claustrophobic, even in an open space. The buildings dripped with sweat. Cars sounded unhealthy. The air was like hot wet cotton wool, and it was not fun being cooped up in 110th Street for four hours with no air-conditioning and only two small fans between us. Connor and I went home hot, tired and grumpy, our clothes sticking to us like wet newspaper. ‘Would have thought Skank could afford to invest in some air conditioning,’ I said.

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first one to have that thought,’ said Connor.

  That night I lay in bed wearing just my boxer shorts, my body sticky with sweat, the windows wide open, my head pulsating. I hadn’t had a headache in months and now here one was, on the hottest night of the year, when I had a burp in a hurricane’s chance of getting to sleep. I lay on my back, flipped over onto my side, then onto my front, then onto my other side, then stood on my head (’cos why not), then sat up, then put my legs against the wall, then turned my pillows over and tried to burrow into my mattress, but nothing worked. Daryl had chosen to sleep downstairs on the sofa where it was always cool. Unfortunately, there was only room for one to sleep comfortably and he’d bagsied it. I seriously considered sneaking down there and psychically levitating him on to the armchair, where he would fit just as comfortably – as I had pointed out, to no avail – and taking the sofa for myself. I could easily do it without him waking up.

  He’ll whinge all bloody day tomorrow, though.

  I could deal with his whinging, but more importantly he had bagsied the sofa. And the laws of bagsy and shotgun were immutable. I’d rather boil to death than live with that dishonour, so I tried to sleep.

  Eventually, though, I couldn’t take it anymore. There were no painkillers in the house (which, considering a nurse lived there, was just this side of unbelievable) and the heat was so oppressive that I was having visions of my head exploding, just like I’d had so long ago, on that night when my whole life had changed. Skull and brain bursting, eyeballs popping like overripe plums, viscera spilling from empty eye sockets and ears and mouth, taking teeth and tongue with it. It was not pleasant. I was going mad. I had to get out.

  I dressed very quickly, made sure the bedroom door was shut and flew ou
t through the open window and around the side of the house, alighting on the pavement. I looked up at the building. Eddie would kill you if he knew you were doing this, I thought. Screw it, I replied. With a cherry on top, I added.

  I walked for a very long time, passing pubs and drunks and silent shops and homeless people and stray dogs and haughty cats. Nobody paid me much attention, which was nice. It wasn’t as hot as it had been inside, but it was still far from comfortable, and I tried not to think about my headache, but it didn’t work. I could actually feel my exploding head. Don’t think about exploding heads. Think about something more interesting.

  Yeah. Like films.

  Oh that’s a good idea. Films like Scanners?

  Oh piss off.

  Before long I realised that I was walking parallel with the river, and reasoned that the closer I got to it the cooler it would be. Sherlock Holmes strikes again.

  I said piss off.

  I stood resting on my elbows on the wall, watching the river’s sluggish progress beneath Southwark Bridge, Blackfriars Bridge and, in the distance, Waterloo Bridge. Under the bridges.

  Under the bridge downtown . . . ‘Is where I drew some blood,’ I murmured. ‘Under the bridge downtown . . .’ I half-expected Mr Freeman to appear out of the darkness and finish off the rest of the lyrics for me. Seemed like the kind of cryptic bullshit he’d pull. But no, I was alone.

  I wondered who he might be. Government? Very possible. It stood to reason that there were others out there with abilities like mine, and as useless as the government seemed to be in many respects, I doubted it was the kind of thing that would pass them by.

  What had he meant, though? About my story beginning?

  Did he have a job for me?

  Could he see the future?

  Bollocks. No-one can see the future.

  Hmm. And a year ago, no-one could fly or move things with their mind. Except now people can. You can. I slowly rotated a rubbish bin three hundred and sixty degrees with my mind, demonstrating the point to no-one in particular.