Martha had to help me.
She ran her fingers round and round on the back of his hand.
Ring a ring a roses.
I turn back to my magazine. I can't concentrate on it though, can't stop thinking about the MP3 player.
Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Track
I can't get it out of my head.
I fell asleep holding onto the player last night, letting the words loop over and over. They say you absorb stuff when you're asleep, that information sticks in your brain that way.
I'm going to prescribe some sleeping tablets, just to get you through the first few days.
Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Track
The metal stairs rattle and I hear footsteps coming down from the ground floor. I make myself look busy at the counter. I chuck the magazine underneath me where all the carrier bags are kept and pull the top of the till open. I pretend to examine the till roll, even though I saw Martha changing it earlier on.
It gets a wee pink line running through it when it's about to run out. To change it, you just go like this.
I glance up and slam the till shut again. No need to feign work. It's not Laura. It's her. My dream girl.
She looks over at me and smiles as we make eye contact. I've been so busy thinking about the MP3 player, I've forgotten she might be in today.
I watch her as she heads towards the magazines. She's wearing a customised Ramones t-shirt and has her leather jacket hung over the strap of her shoulder bag. The neck and the sleeves have been ripped out of the t-shirt. It hangs down over her shoulder and shows her red bra strap. Her skin looks so fucking smooth, like the top of tablet. Like the MP3 player.
I wanna be sedated.
I glance down at myself. I look a right fucking state. I threw on yesterday's clothes when I got up this morning. They looked fine in the dinginess of my room. It was only when I got to work and saw myself under the strip lighting that I realised what a mess I was. I'm surprised Laura didn't send me home to get changed. That rip I tore in my cords falling up the stairs last night is worse than I thought it was.
Going for the grunge look, Davie boy? Ryan said when he started his shift at nine.
Oh well, not much I can do now. I'm not Superman, can't just rush into the bogs and change my outfit. She looks pretty grungy herself today, maybe it's a sign I should go and speak to her. There's a still a wee bit of that magic feeling from last night running through me. I'm not quite Adam yet, there's still a trace of He-Man about me.
Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Track
I run a hand through my hair. Take a deep breath.
And another one.
For luck.
I step out from behind the safety of the counter. No time to stop and think. Just walk. One arm, one leg. Don't chicken out.
'Hey.' I nod at my girl and she looks up at me. Fuck, has she forgotten our conversation from last week?
Okay, Davie. Just edge away quietly. Then you can hit your head against the wall somewhere out of sight.
Then…
'Hey yourself,' she replies.
'So, how's it going?' I ask, and flick through the copies of Uncut magazine as if I'm looking for something. Yeah, just straightening out the magazines here. It's what I do to keep the shop running smoothly. Be cool. Think Fonz. Think Fonz.
Her eyes are darkened with kohl again, a sweep of green glitter above her lashes. She smells nice, sweet: like those candy necklaces you used to get in ten-pence mix-ups. I breathe in the smell and hold my breath. She obliterates all traces of the B.O. Problem Man. I take another breath.
Lilac wine.
'Fine, I guess. How's you?' she says.
'Aye, no bad thanks, you?'
Shit. I already asked that.
'I'm Astrid, by the way.'
She holds out her arm and shakes my hand. Result! Name and touching all in one go. Her fingers are smooth like the cream on the top of a milk bottle. I'm the blue-tit who wants to peck through the foil lid and get a taste. She'd be like strawberry milkshake, or… or Angel Delight.
Fuck sake, Davie, stop getting carried away and concentrate on the conversation.
My palms are sweaty, and I try to wipe them on the back of my cords without her seeing.
'Cool name,' I say, 'it's unusual. But in a good way, eh?'
'Do you think so?' She screws up her nose. 'It's after that, um, German girl. You know, the one the Beatles met in Hamburg?'
'Eh, not sure.'
She laughs at me and I feel my face go red.
'What's so funny?' I ask.
'Sorry, you just looked so serious there, like you were really concentrating. She was the girl they met in Germany. She helped style them you know, like, cut their hair, took photos of them.'
'Oh yeah, I know who you mean now.'
Fuck, why am I such an idiot? Of course I know who she means. She must be wondering why they hired me when I obviously know nothing about music. It's just having her here. In front of me. She's making my mind go tongue-tied. My stomach is doing backflips.
'Yeah, so what can I say? My parents really love the Beatles.'
She shrugs her shoulders and her t-shirt slips down even further. Her collar bone protrudes against skin and more of her bra strap is on show. I can feel my cock starting to come alive and I look away.
'That's not so bad, my folks named me after a Kinks song. My name's David Watts.'
'No way, honestly?'
'Aye, not that they had any clue. They only discovered it afterwards. When people kept asking them if they were Kinks fans.'
'That's so funny.'
'Aye, and then they listened to the song and expected me to be like my namesake, but we're opposite ends of the spectrum, eh?'
I prefer the Amstrad, I joke to myself. I don't say it out loud. If Alfie was here he'd get it, but I don't want her to know I'm such a geek.
She smiles at me, revealing that sexy-as-fuck gap between her teeth. I still can't get over how many dirty thoughts that dental disfiguration can cause.
Control yourself, Davie.
We stand in silence.
Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Track
'I prefer Davie to David though.'
'Sorry, I called you David before. I still like your watch though.'
'That's cool, thanks.'
I play with my watch, twisting it around my wrist. My feet rise off the floor and I'm floating. She still likes my watch.
'Cool, so where are you from?' I ask.
Mental note to self: stop saying the word cool. It's not cool.
'New York.'
'Wow, New York. Cool.'
Fuck sake, Davie.
She says the name in such a great way. Yoik. Nu. Yoik. Nu. Yoik.
'Have you been?' she asks.
'No, but I've seen it in, like, films and... eh... Friends and that. I'd love to go. It looks co... amazing.'
I'm not so much blue-tit now as just tit. But for some reason she reaches out and touches me on the shoulder.
'Yeah, I like it. It's funny how you don't realise until you leave.'
'So what brings you to Edinburgh?'
I'm slightly thrown off course by the shoulder-squeezing incident. I can feel her hand still on me, even when she's taken it away. Like a pulse: the shadow of her hand beating.
'I'm at university,' she replies.
'Okay, what are you doing there?'
'Um, History and Philosophy. I'm really loving it. It's just so beautiful here. All the architecture and history, it's amazing.'
'Aye, it's a great city.'
My confidence starts to slip. What on earth possessed me to come out and talk to her like this? She's far too smart for a dumb-fuck like me.
'Anyway, talking of uni, I'd better get going.'
She grabs my wrist and twists the watch round so she can see the time.
'I've got a class in, um, twenty minutes.'
'No bother, shall I get
that for you?' I nod at the magazine she's got in her hand. I don't want this to end. Volts are running up and down my arm from her touch. She's touched me three times now.
She looks down at the magazine, as if she's forgotten it was there. Fuck, maybe she was just reading it and now it's like I'm forcing her to buy it.
'Only if you want to buy it, I mean.' I say.
'I do.'
We walk over to the counter and she smiles at me as I run the magazine through the till. She's touched me three times and is now smiling at me. I know I'm a dumb-fuck but that's a good sign, right?
Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Track
I can feel the final traces of the MP3 player's zhhhmmm running through me. It makes me brave, gives me power.
Fuck it.
Deep breath.
Dive in.
'Em... if you ever need anyone to show you around, then feel free,' I say as Astrid turns to leave.
'Feel free to what?' She rolls up the magazine and slips it in her bag.
Shit. That was awful and now she's taking the piss.
'Sorry,' she says, 'I'm teasing you. I don't mean it, it's just a nervous habit I've got.'
Nervous? She's nervous?
'Well, it's just that I know some cool places,' I lie, not really sure what I'm trying to say now.
'That sounds great. I go to the same places all the time. It would be nice to see somewhere new, huh?'
'Aye, cool.'
'So maybe you could, like, give me your cell number?'
My brain goes into overdrive. Words crash about inside my head and I try to grab onto a few: form a sentence.
'So?' She looks up at me from under her eyelids. There are tiny flakes of glitter on the tips of her lashes and it sparkles. Dazzles me. She holds her mobile out. Waiting for me to give her my number. She wants my number. My. Number. Mine.
Realisation dawns on me as I pat my pockets down. I only have the MP3 player on me, not my phone.
'My phone's in my locker, and I don't know the number off by heart. I'll just run and get it.'
'No, well, I'll give you mine.'
'Okay, great.'
I wanna be your boyfriend.
I pull the top of the till open again, tear off the end of the receipt roll and hand it to her with a pen. I watch as she scrawls her number down on the scrap of paper.
'Give me a call then, Davie,' she says, as she hands me back the pen and the paper.
I watch her as she heads up the stairs. I should be pinching myself. That didn't fucking just happen, did it? I must have fallen asleep against the counter earlier and that was all a dream sequence.
CRASH!
I'm hit on the shoulder by something, which ricochets off me and across the floor. I know without looking that it's one of those fucking light boxes. I pick it up; it's held together by packing tape. No wonder the magnetic strip can't grip the wall. I try to slot it back in place without upsetting the remaining boxes. At least I know it wasn't a dream. That bang would have woken me up. As I'm pushing the box in, I glance across the shop floor. Martha's staring at me.
Caught in the act. She must have seen the entire thing with Astrid.
Martha sat next to him in the pub. As the night went on they moved towards each other, closer and closer, until their thighs pressed against each other. Then he had his hand on her leg, and he traced circles on her knee.
Ring a ring a roses, a pocket full of posies.
After a few more drinks things went slightly hazy. He remembered going outside to text Lewey, but then she was outside with him and they were kissing. Martha's tongue stud clicked against teeth, his or hers? Her lips were smooth and she tasted of the orange juice she'd been mixing her vodka with. We all fall down.
Davie dropped the orange juice.
A punch hits the inside of my stomach as guilt changes to hatred. I have the sudden urge to hurt Martha. I hate myself for feeling like this, but I can't help it. I like her but she reminds me.
Of.
It's not her fault but she takes me back there without even realising. I know she's still into me, and I know she'd like to help me and look after me and maybe even love me, and I know we'd probably be great together, but every time I think about kissing her I'm back there, and I want to punish her for it. I wave the piece of paper at her and then tuck it inside my pocket. She sticks her tongue out at me, and the tongue stud glints in the light. I give her the finger and turn away. I'm not playing our stupid games today. I have to stop messing with her head like that. I flirt with her and act like I want to kiss her all the time. Maybe I do want to kiss her, but I can't. As soon as I think about kissing her, I have the urge to hurt her. Teasing and hurting her all in the same instant and I hate myself for it.
Maybe the Astrid thing will help? Help me and Martha both to move on. I still can't believe Astrid gave me her number. I take it out and look at it again and I can't help smiling. I would kiss it if I was on my own, but I'm not so I just fold it in half and put it back in my pocket.
As I do so, I feel something buzz against my arse and I jump. It's the MP3 player.
Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Track
I pat the back pocket of my cords. It's been quiet all morning so why start up now? Why didn't I just leave the thing in my locker with the rest of my crap? I'm getting used to carrying it around with me. It seems to have moulded into shape with my body, it fits me.
Martha's still standing over by the chart wall, but she's stopped cleaning. She's holding her yellow duster and is just staring into space. She bites her nails, not paying attention to anything, lost in her own wee world. I feel like such a fucking shit. Why do I do that to her?
As I look at Martha the MP3 player buzzes again. It's stronger this time, more insistent. It's quite a nice feeling, a wee, tingling sensation in my arse cheek. I look away from Martha and then look at her again.
Buzz.
Look away, look at Martha.
Buzz.
Look away, look at Martha.
Buzz. Look away, look at Martha.
Buzz.
It's found itself a pattern, a rhythm. I twist on the spot, enjoying the control I have over the MP3 player, but not really understanding it. What's so special about Martha?
In a parallel universe, Martha and I are together: boyfriend and girlfriend. Happy.
'Why are you staring at me like that?' Martha asks me from across the shop floor. The shop feels suddenly strange, as if we're the only ones here. The only ones in the whole city.
He asked her if she was going too. She said yes. She smiled at him. Cool, he replied.
'Dunno, I don't study wild animals.'
My dumbass reply acts like an incantation and the shop comes to life again around us both. They must have turned the radio back up, as Oasis blasts out from the speakers.
'Very funny,' Martha replies and chucks a DVD from the chart wall at me. I don't react until it's too late, and the DVD bounces off my head and goes sliding across the vinyl floor. I fall to my knees in mock collapse, as if the DVD was a bullet. It hurts a bit, but nothing major. Martha rushes over to me. I see her facial expression change as she gets closer, from 'Oh my God, I've hurt him' to 'You little shit, I thought I'd hurt you.' She lifts a Doc-Martened foot and pretends to kick me, but I'm on top of my game now and I grab her foot in midswing. I'm laughing at her hopping on the spot in front of me when I hear our names being called out.
'What are you two doing?'
Laura's glaring at us from the back of the shop, where she's emerged from the staff door. She nods at the counter where a queue of pissed-off looking customers has formed. Customers are like fucking zombies: they sneak up slowly and silently without you noticing and then pounce. Eat out your brains.
'Sorry,' I say and let go of Martha's foot. I follow her over to the tills and we both work our way through the line of customers. Laura looks ready to spit and hasn't moved from the staff door. I avoid any form of eye contact in the hope th
at she'll go away. For once I'm grateful for the long line of customers and try to drag out each transaction with some chit-chat.
In a parallel universe, I've won the employee of the month award and my grinning face hangs in a photo-frame on the wall outside Laura's office.
I'm just serving the last customer, handing over her DVD of The Shawshank Redemption, when there's a crash and I'm hit by a falling light box.
8
An End Has a Start
And he forgot about going home straight after work, about his parents going out for dinner, about the promise he'd made to stay in, keep an eye on Lewis.
Davie dropped the orange juice.
ONE OF THE SHITTEST things about working in a shop is all the crappy shift-work. I always said when I was growing up that I'd hate a nine to five job, but lately I've come to dream of it. I'd give anything to have weekends off; it's the weekend shifts that get me down the most.
We're going out on Saturday night. Can you keep an eye on Lewis?
I'm a season ticket holder at Hearts, and I usually get to wangle my weekend shifts so that I can get to the games. Dodging away to the football gives me something to look forward to and I miss it when the season ends.
I hate weekend shifts. They really get me down.
You should come for a drink after work, it's not often you're around on a Saturday.
I dust DVDs and put them back into alphabetical order. One finger, one thumb.
In a parallel universe, I'm heading along Gorgie Road to meet Lewey for kick off; past the pubs; past the charity shops; past the wee, greasy-spoon cafes; past the inner-city farm with its goats and rabbits; underneath the railway bridge where the pavement is covered in pigeon shit.
The season ended a few weeks ago and at the time I was happy to see it go. It ended with a dull and meaningless one nil win over Motherwell. Just a few weeks later though, and I'm already starting to dream of next season with that optimism and lack of realism that only football supporters have.
We're from the capital, you're from a shitehole. We're from the capital, you're from a shitehole.
Trackman Page 8