by Chloe Rayban
‘S’like I said — ‘House’ is the generic …’ Will was just repeating himself the way people do when they’re on shaky ground but they won’t back down.
I leaned over. I couldn’t resist it. ‘The difference is that House is more like pure sound — Speed House has more vocal repeats — and that scene’s not dead, it just depends how you want to use it …’
‘So who asked you?’ demanded Will, his know-all façade crumbling rapidly.
I shrugged. ‘Just don’t like to hear people slagging music off for the sake of it. OK, so the scene moves on — but that doesn’t cancel out everything that came before.’
‘Yeah, that’s how I see it,’ said the guy who’d been asking all the dumb-sounding questions. Suddenly the two of us made eye-contact. It was just a flicker of contact but we instantly established we were both on the same wavelength.
Will shrugged his shoulders and got up, saying huffily: ‘I’m gonna make a move before you two get on to the Eurovision Song Contest.’ He made off, looking self-conscious.
The dreadlocks guy leaned over to me. Where you been, man? Haven’t seen you around.’
‘Maybe ‘cos I haven’t been around.’
‘Name’s Dom,’ said Dreadlocks, holding out a hand. He was one of the biggest guys I’d ever come across. He had hands the size of meat-plates and his hair was waxed and matted and had been bleached at some point in its history and then left to grow out mid-way through the dreadlock phase. He was extremely well-built with ferocious biceps, but the whole fierce thing fell apart when he smiled — he had two dimples which just creased me up.
We got talking and I aired my current grievance — I mean, my two most precious possessions — blades and Walkman, gone in one.
Dom said he’d ‘look into it.’
Chapter Three
Back ‘home’ that night I was feeling pretty shell-blasted by that first day at West Thames. What had I let myself in for? I steeled myself for another icy trip under the shower, dried off and did a bit of running on the spot to bring myself back up to room temperature. Then I set up the camping-gaz and cooked myself the piece of steak I’d bought on the way home. It wasn’t a very successful meal. Might have helped if I’d bought some cooking oil to stop it sticking to the pan. Even well-masticated that half-cooked beef was tough as hell — I had to give up in the end and settle for cold baked beans again. My stomach was starting to wish I’d taken Dad’s advice and stayed back in Stroud. Some music would have helped. I’d have given anything to have had my Walkman back at this point.
Anyway, I cracked open my last lager and settled down for my evening entertainment sitting at my window gazing through that gap between the boards. Come to think of it, maybe this was the moment to tackle that boarding.
I gave the weakest-looking board a shove, but it didn’t budge. Then I got my shoulder behind it and rammed hard. With a rending sound three planks came loose. Nice one. After that it was easy. I only had trouble with the last board, which was attached by a stubborn nail. As it came loose I practically catapulted myself out into the street. Jeesus!
I paused and took a few deep breaths. It was a nice feeling being able to see out properly. Great view of all those rooftops. It was early evening, so people had turned their lights on but hadn’t bothered to close their curtains yet. Reminded me of … yeah, that’s right. There was this film. Old Hollywood movie, Hitchcock I think, I’d seen on TV and it had really made a big impression.
It had this guy in it who sounded like he was talking through a mouthful of dry roasted peanuts. Kind of grainy voice. Maybe that was the attraction. Anyway, he had this beautiful woman lusting after him. She couldn’t get enough of him. I found out later she was this all-time famous star — Grace Kelly. Anyway, this guy was meant to have broken his leg and was clamped in a wheelchair with nothing to do but stare out of the back window of his apartment. Rear Window — that’s right — that was the name of the movie.
It was summer in New York — broiling weather — and the people who lived in the block opposite had their windows wide open and he could see straight into their apartments. He thought he witnessed a murder. But the thing that stuck in my mind — the important thing — was this feeling of being able to sit there like God and see into other people’s lives. Oh, and that woman — the one who had the hots for him. She’d arrive in a different, like amazing dress every night. Not the kind of stuff women wear these days, this was old-time — Fifties-style skirts so puffed out you couldn’t get them though a doorway They probably had to hoist her in through the window. Every night she’d make a dead set for this guy, all over him, and he was totally cool about it — could take it or leave it. I could do with a bit of that at present as a matter of fact. One night, she even got a swanky hotel to send up a dinner for two, all ready-cooked. Like lobster with wine and candles, brought up by a guy in a hotel uniform. ‘Do let me open that bottle for you. Sir.’ I could do with a bit of that too. My stomach was making anxious rumbling noises, enquiring whether my current diet was a permanent state of affairs or just a one-off?
Hang on, something was happening opposite. Yeah, door opening. It was the Babe! Looking a bit down, carrying some sort of basket — no, bucket — and emptying it into a kind of bin in the front garden. Wearing jeans now, nice long legs. And fluffy pink slippers! That killed me. Gone back inside again. Pity.
I sat and watched that house for a while, trying to picture what it was like inside. Had the Babe got a boyfriend, maybe? She was probably on the phone to him right now. Some fresh-faced type who’d come round and they’d probably get off with each other in front of videos while her parents were out. I’d had a lot of that back in Stroud. I guess I was through with that scene. Ready to move on. I mean, she was only a kid really. Nothing like Zalia. Now Zalia knew where she was at. Older than me maybe. No doubt been out with loads of guys. And she thought I was good news. Maybe I should take her up on it. Could be interesting, very interesting.
Next day, back to college, first period was English. I still hadn’t got a copy of Hamlet so I’d have to share again. I got there early and sat at the same desk, hoping Zalia would join me. Seemed the safest place anyway, didn’t want to risk offending someone and losing an ear or something. As I sat there, people started to drift in. First, a couple of girls with scarves over their heads tied the moslem way. I hadn’t noticed them before — they sat together at the back. Next a few stragglers. Then a rush of the trainspotting types all together. Along with them came Zalia. And hard on her heels — the guy with the table-mountain haircut.
Then — right behind him — came Dom. Dom stood in the doorway and watched as the table-mountain-haircut guy walked straight up to me and slammed my blades down on my desk.
Zalia was watching, so I felt I had to come out with something cool.
‘What was the trouble? Didn’t they fit?’ I asked. I wasn’t exactly going to sit there and say thank you.
‘You passed, that’s all,’ he said, fiddling with the laces of the blades.
‘Passed what?’
You didn’t blab, you didn’t dob us in to the scabs — means you pass.’
Dom leaned in a bit further round the door. Wasn’t there something else?’
‘OK … Yeah.’
My Walkman joined the blades. The headset was missing and the tape had gone (man, that hurt) — but I’d got my Walkman back — that was the main thing.
‘Be seein’ yah,’ said Dom. ‘And Brillo — don’t you be late back or else …’ he called to the table-mountain guy.
‘You two know each other?’
‘He’s me brother,’ mumbled ‘Brillo’, and made his way to a desk near the back.
Zalia stood for a moment, hesitating.
‘Hi,’ she said to me. The cross on the chain slid back and forth on her cheek but she didn’t sit beside me. She sat further back and I was forced to share with a big plain girl instead.
After double English it was time for the coffee break. I wanted
to make straightaway for the lockers — the sooner my gear was stashed away safely, the better. I walked down the corridor with the blades held close to my body — wasn’t going to risk them going missing again.
I could hear footsteps echoing, clip-clop clip-clop behind me. Distinctly girly footsteps. I controlled the impulse to turn and look back. I increased my pace. The footsteps got faster.
‘Where you going?’ asked a voice.
It was Zalia, she was following me.
The lockers, ‘cept I’m not exactly sure where are they are …’
‘Want me to show you?’ she asked.
‘Sure.’
We walked along in silence for a bit. Then she asked:
‘How do you know Dom?’
‘We got talking, ‘bout music.’
‘Like what?’
‘Nothing in particular.’
‘About that tape you lost …?’
‘What do you know about it?’
The loss of that tape still stung. I should’ve made a copy at the time. The thought of some of those mixes still gave me a high.
We’d reached the lockers and she leant against them staring at me while I locked my gear away.
‘Ace compilation. Who made it?’
She’d heard it. They were all in this together.
I concentrated on stashing my gear, trying not to let her see she was getting to me.
‘Me, as it happens.’
‘Like to know where it is right now?’
‘Yeah,’ I swung round to face her. ‘I would, as matter of fact.’
‘Try using your eyes …’
I looked directly at her for the first time. I mean, I must admit up till now I’d avoided looking at her when she was looking at me. She was so — blatant. It was going to be tough concentrating on my studies with distractions like her around.
There it was. A tape — my tape — sticking out of the top pocket of the skimpy little Levi’s jacket she was wearing.
I held my hand out, thinking shed hand it to me.
‘Uh-uh,’ she said. ‘Help yourself.’
She leant against the lockers sticking her boobs out. She bit her lip and looked down, taunting me.
Infuriatingly, I could feel myself getting turned on. I reached for the tape and — I couldn’t swear it was intentional but she stretched at that moment and brushed her body against my hand.
OK so I admit it — I was interested. What guy wouldn’t be? And with the merest flick of her eyelashes, she registered the fact.
‘Thanks,’ I muttered.
‘You can do better than that, can’t you?’
‘Maybe …’
‘How about buying me a coffee?’
‘Sure.’ I was kind of relieved and disappointed at the same time — thought for a moment she’d something rather more physical in mind.
‘Come on then.’ She grabbed me by the arm. ‘Not that way. Only lost causes use the canteen.’
She headed towards the exit doors. I followed her out into the street wondering where we were off to. I had another class in half an hour’s time.
I couldn’t help noticing guys giving her the onceover as we passed. She certainly made the most of herself. I wondered how she balanced on those heels. Made her legs look good though. They weren’t particularly long legs but they were pretty nice. I felt good walking with her. Several guys we passed turned back to check out her back view. You could tell she was used to all that stuff — revelled in it. She collected male glances as if they were her due.
We paused at some lights, waiting to cross a busy road. I thought I ought to establish who I was.
‘Name’s Matt by the way.’
‘You broadcast that to the class.’
‘OK yeah, that’s right.’
‘Mines Zalia.’
‘I know.’
She looked pleased I’d remembered.
She led me into a grotty-looking snack bar by the tube station. It had this really hilarious name — ‘The Savoy Grill’ — all done in peeling fluorescent lettering. Inside, the decor was grease-coated mirrors, chipped wood-effect formica and tubular chairs that looked like they belonged in a design museum. The clientele was lounging around as if it actually was The Savoy Hotel. By the look of it, this was where The West’s cool crowd hung out.
The only downer was that Will, the show-off, was sitting on a bar stool up against the wall. He gave Zalia and me a pretty straight look as we came through the door.
‘How d’you like your coffee? Black, white, cappuccino?’
‘Cappuccino …’ she said. It killed me the way she said that. “Cappuccino”. The little chain did a dance on her cheek as she said it. It’s a word that uses lips to full advantage.
Zalia went and sat at a table in the window. I cast a glance at Will but he swung round and studiously ignored us. Armed with the coffees, I joined Zalia. I started a bit of a chat-up — well, a banter at any rate. But all the time I was uncomfortably aware of Will watching us — or rather our reflections — in the mirrored wall.
‘That guy over there … He’s in our English set isn’t he?’
Zalia glanced over her shoulder and nodded. ‘Will — yeah he is …’ Then she turned her back on him and sipped her coffee.
Will scowled into the mirror. I could positively feel evil vibes coming my way. I leant forward and asked in an undertone:
‘You two got a thing going or something?’
‘Had … maybe …’
‘He doesn’t look as though he thinks it’s in the past tense.’
‘So maybe he hasn’t got the message yet,’ she said with a frown.
‘Maybe coming here wasn’t such a good idea.’
‘He doesn’t own the place.’
‘No, sure, but …’
Meanwhile, Will had got up and sauntered over to our table.
‘Hi Zalia — who’s your friend?’
‘Name’s Matt,’ I said.
‘Didn’t ask you, I asked her.’
‘Get lost. Will.’ Zalia was staring into her coffee refusing to look at him. I felt as if I was in the middle of some almighty split.
He shoved past, knocking my elbow intentionally so that my coffee slopped down my jeans. ‘Clumsy …’ he said and went out slamming the door behind him.
‘Nice friends you’ve got,’ I said to Zalia as I tried to mop up with the cafe’s measly apologies for paper napkins.
‘Yeah, I reckon they could do with updating,’ she said, licking cappuccino froth off her upper lip and eyeing me.
I wouldn’t be human, I guess, if I didn’t feel flattered by such outright flirting. I could tell the other guys in the café thought that I had all the luck. Made me feel pretty good. So I went along with it.
We got talking about movies and that bit in Titanic when Leonardo diCaprio is handcuffed to a post with the water rising — and Zalia suddenly said:
‘I’m just dying to see White Knuckle.’
It was a the latest suspense movie — had a massive build-up — meant to have brilliant special effects, like fifty million quid’s worth.
‘Yeah, I know. Thought of going along sometime this week as a matter of fact.’
‘Me too,’ agreed Zalia. ‘Friday night.’ And she kind of paused waiting for me to say something.
‘Yeah, maybe Friday.’
‘Shall we meet up here?’ she asked.
She seemed to think I’d asked her out. Maybe I had. Odd that — I’m not generally such a fast worker.
Chapter Four
So I had a date on Friday night. I was starting to settle in, in spite of the state of the house. The odd thing was, I kind of liked the house in its derelict state. With none of my parents, furniture or anything, it felt like my own place. It’s amazing how quickly you get used to doing without stuff. You think all those things that you rely on in everyday life are essentials, but you don’t need loads of it. Echoing around in this big empty house, life was pared down somehow — more significant.
Back home I always had music on non-stop. For me, living without music on had been like trying to swim without water. But now I was starting to get used to the sound of my footsteps echoing round in the silent space of the empty rooms. I’d taken to listening to the random sounds that just happen. There were planes first and foremost, a steady stream of them all day long. Then there was traffic — individual cars passing, plus a hum from the High Street, building into a steady low growl of traffic far away. And there were birds too. Odd that, surprising in London. Birds that I hadn’t heard in ages down in Stroud.
I listened to their whistling cries as they roller-coasted back and forth, up and down the street. I’d assumed they were swallows at first, but I could see that these birds were shorter, stubbier. House-martins, that’s what they were. I knew they couldn’t be swallows.
A whole colony of them had taken up residence in Frensham Avenue. They were comical little creatures, always on the move, darting here and there like petty officials checking up on what was going on. A pair were nesting in the houses over the street. But a number of them kept flying towards my window. I craned out and found they’d built one of their mud nests right up under the eaves. If I lay on the floor I could see the young ones poking their heads out and competing for the flies the parents were bringing them. In the absence of a TV they’d become the main visual attraction of my evening.
There were several birds involved in the feeding. A couple of them weren’t fully grown — maybe they were from earlier brood — like elder brothers and sisters. I liked the thought of that. That birds could have this kind of attitude towards another generation.
Families got to me actually. Probably because I didn’t have a proper one. Ours was just Mum and Dad and me. You could hardly call that a family. Mum had nearly had another kid. I’d known about it. It was when I was six or so and I’d got dead excited — I was convinced it was going to be a little brother. I’d planned all the things we were going to do together — stuff I was going to show him and how he’d look up to me and everything. And then something went wrong and Mum had gone into hospital and when she came out, there wasn’t any talk of a baby any longer. She was pretty sick for a while. Not physically really, more mentally — but in a way that seemed to affect her physically. She’d always been too tired to do anything or go anywhere. Nobody had thought it had mattered to me. I was too young for it to matter. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to upset Mum, but I really missed the idea of that little lad around.