by Chloe Rayban
I located a broken chairbase and a three-step ladder you could use as a stool, but they wouldn’t sit down. I watched with a sinking heart as they continued on their tour of inspection.
‘What the hell’s been going on in here?’ Dad shouted down from the first floor bedroom. The one without the floorboards.
‘Be up in a tick. Just getting the kettle on.’ I was trying to sound calm.
The kettle had somehow got halfway across the garden — looked as if someone had been playing footie with it. I filled it with water and coaxed the camping-gaz to light.
‘Matthew,’ my father bellowed again.
‘Be right up.’ There was a broken broom lying on the kitchen floor, so I just gave the worst of the debris a quick sweep out through the back door.
I joined them on the first floor in the ‘master’ bedroom. My father was inside the room, balancing precariously on the joists. My mother was standing leaning in through the door. I’d never seen anyone actually ‘wring’ their hands before, I’d always thought it was just an expression.
I craned round the door. Oh my God! A vast psychedelic mural executed in multicoloured spray paint covered the entire wall area from floor to ceiling.
My mother gazed at it helplessly. ‘I’ll never be able to sleep in here, after this,’ she said.
‘Don’t worry! It’ll paint over. Couple of coats should do it!’ I said. ‘Honest, I’ll be on to it next week. Do it myself.’
‘Have you any idea who is responsible for this vandalism?’ asked Dad.
I stared at the snaking stems — the hypnotic car-flower heads, and their familiar radiator teeth.
‘No … no idea at all,’ I said. ‘There were a load of gatecrashers, you see.’
‘I think’d we better go downstairs and talk the whole thing through,’ said Dad.
‘Yep, kettle should have boiled by now. And I’ve got proper tea Mum, loose — I’ll make us a pot.’
‘That’s nice dear,’ said my mother in a shaky voice.
I sat them down but Dad came and hovered in the kitchen doorway ranting on and on about the mess.
I tried to stay cool, going through the motions of tea-making — a calming process. The tin of tea was still there on the shelf where I’d left it.
I let Dad run slowly out of steam while I washed two cups and a jam jar and warmed the pot. Pity I was out of sugar and the milk in the bottle had grown a kind of cottage cheese on top.
‘Might have to have it black I’m afraid, no fridge,’ I said apologetically.
‘As long as it’s hot and wet,’ said Dad in a tired kind of voice.
‘Sure,’ I said.
I opened the tea-tin and found a screwed-up stash of dope inside, no doubt dumped during the police raid.
‘Don’t tell us you’re out of tea as well?’ asked Dad, catching sight of my face.
‘Nope, everything’s fine. Look, you go and sit down Dad. I’ll be with you in a moment.’
‘Geoff, look at this,’ Mum was calling from the through room.
Saved! I relocated the stash in a more secluded place behind the wall clock and finished making tea.
When I carried in the tea, I found Mum and Dad staring at a great ugly dent in the wall. They’d torn the wallpaper back to reveal the full extent of the damage.
‘Look, I can explain everything,’ I started.
But when Mum turned round to face me, her face wore a tired but pleased expression;
‘Alcoves,’ she said. Two of them. One either side of the fireplace. Listen, you can hear the wall’s hollow.’ She tapped on it with her knuckles. ‘I can have cabinets put up in them for all my favourite little pieces. And just think, we would never have known …’
I gave Mum a hug. It was so typical of her — trying to smooth things over with Dad — trying to find one tiny thing that was positive.
‘Great to see you, Mum. In spite of all this, I can explain.’
Chapter Thirteen
Mum and Dad insisted I went back with them that afternoon. I only had a couple of classes on Monday and nothing else till late Tuesday afternoon, so I agreed to stay over a couple of nights. You never know — if I left it long enough, that mess might just decide to get up of its own accord and walk out of the door.
Dad kept up a pretty exhausting tirade all the way down the M4. But once I’d succeeded in getting a word in edgeways, I managed to convince him that I really genuinely wasn’t responsible for people’s behaviour on Saturday night. Or at least I guess I admitted I was responsible — but I couldn’t do anything to stop it getting out of hand like that. In the end he was almost sympathetic. Eventually, he said to me with a sigh:
‘Put it down to experience, OK? But don’t let it happen again — ever!’
‘No way!’ I said.
After number twenty-five, our Stroud house seemed so small, so clean, so tidy! I walked in like some stranger — I’d only been away … what? A couple of weeks? But I felt as if I’d outgrown it somehow. Up in my own room I stood for a moment getting my bearings. It felt like someone else’s room — some kid’s. All the gear I’d stuck on the wall was really tame. I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. I hadn’t shaved in days. I looked like some big rough intruder who was trespassing.
I had a long soak in the bath after that. I could hear the washing machine doing double shifts underneath. Mum had insisted I brought all my clothes back — and I could smell the promise of a roast evening meal wafting up from the oven. I guess there’s a thing or two to be said for parents.
Later that evening, I heard Dad giving Eric the full treatment. Basically, if those builders didn’t get moving right away, they could forget it — they’d be out of a job.
Two days later, weighed down by a suitcase full of clean washing and two enormous boxes with my decks — plus my Probag packed with the cream of my collection — it was a clean, fed, in fact totally re-serviced version of me, that arrived back in London.
It was midday by the time I reached number twenty-five. I paused outside, stunned. The place looked like the location for a re-enactment of the Battle of the Somme. The garden, complete with trash, had disappeared into a deep trench and the front door had to be approached by a kind of drawbridge of planks. I crossed it gingerly, lugging my gear with me. Surprise, surprise, the front door was back on its hinges, and it actually opened and closed as a proper door should. And believe it or not, all the rubbish from the party had been taken away along with the decaying lino. I was in luck. Whatever gods there were, Dad must have put the fear of them into those builders.
Venturing further, I discovered the bath had gone from the hallway and had been relocated in the bathroom. And, on the bathroom floor lay a carpenter’s bag of tools. I whipped over and looked inside. That was more like it — everything I needed to get those shelves up, and just the day I’d brought the decks up too. I grasped the bag. No time like the present.
I made my way up the stairs bearing my precarious load. Pretty murky on the stairs — had to be careful. Hang on — let’s try the light switch. And there was light!
Hey, this was legendary. They’d even replaced the missing stair — cool. I reached the top and deposited my load. I’d get back tonight and put those shelves up straight away. Then I carried the boxes with the decks inside into the back room.
Hang on a minute … Where had the wood gone? I turned and tracked back. Maybe the builders had moved it. I hurried down the stairs two at a time — and then I paused thoughtfully, looking at the new stair tread. There was something familiar about the look of that wood. And there was a new sill in the bathroom too. And where a couple of floorboards had been missing, the wood was new and planed to fit …
I don’t believe it. Those no-good lazy bastard builders had used my wood!
Back in college that afternoon, it seemed the party had made me something of a celebrity. Total strangers came up to me and said things like ‘Yo — great party man. When you having the next one?’
I caught up with Dom and Brillo in the lobby.
‘Hi,’ said Dom. ‘You OK?’
‘Not thanks to you, I’m not.’ I turned to Brillo. ‘Why d’you invite all those losers?’
‘I didn’t invite them, man. That was Zalia.’
‘How d’you know?’
Brillo shrugged. ‘They were her crowd.’
‘And thanks a lot for staying around to help with the fight and the police and the cleaning up.’
‘Look man. You gotta understand. The cops and us. We’ve like brushed before. Not too keen to renew the a-cquain-tance.’
‘Yeah, well. You really dropped me in it.’
Zalia was equally unrepentant. I found her in The Savoy after college.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked.
‘I’m not in hospital and I’m not in the nick, neither of those thanks to your friends.’
‘Come on, loosen up. There was no real harm done.’
‘My parents dropped in on Sunday.’
‘Oh that dear old Daddy of yours. The one that’s so loaded? Wouldn’t do to upset Daddy-o.’
Will walked in at that moment, took one look at me and Zalia sitting together and started backing out. I got to my feet and barred his way.
‘Thanks a lot for saving my life on Saturday. It was really appreciated,’ I said.
‘If you can’t look after yourself man, that’s your problem,’ he said, barging past me. The door slammed behind him.
‘You two don’t exactly hit it off, do you?’ said Zalia.
That was the understatement of the century.
Through The Savoy’s greasy window I could see Will standing on the street corner talking to some random-looking guy who was always hanging around outside the college gates. I’d noticed him several times. He looked really dodgy.
‘What’s he up to?’ I asked Zalia. ‘Who is that guy?’
Zalia looked over and then got to her feet.
‘Look, I’ve got things to do. Catch up with you later, OK?’ she said and she swung her backpack over her shoulder. She seemed in a hurry all of a sudden.
I watched as she jogged over the road and joined them. She had words with the other guy and then the three of them went off down the street together. I just didn’t get it. What was going on?
I was sitting there staring into the dregs of my cappuccino, trying to get my head around Zalia. First there were those dodgy friends of hers. And then her attitude. Basically, she wouldn’t be happy until she had the entire male population of the globe at her feet. She played this kind of cat-and-mouse game with guys. First she’d encourage you — flirt like mad to get you interested. Then she’d move on and make you jealous as hell. Having got you into this state she’d be totally in control. Clearly, its what she was doing to Will. And now she was trying it on me.
I was in a pretty depressed mood when I got back to the house. I was ready to have a flaming row with Eric about the wood. I steamed up to the top floor and dropped my bag of books on the floor. Surprise surprise — there was no-one in the house. The builders had left off early.
Then I paused in the doorway. There was a neat pile of new wood stacked on the floor and a note pinned to it saying: ‘Thanks for the loan’. The bag of carpenter’s tools was thoughtfully left open beside it.
I reckon putting up those shelves was like therapy, man. I worked like a maniac. And I soon found I was humming to myself. There was a smell of fresh-sawn wood, and for once I didn’t make any of those maddening errors that always seem to happen when you’re working with wood.
As shelf after shelf went up, things were fitting into place. I even had enough wood to make a wider shelf to take the decks — one I could sit at. I put the decks in place and stacked the fifty or so records I’d brought above. In time, I’d get the whole collection up there. Maybe even get some order into them — sort them alphabetically. OK, so who was I kidding?
It was round one a.m. by the time I finished, and I realised I’d been so absorbed I hadn’t even stopped to eat. I selected ‘Somnambulance’, the latest Screwball track I’d bought in Soho, and put it on the turntable. Music filled the room. I wandered over into the next room and leaned against the window-frame staring out.
The curtains opened opposite. I could see it was Tasha. She leaned down and opened her window. Her hair was loose and it flapped in the breeze. And then she must have heard the music because she paused and looked out. I don’t think she could see me because the room was in darkness but she stared in my direction.
She was interested — I knew it. I caught myself grinning like some moron.
Chapter Fourteen
With my decks up and discs all nicely set up, I thought I’d play the host, get some beers in, invite Dom and Brillo round to hear some of my stuff.
‘This all you got?’ asked Brillo, lounging on the floor and helping himself to a beer.
‘Nah, only as much as I could carry up on the train.’
‘OK, so let’s take a look then,’ said Dom. He took down a few discs with a nod of approval. Stuck one on the deck. He looked interested, very interested.
I could tell he was pretty surprised by some of the stuff I had. Listened to a few of the tracks several times. Brillo got through the beers pretty fast. But we didn’t care too much. Dom was like me — it was music that mattered. All in all, it was a good evening.
As they were leaving, Dom paused and looked at me calculatingly.
‘You like to do a spot on Flashpoint? This week-just an hour or so?’
‘Would I!’
‘Yeah, would you?’
I think he could see how knocked out I was.
‘Come to our place, Friday. Round midnight, OK?’
‘Sure.’
They were already making their way down the stairs. I ran after them. My mind was racing. I needed more tracks. Had to make an impact. This was my chance to break through.
Suddenly the stuff on my shelves didn’t seem so damn impressive. I mean. Flashpoint — I’d have to update. Panic was setting in.
Brillo was already getting into the van. I caught Dom at the door and got some names of outlets I’d never tried before off him. When it came to White Label guys — Dom knew them all.
Cash might be a problem — the party had really set me back. Upstairs once more, I prised up the loose floorboard and located my stash. There was the thirty quid Mum had given me for food and essentials. But who needs food? These tracks were essentials. My whole future depended on them.
The place Dom had recommended was in Camden — North London. I’d never been to Camden Market before. The more I explored London the more it amazed me that different areas could be so, well — different. Like worlds away from each other.
Camden had a funky feel to it — alternative. Looked like it was full of people into crystals — tie-dyeing — body-piercing — Tarot cards. It had a revamped hippy feel — rough but easy-going. Everywhere folks were eating on the hoof, drinking outside pubs. You could tell by the fly-posting that people round here were really into music. The whole place had an atmosphere I could instantly relate to.
I hadn’t got an actual address from Dom. He’d just given me vague directions and then said, ‘Ask around, everyone knows the place — just ask for “Vinyl Mile”.’ I thought it would be easy to find, but all the shops I came across seemed to be selling shoes and clothes mainly — the kind of skimpy trainspotting gear I’d seen people wearing in clubs.
I went up to the coolest-looking guy I could see. He was handing out flyers, so looked promising. But when I came close I found the flyers were for a conference on UFOs, and before I could get a word out, he was trying to sign me up for a course of Transcendental Meditation. It took quite some time to shake him off.
The next guy I asked was a cool-looking ragga. I spent a minute or two establishing that I was only asking the way somewhere. He kind of had the impression that asking for directions was short-hand for asking for something else. But I put him straight there.
>
‘No mate — sorry. Don’t want to buy anything. I really am looking for this shop. White Label outlet. “Vinyl Mile” — music … you know.’
He muttered to himself and pointed me in the direction of a group of guys who were hanging out around a van which sold hamburgers. They were a lot more helpful, one of them even volunteered to show me the way.
The guy serving in Vinyl Mile looked as if he had taken out a copyright on cool. Pierced lip, shaven head, tattoo on right cheek — he had the lot. Treated me as if I needed redirecting down to Our Price.
‘Know what you’re looking for?’ he asked, lounging across the counter and fiddling with his lip-ring. I knew for a fact that he had decent stuff, good stuff, stashed away at the back. Tracks he put away for DJs he knew. The big names. The stuff he had out front was like the standard commercial stuff. A load of predictable remixes I’d seen around everywhere.
I stood and scrutinised his display of slip-mats.
‘Can’t see anything I’m interested in right now. You got any tracks out back?’
‘Some. Most of it’s spoken for. What you after? Hip Hop? Trance? Drum ‘n’ Bass?’
‘Got any Screwball?’
He looked at me with a bit more respect. ‘You want something recent?’
‘So long as it’s well after those Somnabulance tracks.’
‘You didn’t think much of those?’
‘I reckon they’ve moved on since.’
‘Where you play man?’ He was standing up now, legs apart facing me, shoulders relaxing.
‘You heard of Flashpoint?’
‘Yeah — I’ve heard of it.’
‘I’m doing a few sets next week.’
‘Flashpoint.’ He sucked his breath through his teeth and looked at me calculatingly.
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ll see what I got out back.’
I leaned against the counter feeling more optimistic. He came back with a fresh load of White Labels. A few of them were just rubber-stamped. Good sign. I handed some back, then settled down to listen to the ones that looked interesting — very interesting.