It's About Love

by Steven Camden

  “Yeah, stop being selfish, Lukey. We will be hanging out. With girls. She was fit. I mean, the shaved head thing’s a bit weird, but still, I would. Is she your girlfriend now then, Leia?”

  “No. What you talking about?”

  The pair of them look at each other and exchange a smile, as if I can’t see them.

  We drive past the hospital, and I know I’m being tight, but she didn’t tell me. Why didn’t she tell me?

  When Megan brought it up and Tommy and Zia got excited about it, Leia seemed pleased. I don’t get it. Maybe she thought I’d think it was lame? Why would she think that? Because it is lame.

  A party? With Leia? Dressed up? With these two there? Tommy and Zia with Simeon and them?

  The two sides aren’t supposed to mix.

  “Come on,” says Zia. “I can be out of work by eight. If you come get me, we can be there by half past. How long since we went to a party?”

  “We should get the bus, so we can bring booze,” says Tommy.

  “I’m not drinking, man.”

  “I know you’re not, that doesn’t mean me and Lukey can’t, eh, Luke? I could get Jamie to buy us something, swig it on the bus. What bus is it anyway?”

  “We’re not getting any drinks, Tom.” The thought of him pissed up, mingling with the college lot, makes my gut turn. “And it’s two buses.”

  Zia turns his head back. “So you’re not in any actual lessons with Michelle?”

  “No.”

  “Shame.”

  “Fine. They’ll have drinks there anyways, eh, them posh kids?” says Tommy, clearly hyped. “I’ve never done fancy dress. I’m gonna be a zombie. What you gonna be, Lukey?”

  “We’re not going.”

  Zia reaches back and snatches the flyer. “Fine. You don’t have to. I seem to remember them inviting us, Luke. We don’t need a moody chaperone, right, Thomas?”

  Tommy nods. “Right. But if Mr Moody Bollocks doesn’t want us telling all his new posh mates embarrassing stuff about him, like the time he pissed himself on the coach to Drayton Manor, he might want to come along.”

  I stare out at the wet street. They both wait for me to say something. I don’t. I’m beaten.

  “Sorted then,” smiles Tommy. “I’ll come knock for you ’bout seven, you can help me do my zombie, then we walk down and get him from the supermarket.”

  He holds out his hand for Zia to slap. Zia slaps it. And that’s that. The Venn diagram of my life. The circle of college meets the circle of home, at the intersection of a fancy-dress house party. It’ll be fine. It will. I mean, how bad could it be?

  The Brothers Different.

  Opening Scene. Idea 1.

  Blinking cursor.

  I just stare at the empty word document.

  So far the only decision I’ve made is to write the title in courier font.

  It’s as close as I’m ever gonna get to an actual typewriter. Old school.

  I know I want to write the scene that sends Marc to prison. I know I’ve imagined what he did to Craig a million times, but my hands won’t type it. Maybe I should write in my notebook first.

  It’s half ten. Mum’s at work. Marc’s out. I told Leia I’d send my scene over before I went to sleep. Might be a late one.

  I drop down and start some press-ups to help me think.

  The man is down.

  Nine. Ten. Eleven.

  Leave it! He’s done.

  Don’t.

  Pump faster. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one.

  You weren’t there.

  My shoulders burn. Triceps on fire.

  Teeth bared. Girl’s voice screams.

  I stop on the up. It’s not your story to tell.

  Elbows lock, hands pushing down into the floor, through the floor, trying to push the whole house down into the earth.

  Then an engine growls outside and I freeze, ears pricked.

  No music. Door opens. Craig Miller?

  I go to my window, my arms hot and tight.

  Marc’s getting out of Jamie’s car. Breathe out. Stupid.

  He’s holding a white carrier bag. They say bye and Marc swings the door shut. I duck back just before he looks up. My laptop pings with a new email alert. It’s Leia. She’s sent her scene.

  I hear the front door as I sit back on my bed and open the attachment.

  Hey,

  Only first draft, so still rough. Hope you like it.

  Sorry I didn’t ask. Didn’t think you’d want to come. Are you coming?

  I’m wearing my costume right now. Just saying.

  Send me your scene when you’re done.

  Lx

  Toby idea. Scene 1.

  EXT. – LATE MORNING. SUNNY BUT CRISP

  We see a high brick wall through a car windscreen.

  A young man’s fingers drum the steering wheel.

  Set into the brick wall, large glass doors catch the sun. We hear breathing. A white van pulls up, waiting for a car to pass in the other direction, obscuring our view.

  It passes and we see a young man standing on the pavement outside the doors across the road. He wears a grey beanie hat, dark grey jacket, black jeans and white trainers. An old red holdall hangs from his right hand. He looks strong.

  He looks up at the sky and shields his eyes from the light.

  The breathing inside the car gets louder.

  Cut to shot from outside, through the windscreen.

  Young man wearing thick black frames stares out. His hair is wiry. Face fresh. Maybe twenty. He’s nervous. We watch him take a deep breath, then push the horn.

  Cut to a shot taken from over the other man’s shoulder, as he stares at the car from across the road. The horn stops. We can make out the man sitting in the driver’s seat. He doesn’t wave.

  A red saloon car drives past.

  Man starts across the road.

  I read it again. And again.

  It’s good. I can really see it and it makes me think of the start of Buffalo ’66. I imagine opening credits in small letters in the bottom right corner of the screen as the scene plays out.

  The Brothers Different.

  Now, what the hell do I write?

  A knock. Marc’s leaning on the frame of my door.

  I didn’t hear him climb the stairs.

  “You’re still up?” he says.

  I close my laptop. “Marc, it’s not even eleven.”

  He looks at his wrist. “Don’t have a watch. Feels later. What you doing?”

  “Nothing. Just trying to write something.”

  Marc nods from the doorway. “Cool.”

  “What’s in the bag?” I point.

  He looks down. “Nothing. Recipe books and that.”

  I watch him decide whether to say more. He doesn’t. Instead, he scans my room. “So where’s your weights then?”

  “What weights?”

  Marc frowns. “What, you go gym? How much you pay?”

  “I don’t go to any gym. Press-ups.” I mime with my arms.

  “Lukey, people don’t get that big that fast just doing press-ups.”

  “Press-ups and puberty.” I smile.

  Marc gives a sarcastic nod. “Yeah. Right.”

  He’s still annoying. Why’s he think he knows everything?

  There’s so much he doesn’t know.

  “OK, Lukey.” And he goes. Just like he used to. Deciding the conversation is over, like he’s the only one who can call ‘cut’.

  I stare at the empty doorway. The bars of the bannister. Annoyed.

  I open my laptop.

  The Brothers Different.

  Opening Scene. Idea 1.

  Black. Heavy breathing. Someone struggling.

  Shot of young man being held back by two bodies. His face like a dog, trying to attack.

  MARC: Get off me!

  MAN’S VOICE: Easy Marc, leave it! He’s done.

  MARC: No he’s not. I said get the fuck off me!

  He breaks free and runs forward.
/>   Cut to man on the floor. Splayed out like he fell from a building.

  Narrow face. Sharp cheeks. His nose is broken. Face bloodied.

  His head moves, like he’s just regaining consciousness.

  Cut to shot of Marc, from the ground. He dives on to us. Teeth bared.

  A girl screams.

  MARC: I’ll kill you! I swear to God I’ll fucking kill you!

  Swinging fists. He hits again. And again. The thuds of punches landing. Crack of bone. Screaming. Two bodies try to pull him off, but he is an animal. Sounds fade to silent. Marc still trying to fight as he’s dragged off.

  Cut to bright sunlight.

  Sliding glass doors open and we step out into the crisp air.

  Sound of near-distant traffic. A bird.

  Deep breath. A car horn. Cut.

  Yo.

  Sorry it’s late. Loved yours. Let me know what you think.

  We’re coming to the party. Can’t wait to see your costume.

  See you tomorrow. Skywalker x

  My eyes are stinging. Attach File. Send.

  I open the front door to the worst zombie I’ve ever seen.

  Tommy’s standing on the front step wearing old jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt that’s got rips and holes all over it. Around his eyes he’s used what looks like eyeliner and he’s tried to draw blood spots on his chin with what’s clearly lipstick. It looks like a red goatee.

  “Sick, right?” he says, spreading his arms, and I see his car parked across the road.

  “Did you drive?”

  “Course.”

  “It’s like a minute walk, Tom.”

  “You think I’m walking the streets dressed like this?” He steps past me into the house.

  I close the door. “We’ve still gotta walk and get Zia, you idiot. Two buses, remember?”

  I watch the penny drop for him.

  “No way. I’ll drive. Forget the booze. Where’s your costume?”

  I shrug.

  “Oh come on, Luke, you’re kidding, right? Make an effort, man!”

  “Make an effort with what?” Marc comes out of the kitchen in jeans and a black vest, tea towel over his shoulder. Tommy looks down.

  “Easy, Tom. You good?” Marc leans on the wall, arms folded.

  Tommy looks up.

  Marc laughs. “Jesus, who are you? The Crow?”

  Tommy shrugs. “Zombie.”

  “Right. You going clubbing?”

  Tommy shakes his head. “House party. Fancy dress.”

  “Come on.” I start up the stairs. Tommy follows me like a naughty dog.

  “Yous wanna eat something before you go?” Marc looks up. “I’ve made kofte. Fresh mint and yoghurt.”

  I shake my head. “We’re good, thanks. Smells good though.”

  INT. KITCHEN – NIGHT

  Clear juices drip as sizzling meat turns from raw to ready.

  “Kofte?” says Tommy, checking his face in my wardrobe mirror.

  “They’ll be good, too,” I say, checking my laptop again for any new messages. Still no reply from Leia about the scene. I’ll see her later.

  “So he’s back into the cooking and that?”

  I close the laptop. “Proper. It’s like flipping Masterchef in this house. Is that your mum’s make-up?”

  Tommy turns round. “Course it is! Is it rubbish?”

  I laugh.

  “Piss off, Luke. At least I made an effort. You turn up normal, that’s just lame.”

  And he’s right. If we’re going, I’ve gotta do something.

  Tommy opens my wardrobe. “What’s this?” He pulls out Dad’s sheepskin. “Yo, wear this. This is heavy!”

  “Literally,” I say, waiting for him to acknowledge the pun. He doesn’t. Then his face lights up.

  “I’ve got something!” He drops the coat and runs out of my room, down the stairs. I hear the front door open. Then my phone beeps. Leia. Please be Leia.

  U cumin pub later? Dodx

  I picture him in his flat, on the sofa typing the text, and realise I haven’t seen him since the awkward afternoon with Leia.

  Then I see Mum there, next to him, curled up, her hand rubbing his shoulder, stroking his arm and … CUT! You’re sick.

  Going party with Tom and Zia. See you in week?

  I throw my phone back on to my bed. Why hasn’t Leia replied? Did she hate it? She hated it. She thinks I’m just trying to shock. Will you shut up?

  Tommy’s standing in my bedroom doorway holding something grey.

  “What’s that?”

  He scoops up Dad’s coat. “You got a black vest?”

  “What? Why?”

  He drops the coat on to my bed, his eyes dancing. “Yo, your brother was wearing one. Borrow that one.”

  “No, what for? What is that?”

  Tommy sighs. “For God’s sake, Luke, work with me, yeah?”

  I don’t move.

  “Fine. I’ll get it.” He flicks me the V’s and walks out again. I stare at Dad’s coat and listen to the mumbled voices coming from the kitchen.

  Beep. Please be her. Please.

  No poblem. Hav fun. B careful. x

  “Put that on.” Tommy throws me Marc’s black vest.

  “What’s going on, Tom? Did he just give it you?”

  “Course he gave it me, he’s got vision. Just put it on, will ya?”

  So I do. And it fits. More or less.

  “Perfect. I wouldn’t fight ya,” says Tommy, picking up Dad’s coat. “This too.”

  I slide my arms into the coat and feel the weight.

  Tommy’s almost giddy. “Right, now hold still,” he says as he moves behind me. I stare into the mirror and see a grey dust mask come over my head on to my face, the elastic straps cut across my cheeks behind my ears. Tommy’s grinning reflection peers over my shoulder. He points straight into the mirror. “Bane!”

  And I can’t lie, it feels wicked.

  “Do the voice,” Tommy says.

  I stare into the mirror. “I am Gotham’s reckoning.”

  It’s crap. Tommy laughs. “I’d go with the silent, dangerous flex instead.”

  I fold my arms and frown. Dressing up is all right. Then I feel the knife.

  I pull it out of the inside pocket. “Take this back.” I hold it out.

  “Why?” Tommy says.

  “Because I don’t need it, that’s why.”

  “What about Miller?”

  I look down. There’s been no sign of Craig Miller since that night.

  “Just take it, Tom.” I push it into his hand just as Marc comes up the stairs. Tommy quickly sticks it into his jeans pocket.

  “Here you go, lads.” Marc’s topless. He looks like a shopping channel model, holding a plate of meat skewers with fresh mint and a little bowl of yoghurt. It smells amazing.

  He puts it on my bed.

  “Even Bane and a zombie need grub before a big night.” He looks me up and down. “Suits ya.”

  I pull off the dust mask. “Thanks. For the food, I mean.”

  “No problem. You driving, Tom?”

  Tommy nods, stuffing his face with kebab.

  “So no drinking, eh?”

  “Course not, Marc. This is beautiful.”

  Marc points at him. “I’m serious.” Tommy’s genuinely scared, in that silent contained way you can be of family.

  “You stopping in?” I say, taking a kebab.

  Marc smiles, shaking his head. “Going The Goose. With Dad. Maybe try and surprise a certain barmaid, eh?” He actually winks. “Have a good one, boys.”

  INT. HOUSE – NIGHT

  London Grammar ‘Hey Now’ plays as a girl’s hand stirs a bowl of red liquid with a wooden spoon, adding vodka as she goes.

  We pull round the back of the supermarket under the one floodlight. I stare up at the dark wall and see the security camera.

  Tommy lights a cigarette.

  We stare at the door, waiting for Zia to pop out.

  “He want
s to hurry up, man. Emma’ll be missing me.”

  “Her name’s Megan, Tom. You might wanna start with getting her name right.”

  Tommy pouts and nods. “Course. All good, Lukey.” He rubs his hands together. In this light his face looks like a skull.

  “Promise me, man,” I say.

  “Promise you what?”

  “That you won’t do anything dumb. Promise me that.”

  “Shut up. What am I gonna do? Why you gotta be like that?”

  “Because I know you.”

  Tommy wiggles his fingers like he’s casting a spell. “Don’t worry, Luke, I won’t embarrass you in front of your posh mates.”

  “I’m serious, Tom.”

  I stare at him like a parent stares at a child they know is lying. Tommy cracks. “All right, fine, I promise. Whatever. Happy? It’s not even one of them ones, is it? We’re not fighting. Tonight’s about the ladies.” He gropes imaginary breasts in front of him. My oldest friend.

  “Do you even hear yourself when you’re speaking?”

  “Chill out, Lukey. Yo, reach in the glovebox. I nicked Jamie’s Kano CD.”

  Then Zia walks out of the dark in a full pinstripe suit and shoes. He’s carrying a rucksack. Tommy looks at me. “What the hell?”

  I pull on my mask and get out to let Zia in.

  “Bane!” He says straight away and I take a bow.

  “Who’s he supposed to be?” Zia’s pointing through at Tommy.

  “Shut up! I’m a zombie, man. The Walking Dead and that.” Tommy does his zombie groan.

  “And who are you, James Bond?” I pat Zia’s suited shoulder.

  His face lights up. “Check it. Close your eyes, both of you.”

  We do. I hear a zip and the bag fall on the floor. “One sec, hold on …” His voice is muffled. “OK.”

  I open my eyes and it’s Chewbacca. In a suit. He’s got the full head mask and hands. It looks brilliant.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  Chewbacca shrugs. “Got it online ages ago. Couldn’t afford the whole suit. This is my first chance to wear it out.”

  “I don’t get it,” says Tommy.

  Chewbacca’s head tilts and from inside Zia says, “The Wookie of Wall Street, ready to party!”

  EXT. – NIGHT

  Moving Car. Through windscreen. Kano’s ‘Ps & Qs’ plays.

  Bane, The Wookie of Wall Street and a crap zombie nod along in time to the track as they drive through town.

  I pause before ringing the bell.

  Michelle’s front door has stained glass panels in it, like Leia’s. The kick drum and muffled chatter of a party from inside. I can smell the plastic of the mask and, stupid as it sounds, in my costume, in Dad’s jacket, I feel powerful.