Flick

by Abigail Tarttelin

  I suddenly realize I’m actually defending a position I’d previously only scorned . . . out of what? Pride? Panic? Could I really end up there? I’m starting to get depressed. The problem with getting qualifications here is that you have to move away to use them. Another Catch-22, since you’re supposed to be working to earn the money for your mam and dad to retire on, and you have to move away, and then never see them, to do it. And Mam’d miss me. It’s hard in a family of men, and what with Tommo gone all manly and monosyllabic now, I’m the only one who’ll chat with her about her interests and what she did that day and how Brenda up in Ness has a new flat and is fretting about whether to have chintz curtains or not (NO, Brenda, NO).

  “When am I ever going to get the chance to be a politician in Clyde County?” I mutter. “We only have one, and I bet they have a degree . . . and that’s another fucking three years . . .” I trail off darkly.

  We sit in silence for a minute while she stares at the computer and I pick the skin from around my fingernails.

  “Oh, fuck it.” She gives up on the computer. “The thing is, Flick, life wasn’t meant to be perfect. Perfect is a concept human beings have created because we are intrinsically afraid. And fear is justifiable but you can’t let it get in the way of living your life. You can’t think, Well, trying takes courage and it’s easier to be lazy, so I’ll just sit on my bum all day, because you end up with nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing. There are people I went to school with who attended the very best universities and when they got out they expected the world to be their oyster and it wasn’t, so they went back home, sulked about it and they still work at Tesco’s. Eight years after we graduated—don’t jump in shock, I know I look forty, thank you . . . at least I’m doing what I wanted to do. Everything that’s worth anything takes effort, Flick. You have to decide what you want to do from an early age and go for it full speed to get it. Otherwise you end up with jack all.” She pauses and looks straight at me. “If you go the way you’re going, Flick, you’ll be the most articulate person to ever have failed his GCSEs. Now go on, have a think about it and come see me next Monday. I’ll be in here all day, for my sins.”

  She dives back into the mass of wires behind the monitor as I leave the room reeling. Picture this. Fifteen years old and you have to decide what you want to do for the rest of your life, or you basically don’t get one. God’s punch line: “All right, I’ll give you the gift of life, but you better make up your mind about it quickly or it’s eighty years of sweet FA!” I imagine all of mankind lining up in front of an angel and being presented with this conundrum. I imagine the clock from Countdown, the hand giving me thirty seconds to decide the rest of my life and then boo-doop-boo-doop-boo-doop-doo-doop bow! Sorry, time’s up, no go. How the frig am I supposed to decide now? And if I do decide on one thing, then choose another in a couple of years, haven’t I just wasted my time?

  As I kick my way through the door into Biology another thought crosses my mind—did I just find Ms. Casper, in her own people-power rant, that little bit sexy? Well . . . I said I liked intelligent women. Oh Jesus. Maybe that’s God’s punch line.

  HOME LIFE

  Before I know it, the weekend draws near and I start to feel apprehensive, and maybe a little bit excitable. I’m sitting with my mam and dad in the living room, which is warm and cozy, with the coal fire on and the smell of bleach coming from the doorway to the kitchen. That last bit was sarcasm. Learn to love it.

  I’m flicking through the channels when I hear a mention of Clyde County and pause, watching the newsreader. “Sandford’s been voted the worst place to live in England,” I say, turning the volume up on Look North.

  “Oh, right,” says Dad, not looking up. He rustles his newspaper.

  “Yeah . . . officially.” It’s Thursday night and we’re in front of the telly with Jack and Coke and Mum, nibbling animal-like at the corners of her chicken Kiev and micro-chips. She’s way too skinny is our Mam. Races around all the time working in the supermarket and in her other job as a cleaner and helping out at the kindie with the local kids, and never eats anything but wine and leftovers. I continue, trying to wind Dad up. “We were sixth last year. We’ve climbed the ranks!” Silence. Mum licks her lips and picks up her Pinot Grigio. “Car crime capital of England . . .” The reporter frowns at his notes in the clean symmetry of the gray studio. “They haven’t even bothered to come and do the report here.”

  “Well, son, that’s probably because they’re worried they’re going to get their car nicked!” Dad laughs at his own wittiness.

  “Yeah, by the likes of you,” says Mum to me accusingly through a chip (I’ll never use that phrase again).

  “Oh! Well thanks for the vote of confidence, Mum! Go on, that’s right! Giggle at me, you drunken floozy!” She smiles into her plate and protests when I plant a big greasy kiss on her left cheek.

  “Get off! Watch the telly!”

  “I am.” I catch a line of the report. “D’you hear that, Dad?” I say, glancing at him slyly. “We’re number one for domestic violence.”

  Dad slams his paper onto the table beside him and, shouting, walks across the room towards me and spits into my face. “Oh, and I suppose that’s my fault, is it?!”

  He spins round, walks into the kitchen, and we hear him fumbling for another JD and Coke. He opens the door with a resounding crack as it hits the coffee table beside it. “Get up those fucking stairs right now!” He looms up over me, so close I can smell his whisky breath.

  “Me? What have I done?”

  “Answering back, that’s what!”

  “No I’m not going! You go if you’re that bothered!” I turn my head back to the telly.

  “Don’t backchat me, son, this is my bloody house!”

  “Oh, yeah.” I smirk, knowing full well Tommo has covered all the mortgage payments since Dad got laid off. “So you pay the bills, do you?”

  “FUCKing little shit.” He lunges at me, clawing at my shoulder, and pulls me off my armchair and up to his height. My plate flies to the floor. I roll my arm over to throw off his grip, push his hand away and take a pace back.

  “Don’t you fucking dare, Dad. I swear to god. Don’t you fucking dare.” We stand erect, facing each other, heads tilted down like bulls ready to charge, and I realize, unsettlingly, that I look like him. I shake my head. “I’m going upstairs. Are you all right, Mam?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine, love.”

  I would pause for a second with disbelief but this is all routine in our house, so I roll my eyes at her with disgust and she doesn’t catch me, and wouldn’t understand why. It always seems to me that feminism never got this far up north. All these women sitting at home, ignoring their husbands who shout and paw and beat them down until they resemble mice, squeaking quietly, hovering uncertainly in their figure-drenching clothes. These are our mothers and we love and hate them. They are of an age, a place, a time and a type that is recognizable to us, their children, by sight, and for acquiescing to this, I don’t think we, I don’t think I, will ever forgive her. I scoop my food back onto my plate and jog upstairs, slump on my shabby mattress and eat the rest of my cold chips in silence, attempting halfheartedly to conjure up images of Rainbow, tomorrow, Ash’s arse, surfing, the pot I’ve got in my underwear drawer—trying to think of something more positive than patricide, holding on to my hopes for Friday night.

  THE WEEKEND COMETH (AND SO DO I?)

  Friday arrives with a bang, a bong, and a bottle of cheap, throat-burning White Lightning. Fucking classy. By ten we’re in Ritzies, the etiquette being not to arrive early as it is unfashionable, still light, and because getting smashed in the bar is more expensive than buying a twelve-pack of Carling and going round Ash’s beforehand. So, Ritzies, as far as Langrick is concerned: the nightclub of nightclubs. Sweat (and a bit of vomit) on the floor, the walls, the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, the underage clientele and the fortysomething Tesco-worker mildly retarded pedos who supply Ash with free-flowing alcopops, but wh
en the night matures and the gang is all here, the stars align, and as promised, it is a wicked night. Dildo and Danny, both eighteen, flash their IDs at the door and we flood in behind them, waving Blockbuster membership cards drunkenly at the doormen. Ash and Daisy are lezzing up by the bar to get themselves free Bacardi Breezers; Josh, Mike and Jamie bag us a corner booth; and familiar faces greet me warmly as I do a recce about the dance floor. The lights are low, I’m smashed enough to be confident but not enough to be a cock and la pièce de résistance (although if she asked me I don’t know why I’d be résisting), I clock Rainbow over the other side of the dance floor, in a stripy rainbow dress and red platforms, her hair spiked out about her face (reminding me simultaneously of Marla from Fight Club, Sonic the Hedgehog, and a dandelion clock), and a spidery black cardigan clinging to her arms.

  Aw, I think, temporarily forgetting to be cool. She looks cute.

  Sharam’s “Party All the Time” is playing, and I swagger over to the DJ, who happens to be a mate of mine on account of the fact that Tommo occasionally works on the door as a bouncer, and he shouts to me in greeting. “All right, knobend?”

  “All right, Gordy?” (Gordy the Geordie.) “How do?”

  “Good thanks, man! Had your sister in ’ere t’other night though, wanted to ask you about her.”

  “Oh ay, Teagan?”

  “Yeah, she living with someone new now?”

  “I don’t know, she never comes round. Tommo drives to see her sometimes but, well, you know. It’s not that they don’t get along, but they’re into different things.” This is quite a lot to shout at Gordy, and he can’t lip-read as I’m facing away from him, staring at Rainbow. He taps me on the shoulder with a vinyl to get my attention, shakes his head and points to his ears.

  “Anyway,” I watch him mouth. “Has she got another one on the way?”

  I cup my hand round my ear, too absorbed with the presence of Rainbow to have listened properly. “Yer what?”

  “She looked pregnant.”

  “. . . Oh.” There is a pause while I digest this information, although with the music and the neon club lights my instantaneous nausea probably isn’t that distinguishable. “Are you sure it wasn’t just kebab fat?”

  “No, man, it was only her stomach. She looked pretty far gone. You’re gonna be an uncle! Sort of.” He grins as I pull a face.

  “Oh, ah-way, man!” I put down my drink, put on a brave face, shrug gamely and then darkly think, I hope she’s not too far gone to get an abortion. Which is a bit of a sick wish. I glance out across the club and decide to ignore this little bit of info for the night, and put all my efforts into befriending and then, hopefully, charming Rainbow. “Gordy, can you put on a bit of Fedde Le Grand for us?”

  Gordy spins “Put Your Hands Up 4 Detroit.” I pinpoint Rainbow across the other side of the room. She is watching me. I look over at Ash, and she makes a “V” with her fingers and licks it. Jamie and Mike give me the thumbs-up and start humping the table. I shake my head, frown at them and look back at Rainbow. She is watching my mates, then looks back at me and laughs. I start walking towards her, feeling hot and suddenly nervous. My heart is racing, I’m sweaty palmed, excited. Last time I felt this way I was four and Katie Barker picked me to be her husband in a game of “Will you marry me?” I had her on my lap the whole lunchtime and I sweated so much I dehydrated and got sunstroke. Fuck, my brain thinks, stop getting distracted . . . you could step in vomit.

  Rainbow winds her way through the dancers towards me, never breaking eye contact. Then suddenly, I step down onto the lowest level of the floor; wind through a group of chavtastic girls, who pop gum and grab my bum; and when I appear again, she is gone. I stand frozen, confused, waiting for her. I feel a tap on my left shoulder. I look over it, but she is on my right.

  “Gotcha.” She grins; bright white teeth flash between scarlet lips. I’m caught off guard and I turn into her, bumping her on the shoulder. Rainbow laughs. “Wanna dance?” she says cheekily.

  “In a minute,” I murmur shyly, mesmerized by her beauty. I smile, and looking for a way to get back control, I say, “I wanna kiss you first.”

  She smiles her pouty little smile, leans in with her full lips parted and then pulls suddenly backwards, her perfume left hanging in the air around me, and smiles widely, her tooth catching her lip. “Not yet, but nice try.” And she is away and onto the floor. She dances alone, hips swaying, breasts silhouetted in the half-light, her eyes closed, and I watch her for a minute before wondering what the fuck I’m doing standing there like a prick, and going to join her. My friends and her friends make a little group about us, though mostly Mike and Jamie just jump up and down to the beat, ask me when I’m going to Dildo’s and tell me the girl I’m dancing with is hot, loudly, on purpose, and all within earshot of Rainbow. She laughs gamely and leans in, I think to whisper to me, but then her mouth is on mine, her tongue licks my tongue and we’re pressed against each other, getting off hornily in the middle of the floor.

  SNATCHED FACTS

  I notice a lot about Rainbow that night. When I think back to it, I noticed more about Rainbow in those first few brief, snatched meetings than I did even in the following few weeks. I’ve wondered since if it was like that for everyone. I remember how she seemed so forward and honest, but at the same time reserved and private. Maybe it was that she was honest with me and reserved with everyone else. I noticed how she always drank with a straw, took lime in every drink; I watched the way she walked, a slow, sexy wiggle when she was relaxed and then, if walking to get to somewhere, the same long movement but sped up. She always looked like she had long legs, but she was only five foot three, and her body always seemed to belong to a small woman rather than a large child if you know what I mean. Curvier legs than Ash, real muscles in her calves and thighs, a good bum, a slim waist, not simply malnourished from a diet of mini Mars bars and canteen burgers, I’m talking healthily slim, toned. She had thin wrists and long thin arms, blue eyes, not baby blue like most people, but this dark troubled ocean blue. Her hair and whole aura gave off a hippieish quality. She didn’t smoke or drink much, and she was always happy unless she was gripped by mini-depressions, which she had occasionally. She said it was down to hormones and took some herbal stuff for it. She was polite and incredibly well mannered and thought of manners as kindnesses. And she was always asking me about myself. I’d never been with anyone who wanted to know what I wanted to do for a living, if I wanted to travel, what my passions were. What my first kiss was like. That first night after we kissed in the club she made me lay my head on her lap in a corner of the carpeted back room and asked me if I had any brothers or sisters. I had never had anyone before who thought to ask things like that. She would question me too. The first time she saw me light up she said, “Hey, you know, I heard something about cigarettes, apparently they’re bad for your health.” I smirked to make a joke out of it and she held my gaze, not disapprovingly but sincerely, quietly challenging me to dare to do better, until someone asked us the time and my mates started jumping on me, bailing me out of the conversation.

  Rainbow has an ethereal quality, like a pixie standing in the center of a crowd, winking at me. She winks at me a lot.

  WHEN THE SUN AND THE RAIN OCCUR AT THE SAME TIME; OR, PROS AND CONS OF THE FIRST GIRL

  When the club empties, its dubious inhabitants are thrown out onto the pavement like vomit from the double doors and Dildo, the oldest of us and playing the big-brother role, herds us all together sheepdog-style down the coast road towards the northern outskirts of the town. The gang is staying the night at his place, ’cause his parents are away visiting family, and Rainbow walks up the road with us. Ash runs on ahead with Daisy, screaming and twirling each other about, tits falling out of their tank tops; Dildo and Jamie stride behind them, Dildo laughing as Jamie holds court; and Ella and Josh follow, arguing viciously. You can see Ella’s spit as she hisses in the lamplight. It’s a typical picture-perfect moment of our gang and I seek out Da
nny’s gaze and grin wryly at him. He winks back, whacks Mike on the back of the head with the palm of his hand, says, “Come on, gingertits, let’s leave the two bloody lovebirds alone,” and they jog off after the others, leaving Rainbow and myself bringing up the rear, side by side.

  I do a sort of backwards swing with my arm, touch her hand to ask her a question, “D’you want a palmo?” and then keep hold of it. Not the suavest of movements, but a brave effort. A palmo, by the way, is basically a local delicacy. Its full name is chicken Parmesan, and it is comprised of a pizza-base-sized slab of chicken covered in bread crumbs, with some sort of vegetable sauce thrown on it, then topped with cheese. It looks like lasagna but shittier, though after a night out on the tiles it tastes, I swear, like heaven. Apparently someone’s dad invented it about forty years ago, though that might be an urban legend. It’s our way of life. We work in steel and eat palmos. This is why all Sandford players are crap.

  Anyway, back to the matter at hand, the first attempt at hand-holding. When you’re first with a girl, everything is a first time. First kiss, first hand-hold, first fuck. These all have to be negotiated, worried about. (Or so I would assume with the fucking aspect of things, not having been privy to that debacle yet. We’ll walk that plank when we come to it. I’ve given myself an aim of five minutes and from what I’ve heard that’s pushing it.) I shake my brain in my head.

  You’ve got to stop thinking about this, says the voice that helps me out when I’m wankered. What if it happens tonight?

  Fuck. Now I’m panic stations go. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. But it won’t, will it? Rainbow, as we know, is classy.

  Well, the voice murmurs, classy but unpredictable.

  Look, I argue back, she is not a simple Langrick bird. Her accent is posher . . . Fuck. I realize with a sudden jolt of marijuana-induced alarm (the type of alarm where a piece of information thus far clouded in pot smoke rises from the fog like an epiphany, only about half an hour too late to be helpful) that I don’t even know where she’s from. I know she’s just moved to Ness, in the house next to Ella, but what about before that? What if someone asks and I can’t tell them? Jesus shit Jesus. What if someone asks her last name?!