It's About Love Page 2

  “I guess so.” Why is she still talking to me? What does she want?

  “Why were you at the bus stop if you drive?” she says. “Are you seventeen?”

  Jesus, she asks more questions than Lois Lane.

  A small gang of girls who look like a pop group walk past us and start down the hill. I shake my head. “Not until next month. My friend’s picking me up.”

  Leia nods. “He’s pretty cool, right? Noah, I mean?”

  I nod back. She says, “The thing he said about keeping a notebook is so true, I’ve kept one for years.”

  I think of the notebook in my bag right now and picture all the ones under my bed, filled with ideas; random lines, things people said, thoughts, dreams, memories, snippets of scenes, things I couldn’t say to anyone but that felt like they had to come out. I say nothing and just stare at her. There’s something about her eyes.

  “It’s lazy.” She points at her right eye. “Not loads. I used to have a patch when I was a kid.”

  I look away and pretend I’m checking the road. Leia hits my elbow. “Don’t worry, I’m not offended. Aaaaaaarrrggggghhhhh.”

  I turn back to her and rub my elbow even though it doesn’t hurt.

  She shrugs. “Like a pirate? Eye patch?”

  “Good one.”

  That sounded sarcastic. “I mean, not good that you’ve got an eye patch …”

  “I don’t have an eye patch. I used to have one.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I meant. I’ve gotta go.”

  “I thought your friend was picking you up?”

  “Yeah, I need to ring him. I’ll see you later.”

  I start to walk back the way we came and take out my phone, hearing her voice. “Yeah. Later, Skywalker.”

  I can feel her watching me, but I don’t turn back. I’m not here for friends. Even pretty ones who know about films.

  I hear the horn before I see the car. Our navy blue carriage to freedom. Passed down through three older O’Hara brothers and now it’s Tommy’s. He pulls up outside reception and the passenger door swings open.

  “Yes, Shitface! How’s big school?”

  Tommy’s my oldest friend. We’ve been mates since we were three. He’s the youngest of four brothers, all of them one year apart, all of them carbon copies of their Dad, Micky; Irish catholic, black hair, sharp chin, long limbs and blue-grey eyes. Dad and Micky have known each other since school.

  Tommy was the best footballer in our year by far. I’m all right, but he was something else. He played for the Aston Villa youth team until they kicked him out for trouble. Tommy’s skinny, but he can fight. Even though I’m bigger than him, when we mess around, he’s always a handful.

  One time he bit a dog. We were nine and being chased by Mr Malcolm’s Doberman, Dusty, after we’d been stealing apples from his garden. As we were running down the alley behind the supermarket, Tommy just stopped and turned round, gave this weird howl like a werewolf, and when Dusty went for him, Tommy wrestled Dusty to the floor and bit him on the neck. Dusty yelped and ran off and Tommy just sat there looking up at me, grinning. He still brings that up proudly whenever he gets the chance.

  He insisted on picking me up today. The car’s seen better days, but it’s real and it moves.

  “So how was it then?” he says, leaning forward to check out the campus buildings through the windscreen. Something about him being here feels weird. Like I don’t want to be seen.

  He’s wearing dirty grey overalls and a black T-shirt and his hands and cheeks are speckled with white paint. His voice is deep and his top lip’s got the shadow of a potential moustache.

  An older girl wearing expensive headphones and a denim jacket walks past the car. I feel my stomach drop as Tommy beeps the horn. I look down as the girl turns round.

  “Yes, princess! Need a lift?” He’s leaning out of his window.

  I pretend to tie my shoelace, waiting for it to be over.

  “Whatever then, your loss!” He slaps my shoulder. “You know her? She was banging. What you doing?”

  I sit up and shake my head. “Can we just go?”

  As we drive down the hill, we pass Leia, umbrella under her arm as she talks on her phone. I turn away from the window.

  “So come on then?” Tommy lights a cigarette as we pull up at the island behind a black BMW.

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  “Fine? It better be more than just fine, Luke. It took me nearly half an hour, man. What bus you get?”

  I crack open my window. “The 87 and the 50.”

  “Two buses? Shit, they better be teaching you some important stuff.” Tommy whacks my thigh. “Girls though, yeah?”

  And I picture Leia, her fingers pointing at me like a gun. “Dunno. Not really noticed.”

  “Yeah, right, dark horse Luke Henry? Them posh girls love a bit of rough, eh? Just don’t forget to sort me out once you’re plugged in, yeah?” He raises his finger like a politician. “Share and share alike, Lukey.”

  “You look like your old man, Thomas.”

  “Like you don’t?” He takes a long drag and looks down at himself. “Some of us have to work in the real world, mate. We can’t all be nerds.”

  INT. CAR – DAY

  Close-up of TOMMY’s mouth as he pulls on a cigarette. YOUNG MAN next to him and scenery outside blurry in the background.

  Tommy turns the engine off and the pair of us sit, staring up at the back of the supermarket. Next to the fire door, a row of industrial-sized bins are lined up and there’s a greyness in the air that I don’t want to say is just this side of town. You just said it. Whatever it is, it feels familiar and I can feel my body starting to relax.

  “What did Zia say?” I ask.

  Tommy flicks his cigarette out the window. “To wait out back and he’d dip out. What time is it?”

  I look at my phone. “Half four. You should get one of them air fresheners, man, them little trees.”

  “What you saying? You saying my car stinks?”

  “Like an ashtray.”

  “You wanna walk?”

  My phone beeps. It’s a text from Dad.

  How wis fist wk big man? Dodx

  I picture him lying on his back under some battered old car, taking ten minutes to type the message, his thick thumb hitting four buttons at once.

  Good thanks. See you tomorrow

  Tommy tuts. “Where is he, man?”

  I look up at the concrete building. “He’s probably being watched. What did he say the manager guy’s name was again?”

  “Dunno. I’m starving though.”

  Then the fire door pops open and Zia pokes his head out, like a meerkat sentry. He looks both ways, then nods at us. He’s shaved his beard back to rough stubble and he’s wearing a hair net. Tommy laughs. “He looks like my mum after a shower.”

  “Yeah, ’cept your mum’s beard’s thicker.”

  He tries to dig my thigh, but I grab his fist and squeeze.

  “All right, all right, get off, Luke!”

  I hold him a second longer, then let him go and open my door.

  “Yes, boys!” whispers Zia. The whites of his eyes sparkle next to his skin. Fists bump, then he says, “Wait here,” and he’s gone. The fire door clicks closed and me and Tommy are standing with our backs against the wall.

  Tommy points up at the security camera facing the car park. I nod. The door opens again and Zia hands me a small, torn cardboard box. I can see Babybels, a ripped pack of Jammy Dodgers and a can of Relentless. I look at Zia.

  “What’s this?”

  Zia frowns. “Dinner.”

  Tommy looks into the box. “Dinner for who? A crack head?”

  “If you don’t want it, don’t eat it, man. I have to be careful what I take, don’t I? We have to put the damaged stock out the back and if I tear expensive stuff, Pete the Prick flips out.”

  Tommy takes out a Babybel. “Couldn’t you just get some crisps or something?”

  Zia pulls the box back out o
f my hands. “Look, if you wanna give orders, go Chicken Cottage, yeah? I’m not a waiter. You want this or not?”

  I put my hands on the box. “Course we do. Thanks, man. What time you finish?”

  Zia lets go of the box and sighs. “Ten. We gotta stack up the shelves for the staff working tomorrow.” He scratches his velcro stubble. Tommy pulls open a Babybel and the three of us just stand there. One supermarket employee, one builder’s apprentice and me. A year ago we’d all be in school uniform.

  Zia clicks his fingers. “Yo, check this out. I thought up a new bit. Upgrades, yeah? Like with phones, but for your friends and family.”

  Tommy looks at me and rolls his eyes. Zia carries on. “So I’d be like, OK, I’ve got the standard Tommy friend, yeah? But I wanna upgrade, cos the new one has got better features and that, like he never asks to borrow money, and he doesn’t say dumb stuff and get us into trouble.”

  Tommy pushes Zia. “Shut up, man. Why am I the one who gets upgraded? You say dumb stuff all the time.”

  I smile. “That’s not bad, man. You think that up today?”

  Zia nods. “Nothing else to do while I’m stacking sugar.”

  “Yeah, well I’ve heard it somewhere before,” says Tommy.

  Zia frowns. “Shut up, that’s mine. It needs work, but it could be good.”

  Tommy smiles through a mouthful of cheese. “So you gonna sort out an actual gig then?”

  Zia stares at him. “Maybe I will.” Something clatters from inside. Zia looks back over his shoulder. “I gotta go. Come get me later, yeah?”

  We nod. Fists bump.

  Me and Tommy start towards the car, but stop when Zia calls out, “Lukey!” We turn back. “One more week, eh?”

  Tommy looks down. I give an awkward shrug. Zia does his good Samaritan smile. “Ring me if you wanna talk, yeah?”

  Then he slides inside and the door shuts, leaving me and Tommy standing there, silent. I stare at the ground.

  “You all right, Lukey?”

  “I’m fine.” I start walking.

  As we get to the car, Tommy points at the box. “Yo, the Relentless is mine.”

  I look at him as I open my door. “Course it is.”

  He opens his. “What you saying then? FIFA at mine?”

  I nod. He smiles. “Friend upgrades, that is pretty funny.”

  I stare up at the supermarket building, at the security camera, and picture a dark room with a wall of black-and-white screens. I zoom in on one and see me, standing next to the car, staring up into the lens.

  One more week. Is he thinking about me?

  Mum said: Life’s a record on loop; we just have to learn to love the song.

  It’s after midnight when Tommy drops me off.

  Mum works nights at the weekend and she turns the heating off when she leaves, so the house feels like an empty cave. I kick off my shoes and climb the stairs.

  The landing light has no shade so the bulb shines a circle across the ceiling and walls. Standing outside my room the landing stretches away to my left, towards his door. I feel it pulling me. Like I always do. Like part of him is always here. So I walk towards it.

  The gloss painted wood, something pulsing behind. The cheap silver handle. The dark jagged letters carved into the white:

  MARC’S ROOM

  I remember sitting in my pyjamas on the landing right here, my hair still damp from the bath, listening to him play the first Eminem album. Knowing the words were bad, but not really understanding and feeling like I wanted in on the secret.

  I picture inside now. The perfectly made bed with his barbell underneath. The football posters. The black veneered shelves full of trophies, nearly two years untouched. Two years of waiting, weighing everything down, pressing things into their place. My hand moves up to my face. Not long now.

  I push my bedroom door closed behind me, take Leon from my DVD shelves. I switch off my light, open my laptop on my bedside table to face my pillow, slide in the disc and lie down on top of my covers. The Columbia Pictures logo comes up, the lady holding the torch as the trumpets play, and I feel the tingle in my blood. My heads sinks into my pillow as the camera flies over the water, then trees, and the strings start to play and the names of actors appear and everything’s all right. I get to go somewhere else.

  Morning sunlight splits my ceiling in half. I stare at the crack in the ceiling plaster that cuts from the corner in towards the lampshade like a thin black root and I feel my face.

  I reach down into my bag, pull out my notepad, grab a pen from my bedside table and …

  A waterfall of rain.

  Leia’s staring from behind it. Her hair’s out in a big afro like from some old 1970s cop show. She’s wearing the big black coat, but the front is undone and there’s a clear V of naked skin. It’s like inside a tent or a cloud or something, everything washed in white. Leia licks her lips and raises her hand to point straight at me with two fingers. The water hits her hand and her face goes out of focus. Then there’s fire, behind her and on both sides, tall flames that don’t touch her but feel like they’re all around. Her face becomes clear again and she’s wearing an eye patch and the water is gone. Her head tilts. She smiles, then her mouth mimes a gun shot and she’s stepping forward, fingers still pointing, as she moves closer and her coat is falling open. Flames dancing. Closer, and her skin, and closer, and the fire behind her, and more skin, and closer and closer and

  I lower my pen and stare at the ceiling. What the hell’s all that about? You think she dreamt about you?

  My laptop’s still open from last night. I close it, then slide off my bed down into press-up position on the floor. Back level, I feel the warmth spread across my shoulders and I smile. Thirty reps, then fifty crunches and repeat. Every morning for two years. At least my body will be ready.

  I can hear the TV as I come downstairs.

  Mum’s lying under her duvet on the sofa, half watching a chunky man cooking something with fish. The curtains are open. Dad’s old varnished wooden clock, shaped like Jamaica, ticks like a mantelpiece metronome in between Marc’s trophy for under-sixteens’ 800m champion and a glass-framed photograph of a younger me and him on a climbing frame, me watching as he swings from the bars.

  “Make us a coffee, Luke.” Her heavy eyes don’t leave the screen.

  INT. – DAY

  Close-up: Bubbles and steam cloud clear plastic.

  I stare out of the window over the sink, holding the milk, as the kettle starts to boil. Our small square of back garden is overgrown and next to the fence I see the old deflated leather football nestled into the grass like a white rock.

  I spoon coffee into the big mug with the black cat on it and keep stirring as I pour the hot water three quarters to the top. I shake the plastic milk carton like I’m making a cocktail, bang it on the sideboard to bubble it up like Marc showed me, then stir slowly as I add a little to the coffee, making a whirlpool of froth to the top edge of the mug.

  Some people have machines that do it for you; in our house you do it yourself.

  Mum’s eyes are closed and she’s mouth breathing. I kneel down next to the sofa, resting the mug on the floor and see she’s still wearing her nurse’s clothes under the duvet. Her skin’s pale and, with her mousey hair in a ponytail, she looks young for a mum. I hold my hand up next to her face. My skin’s darker than hers, but lighter than Dad’s, and I think about genes and twisted strings of code. Then I notice the photograph of Marc in his Aston Villa youth kit tucked between the cushion under her head and the arm of the sofa.

  “Mum. Mum, why don’t you get into bed?” I put my hand on her shoulder.

  She jerks awake and sits straight up, kicking the coffee all over my lap. I shout out and fall back as the hot coffee burns my thighs through my jogging bottoms. Mum looks terrified.

  “Luke!” She falls forward off the sofa half on top of me, grabbing my shoulders. “Are you OK?”

  The photo of Marc drops on to the floor. I can feel the heat brand
ing my skin. “I’m OK, Mum. It’s all right.”

  She sees the photograph and lets go of me to pick it up. Then she pulls the duvet away and looks down at the dark brown patch on the cream carpet. “Oh, look what you did! You need to be careful, Luke.”

  “Me?”

  “This is gonna need shampooing. Get a cloth, hurry up!”

  So I go to the kitchen, my thighs pulsing from the heat, to get a tea towel to clean up the mess I didn’t make.

  Walls work both ways. What keeps you safe, keeps you separate.

  “Of course there’s a difference! These ones are Honey Nut, Dad. They’ve got honey and nuts in …”

  “But I don’t want honey and nuts.”

  I laugh. Zia’s putting on a voice for his dad, playing both parts in this little comedy routine, hunching over and everything, pretending to adjust his glasses. Me and Tommy are his audience, sitting on the lime-green leather sofa. I can see our dark reflection in the black screen of the massive TV behind him.

  “Are you kidding, Dad? Let’s treat ourselves, yeah?”

  “I don’t want a treat, I want breakfast.”

  “But Dad, you’re the West Midlands Carpet King, you can afford to splash out on a better cereal. Look, these ones are called clusters, they look good.”

  “Cornflakes.”

  “How about Cocopops?”

  “Cornflakes.”

  “Fine, but let’s at least get the Crunchy Nut, yeah?”

  “You think I became successful by eating crunchy nuts? What’s wrong with you? You used to love cornflakes, you too good for cornflakes now?”

  I laugh and Zia stops his routine.

  I nod at him. “This is good stuff, man.”

  Zia bows. “My life is my scrapbook.”

  He’s got no idea how cool that sounded, and I make a mental note to write it down later.

  “Has your dad seen you do it yet?” says Tommy.

  “Are you mad? In fact, we should go. He’ll be back soon.”

  Me and Tommy stand up.

  “You should show him, man. You’re getting good,” I say.

  “Oh yeah. ‘Hey, Dad, Tommy and Luke reckon I should jack in the supermarket job you’re making me do and sack off your plans for me and the family business. Yeah yeah, they think I should try and become a stand-up comedian. They think I’ve got potential.’”