Nick's Blues (10 page)

And, of course, there were pictures of her with his dad, half a dozen in all, different places, different times.

“Come in here,” Charlene said. “I want to show you this.”

Here was her music room, complete with keyboard and miniature mixing desk, speakers, mikes and numerous guitars. One of these she reached down and put into Nick's hands.

“I won't lie to you, this was never your dad's first choice. Nor second, either. But it was his, he played it. In fact if you look back at his photos next door, the one taken at the Marquee, this is what he's playing there.”

Nick looked down at the instrument, the smooth grain of the wood, reddish-blonde, the dust that had collected along one edge and between the strings.

“I don't suppose you play?”

Nick shook his head.

“Well, take it anyway. A souvenir. Les'd be glad for you to have it, I'm sure. And who knows? One day you might learn. I'll teach you if you like.”

“I don't think so.”

“Suit yourself.”

There were a hundred more questions he was sure he wanted to ask but none would come to mind. When he left Charlene kissed him impulsively on the cheek.

“Come back and see me. Any time.”

***

When he walked back into the flat, a good hour later, carrying the guitar in its cracked leather case, his mother turned away and hid her face in her hands.

Monday, Nick went back down Kentish Town with his camera and a new roll of film, but through the viewfinder everything looked dull and uninspiring. The same as before. When he tried to take a picture of a shaggy-haired man squatting on a blanket outside the Halifax, the man swore at him angrily and the dog tried to take a bite out of his leg. So much for becoming the new Dorothea Lange.

He sort of wished he'd gone back to school, except he wanted to wait until his stitches came out and that would be another four days.

His mum had left him a few quid to get something for lunch and he pocketed it and had a couple of bowls of cereal instead, corn flakes mixed with Cheerios.

There was an old film on afternoon TV, something about a boxer who was supposed to take a fall but changed his mind and knocked his opponent all over the ring. He paid for it in the end.

Nick looked at his watch and decided to get changed. He had a plan. He'd seen Ellen cutting through the estate from time to time on her way home, and although he couldn't be certain she'd be there today, he thought he might as well give it a try.

***

Twenty minutes later he was ready. Boots and jeans didn't give him a lot of choice, but there was a grey t-shirt without too many creases he found near the bottom of the drawer and over that he was wearing a near-black Adidas top with white stripes running parallel along the sleeves. A month or so ago he'd borrowed it from Christopher and forgotten to give it back.

In the bathroom, he tried gelling his hair and hated the result, but by then it was too late.

Sod it!

His timing, though, was spot on. Passing between two sets of garages, he stepped out into a small courtyard between tower blocks and there was Ellen, art folder under one arm, walking briskly towards the far corner. Trainers, black with a red stripe and double velcro straps, long denim skirt; a pink scarf hung loose over her shoulders and her black beret was angled back on her head.

“Hi!” Nick said, feigning surprise.

“Hello.” Ellen walked on a few paces and then stopped. “What are you doing here?”

Nick shrugged. “Nothing special.”

“Just hanging out.”

“Yeah.”

“You wouldn't've been waiting here for me, would you?” Ellen said.

“No way.”

“You sure?”

“Course I'm sure.”

“That's all right, then.”

She was looking straight at him, amusement in her eyes. Nick stared at the ground then looked away. He knew what he'd intended to say, but what had sounded fine inside his head now didn't feel right.

“How's the project going?” Ellen said finally. “The photography.”

“Okay, I suppose. Yeah.”

Ellen nodded.

“You?”

“Oh, you know.”

“Yeah.”

A plane went over, lower than usual, banking through cloud.

“Maybe I could look at it sometime?” Nick said. “Your folder, you know.”

“It's in a mess at the moment. I mean, there's nothing…”

“No, no, that's okay. I just…”

“Yes.” Ellen took a breath. “I'm sorry about what happened, your head and everything. Laura told me you got beaten up pretty bad.”

“Yeah, well…”

“You'll have a scar.”

“Prob'ly.”

She was looking at him now as though a scar might not be such a bad thing.

“The other day,” Nick said, “when you came round…”

“I didn't mean to interrupt.”

“You didn't.”

“You and your girl friend.”

“Come on, she's not…”

“What?”

“Me and Melanie… You don't think…”

“I don't see why not.”

“Gross!”

“Well, if you don't fancy her, someone obviously did.”

“What d'you mean?”

“She's pregnant, isn't she?”

“No, she's not, she's just fat.”

Ellen raised an eyebrow. “Ask her then, why don't you? Next time she calls round.”

And with that she walked away, leaving Nick feeling perplexed and not a little stupid. Melanie pregnant, up the stick, in the family way. The thought of it made him slightly sick.

***

A couple of kids Nick vaguely recognised from lower down the school were skulking beneath a walkway, smoking. Four or five skateboarders trying to find new ways of breaking their legs. A boy in an Arsenal shirt,
Pires
lettered across the back, practising wheelies. When Nick turned the corner, some forty metres from his own block, there was Ross Blevitt, leaning back against the pebbled wall, half a dozen others gathered round him.

Nick hesitated, then carried on. Blevitt said something to his crew and slowly they moved away. Not far. As Nick drew almost level, Blevitt eased himself from the wall.

“So, Nicky…”

“Nick.”

“Whatever.”

Blevitt raised a hand towards Nick's forehead and Nick knocked it away.

“Ain't so good at takin' warnings,” Blevitt said.

Nick waited.

“Cosyin' up to the police. Givin' 'em names.”

“Bollocks.”

“Seen you, man. Down the town. You and that bitch. Detective inspector, i'n' it?”

“She's the one, started talking to me. What was I supposed to do?”

“Walk away. Keep your mouth closed.”

Nick said nothing.

“I'm tellin' you, man.”

“Yeah? What's it gonna be? Another brick when I'm not looking?”

Blevitt jabbed a finger against Nick's chest. “Keep talkin' to the wrong people, you're gonna find out, right? A few stitches. Couple broken ribs. That's nothin'.”

Nick held Blevitt's stare, then walked round him.

He carried on walking and at the last moment Blevitt's crew grudgingly stepped back, allowing him just enough room to get past.

He heard one of them hawking phlegm into his throat and felt spittle in his hair and on his neck. Nick clenched his fists and kept on going, damned if he was going to give them the satisfaction of watching him wipe it away.

Steve Rawlings had been watching the encounter between Blevitt and Nick from the eighth floor balcony. Waiting for the moment when Blevitt would take him apart. But instead, Blevitt had simply stood there and let him walk away.

Rawlings spat at the ground.

First Harman had dissed him in front of his mates and then, more than likely, grassed him up to the police.

Next time he wouldn't get off so easy.

Next time it'd be more than just a beating.

“What d'you reckon, Steve?” asked one of the boys alongside him.

Rawlings spat again. “I reckon someone's gonna teach Harman a real lesson.”

“Ross didn't do nothin' 'cept mouth off at him.”

“Ross's a pussy,” Rawlings said, lowering his voice to ensure Blevitt, still standing below, didn't hear him.

“You gonna take him?”

“Yeah, when I'm ready.”

For reassurance, Rawlings touched the Stanley knife, hard and cool in the pocket of his Diesel jeans.

***

“Oh, man,” Scott said with a shake of his head, “that's so not cool.”

They were in Nick's room, Scott and Nick on the bed, Christopher sitting on the floor, head resting back against the wall. One of Scott's old Aphex Twin CDs was on the stereo.

“You were the one, telling me I should do something,” Nick said. “Make a move.”

“Yeah, but not like that.”

“Why not?”

“It's too obvious, right? There's Ellen on her way home and you just happen to be there, standing round with a hard-on and your tongue hanging out. Pathetic.”

“My tongue wasn't hanging out.”

“You just had a hard-on.”

Nick aimed a punch at Scott's shoulder and, laughing, he sprawled out of reach.

“You do fancy her, though?” Christopher said. “Can we establish that as a matter of record?”

“She's okay, yeah.”

“You fancy her?”

“Yeah, if you like.”

“If
I
like?”

“All Chris fancies,” Scott said, “is the baby-sitter.”

“She's not the baby-sitter.”

“Okay, then. Stepmother.”

“And she's not my bloody stepmother.”

“What is she then?”

“Nothing,” Christopher said, just this side of flustered. “What are we talking about her for anyway?

It's Ellen we're meant to be discussing, Nick and Ellen.”

“Laura reckons she's hot,” Scott said.

“How does she know?”

“She was going out with this bloke, last term. Black guy. Twenty-three, twenty-four.”

“You're kidding.”

“Straight up.”

“Who was he?”

“DJ.”

“Where from?”

“Brixton. Notting Hill. All over.”

“She's not seeing him any more?”

“Laura says no.”

“There you go, Nick, she's yours.”

“Already popped her cork.”

“Shut it,” Nick said.

“Bloke like that, only way he's gonna…”

“I said shut it, right?”

“Okay, okay, she's still a virgin, that's what you want to believe. Virgo intacta.”

Nick hit him on the arm, just below the elbow, and the impact jarred back along his own arm and into his chest, making him wince with pain.

“You okay?” Christopher asked, concerned.

“Never mind him,” Scott said, “what about me?”

“What about you?”

“I'm the one got hit.”

“No more'n you deserved.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Aphex Twin had come to an end and Christopher was rummaging through Nick's meagre collection of CDs.

Scott tapped out a cigarette. “Anyone got a light?”

“Not in here,” Nick said.

“Oh, come on…”

“Not in here.”

“Suppose I roll a joint?”

“That's different.”

“Great thinking,” Christopher said, “protect your lungs and scramble your brain.”

“'S'not exactly LSD,” Scott said. “Besides, you gonna say no to a drag?”

“No way.”

Scott laughed, reaching for his papers.

”Anyway,” Christopher continued, “it's medicinal, right? Good for the pain in Nick's ribs, got to be.”

While Scott was skinning up, the door bell rang.

“Not your mum, is it?” Christopher asked. “Forgot her keys.”

“Shouldn't think so.”

The bell rang again.

“Maybe it's Ellen,” Scott said.

It was Melanie. Distressed, lumpen, her eyes red from crying.

Oh, Christ, Nick thought. He didn't say anything.

“I just…” Melanie began. “I… I don't know, I shouldn't've come, I just… just wanted someone to talk to, I…”

Her words faltered to a halt.

Look at her, Nick thought, she's in a real state. What harm can it do? Ask her in. “I'm sorry,” he said. “It's not a good time. I've got mates round. I…”

“It's all right,” Melanie said. “Mates. I understand.”

Releasing him, she looked away.

Nick hesitated, no more than a moment, and closed the door.

“You're gonna have to cut that out,” Scott said, “Having her sneak down like that.”

“Melanie doesn't sneak anywhere,” Christopher said.

“I'm serious,” Scott said. “She's almost screwed it up for you and Ellen once already. And that's before you've even got started.” Fishing around in one of the kitchen drawers, he found a box of matches.

“Unless you really do fancy her, of course.”

“You looking to get thumped again?” Nick said.

“I saw this programme,” Christopher said, “the other night. About blokes who fancy really fat women.”

“Thanks, Christopher,” Nick said.

“I'm talking seriously fat, yeah? Twenty, thirty stone.”

“Gross me out,” Scott said, pointing two fingers down his throat.

“And there's these blokes, right, called feeders. Once they've got into a relationship with one of these women, they keep making them eat more and more, fattening them up.”

“What the hell for?”

“I dunno. I fell asleep.”

“Least we know what Melanie was after,” Scott said. “Nick was late with her after-dinner snack. Fries, burgers and a tub of ice cream.”

“Elephant flavour,” Christopher suggested.

“Chocolate sauce,” Nick said.