This is Shyness (9 page)

Wolfboy is still over by the door, where it's lighter, deep in conversation with two guys.

‘Buy me a drink, lady?'

Someone tugs on my t-shirt. The speaker is either a very small boy with an old man's face, or a very small old man with a boy's voice. He smiles winsomely. Or it would be winsome if he had any teeth left.

‘Buy me a drink?'

‘Do I look like a charity?'

‘Ohhh, go on.' The man-child wears a tweed golf cap; it doesn't hide the way his skin collects in unhealthy wrinkles around his mouth. He's wearing baggy pants and a waistcoat, like an extra from
Oliver Twist
.

‘Aren't you up past your bedtime?'

‘You can afford it.' He points at the bankcard. I immediately curl my fingers around it, holding it tight against my stomach.

‘Push off. Go harass someone else.'

The man-child stares at me blankly then slinks off. I blink. Beggars aren't very tough in Shyness. I was prepared to go at least another two rounds with him.

‘Seven-fifty.'

Beer sloshes against my back and I turn to face the bar. The barman has his hand out for payment. I slip him the card. He looks down at it, flips it over.

‘No name.'

‘It's a company card.' That's what Neil says when he shouts us lunch. I'm good at thinking on my feet.

The barman nods, satisfied. The machine whirrs and prints a receipt. It wasn't a fluke in the black market; the card really does work.

‘Here you are, miss.'

The barman is acting strangely; his arrogance has been replaced with grudging respect. All for a stupid credit card that's not even mine. I sign the receipt, wedge the card deep in the pocket of my hotpants and grab the drinks. The barman has placed the glasses on cardboard coasters emblazoned with the name of the club: Little Death. I take one as a souvenir.

The DJ changes tunes to something heavier as I cross the floor, trying not to spill the drinks. The bass thrums in my throat and pounds my chest. Wolfboy's teeth shine as I push through the crowd to him. His smiling eyes settle on my face. His two friends stare as I hand him the beer. Wolfboy drapes his arm casually across my shoulders. I wonder what he's told them about me. I guess it's a good sign that he's not ashamed to be seen with his arm around me in public.

‘Wildgirl, this is Thom.' He points to the guy in a military-style jacket, and then to the shorter guy, who looks even younger than me. ‘And Paul. We all went to school together. And they're in the band.'

I shake hands with them both. Thom's grip is as hard as Paul's is limp.

‘So is this more like it?' Wolfboy asks me.

‘Yeah,' I say. ‘Much better than the last place.'

‘Man, I don't know why you like going to the Wing.' Paul's voice is so high it's difficult not to laugh.

‘What can I say? I like slumming it.'

‘You missed out the other night. At the Feldspar gig. Rick Markov was there. Thom talked to him.'

‘He's not interested in amateurs like us.' Wolfboy drains half his beer in one hit. His fingers drum my shoulder. There are two girls standing close to the dancefloor. One of them is definitely looking at Wolfboy and whispering in her friend's ear. The people in here are closer to my age, but they're still all dressed in black. It's stupid I'm so worried about fitting in. I like looking different from all the clones at Southside, so I should just stick my chin up and wear my pink top with pride. The goth look doesn't suit me anyway.

‘So where'd he find you?' Thom turns to me. I've already decided I don't like him. He's got a fat, wet mouth that makes everything he says sound dirty. And he's pushing his chest out so I can admire his t-shirt, which is printed with the name of some band I've never heard of.

‘Don't you mean where did
I
find
him
?' I wish I could plunge onto the tangled dancefloor, where people won't look at me. But Thom won't let go that easily. For a split second I panic that he's seen the photo. But that's not possible.

‘You from the City?' Thom asks, before forgetting me in an instant. ‘Jeth, he's here. Rick Markov!'

We all look to where Thom is pointing. I can't see a thing but the others seem to see exactly who he means.

‘I told him about this place and he said he'd come, but, like, I didn't think he actually would.'

Thom's carefully maintained cool falls away as if it was never there.

‘Go over, Jeth. He wants to meet you.'

‘Nah, man. I'm gonna stay here and hang out.' Wolfboy nods quickly in my direction. He thinks I don't see it, but believe me, I notice
everything
. The nod makes me feel better; he was so upset after the Kidds mugged us I thought he was close to sending me home.

‘You hang out with us every day. I've got nothing left to say to you, bro.'

‘Well, I've got nothing to say to Rick Markov.'

‘You gonna give up this opportunity 'cause one hot chick pays you a bit of attention?'

Wolfboy's eyes don't leave mine as Thom drags him away.
Sorry
and
I promise
, they seem to say, but that could just be wishful thinking. Wolfboy's taller and broader than Thom and could take him easily in a fight, but it's obvious who's the boss in this little trio. I know who Thom is. He's the guy who's popular because he's good at some random thing deemed worthy, like rugby or guitar, but who mostly stays popular because he's a minor-league bully.

Thom and Wolfboy sit down on the other side of the room, at a booth crowded with people. Paul and I are left alone, standing by the wall. I look around the crowded club, feeling abandoned. I've only known Wolfboy for, what? a couple of hours at the most, but already he's my lifebuoy in this strange place. That's not right. I've got to toughen up. I can have an adventure on my own in this big, crazy club. Wolfboy's already done more than enough to help me forget my problems.

‘Producer,' mumbles Paul, looking into his glass. ‘A big-deal music producer.'

There's a pause. I drain my soda water and put the glass on the ground, shift my bag to my other shoulder and look at my feet. Paul doesn't seem too thrilled to be left alone with me, but maybe he's just pissed that his friends ditched him to go talk to someone important.

India was just a story for Wolfboy, the first country that came to mind. I've already got myself a passport, ready for the moment I finish school and finally save enough money to get away. Anywhere, so long as it's not Plexus. I can take the names they call me, and the signs they put on my locker, and I can handle sitting alone to eat lunch, but this? This is not something I know how to deal with. I got through the day, but I'm never going back there again.

I told Lupe everything. I didn't mean to, but as soon as we were alone I suddenly wanted to.

It was hard to explain.

Lupe had no idea how email worked, or Photoshop. I had to explain how some girls from school had put together a photo of me with this guy I'd never seen before in my life. That they made it look like the photographer had caught me in the act; I was turning towards the camera with my top undone and my shirt hitched up around my waist. And how you couldn't even see the join; you couldn't tell they'd stuck my head on someone else's body. Even I thought it looked real.

And then they'd emailed the photo to the whole year level. And not just that; there were other names in the address field that I didn't even recognise: boys, girls, other years, other schools. It's too juicy not to forward. By now hundreds of people have probably seen it. Maybe more. There's no way I can tell every single person that the girl in the photo isn't really me.

I felt ashamed telling the story to Lupe, as if I'd actually done something wrong. I told her about everything except the card and my plan to escape. I didn't want her to say the sorts of things adults say. Like: Won't your mum be worried sick when you leave her? What will you do when the money runs out?

‘So, uh…do you come here often?'

I have to blink several times to bring myself back into the noisy room. Paul is looking at me. I'm not sure if it's because I'm a girl, or not from around here, but all his earlier vivacity has fled. His brown eyes are anxious behind his round glasses.

‘Nup. It's cool, I like it.'

‘Little Death is all right. Umbra isn't bad either, but for some reason this is always where we end up.'

Just when I thought living in Shyness meant always being scared or depressed or living in fear of monkey-muggings, here's a room full of people enjoying themselves. And the best thing is no one here knows me at all.

‘Is this place always open? I mean, if it's always night then how do you know when to go out?'

‘It never really closes. But there are quiet and busy times. People seem to know. I mean, there's a rhythm to Shyness, but it takes a while to feel it.'

‘I don't think I'm feeling it yet.' The only rhythm I can feel is the pulsing music soaking into my skin, spreading to my fingers and toes. I'm going to need to dance soon. Paul has the most incredible shoes on: black patent loafers fastened with buckles in the shape of bats. They're at odds with his shabby jeans and inside-out t-shirt.

‘It's nice to see Wolfboy out with a girl.' Paul looks over to where Thom and Wolfboy are still sitting with the record guy.

‘What do you mean?'

Two pink circles bloom on Paul's cheeks. He's just realised he's supposed to make Wolfboy sound like a stud.

‘He's having fun, I can tell. Sometimes I think he doesn't ever want to feel good, not after his brother died. It's like he's trying to punish himself by not letting himself ever be happy.'

His brother.

Ortolan used to go out with Wolfboy's brother.

And now he's dead.

More people have poured into the club and I can't see Wolfboy anymore. I feel sick and sad thinking about him losing someone close to him. The strange vibe at the Raven's Wing makes more sense now: why Ortolan was so sad, and Wolfboy so uncomfortable.

‘Of course,' I say. And then I'm silent. It's a trick I learnt from the shrink. To make people talk you have to be a blank white wall that they want to paint their stories on. No judgments, no reactions and no curiosity.

Paul leans against the wall at an uncomfortable angle. His glass is empty so I figure he might be in a talkative mood.

‘Gram was like a god to us all,' Paul continues. ‘He was, you know, good-looking, fucking lovely, got along with anyone. Him and Ortie, they were the best couple. Even before I liked girls I used to look at those two and think, I want that. One day, that's what I want.'

‘I guess that makes it extra sad, what happened.' I feel my way as I go.

‘He never got over it,' says Paul, pushing his floppy hair back. He looks like he has a bad case of sunburn. ‘I don't know why I brought this up. I'm drunk.'

I'm desperate to hear more, but I don't want to push it. Paul's kind of wasted, and Shyness is dragging everyone down again.

‘Your face has gone all red,' I tell Paul.

‘It's an Asian thing. It always happens when I drink.'

I squint, but for the life of me I can't see what the hell Wolfboy's doing over in that booth. I feel a rush of gratitude towards Paul for giving me a few more pieces of the Wolfboy puzzle. The music is louder and faster than ever, thumping against the stone walls. The kind of music you can lose yourself in. Paul and I can have fun on our own for a little while.

‘Let's go dance,' I say, grabbing him by the elbow.

thirteen

I realise that my lighter is missing while I'm sitting with Thom and Rick Markov and all of Markov's many girlfriends. I play with the lighter a lot. It's a comfort thing, the way other people bite their nails or crack their knuckles. Sometimes I flick the top open and closed; other times I let it sit in my palm, anchoring me.

I pat the pockets of my jeans one more time. Empty, except for my wallet and keys. My shirt pocket houses my phone, nothing else. Thom drones on beside me, talking about our (his) influences and our non-existent musical philosophy. Rick Markov appears to be barely awake, let alone listening. The whole time Thom talks, Markov thirteen strokes the leg of the woman next to him.

I can't sit here anymore. I stand up, avoiding Thom's eyes, and shuffle out of the booth. Someone slaps me on the arse as I go and a woman cackles.

I had the lighter when I was at the black market. After I used it I put it back in my pocket, as usual. And then we met the Kidds. It's not difficult to work out what happened. It was probably the boy and girl who were behind me. They could have been playing stoned so that we didn't take them seriously. It's been done before. You should never let the Kidds out of your sight while they're rolling. I was too busy worrying about Wildgirl's safety to remember the basic rules.

I seek out the darkest part of the room, close to where the wire fence stops people falling into the disused subway tunnel. I slip around the corner and through a gap where the fence doesn't quite meet the wall. A shadowy couple are all over each other at the end of the narrow platform. I ignore them and sit on a concrete block overlooking the abyss.

Ortolan gave the lighter to Gram on his eighteenth birthday and it has their initials engraved on the base in tiny letters that no one ever notices. That lighter is the only piece of Gram I have left. Soon after he died Mum cleared all of his stuff out of the garage. She donated some to charity and threw the rest out. I suppose she also went over to Gram's flat and did the same thing. She kept just a handful of photos, and the lighter, which she gave to me when my dad wasn't around. It was a strange thing for her to do because she's so anti-smoking.

There isn't a single light in the tunnel. Occasionally a gust of cold air passes through. I'm pretty sure the couple has started removing bits of clothing but I can't find it in me to be embarrassed. I should be burning mad, I should be doing something, swearing revenge or murder on the Kidds who stole my lighter, but I'm dead inside. I feel so heavy it wouldn't surprise me if I never moved from this place, if I turned into concrete myself.