Dear Charlie. N.D. Gomes

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      ‘Then tell him you’d be happy to finish it at home but that Sam here is your Physics partner,’ she grinned, winking at me.

      ‘Sam Macmillan!’ he blurted out, as if my name caused him physical pain. ‘My dad would never let him in the house.’ He quickly glanced at me. ‘No offence, I don’t even know you.’

      ‘Exactly. The library will sound pretty nice to your dad then,’ she laughed.

      ‘So, it’s settled,’ the group’s leader announced loudly, silencing the others beside him. ‘We’ll meet at Griffins Park at 9.30 and get the bus over.’ He shoved a couple of books into his torn leather backpack and stood up from the table, pushing away the chair. Immediately, everyone else followed. But before they left, he turned to me and in front of everyone, talked directly to me. ‘You coming with us?’

      I looked around to see if there was someone else he could be talking to. ‘Me?’

      ‘Yeah, you. My cousin is a bartender at this music club in the city and there’s a good band playing on Saturday.’

      ‘I don’t have a fake ID,’ I answered quickly, hoping that would be the end of the conversation.

      ‘Neither do we.’

      Every immediate excuse in my mind induced some elaborate story that would mean talking out loud for a long time to a group of people staring at me. So, to avoid more embarrassment, I just nodded.

      ‘Good. See you at Griffins Park. We meet at the big slide.’

      Their backs turned, I replayed that conversation over and over in my head. But no matter how much I analysed each word exchanged, I couldn’t make sense of what just happened. I opened my mouth to call them back, explain that I couldn’t make it Saturday night. But then I realised – I wanted this. I wanted to go with them. But did they really want me there? Was this my big turning point? Or was I about to find out that I hadn’t actually reached the bottom, and that I could, in fact, fall much deeper into the hole that my brother had dug for me?

Chapter 4

       ‘The Circle’ (Ocean Colour Scene, Autumn 1996)

      Saturday couldn’t come fast enough. Noel and his group of followers continued their efforts to make my days at Knightsbridge increasingly difficult. In P.E., a ‘friendly’ basketball game turned into an unfriendly game of dodgeball where I was the target. Noel and his friends bumped me in Chemistry, causing a beaker to drop to the ground and green liquid to ooze out. Somehow it was me that gained a one-day detention for that. Again, I was a human rubbish bin at lunchtime, and just when I thought the week couldn’t get any worse, someone wrote ‘R.I.P. Pembrook’ on my notebook in English when I went to the bathroom.

      When Saturday finally arrived, I was so anxious I didn’t eat all day. Several scenarios surrounding Saturday’s plans raced through my mind, ones where I would say something witty and everyone would love me, and others where I would show up at Griffins Park and no one would be there. Regardless of tonight’s outcome, one thing was clear. For the first time in a long time, I was thinking about something else other than my brother and what he did. And no one would ever understand how amazing that felt.

      Outfit after outfit hit my bedroom floor but not one looked or felt right. It was too warm for the striped jumper that had patches on the elbows from too much wear, and the collared shirt made me look like I was going to church. All of my shoes looked too polished, and my hair resisted the gel I squeezed into it. I took so long picking out an outfit that I missed dinner, but apparently no one downstairs noticed. I wasn’t even that hungry, and it gave me more time to choose between blue jeans or beige cords. I chose the cords, which I instantly regretted as soon as I walked up to the slide. They turned up – which squashed one theory – but they were all wearing the same outfit near enough – black jeans, a graphic tee and a ripped flannel shirt turned up at the sleeves. Each had on an array of leatherette wrist accessories, loose strands effortlessly looping around another band or simply just sticking out.

      ‘You came,’ smiled the girl, as she turned around.

      Should I not have?

      She jumped off the slide and took a step closer. ‘I’m Izzy, and this is Dougie.’

      Dougie, the leader, leaned up against the steps of the big slide and simply acknowledged my presence by nodding. The others followed suit, each offering up their own identity – Worm, Max, Debbie, Neall. And there I was, just Sam. No cool nicknames or funny anecdotes to follow. Before I had time to question myself any more, we were off. Hopping onto the 39 bus, we occupied the back row of seats as regular teens do on a Saturday night.

      It was a little after ten o’clock when we reached the music hall. I didn’t want to mention that I usually went to bed by nine. The queue of people spread over a whole block, showcasing an eclectic mix of facial piercings and neck tattoos. Instead of joining the back of the line, Dougie led us around the back of the building past the rubbish bins. We huddled outside the back door and waited almost twenty minutes in awkward silence before the door opened, hitting Worm in the face. Standing in the doorway was a lanky guy in his mid-twenties with a chain that seemed to be painfully and unnecessarily connected from his right nostril to his right ear lobe.

      ‘You brought too many. I said three, max.’

      ‘Come on, there’s only six of us,’ pleaded Dougie.

      ‘Seven,’ corrected Izzy, motioning towards me.

      I could feel people’s eyes on me, so I lowered my head until part of my face was hidden in the collar of my coat.

      ‘Fine but if anyone catches you, you tell them you sneaked in. OK?’

      Dougie shrugged and slid past his cousin. ‘Didn’t even see you.’

      Inside, music blasted from all around me, crushing my head like heavy stone. It would take at least a couple of days for my ears to stop ringing. Sweaty bodies danced too close to each other and flipped their heads back and forth to a song that seemed to consist only of screaming and loud banging.

      ‘Do you like punk rock?’ screamed Izzy over the noise.

      ‘Love it!’ I yelled back at her, possibly too quickly. Was punk rock a sub-genre of rock? Or, did it refer to a specific band? Honestly, I hated whatever was happening on the stage in front of me. Aside from the singer who was dressed in a torn tuxedo, there was no real music to be found. Ten years of piano lessons had embarrassingly left me with only a preference for the classics. And whatever this was, it was definitely not classical.

      Within fifteen minutes, I had found my place for the next three hours – in a corner by the men’s bathroom. While Debbie flailed her arms around on the dancefloor like she was having an epileptic fit, Worm, Max and Neall bartered to get two older guys to buy them beers. I hadn’t seen Dougie since we walked in. Eyes scanning the room, I searched for him and Izzy. When a group of dancers left the floor for another round of some white-coloured liquid that was served in a test tube that belonged in a chemistry lab, I saw her. Standing alone by the stairs, Izzy stared out momentarily transfixed. Her face glistened in the strobe lights, and she clenched her jaw. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Dougie propped against the bar, beer in hand, talking to two girls. One had red streaks in her hair and the other had a lip ring. Whatever he was СКАЧАТЬ