Nightingale Point. Luan Goldie

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ spokes that go click clack click.

      ‘What you drawing?’

      Elvis tries to remember what is best: to ignore or to lie. He chooses to ignore and tries to squeeze himself between the two bikes and off towards home, but he is not as small as he thinks and his T-shirt gets stuck on one of the handlebars. Maybe he is a fatty. He wriggles free and starts to walk away fast.

      ‘Why you walking off? I’m talking to you, brer.’

      He feels someone grab him and pull at his shorts. His notepad is pulled from the pocket. The biker, who Elvis really does not like and is very scared of, now holds the notepad and flicks through all the pages of Elvis’s important information about what takeaway dish is best and what time the postman comes. Then he stops and begins to laugh. He shows his friend, who laughs as well and shouts, ‘Oi, Tris, is this man your bum chum? Didn’t know you were into gingers.’

      The notepad is cycled back to the wall, where each of the boys has a look and a laugh.

      ‘Please,’ Elvis says, ‘can I have it back?’

      The boy with the impressive beard lets out a laugh, which sounds like the little girl who lives next door. He then stuffs his free hand down the front of his jogging bottoms, which is not socially acceptable no matter how much your penis needs to be adjusted.

      ‘Please, can I have it back?’ Elvis repeats, this time slightly louder than the last. He really does want it back.

      But the bearded boy ignores him and hands it to the bad black boy from the stairs, who looks at it, then shouts, ‘Is this meant to be me?’

      Elvis does not want to look at the boy’s very angry face, so instead focuses on the shiny diamond earring and the bright blue stain across the – otherwise – very white T-shirt.

      ‘What’s your problem, man? First you’re spying on me in the stairs and now you’re drawing pictures of me.’

      The other boys gasp; some laugh quietly.

      ‘Eh, Tris, this is proper creepy. This brer been stalking you?’ one of them says. ‘That’s some gay bunny boiler shit.’

      Elvis plans to grab the notepad very quickly, then run into Nightingale Point and up all the stairs and back into his perfect flat with all his perfect things, but as he reaches out the bad black boy grabs his fingers and twists them. It hurts. Elvis screams. He breaks free and tries to run away but two of the boys on bikes block his path. The bad black boy comes forward and starts to rip each page from the notepad and scrunch them up. Finally, he flicks the notepad over into the car park. The boys all laugh and the bad black boy hoots with them.

      ‘Sicko,’ he shouts.

      ‘Don’t let him get away with it, Tris,’ says the bearded one.

      Elvis is very frightened of being hurt again. He wraps his arms around his head and squeezes his shoulders up to his ears. The bad black boy takes a step closer but instead of pain Elvis feels a glob of wet spit cover his lips and chin.

      The boys all laugh and the bad black boy shouts, ‘Stay away from me, you fucking retard.’

CHAPTER NINE

       Chapter Nine ,Tristan

      The boys hover around the wall in order of importance, headed by Ben Munday, who sits in the shade offered by Nightingale Point, pride of place. He’s got on the latest Air Jordans, the type of footwear Tristan can only dream of owning.

      ‘What’s up, Tris? You look nuff prang,’ asks one of the younger boys from his bike.

      ‘Aw, it’s this heat.’ Tristan wipes his brow with a flourish but is embarrassed when he discovers the back of his hand glistening. ‘What you lot saying then?’

      ‘Chilling,’ answers the boy.

      ‘Yeah, yeah. Chilling.’ Tristan relaxes a little, allows his shoulders to drop. What’s twenty quid anyway? Ben Munday probably has so much money he doesn’t even remember lending it. Now that’s the kind of flex Tristan needs to be on. This relying on your big brother for handouts thing is getting long. Really tedious.

      ‘Here.’ One of the older boys hands Tristan a blue ice pole from a striped off-licence bag.

      Ben Munday stands up and fusses with his hands down the front of his joggers, then pulls out a small washing powder net filled with £10 bags of cannabis. Tristan swears he can smell the weed, heated up by this boy’s groin. The thought is kind of repulsive.

      ‘Eh,’ one of the cycling boys says, ‘you seen Mustafa from Barton Point about? I’m gonna get him today, y’know.’ He punches one fist into the other.

      ‘For real?’ Tristan feigns interest, distracted by the tightness of the wrapper on the ice pole. He puts it between his teeth and tries to rip it.

      ‘He tried to chat up my sister. Man needs to be taught a lesson. You know me, how I protect my family and that.’

      ‘Yeah, yeah, get him good,’ Tristan says as he battles with the plastic seal. It bursts open and a blue juice sprays across his T-shirt. ‘Shit.’

      The boys laugh.

      ‘You look like a sanitary towel advert.’

      ‘For fuck’s sake, man.’ Tristan is furious. ‘This is clean on.’

      ‘You were asking for it wearing that much white,’ Ben Munday says.

      The toxic-looking blue colours the pavement as Tristan throws it to the floor. He leans down to wipe the bright drips off the trainers he takes so much pride in keeping spotless.

      ‘Eh, Tris, you know him?’

      ‘Who?’ He licks a finger and scrubs it along the stain. As he looks up he spots the man in the Elvis T-shirt from earlier in the stairwell. But this time he’s got a book out, a notepad or something, and is scribbling away. The boys cycle over and take it from him. Then they burst out laughing. Tristan tries to work out what’s going on.

      ‘Oi, Tris,’ one of the boys shouts back, ‘is this man your bum chum? Didn’t know you were into gingers.’

      ‘What’s he on about?’

      The notepad flaps by their sides as they cycle back and then pass it along the group. Each face breaks into laughter as they see whatever is written and Tristan waits for his turn to get in on the joke.

      Elvis T-shirt follows. ‘Please,’ he says, ‘can I have it back?’

      Ben Munday shoves a hand back down his pants before letting out his one uncool trait: his high-pitched laugh.

      ‘Please, can I have it back?’ Elvis T-shirt reaches out for the notepad but it’s finally passed to Tristan. The pencilled figure has lines shaved across its hair, a star in СКАЧАТЬ