Nightingale Point. Luan Goldie

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      Nightingale Point feels hotter than when Tristan left it, so as well as a blue ice pole stain, he feels the sweat seep into the cotton at his armpits. Nastiness.

      ‘You again? Up, down, up, down,’ the old biddie on the third floor says. She sits on a dining table chair out on the landing, surrounded by a mess of plastic plants and flowers. The sight of her dentures makes Tristan queasy as she smiles at him. ‘No wonder you’re so skinny.’ She tuts. ‘Get yourself outside. Too hot to stay in. Bet your lot are used to it, though, ain’t ya?’

      He pauses and retraces his steps back down. ‘What?’

      ‘The heat. You know.’

      Is she serious? Old people have no filter whatsoever.

      ‘I tell you, young man, once it got so hot here I could have fried an egg on the floor.’ She points down to the narrow strip of grey concrete in front of her and sways. ‘Szzzz.’ She laughs. ‘I sat out here with your nan that day. If she was here now, she’d be sitting out here with me. A lickle tipple of rum.’ The woman mimics what he thinks is meant to be a Jamaican accent and laughs like a schoolgirl.

      He rolls his eyes, trying to remember a time when his church-going, twin-set wearing nan would ever have sat out with his woman. There’s no chance. Between working at the library five days a week, running around after Tristan and Malachi, and ferrying their mum back and forth to her hospital appointments, Nan had no time for anything other than standing in Mary’s kitchen and complaining about life. That’s Tristan’s overriding image of her: tired, shoes off, tights in all weathers, holding a mug of tea and giving Mary a rundown of her ailments.

      ‘When’s your nan coming back?’ the woman asks.

      ‘Nan ain’t coming back for a while.’ Nan stuck out life in London for over forty years; she damn near swam back to the island the day she felt Malachi was old enough to look after things. Nan always said life in the city was ‘nothing but bad luck and bad weather’. Guess she had more than her fair share of both.

      ‘Well, tell her I’ve got the rum in the cupboard for when she does, hee hee.’ The woman giggles again.

      He waves off her comments, then carries on up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

      Once home, the flat is stifling, the windows all closed. He pulls off his T-shirt and starts to fill the sink, adding a bit of bleach, before spotting a note on Malachi’s abandoned pile of books. If it’s the shopping list, Tristan’s definitely going to add a few meal ideas of his own. Instead he feels inspired to write and rap.

      ‘Baby come and get this champagne and lobster, you’re dining with the mobster, some curry goat to finish, and I know you’re gonna want more. Hmm, don’t quite rhyme.’ He crosses it out. ‘I need to handle business, get this money, you see, before Mal turns me into fucking fusilli.’ He sighs. ‘I’m getting worse. Off my game today.’ On the back of the paper there’s a note from Mal.

       Gone out for a walk. Need to clear head.

      When did he leave the flat? Tristan hopes Mal didn’t see him with the wall boys. Or with Elvis T-shirt. Tristan will properly be in the shit if that’s the case.

      ‘Who goes for walks round here anyway?’

      He goes to the mirror and takes in his profile. Yeah, he looks good, but that pigeon-legged depiction was kind of hurtful. Working out at home isn’t enough to get the kind of Tupac body he’s aiming for. Only a gym membership will do the trick.

      ‘Check out my abs, built to last, come rub my chest, let me feel your arse.’

      Tristan drops to the ground and starts doing push-ups. He’s hitting his flow when the door knocks. He jumps up, then tiptoes over, half expecting the police to be standing on the other side. Surely spitting at someone isn’t a crime? He’s not too sure. But on the other side of the spyhole is Mary’s husband, David Tuazon.

      ‘Smooth motherfucker,’ Tristan says as he unlocks the door.

      ‘Hello.’

      ‘Hey, man.’ Tristan can’t remember David ever shaking his hand before. Up until he was about twelve he can’t remember David even acknowledging him directly. Only ever through Mary, and this often took the form of a questioning murmur about what those kids were doing in his home again.

      Tristan gives a proper firm handshake, to which David pulls away and laughs. ‘My, how you have grown.’

      ‘Yeah.’ Tristan puffs out his chest and taps it. ‘I’ve had my Weetabix, innit.’

      ‘Either you’re hot or I am interrupting something?’

      Tristan, so used to his own nakedness, shrugs his shoulders. ‘Hot,’ he explains. ‘I ain’t seen you in over a year, man.’ There’s a fake-looking Louis Vuitton suitcase in the hall.

      ‘I’m looking for my wife. She’s not home.’

      ‘She gone work, innit. Saturday late shift.’

      ‘Ah. So.’ He runs his hand over one side of his hair; he has so much of it. ‘I’ve had a long journey. I am keen to get home and get some rest. I can never sleep on planes. You know how it is, so uncomfortable.’

      Tristan nods like he understands, despite never having been on a plane. His own passport, ordered for a school day trip to France that he couldn’t afford, still sits expectantly in his chest of drawers, each page pristine and unstamped.

      ‘I need the spare keys. I assume you have them?’

      The keys, yes, he remembers vaguely, but can’t remember anyone saying David would be back. He fears he’s losing his memory at fifteen and vows to give up smoking weed after the bank holiday weekend.

      ‘Oh yeah. Course. I mustn’t have been listening ’cause I really didn’t catch Mary say you were here.’

      ‘That’s because she doesn’t know. Well, she knows I’m on my way but I didn’t say when. I wanted to surprise her.’

      Tristan leaves the front door wide as he looks around for the keys on the coffee table; the cool green leaf key ring he added makes them visible among the dullness of Malachi’s architecture books.

      David inspects the key ring. ‘Thanks. See you later. Say hello to your brother.’

      Tristan СКАЧАТЬ