“You can make out arses better in trousers. With mine anyway.” Pete nodded at the other girl. “Your one’s are a bit baggy but. Shame.”
Buttons on the blonde girl’s back pockets peeked at them like doll’s eyes.
Nicky said, “How come she’s mine?”
“I told you I always go for the blondes.”
“Jennifer Black’s not a blonde.”
“Aye she is. A bit.”
“That’s just a few stripes.”
“What’s colour’s your pal got again?”
“Who?”
“The wee Bible-basher you’re after.”
“I’m not after her.”
“My brother says there was this Christian girl in his year,” Pete said. “Wasn’t even good looking but everyone was after her cos she took it up the bum.”
They walked to the newsagent without saying anything else.
While Pete was filling his roll with the crisps, Jennifer Black and her chubby friend appeared. He shoved the food in his pocket and said, “Morning Jennifer.”
“Awright Skelf.” They went to push by.
“Good weekend?” Pete said, “What d’you get up to?”
“What were you and your wee boyfriend up to?”
He gave Nicky a shove. “This poof’d be lucky to have me.”
“We were at a party. Got shit-faced then Mark took us out in his car.”
“Whose party?” Pete said.
Nicky caught the other girl’s eye by mistake. She frowned, blowing smoke from her angry wee mouth.
Jennifer Black said, “Purdy’s. Him and Barry were buzzing gas all night. Barry smacked his head off a shelf.”
“Purdy,” Pete said, “the man with a pie supper for a face.”
Jennifer Black laughed then looked over at the wall where Purdy and the rest were smoking. She shook her head and said, “Oh my god,” and the two of them walked away.
“See yous later,” Pete shouted.
Sid passed them at the break, sparking a lighter with a cigarette behind an ear. He gave Nicky a nod.
“Is that the sicko?” Pete said. “What’s he doing giving you the nod?
“I dunno.”
“Bloody moshers. Look at the state of them.”
“They don’t bother anyone.”
“I wouldn’t mind bothering the Nazi Witch though – as long as she kept the big dirty boots on.”
Nicky shook his head. “You need castrated.”
They headed for the fence. Somewhere someone yelled: “YOU. WAIT THE FUCK THERE.” They carried on.
“FUCK-ING WAIT,” the voice went.
It was for them. They stopped. Purdy had been leaning on the fence, waiting. Now he was coming fast across the playground.
“Awright, Purdy,” Pete called back.
Nicky tugged his sleeve. Pete shook him off.
Purdy stopped. He pointed into Pete’s face. “You’re a wee dick.”
“What?”
“Quit smiling. Fuckin’ Skelf. You’re a wee dick. I know what you fuckin’ said.” He stepped closer and glared, white fat folding under his chin.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Fuck off. Jennifer Black told me.”
“I dunno what you’re going on about.”
Purdy pointed at Nicky. “You heard it. You wee poofs are always together.”
Nicky looked away.
“Pie supper face, she said.”
Pete held his hands up, shaking his head.
“Fuckin’ pie supper?”
Purdy reached and grabbed the neck of Pete’s jacket. He pushed till Pete’s legs buckled. Folk came running from different corners. Pete was flattened, turning dark red. Blood spotted his hands and he waved them about, as if he was afraid of staining Purdy’s jacket. Purdy knelt on his stomach, pulled out a chubby marker and bit the lid off. He grabbed Pete’s throat. In slow letters he wrote PIE across his forehead. He went back over it, making the word bolder, putting a full stop.
PIE.
He spat the lid into Pete’s face, clicked it on the pen and got to his feet.
“You’re the fuckin’ pie now.”
Purdy laughed. He zipped the marker in his pocket and went off. Pete rolled onto his side, the ink shining. Nicky took a step, but Pete scrambled up and walked off, pushing past everyone with his head hanging, wiping the word with the back of his hand.
“What’s that all about?” It was Sid, standing next to him.
“Nothing. He just said something stupid.”
They watched Pete jog round the corner.
“Poor guy,” Sid said. “Pretty funny though. Pie.”
“You still coming later?”
“What?”
“To mine, for a jam.”
“Not sure if I’ll make it.”
“Just come.”
The playground was emptying out. Nicky glanced at his watch. There’d been a chemical smell off the marker, as if the ink was permanent. He looked towards the toilets, where Pete’d be locked in a cubicle if any of them still had locks. There were no mirrors in there either.
Nicky went towards the main entrance and sunk in with the crowd and squeezed through the doors.
Everyone was gone, except for a wee kid on crutches waiting for a taxi. Pete wasn’t at the gates. Nicky crossed the road to the phone box, called home and left a message. He hung up, then unscrunched the piece of paper from his pocket.
No one answered the doorbell. Up at Sid’s bit, the houses were huge and white and someone had once bought a pair that backed on to each other, torn one down and replaced it with a tennis court. He waited then pressed the button again. When no one answered, he tried the door handle. It clicked open, leaking out a faint buzz of guitar. He kept hold of the handle, staring at the set of keys hanging from the other side. There was a thick cream carpet between him and the stairs. He went to undo his laces then stopped, wiped his feet and walked across. The banister creaked under his hand. It was carved wide and smooth and dotted with brass studs to prevent you sliding down on your arse. At the top he chose the door covered in yellow POLICE INCIDENT DO NOT CROSS tape. He nudged it open.
“Why don’t you just wear the fuckin’ specs,” Sid shouted.
The bass player stood close, squinting and trying to copy his fingers.
Sid let go of the guitar. “Get a strap that holds them on your head.”
“I don’t need the fuckin’ specs.”
“You’re always a beat behind man. And plus it’s only four notes. Just fuckin’ memorise it.”
“Piss off, man,” the other boy said. He flicked the hair out his face and noticed Nicky standing there. “Is that the guy?”
“Yeah.”
“From the church?”
Sid said, “This is Fadge.”
The boy with the bass nodded.
“Sticks are on the kit.” Sid started playing again.
Fadge’s eyes followed Nicky across the room. Sid smacked his shoulder.
“I’m trying to teach you this fuckin’ thing.”
Nicky sat on the stool and pulled the drums in tighter. He turned a screw on a stand and lowered it.
“It’s CIV,” Sid asked him, “D’you know CIV?”
Fadge said, “No one fuckin’ does. What’s the point even doing it?”
“Cos it’s a great song. And the bassline’s simple enough even for a fanny like you.” Sid came over and skimmed a finger across a cymbal edge. “You should just do whatever drummers do. Try and keep up. After four.” He walked back to the mike. “FOUR.”
Guessing where the kick and snare beats should go was easy. Sid yelled for him to play the toms and he filled the spaces in-between. Fadge quit eyeing him and concentrated on his bass, mouth hanging open and tongue sliding at his bottom lip. A chord blared and Sid sang, foot stamping the base of the mike stand. It was built from an upside down flowerpot, a broom handle shoved in the hole and brown tape round the mike at the top. Nicky watched, matching the beat.
Sid screamed: “CYMBALS.”
Nicky switched to the cymbal and hit until his arms ached. A skeleton face was grinning from a poster, black gaps between the teeth and its eyeballs rolled right back. Fadge was hunched over the bass, a bit of spit dribbling out. Sid screwed his eyes and meant the words, the guitar hanging at his crotch.
Fadge quit, then Sid, then Nicky. Sweat trickled into his shirt. They looked at Fadge. One string lay slack across the bass.
“Snapped it.” He tugged it free, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and went, “Fag?”
They slumped on a worn-out couch, feet on the edge of a glass table covered in used plates and glasses. Crumbs were scattered about and unboxed CDs stacked in a silver tower.
“D’you think his clothes are a bit shite?” Sid said.
Nicky was behind the drums. He looked at himself. “It’s my uniform.”
“I mean the gear you had on the other day.”
“That’s Sunday stuff.”
“S’pose you’ll be at the back, so no one’ll see.”
“Who gives a shit about the drummer anyway?” Fadge said.
“Your wee sister.”
Fadge threw a lighter and it bounced of the side of Sid’s head. He blew smoke at the ceiling.
“Open a window,” Sid said.
“Fuck off you.”
“You’re the fat prick smoking.”
“You’re the one about to spark up.”
“It’s my room but.”
Neither of them moved. Three tall windows looked out at the street behind them. Balled-up clothes were stuffed under the bed and spilling from a line of wardrobes. Fadge and Sid sat watching themselves in the mirrored doors.
Nicky nodded at the stereo. “Does that record player work?”
“My old boy gave me that, plus all his God-awful ancient records – Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen and all the other moany old bastards. It’s fucked anyway.” He picked up a remote, aimed it at the CD player.
“Not this old shite again.”
“Fadge son, this is the Ramones. You need to show some decorum.”
Fadge frowned.
“Fadge’d rather be listening to Ocean Colour Scene.”
“Shut it. I had like one CD. And it was a present. This stuff all sounds the same, man. The same three pish notes over and over.”
Sid pushed the earring through his ear and laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
They smoked and listened to the music. Felt pen graffiti covered the white walls. Different handwriting. I DID SID AND HAD HIS KIDS, then underneath I DID SID I GOT AIDS. Sid tapped some ash and rested the cigarette in the ashtray.
“Here. This is for you.” He stood, pulled a cassette from a pocket and stretched across the drums. Nicky took it and turned it over in his hands. SID’S GREATEST SHITS it said, then a skull and crossbones.
He fell back on the couch. “So Mondays are cool?”
“Mondays?”
“For practise. We’ll be playing the scout hall soon.”
Fadge sighed. “The scout hall again. For fuck’s sake.”
“When are you sorting us out a gig? Lazy big bastard.”
“Monday’s fine,” Nicky said.
“Good.” Sid crushed the cigarette end. “So you’re a Fuck Trumpet now.”
“What?”
“Welcome to the Fuck Trumpets.” He spread his arms out.
“Next week you get your tattoo,” Fadge said.