Sid said, “You’re fuckin’ early.”
An older boy was stretched on the bed reading a magazine. Beside him sat a tray with cigarette papers, a lighter and wee plastic bags knotted at the top. Nicky walked by and nodded. He sat on the old couch next to Sid. Sid had a beer can at his lips, pinging the ring pull in time with the CD. He scrunched the can and left it to topple and leak on the table.
“Shit. Introductions,” he said and waved an arm. “This is the Wizard.”
The boy on the bed tipped an invisible hat. His hair was shaved down to stubble and he wore glasses with thick black frames.
“And this is the Messiah.”
Nicky nodded again.
Sid pointed at the bed. “Ask him his actual name.”
The boy sighed and said, “You always do this when it’s new folk.”
“Just ask him.”
Nicky asked. “What’s your name?”
“Merlin.”
“You’re so full of bullshit,” Sid said
Merlin held a palm towards the ceiling. “God’s honest truth. My folks are mad hippies. They were I mean.”
“Bollocks,” Sid turned to Nicky. “No one knows for sure cos none of us were at school with him. He’s pure ancient.”
“Why don’t you bring your birth certificate in?” Nicky said.
“Mad bastards like him aren’t born. He’s the – what’s the fuckin’ word – the by-product of some experiment.”
The Wizard smiled, lifted the tray on his lap and went to work. No one spoke until Rudy Can’t Fail came on the stereo.
“This is the Clash,” Nicky said.
Sid leaned and ruffled his hair. He took his hand away and stared at it. “Your head’s all crunchy, man.”
“It’s just a bit of gel.”
He wiped his hand on Nicky’s jeans. “You got London Calling?”
The Wizard laughed. “A punk with a library card.”
“Merlin loves Jethro Tull and all that pish. He’s a sad, sad old bastard.”
“The Tull are quality. Plus, you weren’t calling me an old bastard when you needed the booze.”
“Is that almost done?” Sid said.
He held up a long lumpy cone.
Nicky said, “That’s a beast.”
“This is what you call a beast.” Sid heaved a carrier bag from the side of the couch and dumped it between them. Nicky stared and ran his hand across it. He slid the bag off and the bottle of cider lay there, fat and wet with condensation.
“Did you know that shit’s made out of onions?”
“How d’you even know, Merlin? You don’t even drink. Just sit there and smoke till you go blind. Or get so para you fling yourself out the window.”
“Get to France, sir. That doesn’t happen any more. Anyway, the weed’s better for you. It’s herbal. A gift from the earth.”
“So are onions,” Sid said.
“How much was it?” Nicky said.
“Don’t worry son. It’s your award. Best newcomer.”
Nicky unscrewed the lid. He took a sniff and coughed.
“Onions,” the Wizard said.
The doorbell rang. Sid left the room. Nicky sat for a while, hearing the front door open and close, downstairs filling with voices. He’d found a cleanish glass on the window ledge. The best way to avoid the taste was by pouring the cider under his tongue and swallowing fast.
“Sure you don’t want a wee glass?”
The Wizard shook his head, eyes hidden behind the glare on his glasses. On his tray a new pattern of papers was covered in tobacco. He was plucking green buds from the plastic bag, sprinkling them on top.
Train in Vain came on and Nicky said, “D’you like the Clash?”
“You’ll get hung round these parts, if you say you don’t. Know what I mean? But it’s beginners’ punk. No offence, man. Anyway, if it’s less than seven minutes, I forbid myself from listening. I took an oath.”
“But this is only about three.”
“Doesn’t count since I didn’t put it on. Sid’s banned me from his stereo anyway.”
Nicky drained the glass. He refilled it and picked up the bottle. “Think I’ll go downstairs.”
The Wizard saluted.
He took the stairs slowly, seeing the tops of heads huddled around the hall. By the front door Glove leaned and spoke with a girl. He’d matched his nail polish with a bit of black smudged around his eyes. Nicky wandered over.
“Nicky,” Glove said, “you met Melissa yet?”
The girl turned. It was the Nazi Witch, in different boots and a short black skirt.
“Hi.”
“Are you the Messiah?” She grabbed his jacket and kissed his cheek. “You’re at my school, aren’t you?”
Nicky nodded.
“It’s full of arseholes and pathetic wankers.”
“We’ve got more,” Glove said.
“Ours is worse. All day I get called a mosher bitch. Even some of the manky wee first years chuck stuff at me.”
“Mostly I get called a poof. Or a wee fuckin’ gay poof. Or AIDS boy.”
“That’s just the truth though, Glove,” she said.
“Except for the AIDS part,” Glove said.
“Have you ever been tested?”
“You better hope so.”
She rolled her eyes at Nicky.
Melissa was holding an empty glass. He lifted the cider and said, “D’you want some?”
She winced at the bottle. “No thanks. But thanks, you’re sweet. Don’t you think, Glove?”
Glove smiled.
Nicky looked into his glass then took a long drink. He walked off down the hallway, past a photo knocked from the wall, frame sunk in the carpet. In the picture a wee boy rested his head on a grey-haired woman’s shoulder, her laughing so hard her eyes were gone and her face cracked with wrinkles. He peered in the living room. Folk were packed in, sitting around on the floor. The mist of fag smoke made him blink and rub his eyes, and he realised Glove and Melissa were watching from the end of the hall. Tip-toeing over arms and legs, he went in and found a space in the corner. Music blared. He sat cross-legged, and a long-haired boy turned to pass on a joint. Nicky shook his head. The boy pushed it under his face. Cardboard curled up in the end, damp with spit and lipstick smudges. He pinched hold and handed it on.
A boot came from above, crushing his pinky. He snatched his hand away, looking right up Melissa’s skirt. She was kicking folk out the road, clearing a space, then she sat with her mouth close to his ear.
“Is that cider working?”
“D’you want some now?”
She shook her head.
Nicky took a drink and she closed her hand round the bottom of the glass. She tilted it and shouted, “Take your medicine.”
The cider filled his mouth. He gulped and tried to pull her hand off. More poured down his throat. He gulped again. Some dribbled around his lips, spilling on to his jacket. She wouldn’t let go, her other hand tipping his chin till the glass was finished.
He wiped his face on his sleeve.
“All done,” she said. She put her hand on his knee and leaned in. “D’you like this?”
Nicky stared. Her mouth was wide and her lipstick black, sticky looking.
“The music?” she said.
He put his mouth to her ear. “Who is it?” Wispy hairs tickled his face.
“Korn,” she said, “Have you never listened to Korn?”
“I’m more into punk.”
She laughed. “I’m getting us some voddy.” She used his knee to hoist herself up. Her skirt brushed his head as she went to the door, booting bodies out the way.
People gathered at the table. Crystal tumblers had been taken out of the glass cabinet in the corner and lined up and filled with bright red shots. A countdown began. The long-haired boy with the joint was there. He chucked his down at seven and the rest copied, slamming their tumblers back and hissing at each other. Folk started edging away, stepping on Nicky’s hands. There was a crush in one side of the room. He got up and peered over shoulders. Space had cleared round a clammy-faced girl in stripy tights, hands covering her puffed cheeks. She doubled over and the tumbler rolled away, dribbling red across the carpet. She pressed her mouth and heaved. Folk groaned and cheered but nothing came. She let go and gripped her knees, gulping breaths and he thought he heard her groan and say, “I just ate sick.”
Someone called his name – he heard it in the gap between songs. From a door across the room Fadge’s sister signalled at him. He edged towards her. When he was near she took hold of his jacket, pulled him into the kitchen.
“Annie,” he said.
“Come on.” She led him out the backdoor.
Shadows cartwheeled at the bottom of the garden, walled in by big shaggy hedges. Everything had been left to grow wild and the concrete slabs were cracked. Annie sparked up.
He said, “How come you don’t just smoke inside like everyone else?”
“Manners. And so I could save your life. Once again.”
“Melissa.”
He put his glass on the doorstep and started filling it. “D’you want some cider?”
“Mibbe you didn’t want saved though.”
“I was just sitting there. She came over to me.” He swallowed a big mouthful. “It’s roasting in there though.”
“Try taking that jacket off for once. Every time I see you it’s done up to your chin, like a fuckin’ straight jacket.”
He pulled the zip down a couple of notches. “Is that better?”
“That’s twice I’ve rescued you now.”
“She was just getting a drink.”
“So she could get you pished. She likes deflowering virgins.”
Nicky took another gulp.
“She thinks she’s a witch.” Annie dropped the cigarette, most of it unsmoked and ground her foot till tobacco was crushed into the patio. “I’m away in,” she said.
Everyone came into the living room to watch. Sid had set the kit up all wrong, as if Nicky was a left-hander. FUCK TRUMPETS had been felt-tipped on the bass drum, TRUMPETS written too big and too far along and squashed against the rim. Nicky had to reset the whole thing, hands sticky with sweat. Sid’s eyelids were heavy and he swung his guitar in front of the speaker, filling the room with feedback. He kept shouting, “Messiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaah, can we fuckin’ play now?” Fadge leaned on the mantelpiece with his bass on and his bottle of wine.
Nicky took some quick sips off cider, left it on the window ledge and picked up the sticks. He nodded.
“So play,” Sid said.
“What song?”
“Who cares.”
“How should I start it?”
“Just play, you lovely wee bastard.”
He shrugged and started knocking out a beat, watching his feet work the pedals. Sid took his time lighting a cigarette and let it hang from his mouth. He swung his arm and hit a messy chord. Fadge lifted his elbow and left the wine on his amp.
Sid spoke into the mike. “LADIES AND—”
The fag fell out. He got on hands and knees. Nicky kept the beat going and Fadge turned for another drink, put the wine back, went towards the mike and stopped, glaring into the crowd. He started pushing through, the bass swinging. Folk shifted out the way and a tall lamp collapsed against the wall, bare bulb spilling light. Nicky kept playing. Fadge was pointing a finger and shouting, heading for a slick-haired boy at the back. The boy shook his head and raised his hands. His lips were moving, apologising. Fadge moved faster. Sid was still pawing around the floor.
A voice went, “TIMBER.”
He tumbled over Sid’s back, on to the bass and the lead stretched and tipped the amp face-first. Nicky stopped.
Fadge was sprawled out. “FUCK OFF. FUCK OFF YOU,” he was screaming. His trouser leg was rumpled, one white sock stained with wine. The bottle was glugging away, carpet sucking up the red puddle.
The boy was gone. Sid stepped over Fadge and walked off, cigarette stuck in his mouth.
Nicky tried all the doors until he found Sid’s room. The Wizard was on the bed in dimness, examining the end of a joint.
“Merlin,” Nicky said, “been here all night?” He sat on the floor.
“Had a few visitors. One or two enquiries.”
He put the glass and bottle beside him and lay back on the carpet, stiff and itchy against his neck. There was a voice sneering from the stereo. Guitars stabbed tinny chords.
“You still there Nick?”
He waved.
“How’s the party progressing?”
“Fadge says he broke a rib. Someone tried to deflower me.”
“You made it back though, man. I’m glad.”
On the stereo the voice was going on about a Cadillac in a graveyard. The Wizard started singing along with the bassline, going, “DOO DA – DOO DA – DOO DA – DOO DA.” He took some silent draws then said, “No one’ll ever write a song as great as this again. Will they?”
Nicky opened his eyes. “I dunno. What is it? Probably not.”
“D’you reckon there’s some guy sitting in a bedroom somewhere, right now, with all these songs. Even just one great song? Mibbe he’s been too lazy, or unlucky, or some record businessman fucked up. Mibbe the guy didn’t even write the songs or learn to play and they’re just in there, unsung. But they’re like the fuckin’ masterpieces of our time and no one will ever have the privilege to hear the fuckin’ things,” he took another smoke. “When I say guy, I mean it also could’ve been a woman. Know what I mean Nick?”
“Kind of.”
“It’s weird man. It just seems to me that we got lumbered with the stick at the end of the shit.” He laughed.
The band had stopped, leaving one guitar scratching between the chords.
“I might be that guy,” the Wizard said. “Mibbe I’m the one. Or you.” He turned up the volume.
The voice was gone. More and more notes came from another guitar, strung together till you realised each note couldn’t be there without the one before. Nicky closed his eyes. It wandered on and on, tricking you into thinking it didn’t know exactly where it was going. The band got louder and louder, the Wizard cranking the volume and it became one noise filling the whole room, everyone playing DUH DUH DUH, DUH DUH DUH, DUH DUH DUH, DUH DUH DUH. Eyes closed tight, Nicky banged his head against the carpet. The guitar broke free, climbing. It made it right to the top where no notes were left.
Then there was a harp. Something, not a human thing, crying. He closed his eyes again. For a few seconds it was only the drums.