Annie’s face was there.
“I thought you’d swallowed your tongue. I knew someone who died like that.”
“What time is it?”
“About half seven.”
She was propped on one arm. Nicky sat up quickly and knocked the glass over. Cider spilled and they both rolled out the way. While he slept, someone had done the white outline of his body on the carpet. He picked at it. It looked like Tippex. There were two circles where the cider and glass were sitting.
“That stuff stinks,” she said.
He turned away, hiding his breath, “Who died?”
“What?”
“Who swallowed their tongue?”
“No one really. But you hear about it happening to loads of folk,” she stood. “You coming?”
“Where?”
“I’ve got a fucker of a hangover. You probably do too. We need medicine.”
Nicky pointed at the stain on the carpet. “What about this?”
Annie rubbed it in with her boot then went towards the door. He got up and followed.
“Catch yous two later,” the Wizard said, his eyes red slits.
He could see his breath. Overnight it had rained and the ground was soaked. On Sid’s street most of the houses hid behind massive trees, pale dry semi-circles on the pavement below. Annie had a green army jacket on with a wee flag on each shoulder, the arms too long so only her fingertips poked out. She said, “When you’re out this early on Sundays it feels like the world’s ended.”
“Where do we get the medicine?” Nicky said.
“Feeling rough?”
He nodded and she smiled then stared ahead, serious again.
She didn’t speak until a jogger overtook. “Poor bastard,” she said, “Imagine that was your life.”
She looked at Nicky but he didn’t know what to say.
They turned off the main road at the garage. Nicky stepped ahead and pushed the door open for her.
“Are you from the olden days?” She went in and told him to wait.
He asked if she needed money.
“You can get it next time.”
A blue carrier back hung from her arm. She came out and marched past, the tail of the army jacket almost reaching her knees. He caught up with her on the pavement.
“You get all your stuff from Sid’s?”
He stopped and tapped each of his pockets and nodded.
Annie watched. “Fuckin’ hell. How many pockets d’you need?”
“I’ve got the same amount as you.”
“My mum used to sew mine up when I was wee. I’m making up for it.” She swung the carrier bag at him. “You’ve just got a shit jacket.”
Nicky tugged it down. “Leave it alone.”
She led them to the pitches and over to the play park. On the way past he nodded at the grass field. “Remember when that was all red ash?”
“Before I came here.”
“Where were you before?”
“Fuckin’ Wales.”
“You don’t have an accent.”
“Thank god.”
They sat on the swings and she started digging through the carrier bag. She brought out a glass bottle. “Hangover cure part one. Drink.”
It was cream soda. He took a mouthful and groaned. “Too foamy. I think I might be sick.”
She dropped a packet of crisps in his lap. “Part two. Eat.”
“I hate cheese and onion.”
Smiling, she reached for the bottle, clamped it between her thighs and rummaged in her pockets.
Nicky munched a handful of crisps, swapped back and washed it down with more soda. “I don’t know if this is helping.”
She held up a cigarette. “This is part three. Key ingredient.”
“I don’t smoke.”
She smiled again and sucked on it.
They nudged back and forward on the swings. A few dog walkers passed in welly boots, dogs unclipped from leads and bolting for the tracks through the woods down to the river.
“What happened with Fadge last night?”
“The band sounded a bit shit. No offence.”
Nicky tutted. “Sid’s fault. Don’t even know what he was playing.”
“He started bevvying about eleven in the morning someone said. And Merlin’s weed’s pure super powered.”
“What about Fadge?”
“Dunno. He’s a lightweight.”
“I mean – was that the old drummer he was going mental at? Shanks?”
She nodded.
“How come?”
“I thought you were supposed to be in church or something?”
“What time is it?”
“About half eight.”
Her fingertips were wrapped round the chains on the swing, the nails painted a purplish colour with flecks picked away, white and pink underneath. She noticed him looking and stuffed her hands up the sleeves.
“You ever done a nightmare?” she said.
“Will it make me feel better?”
“You might spew, which probably will. Lie under my swing.”
“The ground’s soaking.”
“Don’t be a gayboy. Your jacket’ll keep you dry.”
“Quit slagging it. It’s Gore-tex.” He did as he was told, lying on the spongy surface. “Will this hurt?”
“Only if I fall on you.” She spread her legs so he could lie in between then hopped on the swing. “You can do me after.”
Feet on the seat, she clung to the chains and the black rubber swayed above his eyes.
“What’s scary about this?”
She kicked her feet and got some momentum going. The swing went higher. It fell further each time and the seat sliced closer past his face. She went so high the chains slackened and the swing jolted right above his forehead, almost skinning his chin on the way back.
“I think I am about to spew. Stop, please.”
She laughed with her mouth open.
“Come on. It’s my turn.”
The swing flew by, almost snapping his jaw.
“No fuckin’ chance.”
When he managed to open his eyes he could see her grinning, watching him. Smooth white skin bunched beneath her chin. Her lips were their natural colour and cracked, a bit of charcoal make up above her eyes.
He’d stood for a long time in the shower. His skin still felt greasy, the stink of cider seeping out. He tapped the drums, not bothering with fills. During the sermon he almost drifted off and Janet Johnson had to hiss at him over the piano.
While he was packing away the kit he felt a squeeze on the shoulder.
“You look like a zombie,” Ruth said. She was wearing a tight jumper and stood close, rubbing him lightly.
“Thanks.”
“You’re all black under the eyes.”
He nodded.
She tilted her head and smiled at him. “Why don’t we do something this week? Feels like I’ve not seen you properly for ages.”
“I’d like that.”
“Well call me.”
She did a wee hop on her toes and walked up the aisle to talk to someone else, her new boots on. He sighed and puffed at the mess of drum parts and cases on the floor.