After spreading the newspaper he forced open the polish. Rust stuck to his fingers. He skimmed the brush over the broken black surface and worked it into the leather, adding extra across the toes and digging the bristles in. He made both boots dull, none of the weak bulb in the basement reflecting. With the other brush he scrubbed until the sheen came through, spitting dots of saliva like he’d seen folk do and buffing it in. One hand inside, he tilted a boot under the light. The soles were big chunks of rubber, a wedge of heel worn away. The last person had probably died before managing to wear them out.
Beside him the shiny-faced boy had thrown his arms in a V, reaching for the ceiling with fingers spread and his eyes squeezed tight. He was balling the words. He must’ve been tone-deaf. On the other side Ruth swayed, a stray hand grazing Nicky’s leg and her voice quivered, face screwed in some kind of agony. He stared at the words on the screen and moved his lips along.
The hall was full of folk from the other churches. He looked around, thinking he recognised the sick-eating girl from Sid’s party. Ruth raised a palm to the sky and blocked his view. There were other faces from school, folk he never knew came to these things, folk he’d never go up and speak to.
The drummer hit a big fill and they sang another chorus, the band ceasing so it was just voices and drums. The worship leader let go of his guitar and clutched the air. Nicky’s feet stewed in the boots.
They sang the final line. Long low notes bubbled from the keyboard and guitars plucked through chords. Mack returned to the front of the stage, eyes closed and arms out like a blind man. He spoke into his radio mike: “Lord. Bless this place. Each of these believers, gathered from all around. Bless this tiny flock, gathered from each corner of this side of your little city. Protect us and challenge us and send us forth into another week, ears ringing with the promise of the greatest flock gathered in your name on high for ever and ever.”
A solemn amen went round the place. Then there was hush. They sat.
Ruth kept her head bowed and eyes closed. Folk started chatting, the hall filling with noise. She sat like that for a while then looked around, blinking.
“Enjoy it?” he said.
She nodded, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“Did you see my new boots?” He crossed one leg on his knee and tugged his trouser leg, showing her the whole thing.
“Watch it.” Her cream coat was in her lap. She tutted and rubbed at a dirty mark.
“Sorry.”
“How are they so scuffed already?”
“Got them second-hand.”
She licked her thumb and rubbed at the dirty mark again.
“Means they’re already broken in,” Nicky said.
“Yeah. With someone else smelly sweat.”
Nicky shrugged.
A girl walked over and tapped her shoulder. Ruth grinned, leaped up and the two girls hugged.
He looked away, eyes pointed ahead in case tone-deaf boy was sitting there, waiting to talk to him. He glanced. The seat was empty. At the end of the row the boy had both arms slung over the chair in front and his head burrowed in. He was shuddering, sobbing. Next to him Mack crouched with a hand on his shoulder and prayed into his ear.
He was first to leave. The smell of coffee wafted out the church kitchen into the hallway. He jogged down the steps and up the hill, teeth clenched and hood up and wee dashes of rain slashing his face.
Pete hacked up more gunk, spat in a hanky then scrunched it back in his pocket.
“Too many fags?” Nicky said.
He whispered back. “Lung infection.”
“Nicholas,” it was Fanny Pack, the English teacher, “If this was the real exam you’d be out the door. Automatic fail.”
“I’m done.”
“Well. Sit there and shut up. You’ll need the practise for the exam hall.”
He stared at the sheet. Pete kicked him. “Move your arm. I don’t know any of this pish.”
He didn’t move.
Pete kicked harder. “Don’t be a cock. Please.”
Nicky leaned back.
“Your handwriting’s shit.”
“Nicholas,” Fanny Pack said. Pink fat jiggled off her arm, finger pointing at the door. “Out.”
“It was him.”
“I don’t give a damn. Give me your paper and get out. You were warned. Exam conditions.”
“Unlucky,” Pete whispered. “Grass.”
“Peter. I’ve had about enough of you too. You can join him.”
Nicky dropped the sheets on her desk. Her square glasses dangled round her neck on a stupid cord strung with tiny beads. She started raking around in her bum bag and took out her red pen.
He shivered against the freezing corridor wall, hands crossed behind his back.
“How long till the bell?” Pete said.
“I dunno. Thanks by the way.”
“You grassed me up. At least you got it finished.”
“It was easy.”
“You’re so keen,” Pete said. He broke into coughs, specks of saliva spraying out and wet barks coming from deep in his chest. He hacked up a mouthful of phlegm and worked it round his mouth then swallowed.
“Should you even be in?”
Pete cleared his throat and smoothed his hair. It was caked in gel, combed flat and forward. His cowslick flicked in the air, strands standing like spider’s legs. Footsteps came along the corridor and he glanced and nodded. “Look who it is.”
It was Sid. He waved with a purple sheet of paper.
“King of the moshers,” Pete said.
He reached them and stopped. “Messiah. You’re becoming a renowned troublemaker. What’s your crime?”
“Trying to help him.”
“Fuck were you,” Pete said.
“Where you going?” Nicky asked.
“Just on a wander. Got this register I carry about in case any dick tries to stop me.”
They could hear the teacher lecturing the class. Her voice came close to the door and Sid ducked. It moved away and he relaxed. “If anyone looks close I’m screwed. It’s from last year. See?” He showed it to Pete. “Who’s your teacher man?”
“Fat Pat Fanny Pack.”
Sid grinned. “Tits so big they broke her back. I had the daft cow last year.”
“You had her?” Pete said. “You rode Fanny Pack?”
He winced. “Imagine it, man. Would you?”
“Fuck off.”
“If she gave you an A but, automatically?”
“Only if she kept the bumbag on.”
Sid laughed. “She left her shopping bags in our class once and we found this brand new bra inside. When she came back in, two of us were sitting there with it on our heads – one cup each. Fuckin’ huge. She went schizo.”
Pete laughed.
Her voice was droning on and on and another, fainter from the next class. Sid pointed at the door and spoke to Pete. “See when they’re being pure arseholes, I always think about this: they’ve got to flap their mouths like that all day, every day, for about forty years. Poor bastards. Pure desperate for you to learn all the fuckin’ necessary facts and information.”
“Aye, or they’re sacked,” Pete said. He nodded at Nicky. “When we were wee, he wanted to be one. Used to have a dress-up gown and hat and this gay wee blackboard he’d write sums on.”
“When I was about six,” Nicky said.
Sid laughed and stepped over, turning the purple sheet for Nicky to see. “Look man. I’ve done the poster for the gig.”
It was covered in biro scribbles. It said THE FUCK TRUMPETS in big black letters. Underneath he’d put FEATURING THE MESSIAH.
“You’re the main attraction son.”
Pete peered over Sid’s shoulder. Footsteps sounded from round the corner and he gave him a tap. “Someone’s coming man.”
“Shit.”
Sid folded the sheet, waved and jogged off.
“He’s awright,” Pete said. He pointed at Nicky’s feet. “You copying his boots?”
Nicky moved to the other side of the doorframe and leaned there instead.
“Messiah,” Pete said and burst into coughs.
Sid shook his head. “We can’t be sounding this shit.”
“We’ve not practised for pure ages,” Fadge said. He tried to get the bass in tune.
“Have you even had that out its fuckin’ case since last time?”
“So what man? It’s the bass. Do you know how fuckin’ boring it is to play on your own?”
“I’ve been practising. So’s the Messiah.”
“Course he has.”
“You could at least get a new string, for God’s sake.”
“Count it in,” Fadge said.
Nicky clicked the sticks.
“Aw. For fuck—”
“That was you.”
“Bollocks.”
“I got it right man. The second dot. Here,” Fadge thumped the note on the bass. “That’s what I played.”
“A. It’s a fuckin’ A.”
“Aye. So what did you play then?”
“It’s shit. It’s shit,” Sid said and slumped on the arm of the couch. He twisted his earring.
Fadge unstrapped the bass and balanced it against the amp. It slid over, face first on the carpet.
“What you doing?” Sid said.
“Fag.”
“No way. We’ve hardly done anything.”
“Gasping man. And it’s not like we’ll get any better.”
“That’s why it’s called a practise. Dickhead. We’re headlining.”
Fadge shrugged and put his lips over the fag. “Who cares man? It’s just a piss up anyway.”
“Gerry from Slack Grannies is coming down.”
Nicky said, “Why don’t we try something else?”
“Fag first.” Fadge dropped on to the couch, one leg swinging over the arm.
“Lazy big bastard,” Sid said. He swore at the ground and flattened his hair with both hands, dragging his fingers down his cheeks. He pushed his palms into his eye sockets and spat something and stamped on it. It was a mangled plectrum, chewed and squashed into the carpet.
“Sid,” Nicky said, “we should do one of your tunes.”
“Nah.”
“What?” Fadge said.
“He’s got some songs.”
“Fuck off boys. Not in time for the gig.”
Fadge blew a mouthful of smoke.
“We should just try it.”
“Bob fuckin’ Dylan.”
“You’re a pair of dicks.”
“Just try it, Sid. It’ll be good.”
“Quit kissing his arse,” Fadge said. He picked a 2p from the glass table and flicked it. It hit Sid’s toe. “Give us a song Bob.”
“I can’t be fucked with this today.” He unplugged the guitar and went out the room, the lead buzzing on the carpet.
Fadge was grinning. “He tried to get us to do his songs before man, they’re bloody terrible.”
“I’m not kidding. Total garbage.”