Annie opened the door before he knocked. She was in a black vest, arms white and bare except for a black bangle. Pink socks poked out the bottom of her jeans. He smiled at her.
“Should I take my boots off?”
A door at the end of the hallway creaked. She shook her head, pulled him in and turned up the stairs. When she reached the top she went in one of the rooms and waited in the doorway. There were three other doors and ladder feet sticking from a hatch above. A photo of a dopey yellow dog hung on the wall.
Annie sighed. “You coming?”
He followed, breathing in perfume.
“Give me the jacket.”
“Don’t put it in the bin or anything.”
She shut them in the room and hung his jacket on the handle. They faced each other. Clothes were piled in a corner. A bra strap hung from the middle like a tongue, pink with black edges.
“What you looking at?” she said.
“Just looking around.”
She followed his eyes to some posters. “I need to take those down,” she said. “They’re shit that lot. I was into them years ago.”
“I’ve still got this poster of birds up,” Nicky said, “from some magazine when I was about seven.”
She sat on the corner of the bed.
“It’s got wee pictures of all the garden birds. I can identify a chaffinch for you.”
“Handy,” she said and gazed at her hands.
“Think it’s the same blue tack from when it first went up.”
He sat on the opposite corner. Annie was twisting the chunky bangle round her wrist, running it up and down her arm. She saw him watching and stopped.
“Looked a bit like I was wanking my arm, didn’t it?”
Nicky smiled. He went over to his jacket and fetched the CD box out a pocket. He laid it on the bed between them. “I got this for you. When we were in town. It’s the Descendents one.”
She took it and turned it over then opened it.
“Thought you should have it, since you’ve got the T-shirt.”
She said thanks and stretched for a wee bug eyed stereo beside her bed. Her vest rode up, her jeans hanging off her hips. Nicky got up. He went over to the board beside the door and looked at the jumble of things pinned there.
“You’re a right wee nosey bastard, aren’t you?”
“How many concerts have you been at?”
“Some,” she said. She was nodding along to the CD and playing with the bangle again.
He pointed at a jotter open on the desk. “What’s this?”
She rolled her eyes. “Jesus. Didn’t know I’d be getting an inspection.”
He smoothed the page and started reading.
“Get lost. Don’t read that.”
“I can’t anyway. Your handwriting.”
“Fuck off.”
“What is it?”
“English. That poem – The Horses.”
“We did it last year.”
“So finish it if you want.”
“It’s about world war three,” Nicky said, “And the horses come back.”
“I know that.”
“Sorry.” He sat on the chair in front of the desk and turned to her, lifting his hair. “Can you see anything there?”
“What like?”
“Good.”
“No, hang on.” She moved along the bed and sat so her eyes were near his forehead. She sunk her teeth into her bottom lip and frowned. The lips were glossy pink again, with black drawn around her eyes. “I can mibbe see something.”
He turned back to the jotter. “You’ve got this wrong.”
“I told you not to read it.”
“At the top you’ve put Edwin Morgan. It’s Muir. Morgan’s that other guy.”
“I knew you were a wee smart arse. Let’s see then. Move up.”
“No room,” Nicky said.
“Slide along, we’ll both fit.”
Nicky pushed the chair away from the desk and slapped his knees.
“Smooth,” she said, but she sat all the same. “Where’s this mistake then?”
He pressed a finger on the jotter. She ran her fingertip over the top of his hand, over the knuckle and down to the fingernail then looked at him and he was looking at her, faces close.
His knees went dead after a while. Their lips detached and she rubbed her neck and moved to the bed.
At first they faced each other, side to side. Then she took her mouth away, smiled and touched his shoulder, rolling him on his back. She put a knee on each side and sunk him into the spongy mattress.
There was no telling how long they’d been there. The Descendents had finished a long time ago. He opened his eyes and they were filled with her face, pink and blurred and his tongue ached and slugged around her mouth. Hers was soft and pointed, making wee figures of eight. The room was silent except for the sound their mouths made and their clothes rubbing. She was dragging herself up and down. He’d stopped worrying about the stiffy and pushed against her, fingers feeling under her vest and following the dents either side of her spine to where her bra crossed.
Their teeth clattered. He gasped, puffing air into her mouth and tensed. He didn’t mean to shove her away. She leaned on one arm and stared.
“Need to go to the toilet.”
He stepped into the hallway and clicked the door shut, holding his T-shirt by the hem. He was about to peel it back and look.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
One of the other doors had opened. Fadge stood there.
“GORDON. LANGUAGE,” a woman screamed from downstairs.
Nicky stretched the T-shirt across his thighs and opened his mouth. Fadge shook his head. He went back in the room and slammed the door.
“GORDON,” the woman yelled.
The lock wouldn’t catch. He rammed with his shoulder, raised the door and slid the bolt it in. He undid his fly. Dots had seeped through to his jeans. He peeled back his blue pants and looked. Paper flaked off the handful of bog roll and stuck to the mess. His pubes were all matted. It stank. The elastic pinged back and the stain slopped against him and he yanked the jeans and blue pants off, standing there in his socks and T-shirt, the stiffy half drooped. The same dopey yellow dog grinned from a photo above the toilet.
He moved a pink razor from the bath edge and sat. The cold plastic chilled his arse and goosebumps spread across his thighs. There were wee hairs trying to sprout from the skin there. He picked at one of the red eruptions.
Jeans back on, he flushed away the bog roll and folded the blue pants and stuffed them in his back pocket.
Annie sat cross-legged on the bed.
“I thought Fadge was out,” he said.
“I saw him in the hall.”
“Shit.”
Nicky leaned on the radiator. “I should go.”
She nodded.
“Are you okay?”
“Are you?”
“I’ll stay a bit if you want.”
“Do what you want,” she said.
“Sorry. I want to. It’s late.”
He stopped at the bed and the mattress edge dug into his knees. Her eyes had dropped. At her crown there was a lick of real hair colour. It swirled, turning from brown to muddy to black. A wee tuft stood up. It always did. She picked at the covers, rolling bobbles between her fingers and piling them.
“Take your CD.”
“It’s yours,” he told her. “I copied it on a tape.”
The path followed the river, passing a short waterfall choked with junk then crossing the white bridge. When they were wee he’d tried to fish off the bridge with Pete. They’d brought a ball of string and a paper-clip and found a worm but neither of them would pick it up. It squirmed away and they tried to stab it but the paper clip was too blunt.
Someone stood staring out at the water on the other side. You weren’t supposed to shortcut through the park at night.
“Son.” It was an old man. Mud was splattered high up his wellies.
Nicky nodded. He kept going.
The man called again and waved. “Honestly. You need to see this.”
Standing there were three heavy horses, flares of hair around their hooves dipping in the shallow water. They had padded jackets strapped round their bellies.
“Should they not be in the stables?” Nicky said.
“They’re having a rare old time.”
Two were nuzzling at some long grass. The third stood twitching its ears, a sodden plastic bag caught on one leg.
“Should we tell someone?”
“I wouldn’t know who. Not this time of night,” the man said. “I mind a peacock escaped once and roosted on the roof across from us.”
Two of the horses trudged on to the bank. The third was still twitching and gazing over. It lifted its massive head to the sky and huffed air out its nostrils then sipped at the river. It looked again and caught Nicky with its black eyes, flicking its tail. Shit plopped in the water behind. The horse turned away.
He went to go.
“Son,” the man said. “Look. I’ve lost my dog. Can you give me a wee hand?”
“Whereabouts?”
He waved a flat hand toward the bushes. “Could be anywhere.”
“I need to go.”
“I’m not dodgy son, honest. I’ve no idea where it’s went.”
Nicky walked faster, cold air cutting through his fly and shrivelling his bare bollocks. He went to dump the blue pants in a rusty bin by the gate, then stopped and shoved them back in his pocket. All sorts went on in the park. Someone found a medieval mace once – it was on the front of the local paper. If some horrific crime happened the police would dig the pants out, his DNA stained all over them.