The Day Tripper, page 28
“There was things after that too—groceries, another twenty quid. A few weeks goes by. Then this kid on a BMX turns up at the flat. Says he’s got something from Stevo. Tells me to keep it safe till I get texted an address. Says it’s worth fifty quid to me.”
“And you can’t tell him no.”
“I ain’t stupid, cuz. I ain’t got a choice. Got like five packages hidden round the place right now.”
“Shit, man.”
“It’s a fucking stupid mess to get myself into. Right now, I ain’t even got anything to show for the...enterprise. Still skint.”
We’re back inside his flat now. Jazz falls backward onto the sofa and buries his head under a cushion.
“Being skint’s shitty, man,” I say. “You must be getting help, right? Now your granddad’s not...about?”
“Been trying to sort it,” he says. “There’s some benefits you can get. But it’s all meetings, phone calls. It’s long, man. Taking months.”
“So there’s no money coming in, other than what you...earn?”
“My grandfather, he used to get benefits when he couldn’t work anymore. It weren’t loads or anything. Enough to get a bit of shopping, pay the bills.”
“It stopped?”
“He’s in a home, innit.”
“And you’re supposed to run on thin air.”
“They keep saying it’s gonna get sorted.”
“Mate, this is bollocks,” I say. “We gotta sort this. It’s one thing we can sort.”
“You reckon? Cuz, it gets boring. Sitting on the phone, never getting through to no one. Run out of credit, can’t buy no more. Then the leccy goes, can’t even charge the phone till I get to school. Trying to do exams at the same time.” He flings the cushion across the room and emits a growling noise, the way a kid whose frustrations are entirely trivial might.
With the electric back on, the kettle I flicked on nearly two hours ago has boiled. I fix us both a tea and open some windows, let the summer drift through.
“So, about this prom of yours,” I say.
“Yeah, I dunno, man,” Jazz says. “Like I said, things I should be doing.”
“Like what? Sitting here, waiting for a text to land? Is that how it works? Don’t sound like much of a life, man.”
“I guess.”
“Tell me about this hot date of yours.”
There’s the flash of a smirk, a puddling of the eyes. “Should go see my grandfather. You know, he’s maybe expecting me.”
“Bet you see him loads.”
Jazz doesn’t reply.
“Got a picture?” I ask him.
“Don’t do this to me, man,” he says, holding his phone facedown against his thigh, more childlike than ever.
“She’s gotta be quite something.”
His playful expression hardens. “Look, Alex, maybe it’s better I leave this.”
“You’ll break a heart, man. Mark my words you will.”
“People don’t really know about...us. About me and...”
“You wanna keep it that way?”
“Maybe it ain’t so simple.”
I’ve removed his suit from its hanger, inspecting it on my lap. It’s a nice piece of work: tightly tailored, lairy lining, doctor’s cuffs with each button on a different color thread. “No one misses prom, mate.”
“Tell me about yours,” Jazz says, grinning.
“Jesus, man! What’s to tell?”
“You ain’t that boring, don’t believe it.”
“We called it a leaver’s ball, back in the nineties.”
“The 1890s?”
“Very good. I spent the evening—what I can remember of it—at the bar, ignoring my date. Got so shit-faced I ended up in A and E.”
“Shit.”
“Pathetic, isn’t it? Had something of an obsession with being seen to drink more than anyone else.”
“Why?”
“Now, there’s an excellent question. I’ll keep you posted if I work it out. I recall having this crazy idea that if I left a group of guys early, they’d start talking about me after I’d gone. Can’t do that if you’re the last man standing, can they?”
“So it weren’t cos you were crazy nervous about your date?”
“Yeah, that too most likely.”
Jazz smiles to himself.
I drop onto the sofa next to him and hook an arm round his shoulder. “Mate, you’ve just cold feet, haven’t you?”
He giggles. “Nah, man.”
“All bollocks, isn’t it? All this I’ve gotta work, got no money caper.”
“Those things are true as well.”
“Tell me all about her, Jazz.”
He taps at his phone with it close to his nose. A headshot fills the screen as he passes it to me. Jazz shifts down the sofa, twisted away.
“Wow,” I say.
“You don’t need to say that,” he mumbles.
“Mate, wow’s the word.” I grin at him, and his own smile seeps back. “And this—tonight—is your first date?”
“If I go.”
“Yeah, yeah. Many people know about you two?”
“Nah, not really.”
“So come on, who asked who?”
Jazz is uncustomarily shy. “He did.”
“You’ve liked him awhile?”
“Yeah, kind of. He’s cool.”
“His name?”
“Ty.” There’s a sparkle about him as he seizes the excuse to utter the word.
“He’s gorgeous, mate,” I say, taking a moment to appreciate again this square-jawed man staring from the screen and out to infinity. He exudes beauty and potential; I’m briefly envious till I remember how swiftly those joys are snatched away, how you only realize they were there as they disappear over the horizon.
“You really...think so?”
I pass his phone back. “Sure, man. Bet you two look cute together.”
He shrugs. “Cheers, cuz.” He’s watery in the eyes. “Appreciate it.”
“I’m really happy for you, mate. That you’ve found someone. Found something.” My longing for Holly hits me like a kick in the guts. “It’s a great thing—wanting. Maybe the best thing there is. Your granddad would be happy for you too.”
“You think?”
“He loves you, doesn’t he?”
Jazz gives a small nod. He turns away from me, stares out the window. I pass him a clean tissue from my pocket.
“Ty’s going to uni,” he eventually says. “Nottingham.”
“You got the summer.”
“Maybe.”
“So go to uni as well.”
Jazz smirks. “Not on the cards right now, is it?”
“How are the A-level results shaping up, do you reckon?”
“Cuz, how many times we talked about this?”
“Dunno. Once or twice?”
“When I get my results in six weeks, you’ll be the first to know. Promise. If they’re the same as I’ve predicted, we’ll both be happy.”
“Which was what?”
“Come on, man, you know this. Amount you bang on about it.”
“Remind me.”
“Two As and two Bs, innit.”
I do my best to hide my surprise. Last year he was hanging on to his place at school by his fingertips. “Bloody hell, mate.”
“Yeah, well, I ain’t actually got them yet.”
“That’s insane, Jazz. You’re a clever bastard, you know that, right?”
“It’s thanks to you, innit, old cuz?”
“How do you figure that?”
“Come on, we both know I’d have been kicked out, like two terms ago.”
“What saved you?”
“Shut up.”
“What the hell’s you being a bona fide genius got to do with me?”
“I do appreciate it, man. Even if I don’t always tell you it. I do know that without you giving up all those evenings, tutoring me for nothing more than a cup of tea, I’d be in the shit right now.”
“Jazz, mate...”
“I owe you, man. I’ll never forget it, you know that?”
“I’ve been tutoring you,” I mumble, trying not to phrase it as a question. “How long’s it been?” I ask, giving the impression of racking my brain.
“Was after that day, innit. When I got caught thieving and you...intervened.”
“Ah, yes. Hide-the-knife day!”
“Yeah, man!”
I laugh at the memory, the victory we scored over authority. “I’ve been helping you, since then?” I ask. “What, like often?”
He looks at me uncertainly but then shakes it away, familiar enough with my funny moments. “Two nights a week, wasn’t it. Sometimes three.”
“Fuck.” It’s like an explosion in my guts. It is, I suppose, pride. For this guy, and for myself too. Totally alien feeling. Booze wouldn’t come close. Not even cocaine. “Thank you for letting me help you, man.”
“What?”
“These results you’re gonna get,” I say, wagging a finger accidentally. “They’re all down to you, yeah. Nothing to do with me. You gotta remember that. Letting me give you a hand, that’s done more for me than it ever will for you. Understand that, yeah?”
“You chat some weird shit, old cuz.”
“Yup, I know it.” I’m light-headed, dry-mouthed. High as a kite. “Go to uni,” I snap. “Whatever it takes, you gotta go. Jazz, don’t waste this.”
“Sound like my teachers, man. Might apply next year, if I can save a bit. And if my grandfather’s sorted okay.”
“Get on it. While you know you can. Good decisions—”
“Beget good decisions?” Jazz interrupts in a poor impression of my lecturing voice.
“I’ve said that before?”
“Once or twice.”
“Just something a wise man once told me.” I extract myself from the sofa, too alive to sit still. “So where’s this prom happening, then?”
“Party boat, innit, on the river.”
“Christ, sounds dangerous. Sounds amazing!”
“Maybe.”
“Jazz, mate, don’t flannel me here, yeah? You were never gonna miss this, were you? A man in love isn’t gonna pass up an opportunity like this.”
He smirks. “Guess so.”
“How long we got, till you’re supposed to be there?”
“Dunno. Two and a half hours, maybe.”
I wander into the bathroom and set a bath running, whipping up a handful of shower gel into a mountain of bubbles. “Not only are you going to the ball, my boy,” I shout into the corridor. “But you are going without a care in this whole miserable world. Because you’ve worked very bloody hard for this.”
“Give it a rest, old cuz,” Jazz says.
“Because if you don’t go,” I tell him, “you’re robbing this very proud old man of the chance to wave you off and shed a tear for the fine man you’ve become.”
“Can’t have that, I suppose,” he says.
My back is already turned, Jazz’s shoes in my hand as I prowl the flat in search of some polish.
“Make no mistake,” I tell him. “This’ll be the night of your life.”
IRON SKY
The sun dissolves into the river. This familiar concourse is steeped in pink light. I’ve not played a note yet, but already a few couples gather at a distance around me.
I’m standing on the very spot which will, sometime soon, sprout that memorial with the granite plinth and the soaring silver doves that are catnip to vandals. But today, no such obstacle. This space is mine. I open my guitar case, let its red lining invite donations.
The light dims further. I tap out a groove on the sound box, come in with a two-chord riff. My small audience taps feet and smiles like they’ve heard this a hundred times. The lyrics of Dusty Springfield’s “Spooky” float out into this tacky, holiday-warm night.
I saw Jazz off a couple of hours ago, half a mile along the bank from here. We hugged and he joined the crowd of bright, beautiful people as they filed onto a disco-lit deck, disappeared into a haze of smoke and carefree energy and too much fragrance. I promised him I’ll be here when he gets back. With an evening to kill, every overflowing pub has called out to me, or more accurately, the sight of those relaxed drinkers has. But I am not one of them; I can’t drink the way they can. Instead, as I’ve walked on by, I’ve felt the headwind hard: I am living this day differently, pushing against the weight of my history. A swift trip made back home for my gear. Right here, doing what I love most, is how I shall instead spend these hours till Jazz returns.
Why would I need booze, anyway? I’m high on the thrill of having done the decent thing for someone. If indeed we are what we do, I am for once not a disappointment.
I don’t know a single song from the last nineteen years, but this growing audience don’t seem to care. “Blackbird” by The Beatles now. The phone in my pocket vibrates. With barely a breath, into “There Is a Light that Never Goes Out.” Again it rings. It’s not mine; that’s stuffed in my amp trolley. Who’d want to call me, anyway?
I snatch the phone for a few seconds between songs, keen not to lose my momentum with this crowd. It’s Jazz’s war-torn Samsung: I made him surrender it as we said our goodbyes. You can’t let yourself go with the weight of all your troubles in your pocket. Two missed calls from the same unsaved number.
Jazz agreed: if any jobs land for him tonight, we can take care of them together later.
An hour rolls by. My audience evolves, but never shrinks. There’s a fine take in the guitar case, pound coins like a mound of gold beneath the sodium light, a good few notes too. The phone against my thigh is quiet.
Why, then, am I feeling uneasy? I play on, but I can’t shake it. I’m not lost in the music anymore. Things gnawing at my brain.
Am I messing with the wrong people here? Is Jazz so far in he’s not even allowed a few hours to himself?
But it’s not just that worrying me. It’s like I’m pushing harder against history than I ever have, racing into the headwind. Without moving an inch. Like I’m holding back the tide.
Is this some sort of stage fright? I feel exposed all of a sudden. Panicked.
What is wrong with me?
The audience thins, the circle expanding away from me, less engaged. The few that danced are stilled. Play as I might—Clapton’s “Let It Grow” now—I’ve lost the vim. These people perhaps haven’t noticed the shift, only that they’re no longer entertained.
I’m scanning the concourse. Hyperaware. Unshakeable sense of impending doom.
Why? What can I sense?
There’s a group of men, four or five. Walking with purpose close to the water’s edge. Well-dressed thirtysomethings with swagger. Are they looking for someone? They look like they’re looking for someone. I roll around my chord progression over and over, forget the words I should be singing. They disappear into the distance, my stare following their backs. Just lads on a night out, perhaps.
Sort yourself out, man.
I try to lose myself in my work. Bash out the songs, one after another. My performance is square, unfree. Greasy hands slipping on fretboard. Vibrato in my voice. Playing music has always been my sanctuary; what, tonight, is different?
A man steps closer to me. Too close. Bald, short and wide. Beetroot face. He tries to sing along to “The Boxer,” six inches from my mike. His breath is flammable. He’s probably half an hour from passing out and pissing himself. I should know. I edge backward, pulse hammering. He has the familiar eyes of someone both content and one wrong move from fury.
He bumps against my guitar as he attempts to dance. I force myself to give him a wink; I’ve no right to this indignation I’m feeling.
A couple of police officers prowl the concourse thirty meters away, hands tucked behind stab vests. Do I call over to them? And say what? I’m scared?
In any case, their presence doesn’t make me feel safer. It never has. As likely to be a source of danger as a defense against it. They move along without even a glance this way.
My drunken friend tires soon enough, staggers into the night.
I’ve said it to Jazz: how busking is like standing naked and letting people laugh at you. Often that’s true, but it’s never frightened me, not like it does now.
Short on breath, sick to the stomach, I force myself to go on. What else can I do?
This’ll pass. Don’t give in to it.
A boat meanders by. Deck flashing in green and magenta lights. Two hundred party animals tearing it up, time of their lives—Jazz’s prom. Why am I so glad to see it? It’ll soon be docking up the river where I saw him off four hours ago. In my pause between songs, a thumping bassline from their dance floor fills the night.
“Alex, you old git!” Jazz yells from the deck. There’s a murmur of laughter from what remains of my audience. His voice is like a drug, calming me instantly.
In jest, I give him a two-fingered salute.
“Wait there, old cuz!” he shouts, the boat passing level. “Got people who want to meet you. We’ll be there in ten. Don’t go nowhere, yeah?”
I give him a thumbs-up. Another of their party has meanwhile climbed onto the vessel’s roof. He drops his suit trousers and performs a flamboyant willy-copter for those of us on the bank.
“Kids today,” I remark into my mike. My audience laughs, closes back in around me. The cool euphoria that follows panic washes over me.
What the fuck was that about?
Four breezy songs later and I catch sight of Jazz heading my way. He walks along the very edge of the river. Hand in hand with another young man. Even at this distance it’s clear enough from the way they carry themselves: tonight has been everything they hoped it would be. I play a little harder, sing brighter. My heart is full at the sight.
Thirty meters from me, they stop. They are alone, well ahead of a group of their peers who are only now coming into sight, heading this way.
