by J. A. Baker
‘This is great, thanks, Mr Bowron.’
‘Rob. For God’s sake, lad, you make me feel ancient calling me Mr Bowron.’ Once again that loud tone, his voice full of gusto and confidence as he leans towards Alex and hands him a bottle. ‘Here you go. One for the road, eh? Get stuck in, lads. The party starts here.’
The cold liquid is bitter as he snaps off the top and guzzles it down. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth and he tries not to grimace. He’s had alcohol before at Christmas parties and once before a school disco but doesn’t remember it tasting like this stuff. It feels powerful. A quick route to oblivion.
‘Six per cent proof. Get it down your neck, boys. Give one to the girls and it’ll work as a knicker dropper. This stuff is potent.’
Alex feels his face grow hot, certain that it’s visible to both Dane and his dad. He turns away, pretending to glance around at the cars.
‘Beauties, aren’t they?’ Rob walks over to the red Mitsubishi parked at an angle in the corner of the garage and runs his hand over the sleek paintwork, stopping as he reaches the roof. His fingers rest there, caressing the scarlet metal like it is the most precious thing he has ever touched. ‘This is my summer car. She comes out when the sun does.’
Alex thinks of his dad’s old Triumph Spitfire Mk IV and the everyday car that he uses for work – a run-of-the-mill Ford. Even before they moved here, when he was a hedge fund manager and earning megabucks, he still owned the same car and would spend his weekends tinkering with the Spitfire, occasionally going out for a spin in it. Unlike some of their friends, his dad was never one for ostentatiousness, preferring instead reliability and perhaps a bit of speed. The Spitfire is a throwback to his youth, a hobby, not something he purchased to turn heads or as a way of flaunting his wealth. It’s part of who he is, an insight into the workings of his soul.
Innumerable thoughts run through Alex’s head as he gazes around; thoughts about how strange it is that because he used to go to private school, and because of his double-barrelled surname, people assume he is the snob, the upper class one, and yet here Dane is, surrounded by items that cost unfeasibly large amounts of money, yet he is the one who is thought of as working class. It defies all logic and the harder Alex tries, the less able he is to work it all out. He has never understood why he has been made to feel guilty about his purported privileged existence. Here he has a friend who is swimming in cash and surrounded by expensive stuff and yet the same lad dares to jeer at Alex and his upbringing and obvious posh accent. How does that even work?
He takes another swig of the amber liquid, now enjoying the bitterness as it coats his mouth and trails an icy path down his throat, thinking what a divisive thing money is, how it can drive a wedge between the strongest of families and friendships. Seeing his parents’ marriage begin to fragment has taught him that much, watching his mother’s once buoyant mood slowly sink and slip away out of view. Listening to Dane’s thinly disguised jibes about his previous school have only cemented that belief.
‘Right, come on. You ready?’ Dane glowers at Alex, that look from beneath his lashes that Alex is rapidly becoming accustomed to.
They leave Dane’s dad in the garage, the two of them strolling back into the house and through to the kitchen where his mum is busy at the sink. She seems so small compared to his dad’s bulky solid frame, her arms and legs like that of a young girl. She is less made-up than his mum ever is, her face pale and free of any cosmetics, unlike Kate who he feels certain was born wearing thick foundation and crimson lipstick.
‘Bye, Mrs Bowron.’ Alex is prepared for a scowl from Dane, is more than prepared to put up with it because saying goodbye feels like the right thing to do. She seems like a nice woman, Dane’s mum, and ignoring her feels wrong.
‘Call me Nina. Have a great time, lads. And try not to be too late back, Dane.’
‘Yeah,’ he mutters as they leave the room and make their way into the hallway. ‘Whatever,’ then closely followed by ‘bitch,’ when he is out of earshot.
Alex doesn’t ask what his friend’s problem is with his mum. He has enough of his own issues at home to contend with. Every family has their share of feuds and simmering tensions. Perhaps, he thinks, it’s the lager doing its thing, or perhaps it’s because it’s been decontextualised, this particular scenario, but he doesn’t question Dane’s behaviour. The thought of calling his own mum names despite her often appalling behaviour, makes his skin crawl; yet somehow Dane doing it in this place at this point in time seems perfectly normal and perhaps even acceptable.
A sliver of guilt tugs at him for thinking such a thing. Maybe this is what happens when you spend too long in the company of abrasive people – you eventually become one, your own values merging with theirs until your own standards and morals are obliterated by their more forceful ways. Or maybe it’s this house and its sleek emotionless décor. It isn’t the most restful or warmest of homes despite its size and splendour.
They step out into the road, the bottles rattling and clinking as they lug them along in a flimsy carrier bag. Conversation is sparse, Dane focused on making sure the bag doesn’t split; Alex wondering if he should have told Joss about this party. Too late now. He left the house without informing her where he was going and what’s done is done.
The walk to Bobby’s house doesn’t take too long. Their exchanges are monosyllabic which suits Alex just fine. Sometimes, prising words out of Dane is like squeezing blood out of a stone – why bother when the whole exercise is pointless and exhausting? Besides, he enjoys the near silence, save for the faraway hiss of traffic and the occasional chatter of passers-by.
They hear the deep thrum of the music before they reach the house, its ground shaking bass beat loud enough to upset a whole host of neighbours. In the distance, Alex sees Bobby, his tall willowy frame an unmissable sight. He is standing in the middle of the pavement looking out for people, waving in groups of teenagers with his long arms and wide smile, his perfectly white teeth a contrast against his caramel-coloured skin. Groups of bodies disappear around the side of the house and as he and Dane get nearer, Alex can hear their voices, a murmur, incomprehensible and barely audible to begin with then growing in volume until the noise reaches a crescendo; shouts and whoops interspersed with the odd shriek of laughter that makes him think of nails being dragged down a chalkboard.
‘Come on in, you two,’ Bobby shouts, his voice breaking slightly. ‘Food and drink around the back. Glad you made it, mate,’ he says to Alex who acknowledges his words with a shrug to indicate his ignorance. ‘Your sister said you were ill and that you weren’t coming. Said you had the shits and couldn’t get off the toilet?’
Alex feels his diaphragm concertina into a small fist-sized configuration and squeezes his eyes shut for a brief second before opening them again and smiling at Bobby. ‘Nah. Joss is a born liar. I wouldn’t trust her to tell me what day it is.’
‘Ah well.’ Bobby slaps his shoulder and half pushes him inside the gate. ‘She’s in there somewhere, mate. She was already well pissed that last time I saw her so she might need a lift back to yours later on. Or a piggyback. That is if you don’t mind a ton of puke down your back while you do it.’ His laugh echoes halfway down the street as he pushes Alex and Dane into the garden and turns to speak to another gaggle of teenagers who are sauntering up the street behind them.
Alex sags. Joss is here. He should have known, really. And to think he pondered over whether or not he should ask her to come along and actually felt guilty for not doing it.
‘You ready for another one?’ Dane hands him a bottle, his eyes scanning the crowds then dipping away again to stare at the ground. ‘Sasha’s over there with your sister.’
‘Sasha?’ Alex takes a long gulp of the lager and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Yeah. She’s a real bitch. Thinks she’s God’s gift.’
Alex sees a girl who looks more like a twenty-five-year-old than a teenager. Tall, slim and sassy, she commandeers th
e room, her long blonde hair framing her face and curling around her shoulders, falling in great long silken waves, her low-cut top revealing a healthy expanse of pert breasts and her white jeans so tight they look as if they have been spray painted onto her skin. Joss stands beside her, not quite as attractive but with enough confidence to cover up the lack of glamour. Hers is a more rugged look yet still she conveys an air of sureness coupled with an unmistakable charisma that he can see is turning heads and magnetising people to her. She sees him looking at her and gives him a wink before blowing a kiss his way. He returns the gesture by showing her the finger and turning away. Maybe later he will speak to her about spreading stupid childish rumours, telling everyone he wasn’t coming – or maybe he won’t. It’s too exhausting to even attempt speaking to her. Reasoning with Joss is like repeatedly slamming his head into a brick wall. He would rather conserve his energy and try to enjoy his night here. He will do his best to avoid her. Fewer headaches. Fewer bruises.
‘Like I said earlier,’ Dane whispers, ‘all losers, each and every fucking one of them.’
Alex suspects that Dane actually fantasises over Sasha but knows she is out of his league so uses a defence mechanism as a way of preserving his own well-being and dignity. Alex knows this because he has done it himself on more than one occasion with girls that he liked. Girls he knew would never have thought of him in the same way. Easier to pretend hatred and dislike than to mask sentiments of love and lust by acting nonchalant and neutral in their presence. Love and adoration always have a way of seeping out and making themselves known. Better to show disdain than run the risk of being caught out and humiliated as they publicly reject you.
‘Come on,’ Dane growls, pushing Alex ahead of him. ‘Let’s go and mingle with the arseholes. See what’s going down.’
8
It was average. That’s the best Alex can say about it. An average party surrounded by a few fairly average people, although if he is being perfectly honest, the bulk of them were less than average – loud, brash, superficial.
The floor of the summer house was swimming in vomit by the time they left, the smell still even now, continuing to invade his olfactory senses as they make their way home with Joss teetering behind them in her ragged jeans and high heels. She stops every now and then, leans into some poor unsuspecting resident’s shrubbery and throws up, the contents of her stomach splashing into the flower beds.
Alex doesn’t step in to assist her. Instead he waits. That’s all he can bring himself to do, to be passively helpful by not leaving her to collapse in the middle of the street, face down in a pile of her own vomit. He will make sure she gets home safely, try to shield her from their parents and their questions and anger and obvious disappointment by shoving her in the back door and trundling her upstairs into her bedroom. That’s where his allegiance ends. After that she’s on her own.
‘Oh, look over there,’ Dane says, his voice a low drawl. ‘Can you see what I can see?’
Alex heaves a sigh, unwilling to get dragged into whatever his friend has in mind. He’s tired, his sister is so drunk she can hardly stand, and now Dane wants to him to stop and take part in what he is certain will be some stupid prank that will piss him off and finish the night off on a sour note.
‘I spy a Rose house.’ Dane has stopped walking and is staring at an average looking house barely discernible from all the other houses that flank it.
‘So what? It’s a house. Come on, I need to get her back.’ Alex flicks his thumb over his shoulder. Behind them, Joss stumbles about blindly, her legs buckling and bending like a newborn calf. She staggers to one side, is about to careen into a brick wall before righting herself, bending double and throwing up, a hand clutched at her stomach as she retches and heaves. The gurgling reminds him of a wild animal being slain, the splatter of her vomit akin to the spilling of the blood. Alex sighs, closes his eyes and wishes himself elsewhere.
‘Not there.’ Dane stands on his tiptoes and points. ‘Look, over there, above the rooftops.’
Alex sees nothing but a swathe of black sky punctuated with a scattering of stars. He grits his teeth, tries to suppress his growing anger. Two drunken idiots. He is stuck out here with two drunken idiots who seem hell-bent on cruising around town instead of going home where it is warm and light and there is a soft welcoming bed waiting for him. The atmosphere may not be the warmest but at least he can climb under the quilt where it is quiet and comfortable and he doesn’t have to babysit his younger sister who has drunk her bodyweight in gin and vodka and is now exhibiting the base behaviours and reactions of a spoilt toddler in the throes of a candy ingested sugar rush.
‘Come with me. Come on.’ Without waiting for a response, Dane crosses the road, hands shoved deep in his pockets, head dipped and shoulders rounded.
Alex could stay here, refuse to follow him. He’s got Joss to think of. He has to get her home or his parents will kill him. He may not be close mates with Joss but leaving her here to fend for herself isn’t something he would ever consider doing. He could, however, leave Dane on his own. He has no good reason to follow him, except for the fact that he is his friend. From day one, Dane was there for him, helping him through those first few weeks at school, showing him the ropes, pointing out the good guys, helping Alex maintain a healthy distance from the bad ones.
‘Right, come on. Up.’ Alex hooks his arms around Joss’s waist and hauls her upright from her crouched position. She lets out a groan, a trail of saliva landing on Alex’s arm. He winces and grits his teeth, averting his eyes and focusing on keeping her on her feet. ‘Stand up. Follow him.’ He points, forcing Joss’s face around to the direction in which Dane is heading. ‘Keep going, and no more throwing up or I’ll kill you.’
They stagger along together, her body colliding with his, her legs bending beneath her like rubber. Only as they pick up their pace does she regain some semblance of normality, her slightly less inebriated self slowly returning.
‘Where are we going?’ The voice of a small child, whiny and desperate.
‘Fuck knows. To hell and back.’
Ahead, Alex can see the top of Dane’s head, his hunched wiry figure as he wends his way through a small cut between the row of houses. Following, Alex hangs on to Joss, feeling her initial resistance wane. Leading them up a small gravel track, Dane turns, checks they’re in pursuit then continues.
‘Dane! Where the hell are we going?’ He tries to keep his voice to a whisper but exasperation gets the better of him, squeezing his patience to a thin wiry strand. The words come out as a near roar.
‘Keep your voice down for Christ’s sake. We’re almost there.’
The gravel track leads them uphill, through a small field and onto the edge of the woods. Shrouded in darkness, there is no light pollution, no street lights, no dim reflections from neighbouring properties. They are very much alone. Except for one property – a small house shielded beneath a canopy of trees. It’s surrounded on all sides by a ragged stretch of shrubbery. Alex shivers. Joss moves away from him. She strides over to a large oak tree and rests against the wide trunk, her body still wobbling, her head nodding as she tries to give off an air of confidence and poise.
All Alex can see is Dane’s shadow and the small building beyond and even that is partially obscured by a tangle of tall weeds. Dane stops and turns, his finger outstretched. He is sporting a smile that has split through his usual dour expression giving him the look of somebody slightly unhinged. ‘Fancy a bit of fun?’
‘I fancy going home.’ Tiredness and a lack of tolerance is edging its way into Alex’s timbre, his usually reserved tone now absent.
‘Aw, fuck off, Winston-D’Allandrio. Let’s stay and have a bit of a laugh for a change.’
‘I wanna have fun as well.’ Joss’s shrill voice comes from behind them. ‘Let me join in.’ Her speech is slurred and as she shifts into view, Alex suppresses a wave of laughter, placing his hand over his face and shaking his head in despair.
Vomi
t is matted into her hair, mascara streaked down her face in long oily rivulets. She has abandoned her heels and is staggering towards Alex and Dane in bare feet, her shoes held out in front of her at arm’s length.
Alex turns, expects Dane to be repulsed by the sight before them, but is shocked to see his friend’s face lighten with interest and lust, his usual dark countenance lifting, replaced by something even uglier. Dane eyes Joss up and down, his mouth twisted into a lopsided expectant grin. An iron fist grips at Alex’s insides, grasping, pulling and twisting. Dane and Joss stand side by side, their heads dipped together conspiratorially. He watches with growing impatience as they gaze at the isolated property, wondering what comes next. You never know with Dane. That’s the major flaw in his friend’s character. You just never know.
‘Joss. It’s time to go. Now.’ Alex’s voice is carried away by the breeze. She is impervious to his requests to leave, her interests now honed in on this stupid house that sits on its own in the middle of the woods.
‘This, ladies and gentlemen,’ Dane says as he takes a faux bow, ‘is the home of none other than Mr Dominic Rose, English teacher extraordinaire.’
‘And?’ Alex begins to walk away, his tolerance levels now close to zero.
‘Ugh.’ Joss turns to one side and pretends to spit on the ground. A thin line of drool hangs from her lip. She stands, unaware of its existence until Dane reaches over and wipes it away with the tip of his finger. Alex’s stomach roils. Not here. Not now. Not these two. Definitely not these two.
