Trackman Page 4

'I just like that he has a pet hedgehog, maybe it's time I confessed to my secret Westlife fetish.'

  'Out!' I point towards the door and he laughs.

  'You know I agree with you, Davie boy, I just like to wind you up, you're always wound so tight.'

  The first night in the new flat, Davie and Alfie ordered pizza and sat comparing CDs and DVDs.

  Some people slag off Dylan for his voice, but I love it. You know he means what he's singing about, said Alfie.

  Aye, totally. All those boybands and X Factor pish, they all sound the same, like fucking cheese slices, Davie replied, and opened another can of Tennents.

  Pish, all of it. Good pop is someone like Lennon. He could sing a love song sweet as a bird, turn his voice to gristle on a rock 'n' roll number, then make shivers run up your back on A Day in the Life. That's what I'm looking for in my pop.

  Aye, and you don't need to be a pretty boy either. Look at Thom Yorke or Eric Burdon. More talent than any of your fucking Ronans.

  Girls want a scoundrel, not a pretty boy, they just don't always realise that's what they want.

  You mean like Han Solo?

  Exactly, Davie boy, exactly. I knew there was a reason I moved in with you.

  Alfie put down his slice of pizza, wiped his hands on his jeans and rummaged around in one of the boxes which surrounded them. He pulled out a poster of Han Solo and blu-tacked it above the TV.

  A scoundrel.

  Alfie waves his hand in front of my face.

  'Sorry, I was in a wee dream there.'

  'I noticed. I was just saying, I think whatever this is, it's fucked. Bet that's why he gave you it. You didn't buy it did you?'

  Alfie drops the MP3 player and it hangs from the headphones he's got slung around his neck. It swings from side to side, side to side, side to side. I want it back. Give me it back. I sit on my hands, use my weight to trap them underneath me.

  'Nah, course not. He just gave me it. He was totally out of it though.'

  'I'd chuck it, it's a syntax error.'

  'Not syntax,' I reply.

  'Aye, time to rewind the tape and start again.'

  'Or try a new game?'

  Davie looked up as someone joined him at the staffroom table. One of the Christmas temps. Bit of a pretty boy too, with his skinny jeans and his Vince Noir haircut. Davie couldn't be bothered making friends with temps anymore, too much hassle, especially when they all left again once January came around.

  Alright, I'm Lee, Alfie said, holding out his hand.

  Davie.

  What you reading?

  Eh, it's about retro gaming.

  Cool, does it have the Amstrad in it? That's what I had when I was a kid, fucking ace.

  Aye, me too.

  Davie moved the magazine so that they could both read it.

  Fuck, Harrier Attack, I loved that game.

  Totally, and Galactic Plague, what a classic.

  Man, remember when you were trying to load a game and it would take, like, forever. The kids today don't know how lucky they are.

  Aye, and then you'd get so far and there'd be a fucking syntax error.

  Man, that was the worst thing, you had to rewind the tape and start all over again.

  Alfie hands me the MP3 player and picks up the TV remote. He starts flicking through the channels, then stops on an episode of Family Guy. He reaches under the sofa and pulls out an old video box from underneath. What used to contain The Shawshank Redemption on VHS, now contains Alfie's hash, skins, lighter and fags. He takes out a couple of Rizla papers and starts to roll up on top of the video box as he watches the TV. I wipe his fingerprints off the MP3 player, wind the headphones around it and tuck it down between the couch and my thigh.

  Han Solo looks down at me from above the TV. The poster is peeling away, one of the top corners is hanging down and the wall has a greasy stain from the blu-tac. Even though the woodchip wallpaper has pressed through the paper, giving Han a pock-marked effect, he still looks cool as fuck as he leans forward holding his blaster.

  I'm Han Solo. I'm a scoundrel and I don't give a shit.

  Not wound up like me.

  Alfie passes me the joint and I hesitate. I've been trying to stop doing this, but ever since that queue last night I've been dying for a smoke. Plus, Alfie's right, I need to loosen up.

  It's a quick fix, Davie, but it's not the answer.

  It makes me feel better.

  Yes but the effects wear off, they don't last, and in the long-term, you're making things harder.

  It can't get any harder.

  Fuck it. I inhale deeply. Count in my head. One finger. Two thumbs. Three arms. Four legs. Then breathe out again. The smoke curls in front of me and I feel lighter. My brain is floating around inside my skull like a helium balloon and I'm sinking deep into the couch.

  My stomach growls and I hand the joint back and help myself to a caramel digestive. I dunk it in what's left of my tea until the chocolate melts. As I bite into it the caramel stretches like elastic and sticks to my teeth and the roof of my mouth. I lay one hand down on top of the MP3 player. It feels like it's buzzing, like there's a magnetic charge flowing through it. If I tried to stick it to the fridge door, it would cling on. I felt this earlier. This energy. It was what made me put the headphones on in the first place. My fingers tap the side of the player, it's pulsing with energy. Alive.

  I stare down at it and realise that I can't see the scratch anymore. My eyes are rolling from the weed, but even still, it's gone. Vanished. Rejuvenated.

  I can hear Alfie's words in my head. Syntax error. Chuck it out. Syntax. Error.

  A flash of anger and the need to protect the MP3 player surges through me. I squeeze it in my hand, then push it down the side of the couch. Away from Alfie. Away from Alfie who wants to hurt it. It's mine. I'm keeping it. It's special.

  I've got a strange feeling about this wee box.

  I've got a strange feeling.

  I'm Luke Skywalker. The chosen one. Destined for higher things. The only one who can restore freedom to the galaxy.

  Alfie hands me the joint again and I take another draw on it.

  That'd just be my fucking luck actually. I end up playing Luke Skywalker, while Alfie gets to be Han Solo. The scoundrel.

  4

  Why Does it Always Rain on Me?

  Davie felt like he was under interrogation; the spotlight on him. Where were you tonight, David Watts? His folks would kill him if they knew what time it was. Saying yes to that drink after work had been a bad idea.

  Davie dropped the orange juice.

  I STEP DOWN off the bus and it pulls away. Almost immediately there's a rumble of thunder, deep and low above me. The sky becomes dark and then the rain begins to fall.

  'Fuck sake.'

  I don't even have a jacket with me. It was sunny when I left the flat less than half an hour ago. Glorious. I'd stood at the bus stop enjoying the warmth, absorbing the vitamin D. Fucking Scotland.

  Four seasons in one day.

  I shove Lewey's book inside my jumper, tuck it into my waistband so it's safe and snug.

  If it wasn't for the book and seeing Lewis, then I'd turn round and head home. But it's my first day off since I got it for him and he'll be fed up waiting. Man, I could have avoided the rain too if I'd just had the stomach to stay on the bus a bit longer.

  Davie knew he shouldn't have smoked that joint with Alfie. He'd woken up feeling sick and with a burning throat. The sun shone through the window of the bus and warmed the side of his face. His whole head felt too heavy for his body. He held his breath, and breathed in and out through his nose. There was a guy eating pickled onions sitting across from him, and the smell was making him feel sick. That and the fact the bus driver kept flooring the pedal between stops and then slamming on the brakes.

  Davie couldn't stop watching the guy with the pickled onions. It was like he wanted to make himself sick. The vinegar dripping from the guy's fingers, as they dipped in and out of the jar. The cru
nch as he bit down on each onion. Just watching him made the cuts around Davie's fingernails sting and his mouth fill with sticky bile.

  The fresh air and the rain feels good inside my nose. It puts out the fire from those pickled onions. Who eats pickled onions on the bus, for fuck sake? I stand on the pavement and just breathe.

  In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

  Come on, Davie, you're not helping.

  No, this fucking, hippy shite isn't helping.

  You're not letting it work, you have to give it a chance. Now, just try and empty your head.

  I can't.

  Once the contractions in my gut have eased off, I continue walking. There won't be another bus along for at least twenty minutes and I should be at Lewey's by then if I keep walking. I'll ignore the rain. It's just one of those passing showers. It'll soon be over and the sun will be out again, maybe with a nice rainbow overhead. Glorious.

  One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg, keep moving, keep moving.

  One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg, keep moving, keep moving.

  It soon becomes obvious that it's not a passing shower. If anything, the rain is getting heavier and heavier. Puddles start to collect on the pavement. What should I do? What should I do?

  Shelter somewhere till the rain goes off?

  Turn back and grab a jacket?

  Wait for another bus?

  Give up and head home, see Lewey another day?

  Buy something to shelter me from the rain and keep going?

  Just keep walking, fuck the rain?

  The options whirl in my head like a fruit machine. I hit the nudge button. The options slow their spinning and come to a stop.

  Buy Something. Buy Something. Buy Something.

  Cool, that's what I'll do. I don't want to give up, hit Escape and start again. That would disappoint Lewey and I can't do that after my promise to him.

  I don't really know the area around here too well: I usually just pass through it on the bus. I continue onwards, walking a bit quicker now, keeping my eyes peeled for anything that looks like a shop. On both sides of me though it's just houses, houses and more houses. Edinburgh is full of those bloody tourist shops selling emergency ponchos by the dozen, how come there are none around when I need one? No sound of bagpipes calling out to me through the rain.

  He heard the piped shortbread music blaring out from the tourist shops.

  I hug the bottom of my jumper, protecting the book like a pregnant woman holding her tummy. I'm soaked by the time I find somewhere; my hair is stuck to my forehead and my cheeks are flushed and pink. My glasses steam up as I enter the shop and I can't see a fucking thing. I rub the black, plastic specs on the sleeve of my jumper to try and clear the fog.

  Those glasses are really sexy.

  You think so?

  Yeah, they remind me of Kurt Cobain. You know, in the 'In Bloom' video?

  Ring a ring a roses.

  I just end up smearing the lenses with rain drops and jumper fuzz though, makes it even harder to see.

  There doesn't appear to be any logic to the shop's layout, so I wander around aimlessly, trying to find something waterproof. I stand in front of the magazine rack. Maybe I could buy one and hold it over my head, or fold one of the pages up into a paper hat?

  Davie, why are you such a fucking tit?

  I leave a trail of water behind me as I scour the shop, my squelchy Converse and cords creating a breadcrumb effect for me. I know which aisles I've already been along and which ones I've not tried yet. This shop is like the fucking Tardis. Eventually I discover a box in the corner with umbrellas inside it. They're covered in a layer of dust. I've got the choice of either Barbie or Thomas the Tank Engine.

  I go for Thomas, take it up to the counter.

  'I didn't even know we had these,' says the guy behind the till, as he struggles to find a barcode or a price for the umbrella. 'Do you know how much it said?' he asks me.

  'Sorry,' I shrug at him and he ambles off, carrying the umbrella. I watch his head disappear behind a shelf of bread and pastries.

  'I can't find it,' he says when he returns a few minutes later, 'let's just call it four ninety-nine. That alright?'

  'Aye, no bother,' I reply.

  'I take it you won't be needing a bag,' he grins.

  Fuck, I could kick myself. If I'd just asked him for a carrier bag in the first place, I wouldn't have had to spend a fiver on some kids' umbrella.

  'Nah, you're alright,' I reply and leave the shop.

  Once I get outside I open up the umbrella. The plastic is folded really tight and sticks; I swoosh it open, it smells of paddling pool.

  Davie and Lewis set up the plastic chute in the garden, so that they could slide down it and land in the paddling pool at the bottom. Davie went inside and poured his mum's washingup liquid down the sink, then filled the empty bottle with cold water. Back outside, he and Lewis took turns sliding down the chute into the paddling pool, while the other one squirted them with water using the squeezy bottle as a water pistol.

  I start walking and the rain begins to ease off a little. It remains a light drizzle, fizzing off the umbrella. I pull the umbrella down low so that I can't see what's in front of me, look down at my feet and let them take me where I'm going.

  One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg.

  Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving.

  One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg, one nod of the head.

  Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving.

  My feet reach the familiar turn off and I follow them in, off the main road now and onto the long driveway. There's no pavement so I stay in at the side of the road, avoiding the puddles filling up the potholes. The road is lined on either side by oak trees, drops of rain plummet from the branches and bounce off my umbrella. Despite the weather, there are grey squirrels running around underneath the trees and scampering up round the trunks like they're a wall of death. The place is full of wildlife. I can hear the magpies and the crows.

  Davie saw something out of the corner of his eye. A flash of colour. He spun round.

  Lewis? That you?

  Something rusty and orange slunk in and out of the bushes. Davie thought it was a cat at first, until he saw the bushy tail with white tip. Not a cat, it was a fox. Either way, it wasn't Lewis.

  The crematorium building is in front of me on the right hand side of the road. It's a strange looking building, more like a modern art gallery than a giant furnace. White walls stand at right angles to one another, like a row of books standing open. It feels like if you stood at one end and pushed, they'd all close in concertina-effect and the building would fold up into one flat rectangle. A solitary standing stone.

  There's a big glass triangle sticking up from the middle of the building; I'm not sure if it's a solar panel or a roof or what the fuck it's supposed to be. I think someone just added it on as an afterthought. We've got this bit of glass left over. Any ideas? Aye, just stick it on top. It reminds me a bit of a sail, the whole building ready to float away. Fuck knows how the architect managed to convince anyone that this could be a crematorium.

  Are you film fans? The building's been compared to the Emerald City, you know? said the minister.

  Davie couldn't work out if the minister was proud of this fact or if he was just trying to make polite conversation, ease the tension. Davie couldn't see the resemblance, it wasn't fucking emerald for a start, but he just nodded.

  Even though it's raining I take my usual route, otherwise known as the long way round. It always takes me a wee while to build myself up to seeing Lewey, and the walk helps me. It's a routine I have now, walk round first, then go and see him. A bit OCD I suppose, but I need it. I can already feel my temperature and heart rate rising and that ache I get in the middle of my chest starting to build.

  I turn right and follow the cobbled path encircling the crematorium building. Memorial Walk. This is the only bit of the place that reminds me of The Wizard of Oz. The cobbles are custa
rd coloured, like the Yellow Brick Road. The pathway's bordered on either side by small sloping stones. They're exactly like Lego roof pieces, but without the bright colours; there's one for everyone who's been cremated here. My hands are shaking now and I force them into fists, gripping the umbrella with both hands.

  One finger. One thumb. One finger. One thumb.

  Today is a bad day. I take the extra long way round. I follow the path as it passes the small man-made stream and waterfall. The pool is full of copper and silver pennies. I can see them glinting through the ripples. Water vapour hangs in the air, wishes stuck in time.

  I swallow, but my mouth is dry. I lean my head back and stick out my tongue, try to catch as much rain water as I can. I swallow again. I want to force down that ache rising upwards inside me.

  I run out of cobbles and the path stops abruptly. They add more cobbles and bricks to it every time there's a new cremation. It's already at least a metre or two longer than the last time I was here. I turn round, follow the path back the way I've just come and head out onto the main driveway once more.

  There are waiting rooms on my left-hand side as I leave the crematorium building behind me and approach the cemetery. They look a bit like garden sheds or greenhouses.

  Davie couldn't help laughing every time someone mentioned it: waiting room. It wasn't even funny, but he couldn't help it. It was one of those nervous laughs that bubbles up inside you and erupts when you're trying to be as quiet as possible.

  It was just the thought of it, a waiting room. A waiting room at a funeral. Like they were all waiting for Lewey to be ready before the funeral could start, like he was getting changed or something.

  The body will see you now, Mr and Mrs Watts.

  Davie held his breath and the laugh snorted out of his nose. If Lewis was there, they'd both be laughing. He'd have someone to share this with, he would look over at Lewis and try to catch his eye, set him off.

  But Lewis wasn't here, Davie was on his own.

  I walk past the wooden rooms and glance at my reflection in the darkened window.

  They were all in there, the whole family squashed inside the waiting room. All of them wearing black. It wasn't like Davie's grandpa's funeral: sad, but still able to smile at the thought of him. This time there were no smiles. No talking. Davie was wearing his dad's suit. It was too big. The trousers slipped down his hips and he pulled his belt tighter. Even that slight movement was too loud though. In here, even his breathing was too loud. His mum was sitting down. People were crowded round her. Cousin Susan. Aunt Chrissie and Uncle Mike. Lewey's headteacher, Mr Hitchen. Moments earlier his mum's knees had buckled underneath her and she hadn't tried to get up. Slumped. His dad stood on his own. He leant against the window frame and stared out at the cemetery.