Nightingale Point. Luan Goldie
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FOUR
Tristan had already picked the clothes from the floor, stacked the videotapes and lined up his and Malachi’s trainers by the front door. He now sits on the window ledge, his place of choice, observing the world nine floors below him. He is wearing white shorts today, white T-shirt, white socks, white trainers, and a large cubic zirconia stud in his left ear. It’s a good look. He feels pristine. He wonders if he should hoover but decides against it, as nothing will make the carpet, so full of cigarette burns and bleach stains, look any better.
Malachi walks in and slumps himself back into the Malachi-shaped dent on the sofa.
‘So what’s wrong with Mary’s TV?’ Tristan asks his brother.
‘Nothing. One of her grandkids must have unplugged the aerial.’
Tristan laughs, once again glad that Mary never asked him to fix stuff around her flat. It’s one of the perks of having a brother like Malachi, who is not only the clever one, the tall one and the ‘traditionally handsome’ one, but also the one that can ‘fix stuff’.
‘Did she make you watch Ricki Lake with her?’ Tristan laughs. ‘Girlfriend, you need to get a new man, get a man with a job,’ he mimics in an American accent.
Malachi shakes his head and pulls a pile of books onto his lap.
‘Mal, you all right?’
‘I’m always all right.’ He holds his book in front of his face.
‘You’re proper squinting. You need glasses, man, stop denying it. Specs will complete this whole student look you’ve gone for.’
Malachi puts the book down and pulls some keys from his pocket. ‘Mary’s spare keys,’ he says as they slide across the table into a pile of papers. ‘Tris, if you drop out that window I can’t save you.’
‘You don’t always need to save me,’ Tristan snaps. ‘I’m almost sixteen – old enough to vote and go to war.’
‘You need to be eighteen to vote.’
‘Whatever. Don’t need my big brother saving me.’
Malachi always thinks he needs to play the hero, but looking at his outfit today he’s the one that needs saving. Where did he even buy a pair of green trousers? No wonder he can’t keep a girl.
Malachi starts writing a shopping list, like Nan used to, except Nan wouldn’t have subjected them to pasta five nights out of seven.
‘What?’ Malachi looks up from his list of cheap meals. ‘Why’d you keep staring at me?’
‘Nothing. Was thinking, we should go West End, man. Get some new clothes for summer and that.’
‘New clothes? Cool, right after I figure out how to stretch my last money over our meals for the week.’
‘You were a lot more generous with the old purse strings when you were getting some action.’ Tristan is fed up of Malachi’s sulking. It’s been going on for ages now. All over some girl. She wasn’t even that fit. Proper Plain Jane. No need to get so upset over her. Tristan would never let a girl mess up his head the way Pamela messed up Malachi’s.
He starts tapping a beat on the window and runs through his latest lyrics. ‘It’s Saturday, I’m out to play. Girls get ready ’cause I’m gonna pay, pay your way, so you can stay, in my bed, but I ain’t gonna stay. Yes. You like that one, Mal? I was born to do this, man.’
But there’s no applause from the one-man audience on the sofa, only another huff.
‘Pay your way, so you can stay, in my bed, we do it hard all day. So what you saying, Mal?’
Malachi raises his eyebrow. ‘Keep working on it.’
‘Ha. You coming out later?’ Tristan asks hopefully.
‘No.’
‘How comes?’
‘Busy.’
‘Ah, don’t give me that, it’s bank holiday weekend.’ He picks up one of Malachi’s plastic-wrapped library books. ‘The History of the Urban Environment. Hmm, looks like a riveting read. But I’m sure it can wait. Come on, come out with me.’
‘No.’
‘You seriously telling me you can’t take one day off from studying? Your brain gonna get stretch marks if you carry on like this.’ How long is Malachi planning on hiding out behind his books? It’s getting ridiculous. ‘You gotta get back to normal sometime. Whole estate’s gonna be at this fair up at the Heath. Plenty girls, Mal, plenty girls. Gonna keep me busy. Don’t expect me home early. Don’t expect me home at all. You can have the place to yourself, bring someone over if you want. Get a little study relief.’ He pumps his hips.
Malachi rubs his eyes and groans. ‘Tris, stop going on.’
‘Calm down, bruv. I’m talking about girls in general. I wasn’t gonna bring up Blondie.’
‘You just did,’ he snaps. ‘You and Mary are doing my head in with this.’
‘What?’
‘You’re both telling me to move on, yet you’re bringing her up every minute. Why can’t you both drop it?’
‘’Cause everyone’s fed up with you sulking about Pamela. Time to get over it. It’s time for a next girl. It’s time, bruv, I’m telling you. That’s why you need to come fair. You need to watch me in action.’ He stands up and performs his lyrics just as he would on stage. ‘Me settle down? You’re having a laugh. A pocket full of Durex, girl meet me in the car park.’
Malachi throws his books on the table. ‘Don’t you have somewhere to go?’
‘Nah, not yet. I’m tryna cheer your long face up. I even put up that hotness for you.’ Tristan nods over to the wall. Earlier he had taped up an A3 poster of Lil’ Kim lying spread-eagle across an animal fur rug. Now that’s the kind of girl worth having a broken heart over, not some skinny little blonde from the flats.
Tristan pushes the window open further, in need of air after working himself up with all his talent. Now relaxed, he takes his Rizla from his pocket and what’s left of his weed.
‘Quickest way to get over one girl is to move on to a next.’
‘Outside with that.’ Malachi jabs a thumb towards the front door.
‘You serious? The window’s wide open. You can’t smell it if I sit here,’ Tristan says, demonstrating how carefully he will blow smoke out of the window.
‘I don’t care. Take it out.’
‘Just ’cause you ain’t smoking no more. Why should I have to go out?’
‘Out.’ Malachi repeats as he begins flicking through his books.
‘Whatever.’ Tristan rubs his brother’s head roughly as he passes the sofa on his way out of the flat. Surely one of the benefits of having a twenty-one year old as your guardian should be that you can openly smoke a bit of weed at home. But no such luck with Malachi and that stick up his arse. Still, Tristan doesn’t mind getting out, jogging down to his much-loved spot, between the sixth and fifth floor, where he selects the middle step.
‘I’m more than a thug, girl get to know me, king of the block, T.H.U.G.’
He likes the echo of his voice in the stairwell and imagines how it would sound on a real microphone. He pictures himself in a recording booth, one headphone on, one headphone off, like the rappers in the videos, all his