Luan Goldie - Nightingale Point

Malachi hated to give a voice to the thing in his head, but it was there and wouldn’t go away. ‘So apart from my age, there isn’t anything else your dad would have a problem with about me, is there?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean, Pam. Don’t make me ask you outright.’

She pulled her hair up into a ponytail and looked away. ‘Mal, I’ve told you already, he’s not like that. He doesn’t like me seeing anyone. Black, white, purple, green.’

‘You say that, but have you ever heard him say that?’

‘He hates everyone and everything. He wants me sitting in the living room, right under his nose, where he can see me. I’m all he’s got.’

Malachi nodded. It wasn’t a conversation worth ruining their afternoon for. ‘So, you wouldn’t want to live with your mum again?’

‘She doesn’t want me. She’s got her new life now, new husband, new job. Why would she want her teenage daughter messing it all up? She always made Dad out to be the bad one, but he’s the one who looks after me. He’s a little over-protective sometimes, that’s all.’

Malachi pictured her dad waiting at the front door for her to return home each evening, ready with his interrogation about where she had been and who she had been with.

‘A little over-protective?’ he says.

‘Dad’s sister got pregnant at fifteen and it ruined her life. He doesn’t want me going the same way.’

‘That would never happen with us.’

She rolled back into the bed next to him. ‘Boys are troublesome.’

‘Except me. I’m the least troublesome boy you could have found.’

‘Really? We’ll see.’

Why did he allow himself to mess up so badly with her? How could he let her dad get the better of him?

He needs some air, some perspective. He scribbles a note for Tristan: Gone out for a walk. Need to clear head and goes out. As he walks down the stairs he hears humming on the third floor. Shit , Beryl must be tending to her plastic garden again. He could do without being caught up listening to her go on today.

‘Hello, Mr Long Legs,’ she calls.

‘Hi Beryl, can’t stop.’ He catches her disappointment as he runs past and immediately feels guilty; swears to pop by later. Beryl, like most women in the block of a certain age, seems to have a certain fondness for him. Tristan says it’s sometimes like Nan has them all on payroll for interfering.

He takes the steps two at a time till he reaches the ground floor.

‘Your lifts are out again?’ he shouts towards the open door of the caretaker’s cubbyhole.

A grey head pops out, mop in hand. ‘What did you say, son?’

‘The lifts are out.’

‘Yep. Both on the blink.’ The caretaker smiles, as if having announced some welcome news. ‘And you’re not the first person today to point that out to me either.’

The sun is searing, it’s full summer already and Malachi’s clothes feel too heavy and warm for the day. He hadn’t even registered the seasons change.

There’s a crack of laughter from by the car park. He spots Tristan, glowing in his white shorts and T-shirt, with the local hoods. Malachi doesn’t want to be called over to touch fists with them like he is part of their group, like he won’t, later on today, have a go at Tristan for associating with them. He jogs off quickly across Sandford Road and out onto the green. He looks back at Nightingale Point and counts up the floors to Pamela’s flat, half expecting to see her on the balcony, chewing her ponytail and observing the world below. But of course she’s not there, she’s gone. He didn’t expect to still feel this way, a month on. He thought being without her would have gotten easier, that he would have stopped missing her. But every day it seems to get worse.

There are more people than usual on the grass. Some look prepared for the weather, with supermarket food, blankets and sunglasses. Though most, like him, are caught off guard and look uncomfortable in their dark colours and too-warm clothes. Malachi used to love summer; him and Tristan would sit out on the balcony and suck on the coloured chunks of ice they would make themselves by pouring diluted juice into ice cube trays. Mum loved the summer too; it made her want to get out of the house. He can’t remember her depression ever taking hold during the summer months. But then he tries not to remember too much about her.

It wasn’t planned but when he looks up he realises he’s walked all the way to the swimming pool, the place he and Pamela first started talking, and across from it the café where they spent so much time together. He walks in alone and sits at the usual table, hidden near the back. With Pamela it was always a milkshake each and a plate of chips to share – his one extravagance.

The waitress comes and buries a hand in her thick curly hair. ‘Hey, honey,’ she says overly familiar, ‘ain’t seen you in ages.’

Pamela used to tease Malachi about the waitress having a crush on him.

‘Where’s your girlfriend today?’

‘Oh.’ His head falls to the side and he feels an overwhelming desire to confess all to her, just for someone to talk to, but it’s not in him to do that. ‘She’s around. You know.’ He pulls his gaze away from her face to the blue evil eye at her neck.

The woman smiles and wipes the table. ‘Trouble in paradise?’ She asks so gently he feels he might break.

‘Ah, actually … Well, we broke up.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ The crumbs fly from the table onto his lap as she pushes about a blue cloth. ‘Well, it won’t take you long to find someone else. I’m sure they’re lining up.’

But he doesn’t want anyone else, he wants to sit here with Pamela and share a plate of chips and laugh about last week’s episode of Father Ted . It hurts being here, reliving all those times they sat in this very booth, getting to know each other and making plans.

He puts his head in his hands.

The waitress comes back over and puts a milkshake on the table. ‘On the house,’ she says, tapping his shoulder. The kindness of it, of her and the way she looks at him, reminds him of all those teachers and social workers who would give him extra attention when they knew his mum was having a turn for the worse. It’s not empathy, it’s pity, and it still breaks his heart.

He can’t bear to see the pink glob of powder at the bottom of the glass so he drinks it to the halfway point. He misses Pamela so much. He’s not going to be able to concentrate on studying this afternoon. He can’t imagine being able to concentrate on anything ever again. Not without her.

‘Get it together,’ he mumbles. ‘Get it together.’

He knows he can’t speak to Pamela now; she surely wouldn’t want to hear anything he’s got to say. But maybe, just maybe, he can speak to her dad.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Elvis runs across the field to the other side. On his way he passes some girls who are sunbathing with not a lot of clothes on, some friendly drunk men, and an old man who walks a giant, scary dog, which he does not stop to pet. He pulls open the door of the phone box and shields his eyes from the photo cards of women with their breasts exposed.

He cannot remember George’s phone number and Elvis wishes he had spent more time trying to learn it and less time flapping the laminated sheet in the air. He takes his notepad from the pocket of his grey shorts and flicks through the pages to see if the number is written down in there. It isn’t. Instead, the notepad is filled with other important information, such as what takeaway dish is best from Express Burger (quarter pounder with chilli sauce and salad) and what time the postman arrives on his floor (8.57 a.m.).