Luan Goldie - Nightingale Point

‘Nan ain’t coming back for a while.’ Nan stuck out life in London for over forty years; she damn near swam back to the island the day she felt Malachi was old enough to look after things. Nan always said life in the city was ‘nothing but bad luck and bad weather’. Guess she had more than her fair share of both.

‘Well, tell her I’ve got the rum in the cupboard for when she does, hee hee.’ The woman giggles again.

He waves off her comments, then carries on up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Once home, the flat is stifling, the windows all closed. He pulls off his T-shirt and starts to fill the sink, adding a bit of bleach, before spotting a note on Malachi’s abandoned pile of books. If it’s the shopping list, Tristan’s definitely going to add a few meal ideas of his own. Instead he feels inspired to write and rap.

‘Baby come and get this champagne and lobster, you’re dining with the mobster, some curry goat to finish, and I know you’re gonna want more. Hmm, don’t quite rhyme.’ He crosses it out. ‘ I need to handle business, get this money, you see, before Mal turns me into fucking fusilli.’ He sighs. ‘I’m getting worse. Off my game today.’ On the back of the paper there’s a note from Mal.

Gone out for a walk. Need to clear head.

When did he leave the flat? Tristan hopes Mal didn’t see him with the wall boys. Or with Elvis T-shirt. Tristan will properly be in the shit if that’s the case.

‘Who goes for walks round here anyway?’

He goes to the mirror and takes in his profile. Yeah, he looks good, but that pigeon-legged depiction was kind of hurtful. Working out at home isn’t enough to get the kind of Tupac body he’s aiming for. Only a gym membership will do the trick.

‘Check out my abs, built to last, come rub my chest, let me feel your arse .’

Tristan drops to the ground and starts doing push-ups. He’s hitting his flow when the door knocks. He jumps up, then tiptoes over, half expecting the police to be standing on the other side. Surely spitting at someone isn’t a crime? He’s not too sure. But on the other side of the spyhole is Mary’s husband, David Tuazon.

‘Smooth motherfucker,’ Tristan says as he unlocks the door.

‘Hello.’

‘Hey, man.’ Tristan can’t remember David ever shaking his hand before. Up until he was about twelve he can’t remember David even acknowledging him directly. Only ever through Mary, and this often took the form of a questioning murmur about what those kids were doing in his home again.

Tristan gives a proper firm handshake, to which David pulls away and laughs. ‘My, how you have grown.’

‘Yeah.’ Tristan puffs out his chest and taps it. ‘I’ve had my Weetabix, innit.’

‘Either you’re hot or I am interrupting something?’

Tristan, so used to his own nakedness, shrugs his shoulders. ‘Hot,’ he explains. ‘I ain’t seen you in over a year, man.’ There’s a fake-looking Louis Vuitton suitcase in the hall.

‘I’m looking for my wife. She’s not home.’

‘She gone work, innit. Saturday late shift.’

‘Ah. So.’ He runs his hand over one side of his hair; he has so much of it. ‘I’ve had a long journey. I am keen to get home and get some rest. I can never sleep on planes. You know how it is, so uncomfortable.’

Tristan nods like he understands, despite never having been on a plane. His own passport, ordered for a school day trip to France that he couldn’t afford, still sits expectantly in his chest of drawers, each page pristine and unstamped.

‘I need the spare keys. I assume you have them?’

The keys, yes, he remembers vaguely, but can’t remember anyone saying David would be back. He fears he’s losing his memory at fifteen and vows to give up smoking weed after the bank holiday weekend.

‘Oh yeah. Course. I mustn’t have been listening ’cause I really didn’t catch Mary say you were here.’

‘That’s because she doesn’t know. Well, she knows I’m on my way but I didn’t say when. I wanted to surprise her.’

Tristan leaves the front door wide as he looks around for the keys on the coffee table; the cool green leaf key ring he added makes them visible among the dullness of Malachi’s architecture books.

David inspects the key ring. ‘Thanks. See you later. Say hello to your brother.’

Tristan pulls a tight smile as he shuts the door.

‘Dickhead.’

He takes the windows off the safety latches and pushes them all wide open. The phone rings, startling him. Month to month it gets cut off so he’s always shocked when the thing actually works.

‘Hallo?’

‘Tristan?’

‘Yup.’

‘It’s Pamela.’

‘What is this? All the old ghosts are popping up today.’ He untwists the phone cord and walks back over to the mirror. ‘What you want?’

‘I need to speak to Mal.’ She has a desperate edge to her voice. It reminds Tristan of all the times he walked in on her and Malachi holding hands, knee-deep in a conversation about how much they loved each other. They were so intense.

‘He ain’t here. He’s gone out.’

‘Don’t lie to me. He never goes out.’

‘Well, you been gone a month; people change.’

She sighs into the phone. ‘I really, really need to talk to him.’

‘For what? Can’t you find some mug in Portsmouth to buy you trainers?’

‘It wasn’t like that. And I’m from Portishead . But I’m not there anymore. I’m upstairs. Got back a few days ago. Is he really not there?’

Tristan huffs.

‘Okay, listen. I need you to give him a letter from me. Will you come up in about fifteen minutes?’

‘Do I look like Royal Mail to you? Post it!’ Tristan doesn’t want to go back to being the third wheel in their relationship. He’s only just got his brother back.

‘Please. You don’t understand what these last few weeks have been like.’

She rabbits on, blah blah blah. He rubs his lower abs and wonders how much it would cost to get a tattoo across them. Maybe some scripture or something. Some Chinese writing.

Pamela is now crying down the other end. He has better things to do with his bank holiday.

‘Look,’ he cuts her off mid-sentence, ‘why you giving me this breakdown of your relationship? I ain’t Martin Bashir. What do you want from me?’

‘My dad’s locked me in,’ she says. ‘So, please, come up and take the letter.’

He flops down on the sofa, wondering if he should help. Pamela did make Malachi happy while it lasted. It was good for him to get his lanky leg over something, even if it was her. But the drama of them was exhausting, all the crying and the constant threat of her crazy dad hanging over everything. Tristan used to get proper paranoid whenever she was in the flat and the door would knock; he was almost waiting for her dad to bust in and kick Mal’s arse. Or worse. So when Pamela up and left for Plymouth it was sort of a relief.

‘Tris? Will you help me?’

‘I’m busy,’ he says, and it’s true. Who has the time to go running about, trying to fix up other people’s love lives? Tristan’s not sure if the whole thing was even worth it. He knows plenty of hotter girls that would give it up for less than Pamela. A lot less. We’re talking a bag of chips here.

‘Tristan, please, come on. It’s not going to kill you to leave your flat for five minutes.’

He purses his lips and remembers how Mal pestered him to find out who Pamela was after seeing her run around the field like a hamster in a wheel. It was unusual that he took an interest in any girl, but then he’d been so busy since Nan left, trying to juggle studying and ‘playing dad’. Tristan was glad when Mal gave that up. Finally they started up their Donkey Kong tournament again in the evenings. Except for the times when he would be sneaking about with Pam, probably kissing around the back of the bins or something, or sharing a milkshake in that nasty little café near the swimming pool.