Luan Goldie - Nightingale Point

LUAN GOLDIEis a primary school teacher, and formerly a business journalist. She has written several short stories and is the winner of the Costa Short Story Award 2017 for her short story ‘Two Steak Bakes and Two Chelsea Buns’. She was also shortlisted for the London Short Story Prize in 2018 and the Grazia /Orange First Chapter competition in 2012, and was chosen to take part in the Almasi League, an Arts Council-funded mentorship programme for emerging writers of colour. Nightingale Point is her debut novel.

Nightingale Point

Luan Goldie

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Luan Goldie 2019

Alyson Rudd asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © July 2019 ISBN: 9780008314460

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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008314484

For Patrick

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

SATURDAY, 4 MAY 1996

CHAPTER ONE: Elvis

CHAPTER TWO: Mary

CHAPTER THREE: Pamela

CHAPTER FOUR: Tristan

CHAPTER FIVE: Mary

CHAPTER SIX: Pamela

CHAPTER SEVEN: Malachi

CHAPTER EIGHT: Elvis

CHAPTER NINE: Tristan

CHAPTER TEN: Mary

CHAPTER ELEVEN: Elvis

CHAPTER TWELVE: Pamela

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Tristan

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Malachi

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Elvis

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Mary

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Tristan

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Elvis

CHAPTER NINETEEN: Pamela

CHAPTER TWENTY: Elvis

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Mary

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Malachi

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Mary

AFTER

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Elvis

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Mary

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Malachi

TEN DAYS LATER

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: Tristan

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Mary

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Malachi

CHAPTER THIRTY: Tristan

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: Malachi

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: Elvis

ONE MONTH LATER

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: Mary

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: Tristan

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: Mary

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: Malachi

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: Elvis

THREE MONTHS LATER

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: Malachi

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: Tristan

SIX MONTHS LATER

CHAPTER FORTY: Malachi

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: Mary

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO: Elvis

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE: Tristan

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR: Mary

FIVE YEARS LATER

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE: Jay

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX: Mary

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN: Malachi

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT: Tristan

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE: Elvis

Keep reading...

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

The evacuation began this morning. No sooner had the bins been collected than the hundreds of residents from the three blocks that make up Morpeth Estate began streaming away in their droves.

Bob the caretaker sat in his cubbyhole on the ground floor, telling anyone who would listen that ‘it’s only a heatwave if it goes on ten days’. But no one listened, instead they asked when the intercom was getting fixed, if he knew the lifts were out and what he was planning on doing about the woman on the third floor who kept sticking a chair out on the landing. Moan, moan, moan.

Bob stubs out his cigarette and looks up at the grey face of Nightingale Point, smiling at the way the sun illuminates each balcony, every single one a little personal gallery, showcasing lines of washing, surplus furniture, bikes, scooters, and pushchairs. Towards the top a balcony glints with CDs held by pieces of string; a few of the residents have started doing it and Bob doesn’t have a clue why. He must ask someone.

Mary is amazed at how well it works. Who would believe that hanging a few CDs on the balcony stops pigeons from shitting on your washing? She had seen the tip on GMTV and immediately rushed to the flat next door to ask Tristan for any old discs. His music was no good anyway, all that gangbanging West Coast, East Coast stuff.

Mary wraps a towel around her hair. Her husband could show up any minute and the least she can do for him, after being apart for over a year, is not smell of fried fish. She switches on the TV, but the picture bounces and fuzzes. She doesn’t even try to understand technology these days, but heads next door to get Malachi.

Malachi sits behind a pile of overdue library books and tries to think of a thesis statement for his Design and the Environment essay that is due next Friday, but instead he thinks about Pamela. If only he could talk to her, explain, apologise, grab her by the hand and run away. No, it’s over. He has to stop this.

Distraction, he needs a distraction.

On cue, Tristan walks over with The Sun and opens it to Emma, 22, from Bournemouth.

‘Your type?’ he asks, grinning.

But Malachi’s not in the mood to see Bournemouth Emma, or talk to Tristan, or write a thesis. He only wants Pamela.

Tristan sulks back out to the balcony to read his newspaper cover to cover, just as any fifteen-year-old, with a keen interest in current affairs, would. After this he will continue with his mission to help Malachi get over Pamela, and the only way to do it is to get under someone else. Tristan once heard some sixth-former girls describe his brother as ‘dark and brooding’, which apparently doesn’t just mean that he’s black and grumpy, women actually find him attractive . So it shouldn’t be that hard to get him laid.

There’s a smashing sound from the foot of the block and Tristan looks over the balcony.

The jar of chocolate spread has smashed everywhere and Lina doesn’t have a clue how to clean up such a thing, so she walks off and hopes no one saw her.

Inside the cool, tiled ground floor of Nightingale Point, the caretaker shakes his head at the mess. ‘Don’t worry, dear, I’ll get that cleaned up. Don’t you worry a bit.’

‘Thanks,’ Lina says. A small blessing in the sea of shit that is her day so far. She hits the call button for the lift but nothing. ‘Please tell me they’re working?’