Kate Tempest - The Bricks that Built the Houses

‘Come then,’ Gloria calls to them as she walks over, getting her coat and her bag from the hooks behind the till. ‘I’m all finished, we’re going.’

‘Do we really have to go?’ Charlotte asks her.

‘I don’t want to go,’ Becky says.

‘You never wanna go anywhere.’ Gloria takes Charlotte’s spliff from her, has the last couple of puffs.

‘I work hard,’ Becky tells her.

‘It’s her birthday. Course we have to go.’ Gloria stubs the roach out in the ashtray, empties the ashtray into the bin and looks at them both. ‘Come then.’

She walks to the door, opens it and holds it until they get their coats on.

‘Fuck’s sake, we’ve only been waiting for you for three hours,’ Charlotte says.

Becky finishes her drink, reaches over the bar to leave it on top of the washer, and follows them out.

It’s about one in the morning. Pete’s on the door at Mess, for a club night his mate puts on called Shitstorm, which it usually is. He’s freezing and bored.

A group of girls walk up the path to the courtyard and Neville, one of the bouncers, nudges him, rubbing his hands. ‘State of this lot, look.’

Seven or eight girls, all pissed, are walking towards them. Looking closer, Pete sees that actually it’s only one or two that are pissed; the others seem to be playing up to it a bit. Apart from three who are walking at the back of the crowd, a bit slower, talking together. He watches them. Must be a birthday or something. The one at the back is slim and dark-haired and he likes the way she’s walking, head down, hips swinging. She looks like trouble . He looks closer. Everything stops. Opens its mouth, screams. Starts again. Don’t be a prick . Her body is a waterfall, her chin’s down, she’s talking to her friends, using the hand that holds a cigarette to punctuate her sentences. She moves across the pavement completely separate from what surrounds her. Drawing everything in. She’s walking straight towards him.

Becky’s standing in the courtyard outside Mess finishing her cigarette. ‘We going in then?’ she asks the girls. Jemma, whose birthday it is, is singing the Home and Away theme tune at top volume. She directs a couple of lines at Becky.

She has one hand on her heart and the other reaching towards the heavens.

Becky rolls her eyes,

‘See you in there,’ she says, walking towards the doors. ‘Alright?’ she greets the doorman. Looks in her bag for her purse. ‘Can I pay for me and for that girl there?’ She points towards Jemma who is sitting on the floor, rending her clothes with emotion.

‘Course you can,’ the doorman says.

She looks up to pay him and her hand stops in mid-air. ‘You came in my caff today?’

‘Yeah, that’s right.’ He smiles his best smile, puffs his chest up. ‘How’s it going?’

Her heart is hammering, the soles of her feet hurt.

‘Alright, yeah. Not bad.’ She looks at him, right in the face.

He tries to hold his shit together, sends an urgent message to his nose, eyes, lips, chin. Stay put. Act natural .

‘Big night, is it?’ He indicates the others with his eyes. The excitement is building in his body. She stabs a painful hope into him.

‘Jemma’s birthday.’ She points to the one who’s the most pissed; Jemma has her arms around Gloria’s shoulders, dragging her down towards the pavement saying, ‘I love you, Gloria, I really do.’ Smoking two fags at the same time.

‘Having fun?’ he asks her, hands in his pockets, shoulders squared against the cold, looking down into her face.

‘Think she is,’ Becky says, tipping her head towards Jemma before reaching out the hand that holds the tenner again and offering it to him. He waves it away.

‘No, no, you’re alright,’ he says. Go on , says his gut, say something . ‘Save it,’ he says. ‘You can buy me a drink later?’ But she doesn’t respond. She’s just looking at him, eyes flashing. He considers repeating it but she’s already walking away, into the club.

Inside it’s heaving. It’s all so familiar. All so neon and dismal. Kids vomit discreetly in corners while they come up off their drugs. Men with old faces smile like cartoon villains at young girls with low self-esteem and terrible secrets. Gloria heads for the bar.

‘Get me a thing? Drink?’ Becky shouts. Gloria nods.

‘We’re over there.’ Charlotte points to the speakers.

‘Yeah,’ Gloria nods, sticking her thumb up.

Charlotte grabs Becky’s arm in one hand and Jemma’s in the other and they push through the bodies and the noise. They take their coats off, stuff them behind the speaker stacks and stand with their faces an inch from the bass bins. The DJ’s playing drum ’n’ bass. Technical Itch.

Charlotte beckons her closer. ‘Shock the fuck oooout, bruv,’ she shouts in her ear, screwing her face up. Becky shakes her head in mock exasperation. Charlotte laughs. They start dancing.

Becky’s mind calms as her body starts moving. But she can’t zone out completely. We only came in here because the other place was one in, one out .

Pete stands there in the cold for a bit. Shivering with excitement. Pacing. Ruffling his stubbly hair and smoothing it down again.

‘Neville, cover me for ten minutes, will you, mate?’

Neville nods, Pete throws him the stamp and goes inside.

There are people everywhere. Bodies and backs and hair. What colour was she wearing? She had a coat on. Pacing. Pushing people out the way. Scouring every corner. Nothing. Maybe that girl? He heads towards her. No. Not her . He’s on his tiptoes, looking over everyone’s heads. Hugging the walls, checking every figure. Scanning every face in the booths at the back. Nothing. Fuck it. He stands at the bar. Determined. Everything pushing.

The DJ charges off into anonymous blip core.

Becky taps Charlotte’s arm. ‘I’m gonna find G, help her with the drinks,’ she shouts.

Charlotte nods. Becky picks her way through the bodies, stands at the bar looking for Gloria. She can’t see her.

She feels a tap on her shoulder. She turns and her body plummets straight down a sudden hole that’s opened in the floor. It’s him. He’s saying something. Leaning down towards her. She smells him. Sweat and aftershave, cigarettes, cold air. He draws his head back, looks at her for a response. She taps her ear and shakes her head. CAN’T HEAR YOU , she mouths. He hits his forehead with the palm of his hand. PHONE . She mimes it, holding out a hand as if it holds a phone and pointing to it. He gets his phone out, gives it to her. They are standing close together in a push of warm bodies. His temples are pounding. She opens a text and writes BECKY ; they are leaning in, over the screen. Their shoulders are touching. She sees that his lips are smooth. He reaches for the phone, types in PETE . She smiles, takes the phone back off him. GOOD TO MEET PEET . They are face to face but looking down, not at each other. In her head her brain is burning, visions of a distant time, her father writing at the kitchen table, his feet bare, his battered jacket on the chair behind him, her crawling, sitting between his feet, playing with colourful bricks. The playground by their old flat, her mum there, so beautiful, smiling, her face all pink from the weather, her necklaces hanging, the climbing frame shaped like a spider, one rung at a time up the ladder legs, his arms there, his hands as big as the world.

She types her number in, gives the phone back to him. He can smell her clothes, her skin, like crushed almonds, or something. Darker though, earth after rain, smokier, like the inside of a growing plant. She looks deep into his face. He looks away, can’t hold her gaze.