one of the cycling boys says, ‘you seen Mustafa from Barton Point about? I’m gonna get him today, y’know.’ He punches one fist into the other.
‘For real?’ Tristan feigns interest, distracted by the tightness of the wrapper on the ice pole. He puts it between his teeth and tries to rip it.
‘He tried to chat up my sister. Man needs to be taught a lesson. You know me, how I protect my family and that.’
‘Yeah, yeah, get him good,’ Tristan says as he battles with the plastic seal. It bursts open and a blue juice sprays across his T-shirt. ‘Shit.’
The boys laugh.
‘You look like a sanitary towel advert.’
‘For fuck’s sake, man.’ Tristan is furious. ‘This is clean on.’
‘You were asking for it wearing that much white,’ Ben Munday says.
The toxic-looking blue colours the pavement as Tristan throws it to the floor. He leans down to wipe the bright drips off the trainers he takes so much pride in keeping spotless.
‘Eh, Tris, you know him?’
‘Who?’ He licks a finger and scrubs it along the stain. As he looks up he spots the man in the Elvis T-shirt from earlier in the stairwell. But this time he’s got a book out, a notepad or something, and is scribbling away. The boys cycle over and take it from him. Then they burst out laughing. Tristan tries to work out what’s going on.
‘Oi, Tris,’ one of the boys shouts back, ‘is this man your bum chum? Didn’t know you were into gingers.’
‘What’s he on about?’
The notepad flaps by their sides as they cycle back and then pass it along the group. Each face breaks into laughter as they see whatever is written and Tristan waits for his turn to get in on the joke.
Elvis T-shirt follows. ‘Please,’ he says, ‘can I have it back?’
Ben Munday shoves a hand back down his pants before letting out his one uncool trait: his high-pitched laugh.
‘Please, can I have it back?’ Elvis T-shirt reaches out for the notepad but it’s finally passed to Tristan. The pencilled figure has lines shaved across its hair, a star in its ear and two skinny legs sticking out of a pair of big shorts. Tristan isn’t sure what he’s most annoyed about: that he’s been spied on again or the unflattering portrayal of his physique, especially as he’s been putting in up to sixty push-ups a night.
‘Is this meant to be me?’ It’s humiliating, especially in front of Ben Munday. The heat creeps up behind his ears like a siren signalling the imminent loss of his temper.
The boys cackle and their energy builds behind him.
‘What’s your problem, man? First you’re spying on me in the stairs and now you’re drawing pictures of me.’
He hears a gasp.
‘Eh, Tris, this is proper creepy,’ says one of the boys on the bike, the spokes on his wheels click-clacking as he rocks back and forth. ‘This brer been stalking you?’
Stalking. That’s exactly what this is. Elvis T-shirt tries to grab the notepad but Tristan gets hold of his fingers and twists them tightly. He doesn’t really want to break the guy’s fingers, but this needs to hurt. He hopes he will know when to stop. Thankfully, the fingers are slippery with some kind of grease and slip from his grip. Elvis T-shirt looks proper scared now, huffing and almost in tears. He tries to run but the bikes block him, as if holding him for Tristan. For what? Not like Tristan is gonna fight this big idiot here in front of everyone. Ben Munday nods towards the notepad, as if giving the go-ahead. Tristan begins to rip out the pages, tearing at the little illustrations of postmen and bowls of food that appear alongside the scruffy handwriting. Then he flicks the notepad over into the car park. He laughs with the boys and shouts: ‘Sicko’.
But Ben Munday isn’t smiling; he’s shaking his head like he’s witnessed something substandard rather than business being taken care of. ‘Don’t let him get away with it, Tris,’ he says.
Elvis T-shirt now has his arms wrapped around his head. Despite being scrunched up, he still has a few inches on Tristan. He takes a step closer and isn’t sure what to do, how to make the biggest impact. Then it comes to him. He closes his eyes as he launches the spit. The boys gasp, someone snickers, there’s even the slap of palms. He’s done the right thing.
‘Stay away from me, you fucking retard,’ he shouts, and Elvis T-shirt wipes his face, then takes off in the direction of Nightingale Point.
‘That’s how to do it,’ Ben Munday says, smiling. ‘You gotta watch yourself with them care-in-the-community people.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Tristan agrees. He looks up at the flats and hopes no one saw what happened. Malachi would kill him. ‘Well, man, I need to go get changed – can’t be walking about like some tramp. Not my style.’ He knocks fists with each of the boys. Ben Munday grabs Tristan by the shoulder and shakes him playfully; a proud smile breaks through his thick, curly beard.
Nightingale Point feels hotter than when Tristan left it, so as well as a blue ice pole stain, he feels the sweat seep into the cotton at his armpits. Nastiness.
‘You again? Up, down, up, down,’ the old biddie on the third floor says. She sits on a dining table chair out on the landing, surrounded by a mess of plastic plants and flowers. The sight of her dentures makes Tristan queasy as she smiles at him. ‘No wonder you’re so skinny.’ She tuts. ‘Get yourself outside. Too hot to stay in. Bet your lot are used to it, though, ain’t ya?’
He pauses and retraces his steps back down. ‘What?’
‘The heat. You know.’
Is she serious? Old people have no filter whatsoever.
‘I tell you, young man, once it got so hot here I could have fried an egg on the floor.’ She points down to the narrow strip of grey concrete in front of her and sways. ‘Szzzz.’ She laughs. ‘I sat out here with your nan that day. If she was here now, she’d be sitting out here with me. A lickle tipple of rum.’ The woman mimics what he thinks is meant to be a Jamaican accent and laughs like a schoolgirl.
He rolls his eyes, trying to remember a time when his church-going, twin-set wearing nan would ever have sat out with his woman. There’s no chance. Between working at the library five days a week, running around after Tristan and Malachi, and ferrying their mum back and forth to her hospital appointments, Nan had no time for anything other than standing in Mary’s kitchen and complaining about life. That’s Tristan’s overriding image of her: tired, shoes off, tights in all weathers, holding a mug of tea and giving Mary a rundown of her ailments.
‘When’s your nan coming back?’ the woman asks.
‘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,