up. You can see their pale, white necks. Janet strokes Tippi’s red hair. She dyes it. Must do with that shade.
Footsteps plod along the hallway. We pause. And give each other that grinning look of recognition.
‘Uh oh. I zink our znext-door neighbour ist home,’ Aid says, his eyes twinkling.
Soon, I’ll tell you about the man who lives next door.
SWM – Cary – Parkway – Brunette – Singular – Pensive – 21 degrees, under cover of night, windy – 5’ 10”.
Cary has his favourite Breton top on. He’s recently got one of those new haircuts. It’s slick on top and shaved at the sides. It’s the haircut that would occur if De Niro from Taxi Driver became the third member of Wham! He probably works in Shoreditch. It’s probably a normal haircut there. He’s finishing the look with a red scarf/neckerchief. Which is bold. I get the feeling he’s been plucking up the courage to do this for a while and surprisingly it looks OK. He’s dancing around a bit, probably to electronic sounds. I wish I could hear what band or DJ. I really wish I could. To get a better idea of it all.
His mates arrive and they do ironic fist pumps. They’re probably going out somewhere actually. ‘Mate 1’ has a Hot Chip T-Shirt on. One of them disappears and then comes back and pinches his nose. Then the other ones disappear and do the same. They start playing on the Wii and it’s competitive. One of them licks his teeth as he flings his controller forward, lets go of it and it smacks into the window. It’s kicking off!
They’re all laughing but Cary doesn’t find it so funny, he probably only part owns this flat as part of that scheme. It’s not as posh as the Waterway flats but it’s nice, same floor plan as ours. He knows the window isn’t broken or cracked but he’s telling them:
‘Dude, careful, these windows cost a fortune.’
Yes, I think that’s what he said. And he’s right, I bet they do. They wouldn’t be cheap to replace. He thinks there’s a mark. There is a mark. He’s got a cloth. Oh, he’s pretty much got it. Oh, I see. It wasn’t a proper mark.
‘How’s Tippi’s table coming along?’ Aiden says, without looking up.
‘Er, not bad, I think. Looked like it was nearly done and drying about an hour ago.’
‘Do you think they sanded it first? I might do something like that.’
He never does anything like that. Not any more. He barely even leaves the house.
‘I’d imagine so, Aid. I imagine they’ve done it with a few tables before, mate.’ Doing my mock-urban-upper-middle-class voice.
‘Oh, I’d imagine so, babe. I imagine they sell them online actually. That’s what I imagine. Babe.’ He loves it when we do this.
‘Oh yup, that’s what I imagine too. It’s probably reclaimed. From some suburban yard, somewhere you wouldn’t have heard of, mate.’
‘Oh yeah, mate. I imagine it’s difficult to tear Tippi and Janet away from the reclamation yard. There’s so much there you can… er… er…’
‘Reclaim, babe?’
‘Well, exactly, mate.’
I’m not sure who we’re making fun of really. Everyone, I suppose. And ourselves.
Oh dear! Oh no. Cary. You poor thing. You poor little hip, upwardly mobile thing, you’re bleeding. Ouch.
No sooner had ‘the lads’ put ‘cloth-gate’ behind them, when catastrophe struck again. I caught it in my sights perfectly. I could see it before they did. Those boys in their high spirits were larking about on their Wii. And Cary was standing way too close to the action. I thought, someone’s going to get hurt here. And bang! He caught a controller right in the face.
He’s bleeding quite a lot. From his top lip. The one with the mohawk is looking for something, maybe ice. While ‘Mate 1’, still clutching the blood-flecked controller, apologises profusely while pacing from foot to foot.
I’d call an ambulance but I don’t think it’s my place to. It might prompt a few questions. Like: ‘Who the hell called this ambulance?’ ‘Dude, is one of us sending messages out into the airwaves without knowing it? By mental telepathy? Or, like, some other discreet human transmission process we’re as yet unaware of?’ And ‘Hey, bloody hell, man, who’s that woman staring at us through her binoculars over there?’
I think an ambulance might be a bit extreme anyway. I’m sure it’ll stop bleeding in a moment. I still wish I could help. I’d go and give it the once-over myself if I was a doctor. But I’m not. No. I’m not a doctor.
‘You’re obsessed,’ Aiden mumbles.
‘No, I’m not. People always say that sort of thing about women. She’s mad, she’s mental, she’s obsessed. You should know better. You write good women.’
‘I think I just write people. Hopefully. But you’re right. Sorry. I won’t say that. It’s stupid.’
‘I’m just interested.’
‘Yes, and you’re good at it. It’s probably from your past as an “avid birdz votcher”. You big old geek.’
‘I was never a birdwatcher.’
‘What? Of course you were. Told me on our first date you were.’
‘I certainly never said that. Let me educate you a bit. Birdwatchers: go to their local park, with standard gauge binoculars and mark down all the little birds they see in the local area. Birders: may go to other countries, recreationally or professionally–’
‘Professionally? Who pays them to do that?’
‘—or wherever, in search of more birds they haven’t seen to add to their Life List. There are around ten thousand varieties of bird, even the most ardent birder is unlikely to see as many as seven thousand in their lifetime. Now, those that go birding: may visit specific hides and spots to see birds for an afternoon and may also keep a book or list of what they see, like the birders do. And lastly, twitchers—’
‘Ah, twitchers!’ He snorts.
‘Twitchers: set their sights on a particular rare bird and travel specifically to find it.’
‘Oh right, and which one are you?’ he says.
‘Well, you couldn’t say I was a twitcher. Which, incidentally, my friend, is so named because one of the most famous rare bird searchers, Howard Medhurst, had a rather nervous disposition, if you must know.’
‘Like you. You have a twitch. Yes, so that’s what you are.’
‘No I don’t. No, I’m not…’
‘See, there it goes. It’s a long blink and your cheek goes a little too!’ he says, grinning again, the cheeky sod. Thinks he’s ruffled me.
‘Really? I… I’ve never even noticed I do that.’
‘Vell, you doo. So zere,’ says my Austrian psychoanalyst. His eyes narrow as he takes on a darker tone. He smiles, half concerned, half like a predator, sizing me up. Then speaks exactingly: ‘So… I suppose ze real qvestion iz… vot are you… searching vor?’