‘My friends don’t amount to one hand.’ – Mark E Smith
I picked more small pieces of paint from the wall beside my bed. It was pink. Flaked off easily once you got your nail up under the edge. The hall light shone under the bedroom door. Somewhere at the other end of the house the little black and white tv was showing something. Not loud. My parents were watching. Tired.
I never worked out why my bedroom was painted pink. I’d got some pictures of dinosaurs up on the walls, and above my bed there was a baby mobile of sea creatures: whales, dolphins, all smiling insincere grins down at me in the dark. I watched them, hardly moving in whatever draught was coming in with the light. A car came past on the u shaped road, down the hill then up the other side. Every car changing gear at almost the same point every time. I listened for them, mimicking the noises under my breath, guessing the moment.
The shelves above the tiny desk in my bedroom were full of books. I’d read them all. Even tried writing one: something about a murder on a ship. Some fantastical island paradise turned bloody. They caught him in the end. Something to do with him working alone; no help to dispose of the bodies. Mistakes were made.
I had no friends on the road. There was an idiot two streets away – Warren – but I avoided him because when he laughed, spit flew out from his goofy teeth and he looked like a cartoon character. The only people I ever really hung about with were Jack and Floyd. They lived further away on the island. We knew how to get girls pregnant. You pissed on their belly. With such secret knowledge, imparted by Floyd one afternoon to me and Jack, you had an edge over other boys. It was a frightening proposition to be in charge of creating life, and so easily. I wasn’t sure I could bring myself to piss on Leanne (my first girlfriend). I mean, we hadn’t even kissed.
The three of us played down on the mud flats, over the oyster beds. Prodding the silt with bamboo canes, digging for slippery gold. Throwing huge globs of clay at each other. Laughing. We were pretty much the Kings of the Primary school. No-one could outrun me at sports, or outswim me. And me and Jack would fight anyone, even each other, until the sun set. We became blood brothers – cutting each other’s hand with a blunt penknife and holding the two tiny cuts together while saying some gibberish about growing up and becoming men. Being bonded. Fighting forever.
We moved before my cut had healed. Before I really had time to say goodbye. Up to the North. Two hundred miles away. No friends.