Everyday People Page 2

  She was a young businesswoman who might have been going home after a long day in the office. Brunette, legs tanned, suit well fitted. Tall and broad-shouldered, possibly Eastern European, but that was just a guess. He made her type in more cash than she needed without a receipt. When the wad spat from the machine he made her take it quick, walk three steps, and drop it into homeless dude’s lap, gasps of shock exploding like cloudburst from spectators, then had her sprint toward the bus station as a 25 rounded the corner, pulling up at stop B. Knowing what was good for him, homeless dude shot to his feet as if the ground were electrified. He gathered his dog, loose change, and blanket, shuffling off before any spectators fully reacted to his luck, disappearing into the backdrop of commuters. Unable to find him, Aaron let the woman go, turning his back on her wheeling on the spot, heels tap-dancing against the pavement.

  “Sick!” Christie came closer still, deliciously embracing him, even kissing his cheek. Aaron blushed, shivering at the warmth. “Proper sick! I love it!”

  “No problem,” he said, trying to stare out Limo, who wouldn’t allow it. The Kid was vex, no doubt. His bottom lip stuck out, his eyes tracked tarmac. His arms hung, huge fists useless by his side.

  “So what, you lot on a link ting now?”

  She let him go. Immediately, Aaron missed her. They stood apart, looking as guilty as people who had actually done something wrong.

  “No.”

  “It ain’ even about that. Aaron done a good thing. Why you goin’ on weird?”

  “Yeah, carry on.” Limo honestly looked hurt, as though Aaron’s actions were an affront to his moral center, an act that had to be purged in some way, perhaps by the undertaking of more evil. “I see how this’ll run. You lot are on some couples vibe, an’ three ain’ magic. Catch you later, yeah?”

  And he was gone too, arms swinging, leg limping, fire-exit doors flapping until they closed. The silence afterward was awkward, dense, Aaron unsure what he should do next. He didn’t want to say it but the urge was sweet, compelling enough to take the risk.

  “He’s not wrong, though, is he?”

  He turned to face her, seeing that bright, beautiful smile. Christie sized him up as though he’d pleased her.

  “No, he’s not,” she said, and took Aaron by the arm, leading him toward the swing doors.

  They went back to his, seeing as Aaron’s mum was mopping floors and sterilizing hospital surfaces until late that night. He tried not to think about it, the hard work she was forced into just so he could have a painless education. Her only reward a future that saw him comfortable, a good job, wife, house, two good, beautiful kids. Aaron dismissed those vague, misty images with more purpose. Too far, too distant. When he asked Christie where she lived, she pursed her lips, head twisting to follow the exhale of a passing bus, breathed, “Not far.” Aaron smiled. He got it. Enough said by her hand in his, the slip of her arm between his inner bicep and ribs. What more did he want?

  They didn’t even run to catch the 25, just let it idle to allow people on, an old Asian lady struggling on the upward step like a toddler. When they finally got aboard and tapped Oysters, the driver snapped alert, looking from Christie to Aaron as though they were mythical, like he already knew their secret. Aaron bowed his head, hid his grin. He walked her to the raised seats in the back, radiator hot, thrumming. Christie rested her head on his shoulder. It was all he could do not to look each and every passenger in the eye, to ensure that they took note. This was him. With her.

  His room was dark and tidy, which always made Aaron wonder why his mother caused such a fuss about housework. He made sure the place looked like his personal space, even cooking on occasion. He was responsible. He owed Mum that much. Christie slow spun, taking in posters, his pinboard, the jammed bookcase and full shelves, his tiny writing desk beneath the window, his DVDs. He sat on the bed, swallowing nerves. When she’d made the whole 360, bending to inspect book covers and cut out newspaper clippings closer, her neat eyebrows were arched in surprise.

  “You march?” she said, pointing at the largest poster. A red star superimposed with black letters: LBR—and underneath that, an explanation: London Black Revolutionaries.

  “Yeah, course. Not every one,” he said, blushing, chin touching collarbone. “But sometimes. You?”

  “Yeah, course.”

  He tried not to show his pleasure. “I didn’t think you’d be political.”

  She shrugged, walking over. When she sat, springs gasped and the mattress indented, taking Aaron with it. He moved toward the wall.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s a bit old.”

  “Don’t be.”

  She took his hand. She was staring in a way that made him feel weird, intense and unblinking, but she was so beautiful he felt himself doing the same.

  “Which way you voting?”

  “Huh?”

  She peered at the poster and he shivered.

  “Remain.”

  “Course.”

  “Course.”

  She kept peering downward, running her hand across his. He wanted to close his eyes—her touch made him sleepy—but was worried that might say more about him than he wanted her to know. He tried to sit up straight. She was the first girl he’d had up to his room in four years.

  “This is nuts.” Half laughing, coughing to hide it. “We only just met.”

  She slid soft fingers along his bare arm, focused on what she was doing. Her lips shone, parted. She leant forward until she’d pushed beneath his T-shirt, reached his shoulder.

  “Uh-huh,” she said. Perfume clouded him. Their lips met.

  Nothing but sensation. No sound, no feeling, not even thought. Everything happening on the inside, like closing his eyes in a dark room only to see the delicate, butterfly swirl of phosphenes. Something composed of nothing. Like falling, a feather, not rock. Like nothing to push against and nothing to hold, a lightness he’d always felt inhabited his body were it not for bones and liquid and muscle and soft tissue. Were it not for himself. He might have smiled, tried to, but as the feeling glowed and expanded there wasn’t the familiar stretch, the noise of separation, a touch of hard teeth against soft lips. Everything had flattened, merged, spread like clay. There was no way to tell what belonged to him, or anything else. There wasn’t anything else. Only touch.

  • • •

  He was on the bed, head fuzzy, ceiling spinning. A quick check; he was fully clothed. Another; Christie was gone. He sat up, palms flat against the mattress, checking every dark space and crevice as if the ability to shrink had been added to her powers. He squinted his desk from a formless blob back to its original shape. Found his glasses splayed on the bed, put them on. An open book facedown by the empty chair. He checked the spine: Other Britain, Other British. No sign of Christie.

  There was nothing left but to put out a call. He did so tentatively, a little scared of what he might learn. When the pressure returned between his eyes, a soft migraine, he closed his eyes, lying back. Allowed a smile to touch his lips. He curled on the bed, sensation pulsing at his forehead, and that’s how his mother found him when she opened the bedroom door just before two a.m. Sleeping fully clothed, a pillow clutched to infinity beneath his nose, still smiling.

  He put out a call at breakfast before his morning classes and heard nothing. That didn’t faze him. He wolfed down bran flakes and left the house before his mum woke for her customary coffee and low-energy grumbles. He sailed through his lectures with an enthusiasm that made staff and students alike look twice, wondering if he was the same person they’d seen for almost a full term. In the afternoon, when he powered from the building with secondary-school energy, his classes done for the day, a trail of smiles, head nods, and raised fists bubbled and frothed in his wake.

  She leant against the lamppost directly outside his college. Short denim skirt, tights and Timbs, slim tank top, and bright furred gilet. Hair pulled back and gleaming, frost chip eyes and high cheekbones. Nearly every guy who passed her turned t
o get a better look, and those who didn’t stiffened, walking self-consciously, swag depleted. Christie seemed lost in another world until she saw Aaron and stood to attention, overjoyed at something as mundane as the mere sight of him. Damn. She even had a lollipop, ruby gleaming, which she gave a final lick, crunched into shards and pulled from her lips, dropping the white stick behind her, grinning.

  “Hi,” she sang, embracing him. A collective gasp rode the air. Her perfume, a tang of something sensual, something her. Crunching, the scent of flavored sugar on her breath. The dark of his closed eyes felt good, like the night before. He wallowed.

  “How you doing?” he said, letting go to look at her. Damn.

  “Good.” She was jittery, blushing. “Thought we could do something. At the polling station? You voted?”

  “I haven’t.”

  She sent a quick image across real time vision. He watched, sightless, nodding. Pretty good idea.

  “We can hang out after if you like.” Head ducked toward dark pavement, giving him the zigzag line of her center parting. “Maybe go to Nando’s? My treat?”

  Aaron was in love.

  The polling station wasn’t far, an old church he’d ignored most of his life, signs outside stating its new, temporary persona. A tall woman with thin lips, cornrows, and a council ID hanging from a poppy-red ribbon smoked and shivered against the damp wall, eyes distant. Christie waited not far from the woman while Aaron made his mark and slid his vote into the ballot box, joining her after. They leant against open church doors, playing sullen-eyed teenagers, nothing more on their minds than the time on their hands. They didn’t have to do much. Just a simple look in the direction of anyone who passed, a gentle probe inside their heads, a nosey around. If the person was voting their way they left them be. If they were going against their interests, or unsure, a suggestion was planted. Often, when that happened, the person would jerk, frown as if they’d forgotten something, and continue on, a little more determination in their step than before.

  The Tall Woman went inside after fifteen minutes. When she came back an hour and a half later to see Christie and Aaron still there and a number of people halt, jerk, and look puzzled, she turned toward the teenagers, uncertain suspicion in her eyes.

  Aaron didn’t see her until Christie nudged him twice. He watched the Tall Woman for a long while, pushed out a command. She jerked, too, harder than the others, all scrutiny blinded. Opening her cigarette box, she fumbled one to her lips and began to smoke hard, nonstop. Finished it and started another. And another. When they left the polling station around ten p.m., she was smoking cigarette butts she found on the grass, one after the next. Her colleagues beside her trying to pull at her arms while the woman elbowed them away, kept searching.

  They bought a whole lemon and herb chicken and double large fries to share, taking it to the shopping center where they found a place to sit huddled by closed Holland & Barrett doors. Around them, the swish and clatter of roller skates and skateboards, white noise beneath Grime pumped by youngers outside Costa watching their mates with grim, negligent pride. Others with their backs pressed against JD Sports glass, or sat on benches lacing up, speeching fresh-faced teenage girls or staring into space, meditating on their next move, carnal or athletic. Afropunks, mostly, hair mixtures of blues, reds, oranges, and a rainbow of chemically enhanced colors, shaved close or flowering in full bloom, beaded, loxxed, weaved. Straight-haired blondes and brunettes styled much the same, long hair tied thin to avoid accidents. A trio of girls in Khimars, skates rattling trains, rolling west, all laughter and shouts and streaming dark material until they went unseen, trailing ghosts of echoes. Ripped and rolled-up jeans, exposing bare knees and glistening ankles, polished Doc Martens and fresh Timbs. A reflected haze of bodies on floor tiles, colored wheels pulsing like distant landing lights. Some spun on the spot, ballerina slow, trapped in worlds belonging to them alone. Others leapt for harsh ceiling lights, wheels erupting noisy landings, wobbling but upright, expressions betraying they expected no different.

  In their midst, pedestrians crossed from one side of Stratford to the other. Late-night students, red-eyed workers, young lovers, families pushing bully buggies, their walking children finding a grip wherever they could. Silver-screen aficionados, shambling drug addicts and their alcoholic cousins, pensioners bored to blindness with dull four walls. Skaters wheeling through everybody, unseeing, perhaps uncaring. A handful of high-vis security guards stood to one side, serene as though dreaming white light and ambience. Homeless men and women set up for the night, laying sleeping bags flat, clutching steaming teas. The cinema-sized flat-screen above the West Mall showed boy bands and London Met ads on continuous rotation.

  Christie motioned at the Nando’s bag. He tipped it toward her and she burrowed for fries, stuffing a handful into her mouth. Raised voices barked loud. Stiffened people, looking. There, just beside the lime-green lettering of Osbon Pharmacy, they saw him.

  “Christie . . .”

  They got to their feet.

  “It’s him, right?”

  Craning to see, one hand on his arm. “Yep.”

  “We better go over, in case.”

  She seemed reluctant, yet moved with him to the central area where Limo, even taller in huge black skates, loomed over a broad man much older than himself. The man had lank black hair plastered to his head, a dusty red hoodie, and a rolled up Metro in his fist. Both shouted at each other, Limo pointing in his face, the man gesticulating with his paper. Aaron couldn’t make out what was going on, caught between the thin girlfriend trying to pull the broad man away and Limo’s friends tugging in the opposite direction, the Kid shrugging them off, shouting, “I didn’t touch you, though,” louder each time.

  In one swift moment the broad man’s face changed. Eyes narrowed, his face seeped red until he was spitting, “Who the fuck d’you think you are, eh? Eh? Wait until mornin’, you’ll see, you lot’ll be sent back where you come from pronto, d’you hear me? This is my country. My country.”

  Maybe he didn’t really mean it. Maybe it was only a counteraction to what the Kid was saying, brought on by the vote and the intensity of the argument, but Limo stopped shouting as though he’d been slapped. His expression lost all animation, blanking until he regarded the man with no more interest than a frayed bootlace.

  Christie tensed, Aaron felt it. The broad man turned on a scuffed heel, brushing past his confused girlfriend, walking toward the marigold Amazon lockers on the northern end of the mall. He stopped and smashed his head against the metal, again and again, the sound of it like someone beating a tin drum. People screamed. Security guards ran over, trying to grab his arms, one pushed away by the man, falling and skidding across the polished floor on his arse. He got up and tried again with more of his mates and they were all pushed back even harder. The metal lockers banged, rocking steady time, growing dented, smeared red. Limo’s friends backed away, their expressions pale and sick.

  And the Kid stood there, focused on the man butting the lockers, a sneering half smile twitching at his lips.

  Aaron stepped forward, not even thinking until he felt a hand on his forearm. Christie shook her head, eyes holding his. He frowned Why not? and she shook her head even harder. A surge of anger swelled in his chest. Why not? When he turned back, Limo had seen him, his smile broader, eyes dilated, the whites seemingly larger. He winked at Aaron and let the man fall, unconscious. The watching people gasped, rushing to his side. The man’s girlfriend had long fainted, but no one noticed her. Limo spun on the spot, skating away with long, graceful strides, the lights in his boots blinking. Aaron watched the glittering red, blue, and white. His body grew light, and the spiral ascent opened in his head. The shopping center faded, returned, faded, and returned. Prickles of rage burned his eyes.

  Christie saw his anger; he knew that. She grasped him by the shoulders and led him away from the people and the fallen man. He let her walk him outside, into the cold night, toward the bus stop, where she pushed him
aboard the first 86 to pull up, guiding him to the upper deck. She sat him in the space behind the stairs by the window and leant against him so he could feel her warmth. Aaron saw dull lights, slow-walking people. He felt so tired. He wasn’t even sure what was wrong; all his energy had left him. Somewhere farther along the main road she hauled him down the stairs and onto the pavement, crossing roads until they came to another stop. They climbed aboard the next bus. She sat him down, putting her arms around him to quiet his shivering. He had a vague sense of where he was. He gave up learning more, or perhaps lost interest. His body felt loose and floppy, no bones.

  He blanked out completely after that. When awareness came back they were entering a house—hers, he guessed. A featureless hallway with one framed picture; an aerial shot of a beach, an orange and red outlined word in a corner: Bantayan. He had a vague memory of two people: a snub-nosed man in a blue-checked lumberjack shirt, red-eyed, tiny brown marks dead center on his lips, sucking on the tiniest roll-up Aaron had ever seen; and a plump woman, lively in a fading way, wearing a little blue apron and regarding him as if his presence was of little importance. There were names, a round of nods before lengthy silence, yet Aaron didn’t understand the words. He was tugged upstairs before he had time to ask if they were her parents. He might have even said it, but he didn’t remember Christie answering, or being sure whether he’d actually voiced the question. The next thing he knew a door was closing. He sat on a sagging single bed mattress pretty much like his own.

  The room was dark, very warm. That strange redolence in the air like nothing he’d known, pleasant and enveloping. Like the undercurrent Christie brought whenever she was near him, yet stronger, richer, headier. He tried to see the walls and objects in the room to get a better picture of who she was, but struggled to find anything to hold on to, just vague black forms and a light from the hallway that disappeared when Christie shut the door. He thought she’d flick the switch, waited forever for the click, the quick ache at the back of his eyes, a sudden reimagining of the formerly blank space. He felt a dip, then solid warmth beside him.