Big and Clever (11 page)

Raks nods.

“What about Zoe?”

“Oh, she'll be alright about it.” I sound a lot more confident than I actually feel. Zoe's always telling me I should grow my hair.

Talking Heads isn't busy. It never is. The sign in the window says
Appointments Not Always Necessary
. It's a bit of an understatement. I push through the door and sit in one of the red plastic chairs dotted along the right hand wall. Raks sits down next to me. The radio is playing quietly in the background. The
Danny Morrissey Drivetime Show
on Letchford Sound. There's only one woman working this afternoon, doing what she can to what's left on an old man's head. She's in her late twenties, good looking, with black shaggy hair tinged red at the tips. She did my hair the last time I came in. She's wearing a low-cut black top and a short black skirt over a pair of red leggings. Right on cue, Raks starts tugging at my elbow, raising his eyebrows, nodding towards the hairdresser.

I laugh.

The woman looks over in our direction.

“Be with you in a few minutes, yeah?” she says.

We nod.

I take my coat off and hang it on the back of my chair. There's a low table to the right covered with dog-eared magazines. I hand Raks a
Cosmopolitan
and get myself a copy of
Heat
. On the front cover there's a photo of some former girl band member, still trying to cling onto the arse hairs of celebrity.
My New Man's A Bad Boy. But We're Trying For A Baby
.

By the time I've flicked through the magazine, the hairdresser is brushing clippings off the old chap's shoulders and dusting his neck with talcum powder. She helps him put his coat on, he pays and he makes his way to the door. The hairdresser turns towards Raks and me.

“Who's first then?” she asks.

I glance across at Raks. He's sitting rigid, eyes glued to
Cosmopolitan
. Something about Posh's new diet. It looks like I'm going to have to take the lead. I cross to the chair and sit down as the hairdresser puts a grey vinyl gown over my shoulders. I look straight ahead, at my reflection in the mirror. My cheek still looks slightly swollen. On the shelf in front of me there's a set of clippers. My stomach twists. “Right,” the hairdresser says. “What's it going to be?”

I flick my eyes towards Raks. He's finished with
Cosmo
now, and he's looking at me. Daring me.

The hairdresser runs her hands through my hair, pulling up my fringe between her first two fingers.

“Four round the sides, some of the length and weight from the top, yeah?”

I swallow.

“No,” I say. “I want to go for something different this time. Something not so long. Number two all over.”

The hairdresser stops what she's doing. She stares into the mirror, right at me.

“Are you sure about that?” she asks. “Compared to what you've got, number two will seem very short. It'll be totally different.”

I nod.

“Yeah, I know.” I look across at Raks. He's giving me the thumbs up.

“Well,” the hairdresser says, “if you're sure that's what you want.”

I look into the mirror at my fluffy, little boy's haircut for a final time. It's the haircut I've been having since primary school. Since the days when it was my mum sitting behind me reading magazines. I feel a bit sad and nostalgic. But things have moved on. There's no going back now.

“Go for it,” I say.

The hairdresser plugs the clippers in and switches them on, moving round until she's directly behind me. The sound of buzzing fills the air, and then a heap of brown hair falls onto my shoulder, skittering down across the front of the gown like a mouse running for cover.

The heap of hair looks massive. For a split second, a horrible thought starts to gnaw away at me. I've done something really stupid. Then I catch sight of Raks. He's shaking his head, with his hands over his mouth, making out that he's horrified by what's happening to my barnet. But I can see from his eyes that he's only pissing about. From that point on, everything is fine.

Five minutes later the hairdresser puts the clippers back on the shelf. Bringing her eyes down level with the top of my head, she brushes away loose hairs, checking that nothing has avoided the clipper blades. She straightens up and smiles. She's happy with how it looks and so am I. It's a transformation. There's no other word for it. The hairdresser picks up a mirror and shows me the back and the sides, smooth, sleek and brown, a hint of scalp showing through, giving it a bit of edge. It's not a boy's haircut any more. I feel like I've got my look at last.

“How's that for you?” she asks.

“Brilliant, thanks,” I say, but that doesn't really do it justice. It's perfect.

The hairdresser puts the mirror down. She tears open the Velcro fastenings on the gown and pulls it forwards so that all my hair falls in a pile by my feet.

I stand up and follow her towards the desk at the back of the shop.

“That'll be £6.50 then, please,” she says.

I fumble in my pocket and bring out a handful of change. I count out six fifty and hand it over, putting another pound into the tips jam jar.

“Thanks very much,” the hairdresser says.

I smile and head back towards my seat. As I sit down, Raks stands up.

“It looks fucking good, man,” he says. He runs a hand through his own hair.

I grin.

Raks makes his way over to where the hairdresser is waiting.

“What's it going to be then?” she asks.

Raks doesn't hesitate.

“Number two all over.”

I wanted a lie-in today. Saturday is the only day when I can really have one. I deliberately didn't set my alarm clock, and I was hoping that when I opened my eyes it would be nice and late. Nine o'clock, ten o'clock. Something like that. I should have known better. Twenty-five past seven it was, when the bloke next door started hammering on his extension. He's been building the thing every weekend since before I went to primary school. That's about eleven years. I think it took less time to build the Taj Mahal.

I've been upstairs all morning. I had a shower earlier on, and since then I've been listening to music, playing on my PS2, just rattling about. Dad's in the living room, but he was on the beer again yesterday evening. It's not too much fun being around him the morning after the night before. I went down for a bowl of Rice Krispies around ten, but Dad was flaked out, drooling on the arm of the sofa, so I just left him to it.

It's getting on for five past twelve now. Zoe's coming round at quarter to one. We're getting the bus into town to have a look round the shops. Letchford are away at Kidderminster in the first round of the FA Cup this afternoon, so I'm not going to Southlands. I check myself out in the mirror on the wardrobe door, then I head for the stairs.

As I come into the living room, Dad's just waking up. He yawns and stretches and tries to give me a smile.

“Morning Tom,” he says.

I sit down and snort.

“Not any more,” I say.

Dad looks guilty. He wriggles himself upright and blinks a few times. He reaches for the remote control, flicking the TV on. It's a kids' show on ITV. Two young lads, a sort of poor man's Ant & Dec, are trying to whip a crowd of bored-looking under-tens into a frenzy. They're not having much success.

A couple of minutes pass. Neither of us is saying anything. The bloke next door has taken a break from crashing about. Now he's having an argument with his wife. It's hard to work out exactly what they're shouting at each other, but every now and then something comes through loud and clear.
What the fucking hell do you expect me to do? What do you think I am? Fucking psychic?

I look across at Dad. He's taken his socks off and they're lying on the floor like a pair of discarded snakeskins, black against the dirty cream of the carpet. On the TV, the poor man's Ant, or it could be Dec, is sitting in a glass tank having green gunk poured over him. The cameraman cuts away to a shot of a kid in the crowd. The kid yawns and picks his nose.

I check my watch. Ten past twelve. I've only been downstairs for five minutes, but already it feels a lot longer. Dad pushes himself up off the sofa. He stretches again, rolling his head from side to side until his neck clicks.

“How's about me making us some dinner?” he says.

I shake my head.

“No, it's alright,” I say. “I'll get something in town. Zoe's coming round in a bit.”

He looks a bit disappointed.

“What time's she coming?” he asks.

“About quarter to one,” I say.

Dad nods. He looks at the clock on the mantelpiece.

“You've got plenty of time then. I'll rustle us up an omelette and some beans. We can eat it in here, watch
Football Focus
. What do you reckon?” He looks at me, eyes all wide and hopeful.

I shrug.

“Go on then,” I say.

He heads off towards the kitchen and I turn my attention back to the kids' show on TV. The final credits are rolling now. A boy band in matching beige leather jackets are miming to their latest single and the poor man's Ant & Dec are dancing with two blokes in dinosaur costumes. I shake my head and flick over to BBC1.

Ten minutes later Dad's back in with two purple plastic plates of omelette and beans.

“I had to use the picnic set,” he says. “Nobody did the washing up last night.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“Well, it was Friday yesterday. It was your turn.”

Dad sniffs. He hands me my plate and a fork.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Is it OK?” he asks. He's got that hopeful look in his eyes again.

I poke at the omelette with my fork. It's burnt to a crisp around the edges, but it's still runny in the middle. Frazzled brown pieces of onion are floating in the uncooked egg. The beans look like they've been stuck to the bottom of the pan. A smell of burning is starting to waft through from the kitchen.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “It's fine.”

We don't say much during the time it takes us to eat our dinners. There's nothing very interesting on
Football Focus
either. News from the Premier League and Europe. Some stuff about sports nutrition and the latest scientific training methods. I can't imagine much of that going on at Southlands. Letchford do get a mention at one point, but only as potential victims of a giant-killing in the Cup this afternoon. I laugh. To call Letchford Town
giants
is a bit of a pisstake.

I'm just wiping up the last of my bean juice with the final bit of omelette when I realise Dad's been staring at me.

“What?” I say.

He strokes his chin. There's getting on for three week's worth of stubble on it now.

“I just can't get over your new hairdo,” he says. “What would Mum think?”

I pull a face. Dad's hassling me about my appearance. That's some joke.

“Dunno,” I say. I run my hand over my cropped hair. It's ten days since I had it done. I was actually thinking it was about time I got myself down to Talking Heads again. It's starting to get a bit long.

The conversation looks like it's ground to a halt. I pick up the plates and take them into the kitchen. I brush onion skins off the chopping board and into the bin, then I make a start on the dishes. Today's and yesterday's.

I'm just wiping down the work surfaces and trying to get the egg splashes off the hob when the doorbell rings. I toss the sponge back into the sink and make my way down the hall. I open the door. It's Zoe. Her hair's tied back and she's in a navy blue army-style jacket, long multicoloured scarf, skin-tight jeans and a pair of green Converse All Star. If we were at Parkway, I'd have her down as an indie kid. She seems have a different look every time I see her. She's smiling brightly.

“Hello you,” she says, stepping up and giving me a kiss.

I close the door and get my jacket down from the pegs.

“We might as well get going,” I tell her.

“Tom?” Dad shouts from the living room. “Who is it?”

“It's Zoe,” I shout back. “We're off into town.”

I can hear him getting up. I don't really want Zoe seeing him in his present state, so I start pulling on my jacket as quickly as I can. I'm not fast enough though. Dad's in the doorway. Unwashed. Bloodshot eyes. Wild hair. Bare feet. Crumpled clothes.

“Hi Zoe,” he says.

She smiles.

“Hi Mr Mitchell.”

Dad shakes his head.

“Call me Tony. No need to be formal. You never know. I could be your father-in-law one day.”

My heart sinks. Dad's trying to be charming. And what a thought. Having him as your father-in-law. An offer no girl could refuse. Luckily Zoe takes it all in her stride.

“You never know, Tony,” she says, smiling again.

I've got my jacket on now. I check that I've got my wallet, keys and phone. I have.

“Right then,” I say. “We're off.”

Dad nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “See you then. You take care, the pair of you.” He looks a bit sad. Nothing more to look forward to than an afternoon in front of the TV and a few cans to make the time pass more quickly.

For a brief second I feel a twinge. I'm not too sure what it is. Affection? Guilt? An idea occurs to me. We could stick around for a bit, cheer him up. We're not in any rush and I know Zoe would be alright about it. I'm going to say something, but then I change my mind. There would no point in sticking around. We'd all just sit there like bookends.

I open the door.

“Right then Dad,” I say. “I'll see you later.” I smile as reassuringly as I can.

Zoe steps out onto the path. I shut the door behind me and we head off into the village.

It looks like it was pretty lively in the middle of Thurston last night. There's a trail of bloodspots along the pavement in front of the shops on Lindisfarne Street, coming in the general direction of the Bulls Head. Someone's smashed all three of the glass panels on the back of the bus shelter outside Costcutter, and the litter bin on the bus stop pole has been set on fire. It's still smouldering now, gradually oozing down towards the pavement in yellow plastic blobs like lumpy custard.