Geekhood (3 page)

“Whatever.”

IM:
Works every time.

We amble along to Beggsy’s house, discussing the ins and outs of our next game. As we arrive, I can see his mum twitching the net curtains in the living room. At my house, we have a lounge. In Beggsy’s, they have a living room. Mrs Beggs opens the front door and waves at me. I wave back and Beggsy rolls his eyes, muttering a barely audible “Jesus” under his breath.

It’s with a certain amount of relief that I notice Tony’s car is missing from the drive. His absence gives me a moment to look at the new house with a different head on. I can see it as my home, rather than the place I stay with Mum and her boyfriend. And, I’ve got to say, as houses go, it’s pretty good. The brickwork is a sort of pale pink and a hedge blocks the view to the front door. It’s private, but lets you know it’s there. And, although we’ve yet to christen it, it’s got to be way better for me and my mates to game in than the house me and Mum lived in after The Divorce. That house was small and my bedroom was right next to the toilet. Here, I’ve got an awesome attic room, well away from the toilet, well away from Mum and Tony’s bedroom…

IM:
Don’t even go there!

…and, most important of all, well away from Tony.

I let myself in and find Mum in the hallway, surrounded by balls of scrunched-up newspaper.

“Hello, love. Did you have a nice time?”

“Yeah, cool. Where’s Tony?”

“Just nipped out for some cigarettes. He ought to be back by now; he’s probably stopped off at the snooker club.”

Figures. If there’s any hard work to be done, Tony’s
usually to be found at the snooker club. According to him, the best business deals are never done in the office, but over “a pint and a frame”.

IM:
Whatever.

So that means Mum’s been left to man the battle stations, single-handed. Judging by the amount of newspaper all over the floor, the stacks of unopened boxes and the ornaments, books and other stuff that is, right now, homeless, she’s going to need another gunner.

“D’you want a hand?”

“Don’t worry, love. I’m quite happy just pottering. Go and relax.”

That’s my mum for you; she gives everything and never thinks it’s enough. With a fond “Shut up”, I help her unpack and enjoy just hanging out, me and her. Just like before she met Tony.

Over the next hour or so, we rummage through newspaper, collapse boxes and put things in one place, only to move them again a few minutes later. Eventually, Mum throws in the towel.

“Cup of tea?”

I think she’s powered by tea. I’m sure there’d be some sort of economic disaster in India if she ever stopped drinking it.

“Go on, then.” It’s a cuddle in a cup.

IM:
It’s also the right time to ask her about the 
Game on Friday night…

But just as we enter the kitchen, I hear the front door go. All my survival mechanisms kick into place, proclaiming that they’re back online with a wave of tension that sweeps through my body and excavates a look that might just pass for a smile. Before he swaggers into the kitchen, Tony sticks his head into the lounge and makes a surprised, yet approving noise. Like the fairies have been.

“Well, that’s the lounge nearly done,” he announces, as though we’ve got no idea.

Beneath my dead-eyed grin, my IM is fully charged and operational.

IM:
Yep. That’s the lounge done. And of course you’re going to stand there, surveying your domain, as though you’ve actually been involved. Any second now, you’ll be asking for a coffee, as though you’ve earned it.

But Tony’s got an ace up his sleeve; he always has. He suddenly swishes forward and produces a big bunch of flowers from behind his back. Mum, of course, melts and gives him a hug, before locating a vase.

IM:
Tosser.

The amount of flowers he buys for Mum must keep the local florists in business. And Mum’s always genuinely surprised and delighted. I guess that’s where Dad fell down; he didn’t do that sort of thing and
maybe that’s why I hate it so much when Tony does – it’s a reminder of my father’s failings, a little insight into what might’ve driven my parents apart. Not that either of them has ever told me what happened.

“Any chance of a coffee, darling?”

IM:
Tosser.

Mum’s one step ahead of him and rewards the slacking hero with a steaming cup. I just can’t work it out; she doesn’t even scowl as he sparks up another fag. She hated Dad smoking and never stopped telling him. Clearly she’s happy and loves Tony for what he is, warts and all. Although how anyone can be happy living with a Tosser is beyond me. Flowers or not.

Tony’s steam-train voice cuts through the High Court which is in session in my head.

“Good news! I just clinched another deal! And Paul and Tina have invited us out for dinner on Friday night to celebrate…”

IM:
Result! Win! No Mum and no Tony = hassle-free Games Night! *Sound of party trumpets being blown*

Mum grins and ruffles his hair.

“Well done, love! That’d be nice. Archie?”

The gargoyle in my pocket presses into my thigh as I shift in my seat, almost insisting that I get it over with. So I do. “Could I get my friends round instead, Mum? You know – for a game.”

Mum looks to Tony, even though I’ve asked her. He reacts with that sort of pantomime “you crazy kid” look that tells me that this fits in with his plans nicely. He didn’t really want me along anyway. And, quite frankly, I’d rather spend an evening sticking pins in my eyes than watch him nosh his way through a Chinese.

“I reckon that’s a deal, mate!”

“Thanks, Tony. Nice one.”

Smiling has never been such hard work.

Back in my room, my shields go offline for a bit. It’s not so much a strain to keep them up these days, more an inconvenience. It’s certainly an irritant. Tony seems to have a knack for getting under your skin, but not in the way that Beautiful Goth did at the Hovel. My mind does the one thing I shouldn’t allow it to and replays our encounter. Complete with cinematic music.

I stand in the Hovel, checking out the gargoyle. The music is like that bit in
Return of the Jedi
where everyone’s in Jabba’s Palace – a bit edgy and dangerous. There’s a tap on my shoulder. I whirl round, a coiled spring ready for action, all brooding and intense. Beautiful Goth is there and I see her try to hide the Instant Attraction she obviously feels. The cinematic music changes to that bit
where Han Solo’s about to get frozen in carbonite and Princess Leia tells him she loves him.

“Hi,” she says, sounding a bit nervous.

“Hi,” I reply in a confident yet “I’m mildly surprised to see someone as beautiful as YOU here” kind of way. My tone and ice-cool body language suggest that meetings of this sort are probably the norm for a man of my experience.

“Sorry to bother you … but what is this place?”

“It’s where I’ve been waiting for you.” My reply comes complete with an amused smile. Beautiful Goth appears in awe of my worldly demeanour. Music swells.

“O-Oh,” she stutters, taken aback at my directness. “Is any of this to do with magic?”

“It could be,” I whisper, stepping forward and producing the Ace of Hearts from behind her ear. Unable to resist, Beautiful Goth steps into the kiss that is now inevitable. Music reaches a crescendo and then goes off into the
Star Wars
theme, registering my triumph.

IM:
Yeah, right. As if. Geek.

I sigh one of those sighs that can only come from a heart that aches in vain.

IM:
You’re a Geek, she’s not; get over it.

I need something to distract myself from Impossible Thoughts. It’s time to start thinking about something else, something I can really focus on apart from how
I’m never in a million years going to get it together with someone like Beautiful Goth. The gargoyle suddenly seems really appropriate, like a self-portrait.

IM:
Cue the violins.

I get out my laptop and hit the net. One of the things the internet is good for is research. As I Google the word “gargoyle” under Images, I get my new purchase out and tear the blister pack from its card. The gargoyle sits in my palm. It’s a bit bigger than I’m used to painting – probably about 45mm in height. It sits hunched on a rock, its bat-like wings folded in on themselves, as though the creature is ready for flight. Beneath its heavy, furrowed brow, two perfectly round eyes glare out at me either side of its simian nose. The mouth is curled into a sneer, revealing sharp fangs. It’s got everything you want in a gargoyle: pointed ears, horns, claws, goat legs and a dragon’s tail. I’m going to enjoy painting this one.

The results come back and I browse images of stone monstrosities, deciding which details might be worth pursuing. It’s all in the details; I could put on moss growths or paint in sinister cracks – maybe even birdshit. You’ve got to think outside the box before you commit the paintbrush.

More out of habit than curiosity, I hit the Facebook icon in my Favourites bar and open the home page in another tab. Out of the corner of my eye, I give my
mates’ posts the once-over. Nothing really to report: Beggsy’s become friends with someone called Marcus and Ravi’s uploaded a photo of himself as a child. Matt isn’t on it – I think he’s got some sort of conspiracy thing going, like if he uses Facebook, everyone in the world’ll suddenly be able to see just what he gets up to when he’s on his own. Like anyone’s interested. It’s probably more to do with the fact that, without his mates, Matt hasn’t got much going on at all – which would be a pretty lame thing to broadcast over the internet. Not that Ravi and Beggsy have anything of world-rocking importance to say.

IM:
And you do?

I return to the gargoyle images and continue my hunt for inspiration. A picture catches my attention and I click on it to get a better look. As I do so, I see my Facebook tab’s flashing. It’s Dad.

I hate it when my father uses text speak. I don’t know why. I use it, my friends use it – but when my dad uses it, there seems something just totally … crap … about it. I read the message again. Great. So his
new kids are ill and he can’t make it out of the house.

Dad’s inherited three children from his new wife. I think he dated her for about a year before I was allowed to meet her. Probably to protect my eleven-year-old self from anything resembling emotional trauma.

IM:
Like that hadn’t happened already.

But Dad made one major goof: he let me meet Jane before Mum found out about her. From me. Which didn’t go down too well. It wasn’t that Mum was jealous; between cups of tea she said she was glad he’d found someone. It was the fact she hadn’t been told first so that she could tell me – help prevent Collateral Damage. And maybe she felt a bit threatened by Jane, I don’t know. But her stress-outs didn’t last too long – about a year later, Tony wheezed his way on to the scene and everyone was happy.

IM:
Almost everyone…

Yeah, well, now I’ve got Tony and Jane in my life, and I’ve got to make like they’re Family. Not to mention Jane’s kids: Lucas, Steven and Izzy, aged nine, seven and four, respectively. Somehow, I’m expected to magically believe that these children are suddenly the brothers and sister I never had and that building Lego with them is what’s been missing from my life. And that Jane, purely through signing a worthless bit of paper in a registry office, is somehow allowed to be “cool” and “groovy” with me in
a way that makes my skin want to peel itself off. Her attempts at “bonding” make Tony’s look positively sophisticated, and what she thinks passes as funny would make a corpse try and hang itself. Luckily, I’ve developed a VERY LOUD Interior Monologue.

IM:
Are we done yet?

I guess Dad’s happy, though. He’s always rambling on about how well he gets on with “the kids” and how Jane is such a kind and caring person, so I guess I should be used to it by now. Perhaps it’s my age; isn’t that supposed to be responsible for everything that’s wrong in my life right now? It’s not the fact that both my parents are shacked up with idiots.