Summer of '76 (9 page)

‘Not that I know of,’ Mum replies, turning her attention back to Diana. She picks up her empty glass and shakes it playfully, already reaching into the fridge to fetch more ice. He leaves them to it, closing the door behind him, and heads down to the hall phone, where he picks up the receiver and dials. After a few rings, Martin answers the phone.

‘Alright, Mart,’ Luke says. ‘How’s it going? Haven’t seen you for a while.’

There’s a pause at the other end. ‘Oh, Luke. Hi. Sorry, I’ve been working.’

‘Me too. Wondered if you fancied a pint tonight? I can tell you all about Sunshine Bay – did you know I’m working with Sexy Samantha?’

He laughs, expecting Martin to do the same, but instead he hears Mr Brazier’s voice in the background, as Martin puts his hand over the mouthpiece. His voice becomes muffled while he talks to his dad, before his hand moves away and his voice returns clearly again. ‘Sorry, Luke. I don’t think I can make it tonight.’

Luke frowns. ‘Why not? Go on, mate! I’m gasping for a pint. And I haven’t seen you since your birthday, you lightweight!’

‘Um,’ Martin mumbles, as Mr Brazier’s indistinct voice carries on in the background, along with the faint sound of the television, ‘we’ve got a big order on.’ He hesitates, waiting for Luke to answer. ‘I’d better stay and get it finished.’

‘Am I interrupting your supper or something, Mart?’ Luke asks, feeling irritated.

Again, he hears the rustle of Martin’s fingers over the mouthpiece. ‘
Martin
,’ his dad says, like a growl, before a few more vague words are exchanged and the room falls silent at the slam of a door – no more television noises, no more voices.

Luke waits for Martin’s answer. ‘Are you alright, mate? Mart?’

Eventually, Martin clears his throat. ‘Sorry, Luke. Another time?’ And he hangs up, leaving Luke staring at the receiver, wondering if Martin will ever leave his dad and his dust-filled workshop; if he’ll ever leave this tiny little island for the world beyond.

By mid-June, an oppressive blanket of humidity lies over the island’s wilting towns and villages, causing restlessness and torpor. At last exams are over, and Luke and Martin stand outside Ryde cinema, cradling their crash helmets, waiting for the doors to open. It’s nearing dark, yet the heat of the day is still upon them, as the crowd throbs impatiently, uncomfortably warm even at this late hour in the evening.

‘Do you reckon it will be as good as
The Wicker Man
?’ Luke asks, jangling the loose change in his pocket.

‘Better.’ Martin cranes his long neck to see in through the glass of the closed cinema doors. He’s wearing a white T-shirt with a picture of the Michelin Man on the front, one that his dad got free at the garage when they changed a couple of tyres on the van.

‘What, better made, or more scary?’

‘Both. When they first showed it in London there were people running out of the cinemas, screaming.’

‘They always exaggerate that stuff, just to get us all to go along and watch the film. It can’t be that bad.’ Luke gazes back down the line, which continues to grow as they wait to go in. ‘Haven’t seen anyone else we know yet. I saw
Samantha at work last night and she said she might come along to see it too.’

‘With you?’ Martin asks.

‘No, you idiot. With Len Dickhead.’

Martin takes a look back along the queue, his sleek new haircut swinging with the turn of his head. He had his first salon cut today, and the stylist has smoothed it under so that he looks like one of the Beach Boys.

Luke smirks and points at the side of Martin’s face. ‘What’s that?’

‘Sideburns,’ Martin replies, stroking the downy fluff at the side of his face. ‘I’ve been growing them.’

‘I think they need a bit more work, mate. They look like pussy willows.’

Martin slaps Luke’s hand away and smoothes the hair back over his underdeveloped sideys. ‘Cherie said they make me look mature. She said I looked really cool.’

‘
Cherie
? Woo-hoo! So, what was she like?’

‘About fifty.’

‘Bad luck, man.’

Before they can exchange any further insults, the doors open and the queue starts to move inside. Within ten minutes they’re sitting in the mid-row seats with two bags of sweets.

A group of lads from their old high school passes up the middle aisle. ‘Len,’ Luke whispers to Martin, when they’ve gone by.

Martin stares straight ahead.

‘I don’t think he saw us.’

A couple of girls run up the steps, dropping chocolate beans on to the carpet, letting them roll down the stairs to be crushed underfoot. ‘Len! Lenny!’ one of them calls out as she nears the upper row. It’s not Samantha. ‘Can we sit with you?’

Luke can’t help but take a sneaky glance up towards them. The extended group now almost fills the back row, where
they shout and chew and flick sweets at each other. He looks away to see Martin staring brazenly up at the group.

‘Don’t stare,’ Luke hisses.

Martin turns back to face the front. ‘I’m not.’

More and more people trail in through the open doors, and soon the cinema is completely full. The smoking side already has a halo of fog gathering in the space between the viewers and the ceiling, distorting the pictures on the wall, painting them soft-focus in the dim light. Luke and Martin eat their sweets, occasionally raising a hand to an old schoolmate, watching the girls go by in their short dresses and summer tops. Eventually, the lights go down and the red velvet curtains part to reveal the screen.

Martin’s fingers tense into fists and he bangs his knee against Luke’s to get his attention. ‘Brilliant seats.’

As soon as the first advert comes on, a peanut hits Luke on the back of the neck, swiftly followed by another, which bounces off the top of Martin’s head.

‘Hey,’ Luke yells, turning to look up towards the back row.

The woman in the seat behind him scowls.

‘Oy! Tit-Head!’ Len shouts from the top.

Luke looks at Martin, sitting head and shoulders above everyone else in the room; he’s an obvious target. An easy target.

‘Oi! Brazier!
Brassiere
!’ Another peanut. ‘Tit-Head!’

The steward at the foot of the steps shines her torch up the stairs in warning.

The palms of Luke’s hands are sweating and he’s suddenly conscious of the airless heat in the cinema, as he and Martin resolutely stare ahead, trying to ignore Len. ‘Fuckers,’ he mutters under his breath.

‘Shhhhh!’ says the woman in the seat behind.

‘Tit-Head!’

At last the adverts come to an end and the steward sprints up towards the back seats, talking in hushed tones and shining
her torch along the row, before jogging back down again and out of view. Silence passes through the theatre and the peanuts stop flying as the screen blacks over, throwing the cinema into complete darkness. Luke hears the rustle of Martin’s bag as he shifts the weight of his sweets from one hand to the other. A few last whispers travel around the room, before the screen fills with the silhouette of a small child, casting the ominous shadow of the cross. Luke glances at Martin. His face has that glazed-over appearance, like when he’s eating, but there’s a small smile at the corner of his mouth.

‘Creepy music,’ Luke whispers.

‘Shush,’ says Martin, in time with the woman behind.

Luke hunches down in his seat to watch the film.

It’s past eleven when they file out through the foyer into the muggy night beyond the theatre doors. The air has a tense quality, warm and brooding, with not a star visible in the sky.

‘What did you think?’ Luke asks Martin as they stroll along the shadowed pavement, having to raise his voice over the chatter of the crowd.

Martin’s eyes sparkle with enthusiasm. ‘I don’t know what to say. Radical.
Brilliant
.’

‘Yeah, I can see what all the fuss was about now.’

They separate from the mass, taking a shortcut through the alleyway at the side of the building to reach the car park beyond, where their scooters are parked.

‘What about that spike – you know, when it came down from the church – right through that guy! Genius.’

‘And the nanny. She was brilliant.’ Luke eases his helmet over his head and fiddles with the strap beneath his chin. ‘Can you imagine if she turned up to babysit? You’d cack yourself.’

A peanut ricochets off the top of his helmet, bouncing up and over to land on the tarmac beside the back wheel of his bike.

Martin pauses with his helmet held half-mast, frozen between his hands and his head.

‘Alright, Tit-Sisters?’ Across the car park, some way behind them, is Len Dickens, and he’s got two of his stupid mates with him, as well as the girls who joined them in the cinema.

Luke shakes his head and turns his back on them, continuing to fasten his chin strap.

‘What’s the matter?’ Len launches another peanut, this one skidding along the path beside Martin’s boot. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

‘Alright, Len.’ Luke places a hand on his scooter as if he’s about to start it up.

Len laughs, pointing at Martin. ‘
Hey-hey, we’re the Monkees
!’ He’s moved up close now, flipping Martin’s hair with his finger. ‘It’s that lanky one off the telly!’

The first girl squeals with laughter. ‘What’s that one called? Not Micky – you know, the one with the bowly haircut!’

‘They’ve
all
got bowly haircuts,’ Luke retorts, throwing her a contemptuous look. They look like cheap tarts compared to Samantha, both doughy-skinned and bland in their matching beige tunic dresses and boots.

The taller one blanks him, flicking her hair over her shoulder. ‘I know, it’s Peter, that’s the one he looks like. The lanky one. The
dippy
one.’

The smaller one giggles again, and Len seizes the chance to put his arm around her shoulder and join in. His mates stand a couple of feet behind, nodding like a pair of bouncers.

Luke shakes his head again. ‘Come on, Mart. Let’s get going.’

‘Running away?’ Len sneers. ‘Or maybe you poofs have got other business to get up to? That’s it – they’re benders!’

Luke feels the heat rising, up through his chest and neck, filling the inside of his crash helmet. ‘So, not with Samantha tonight, Len?’ he says, watching Len’s expression shift.

‘What?’

‘Just wondered where your girlfriend is.’ He jerks his head in the girl’s direction. ‘Thought you might have brought Sam with you. I was with her last night, and she was telling me how much she wanted to see the film. Just thought you might have brought her.’

‘You’re talking shit,’ says Len, dropping his arm from Amy’s shoulder. ‘Sam was working last night, you dick.’

‘I know,’ Luke replies smugly, recalling the coy smile she gave him as they passed on the path at break time. ‘She was on a late shift. With me.’ He gestures to Martin to get a move on, but he’s still standing in the same spot, looking gormless.

Len takes a step towards Luke, along with his mates. ‘Come here and say that, Wolff.’

‘Bloody hell, Len, give us a break, will you?’ Luke says, dropping his shoulders in an exaggerated display of boredom. ‘We’re not at school now.’

Len launches forward, but instead of going for Luke he reaches up and grabs a fistful of Martin’s shirt.

Luke puts his hand out. ‘For fuck’s sake, Len, what are you starting on Martin for?’

‘Because he’s not right in the head,’ Len replies, maintaining his grip on Martin’s shirt as he stands rigid, unresisting. ‘Well, aren’t you going to fight back, spastic?’

Luke smacks Len’s fist away with the flat of his hand. ‘What d’you mean,
spastic?
He passed more O-levels than you even took, Len. So if he’s such a spastic, what’s that make you?’ He gives a little scoff. ‘An amoeba?’

Len turns to his mates. ‘A what?’

‘Pond-life,’ Luke replies. ‘Plankton.’ It slips out in a snigger. ‘You know, those small slimy things that are so insignificant that you hardly even know they’re there. A single-celled organism. You’d have learned about it at school if you’d stayed on long enough.’

Len’s face contorts, and he grabs again at Martin’s shirt and shoves him backwards into his scooter, so that he and the bike crash heavily against the tarmac.

‘You stupid –’ All at once Luke’s on Len, thrashing out at him clumsily. His field of vision is distorted by the crash helmet, so his aim is off, and he only manages a glancing blow off Len’s shoulder. Len grapples Luke by the back of his neck and pulls him in, landing a powerful, square-on punch in his sternum.

Luke wheezes for breath as he drops to his knees, retching, the helmet weighing heavy on his shoulders. ‘Len? What the fuck happened to you, man?’

Len hooks his fingers in through the face of the helmet and pulls Luke up to standing. He can see Martin from the corner of his eye, still awkwardly draped over the collapsed scooter, while the girls stand back now, looking frightened; one has her hand clasped over her mouth and the other won’t even look in their direction.

Len jerks his head at his mates. ‘He can’t call me names like that, can he? I want you to say sorry, Wolff. And your mate.
Tit-Head
.’

He’s still got his fingers hooked into the top of the helmet, and Luke can feel the flats of his two filthy fingernails pressed up against his forehead. He jerks backwards to shake him off.

‘Stand up, Tit-Head,’ Len barks at Martin.

Slowly, Martin eases himself up off the ground and attempts to pick up his bike.

‘Leave that!’

Martin eases the scooter back to the floor and stands quite still.

‘Right, Wolff. Tell him he’s a spastic.
Tell him he’s a spastic
. Go on. It’s what everyone else calls him but he should hear it from you.’

Still winded from the punch to his stomach, Luke turns to look at Martin, who gives him a little nod. He bends forward, resting his hands on his knees, before pushing himself back up to full height, feeling ridiculous as he stands there in his crash helmet, arguing with Len Dickens. He’s had enough.

‘OK,’ he says, breathing out through pursed lips. ‘Tell you what, Len. Why don’t I tell you what everyone calls
you
, and then we’ll call it quits?’

Len doesn’t answer, just clenches his fingers in and out of fists at his sides.

‘I’d want to know if I was you,’ says Luke, steadfastly staring into Len’s eyes.

‘What the fuck are you on about?’

‘OK, here goes, then. Pikey. Fleabag. Rag and Bone.
Inbred
.’

Len looks momentarily confused.

Luke laughs loudly, the harsh sound of it bouncing off the garage doors and walls which back on to the car park. ‘Inbred? It means your mum screwed her own brother.’

Len flies at Luke, knocking him to the ground as he pounds fists into his ribs again and again. He grabs at Luke’s helmet with both hands, bringing it repeatedly down on the tarmac, until Luke slips briefly from consciousness. He’s tugged back by the panic-stricken screams of the two girls and the tap-tap of their heels disappearing into the distance as they run out across the car park and into the night. ‘Len!’ one of the mates is shouting, but Len ploughs on, punching and thrashing as if he might pulverise Luke altogether.

Luke isn’t fighting back now; he’s just lying there, taking it, and he fleetingly wonders where Martin is, because he can’t hear his voice.

‘
Len
!’ someone shouts again, abruptly, and then Len’s weight is gone, spirited away. Heavy footsteps retreat, breaking into a run, leaving just the sound of Luke’s heavy breath in the silence of the car park, and the distant hum of music from the town’s nightclubs along the promenade.

Lying on his back, limp, Luke gazes up at the night sky through the open visor of his crash helmet. The sliver of a new moon is obscured behind a lamppost, so that it doesn’t look like the moon at all. He knows he hurts all over, but he
can’t feel a thing. There’s a small movement to his left, and he feels the light tips of Martin’s fingers on his forearm.

‘Mart?’