Swim Until You Can't See Land (40 page)

'They don't come out,' I explain as he tugs at the headphones and folds them backwards and forwards on their hinges.

'It's weird, there's no buttons or brand name or anything.'

He holds the player and turns it over and over in his hands. As it spins, colours flash off of it, like a crystal hanging in the window.
Catch the sun.
I'm sure I can hear a tinkling, wind-chime sound too, but my ears still feel weird.

'Anything?' I ask. 'You're much more techno-savvy than me.'

'Anyone who's upgraded to a personal CD player is more techno-savvy than you.'

'I like having a music collection, something I can see and hold.'

'I know, I know. An album's for life not just for downloading.'

'Well, it's true. The kids today don't know what an album is, they're all part of the one-song download generation. They go to gigs just wanting to hear the one big single, it pisses me off.'

'What about this? You get it working, you could join the kids,' Alfie says, holding up the MP3 player.

'An iPod's all very well but what happens when your hard drive crashes, or you lose it, then you're fucked.'

'Aye, whatever, Aunt Mimi.'

'I know you agree with me, your music collection's just as big as mine.'

'Aye, but I'm not too scared to join the twenty-first century either.'

'You should be. A music collection says a lot about you, it's like what you wear, or the art you put on your walls. I'd never have moved in with you if I hadn't seen your music collection first.'

'Oh aye?' Alfie says helping himself to a biscuit, 'how do you work that one out?'

I force myself to look away from his sticky hands as he fingers the MP3 player.

'Anyone who listens to Ben Kweller is alright by me.'

'I just like that he has a pet hedgehog, maybe it's time I confessed to my secret Westlife fetish.'

'Out!' I point towards the door and he laughs.

'You know I agree with you, Davie boy, I just like to wind you up, you're always wound so tight.'

The first night in the new flat, Davie and Alfie ordered pizza and sat comparing CDs and DVDs.

Some people slag off Dylan for his voice, but I love it. You know he means what he's singing about, said Alfie.

Aye, totally. All those boybands and
X Factor
pish, they all sound the same, like fucking cheese slices, Davie replied, and opened another can of Tennents.

Pish, all of it. Good pop is someone like Lennon. He could sing a love song sweet as a bird, turn his voice to gristle on a rock 'n' roll number, then make shivers run up your back on A Day in the Life. That's what I'm looking for in my pop.

Aye, and you don't need to be a pretty boy either. Look at Thom Yorke or Eric Burdon. More talent than any of your fucking Ronans.

Girls want a scoundrel, not a pretty boy, they just don't always realise that's what they want.

You mean like Han Solo?

Exactly, Davie boy, exactly. I knew there was a reason I moved in with you.

Alfie put down his slice of pizza, wiped his hands on his jeans and rummaged around in one of the boxes which surrounded them. He pulled out a poster of Han Solo and blu-tacked it above the TV.

A scoundrel.

Alfie waves his hand in front of my face.

'Sorry, I was in a wee dream there.'

'I noticed. I was just saying, I think whatever this is, it's fucked. Bet that's why he gave you it. You didn't buy it did you?'

Alfie drops the MP3 player and it hangs from the headphones he's got slung around his neck. It swings from side to side, side to side, side to side. I want it back. Give me it back. I sit on my hands, use my weight to trap them underneath me.

'Nah, course not. He just gave me it. He was totally out of it though.'

'I'd chuck it, it's a syntax error.'

'Not syntax,' I reply.

'Aye, time to rewind the tape and start again.'

'Or try a new game?'

Davie looked up as someone joined him at the staffroom table. One of the Christmas temps. Bit of a pretty boy too, with his skinny jeans and his Vince Noir haircut. Davie couldn't be bothered making friends with temps anymore, too much hassle, especially when they all left again once January came around.

Alright, I'm Lee, Alfie said, holding out his hand.

Davie.

What you reading?

Eh, it's about retro gaming.

Cool, does it have the Amstrad in it? That's what I had when I was a kid, fucking ace.

Aye, me too.

Davie moved the magazine so that they could both read it.

Fuck, Harrier Attack, I loved that game.

Totally, and Galactic Plague, what a classic.

Man, remember when you were trying to load a game and it would take, like, forever. The kids today don't know how lucky they are.

Aye, and then you'd get so far and there'd be a fucking syntax error.

Man, that was the worst thing, you had to rewind the tape and start all over again.

Alfie hands me the MP3 player and picks up the TV remote. He starts flicking through the channels, then stops on an episode of
Family Guy
. He reaches under the sofa and pulls out an old video box from underneath. What used to contain
The Shawshank Redemption
on VHS, now contains Alfie's hash, skins, lighter and fags. He takes out a couple of Rizla papers and starts to roll up on top of the video box as he watches the TV. I wipe his fingerprints off the MP3 player, wind the headphones around it and tuck it down between the couch and my thigh.

Han Solo looks down at me from above the TV. The poster is peeling away, one of the top corners is hanging down and the wall has a greasy stain from the blu-tac. Even though the woodchip wallpaper has pressed through the paper, giving Han a pock-marked effect, he still looks cool as fuck as he leans forward holding his blaster.

I'm Han Solo. I'm a scoundrel and I don't give a shit.

Not wound up like me.

Alfie passes me the joint and I hesitate. I've been trying to stop doing this, but ever since that queue last night I've been dying for a smoke. Plus, Alfie's right, I need to loosen up.

It's a quick fix, Davie, but it's not the answer.

It makes me feel better.

Yes but the effects wear off, they don't last, and in the long-term, you're making things harder.

It can't get any harder.

Fuck it. I inhale deeply. Count in my head. One finger. Two thumbs. Three arms. Four legs. Then breathe out again. The smoke curls in front of me and I feel lighter. My brain is floating around inside my skull like a helium balloon and I'm sinking deep into the couch.

My stomach growls and I hand the joint back and help myself to a caramel digestive. I dunk it in what's left of my tea until the chocolate melts. As I bite into it the caramel stretches like elastic and sticks to my teeth and the roof of my mouth. I lay one hand down on top of the MP3 player. It feels like it's buzzing, like there's a magnetic charge flowing through it. If I tried to stick it to the fridge door, it would cling on. I felt this earlier. This energy. It was what made me put the headphones on in the first place. My fingers tap the side of the player, it's pulsing with energy. Alive.

I stare down at it and realise that I can't see the scratch anymore. My eyes are rolling from the weed, but even still, it's gone. Vanished. Rejuvenated.

I can hear Alfie's words in my head. Syntax error. Chuck it out. Syntax. Error.

A flash of anger and the need to protect the MP3 player surges through me. I squeeze it in my hand, then push it down the side of the couch. Away from Alfie. Away from Alfie who wants to hurt it. It's mine. I'm keeping it. It's special.

I've got a strange feeling about this wee box.

I've got a strange feeling.

I'm Luke Skywalker. The chosen one. Destined for higher things. The only one who can restore freedom to the galaxy.

Alfie hands me the joint again and I take another draw on it.

That'd just be my fucking luck actually. I end up playing Luke Skywalker, while Alfie gets to be Han Solo. The scoundrel.

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