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Oh, pissing bollocks.
Like anyone forced to walk past us lot who possessed an iota of common sense, Alex kept his head down and his eyes fixed on the ground ahead. Football wasn’t the only sport our gang played during the lunchbreaks—taunting random kids was also a perennial pastime. Me, Brenner, and Phil were a well-established, tight unit, but we formed part of a larger tribe of about twenty or so lads who had grown up together on our estate. I counted eight or nine of us kicking the ball about today, at least Alex had fewer numbers in his favour. And out of the ones present, only Brenner’s bark had any bite.
Like a rabbit caught in the headlights, Alex jerked his head up in the direction of Brenner’s foghorn bellow. Fear flashed across his handsome features as comprehension dawned he’d been singled out. He straightened his shoulders and schooled his expression into a look representing either an attack of gut-clenching constipation or its profound opposite. Blue eyes skittered to mine, a brief plea for intervention. And I would, I bloody would if I had to, and fuck the consequences. I prayed it wouldn’t come to that; I didn’t want to choose between him and my crew. Without moving a single muscle of my face, I attempted to transmit that reassuring message of support.
“All right, mate?”
Brenner clapped Alex on the back, all false bonhomie.
“All right,” Alex returned, in a cautious manner, eyeing our motley crew.
“Fancy a game of footie with us?” Brenner tipped his head towards me. “Marco Fat Bastard here could do with a bit of help.”
God, he’d never let me forget that, would he? The Dutch player, MarcoVan Basten,formerFIFA best footballer of the year. Until I was old enough to know better, I’d believed Simon when he told me the Dutch pronounced his nameFat Bastard. My face reddened until it likely matched the heat radiating from Alex’s.
“Yeah, sure,” Alex agreed, somewhat dubiously. With care, he placed his textbooks underneath the goalpost sweaters, as if the thin material would offer some protection. He added his own sweater to the pile, revealing an immaculately ironed, tight-fitting navy-blue polo shirt. And rather well-sculpted upper arms, either side of his defined pecs, stopping Phil’s derisive snort as quickly as it had begun. The other lads wandered over to join in. They wouldn’t overtly partake in Brenner’s bullying, but, like Phil and me, they wouldn’t put a halt to it either.
Picking on Alex had been opportunistic, nothing more, stemming from boredom and Brenner’s general desire to lash out at someone more fortunate than himself. He had nothing as sophisticated as a plan; Brenner humiliated at random. He didn’t have a small kid stashed away in a locker whose head he periodically flushed down the toilet. And, often, he became more tolerable company afterwards, as if a pressure valve had been released. Which was why Phil and I let it happen.
On this occasion, however, he’d rather underestimated his opponent.
In a word, my crush played magnificently. Brenner had made the schoolboy error of forgetting that, unlike himself, posh kids didn’t exist solely on a diet of fags, chips, and lager. And that their schools had the best coaching staff and sports pitches money could buy, and the kids charged up and down them daily. And neither did Brenner have the advantage of poking around Alex’s bedroom, of studying row upon row of team photographs, or admiring the collection of mini trophies strewn across the bedroom bookcase. He hadn’t fingered the beribboned medals hanging on the back of his bedroom door, which jangled like an early warning system should anyone enter uninvited. Sure, Alex preferred rugby, but he bossed the football that afternoon as if the Manchester United scouts were watching. Tackling him was like tackling a brick wall.
I couldn’t work out what ran through Brenner’s head. He shoved Alex extra hard in the tackles—fat lot of good it did—and he deliberately tripped him once or twice, allowing Alex to demonstrate ballet skills as well as some silky footwork. After about ten minutes or so, I think Brenner forgot his intention to bully the posh kid and started enjoying the game.
Alex’s face was a mask of determination. Apprehension too, especially after an unnecessarily sharp kick to the ankles from Phil. His fists curled into two tight balls of unease, but he was damned if he would go down without a fight.
Playing mediocre football alongside him, I tumbled head over heels in love. What had begun as a teenage crush made way for all out fabulous adoration. Fancifully, I imagined us like tragic Whitney and Kevin inThe Bodyguard(yeah, I’d watched it—Alex didn’t need to know), or Robin Hood and Maid Marion inPrince of Thieves(okay, so maybe I had a thing for Kevin).
Behind his well-mannered exterior, Alex Valentine had hidden depths. Still wary—his white knuckles showed me that, but his stubbornness in facing his tormentor head-on was pretty cool. Foolhardy, but cool. In his shoes, I’d have legged it the second Brenner had hollered my name.
A bell rang, signalling the end of lunchbreak. Alex had darted for his sweater and bag, then jogged away to class before Brenner even picked himself up out of the dirt after his latest dive into the shrubbery. As he slipped past me, Alex mouthed “lift home later?” and I answered with a discreet nod.
“He’s all right, your Alex, isn’t he?” Brenner observed as we trudged inside. Not one to hold a grudge, our Brenner. Another reason to like him, despite him being a dick sometimes.
“He’s notmyAlex, you tosser.” I gave him a shove. “But yeah, he’s all right. Bested you, anyhow.”
“I still wish you’d get the bus with me,” he grumbled, shoving me back. “Instead of him giving you a lift all the time. I hate sitting on my own.”
“Why the hell would I stand in the frigging rain waiting for the bus with you, when I can get in his nice car with a decent stereo?”
“I don’t know, do I?” Brenner sounded triumphant, as if he’d caught me out. “Maybe for the same reasons that youget outof his smart car at the layby next to the hospital, instead of letting him take you to your front door! In thefrigging rain! Don’t you want your posh mate to see the shithole you come from? Is that the problem?”
And there lay the trouble with old friends. They could read you like a book. Me being one of the very few books Brenner had ever bothered to read.
“He’ll work it out soon enough, anyway,” my so-called best friend carried on. “Because you hang round with us lot, don’t you?”
Later that afternoon, I pulled open the car door and plumped into the passenger seat beside Alex as if claiming my God-given right. That was how natural meeting him at the end of every day had started to feel. And yep, rain pissed down again, the sky above us an ominous shade of purple. Forever more, for as long as I lived, I’d associate red Volkswagen Polos with lemony aftershave and stormy weather.
“Do you want to come back to mine for a bit?” Alex asked, as I reached for my seatbelt. He clicked on the stereo and one of my mixtapes boomed into life. I’d picked songs starting with the letters ‘A’ or ‘V’, waiting to see how long it would take for him to realise. I jiggled my leg in time to the Pixies’ ‘Veloria’.
“My parents are visiting my sister at uni for the day—they won’t be back until late. And I’ve got a surprise for you.”
I dragged my gaze away from his gorgeous mouth and stared out of the window, wondering what the surprise could be. I had an ingrained fear of surprises—the ones I’d had so far during my short life had never been particularly pleasant. My dad’s left fist, for instance, always caught me out.
We let ourselves into Alex’s empty house. Naturally, his thoughtful mummy had left the heating on for him; a layer of warmth blanketed the downstairs rooms. In the fridge, dinner awaited to be reheated, with accompanying instructions. Two golden-yellow steak and kidney pies, complete with chips and peas. Sex on a plate.
Biting into the perfectly flaked pastry, however, took the wind right out of my sails. What the fuck? Alex’s mum must have glugged one glass too many of that Rioja, because she’d stuffed the pastry with fish instead of meat. The fish I could just about cope with, but she’d slathered it in some sort of yucky green stuff, smothered in cream.
