Read Online Gravity's Chain by Alan Goodwin - Free Book Online

about their lives since school, I found myself with nothing to ask them either. It’s funny how we think loneliness comes from being alone, cut off from home, or sitting in some shit hole of a room. For me it came surrounded by people I’d once known intimately. Only when the evening turned nostalgic did I reconnect with them. Only when we revisited our common past were we reunited.
    Inevitably the old stories flowed, the ones that meant something only to us. Mike was the catalyst. He rolled down the table like a social tidal wave, initiating tales here and finishing others with the punch line. I watched, I listened and I drank. My God, did I drink.
    â€˜Hey Jack, remember Pendleton’s car?’ I smiled and nodded. The table was beaming at the memory. ‘Remember Fred Pendleton the French teacher?’ Mike’s introduction was unnecessary, everyone knew the story, but he would not be denied his tried and tested beginning. ‘Duncan, Jack and me propped up his old green Mini on bricks and took off the wheels. Do you remember?’ Everyone remembered. ‘Anyway, we stood there admiring our work andwhen we turned to go, Pendleton was standing there. He didn’t say a word. We just went back to the car, put the wheels on and took the car off the bricks. The thing is, when he came back he’d bought us all a doughnut. No detention, just doughnuts—all he said was that he was so impressed we went and put the wheels on without being asked, he didn’t have the heart to punish us. Imagine that? Pendleton was the grumpiest old sod in the school.’ Everyone laughed. Even I laughed. ‘Remember, Jack? I thought we’d get expelled. Jesus, we were lucky.’
    â€˜I remember.’ I smiled again at the memory.
    â€˜What about the review show in seventh form?’ It was Duncan this time. Everyone was laughing: no doubt this was the centrepiece of any of these gatherings. Jo, who still sat next to me, slapped the table with a flat hand, making the cutlery jump. On the drinks front she had impressively kept pace with me.
    â€˜Oh shit,’ she screamed at the tabletop.
    â€˜Those bloody trousers. Do you remember the trousers, Jack?’ Mike took control of the story.
    â€˜Do I remember them? How could I bloody well forget them?’ How could I forget those nylon red flares that had no fly but two zippers either side of the crotch so that when they were undone a flap fell down. I’d found them at a charity shop. The show was the end of year review and our little group produced a spoof game show where I played a gay quiz master, my costume completed with curly wig and Village People moustache. Jo, Mary, Duncan and Mike played the contestants. I can’t remember the questions now, but I recall how funny we were and how the audience roared at the jokes. The winner, Duncan I think, won a motorbike that in real life belonged to Mike’s older brother. Duncan stripped off to reveal a Freddie Mercury costume andmimed to some Queen song as he bestrode the bike.
    Everyone at the table laughed. Jo was out of control, her head wobbling like a nodding dog until it came to rest on my shoulder. Mike wiped away a tear from his cheek. ‘Shit, Jack,’ he shouted above the noise, ‘you were brilliant that night. Remember when you unzipped your trousers at the end, pulled out a fresh wig and changed wigs? I thought I’d piss myself. You were one funny bastard.’
    All those at the table murmured their agreement at the comment and I could see in their eyes they remembered me as a funny bastard. So what happened? What produced this cynical sod?
    The furore at the table died. Duncan left to talk elsewhere and Mike sat next to me; Jo’s leg first brushed and then settled next to mine. Mike idly chatted to me, which was light conversation after the heady heights of the stories, but he was obviously circling a difficult subject. I poured yet another wine. Mike