wealthy backgrounds, going by their voices, but hey, it was the West End, so everyone had made a lot of effort to look as if they hadnât made an effort. Really all heâd done was take a short cut. Fine Art students like himself were always more scruffy than the rest anyway. You could spot the Design types a mile off. The t-shirts had to have cool graphics, the necklace would be some surfer type thing.
The girls were amazing. He got talking to one, almost as tall as himself, who said her name was Scarlett, which he doubted, but so what, she was seriously amazing, the whole front of her hair cut in a fringe, slanting sideways across her eyes to the level of her ear, but after a few minutes, it was obvious sheâd done a few cheeky lines already, and he moved on. He couldnât stand the nonsense.
After a while, they all moved on via the Underground to the city centre for the fireworks display. Not so good. The crowd was more aggressive, a lot of fast drinking going on, a lot of joints being smoked, and other stuff, which was fine if you were the one doing them, but heâd promised his school art teacher, the one decent guy on the staff, that he wouldnât and so far he hadnât. That was one guy who knew what it was all about.
He kept a smile on his face, avoided eye contact, stuck close to those he knew. To his relief, soon after all the bangs were finished, someone said it was time to go if they wanted to get to the party while there was still transport. He was tired now, the earlier glow was wearing off, leaving him almost sober, and almost inclined to go home, but hey, it was New Year.
Good Decision. The party â he didnât know whose house it was â was well stocked, at the start anyway, and not too many people, though it was definitely a weird mix. Some were old for this sort of thing, and some of the girls, even made up and in the low lighting looked way too young to him. He hung out in the kitchen when it got busier, avoiding the casualties, and the daft hyper girls with their breasts falling out of their tops talking nonsense in the middle of the living room. The music was better than it had been all night. The bass was deep and satisfying. The guy on the decks had good taste. Going to the toilet, however, was a fucking pain, having to defend his manhood in the queue of girls. Then suddenly it was time to go home. Heâd been stressing about it for a while. Heâd totally drunk himself sober.
For the first couple of miles he had company, an older guy and his girlfriend, but after that he was on his own. It had occurred to him earlier that he might phone his married sister, but heâd been sick once in their car. A loving father would have been handy.
There were no photographs of his father in the house at all. Both of his sisters remembered him, but neither they nor his mother ever mentioned him or why heâd gone, months after Ryanâs birth. It was pathetic, not knowing what your own father had looked like. Not his hair colour, or his eyes, not whether you looked anything like him, nothing.
He turned into a doorway for a moment, to let a couple of mental-looking guys go past. The wind seemed colder now. Everyone on the street felt like a potential hazard. Kids in groups hailed him; he called back. Cars passed, there were lit windows, and now and then bursts of music. He wasnât exactly alone. No, he was always alone, that was the truth of it. This is how I am, he thought sadly, this is my life. This is my grim journey, fighting the wind, in the dark. He felt almost heroic for a few yards, until reality thudded back. Being alone was nothing to be proud of. It was a simple fact.
On the far side of the road, inside a bus shelter, an older couple were fighting one another, mostly shouting but with raised fists. The woman had weight on her side, and a bag with a useful silver chain. On his side another small group of neds was coming closer.
Everything as
The girls were amazing. He got talking to one, almost as tall as himself, who said her name was Scarlett, which he doubted, but so what, she was seriously amazing, the whole front of her hair cut in a fringe, slanting sideways across her eyes to the level of her ear, but after a few minutes, it was obvious sheâd done a few cheeky lines already, and he moved on. He couldnât stand the nonsense.
After a while, they all moved on via the Underground to the city centre for the fireworks display. Not so good. The crowd was more aggressive, a lot of fast drinking going on, a lot of joints being smoked, and other stuff, which was fine if you were the one doing them, but heâd promised his school art teacher, the one decent guy on the staff, that he wouldnât and so far he hadnât. That was one guy who knew what it was all about.
He kept a smile on his face, avoided eye contact, stuck close to those he knew. To his relief, soon after all the bangs were finished, someone said it was time to go if they wanted to get to the party while there was still transport. He was tired now, the earlier glow was wearing off, leaving him almost sober, and almost inclined to go home, but hey, it was New Year.
Good Decision. The party â he didnât know whose house it was â was well stocked, at the start anyway, and not too many people, though it was definitely a weird mix. Some were old for this sort of thing, and some of the girls, even made up and in the low lighting looked way too young to him. He hung out in the kitchen when it got busier, avoiding the casualties, and the daft hyper girls with their breasts falling out of their tops talking nonsense in the middle of the living room. The music was better than it had been all night. The bass was deep and satisfying. The guy on the decks had good taste. Going to the toilet, however, was a fucking pain, having to defend his manhood in the queue of girls. Then suddenly it was time to go home. Heâd been stressing about it for a while. Heâd totally drunk himself sober.
For the first couple of miles he had company, an older guy and his girlfriend, but after that he was on his own. It had occurred to him earlier that he might phone his married sister, but heâd been sick once in their car. A loving father would have been handy.
There were no photographs of his father in the house at all. Both of his sisters remembered him, but neither they nor his mother ever mentioned him or why heâd gone, months after Ryanâs birth. It was pathetic, not knowing what your own father had looked like. Not his hair colour, or his eyes, not whether you looked anything like him, nothing.
He turned into a doorway for a moment, to let a couple of mental-looking guys go past. The wind seemed colder now. Everyone on the street felt like a potential hazard. Kids in groups hailed him; he called back. Cars passed, there were lit windows, and now and then bursts of music. He wasnât exactly alone. No, he was always alone, that was the truth of it. This is how I am, he thought sadly, this is my life. This is my grim journey, fighting the wind, in the dark. He felt almost heroic for a few yards, until reality thudded back. Being alone was nothing to be proud of. It was a simple fact.
On the far side of the road, inside a bus shelter, an older couple were fighting one another, mostly shouting but with raised fists. The woman had weight on her side, and a bag with a useful silver chain. On his side another small group of neds was coming closer.
Everything as
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