Blink of an Eye (2013) by Cath Staincliffe Page A

called, ‘Hey, Carmel.’
    I swung back; he had halted outside a building.
    ‘You live in a shop?’
    ‘Upstairs.’
    I read the sign
Rock Records
, saw the display of record sleeves (several I owned: Elvis Costello, the Clash, the Slits, X-Ray Spex) and the top twenty record charts through the grille over the window. There were other notices there:
Musical accessories sold here
and
Blank tapes best prices.
    ‘Who has downstairs?’
    ‘Me.’ He smiled; he had a dimple, just one on the left, and a chipped front tooth.
    ‘No, really?’
    ‘True.’
    I stared at him. It seemed so grown-up.
    ‘What?’ he asked.
    ‘Brilliant!’ I said.
    We had to go through the shop to reach the flat. He was careful about locking up; there were bolts and padlocks all over the place. ‘Got robbed three times last year,’ he said, flipping the lights on.
    ‘How long have you been here?’
    ‘Four years, started when I left school.’
    ‘Do you make enough to live on?’
    ‘Long as I can bum cigs off someone like you,’ he joked.
    He did all sorts to get by: sold records and cassette tapes, as well as accessories for guitars and drums and percussion. He had a PA to hire out for small events. And decks, too. Then there were the gigs the Blaggards played, though they probably spent more on drugs and alcohol at those than they ever got paid.
    ‘This way.’ He took me up the stairs at the back, rickety wooden steps, no carpet. Posters on the walls covering up the mottled paint: Iggy Pop, Bob Marley and the Wailers, Che Guevara,
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
.
    At the top of the stairs there was a bathroom and the narrow hallway doubled back leading to two rooms: a kitchen/diner at the back and a bedroom-cum-living-room at the front. There were records everywhere, music papers and piles of books. The place was messy but not dirty. Not damp like mine.
    I felt suddenly shy seeing his bed, a mattress on the floor covered in a brightly patterned blanket. And wondered where to sit, what to say.
    ‘Tea?’ he offered.
    I agreed, and he put a tape on and left me. The music was lovers’ rock, similar to the stuff on the sound system at the shebeen. The sofa looked like an antique, an enormous squashy pile of red velvet that I fell back into.
    He brought mugs and a plate of biscuits, then bummed another cigarette off me and skinned up. We smoked it, finished the tea. We still hadn’t touched. Was I reading the situation wrong? Only one way to find out. ‘You want to dance?’ I said.
    He stood up, reached out a hand and pulled me up. Long, bony fingers, nicotine stains. His hand was cool and dry. He pulled me close so my breasts and belly were pressed against him, angled his hips so there was pressure there. Bump and grind. I closed my eyes, the music swirling through me, passion growing.
    As the track faded out, he stopped moving and I opened my eyes. He had a warm, sleepy look on his face and nudged closer to me. We were kissing, slow-kissing, tasting of tea and tobacco and dope. He gave a little groan and broke it off. But I pulled him back, kissed him hard and started to take his clothes off.
    He woke me at one-thirty the following afternoon with tea and fried-egg sandwiches, and the Sunday papers. We ate and swapped sections of the newspaper. He started the cryptic crossword, something I never even attempted.
    He talked to me about my course and what I was going to do next. ‘Apply for jobs, go wherever I can get something.’ A pang as I said it, thinking that this might just last a few weeks then.
    We watched a black-and-white western on television. His reception was rubbish; the picture kept fizzing over. We got high again using my last cigarette and made love.
    I had to go. I’d still more to do on my dissertation and I hadn’t been to the launderette yet, either. One of the few places open on a Sunday in Manchester.
    Would I see him again? Would he say anything? Did he like me as much as I liked him?
    ‘You busy