no antisocial behavior orders then, but I think that this is when Wheeler began to research their 1997 equivalent. The next time we saw him he had memorized the relevant council bylaws and was able to quote them to us.
I raced ahead of Rex back into the heart of the party; he had a word with Chris at the turntables, pointing at his watch and raising his palms to say, I’m sorry but what can you do? Everything was over so suddenly. Chris said he knew a club in King’s Cross that they could probably get into for free and would let them dance until at least 9 a.m. He left his turntables and records where they stood as most of the remaining guests, including the girl called Rachael and the boy called Guy, followed him down the stairs and out of the front door like children tagging behind the Pied Piper. Biba didn’t seem to mind the sudden exodus of her friends, settling into an earnest, whispered conversation with the fat woman on the sofa. I felt a throb of jealousy and joined Rex on the terrace.
“It’s beautiful here,” I said to fill the silence. “How long have you lived here?”
“Forever,” he said. “It’s the only home I’ve ever known. My grandparents lived here. And my mum.” This last was said in a tone that didn’t invite further inquiry. He was smoking a cigarette or a joint, to keep his hands busy rather than for the hit, I thought. The prop didn’t suit him: he had an edgy, nervy quality, like a librarian a whisper away from a nervous breakdown. A pair of glasses, constantly slipping from the bridge of his nose and pushed back up by a middle finger, would have been a more suitable nervous tic.
The first light of the day had started to lift the color of the wood from dark gray to green and draw a line between treetops and sky. It went on for miles, only a few roofs and the odd church spire breaking the rural illusion.
“Daybreak,” he said, looking out at it. “I’ve always thought it was funny that dawn should be called daybreak. This is when the day is made: it’s the beginning. It’s the best part: you’ve got all the potential of the day to come, and you haven’t wasted it yet. When it gets dark, that should be daybreak. When the day is broken. When it turns into nighttime, that’s when it all starts to go wrong.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’d be quite happy if tonight never, ever ended.” The look he gave me made me uncomfortable. You’ll see, it seemed to say. Biba had told me he was twenty-four, only four years older than I was, so why was he acting like a concerned parent?
By six, there was only a handful of people left in the room. I stretched out on a blanket, conversations drifting over my head as sleep pressed down on me.
When I awoke dry-mouthed at ten, someone had covered me with a patchwork quilt that stank of stale smoke. The smell of the room, of sweat and bodies and cigarettes, made me retch. I hadn’t noticed it last night. Now, it was an assault on my senses. I had company under the blanket: Biba, the sleeping bride. Her mouth lolled open and a zephyr of rank breath traveled under my nostrils. The tinny sound of a cheap stereo and the odd thud were audible through the ceiling. I imagined Tris, still wide awake and playing his air drums, and was glad I’d declined the mushrooms. I took back what I’d said to Rex earlier: now that the night was over, I wanted to be home, and clean, and if not asleep then at least between my own sheets. Nobody was awake to hear my good-bye.
I had always rather envied those girls you saw in last night’s clothes, wondering what their stories were, but now I was one of them—I was the one with the story and I wanted to tell it. I wanted to shake awake the dozing man with the Tesco shopping bag opposite me and ask him if he had ever had a night like mine. I made do with replaying the events in my mind: the sounds, the sensations. The only people I didn’t want to tell were my housemates. They would disapprove and
I raced ahead of Rex back into the heart of the party; he had a word with Chris at the turntables, pointing at his watch and raising his palms to say, I’m sorry but what can you do? Everything was over so suddenly. Chris said he knew a club in King’s Cross that they could probably get into for free and would let them dance until at least 9 a.m. He left his turntables and records where they stood as most of the remaining guests, including the girl called Rachael and the boy called Guy, followed him down the stairs and out of the front door like children tagging behind the Pied Piper. Biba didn’t seem to mind the sudden exodus of her friends, settling into an earnest, whispered conversation with the fat woman on the sofa. I felt a throb of jealousy and joined Rex on the terrace.
“It’s beautiful here,” I said to fill the silence. “How long have you lived here?”
“Forever,” he said. “It’s the only home I’ve ever known. My grandparents lived here. And my mum.” This last was said in a tone that didn’t invite further inquiry. He was smoking a cigarette or a joint, to keep his hands busy rather than for the hit, I thought. The prop didn’t suit him: he had an edgy, nervy quality, like a librarian a whisper away from a nervous breakdown. A pair of glasses, constantly slipping from the bridge of his nose and pushed back up by a middle finger, would have been a more suitable nervous tic.
The first light of the day had started to lift the color of the wood from dark gray to green and draw a line between treetops and sky. It went on for miles, only a few roofs and the odd church spire breaking the rural illusion.
“Daybreak,” he said, looking out at it. “I’ve always thought it was funny that dawn should be called daybreak. This is when the day is made: it’s the beginning. It’s the best part: you’ve got all the potential of the day to come, and you haven’t wasted it yet. When it gets dark, that should be daybreak. When the day is broken. When it turns into nighttime, that’s when it all starts to go wrong.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’d be quite happy if tonight never, ever ended.” The look he gave me made me uncomfortable. You’ll see, it seemed to say. Biba had told me he was twenty-four, only four years older than I was, so why was he acting like a concerned parent?
By six, there was only a handful of people left in the room. I stretched out on a blanket, conversations drifting over my head as sleep pressed down on me.
When I awoke dry-mouthed at ten, someone had covered me with a patchwork quilt that stank of stale smoke. The smell of the room, of sweat and bodies and cigarettes, made me retch. I hadn’t noticed it last night. Now, it was an assault on my senses. I had company under the blanket: Biba, the sleeping bride. Her mouth lolled open and a zephyr of rank breath traveled under my nostrils. The tinny sound of a cheap stereo and the odd thud were audible through the ceiling. I imagined Tris, still wide awake and playing his air drums, and was glad I’d declined the mushrooms. I took back what I’d said to Rex earlier: now that the night was over, I wanted to be home, and clean, and if not asleep then at least between my own sheets. Nobody was awake to hear my good-bye.
I had always rather envied those girls you saw in last night’s clothes, wondering what their stories were, but now I was one of them—I was the one with the story and I wanted to tell it. I wanted to shake awake the dozing man with the Tesco shopping bag opposite me and ask him if he had ever had a night like mine. I made do with replaying the events in my mind: the sounds, the sensations. The only people I didn’t want to tell were my housemates. They would disapprove and
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