Chapter 1

Pete pulled his school coat tight round his shoulders, concealing the tape deck rammed into the roomy inside pocket. He’d gone to the trouble of sewing it in himself, vaguely aware of how furious his mother would be when she came to wash it. The tape deck was an unwieldy thing to have in your clothing. Its weight kept pulling one side of his coat off his shoulders, so he kept it zipped to his chin. Despite the cold, the fear of being caught with this illicit item almost brought beads of sweat to his forehead.

The church was like a larder, the orange or brown suited congregation of men taking on the appearance of fat kippers in his mind. Floral women just seemed a joke when the grave lined path to the door was sided by dead grass and saturated mud slicks. The chill intensified once he was ushered to his pew by matronly Jess, deceptively stunning in her sour Sunday best. She didn’t want to be beautiful, not this day of the week, but it couldn’t be helped. Should Ed see her he’d feel enamoured as ever, and maybe ask Pete to mention him over roast lunch. Pete stood beside Jess, legs weary, itching to wind his scarf high round his throat. He’d plaster the material round his ears to hide the headphones and cover his mouth to make it less obvious he wasn’t going to sing. His eyes glazed, candles skittering in their corners, as the vicar shuffled down the centre aisle and reedy hymns bounced from wall to wall. He hated church more than school, and wished he could have been Mrs Jones’ son and spent his Sundays lying in and traipsing up and down the city centre with a packet of f**s on the go. Rather here he was, ensconced between the scratchy fabric of his mother and sister’s most conservative frocks in All Saint’s.

The sermon began as usual, a drone he drowned out with his music, tapes of David Bowie taken from the radio, long sections of the Peel Sessions and anything interesting radio 4 had to offer. He liked the things about animals and far-off places like the Amazon, but he’d take anything over the Sunday service. It was the first of December, so the nativity was up and flickering and the Christmas story was re-told the same way it had been all thirteen years of his life. He stood and sat at all the right times, making sure neither Jess on his left or his Mother on his right clocked what he was really doing with the ear buds sat smugly in place. Jess had a swelling of pride across her features throughout and didn’t so much as glance at her snotty younger brother. When the time came to drink the wine and eat the ‘flesh of Christ’ �" something he’d been terrified by as a small boy - he pulled the scarf back down again, ensuring the ear buds came with it and were covered by the fabric. He padded slowly to the front of the church and knelt on the altar as always, reluctantly accepting the dusty-tasting wafer. He never got offered the wine, on account of being thirteen, and was thankful he didn’t have to use the cup. He felt he ought to have some sort of reverence for the experience, but his only feelings were concern for the easy spread of infection on the many-used and un-cleaned goblet.

Once the service was done with he had to fight the urge to run out into the watery street, he measured his steps carefully, as not to look too eager to leave. It was futile, he wasn’t free yet. Jess put an irksome hand on his shoulder to steer him to the exit. Like he couldn’t do it himself. His father brought up the rear with the usual vacant shuffle, down the graveyard path, Pete stood shivering while the big man twisted the keys in their Ford. In a measured and orderly fashion, each member of the family took their place within it.

They drove back without much in the way of conversation; Jess was constantly re-knotting her hair into plaits and trying to get an eyeful of them in the wing mirror while Peter’s parents listened as though with deep thought to the radio’s news, turning over every morsel of information in their minds. The nativity was going up this evening, and, to Pete’s horror, the tale of Baby Jesus’ birth was thrown at him all over again. He listened freely now to his cassettes, pretending he’d left them in the car.

Once they got home he scampered up to his room with his hands in his pockets, Jess was helping his mother with Sunday Lunch, something he detested almost as much as church, except sometimes dessert make it alright. Up there in his room he had drawings up on the wall and a pinned up Manchester City scarf because he reckoned that was what boys should have in their rooms. He never watched football, but nobody needed to know that, he’d get the specks knocked right off his face. There was a Ziggy Stardust poster on the back of the door, skilfully placed so you didn’t notice it, walking in, unless you looked behind it. His mother had complained about his hero’s “leading venerable young men astray” to the sinful doom of homosexuality. Pete had every one of his albums, and didn’t hide them by any means, he just never made any comment either way, didn’t try to rub anyone’s nose in their existence. Under his bed was a box containing his diary and magazines Ed had given him out of pity or as bribes to put a good word in for him when Jess was around. They at least would assure his mother he wasn’t drifting into gayness should she ever dust under there.

Pete fell onto his quilt and groped for the book on his night stand, hoping he’d be able to see Ed on the way to school on Monday.

*

Ed lay sprawled in a tangle of sheets in his matchbox bedroom where a sheet of light hung suspended in the air. It sliced him in two where he lay with his monkey-arm swinging, knuckles brushing the paper carpet. The hedgehog-head was oblivious to the high-pitched racket in the next rooms. It was past eleven when the beast awakened, finally casting the thick duvet as far off himself as space would allow and coming out in gooseflesh. He pulled a sweater over his head and the foot ball shorts his cousin Anthony had handed down when he bought his house and decided he was above everything he’d ever had before it. He slipped out of the matchbox and into the kitchen with his stomach growling.

“Get the milk, Ed, they haven’t had their breakfast yet.” His mother nodded to the twins and then to Amy, who could be seen through the open door, colouring under the flash and glare of the TV set. “Come here,” He obeyed, sloping across the room in two strides while she made sure the babies were fixed firmly into their double-seated highchair. His mother’s purse was a holy grail, giver of all life, the object of his affections. Ed never stole from it, he knew better than that; and not even little Amy would sink so low. Besides, he’d only be stealing from himself. When she took the treasure from within, no matter how meagre, and entrusted it into his hands, he felt a sense of duty like no other, and power too. The money gave him strength and charisma. He always felt a hell of a lot better on the way to the shops than on the way back.

“Just the milk?” He asked, as she doled out the coins sparingly into his hand.

“I don’t know...” She opened the cupboards and had a scan of the contents, mostly tins and those huge packets of pasta and rice that lasted months. “We need bread, get bread, but the jam and butter are still on the go.” She browsed further “No cornflakes either, get cornflakes, none of that chocolate stuff; I’ve got sugar for Amy to sprinkle.”

As commanded, Ed braced himself for the cold, he had Anthony’s camel coat which was too wide for a wiry boy of fifteen who hadn’t quite had his full growth spurt. It served its purpose none the less, beginnings of winter were bitter and the horizon blended so well with the concrete you could hardly pick out the foot bridges strung across it. The lifts were broken, one reason he’d been sent down to the shops, it was a nightmare to slog the double push chair all the way back up the stairs or to stop the twins leaping out like a pair of salmon on the way down.

His mother’s friend Julia had a son a couple of years older, who brushed past him on the walkway outside their apartment, puffing away on a pack of cheap f**s. Ed had no doubt he delved into his mother’s purse to find the money, he’d never liked him. He remembered he’d been precious with his comics and toys when Julia had child minded when he was younger and Amy took up all Mum’s time.

He jogged lightly down the steps, hairs rising on his bare legs under the flaps of the floor-trailing coat, and down to the ground. A flurry of mothers with their tots squealing ploughed their prams up and down the green while a few of the teenagers huddled under the awning of the crescents having their morning smoke where their parents couldn’t see them. Ed felt obliged to join in with it, but knew it was a waste of money and he didn’t much like the smell either. When he pictured himself in ten years time, with a beautiful wife and a nice house in Spain, he always had cigars and it was never a problem.

The corner shop held mainly papers which had a thick, durable quality all new and folded that Ed liked. He’d have liked to sit in there alone and read them all but the stern woman behind the counter would never have allowed it. The little fridge at the back housed milk pints lined neatly with mousetrap cheese and other bits and pieces for sale underneath. He took three pints, knowing how fast they got through it, and the cheapest bread they had. There was a limited choice on cereal, but they had cornflakes just the same, through he fancied the coco-pops. He paid quickly at the counter, not liking to be under the woman’s glare for too long, he could sense she didn’t like him much, and hurried back round the corner to the stairwell of the tower block. The steps stank of piss, though who would ever want to pee there Ed could only wonder, so he made the shortest work of them he could. Julia’s son was still there, loitering outside with his nose and cheeks red from the cold, but Ed ignored him and barged back into the warmth of his own home. He could hear the twins were bawling.

“Cereal!” Amy piped up, thundering into the kitchen while he dished the shopping onto the table. Ed poured her a bowl, added the milk and sprinkled on the sugar for her how he knew she liked it, then passed it down.

“Thank you, Ed,” His Mum said, “Now you watch that bowl, Amy, don’t drop it if you’re taking it in there,”

“I won’t!”

“Just put the change in my purse would you?” She added, filling the Twins’ bottles. He did, taken aback by his stomach’s sudden gurgling, and took toast into his room to eat, the crying babies were driving him mad.

*

Pete was called for Sunday lunch at one and reluctantly folded down the page of his book and trotted down to the dining room where the fake electric fire was kicking out a wave of warmth. He hadn’t realised he’d been cold until it washed over him, along with the thick smell of the lamb joint being sliced in the middle of the table. He hadn’t realised he was hungry either, but it all came back to him now. In slightly better spirits he took his place.

“There you go, Peter,”

“Thanks,” He took the plate of meat his mother offered, and loaded a hunk of mash on beside it.

“Pass it down, would you?” He slid the potato tray along to his father at the head of the table and jiggled in his seat, impatient for the gravy to make its rounds and reach him.

“I’ve got carol practice tomorrow,” Jess informed them “I think I might audition for the concert at school.”

“That’s lovely,” His mother chimed, then paused. Pete winced. “Peter, why don’t you join your sister and audition?”

“I’m alright, not much of a singer.” He muttered, his father looked teasingly his way

“I hear you in the bath, alright! You can sing just as well as the next person!”

“Well, I’m alright, got things to do, like homework.” He protested once more

“Your sister does homework,”

Silence fell for a moment before Mr Kite changed the subject to work, the television, where to buy a Christmas tree.

*

Wednesday evening that week the cornflakes had run out. The fact that PE had been out on the ice-chocked fields had only served to make matters worse. That evening Ed sat in the dark living room with his back against the two person sofa taken over by his mother and Amy. He thawed his hands on the edge of his plate of fish fingers, the paper round had chilled him to the bone but he had some allowance at least, to add to the savings tin. The Bill Grundy Show was on, which he wasn’t much a fan of, but it felt nice to have the sound of a new voice in the house. It was peaceful at last; the twins had been dozing in Amy’s room ever since he’d got home at seven thirty.

“Don’t he look a mess?” His mother commented with an unusual air of disapproval, Ed glanced up at the screen, saw a scrawny young man with spiked up scarlet hair and a couple of safety pins jabbing out his ear.

“Who’s that?” He leaned forwards slightly

“Some new band.” She frowned “They do look bloody scruffy, what happened to Queen? I don’t mind them so much.”

“Oh! The Pistols! I couldn’t remember what he looked like!”

“Well, they turn us on, they turn some people on...” Johnny was muttering, Ed couldn’t quite make it out. He’d heard of them, of course, but never heard them. They had no album out, and the radio never played them, and as far as he knew they weren’t playing up North since a couple of pub shows he’d missed that summer. Typically, news has only reached him once the band had rolled on. There was one sixth former who claimed he’d seen them and that the singer was awful, and one girl at Pete’s school who’d supposedly been there too, and called herself a punk. He wasn’t sure what a punk was supposed to look like, but he supposed this lot was the real deal.

“What was that you just said?” Bill Grundy demanded out of the blue.

“Nuffin’...” Johnny protested, pasty as old porridge. He had a demented sort of mocking in his eyes and on impulse Ed grinned “A rude word, that’s all...”

Bill Grundy drew himself up, “Oh! Well, let’s hear it then”

“I didn’t hear it, what did he say?” His mother insisted anxiously “he didn’t swear did he?”

“S**t.” Johnny announced.

“Did he just say that? On the BBC!?” She exclaimed, realising Amy was nestled against her with intrigue. “I’ll be complaining! Fancy that, not even eight o’ clock and I’ve got a young child here watching this!”

“Wait! Let me just hear what they’re saying!” Ed protested, shuffling closer to the screen.

 “Let me watch it too!” Amy cried, joining him on the carpet and mimicking the riveted pose.

"We can meet afterwards can’t we?” Grundy asked one of the girls, bristle-headed and made up vampishly, prompting one of the lads, the one swinging restlessly in his chair, to cry out:

“You dirty sod! You dirty old man!” Ed watched with growing amusement

“Keep going, keep going!” Their interviewer snapped “Go on, you’ve got another five seconds, day something outrageous.”

The camera cut to the young man, who, Ed now realised, had a pair of tits screen printed across his chest. He seemed only too happy to oblige

“You dirty b*****d,” A puff on his cigarette and then “You dirty f****r.” He glanced smugly at his band mates, twittering like a pack of school girls. “What a dirty f*****g rotter.”

“Amy!” His mum snapped, and she came crawling back to the sofa jittery with delight, knowing she’d just watched what she shouldn’t have.

“That’s all for tonight!” Hastily, the scene was swept off the screen and the credits began rolling.

“Ed, turn that off!” His mum instructed “Fancy that on the BBC before eight! I’ll be writing to them, you see if I don’t!” Reluctantly he turned it off and returned to his tea with only one thought in his mind: he wanted to be a punk.

Reviews

[asdarkeyesclose]

I used to live in Hulme when I was a student many moons ago. It was not at all respectable then- the heroin addicts were selling the boilers out of the empty flats and their was a lot of flooding. it was quite a mixed community a lot of crusties and punks and travellers. All the electricity was hot wired so we didn't have to pay. I look back on those days and smile now at it all- now I pay all of my bills!
I thought your writing was convincing good exploration of thoughts and feelings and some strong statements. You are especially good at writing about inner thoughts. What I would like to see was more dialogue just to break it up a bit more but i'll be interested to read more, i'm wondering if it is going to be a continuation of everyday life or if something really unexpected is going to happen and change the pace! I look forward to finding out.