His face is pure sarcasm. Zia’s dad doesn’t even like us in the house, let alone giving his only son career advice. Tommy looks round the room. “Yo. Your sister about?”
Zia digs his arm. “Shut up, yeah? It’s not funny.”
“What? I’m just saying.”
“What are you just saying, Tom?”
Tommy blinks slowly. “I’m just saying, that I think Famida is a rare beauty and I’d like to make her my wife.”
I laugh. Zia stares at Tommy. Tommy carries on. “My older, foxy wife.” He closes his eyes and smiles like he’s just tasted the best ice cream in the world. Zia goes for him and they’re in a two-man rugby scrum. I watch their reflection in the TV.
Zia joined our school in Year Five, but he really came into his own when we moved up to secondary. He was the kid who always said the cool thing at just the right time. Some of the one-liners he rocked to teachers were incredible. Like the time when Mr Chopping was laying into us in chemistry and shouted, “Do you think I enjoy spending my time with immature young boys?” and without even blinking, Zia was like, “I don’t know sir, I’d have to browse your internet history.” Brilliant.
I punch them both and they stop wrestling. Tommy cracks his neck and takes out a cigarette. Zia cuts him a look. “Don’t even joke you idiot, come on, let’s go.”
“Where we going, anyway?” I say.
Tommy puts his cigarette back and shrugs. Zia puts his hands on our shoulders. “Doesn’t matter. We got wheels!”
INT. CAR – DAY
Close-up: A pine tree air-freshener swings from the rear-view mirror to the sounds of boys laughing.
We don’t have anywhere to go and Tommy’s happy just driving around, so that’s what we do. I get shotgun and Zia’s in the back behind me. There’s no stereo in the car, but it doesn’t matter cos just driving with no sound feels good. Like a music video on mute.
Then I have an idea.
We drive round to old Mr Malcom’s house and nick apples from the tree in his front garden, then park outside our old school. It’s only been a summer since we left, but it feels like forever. The black metal front gates are locked and it looks kinda small.
“Shithole,” says Tommy.
Zia nods. “Load up.”
Standing in a line in front of the gates, we cock our arms back and try to hit the technology block windows.
I’m the only one to reach, my apple exploding on the thick double-glazed glass. “Eat that, Mr Nelson.”
We stop by West Smethwick park and watch the second half of an under-twelves game. It’s Yellows vs Reds. Within minutes, Tommy’s shouting instructions to the Yellows’ defence.
Some of the parents stare.
The Yellows win 5:1.
At about four we stop at Neelam’s on the high road and get masala fish and ginger beers, then park up near the bus stop and eat in the car. Heat from our food steams up the windows.
“We could go anywhere,” says Zia through a mouthful of naan just as I was thinking the exact same thing; how we could just choose a direction and drive. All we’d need is petrol money. Tommy nods and I wonder what places they’re both imagining. London. Manchester. Paris.
“Wolverhampton,” says Tommy.
“What?”
He looks at me. “We could drive to Wolverhampton.”
I stare at him. “Wolverhampton? That’s where you wanna go?”
“Yeah, what’s wrong with that?” He takes a big bite of his naan. “Jamie says wolves girls are well up for it.”
Zia leans forward in between our seats. “I never went to Blackpool.”
Tommy scoffs. “What the hell’s in Blackpool?”
“What the hell’s in Wolverhampton?” says Zia. “At least Blackpool’s got a rollercoaster.”
Tommy thinks about it. “Oh yeah, the Pepsi Max one, eh?”
Zia’s nodding. “Exactly. The Big One.”
Tommy nods back. “Yeah, sick. I’d go Blackpool. We should go to Blackpool. What you saying, Lukey? Blackpool road trip soon?”
The two of them look at me, chewing in sync, and it feels like they’re on one side and I’m on the other.
I shrug. “Yeah, Blackpool. Wicked.”
Zia said: My life is my scrapbook.
INT. PUB – NIGHT
The cackle of old man laughter.
I step out of the toilet into the noise of The Goose. It’s already pretty full and I can’t see across the room, but I can hear Dad’s deep laugh from the corner. I weave between bodies, tensing my shoulders the whole time in case I’m bumped.
Most people in here know each other, or at least they know of each other. I’m Little Lukey, Big Joe Henry’s kid, to the older ones, and to everyone else, Marc Henry’s little brother. I’ve been getting served at the bar since I was fifteen.
As I pass the bar, Donna smiles at me. My brain sends mixed messages to my face and I half smile, half grimace. What the hell was that, you idiot?
The flatscreen TV up on the wall shows Sky Sports News and it looks out of place, like a rectangular piece of future pasted into an old photograph. Don’t start with that stuff. Not here.
Dad’s sitting in the corner on the leather bench with two workmates from the garage on either side of him, all five of them still in their dark blue overalls, like some old boy band with Dad as the lead singer. The wall behind them’s deep burgundy and holds cheaply framed pictures of the local area from like a hundred years ago.
Whenever I see Dad with other men, even now, his size still hits me. He’s another half bigger in every direction than the closest guy to him. I think of kids looking up at him when we’re in town, their eyes wide, like they’ve discovered Big Foot.
“You OK, son?” He’s looking at me as I sit down on my stool across the circular table.
“I’m fine, Dad. Just déjà vu.”
Dad’s mate Lenny sticks out his bottom lip as he looks at me. “Catching your old man up, aren’t you, college boy?” He bends his arms like he’s a posing body builder and I turn in my seat.
“He’ll be bigger than me,” says Dad, smiling proud and nodding at me. I sit up straight and look at him. His square face is tired and scuffed with oil, but his eyes sparkle. I think of him driving me to pick up my GCSE results and the pair of us sitting in silence in the car after I opened them and got what I needed.
Lenny points at me. “Just don’t forget us when you’re rich and famous, eh?”
He nudges Dad. Dad does his polite laugh and I watch the little fans of wrinkles spread from the outside corners of his eyes.
“What’s on your mind, Lukey?” His voice is like thick gravy and everything about him has that calm that comes from knowing that nobody can really