‘Don’t let him get away with it, Tris,’ says the bearded one.
Elvis is very frightened of being hurt again. He wraps his arms around his head and squeezes his shoulders up to his ears. The bad black boy takes a step closer but instead of pain Elvis feels a glob of wet spit cover his lips and chin.
The boys all laugh and the bad black boy shouts, ‘Stay away from me, you fucking retard.’
The boys hover around the wall in order of importance, headed by Ben Munday, who sits in the shade offered by Nightingale Point, pride of place. He’s got on the latest Air Jordans, the type of footwear Tristan can only dream of owning.
‘What’s up, Tris? You look nuff prang,’ asks one of the younger boys from his bike.
‘Aw, it’s this heat.’ Tristan wipes his brow with a flourish but is embarrassed when he discovers the back of his hand glistening. ‘What you lot saying then?’
‘Chilling,’ answers the boy.
‘Yeah, yeah. Chilling.’ Tristan relaxes a little, allows his shoulders to drop. What’s twenty quid anyway? Ben Munday probably has so much money he doesn’t even remember lending it. Now that’s the kind of flex Tristan needs to be on. This relying on your big brother for handouts thing is getting long. Really tedious.
‘Here.’ One of the older boys hands Tristan a blue ice pole from a striped off-licence bag.
Ben Munday stands up and fusses with his hands down the front of his joggers, then pulls out a small washing powder net filled with £10 bags of cannabis. Tristan swears he can smell the weed, heated up by this boy’s groin. The thought is kind of repulsive.
‘Eh,’ one of the cycling boys says, ‘you seen Mustafa from Barton Point about? I’m gonna get him today, y’know.’ He punches one fist into the other.
‘For real?’ Tristan feigns interest, distracted by the tightness of the wrapper on the ice pole. He puts it between his teeth and tries to rip it.
‘He tried to chat up my sister. Man needs to be taught a lesson. You know me, how I protect my family and that.’
‘Yeah, yeah, get him good,’ Tristan says as he battles with the plastic seal. It bursts open and a blue juice sprays across his T-shirt. ‘Shit.’
The boys laugh.
‘You look like a sanitary towel advert.’
‘For fuck’s sake, man.’ Tristan is furious. ‘This is clean on.’
‘You were asking for it wearing that much white,’ Ben Munday says.
The toxic-looking blue colours the pavement as Tristan throws it to the floor. He leans down to wipe the bright drips off the trainers he takes so much pride in keeping spotless.
‘Eh, Tris, you know him?’
‘Who?’ He licks a finger and scrubs it along the stain. As he looks up he spots the man in the Elvis T-shirt from earlier in the stairwell. But this time he’s got a book out, a notepad or something, and is scribbling away. The boys cycle over and take it from him. Then they burst out laughing. Tristan tries to work out what’s going on.
‘Oi, Tris,’ one of the boys shouts back, ‘is this man your bum chum? Didn’t know you were into gingers.’
‘What’s he on about?’
The notepad flaps by their sides as they cycle back and then pass it along the group. Each face breaks into laughter as they see whatever is written and Tristan waits for his turn to get in on the joke.
Elvis T-shirt follows. ‘Please,’ he says, ‘can I have it back?’
Ben Munday shoves a hand back down his pants before letting out his one uncool trait: his high-pitched laugh.
‘Please, can I have it back?’ Elvis T-shirt reaches out for the notepad but it’s finally passed to Tristan. The pencilled figure has lines shaved across its hair, a star in its ear and two skinny legs sticking out of a pair of big shorts. Tristan isn’t sure what he’s most annoyed about: that he’s been spied on again or the unflattering portrayal of his physique, especially as he’s been putting in up to sixty push-ups a night.
‘Is this meant to be me?’ It’s humiliating, especially in front of Ben Munday. The heat creeps up behind his ears like a siren signalling the imminent loss of his temper.
The boys cackle and their energy builds behind him.
‘What’s your problem, man? First you’re spying on me in the stairs and now you’re drawing pictures of me.’
He hears a gasp.
‘Eh, Tris, this is proper creepy,’ says one of the boys on the bike, the spokes on his wheels click-clacking as he rocks back and forth. ‘This brer been stalking you?’
Stalking. That’s exactly what this is. Elvis T-shirt tries to grab the notepad but Tristan gets hold of his fingers and twists them tightly. He doesn’t really want to break the guy’s fingers, but this needs to hurt. He hopes he will know when to stop. Thankfully, the fingers are slippery with some kind of grease and slip from his grip. Elvis T-shirt looks proper scared now, huffing and almost in tears. He tries to run but the bikes block him, as if holding him for Tristan. For what? Not like Tristan is gonna fight this big idiot here in front of everyone. Ben Munday nods towards the notepad, as if giving the go-ahead. Tristan begins to rip out the pages, tearing at the little illustrations of postmen and bowls of food that appear alongside the scruffy handwriting. Then he flicks the notepad over into the car park. He laughs with the boys and shouts: ‘Sicko’.
But Ben Munday isn’t smiling; he’s shaking his head like he’s witnessed something substandard rather than business being taken care of. ‘Don’t let him get away with it, Tris,’ he says.
Elvis T-shirt now has his arms wrapped around his head. Despite being scrunched up, he still has a few inches on Tristan. He takes a step closer and isn’t sure what to do, how to make the biggest impact. Then it comes to him. He closes his eyes as he launches the spit. The boys gasp, someone snickers, there’s even the slap of palms. He’s done the right thing.
‘Stay away from me, you fucking retard,’ he shouts, and Elvis T-shirt wipes his face, then takes off in the direction of Nightingale Point.
‘That’s how to do it,’ Ben Munday says, smiling. ‘You gotta watch yourself with them care-in-the-community people.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Tristan agrees. He looks up at the flats and hopes no one saw what happened. Malachi would kill him. ‘Well, man, I need to go get changed – can’t be walking about like some tramp. Not my style.’ He knocks fists with each of the boys. Ben Munday grabs Tristan by the shoulder and shakes him playfully; a proud smile breaks through his thick, curly beard.
Nightingale Point feels hotter than when Tristan left it, so as well as a blue ice pole stain, he feels the sweat seep into the cotton at his armpits. Nastiness.
‘You again? Up, down, up, down,’ the old biddie on the third floor says. She sits on a dining table chair out on the landing, surrounded by a mess of plastic plants and flowers. The sight of her dentures makes Tristan queasy as she smiles at him. ‘No wonder you’re so skinny.’ She tuts. ‘Get yourself outside. Too hot to stay in. Bet your lot are used to it, though, ain’t ya?’
He