In the front first-floor bedroom of number nineteen a woman wakes suddenly. She looks at the clock, she looks at her sleeping husband, she wonders why she has woken. There is no noise from the street, the children are quiet. She eases softly out of bed, her bladder suddenly straining and full, she stands and she opens the door slowly enough for it not to squeak. On the way to the bathroom, she looks into the childrens bedroom and checks on each one of them, she crouches at the lower bunks and stretches up to the top one. She looks with sleepy love at the three of them, she watches their young bodies swelling and shrinking through her barely opened eyes, she holds her hand close to their faces to feel the warm give and suck of their breath. She murmurs a brief prayer for them and closes the door gently, soft-padding to the toilet, sitting and relieving herself and watching the shadows of pigeons flap across the bathroom wall.
The short girl with the painted toenails, next door, she says oh but did you see that guy on the balcony, he was nice, no he was special and she savours the word like a strawberry, you know she says, the one on the balcony, the one who was speeding and kept leaning right over, and they all know exactly who she means, hes in the same place most weeks, pounding out the rhythm like a panelbeater, fists crashing down into the air, sweat splashing from his polished head.
She says once I was there and he got so carried away that he hung from the balcony by his legs, he had his feet hooked under the rail, and she remembers the way his face had stretched into a furious O, going come on lets have some and she remembers his fists still flailing across the void like an astronaut lost in orbit.
A girl sleeps in the back bedroom of number eleven, her hair is pushed out of her eyes by a hairband, her mouth is wide open, the room is warm and beginning to lighten. Bird shadows pass quickly across her face but she does not wake.
A couple in their early thirties sleep in the attic flat of number twenty-one, wrapped loosely in a thin red blanket, he is snoring and she is turned away from him, there is a television on in the corner with the sound turned down, shadows pass through the room but the couple do not wake.
In the back bedroom of number seventeen, the boy with the white shirt and the tie says it was definitely a girl, she didnt have an Adams apple, I swear, it was a girl definitely, and everyone laughs at him and he looks around the room and joins in the laughter and somebody passes him a long cigarette.
The boy with the wide trousers is quiet, hes looking at the girl next to him, a beautifully unslim girl with dark curls of hair falling down over a red velvet dress, hes looking at the laces and straps and buckles and zips of her complicated footwear and he looks up at her and says so how long does it take you to get those boots off then? She looks at him, this girl, with lips as red as the fire inside a chilli, she looks at the tight spread of him across the bed and she says
I dont know Ive never taken them off myself
and she smiles at the sharpness of his intake of breath, she watches his eyes trickle down from her face and roll down the rich geometry of her body.
And everyone else keeps talking, compulsively, talking across each other, talking about the tunes they heard and the people they saw and the next place they want to go. The boy with the white shirt and the tie keeps saying it was definitely a girl, and then he stuffs a pipe full of fresh green herb and the room quietens in anticipation, the conversation dropping, each of them suddenly feeling their minds too frantic, their bodies too tense, and they suck on the sweet smoke in turn, holding the pillow of it in their lungs, closing their eyes, stilling their voices.
And they think about daytime things for a moment, about rolling hills, or beaches, or playing football, or whatever it is theyve learnt to think about at these times, and they breathe slowly and move for a moment into a kind of waking sleep. And if someone were to look through the window now, to walk into the backyard and press their face against the glass, cupping their hands around their eyes like a pair of binoculars, that person would see what looked like a roomful of people gathered together in silent prayer, and they would wonder who such a vigil might be for.
Outside, a taxi drives slowly down the street, the driver peering from the window, checking house numbers. He gets as far as number twenty-eight, and then there are no more numbers. He hesitates a moment before driving away, the sound of the car fading behind him like a trail of dust.
And now they are quiet, the girl with the army trousers trying to find a picture on the television, the boy with the pierced eyebrow holding a lighter beneath the plastic lid of a tube of crisps, a look of concentration in his eyes, waiting, watching the plastic soften.
The girl with the boots says Im going home, I want to go home now.
Do you want to come with me she says to the boy with the wide trousers, walk me home she says, and her voice is thin and tired.
The boy with the shirt and tie is lying down on the floor, draping one arm across the tall girl who is still chewing gum and staring at the ceiling, dragging a duvet halfway across them both.
The short girl is curled up in a ball in the middle of the bed, waiting for the girl with the army trousers to come and keep her warm.
The boy with the pierced eyebrow lifts the lid to his mouth and blows, and a bubble of hot plastic shoots halfway across the room, flashing into place like a miracle, holding its long airship shape for a fraction of a second and then floating gently down towards the floor.
The girl with the boots offers her hand to the boy with the wide trousers, pulls him to his feet and kisses his forehead. Take me home she says and they drift slowly through the door.
The girl with the army trousers closes her eyes and collapses into the bed, adjusting herself gradually against the outline of the other girls body, wrapping around her like a nutshell.
In the first-floor flat of number eighteen, a young man sits up in bed, its early but he feels very awake, he looks around at the mess of his room and he thinks of all the things he wants to do today, needs to do. Sorting, packing, tidying, arranging. He rubs at his dry eyes with the tips of his fingers, he gets out of bed and walks across to the window. He sees two people in the middle of the road, he recognises the girl from number twenty-seven, he doesnt recognise the boy and he wonders who he is. He picks up a camera and takes photographs of the morning, the two people in the street, the sunlight, the closed curtains of the windows opposite, he puts down the camera and makes notes in a small book, he writes the date, he details the things he has just photographed.
The young couple in the street, dancing, their arms curled gracefully around one another, the music from the restaurant carpark still in their heads, disappearing into her house, leaving the front door open, the street empty and quiet.
A cat, waiting on a doorstep.
Pigeons, dropping onto chimneytops.
Chapter 3
Id been thinking about it when I called Sarah, the girl sitting next to me that day, I realised it had been a while since wed spoken and it was probably my turn to call.
I said hi I just fancied a chat I wondered what you were up to and she said oh hi its been ages hasnt it.
All our conversations seem to start like this now.
Once a month, maybe less, one of us will call the other and well say oh hi its been ages we should try and meet up, and a plan will be made, and cancelled, or not quite made at all.
Were not that far apart, maybe half an hour on the tube, but its been months since weve seen each other and every month it seems to matter less.
And so I sat in my room, that evening, and we talked about the usual things, about new jobs and plans for new jobs, about people we both knew and people we were meeting, about dates and possible dates.
I looked out of my open window, across the endless city, and I imagined her sitting by her window, looking in this direction, the telephone a shortcut through all those streets.
I wondered what her room looked like, what she could see from it.
She said so who have you spoken to lately, have you heard from Simon, and I said no not for a long time.
I thought about all the time we spent together, the three of us, the long days of that last summer in the house and I wondered how it had become so hard to keep in touch.
I remembered the promises wed made to each other, me and Sarah and Simon, and I wondered if Id been naive to think we could keep them.
I remembered how easily we used to talk, endlessly, making plans, deciding where wed be in one and two and three years time, and I dont remember mentioning this.
I had the appointment card on the table, the letter with the confirmation of results, and all I wanted to do was tell her about it, talk it over, like we would have done before.
I wanted to talk about why it was making me so scared, why there was a breathless panic fluttering up into my throat.
Sarah youre not going to believe this, I wanted to say, or Sarah can I tell you something?
I wanted her to say oh calm down why dont you, the way she did when I used to get worked up about deadlines and exams.
To say look no ones dying here, were not talking about open-heart surgery, its normal, its a thing that happens.
I wanted her to give me some perspective, to say things out loud and make them seem a little more ordinary.
But I didnt say anything, I just said oh I had a postcard from Peru, from someone called Rob, I said I couldnt remember who he was.
But I didnt say anything, I just said oh I had a postcard from Peru, from someone called Rob, I said I couldnt remember who he was.
She said you must do, he was that guy from over the road, he tried skating down that hill in the park, dont you remember?
I smiled and said oh yes, and she said remember how no one went to help him because we were all laughing so much, and I laughed and held my hand to my mouth because it still seemed unfair to find it so funny, the way he went sprawling to the floor, arms flung out for balance, bellyflopping across the tarmac.