White City

By Graham. K. Albert

Drugs are not big and they're not clever, but Ryan has piles of them. You name it, he sells it, except crack. Doesn't touch that. Or brown, that's for losers. He stocks anything that you can dance on, basically. It's a policy dictated by his customers, who in 1993 can't get enough of dancing, whether it's in a club or in a field.
Given his occupation, Ryan keeps a lid on his own consumption, or so he thinks. He's certainly more controlled than his business partners. They have turned pilled-up revelry into an art form, but that's the least of his concerns. He has a wayward little sister to look out for and Rachel, his slightly unhinged fuck-buddy is always there to mess with his head.
He could do without it all really, especially when the sinister blue car turns up, again and again, and he starts to get the feeling he's being followed.
It has to be the police, but then again it could be the paranoia. To make matters worse, no one else seems particularly concerned.
He's about to find out what it's all about once and for all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham. K. Albert
• Release date: Aug 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476210650

Graham. K. Albert

Graham K Albert (not his real name) has been a journalist and writer for almost 20 years. He works for a national broadsheet newspaper and during his career has written about everything from dance music to hard news. His debut novel, White City, follows a provincial drug dealer called Ryan through a few weeks in 1993 - a time when the nation was gripped by dance music culture. The aim of the book is to dispel the hollywood portrayal of the drug dealer as a gun-toting gangster while at the same time exploring the ignorance, indifference and denial of the consequences of drug use. His next book is about vampires in Essex, of which there are many. If you are having trouble downloading the book here it is because I am still receiving upload errors. I am working to fix this, but in the meantime White City (and a preview) can be found here: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B008PEOS3I

Book preview

White City

By Graham. K. Albert

Table of contents

About this book

Foreword

Acknowledgements

Dedication

1

2

3

4

Part 2

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

Part 3

12

13

14

15

16

Part 4

17

18

19

Part 5

20

21

22

23

Epilogue

About this book

Drugs are not big and they're not clever, but Ryan has piles of them. You name it, he sells it, except crack. Doesn't touch that. Or brown, that's for losers. He stocks anything that you can dance on, basically. It's a policy dictated by his customers, who in 1993 can't get enough of dancing, whether it's in a club or in a field.

Given his occupation, Ryan keeps a lid on his own consumption, or so he thinks. He's certainly more controlled than his business partners. They have turned pilled-up revelry into an art form, but that's the least of his concerns. He has a wayward little sister to look out for and Rachel, his slightly unhinged fuck-buddy, is always there to mess with his head.

He could do without it all really, especially when the sinister blue car turns up, again and again, and he starts to get the feeling he's being followed.

It has to be the police, but then again it could be the paranoia. To make matters worse, no one else seems particularly concerned. He's about to find out what it's all about once and for all. © 2012 Graham. K. Albert

www.gkalbert.blogspot.co.uk

Twitter: @gkalbert

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 9781476210650

Smashwords Edition

Foreword

This book is a work of fiction. All events and characters are a figment of my imagination. Any person who thinks they might recognise themselves should consider themselves lucky but deluded and any names which might relate to a real person are purely coincidence. That includes Normski.

White City takes place during a time which actually existed in a City which does exist, and many of the locations do still exist. However in this book they are often subject to some embellishment and any tour of the locations could reveal some differences. The Waterfront, for instance, is still one of the city’s most popular nightspots, but regular visitors will not recognise the interior from the description in the book. This is because the interior of the Waterfront in the book is a combination of that and other clubs, and a few bits I made up myself.

There was a Mr C’s and there was a Buster’s diner - the location of which is now occupied by a lapdancing club. The Murderer’s is, was, and always will be the same. It is also known as the Gardener’s Arms, which is nowhere near as cool. The other locations pretty much existed as described, including the old airfields, of which there are many in Norfolk. The crumbling manor house in Colchester is purely a figment of my imagination, although many similar buildings do exist around there. In the immediate vicinity of Norwich city centre, the streets are full of terraces of red brick houses, with alleys running between and behind them, although many have been blocked up and might not be possible to navigate as Ryan does in the book.

Acknowledgements

White City would not have been possible without what are now rose-tinted memories of the early Nineties. I’m sure they were not as great as I remember, but time is a great filter. There are too many of you to mention but if you were on the dance and clubbing scene in 1993 you have, in one way or another, contributed to this book, and my thoughts and thanks go out to you.

Special thanks for helping me along the way and actually reading each instalment go out to Eddie Scott, Mike Brown, and Mark Smith, and especially Lizzie. It is her desire to discover what fate had in store for Ryan that led to the completion of the book. Thanks also to Ed Rea-Allison for the cover.

For Lizzie

Norwich, 1993

1

‘So when was the last time you saw him?’

‘A couple of weeks ago? Three, maybe, I say. ‘Then I’ve gone around there this morning and there’s a note saying RIP Danny pinned to the door by a massive great knife.’

‘What sort of knife?’

‘I dunno. A sharp one? Kitchen knife? Does it matter?’

‘Suppose not. RIP. That’s original.’ As Mark Baxter says this a waitress arrives behind him, slides a plate onto the table with a towering burger on it, about an inch of beef, fries scattered around the side. Onion rings. A tiny American flag pierces the bun, as if it has been conquered.

‘Short and to the point,’ I say. I lift my bottle of Bud to make way for my plate, smile at the waitress, who smiles back, chews her gum a couple of times and says, ‘Is there anything else I can get you?’ in an accent which is a cross between Norfolk and a deep Texan drawl.

‘RIP?’ says Jimmy Waller as his burger is delivered in front of him.

‘Rest in peace, you plum,’ says Mark.

‘I know what it means,’ says Jimmy, offended.

‘Well what are you saying then?’ says Mark.

I reach over and remove Jimmy’s flag, say, ‘You’ll have your eye out with that.’

‘They’d have done better not to have written the note,’ says Mark, back to me. ‘Why not just leave a knife? More impact. Waste of a good knife if you ask me.’

‘Waste of a good note on that twat,’ I say. ‘Anyway I got rid of it to make sure he doesn’t think he needs to pay them first.’

‘I wonder who else he’s skanked,’ says Mark, to himself, I think. ‘How much does he owe you?’ he adds. He swigs from his Bud.

‘Two fucking grand. I’ve been around everyone I could think of, he’s disappeared off the face of the earth.’

‘He’ll show up, Ryan. He can’t stay out of the way for too long.’

‘Johnny Deckchair said he’d gone to Canada.’

‘Canada? You’ve had it, then.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘No way,’ insists Mark. ‘He’ll show up, he’s probably in some bedsit up the road right now,

doing your gear.’ Mark takes his burger in both hands, studies it and takes a bite. He chews, once, twice, about six times. He screws his face up, looks like he’s about to gag. He swallows, takes a breath, then exclaims, ‘Gherkins!’

I glance up from my burger. ‘Yeah?’

‘I told ‘em no gherkins. Sam! You heard me. Didn’t I say no gherkins? Sam? Sam! Give her a nudge will you Jim? Christ. Is she still in there?’ He flaps his hands at Sam, yells ‘Hel-lo!’ She is staring at her salad.

‘The lettuce is limp as well!’ Mark continues. He has flopped these green things with the appearance of sliced moluscs on the table and now he is dangling something from between his fingers which swings from side to side, dripping burger sauce. ‘Call this an American diner? Should have gone to Zak’s.’

‘I don’t know what’s wrong with McDonald’s,’ says Jimmy.

‘They put gherkins in their burgers there, too,’ I say.

There’s now a ringing noise coming from Mark’s pocket.

‘Your phone, Mark,’ I say.

‘What?’ He stops inspecting his burger. ‘Oh, right.’ He gets up from the table, shouting into the Nokia mobile phone he’s pulled out of the inside pocket of his Stone Island jacket, which is supposed to glow in the dark for some reason. He got a good deal on it in Jonathan Trumbull’s gents’ outfitters.

‘Didn’t they give you a trolley with that?’ says Jimmy, pointing at Mark’s phone. ‘Doesn’t look very mobile to me.’ He smirks at his observation.

Mark ignores him, wanders toward the exit which is covered in American road signs, just like every other wall in the restaurant, shouting: ‘Hello? Hello? I can’t hear a fucking thing in here! I don’t even like the Beach Boys!’ He slops a handful of pink goo into a plantpot, wipes his hand on the Stars and Stripes hanging beside the swing doors, then barges through them with his shoulder.

‘I don’t know what’s up with gherkins,’ says Jimmy as Mark disappears outside. I can still hear him on the phone, shouting something. ‘They taste alright to me.’

‘I’m more concerned about Danny Kane and that two grand,’ I say.

‘Did you hear him say no gherkins?’ says Jim. ‘I didn’t.’

‘Nah I never heard him. What about you Samantha?’

‘Huh?’ says Samantha.

‘I said … actually don’t bother.’

‘What? What is it Ryan? Tell me.’

‘It’s OK, really. Get on with your salad,’ I say to her, and then: ‘Are you stoned?’ She glares at me. Her eyes are glazed. She looks back down at her plate.

I turn to Jimmy, study him.

‘What?’ he says.

‘Nothing,’ I say.

‘Stop looking at me then, you’re freaking me out.’ He looks bashful, sinks his teeth into his burger and tries to ignore me and then, mid chew, pleads, ‘Whaaaaat? What do you keep looking at? You’re giving me The Fear Ryan.’ Crumbs are flying out of his mouth.

‘You’re stoned too, aren’t you?’

‘I had a little smoke earlier,’ says Jimmy. ‘Didn’t you?’

‘I thought we had things to discuss,’ I say.

‘So?’

‘So we’d get it done a lot quicker if we weren’t all stoned.’

‘Mark is.’

‘So I’m the only one who isn’t.’

Jimmy looks at Samantha, who is still inspecting her salad. ‘I think so,’ he says.

‘Great,’ I say.

‘Do you reckon we’ll be here long?’ says Jimmy. ‘This place is freaking me out.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I say.

‘It feels a bit menacing. There’s too much going on with the walls, all those pictures and road signs and little statues and Mickey Mouse over there and Daffy Duck in the corner,’ he’s throwing his arms around, pointing in different directions. ‘It’s all a bit much, it’s making me dizzy. I feel like I’m in a Chucky film.’

The door crashes open and Mark is back at the table.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Where were we? I bet this burger’s cold now. Where’s that ketchup?’ He takes the ketchup from the table, lifts the lid of the bun, squirts a dollop in, takes the burger in both hands. He has his mouth open as wide as it will go, on the verge of taking an almighty bite, when all the lights go out. And in the silence, just before Stevie Wonder cranks up and starts singing Happy Birthday to Ya, and the waitress brings the cake out with the candles on it for the little girl sitting across the way to blow out, only one sound can be heard: Mark Baxter yelling, ‘That’s fucking it! I’ve had enough. I’m off!’

And another voice says, ‘I’m coming with you.’

When the singing has stopped and the lights go back up, I’m looking at two empty places where Mark and Jimmy once sat and Samantha is still sitting there staring at this piece of lettuce on her fork like it holds the secret to a happy life and I don’t even think she realises that the lights went out.

Buster’s is located on the first floor above a DIY shop in an old part of Norwich called Pottergate. The streets are narrow and the buildings are timber framed and someone once compared it to The Lanes in Brighton but I suspect that was an effort to make it sound cool.

In order to exit the restaurant you have to negotiate a set of stairs that leads down to street level. This is not an issue when you have paid for your meal and you can take them at a leisurely pace. But it takes a bit of concentration when you’re leaping down three steps at a time. Which is why I didn’t realise Samantha hadn’t followed me out of the door. Which is why, as I approach the exit to the street, I hear the restaurant door crash open above me and a crunch as Samantha trips in her black patent heels and hits the wall at the top of the stairs and a shadow looms over her and a huge hand reaches down and grabs her arm, so she’s almost dangling in mid air, pirouetting on one toe like a floppy ballerina.

Buster, I’m guessing, judging by the tattoos and the bald head, but more tellingly the grease-spattered apron, spits, ‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’

Samantha is nothing to me, really. She is Mark’s girlfriend and frankly I don’t know what she was doing at the meal in the first place. She contributed nothing to the conversation and although she looks quite good, this is offset by the fact that she always seems to be out of it and her presence, if anything, only served to stifle proceedings.

‘I’m going to the toilet. Let go of me!’

But much as I would like to leave her to the whims of this restaurant owner, I am forced to turn back by my sense of common decency, drilled into me by my loving parents.

‘The toilet’s through there,’ says Buster, pointing back into the restaurant.

‘Hang on Buster, hang on mate, she’s with me,’ I say putting my hands up in what I hope is a calming gesture. I make my way back up the stairs towards them. ‘There’s obviously been a misunderstanding. Didn’t one of the others leave the money?’

‘You didn’t even ask for the bill,’ says Buster. His face is a brilliant red and there’s a vein bulging from his temple.

‘I think there was an issue with the gherkins.’

‘Gherkins? What are you talking about, gherkins?’

‘There … was one in his burger?’

‘So you thought you’d leg it while we were singing happy birthday? Because of a fucking gherkin?’

I shrug, say, ‘he requested you take the gherkins out.’

He keeps hold of Samantha, then he says, ‘I’m calling the police.’

My hand is already in my pocket, struggling to pull out a roll of twenties.

‘Look, Buster, it was just a bit of a laugh.’

‘Don’t give me that crap. What’s so funny about that? We’ll see if the Old Bill finds it funny shall we?’

‘I’ll sort it out Buster. Let’s not cause a scene. I can pay you. She’s got nothing to do with it. Let her go. How much was the bill?’

‘A hundred and fifty.’

‘A ... a hundred and fifty? Fuck off.’

‘That’s how much it is.’

‘It’s daylight robbery.’

‘Three burgers, one caesar salad, three beers, one glass of wine, and attempted theft. Now you pay, or I keep hold of her until the police arrive.’

‘We didn’t even eat the burgers!’

‘You don’t have to eat the burgers. You ordered them, I cooked them. Now pay the fuck up!’

‘Ryan just pay him for fuck’s sake! My arm hurts,’ whines Samantha.

I peel off the notes, slowly. ‘You got a tenner change?’ I say.

Buster actually goes a slight shade of purple.

I slap the notes in his open palm. ‘Here, and don’t expect us to come in here again,’ I tell him.

He drops Samantha, who goes sprawling down at least another three stairs, hair all over the place, skirt up over her waist, long tanned legs in the air, a flash of red knickers in the light of the stairwell.

He glares at me: ‘You wouldn’t fucking dare. And stop calling me Buster. Twat.’

As I turn round to close the door at the bottom of the stairs, Buster is still standing there, like he’s hoping for an excuse to fill me in. I give him a little wave.

Outside it’s a warm May evening. The air is thick with the scent of Joop and Obsession and the street is thronging with evening drinkers, all milling about without their jackets on. In the middle of them stands Samantha, looking like she’s just come off a fairground ride, more animated than she has been all night, doing some sort of jig, flopping her hands in the air.

‘Wooooh!!! That was fucking great Ryan!’ she says. ‘Where’s Mark? Let’s do it again!’

Now she’s straightening her skirt, gripping the hem and wiggling it around her hips. Her hair is all over her face and her elbow is already a fiery red. She couldn’t be attracting more attention if she had a spotlight on her.

I pretend not to see her, turn to walk down the street. She clatters after me.

‘We’d have got away if it wasn’t for these shoes Ryan,’ she grabs me for balance, wide-eyed and breathless and lifts her foot to show me her stilettos. ‘Shitty girly shoes, no good for that sort of thing.’

She reaches in her bag and pulls out a pack of Marlboro Lights, puts one between her lips, cups her hand over it and lights it. The end glows as she takes a long drag.

‘I was enjoying that burger,’ I tell her. ‘Didn’t even get to eat half of it. Have you seen your elbow?’

‘Hah! Look at that!’ She’s letting out a cloud of smoke and twisting her arm round the other way, inspecting this lump that seems to be getting bigger by the second.

I set off to find Mark and Jimmy. I reckon I know exactly where they are.

‘Where are you going Ryan?’ yells Samantha.

‘To find your boyfriend.’ I shout over my shoulder as I pick my pace up.

‘Wait for me! Ryan. Ryyyyan!’

2

I find Mark and Jimmy around the corner in Mr C’s. They are propped up at the bar, each nursing a JD and coke. Jimmy’s blond skinhead has a halo around it, created by the optics behind him and next to the glow-in-the-dark jacket Mark has got on is, in the dim light of the nightclub, giving the appearance of a single glowing person with a detached head. Ebenezer Goode blasts out of the soundsystem to a virtually empty club.

The first thing Mark says to me is, ‘I’m hungry.’

‘It actually does glow in the dark,’ I say, tugging at his sleeve. ‘Who’d have thought?’

‘I wasn’t hanging around in there,’ replies Mark. ‘That place takes the piss.’

‘We only went there because you said it was alright,’ I say.

‘It gives me the creeps,’ says Jimmy.

‘Oh shut up Jim, gives you the creeps my arse,’ I reply.

‘It does.’

‘So you just ran off?’

‘Mark went first.’

‘Fucking right I did.’

‘I thought the idea was to eat, then run,’ I say. ‘What good has that done us? I’m still starving and I’m £150 lighter.’

‘It wasn’t a case of eating and running,’ says Jimmy. ‘It was just running,’ and then he says, ‘A hundred and fifty quid? Cheeky bastard! How comes he got hold of you?’

‘Samantha fell over,’ I say, cocking a thumb back at where she was standing, but she’s moved and is now throwing her arms around Mark as if he’s just won a judo contest.

‘Steep,’ says Jimmy.

‘The stairs? Yeah she fell down them, silly cow. You should see her elbow.’

As I say this Samantha is presenting her elbow to Mark, who makes a soppy face and kisses it.

‘I meant the bill,’ says Jimmy, shouting. ‘The £150 bill.’

‘He added an attempted theft fee.’

‘Well if he’s going to be like that, we won’t go back in there again.’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘Fucking crook.’

Mark detaches himself from Samantha and grabs me on the shoulder. ‘Take it off what you owe me,’ he says, before putting his hand in his pocket, pulling out a little paper wrap and saying, ‘Fancy a quick toot?’.

I pat my jeans pocket, say, ‘No need.’

He shrugs, pockets the wrap and turns back to Samantha.

‘I’ll have some,’ says Jimmy, but Mark doesn’t answer him.

I turn to Jim. ‘Wasn’t there anywhere better to go than this?’

‘Happy hour,’ he says, raising his glass.

‘But it’s freezing.’

‘Won’t be in a minute, it’s starting to fill up.’ He points to the doors.

It's 11.30pm and clubbers, mainly students I’m guessing seeing as no one else goes out on a Wednesday night, are filing in, some breaking into dance steps as they enter the club, others crowding the bar trying to get in on the happy hour deal before it runs out.

‘Where did this lot come from? I say to Jim. ‘There wasn’t even anyone outside when I came in.’

Jim looks at me like a lost puppy, says, ‘What did you say?’ He is tapping his foot to the beat, watching people walk in, sees some girls he knows, who wave and whisper something at each other. He nudges me.

‘The DJ has turned the music up!’ I say.

‘Huh?’ he looks at me, confused.

‘Up!’ I say. ‘He’s turned it up!’ I point upwards. Jim follows my finger with his eyes, right up to the ceiling, then looks back at me and mimes, ‘What?’ again.

‘I said -’

Something vibrates in my pocket. I pull out my pager, study it as lights sweep across the floor, wave it at Mark and Jim.

‘Got to go outside,’ I mouth to them.

‘Go and hide?’ shouts Jim. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Hide?’ shouts Mark to Jim. ‘What’s he hiding for?’

‘Out-side!’ I shout. ‘Outside!’ I point at my pager again, jiggling it with my wrist. Point at the exit. Mark and Jim just look at each other.

Outside the club the queue is lined up to the left of the door behind a red rope barrier clipped between gold posts. As I walk out past Barry and Des the bouncers, someone calls my name, someone else shakes my hand. A group of girls, about 18 years old, nudge each other, looking in my direction. It makes me feel slightly paranoid and as I walk along the street to the phone boxes opposite the Tesco I’m checking my shirt for stains. I go to the first phone box, which stinks of piss. I go into the next one. This also stinks of piss. I pick up the receiver with two fingers, trying not to touch it to my ear and dial the number on my pager.

‘What do you want Andrew?’ I say.

‘About 500 will do it,’ says the voice at the other end.

‘Do you know what time it is?’

‘Don’t be like that, you had your pager on didn’t you?’

‘It’s always on, in case of emergencies. This is out of hours, you know that. You should have called earlier.’

‘I didn’t know I needed them earlier. Come on, I’ve got a night full of people waiting for these.’

I’m looking at the receiver, gritting my teeth. I throw the middle finger at it, take a deep breath.

‘I’m trying to instill some business thinking here Andrew. A bit of structure. There is a time and a place for everything, and on top of that I’ve had a shit night. The last thing I need is to be running around for you.’

Andrew lives in the part of the city where the students live. A triangle of streets full of shared houses and noisy corner pubs. It takes about five minutes to get to his at this time of night and on the stereo in the VW Scirocco, Sasha hasn’t even had the chance to get his set going by the time I pull into Andrew’s road. It takes twice as long to find a parking space and when I do it’s in the next street and I have to walk the rest of the way to his three-storey Victorian townhouse which looks like it hasn’t seen any paint in decades. There’s a shopping trolley poking out of the Buddleia bush in the front garden and a toilet seat is looped over one of the branches like a Christmas tree decoration. On another branch is a traffic cone. The front door is on the latch. It’s like Andrew looked up the term ‘student house’ and then modelled his on it.

‘The fucking front door’s wide open,’ I say as I walk into the living room and sit on the arm of the sofa. It’s this huge thing with big curly arms and curved cushion backs shaped like seashells, covered with throws of varying shades, which are pockmarked with blim burns, and rucked-up in places, revealing this chocolate brown paisley pattern underneath. Smoke is hanging in the air in layers, so thick it is making my chest tighten. Sophie and Rachel are

sprawled on the sofa, each busy rolling joints, Rachel’s long legs tucked up under her, Sophie sitting cross-legged with a tray in her lap on which is the remains of cigarettes dissected for their tobacco and a pot containing some hash.

On the wall behind them is a giant poster of Che Guevara, which someone has drawn a pair of round glasses and a spliff on with permanent marker.

‘Hi honey!’ says Rachel without interrupting her roll, licking the gum on the Rizla. ‘Nice shirt!’ I’m not sure she even looked up.

I’m wearing a Ralph Lauren button down Oxford, grey, untucked. Black Paul Smith jeans. I straighten it down, and wonder why she didn’t mention the Air Max. ‘Thanks Rach,’ I say. ‘Nice … err … shorts.’ I nod at her little denim hotpants which I can barely see. She is also wearing a red and blue plaid shirt and a pair of battered white Converse. Her hair is tousled up into a loose knot, with strands falling down and framing a tanned, freckled face.

Andrew is sitting on the floor with his mouth over the end of an air hose from an articulated lorry, with Larry sitting across the room, lighting the bong attached to the other end. They are both wearing polo shirts and jeans. Andrew’s has a little Armani eagle on the left breast and Larry’s has these disgusting brown, cream and yellow stripes running horizontally around it. Neither of them look as if they have washed or shaved or touched their hair in days. Sarah is sitting cross-legged on the chair above Andrew in a little disco dress with a mirror in her lap racking up lines, scraping them from an unfolded wrap. St Etienne is on the stereo. So tough. The girl is singing, ‘Don’t you know that crewcuts and trainers are out again?’ which makes me briefly paranoid. The TV is on, looks like a chat show, but the sound is turned off.

‘And there’s a toilet seat hanging off your bush,’ I continue. Sophie, dark bob, fringe low over her eyes, little loose frilly blouse thing, jeans, lets off a guffaw, sending a ripple along the sofa and Rachel’s joint everywhere.

‘Sophie can’t you keep still?’ she says, throwing her hands in the air with a scowl.

‘Sorry,’ Sophie giggles.

‘Look at this. I need another Rizla now. Ryan, would you be a love?’ says Rachel.

I step over the detritus covering the living room floor; magazines, empty cups, crisp packets, sweet wrappers, and grab a packet of Rizla from a tray, hand it to Rachel.

‘Thanks Ryan!’ she sings, catching my eye and smiling, then adding, ‘Have you been away?’

‘No?’ I say.

‘You look … different,’ she continues. ‘Doesn’t he look different, Soph?’

Sophie studies me, then says, ‘Is it a new haircut?’

‘It’s a crewcut. It’s always been a crewcut.’ I reply.

‘What is it then?’ says Rachel.

‘Maybe it’s the light,’ I say. ‘Or my shirt. Probably the shirt.’ I give the tails a little tug again.

Rachel is looking at me intently, as if she’s trying to work out a puzzle. I turn to Andrew, who still hasn’t moved and I’m sure hasn’t breathed since I walked in. He’s just sitting there, looking at me with this pained expression, going a bit red in the face, and making some sort of flapping gesture with the hand that isn’t holding the hose. Suddenly he exhales, a cloud of smoke billowing from his mouth, rising into the haze, and he looks up.

‘Air cooled,’ he finally says, lifting the hose in some kind of explanation, then, ‘You took your time.’

‘I came straight here,’ I reply, offended. ‘There’s nowhere to park. I had to find a space two roads away, and that was in front of someone’s garage.’

‘You should move it