She often said things like this to him. Quinn had already decided that if this was what it did to people, he didn’t want anything to do with love.
‘OK, Mum, I’m going now.’
‘You’ll keep your phone on?’ she asked, a note of anxiety creeping into her voice. ‘And you’ll take the spare, just in case?’
‘Yes and yes,’ said Quinn, tapping both sides of his jeans. He hated how they bulked out his pockets.
‘And you won’t put your drink down; you know how easily people spike drinks these days?’
He needed to leave before she talked herself out of letting him go.
On the street, Quinn felt the stifling atmosphere of the house dissipate into the cool night air. He felt free for a moment, though he knew he was not. Sometimes it felt as though he was under house arrest. His phones were like those electronic tags – he could go outside the prison walls but he was still permanently connected.
School was release. It was always harder over the holidays when there were fewer reasons to go out. His friends had packed holidays full of skiing and ‘getting out of London’. For those left in town, most of the mothers planned endless entertainment. Pete Thompson’s mum had organised Laser Quest for eight of them last Thursday and it wasn’t even anyone’s birthday. At least this year he’d been allowed to start travelling on public transport alone – that was a game changer.
Quinn liked the street where he lived. He liked the multicoloured houses and the symmetrical trees along the road. He liked the bakery on the corner and the bookshop that smelt of toasted cinnamon. He liked the old lady with the funny felt hat who sat on the wall with her cats and said, ‘All right young lad?’ whenever he passed.
When his parents split up there had been talk of selling the blue house and his mum moving out of London to somewhere quieter. Maybe she would have been better off in a small village, somewhere where people were nosy andwanted to know your business. In London, if you wanted to keep yourself to yourself there was no one to stop you.
Quinn crossed the railway bridge and London changed in an instant, like crossing through curtains from front stage to back. The scene transformed from boutique shops, flower stalls and cafés that sold four types of milk, to a road full of buses, noise, graffiti, and street vendors thrusting newspapers at you. Most of his friends lived on this side of the tracks. Often Quinn felt more at home here – people didn’t look at you so closely here, it was easier to get lost in the crowd. Up in the sky a single firework exploded. Quinn looked up to see tendrils of light cutting a slash through the grey sky, a loner firework breaking free.
*
Bambers was packed by the time Quinn arrived; he couldn’t get over how popular it was. Clusters of teenagers were crammed into the room, swaying self-consciously to the music. In the middle of the dance floor the older, drunker kids were taking up all the space, swinging each other around, screaming the words to ‘Around the World’ by ATC. The air smelt of cheap Superdrug body spray with ‘going out’ names like Twilight Seduction or Midnight Mist. Sweat hung in the air like in a hot locker room after games. Disco lights were set up at the far end, strobing circles of red, blue and green that jumped across the ceiling of the dimly lit hall. A DJ was on decks in front of the kitchen kiosk, a purple banner covered in musical notes that read ‘Music Melvin’ was drapedover the kiosk. There was a trestle table bar selling soft drinks, crisps, and those glow sticks you snapped in half to make them work. The table was being manned by the usual selection of mums – the kind of mums who baked cupcakes with 2004 written on in gold icing, the mums who came early to help hang paper bunting and label Coke bottles with stickers saying one pound.
‘Quinno!’ called a voice across the hall. Quinn looked up to see Matt strutting towards him. ‘Quick, have some of this.’
Matt handed him a bottle of warm Coke that smelt like it was 80 per cent vodka. Quinn took a sip and tried not to gag.
‘Painter’s already pulled,’ said Matt, elbowing Quinn in the ribs.
Matt was short with pointed features and deep-pitted acne across his chin and the lower half of his cheeks. He was friendly, funny and brilliant at football, but he didn’t get much attention from girls even though, recently, girls were all he talked about. ‘Fucking Painter, look at him!’ Matt pointed out Paul Painter, a well-built blond rugby player in their year. He had his arm around a girl in a black velvet minidress over by the vending machine that only sold out-of-date crisps.
Quinn felt one of the phones in his pocket buzz. His mother was texting him already. He slapped his friend on the back and handed him back the bottle of Coke.
‘You won’t make it to midnight if you drink this.’ Quinn looked around the room to see who else he knew. ‘Is Jonesy here? Patel?’
‘Jonesy’s smoking. Patel said it was all lame twelve year olds and went to try the pub; says he knows the doorman,such bollocks. Have this, I’ve got plenty.’ Matt handed him back the Coke.
Quinn felt his shoulders begin to relax as he took another sip of alcohol.
He replied to his Mum; he’d arrived – he was fine. She’d messaged telling him to get a cab home on the account; she said she’d ordered him one for twelve fifteen. It was only a short night bus back to the railway bridge and then a five-minute walk home, but there was no point arguing with her.
‘Your mental mum let you out then?’ came a voice behind him, and Quinn felt a friendly punch land in the side of his ribs. He turned to give Jonesy a thump on the arm. ‘It’s yer birthday, it’s yer birthday,’ Jonesy sang, grinding his hips into Quinn and waving his arms in a dance.
Duncan Jones was one of Quinn’s best friends and one of the only people who could get away with making jokes like that about his mother.
‘You got Dr Quincey here drinking?’ Jonesy asked Matt, taking the Coke out of Quinn’s hands and sniffing it. ‘The mentalist isn’t going to like that.’
‘He’s got to have the odd night off,’ said Matt.
‘Let’s not talk about my mum tonight, dickheads,’ Quinn said.
‘Let’s talk about Matt’s mum then. Mrs Dingle is looking proper MILF these days,’ Jonesy said, making a kissing, clicking sound with his tongue and giving Matt a wink.
‘Don’t you … ’ Matt took a lunge at Jonesy. Quinn stepped between them and held out a palm to intercept Matt’s flailing fist.
‘Boys!’ came a warning voice from one of the trestle-table mums. ‘We’ll have none of that, please.’