Geekhood Read online

  “Well, so what if he does turn up?” Ravi is offering some sort of masterclass in bravado. “You just call the police.”

  “He won’t turn up.” Matt’s been saying this in response to pretty much everything that’s been said for the last ten minutes. “He doesn’t know where you live.”

  “But s’posing he turns up and wrecks the place? What if he kicks the door in?” I’ve got to the putting-both-my-hands-on-the-top-of-my-head stage, convinced that Humphries will somehow smell his way to my new house.

  “He won’t turn up.”

  “He’s not that stupid, Arch,” Ravi says, ignoring Matt. “That would be breaking and entering. It’s illegal. He might be an idiot, but he’s not stupid.”

  “He won’t turn up.”

  “But you didn’t see the look on his face; he meant it!” I gabble.

  “He won’t turn up.”

  Beggsy suddenly marches ahead and turns to face us, stopping us in our tracks.

  “Dudes,” he says, in an imploring tone. “You’re all forgetting something.” There’s a dramatic pause and I can feel the fires of hope kindling. What can we have possibly forgotten?

  “There’s four of us…” Beggsy holds up four fingers, just in case we’ve forgotten how to count. “…and only one of him.” He holds up one finger on the other hand, saving us all from these mathematical gymnastics. “See what I’m saying?”

  There’s another pause as we stare at Beggsy. Then, as a unit, and right on cue, we all burst into laughter. We’re Geeks; we know what we’re capable of and what we’re not.

  “I’m just saying!” Beggsy protests, his voice rising an octave.

  “Hey!” Ravi chimes. “Is there a window over your front door?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “We could fill up some buckets of water and pour them on his head!”

  More laughter and everyone joins in, coming up with more and more elaborate plans as to how we can get rid of Jason Humphries, if he turns up. Which, according to Matt, he won’t.

  After a lot of mutual bolstering, my friends peel off to their respective homes and I get back to mine. I check the clock.

  IM: Three hours till blast off.

  And then it hits me: in three hours, a girl will be coming round to my house.

  IM: And she’s gorgeous.

  And she’s gorgeous!

  IM: And you like her.

  And I like her!

  IM: Holy shit.

  Without bothering to announce my arrival, I charge up the stairs to my Lair. It looks fantastic; Mum’s done a great job and, true to her word, hasn’t moved anything important. The duvet has been changed, the carpet’s clean and the dust is just a distant memory. Anything resembling a cardboard box has mysteriously vanished, and my bits and bobs have magically found themselves new homes. It looks perfect.

  Mum knocks at the door and pops her head round.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Thanks, Mum. It’s great. I’m just going to jump in the shower.”

  “Go on, then, and I’ll fix you some tea.”

  Never have I paid so much attention to my personal hygiene: hair is washed, armpits are scrubbed and those important little places are given Maximum Soapage. With my new jeans and shirt on and a dash of aftershave watering my solitary chest hair, I walk into the kitchen. Mum puts a plate of spaghetti bolognaise in front of me.

  “You look nice.” Perfect delivery: it’s understated, so as not to cause embarrassment or self-consciousness, but the twinkle in her eye tells me that I’m looking pretty sharp. It’s all I need to know.

  Unfortunately, there’s another opinion to be offered, and it arrives through the front door with a jangle of keys and a trail of smoke. No prizes for guessing.

  “Hey, hey, hey, Casanova! Lock up your daughters, Arch is on the prowl!”

  IM: It was a mercy killing, Your Honour…

  “I picked up those paints you wanted. Are these the right ones?”

  IM: Eh…?

  Tony’s lingering at the end of the hall like an inflated shadow. He furtively beckons to me, obviously trying not to catch Mum’s attention.

  IM: *Sighs* Might as well play along and see what the Man of Mystery is up to…

  “Let’s have a look,” I manage, weakly embracing the charade. As I reach the end of the hall, Tony presses himself up against a wall, keeping his eyes on the kitchen. At this point, I feel like I’m in one of those old spy movies where no one can act. My EM suppresses the urge to break into a Russian accent.

  “What paint?”

  Tony shoves a carrier bag under my nose.

  “Thought you might need something special tonight.”

  There’s a bottle of Cava inside.

  This throws my IM into unprecedented conflict with itself. On the one hand, it’s an ostentatious gesture, one that fails to take into account a) my age and b) that a few cans of lager would be more appropriate. I ought to turn it down. On the other hand, it’s going to look pretty cool to Sarah when I casually whip out a bottle of something fizzy. The internal argument lasts a matter of seconds before the hopeless romantic within makes the final call.

  IM: Coooool.

  “Thanks, Tony. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “No problem,” he demurs. “But don’t tell your mum; she’d kill us both if she knew. It’ll need chilling, it’s warm. Wait till we’ve gone, though.” Quickly stashing the bag behind the curtains that frame the front door, he bursts into a tuneless rendition of an old song about someone being once, twice, three times a lady. This unforeseen outburst sends Mum to his side and she gives him a cuddle as he lapses into a succession of wheezy chuckles and drops into a chair. I loiter in the hall for a moment, feeling a little tainted by the deception that I’m now party to.

  IM: Sometimes you’ve got to dance with the Devil…

  Justifying this to myself as a one-off foxtrot, I check that the illicit cargo is well out of sight and follow the trail of smoke back to my spaghetti.

  “There’s Coke in the fridge,” Mum says, giving Tony a final squeeze and stacking two large bottles in the fridge door. “And there’s crisps in the cupboard,” she adds over her shoulder.

  “Nice one,” I say. “What time are you guys…?” I leave the question hanging.

  “We’re meeting at the pub first, so we’ll be off around six-thirty. What time’s Sarah coming?”

  “Everyone’ll be here about seven.” I use the “everyone” to try and get the point home that this isn’t a date. It’s just a Game Night.

  IM: But you could consider it a date.

  Of sorts.

  “We’ll be gone before then,” Mum says and then checks the clock. “I’m going to have a bath. Tony, you ought to think about getting ready.”

  “Yep.” The man’s a master of repartee.

  I slurp down the rest of my spaghetti, then join the exodus and scuttle up to my Lair. I’ve got preparations to make.

  The first question is where to put the Games Table. I clear away my paints and then root through my model collection, taking out the miniatures I might need tonight. On top of Nox Noctis and the Gargoyle, I’ve got a selection of undead creatures: zombies, skeleton warriors, wraiths and so forth. Tomb of the Sleepless is a vampire story, but the gang haven’t met the Bloodsucker-in-Chief yet; that’ll happen around Level Six. Until then, they’ve got to gather a series of clues to work out his or her identity. It’s all terribly intricate.

  I move the table to a spot just in front of my bookcase. Not only will I be framed by my collection of literary marvels, but I’ll also be directly under a wall-mounted spotlight, adding to my air of mystery and detachment; I will appear to be of this world, but not part of it, a loner by day and…

  IM: A twat.

  OK, so I’m just going to go for a bit of moody lighting. I set up my Dungeon Master’s kit: a screen that divides the table, hiding the assorted rule books, maps, miniatures and dice that I will use to challenge, test and gu
ide the players. Having pinched a few tealight candles from downstairs, I put them about the room, with one in the centre of the table. Next up, the incense cones. I realize I’ve never used these things before; how many should I light? I’ve bought a dozen and they smell quite strong, so I opt for three.

  I nick the four kitchen chairs from downstairs and position them round the table with the one from my desk; it’s going to be intimate. I also grab some crisps and put them in bowls on the table. Ordinarily, we’d just tear and share, but I’m thinking of Sarah.

  Time to test: I switch on the spotlight, light the candles and turn the main light off. It looks cool; there’s an unearthly glow from the table, the candles casting long, soft, flickering shapes on the walls. I’d better check out how things look from the driving seat. Sitting down at my chair, I adjust the spotlight behind me so that it spills directly over my head, but gives me a decent amount of illumination over my books and maps. Glancing up, I see a faint reflection of myself in my attic window. I am defined only by shadows.

  IM: Perfect.

  Gazing up at my reflection, I’m aware again of how nervous I am. I scrutinize the reflection a bit harder. Do I look OK? Too calculated? Just to be sure, I ruffle my hair to give that haven’t-really-tried look. That’s better.

  “Ar-chieee!” Mum’s calling up the stairs. I snuff out the candles, switch the main light on and head downstairs. Mum’s there, grinning and looking all glammed-up.

  “You look good,” I nod sagely. Tony appears next to her, wrestling with a tie.

  “Oh, come here,” Mum laughs and sets to work on the knot for him. “Right, Archie,” she begins, multitasking furiously. “We’ll be back at eleven o’clock at the latest. I’ve left the restaurant’s number by the phone, and if that’s no good, you can always ring Tony’s mobile. OK – keep still!” Tony is putting up a fight, using only his neck – which is quite impressive.

  Unconsciously, I flick a glance at the clock. It’s already quarter to seven.

  IM: GO, for God’s sake!

  Mum catches my look and checks the time as well.

  “Come on, Tony, you look fine. We’re going to be late.”

  Tony gives his tie a last pull at the knot, straining his head upwards as if he’s trying to take off. Mum leans in and gives me a hug.

  “Have fun, love.” She smiles and gives me another squeeze. Tony offers me a handshake.

  “Good luck, mate,” he says, patting me on the shoulder with his other hand. I’ve seen scenes like this in Hollywood rites-of-passage films. And then, to cap it off, he adds, “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” This is followed by a pointed look to the curtains and a knowing wink. And a tap on the side of the nose.

  IM: Please. Make it stop.

  To curtail this excruciating mime, I mumble some affirmation and chivvy them out of the front door. It’s only when I hear the car drive off that I fully relax.

  IM: Ten minutes to go…

  I check my reflection again in the downstairs toilet, then retrieve the Cava from behind the hall curtain. There’s no time to chill it now, so I gather five wine glasses and head up to my Lair. I do a double-check of the room and then a double-double-check of the position of the table, examining it from almost every possible angle.

  IM: Five to.

  How does time seem to be going so quickly? I light all the candles and the incense cones and kill the main light. And then stand on the landing, not really knowing what to do with myself.

  Ding-dong!

  IM: It’s showtime!

  “Hello, son.”

  IM: Nononononono – NOT NOW!

  What with worrying about Sarah, Jason Humphries, my room and everything else, I’d forgotten about Dad coming over – and I’ve a feeling that my EM isn’t quick enough to mask my disappointment that he isn’t someone else.

  “Sorry I’m a bit late; I just wanted to make sure your mother had gone … didn’t want anything to be awkward.”

  I hate it when he refers to her as “your mother”. It’s not said with any spite, but it’s not said with any love either.

  IM: Get rid of him.

  There’s a moment’s silence, where neither of us really knows what to say.

  “Can I come in for a moment? I won’t be long.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure. Come in.” I step back, allowing Dad into the hall. His eyes unconsciously flick around the space, looking for evidence of his ex-wife and her new partner.

  “Everything OK?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” Dad looks uneasy and doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “Listen, I’ve got something to tell you. I haven’t said anything to your mother yet – I wanted you to be the first to know and there hasn’t really been the opportunity to say anything face to face. You’re a bit hard to pin down these days.”

  I can feel my temper rise. That’s the problem with my dad – he has a great way of making you feel like everything’s your fault. I could point out that it wasn’t me who was making “chkn soup” for my surrogate family last weekend, but I don’t want to get into an argument; the gang’ll be here any moment.

  “So, what’s up?”

  “Well, I’ve been offered a job that will mean a bit more money, which will obviously make things better all round – I’ll be able to give more maintenance to your mother…”

  “Congratulations.” I opt for the cheery approach to diffuse my bubbling temper at the third “your mother”.

  “Thanks. But the problem is that I’m going to have to move away.”

  My temper is silenced.

  “What? Where?”

  “Up to York. Jane’s got family there, which’ll make things a bit easier, but obviously it means I won’t be around.”

  I feel some sort of chasm open up in my chest and there’s a tightness in my throat.

  “When?”

  “At the end of the month; only a couple of weeks. Me and Jane have discussed it and it seems like the best thing to do all round.”

  IM: And where did I feature in your discussions?

  “Uh … OK.”

  “I know it’s a bit of a bombshell, but I wanted to let you know sooner rather than later.”

  I feel strangely empty. I know I’m still angry at Dad for what happened between him and Mum, but this feels like a kick in the teeth. It feels like rejection.

  “We’ll still be able to see each other. You can come up and stay and I’ll get you a new mobile.”

  IM: A mobile. A consolation prize. Something to ease your guilt.

  “Right.” I think I’m blinking a lot.

  Voices at the end of the drive pull us both out of an awkward moment.

  “You OK?”

  “Yeah,” I lie, and see a shadow of disappointment on my father’s face.

  “Good,” he lies back. “I just wanted to let you know first, before I tell your mother.” He turns to the approaching figures. “Looks like your guests are arriving.”

  “Yeah. The usual crowd.” My EM has kicked into autopilot, dealing with the situation in a light and breezy manner. Inside, I’m all chaos.

  “OK. Well, I’ll get out of your way. I’ll Facebook you tomorrow; let’s try and meet next week. After school one day.”

  “Yeah. That’d be cool.” I’m digging my nails into my palms to distract myself from the lava that is bubbling under my skin.

  “OK, then. Well. Love you, son.” Dad tumbles in for a hug.

  “Yeah, love you too.” The words come out of my mouth like hot sandpaper, but I can’t crack here. Not now.

  IM: Swallow it. Bite it down.

  Dad turns and leaves, exchanging hellos with the approaching group. I turn away from the door and draw in a deep breath, which I expel with some force – trying to breathe out the pain that’s burning in my chest. I wipe a hand across my eyes, just in case, and then put my EM up to its maximum setting. It’s weird, but I feel wholly detached from everything, as though I’m viewing what unfolds through a film camera. I’m dead inside, coas
ting, not here.

  “Duuuude!” Beggsy announces the group’s arrival. “Look what we found!” He points at another figure in the group; it’s Sarah.

  Just the sight of her makes my EM want to betray me. It wants to give up and expose my hidden hurt. But that’s not going to happen. I put out an emergency call to my inner Engineering Department, demanding Warp Factor Five – or we’re all dead. With a bit of effort, my shields remain intact and I greet the gang with a wry smile.

  “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here!” It’s my customary greeting on a game night.

  Sarah steps into the porch. She’s wearing her Goth gear and my heart melts; she’s beautiful and sexy and everything you could possibly want. It’s only been two days since I saw her, but I’ve missed her. Her mascara-bordered eyes glitter a pale blue and her smile could unite nations. I love her.

  “Hi,” she says, her voice like tinsel. It’s the only way I know how to describe it.

  “Hi.” Behind her, I can see Beggsy doing boob motions with his hands, like he’s pretending to honk two old-fashioned car horns at the same time. Matt’s grinning evilly and Ravi has turned away, his shoulders shaking.

  IM: Bastards.

  “Right. You’d better come in then.” Not the most inviting of invitations, but I’m running on auxiliary power right now.

  Sarah steps into the hallway and, while her back is turned, I scowl at my sniggering mates. Beggsy gives the air one last honk for good measure, as I close the door behind them.

  “Gentlemen. And lady. If you’d like to make your way upstairs and take your places, I’ll join you in a moment. Follow the stairs right to the top.”

  As they go, I walk casually into the downstairs toilet and lock the door behind me. Quickly, I splash my face with water and then look in the mirror. With no one to see or hear me, my EM climbs down a peg and I can see tears rimming my eyes. I grit my teeth and flare my nostrils, panting my pain. With each threat of tears, I punch the wall beside the mirror and mutter to myself like a lunatic.