Geekhood Read online

  “Trying to get out of the unpacking, eh, Arch?” He throws in a knowing chuckle, just to make sure that the urge to punch him becomes really unbearable.

  IM: You TOSSER! As if YOU’RE going to be doing ANYTHING other than sneaking off to read the paper somewhere!

  For some reason, I throw my appeal out to Mum.

  “I’ve already said I’ll do it later, haven’t I, Mum?”

  She just smiles and goes back to the unpacking, and Tony chuckles off as if he’s won some kind of victory. I silently mouth “Tosser” after him, then shoot upstairs to have a root through my miniatures. What should I take? Should I take anything? You’ve got to understand that this is like gun slinging for Geeks; every hotshot who thinks he can use a paintbrush will be there, waving around his best offering and weighing it up against the others. To take nothing would be like admitting defeat, like the Mexican peasants in spaghetti westerns. But if I take the wrong thing…

  IM: It just doesn’t bear thinking about…

  I eventually settle on a wizard I painted a couple of months ago. It’s not a showboating piece, by any means, but I’m quite pleased with the flesh tones, and the detail I’ve put in on his cape was researched from ancient Celtic writings. It also boasts the best varnish job I’ve ever done: four layers of gloss that give it the look of china. It’s good enough to show that I’ve got a steady hand and I’m not frightened to use it. I lay it gently in a carry case and pack it with cotton wool.

  Two o’clock is just round the corner. If I get my act together, I should make it with time to spare.

  It’s time to ride into battle.

  I wonder if Mum’ll give me a lift?

  To be honest, I could have walked it; the new house is only about twenty minutes from town. But you don’t turn up late for a games day. It’s Geek Law. And even though I’m at least ten minutes early, the Hovel is already overflowing with Geeks. This means that on the pavement outside there are loads of little groups of guys my age and men in their forties, all wearing clothes that are meant to act as camouflage. In reality, their clothes are so drab that they might as well be wearing neon signs with “I’m a Geek – And So is He” flashing on and off above them. It’s a weird one, but in an effort to fly under the radar, they make themselves impossible to miss. I s’pose this is where me and my mates break from the herd; we dress pretty normally. But, then again, I’m a Geek, so what do I know?

  IM: You said it, not me.

  I eventually locate Beggsy standing with Ravi and Matt beside a lamp post.

  “Hey.”

  “Dude!” Beggsy’s always the first to respond. He’s got this hyped-up enthusiasm about pretty much anything you’d care to mention. If he wasn’t such a nerd, he’d be really cool, if you see what I mean. It’s not that he looks like a dork or anything, he’s just a Geek to his teeth. The Geek Factor is a hard one to define, but you don’t need to be Simon Cowell to spot it. It might be the way somebody talks or what they talk about.

  IM: Star Wars versus Star Trek. Discuss.

  Often, they’ll be lacking the basic grooming techniques, such as sorting their hair out. The other big one is Geeks who have become Totally Immersed. Basically, this means that they identify heavily with a character from a film or book and go a bit too far in trying to look like them. Cue full-length leather coats or wispy goatee beards and ponytails. Those guys are proper Geeks.

  IM: And you’re just a regular guy…

  He might be a Geek to his teeth, but Beggsy doesn’t look like one. I don’t think I do either, for that matter. But Ravi and Matt… You don’t need a Geek DetectorTM to single them out. Ravi’s got the permanent downcast expression of someone who’s heavy with hormones, and Matt is cursed with bright ginger hair and this sort of angular body language that shouts his awkwardness before he even opens his mouth. And when he does open his mouth, you get this kind of thin voice. It’s broken, but he’s no Darth Vader. The Touch of the Geek is definitely upon them. Matt deals with his affliction by dishing out sarcasm like a croupier deals cards. Ravi doesn’t say much – he just watches people, like everyone’s a potential threat: the Geek Factor in full flow. And he’s also got the deepest voice out of all of us, which sounds weird coming from such a weedy-looking guy.

  “Dude! What did you bring?” Beggsy asks, all enthusiasm and Mickey Mouse squeaks.

  I pull out my carry case and unveil my wizard. Three sets of eyes home in on it, examining my handiwork with hawk-like precision. Matt takes the wizard in his palm and squints at it in the sunlight.

  “What did you use for the gloss?” he mutters. “A roller?”

  This produces a couple of snorts and knowing guffaws from the rest of the gang – me included. It’s not that the guy’s dry, he’s more like a walking drought.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, grinning. “And what about you losers? What did you bring?”

  In an instant, they present me with an ogre, an undead warlord and a goblin wolf-rider. Each of them is pretty good in its own way. Of the lot, Beggsy’s wolf-rider, which has been deftly dry-brushed, then highlighted to show off the intricacy of the model, has the most chance of winning anything.

  A bang on a gong from Big Marv pulls us out of our weighing-up: Battle-Fest is underway!

  We go in, Beggsy leading the way. He heads straight for the role-playing table and quickly digs into an adventure. Matt heads for the war-gaming table: it’s a more mathematical game, which suits his personality, but he waits on the sidelines to size up the competition. Me and Ravi have been given the job of handing in our competition entries and, after registering them with Marv, we take some time to check out what we’re up against. There’s some really eye-catching stuff here, not least an Elf mage and a demon of some sort – they both look as if they could leap off their stands. Ravi raises a wry eyebrow too. It’s going to be a close finish.

  For me, it’s straight over to the painting workshop. There’s a guest artist from the miniature-making company giving away some of the arcane secrets of brushwork. There are a few stools for people who want to get in and try their hand, but they’re taken, so I watch for a bit and then go and look at the new model releases “fresh from the forge”.

  One of them – a gargoyle – catches my eye. I think I’m going to have to buy it. As I study its bare metal form in the blister pack, imagining how I would paint it and how the finished article might look, I fail to notice that the general babble of Geek-speak around me has dropped to a hushed level. It’s only a gentle tap on my shoulder that snaps me out of my artistic reverie, and I turn round to see the last thing I would ever expect to see in The Goblin’s Hovel, at Battle-Fest, at 2.45 on a Saturday afternoon.

  It’s a girl.

  If you haven’t worked it out yet, girls don’t do this. They don’t come to the Hovel. They don’t like goblins and dragons. They don’t paint miniatures. They don’t play role-playing games or re-enact fictional battles. And they don’t come near Geeks like me.

  Especially if they’re pretty.

  And this girl is pretty.

  She’s about my height and my age, and a bit of a Goth. Her hair is black and shiny, cut into a Cleopatra-style bob and there’s just a little too much black eyeliner round her clear blue eyes. While she hasn’t gone for the black lipstick thing, she’s obviously powdered down her skin, giving it that slightly ethereal look. In contrast to her pale skin, she’s dressed in black from head to toe: black top, fingerless gloves, black nail polish and a long, floaty black skirt. There’s a couple of silver, Celtic-style rings on her fingers and some sort of ankh (like a cross with a hoop at the top) hanging round her neck. This is where it pays to be a Geek: I can identify obscure bits of jewellery – I’ve probably painted tiny versions of them somewhere down the line.

  Of course, being tapped on the shoulder by a pretty Goth girl sends my Exterior Monologue (EM) and my IM into complete conflict. My EM tries to communicate the idea that this happens to me all the time – that I’m not in the slightest bit int
imidated by her being of the OPPOSITE SEX and that I might not actually come to this nest of nerds that often. I do this by blushing madly, scratching my head and shifting my weight on to my back foot. Suddenly, it’s like my body is an ill-fitting suit that belongs to someone else. All the moisture in my mouth evaporates and my tongue seems to swell up to the size and shape of a melon.

  IM:You’reagirlyou’reagirlyou’reagirl,you’reaPRETTYgirlyou’reagirlI’mageekI’mageekI’mageekI’mageekyou’re agirlyou’reagirlyou’reaPRETTYgirl…

  The Beautiful Goth smiles in a way that makes me want to stare at her mouth for ever.

  “Hi.” Her voice is like tinsel. I don’t know any other way to describe it.

  IM: OhGodohGodohGodohGod…

  “Hi.” I sound like I’m gargling with sand.

  “Sorry to bother you, but … what is this place?”

  “It’s a shop.”

  IM: Ten points for stupidity!

  “Yes, but what sort of shop?”

  IM: Don’t make it sound like you know too much!

  “It’s a games shop. Role-playing games – that sort of thing.”

  IM: That alone was WAAAY too much!

  “Oh, right.” She looks vaguely disappointed and all my major organs feel like they’re melting in sympathy. “So none of this is … it’s not ‘real’, then? Not … you know…”

  IM: What? What do I know?

  “…to do with…”

  IM: WHAT? TO DO WITH WHAT?

  “…magic?” She says the last word quickly and quietly.

  While it’s a weird question, my memory bank briefly reminds me that my dad once showed me how to pull a coin out of someone’s ear. This may be the wrong time. Besides, I’ve only got a tenner.

  “No, it’s not real. It’s all games and models. Just make-believe. You know.”

  “Oh, OK. Thanks. Sorry to bother you.”

  IM: It’s no problem at all because I think I love you. Can we forget I’m a Geek and elope?

  “No worries.” My EM gives one of those stupid shrugs that’s supposed to suggest that I’m friendly and approachable, but in reality probably looks like I’m having a minor fit of some sort. She goes with a shy smile and a quiet “thanks” and a part of me leaves with her.

  There’s a tap on my other shoulder. I can’t take much more of this.

  I turn round to be confronted with a much more ordinary sight: Beggsy, Matt and Ravi.

  “Dude! What was that?” says Beggsy, grinning.

  “Just some girl.”

  Matt smirks darkly. “Another dream consigned to the scrapheap.”

  “Yeah,” I sigh.

  What I hate about him most right now is that he’s absolutely right.

  “Is that a gargoyle in your pocket – or are you just pleased to see me?”

  “Ha, ha. It’s definitely a gargoyle.”

  We are heading home, and Matt hasn’t relented for the past fifteen minutes. It’s not surprising, really. Given our Geek status, none of us have had any real exposure to girls, and the fact that I have just been involved in something that might almost be considered a conversation with one does make me an easy target. But we all know it’s just an unconfessed way of expressing envy.

  My meeting with the Beautiful Goth has eclipsed pretty much everything else; Beggsy got a runner’s-up award in the painting competition and Matt nearly won a war-game tournament. We’ve even forgotten our usual favourite topic of conversation: Kirsty Ford.

  IM: But now, “There is another.”

  Matt’s the first to peel away, firing off a few more Goth-based parting shots before he reaches his house. Ravi’s next – a couple of streets later – leaving me and Beggsy. Before the move, I would’ve been the next to break away, cutting through Davenport Road to the shoebox that me and Mum called “home”. I’m now grateful for the extra ten minutes I’ve got to walk to the new house; it allows me time to give all my Anti-Tosser SystemsTM a quick service.

  “Dude – we still gaming at yours next weekend?” Beggsy’s voice covers three octaves in one question.

  “Yeah, I just want to see if I can get the Olds out for the evening.”

  “Why? Your mum and Tony are cool.”

  Beggsy’s got a real hate-on for his parents at the moment, which could be down to the fact that his Olds seem to be living in a 1970s time warp. He works in insurance and she is a teacher whose preoccupation with the house being über clean and tidy verges on OCD. It’s one of those “shoes-off” houses, which always makes me a bit uncomfortable as my feet can have a way of announcing themselves – especially if I’ve been wearing trainers. Which I usually have. Beggsy’s comment irks me slightly. I wouldn’t ordinarily use the word “irk”, but it just seems to suit; I’m not quite irritated enough to snap, but in my eyes there are a few variables that he hasn’t taken into consideration. Firstly, that Tony is a Tosser. Secondly, that Tony is a Tosser and, thirdly, that Tony is a Tosser. And then there’s all his knowing Tosser comments about the Game, like “Who’s Gandalf tonight?” or “Off to slay more orcs, lads?” Yeah, yeah, we’ve all read Tolkien, but his only frame of reference is the film trilogy and it doesn’t give him the right. Trouble is, I’ve got to find a way of conveying all this to Beggsy without sounding spoiled.

  “Whatever.”

  IM: Works every time.

  We amble along to Beggsy’s house, discussing the ins and outs of our next game. As we arrive, I can see his mum twitching the net curtains in the living room. At my house, we have a lounge. In Beggsy’s, they have a living room. Mrs Beggs opens the front door and waves at me. I wave back and Beggsy rolls his eyes, muttering a barely audible “Jesus” under his breath.

  It’s with a certain amount of relief that I notice Tony’s car is missing from the drive. His absence gives me a moment to look at the new house with a different head on. I can see it as my home, rather than the place I stay with Mum and her boyfriend. And, I’ve got to say, as houses go, it’s pretty good. The brickwork is a sort of pale pink and a hedge blocks the view to the front door. It’s private, but lets you know it’s there. And, although we’ve yet to christen it, it’s got to be way better for me and my mates to game in than the house me and Mum lived in after The Divorce. That house was small and my bedroom was right next to the toilet. Here, I’ve got an awesome attic room, well away from the toilet, well away from Mum and Tony’s bedroom…

  IM: Don’t even go there!

  …and, most important of all, well away from Tony.

  I let myself in and find Mum in the hallway, surrounded by balls of scrunched-up newspaper.

  “Hello, love. Did you have a nice time?”

  “Yeah, cool. Where’s Tony?”

  “Just nipped out for some cigarettes. He ought to be back by now; he’s probably stopped off at the snooker club.”

  Figures. If there’s any hard work to be done, Tony’s usually to be found at the snooker club. According to him, the best business deals are never done in the office, but over “a pint and a frame”.

  IM: Whatever.

  So that means Mum’s been left to man the battle stations, single-handed. Judging by the amount of newspaper all over the floor, the stacks of unopened boxes and the ornaments, books and other stuff that is, right now, homeless, she’s going to need another gunner.

  “D’you want a hand?”

  “Don’t worry, love. I’m quite happy just pottering. Go and relax.”

  That’s my mum for you; she gives everything and never thinks it’s enough. With a fond “Shut up”, I help her unpack and enjoy just hanging out, me and her. Just like before she met Tony.

  Over the next hour or so, we rummage through newspaper, collapse boxes and put things in one place, only to move them again a few minutes later. Eventually, Mum throws in the towel.

  “Cup of tea?”

  I think she’s powered by tea. I’m sure there’d be some sort of economic disaster in India if she ever stopped drinking it.

  “Go on, t
hen.” It’s a cuddle in a cup.

  IM: It’s also the right time to ask her about the Game on Friday night…

  But just as we enter the kitchen, I hear the front door go. All my survival mechanisms kick into place, proclaiming that they’re back online with a wave of tension that sweeps through my body and excavates a look that might just pass for a smile. Before he swaggers into the kitchen, Tony sticks his head into the lounge and makes a surprised, yet approving noise. Like the fairies have been.

  “Well, that’s the lounge nearly done,” he announces, as though we’ve got no idea.

  Beneath my dead-eyed grin, my IM is fully charged and operational.

  IM: Yep. That’s the lounge done. And of course you’re going to stand there, surveying your domain, as though you’ve actually been involved. Any second now, you’ll be asking for a coffee, as though you’ve earned it.

  But Tony’s got an ace up his sleeve; he always has. He suddenly swishes forward and produces a big bunch of flowers from behind his back. Mum, of course, melts and gives him a hug, before locating a vase.

  IM: Tosser.

  The amount of flowers he buys for Mum must keep the local florists in business. And Mum’s always genuinely surprised and delighted. I guess that’s where Dad fell down; he didn’t do that sort of thing and maybe that’s why I hate it so much when Tony does – it’s a reminder of my father’s failings, a little insight into what might’ve driven my parents apart. Not that either of them has ever told me what happened.

  “Any chance of a coffee, darling?”

  IM: Tosser.

  Mum’s one step ahead of him and rewards the slacking hero with a steaming cup. I just can’t work it out; she doesn’t even scowl as he sparks up another fag. She hated Dad smoking and never stopped telling him. Clearly she’s happy and loves Tony for what he is, warts and all. Although how anyone can be happy living with a Tosser is beyond me. Flowers or not.

  Tony’s steam-train voice cuts through the High Court which is in session in my head.