Geekhood Page 3

  “Good news! I just clinched another deal! And Paul and Tina have invited us out for dinner on Friday night to celebrate…”

  IM: Result! Win! No Mum and no Tony = hassle-free Games Night! *Sound of party trumpets being blown*

  Mum grins and ruffles his hair.

  “Well done, love! That’d be nice. Archie?”

  The gargoyle in my pocket presses into my thigh as I shift in my seat, almost insisting that I get it over with. So I do. “Could I get my friends round instead, Mum? You know – for a game.”

  Mum looks to Tony, even though I’ve asked her. He reacts with that sort of pantomime “you crazy kid” look that tells me that this fits in with his plans nicely. He didn’t really want me along anyway. And, quite frankly, I’d rather spend an evening sticking pins in my eyes than watch him nosh his way through a Chinese.

  “I reckon that’s a deal, mate!”

  “Thanks, Tony. Nice one.”

  Smiling has never been such hard work.

  Back in my room, my shields go offline for a bit. It’s not so much a strain to keep them up these days, more an inconvenience. It’s certainly an irritant. Tony seems to have a knack for getting under your skin, but not in the way that Beautiful Goth did at the Hovel. My mind does the one thing I shouldn’t allow it to and replays our encounter. Complete with cinematic music.

  I stand in the Hovel, checking out the gargoyle. The music is like that bit in Return of the Jedi where everyone’s in Jabba’s Palace – a bit edgy and dangerous. There’s a tap on my shoulder. I whirl round, a coiled spring ready for action, all brooding and intense. Beautiful Goth is there and I see her try to hide the Instant Attraction she obviously feels. The cinematic music changes to that bit where Han Solo’s about to get frozen in carbonite and Princess Leia tells him she loves him.

  “Hi,” she says, sounding a bit nervous.

  “Hi,” I reply in a confident yet “I’m mildly surprised to see someone as beautiful as YOU here” kind of way. My tone and ice-cool body language suggest that meetings of this sort are probably the norm for a man of my experience.

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

  “It’s where I’ve been waiting for you.” My reply comes complete with an amused smile. Beautiful Goth appears in awe of my worldly demeanour. Music swells.

  “O-Oh,” she stutters, taken aback at my directness. “Is any of this to do with magic?”

  “It could be,” I whisper, stepping forward and producing the Ace of Hearts from behind her ear. Unable to resist, Beautiful Goth steps into the kiss that is now inevitable. Music reaches a crescendo and then goes off into the Star Wars theme, registering my triumph.

  IM: Yeah, right. As if. Geek.

  I sigh one of those sighs that can only come from a heart that aches in vain.

  IM: You’re a Geek, she’s not; get over it.

  I need something to distract myself from Impossible Thoughts. It’s time to start thinking about something else, something I can really focus on apart from how I’m never in a million years going to get it together with someone like Beautiful Goth. The gargoyle suddenly seems really appropriate, like a self-portrait.

  IM: Cue the violins.

  I get out my laptop and hit the net. One of the things the internet is good for is research. As I Google the word “gargoyle” under Images, I get my new purchase out and tear the blister pack from its card. The gargoyle sits in my palm. It’s a bit bigger than I’m used to painting – probably about 45mm in height. It sits hunched on a rock, its bat-like wings folded in on themselves, as though the creature is ready for flight. Beneath its heavy, furrowed brow, two perfectly round eyes glare out at me either side of its simian nose. The mouth is curled into a sneer, revealing sharp fangs. It’s got everything you want in a gargoyle: pointed ears, horns, claws, goat legs and a dragon’s tail. I’m going to enjoy painting this one.

  The results come back and I browse images of stone monstrosities, deciding which details might be worth pursuing. It’s all in the details; I could put on moss growths or paint in sinister cracks – maybe even birdshit. You’ve got to think outside the box before you commit the paintbrush.

  More out of habit than curiosity, I hit the Facebook icon in my Favourites bar and open the home page in another tab. Out of the corner of my eye, I give my mates’ posts the once-over. Nothing really to report: Beggsy’s become friends with someone called Marcus and Ravi’s uploaded a photo of himself as a child. Matt isn’t on it – I think he’s got some sort of conspiracy thing going, like if he uses Facebook, everyone in the world’ll suddenly be able to see just what he gets up to when he’s on his own. Like anyone’s interested. It’s probably more to do with the fact that, without his mates, Matt hasn’t got much going on at all – which would be a pretty lame thing to broadcast over the internet. Not that Ravi and Beggsy have anything of world-rocking importance to say.

  IM: And you do?

  I return to the gargoyle images and continue my hunt for inspiration. A picture catches my attention and I click on it to get a better look. As I do so, I see my Facebook tab’s flashing. It’s Dad.

  Hi son. Hope u r well. Can’t make it 2mrw. The kids r ill & Jane needs my help. Maybe nxt wknd? L u Dad x

  I hate it when my father uses text speak. I don’t know why. I use it, my friends use it – but when my dad uses it, there seems something just totally … crap … about it. I read the message again. Great. So his new kids are ill and he can’t make it out of the house.

  Dad’s inherited three children from his new wife. I think he dated her for about a year before I was allowed to meet her. Probably to protect my eleven-year-old self from anything resembling emotional trauma.

  IM: Like that hadn’t happened already.

  But Dad made one major goof: he let me meet Jane before Mum found out about her. From me. Which didn’t go down too well. It wasn’t that Mum was jealous; between cups of tea she said she was glad he’d found someone. It was the fact she hadn’t been told first so that she could tell me – help prevent Collateral Damage. And maybe she felt a bit threatened by Jane, I don’t know. But her stress-outs didn’t last too long – about a year later, Tony wheezed his way on to the scene and everyone was happy.

  IM: Almost everyone…

  Yeah, well, now I’ve got Tony and Jane in my life, and I’ve got to make like they’re Family. Not to mention Jane’s kids: Lucas, Steven and Izzy, aged nine, seven and four, respectively. Somehow, I’m expected to magically believe that these children are suddenly the brothers and sister I never had and that building Lego with them is what’s been missing from my life. And that Jane, purely through signing a worthless bit of paper in a registry office, is somehow allowed to be “cool” and “groovy” with me in a way that makes my skin want to peel itself off. Her attempts at “bonding” make Tony’s look positively sophisticated, and what she thinks passes as funny would make a corpse try and hang itself. Luckily, I’ve developed a VERY LOUD Interior Monologue.

  IM: Are we done yet?

  I guess Dad’s happy, though. He’s always rambling on about how well he gets on with “the kids” and how Jane is such a kind and caring person, so I guess I should be used to it by now. Perhaps it’s my age; isn’t that supposed to be responsible for everything that’s wrong in my life right now? It’s not the fact that both my parents are shacked up with idiots.

  IM: Of course not. It’s your age.

  I type a reply that errs on the side of bland. Yes, I’m disappointed that I’m not seeing him “2mrw”, but it’s balanced out by the realization that I won’t have to force a laugh out in the face of one of Jane’s room-clearing jokes or build another house out of plastic bricks. My fingers skip lightly across the keyboard.

  No worries. Next weekend is fine.

  I hit Return.

  Nice 1. Hows ur mum?

  I don’t know why he asks. Probably as some sort of pantomime attempt to show me that grown-ups can behave like adults.

  She’
s good. Moved into the new house yesterday.

  Thats nice. Hows ur room?

  Cool. A lot bigger than the last one.

  Good. Cudnt get much smllr! Lol!

  The “lol” makes the hairs on the back of my neck yearn for freedom. Having a parent who lols is like finding out that that song you liked on the radio was by some ’tard off X Factor. It’s so, so wrong. Best to head it off with a question.

  How’re you doing?

  Fine, thnx. Got 2 go, tho. Mking chkn soup. Lol! FB u anthr time. L u xx.

  x.

  With a weighty sigh, I shut down the laptop and take my gargoyle over to my painting desk. Already I’ve got a vivid picture in my head as to how this one’s going to look. I open the window in the sloping ceiling above my desk and reach for a can of undercoat.

  Time to make everything all white…

  Once the undercoat is done, I switch the radio on and listen to some music while it dries. I need a distraction; I’ve already broken one of the Golden Rules of Geekdom and I don’t want to go there again: never entertain thoughts about girls who are out of your league. That way madness lies. However, the radio has other ideas and it seems every song that plays has some hidden reference to Beautiful Goth. However tenuous:

  Radio: “You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful…”

  IM: *Sighs*

  Radio: “You’re beautiful, it’s true…”

  IM: *Attempts harmonies* “So true…”

  Radio: “I saw your face, in a crowded place…”

  IM: Was this guy watching? How does he know? It’s like it was written about me!

  Radio: “And I don’t know what to do…”

  IM/Radio: “’Cause I’ll never be … with … you …”

  IM: AAARRRGGGHH!

  As a final effort to try and put Beautiful Goth out of my head I kill the radio, unpack a few more models and locate my paint set. It nearly works.

  There’s a tentative knock at my bedroom door and I know it’s Mum; my Tosser TrackerTM would have detected Tony lumbering up the stairs, hoiking himself up on the banister just in case his smoke-blistered lungs decided to pack in on him. Mum’s brought me a ham sandwich and a cup of tea.

  “Will this do for tea, love? I’ll get to the shops tomorrow and we’ll have a roast.”

  “Thanks, Mum.”

  “We’re going to watch a DVD in aminute, once Tony’s got the player wired up. Want to join us?”

  “No, thanks. I’m going to try and sort out my room a bit more.”

  “OK. If you’re sure.”

  I can tell by her look that she wants me to come and watch the film, but I just can’t face it. For starters, the idea of watching Tony cursing at wires and SCART plugs for half an hour doesn’t appeal. And actually trying to watch a film with him is virtually impossible; he has this habit of talking at the screen, and it drives me nuts. It’s usually at moments of high tension, major plot points or killer lines. Like, if it’s a sci-fi, and the lead guy is looking for an alien and we can see it behind him, Tony’ll start saying things like “Uh-ohhh!” or “Heeerree it comes!”. Or if the heroine goes into the wrong room (as they inevitably do in most films), you’ll hear “You didn’t want to do thaaat!” in this mindless, sing-songy kind of voice. Or when the hero comes out with some killer riposte, Tony’ll chuckle and repeat it two or three times, almost as if he’s storing it away so that he can use it. Like he’s ever going to have the opportunity to tell a damned dirty ape to take its paws off him. Unless his business goes belly up, and he can only find a job as a zoo keeper and gets involved in a horrific set-to with a gorilla. One can only hope.

  “No, thanks. I’m just going to hang out in my room.”

  “OK. You know where we are if you change your mind.” And she’s gone.

  Absolved of my duties for the evening, I dig out my books from their box and start arranging them on the shelves above my painting desk. As you might’ve guessed, it’s all escapist stuff: The Lord of the Rings, Terry Pratchett, the Bartimaeus books, fantasy art – that sort of thing. My gaming rule books have to go on horizontally as the shelves don’t have the height for them. It’s funny, when you unpack things, you end up paying more attention to stuff, almost as if its new environment might show up something you hadn’t seen before. Without realizing it, I kill a couple of hours just flipping through books, dipping in and out. It’s only the muffled thunder of Tony’s feet on the stairs that make me notice that it’s getting late and I’m tired. Mum calls through the door.

  “Night, love!”

  “Night, Mum.”

  I wait until I hear the click of their bedroom door before I get undressed and into bed. My favourite rule book has made it in with me and I hit my bedside lamp and start reading.

  As I look at the pictures and reread rules that I virtually know off by heart, I can feel sleep tugging at my eyelids. Dread makes me fluff the pillows and sit a little straighter. I don’t want to sleep. I’ll fight it for as long as I can.

  I don’t want the Dream to come. Please can I dream about Beautiful Goth instead?

  It begins, as it always does, with me asleep in my bed, in the same position I was in before I drifted off. With that weirdness that only happens in dreams, I can see myself on the bed, asleep, although I also feel like I’m in bed at the same time. It’s like there’s a camera filming me and a camera in my head, and they’re both on playback at the same time. I can see both sets of footage simultaneously; no split screen, no tricks – just two sets of information relayed at once.

  My duvet starts to peel back without me helping it. As I start to realize that I’m frightened beyond reason, I can feel a sense of menace emanating from something unseen at the end of my bed. The menace is intense and directed straight at me. If it had a colour it would be utterly and impenetrably black. The duvet suddenly shoots off and dumps itself on the floor. I can feel and see myself trying to move my leaden limbs and back up to the wall behind me, but I’m too slow, too heavy.

  And then I wake up. I heave myself up and groan, running my hands through my hair. At least I didn’t end up throwing myself out of bed this time. I’ve been having this dream, off and on, for a few months now. Sometimes it goes quiet and leaves me alone for a while; sometimes it does a full cinema-release in my head, playing twice nightly for a week at a time. I hope this isn’t the beginning of one of those. It makes me hate going to sleep and means that at weekends I end up sleeping in until late, and during a school week, I practically have to be winched out of bed. Luckily, Mum thinks it’s because my body clock is set to “Teenage Time”.

  My bedside clock tells me it’s six thirty-six on Sunday morning. I feel like I’ve been plugged into the mains, so there’s no chance of me getting back to sleep. With a begrudging sigh, I pull open the skylight in the roof. It’s all quiet outside, save for a few perky chirps from the trees in the street. I hope that the peace will somehow calm the noise in my head.

  Later, with Tony sent off to do the shopping for lunch, the Emergency Sunday Morning Hunter-Gatherer Duties inevitably fall on my shoulders. I walk up to our new local shop for a pint of milk and a paper for Mum; it’ll be a while before Tony returns and if she doesn’t get a cup of tea soon, the universe may implode. The shop comes into view and, with an inward groan, I register a Pack of Grunts on the pavement outside. They’re a huddle of pale skin, dark eyes, hooded tops and crew cuts and I know exactly who they are: Paul Green, Lewis Mills and Jason Humphries. If you went to my school, so would you.

  IM: Shields up!

  Despite the fact that they’re all in my year, I remind myself that they don’t really know who I am. I tend to fly under their radar most of the time, but they’ll have seen me around with Beggsy, Matt and Ravi, and somewhere behind those muscular brows they’ll have me marked down as a nerd. Which shouldn’t bother me, but right now I’m the only nerd in the street.

  Trouble is, if I cross the road and walk in another direction, not only will I have to arrive home empty-ha
nded, but somehow, in some way I don’t understand, my seemingly innocent actions will mark me out as a target. I’ll have flagged myself up as the injured gazelle, the bleeding fish – the Lone Geek. So, there’s no choice but to go through them and into the shop. The trick is to avoid eye contact, but not look like I’m avoiding eye contact. At the same time, I’ve got to keep watching them for any telltale signs that I’ve figured on their all-too bleak horizons.

  The cigarettes are coming out and being passed round, like apes with bananas. Suddenly I’m conscious of my natural desire to curve my shoulders and blend into the surroundings. Can’t do that – any display of submission means they’ve won the right to make my life difficult anytime and anywhere they like. Trouble is that walking too tall could be interpreted as a challenge.

  If I had a mobile, I could fake a conversation. Instead, I opt for the old hands-in-the-pockets routine and an expression that says I’m really thinking hard about something.

  I get closer and, like an automatic response, one of them looks up in my direction. I catch my breath, but I know it’s too late and so does he. A dull recognition dawns in the shadowed eyes of Paul Green. There’s the rumour of a dark smile on his lips. I’m committed, so I’ve got no choice. But then suddenly one of the Pack who’s got his back to me – Jason – slaps Paul on the chest and jerks his head in the direction of the shop. Paul and Lewis follow his lead.

  What happens next is a bit like any scene from Star Trek: The Next Generation where Worf has to register surprise. It’s the sort of facial pantomime that only a true brain-donor can master. The three hoodies have it down to a T.

  I briefly wonder what they’re looking at, but to tell the truth, mostly I’m just relieved that something else has got their attention. And then I find myself having a similar moment, as Beautiful Goth steps out of the shop and walks towards me. Smiling.

  IM: Two to beam up.

  I’d love to report that at this moment the hoodies fade into the background as Goth Girl practically floats over in slow motion, eclipsing everything around her. The reality is that her presence – glorious though it is – only serves to make the Pack of Grunts more aware of us both. One of them, Jason, barks something, leering over his shoulder. His mates seem to rock back, as though they’re hinged at the pelvis, laughing and crossing their arms. But their dead, dark eyes work her up and down like the coils of three boa constrictors.