Before the Fire (24 page)

Stick pulled himself up, rummaged about in his desk until he found a piece of paper and a pen. He sat on the bed with his back against the wall, laid the paper on his lap and wrote
what do I
like?
at the top, his writing wonky, the paper creasing against his leg.

Fried chicken

Mum’s cheese on toast

Mum

J

Bea and Rosie

Nan

Smoking

He drew a picture of a cigarette with smoke curling up from the end.

Couldn’t get a job smoking.

He drew a picture of a window and then scribbled it out, the pen jabbing through the paper and onto his trousers.

He drew a picture of a house with two people and a dog standing at the front door. Then he turned the paper over and wrote,
what I hate
.

Owen Lee

Dad

Mac (for dying)

that shit heap of a car

Manchester

Sophie being dead

writing lists

He crossed out ‘Dad’ and ‘Manchester’, and then wrote ‘Dad’ again at the bottom of the page and looked at it.
He’s kind, he’s funny, he
cares
, Jen had said.
At least he tries
, Mac had said, more than once. Stick made himself picture his dad – his balding head, too-red lips, his eyes like a dog’s, eager to
please.
He’s kind, he’s funny, he cares.
He’d tried to get Stick a job. A shit job, but a job all the same.

He crossed out ‘Dad’ for a second time and then turned on the TV and flicked through the channels.
Family Guy
. Something about frogs. A building on fire. A woman in a forest
shouting at a man. An advert for Special K. Stick went back to the fire. A massive corner building burning against a dark sky – its skeleton revealed amongst the flames. The picture switched
to a bus on fire; police vans on fire; cars on fire; a bike shop, its windows cracked and one of them broken clean out, bikes falling through onto the street.

Riots. They were spreading, the newsreader said. Racing through London as if they were a fire themselves, one bit igniting the next, and the next. It was a tragedy, someone else said. A
disgrace. Unforgivable. The screen showed daytime shots: the burning cars turned ash-grey; the dark streets a mess of broken bricks and scattered glass; the big building – a carpet shop, they
said – charred black and half falling down.

Stick turned his piece of paper over and added ‘riots’ to the first list, then folded the paper in half and put it in the desk drawer. He called J and asked her to come over, said he
was going to cook for her and his mum. She was as full of the riots as he was, drunk on the idea of them. Maybe we should go to London, Stick said, see for ourselves, but she said no, they’d
come to Manchester any day now, they just had to wait.

His mum got back just as Stick had let J in. J’s hair was half blue, half blonde. She’d painted her lips dark red and he felt the lipstick tacky on his skin where
she’d kissed his cheek.

‘Mum.’ Stick wiped his face and smiled at her confused expression. ‘I’ve made pizza, and bought beer.’

‘Oh, but I—’ His mum held out a plastic bag. ‘Well, but this is nice.’ She looked at J.

‘I’m J.’ J stuck out her hand.

‘Let me guess, J for Janet? Jennifer?’ Stick’s mum took hold of J’s hand and then let it drop. ‘Or is it something more – exotic?’

‘Just J,’ Stick said. ‘Like in the alphabet.’

‘Oh,’ his mum said, patting at her hair. ‘Well, it’s nice to meet you, J.’ And she turned to Stick. ‘You made pizza?’

He hadn’t exactly made pizza. He’d taken two cheese and tomato ones out of the freezer and covered them with stuff he found in the fridge. Slices of onion and garlic and red pepper.
Strips of ham. More cheese.

‘Ready in ten minutes,’ he said.

His mum looked at him like she was trying to see inside his head.

‘How was work?’ he asked.

‘Fine.’ She frowned. ‘Good.’ And then she drew J into the living room, saying, ‘Now you must tell me about yourself, J. Kieran never tells me a thing. Are you at
college?’

This is J, my girlfriend, Stick mouthed to himself in the kitchen, taking three cans of Foster’s out of the fridge. This is J, my girlfriend. He opened the oven and a
waft of steam blew up in his face. The edges of the pizzas were dark brown and the cheese was bubbling. Stick eased them off the shelf – one onto the chopping board, one onto a plate. He took
the biggest knife out of the drawer.

‘Dinner is served,’ he announced, a pizza in each hand, the knife balanced on top, and the cans of beer cold between his arm and his side.

‘Well, you’re a good influence, clearly,’ Stick’s mum said to J.

‘Your mum likes my hair,’ J said.

‘Isn’t it fabulous?’ his mum said, her voice loud and falsely bright. Stick wanted to tell her to stop trying so hard.

The pizza wasn’t great – the crust overdone and the onion and garlic still raw, but J and his mum both ate plenty and said they liked it, and his mum had two cans of beer and then
said she might as well open a bottle of wine and would J like a glass? And the two of them chatted about J’s A levels and where she lived and what her parents did, and when his mum said,
‘Oh, and these riots in London. I can’t even bear to watch the news,’ J nodded and murmured something that sounded like, ‘Yes, it’s terrible,’ and didn’t
look at Stick even though he was staring at her. It was almost normal, Stick thought. It was almost like a normal family sitting down for a normal dinner.

His mum said she’d wash up and as soon as she’d left the room Stick leaned forwards and kissed J on the lips.

‘Will you stay?’ he asked.

J glanced towards the kitchen.

‘It’ll be fine. Will you? Please.’ When she tried to say no, she couldn’t, he kissed her again until she started laughing. ‘Call your parents and say you’re
at a friend’s,’ he said. ‘Please?’

When his mum came out of the kitchen, they were halfway up the stairs. Stick saw her jaw clench.

‘Kieran?’

‘We’re just going up.’ Stick nudged J, a gentle hand on her bum, and she carried on walking.

‘Up?’ She stared at him.

‘Up,’ he repeated, staring back.

She licked her lips and then coughed. ‘I’m not—’

‘We’ll see you tomorrow,’ Stick said. His voice didn’t shake but he could feel the sweat across the palms of his hands.

His mum frowned. She opened her mouth and then closed it again. ‘Well, thank you for dinner,’ she said.

Stick nodded and followed J into his bedroom.

She’d turned the TV on and was staring at the screen – people throwing bricks at lines of police, ramming street furniture against shop windows, running into smashed-up shops and
coming out with their arms full: clothes and food and flat-screen TVs.

‘We could start it. I swear, Stick, we could go Piccadilly Gardens right now, and start it.’ J sat at the end of Stick’s bed and crossed her legs.

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to take her clothes off and kiss her all over. He wanted to put his nose against her skin and breathe her in.

‘Look!’ J jiggled her knees up and down so the mattress shook. ‘They can’t do anything about it.’

Stick sat next to her and watched a line of police with plastic shields, spanning a street he didn’t know. People were facing up to them, throwing bricks and bottles.

‘Serves them right.’ He scanned the faces of the rioters – most had scarves pulled over their noses and mouths but he could see that their eyes were lit up with excitement.
‘They deserve a pasting,’ he said.

J pulled off her socks and dropped them onto the floor. ‘Were you really going to kill him?’ she asked.

Stick grabbed her ankles and pivoted her around so she sat with her back to the TV. He put her feet across his lap.

‘Don’t look at my weird foot.’

Stick drew his finger between her second and third toe, where there should have been a gap. ‘I like it,’ he said.

J pulled a face. ‘Were you?’ she said. And then, ‘Stick, quit it, you’re tickling.’

‘You’ve got really soft skin,’ Stick said, running his finger from her big toe over the top of her foot, her ankle, up her calf until her jeans stopped him.

J laughed.

‘You do,’ Stick said. ‘It’s nice.’

Someone on the TV was talking –
there is no excuse for violence, there is no excuse for looting, there is no excuse for thuggery
.

Stick licked his lips. He had the start of an erection, but she wouldn’t be able to tell. ‘Are you a virgin?’ he asked.

She pulled her feet away, hugging her knees up to her chest and turning back to the TV. ‘No,’ she said.

. . . the police, putting themselves in harm’s way . . .

Stick swallowed. ‘Sorry, I just wanted to—’

She didn’t move.

‘I said I’m sorry.’

. . . we’ve heard people saying they felt in some way abandoned . . .

Stick reached out and touched her shoulder and she turned back around.

‘Are you?’ she said.

Stick thought for a minute of the girl in the blue sequinned top, holding his hand, leading him out to the toilets. He shook his head.

‘Are you lying?’ J said.

‘No.’

‘So why are you blushing?’

. . . we need to ensure we bring an end to this, that we bring an end to this soon . . .

Stick rubbed his hand over his mouth. ‘I’ve never spent a night with someone,’ he said, making himself look at her. ‘I’ve had a shag, but I’ve never, you
know—’ He rubbed at his mouth again. ‘Done it properly.’

‘Properly?’ She grinned.

Stick shifted his weight on the bed. ‘Slow. I mean slow.’ He glanced up at her. ‘Now you’re blushing.’ She looked pretty, her cheeks flushed. ‘I’d like
to,’ he said. ‘With you.’

A smile flitted across her face, but she didn’t say anything.

‘I’m not begging,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He shifted himself forwards so his feet reached the floor.

. . . the investigation will be called Operation Withern . . .

Her hand on his shoulder. She’d pulled herself onto her knees and was close next to him.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘That other guy. I know.’

J shook her head and kissed him, lightly, on the mouth. She tasted of beer and pizza. When she moved away Stick leaned forwards and kissed her again, her silver stud pressing into his lip. Then
he pulled back and they sat and looked at each other.

‘Your mum’s not going to come in?’ J said.

Stick shook his head.

. . . violent clashes with police in Enfield . . .

J lifted the remote control from the windowsill and muted the TV. She tugged at Stick’s arm and he turned towards her, pulling himself up onto the bed, his lips on hers. His cock hard. His
heart pumping. She let him lower her onto her back, his knees either side of hers; her lips were smooth and wet against his. He thought he would burst. J reached her hands up and pulled him against
her. He winced.

‘You all right?’ She let go.

‘Bruised.’ He laughed and pulled up his T-shirt.

‘Fucking hell.’

Now she tipped him onto his back and took his T-shirt off, traced her finger over his bruises.

‘Tickles.’ He grinned.

‘You’re an idiot, you know that?’ She bent her head over his chest and he felt her lips on his skin, kissing each bruise. He could feel everything unravelling, disappearing
– the car and the hospital, Owen Lee, his mum, Mac lying on the grass, riots on the TV – until it was just him and J. The two of them pulling at each other’s clothes and yanking
at their own, just them and their skin against each other.

She was beautiful. Smooth and beautiful and perfect. He could feel her bones. He could feel her pulse under his fingers. He could feel her blood, moving. On the TV, film footage repeated itself
over and over. A woman jumped from a blazing building into the raised arms of firemen below. A hooded boy shouted at the camera. Men ran towards an empty police car with bricks, ramming them into
the windows and against the bodywork until the glass smashed and the metal scarred. A kid wearing a beanie ran out of a shop with a bottle of wine in one hand. But it was just them. Just him and J.
And she was beautiful.

She wouldn’t stay. ‘I can’t,’ she said, tracing her finger along the purple-red bruise just below Stick’s collarbone. ‘You’ve not met
my dad. I really can’t.’

‘It’s raining.’ A light
tap tap
against his bedroom window.

‘I won’t melt.’

‘It’s late.’

‘It’s not even ten.’ She sat up and started getting dressed.

So he went downstairs with her. The TV was on in the living room, louder than usual, but his mum didn’t come out.

‘Don’t go.’ He could still feel J’s hands tracing his body; her hair falling over her face as she bent over him.

‘Bye.’ J opened the front door.

‘I’ll walk you back.’ Stick reached for Mac’s trainers.

‘I’m a big girl.’ She smiled. ‘Stay.’ She glanced at the closed living-room door. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow?’ Her eyes widened like she’d just
remembered something. ‘I reckon the riots’ll be here then.’

‘You’re beautiful,’ Stick said.

J raised a hand in farewell and half ran down the steps onto the street. Stick watched her go; watched her get smaller and further away and then turn a corner and disappear. He tried to ignore
the twinge of panic in his stomach and the tears suddenly crowding behind his eyes.

The next day his dad called, and Stick made himself answer, bracing himself for a lecture about sex, or another fight about the job. He was sat up in bed, watching TV. The
riots had started to spread all over London, even Clapham where Jen had said she’d lived. And then further: West Bromwich, Bristol, Birmingham, Nottingham, up to Liverpool, but not
Manchester, despite J’s prediction – J, who had called earlier to say her dad had grounded her but she was working on it.

‘I just wanted to check you were OK,’ his dad said.

He ached still, his body as stiff and sore as an old man’s. ‘I’m fine.’