Echoes

‘That’s a big suitcase you’ve got; you come far?’ he asked, opening the door further. A sticky, sweet smell swam out of the door; the scruffy hallway was on display, a guitar, shoes, and a surfboard. Weed. Druggies. Just what she needed.

‘Yes, London, but, it erm…’

‘Yeah, we just rent the place off Barns, he lives a few miles away now, got into that property development and we work for ’im. S’all right. Do you want to come in for a cuppa?’

‘No, I…’ she started to protest and then a gush of relief blew out of her like a normal breath after a coughing fit. She was tired and could not refuse some warmth. Besides, her hair now sat in dreaded clumps like dripping icicles, her mascara was bleeding down her face, rainwater-sodden, her tiny shoes, water everywhere, overflowing out of the backs of her heels. It was impossible to argue.

‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’

Inside the house were three other boys. Two were playing a game that Isabella just could not grasp the name of–it was pronounced in a heavy Cornish groan, ‘Cul-a-Jooty.’

The boy who’d answered the door left Isabella in the living room saying, ‘This is J and this is Paulie, Boys, this is…’

‘Isabella,’ she answered sheepishly.

‘Isabella. That over there is Bill, his real name’s Ollie but he can’t olly, can’t skate for shit, but he can bill-up…get it? As in, rolling up, s’ank like that.’

Bill was tugging at a bong that gargled in his hands, his head covered in a spread of gingery dreadlocks, his jeans scruffy with band names scribbled over them in heavy black marker, a hoodie with Dr Dre on it. ‘’S’up.’ He acknowledged Isabella and sat up straighter, offering her the bong.

‘No, thanks.’ She waved her hand and sat down, awkward, not wanting the material on her clothing to settle on the surface. The room was not how she remembered it when it was Barnaby’s living room. It was now a dark, dingy pit, the only light being the blue hypnotic flash of the Cul-a-Jooty which entailed lots of shooting. Stacks of cassettes, CDs, vinyl and video games were piled from floor to ceiling. On the walls, over the once flowered wallpaper were scraggy sun-stained posters of Carmen Elektra, Eminem, Snoop Dogg. On the shelves where Barnaby’s football trophies used to sit were funny ornaments and figurines, a mini Batman and Robin and a Rubik’s Cube. It was like a big kid’s room. The main noise, apart from the occasional burp or grizzle was from the stereo in the corner.

‘Do you like RATM?’ the door opener who had now revealed himself as Stoo asked, as he passed her a cup of tea.

‘Excuse me?’ Isabella asked.

‘Rage Against The Machine?’

‘I err…’

‘Hungry?’ She was but she lied and instead suffered, watching him plough his way through eight mattresses of buttery toast, the smell mortifyingly tempting. He then sank his hot tea in one courageous gulp. ‘So, like, what, like, happened?’

An hour later, the shooting noises mixed in with the whiny scruff of rappers began splitting holes in Isabella’s head like a woodpecker. She was getting really tired. How the fuck did she end up here? In this dump? With these chavs. Ugh.

‘Can I?’ She held her forefingers out like a small set of scissors to encourage Paulie to pass her a joint. She smoked weed the same way you’d imagine a nun would.

‘Insane,’ she boasted, trying to fit in.

The floor beneath her was covered in porn magazines, dirty plates with sealed splodges of dried-up ketchup and corners of toast.

‘So like, do you wanna sleep over and that?’ Stoo asked.

‘Sorry…shit,’ she said. Where had the day gone? She was licked. She did not expect to be sleeping the night with tramps in Cornwall, stoned and helpless.

‘I guess so. That okay?’ Isabella shrugged. She knew it would be, like it made a difference, there could have been people sleeping, fucking, lawnmowering in the kitchen sink and nobody would have batted an eye.

‘So, like, whass your mum and dad do?’ Paulie asked. Paulie was a John Travolta lookalike. Well, John Travolta aged…say nineteen. He could have done that as a profession.

‘My mum works for a charity and my dad is a…I don’t actually know what he does.’

‘Sceen.’ He accepted that.

‘What about yours?’ she asked, trying to be curious, but she didn’t care, she was just being polite.

‘My dad’s a librarian and my mum is a slag,’ he said, simultaneously shooting a sea of enemies.

‘Oh,’ Isabella smirked.

‘So, you’re rich then?’ J asked from across the room.

‘Why do you say that?’ Isabella asked.

‘Well, look at you, your phone, your bag, your stuff, your way.’

‘No. Most of this stuff was gifts, actually.’

‘From who? Fucking P Diddy?’

‘Mummy and Daddy.’ And she realized, as soon as the three killer words flooded out of her spic, span little mouth, that she sounded like a complete tit. And the response was not a let-down.

Like a pack of hyenas, the boys began cracking up, frolicking. They loved it: their own personal pocket-sized posh bird as their new gadget that they could prod and push and make do funny stuff.

‘Low it, boys, come on, shut up,’ Stoo tamed. ‘Pass over that joint, bruv.’ He sucked in, his eyes drawing in, wincing. He huffed out in misty clouds. He was hot. He just was. His floppy hair, his long smooth arms and chunky wrists and those clean fingernails. He scooped his wrist round, a beaded charm bracelet shifted down his arm, and offered Isabella a toke.

‘Do you have a cleaner?’ J asked, unable to give up the game.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have a big house?’ J asked.

‘It depends what you mean by big.’

‘How many bedrooms you got?’

‘Nine.’

‘Nine?!’

The ruckus kicked off again and the questions kept coming on, strong.

‘BOYS!’ Stoo wafted his arm and got up, stretched and walked out the room. ‘I’ve got the munchies.’ He gargled as his voice trickled away into speckles of dust in the misty, intoxicated air. Isabella saved by Stoo yet again. But where was he going? Why was he leaving her now? At this desperate point of humiliation…this was just the rough side to getting everything you want, normal people–poor people–wanted explanations, as though telling them how and why you were wealthy would infect them with it too.

‘Okay, one more…What’s your full name? Bet it’s like double-barrelled and shit.’

She should have lied, she could have said anything, she could have said half of the fucking thing and it would have lessened the load.

‘Isabella…’ she began

J paused the game.