TRAITOR
It was Luke's eighteenth birthday. To celebrate, he threw a big party at his parents’ house. A hot, summer Sunday. We were all invited to bring a bottle and some food. There were amps and speakers set up in the back garden and in the evening Luke and his musically-inclined friends plugged in and jammed – old favourites, Stones and Beatles and Bob Marley numbers, a couple of their own compositions. A lot of grass was smoked – mild home-grown Norfolk weed. In the late evening, as the guests began to drift away in time to get some rest before work on Monday, Luke and I shared a tab of acid. We went for a long walk around the lanes before deciding to drive out to a pub some miles distant, where we sat in silence amid the hubbub of drinkers, unable to say a word.
We drove back from the pub to Luke's parents', listened to music and failed to negotiate a game of draughts. I fell asleep in a sleeping bag on the floor sometime after the birds had stopped shouting their heads off and were fully awake and busily going about the business of their day.
The alarm went off soon after. We were expected for work at eight o'clock down the road on a building site. Another hippy building project. On time, but in a somewhat dazed and queasy state, we rolled into the shell of the house and sat on the floor amongst the cement and the buckets and brushes and sledgehammers and spades and trowels. Luke, as the youngest, had been designated coffeemaker at the beginning of the project. He set about collecting coffee mugs and starting a brew.
'You two look a bit rough,' said the boss, a man who’d ridden an Enfield Bullet motorbike from India to England and liked to make out that he was some kind of spiritually-cleansed, right-on healer dude – which he wasn't, by a long way. 'Hit the homebrew too heavily last night, did we?'
I nodded, fought down nausea, felt only fatigue.
'I've got just the job for you two lads.'
I stared up blankly at the bearded bastard.
'The bathroom is finished now. The cork flooring needs scrubbing with wire wool and thinners to get it to shine.' He indicated, in a corner, the tools required for the job.
When Luke had made the coffees we sat on with them, in the cold and dust, blowing into our mugs so we could gulp down faster the beautiful liquid.
'You can take those up with you,' said the non-guru man, 'I don't pay you to drink.'
We plodded upstairs and began to rub apathetically at the floor. Thinners wafted up through my nose and into my brain. The fumes made my face itch; made me feel even more light-headed than I had been.
Scrub, scrub, scrub.
Luke began to complain.
'I can't do this. I'm going to cry off sick,' he said and got up and walked down the stairs. He knew the boss well. They'd worked together many times before.
I sat on my haunches and listened to the murmur downstairs, the front door being opened, slammed shut. One of us feeling sick was believable, but not both of us, and not on the day after a party. Even if I asked, I knew the boss'd not let me go.
I stood up and opened the bathroom window and watched Luke sauntering down the road in the sun, back to his bed. The traitor.
'You'll never get it finished staring out the window,' said a voice behind me. 'You better crack on. It shouldn't take you long. Then I've got a few other jobs lined up for you.'
I sank to the floor on my hands and knees and pulled my T-shirt up over my nose and mouth to filter out the fumes.
Scrub, scrub, scrub.
We drove back from the pub to Luke's parents', listened to music and failed to negotiate a game of draughts. I fell asleep in a sleeping bag on the floor sometime after the birds had stopped shouting their heads off and were fully awake and busily going about the business of their day.
The alarm went off soon after. We were expected for work at eight o'clock down the road on a building site. Another hippy building project. On time, but in a somewhat dazed and queasy state, we rolled into the shell of the house and sat on the floor amongst the cement and the buckets and brushes and sledgehammers and spades and trowels. Luke, as the youngest, had been designated coffeemaker at the beginning of the project. He set about collecting coffee mugs and starting a brew.
'You two look a bit rough,' said the boss, a man who’d ridden an Enfield Bullet motorbike from India to England and liked to make out that he was some kind of spiritually-cleansed, right-on healer dude – which he wasn't, by a long way. 'Hit the homebrew too heavily last night, did we?'
I nodded, fought down nausea, felt only fatigue.
'I've got just the job for you two lads.'
I stared up blankly at the bearded bastard.
'The bathroom is finished now. The cork flooring needs scrubbing with wire wool and thinners to get it to shine.' He indicated, in a corner, the tools required for the job.
When Luke had made the coffees we sat on with them, in the cold and dust, blowing into our mugs so we could gulp down faster the beautiful liquid.
'You can take those up with you,' said the non-guru man, 'I don't pay you to drink.'
We plodded upstairs and began to rub apathetically at the floor. Thinners wafted up through my nose and into my brain. The fumes made my face itch; made me feel even more light-headed than I had been.
Scrub, scrub, scrub.
Luke began to complain.
'I can't do this. I'm going to cry off sick,' he said and got up and walked down the stairs. He knew the boss well. They'd worked together many times before.
I sat on my haunches and listened to the murmur downstairs, the front door being opened, slammed shut. One of us feeling sick was believable, but not both of us, and not on the day after a party. Even if I asked, I knew the boss'd not let me go.
I stood up and opened the bathroom window and watched Luke sauntering down the road in the sun, back to his bed. The traitor.
'You'll never get it finished staring out the window,' said a voice behind me. 'You better crack on. It shouldn't take you long. Then I've got a few other jobs lined up for you.'
I sank to the floor on my hands and knees and pulled my T-shirt up over my nose and mouth to filter out the fumes.
Scrub, scrub, scrub.