Geekhood (24 page)

“Archie…” It’s that tone that lets me know that this is something Mum has thought about for a while. “About Tony…”

“Yeah?”

“I know he can be a bit…”

“…of a Tosser?”

IM:
Sorry. Just came out
.

Mum squints through the windscreen, looking as though someone has just trodden on her toe, but she’s trying not to show it.

“That wasn’t quite what I was going to say,” she says through pursed lips. “I was going to say that he can be a bit ‘difficult’.” She places enough emphasis on the last word to make it sound like a new one that I ought to absorb into my vocabulary. “But you’ve got to remember, Archie, that as much as you’re learning about him and finding out what you do and don’t like about him – he’s finding out the same about you.”

IM:
Incoming! New thought alert! Prepare to be boarded!

“What? He doesn’t like me?”

“No! That’s not what I mean!” The gear change signals her frustration, while her gentle braking signals her cooling down. “Tony doesn’t have any kids. He doesn’t know about kids. And he’s trying to learn.”

“Well, I’ve never had a stepfather before.” It’s sulky and petulant, but Mum rides it out.

“But that’s what I’m saying, Archie. I know this is hard for both of you – especially living together for the first time. But you haven’t been the easiest of people recently, have you? And Tony’s noticed; he’s not stupid. He might be a tosser, but he’s a tosser who cares about you and is trying hard to get to know you.”

IM:
Your mum just said “Tosser”! Twice!

“Yeah… OK. Sorry. I’ve been a bit stressed lately.”

“I know that now. Why didn’t you say anything before?”

IM:
It’s a good question. Deserves a good answer
.

“Dunno.”

IM:
Steeeee-rike!

Mum communicates her dissatisfaction with another crunching gear change. I need to be honest.

“I didn’t want you to be upset and I thought I could deal with it.”

“Archie, I’m your mother…”

IM:
Well, that’s cleared that up, then
.

“…and you should be able to talk to me about anything. That’s what I’m here for. People need to talk; bottling things up only makes things worse. If you can’t talk to me, talk to your friends or your dad.”

“Or Tony…”

“I’m not expecting an overnight transformation, Archie, but yes, in time. Talk to people who care about you.”

“OK. Sorry.”

“And stop being sorry.”

“OK. How are you doing, Mum?”

There’s another silence while Mum considers my question.

“I’m OK,” she says finally. “In a strange way, I think this has happened for the best. Obviously, I’m worried about Tony’s health, but the doctors seem confident that if he stops smoking and eats better, he’ll be all right.”

“And at least you and Dad are talking again. What happened, Mum? Why did you stop speaking? What was it?”

Mum’s answer is measured and considered, like she’s trying to work through a tough Sudoku.

“If I answer you, Archie, you have to ask your father the same thing. I can only tell you what happened from my point of view and he can only tell you what happened from his. What you might get are two different stories, and you might hear us saying unpleasant things about each other. If you can handle that, then I’ll tell you my side. But you’ll have to ask your father as well – and then you’ll have to form your own opinion.”

IM:
Never a straight answer when you need one…

“I’ll get back to you on that.”

Mum smiles.

“Good for you.”

“Are you going to be OK?”

Mum’s Agenda Detector fires up. She has an astonishing and often unnerving ability to tell when I’m trying to ask a question without actually asking it.

“You need to be somewhere?” There’s a tinkle of mischief in her voice. I silently curse my transparency.

“Can you drop me in town?”

TWENTY-THREE

I could’ve asked Mum to drop me off at Sarah’s, but part of me still wants to pretend that nobody knows what I’m up to; that my secret is still my secret. It also buys me a little time to think about what I’m going to say to her. With everything that’s happened in the last few hours, thoughts are racing round my head like Superman on a sugar rush.

I pull out my mobile and before I lose my nerve, I take a deep breath and call Sarah back.

“Hello?”

“Sarah?”

“No, it’s her mum. Who’s that?”

Images of well-packed bras leap like mountain goats through my mind.

“Oh, hello. It’s Archie. Sorry, I thought you were Sarah.”

There’s a faint giggle on the end of the phone and I realize I might just have inadvertantly flattered Sarah’s mum.

IM:
Store that one away for future reference
.

“Sorry, Archie, no. She’s gone into town to meet a friend. Do you want to leave a message?”

I could ask her for Sarah’s mobile number but, in my head, it feels as big a deal as asking for her daughter’s hand in marriage. Bravely, I chicken out.

“Uh … no, thanks. I’ll call later, if that’s OK.”

“OK. Bye.” A dark part of me thinks I can hear a little disappointment in her voice. All I can think of is bras.

IM:
Sarah’s in town!

I could seek her out. Despite the best efforts of the gymnastic squad that have suddenly started performing in my stomach, I resolve to embrace the idea. I now have a Quest – something to focus on. I shall find Sarah. Where to start? All the files in my head concerning the daytime habits of the female of the species have yet to be written; what do girls do on a Saturday in town? Do they go shopping? What do they buy?

IM:
Bras
.

While the idea of scouring bra shops fills me with a frisson of anticipation, the idea that Sarah might be out shopping for the latest over-the-shoulder boulder holder doesn’t quite ring true. I think she’d be somewhere more spiritual, somewhere more fulfilling, somewhere like…

IM:
…the Shop For Unrequited Love!

It takes me seconds to race to the alley and just as I’m rounding the corner, the Gods of Fate smile upon me: Sarah comes out of the shop. Just as quickly, the Gods of Fate decide it’s time to empty their bladders, which
they do with formidable precision – right on my head.

Jason Humphries follows Sarah out of the faintly jangling door.

IM:
All communication frequencies are jammed! *Sound of static*

Jason Humphries follows Sarah out of the shop.

Jason Humphries follows Sarah.

Jason Humphries.

My EM has been entirely neutralized and I stand like a cardboard Dr Who standee at the top of the alley. Luckily, my IM goes into manual override and I manage to pull myself back round the corner.

IM:
Therehastobeanexplanationtherehastobeanexpl anationtherehastobeanexplanation!

I risk another peek; Jason and Sarah are walking my way, but they seem too wrapped up in conversation to notice me. Jason’s got a small paper bag that he puts in his pocket and Sarah is obviously trying to explain something to him; she’s all animated hands and earnest expression. Despite his fading bruises, Jason looks like a freshly resurrected Frankenstein’s monster. I briefly wonder whether Sarah’s mum has rubbed arnica into his wounds as well and, once more, my mind is awash with bras.

I duck round the corner again and quickly find a shop window to appear absorbed in. Perfume has never been so interesting.

IM:
Come on, Sherlock – use the window!

I catch the reflection of Sarah and Jason as they pass behind me, deep in conversation.

IM:
Which must be stretching Jason to the limit.

They pass to my left and I risk another look: stopping under the clock tower, Jason jerks a thumb in the direction they’ve just walked. Some sort of goodbye is said and, although there are no kisses, there are plenty of smiles and Sarah says something meaningful before she continues on her journey. Jason starts to retrace his steps, so I return my attention to
Eau de Something Or Other
.

I’m giving so much consideration to the contents of the pink bottle in front of me that I fail to notice Jason until his meaty hand grabs me by the scruff of the neck. With as much effort as it would take me to pick up a kitten, he hoiks me round the corner and into the alley.

“Geek,” he hisses, as he slams me against the wall. His forehead ripples and his blue eyes stand out against the bruises under them. “Thought I hadn’t seen you?”

IM:
Our Father, who art in Heaven
…

The accumulated knowledge and experience of my Geek ancestors have programmed me for this moment; it kicks in without me even having to think about it: with lightning speed, I bravely shut my eyes and cower.

IM:
It’s not going to be an open casket after this…

Images of my parents weeping, Tony wailing and
Sarah gnashing her teeth over my battered body play on my inner cinema screen, as I wait in terror for the blows to land.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

IM:
Anythinganythinganything!

I peel my eyelids fearfully apart and gaze into the Face of Death. Which smells of cigarettes. Jason looks like he’s wrestling with something – probably a thought. Even his little yellow teeth seem to be joining in, grinding together so hard that, by rights, there ought to be sparks.

“You’re a very lucky boy,” he growls, sounding like an evil Father Christmas. “Do you know why?”

In the absence of a functioning voice box, I shake my head as quickly as I can. My hands seem to be massaging his wrist, as though my gentle ministrations might cause
his
hand to let go of my throat.

“Because that girl likes you.” I note he doesn’t use her name, which suggests to my ever-active Paranoia Department that there is still some distance between him and Sarah. Hopefully not just emotional. There is also some subtext going on here: by telling me that I’m lucky because Sarah likes me, he’s also telling me that he likes her too and, in order to maintain any relationship with her, he can’t give me the usual thrashing that is second nature to him.

IM:
But I wouldn’t start relaxing just yet… Not with his hand round your windpipe
.

“OK,” I stutter in a voice that sounds as though I’ve been inhaling helium for the last four hours. “OK”.

“But you tell your little mate that if he hasn’t got rid of that shit on Facebook by tonight, then I’ll be looking for him. You get me?”

Oh, yes, I get him. I get him quicker than a dose of the flu. I communicate my understanding with a series of animated nods and a couple of affirmative squeaks that are so high every dog for miles must be on its way. But Jason’s not done yet; he leans in closer, just so that I don’t forget every scar, every line and every rippling muscle in his bowel-loosening face.

“Lucky,” he growls and throws me to the ground. “Get up. And piss off. Geek.”

I have never obeyed anyone’s commands with such enthusiasm. Slipping, skidding and scraping to my feet, I turn to face him and instead of responding with some killer line, I actually thank him. Then I piss off. At speed.

Before I go charging off to the Elven retreat that is number seventy-eight Davenport Road, there’s something important I’ve got to do. Fuelled by the adrenalin boost bestowed upon me by the benevolent threats of Jason Humphries, I race round the corner, partly just glad to be alive and partly just in case he’s
had a change of his little black heart and is thundering after me.

IM:
No dust clouds on the horizon – but keep running
.

I tear into the Hovel, instantly soothed by the almost church-like atmosphere inside. My explosive arrival sends heads turning, as peace-seeking Geeks register what might be a threat on their detectors; even Big Marv half raises himself off his seat, before returning to the miniature he is painting behind the counter. As I expected, Matt, Ravi and Beggsy are here, looking through the blister packs, in search of new mountains to climb.

“Beggsy!” I pant a little too heavily into his ear.

“Dude? What’s up?” There seems to be no hint of recrimination in his face, merely concern.

“Beggsy… Just seen Jason … Humphries… He’s seen … Facebook… You better … get rid of it … or … you’re toast…!”

Beggsy responds in the classic Geek fashion: he turns white and looks around for help from nowhere in particular.

“By … tonight…” I manage.

“Dude! Shit! I’m on it!” he squeals, sounding weirdly like Lisa Simpson, and without a goodbye to anyone, he rushes out of the Hovel to go home and save his skin.
I put my hands on my knees and pant at the floor.

“What are you doing here?” Matt’s not quite so easily won over. “I thought you’d ‘quit’.”

IM:
One thing at a time
.

As my breathing slows down, I straighten up and, ignoring Matt, I turn to Ravi.

“Ravi, mate,” I begin. Throwing in “mate” is a Geek method of showing that you are unarmed. Unless, of course, you’re in an argument, when it hints at hostile intent. It’s complicated. “I owe you an apology. I’m really sorry. I’ve just been going through a weird time and you caught me at a bad moment this morning. I’m really sorry.”

The problem with Geeks is that they remember negatives. Over the course of a year, you could compliment a Geek a thousand times and insult him only once. On New Year’s Eve, you could then ask him what he remembers about the past three hundred and sixty-five days and, as sure as Gandalf is a Servant of the Secret Fire, he’ll only remember the insult. It’s how we protect ourselves. Some might argue that this isn’t a particularly life-affirming way to exist, but it’s what we do.

“And that’s what passes for an explanation these days, is it?” Ravi’s obviously using telepathy to speak through Matt; they both look unconvinced.

IM:
Promote them to “grown-up”; see how that goes
.

“What’re you guys doing now?”

“Standing here, talking to you,” Matt deadpans.

“OK. Let’s go and have a Coke or something.”

“What do you mean?” An invitation to sit in a café might not sound out of the ordinary, but Geeks tend to avoid sitting in public places.

“Come on.” I jerk my head left and head for the café across the road, without waiting for any argument.

By the time they arrive and stand conspicuously in front of the sandwiches, I’ve got a tray and three Cokes. I nod them to a table by the window and we all sit down, trying not to scrape our chairs.

Another of the problems of being a Geek is a bit of a paradox: Geeks are convinced that everyone’s watching them and yet they only make themselves more noticeable by trying too hard to be invisible. While this hints at a huge sense of inferiority, it also points towards a massive, if fragile, ego. I’m dealing with two Ming vases here.

IM:
Time to start talking, Archie. With a capital “T”
.

“OK, guys,” I begin, “I owe you an explanation…”

“Yes. I think so.” Matt’s response fires me up to approach this as responsibly as I can. I start with Dad’s revelation that he’s leaving, then talk about seeing Sarah and Jason Humphries, then go on to the boot sale and Tony. It’s not particularly chronological, but I spill it out as it seems most relevant.

“So why were you selling your stuff?” Ravi asks. “Are you still in the Game?”

IM:
Thought you were going to avoid that one, didn’t you?

It’s true. I deliberately hadn’t mentioned Sarah and my aura-reading and the IM and the PS – partly because I know how nuts it sounds outside of the protective enclosure of my head and partly because I don’t want Sarah to cop the blame for me being a dunderhead.

“I think Archie’s got more to worry about than the Game just now.” I’m grateful for Matt’s diversionary tactics. I can see in his eyes that he knows there’s more to my story than I’m telling, but it doesn’t need telling now.

“God…yeah. Sorry, Archie…” Ravi stutters. “Hope everything’s OK.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I know why he asks; as much as he’s trying to understand what’s made me reject the Geek world, he’s also trying to work out how it affects his life. “It’ll be OK. And, yes, I’ll be back in the Game. Gonna have to start all over again, though – sold all my paints and my figures.”

“Why didn’t you tell us all this before? We’re supposed to be mates.”

IM:
Lord Chief Justice Matt will require a good answer
.

Weirdly, I only know the answer as it comes out of
my mouth: “I guess because talking about it would make it seem more real. If I keep it in my head and no one else knows, then I can sort of pretend that it’s not.”

“Ah,” Matt nods sagely. “Like an ostrich, you mean.”

IM:
Touché!

“Yeah,” I grin ruefully. “Just like an ostrich. Sorry about that.”

“Forget it. Welcome back. You Geek.” The word has never sounded so good. “So, what’re you up to now?”