Hamburg

17. Alone Again

      Nineteen years old and having a crisis. Hey, I never said I was a man now did I. I could never take change lightly. How could I? I was born into deception, masks and betrayal. I am bleak and loveless. What was I thinking? I wasn't. One thing I know for sure, however, is that things are gonna go back to the way things were once we're out of this place. I ain't gonna be buried in a dump like this. And, hell, god knows I might be dying.

      It's already December, it is winter, it is cold, it is almost Christmas. I sent my aunt, bless her, a card. I didn't know what to say so I drew her Santa Claus trying to climb down the chimney and getting stuck in the fireplace. I couldn't colour it because I don't have any coloured pens with me but I managed to find a red marker, which was perfect to fill in Santa's big old buttocks. It says, 'I've got to get out of here fast, it's almost Christmas!' I know Aunt Mimi will write back saying that she could not wait to have me for Christmas, without even asking if I will in fact be coming back by then, and warn me: 'John Winston Lennon, how many times have I told you not to draw such outrageous things?' Even though, I know, when she will receive the post card for the first time, she will look around to see if anyone was around then guffaw, holding it close to her heart.

       Stuart is walking ahead of me. Paul is next to me, humming I'll Be Seeing You by Billie Holiday. His hair is undone, fresh out of the shower, clean for once. No grease, no spray, uncombed. He is wearing a dark green jumper, jeans, brown sport jacket, a red college scarf and suede boots. I'm wearing a black shirt, black trousers, black coat and leather boots. I take my glasses off and put them in my inner coat pocket. Stuart- clad equally in shades of black, turtleneck jumper, coat, leather drainpipes and boots- spins around, now walking backwards, and says, 'John, oh, I almost forget to tell you!'

        I wish he would just say it but, as expected, he waits for me to ask for it. I say, 'What is it?' The lad never says anything until it is begged for, even though it is him who is dying to tell it.

        'Astrid told me to tell you that she wants to photograph us more next week,' he nods his head. He skips towards me, as if Paul isn't even there, wrapping his arm around my neck, 'It'll be swell. I know it, she's shown me the developed prints of the ones she took of us last time and they really are brilliant, really well marvellous!'

        'Hmm,' I say, lighting a cigarette. 'Aye, she sure has the eye for the stuff.'

        'Aye, she does, doesn't she!' Stuart nods, looking over at Paul, who nods and hums in accordance. Then, he continues to sing. I wonder what Paul is thinking, then I look at Stuart and thank God that at least someone is having a hunky dory time in this grotty old place. For a second, I catch Paul's gaze and he quickly blinks away. I don't know what to do so I look at Stuart, who unfortunately notices this shift in expressions.

        'You alright, Johnny boy?' he says, dragging his thin, white fingers along my hair. From the corner of my eye, I notice Paul looking at us. Stuart moves his hand to my forehead.

        'Ey, you're catching a fire, you are!' Stuart's face lights up with genuine concern. We stop walking. I move my own hand to my forehead and, sure enough, I'm bloody bursting with flames.

        'Cor,' I spit and curse. 'I don't need a damn fever too, Jesus. We only got a couple of more days. It's nothing.' I pull my collar up around my neck, 'I'll be alright.'

         'Yeah,' Stuart rolls his eyes. 'Have heard that before.' He pulls the cigarette out of my mouth, puts it in his and starts to scurry off into a different direction.

         'Oi!' I say. 'That was me last one, that!'

        'You ought to try quitting!' he blows a cloud into the air, waves a white hand in the dark and disappears.

        'You want to head back?' Paul says quietly. 'This cold will only make you sicker.'

        I have to turn to face him and think a moment about what he has just said. This is the first time he speaks since we started walking from the club. I always assume it is because of Stuart that Paul gets a little shy, or uncomfortable, a bit like a third-wheel. He looks away from my eyes, which makes me realise that I am staring.

        'Um,' I say. 'No, no, I need some fresh air, anyway.'

        Paul laughs a little and says, 'Yeah, or just air.'

        I laugh too, louder. A grey cloud of smog floats into the indigo raven sky, like milk clouding dark water, at the horizon. A skyline towered by factories and industry.