The Armchair on Bradford Road

The Armchair on the Bradford Road (Extract)

Zoe Hammick

The sun had turned in hours ago - as had the rest of the neighbourhood (and, probably, city) - but the moon seemed to be enjoying its time to shine on summer’s nocturnal nuisances. The barbeque smoke that guided the garden into night had withered away to a thin vapour in the stars, conquered by an embering fire. Chairs - cushioned, wooden, plastic - were occupied by tired or blethering teens. The grass stamped to a canvas of brown and green; a bee hummed in between bodies, the buzz hardly competing with the blare of some ket pop song - assumingly Boyzone. A group of girls belting out the lyrics far too excitedly supported this deduction. Dancers were dotted everywhere like a pointillism painting, chatter reaching space and back.

Me and my friends were sat by the music player, indexes twitching towards the skip button - there must have been something decent hidden in the playlist. Rowan had been trying to distract herself by giggling at some kid starfishing on the floor baked like a cake; Jeanie obligingly laughed along. Mixed with addled humour and the high-pitched harmony of five grown men, my ears started filling with blood, ready to burst - such sweet relief when the song melted into a steady beat. Before the riff even had the chance to kiss our drums, Rowan was on her feet - an electric bolt straight to the guffer - exclaiming loudly and forcing Jeanie up by the hand. She pulled their torsos together, palms as vines, their steps perfectly aligned to each other and the beat: looking so peaceful, mumbling the lyrics, for a few moments we were all content just watching them waltz into wonder.

“I’m sure you’ve heard it all before but you never really had a doubt!” I sang, parachuting into the slow dance - the others huddling in as a fourth, fifth and sixth wheel. “I don’t believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now.” Feet overlapped, inharmonious voices mingled, bodies bumped yet we didn’t care - we never really did. A smile stretched across Elf’s lips - the Cheshire cat he is - ginger sticking to his moistening forehead; Sage was beside, bouncing as if to meet his impossible altitude, their short locks flopping in and out of their eyes. My arms looped around Will and Rowan’s necks as I savoured every snippet of their numbing happiness. “And all the roads we have to walk are winding.

And all the lights that lead us here are blind-”

“I’ve warned you kids!” a neighbour screamed from his two storey fortress, his face an excellent shade of magenta. “Shut it off right now!” The tassels of his toothpaste robe, an antwacky crown, were blowing in the breeze; it wasn’t exactly easy to find him intimidating. We stared up as one, one giant eye, analysing - that is, until Sage broke away from our clutch with hands encasing his mouth. “And what if we don’t? Gonna bray us you ol’ mardy? Come at me, see what happens!”

I hadn’t been sleeping well. The bed too hard and too flat: sheets a boa constrictor, feasting on the air in my lungs. Cold coffee eyes watched each minute pass in hours; the sun would be soon. I abandoned attempts of temporary death, sliding out of the duvet into a jumper and some shoes, sunrise more inviting. Stairs are too risky - I can’t wake my parents - so I wrestled open the sticky window to abseil the guttering. One day, it will collapse under the abuse of my weight and I was glad it decided not to that day. I traipsed the runway of the road, tomb of motion, with the lights walking with me. Rowan’s flat building was at the end of the road and I stopped the parade, wondering whether she would have wanted to join - she was always up for a fiesta.

Gone. I leave for eight bloody hours and it’s gone. The only thing left is a boastful square of mud and yellow grass, grasping the air for the missing weight; my eyes long to water the withered blades as I bray the clammy ground. “Dude, I worry about you, y’know? We’re all leaving and you’re just staying here.” Some of the bottles are still there, investigating the crime scene of a brother’s murder. I pick up one in anger, firing the brown bullet at an innocent passing lorry; the weather explodes into snow. “Yeah, but what if you’re not fine in the end? None of us are exactly planning on coming back and we’re all moving on and you could’ve gone to uni to study English but you decided to stay here and work in Tesco’s.” The flakes aren’t soft - they don’t melt or disintegrate. They cut, they clink, they scream in a bellowed tone. “I’m just worried you’re going to regret it one day.” Who was I kidding? I’m not fine. I was never fine.