Things Fall Apart

‘Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold' - Yeats.

November, 1999.

‘Fuck me, it’s beautiful!’ He shouts at the sky and lies back on the pavement, catching streetlight on cheekbone. He lights a rollie. I watch him make snow angels and laugh smoke into the cold, black air. It hangs above him for a while before drifting away towards the college walls. His hair is wet with melted snow; little rivulets make their way down his neck to the collar of his fake leather jacket and then disappear behind it.

The world around us is quiet and orange; completely unmoving except for the falling snow. The college spires reach up in to the darkness and the shop front windows reflect them back to us. On the arm of a bench I notice a starling, head tucked into its puffed-out feathers, moisture twinkling on the bridge of its beak.

My heart is beating warmly in my chest. My whole body is beating in time with my heart beating warmly in my chest. I am so high and I can see it all so exquisitely clearly; the snow falling, the rivulets dripping, the moisture twinkling.

I turn to watch him grinning and whispering made-up words at the sky. Every so often he sticks his tongue out to catch a snow flake and takes another drag. His pupils are huge and dark, his jeans are soaking. His black-clothed body contrasts satisfyingly against the white snow. This is only the second time I have met Blake and I am already in awe.

March, 2000.

It’s grey and stormy outside. The rain batters the little window in my attic room, rattling it aggressively in its frame. Somewhere in the distance a car alarm sounds out through the rain. Inside is warm and sleepy. De La Soul is on the record player and a wall-full of plastic fairy lights turn the room shades of industrial rainbow.

Blake is lying on my bedroom floor, studiously drawing moustaches and spots on all the celebrities in my most recent copy of Mix Mag. I haven’t seen or heard from him for weeks, though I know where he’s been. He has turned up just as I am going to bed; soaked through, half-drunk, full of mad stories about girls he’s been sleeping with.  He has bleached his hair recently and it has curled in the rain, an aura of frizz lit up by the lights behind him. He is still wearing the same huge black jumper he was wearing last week, with holes chewed in the sleeves. He looks small and tired and drawn.

‘Would you rather shag Jarvis Cocker or listen to the Lighthouse Family on repeat for an entire week?’

He lights a spliff, looks at me closely and then laughs. ‘And no, you can’t choose both. Pervert.’ 

I throw the pen I’ve been writing with at him and feign offense, then watch him draw his best attempt at a naked Jarvis Cocker on the front of my magazine.

Blake is the first real friend I’ve ever had. We are so different that we intrigue each other. I love his chaos; he is amused by my cautiousness. He listens to Crass; I like Paul Simon. He makes me feel excited about the world; I think I make him feel safe.

July, 2003.

July has been swallowed up by a heatwave. The lawns in the front gardens on our street are browning and the neighbours complain constantly about the hosepipe ban. The air is heavy and the streets are quiet. Some days the pavement is too hot to walk on with bare feet.

Back from university for a long summer, I sit in a striped deckchair out the front shelling garden peas for my mum. I see him before he sees me. He is walking with his headphones in, reading a book so closely that he seems unaware of anything else. His hair is shorter now, his shoulders broader. I smile to see that, even in the heat, he is still head-to-toe in black.

When he nears our house he glances in the direction of the attic, as if out of habit. By the time he sees me, my mouth has gone dry. We both take each other in for a second.

‘Wow. Long time.’ He says eventually, approaching our gate but not coming through.

‘I know, it’s been ages! Like almost three years.’ My voice is tight and insincere.

‘Back for the summer?’ He smiles politely, ‘how’s uni?’

‘Great, yeah, amazing.’ I fiddle with the peas I have already shelled, watch my fingers disappear into the greeness.

‘Cool’ he pauses and looks at me carefully for a moment before turning towards the road, ‘well I better get to work.’

I nod and do my best to look easy going. ‘Yeah. Great to see you,' I say weakly. 'Take care.’