China

Every surface in the cramped hatchback that Michael occupied was
hot. Untouchably hot. A glaring afternoon sun grilled him where he sat.
It was 2:45 according to the tiny LCD clock, sitting in the swathe of
black vinyl that covered the dashboard.
The clock and the radio were the only two concessions to modernity made
by this cars austere Baltic manufacturers. He checked his digital
watch, not trusting the car clock's accuracy, 14:46 15/08/01 it
confirmed.
Michael needed a cigarette but equally craved a cooling drink.
Unfortunately, his only drink, a bottle of Volvic, now lay empty on the
passenger seat, the transparent plastic beginning to soften in the
heat. He decided a cigarette would only aggravate his parched throat
and his fingers, eager for something to do, reached for the tuning knob
on the archaic radio. As the little white needle slid along the display
all Michael could hear were traffic reports, each one transmitted from
on high by a fizzy sounding women in helicopters, circling above the
traffic jam like great metallic vultures waiting for a herd of
dehydrated cattle to expire.
Finally, music filtered through the miasma of mixed voices, T'Pau's
"China In Your Hand" filled the car with sound as Michael raised the
volume a few notches.
"Oh that's better." sighed Michael and a wave of soothing nostalgia
broke in his mind. He closed his eyes, and assuming a good twenty more
minutes of immobility, sank into a memory.

1987
Michael sat in a familiar plastic chair and watched a hundred pairs of
feet revolve slowly in puddles of spilt orangeade. The once highly
polished wooden floorboards of the assembly hall were now sticky and
dull. Had the music not been so unbearably loud you would have heard a
constant 'tick' and 'tack' as the soles of people's shoes came unstuck
from the tacky floor.
Michael had been there on the dancefloor a minute ago, leaping around
and waving his arms, his excitement reflected in the faces around him.
He'd loudly and confidently sang along with every current hit the D.J.
played and joined in merrily with an obscene corruption of the routine
to Black Lace's "Superman" as a group of five girls looked on with
exaggerated disapproval.
But his exhilaration abruptly ceased as soon as the D.J. announced
"Right boyz and gurlz, smo-o-o-chy time." Michael's high spirits
dissipated like gas escaping from an agitated Coke bottle. He turned
from his friends and walked to one of the many chairs lining the
perimeter of the hall.
Michael dropped into the seat heavily and watched his classmates
prowling around girls to dance with. The well established couples had
already taken the floor and as the music swelled in the slow rotations
began.
"China In Your Hand" was the D.J.'s choice, though as long as the song
was slow and the lights suitably dim, it didn't really matter which
tune played.
Michael gazed out through the sea of people and wished that just once
he could have managed to even approach a girl without his throat
filling with cotton wool and those all too familiar rivulets of
perspiration springing from his armpits. He lowered his head and
contemplated his shoes, muttering along with the song.
"Mike isn't it!?" shouted a voice in his right ear. A female
voice.
He looked up.
Faye Wright looked down.
He felt his throat constrict and he began to nervously rub his palms on
his thighs to disperse the gathering sweat.
"Erm..yeah." he croaked.
"Not dancing?" asked Faye brightly, graciously choosing to ignore
Michael's obvious discomfort.
"No, nor me." she answered the question herself, releasing Michael from
his obligation to offer a reply.
"I can't stand this soppy shit," she continued, "do you want to get out
of here?"
"W-What for?" he stuttered.
"Oh I dunno; a chat, a fag, some fresh air; whatever. Come on."
She gently took hold of Michael's right hand and pulled. He capitulated
and stood, admitting to himself that any escape from the hall would be
welcome, albeit in the company of a girl. Faye let go of Michael's arm
and it dropped to his side.
"C'mon then," she beckoned to him then nodded toward the fire exit, the
door wedged open in a vain attempt to ventilate the hall.
They left the building.
"There you go." She held out a pack of Benson &; Hedges to Michael,
one cigarette pulled out slightly. He took it gingerly; he'd smoked
before but only around long trusted male friends. This was an entirely
new set of circumstances and Michael found it difficult to drop his
guard.
Faye took out a cigarette for herself and lit it with a blue
transparent disposable lighter, pried from the back pocket of her
stonewashed jeans. She then passed the lighter to Michael and watched
him ignite it, as if making sure he knew what to do.
Michael took a deep pull and blew a stream of blue-grey smoke into the
evening air.
"Where are your mates?" he asked Faye quietly.
"God Mike, speak up," she said half laughing.
Michael was referring to the two girls, Kulwinder Kaur and Samantha
Harper, who with Faye, formed a gang that stalked the corridors of the
school. They laughed loudly and incessantly at that days shared joke
and heckled teachers anonymously from the back of classrooms. They were
admired by pupils and frowned upon by the staff. Though never adopting
a formal name for their clan, they became popularly known as Faye's
Lot, as she, being the taller of the three, appeared to be a leader of
sorts.
"Well Kully's in there with her face stuck to Darren Hollioake and
Maria's trying to get the D.J. to take her to a pub when this crap's
finished. You ever been in a pub Mike?"
"Yeah, loads." he replied, a little too quickly.
"Which ones?" she asked predictably.
Michael tried desperately to recall the names of pubs he knew, whether
passed by on the bus or referred to by his father and uncles.
"Erm&;#8230;The Unicorn, The Railway." he offered.
Faye nodded sagely, apparently satisfied and looked at Michael with
something approaching respect.
"Got a girlfriend?"
She tossed the inquiry at him casually, inviting she hoped, an equally
casual response from Michael. She realised that her questioning must be
worrying him somewhat.
Michael flicked his cigarette into a nearby bush, it struck a branch
and rained a few orange crumbs of burning tobacco onto the dirt
below.
"No." he said succinctly. "Why?"
"Just wondered." she replied.
Michael became increasingly concerned. Questions like "Got a
girlfriend?" usually lead into territory he traditionally
avoided.
"I don't usually bother with boys," Michael brightened at this, "I say
'usually' but one day I'll probably get one." She spoke as if she would
one day acquire a male for a pet or an ornament.
"When?" asked Michael, and instantly regretted it. The conversation was
moving into a realm he felt wholly uncomfortable in. Relationships,
girls, kissing, going out. He shuddered.
Faye sensed Michael uneasiness and decided to leave him.
"One day," she said.
"Anyway, I'm going inside to find Kully now, she's been with Darren all
bloody night, he's probably snogged her whole face off."
She was taken by a sudden impulse and leaned towards Michael. He
recoiled.
Faye gave him a swift peck on the cheek.
"You're nice." she told him, "Quiet. I like that. Most boys here either
waste their time trying to impress you or bore your pants off talking
about football or cars. Not you though. Thanks."
She pushed her lighter back into her pocket and lifted her T-shirt to
tuck the cigarette pack into the waistband of her jeans, no doubt to
hide them.
Michael took a mental photograph of Faye standing there, curly shoulder
length brown hair, matching jeans and jacket, white T-shirt, white Pony
trainers. He thought she was beautiful and he watched her walk into the
hall.

"It's three o'clock and this is the news from Radio Metro."
Michael eyes burst open and he looked around anxiously.
The traffic hadn't moved even slightly, and relief swept over him. He
imagined the traffic report that could have been.
"Huge tailbacks are reported on the A47 due to what appears to be a
sleeping man in a nasty red Lada."
He shook his head, rubbed his eyes and took a firm grip of the steering
wheel.
His mobile trilled brightly from inside the glove compartment. Michael
fished it out from beneath a ten year old A-Z of Swindon and two empty
Volvic bottles.
He recognized the number on the display as his home. He pressed to
answer.
"Hello Mike, stuck in traffic again?" asked his favourite voice. That
of his wife.
"Yes," answered Mike, "stuck in traffic again."
"Will you be long, do you think?"
"Probably."
He'd thought that leaving early from work that day would have afforded
him a virtually uninterrupted journey from office to front door.
However, a Ford Transit full of potatoes colliding with an A.A. van had
frustrated all plans of an early arrival at home.
"Can you pick up some cigarettes on your way?" Michael's wife
asked.
"Yep, I'll stop of at a garage when this lot starts to move."
"O.K., I'll see you in a bit."
"Alright." said Michael, and disconnected.

?GRAHAM WOODS 2002