Ziggy
Ziggy
Ziggy just happened to leave his extra lesson with Mr. Wingate at the exact time that the orchestra were packing up their instruments. He just happened to take the front stairs, rather than the usual shorter route out via the back stairwell, and to notice that his shoelace had come undone, just as he reached the open door to the hall. He wasn’t intending to bump into Alicia, but she just happened to come out, swinging her oboe case, as he was still standing there, since his lace was proving more tricky than usual.
What were the chances of that?
“Oh, hi, Alicia!” he said. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” Ziggy gave himself a mental kicking. I wasn’t expecting to see you here! Where else would you expect a girl who played first oboe in the orchestra to be, other than at a rehearsal of the orchestra? Idiot.
“Oh, hi, Ziggy!” said Alicia, beaming at him as if she didn’t mind his total ineptitude in the slightest. “Where are you heading? We’re going to the café on the Grove. You want to come with us?”
“Uh, I need to get home, for Kylie’s babysitter—sorry,” said Ziggy.
“No worries,” said Alicia, in a tone that was just a little less warm than it had been.
“She’s not a regular babysitter, actually,” said Ziggy, desperate to keep Alicia talking, so she wouldn’t leave with the impression that he was making excuses for not spending time with her. “She’s really a mad geriatric with an amazing collection of costume jewelry, who smokes cigarettes in this cigarette-holder thing like an old film star, uses her hair bun as an extra pocket, and has taken up internet dating.”
“She sounds kind of cool,” said Alicia. “Like Evelyn Hugo!”
“Totally!” said Ziggy, not willing to admit to having no idea who Evelyn Hugo was. A fashion designer? Politician? Aristocrat? Who knew?
“I’d love to meet her, and Kylie. Do you have a picture?”
“Of Daphne?” said Ziggy.
“No, you idiot. Of Kylie.”
Ziggy hesitated. He really should be avoiding the subject of his daughter, if he were to have any hope at all of ever having another relationship. After all, what normal teenage girl wanted to be lumbered with a boyfriend who had to worry about babysitters and saving his pocket money to buy nappies? Not that he was thinking of having another relationship, obviously. His days of shagging in stationery cupboards—or anywhere, actually—were behind him. And if he did ever have sex in the future, he was wearing a full-body condom. He’d make damned sure none of those suckers ever got loose again.
“Here she is,” said Ziggy, showing Alicia his favorite picture on his phone’s home screen.
“Oh, she’s gorgeous ,” said Alicia. She handed Ziggy’s phone back to him, and he noticed that her bare arm was covered in a constellation of tiny freckles. How long, he found himself wondering, would it take to kiss every single one of them? Stop it, Ziggy!
They reached the door of the café where the orchestra had commandeered a few tables. “Well, I guess this is where we say goodbye,” she said.
Before he could stop to analyze the idea that formed in his head, the words were out of Ziggy’s mouth.
“You know, they’re doing a nativity performance at Kylie’s nursery. Mandel Community Center, in a couple of weeks’ time. Do you think you and some of the orchestra might be able to play some Christmas carols or something? The kids would really love it. We all would,” he said.
There was a silence, which seemed to stretch for minutes. Then Alicia said, “Sure. Why don’t you take my number, then you can message me the details?”
Boom.
···
Ziggy barely noticed his journey home. He didn’t see the drizzle falling from the bleak December sky, the rubbish scattered on the pavement, or the urban foxes scavenging in the bins outside the Chinese takeaway. Ziggy’s head was in a sun-drenched lecture theater, his files spread out on the desk in front of him, and a whiteboard on the wall covered with complex code. Then collecting Kylie from the university crèche, which was filled with thriving, smiling babies and toddlers, and in his student digs, where he was making his mum’s chicken-stir-fry recipe for a girl with red corkscrew hair, freckles, and an oboe. Which was just a coincidence, honestly.
Ziggy was so immersed in his future life that he didn’t even notice the gang lookout—stationed, as always, by the entrance to the estate—until a loud whistle pierced his dreams.
A large, shadowy figure blocked his path. Floyd.
“Where’s the baby, bro?” said Floyd, his voice a low growl.
“Uh, with the babysitter,” said Ziggy. “I need to get back, actually.”
“You need to look after her, man. She’s precious,” said Floyd, managing to turn a compliment into a threat.
“I know,” said Ziggy.
“We’ll keep an eye on her, too,” said Floyd. “Since you’re one of us. You are one of us, right?” He stamped on an empty Coke can, which crumpled immediately, without any semblance of a fight, then kicked it into the gutter. It landed with a clatter.
Ziggy felt sick. There was no right answer to this question. A “no” would see him and his family targeted, but a “yes” could land him in a whole heap of trouble.
“You’re taking your time,” said Floyd, with a smile that wasn’t a smile. “I thought you was supposed to be clever. Is it a difficult question?”
Ziggy teetered on the edge of the ravine, weighing up which bottomless crevasse to leap into. There was only one option—the one least likely to endanger his daughter or his mother.
“Yeah, I’m one of you. ’Course,” he said, staring down at his feet and playing with the zip fastener of his coat.
“Right answer,” said Floyd, walloping Ziggy on the back so hard he nearly lost his balance. “So, why have I not seen you much recently? You’ve not been pulling your weight, bro. Come find me tomorrow. I’ve got some jobs for you.”