Sense of Necessity - original
Here's another story written to a prompt. As with the last one, I'll post two versions: the original and a revision. It's largely for my own benefit, but if you feel like posting comments or questions, that would be great.
This is the original, which I wrote more or less off the cuff in one-and-a-half sittings - had to stop for a bit of dinner, after all.
Thanks to goldatamera for the prompt, which was McFly, skate ramp, plastic forks, and Ikea.
Sense of Necessity
“How long has he been out there?”
“Hmm?” Tom turned from the window, nodded to Harry and turned back again to watch the hooded figure below. He glanced at his watch. “Three hours. Tea, or beer?”
“Tea.”
Tom nodded again, turned and began fussing with mugs and teabags.
“Starting to rain.” Harry leaned towards the window until his hair brushed against the glass. “Heard from Gi?”
“Yeah. She's fine. Her mum thinks I look too thin, she's threatening to fatten me up.”
Harry grunted, then sucked a breath through his teeth. “That's gotta hurt.”
“Don't start.”
“Huh?” Harry glanced at Tom, shook his head, turned back and nodded towards the window. “Sorry, no… Him.”
Tom moved behind him, craned his neck to see over his shoulder. Below, the figure pulled itself upright on his knees and reached out with a gloved hand to retrieve his skateboard.
“Five-forty?”
Harry nodded.
“He hasn't nailed one yet. Won't give up, though.” Tom bit his lip. “If he breaks something, hurts his hands…”
“Want me to have a word?”
The kettle clicked off, and Tom went to tend to their mugs. “Get your head bitten off as well?” He handed a mug to Harry, glanced out the window and turned away. “Come on, let's go sit down, leave him to it.”
As they reached the doorway to the living room, Tom paused. “Ah,” he said. “Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.”
Harry stopped in the doorway and cast his eyes around as Tom stepped through the gloom and opened the curtains. “Not cleaned up from the party yet.”
“I did, but…” Tom's nose wrinkled. “James came round, brought Steve and Dai and a bucket of KFC. Danny was here and, well.” He waved a hand towards the game console.
“And the explosion?” Harry picked his way through scattered magazines to the sofa, began clearing newspapers and displaced cushions out of the way.
Tom shrugged. “Steve and Dai.”
Harry grinned, turned and sat. “Ow! Fuck's sake…” He rose quickly, rubbed his backside, set down his cup and ran his hands over the sofa cushion. “How is James, anyway? The writing?”
“About the same. What's wrong?”
Harry half-turned and held up a fist. It was holding a white plastic fork. Two of the tines had snapped off. “I'm guessing this isn't yours.” He dropped it onto the coffee table.
Tom set his mug beside Harry's, turned and began to clear the armchair, then lifted the cushion. A couple dozen forks clattered into the space it left behind. “Bastards.”
“He must be…” Harry grunted, turned and dropped another fistful of forks onto the table. “Must be shitting himself. The label-”
“Don't even go there.” Tom nodded at the pile. “That all of them?”
Harry shrugged, gave the cushions a last going-over before lowering himself cautiously onto the end one. He picked up his mug again and sipped at it, glanced over the rim at Tom. “You have your hands full enough with this band.”
Tom sighed as he reassembled the armchair. “I know.” He sat down, dabbed a finger at something on the surface of his tea and wiped it on his jeans. “It's just, we go back a long way.”
The drummer nodded, took another sip, then lowered his cup at the sound of a key in the front door. Something clattered on the floor, someone grunted, and there was a noise like the roof falling in. Tom and Harry jumped up and bolted for the hallway.
Danny shut the door, turned and grinned. “Eh up!” He poked a foot at the clutter of spruce beams and planks on the floor and nodded at Tom. “Shelves you wanted,” he said, and hefted a bright blue nylon bag off his shoulder. It clanked as it touched the floor. “Put them up this afternoon if you like.”
“Err,” Tom said.
“Eh, guess what?” Danny chuckled. “You know what Ikea calls this stuff?” He prodded it again with his foot, knelt down, picked up one of the wooded beams and ran a finger along the grain.“Go on, guess.”
Harry and Tom looked at each other, then shook their heads.
“Gorm!” Danny started laughing. “Brilliant! It's true, look in catalogue. So next time someone says you're-” He saw the expression on Tom's face and struggled to keep his own under control. “It were a bit busy down there. Almost got spotted a couple of times, but…” He lifted a plank, held it in front of his face. “Had my Gorm, so I hid behind it.” He looked from Tom to Harry and back again, and his grin faded. He nodded at Harry's mug. “Any chance of a cuppa?”
“Sorry, Danny.” Tom headed for the kitchen. Danny and Harry followed with a glance and a shrug to each other.
“Sorry,” Tom repeated as Danny entered the room, “the noise startled me.” He switched on the kettle and turned around. “Thanks for doing that for me,” he said, “You know what happened last time I tried any DIY.”
“The bowling ball?” Danny grinned as Tom went red. “Never understood how you didn't have a hammer but you did have a bowlin-”
“It was Dougie.”
“Speak of the devil,” Harry said from the window. He winced. “Ouch.”
Danny stood beside him. “Is that…”
The others nodded.
“He's been there all morning? Doing that, and you just…” Danny turned, went back into the hall. He let the wood in his hand clatter onto the pile and reached for the latch on the door. The others followed.
“Danny? What? You know what he's like.”
“We thought he'd want to be on his own.”
Danny paused with his hand on the latch and glared at them over his shoulder. “Trouble with you two sometimes. So busy thinkin and knowin, you never see what's right in front of you.” He pulled the door open and stamped out.
“Wait! What?” Tom stepped forward; the door shut itself, and he stopped and turned to Harry. “What?”
Harry shook his head. “Buggered if I know. Do we follow, or watch?”
They stared at each other for a second, then nodded. “Watch.” They headed back into the kitchen.
Three storeys below, Doug sat up, pushed himself onto his feet and fetched his board from the grass at the edge of the ramp. He set it down, rested one foot on it and aimed it towards the further of the two quarter-pipes. He pushed off and gained speed, brought his other foot up as he reached the curve. He rode it up, turned the board one-eighty and bore down on it, kicked himself thump-thump-thump along the plywood. Up the other end, turned again, faster, higher, turn, push, kick kick kick, crouch and flick and-
His board got away from him, flew away to the side as marine plywood rose up to meet his shoulder, his chest, his hip.
Danny let the garden door close behind him, watched Doug sit up, catch his breath and struggle back onto his feet, frowned as he limped to the side to retrieve his skateboard. He glanced up at the grey sky, heard the hollow rumble of the wheels and the thumps of Doug's Etnies against the plywood and blinked as the heavy drizzle stung his eyes. He lowered his head and set out across the garden, not towards the ramp, but towards the north-west corner. He kept walking as the rumbling behind him stopped, hardly flinched at the muffled thud that echoed round the garden.
He reached the path at the edge of the lawn, followed its meander to the clump of three young trees marking the end of the hedge that Tom said would one day hide the fence. The bed had only been planted a couple of weeks earlier, and the young plants looked small and lonely surrounded by bare earth. Danny knelt on the hard-packed gravel, and studied the patch of earth in front of him. It was more recently dug over than the rest, and a few leaves had fallen onto it along with sweet wrappers that had found their way over the fence. He reached down and picked the litter away, then smoothed the damp soil with his fingers. The drizzle grew heavier.
A pair of feet padded along the path, came to a halt close together beside him. Danny glanced down at the heavily scuffed shoes. His eyebrows flickered as he saw the scratches and bruises on the bare shins and calves. He patted the gravel, shifted away slightly and held his breath as Doug grunted and crouched beside him. Danny sighed softly, then waited while the boy settled and stopped panting.
“Shelly, my tortoise. You know how they sleep through winter, box of straw and all?” He glanced at Doug. “When I were twelve, no, thirteen, winter were really cold that year. Shelly…” Danny shook his head. “First time I'd seen it that cold, didn't think. He were always all right before. Thing is…”
A car door slammed on the other side of the fence, the engine started, revved, and faded into the distance.
“I were doing boxing then. Every bout, every training session after that, I'd get a right pasting, just seemed to walk into punches. Always went the distance, mind.”
Danny looked down at the flowerbed and nodded. “Time to stop now, mate,” he said. He turned his face towards Doug's, met his glare and glanced towards the skate ramp. “It's time to stop this.”
Doug stared at the patch of freshly-turned soil, until the tremble in his lip forced him to look away. He jumped up and stood shaking, poised to run. Danny got to his feet too, circled round Doug and pulled him close and whispered to him. Then, at long last, Doug let go.
The others got there moments later, one with an umbrella, the other with towels. Danny slackened his hold as Harry covered his shoulders with one, moved away to let the drummer wrap the other and himself around Doug.
“I'm sorry,” Harry said, “I didn't… Why didn't you say anything?”
Doug looked up, winced, grabbed Harry's wrists and tugged until the drummer eased his grip. “Same reason you don't.”
Tom draped his free arm across Danny's shoulders. “Hey Jones. What would I do without you?”
“You took your time.” Danny smiled. “Be late for your own funeral, you will. Oops.” He looked down at the flowerbed, reddened a little and glanced at Doug. “Right, where d'you want them gorms?”