War Bird

3. Instead of Just Dreaming.

"Now then." Asher sits half-in, half-out of his window, a fag dangling from his left hand. 

"Now then, Bam." I throw myself on his bed and flick through his FHM. 

"What was going on down there with you and Mr. P?"

"Oh, that," I snort, hoping the sound will somehow hide the fact my heart is still racing at a billion miles an hour. "I dunno, but I think your downstairs neighbour is an old perve."

"No surprise there." Asher takes one last drag and flicks the butt out of the window, then folds his long body back in through the window. His t-shirt rides up and I can see a long dark shape stretching down his side. Asher is averaging a new tat a month at the minute. He's not yet eighteen, so technically I guess it's illegal but Asher’s addicted to getting them. His big brother, Cole, runs a parlour on Fledge Street and does all Asher’s work for free. Says he'll do me a tat, any kind I want and won't charge me a penny. 

“New ink?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Mum showed me some old pics of the family back in Nigeria, like way, way back. They have all this sick artwork, tribal symbols and that. So I’m getting some on my side. My heritage, yeah?”

“Nice.”

“When you going to get inked? You’d look awesome.”

“Dunno.” I look back at the magazine, avoiding his gaze. I’m not scared of no needle, it’s just that a tattoo is permanent. I mean, I change my hair colour nearly every month because I get bored easy, and you can’t do that with tats. Once you’re marked, you’re marked for life. Anyway, I ain’t sure how I feel about them. My Dad had loads. He had a massive black bird across his back, a really gorgeous, lifelike image. He’d never told us what it was about neither. Surprise, surprise, just another little thing he kept from us. Asher’s watching me and I keep my face chill. How can I tell my best friend that all tattoos just remind me of my Dad too much for me to like them? He’d think I was crazy. I smile at him. “Mum’d love me if I did, right?”

“She’d forgive you,” he insists. I roll my eyes at him and go back to fake-reading FHM, sticking my tongue out at the bony, perfect model sticking her boobs out. I can feel Asher smirking at me. 

“I’ll think about it,” I say eventually.

"Eh, whatevs. Anyway, Ed just text me.”

"Cool, what we up to?"

Asher crosses to the other side of the room to flick on his stereo. Seconds later, Labrinth roars from the speakers. “Boys night,” he says and looks at me apologetically. “His Uncle’s doing his head in, so Ed wants to go on the pull and-”

“Okay, yuck. Say no more.” I cover my face with hands, laughing. “I don’t wanna know!”

There's a knock on the door then, and Ed pokes his big head in. I'm not being rude: Ed's head is just massive. There is actually no hat in existence that could fit that bushy noggin of his. He makes out like it's all brains too. As if. Don’t matter how much he combs or gels his hair, he will always remind me of a huge blond lollipop.

"Easy now," Ed says, his grey eyes twinkling. "Ash, your Mum says stop smoking in here 'cos you're stinking the flat up." Asher jumps up guiltily, flapping his arm up and down. Like that’ll make any difference.

“How’s your Uncle?” I ask Ed. Asher stops his flapping to smirk at him. “Come out of his cave yet?”

“Don’t start.” Ed rolls his eyes. His uncle is a sore point. I think I’ve met him once since I’ve been mates with Ed. Uncle Caleb’s not the friendliest of blokes, but he lets Ed do whatever he wants, so he can’t be that bad.