Resolution Way (42 page)

No one speaks, the whole room shaking from the impact of falling into the gap between worlds.

I owe you an explanation, he says. It’s his voice, unmistakable. His mother raises a trembling hand to her mouth as she lowers herself into her chair.

Well, his father says, this better be a bloody good one.

Graeme Ferris starts walking, repeating his new name over and over to himself. The tower block is getting closer, there’s a flag he can’t make out flying from the top of the middle one, fluttering against a raw blue sky, must be early but, even so, as he gets closer, wafting in toward him on the breeze he can hear a rumble of bass, must be a sound system up there, the sound of people shouting and laughing, must have been an all-nighter. He walks past the idle factories and the vacant lots toward the sound of music.

A low wall and a group of people, empty cans of beer littering the grass, seventy or so of them.

Graeme Ferris approaches. Mate, he says to a young guy, top off, head shaved round the sides, Fila tracky bottoms tucked into his socks, Dunlop Flash.

Mate, Graeme says. Mate. I have been told I can crash here.

Vernon? The boy says.

Graeme nods slowly. Yeah, yeah.

Been expecting you, he pats the wall, reaches down between his legs and brings out a warm can of Crucial Brew, a few Deveretol in a plastic bubble pack. Sort yourself out, he says. Graeme cracks the can, drops two Deveretol; he feels his tiredness clear almost immediately, the day takes on a vivid hue, his thoughts settle and interlace, point forward.

What’s the tune? He asks. He likes it.

Old school tune from back in the day, rebooted. The drums and the bass are from a Trap 9 track.

Yeah that’s right, he knows this tune, can’t remember where from, a past life maybe. Nice one.

What’s the track called?

Now, well it used to be called
Dentine
, he says, but, his arm around Graeme, now it’s called
Resolution Way
, grinning, one of his teeth is missing.

He stands up and pulls Graeme Ferris up with him. Come on he says, join in, join in, come on everyone, everyone get up.

Join in.

Beautiful blue sky up there.

Get your war paint on! He shouts to group of girls lounging by one of the speakers.

They raise their cans back in salute.

You! Get your war paint on, join in the chant!

Thanks to Jackie and Niall for years of patient listening. Thanks to Alex Niven for his support and encouragement at every stage of the writing process. Thanks also to Mark Fisher, Owen Hatherley, Simon Reynolds, Dominic Fox, Nina Power and Tariq Goddard. Massive thanks to Jan Middendorp and Jenna Gesse for their hard work in the final stages.

is dedicated to the creation of a new reality. The landscape of twenty-first-century arts and letters is faded and inert, riven by fashionable cynicism, egotistical self-reference and a nostalgia for the recent past. Repeater intends to add its voice to those movements that wish to enter history and assert control over its currents, gathering together scattered and isolated voices with those who have already called for an escape from Capitalist Realism. Our desire is to publish in every sphere and genre, combining vigorous dissent and a pragmatic willingness to succeed where messianic abstraction and quiescent co-option have stalled: abstention is not an option: we are alive and we don’t agree.

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A Repeater Books paperback original 2016
1

Copyright © Carl Neville 2016

Carl Neville asserts the moral right to be identified
as the author of this work.

Cover design: Johnny Bull
Typography and typesetting: Jan Middendorp, Jenna Gesse
Typefaces: Chaparral Pro, Helvetica Neue, Absara Sans

ISBN: 978-1-910924-12-9
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-910924-13-6

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