Trumpet: A Novel (Vintage Contemporaries) by Kay Jackie

Author:Kay, Jackie [Kay, Jackie]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780307560810
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2011-07-19T16:00:00+00:00

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Since his father died, Colman has not seen any of his friends. He has cut himself off from them, cast himself adrift. Brady, Michael, Lucas, Sammy. Sammy is the most persistent. Leaves loads of messages on his machine; has been to his flat and pounded on the door. Colman can’t face him. He’s known Sammy the longest and Sammy knew his father well. Sammy will be gobsmacked.

For a year before his father died, Colman had been working as a courier on a motorbike. He liked it, wearing his big helmet. People made way for helmeted guys like himself. He could see them, but they couldn’t see him. It was like having a disguise. He could hide his laugh behind his visor. He liked the big leather gloves, the tall black boots, and the rest of the gear. It wasn’t the kind of gear he was used to wearing. It made him bigger. His presence loomed in the mirror in his hall. Nobody messed with him. People found him frightening. He found himself frightening. He could jump queues and nobody would challenge him. He could dart in and out of the traffic doing the fingers up to any of the stupid fuckers out there who didn’t realize they had a wing mirror. He’d whizz past them swearing and pointing first to their mirror and second to his helmet to let them know how stupid he thought they were.

When he was a courier, he felt liberated. Like he could suddenly act the part of the biker and nobody would know any better. Everybody hates bikers. He could just put the gear on and join the clan and nod at other bikers on the road. When he stopped to get a bacon roll, people would instinctively let him go in front of them. It was quite a discovery. Actually the rest of the couriers were just mild men like himself, but nobody let on. When he stopped to deliver a package and get a signature on his board, the signature was always written in a hurry and the door closed before he revved up and screamed away. He was always in a fucking hurry. You had to move fast to make any money. The money was crap actually. The bosses didn’t seem to realize they were working in a totally constipated city. People used to get around faster in London in the days of the fucking horse and carriage. You couldn’t even fart in Piccadilly.

The day after Colman saw his father in the funeral parlour, he went in to work. He thought it would keep him sane. He told the boss that his father had died and he said, ‘Sorry to hear that,’ and continued with what he was doing. So Colman just walked out. It made him angry. He felt angry at every fucker. He didn’t like any of the other couriers anyway. They could all go to fuck.

A new name and a new job, that’s what he’d like. A new start in life.

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