Bailey never played much sport. But the items covering every corner of her room suggested otherwise.
No particular team dominated the space. Instead everything was a patchwork of lines, colours, logos, creatures from myths and legends. Giants, warriors, bears and tigers nodded to baseballs and tennis rackets. Cricket bats and pool cues hung from the ceiling. Signed pictures of Barcelona strikers bunched up next to a jai alai wicker cesta.
Her Mum never minded us visiting, and Bailey’s bedroom was a fun place to crash if you had drunk too much vodka. I spent many hours with double vision exploring all those scarves and mascot cuddly toys.
The collection was in a constant state of flux. Sometimes when I went round Bailey teetered on a stepladder, in the process of swapping a pair of vintage rugby socks for a framed collection of ticket stubs. Even then she had dark rims around her eyes.
If I asked why she bothered with the changes, she would look around her room, flex her fingers, and say:
'There’s not enough variety.'
Change creeps in without you noticing. The next time I went round, black and grey dots studded the walls like cellar mushrooms. I looked closer, and realised they were badges and pins for teams I did not recognise. Teams with animals like pigs and goats as their mascots, or religious symbols upside down. A pile of books sat near her bed, and some of the covers had charred corners.
By my next visit a coating of football players leered at us from sun faded photos. All had long earlobes, and their necks displayed the oily sheen of cooked chicken skin.
Bailey sat against the wall in a baggy purple football shirt, a moth sewn into the badge on the right hand side. Those eyes so dark.
I should have done something. Taken her to the pub. Spoken to her mum. Ripped the new memorabilia from off the walls. It would have been worth losing her friendship.
The police chose a windy day to clear out her room. I watched from across the road. They appeared hurried and unprofessional, like the house was bakery hot. One let a box slip between his fingers, and in the scramble to repack no one noticed the poster dance across the pavement in the wind.
The faded football player wore a purple shirt, and his earlobes dangled to his shoulders. Burn marks stained the edges of the glossy paper. A few fans cheered in the background of the shot, hands raised in jubilation. All except one. A girl sinking back in her seat, dark circles around her eyes, looking as tired as if she had travelled ten thousand miles.
Line: Giants, warriors, bears and tigers nodded to baseballs and tennis rackets.
