But the melody was light, uplifting even, and the sample over the top, taken from one of those old Ealing comedies her gran loved, made her smile. “Could I trouble you for a light, Squire?”

The door opened with a knock. “All right, sis. Got any matches?”

“What’s the point of knocking if you’re going to come in anyway, Sam?”

“Ha. Were you dancing? Ha ha ha. Hands in the air cos you just don’t care!” He copied her, exaggerating the sway and skip, the praise-be arms that combined to create the drum and bass regulation move. He was good at it.

“Shut up,” she said, swiping him with her hand but missing as he dodged her. He had good reflexes for someone who spent so much time asleep, or hungover.

“If Hoggsy could see you now, eh?”She pretended not to hear. She’d have to see him soon

enough, her brother’s best friend. “Sorry about that, yeah? I heard. Shouldn’t you be

listening to Joni Mitchell?”It was unparalleled: that ability of his to irritate and crease

her up at the same time. She was laughing, now, in spite of herself and dancing again. The music was building as they danced together. Sam’s gangly arms took on a life of their own. He looked like one of Grandpa’s dusty old puppets, the ones they used to play with when they were little.

She closed her eyes, breathing in deep. She could feel her heart expand and lift. In the air, the slight hint of the sandalwood incense she’d burnt earlier was still there.

Bong, Bong, Bong. It was the gong, not cutting across her music, but mixing with it. That lovely sound of the copper vibrating, filling the whole house, punctuating the end of the chanting: 30 voices, fervent and relieved. The music too was fading out, sounding suddenly tinny. In the end, the brittle rhythm of the hi-hat was all that was left.

He hugged her and her nose reached his neck. That family smell, mixed with the ghost of rollies, and aftershave.

“Owwww! What are you? Twelve?” She rubbed the back of her head where his knuckle had given her a friction burn.

“You needed that. Best way to deal with pain: get yourself a new one.”

Her brother was off and out of the room before she could get him back.

M oo d M u s ic

A short story by ZoË Mcdonald

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S he turned the ghettoblaster up, but the sound of the gong and the hum of the chanting was still there, like audio underlay: the familiar white noise of the house on a Saturday. Comforting, really, though she complained emphatically about it if ever the olds asked,

grumbling about the status of their house as a ‘designated site of spiritual enlightenment’, as Sam put it, which meant all sorts of little pleasures were verboten: weed, parties, sleepovers. What was the point of having liberal parents if they didn’t let you do anything?

Sometimes she joined in with the meetings, sitting at the back. It was pretty good, being part of all those voices saying the same thing, over and over again. The neighbours called it ‘um diddle i’, and used to wind them up: “um diddle i, um diddle i….”

But today, she’d melted off to her room on her own. She wasn’t in the market for communal enthusiasm. Freshly dumped after a giddy end-of-summer romance. She had known it wouldn’t last, of course. Should’ve got in there first.

The bassline was dark and chimed with her melancholic mood. It was the sort of music she loved to dance to when she was out and even at its weedy volume on her Woolworths machine, it went straight to the pit of her belly. Moody.

ZoË Mcdonald is a writer and journalist who blogs on family

life at www.kidsgowild.wordpress.com. She’s working on her

first novel, which was shortlisted for the 2013 Marie Claire/

Harper Fiction Debut Novel Award.

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