 
What Others are Saying about Hoodie

' _Wow! What a read! This is a superb book with everything thrown in the melting pot! Romance, drugs, crime, teenage angst and social commentary are cleverly interwoven to produce a superb book. Brendon Lancaster should be very proud!'_ ~ Self Publishing Magazine

' _...a top novel...'_ ~ Paddington and Westminster Times

'... _clockwork orange with a twist...would make a good film_ ...' ~ **John F.**

'... _a compelling dialogue and impressive depth of character development...a slightly surreal rites-of-passage...I particularly enjoyed the boys' relationships with the girls, which felt suitably confused and hormonal_.' ~ **H. Davis, Freelance Script Reader**

' _I have recently read your book 'Hoodie' with great pleasure. What a great book, with a breathtaking ending!'_ ~ **Emma Brocklehurst**

' _Brendon Lancaster's first novel is written well and I found myself feeling for the characters. Everyone will be able to relate to some aspect of the flawed personalities. But it must be noted that my favorite part to this novel was the last chapter -Can You See Me, where the author incorporates a personal poem. I found it poignantly emotional and authentic as well as an original concept to arrange an entire chapter that way as well as provide a clear and perfect ending to the story. I give this novel four out of five HOTS'_ ~ **Ami Blackwelder, Hot Gossip, Hot Reviews**

' _I thoroughly enjoyed this novel and could feel what must be the heartfelt sadness of a lot of teenage boys and girls. The loneliness of more than one character, although different personalities and different moral standards, gives not only teenagers someone to identify with, but a lot of broken adults. This is a book that I would happily give to my grandchildren to read and would hope that it would be used in schools giving students something educationally stimulating yet gripping that they and hopefully the tutors will associate with and maybe learn from.'_ ~ **Jean Hassan**

' _This is a great book and very well-written. The reader will want to it read in one sitting; I found it very difficult to put down. This is not a book for someone who wants fantasy and froth; in contrast it is brutal, gritty and honest. Hoodie is a book for and about today's generation. It tells of dreams, consequences and coming of age. Hoodie is not a particularly likeable character, but his vulnerability in the fact of the harsh reality of life is endearing. We will all find something of the protagonist in ourselves, and while that may horrify some of us, if we are honest, we have experienced some of what Hoodie has too'_ ~ Self Publishing Magazine

### Hoodie

by Brendon Lancaster

Copyright 2011 Brendon Lancaster. All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

Author website: <http://www.brendonlancaster.com/>

Cover artwork: <http://www.graffitiartist.com/>

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This book is available in print at most online retailers

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organisations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

Flying down the third floor stairwell at top speed and with minimal contact with the ground, Ben spun in a mid-air pirouette round the corner, his thin bony shoulder bouncing him off the tiled wall and landing him into the perfect position to leap the next ten steps in one go.

His lungs were bursting; his breath was shallow. The result was a mix of fear, adrenaline, thrill and sheer exhilaration, accompanied with a large dose of light-headed madness and a small dose of asthma for good measure. All triggered at having just pulled off the most daring and high-risk 'crime' imaginable. His lean, sinewy legs had never felt more powerful, propelling him at ever increasing speeds further downwards - at times leaping high over the shoulders of the unfortunate pupils who happened to get in his way - whilst his usually steady hands were shaky and barely able to control themselves. They flapped around at his sides, making his otherwise impressive athletic descent appear more like a bird attempting flight with wings ten sizes too small.

But this was no time for Ben to worry about grace. If he was to carry off this trick and escape being caught then speed was the only thing that mattered. And in the back of his mind he knew that being caught carried the risk of him never be able to walk again, let alone run. Or worse.

Although more than aware of the very real danger in which he had put himself, in an exercise of self-justification Ben's mind was busy processing whether what he had just done was strictly a crime. Is a theft a theft if the item in question was not supposed to be there in the first place? Or if its owner had no legal claim over it? Or the item itself was illegal?

Ben's mind was never at rest and he enjoyed testing himself with these brainteasers; in this case playing out the roles of both judge and jury. He quickly - almost instinctively - came to the impressively complex yet concise conclusion that although his actions were not in themselves illegal, he was perhaps at risk of being subsequently stopped and searched and being deemed illegal for different reasons. However, the risk of being stopped was far too minimal for him to worry about, and the punishment for being randomly caught and subsequently punished negligible. In any case, the rewards from his efforts and the exhilaration he was feeling provided him with the moral justification needed to press ahead so determinedly. These matters were simply off limits for your regular law enforcers, and subject to the basic law of the jungle – survival of the fittest (or he with the sharpest wit). Legal irrelevances aside, the immediate threat of being caught by the victim of his so-called crime continued to dominate the forefront of his mind. He switched his focus back towards his escape.

As he sped round the last turning before the exit on the stairwell he found he was blocked by a group of dawdling year 10 students. His mind racing, and hopping impatiently from foot to foot, Ben started hyperventilating. His frustration wasted no time in welling upwards from the pit of his empty stomach through his torso into an authoritative, reverberating scream;

'Get out my fucking way! Noooow!'

The sound of his voice left even Ben impressed with the tone of urgency he'd managed to convey. In reaction, the boys instantaneously turned their heads round, their wide eyes and crouched positions betraying their shock and fear like scared rabbits. Ben smiled to himself as he regained momentum and sprung through an emerging gap between the boys, pushing them towards the tiled brick walls. In the process, he tripped on a carelessly outstretched limb which knocked his centre of gravity off balance. He landed with a tumble and a thud on the ground floor, just a couple of metres from Paddington Comprehensive School's exit, knocking his left hand, elbow, shoulder and head in the process.

Sprawled face down on the floor, Ben looked at the palm of his hand. It was grazed with the impact of landing awkwardly on the polished floor and burnt intensely. He realised that this would be the last time he would ever leave this establishment which he had come to detest so much over the past five years. Moving with the sure confidence of an actor relishing the fact his lead scene has arrived, Ben picked himself up slowly from the floor and turned to take one last look at the place where he had spent 'the best days of his life'. An involuntary contemptuous sneer worked its way across his face in remembrance of those 'best days'.

As he looked around, the entrance lobby to the school looked smaller and somehow different - almost pathetic in comparison to the draining effect it had exerted on him on a daily basis. Peggy, the school secretary, was sitting behind her protective glass-fronted box of an office, apparently unconscious of anything going on outside it. A few students who were milling about idly now stared at him, wondering what the commotion was about. The pile of now pissed-off students were starting to pick themselves up from the stairs, and the group glared back at Ben with a mixture of looks which managed to convey not only their anger at being pushed over, but also their disgust and contempt for him. Ben took their expressions as a personal affront. One of the bigger lads held his hand over another's chest and was muttering something quietly into his ear to the effect of 'leave it'.

Turning squarely to face them all, and having forgotten about his burning palm, he smiled at them. His head became dizzy with a sense of euphoria as the realisation that he would never have to return to Paddington Comprehensive began to sink in. He cocked his head back slightly, pushed forward his bony rib cage in defiance and took a small but very confident step towards the rabble on the stairs. Almost comically, his step forward was mirrored precisely by their heads moving backwards and their eyes glancing downwards submissively. He despised them all.

Ben's power restored, and having savoured the moment for long enough, he changed tack. Quick as a flash, he threw a stiff middle finger upwards and screamed: 'FUCK. YOU. ALL!' at the top of his lungs. Turning to make his grand final exit, he heard a distant voice booming from within the building.

'HOODIE? HOODIE? IS THAT YOU? I'LL RIP YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF FOR THIS!'

Ben's blood ran cold in reaction to the deep tones of 'Papa Tee', otherwise known as Trevor, the most ruthless, violent and volatile wannabe drug dealer in the whole school. Ben had always laughed to himself at the fact that this 6' 2" muscularly built thug had been blessed with the name Trevor. No one called him that, of course. At least not to his face.

The last boy who, in a state of nervous laughter, dared call him Trevor was Gary Connor from class 9 and he ended up on the receiving end of a black snooker ball inside a sock while having a smoke in the school's outdoor toilets. Cracked a small dent in his skull, it did.

The story had it that Gary had challenged the need to cough up on demand to Papa Tee's 'taxation system' when told to hand over his cigarettes, on the naïve basis that it wasn't fair. Fair? Hmmf! What an unrealistic expectation.

Papa Tee had not responded well to being questioned and, in his usual off-this-planet-I'm-a-nutter manner, explained to Gary in monosyllabic tones that those who live by the sword die by the sword, and as Gary was smoking when he was not supposed to, he had therefore opted out of the boundaries of any normal sense of the rules of fair play and stepped into different territory.

Gary realised too late that he had pushed his point too far by trying to laugh off Papa Tee's thinly veiled threats. To make matters worse, he foolishly invited near suicide by addressing him as 'Trevor' in an attempt to reason with him on an equal man-to-man basis. Bad move.

Papa Tee (let's stick to the name he's best known by) pulled out of his blazer pocket a black snooker ball with the word 'white' tipp-exed across it, popped it into a spare sock he just happened to have in his left pocket, and coolly and calmly (some would say cold-bloodedly) started preaching something about the strength of the black ball and the weakness, temporariness and insignificance of the white writing upon it. Without any outward display of emotion, (according to the other boys present, who had by that time retreated into the cubicles) Papa Tee swung his weighted sock over his head and brought it, with full force, down onto the top of Gary's skull.

The sound of the impact was not loud, but haunting. It did not sound dramatic or even human, but dull and inanimate. The lasting memory from this incident was the whispered recollections from those viewing in horror through cracks in cubicles, who saw Gary's body slump to the ground like a lifeless rag doll, arms limp by his sides and head askew. A thick steady flow of blood oozing from the side of his head had left his cowering friends with no illusions of the reality of the situation. The only one unaffected by the situation was Papa Tee and, to a lesser extent, his sidekick Smudge who had remained silent throughout.

Whilst Gary lay motionless and his fellow pupils stayed silent behind cubicle doors, Papa Tee had turned and nodded to Smudge who obediently knelt down, frisked Gary's breast pockets, and pulled out an open packet of ten Lambert and Butler. One of the boys watching was Dave who had reported the incident back to Ben.

Two operations, four months off school, a droopy face and slurred speech for life for ten poxy Lambert and Butler.

Although the incident did not attract great local media coverage (it got a couple of lines in the local Independent), Paddington Comprehensive's (and, to those in the know, Papa Tee's) reputation had become legendary to teachers and pupils alike. Police had been called in, but no one talked. No names were mentioned. Some cited the possibility of slippage on wet flooring against one of the porcelain sinks as being the cause. School governors were not prepared to take action in the absence of any concrete evidence. Although they had their suspicions, none of the teachers were prepared to suggest the involvement of the bully with the biggest list of unsubstantiated allegations against him.

Gary could not or would not admit to remembering anything. His parents were left angry and in despair. No justice was ever served. Mr Peters, the headmaster in denial, had eventually caved into parents' demands for action by writing out to all outlining the school's policy on bullying. Following which, Ben's nickname of 'the chocolate teapot' for Mr Peters caught on well.

From that day onwards, Papa Tee domineered over the school as if he had been dealt a 'get out of jail free' card. Teachers (yes, all of them) turned a blind eye to his activities (or those of Smudge and his growing number of followers). 'Tax' was put up and pupils unquestioningly accepted his increased demands for cigarettes, money (20% of anything found in their pockets was considered kind), biscuits, homework assignments, errands and whatever else he asked for.

Ben had always felt that boys-only schools were unhealthy for many reasons. He remembered reading somewhere that girls were a necessary calming influence on boys and that without them, boys would always revert to being barbarians. His experience over the years had not given him any reason to doubt this theory. However, despite Papa Tee's increased air of authority and overbearing physical presence, his actions had only served to intensify the feeling of disgust and unjustness Ben felt towards him.

Today was payback, and Ben had just hit him right where it hurt most.

Luckily, Ben had never attracted much attention from Papa Tee, who had largely chosen to leave him be, given that he was too small and thin to present any real physical challenge and visibly too poor to present any financial opportunity. As long as Ben remained submissive, spoke only when he was spoken to, and showed respect when it was demanded, he was dealt the usual verbal threats alone. Ben was clever enough to know how to follow the line of least resistance in his dealings with him. But that did not alter his deep-rooted feelings of injustice and the need to retaliate against him on behalf of every poor sod he had terrorised. The fact that Papa Tee was in the sixth form firstly to retake last year's exams by virtue of being so thick and, secondly, to retain his captive admirers, victims and customers (his corrupt empire was sufficiently bright to realise that selling drugs was the quickest way to get rich quick) had only intensified this need for revenge.

Flashing a final wink to the crowd on the stairs and sounding a cocky click from within his cheek, Ben sped towards the exit and ran as fast as he could through the school doors towards the perimeter gates. He continued to sprint down Bishops Bridge Road, taking huge strides as his clenched fists drove invisible prongs into the ground propelling him even faster forward. As he approached the upward slope towards the iron bridge which ran over Paddington rail tracks he glanced over his shoulder to see Papa Tee outside the school gates, some 800 metres away, searching for him. Ben continued over the peak of the bridge, safe in the knowledge that he would soon be out of sight. His pace slowed to a gentle run. He spat out a mouthful of phlegm the size of which only teenage boys seem able to produce. His buttocks ached. His chest and back were overheating and soaked with sweat underneath his trademark zipped hooded top. By the time he reached the outside of the Crypt his frail frame was almost giving up on him.

Panting heavily, he leant against the wall surrounding the grounds of the disused church and glanced in all directions for fear of being spotted. When he was sure no one was watching, he pulled himself up the wall by the black railings and leapt sideways over the top of the fence, landing on the grass below. He jogged lightly past the gravestones and jumped down onto a ledge which led to a disused entrance in the church's basement. He edged his way round the piles of rubbish, breathing as shallowly as he could to avoid the stench of pissy ammonia until he came to a big black arched door with a huge padlock and chain strung across. The chain was thick and the padlock strong, but Ben knew his way around. Effortlessly, he flipped the screwless hinges off their foundations, leant on the door and squeezed his way in, closing the door tightly behind him and leaving it looking secure to anyone who might happen to be passing.

Once inside, Ben felt relieved and safe. Although the Crypt was windowless, its pitch black surroundings and total silence carrying an eerie edge, to Ben, he felt he had reached his spiritual home. The familiarity of the damp stench gave him the reassurance he needed. He had reached his destination.

As soon as his breathing had slowed to a steady wheeze he took his phone out of his pocket and switched on its light to get his bearings. He glanced round his surroundings and acknowledged the chalky arched brick corners leading on to the labyrinth of pathways which wove their way round the underground of the disused church. Having located his points of reference, Ben switched off the light on his phone and headed down the right hand corridor, running his hand along the brick wall as a guide. Twenty metres forward, a left turn, through the brick arch on the right and two steps upwards and down a narrower passage took him to another doorway. He switched the light on his phone back on and was about to turn the handle when he heard a cough from within.

'Waaayyyyyy', he shouted as he flung the door open and threw his hands up in the air in triumph.

'Yaayyyyy', shouted the rest of the Shady Boys in return, shining beams of torchlight into his face.

'Hoodie, yer wanker. Yer not dead then?' joked Dave.

Doing a little dance on toes and wiggling his fingers in the air, Ben replied: 'Lighter fingers than Freddie the light-fingered fiddle player, my friend. Smoother than Silky the silk worm in silk pyjamas. Quieter than...' He paused. '...something fucking quiet...' he continued, collapsing into laughter.

'Quiet?' laughed Dave. 'We could hear you wheezing all the way down the corridor. And we heard you trip up at least twice,' he teased, much to the amusement of the others. 'Don't count yourself 'Double O Hoodie' yet, mate.' Animated chuckles filled the room.

'Well, did you do it, or what?' Dave asked, showing his impatience.

'You telling me you ever doubted the power of 'The Hood'?' Ben teased. 'I'm telling you, you would not believe what I have just put myself through. I nearly shit myself at one point. In fact, check this out...'

Ben grimaced as he leant back and rummaged around in the back of his baggy jeans, wiggling his knees forward and outwards. Dave, Luca and Mo stared at him in confusion and anticipation. Ben, with one eye half closed and his face stretched out long, smiled and looked relieved as he pulled out two glistening dark brown chocolate-coloured chunks the size of large bars of soap. The dim torchlight and overlapping shadows thrown within the room made it difficult to discern what was being produced as Ben slapped the slabs down on the salvaged table in front of him.

'Christ, he really did shit himself,' blurted Luca.

'Don't be a plank,' hushed Dave, adopting a low, serious tone. His eyes widened as he frowned and moved closer to inspect Ben's spoils. His mouth hanging open in disbelief, he whispered 'I don't believe it! Look at this shit. This is bigger than I expected. Two brand spanking new bars of the finest paki black money can buy - no offence, Mo - have you ever seen something like this before?'

'None taken. Half Lebanese remember?' said Mo.

Luca looked blank but stared fixedly at the slabs of hash, waiting for someone to speak. Mo leant forward to level himself with Dave, shook his head slowly, and said: 'This is serious stuff we've started here.'

Ben, still on an adrenaline rush from the day's events, broke the sombre direction of moods by adopting a Southern American drawl and announcing '...Aaaaannnd not only that, ladies and gentlemen, but tonight we have something a little special for you...check out these curlies.' With which he shoved his hand down the front of his jeans and pulled out a sealed food bag stuffed full of loose skunk, some ready-wrapped deals of hash, a few smaller see through bags containing what looked like off-white raisin sized rocks, and a fistful of twenties.

'This, my friends, is not only the end of school life as we know it, but the start of a summer of lurve' said Ben, beaming from ear to ear. The others, still in state of stunned silence but under the spell cast by Ben's energy, sat back and stared in wonderment at the booty before them.

****

Chapter 2

'Come on guys, let's get this party started' said Ben as he opened the food bag and removed one of the lumps of hash.

'Whoa, this stuff is intense,' he said inhaling the pungent aroma of the tightly packed skunk inside. Luca unscrewed a litre bottle of white table wine and passed round plastic cupfuls; there were some advantages to living above the family restaurant. Dave threw packets of crisps onto the others' laps. Ben passed the small brown lump of hash to Mo.

'Do your stuff, Mo'.

The room inside the Crypt had been the perfect discovery for the boys who had previously used a large willow tree near the Italian garden in Kensington Gardens to meet up and use as the centre of their activities. The tree had been their main meeting point for years, right back to their more innocent days at Junior school together, and had been the focal point for many happy evenings and weekends perfecting roller-skating skills, playing frisbee, football and general larking around. As time passed, it also became their preferred alternative to secondary school. Its location had also helped establish their self-proclaimed nickname of the Shady Boys with their reputation for being a bright bunch of witty loafers. 'Shady Boys' had gone down particularly well at the time as their naming had coincided with Eminem's release of 'The Real Slim Shady' which was an instant hit at school.

However, Ben, Dave, Mo and Luca each attracted attention in his own right for wit, sporting skills, natural expertise at the latest fad, or just plain old good looks. Collectively, their combination meant that they were considered the coolest group to hang around with and many wanted to join the Shady Boys clique. They may have had their admirers and hangers-on but no one had ever been allowed into their inner circle. Boys wanted to be like them, and girls wanted to be with them. But as they entered their teens and the testosterone-filled bravado of teenage rivals started to encroach on their space, the indoor privacy of the Crypt became better suited to their needs. Recently, they had even withdrawn to the damp, dark environment of the Crypt in preference to their other favourite haunt – the skating bowls underneath the Westway flyover. The introduction of CCTV cameras 'for the safety of its visitors' signalled the death of yet another perfectly safe and peaceful underground haunt. The final nail in its coffin was when corporate sponsorship in the form of Sony Playstation moved in. That left them feeling that it was not their own space any more. And the boys needed their privacy in order to keep feeling free.

So the Crypt had become their number one meeting place and was now well kitted out since Luca first discovered it in an urgent and desperate hunt to find some seclusion one night for an adoring date – who was madly passionate too, if Luca's version of events was to be believed. Since then, it had become a useful and regular haunt. Of course, Luca - with the romantic flair of a true Italian - had been the first to introduce some furnishings by way of a few old cushions to sit on. And some bedding 'for the colder months'. Dave had added some small chairs and side tables that his carpenter Dad picked up as surplus from his jobs. Mo had brought down his iPod docking station and speakers which, with each other's company added, gave the boys everything they needed. In an attempt to demonstrate their civilised manners they had even added a bucket in the corner to remove the need to piss up against the wall and prevent the stale damp air from smelling any worse. The boys argued that the bucket's presence also provided good insurance against fire hazards.

'Seeing as you are today's hero,' Mo said in his deep, precise manner, 'I am going to make you something very special to commemorate this occasion in your honour.' His long dark fingers pulled a pack of Rizlas out of his shirt pocket. 'But get this fucking wine out of my face for starters. Did no one bring me my Coke?' Mo turned round to set his iPod up and selected _Notorious B.I.G._ by _Biggie Smalls_. He beamed up at Ben and said: 'This one's for you' just as it kicked off with the Duran Duran hit single sample _'...No.. no.. notorious! No.. no.. notorious...'_. Mo's music collection was vast and he had a knack of picking tunes to match moods. He was also quick to copy any CDs he or his friends liked onto his home PC and iPod, which now contained over 20,000 tracks, carefully catalogued, and spanning all genres. His collection had become well known for being large and varied, with an impressive collection of present and past music, matched only by his extensive knowledge of artists and groups. He had recently been going back in time and building up his retro section by obtaining a season ticket to Westminster libraries and starting the process of copying their entire music collection - just for fun. Ben approved Mo's choice of tune and sat down, lips pursed and chin bobbing up and down in time with the music.

Dave laughed and produced a litre of Diet Coke from behind his chair and passed it to Mo with a fresh plastic cup. It was a running joke between the boys that Mo refused to let a drop of alcohol pass his lips ('my Dad'd fucking kill me'), especially as he had no such qualms about following the path of a weed connoisseur. His flawed logic was based on the belief that weed was a natural plant product and not necessarily a drug in the same way as alcohol was. The others suspected the fact that Polos could mask the evidence of weed much more effectively than it could alcohol was more of a factor in his reasoning. That point aside, they all respected and understood the influence of Mo's father ('call me Huss') even if he had left the family home. Despite divorcing (amicably), he still lived locally and had remained a tower of strength and good father to Mo, leaving him wanting for nothing. His import/export business had continued to thrive, and he had even managed to find time to settle down with a pretty younger wife, who - after seeing her - the boys were pretty taken with. Despite Huss's strict Muslim beliefs, he was also very accepting and friendly towards Dave, Luca and Ben, all of whom liked him. He was a good guy. But he did not tolerate alcohol. Mo described himself as being like his Coke: 'Muslim Lite - a watered down version of the real thing, which meant he did pretty much what he wanted.

Mo took a sip of his Diet Coke and put the cup carefully down on the side of the table. In ritualistic silence, he took two Rizla papers and stuck them together to form a square with one gum strip left exposed down the side. He took a third paper and stuck it face down to the ends of the first two and placed it in the middle of the table. He removed a Marlboro Light from a packet in his pocket, licked it butt upwards, pulled the moist strip of paper off the cigarette and emptied its contents into the Rizlas. His big brown eyes twinkled, their corners creasing up as he looked over at Ben with an admiring half-smile. He put the cigarette butt behind his ear, tucking his loose black curls back in the process and started to warm the corner of the hash with his Zippo. The lump started to smoke slightly as its edges singed, throwing a small puff of smoke into the air and releasing a musky aroma into the room. Luca rubbed his hands together as Mo pulled a small penknife out of his back pocket and used it to scrape fine crumbs of hash off the block and sprinkle them up and down the line of tobacco. Then, with all the speed and skill of a magician, Mo added a sprinkling of sticky skunk, popped in a roach, rolled the joint up and down, gave it a lick and a twist and held it upright in front of Ben.

'Look at the top, Ben. This is a knee-trembler with a little extra. I am calling this one "The Hoodie".' The paper twist at the top of the cone-shaped spliff had been moulded perfectly to form a small hood.

'Gee, thanks buddy,' said Ben in mock-American accent as he took the spliff from Mo and placed it into the corner of his mouth.

'Time to blaze up and prepare for lift off,' he said before lighting the hooded tip, creating a second flame momentarily and inhaling deeply. Grey-blue smoke spiralled upwards. The atmosphere in the Crypt was hypnotic.

Ben took a couple more draws and winced before passing the joint on to Mo. Dave knocked back his drink and poured himself another while he waited for his toke. His trainer heel bounced up and down in time with the music. Luca did what he did best and just sat back looking cool, his chiselled features framed neatly by the long thin line of beard which started just below his ear, traced the edge of his jaw and ended up in a pencil-thin goatee which framed his mouth. His gelled back black hair glistened in the limited light. He sipped at his drink and stared blankly ahead, as if watching the world go by from some Milanese café rather than sitting in a damp basement in West London.

Mo turned slowly to adjust his iPod to his signature _Ganja Smugglin'_ by _Eek-a-Mouse_ and exaggerated his facial movements as he drew and inhaled deeply on the joint. Without fail, Mo always played that retro tune for himself when taking a fresh smoke and its appeal had not aged over time.

'Mmmm. Not bad,' he commented. The slow tinny bass of Eek-a-Mouse echoed round the room while Mo held a mouthful of smoke and twisted his mouth shape round to make the smoke slide up his face and into his hair.

'... _Bong Bong Bidi Bong Bong Bidi Bong Bong Bidi Me'hen. Bong Bong Bidi Bong Bong Bidi Bong Bong Bidi Me...'_ started the comical 'lyrics'. Mo's Lebanese father had passed on a look which made it difficult to judge where his genes originated from. His skin was a clear and smooth cappuccino colour. His hair was somewhere between dark brown and black with loose curls. He had big dark brown eyes framed by strong eyebrows and - it has to be said - unusually long eyelashes for a boy. Although his Mum was as English as they come, Mo could get away with claiming to be from anywhere from the Middle East to North Africa or even the West Indies. He knew this, and slyly played on it to his advantage whenever it suited him. It broadened his appeal to others, enabling him to engage - and appease when necessary – a wide range of people at school. And the resulting devilish mix of Johnny Depp/Ronaldhino he was left with meant girls would often target him as their first choice amongst the boys. Something that he readily acknowledged but rarely acted upon. _'...Early, early Sunday morning it was a big ganja smug-er-ling...'_ continued Eek-a-Mouse _'...One by one, load up de van, all of-a ganja it ram...Put it on a plane, the weed gaan a Spain...Money jus' pour like rain...'_. Mo clicked a smoke ring out from his mouth before handing on the joint on to Luca.

'Dat stuff is really mellow, you know,' he said through the expanding circle of smoke.

Luca squinted through the smoky atmosphere and took the joint by his thumb and forefinger, cupping it protectively within his hand. Flecks of ash fell onto his stylish short-sleeved shirt. He took a draw and blew the ash away with a fine trail of smoke.

'Ahhhhh. Das better,' he commented.

Luca had managed to incorporate an Italian lilt to his accent, more to complete the package than through family upbringing. He was London born and bred and spoke no more Italian than the rest of the gang but the overall Italian sound and image served him well with girls.

Dave, betraying his impatience for a smoke with the speed at which his second drink was disappearing, asked Mo and Ben whether they thought the hash was any good. They had often debated the pros and cons of different weed purchases in the past and Ben always struggled to answer honestly. Mostly it was all new, smelt musky to varying degrees, and took him to a more relaxed place. If he was asked what _effect_ it had on him, he could have talked for hours providing colourful and entertaining descriptions. But was it any good? That was a bit more difficult. So he copped out from directly answering Dave and turned to Mo for an opinion.

Mo, adopting the plummy tones of Prince Charles, said: 'Well, I don't really know how to respond to this. Does one admit one's inner joy and contentment at the smooth taste and aromatic aromas by saying "fantastic"; or does one retain one's grandeur by dismissing this exquisite blend as goat shit? I simply don't know. Gold dust or goat shit? What's it to be?' Luca found this impression hilarious and spluttered in mid-inhalation, leaving himself coughing violently for half a minute. A gob of phlegm fired onto the opposite wall eventually drew his noisy spasm to a close.

Ben, eager to play off Mo's humour, mimicked a Jilly Goolden tone in response and, using his hands to animate his description, replied: 'Well, if I'm not mistaken this particular product originates from an old tribesman in Afghanistan called Wizard Whitebeard.' He widened his eyes to emphasise seriousness and rabbit-sniffed the smoke hanging in the air.

'Yes. I can see it all now. Wizard Whitebeard collects only the finest leaves from the finest cannabis plants – like PG tips, actually – grinds them into a paste and heats them into the hottest, stickiest, ickiest goo you've ever seen.' Switching to a David Bellamy impression he continued 'Once thin enough, this goo then changes in molecular stwucture to welease it's full psychotic potential pwesenting us with this fine form of wesin we have before us today.' Mo, Luca and Ben collapsed into fits of laughter.

'It's impossible to get a serious answer out of you two when you're like this. Give it here,' said Dave, taking the joint off Luca.

'Wizard Whitebeard...,' choked Luca, with tears now streaming down his face. '...Where's Wally?...tss tss tss.'

Dave ignored the others' mirth and looked huffy. He wanted to talk business. Out of the group Dave was the biggest and strongest. He had excelled in just about every sport he played at school, making his most notable achievements in athletics and the football team (where he was nicknamed Dangerous Dave). His looks were plainer than the striking features of Mo and Luca, but he accessorised to compensate. Adidas tracksuits were his usual garb, as was his white Nike baseball cap over his shaved head. He had a gap in his left eyebrow as a result of a clash of heads on the pitch which, despite the 'chavvy' jibes, he was quite proud of. He was what some might call slightly rough and ready. And as is so often the case with sports minded souls, he was driven by ambition and totally focused on winning, but was not necessarily the brightest.

'Before we start this Summer of Love, we need to sort out what we're going to do with this lot,' Dave said, tipping his head towards the two blocks of hash and bag of pic 'n' mix on the table.

'Did Papa Tee see you? If he knows it was you he'll come looking for you and we need to be prepared.'

Ben managed to reassure the group that he had not been seen and retold his version of events, exaggerating himself into being some form of modern-day Robin Hood in the process. He slightly overplayed the bit about someone needing to stand up to him, given that he had been totally clandestine in seeking revenge, but there was no doubt that he had 'done good' given the risks involved.

The operation had been planned some six weeks earlier in June, following the end of exams. It had been made well known through the school's jungle grapevine that Papa Tee would be taking the opportunity to stock up on his supplies for the benefit of his customers on the last day before the summer holidays started. Dave, Ben, Luca and Mo had all agreed that not having to see him again (providing he decided not to return for his inevitable retakes) would be sufficient reward to mark the end of term and their time together at school. But they also agreed that the icing on the cake would be if they could hit him where it hurt most and deprive him of his most precious treasure just when was relying on it most. That would be the least he deserved in return for all the misery he had caused to so many others at Paddington Comprehensive, especially Gary Connor.

The last week of school had been billed as both 'Activities Week' and 'Work Experience Week' largely for the benefit of parents as it meant that, with exams out of the way, pupils could turn up when they liked and attend which classes they wanted. This meant vast numbers of pupils sitting around in the resources unit playing computer games, idly surfing the internet and updating their Facebook profiles. Which - for some professions - was probably all the 'work experience' they needed.

On the last day of this tedious week, the boys had deliberately split up to avoid being seen together. Dave was in the playground showing off and kicking a ball about with some others. Mo had retreated to the arts and crafts studio to take part in a still life painting exercise and Luca had opted to join the geeks in a computer games championship.

Ben had made his way to the upper floor of the building where he could hear Papa Tee and his cronies laughing and joking. Papa Tee was as loud and vocal as ever, wearing a yellow string vest as an alternative to the school uniform, which no-one wore in full, and wearing a heavy gold bracelet, displaying the proceeds of his ill-gained cash. He looked muscular in the vest but the overall effect was gaudy. His glinting gold tooth completed the look. As Ben passed him silently in the hallway he glanced sideways and noticed that he was flashing around a handgun (replica or not, he could not be sure) in pure wannabe-gangsta style in front of his gormless hangers on. That was unexpected and new, he thought to himself.

They had all piled into the makeshift cinema room to catch the DVD showing of Goodfellas. Ben had positioned himself on his own in the far corner of the room. As the lights went out and the film started, Papa Tee's attention left his trainer bag which he had looped round the leg of his chair and turned to fiddling with the new toy on his lap. Before eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness of the room and whilst minds were focused on the opening scenes of the film, Ben had seized his opportunity, crouched down and edged his way along the back of the room towards Papa Tee's chair. He had carefully unzipped the bag and gripped two fistfuls of its contents, shoving them down his jeans before heading back to his seat. He had then managed to spend the rest of the film in a fearful sweat, staring blankly at the screen. When the film finished and the lights went back on, the room was full of boys stretching and yawning. Apart from Ben, who was wide-eyed and alert. Making a point of being the first to rise, Ben had strolled straight past Papa Tee unable to resist pointing out that his bag was unzipped as he made his way towards the exit - the final cherry on the icing on the cake. Then began his mad dash to safety.

'So what we gonna do with it now?' Ben asked, nodding towards the stash in the middle of the room.

'For your – er, our – peace of mind, we gotta make sure no one finds out we got it,' cautioned Mo. ''specially if that nutter is walking round with a gun now. This stays between the four of us. Right?'

'No problemo,' replied Luca

'That's a whole lotta dope we've got, though. How much is there?' asked Dave. Mo picked one of the slabs and flipped it round in his hand.

'It's a neat, uncut block. Must be a half kilo, I reckon'

'Phe-ew...' winced Ben. 'How much is that worth?'

'Difficult to say,' said Mo authoritatively, 'but supposing each block contains twenty ounces...hmmm...twenty ounces. Fifty pounds per ounce...errrr... a grand each? Plus whatever's in that other bag. Maybe two and a half grand altogether.'

'Whoa!' said Dave 'That's a fair bit of wonga. It's gotta be worth at least three grand then, with some careful cutting and weighing', he said winking and grinning from cheek to cheek.

'Careful, Dave,' warned Mo. 'Don't you think that Papa Tee will have already spread the word that his stash is missing? We can't just go round flogging this to anyone we want without word getting back. It'll bounce straight back to Ben and I'm not having that.'

''S'true,' added Ben, as the consequences of his actions started to sink in. 'We've got to be very careful. Lie low for a while. We can't tell anyone about this.'

'Okay, okay, I know,' said Dave. 'But we're not gonna smoke all of this ourselves. And it'd be a crime not to share such quality with others, especially when there's so much money to be made...'

'So what we gonna do?' chipped in a sleepy looking Luca, barely able to keep up.

'We say nothing to no one,' said Dave. 'We deal with no one direct. I've got a couple of lads who I can trust from the team to sell for us. We lie low for a week or two and then I'll tell them I've found a cheap supply and drip feed them cuts off these babies to sell in blocks for fifty pounds. They can pass it on, and make whatever profit they can from under-weighing. That way, we get some money, they get their cut and if Papa Tee gets wind someone else is selling, we got an early warning buffer system in place. Agreed?'

Ben, Mo, and Luca exchanged silent glances.

'I'm not 100% happy, but what does Ben think?' said Mo.

'If you guys are happy, I'm happy,' said Ben, starting to feel warm and giddy from the effects of the joint. 'If we got spliff, plus a little pocket money for the summer, then that's fine with me. But no one touches the rocks, okay?'

'Okay,' the others echoed back in unison.

'So here's a little something to start off with then,' said Ben, dealing out three twenty pound notes to each.

'Well, I iz glad we got dat sor'ed out,' said Luca curling up into a pile of giggles on some cushions. 'You da best, Hoodie!'

****

Chapter 3

It took less than an hour of smoking and joking to sip their way through the remaining wine (Dave glugging the lion's share), leaving Mo feeling like a rich man with over a litre of Diet Coke left in front of him to soothe his hash-dry thirst, when they heard a click, click, click, click coming down the corridor.

'Shhhh! Wassat?' twitched Ben, nervously. Mo instantaneously sharpened up to a state of readiness.

'Relaaaax...' said Dave 'It's probably da entertainment Luca and me organised.'

'If dey 'aven't forgetten da way since yesterday,' grinned Luca.

Mo flashed them a disapproving glance, whisked the dope off the table, and tucked it into a cavity created by a missing brick in the corner of the room. With the limited light it would be impossible to pick out. Two loose ready rolled joints were left in the centre of the table.

'Dis way ladeez,' called out Luca. Click, click, click, continued the sound, as Chloe and Hannah tottered in.

'Pooh! So what you guys up to then?' said Hannah. 'It stinks in here.' She looked at the joints on the table and nodded knowingly. 'No wonder!'

'Cooor, they don't call you Bullet for nothing, do they,' said Dave. Hannah responded by tipping her head sideways and forcing a sarcastic smile.

'So why the silence? We not interrupting anything are we?' Hannah enquired.

'Private conversation,' lied Luca. 'Wanking techniques.' He smirked smugly to himself at his blatant attempt to shock.

'Was just saying how left hand is good,' said Dave, playing along. 'Feels like someone else.'

''Cause no-one else is gonna touch it, are they?' dismissed Chloe.

'I tell you, honey. One 'and is not enough for my monster,' boasted Luca.

'Oh, here we go,' said Hannah rolling her eyes. 'Boys and their little toys...'

'But I is serious...' continued Luca. 'I need at _least_ two hands to tame my beast.' He leant forward suggestively, all wide eyed and eyebrows raised in earnest trying hard to maintain an air of seriousness.

'You wish,' said Chloe dismissively. 'You sure you don't need tweezers instead?'

Luca laughed and declared with all seriousness: 'Da only implement I ever use is a hairdryer.'

'What?' Chloe said, screwing her face up in confusion.

'Yeh. To turn the pages of me magazine while me 'ands are full,' he said, laughing. 'Anyway, you can't expect me to give all my top tips away when you're not telling us any.'

'Us girls don't do that sort of thing,' she said a bit too defiantly. Luca saw her blush and went in for the kill.

'You telling us you never flicked the oyster's pearl?' he grinned cheekily.

'No,' said Chloe frowning and looking away.

'Wot? It's nuffin to be ashamed of you know,' continued Luca with confidence. 'It's only sex with someone you love after all.'

Chloe's cheeks turned crimson as she continued to ignore him. Her exposed, pushed up high, cleavage started to blotch red to match her face as she felt she was in the spotlight.

'Two on the town and one in the brown?' he continued, much to the amusement of Dave who was trying hard to suppress a fit of giggles.

'Ah-em,' coughed Hannah, stepping in to defend her friend and feigning prudishness. 'C'mon Chloe, I fink we 'ad better leave these little boys to what they do best.' She spun round indignantly, swishing her thick brown ponytail theatrically in the air and stepping back towards the door.

'No, no, no,' spluttered Luca desperately in an attempt to redeem himself. 'Come and sit down,' he said, backtracking on his clumsy repartee while patting the spare cushions next to him. 'Only joking, only joking...' he said, grinning sheepishly in a feeble attempt to regain some charm.

Hannah, with Chloe in tow, edged her way round the table towards Luca and, with one hand against the wall, lowered herself down slowly next to him, her knees locked fiercely together to prevent her mini-skirt from revealing more than it should. She felt the boys' admiring glances wander over her body and wished she had worn some tights after all.

It was the first time the boys had seen the girls out of uniform and, it being last day of term, they had both made an effort and looked good. Hannah tucked her feet under herself and tugged her skirt downwards for reassurance. The fake stones in her necklace sparkled as she rearranged it across her chest in an attempt to guide straying eyes back above waist height. Loose jaws were in abundance around the room. She had always fallen into the fit category but, wearing her own fashionable and flattering clothes, and with newly displayed confidence, this had increased to 'highly desirable' and 'ripe'.

Hannah and Chloe both attended the nearby Sacred Heart School, and had become good friends of all with the boys over the past year. Paddington Comp's boys and Sacred Heart's girls had, in their time, created many mutual admirers through their wire perimeters but few had the confidence to break the rules and leave the grounds. Hannah and Chloe were different from the rest in that they did not seem to worry too much about what rules existed, nor what others thought of them. This independent attitude was what first attracted the boys, which led on to approval as they started to take the odd afternoon off and spend time together. Since the end of exams, these afternoons had become more frequent as the need to attend school felt increasingly superfluous and rules were less rigorously enforced. Mostly, they would head off down the canal and pass time teasing each other and chatting generally about mutual friends, fashions, music and the future. For all of them, these liaisons had been slightly standoffish as, within the confines of their single sex schools, none of them had formed any real friendships with the opposite sex. Aside from Luca, who was spoilt rotten by his older sisters.

'What is this shit?' asked Hannah, referring to the sound of _LL Cool J's_ classic _Jingling Baby_ blasting out of Mo's iPod.

'I can change it,' offered Mo.

'Something for da ladeez, please,' said Luca.

Mo thumbed through the pop genre of his iPod directory and selected _Toxic_ by _Britney Spears_. As it started to play, Ben shook his head and chuckled. 'Fuckin' Shitney Spears? What the fuck you doing with that nutter on your iPod?'. Hannah laughed.

'Don't knock it till you've tried it, mate,' Mo said. 'This tune is pumping. Anyway, I told you, I'm expanding my collection.'

'Fair do's, mate, but did you really need to copy the whole of Shitney's Greatest Hits?' teased Ben, clocking the fact that the whole album was displayed on the iPod. 'Man. Your stred-cred just dropped ten points, bro''. Truth was, Ben liked the track, but not enough to admit it. It was still Britney Spears.

'I don't particularly like Britney Spears either,' said Hannah. 'Dunno why you thought I'd like it just 'cause she's a girl. Play what you like.'

Luca offered Hannah a smoke; she accepted without hesitation. The boys stared at her, mesmerised with the way she navigated her decorated nails around the fragile joint. They were eye-catchingly long, painted with deep blues near the root becoming lighter towards the tip. A few of them had diamante studs. They looked impractical and, to the boys, were totally incomprehensible accessories - 'high maintenance' indicators, usually to be avoided. But she wore them well and did not give out any sign of having the slightest difficulties with them. Besides, with her hoop earrings and nose stud they completed her style.

Hannah came across as confident and self assured and was always keen to show she could muck in with whatever the boys were up to or talking about, whether it be skating or plain old banter. In truth, the boys led and she followed. But she was good fun and they all enjoyed each other's company. Their friendships were all platonic, but suggestive flirting was a regular occurrence among them all. It was difficult – sometimes painfully confusing – for each of the boys to decipher the unspoken conversations taking place between them and work out where their new-found friendships might be leading. But it was this unknown quality which was a large part of the mutual attraction between the girls' and the Shady Boys. There was an obvious keenness from Dave and Luca. But that was not unusual from either of them who acted like over-eager dogs with bones to bury by default. Mo was effortlessly cool and aloof.

But each boy vied for this new found female attention in his own way. Hannah and Chloe got on well enough with each of them for it to be possible to take their relationship to the next stage, but both girls were smart enough not to blow their chances too early by expressing who they favoured and were and deliberately holding back to keep their options open.

Ben enjoyed both the girls' company but was deliberately polite and reserved – almost gallant - in his approach towards them. His romantic ambitions lay with the curvaceous and flame-haired Isabelle who he hoped to hit the jackpot with over summer.Hannah puffed quickly and nonchalantly at the joint, as if rushing to finish before getting onto a bus, and hurriedly passed it on.

'Wassup, Mo?' Chloe enquired, breaking her silence.

'Nuffin,' said Mo evasively. 'Just chillin'.'

'You look a little nervous,' she persisted, safe in the knowledge that coarse backchat was not Mo's style.

'I wasn't till now,' he joked.

'So. That's school finished with then. What's the plan now?' pressed Chloe.

Mo looked up towards Ben. Ben looked to Dave, then Luca. Dave and Luca stared back silently.

'Nuffin really,' continued Mo, picking up the pace. 'Just looking forward to the break. Clear my head. Take a bit of time out to relax...have some fun...you know.'

'You not going away then?' smiled Chloe, trying to break past his reserve.

'Naaah. My Dad said I could join him on some of his trips abroad, but I'll probably stay at home and keep my Mum company. And keep an eye on these guys. You?'

'France,' she said without emotion. 'But I'm not sure yet'.

The music continued playing unobtrusively in the background. Further joints were lit and the quips and the jokes continued. Life was rich. Friends amongst friends. Trust, warmth, security and humour were plentiful. As they relaxed, talk turned towards their future aspirations. Each felt he was on a unique path to success. The atmosphere in the room was buzzing with energy. Every now and then one of the boys would look towards the corner of the room where Papa Tee's stash was hidden, glance back at the others and exchange knowing nods.

Ben listened while Dave bored everyone with his knowledge of the wood joining techniques he had learnt from his Dad, who complained that there was little call for them these days. He was, however, upbeat about how easy and well paid double glazing fitting had become. He spoke with enthusiasm, and the others nodded with feigned interest, ignoring the content of what he was saying. Luca was more entertaining with his descriptions of the nightly chaos he encountered with his elderly parents and sisters in the restaurant. He was undecided about whether to go back to school, or just resign himself to the fact that, as the sole male offspring in the family, he should step up to the plate and start to play more of a hand in the business. There was no urgency on his part though, and he felt that he would decide his future only when there was a pressing reason to do so. Until such decisions became unavoidable, Luca was just going to concentrate on being Luca. His simplicity and the ease with which he brushed off any sense of responsibility both amused and appealed to Ben. He was blissfully devoid of any sense of purpose.

Mo was becoming detached from the group as he increasingly focused on shaping his lips into a perfect circle while clicking his jaw repeatedly. The joint had made its way back to him and he had devised a way of shooting out trails of small smoke rings from his elongated face. It really was quite impressive. As all eyes turned to admire his new-found skill, he became aware that he had withdrawn from the group slightly more than was socially acceptable. He stopped, looked up and said succinctly, 'I'm going back to study Art and English lit next year. And then I'm gonna go on to become a graphic designer.'

And that was it. He reverted to blowing smoke rings in a world of his own. Few words, but said with absolute certainty. Mo had skill and style the others acknowledged and they had no reason to question his ambition. They continued gazing at the trail of rings popping out in front of him.

'W'about you, Hoodie?' asked Hannah, subtly removing Luca's hand from her shoulder as she leaned forward.

Ben had started to feel too drowsy for a direct conversation, and took a deep breath before deciding to reveal his plans. His head was spinning from the effects of the smoke.

'I'm gonna get a job. I've had enough of school. Can't see the point in hanging around any longer than I have to just to pick up a couple more pieces of paper at the end of it. I wanna start my life from now. I've spent enough time waiting. This is it. Real life starts now.' He sat back proudly, exhausted from his impassioned outburst.

Hannah was impressed with his gusto but looked disappointed at the response. 'So you're not going to sixth form then?' The sixth form was an amalgamation of Paddington Comp and Sacred Heart and there had been an unspoken assumption amongst the group that that was where they were all heading.

'You can always come and work with me and my Dad if you want,' offered Dave. 'He's teaching me to be a carpenter. And the pay's good for knocking windows in.' Ben was sure he could not put up with Dave droning on about the intricacies of wood-joining on a daily basis.

'Cheers Dave,' said Ben. 'But I wanna get a job where I can sit down all day. Something in an office. Something where I can get paid a lot for doing little. Something I can make a name for myself in.'

'Good luck to you, mate,' said Dave. 'Those jobs don't come easy.'

Mo rejoined the real world and was clearly not happy at Ben's unexpected announcement.

'Ben, man, what did you say? You're too clever to cop out now and sit with a bunch of muppets in suits all day long just waiting for your next payday. You'd hate it. I know school was shit, but don't waste your chances. Come to sixth form with me.' Mo's plea struck a chord which Ben chose to ignore.

'We'll see,' said Ben, with no intention of changing his mind. 'Anyway, I've gotta earn some money if I'm gonna have a chance with Isabelle,' he admitted, dreamily.

Hannah tutted indignantly. 'Don't know what you see in that stuck-up cow. Total waste of space.' She spat the words out with staccato venom.

Ben ignored her, smiled to himself, lay back in his seat and closed his eyes. The spinning in his head had started to work its way down his chest and into his stomach. He felt warm inside and the day's events were racing round his mind. He flicked his fleece hood over his head to signal withdrawal, folded his hands across his stomach and stretched out his feet in front of him.

****

Chapter 4

Ben was vaguely aware of the conversations continuing around him, and the sound of _The Pioneers' 'Long Shot Kick De Bucket'_ grinding away softly in the background. Mo really did have some old stuff on his iPod, but it sounded good and fitted the mood. An old retro favourite from their favourite ska sound system at the annual Notting Hill Carnival. The fleece of the inner lining of Ben's hood gently soothed his cheeks. He felt warm and secure in his own world. Eyes closed, hands locked into each other across his stomach, his limbs starting to relax, he reflected with pride on his day.

As he drifted off into a state of semi-consciousness his mind started to play tricks on him. He felt something weighty brush past his legs. It was soft yet at the same time solid and was accompanied by a powerful, pungent scent which he could not help but feel attracted to. He shifted his buttocks around on his seat slightly to explore whether his desire to sleep some more was greater than his curiosity to see what was happening. It was not. He tried to recapture his comfort zone by squeezing his eyes tighter shut. Then he felt it again. Hard pressure being applied against his knee, disturbing his balance on his seat. He could still hear the others chatting idly around him and relaxed his eyelids just enough to be able to peer lethargically out from his dreamworld. His eyes met what looked like a six foot long white tiger.

Ben closed his eyes tightly for a quick stocktake of the situation as his heart and mind started to race. It definitely was the Crypt he was in; the outline of the others in the dimly lit shadows was clear; their voices could still be heard and sounded unconcerned; and the faint sound of music still played in the background. He swallowed apprehensively and felt the click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. His mouth was stale and dry and he felt parched. He became momentarily fixated on the mental vision of a cold, refreshing glass of orange juice in a search for normality.

Hovering between his dreamworld and his desire for refreshment he felt yet another insistent push against his legs, this time causing his chest to tighten with fear. He peeked once again through his eyelids to catch sight of a tiger glancing up at him while rubbing its body along his legs. Not the standard orange and black tigers he had seen on trips to the zoo, those docile, disempowered beasts trapped behind bars with nothing meaningful to do but pace up and down, having snapshots taken by an endless stream of tourists. No, this was a slightly smaller and altogether more rare and beautiful tiger. It was a white tiger and had a truly majestic presence. And it was circling his chair. He opened his eyes wider and yawned involuntarily in search of more oxygen.

The tiger was an awesome sight and he could not fathom out how it could have entered the Crypt but - no mistake - there it was; pacing round and round his chair. An amazing white tiger that seemed to attract the attention of no one but him. All his friends were still seated in the same positions he had left them in; relaxed, cool and jovial, though they did look slightly more distant than they had done before he fell asleep. They showed no interest whatsoever in the fact that this rare and impressive beast was stalking their friend. Whether they were ignoring it or had not noticed it, Ben was not sure, but he could not understand how they could not even feel its presence. He felt his hands tingle in numbness in reaction to a quiet and unobtrusive growl the tiger effortlessly exhaled. It sounded like a cross between one of those circular saws Dave had been talking about and an incredibly wheezy chest. Again, no one else seemed to notice. Ben found himself unable to move or speak.

The tiger continued to pace purposefully around him. It was all Ben could do to hold his breath in suspense and watch. The breathing motion of its protruding rib cage was mesmerising as it expanded and retracted. Although clearly a predatory masterpiece, Ben did not feel in any way threatened by the beast. It wore a thick sparkling collar which indicated it may have been domesticated in some way. Daring only to move his eyeballs, he admired the tiger's attractive markings. White and black stripes were positioned perfectly along its body for maximum aesthetic effect from the tip of its wet black nose right down to the rings circling its tail. Its clear green eyes were marked as if it had been made up to look like an Egyptian Queen; long and almond-shaped with what could have been dark eye liner disappearing to a razor sharp point at each side. The body was incredibly large and muscular, yet at the same time undoubtedly feminine and with all the grace of movement of a ballerina. She was breathing heavily and her tongue was protruding from the side of her mouth.

Without warning, she stopped pacing and turned to look directly into Ben's eyes. It was too late for Ben to turn away and pretend he had not been staring so he held his gaze. The tiger licked her lips, twitched her long whiskers, blinked a long, slow blink and turned towards the door of the room, gesturing her head for Ben to follow. Ben leant forward and reached out a brave but trembling hand to stroke the tiger's back just as she took a couple more steps forward, causing him to miss his target and leaving him kneeling on the stone floor.

Fear returned for a moment, as he looked up submissively into the tiger's eyes. She gazed warmly back at him, curled a lip up to expose a canine fang and winked at him before turning to face the door where she paused for a moment, held her nose up high and took a few short sharp sniffs of air before deciding to proceed. She slinked through the slightly open door without sound or movement, tail upright as she curled her way round the door on the way out.

Ben was entranced. And intoxicated with her scent. As he remained crouched down on all fours he was as oblivious to the presence of his friends as they were of him and the tiger. It all seemed so much for him to take in. He closed his eyes and slowly turned his head from side to side to stretch and click his neck. He arched his back and pushed his arms forward and opened his eyes out wide to make sure he was fully awake. A feeling of total fearlessness grew within him as he realised he had grown in size and power. He looked down and admired his own soft fur and paws in front of him. As he attempted a half smile he felt his tongue flick out and lick the side of his whiskered face. Fearlessness turned to a boiling appetite from within his core as he padded his way though the door to follow the she-tiger, the plates of his muscular shoulder blades alternating up and down menacingly as he paced forward.

It was pitch black in the Crypt's corridor. The she-tiger was nowhere to be seen. The ground felt cold against his feet and the air damp. He paced forward some more, enjoying the feeling of strength and power his new body gave him. His head remained low and steady in movement, whilst his shoulders, hips and hind legs felt like a tightly coiled spring ready to explode with power. He could feel the breeze around his rear as his exposed and weighty, avocado-sized balls swung authoritatively from side to side with each step.

He headed back towards the entrance to the Crypt and saw that the door remained closed. That was the boundary he had no intention of crossing. He turned his back to it, curled his lower back inwards into a concave arch and marked it. The main entrance hall led off into many directions. He chose to take the middle one in search of the she-tiger. He quickened his pace. Everything was effortless; almost as if he was floating. From somewhere in the distance he heard a growl and broke into a gentle jog, his warm paws padding lightly on the cold flagstones. He turned an arched corner, noticed the exposed brickwork was damp with moisture, and recognised the pungent scent. He was getting closer. Again he quickened his pace round the narrow corridors by using his front paws in unison with his hind legs. Before he knew it, he was racing round and round the labyrinth of the Crypt in a black and white blur.

The feeling was incredible. Cold air hit the back of his nostrils and throat with every breath, fuelling him with boundless energy. Each explosive leap forward left him with a never-ending reserve of power. He knew what it felt like to be top predator, the untouchable hunter whose only threat was his own fallibility. No other creature could come close to him. He was untouchable. And with his strength, power, wit and guile, there was good reason why. Numero Uno. Nothing more, nothing less.

As he picked up pace, running faster and faster through the Crypt and the brick walls whizzed past him in more and more of a blur, he momentarily became aware that he had forgotten why he was running. His eyes began to water from the rush of oncoming air. He closed them, recalling the beauty of the white she-tiger as he did so. He felt dizzy and kept his eyes tightly shut while he fell forward, tumbling forward in a spiralling freefall into total blackness. Completely disorientated, he continued to fall deeper and deeper into nothingness until, with a stroke of feline good fortune, he ended up on all fours panting heavily.

'Uuuurggghhh,' he screamed, eyes wide open and sitting bolt upright in his chair, gripping its arms.

'Aaaaghhh!' Chloe screeched back in shock at this outburst, joined shortly afterwards by Hannah. Dave and Luca collapsed into guffaws of laughter. All eyes turned to Ben.

'You don't half talk shit when you're sleeping,' said Dave, tears rolling down his face. Luca was lying on his side on the cushion, clutching his stomach and unable to speak from shaking with laughter. Even Mo was chuckling to himself. Chloe and Hannah joined in as they saw the humour in the situation.

Ben started to laugh too and mumbled 'fuck off' with feigned grumpiness.

His eyes still burnt and his mouth was dry as sandpaper. He stood up, stretched one arm up, one down, and yawned before announcing he was going home. Even the Diet Coke was finished now and it had been a long day. Although it was not late, he was tired and wanted his bed.

'I'm gonna make a move now,' he yawned.

'I'm coming with you,' said Mo, getting to his feet.

'Amateurs,' said Luca.

'Laters,' said Dave.

Ben swept the two remaining ready rolled joints from the table and slipped them into the loose waist pocket on his top.

'I'll take these for Ron,' he said.

'Who's Ron?' Hannah asked.

'Later on,' replied Ben, realigning his hood around his head. Pointing at Dave and Luca and, with a wink and a click of the cheek, Ben told them 'not to touch the rocks', which set Hannah and Chloe off on another giggling fit. They looked happy and were in for the long haul.

As Ben and Mo headed off they called out their goodbyes, keeping up a refrain until long after they had left the church grounds.

****

Chapter 5

Mo squinted at the remaining daylight as he emerged from the Crypt with Ben in tow, head bowed beneath his hood. It felt like it should be night-time, but it was only dusk. Long, wispy brushstrokes of clouds hung motionless in a sky tinged with pink, sweeping like gentle waves over the skyline created by the Hallfield Estate. Aside from the flow of traffic down Bishops Bridge Road the only other person out was a middle-aged woman returning home with a full shopping basket. It was still and peaceful. Unusually quiet, in fact. A complete contrast to Ben's day. He walked at snail's pace alongside Mo, deliberately pausing after each step to prolong the journey. In the back of his mind, he could not stop thinking about the presence of the white she-tiger in the Crypt and wondered without too much concern whether he was suffering from some sort of sick feline fetish. Best kept to himself, he thought.

Ben and Mo chatted non-stop about nothing in particular, each other's presence being what the other really wanted, the conversation being incidental. Both were still coming down from the excitement of having finally finished exams and school. Neither could have fitted any more into the day if they tried. They stood outside the Porchester pub for a while before parting company and agreeing to meet up again the next day. Mo warned Ben against straying too far towards Harrow Road end of town ('Papa Tee turf'). He watched Ben's vulnerable frame protectively as he meandered off down Westbourne Grove, cutting a ghostly silhouette with his worn hood.

It was busier here, and Ben strolled slowly, pausing to peer in each shop and restaurant along the way. He looked inside The Redan and saw groups of people greeting each other, drinking and laughing, no doubt at the start of their nights out. Suspended in the top corner of the pub was a big Sky TV screen playing out clips of daredevil surfing stunts gone wrong.

Ben liked Bayswater. There was always something happening. Although he had lived there all his life, the area still had a holiday feel to it. Like it wasn't really permanent and was only ever a place to enjoy day by day. Old and young mixed together in the pub. Couples smiled and laughed in each others' company. Groups of younger adults flirted provocatively with each other. Around the edges, Ben also noticed there were quite a few singletons, glancing up briefly and frequently. He imagined they were waiting for their dates to arrive \- or maybe just waiting. He wondered which character he might best turn into once he got a job and earned enough money to frequent such places.

Within one group, he spotted a smartly dressed man in a well fitting suit, cufflinks sparkling in the light as he held his glass of wine. Standing squarely opposite him was an attractive woman in a small strapless black dress who was obviously taken with him. She was gazing seductively upwards into his eyes, her chin tucked in to her neck, and darting furtive glances at his lips. She laughed animatedly in response to whatever it was he was saying. Ben smiled as he watched them, imagining how he might play out the role if it were him standing there. It took Ben a few seconds to realise that the well-dressed man was staring at him through the window pane, frowning. Defiantly, Ben stared right back. Well-dressed-man mouthed something towards him and gestured his head with an aggressive flick to the side. Ben lowered his head so that his hood obscured his face and walked away.

Further down he stopped outside The Standard Indian restaurant and stared inside. He had eaten there before, but only for special birthdays or the rare take away night with his Mum. The delicious scents from The Standard and all the other restaurants along that stretch of the road, swirled round him like a whirlwind of temptation, sending his mind rushing from thoughts of chicken tikka masala to roghan josh to plain old freshly baked naan bread. The sweeter aroma of something fishy and spicy cooked in coconut sauce from the restaurant next door mingled with the others in a mouth-watering competition for air space.

As he skimmed through the menu, recalling what he liked and disliked, his hollow stomach rumbled. Apart from the crisps in the Crypt, he had opted to skip his free lunch at school and stick with a can of fizzy orange and bar of chunky kit-kat. Just as he was thinking about returning home and having something more substantial to eat he saw a sudden movement from behind him reflected in the restaurant's glass windows. Avoiding the need to turn round, Ben adjusted his focus into the reflection and stared into the distance.

Old Joe was standing to attention across the road, peering short-sightedly through the passing traffic from his usual spot outside NatWest Bank, next to Westbourne House. He had his trusty trolley beside him, stuffed full of e same old carrier bags, themselves packed full of rubbish, most of which appeared to be empty cans, newspapers and magazines. Perhaps they made good cushions at night, Ben wondered.

'Old Joe' was the local tramp whose first appearance in Westbourne Grove had occurred as suddenly as his presence was now permanent. It was a couple of years ago when he first appeared. No one knew where he was from; not even him. Apparently. No one even knew his real name and if he knew it, he was not letting on. Joe would always stand up stiffly, arms by his side, like an old soldier in a bad uniform, when he saw any of the boys approaching. Usually, he'd maintain this stance until they passed. For what reason, they did not know. Perhaps fear? Perhaps in readiness to defend? Perhaps plain curiosity? But this action always caught the boys' attention, provoking them to react to him by shouting out: 'Alright mate?'; ''ello smelly'; 'Get yer 'air cut yer lazy bastard' and the like. Not the best way to engage someone in conversation, but Old Joe always provided good entertainment value in return. Sometimes he'd hold his hands up high in the air and let out a sort of roar. Occasionally he'd have an outburst of shouting at pigeons, and stamp up and down, waving his arms around furiously. Other times he would just stand silently and stare. As if he could see things floating past that were invisible to others. He was considered harmless enough though, and was generally treated as a figure of fun.

On the rare occasions that he had responded directly to the boys, Old Joe gave nothing away. He had told them he didn't know who he was any more, but would let them know when he found out. He had also said that he used to be someone, but threw it all away. Very cryptic or evasive. Or just too much cheap whisky? He was either a deep thinker, or very thick. The jury was still out on that one, but they all agreed on calling him 'Old Joe', so the name stuck.

Although hungry and tired, Ben felt inexplicably drawn to Joe and could not resist the temptation to approach him and see if he could crack through some of the mystery surrounding him. He bounced across the road towards him.

'Hiya Joe,' he said, cheerfully. 'How's things?'

Joe cowered cautiously before muttering, 'Not bad, not bad'.

'What you up to?' Ben asked. He realised how futile this question was as soon as it left his lips given that they both knew he had probably spent the whole day in the same twelve foot square of territory he always did. Ben thought it strange that he should choose to confine himself in this way. Joe could go anywhere he wanted, yet he behaved like a trapped animal in a cage, especially when he could be seen pacing manically back and forth. Except there was no cage to be seen. Occasionally, Joe would be seen dragging his trolley up Queensway or Westbourne Grove – presumably in search of more carrier bags - but he generally stuck to his camp outside Natwest.

'Busy, busy,' said Joe, nervously eyeing Ben in detail up and down.

'I finished school today,' Ben offered.

Joe relaxed slightly. 'Where's school?'

'Up the road,' nodded Ben in the opposite direction. 'Paddington Comp. D'ya know it?'

'No. But school's important, you know.'

'Pfff. Not this one.' Ben shrugged and looked at his feet. In his peripheral vision, he could see Joe continuing to eye him up and down. It made him feel awkward, so he stepped back to gain some personal space and looked up at the dusky sky. It was getting dark. Joe looked up too.

'Beautiful, isn't it?' Joe said, taking a deep breath. 'The stars are the best. You can read them, you know? And there's a full moon tomorrow.'

Ben's awkwardness disappeared in exchange for his surprise at how normal Joe sounded. Not gruff, like his appearance, but soft, quiet and careful in pronunciation. The sound of him was deceptive, however, as the smell of him at close quarters was a constant reminder of his unfortunate status. He emitted a sort of musky mixture of stale cigarettes and alcohol, mouldy clothes and piss. Thankfully, most of his stench was suppressed by the many layers of clothes he wore, but when he moved it found ways of escaping. It was not pleasant and in total contrast to the hunger-inducing scents on the other side of the road.

Ben guessed Joe was probably quite skinny underneath his heavy dogtooth coat and multiple layers of clothing beneath. Where his checked shirt was left unbuttoned his bony chest protruded above a heavily stained and sagging t-shirt, revealing creased skin, discoloured from its unfamiliarity with soap and water and etched with the lines of what looked like a hard, uncared for life. His greasy, greying hair was long, tied back and matted. It was impossible to guess his age, other than to put him in the general category of 'past it'. But Ben sensed a sort of charismatic presence about him. He instinctively felt he was a man who could be trusted, and he had not felt that about many men he had come into contact with. It was strange because at first sight, Joe was one of life's misfits, a dysfunctional, invisible reject whose smell cause people to cross the road and whose glance was to be avoided at all costs. But there was something mystical about him which suggested he should not be totally written off yet.

'So what are you going to do with yourself now?' asked Joe, again sounding surprisingly normal and - Ben noticed for the first time - in an accent which sounded quite well spoken.

Ben shrugged and adopted a frown to indicate a level of seriousness before telling Joe of his plans to get started with real life by getting a job as soon as. Even Joe, whose very existence was an advertisement for what not to do to achieve success, expressed his disappointment by cautioning against such a foolhardy approach.

'What does your Dad think of that? Take my word for it, boy. Go back to school and learn what you can while you've got the opportunity.'

Ben did not take kindly to this mention of his Dad, nor did he appreciate being called 'boy'. Especially from a smelly old tramp. He tutted to express disappointment and turned away from Joe to signal his displeasure at being patronised. Ben hated anyone other than himself making reference to either of his parents. Why could he not be treated as a person in his own right? Referring to parents was just an adult's belittling way of making you know they did not regard you as an equal. In any case, his father had left home when he was only three, which made any reference to him even more irrelevant. Only one creased photo of him remained, which he kept in his bedside drawer. The photo showed Ben as a chunky toddler, sitting on his father's knee on a sunny day in Hyde Park. Ben could not recall the event first hand but must have looked at the photo over a thousand times and memorised its every detail: A fountain visible in the background. Bright green leaves glistened on the surrounding trees. His Dad's bare arm wrapped tightly around him to stop him from toppling off his knee. The worn vest his Dad was wearing, exposing a tattoo on his upper arm etched in Gothic script \- " _Ben 9~September~'91_ ", accompanied by a cherub which looked distinctly tacky. His Dad's thick brown hair was tied back into a pony tail (which, checking back, he didn't think was ever fashionable). All in all, although he'd refused to throw the dog-eared photo away, Ben felt no sentiment when looking at it. If anything, he viewed the whole scene as being a bit naff. There was nothing in it to attach himself to.

Out of curiosity, Ben Googled his Dad's name at Mo's one day. He'd also checked Friends Reunited, Tagged, Facebook and every other web-meeting site he could find. All the usual places, but never found any trace of him. Which was the best result really, as it avoided the need to consider whether to contact him and kind of drew a line under the matter. He had always assumed he must be dead. Which he may as well have been, given the zero amount of contact he had had since he left home all those years ago.

'I know what you're thinking, boy,' Joe continued. 'And I can tell you're the sort of kid who could do anything he wants, but leaving school young is never a smart move. Take my word for it. Keep all doors open and don't close any 'til you're forced to. Okay?' Ben was used to receiving that scratched record of a message many times before from teachers who were paid to repeat it daily, parrot fashion. But coming from Joe, it carried a different weight he was not used to, which led him to consider what was being said without further comment. He partly considered Joe was worth listening to if only to learn how to avoid making the same mistakes that he had obviously made in life.

'We'll see' said Ben, failing to connect with Joe's distant and hazy eyes. He was starting to get bored.

'Tell you what' said Joe, grinning. 'Lemme read your palms and I'll tell you what your future holds.'

Any remaining tension Ben felt disappeared. Although still tired and a little disorientated by Joe's conversational approach, Ben held out his hands, fingers spread wide and palms facing upwards without as much as a second thought. Joe took his hands between his fingers and thumbs and tugged them towards his eyes to focus on them. Ben stretched his arms out long, drew his body and head backwards and breathed as shallowly as he could to avoid gagging on Joe's pissy stench. Taking Ben by surprise, Joe gasped, threw Ben's hands away as if they were hot coals and held his own hands up to cover his mouth and nose. He rolled his eyes upwards towards the sky. A couple passing by looked round at the pair of them and screwed their faces up with concern.

'I knew it...' Joe whispered under his breath.

'Wot?' said Ben impatiently. He did not appreciate the amateur dramatics.

'Simian lines! I knew it,' said Joe again, all wide eyed and weird looking. Ben wondered how he could ever have considered this man to be normal.

'You wot?'

'Simian lines,' repeated Joe, taking hold of one of Ben's hands once more and tracing a finger from left to right along a crease which ran right across Ben's palm. 'Otherwise known as single palmar creases. Very rare and very special. Especially on both palms. I've only ever seen one pair before in my lifetime.' Joe's genuine enthusiasm was unquestionable and kept Ben's curiosity alive.

'So? What does it mean?' Ben was getting impatient, but his interest and trust in Joe had increased.

'Hmm. How to describe? Look at this.' He held up his right palm to Ben. 'You see this line here,' he said, tracing a line which ran from between his thumb and forefinger downwards and leftwards across his palm. 'That's your head line, right? It shows how you think. See mine? It's short and straight. Means I'm a simple and straight forward thinker. And see this one?' He traced the line which ran from the outer side of his palm, upwards towards his first and second fingers. 'This one's your heart line. Rules your heart and holds the key to your destiny. God knows what mine says!' Ben smiled responsively.

'Now, your palms,' Joe continued, taking hold of Ben's hand again. 'Your palms have only one clear cut line running from left to right. Or right to left. Like I said, it's called a simian line and I've only ever seen one pair before in my lifetime.'

'So what does it mean for me?' asked Ben again.

'Simian. Means monkey. Monkeys have only one line across their palms. So do most Downs Syndromes. You know. Mongols. I can't do a traditional palm reading on you because your head and heart lines are joined. Your head rules your heart, or your heart rules your head. I can't remember which. But it's very special. Different. Good. I think...'

Ben, sensing that Joe was losing his thread, interrupted. 'Great. So you've managed to work out I'm a disabled primate?'

'No, no, no,' replied Joe earnestly. 'I didn't mean that, boy. You've got a great destiny. It means you're gifted. Special. Capable of achieving great things. Your mind and your heart are at one with each other and in perfect harmony. So listen to an old man. Take every opportunity you can. Don't miss a chance. Think twice about leaving school.' Ben listened in stunned silence.

'Learn to read life's signs, boy. They're all over the place and full of hidden messages. Your head and heart will sniff them out and lead you to your destiny. Follow your instincts and you'll be sure to find success over failure, distinguish right from wrong, tell truth from reality. You're gifted, boy.'

'Wow. Heavy shit,' thought Ben, who did not feel particularly as if his head and heart were running in harmony with each other. He wondered if Joe's act was all a ruse to get him to stay at school. What a con. And to think he thought Joe might be able to offer a different outlook. How wrong he felt he was. He was as bad as the rest of them.

'I said I'll think about it,' said Ben, deciding finally to give in to his hunger pangs and head home. 'Here. Thanks for the palm reading.' He held out one of the loose joints for Joe.

'Is this what I think it is?'

'Depends what you're thinking. Take it.'

'Been a long time since I saw one of these as well,' he said, snatching it out of Ben's hand and whisking it straight into his coat pocket.

'Enjoy' said Ben, feeling comforted in the knowledge not only that he had done his random act of kindness for the day, but also that he owed Joe nothing for the crappy palm reading. Although he was not impressed with the thinly veiled 'go back to school' message, Joe's words and obvious belief in what he said had planted seeds of thought which spun round in Ben's mind (mixed up with the thought of food). It was true that he had always felt different and special. It was impossible for him to resist looking at his upturned palms in a fresh light a number of times on his way home.

It took him less than a couple of minutes to reach the door to the flat he shared with his Mum off Westbourne Grove and, remembering the need to lie low, he glanced left and right to check no-one was watching him before rushing up the entrance steps, turning the key in the door and darting inside. Their flat was the top one in a house converted into four flats, and was split over three levels; the front door to the flat, more stairs; the living area, the kitchen and his bedroom; and his Mum's room and the bathroom.

His Mum called down to him from the bathroom. 'Hi Ben. You're late. I've left your dinner on the hob. How was school?'

'Okay,' he called back. 'But really tired now. I'll talk more later.'

Ben's Mum would be off to her evening shift shortly and he was not in the mood for further conversation. Snoop, his tabby cat, was rubbing himself affectionately around his ankles, meowing and blinking up at him. He crouched down, scratched Snoop's head and stroked his back, smiling at the way his tail shot straight up in the air in response. He exchanged small cat talk while emptying a pouch of food into his bowl. He left him to scoff hungrily before grabbing a ladle, serving himself a full bowl of thick vegetable soup from the hob and taking a couple of bread rolls from the cupboard into his own room to eat and sleep.

****

### Chapter 6

Ben awoke late the next day to the sound of his Mum slamming the door of the flat on her way out for the usual Saturday morning visit to the launderette and the shops. He lay motionless in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling while wrapped in his big puffy duvet with cushions strewn all around him. Streams of light broke through the gaps in the curtains across the foot and head of his bed. Piles of worn clothes lay scattered around the room. He squinted through the breaking light and reached out to switch on his mobile. No messages. A good sign, he thought.

He decided it should be a restful, non-eventful day and took his time about getting up and dressing before making his way downstairs for some breakfast. The kitchen had been cleaned and was left clear and sparkling with a note left on the work surface. _'Will you be back for dinner tonight? Love Mum x,'_ it read. Ben took a marker from the whiteboard and wrote _'Probably not, but I'll let you know. x'_ in response before pouring himself a glass of orange juice and tucking into a bowl of Weetabix.

He still felt tired and dazed from the day before and spent some time thinking about Papa Tee, the rest of the gang, and then Joe, before deciding he would head to Mo's for a bit of a chill out day. Walking back down Westbourne Grove, Ben's mind could not help but replay the events of the previous day over and over again. It was bright and crisp outside. Full of fresh air, hope and new beginnings. Although still raw in his mind, school felt very much like a distant memory. Which put an extra spring in his step.

Joe was not in his usual spot; probably off searching for more carrier bags and junk, Ben thought. Recalling Joe's comments about his palms, Ben could not resist taking another look at them and the two horizontal lines which ran right across their middle and wondered just how much truth there was in what he'd been told. Never before had he been quite so aware that there was anything unique about him. Although he did not take kindly to some of Joe's comments, deep down he acknowledged that he quite liked the thought of somehow being special and knew he would not be able to resist the temptation to research his palms further.

He lit his first Marlboro Light of the day. Its taste, mixed with the fresh, late morning air, gave him the kick-start he needed. He ran across the road, concentrating on looking as cool as he could with his cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, and taking care not to show any fear when oncoming cars were forced to apply their brakes to avoid hitting him. Even this mild exertion caused his chest to tighten and react with a deep throaty coughing fit, which was eased by a quick hawk and a flob of gob when he got to the other side of the road. He used his 'tongue, aim and fire' technique to propel a thick ball of lumpy goo back across the half way point of the road. An impressive start to the day, and another good sign, Ben thought.

Mo's Mum opened the door to Ben upon his arrival and welcomed him with a soft smile. She rested her hand on his shoulder and called up to Mo. Ben ran straight up the stairs towards Mo's room. He'd had always been made to feel welcome at Mo's. It had become his second home; an arrangement that seemed to suit them all.

Ben and Mo made great surrogate brothers for each other in the absence of any of their own siblings. And since Huss had left the family home for a younger model, Mo's Mum (Mrs Mo to Ben) seemed to appreciate the liveliness and noise Ben tended to bring to the house, which was otherwise far too big and empty for just her and Mo. Also, she would sometimes complain to Ben that without him, Mo would just lock himself in his room silently for hours which she didn't think was healthy. Still, although Mo was quiet, she was extremely proud of his academic and artistic capabilities, examples of which were proudly displayed throughout the house.

'I'll bring some drinks and a snack up in a minute,' she called up the stairs after him.

'Thanks, Mrs Mo,' replied Ben.

Mo was slumped back in a large leather beanbag propped against his bed, plucking gentle riffs out of his electric guitar. Upon seeing Ben, he put it down and switched the system off. Ben could not play himself (despite Mo's best attempts to teach him) and although he enjoyed listening to Mo, playing and practising was something which Mo generally preferred to do on his own. Especially when singing along. His bedroom was every male teenager's dream. It was larger than average with a huge bay window and wooden seating built in underneath it. On sunny days it was great for sprawling out on, and on rainy days it was equally good for just sitting upright to watch the rain pelt the streets.

Stretching along one side of the room was a long fitted desk-cum-workstation which housed Mo's computer, games console, TV and stereo system (and of course, his trusty iPod). Above this was an end to end book shelving system carrying text books, art books, music sheets and a variety of fiction. All in all, it was a complete entertainment centre and almost left no reason to venture outside. It was Mo's private space which he chose to share only with Ben. Other friends were strictly limited to outside contact only.

As Ben sat down, Mo got up and started fussing on his computer, closing programs down and checking the connection was running to optimal effectiveness. That desk was his nerve centre. The place where he was in total control and where his creative energy was channelled into productiveness. Where the walls were not filled with books, they were covered with Mo's art. Pen drawings mostly, focusing on streets and buildings, but also some colourful graffiti and the occasional arty life study, all of which were really just extensions of the doodles in the back of his schoolbooks. There were also some more classical representational paintings on the wall which Mo had brought home from school. He was undoubtedly talented and praised without exception by all who saw his work.

Ben climbed onto Mo's bed and exchanged superficial chitchat with Mo while he fiddled with his radio tuner, searching for something half decent to listen to. Mrs Mo brought in a tray bearing two tall glasses of Ribena and a plate of custard creams on it and left it on the table. It amused both the boys that they were still served what were essentially kids' treats when their own tastes had so obviously developed much further. But it was always appreciated and they were not complaining. It didn't matter how old you were, you can't knock Ribena and custard creams.

'Fancy a smoke?' asked Mo.

'What about your Mum?'

'No problem. Just close the door. We'll open the window.'

'You sure?'

'Yeh, don't worry. As long as the door's closed we won't be disturbed.'

'Okay, then.' Mo threw a cigarette over to Ben, who then made four attempts to catch it in the corner of his mouth by tossing it up from his waist before achieving success. They both moved into the bay window area to blow their smoke outside.

'How'dya feel?' asked Mo.

'Cool. No problem.'

'You not worried about comeback from yesterday then?'

'Naahh. Forget it. He don't know it was me, and if he does, I can run pretty fast remember.'

'I know, but don't push it will you? Stay safe, yeh?'

'Yes Mo. Can we move on now?'

They stared out the window onto the other houses in the area. The day screamed of fresh beginnings. The air tasted so crisp and pure. The plane trees that lined the street outside stole the sunlight, leaving only streaks of bright light to hit the pavements below.

'Hold yer palms up,' Ben told Mo, whilst holding his own up. Mo complied without question. 'Hmmm. You don't have them. You see mine?' He stretched his fingers out wide. 'I spoke to Old Joe on the way home yesterday and he ended up reading my palms and telling me how special these lines were.' He pointed at the lines which ran across each of his palms. 'Really rare these are, and means I'm destined for great things.'

'I could have told you that without looking at your palms, bruv, ' Mo said coolly.

'No. Really. They're called simian lines and are really rare. You still connected?' Ben asked tipping his head towards Mo's computer.

'Yup.'

'Lemme check it out then. Plus I wanna do a jobs search while I'm here.'

After disposing of their cigarette butts by flicking them out the window as far out as they could, Ben sat beside Mo as he took the helm in front of his computer. Ben spelt out the s.i.m.i.a.n. in 'simian lines' as Mo keyed the search into Google. Nearly two million results were thrown up in the usual over-helpful way of the internet. Mo clicked the first link and, skimming through the detail, read out the key points to Ben.

'Errr...Simian Line...Simian Crease...Simian Fold...or even "Transverse Palmar Crease", if you're feeling posh. Says the "Great Quadrangle" - whatever that is - is entirely missing. No distinction between what is desired by the heart and what is thought in the head.' Mo paused, showing obvious interest.

'What did Old Joe tell you?'

'About the same. About how the head and the heart are joined together and how rare it is. How it meant I'm really special – which I always knew, of course – and how I can achieve great things. I thought he might have just been pulling my leg to get me to go back to school though. What else does it say?' Ben was becoming increasingly excited at the prospect of having his special status confirmed.

'It says that you possess "an incredible intensity of nature, and have a strong tendency to rush into things without thinking them through"'

'Well, that's not true, is it? I'm a careful planner.'

'No you're not,' said Mo. 'You're impulsive, and always have been. You always do what you think is right without thinking about the consequences.'

'That's not true,' Ben retorted. 'Like when?'

'Like yesterday for starters.'

'Yesterday was planned'

'What? Even the need to point out to Papa Tee that he had left his bag open on the way out? And what about everything else? Bunking off on sunny days, taking off with Hannah and Chloe at no notice. Even your skating. You're always taking crazy risks without thinking of what might happen. Don't get me wrong. It's not a bad thing. I'm just saying. You _are_ impulsive. It's a good thing, though. Have you never noticed how much others feed off the energy you create? '

'No,' replied Ben, becoming less defensive in response to the compliment paid. Mo always found the right thing to say. 'What else does it say?'

'I'll tell you. Lemme look at your palms again.'

Mo examined the unmistakable clear and deep lines running from side to side on both palms and, with their enthusiasm fired up and delighted to have found a purpose for the day, they manically searched webpage after webpage for information on simian lines, collating every scrap of information they could.

They confirmed that the word 'simian' stemmed from 'monkey' due to the resemblance of the peculiar creases found on the hands of primates. Even rarer, they noticed that on Ben's hands the life line was also indelibly joined to the lines, indicating a further fusion of emotion and destiny. Some sites described them as a disadvantage, connecting their occurrence to the zealous and obsessive, such as drug addicts and mass murderers whilst others noted the tremendous powers of concentration and charisma displayed by scientific researchers and religious fanatics (according to a study which took place in Parkhurst prison). They learnt that only about four per cent of Caucasians have the line on one hand, and that less than one per cent have it on both. Although he could not identify with the traits described by those who had such lines, Ben did feel that he had finally found the cause behind why he had never felt himself to really fit in and experienced so much unrest.

One site perceptively observed that the appearance of the lines on the hands of individuals might be a reaction to 'the increasingly technical and urban oriented world in which humans are having to adapt to, and that the lines are there to signal a need to remember the body and soul's deep tie to nature for spiritual nourishment'. Another said that 'the emotions of such people show a regression to the conditions proper to primitive man'. Heavy shit!

As is always the case when researching something on the internet, the advice they stumbled upon often conflicted. They quickly reached a point whereby further links were only presenting what they had already read with different words, so they stopped searching. Both were excited by the whole discovery, which had the knock-on effect that they came to believe in the possibility that there was more to Old Joe than just being an old fart after all. They concurred that the lines could be either a blessing or a burden. There was evidence of an intensity of emotion attached to those with simian lines which meant that it could sometimes be difficult for others to understand them, almost to the point that they were rarely understood. Ben did not agree with this at first, but when Mo suggested that that may have been why school generally, and teachers (with the exception of the efforts of their class tutor, Mr Wiseman) in particular had failed to engage with Ben's obvious intelligence or cater fully to his learning needs, it began to make sense.

They also found that those with simian lines can love or hate with equal intensity and that it did not pay to cross them. Both laughed at Papa Tee's misfortune when reading that. But they also noted that such individuals could be extremely intense in their sense of purpose, extremely dedicated, and with a huge amount of creative potential which could lead to great success. The more positives Ben heard, the greater his belief, optimism and drive for finding future employment and success grew. Although only sixteen years old, Ben felt as if all of his wildest dreams were just one short arm's reach away. Anything was possible.

This feeling was increased yet further when he read that for 'a pure simian type' — i.e. someone like him with a very defined simian line on both hands — all areas of life are experienced with enormous intensity. Powers of concentration were described as being tremendous as everything on a mental level is also felt emotionally and all feelings simultaneously register mentally. Such great men as Albert Einstein, Rasputin, John Steinbeck, three out of the last four Japanese Prime Ministers, Tony Blair (although too vain to risk the media picking up on the negative traits of the markings to admit it), and Muhammad Ali were all noted as having simian lines, and traits to match. Ben blanked the political connections but was attracted to the thought of possessing a direct link to Muhammad Ali's greatness. He recalled John Steinbeck as having written 'Of Mice and Men', a book he had read and enjoyed in his occasional English Language lessons.

Mo was also finding these re-evaluations about his best friend fascinating, and the similarities between what he read and what he knew to be reality uncannily accurate. Ben, however, maintained an air of being generally dismissive of the whole thing, especially of all the negative connotations apparently associated with simian lines. He felt they fell into the same generalisations as the newspapers' daily horoscopes, where everyone was crudely lumped into one of twelve categories. The reading of lines of palms could not be any more reliable. Surely? Nevertheless, he was intrigued at the above average rate of similarities, particularly liking the link to Muhammad Ali and the reaffirmation of him being on a path to success. Definitely, the only way was up. There'd be no stopping him.

Much of the information they discovered led to a mini-debate along the lines of: 'That's true;' 'What rubbish;' 'I guess you might be right.'

Just before doing the subject to death, they concluded that if there was any truth in what was being said about the simian lines on Ben's hands then they were a double-edged sword. He apparently had the ability to focus on one thing, absolutely, to the exclusion of all else and therefore had the potential to achieve and accomplish far more than most, developing techniques and inventions that would last for generations. His alleged intensity was peculiar and manifested itself in such as way as to create spells of concentration that could not be broken except by the most violent of interruptions, and that he could achieve his ambitions regardless of any resistance. And that people with simian palms are rarely understood.

But they also acknowledged that the lines might attract far more misfortune than most, usually due to the same intensity that drives them. A truly double-edged sword to be wielded carefully. There was also a strong part of them both that suspected the whole phenomenon was a load of mumbo jumbo, but an interesting diversion.

They finished their Googling with a heavy sense of simian line saturation setting in, which caused Ben to close the subject by blazing up the last remaining loose joint he had in his pocket from last night. He was also keen to harness his adrenaline by moving on to jobs and his path to success.

****

Chapter 7

The joint tasted different from those they had smoked the day before, though it was built from the same block. Its taste was somehow denser, stronger. Even the smoke looked different: thicker and cloudier, as opposed to the smooth wispy streams of yesterday. Its effect was intense as well. Ben could hear a low level buzzing sound running round his skull as if the blood circulating through his head was vibrating as it flowed. His peripheral vision faded into a blur, leaving him only able to see what he sharply focused on. The room started to spin and it became an effort to keep himself upright. He concentrated on the tall glass of ruby-coloured Ribena, wishing that he'd stuck to that alone. His spinning feeling intensified as it was joined by a simultaneous sense of falling. He fought it off by fixing his gaze at Mo and taking deep breaths.

'You alright?' asked Mo.

'Yeh,' blurted out Ben in return, a pitch too high. 'It's too much for me. Think I'll have a ciggie instead.' He was now desperate to escape the accelerating zoom vision sweeping over him. To avoid freefalling any further, Ben started babbling to Mo about his urgent need to find a job, and urged him to search the internet for London based administrative trainee positions. Mo was a little taken aback at the speed Ben was talking but, in his usual cool and relaxed way - and also staying in tune with the music - slowly and calmly sought to appease Ben by keying in another Google search. He was also hoping to slow down his manic speech down from a hundred miles per hour.

It did not take long to find a number of sites specialising in promoting various positions and recruitment exercises. One in particular caught Ben's eye. It was running a summer recruitment scheme. Still floating on a spiritual vibe, he instinctively felt a sense of destiny at reading the flashing popup: _'Management trainees sought for top salaries. No formal experience necessary for the right candidates.'_ He felt it would provide him with just the start he was looking for – in advance of receiving his exam results – to propel him onto the path of success.

Without hesitation, and also to show Mo that he was not floating as high as he felt he was, despite the fact he was still having difficulty seeing straight, he wasted no time in calling the listed contact.

'Hi, is that Francesca of ManPro consultancy?'

'Hello?'

'Yuh, hi. My name's Ben Chapman and I've just seen your advertisement for management trainees and thought I might have something to offer you.' Ben was deliberately playing it over-confidently, but where the deep trans-Atlantic accent had appeared from, even he did not know. Mo sniggered.

'Really?' came the response. 'Tell me a little bit about yourself. What's your background?'

'Er. Yuh. Erm. Pretty varied actually. I think can turn my hand to most things with the right training. What are you looking for specifically?' As he spoke, he realised what he sounded like on the phone and thought 'you berk!'

'Well that sounds just fine. Perhaps you'd like to come and have a chat with us. We'd be pleased to meet and talk through your options?' came the response with a friendly intonation.

Ben could not believe his luck and held the phone away from his ear to pull an amazed face at Mo before continuing. 'Certainly, Francesca. When would suit?'

'Well. We're holding a recruitment fair at the New Connaught Rooms in Holborn between ten and twelve on 4 July if you'd like to come along.'

Brilliant, he thought. An interview. How easy is this?

'I'll just check my diary.' He rustled some loose papers on Mo's desk before replying:

'Yuh, that'd be great. I'll see you there. Thanks, Francesca.'

Mo was trying hard to suppress his laughter at Ben's bullshit, but Ben was having none of it.

'Wow. How's that for being gifted, huh? First real job I've ever gone for and already I've skipped the application phase and been fast tracked to interview. That old Simian Hoodie magic works wonders, huh?'

Mo rolled his eyes and shook his head in response. 'At least your voice has returned to normal.'

Revitalised and coming back down to earth, Ben leapt to his feet with his ciggie in the corner of his mouth and said: 'See. I told you I was so fast I could switch the light off and be in bed before it got dark,' he said, jabbing the air and mimicking a Muhammad Ali shuffle. 'Seems like my journey of a thousand miles is starting with more than just a single step, my friend.'

Mo, still disapproving of Ben's determination to leave school could only muster up a 'Hmpf' in response.

They spent the rest of the day slobbing out, listening to music, playing games and exchanging ideas on how best they were going to achieve their dreams: Mo enthusing about the different modules of design he could follow in future studies, Ben focusing solely on his forthcoming interview, and how he'd blow them away with his enthusiasm and talent.

Mo was still looking for openings to persuade Ben back to sixth form and suggested they take off together for a proper chill out day with the others in a day or two. Something different. A bit special to celebrate the end of school. Where they had never been before. He suggested Kew Gardens as somewhere which was close enough to reach comfortably in a day, yet distant enough to avoid bumping into any trouble from Papa Tee or his followers. Mo even offered to cover all the costs for the day in the knowledge that, aside from their recent windfall, Ben was skint, and to avoid any feeling of financial pressure on his part. Ben, always open to Mo's suggestions, thought it was a great idea. In fact, he was so full of optimism by the time he left Mo's that he decided to take a detour past Isabelle's house on the way home.

Isabelle was Ben's dream girl and where he hoped his future lay. She lived on the other side of Bayswater in a big house overlooking Kensington Gardens, with steps leading up to the front door and grand looking white pillars on either side. He had first spotted her through the perimeter fencing at Sacred Heart School and was instantly drawn to her.

She had long, wavy red hair; not ginger – red. It was full of twists and curves, as was her figure. Her waist was slim and her hips curvy and womanly. She had full breasts for sixteen. Not big; just large and in proportion to the rest of her. And her face! When Ben first caught her eye through the school fence his feet gripped the ground as if he was about to fall, frozen in admiration of her clear blue eyes which were surrounded by long black eyelashes and neatly framed eyebrows. Her lips were perfect : full and delicately pink against her smooth translucent complexion. She was beautiful and to Ben it was love at first sight. Once she smiled back at him, and from that moment on he knew his destiny would lie with her - that no one else could distract him until he could have her.

Unfortunately for Ben, Isabelle was unlike Hannah and Chloe in that she was not the sort of girl to leave the school grounds during school hours and had shown no interest in exchanging pleasantries through the school fence. Ben had to rely on Hannah feeding him the information he sought on Isabelle, and she was a reluctant aide, describing her as being a boring swot. Ben's direct contact with her had been limited to a few bashful smiles through wire fencing. A few times, he had followed her home in the hope of finding an opportunity to speak to her. But she'd always walked with friends, postponing the day they could be alone together.

Ben settled on a low garden wall on the opposite side of the street to Isabelle's house and lit a cigarette. He looked up at her window and wondered what she might be doing at this time of day. Reading? Listening to music? He wondered what sort of music she might like and tried to imagine them laughing and dancing together. He wondered what her bedroom looked like and wondered whether he'd ever get to see inside it.

His cigarettes seemed to be burning quicker than usual. He flicked the butt away and lit another one to satisfy his need to so something. He was aware that curtains were twitching in the house behind him so he got up and paced up and down the street for a while, before settling on another low wall and regain his concentration. He checked his phone for texts. Nothing. He looked up at Isabelle's windows. Nothing. He heard knocking on the window behind him and saw a man frowning and waving him on. He got up and returned to paced back and forth.

He lit another cigarette and visualised how he might spoil Isabelle once he had achieved his due success, money and status. His mind wandered into entertaining her in expensive restaurants. To shopping for unique pieces of jewellery for her birthdays. To lounging on sun-beds in exotic locations together, taking turns to rub cream into each other's backs. The good life was certainly rich, but tasted sweet.

He must have been standing on the opposite pavement for over two hours staring at her house in the hope that she would come out, or he would catch her coming home, before he caught sight of her at a top window. He waved shyly up at her. She pulled the curtains shut. Maybe she'd missed him, he thought. He headed home.

****

Chapter 8

A couple of days later the boys met up back at the Crypt for a stocktake and a general catch-up with each other. Life was judged to be pretty safe on the Papa Tee front. Neither he, nor any of his henchmen, had been seen or heard sniffing around, nor did there seem to be any word of the theft or revenge generally. Perhaps his loss was not significant enough to dent his pocket in the big scheme of things after all. Which was good news for Dave who was busy slicing and wrapping pea-sized pieces of hash in clingfilm for further distribution. He could not wait any longer. There was no formal measurement of weight being imposed and Ben, Mo and Luca looked encouraged at how many 'ounces' were being produced. If they all sold at fifty pounds each they would not be short of pocket money.

Ben proudly relayed news of his forthcoming interview to the others, but was disappointed their enthusiasm did not match his own. Dave was more interested in the profits he envisaged from Papa Tee's dope, and of the money his Dad had promised him for stepping in and replacing his regular labourer in the windows business. It was all about the money with Dave. Luca was salivating at the prospect of assisting with a hen party booked for the evening sitting at the family restaurant, apparently forgetting his keenness on Hannah just a few days before.

Mo's enthusiasm for a day out at Kew Gardens held, and was not the least discouraged by Dave's and Luca's inability to make it. Although there was no tangible threat from Papa Tee, Mo insisted it would still do them good to get out for the day and spend some time somewhere different. Ben thought it might be fun, and had no better alternative suggestions, so agreed. Mo took the time to cater for their day's needs by opening a couple of wraps of hash and pinches of skunk and turning them into 'secret agents' - his nickname for his special looking joint disguised as a cigarette, clipped flat at the tip with an orange filter tip spliced onto the roach end to avoid any suspicion from well meaning passers by. The perfect picnic joint as long as you stay downwind of other people. He skinned up six of them; one each to keep Dave and Luca happy and four for him and Ben to share.

Mo and Ben parted from the others without committing to any future meeting date and headed straight off to catch the first of their buses to Kew.

The weather was on the turn, but it looked bright and dry enough to enjoy a day in a park. By the time they had changed to the 391 bus at Hammersmith Broadway, the sun was winning the day.

Mo and Ben shared a double seat at the back of the bus. No one sat close to them and boarding passengers stayed at the front of the bus. They sat close enough to each other to be able to each take an earphone each from Mo's iPod. They held on to each other's shoulders to absorb the jolts of the bus's ride and keep the earphones from falling out. Occasionally, when a track they particularly liked came on, they would percussion-grunt along to the beat, each egging the other on to raise the volume for the benefit of their suffering audience.

Other passengers either ignored them totally, or shot them periodic disapproving glares. Ben and Mo would smile back, unable to hide their happiness, to the increased annoyance of their fellow passengers. As their journey progressed, Mo slowed the beat down to his chill-out collection and started playing with his camera-phone. He took pleasure in being able to catch Ben off-guard and capture him in a series of natural poses. Each time he caught a new shot, he'd express his joy with a playful nudge of Ben before playing with the zoom and crop facility to ensure the photo was set at its best. Ben became mildly irritated by Mo's constant attention and turned his head towards the window to watch the views pass by.

Mo's choice of music eventually had a pacifying effect on them both and led them into silence for the rest of the journey. Ben, arm still slung round Mo's shoulders, couldn't help noticing how serious Mo looked when he was relaxed and wondered if there was another reason for his preoccupied and silent demeanour.

Ben glanced down at his palms more than once during the journey. The journey took just under an hour and a half and the open space and riverside views were a welcome sight after the built up density of Bayswater.

Mo had brought some supplies to keep them going through the day, but insisted on finding a corner shop before they entered the gardens. Ben was impressed with Mo's confidence as he watched him choose three bottles of wine, an Italian white, a French rosé and a Bulgarian red, and put them onto the counter as if he were selecting suitable accompaniments to a dinner party. In truth, his choice was more based on the fact that, not knowing which wine he might like, he was keeping his options open by buying one of each colour. The fact that the white and red were on offer at two bottles for five pounds was also a contributing factor.

Unlike Ben, whose smooth-skinned face gave his youth away and whose low-slung jeans and hooded top would have invited a refusal to be sold alcohol in areas such as Kew, Mo's mature appearance and self-confident manner, together with his unfailing courtesy, did nothing to arouse the suspicions of the shopkeeper.

There was a sense of occasion about the day; they felt more like adults, with an associated sense of freedom. The fact that Dave and Luca weren't able to join them meant they weren't clowning around in their usual rowdy way. Ben noticed that Mo was dressed in a 'posing 'til closing' mode - his white corduroys and stylish open necked shirt adding to the holiday feel as the bright sunshine continued to warm up. He wished he had a similar wardrobe to draw on.

'Like the cords, Mo. Bit kewl, aren't they?'

'Do you like them then?'

'Yeh. Look a bit pricey for me, but they're alright.'

'Thanks.'

'What's with all the wine?' asked Ben, once they were outside the shop.

'Well, I know how you like it,' Mo replied. 'And today is about trying new things and chilling out so I thought I might try some too.'

'Okay,' said Ben, knocked off balance at the thought that Mo was going to have a drink with him for the first time. He chose not to question his decision.

Unfortunately for Mo, his style and confidence did not manage to blag him through the entrance gates with the same ease with which he had purchased the wine. Being under seventeen, he had assumed that they would be admitted for free, but the guard at the gate informed him that would only apply if they were being accompanied by a paying adult. Mo then offered to pay the student rate, but was told dispassionately that a valid student card was needed, which neither of them held. So Mo, keen to pass through the gates with as little fuss as possible (not least because his middle eastern looks and backpack had singled him out for unwelcome special attention in the past), ended up paying the full adult fee of £24.50 for the two of them. Ben reflected on the fact that being in limbo between being a student and a fully paid-up adult was going to be expensive, but took solace in the knowledge that his forthcoming interview provided some financial light at the end of the tunnel.

Once inside the gardens, the benefits of the entrance fee became immediately apparent. It was peaceful, relaxing, calming and picturesque, just as they had imagined. Compared to their usual stomping ground of Kensington Gardens, with its constant buzz of tourists, it was almost empty. They strolled past the neatly kept borders lining the central pond towards the impressively constructed Palm House which triggered Ben to recall happy childhood memories spent picnicking with his Mum. At that particular moment, both boys felt as if they were a world away from Bayswater and lost themselves in their surroundings. Although less than a week ago, school and the troubles it caused seemed an age away.

They entered the Palm House and were completely overwhelmed by its beauty. Ben began enthusing about the different species of tropical palms, cocoa, coffee and rubber trees and exclaiming at the beauty of the vividly coloured flowers growing in such profusion. The warmth and spicy scents circulating in the humid environment were intoxicating. Never before had Ben experienced such natural richness of colour, scent and visual interest in such a condensed space. He stared up in wonderment at the palm leaves overhead as they cast their criss-crossed shadows across overhanging trumpet flowers, which themselves had bees buzzing in and out, stripping their stamens bare of pollen.

Mo shared Ben's enthusiastic vibe and started taking photos of their surroundings with his phone. It did not take long before, Mo was again trying to catch Ben in his shots. Ben reacted by turning his face away with feigned bashfulness but, after some playful teasing from Mo, eventually gave in to his demands to strike a thoughtful pose whilst looking upwards to sniff an overhanging flower. Mo was delighted with the result.

Ben sought to return the favour by pulling his own camera-phone out and coaxing Mo to stand beside an impressive looking cactus and narrow his eyes into a mean stare while raising an eyebrow in the style of a Mexican bandit.

'Amigo, amigo...' Ben called out playfully.

They repeated this act for each other at each new setting they past before finding a bench to sit on. They spent some time just sitting and soaking up the atmosphere, watching visitors drift around at snail's pace with no specific purpose. Everything was slow and beautiful. They noted that the others fell into two broad categories: either above middle age, or lone parents with children. They liked the fact that there was no one else of their age group there. It underlined their feeling that they were somehow different from the mainstream. Each a bit special in his own way. Mo, because of his unique sense of style and tendency to withdraw into his lone world of artistic creativity, and Ben because of his determination to do whatever he felt was right, whether it conformed to the norm or not, disregarding what anybody else said or thought (some, friends included, might simply say he was stubborn). Half an hour of breathing in the intoxicating scents of tropical flora was enough for them before they decided to leave the Palm House for a smoke and some lunch.

Woodland areas, shrubs, formal gardens and winding paths sprung up and wove in all directions outside. They took the most isolated looking route and soon found a spot which looked secluded enough for them not to be disturbed. They wasted no time in settling down to share a cigarette and a secret agent between them. Mo unpacked his bag and took out fresh baguettes, sliced beef and chicken, cheese, a tub of olives, a box of cherry tomatoes, a bag of kettle crisps and a couple of cans of diet coke.

'Oooo,' said Ben. 'Looks posh.'

Mo frowned dismissively. 'Not really. There's no excuse for bad food, you know. Anyway, we deserve it.' He took out the white wine, unscrewed its top and filled a couple of plastic cups. 'This is the start of the rest of our lives. Here's to you Ben,' he said holding up his cup. 'To future wealth, health and happiness.'

'Thank you Mo, but here's to _us_ ,' Ben replied with fake formality. 'To _our_ future wealth, health and happiness. And I have to say, coming here was a top idea. Life don't get much better than this, you know.'

Mo beamed brightly, basking in the sunshine and in the knowledge that his planned day was hitting the right spot. He sipped hesitantly at his wine and winced as he swallowed. Ben watched avidly.

'Well?'

'Urgh. It'll take some getting used to...' replied Mo, opening a can of diet coke to glug in between sips of wine, '...but here's to trying new things.' He tapped his cup against Ben's and swapped his ciggie for Ben's joint before tucking into the feast before them.

They provided an unlikely but idyllic scene as they lay surrounded by fine foods, sipping wine, while clouds of pungent smoke swirled around them; Mo a curious mixture of smartness and bohemia, and Ben with his usual old hood and jeans. Only once did someone go remotely near them, and he took a sharp turn in the other direction when he spotted them. Neither of them cared about the scene they presented. They were carefree and happy and agreed that it would be moments like that they would remember as the best days of their life, not school. They talked about food, likes and dislikes, musical tastes and ideas for further days out together before the end of summer.

While Mo was mulling over the effects of the drink, they started debating the pros and cons of alcohol over dope and vice versa, discussing the risks of each and their legal status.

'...but everyone's tried a smoke, bruv. Some stick wiv it; some don't like it, and that's their choice. But it never killed no one,' offered Ben.

'Yeh, but they say some go mad on it. Remember that skinny kid a couple of years below us? Completely freaked out on his first joint in the school toilets and rushed to the teachers asking to be sent home 'cause he thought the school walls were closing in and were going to squeeze him to death.'

'Ha ha...yeh, but how many of us felt like that without the dope? Who's to say the dope didn't save him by releasing fears that were already bottling up inside him to the point of meltdown? That joint could've been his saviour.'

'Anyway, what happened to him?'

'Dunno. Fink he took a week off school and went into regular counselling. Went on to pass all his exams and go to college after that though.'

'There you go then. Saved.'

Ben voiced his firm belief that all forms of cannabis and hash should be legalised. '...everyone's smoking it anyway. It's no more harmful than having a drink; it's up to you whether you smoke it or not, and it's only a fuckin' leaf, for Christ's sake. I mean look around you.' Ben was in full oratory flow at this point. '...at how beautiful nature is. If you accept that nature is legitimate and pure by definition, then it must follow that all plants are legal. It's just ridiculous to try and make a leaf illegal. Even Arnold Schwarzenegger backs that one.'

'No, no, no...,' interrupted Mo. 'Legalising it would be bad news, man. Think about it. If it was legalised it wouldn't be for our benefit. It'll be 'cause our greedy government wants a new taxation income stream. And once the government gets involved with hash, total quality control will be lost for ever. We'll really end up the losers smoking camel shit then. Nah...keep it illegal and let it stay exclusive. Look at alcohol. It's a man-made substance produced to aid governments' control of the population and make them a tidy profit at the same time.'

'True. Nice though. Whadja reckon about pills and coke then?'

'No way I'm going there. Pills just ain't my thing - I like to see my ingredients, and coke's a different story, man. We don't need that false confidence and that stuff fucks with your heart and nose. Plus there are some seriously crazy bastards on that shit. Look at Papa Tee.'

'You reckon he took coke?'

'Sure I do. There's no way those rocks of his were for sale only.'

'Perhaps. Mad bastard. Anyway, at least we got our smokes and when that runs out we got this to put a bit of sophistication into our lives, eh?' Ben said raising his cup to Mo.

'Shofishtishcated?' said Mo, deliberately emphasising his slur. 'I can't even fuckin' shay it!'

They continued debating issues and joking with each other when Mo suddenly blurted: 'I wish things didn't have to change.'

'They don't,' replied Ben.

'But they will if you go off and start working. They always do. People say one thing when they're at school together, but they always drift apart.' Mo was solemn and looked thoughtful as he spoke quietly, keen to avoid Ben's eye. Ben was having none of it.

'Mo. How long have we known each other? Forever. It's not like we're friends because of school is it? So it's not like we're going to drift apart just because we're not sitting next to each other every day. Chill out. If anything, life'll be better 'cause when I'm earning I'll be able to afford to take you out for a picnic for a change. Okay?'

'I'll come and hold you to that,' said Mo, perking up.

'Here try some of this now.' Ben took the French rosé from Mo's bag, uncorked it and topped up Mo's cup before filling his own. Ben noted that Mo was not doing too badly with his first experience of wine, and had obviously got over his initial difficulty at acquiring its taste judging by the speed at which the rosé was now disappearing. Ben, by contrast, had never had any trouble with wine, which had become his drink of choice from the moment Luca had started to take bottles from his parents' restaurant. Its image was superior to lager or beer, which he always found too bitter and filling, and it did not have the sickly sweet aftertaste of the alcopops which were so popular. Although Ben was also quite keen on the bottles of Peroni lager that Luca turned up with, he liked the fact that his stated preference for wine made him stand out as different from the rest - a bit more mature and a cut above the average. And when he did have to purchase his own drink, wine was always much cheaper than the popular combination of vodka and Red Bull. Pound for pound, wine won hands down with Ben every time.

From his very first taste of wine he knew he had found a reliable friend - someone who could help punctuate the ups and downs of every passing week. A few shared swigs from a bottle after school every day acted as commas; four cupfuls or more on a Friday acted as a full stop, signifying the end of the week; a cupful or two to ponder a dilemma with one of the others acted as a good question mark; and getting shit-faced on at least a monthly basis was always remembered as an exclamation mark.

While considering whether today's skinful was merely a comma or heading towards an exclamation mark, Ben recalled the man with sparkly cufflinks drinking wine in the bar in Westbourne Grove and thought how together he had appeared. He remembered the aggressive, dismissive look he had received from him and immediately felt a level of superiority over him for not having to pay silly money for an over-priced, poor quality drink in a bar, when he was sitting in the pleasant surroundings of Kew Gardens with good company, getting pleasantly high and pissed.

'Who's the smartest now?' he thought.

By the time Ben had uncorked the Bulgarian red they were down to half a packet of crisps and one remaining secret agent.

'You be alright with this?' asked Ben, holding the bottle up.

'No problem,' said Mo, clearly not. 'My Mum's at her evening class tonight and I'm not seeing my Dad till the weekend.' Ben smiled at the way Mo's speech had become so slow and carefully delivered, his lips carefully mouthing each word to avoid being seen to be at all drunk. The fact his eyes were half closed was a dead give-away.

'You drunk, Mo?'

'Nah. Course not. Just reeeally tired.'

'You sure?' Despite the fact Ben was jolly with both drink and hash, he exaggerated a sober appearance to flush Mo out.

'Well...maybe a bit tiddly, I suppose,' Mo admitted, triggering a non-stop stream of giggles between them both which bubbled up again each time they looked at each other. They must have laughed without a break for ten minutes when Mo's giggles started to become mechanical, repetitive and false sounding. Then, he suddenly stopped and declared that he needed some more diet coke or a cup of strong coffee and demanded Ben help him up. Mo was wobbling all over the place and had to steady himself by putting his arms on Ben's shoulders. He looked down at himself, disappointed at the grass stains his white corduroys had picked up.

'Fuck. My Dad'd kill me if he could see me now,' he slurred. He looked up again and gazed deep into Ben's eyes with an air of profoundness.

'What?' questioned Ben.

'I don't think wine agrees with me.'

Ben leapt back just in time to avoid a steam of multicoloured vomit as it forced its way violently out of Mo into a sloppy pile onto the grass. It stank and contained obvious lumps of beef and chicken, chewed up tomatoes and red wine. The splashback on his shoes and hems of his cords was deep purple from his most recent cup of wine. Ben rubbed Mo's back while he pushed up more waste and reluctantly watched the further contents of Mo's stomach empty itself. Mo's face was all screwed up, with veins straining at sides of his head. Ben held his own breath to suppress the urge to retch himself.

'Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,' said Mo in between heaves.

'Must've been the red wine,' comforted Ben, picking up the half finished bottle up and tossing it into the middle of a rhododendron bush. He let Mo repeat the process three or four more times before saying: 'C'mon, let's get some fresh air and a coffee in you.'

Mo stood dazed, in a total state of reliance on Ben for balance.

Before they left, Ben packed Mo's backpack and delved in the bushes to collect the discarded wine bottle he had chucked a moment ago to find a bin for it.

The fresh air and mouthfuls of mints must have done Mo some good as he moaning incessantly about the state of his trousers, the evils of drink (which he vowed a number of times he was never going to try again), and gushing about what a good friend Ben was, to the point of causing some embarrassment on Ben's part.

Evening was approaching and Ben was starting to think about his stomach again. He noticed what could only be described as a quaint looking teashop across the road from the bus stop. What a perfect end to their day that would be, he thought. He also hoped it would help Mo sober up a bit more and stop him whinging before they got the bus home.

As they opened the teashop door an unobtrusive bell rang. They headed straight for an unoccupied but uncleared table and settled themselves down. It was busy but welcoming inside. The bright lighting and volume of chatter from other customers silenced Mo who reacted with an uncomfortable wince. It was full of tourists, groups of elderly people and couples. Steam billowed into the air from behind the counter which displayed row upon row of scones, cream cakes and fancy biscuits. Mo looked totally lost as he peered round the room from its centre table, shoulders hunched and hands clenched between his legs.

Ben picked up a half-eaten scone which had been left on their table and bit into it, chewing hungrily. Taking in his surroundings, he observed a group of grey-haired pensioners sitting nearby, themselves sneaking a curious look at them. They all wore matching beige jackets; probably a wholesale purchase from the back of a Sunday paper, Ben thought. From a table to his left, he overheard a conversation from a group of young women. One in particular was quite vocal and going into some detail over the home furnishings she had just ordered. Her friends listened enviously.

Ben's thoughts were interrupted when an elderly, and rather sulky looking waitress approached their table and said coldly: 'Minimum charges apply at this time.'

'That's perfectly fine, madam,' replied a dishevelled Ben, red eyed, but with his wicked sense of fun returning.

'And no smoking,' said the waitress, spotting Ben's pack of Marlboro's on the table.

Ben put his cigarettes back into his pocket and said with mock haughtiness: 'I have no intention of smoking, madam, but my friend and I would like a pot of strong coffee and a couple of slices of cake, please. I would like deep bake cheesecake if you have it.'

The waitress scribbled on her pad, eyed the boys suspiciously, but said nothing before returning behind the counter. Mo smiled, which Ben took as a good sign. Ben's hunger meant he could not resist continuing to pick the half-eaten scones left on his table. Disapproving eyes from adjacent tables caught his behaviour and glanced quickly away, and people began to whisper behind their hands.

Ben did not have the opportunity to finish the leftovers as the were whisked away and replaced with - in record time and with silent service - their coffee, a slice of cheesecake and a Danish pastry.

'Ah, looks lovely. Thank you, good lady,' Ben said sarcastically with a sloppy grin and as much false charm as he could muster.

Mo was warming up in response to Ben's humour and made an effort to drink the hot fresh coffee, which he needed both hands to lift, and take a bite out of the sticky bun. A healthier colour replaced his pallor. Ben jokily raised his pinky finger while sipping from his cup.

'I say Tarquin, this coffee is rather good isn't it?' he said in his most upper crust accent.

Mo shrank into his seat and returned a fragile smile.

'And this cheesecake is most delightful,' continued Ben, slightly louder than before.

Mo took another bite out of his Danish and smiled back timidly, noticing that the rest of the customers had stopped talking and were staring at them. He signalled a discreet plea at Ben for him to avoid drawing attention to their table. Ben could not resist playing up to his audience though and, hand on stomach, let out a long, deep baritone belch.

'Oh God!' said an elderly lady from the next table, turning her back to him.

'Dis-GUS-ting,' said another.

'Scuse me. Better out than in,' said Ben to innocently to no one in particular. The waitress, hands on hips, continued to eye him with increasing concern.

Ben knocked back the remains of his coffee, leant back on his wooden seat, closed one eye and broke wind slowly. It lasted only about three seconds but it reverberated loudly and echoed off the edge of his seat, causing a furore of sounds of disgust from the other customers. Mo broke into laughter which then triggered a bout of retching as his Danish started to work its way back up his throat. He wiped a trickle of pre-vomit saliva away from the corner of his mouth. By now, the waitress was marching over to their table. Ben leapt up and grabbed Mo's arm and tugged him towards the door which he flung open and took off at top speed, laughing. They ran and ran until they had turned a couple of corners and were safely out of sight.

'What did you do that for?' panted Mo, looking much better.

Ben laughed.

'Well. We got a free coffee and cake out of it didn't we? C'mon. Live a little.' Still panting, he jabbed Mo's shoulder in jest a couple of times.

'Anyway. Don't worry 'bout it. We're never gonna see any of them again.'

'That's not the point,' said Mo.

Just then, their bus came into view, causing them to sprint again to catch it. It drove straight past its stop but got caught at the lights. Ben ran up to it and knocked on the door a couple of times, waited a moment for the driver to respond, before pressing the emergency 'door open' button and stepping on. He glared at the driver - who continued to ignore him - before swinging his way along the handrails and loops towards the back of the bus with Mo in tow. Ben was tired and settled his head against the window to the sound of Mo's incessant moaning about his throbbing head. Ben stared at the lines across his palms, immediately feeling cross with himself at this newly formed habit, before falling asleep to the rocking of the bus.

The sound of Mo's groaning sent Ben into a blissful state of semi-consciousness. As the sun set outside and the darkness of the night drew in, he recalled how beautiful Kew Gardens had been and felt a twinge of guilt at how the day had finished with his behaviour in the teashop. His feelings of guilt were brief, however, as he switched his thoughts to the tranquillity he had experienced whilst inside the Palm House. He remembered the streams of light bursting through the glass rooftop, casting multiple shadows across leaves at lower levels and making his skin feel alive as they shone down on him.

The luscious, fragrant scents returned to him once more. Warm, fresh and moist, compelling his lungs to open up to full capacity. The sound of birds fluttered in the distance and increased in volume as they got closer to him. He opened his eyes sleepily to the discomfort of a dry mouth and the tightening of his scalp. His bones ached to their very core and his head felt foggy. Bright light surrounded him. He looked down at his palms and saw the dominant, thick simian lines cutting deeply across his long thin browny-tan palms. He turned his hands over and noticed that they were completely covered in thick dark wiry hair. A bit slow on the uptake, his gaze followed his wrist up to his arm and across his chest before he realised he was completely naked and sitting half way up a palm tree. He put his hands to his face and felt his flat nose against his protruding mouth. It took a couple of minutes of him just sitting there to take in what was happening; he was vaguely aware that he must be having a dream yet, at the same time, he was completely able and conscious as he sat fully exposed on a branch in Kew Garden's Palm House.

To avert his fear of falling and to steady the sway of the tree, he gripped a hanging vine branch from above. Down on the ground below, he could see visitors milling around as normal, looking much smaller than they had during the day and completely oblivious to his presence. A screeching laugh from behind him made him flinch. He turned to see a small family of chimpanzees, grooming and playing with each other. He wiped a tear from his eye as he gazed upwards into the light, observing how happy they all looked together.

There were six of them, two parents, three younger chimps and one older looking chimp, who he presumed must have been the grandparent. He looked fondly on as they paid each other constant loving attention. The youngsters played cheekily together, teasing the older chimp who would react by taking an occasional half-hearted swipe at them or pulling a face to make them shriek with laughter. The parents kept a watchful eye on their offspring, but were otherwise fully occupied and focused on grooming each other lazily, picking fleas out of each other's coat and chewing up any prizes found. Ben found it fascinating to be so close to them without having any bars to separate them and felt a huge amount of respect for the way in which the young and old mixed so well with each other. They were a picture of perfect loving harmony. Suddenly, Ben felt very lonely at being stuck on a branch on his own.

He inspected his palms again, proud of his common simian traits with his amusing simian company and stretched out his long arms. They felt powerful and strong. He tested his capability to carry his own weight by lifting himself, hand over hand, effortlessly up the length of vine dangling down from above him. As his confidence grew, and he grew accustomed to the extent of his reach, he started swinging from tree to tree, enjoying the warm air breeze past his face as he travelled, making him feel very superior to the tiny ant-like humans he could spot shuffling about on the ground below.

The scent of the flowers was strong and the sun hot as it shone down on Ben's bare back while he picked up speed by introducing the odd leap into his swinging routine. He felt immensely happy, carefree and playful, and totally at one with himself as he swung past families of chimpanzees, demonstrating his ability to control his bodyweight with such skill and ease.

His fun was interrupted by a loud piercing scream which echoed out from behind him and sent a chill down his spine. It caused him to freeze, arms wrapped round a rubber tree. He looked upwards in the direction of the sound but could not locate its source. He noticed that all the other chimps had frozen similarly and were all staring in the same direction. Another chilling screech echoed out around the glasshouse, turning any warmth Ben had felt previously into cold fear. As the second cry died away, every chimp in the house started moving forward in unison from tree to tree. They shouted coded instructions to each other – like morse code in shrieks and grunts \- which Ben could not understand, and their eyes turned from looking warm and loving to drunk and crazed.

Not wanting to be left alone, Ben followed the gibbering mobin the direction of the screams which were increasing in frequency by the second. Stopping on a date palm just short of the hub of commotion, he shivered at the sight of four fearful but innocent looking ring-tailed lemurs, each backed into a corner and surrounded by screeching chimps of all ages and sizes. Their faces twitched from side to side, eyes wide open and searching for an exit. Ben looked around on their behalf to assess their options. If they were to escape the surrounding screaming rabble their only hope was to leap downwards into the unknown below or try to dart somehow through the encircling chimps. Either way, it did not look hopeful.

The chimps had worked themselves up into a noisy frenzy of an irrational, non-negotiable pack of sadistic killers. Their teeth were bared and they were thumping the trunks and branches of the trees surrounding them. One of the lemurs lurched forward in a state of panic, only to be caught by the leg by one by the larger chimps who swung it violently against a branch, hitting its skull with full force and sending a chilling cracking sound echoing around the Palm House before starting to rip it from limb to limb with cold ruthlessness.

Ben could hardly bare to watch as the rest of the pack piled into the remaining lemurs, tearing strips of bright red flesh from them in an ugly, primitive fashion. The noise abated only when the pack turned their attention to devouring the sinewy flesh on offer, smearing blood sloppily around their mouths. Once they had stripped every remaining scrap of flesh from the bones, the mood relaxed as they returned to their grooming rituals, leaving the youngsters to play yet again.

An older, familiar-looking chimp at the very highest point of the pack caught Ben's searching gaze, grinned and raised a friendly palm in his direction. Ben instinctively waved back. Then, the older chimp stretched its hand out further towards Ben and gestured for him to grab hold of it. Ben held his long hand out in return to grasp the friendly offer but could not quite reach. Seeing this, the older chimp stretched further out from its branch and managed to brush Ben's fingertips before losing balance and toppling forward out of the tree, screaming past Ben as it careered towards the ground below. Ben closed his eyes and turned his head upwards, before hearing a dull thud.

When he felt brave enough to open his eyes again, calm had been restored to the Palm House. The sun continued to shine brilliantly through the glass rooftops, casting criss-cross patterns of shadows through the myriad palm leaves stretching upwards. A couple of small birds which had managed to get themselves trapped inside the house chased each other round in circles, singing as they went. But Ben no longer felt in the mood to swing through the trees. He looked over to his left and watched a couple of dominant male chimps slouched with their arms hanging over each other's shoulders and wondered how they could turn from being such aggressive killers to having such a peaceful air of contentment. They were licking their lips and picking the remaining traces of flesh from their teeth. One of them farted quite loudly and laughed, which set the others off.

Ben could not share the feeling of mirth around him. He felt alienated by the brutality of the pack. It left him feeling alone, disapproving and sad. A lump entered his throat as he stared down at his long bony palms and caught sight of the older chimp lying motionless on the tiled floor below, alongside the remains of one of the lemurs - limbs missing and belly ripped open. Ben turned away from the pack and withdrew to a safe-looking concealed shady spot to brood on his own.

The bus jolted to a stop at Hammersmith Broadway, the driver flashing its lights on and off to shake its last passengers off board. Ben looked towards Mo who was still blissfully asleep, his lips all twisted and crooked against the window. He shook him to his feet. It was time to change buses.

****

Chapter 9

Ben failed to tempt Mo out the next day. His flat tone and grunts down the phone left no room for further persuasion; he was blatantly too fragile to manage anything much and was firm about his need to stay at home that day. Ben decided to give him some space to recover and headed off to the library with the purpose of preparing for his interview in mind.

Upon arrival he registered for his free hour's worth of internet use, swept a handful of reference books off the careers advice shelf and plonked himself in front of an empty computer in the corner of the library. It was still relatively early and quiet and presented an opportunity for Ben to concentrate on his future with a clear mind.

He keyed in a basic jobs search while skimming though his selection of books. They were packed full of ideas for occupations, courses and contacts to follow up on various opportunities, complete with weblinks to sites where further information could be found. Tips, tricks, techniques and an overwhelming amount of information was available, all of which looked useful in helping him find his fast track to success. The more he read, the greater his optimism and enthusiasm grew. It did not take long before he had reached a point where he felt totally relaxed and confident about his interview.

Although he was sure he would find his interview with ManPro a doddle, he was reassured by the number of other paths he could choose to follow. It struck him that there was no excuse for anyone to be unemployed as he skimmed through headings for admin, arts, craft and design, catering, education, environmental, financial, IT, legal, and so on. It seemed that opportunities lay in every direction. And the fact that so many books suggested that many jobs did not require any formal qualifications, but judged applicants more on what they had to offer, was also encouraging. Ben was sure of his own capability and intelligence, but had skipped a lot of lessons at school and was not confident he had done enough to achieve the right exam results to convince others of that fact.

School had provided advice on how to fill in application forms, complete CVs and interview techniques, but Ben thought it would be a good idea if he visualised his interview to brush up his knowledge of what to expect. He closed his eyes and imagined what it would be like to meet Francesca of ManPro and how he would introduce himself with confidence and discuss what he was capable of achieving. As he ticked off a visual checklist of what would score well, it all seemed so easy and basic that Ben could not help but feel he had it in the bag.

Dress smartly (OK. Shirt and tie job); look bright (easy); arrive on time (duh!); get outfit ready the night before (whatever); take time to answer questions (spin out the chat); be positive (naturally) and turn off mobile (must make note to remember). One book went so far as to suggest that only 7% of how you are judged is based on what you actually say, the rest being appearance ('OK, _smart_ shirt and tie,' he thought). The most difficult element of the task seemed to be the need to be clear about the 'person specification' (Ben realised he did not really know what he might be required to do on a day to day basis) and to have the ability to describe what your strengths and weaknesses are.

Acknowledging that the latter points might need a little more thinking about, Ben concluded that a strategy which concentrated on the 93% of getting the look right and a 7% mix of charm and showing a willingness to learn would provide enough of a mix to present himself as a strong candidate. The job was his for the asking.

Ben looked up from his book to the search results on the screen and, deciding he had already gleaned the information he needed, switched to checking his email accounts. He trawled through the endless stream of shaggy dog jokes, chain mail stories and funny pictures which had been forwarded on to him from the his usual geek admirers from school before deciding to log off, just before his time was up, and go outside for a smoke.

With Mo out of the picture for the day, Ben gave Dave a ring to see what he was up to. As luck would have it, he was just about to leave home to meet Luca, Hannah and Chloe at the Crypt. They had arranged to go on to Kensington High Street for the day for a look round the shops. Ben was welcomed along, although he did wonder why he hadn't been asked when it was arranged. He thought about taking a leaf out of Mo's book by playing it aloof and cool and turning the offer down but, in the absence of having anything else to do, headed towards the Crypt anyway for a quick catch-up.

When he arrived, Hannah and Chloe were already sitting outside on one of the stone benches in the overgrown church grounds. They looked immaculate as they fiddled needlessly with each other's hair and were oblivious to him as he approached. He took the opportunity to observe them for a while. Although the disused grounds were quite ugly in appearance and in a completely unkempt state, he thought there was something quite picturesque about the whole scene as Hannah and Chloe sat on the bench in the middle of the ground preening each other in the breaking sunshine. It looked very artistic. Two diamonds in the rough. Ben imagined that if Mo could see them he would have been able to recreate a good drawing based on the scene.

Chloe was very much a girly girl; predictable in her choice of Bratz doll type clothing, scraped back gelled hair and accessories decorating every available piece of flesh. Hannah, he noticed, seemed to be taking on a more mature and womanly air each time he saw her. On this occasion, her thick brown hair had been cut into a short bob and her make up was more understated than it had been in the past, aside from her eyes, which were lined heavily. Her clothes were not as revealing as the last time they were in the Crypt together, but still smart. More sensible. Chloe, by contrast, was completely consistent in her choice of teeny-weeny items of clothing, which meant she was more immediately eye-catching in an obvious sort of way. But, once viewed for any length of time, Hannah's attractiveness easily had more depth.

As soon as Ben realised he had been spotted, he quickened his pace towards them, gave them a cheerful 'hello girls' and whisked them down into the Crypt itself before anyone outside paid them too much attention. Dave really should have told them not to hang about outside where attention could be drawn to their hideout, he thought. He took them down the corridor and into the room, lit the torches and settled down to wait for the others.

'So. How are you both today?' asked Ben, surprised at his nervousness at being alone with both the girls for the first time. They laughed at his formality before answering a simple 'fine'. They weren't going to make this easy for him.

'You look nice today. Where are you planning on going?' Ben was kicking himself inside at his inability to relax and rid himself of his formal approach.

'You berk,' he thought to himself, wishing that Dave and Luca would hurry up.

'Thanks,' replied Chloe, adjusting the neckline to her scoop top. 'You don't look too bad yourself,' she said looking distastefully up and down at his same old worn hooded top. Ben noted that she didn't have that cocky edge to her when Luca was chatting to her the other day.

'What have you been up to anyway, stranger?' asked Hannah. 'We were getting bored. Wondered where you'd disappeared to.' Chloe stood up and started pacing up and down impatiently.

'Nowhere,' replied Ben. 'Well, actually Dave and Luca have been a bit busy lately, so I've been hanging around with Mo. Went to Kew Gardens the other day. Was really nice. Bit of a laugh actually.' He smiled at Hannah flirtatiously while recalling some of the day's highlights. 'We should all go together one day.'

Chloe snorted dismissively. 'Why, what we gonna do there?'

'Why not? You don't mind Kensington Gardens. It's just somewhere a bit different, that's all.'

'I don't do picnics. That's for kids.'

Ben felt embarrassed at having mentioned it at all and decided not to respond for fear of any further put-down.

Hannah laughed too, but a friendly laugh, before saying, 'Sounds nice. I'd have come if you'd have asked.' She smiled warmly at Ben. 'You've got my number. Just text me next time you're going somewhere like that.'

'Okay,' said Ben returning a smile.

He liked Hannah. She was tough, but never unjustifiably and always kind. There was no side to her. What you saw was what you got (and he was becoming increasingly impressed at just how good she looked that day). She was independent, straightforward and natural in approach. Ben noticed that even her long nails had been clipped back to a more sensible length and, although still shining with some form of gloss, they were much simpler than the last time he'd noticed them. Her new soft hairstyle framed her face and brought out the greenness of her eyes. A complete contrast to Chloe's scraped back oily look. In fact, he concluded, Hannah was definitely much better looking and far less 'high maintenance' than before. A one-pint 'definite', as opposed to a nine-pint 'maybe', as Dave would have put it.

For some reason unknown to Ben, Chloe had chosen to ignore him but continued to pace distractingly up and down the stone floor, her high heels creating an annoying clicking sound as she trod. Ben turned his attention to Hannah and started to tell her about his forthcoming interview. She was suitably impressed.

'Yeh, all I got to do is just dress up, look sharp, and I'll knock 'em dead,' he said, letting his confidence carry himself away.

'I'm sure you won't have any trouble with that,' said Hannah, encouragingly. 'Good luck, if that's what you want.'

'Thanks, but it won't be down to luck if I get it,' he said, involuntarily fingering the lines across his palms.

'Why don't you come out with us today?' Hannah asked enthusiastically.

Ben thought about it and, watching Chloe lean against the wall and stare at her watch every thirty seconds, started to wonder about who was with whom, and how the other night in the Crypt had ended up. He did not fancy playing gooseberry for the day.

Before he had a chance to figure it out, Chloe broke the silence by saying: 'At last,' in response to hearing Dave and Luca on their way down the corridor. She headed straight towards Dave as he entered the room, and pecked him on the cheek before linking her arm through his. Well, that confirms that, thought Ben. Luca smiled across at Ben and Hannah.

''Ello babe,' he nodded towards Hannah and cocked his eyebrow, James Bond style. He really could be cheesy at times.

'Alright, my man?' he said to Ben, as they knocked fists together. Ben noted that there was no physical contact at all with Hannah and thought 'good' out of respect for her, and at his remaining chances. Luca had had enough triumphs to boast of without threatening Ben and Hannah's friendship.

'How's it going Dave,' asked Ben with a knowing nod and a wink.

'Not bad, mate, not bad. Busy though. I been thinking I might take a leaf out of your book and join the army.'

'What?' exclaimed Ben. 'What you on about? I've never talked about joining the army.'

'Naw,' said Dave. 'I mean, like you getting a job. Not wiv my Dad though, but a proper job. And the army looks good. Right up my street. Bit more exciting than sitting in a office all day.'

Ben was shocked by Dave's stated interest. He had never mentioned the army before, or shown any interest in it. Judging by the look on Chloe's face, it was not doing much to impress her either. Dave was losing it. Ben could not see how someone like Dave could want to join the army. And what happened to him wanting, just a few days ago, to follow in his father's footsteps and become a carpenter? Dave had spent his whole life at school, resisting rules and authority and here he was talking about signing his life away to being told what to do and how to do it from morning through till night. Sometimes he just didn't make sense.

Ben did not have the energy to enter into a debate with Dave about the pros and cons of wanting to join the army, but was interested in finding out how things were going with Papa Tee's hash.

'Must admit, the training and travel would be great, but I deplore violence. If someone told me to go to war, I'd fuckin' kill 'em.' Hoping he had nipped the potential for any further discussion on the army in the bud, and with more of an obvious wink and tipping a nod towards the corner of the room, Ben asked: 'No, how's things going with the _windows_ , Dave.' The emphasis on _'windows'_ was strong enough for even Luca to pick up on what Ben was getting at.

Dave was surprisingly slow on the uptake before responding.

'Ahhh. Making lots of money, dude. Just as planned. Yeh, the - 'windows' business \- is going _really_ well. No trouble whatsoever. Don't worry, I'll tell you more about it and settle up some time soon,' he said winking. Chloe and Hannah looked bemused.

'How much more 'work' have you got left?' asked Ben.

'Plenty. Don't worry, dude. Everything's in hand and going to plan.'

Ben thought it all sounded a bit too vague and could not be sure if Dave was being deliberately evasive. He was dying to ask directly how much money had been made and could be split between them, but thought better of it in front of the girls. A suit for his interview would be a useful bonus though.

'Anyway,' said Dave putting a possessive arm round Chloe's shoulders. 'Time we made a move. You coming, Hoodie?'

Ben looked up at them all and decided not to risk ending up being the odd one out on their planned outting so instead asked if either of the girls had Isabelle's number, given the difficulties he had been experiencing trying to make contact with her.

'I told you, I don't have anything to do with that stuck-up cow,' replied Hannah curtly. 'Anyway, I honestly don't think she'll want to go out with you. Why don't you at least come along with us for a burger and see how it goes from there?'

Ben put Hannah's reaction down to a bit of intra-female jealously, but was still not tempted to join them. Besides, other than the twenties he had kept from Papa Tee, he did not have any other money and wanted to hold a little back, just in case. He made an excuse about needing to be at home to do some stuff before wishing them a good time without him. Dave and Chloe lead the way out, arm in arm, with Luca strutting coolly behind. Just before he left, he whispered something to Ben about his success at his restaurant's hen night, but the difficulty he was having cracking 'this bird', pointing in Hannah's direction. Hannah trailed out after them, looking back at Ben. He ignored her.

Once he was sure they had left the building, he fumbled about in the corner of the room for the hash. The original blocks had all been completely divided into individually wrapped measures, ready to pass on, which made it a little difficult for Ben to judge how much might have been sold and how much was left, but he was able to work out that it was going down quickly. At a rough guess, he estimated that it would all be gone by the end of summer, if not before. The loose skunk was nearly all gone - and he was not sure, but he wondered whether one or more of the rocks had disappeared also. He would have to catch up with Dave on the detail some other time. He was not in the mood to have a proper smoke on his own so he stuffed the stash back into the corner and lit up to a Marlboro Light instead.

Ben left the Crypt ten minutes later. He was careful to close the door securely on his way out and looked around cautiously to check no one had seen him before emerging to street level. He was not in the mood for spending the rest of the day on his own so made his way towards Paddington Station for a spot of people-watching.

He pulled his hood over his head on the way out. He liked the sense of security it gave him, and the feel of its fleecy lining rubbing against the sides of his head. Even when the weather was warm, he preferred it up. It closed him off from the outside world and gave him the anonymity he sought, reflecting the detachment he so often felt from it. Just as he had grown up with Bayswater as his neighbourhood comfort zone, his hood had started to become his very own personal comfort zone within a comfort zone. Somewhere he could retreat to and from where he could safely and privately view the world.

As Ben walked through the station entrance he looked up in childlike wonderment. He loved its high roofing and the constant buzz of something happening. Although only mid-afternoon, he was surprised at the number of people around. The sounds, smells and amount of movement left no room to become bored or lonely. Trains were pulling into and out of platforms, echoing as they powered their engines and applied their brakes. Streams of people were shooting in all directions up and down the concourse. At any time, one or two people could be spotted running through the crowds, presumably to catch a train or rushing to meet someone. Definitely more fun than traipsing round Topshop thinking of nice things to say about the latest outfit, Ben thought.

Ben wondered how many relationships were being formed or saved by someone turning up in the right place at the right time as he watched a couple fling their arms around each other, obviously delighted at being reunited after a break. They kept hugging tightly, and then parting to stare into each other's eyes, chattering away before flinging their arms back round each other again. Ben was totally mesmerised by the sight of them and felt uplifted by their obvious happiness. Eventually, they walked off hand in hand all the way as they left the station together. Inseparable. He found the whole scene quite touching.

He walked slowly through the middle of the throng of commuters towards a bench in the centre of the station where he could watch the goings-on more closely. With each step he took forward he was determined to keep going forward in as exact a straight line as possible, and not to give way to anyone else en route. He felt satisfied as he made it to the bench without breaking his imaginary line, but not without having his shoulders barged a number of times. Still, an achievement of sorts, and a good sign, he thought.

From his centre stage position, and neatly and safely tucked away underneath his hood, Ben could not help but notice just how frantic and distressed most people looked. It was almost as if a state of panic had gripped them all. Aside from the reunions taking place, just about everyone else appeared strained, rushed, pained even. Men in suits, often in small groups, wore indelible frowns as if the weight of the world had been placed upon them. Business women too marched quickly past, their eyes fixed at some invisible distant point, looking totally disconnected from everything else around them.

'Was this the sort of success which makes people happy?' Ben speculated. They certainly didn't show it if they were. And why did so many of them insist on carrying expensive take-away pints of coffee with them? Ben wondered how far away he was from becoming one of these robots. As he continued to watch them, he realised that he could be joining them in a year or two, and had mixed feelings on whether that was something to look forward to.

The sight of a cheerful looking toddler, slightly too big for his buggy, gurgling away as his mother raced into the station was a refreshing change from staring at the usual stressed faces. The child was totally in awe of everything around him and stared in animated wonderment at the amount of activity surrounding him, his arms and fingers stretched out at either side. He had a lovely, genuine, pure smile and appeared to break into laughter at the tiniest things; people bumping into each other, for example, or a platform guard pulling a face in his direction.

His mother, by contrast, looked less than happy. She looked tired, and ungroomed, especially in comparison to the career women with their made-up faces and styled highlighted hair pushing past her. The handles of the toddler's buggy were weighed down with shopping bags and she was carrying an additional bag over her shoulder which was causing her to walk at an angle for balance. She struggled to keep her forward momentum as the buggy hit a kerb and caused her to try repeatedly to bump the wheels and her baggage up and over it. The toddler was gurgling with delight at this game until the weight of the bags on the buggy, coupled with the awkwardness with which the mother was holding its handles, caused it to topple backwards, spilling shopping in all directions and leaving the toddler on his back, staring at the rooftop, screaming at the top of its lungs.

The mother looked as if she was going to burst into tears as she struggled to get the buggy upright, collect her shopping and soothe her child. Ben felt for her as she strained to reach her spilt shopping while keeping one hand on the buggy. What he found really heartbreaking was the fact that out of all the hundreds of people rushing back and forth, not a single one had stopped to help. Worse still, he saw more than one person step over the spilt shopping as if she and her child were a mere inconvenience to their busy, miserable day.

Ben could not bear to watch her struggle any longer and shot out of his seat to rush over to her assistance. He need not have rushed though. By the time he reached her she had managed to collect herself and was defensively scurrying off, looking harassed and with an air of defeat

Without purpose, he remained in the middle of the concourse, rooted to the spot, staring ahead as people rushed past him in all directions. Most people gave him a wide berth, while others either apparently could not see him or would carelessly push him out of their way. He rotated slowly on the spot, continuing to view the crowds around him. As he did so, he caught the eye of one of the platform guards who had stopped going about his business and was standing still, staring back at him. He looked calm in comparison to the surrounding hustle and bustle which gave Ben enough of a reason to shoot him a searching look. The guard gave him what appeared to be a knowing, sympathetic smile in response. Ben frowned questioningly. The guard gave him a friendly wink, turned his back and continued collecting used tickets.

Ben took a quarter turn and almost lost his balance. He felt light-headed and a sensation of weightlessness. His toes curled tightly to grip the ground in an attempt to steady himself. He held his hands out to his side, like a tightrope walker seeking to regain his centre of gravity. Crowds continued to rush past him like a herd of galloping antelope parting to avoid a tree in the middle of a plain. Everything seemed to be happening too quickly.

Ben took some deep breaths before considering whether his legs were steady enough to carry him forward. He decided they were not. To make matters worse, he felt his vision blur. He fought the sensation by trying to focus his thoughts on the faces of those passing him.

He turned his head from side to side. Individuals blurred into a single fuzz. But not everyone was rushing. Amongst the throng there was a handful of people that appeared to stand out as being totally different to others around them, and the pace of the environment in general. Ben couldn't quite put his finger on what it was about them, but they moved with a slower pace. They appeared out of sync with the rest of the crowd and appeared relaxed, where others looked stressed. There faces were in sharp focus in contrast, whilst other remained blurred. Was it his vision, or was it them, he wondered.

Mostly, the crowds either marched or dawdled. But these randomly dispersed individuals appeared to float as effortlessly and care-freely as Ben felt weightless. Picking them out, he caught the eye of three in particular: a smartly dressed middle-aged woman, an unshaved, casually dressed man in his thirties, and a boy about his own age. He stared ahead, keeping them all in his line of vision and marvelled at the fact that despite the fact they were not together, they advanced with exactly the same slow, unhurried, floating movement.

Ben was fascinated and tried to fathom out what it was about them that set them apart from everyone else. He focussed his attention of the woman. She was wearing a smart two-piece suit with wide collars. Her brown hair curled under her jaw-line in a short bob. She could have been a top executive of some sort. Her face was soft and smooth, displaying a relaxed state of inner peace that was absent in the blurred crowds around her. Her thin lips formed a subtle smile and her brown eyes were deep and warm, melting away any surrounding sense of urgency.

Ben turned to the man and saw that his eyes carried a similar level of depth and compassion. Healing almost. He had loose curly hair, was unshaven and had an open neck stripy shirt full of warm colours. Purples, reds, oranges, yellows. His visually unkempt appearance made Ben think of a salad, lots of colourful bits and pieces all thrown together and mixed up. He was totally oblivious, or uncaring, to the fact that others were pushing past him, irritated with his relaxed pace.

The boy was the same. Moving in a pace of his own, completely ignoring the urgency in the step of the mass-produced, faceless robots surrounding him. Totally at peace and at ease with himself. A slight smile of satisfaction resting on his face.

And why was it that each of them were in razor-sharp focus whilst everything around them was in a nauseating spin? Ben kept them all within his vision and continued to observe the apparent similarities in their mannerisms. Ben's curiosity turned to amazement as, in unison, and despite the fact they were clearly not together, they all turned their heads in the same slow movement towards him and locked their gaze on him.

Ben searched each of their eyes one by one. He recalled a saying about eyes being the windows to an individual's soul and felt he could see something special and unique in each of them. Instinctively, he knew these people carried a gift of inner security, well-being and knowledge which set them apart from their surroundings. He felt a sense of acknowledgement from each of them. A shared sense of mutual understanding between them existed among them. They were existing on a higher plane to everyone else. A different plane. The same plane as him.

There was no urgency to their steps, no pain on their faces. Each was on their own and without any sense of urgency or purpose attached to them. Like him. Ben could not be sure, but it looked as if they all turned and caught each other's eyes at one point and widened their soft smiles to each other. They looked totally relaxed, non-threatening and at peace with every element surrounding them. It was almost as if each one of them radiated a self-protecting glow of energy force which, if you stared at it directly, would disappear, in the same way a star disappears if you happen to look at it directly. These individuals appeared in total contrast to everyone else who emitted an otherwise painful chaos.

As Ben basked in the warmth of the connection between himself and these few exalted souls, he felt a wave of calm flow over himself which caused his shoulders to drop a couple of inches. His arms relaxed by his sides and curiosity again triggered him to look at his palms and wonder whether there was anything in Joe's insight.

When he looked up again, the crowds had moved on and Ben found he no longer felt dizzy.

Enough, he told himself. Hanging about inside the station was not providing Ben with any answers. His need for a smoke gave him an excuse to leave the station and head off home. Besides, he felt he'd received enough inspiration to occupy his thoughts for some time.

****

Chapter 10

Ben woke early on the morning on the fourth of July, relieved that the day of his interview had finally arrived but feeling slightly nauseous with the twinge of anxiety which was rumbling inside him. Although he had been up since six, he had waited until seven – checking his clothes for the day repeatedly in that hour - before emerging from his bedroom to join his Mum for breakfast.

She was in her usual bright morning mood and showed her interest in Ben's big day by making him toast and coffee and sitting opposite him at the kitchen table, staying later than she should have before leaving for work.

'So. Who's this interview with then?' she asked enthusiastically.

'I told you already, Mum. ManPro consultancy. Management trainees.' He deliberately answered bluntly to discourage her line of questioning, not least because talking about it was making him feel more nervous.

'Sounds very important. Have you read up about the company?'

'Yes Mum.'

'Shirt ironed? Would you like me to give it a quick freshen up?'

'No Mum, I did it last night.'

'What about a tie? You can't wear your school tie.'

'I know Mum,' he said emphasising the 'know'. 'I picked up a new dark silky one from the charity shop. Don't worry about me. Just go to work.'

'Just want to make sure you do your best, Ben. As long as you do your best it doesn't matter if you get the job or not.'

'I'll be fine Mum. Stop worrying.'

'Good luck, then,' she said, laughing while she gave him an extra tight hug and a big kiss on his cheek.

'I'm working a double shift today, but you can tell me all about it when you get home.'

'Okay Mum. See you later.' He forced a smile in an attempt to look cool and relaxed.

The toast had to be washed down with a second cup of coffee to keep it moving in a downward direction, but Ben started to ease a little once he was on his own again as he followed through his planned pre-interview preparations. He showered, shaved (he'd left his face alone for over a week to build up to having a meaningful shave) and doused himself with enough aftershave to last all day. Just in case. He dressed in his old black school trousers, a white shirt, the collars of which were greying but hardly noticeable when set off against his 'new' navy and mauve paisley tie. He brushed and flattened his hair to the side to project a studious image and decided - without question - not to wear his hoodie by putting it in his backpack along with copies of his CV, which he'd printed off at Mo's - prominent contact details, heavy in potential, but weak in achievement. Not a problem though; Ben was planning on deploying charm as part of his armoury. He checked himself in the mirror one more time before he left and wished he had a jacket to wear to give himself that finishing touch.

Although it was only just after ten, Ben noticed that the tube still carried plenty of smartly dressed office workers. He wondered whether they started work late in the day as part of some sort of flexitime arrangement or whether they had already started and were off to meet clients somewhere. Either way, the flexibility or variety in their day would be a welcome change to his 9:00 am start at school. He craved the freedom of adult life and the thought of it becoming a reality settled his nerves, as they were replaced with excitement at the prospect of commuting by tube on a regular basis.

His enthusiasm did not last long, however, as his apprehension returned with a vengeance once he had got off at Holborn and approached the New Connaught Rooms on the way down towards Covent Garden. It was a grand and daunting building from the outside which made him hesitate before entering. In fact, he walked past it three times to build up courage, each time sneaking peeps inside to suss out the atmosphere before deciding to take ten minutes out to have a cigarette opposite before going in (he'd also brought a little celebratory joint which he was saving for after the event).

Bang on eleven o'clock he decided there was no more time to waste and that he was ready. Crunching a mint to mask the smell of smoke on his breath, he strolled across the road and straight past the doormen towards reception. Everything was in place, visually and mentally. He felt confident and would not allow his anxiety to stand in the way of achieving his dreams. A smartly dressed and attractive receptionist asked if she could help him, calling him 'sir' which gave him a further boost.

'Hi. My name's Ben Chapman and I'm here to see Francesca of ManPro consultancy.'

'Certainly, sir. You want Conference Room three on the lower ground floor,' she said, pointing to a grand looking staircase behind him.

'Just follow the recruitment fair signs down the stairs and you'll find it straight ahead.'

'Recruitment fair?' he wondered briefly. Chest out, stand tall and walk confidently, he reminded himself as he strutted towards the stairway.

As he approached Conference Room three, missing the 'Graduate Recruitment Fair' sign outside, he whispered softly to himself, 'C'mon. "Billy Big Bollocks" time, just give it 93% presentation and 7% substance and you'll be on the way to starting the rest of your life. It's yours.'

He took a deep breath and let adrenaline take over as he stepped into the room smiling confidently and looking around for ManPro consultancy and Francesca.

The layout of the room took him by surprise. He was not expecting there to be other companies present, let alone so many, and he had thought that the appointment would be one to one but, judging by the smiling faces on the recruitment stands set out around the walls, it seemed to be more of a free-for-all. Perhaps the interviews were being held in separate rooms? Or maybe they were recruiting on the basis of informal chats over coffee? Great, he thought. Piece of piss.

He paced slowly to the neutral centre of the large room to consider his next steps and to familiarise himself with his surroundings: the high ceiling, the grand chandelier; the rich deep red carpet with gold paisley. It was a different world. The stands around the outside of the room were all attended by smart suited, young and attractive, grinning company representatives, framed by promotional prints illustrating why their company had the most enthusiastic and motivated team around. It all looked very slick. Glossy brochures piled up everywhere. Free pens and pencils galore. The buzz of fast-paced conversations taking place. Colourful banners headlining the companies' aims, objectives, targets, success rates, profits and losses hung everywhere. It was very alluring. He started to feel slightly underdressed without a jacket and just his tatty backpack held in his hand. He could not see ManPro anywhere.

It was easy to differentiate between those who were representing companies and those who were potential candidates. The slick looking confidence of the reps on the stands were in stark contrast to the student types milling around from stand to stand. Ben noticed that bowls of sweets were also displayed on most of the stands in an attempt to attract the nerdy looking students from the centre of the room to its edges. What a cheap trick! Actually the students weren't so much nerdy looking; more scruffy with smartened up edges to show a glimmer of their future potential. Most wore jeans with fairly smart open-necked shirts. Some wore blazers or tweed patterned jackets to give off an air of being a bit more serious than the others. And they all seemed to have come with someone rather than turn up on their own. The fact they looked a bit geeky and were without ties made Ben worry less about the lack of jacket and feel more that he had a bit of edge on the competition. He straightened his tie. Plus, he did not think the student-types looked as confident as he felt. They carried a distinct disadvantaged 'lambs to the slaughter' look in their eyes. Favourable signs, he thought, pressing his fingers into his palms.

He read some of the literature on the stands as his gaze worked its way round the room searching for ManPro. It was all very enticing: 'Unparalleled opportunities to build your career,' read one. 'Work alongside industry-leading professionals to deliver exceptional solutions to our clients. Expect to be a contributor, a collaborator, and a colleague,' read another, in an attempt to project a sort of feel-good team spirit. Ben was trying to imagine exactly what it was these companies might actually do while reading a third: 'Premier brand and global capabilities create a strong foundation for you to explore a range of diverse career options. Working within a dynamic environment, you will contribute to our company's growth and momentum. It's a great time to join us.'

His thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of his phone buzzing in silent mode in his pocket. It was Mo.

'Yes, Mo,' he whispered. 'What's up? I'm at my interview.'

'How's it going?'

'Dunno yet. There's lots going on here though. There're loads of companies and people. I haven't even found ManPro yet so I better hurry, okay?'

'I just wanted to make sure you're cool and wish you luck.'

'You're sounding like my Mum now. What's up?'

'Nothing. Good luck, that's all. Just relax and treat the whole thing as an experience, yeh?'

Ben was not pleased with what Mo might be implying.

'I said I'll be fine, okay. We'll talk later. The reception's not great down here.'

Mo continued. 'All I'm saying, is it's not going to be easy when you haven't even got any qualifications to speak of yet, that's all. Just don't get your hopes up. I know what you're like.'

Ben felt his confidence drain in response to Mo's words. He could have picked a better time to give me his motivational speech, he thought. Ben refused to be drawn into an argument by Mo's comments, despite feeling pissed off. He decided to call off.

'Look. I've gotta go. I've just spotted ManPro, and I've got business to see to. Laters.'

As Ben put his phone back in his pocket he realised his mind was no longer prepared to impress. Mo's words had brought him down.

'Easy for him to say,' Ben mumbled to himself, '...propped up in his bedroom, playing computer games or drawing or whatever.' To Ben, this was it, and he needed to get back on track for an impressive presentation for ManPro's stand. Avoiding Dave, for fear of being press ganged into the windows business, he decided to give Luca a quick ring.

'Hey, Luca.'

'Yo Hoodie, my man. What's new?'

'I'm at my interview...'

'Yeah? Das great, my man. How's it going?'

'I haven't started yet, but wondered if you had any advice for me?'

'Me?' replied Luca, clearly both surprised and flattered at being asked for advice. 'Hmmm. Well. Let me think...'

'C'mon Luca, I haven't got long,' urged Ben.

'You know what I'd do?'

'What?' said Ben impatiently.

'You seen "Saturday Night Fever" right?'

'Yeh. We all seen it together at your place, remember?'

'Well, wot I would advise is you act like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Dat guy is cool you know. Confident, right? Difficult to say no to. You get me?'

Ben was stunned at Luca's pearls of wisdom. 'John fucking Travolta?' he said, slightly too loudly to be socially acceptable for his surroundings. 'You could have at least suggested something a little more up to date, like Ray Liota in Goodfellas, for example, or someone a bit more cool.'

'Listen bro, you gotta take this a bit more serious, you hear? You're the one wid da brains. You can't go focking up your chances by playing gangstas you know!' He kissed his teeth down the phone. 'Shit, there's a time and place for everything, man. Be cool and don't act da fool, okay?'

Ben laughed at Luca's logic and wondered how trying to act out like a modern-day John Travolta was going to help him take an interview seriously. He could even hear the cheesy beat of 'Night Fever' playing in the back of his head.

'Listen Hoodie. Lemme let you into a little secret, you hear? You know what I did the night before each exam? Watched Saturday Night Fever. Kills the nerves, and keeps you cool, bro. Believe. If I got a big date with a big girl coming up I watch it before I go out to get myself psyched up. Works every time, know wot I'm saying?'

'Thanks Luca. I knew I could count on you,' Ben said before ringing off. He felt grateful for Luca's uplifting advice and laughed to himself before swaggering confidently across to ManPro's stand with Night Fever still playing in the back of his head.

Ben took the opportunity to stop off and examine some of the other stands in more detail before reaching ManPro's stand. The information and gimmicks on offer were plentiful. He picked up a fortune cookie from one stand and opened it while a company rep grinned inanely at him. 'Your future lies undiscovered within you. You are our future,' it read. Ben smiled back at the rep and folded the paper message into his pocket without a word. A good sign, or total bullshit, he wondered to himself.

He passed by more stands and helped himself to handfuls of free pens, rulers, notepads, carrier bags and even coasters, smiling politely on the way. It all went straight into his backpack, aside from a little orange stress ball which he liked the feel of. It felt good as he rolled it round his palm and it gave his hand something to keep it occupied.

Taking the opportunity to clear his throat and rehearse his patter, he ventured into a couple of conversations with some of the reps on stands. Their brightness made him wonder whether they were all prescribed Prozac as part of their job. His approach was polite and charming and gave him a chance to ask a range of open questions in a variety of tones and accents to see which he felt most comfortable with. He was non-committal to them all on the basis that he already had an appointment to keep.

There was only a few people milling aimlessly around ManPro's stand and, given that there were only two reps present, and one of them was a six foot man with spiky gelled hair, it was obvious who Francesca was. She was smiley and confident-looking and, Ben could hear, well spoken as she delivered her patter along with a brochure to one of the browsers. Their stand had deployed the cunning tactic of installing a jellybean machine instead of the standard bowls of boiled sweets. Unlike the bowls of sweets which you could grab into while passing, the jellybean machine required you to turn its mechanism to get the sweets out, thus ensuring you were at their stand for long enough for them to engage you in conversation. Smart thinking. Ben liked their style and felt they were his kind of people. And he would be theirs.

As soon as Ben spotted that Francesca was free he strode boldly up and introduced himself, opting for the deep, serious and man-of-the-world approach.

'Hi, Francesca?'

'Hel-lo, can I tell you about ManPro consultancy?' she replied brightly with a smile that could match that of a Hollywood film star on the red carpet.

'Yes please,' he said, putting his hand forward and shaking her hand firmly. 'Actually, we spoke a couple of weeks ago. My name's Ben Chapman. I believe we have an appointment.'

'Ah yes,' she replied. Ben noticed an unwelcome hesitancy in her voice. 'I remember now. Yes. Which discipline are you particularly interested in? What's your background?'

'Well, I was wondering if you could tell me a bit more about your company first.'

Ben wanted to find out more about them before he gave anything away about himself, and he had started to feel very unsure about the process he needed to go through. He had worked out that it certainly wasn't going to be a traditional interview.

'Well. At ManPro, we believe a truly global outlook will keep us ahead of the competition. We work for a range of clients across the financial services spectrum who rely on us for our effective risk advisory and internal audit services, and our teams in financial services specialise in building relationships with some of the biggest organisations across the world. I've been here for three years now and - I can honestly say - it's been a fantastic experience.'

'Wow,' Ben thought to himself. He understood the individual words, but thought listening to her was like hearing a foreign language. His mouth hung open as he stared back at her for longer than he should.

'Sounds interesting,' he eventually replied. 'What positions do you have available?' Ben noticed that Francesca's colleague had started to listen in and was looking over at him. It was not helping his flow. Nor was his matching mauve shirt and tie, which Ben thought looked distinctly 'wanky'.

'It all depends on what you're interested in and what level of qualifications you've reached. We have a range of different disciplines you can enter into. Did you have any particular preference?' She maintained her cheery approach, but Ben thought he saw the other guy sneering.

He scanned the literature in front of him and said decisively: 'Yes, I'm interested in becoming an Executive Manager.'

This evidently pushed the correct button for Francesca who immediately continued with her sales patter.

'As an Executive or Manager you'll become a valued member of a multi-discipline team. You'll work closely with a wide range of clients, where you'll have the opportunity to work on a variety of projects including internal audit, programme advisory and internal controls.' She paused and smiled. Ben stared back blankly. All he had heard was 'blah...blah...blah...blah...'.

Ben was still thinking of how to respond when she continued, 'I'm sure you'll be a natural when it comes to forging important relationships.' He was not sure if she was being serious or not. Before he had a chance to utter a word in response, Francesca's colleague intervened.

'Hi. Fletcher Bradshaw.' He held his hand out. Ben left it where it was, preferring to maintain eye contact with Francesca.

'Do you mind if I borrow Francesca for a bit? We're rather busy today, and there's someone I'd like her to meet.'

'Excuse me, but I have an appointment with Francesca right now.' Ben insisted, annoyed at the interruption. 'I think we're almost finished though, if you don't mind.' Ben was struggling to maintain his composure at the realisation that the whole episode had been a complete waste of his time. His stupidity and the consciousness that he should have listened more closely to Mo – who he now regretted being so dismissive of earlier – left him with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Fletcher's gaze hardened to steel as he looked Ben straight in the eye and said more firmly: 'Look. We've got a lot of people to see here today. Take a brochure. Help yourself to some sweets and move along please. Come back when you're a bit older.'

'What a complete bastard,' Ben thought. Totally finishing off any chance he might have been left with and humiliating him in the process. Francesca avoided Ben's eye and began to straighten the display of brochures on the table in front of them. The sickness in his stomach welled up into a rage as his eyes began to burn with pent-up frustration. He wished he had asked Mo to come along with him.

Ben could not see any way of retreating gracefully from the situation. He was too angry and too upset and Fletcher's continuing cocky smirk in his direction was becoming too much of an open challenge for him to walk away from.

Ben broke his silence.

'Who the fuck do you think you are to speak to me like that?' In an instant, heads in the immediate vicinity turned towards him. '...Just 'cause you already got your job with your fucking mauve shirt and poncy fucking cufflinks...' His voice got louder as he realised he had an audience. It was Fletcher's turn to stand in shocked silence.

'Tell you what,' he continued loudly, playing to the crowd and gesturing with open hand. 'You can shove your fucking job and your fucking jellybeans up your fucking jelly-arse.' Job done, he thought to himself as he looked round and saw a number of people – visitors and reps alike - whispering and sniggering. He even thought he saw Francesca smile a little. Fletcher remained frozen to the spot, obviously not used to this sort of treatment, but clearly getting angrier by the second. Once Ben had started, though, there seemed to be no stopping him as he raised his voice a decibel more and, with a finger jabbing aggressively towards Fletcher, completed his tirade with, 'You useless...fucking...patronising piece of shit. ARSE. FUCKING. TOSSER!' He spat the words out as if delivering the verbal equivalent of a prod in the chest.

At which point Fletcher's face went bright red and blotchy as he lurched aggressively past the tableful of brochures towards Ben. Ben hooked his backpack over his shoulder and lobbed the stress ball he was holding smack-bang onto the middle of Fletcher's forehead, sending him reeling backwards in surprise. By now, everyone was watching keenly as Ben turned to run, just as two security guards entered the room to cut off his exit. He did not have to try too hard to dodge past them. They seemed more keen to let him pass and escape than actually catch him.

Once he reached street level he kept on running until he was in a different road and out of sight, when he slowed down to walking pace. He breathed heavily as he walked and wished again that he had asked Mo to come with him. He felt really pissed off and in need of some company. Why was Mo always right? he asked himself.

As he paced – no, marched - through the crowds thronging the streets, his eyes burning with anger, he glared at the people passing and found reason to despise them all. Smarmy git; stuck up cow; pathetic young couple; arrogant piece of shit; stupid dawdling geek; fucking tourists; over-made-up-slag; and self-absorbed, anally retentive berks everywhere. He mumbled his abusive commentary out in short, fierce snorts, his teeth gritted and tears streaming down his face.

This whole fucking world is a cold and lonely place, he told himself as he threw down his bag and ripped his shirt open to change back into his hoodie. He felt a sudden need to rid himself of his shirt and tie 'prat-disguise'. His hoodie immediately gave him the sense of familiarity and security he sought as he pulled the hood over his head to regain some privacy from the prying, disapproving eyes he was attracting by stripping off in the street. Not only that, but it had turned cold and clouded over. It looked as if rain was on its way. So much for summer.

The hood only went so far towards shutting out the pain of the outside world. Ben plugged his headphones into his mobile and was grateful for the MP3 tracks Mo had sorted out for him as he selected _'Pump It'_ by _'The Black Eyed Peas'_. As its loud, upbeat rhythms filled his head he felt almost indestructible as the bassline filled his veins with adrenaline. It kept him upright and full of determination, despite the rain starting to pound the streets, releasing a dirty damp smell. He pressed on through the increasing hordes of people shuffling towards him, defying them not to step aside for him, and stiffening his shoulder towards those who were too slow or too stupid to see him coming. Most did. Only once was Ben nearly knocked off balance by a particularly stubborn, but smart-looking executive type who appeared to deliberately head straight for him and shoulder him aside. As the man passed, leaving Ben staggering from side to side and with shoulder throbbing, Ben looked round and saw the man smiling knowingly back at him. 'Respect,' Ben thought.

Ben picked up marching pace once more and stomped down Longacre towards Covent Garden's Piazza. Tourists of all shapes and sizes, in an array of disparate colourful clothes were milling around outside the tube station with inane looks of pleasure on their faces, clearly happy to be at the heart of Europe's most cosmopolitan capital. Fools, Ben thought, as he pushed past them dismissively.

The entrance to the Piazza contained more smiling tourists, mixed in with fresh-faced happy-looking young couples on dates crowding round a living statue. Ben, hood still up, put his head down and pushed through the outer crowd before breaking into an open space, next to a man standing on a wooden box, dressed in an old dinner suit and crooked top hat. He was painted head to toe in silver face to face. The surrounding crowds all laughed at Ben's obvious surprise at having become part of the main attraction.

Silver man bent forward, robotic style, towards Ben and offered a silver hand to shake. Ben scowled in response and turned to find a way back out through the crowds. Silver man made mock scolding sounds through a squeaky voice distorter he had concealed at the back of his mouth. Ben stomped through the laughing crowd, which quickly parted to give him a clear exit.

Ben decided to escape the joviality of the throngs of tourists and upbeat spirits of Covent Garden's street performers by marching towards The Strand. As he left one crowd for another, he noticed that commuting workers quickly replaced tourists. He was comforted by the obvious contrast between the way he felt and looked and the uptight looks of misery etched into the faces of workers rushing past him. He could relate to none of them. They looked alien to him.

The beats blaring into his ears heightened his sense of isolation as he marched quickly forward in rhythm and the crowds shuffled past him in silence. The pain in his chest started to rise up his windpipe like a lump of suffocating tissue, to him symbolising the difference between his inner thoughts and feelings and the sombre emptiness of those around him. With each step forward he felt an increasing sense of detachment from all around him.

I'm nothing like this lot, I'm separate and different, he thought, glancing downwards at his palms. Why can't I leave my palms alone? he asked himself impatiently. He wondered whether his feelings of being different were becoming apparent to other people. He felt that his thoughts were no longer his own and that they were becoming transparent to those around him. He felt exposed. Vulnerable. Can they read my mind? he wondered. He tried to catch their eyes as they passed but they all looked away and quickened their pace past him.

Why was it that he and Mo were so often viewed as public enemies numbers one and two when they were out? Mo, with his Middle-Eastern appearance and Ben with his hood had many a time been singled out as prime targets or suspects. Their usual reception from strangers involved them being assumed guilty of something, or being treated as criminals having just conducted, or about to carry out, a crime of some sort. A warm welcome equated to simply being viewed with suspicion. Their preconceptions about him filled Ben with hatred as he wondered how many of these respectable people passing him by were tax cheats, fiddling their hours, throwing sickies, taking office equipment home or having office affairs behind their partners' backs. Looking at the drivers stuck in congested traffic, he wondered why he was viewed with more suspicion than those chatting away on their mobiles, drink-driving or jumping red lights. Why was it that society accepted a special sort of hatred for Muslims with backpacks and teenagers in hoods under the guise of fighting international terrorism and cracking down on antisocial behaviour. Ben concluded that the world was either stupid or mad.

As he continued to pace through the rain only widened the gap, he grew sick of the stares and averted glances. He was sickened by the obvious distaste passers-by felt when they passed him. Some of them even flinched if he glared back at them quickly. They had their lives and Ben had his. To him, they were something he would never become; and to them, he was something to avoid and despise. He was so contemptible that they either avoided meeting his gaze or simply dismissed his presence in the same way they might step round dog shit. The only thing they had in common was their mutual agreement on their differences. He wondered how he could ever have started the day wanting to become a management consultant.

He felt like a lion, whose next kill was just around the corner. He was sure of his success; he was just uncertain how or when it would arrive. He was, however, convinced he could never blend into being just another faceless, stuffed shirt merely following the rules. In his heart, Ben knew something greater lay in store for him and the anticipation of the wait was barely containable. Watching the expressions on the sheep-like hordes passing him by just made him hungrier for that day to arrive.

Ben decided to revert to his original plan for the day by pulling out his celebratory 'secret agent' and lighting up. As he inhaled deeply, the familiar scent and flavour, coupled with the ritual of inhaling the smoke to the sound of 'Eek-a-Mouse' through his headphones, instantly calmed Ben down. Unfortunately, it also had the effect of drawing increased attention to him. He cupped his secret agent in his hand to protect it from the rain, tugged his hood further forward over his face to stay as dry as he could, and sheltered under a shop front canopy to withdraw to a more pleasant place.

Passers-by continued to hurry past, either ignoring his presence, or taking the occasional disapproving glance, with thinly disguised frowns of disgust. He recognised those looks well and despised his critics with equal - no greater - intensity. What gave them the right to look down on him, he asked himself. Slim, harmless, wet and peaceful (albeit hooded and smoking a secret joint), when they were trotting past in their smart clothes, fancy take-away packets of food, piling into the nearest pubs, bars and restaurants to pour their salaries down their necks. Through the glass-fronted bars, he noticed the obvious relief on their faces as they topped up with alcohol, trying to make their miserable lives bearable. Ben never wanted to be like them. Their whole miserable life cycle stank.

Ben drew heavily on his joint and inhaled deeply taking the burn all the way to its orange paper. He decided it would be easier for him to change the way he viewed reality than to face the difficult task of transforming reality itself into something more positive.

Ben continued questioning himself and his actions. What was so wrong with a bit of hash? Why did it provoke such a fearful reaction of disgust? Judging from the look on the faces of these stressed out up-their-own-arse-zombies they could do with a bit themselves. Hash – the drug which can turn unconsciousness into consciousness. Whereas this lot were more interested in taking advantage of being served endless rounds of alcohol – the government-regulated drug of choice which turns the conscious into unconscious - through the never-ending happy hours.

The rain continued to fall and clouds blackened the sky. The stench of wet clothes, traffic and the streets increased. Shuffling crowds quickened their pace. It was cold for July and Ben tucked his knees towards his chest as he watched the endless streams of people jostling onto buses and rushing towards the station. Pubs continued to fill to saturation point. He wondered whether any of their customers were genuinely happy with their lives. Apparently not, if the expressions on their faces were anything to go by.

Feeling a sudden fancy for a taste of alcohol himself - more for the sake of familiarity than anything else, he told himself - Ben hauled himself off the ground, feeling a little heavier than when he had first sat down, and entered the nearest mini-supermarket. He stared indecisively at row upon row of different varieties of overpriced wines for some time before remembering that he had no corkscrew. As a poor second choice, he picked up a four-pack of lager, placed one can on the high counter in front of him and the remaining three on the floor beside his feet. He paid for the one can on the counter, cheerfully telling the half-asleep cashier to keep the change (all twelve pence of it), before putting four cans in his backpack and leaving unquestioned.

Man, these people really are all ignorant or stupid, he thought to himself on the way out before returning to his street-side seat.

The first can went down with difficulty and did nothing to warm either his body or spirit. He felt very alone, missed the company of his friends and the familiarity of Bayswater. His vision of the future was blank and empty and he despised everything he saw around him. He could find nothing left to aspire to. His next step in life was unknown. As was his motivation for taking that step. He saw nothing beyond the Marlboro Light in his hand and the cans of lager at his feet. He felt hollow, helpless and hopeless. His heart and mind had sunk from their former state of bravado and confidence into a downward spiral of misery. All his images of future success and happiness had been shattered and turned to blackness. Whichever way his thought processes approached it, the route map of his mind returned him to a place of emptiness and loneliness. He had created his own impenetrable prison walls.

He puffed away at his cigarette quickly, feeling pain as the acrid smoke passed the increasing lump in his throat. It came with no compensatory pleasure. His eyes began to burn again and his cheeks stung from the second trickle of involuntary tears. He bowed his head away out of sight from anyone and was left undisturbed for over fifteen minutes before he was interrupted.

'Wass yet fookin' problem?' came the voice from above.

Ben looked up to see a small brown, hungry looking dog accompanied by a skinny, shaven-headed tattooed bloke. In combat trousers tucked into eighteen-hole boots.

'Ah sed, wass yer fookin' problem, pal?' he repeated, this time kicking Ben's can of lager over with his boot. The stranger's lips were pursed, eyes cold and distant and he looked as if he meant the sort of business which Ben was not prepared to enter into. Ben looked on with dismay, but without objection, as the stranger bent down and took the full cans of lager.

'Nuffin,' said Ben, pulling his remaining belongings towards him before getting up to leave. He ignored the continued shouts from behind him as he shuffled off submissively, and was further disheartened at the realisation that his trousers had become soaked while he was sitting down.

His mind continued to process the day's event. Why was life so cruel? Why were others so wilfully malicious? Was it only him who wished no harm on others and just wanted to live a peaceful, pure, simple life? He had no idea, but could not find anything to uplift him or give him a glimmer of hope.

Trudging further through the crowds and the rain, he became wetter and wetter. It became more difficult to smoke without the rain finding his cigarette, rendering it useless before it was finished. He continued to watch the endless streams of office workers filing through the streets and couldn't help noticing that every shop he passed was filled with people buying more. Clothes, mobile phones, electrical goods and more.

Was this really what everyone was working for? he mused. Endless mortgage payments, shopping, meals out, interspersed with a few drinks to numb the pain? There must surely be more to life, he continued to ask himself. What's the point of affluence if it doesn't lead anywhere? Was everyone suffering from some sort of mental illness? Or was it him? These questions worked their way round and round Ben's mind without conclusion.

He questioned the point of working for money just to pay for a five hundred pound suit to wear to work. What was the point of buying that latest pair of expensive Nike trainers when you don't run anywhere? The waste of spending five pounds a day on lunch. And all the money ker-chinging its way into the tills of the bars and clubs. What was the point of it all? Ben's head started to throb. He stopped and rubbed his temples and squinted out through the rain.

He was standing in the middle of the Hungerford Bridge surrounded by London's major landmarks. Big Ben – now there's an irony, he thought - the Houses of Parliament, County Hall, the London Eye on one side and, on the other, through the iron structure of the bridge, the 'Gherkin' and St Paul's cathedral marked the skyline. As a train chugged its way noisily over the centre section of the bridge, its foundations shook in response. It was impressive and quite romantic in its way, but Ben continued to feel hopeless and misguided.

Ben's head still hurt and had started to spin as he looked down at the rapidly flowing river Thames below. It looked strong and powerful as it rushed past, the rain lashing its surfaces giving it a pebbledash effect. His dizziness increased as he imagined how he would feel if he just grabbed the top rail, swung his legs over it and let himself fall, to be swept away. He gripped the cold wet railing and stared down, tears again flowing down his cheeks. Perhaps this would be the easiest way out? Who would miss him? No more worries. No more stress. No more worrying about an inevitable doomed future. Stepping 'forwards' into the job market, or 'backwards' into more 'education' did not seem like viable options.

Go on, he urged himself. 'Just take a decisive leap forward and stay in control.' He looked up at the landmarks-cum-tourist attractions and wondered why anyone would want to visit such a cold, empty city. As he looked around he realised that everything had turned to a black and white monochrome. There was no warmth or colour to be seen anywhere.

Yet, no matter how hard he willed himself, he could not leap. Something else he couldn't do properly, he told himself. He sat down again and turned his thoughts to those around him and felt disappointment that not one person had even noticed his dilemma, as tears continued to flow down his cheeks. No despising looks either. No acknowledgement. Nothing. Was it him? he asked himself. Was he so worthless? Or did they simply not care about anything other than themselves enough to intervene?

He remembered the child in the buggy at Paddington Station and how no-one had stopped to help him or his mother. Recalling the event turned his self pity into a hatred of society which forced him to back away from the edge of the bridge and purposefully march forward through the crowds. Completely drenched.

Fists clenched, and determined to stick to keeping as straight a line as possible, he returned to staring at all oncomers. To him, they were all weak, submissive sheep, showing their fear and insecurity by instantly parting the crowds to let him through. One or two showed some potential for a challenge, but invariably backed down as Ben refused to blink or avert his stare. Moses sprang to mind as the waves of crowds parted easily before him, until he disappeared into Embankment station to make his way home.

****

Chapter 11

Ben spent the journey home with his headphones on, listening to Mo's megamix which, despite the fact it consisted only of fast pumping, upbeat, adrenaline-rushing hip-hop, had the desired effect of bringing him down to a more stable place.

He was ready to return home, although not yet ready to discuss his day with anyone. He felt he had just got off an emotional roller-coaster and was left wanting to hide away under the duvet for a while. He had to accept that the day just hadn't been his.

By the time the train pulled in to Bayswater station, the rain had stopped. It was not yet evening, and the volatility of the day's storms appeared to have calmed down to match his mood. Not wishing to face anyone who might ask him how his interview went, least of all his Mum, he walked through some shops to kill time. The sight of shoppers spending their wages on more useless products sent his thoughts back to the West End and it did not take long for him to be drawn towards passing some time with Old Joe. Maybe he could offer a different perspective on life to distract him? A without prejudice viewpoint perhaps?

Not only did Ben feel much calmer in Bayswater – his 'hood' – but the passing crowds around him also seemed more serene and less hurried. He watched a few passers-by and saw just tired faces. Not smug. Not arrogant. Not the self-satisfied despising faces he had seen earlier, but overworked, weary faces looking forward to getting home from their day's work.

Ben felt a sort of hangover from the turmoil of the day, greater than anything he had ever felt after either drink or drugs. Meeting Francesca, although still only a handful of hours ago, seemed like a lifetime away. The memory of Fletcher's reddening face amused him, although the chain of events which had led up to that point was somewhat hazy and inexplicable with hindsight. Thinking beyond the events in the recruitment fair was beyond Ben's capability. He just wanted to get back to the safety of his bedroom, rest, and regain his strength for another day. It was not time for action, but reflection.

As Ben turned the corner into Westbourne Grove, Old Joe was immediately visible. He stood out like a lone look-out at some far away outpost, standing to attention by the kerbside, looking up and down the road, his trolley parked neatly beside his cardboard bed behind him. Joe's eyes twinkled as he caught sight of Ben approaching and remained fixed until he was right beside him. Looking full of expectation at Ben's arrival, Joe held up a timid hand in greeting and said: 'Hello boy. Haven't seen you around for a while. How's things?'

Ben only briefly considered the possibility that it might be a little sad to actually enjoy passing his time with a smelly old tramp, but the truth was that he did. He was looking forward to an honest conversation without any malice or ulterior motive. Most people he came across - old and young - especially young in fact, were so judgemental he found it a welcome relief to find someone who could talk to him at face value. Someone who was not rating him against some form of private score based on status, wealth and/or potential. Perhaps it was precisely Joe's lacking in these areas which made him an attractive friend.

'Not bad,' understated Ben. 'You?' he asked in return.

'Ah, you know,' Joe replied, shrugging. 'I don't do much these days. Watch others doing things mostly. Things don't change much by the day. What have you been up to?'

Ben had not planned to revisit the recruitment fair experience, but could not think of anything else to talk about and so ended up relaying the whole series of events.

Joe laughed. 'Ha. Just like I was when I was younger. Ambitious, headstrong, and no patience for anything. You'll trip if you try to run before you can walk, boy, take my word for it. Slow down a bit. All will come in good time.'

'Yeh, alright Joe, but I just don't see how. I'm not even sure if I know what I want any more. I'm not sure I could take ending up like all these brainwashed wimps, but at the same time I know I've got to find some sort of job to be able to afford to live the life I want. D'you know what I mean? It ain't gonna happen on its own.'

'Phew-wee. Always in such a rush, you youngsters. Always thinking there's no time when you've got all the time in the world. Don't you know it can take years to discover what you want, let alone work out how to get it? Your life has just started, boy. This is it. Make the most of what you've got while you've got it. Take the chances you've got in front of you. That's why taking a bit more time to consider your options and maybe going back to school might not be such a bad thing.'

'Oh, here we go again,' thought Ben. 'Back to school' speech time.

'You know what, old man?' he said, looking him in the eye sulkily. 'I ain't no boy no more and I ain't interested in sitting in no school no more. End of. Nuffin' more. Okay?'

'Okay. Easy, tiger. But don't get me wrong...Hoodie. I wasn't telling you what to do. Just advising you to slow down a little and take your time to find out what you really want. Only then can you go about actually getting it. Anyway, think positive. Every failure brings with it the seed of equivalent success. Yours could be just round the corner.' Joe had a habit of being able to come up with totally cryptic sentences whilst at the same time sounding as if he was imparting something very profound.

Neither spoke for a few minutes but stood side by side, mirroring each other with their hands in their pockets, watching the world move around them. Both smoked to fill the void created by their silence.

'You could be king, you know, Hoodie.' Ben was taken aback by Joe's change of tone, but was pleased to hear he was not being called 'boy'. 'You can achieve anything you want to. Just name it.'

'You really wanna know?' Ben asked, testing whether Joe was trustworthy enough to share in his dreams.

'Of course,' replied Joe, leaning closer, the twinkle in his eyes starting to work overtime. 'But speak from the heart,' he said profoundly, '...for it is only from there that we can see the truth. What is essential to life is invisible to the eye!'

'Oh God,' thought Ben. 'He's gone all hocus-pocus again. What is this guy on?'

'Why don't you tell me about what you want first?' Ben tested further.

'He, he,' Joe laughed. 'What's for me to tell, beyond the next day? My next meal? My next drink? No. I don't want anything more but to live out my days in peace. I might have had dreams once. Might have even achieved them, looking back. But they didn't last long and it's here and now that matters.' He pulled a small bottle of cheap counterfeit whisky out of his pocket and, tapping it on the side, said, 'Get a bit of this inside of me, and any dreams I've got are either achieved or forgotten about. Nothing'll wake me with this inside. That's the difference between me and you. I need this and you don't.'

Joe was as cryptic and vague as ever, but looked sad when he spoke as if he was recalling some painful memory. And to Ben, there was more than just a bottle which symbolised the difference between them both, but the fact he was so open about his weakness and dependence provided him with enough trust to offer something in return. He decided to spill his thoughts.

'Well, I'll tell you what I don't want first. I don't wanna go back and waste any more time in school and I don't wanna end up being just another cold, faceless robot travelling to and from work every day, carrying out tasks with no meaningful point, at the beck and call of someone else. Let alone doing the same fing five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, with a few weeks off every fuckin' year to spend on some cheap package holiday to the sun. It ain't good enough.' Joe smiled attentively in response to Ben's impassioned release. 'No. That's not me. I'm telling you. Life's for living, innit?' Joe nodded in agreement. 'Here and now,' Ben continued. 'Not striving endlessly to earn money in the hope that one day life will suddenly turn up with a magic pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.'

'Okay. So that's what you don't want. But what do you actually want, then?'

'I'll tell you what I'd be happy with. My own place. A little flat somewhere. Nothing too big. Somewhere where my mates can come round and chill. Enough money for food, drink, puff and the odd party every now and then. And a nice girl to share it with. A soul mate. Not that much really.'

Joe shook his head. 'No, no, no. You're still thinking with your head. I'm not interested in what you'd be happy with. Think with your heart. If you could have your heart's desire, what would it be?'

'Okay, sure, I could wish for more, but my reality is I've got no money, no rich parents, no leg-up or inheritance coming my way, and I ain't been to no posh school to fix me up with a high paid job. I'm just being realistic. I ain't gonna get much more outta life unless I win the Lotto or something.'

'Rubbish,' said Joe. 'You're still holding yourself back far too much. I reckon you're letting your palms influence you too much. You need to stop thinking so much and learn to follow your heart. You're special, remember? Find your inner strength. The only barriers to your heart's desire are those which you choose to acknowledge. Now. Clear your mind and imagine I've got a magic wand.' He waved his hands and fingers in the air, mimicking a magician. 'What would you wish for?'

Once again, Ben found himself trusting his unlikely friend and dug deep in the hope of finding some answers. 'Okay,' he said as he stared into the distance delving into his heart's desires. 'If I could have anything I wanted...I wish...I wish I never had to feel lonely again. I wish I could live in a house with a garden. Front and back. To grow things in. On a hill. With a beautiful wife to share my life with. Someone who'll love me for who I am, not what I am, and who will my soul mate. You know. Someone who really understands.' Ben broke away from his dream with a sense of surprise. 'But it's not going to happen, is it?' he concluded.

In fact, his words really had surprised him as he had never before considered himself to have felt lonely. Nor had he even liked or considered the fact the that he might like the countryside or a garden. It was a million miles away from the ambitions he thought about on a daily basis. And he questioned where the idea of something as conventional as a wife had suddenly sprung from, given his scepticism towards marriage generally (based on the cold fact that no-one else's parents were either together or happy). But there it was. Laid out bare in the open.

'What about your mates?' asked Joe.

'Er..yeh. Course I'd want my mates. That goes without saying.' But he did secretly wonder why they didn't feature more prominently in his last vision.

'Sounds idyllic,' said Joe. 'I wouldn't mind some of that myself. But look at me; too old and too past it. There's not excuse for you, though. Go for it.'

'Pffmpphh! As if. It ain't gonna happen so I might as well save it for my dreams.'

'Don't create barriers, Hoodie. At your age, anything's possible. There's absolutely no reason why you couldn't live that life one day.'

'It just doesn't seem real, though.'

'I've already told you: Reality is what you choose to acknowledge. You'd be a fool to believe that your limitations are the true measure of your capabilities. Anything's possible in life, b...' Joe stopped short of saying 'boy'.

'I still don't see it. How's it ever gonna happen?' Ben wondered why everything Joe said came with a two-second time delay before he understood what he actually meant.

'Let me put it this way,' replied Joe. 'Think of a Ferrari that can do 0-60 in four seconds, but cannot tow 200 tonnes. Does this make it too weak? Or a locomotive engine which can pull 200 tonnes but cannot travel at more than 100 miles an hour. Does this make it too slow?' Ben said nothing in response.

'Of course not,' continued Joe. 'They are inherent strengths and weaknesses which make up a valuable whole, and the same applies to you. Discover your strengths and you will rise to great heights. Miss them and you will totally waste your life away - take my word for it. Learn to read the signs, boy and you'll be alright.'

'Call me a boy again and I'll punch you,' replied Ben.

'Sorry, son, slip of the tongue.'

Swiftly changing the mood, Joe added: 'Didn't you once mention that there was a special girl you liked? A house on a hill might not be waiting for you right now, but perhaps somewhere your soul mate is waiting for you. Perhaps once you find love the rest will follow, heh?'

Ben immediately thought of Isabelle and was filled once again with hope that his dreams could one day be realised.

'Well, there is this girl,' he told Joe. 'She's beautiful. And really nice too. I really like her, but nothing's happening between us.'

'Then what are you waiting for? If she really is the one for you, you must go after her. And if it's love, anything can follow. Waiting for the right time can defeat you.'

Ben did not need to be told. He was already drunk with the thought of Isabelle and the idea that they could be together. He could feel her subconsciously pulling him to her. It was time for action again and he did not want to waste a second longer talking to Joe. Not that he didn't like him, or wasn't grateful, mind. Joe could be a bit of a funny old stick, but despite his peculiar ways he did have a habit of lightening Ben's mood. And there was no doubt that Joe perked up in Ben's company also.

With both feeling uplifted, Ben said goodbye and set off to Isabelle's, filled full of the hope and confidence that had deserted him earlier in the day. After speaking to Joe, he was sure that today was going to be his lucky day after all. By the time he turned into her road he was running and, without paying enough attention to his direction, almost knocked Isabelle right off her feet as he bumped into her.

'Oh, I'm very sorry,' he said, holding her shoulders to stop her falling backwards. 'I didn't see you there.'

'Careful,' she said wriggling herself out of Ben's grip. 'Watch where you're going.'

'I said I'm sorry. My fault.' He looked her up and down and touched her elbow gently, as if to steady her. If love was something which could be felt, he was sure he was feeling it. Her whole being consumed him. His voice was shallow and polite, and his stomach was full of butterflies.

'Yeh, well. Be careful, yeh?' she said turning her back to leave.

'WAIT!' Ben was embarrassed at the volume and urgency with which he spoke.

'What?' she demanded.

'I wondered...I just thought...I was wondering.'

'What?' She knew what was coming, but was enjoying watching him fawn before her.

'...if you'd like to come out with me tomorrow night?' There. He'd said it. He stood back proudly, smiling eagerly for her response, holding his eyebrows up high in friendly anticipation. He was keen to give off as many connecting signals as he could to prevent her saying 'no'.

She looked him up and down unashamedly, appraising him in detail. He was not the most attractive looking option she had seen. He was skinny, looked gaunt and pale and his top was still damp and dirty from the rain. And he smelt a bit of stale drink and cigarettes. She ran her fingers through her neatly groomed wavy hair, enjoying the superiority that stalling a reply was giving. She had the upper hand and knew it but, despite Ben's dishevelled appearance, she could find no reason to turn him down. Besides, she liked his smile \- he looked like he posed no threat and was even a little cute.

'Okay then. When?' she finally decided.

'Wow,' Ben said under his breath, beaming from ear to ear. 'Joe was right.'

Then, out loud, 'How about I pick you up at seven tomorrow evening?'

'Fine. I'll meet you at the bottom of the road though. Don't come to the house.'

'Okay,' said Ben. 'Don't be late.' He was beaming from ear to ear and his eyes were sparkling inside the creased up sides.

Ben was savouring every moment of his success as she walked away, exaggerating the swing in her hips

'By the way,' she asked, without turning round. 'What's your name?'

'BEN,' he called after her.

****

Chapter 12

From the moment Ben awoke the next day, thinking about his date with Isabelle was all he could do. So many times before he had visualised the moment their time would come, but had never anticipated it would come with so much stress. He spent the whole day pacing up and down at home, unable to concentrate for long enough to watch anything on television and too distracted to get into listening to any music. His stomach went through cycles of feeling excited to churning with nervousness unable to eat anything more than the odd chocolate biscuit and consequently leaving him light-headed. Making a good first impression was so important to him. He tried to prevent himself building his hopes up too high, but could not help thinking about how compatible they were together and what a happy couple they would make. It was difficult for him not to think beyond the moment and into the future. The thought of the house on the hill entered his mind frequently. After all, all fortunes begin with a simple wish or idea, he told himself.

Clearing the evening for all possible outcomes, Ben texted his Mum to say that he will not be home for dinner and would be back late. He texted Mo to let him know he would not be able to go out that night as they had previously arranged. The texts were a deliberate way of avoiding direct conversation with both as - in his Mum's case - he did not want to be specific about who he was going out with or where he was going - and in Mo's case, because he did not want to be made to feel guilty for blowing him out.

He did, however, decide to follow Mo's model for a good time out by planning an evening picnic. Holland Park would be ideal; close by, and the perfect romantic setting. It also suited his budget and would avoid the risk of him bumping into anyone troublesome.

It was late afternoon when Ben finished his last coffee and cigarette, before starting his pre-going out ritual of taking his second bath of the day to rid his body and hair of the smell of smoke. His stomach continued to convulse from a mixture of nerves, caffeine, nicotine and chocolate. He rushed his shave, managing not to nick himself for a change, applied some gel to his hair for a slightly different, smarter look, and doused his neck and chest in his sports body splash. He plugged his phone's MP3 player into his portable stereo and selected _Lord Tanamo's_ _'I'm in the mood for ska'_ to get dressed to. It was a great tune and provided just the right atmosphere he needed to set his mood for the night as he pranced about in front of the mirror singing while putting on a clean pair of jeans, t-shirt and freshly washed hoodie. He replayed the tune four times before leaving the flat, hearing the chorus of trumpets in the back of his head and singing out the words _'I´m in the mood for love...Simply because you're near me...Funny but when you're near me...I'm in the mood for love'_.

He had allowed an hour to get to Isabelle's despite the fact she was only a ten-minute walk away, but it did not matter. He looked good, felt good and walking made him feel even better. There was a definite spring in his step as he bounced down the street, smiling at complete strangers. The world seemed like a beautiful place as the balmy evening scents circulated and mixed with the smells of exotic foods being prepared in the nearby restaurants. Ben stopped off in a mini-supermarket and bought some sparkling white wine, crisps, strawberries, blackberries and a tub of olives to add a sense of sophistication. He had also brought a small lump of optional hash in his back pocket, just in case Isabelle was in a party mood, but decided that he had to play it by ear, conscious that some people could be a bit funny about that sort of thing.

Ben, following his instructions, stood at the corner of Isabelle's road fifteen minutes early and was pleasantly surprised to see she was already making her way towards him. She looked immaculate with her gorgeous red hair tumbling in waves and flicks around her modestly made up face. She was dressed casually in skinny-leg jeans, and a loose, pale scoop-top, exposing her delicate collar bones, displaying a more comfortable than glamorous look. Ben took it to mean she was relaxed about their date together.

Her clear blue eyes looked up at him occasionally as she approached. He could not fathom what might be going through her mind by her looks or actions. She was a total enigma to him. As she walked slowly and confidently towards him, her hips swayed sexily, more like a woman than a schoolgirl. There was no chance of him playing it cool as he betrayed his excitement by beaming broadly at the sight of her moving closer. He was almost bouncing with anticipation.

His obvious keenness appeared to increase Isabelle's cool, calm confidence as she avoided looking at him directly until they were within touching distance, when she flicked her hair to one side and softly whispered 'Hello Ben'. Her bright mysterious eyes and clear well-spoken voice melted him instantly and set the tone for the rest of the evening: he in total adoration, and she enjoying his attentive worship. But in spite of Ben's self-conscious efforts to make the perfect impression, he found it difficult to think of things to say and this made his manner slightly too formal and polite, when he would have liked simply to be his usual jokey self. He struggled with increasing desperation to find a conversational ice-breaker, finally managing to squeak.

'Cigarette?'

'No thanks. I don't smoke. My dad died of cancer.'

'Whoops,' thought Ben, stubbornly proceeding to light his cigarette to prove an unknown point. 'Actually, I don't smoke much, but I do like a cigarette in the evening,' he lied. 'I'm thinking of giving up soon, anyway.'

'Whatever.'

'Might even give up sooner than I planned,' he said with raised eyebrows, seeking a more positive reaction.

'Good.'

This was going to be hard work, he thought, as they walked side by side down the street together. Ben wondered what the done thing in such a situation was as he puffed away, carefully blowing his smoke upwards away from Isabelle. Should he have kissed her when they greeted each other? Should he hold her hand? Or would that be too child-like? Should he put his arm round her? No, too soon; give it time, he told himself. What should they talk about? Ben was annoyed that he could only think of questions to ask her, but he did not want to make their date seem like an interview. But he did decide to make that cigarette his last for the evening, and to keep the hash tucked away for himself later.

'Where are we going, then?' Isabelle asked brightly.

'I thought we could go to the park for a picnic. I've brought some supplies.'

'I've already eaten.'

'No problem. It's only some fruit. And some wine. Thought it might be a bit special in the park. Just a chance for us to get to know each other a bit better, that's all.'

'Not exactly what I was expecting for a night out, but why not. It'll be different, I suppose.'

'It'll be great,' said Ben, beaming with expectation. 'So what do you normally do on a Saturday night, then?'

'Hmmm...I don't know. Go shopping with friends, maybe see a film, get something to eat. You know. The usual.'

'Nice. Do you know Hannah and Chloe?'

'Yeh, I've seen you with them and I know who they are, but we don't mix. I think we're probably into different things.'

'They're quite nice really. You should get to know them.'

Isabelle's sweet but false smile back told Ben she wasn't going to get to know them, any time soon.

'Who do you hang around with then?'

'Do you know Sophie? Samantha? Linda?'

'No.'

'I'm not surprised, really. They...we...don't mix much with your school.'

They turned in to Holland Park. The setting was just right. There were still a couple of hours of daylight left and it was quiet. Not too many people around. Rhododendrons lined the path into the park, setting a scented and colourful trail for them to follow. Entering the park gave Ben a feeling of security and well-being. Whichever park he visited he felt he was escaping into a therapeutic oasis away from the oppressive buildings and crush of the crowds. He spotted a white rabbit nibbling the grass in a fenced-off area and used it as an excuse to take Isabelle's hand while pointing it out to her. He was delighted when she kept her hand in his after the rabbit had bounded off into the bushes.

They wandered dreamily through the park's winding paths, admiring the massed profusion of brilliant flowers and blossom, stopping to watch some tourists feeding the screeching peacocks by the Kyoto Garden. Ben steered Isabelle towards a bench in a quiet corner by the tennis courts and turned into the perfect host, serving slightly warm sparkling wine and opening up the crisps, fruits and olives. He was pleased that Isabelle did not refuse the wine, although slightly disappointed that she had remained silent when he raised his cup to hers to toast 'the start of beautiful things...'.

On the plus side the wine was a good ice-breaker and had the immediate effect of loosening the conversation between them as they exchanged stories about how much they and their friends had drunk on different occasions, and how sick they had become. Ben told an exaggerated version of Mo puking down his white trousers but thought better of recounting the tearoom experience.

Isabelle's laugh accentuated the sparkle in her eyes and displayed the perfect shine of her teeth, making her more beautiful than ever to Ben. She was so striking he just wanted to gaze at her. Being so close to her, casually touching her leg, sharing a joke, gave Ben was the most incredible feeling he could remember experiencing. He was riding the biggest happy-wave in a long time and it was with a (relatively) clear head.

'So who are those other guys I've seen you hang around with.'

'The Shady Boys? They're me mates. Dave, Mo and Luca.'

'Bunch of jokers you look like too, hanging about like dogs outside our school. Who's the one with dark hair?'

'Curly is Mo; gelled is Luca.'

'So Luca's the Mediterranean looking one?'

'Yeh, that's him. He's Italian. But born here. His family own a restaurant.'

'He's buff.'

You're just saying that to wind me up, aren't you?'

'Maybe,' she said, smiling. 'But he is, isn't he?'

'He's pasta, and I'm steak. You don't wanna spoil your appetite thinking 'bout pasta, do you?'

They both laughed. Ben was unable to take his eyes off of her. He was hypnotised by her presence and absorbed every small detail of her from head to toe. From the scent of her thick red hair, to her unfathomable blue eyes, over her pretty pink plump lips, her slender neck, and down the length of her shapely body. She was as perfect as Ben could ever imagine a woman to be and he did not want the evening to end. He was certain he could love her forever and hoped she felt the same when she suddenly stood up and moved onto his lap.

Without saying a word, she wound her arms round his neck and nuzzled her head into his shoulder, sighing softly. He buried his face in her hair, taking shallow breaths to avoid sounding as if he was panting. Her hair felt soft and smelt sweet and fresh. He looked down at her and felt almost weak at the tenderness of her warmth against his chest. She seemed so vulnerable and needy as she cuddled up to him and he felt very protective towards her. In those few short minutes, Ben felt he had transformed from boy to man. To any other sixteen year old, the feeling of her caresses would have awakened testosterone-fuelled urges, but Isabelle had quite a different effect on Ben. He felt an incredible feeling of trust and responsibility at having such a beautiful and pure young girl on his knee. It was enough for him simply to hold her and to feel her warmth and inhale her sweet smell. It was not worth risking their future together by pushing his luck too far on their first date.

Smiling up at him, she lifted her head dreamily to look briefly into his eyes before lying back on his shoulder. He squeezed her in response and kissed her hair. He felt her lips caressing his throat, setting off a raging fire in the pit of his stomach. His groin hardened to stone - he hoped he had not embarrassed himself or that she had noticed. His chest burnt inside and his breathing lost its rhythm. She took hold of his hand and placed it on her breast. He kept his hand placed stiffly where she had left it and fought hard to resist his burning urges to squeeze her tighter and tell her how much he loved her. Telling her he loved her wouldn't be disrespectful pr taking a cheap shot – making a sexual pass would be. He decided to wait. He wanted to show her that his feelings and intentions towards her were genuine. Like Joe said, there was no need to rush. Slow down a little and all will come. He stayed silent and savoured the moment.

'What is it?' she whispered.

'Nothing.'

'Then what's wrong?' she said, pulling his hand closer into her chest.

'Nothing,' he said, moving his hand down the curve of her waist. 'There's no rush.'

'Kiss me.'

He shook slightly, partly with emotion and partly in reaction to holding her so stiffly on his lap, before pecking her on the lips. She pursed her lips for more, pushing her bottom lip out to show dissatisfaction.

'I mean a proper kiss,' she said.

He thought he was going to pass out as she kissed him and his body shook from head to toe. His eyes closed and his head spun taking him to his innermost dreams and leaving him feeling like jelly when he came up for air. He longed to hold her tightly and kiss her all over until she gasped with pleasure.

As he begun to lose control, he pulled back and stared at the dusky sky. 'I'm sorry, Isabelle,' he said breathing heavily. 'But I can't control myself. You're too much for me.' His heart was racing and his head was buzzing in exuberance.

'Don't you want me?' she pouted, running her finger up and down his chest.

'Of course I do, but there's no rush. Let's just hold each other for a while.' Ben stroked her hair and held her tightly against him while she sat motionless. Ben was not sure if her feeling were hurt or she was enjoying the moment as much as he was.

They sat quietly with their arms round each other, watching the sun set beyond the field and the sky turn bright pink. Birds could be heard singing their last tunes before turning in for the night.

'It's really romantic here isn't it?' Ben asked as a squirrel ran past.

'Mmmm.'

'Look at the sky. It's so beautiful tonight, isn't it. I reckon it's turned that way just for us.'

'Hmmm?'

'There's nothing better than sitting here with you in my arms. I could sit here all night.'

'I couldn't. My bum's getting sore.'

'Let's go for a walk then.'

Isabelle sat up and stretched. 'It's getting late, actually. I want to go home now. I'm tired.'

It was just after nine and they had only been out a couple of hours. Ben had hoped they could spend the whole night sitting up talking, until the sun came up even, but he could see from the distant sleepy look in her eyes that it would be hopeless to push for more. He accepted that their first evening together was coming to a close and felt grateful it had all gone so well.

She let him walk her all the way back to the top of her street but asked him not to come up to the front of the house. Nosey neighbours was her excuse, but that suited Ben too. He had no inclination to be invited in for tea or something similar. They parted with a kiss and spent time just staring at each other silently, but breaking into occasional smiles. Isabelle told Ben she thought he was really sweet. Ben had hoped for more than just 'sweet' and shied away from telling her he thought he loved her, instead settling for telling her how beautiful she was instead.

'Play it cool,' he thought; save mentioning love for another time. Teasing him to the end, she laughed and said she knew she was beautiful.

'Before you go. I forgot. Can I have your number?'

'Here,' she said showing Ben the number displayed on her phone while he keyed it into his own.

'Thanks. Can we get together again soon?'

'We'll see. I'm real busy over summer, but you never know.'

'She's such a tease,' Ben thought to himself, grinning as she walked off towards her impressive house. The week had a silver lining after all. His dreams were starting to be realised.

Almost as soon as he'd seen her disappear behind her grand front door, Ben rang Mo to relay every detail of his time with Isabelle. Mo sounded indifferent while he listened patiently to Ben babbling away excitedly about how wonderful everything about Isabelle was. He even urged caution at one point which prompted Ben to note just what an old fart Mo could be sometimes. Mo cut Ben short after ten minutes, and agreed to meet him for some lads' time together at the Westway skating bowl the following day. Ben was left feeling so alive from his evening he spent most of the night awake, smoking to catch up from his earlier restraint, and dreaming of his future with Isabelle.

****

Chapter 13

Despite his lack of sleep, Ben awoke early the next day and remained on a high from his date with Isabelle. The whole world seemed a more relaxed, beautiful place to be. As he leapt out of bed as soon as his eyes opened, eager to take the day full on, he was filled with renewed hope, and felt a raging appetite for life. Nothing felt problematic; everything seemed easy. He texted Isabelle before he was even dressed just to say what a great night it had been and to ask when they could next go out. Clubs, cinema, concerts, meals out, shopping; Ben could not help thinking about what would make the perfect second date. He knew it was early days, but could not help imagining how much fun they could have together.

He was at the skating area under Westway flyover waiting for Mo within an hour of rising, and loving the feel of his black Bauer turbo quad skates with Kryptonic red wheels on his feet. As he sped up and down the paved areas of the complex to warm himself up, he felt his strength return, like nothing could stop him. He charged forwards, torso positioned low and legs propelling him as fast as he could manage, before executing a jump and a twist to complete a series of turns and fancy backwards footwork. His skates were a prized possession. They were the same make and colour as Mo's. In fact, it was Mo who had bought them for him as a birthday present some years ago, after he had admired his. They had spent many happy days together since then, honing their skills on the ramps and practising new tricks, never losing that initial rush of excitement.

Ben wondered whether he would ever lose his love for skating once he had started work. He liked to think he would never grow out of it, and could see no real reason why he ever would. Skating was fun, relaxing, de-stressing, energetic, a great way of letting off steam and meeting like-minded souls. Many of the other regular skaters looked as if they could be in their thirties, or even forties, so there was no upper age limit. Not that age would worry Ben. If he wanted, and was able, to do something he knew he would just do it, no matter what anyone else thought.

There was no one else around when he first arrived, which gave him as much free space as he could wish for to practise his moves as he swept up and down from one side of the bowl to the other, forwards, backwards, leaping and turning at the top, and back again. He stopped only to take an occasional puff from his asthma inhaler or to smoke a cigarette before resuming his stunt practice. He felt untouchable as he spun, turned, skated on one foot, up and down, without so much as a wobble. All of the tricks and turns he attempted came off without trouble which increased his confidence. He wondered whether it may have something to do with Isabelle's influence on him; he certainly felt a greater sense of maturity and ability. Every now and then his fingers stroked his palms, to remind himself of his special status. He couldn't help feeling today was going to be another one of those magical days,.

As he skated, he admired the wealth of graffiti adorning the surrounding concrete structures. Even beneath his own feet, the concrete floor was covered with graffiti upon graffiti, each colourful addition competing for attention with the next. Fluorescent greens, pinks and yellows were in abundance, creating a blurred cacophony of colour as he whizzed back and forth. One piece of work in particular caught his eye on the concrete pillar before him. It was a piece of sticker work which depicted an Uncle Sam looking character holding a bunch of skulls labelled 'peace', 'human rights', 'democracy', 'privacy' and the like, with the strapline _'Do as he says, not as he does'_ written over it. How very true, Ben thought. He acknowledged that he only had a limited understanding of the world and politics in general but was fully in tune with a general feeling of oppression, control and lack of real freedom that today's open society left him with. The sticker poster was a clever piece of work and demonstrated to Ben how graffiti, or street art as it was sometimes known, could warrant artistic credit. He also understood how being able to make a statement like that – whether it was a personal one, or one about society in general - also gave a voice to those who felt ignored. To Ben, it was about freedom of speech - when no one is listening, graffiti was one clear way to get noticed and express yourself. And the more vivid the colours and more eye-catching the design, the better. To those who protest, what are they trying to protect? Grey concrete?

Ben had thought it over many times before and liked the addition of graffiti to break up the grey blandness. Although he did prefer Mo's method of spending some time to create a design on paper at home before letting his spray cans loose on walls. He had more style.

Of course, these eye-catching works of art were also accompanied by the usual wealth of tags; nicknames scribbled mindlessly and repetitively all over the place, acting as pointless spoilers to the real works of art. Even graffiti artists had a snobby hierarchy.

The centrepiece of the area was the Shady Boys' own work of art plastered right across the wall bordering the underground rail line. It depicted themselves as god-like figureheads mimicking a Mount Rushmore setting, but executed in a New York subway style. Apparently, Mo had snuck out with an older, like-minded artistic friend of his one night (his graffiti guru, he called him) and designed and marked out the outline of the images before inviting the other Shady Boys to spray colour their own areas the next day. A sort of colour-by-numbers for teenagers. It had taken them a couple of nights to get the whole thing finished as they had been disturbed and chased on the first night by three blokes in fluorescent jackets with torches. They had guessed they were London Underground watchmen, or community police. Or something. The thrill of the chase and the challenge to get the job done only added to their sense of achievement once it was complete. It had been a blank brick wall, but had been transformed into a truly admirable territorial work of art. Mo had made himself look like a young Michael Jackson, all big loose curly hair, wide eyes and a little body wearing flared trousers; Dave, wearing a Nike cap, had a nick in his eyebrow and a cap on; Luca looked slick with pencil-thin sideburns leading into a narrow goatee, and Ben, of course, looked mean in the middle in a hood with 'Hoodie' sprayed over his chest. A similar, but smaller, prototype of the design also existed in the Crypt, but this public version was the real McCoy. Huge, colourful and impressive. A real trophy piece to be proud of. Even the taggers had resisted spraying their names over it out of respect.

The work had also added to the sense of the boys' notoriety in the area, and certainly did nothing to harm their image. Other kids knew who the characters depicted, yet the Shady Boys were anonymous enough to the outside world to appeal only to those they wanted to appeal to. However, its style, and obvious American influence had a sense of irony to it in that Ben and Mo in particular had a dislike of everything America stood for. Yet at the same time, they acknowledged their own hypocrisy with their own continual craving for brands such as Marlboro, Levis, Gap, Nike, Coca Cola, etc. The military operations in Afghanistan and Iraq may be struggling to gain control, but America's soft war on culture across the rest of the world was gaining ground and was difficult to resist.

While Ben was taking a break from skating and inspecting the latest additions to the walls he noticed a new one which sent a shiver down his spine. It was Papa Tee's scrawl with a badly drawn self-image with a big silver gun in his hand. Typically tacky, but a vivid reminder of what he had seen on his last day at school, and a jolt towards remembering what risks he faced if he were to bump into him again. Partly, Ben was impressed that Papa Tee had managed to spell his name correctly. There was still no one else around, but the image haunted Ben and left him feeling more lonely and exposed than peaceful. Although Westway was off Papa Tee's usual beat, which helpfully avoided confrontation between crews, Ben nevertheless decided not to wait for Mo any longer but to go to his house and call for him instead.

As he left the complex, he couldn't help looking over his shoulder expectantly. He felt sure he was being watched and kept his skates on so he could get out of the area quickly. There was still no one else to be seen around though and he felt silly for feeling a bit frightened; it reminded him of when he was on holiday once (his only time aboard), when he had swum out to sea enthusiastically only to look up a couple of hundred metres out from shore, think of sharks, and then frantically swim back to shore at twice the speed in stark panic. The same feeling of imminent menace haunted him now; no one could be seen or heard, but he could sense danger in the air.

He took a short cut through Westway passage, a long, narrow alley which led to the back of Mo's house. As he reached the halfway point he saw six lads march in through the opposite end, stop and stare at him. He slowed down, breathing heavily in anticipation, and pulled his hood over his head to avoid having to make eye contact. In an additional effort to show he posed no threat, he spun round to skate slowly towards them backwards, giving him the advantage of being able to look back through the way he had entered. A couple more lads were blocking his exit. He appeared to be trapped from both ends with no way out.

'Shit,' he said under his breath as he spun round to a halt in front of the six lads. He could hear the other two quickening their pace towards him from behind.

'Scuse me gents,' he tried.

'Not so fast, Hoodie,' said Smudge, stepping forward. 'We been looking for you.'

'Great...how you doing Smudge? Enjoying the holidays? Bet you're looking forward to going back to school aren't you?' Ben was kicking himself mentally for not being able to resist reaching for sarcasm.

'Don't get funny, Hoodie, 'cause we ain't in da mood. We wanna know if you know anyfing 'bout some missing gear?'

'Gear? What sort of gear? You mean skates?'

'Don't take da piss, lickle white boy, cause we'll take dem pretty tings off your feet if we don't get what we're looking for.'

'Shit, shit, shit,' Ben thought to himself as he realised they were on a fishing trip for information. His mind quickly processed the options open to him. There weren't many. He was surrounded by eight of what he now recognised to be Papa Tee sidekicks. All looking at him with blank, motionless stares, trying their best to emulate their 'arch-gansta'. At least he was lucky that the Papa-man himself wasn't there. It didn't take much for Ben to work out there was little chance of him being able to physically fight his way out of his corner. To strike one of them would hand them an automatic right and justification to set upon him. Eight to one was clearly too many and they looked like a pack of hungry hyenas. He figured that the safest route out would be to try a bit of humour and to stay as polite and respectful as possible That way, if he let them think they were in charge and dictating the pace, he may live to be old and happy.

'What you looking for then? Maybe I can help you guys?'

Smudge looked round at the others for assurance and guidance.

Ben continued talking. 'If you've lost something, I'd be happy to help, but I don't know what you're after.'

Smudge stared silently back at him. Ben had always felt that Smudge was thick and, trying to read his mind, he did not believe that Smudge knew that he had anything to do with the missing dope. But he could see Smudge was caught not wanting to be seen to be doing nothing in front of his mates. What a transparent fool, he thought.

'I never liked you, Hoodie. I don't trust you.'

'Why's that?' Ben asked smiling innocently, confident that he had the upper hand in the exchange.

'Cause you racist, das why.'

Alarm bells rang loudly in Ben's head. He knew that there was not a racist bone in his body, but he also knew that the mere accusation of the issue was designed to present him with a lose-lose scenario that he would find difficult to talk his way out of. He also knew that Smudge would not have dared fire that accusation at him had Dave or Mo been by his side. What a cheap coward.

He looked each of the lads in the eye, one by one, to gauge their reaction to the accusation. Their backs stiffened and their faces grew more stern. Some of them were familiar faces from school. He recognised one of the lads at the back as a friend from the past. He remembered them playing in the adventure playground when they were both a lot younger. Anthony his name was, and he had shown Ben how to swing on the high rope from one side to the other without touching the ground on the way. Ben searched his gaze for recognition and a way out. Antony looked downwards. Why would he not help him now? Why create a barrier to their past friendship?

Looking round the group Ben noticed that the only unifying trait between them was that they were all various shades of black. Aside from that single fact, it was difficult to see how the group had formed friendships behind Smudge's leadership. How could somebody like Anthony put the allegiance of his skin colour over and above his past friendship with Ben? Antony and Smudge were from different backgrounds, in different classes at school and has a chasm of an intellectual gap between them. Ben felt that their individuality had become lost behind their misguided sense of loyalty towards Smudge. Their unity was driven solely by their need to appear harder than each other and to maintain the gangsta image. They continued to stare back at Ben blankly, whilst he struggled to find an opening, physically or in conversation.

'Me? Racist? Are you having a laugh?'

Ben heard his own words out loud and suppressed a wry smile as he recalled how he had faced similar situations in the past from white bullies who had accused him of being a wigger for his love of black music. Was he destined to spend his life in a no-man's land of non-acceptance, he wondered.

'Why? Do I look like I'm being funny,' spat Smudge.

'I'm no racist,' Ben said as he attempted to skate slowly through the pack. The pack took a step towards him, leaving him no room for manoeuvre.

'C'mon guys, let me through here. I gotta meet someone.'

'Whoa, skater-boy. Not so fast,' said Smudge enjoying playing the lead role. At just over five foot tall, Ben could easily have taken him on, but with his entourage around him, Ben felt powerless.

'How's about you take doze skates off for me and we'll let you go home with your socks?'

Had Papa Tee himself been there, Ben may have entertained the thought of actually handing his skates over as part of a tactical retreat. But to give them to Smudge, was too much. It was a matter of principle. He was not a racist and he was not about to relinquish his skates to Smudge. Above all, he was not prepared to acquire a reputation for being a pushover. He had no real choice; there was only one way out.

A blanket of silence hung over the gang as they took turns to exchange glances with each other, waiting for someone else to make the first move. From the corner of his eye, Ben saw Smudge's hands tighten to form fists by his side and knew that the stand off was drawing to a close. It was time for all or nothing. Ben could not resist one last passing quip.

'Anyway, how can I be racist to you when our Mums are the same colour?'

Smudge's face immediately turned red with anger and embarrassment, stunning him for just long enough to give Ben the opportunity he needed to exploit a head-start flurry of punches to the front and sides of his head, knocking him clean backwards onto those standing behind him. Panic followed. There were no rules for these situations and no one seemed to be sure what to do next.

Ben's outburst had caught the group by surprise, giving him a momentary opportunity to attempt to break though and escape. But there was still not enough room for him to pass through so he retained his focus on keeping his balance on tip toe while trying to follow through with as many punches at noses and eyes as he could, in the hope of debilitating as many of his opponents as possible. It was not as easy as it looked in films, Ben thought as he dealt with the pain that the crack of bone against bone brings to fists. Films never let on just how much punching someone actually hurts your hand. He winced as he felt a bolt of pain shoot up his arm like an electric shock.

Still no escape route emerged and Ben was tiring from defending himself from the increasingly confident and painful jabs being directed at him from different angles. Unsure of his next move, Ben screamed loudly from the pit of his stomach as eyes burning with hatred glared at him. They continued menacingly to take turns to fire painful jabs towards his ribs and his back.

Ben reared up and his fist still throbbed with pain. But not enough to prevent him from packing one last passionate punch with exacting precision on the jaw of one of his opponents. Ben had managed to deliver the blow with the full weight of his body behind it and could almost see the twist in the boy's face as his jaw appeared to dislodge itself and his eyes rolled upwards as he toppled face down towards the ground.

'Strike One!' Ben screamed as he watched the body hit the deck, and took a step backwards to avoid its fall. He continued to balance on the toe-stops of his skates while holding his arms up in front of his face to protect himself.

But he was tiring fast and his opponents' strength increased at the sight of their friend writhing in agony on the ground. Smudge was back on his feet and took a head-first rush towards Ben's waist. Ben threw a right hook in his direction in defence, but missed and found himself off balance and fell backwards against the concrete ground painfully.

He tried to push Smudge off him and started thrashing his legs around as much as possible, using his skates as a lethal pair of club hammers, but he could not see what he was aiming at, and it was only a matter of seconds before all he could feel was a series of punches raining down on his back. When the kicking started he withdrew into a foetal position and used his hands to cover his face. He knew his moment of glory had been brought to a premature end. It was over.

Individually, he knew he could cope with their kicks and punches, but cumulatively they were debilitating. The sides of his thighs were being stamped on, his shoulder and the side of his head had been scraped along the ground, drawing blood, and his ears were ringing from a number of kicks and punches to the head. He was clinging on to consciousness. He covered his face and balls with his hands and started to wonder at what point they would bring the beating to a close. Aching and swelling up from head to toe, he tucked himself in tighter for protection, which caused someone to end up kicking his skates instead of him and scream in agony as their foot crunched against the metal chassis. Deliberately, Ben started laughing loudly for effect. Most of the kicking and punching stopped aside from one foot which kept cracking against Ben's hands which were both shielding his face.

It was Smudge. Ben could vaguely see up at him through his fingers, but could hear his voice screaming down at him as he repeatedly used his head as a football. He was almost deaf from the blows his ears had already received, and some blood had run into one of his eyes, creating a pink haze. The pain was starting to burn his head. Ben had run out of options as he curled up silently and motionless. The kicking to his head did not stop.

'BEN,' cried out a voice from the bottom of the alley. Ben had never been so relieved to hear the familiar voice of Mo.

'GET OFF HIM NOW,' Mo screamed again at the top of his blood curdling voice. Smudge and the others stepped back from Ben, and collected themselves together for further assault while laughing at the obvious concern in Mo's face. Ben struggled to push himself up against the wall of the alley and watch Mo tearing towards him at top speed. Mo's face, showed not a glimmer of fear as he stared straight past Ben towards his enemies and let out a roar worthy to match the chill of any battle-cry.

As he got closer, he leapt into the air, bared his teeth like a madman and kicked two of Ben's attackers to the ground, visibly knocking the wind out of them and sending them scrambling in panic to find their feet. Ben had never before seen this side to Mo's character and had no idea he was such a talented warrior. He was usually so placid and calm in looks and demeanour, but cut an awesome figure as he fought back the remaining thugs with a succession of punches, kicks and blows all delivered with the precision and viciousness of a world class cage fighter. Ben was proud to count him as a true friend. He also noticed just how many of his opponents had cuts and bruises to their heads and deduced that he hadn't done too badly himself before Mo's arrival.

As the group reoriented itself with the arrival of Mo, they formed a circle round Mo and took turns to throw jabs at him from behind, exploiting his inability to cover himself from all angles at once. In response, Mo pulled out his hash knife from his back pocket, flicked the blade out high above his head and turned a slow circle, looking them each in the eye one by one to show that he was serious. On his own, Mo's lean body did not appear that threatening but - if the whites of his opponents eyes were anything to go by - the knife was enough to scare them and the cold stare on Mo's face reinforced their fear. Three turned and ran out of the alley without thinking twice, while the rest flattened themselves against the side walls to avoid his potential reach. Mo flew into a pair of them kicking and punching and sent one more rolling on the ground before turning back towards the other three for a second charge. Ben's eyes followed the line of the knife in Mo's hand as he lowered it to his waist and swung it round and upwards in a backhand movement to sweep across the chest and chin of the boy nearest him, causing him to wince in pain as a thin line of blood was drawn immediately from under his chin. He ran out of the alley screaming. Mo did not stop in reaction to this quick win, or slow down in pace in the slightest, but kept his arm swinging round dangerously with the flash of his knife in his hand. Throughout, Mo continued to scream wildly at his opponents as they cowered before him, working out how they could escape the situation. Mo was clearly in command of the situation now but was having difficultly connecting his punches as he threw them out with his left and swung his blade with his right. The distance between them as they danced back and forth had become a problem.

Ben continued watching tensely from the ground as Mo took a couple more painful punches from behind each time he turned to face a new opponent. They had managed to surround him, just as they had done with Ben beforehand, but the only ones brave enough to tackle him were those behind him. Cowards. But Mo was agile and nimble too, and broke the stalemate with a shout of rage and the swing of a dangerous dead-leg kick right in the middle of Smudge's thigh which was followed through with a full on punch straight between his eyes. Smudge dropped to the floor like a dead weight, while his remaining followers backed off, no longer so keen to follow at the sight of their leader falling so easily. Smudge lay helplessly on the ground holding his nose in agony while Mo stood over him.

'Don't ever fuck with my friend again, you hear me?' Mo said.

Smudge just lay there saying nothing, staring back in anger.

'I said you hear me?' Mo repeated.

'Fuck you,' replied Smudge, kicking Mo's shins.

Mo knelt down beside him and looked into his dilated eyes before repeating calmly: 'I said. You hear me?' Smudge's look of anger turned to fear as he realised he was totally at Mo's mercy. His lips trembled and he failed to make any sound at all, rather than being deliberately silent.

'Just to make sure we fully understand each other...' Mo continued, before taking hold of Smudge's ear. '...here's something to make sure you don't forget.' With which he sliced open a neat stripe from the top of Smudge's ear across his face, stopping just above his top lip. Strangely, Smudge didn't scream, make a sound or react in any way at all, but just lay there in shock, staring wide-eyed and blankly into Mo's face, his own disfigured by a gaping gash.

Mo wiped his knife on Smudge's top, stood up, and folded it back together before putting it back in his pocket. He walked calmly across to help Ben up, leaving Smudge alone and lying helplessly on his back with a slice of face hanging open. The battle had been won, but neither were stupid enough to think that the war was over.

****

Chapter 14

Mo unlaced and took off Ben's skates, propped him up against his side and led him out of the alley. They refused to even acknowledge Smudge's presence as they hobbled past him and ignored his mumbled, inaudible threats. They were both too concerned about each other and the need to find a safe retreat.

Ben was keen to be taken to the Crypt, somewhere private where he could lie down and rest until his swollen body had recovered, but Mo was having none of it. He was concerned at the number of cuts and bruises that Ben had received and which needed treatment and dismissed the Crypt as not being suitably equipped. His Dad was away on business; he had the keys to his flat and so that was where he insisted they go.

Mo took Ben straight through to the bathroom and sat him on the edge of the bath to inspect the damage. Ben immediately started complaining of hurting all over and wanting to lie down and sleep. Mo's bloodthirsty warrior persona appeared to transform into a soothing Florence Nightingale as he refused to let Ben lie down uncleaned and treated. He pushed his own pain to the back of his mind, while he methodically held Ben's arms up one by one to help him undress.

With the top of his body naked, the hardened blood and grime caked on his skin and the amount of bruising on his ribs, Ben looked as if he really had walked straight off a battlefield. Although his torso was discoloured from multiple bruising and grazed in parts, it was clear that his face was where the most obvious damage had been done. So Mo started at the top and worked his way down, sponging him down gently with a flannel as he went. Mo was relieved to find that, although Ben's head had taken a real beating, it was mostly blood and dirt which made it look much worse than it was.

'Pff. Look at you. I've never seen you this bad before and never want to see you get hurt like this again.'

'Ooo. Careful, it hurts, Mo.'

'This should never have happened. I just wasn't in the mood for skating today. I'm sorry I didn't turn up on time. Really sorry.'

'Don't worry, Mo. It's not like it's your fault or anything. Anyway, you were brilliant out there. God knows what would've happened if you didn't turn up when you did.'

'It's the least I could do. Trouble is, if we thought we should be lying low before, we had better move sub-basement now.'

'Listen. Those guys are probably shitting themselves now they've seen we don't take their shit. They ain't gonna want no more action.'

'Maybe, but I wouldn't be so sure once Smudge gets back to Papa Tee.'

'Yeh, but think positive. This might be the end. We'd better warn the others though.'

Mo left Ben to finish cleaning himself while he fetched a fresh change of clothes from his bedroom and called Dave to fill him in on events. Dave was remarkably relaxed about the whole thing, especially given his usual proud sportsman-like aggression, and suggested they meet round at his the next day to talk things over and get a better feel for the situation. He sounded more interested in talking about how well his sales of the hash was going.

Ben finished off in the bathroom by rinsing the blood out of his mouth and examining the bump over his eyebrow in the mirror. Not so bad, after all, he thought. Without anyone seeing the bruising on his body he could easily get away with saying he had had an accident on his skates and bumped his head. He went to join Mo in his bedroom to get dressed.

'That's better,' said Mo. 'You don't look nearly so bad. Now you can put your feet up.'

Ben flopped down on Mo's bed and looked round in amusement at how similar the bedroom at Mo's Dad's was to the one he lived in with his Mum. It was equally equipped with music and IT capability and set out in exactly the same order. It would have been easy to forget whether he was at his Dad's or Mum's house. Twice the fun though, Ben thought.

Ben thought Mo was being a bit stuffy and boring when he refused to roll him a proper smoke for fear of worsening his head injury. Instead, he lit up a crushed Marlboro Light and sat back to watch Mo as he pottered about fetching drinks and selecting music in an attempt to occupy him and cater for his every need. Ben enjoyed being spoilt.

'I should thank you for saving me back there, Mo.'

'It's nothing. We're friends. Forget it.'

'Yeh, but you were something else, man. Where'ja learn to fight like that?'

'I never learnt. It came from the heart.'

'Whoa. Well, you were pretty impressive anyway. You didn't look scared or nuffin'.'

'Listen Ben,' said Mo sitting down on the side of the bed and staring intently into Ben's eyes. 'Fear is only a state of mind and the greatest barrier which stands between us and our happiness. If you can overcome that, then anything's possible.' Ben found Mo intense at times, but made an allowance due to the fact he had just been in a pretty rough fight.

'Still impressive, though,' continued Ben. 'I just want you to know I appreciate it. It's lucky Smudge doesn't have any friends like you.'

'Here,' said Mo, handing Ben a leather band with a gold jewelled sun-symbol with wavy rays hanging from it. 'Wear it. From me to you. For friendship and good luck.'

Ben was speechless as he put it over his head. Its style was not to his taste, but he liked it out of respect for Mo and was touched by the gesture.

'Are you sure? It looks expensive.'

'Just take it, will you. And when I'm not with you, you'll know that "the force is still with you".'

Not sure of the protocol for these sorts of occasions, Ben reached his arms out to Mo to say thank you but Mo declined, instead knocking his fist against his. Ben had forgotten how much his fists still hurt and winced in response. It was one of those rare moments that men and boys have when they feel a connection or bond between them, mutually acknowledge it, but are then not quite sure how to react towards each other. Mo got up quickly to avoid any awkwardness between them and started talking about the recent additions to his expanding music collection instead.

'Hey, have a listen to this. Lemme know what you think. I was playing it when you were out last night.' Mo was holding up a CD of David Bowie's greatest hits. 'It's the latest addition to my "retro-section". I know it's a bit old and kinda different. But listen to the lyrics. They're inspired, man. The guy's a genius. I think you'll like it.'

Ben was busy fixing the necklace round his neck to show appropriate appreciation and sat back to listen attentively to David Bowie. Mo settled down into his beanbag to strum along on his (second) guitar, mumbling his newly learnt words out along to the music. At first, Ben was not sure whether he even liked the music at all. Obviously, he'd heard of David Bowie and knew who he was, but had never really listened to any of his music properly before. He found the first couple of tracks hard work to listen to and difficult to appreciate, especially against the background of a head full of his usual bass-dominated hip hop favourites. David Bowie sounded tinny and dated by comparison but became easier to listen to as his mind adjusted to the style. And judging from the intense seriousness on Mo's face he knew he needed to give it a fair trial. It clearly meant something to Mo, and he had just saved him from getting his head kicked in.

Just as track three was about to start Mo jumped up to the stereo and pressed the pause button.

'Listen to this one, Ben. You're gonna love it, okay?' Mo looked as if he had withdrawn into his own little musical fantasy world indicating that Ben had better make an effort to get into his friend's zone. He turned up the volume just before releasing the pause button, fell back into his beanbag and picked up his guitar to continue strumming along.

'This one's for us. Here, here. Listen. It's called "Heroes". Listen to the words, bro.'

Mo was so obviously getting carried away with his musical passion that Ben lay back and relaxed, closing his eyes to appear concentrated on the song. He peeped out occasionally to draw on his cigarette. As he watched Mo sing along, mouthing each word carefully and slowly strumming chords out in time to the tune, he noticed just how little he had really changed since they were in single figures together and Mo was first learning to play on a second-hand acoustic guitar. He still had the same thick curly hair, big eyes and careful, methodical determination to him. It was comforting to have such familiarity over time wrapped up in such a tight friendship. Mo's enthusiasm was infectious and had Ben absolutely gripped in wistful thought as he listened to the lyrics:

' _I  
I wish you could swim  
Like the dolphins  
Like dolphins can swim  
Though nothing  
Will keep us together  
We can beat them  
For ever and ever  
Oh we can be Heroes  
Just for one day_

I  
I will be king  
And you  
You will be queen  
Though nothing  
Will drive them away  
We can be Heroes  
Just for one day  
We can be us  
Just for one day...'

Mo's face was deep in concentration as he sang softly and quietly along, making it sound as if he had written the words himself. Deep from his heart. It was an amazing and hypnotic performance. His feeling and gentleness struck a deep chord with Ben, who was mesmerised by the music, the situation, and the fact that this caring, compassionate guitar-playing bard before him had sliced someone's face wide open \- without so much as a blink - just hours before. Ben found Mo so calm and peace-loving that he found these different sides to his personality difficult to reconcile. Perhaps they weren't irreconcilable traits after all? Perhaps he was just caring and looking out for his friend? But was it really necessary to cut Smudge's face like that? It seemed unreal but right at the time. He would have done the same for Mo. Wouldn't he? The answers weren't all there but the connection between them both was as strong as ever.

'Fantastic,' said Ben when the track finished. 'Different, but fantastic. Definitely one for us though. Heroes - we're a modern-day dying breed.'

'I thought you'd like it.'

'I do. Definitely. It's a bit trippy too. It's got me thinking 'bout swimming with dolphins. We should spark up a doobie and listen to it again. Properly.'

'Not today. I told you. Give it a rest for a while, will you.'

'Hey, no problem. It's good though. You can add that to my megamix, but I'm not so keen on this one,' he said as the CD continued playing into _'Boys Keep Swinging'_.

Mo took Ben's phone and set his computer up to copy the track across to his MP3 facility.

'It's songs like that that give me inspiration and hope, you know. And I really got into that one yesterday. It's really deep if you take in the lyrics, man. I got stuck playing it over and over.'

'Well, I don't know that it's that good, but it's definitely good. By the way – remind me – did I tell you how things went with Isabelle last night?'

Mo gave an obvious and loud yawn and returned to strumming his guitar.

'Yes, Ben. Every bloody detail.'

'Yeh, well, she's being a bit slow about texting me back. I was hoping we'd have arranged something else by now.'

'That'll be your impulsive simian lines mixing your head and your heart up again,' Mo said laughing. '...or your dick. Chill out a bit will you? Women are different. Some don't like to be rushed. Anyway, you wanna let yourself heal up a bit before you rush out with her again, 'cause take my word for it bro, you don't look too pretty right now.'

Ben touched the side of his face and winced as he was reminded just how much his head was throbbing. He closed his eyes. It did not take him long to fall asleep to the sound of Mo pottering around his room with various soothing music playing in the background.

****

Chapter 15

Much to his surprise, Ben awoke the next day to find he was still at Mo's Dad's house. At first, he had forgotten about the events of the day before and the beating he had taken, but was painfully reminded when he tried to sit up. He felt groggy and ached all over. He noticed he was still fully dressed in the clothes Mo had lent him. As he winced with pain just turning to his side he felt worse than he did the previous evening. His head felt puffy, as if someone had stuffed cotton wool under his skin while he was sleeping. His arms were badly bruised and aching from his hands to his elbows where he had held them up to protect his face and he felt generally heavy. Just attempting to lift his leg off the bed, or move his arm, was like fighting against a super-strong invisible gravity force.

He checked his phone. Still no message from Isabelle. Just one from his Mum, telling him to take it easy on his skates and be more careful next time.

'Shit,' he thought. 'Nothing yet.'

He started thinking about yesterday's fight and the lasting image of Smudge lying on the ground with his gaping wound splitting open the flesh from his ear to his lip. It was a sickening image, but that would hopefully teach him not to start trouble. Thank God for Mo.

The flat had double glazing which effectively cut out any sound from outside. Lying on Mo's bed, staring at the ceiling, would have been a great way to spend a quiet and relaxing morning had it not been for the sound of clattering crockery coming from the kitchen. Ben found that if he lay back at a certain angle, with one hand above his head, his injuries did not hurt as much. So he maintained the position while he focused on the kitchen sounds, trying to work out exactly what each one was.

It did not take long before Ben's peace was interrupted by Mo kicking the door open and entering with all the cheerfulness of a package tour holiday rep. He had a tray of toast and coffee in his hands and a big grin on his face.

'Morning. Sleep well?' Mo said loudly.

'Urgh. I think so.'

'How're you feeling now?'

'Sore.'

'Your face has swollen some more today, but it's not as red as yesterday.'

'It still fuckin' hurts though. Why did you let me sleep through?'

'You fell asleep just after we were chatting yesterday and the music was playing. You wouldn't budge. I did try.'

'I'd better ring my Mum and let her know I'm okay. She's already texted me.'

'Don't worry. She's fine. I rang her last night after you were asleep to tell her you were going to stay over. I said you'd taken a bad fall off your skates and hurt your head and that you wanted to rest and stay over. She was cool about it once I said I'd keep an eye on you. Your Mum's really okay, you know.'

'I know.'

'So don't blow it by saying you walked into a door or anything stupid.'

Ben took a cup of coffee from the tray and then a piece of toast to dip into it.

'Ahhhh, that's better.'

Mo opened the curtains, letting the sunlight flood into the room. Ben squinted in response.

'Well, it's another fine day out there, but whadja reckon? Safe chill-out day indoors, or shall we go out somewhere?'

Ben's phone buzzed on the bedside table. In his haste to pick it up he knocked it onto the floor and spilt a little coffee on the bedding. He needn't have rushed, though. It was only a text from Dave. It read: 'Hero Hoodie! Hope yr betr. Cum round. "Da Eagle has landed". Dave'

Ben showed the message to Mo before asking what it meant.

'Ah. I've already spoken to Dave. He's not working today. I rang him earlier to warn him to look out for any comebacks from yesterday. I told him to keep an eye out for any trouble. He said not to worry and to go round to catch up later. It sounded like he's got some news for us but he didn't want to say. We'll find out when we go round later.'

Disappointed that Isabelle hadn't texted him, Ben was only half listening and lost in thought.

'I wish this trouble never started now. I didn't plan for us to spend our summer pissing around having to hide away from those pieces of shit. Looks like I've just caused a load of trouble now.'

'Listen Hoodie, it was on the cards. It's not your fault. We're all caught up in it now. Don't worry though. It'll get sorted. It always does.'

'You're probably right. It's just that I wanted to get my life sorted out and all we're doing is getting dragged down by these no-hopers. I wanna move on.'

Mo laughed. 'Always the same. And you don't think you're impulsive or impatient? All in good time, my little Hoodie. Everything's out there, just waiting for us.'

Ben felt comforted by Mo's words and a little silly for being caught out showing his impatience and insecurities yet again. He did still have a fear of the unknown and an uncertainty as to whether everything would work out. But he vowed to keep his doubts under wraps. To be more outwardly cool. Like Mo.

They avoided any more deep talk for the morning and passed their time slowly, drinking coffee and smoking. Mo's Dad was still away on business and his wife was out shopping so they again had the place to themselves. Ben's clothes eventually dried out after their wash and gave him a sense of normality when he put them back on. If it were not for the bruising on his face acting as a reminder, the events of the day before could almost have been some kind of nightmare.

After polishing off a couple of lunchtime sandwiches, they set off for Dave's. They wasted no time in getting there. He did not live far. Brunel Estate in Notting Hill Gate. It marked the centre point between their regular Bayswater stomping ground and Papa Tee's Harrow Road turf, and they did not want to risk being seen by anyone on the way over.

There was no need to worry, though. It was quiet out and they did not slow down to question whether they were being understandably cautious in their furtive approach, or whether a touch of paranoia had set in. It was not important. The goal of staying safe was achieved, and in any case, Ben had an overriding belief that it was simply not his destiny to encounter any more trouble on that day. He also felt that there really was some kind of magic contained in Mo's golden sun which he wore proudly round his neck. He had adopted the habit of touching it periodically and fingering the simian lines on his palms – a powerful combination of protective power, he felt. He knew the idea of relying on these symbols sounded silly, but his instinct told him that he was safe and he believed it.

It took them less than five minutes to reach the piss-stained stairway of Hanwell House, which they darted up as quickly as they could before knocking on Dave's door. He must have seen them coming because he lifted the latch and let them in before they had even finished knocking, pulling them inside before they had spoken a word.

'Hey...Ben. Oooh. Lemme see that eye.' Dave sucked his teeth. 'Looks sore, my man. Who's to blame, who's to blame? I hear Papa Tee wasn't even there. Was it Smudge?'

'Don't touch,' said Ben recoiling from Dave's hand. 'It looks worse than it is, but it still hurts. It could've been Smudge but it could've been any one of seven others as well. I don't know. I was covering my face.'

'Ooooo...eight to one? My man Hoodie versus eight roughnecks? That ain't right. We should make 'em pay for dat.'

'Leave it. We already did,' said Mo, coolly.

'Oh, Dave...you should've seen 'im. He was awesome. Cut Smudge right down his...'

'Enough Ben. I already told him what happened,' interrupted Mo.

'Is Luca here?'

'C'mon. Upstairs Mo.'

They followed Dave as he leapt up the stairs to his smoke-filled bedroom, where Luca was sprawled out in the corner looking glassy eyed.

'Hey guys,' he said raising his head. 'What's up?' Luca had started on the skunk early judging from the pungent smoky smell hanging in the air. The focus in his eyes was not quite right, his speech was slower than its usual fast-paced staccato and although he'd greeted his mates on their way in, he seemed to have no real sense of awareness of his surroundings. Recognising the scent immediately, Ben remembered just how strong the skunk could be if you got the mixture with tobacco slightly wrong. Luca was clearly in the land of smoky-puff-fairies. Ben and Mo plonked themselves next to him and started to tease him.

'Hey Luca, where are you?'

'Right here, buddy,' he slurred in a weak attempt to sound normal. They all laughed at the fact that even his lips seemed to be out of sync with his voice. He was speaking like a badly dubbed movie.

'What you dreaming of Lucky Boy?' asked Ben.

'Girls,' replied Luca, elongating the vowel sound and breaking into an ear to ear grin. He was totally unaware of the comic effect he was having on the others. Ben in particular was entertained by Luca's condition. It felt like a long time since they had all spent some time together and he could not help noticing just how easy it was to relax, feel happy and laugh in the company of his friends. Just sitting with them and enjoying the banter bounce back and forth was a welcome relief from the turbulent events of the past few days. It was tight in Dave's bedroom. Actually, the whole flat was small, but at least they didn't have to worry about the smoke or noise while Dave's parents were out for the day.

'So Hoodie. I got some good news for you. Check this.' Dave jumped on the bed, causing the rest of them to fall on top of each other, and reached up to the top shelf of his bookcase and took down a Monopoly box.

'We haven't played that for ages,' said Ben. And they hadn't. Not since they were in primary school together. Dave knelt down in front of them and slowly tipped the lid open, grinning.

'We're on our way to fuckin' Park Lane, fellas.'

'Whoa,' said a wide eyed Ben staring at the gaping box stuffed full of bank notes. 'How much is there?'

'No idea. I've not had time to count it all, but enough. Business is good and getting better. We are rich men.'

Ben picked up a fistful of mixed notes and started leafing through them.

'But there's loads here. Is this all just from Papa Tee's dope? Have we sold everything now then? I wanted to keep some back for us.'

'Don't worry, we haven't even finished the stuff down the Crypt. But da quality was so good we been selling for an 'igher price, an' I been investing. I found out where the source is and now we got our own wholesale supply with 100% profit. We got money on tap now, gentlemen.'

Mo was looking at his feet, shaking his head.

'So you're buying more?' he said frowning, lips tightened.

'Keep up, bullet. I got me trusted foot soldiers out on da streets right now selling dem little wraps like little hot cakes. We're shifting it faster than we can get hold of it. I'm only doing the windows wiv me Dad as a front now. There's enough dough coming in for us all now. Chill!'

Ben was still rubbing the notes between his fingers and passing them from hand to hand. 'Well. That's good, isn't it?' he directed towards Mo.

Mo did not look impressed. 'So "we" are now into full-time dealing? I think "we" should have talked about it first. Ben nearly got his head kicked in yesterday 'cause Smudge and some others were out on the prowl, and you're moving up a gear? Who's the supplier?' Mo did not look up from staring at his feet and his words came out in monotone.

'He's called Stevie. You've seen him around. Old guy with dreads. Sometimes wears an old top hat with his track suit and hangs out round Powis Square. Right in the heart of Notting Hill. I'm sure we've seen him at Carnival together in the past.'

'Maybe.'

'Yeh...you have. Don't be fooled by his appearance though. The guy is seriously rich. Homes abroad, cars, women, the lot. He just keeps it tucked away but da guy is cool. I'm telling you.'

'What you buying?'

'No hard stuff, Mo. Just hash, weed and skunk. Straight up.'

Mo did not look reassured or, indeed, impressed with the whole situation in the slightest. If anything, he looked saddened and withdrawn as he sat back motionless saying nothing more.

'Hash, weed and skunk? Something from every major food group, then,' joked Ben.

'Couldn't a got started without you, Hoodie, ma man. Take what you need from da box, yeh? It's gonna keep on flowing from now on so help yourself.'

'Hmphf,' interrupted Mo. 'So we're dealers now, huh. This makes us no better than Papa Tee. You sold us out Dave.'

It was rare that there was disagreement or conflict within the group, but if ever there was, it was usually between Dave and Mo who tended to view the world from different perspectives. And the tone of this disagreement had a potential terminal edge to it.

'Sold us out? Who you kidding Mo? This stuff is like candy to us. So we're making some money now. So what? We're providing a service dat people want so where's the harm? We don't cause no problem, no hassle. We ain't like Papa Tee on some big ego trip, beating others to get their kicks. Unless that's your style, ay Mo?'

Mo kissed his teeth and turned the back of his head towards Dave. Dave was in full flow. 'We just providing good, clean, value for money shit to people who don't want no shit. So don't give me none of your moral high ground bullshit okay? You either wid me on this or we against each other, bruv.'

To his mind, he was king pin, numero uno, da boss, and did not take kindly to Mo questioning his actions or intentions. Dave felt morally justified in his actions and felt the rest of them should fall into line and be impressed with his business acumen. Luca was clearly (albeit distantly) compliant, Ben was indifferent and just out for a good time, so Mo's dissent stood out as a problem to Dave.

Realising that his moral view was in the minority, Mo decided to follow a neutral argument by pointing out that increasing sales in the area was just going to draw attention to themselves and that Papa Tee would be bound to find out one way or another. Which, with his recent losses, would be bound to wind him up even further and put them in the spotlight even more. Mo had hoped, perhaps in vain, that things would start to cool down soon. Ben's head turned from Mo to Dave and back again as they talked it through.

'Don't stress so much, Mo. When it boils down to it Papa Tee is just another little boy. Don't let him worry you. You should have more faith in me. I told you this morning I had something to show you to sort things out.'

'I thought the money was it.'

'The money is part of it,' said Dave. 'What I really wanted to show you is this baby. My new "weapon of mass destruction".'

'What?'

Dave fell to the floor and started rummaging around under the bed. Luca had shifted his position to lying on his back on the bed, taking up too much room for the others to be comfortable, and grinning gormlessly at the ceiling. He was well out of it and in a complete world of his own. Ben and Mo sat apprehensively on the bed while Dave continued to grunt and shuffle from underneath. Ben did not like conflicts between his friends, which always seemed to catch him in the middle, and was relieved that all appeared to have cooled down between them. After a click and a slam, Dave emerged holding a shotgun.

'What the fuck is that?' asked Mo, raising his voice.

Luca remained oblivious to the commotion firing up around him.

'Wadja fink? A bloody peashooter? It's fuckin' insurance, mate, that's what it is.'

'Insurance against what?' continued Mo, getting louder and looking panicked. 'It's a fuckin' dangerous weapon, and you know it. I don't want to go down this route.'

'Well get used to it, Mo, 'cause someone like Papa Tee ain't gonna think twice 'bout testing his toy out on us if he gets wind. Fight fire with fire, remember?'

'Live by the sword, die by the sword,' muttered Ben to himself. Mo flashed him a cross look.

'Das right, see? My man Hoodie gets the scene. Listen Mo, bro, I know you like to keep things straight, but we gotta look after ourselves. We all know we ain't no troublemakers and it's not like I'm gonna go round threatening or shooting anyone. Dis baby is a deterrent. For defence purposes only.'

Mo was clearly not happy with the situation, nor with the newly acquired Jamaican lilt in Dave's voice which was starting to grate with him. But Dave's compromising way of justifying the gun's presence, and the lack of any objection from either Ben or Luca (who did not look as if he was capable of objecting or agreeing to anything by now) meant that he reluctantly accepted the situation without further argument.

'At least you won't be able to slip that big ugly thing in your pocket and take it out whenever you want,' he said in a final show of disapproval.

Insofar as guns on the street went, a shotgun was probably the most uncool weapon to own. Big, bulky, fired shot instead of bullets, difficult to conceal, and generally pretty well damn useless in Mo's un-gun-educated opinion. And more associated with images like Jed Clampett of the Beverley Hillbillies chasing away some varmint from the front porch in his long johns than James Bond enticing some attractive young female with his weapon in one hand and a vodka martini in the other. Definitely naff. But it was still a gun. Threatening, dangerous, potentially lethal and worthy of care and respect.

Dave cocked it open to show it was not loaded before handing it to Ben to look over. 'Careful now, the metal end is the dangerous end; the wooden end is safe.'

'Duhhhh!' replied Ben.

Although Ben had not been as vocal as Mo in voicing his disapproval of guns, he had never particularly liked them either, whether they were being used legitimately for sport or whether they were simply being used a an accessory to boost street cred. The whole gansta scene was tacky and OTT and in his experience (either directly or second-hand) those who were attracted to guns were usually those who could not earn respect in their own right. Generally speaking, Ben felt guns compensated individuals for something their personality lacked.

Despite his previously formed opinions, Ben was surprised at how differently he felt once he actually had the gun in his hands. It was heavy, well polished and smelt of WD40. He was not sure how to handle it and turned it round timidly to get used to its feel. Something about it gave him an indescribable surge of power. A hidden x-factor. He held it to his shoulder and looked down the barrel at the Queens Park Rangers poster on the wall. While Ben turned to point the gun at every available target around the room, Dave explained how lucky he was to have managed to gain Stevie's trust so early on in their business relationship by being asked to look after the gun until it was next needed and that such trust was considered an honour. In fact, Dave said, he had even turned down the offer of payment for looking after it. It had not been difficult for Dave to persuade Stevie to let him have a box of cartridges to keep safe with it as an alternative to cash.

'Can I pull the trigger?' asked Ben.

'Go ahead. It's not loaded.'

Ben squeezed the trigger whilst aiming at the middle of the 'Q' in QPR and flinched in response to the unimpressive but efficient 'click'. There was no doubt he felt excited by it and was dying to find out what it felt like to fire with a cartridge loaded.

Underneath the excitement, Ben was starting to think Mo was right though. What was the point of keeping a gun if you had no intention of ever using it? Why would you really want to use it anyway? Why risk keeping it when possession itself is a crime (rich coming from him, he knew)? Sometimes Dave just didn't think things through.

As the afternoon passed by, some hash was rolled and smoked; Luca was encouraged not to have any more until he had started talking sense again – he was still very erratic and not following any of the conversations properly. Mo's tension eased as he got used to the gun's presence and they started talking about how they could spend the money. And Dave was enjoying the rare pleasure of playing the role of host.

It was just after five when Dave pulled down the blinds in the bedroom, turned the music off and told the rest of them to lower their voices while he stood at the window, squinting downwards. Dave's seriousness encouraged the others to comply without question and they stayed silent for over five minutes until Dave whispered: 'Here you go, right on time. Turn the light off and come see.'

They lined up by the window and looked out onto the central grass-edged pathways that wove through Brunel Estate to see a familiar figure slowly cycling around, pausing every so often to check his mobile phone. It was Papa Tee.

A shiver ran down Ben's spine and the blood immediately drained from his hands leaving them feeling cold and heavy. He had not seen him since his last day at school which, although only weeks ago, seemed like ages away. Any fuzziness in his head disappeared and he became razor sharp with fear and apprehension. 'Wass 'e doing here?' he whispered.

'Dealing,' said Dave. 'He doesn't know I live here but I've seen 'im a few times lately. He's expanding his patch and looking for new customers from what I can make out.'

Within a minute, two younger kids turned up and sat on the swings in the small playground in the middle of the estate. Papa Tee cycled towards them, exchanged some words and shook hands with one of them. And then again. He then looked in his hand before putting something in his pocket. Yup. He was dealing.

'It's not often you see him alone,' said Dave. 'He must be feeling confident round here now. Wadja reckon boys? Shall we see 'im off?'

'I ain't fuckin' going down there.' Ben's face still hurt and he was not in the mood for any more conflict.

'You don't need to,' said Dave, grinning.

'Oh no...,' interrupted Mo.

Dave's grin broadened and his eyes came alive as he looked over at the shotgun lying on the bed.

'Let's just send 'im a little warning shot?'

Ben was still staring out the window watching Papa Tee's every move and recalling just how miserable he had made so many of his friends' lives throughout their time at school. The fear he had first felt at seeing him was quickly overtaken by amusement as he imagined the shock and surprise he would get if he was being shot at. The thought of creating a 'Jed Clampton-shooting-varmint' scene was suddenly quite attractive and comical. Ben told Dave to load the gun and tell him what he had to do. Mo paced up and down, trying but failing not to come across like the anxious mother of the group, while Luca collapsed backwards onto the bed in a fit of giggles. The others hissed at him to keep the noise down. Now the idea of shooting Papa Tee had been floated there was no way Dave or Ben were going to back down from seeing the thought through. They were past the thinking stage and in operational mode. Besides, they were far too excited to think beyond the moment.

'Just a warning shot, okay? His tyres or something,' said Ben, scaling back slightly on the danger aspect. 'How do I use this thing?'

Dave, slowly and carefully, and with an air of authority which suggested this was an everyday occurrence to him, placed a single cartridge in the loading chamber and handed the loaded weapon to Ben to hold while he pushed the window open a couple of inches wider. He held the blinds to one side and whispered instructions to Ben while Mo and Luca looked on with bated breath.

'Hold the barrel here; rest your finger on the trigger; tuck the butt into your shoulder and under your chin, and then I'll release the safety catch. You line up this sight with this marker, take aim with one eye and slowly squeeze the trigger. No rushing, okay? Take your time.'

Dave's instructions set Ben's heart racing and his breath became fast and shallow. He had to put the gun down and pause for a moment while he took a couple of necessary puffs from his asthma inhaler before carrying out his instructions in full. In a sudden concern about safety, Dave ran through the procedure again to make sure he had got it before Ben signalled he was ready to continue. 'Silence,' he whispered, although no one was making a sound. Dave pulled the blinds a bit further to one side, just enough for Ben to be able to see out clearly with an unbroken line of vision.

While concentrating on holding the gun steady, Ben assessed his surroundings. Dave's bedroom window was two floors up from ground level and it would be almost impossible – and totally unexpected – to see the tip of a shotgun poking out of a window from the distances involved. Ben noticed his hands were shaking and took a few deep breaths through pursed lips to steady his nerves and control his breathing. Without waiting for Dave, he undid the safety catch, lined up the sights and looked down the barrel towards his target. Papa Tee was talking on his mobile phone and veering from side to side as he slowly cycled round and round the estate pathways. His hair had been tied up into tight little bunches and his gold tooth would occasionally shine brightly in the rays of the sun. It was a still, clear afternoon and Ben was very aware that he was about to change all of that. He had to remind himself of all the reasons why Papa Tee deserved a warning shot in order to maintain his focus on his actions. He was excited, but nervous and scared at the same time. But there was no backing down now. All eyes in the room were on him, not blinking for fear of missing something.

'Go on Hoodie,' whispered Dave. Papa Tee stopped cycling and put both his feet down to rest on the ground while he continued chatting on the phone. Ben lowered the sight of the gun to the ground just below where Papa Tee had come to stop and squeezed the trigger.

BANG! The sound of the shot sent Ben's heart racing, making him think he was on the verge of a heart attack. His shoulder took a knock from the gun. He couldn't have been holding it properly. A different sort of smoky smell – kind of metallic - filled the room. All of them instinctively dropped down onto the carpet, adopting crouched positions - more out of reflex than necessity or usefulness.

'Here. Take it,' said Ben, shocked from the noise and holding the gun out as if suddenly it was something he had never wanted to touch in the first place. Dave sat up and removed the empty cartridge with a click and a spring and made sure the weapon was safe.

'Look,' Dave whispered, putting his arm over Ben's shoulder. 'I think you actually hit him!' The words made Ben's blood run cold as he, with the other three pressing behind him, knelt before the window and peeped out.

Papa Tee's bike was lying on its side, whilst Papa Tee himself was sitting on the grass holding his leg just below the knee. His head was rolling from side to side and his eyes looked big and wild. He was screaming in pain in that familiar, deep scary voice of his. 'YOU FUCKER. I'LL FIND YOU AND GET YOU. YOU FUCKING PUSSYOLE. YOU'RE DEAD. COME OUT. NOW. LEMME SEE YA...'

He was thrashing around, looking up and down and all around him, obviously (and reassuringly for Ben) with no idea where the shot had come from. After a couple of minutes of watching him shouting and wailing, they saw him struggle to his feet and hobble over towards his bike. All the while, he continued to shout wildly in all directions, attracting further attention from all the twitching curtains that had first been disturbed by the shot. No one went out to help or made any sound in response. Aside from Papa Tee's emissions, everything else on the estate remained quiet and calm.

The boys, still on their knees, looked round at each other to gauge reactions. Judging from their matching sets of wide eyes and gaping mouths, they were all suitably shocked by what they had seen. Even Luca looked as if he had returned to earth. The anticipated bravado was not there. They said nothing to each other but returned to the window to watch Papa Tee hobble out of the complex, leaning for balance on his bike as he moved, and to listen to his continuing raging threats. Ben could see some red on Papa Tee's trainers and wasn't sure if it was blood or whether it was part of their original colouring. He couldn't remember what they'd looked like before. It struck Ben that there wasn't much comedy in shooting someone after all. Something in him just didn't feel right.

****

Chapter 16

After the shooting incident, the boys kept their distance from each other for a few days. Apparently, a 'Firearms Incident' sign had been put up on Dave's estate seeking further information, and door to door enquiries had taken place on the evening of the shooting, but as there was no suggestion of any comeback on them – that they knew of at least –it was business as usual for a while. They were in constant text contact with each other with jokes being forwarded and Dave providing regular updates on how business was going. But the physical distance between them all had become mutually convenient and gave each of them some time to reflect on the direction the start of their 'summer of love' had taken. Besides, on a more practical level, they each had their own ambitions to follow and were all busy in their own ways.

Ben was frustrated at still having heard nothing back from Isabelle but had become braver (or less paranoid) about going out on his own again. One day, he ventured down Portobello Market to pass some time and browse the stalls. While he was down there he saw Papa Tee approaching him and reacted, as usual, with the same level of fear he always felt when first seeing him, but was surprised to find he relaxed the closer Papa Tee came. Ben was grateful that he'd spotted him first though. It had given him a chance to pull his hood over his head and jump behind a stall into the crowds on the pavement where he could safely watch him walk past him within an arm's reach. A rottweiller with a big chunky collar was pulling him along as he passed and he had a friend with him. Neither of them even noticed Ben, which made him think he wasn't being specifically targeted by them after all. Ben thought it was either that, or perhaps Mo's good luck charm really was able to protect him and ward off evil spirits after all. As Papa Tee bounced past, Ben could not help looking down at his foot and was also relieved to see that no permanent damage appeared to have been caused by his shot a few days before. However, it was difficult to be sure as Papa Tee had always walked with an improvised swagger which looked like it could be a limp.

Ben was surprised at the fact that he should even care whether Papa Tee had got hurt or not. But he did. He mulled it over and concluded that the sticking point for him was the fact that he would have been responsible for it. Whether Papa Tee got hurt, shot or killed even, was of no real concern to Ben – and could even be justified to some extent based on the way he had bullied others in the past – but, although he did deserve justice, Ben did not feel it was right for him to be the one to dish it out.

He also felt that using a gun from a distance was a particularly cowardly way to face your enemy and he was not proud of what he had done. During past disagreements and fights at school he had always taken pride in the fact that he would stand up for what he thought and felt was right and face his opposition squarely. Whatever you are, be proud of yourself and don't hide away, he had preached. But as time had passed he had become more opposed to the presence of the gun in Dave's flat, although he could not deny that he had found firing it an exciting experience. However, he doubted whether he could even summon up the will to shoot a bird if he had the opportunity to use it again.

He was keen to rid himself of such negative thoughts and reflections of the past. It was time to put his troubles behind him and return to concentrating on searching for a job and finding his path to success. His confidence for the future was returning despite the fact that he carried a heavy disappointment that Isabelle had not responded to his last three messages of affection. So returning his focus to finding a job became a welcome diversion.

He headed towards the local library to spend some more time on the internet. He passed some time there by browsing the learn-direct site and completing its online questionnaire, aimed to assess his potential and guide him towards suitable careers and jobs. Disappointingly, while the results of his completed psychometric testing question did point him towards administrative careers and those involving lots of direct human contact, all the results did tend to suggest a need for him to obtain a depressingly long list of qualifications, skills and experience before he would become eligible to apply. The thought of returning to study with his tail between his legs was too much to bear.

Realising the library had offered him all it could for the time being, he decided to take some more direct action by leaving the research and visiting a local recruitment agency. It might have been a little disheartening for Ben to read about needing to meet standards he had not yet attained, but his eagerness to succeed gave him further hope and, as he walked to the agency in Queensway, he convinced himself that he'd be able to persuade someone to give him a job. The ManPro experience had taught him a lot and he was aware that he needed to lower his sights from his first ambitions to something more realistic. Perhaps something where he could start at the bottom and learn on the job. After all, he thought, he was young, keen, eager, not seeking a huge salary, would work hard and was willing to learn. He just didn't fancy going back into an educational institute. Surely someone would understand and give him a break?

Before entering the recruitment agency he took the time to study the cards in the window describing positions available. There were plenty on display and they looked varied and interesting. He could see that the recruitment agents inside were all busy with clients and so he did not feel any pressure to rush in. Many of the jobs advertised were vague on detail, deliberately designed to entice job seekers through the doors to find out more, or, as with learn-direct, seemed to require skills, qualifications or experience that he didn't yet have. Lorry drivers (licence required), packers (no prospects), security (look like a prat), warehouse assistant (no windows leaves you looking anaemic), storeman (boring), housing officer (hmm, maybe), sales executive (must have car), telesales (aren't their rates all a bit of a con?). The opportunities seemed endless.

One in particular looked hopeful: 'Legal Assistant, computer literacy in Word, Excel, etc., essential.' He may not have any formal qualification to back it up but Ben was confident he could demonstrate his ability in those areas and, although the pay wasn't great (it was minimum wage) he thought a legal firm would be a good place to start. It had prospects. He thought it could be the sort of job where they would train him up for bigger and better things within the firm. Learn while you earn sort of thing.

The salary was disappointing, especially with his wish to become independent as soon as he could – even if that did mean he would have to rent a small room of his own to start with - and was definitely not enough to impress Isabelle. That was if he ever managed to get through to her. Did he misread her number perhaps? Maybe he had been sending his texts to completely the wrong person? Perhaps there was an old lady sitting at home in some other part of the country, in utter bewilderment at who all these romantic texts could be from? The thought amused him. Deep down though, he knew he would have to revise his ambitions of a couple of weeks ago, which were starting to feel more and more unrealistic. He was finding it difficult to get a grip on the reality of his situation, and what his prospects really were. He swung between feeling success was just round the corner and utter, total, depressing hopelessness. There was no in between.

He entered through the heavy glass door, setting off a buzzer as he stepped on the mat, and sat down in what appeared to be the waiting area with two chairs and a table with a pile of glossy corporate brochures on it. One of the female consultants gestured to him, while she was talking on the phone, that she would only be a couple of minutes.

Ben listened in on the phone conversations taking place in the cramped office. The woman who had mouthed a greeting to him – 'Barbara' it said on her name badge – was running through the details of the guy sitting in front of her. He looked smug and arrogant as he heard his achievement details being read out over the phone. From what Ben managed to catch, he was educated to degree level and had worked on a number of impressively high-profile projects, 'gaining a hard-hitting reputation as being able to consistently deliver to deadline, whilst maintaining an impressive strategic overview of detail'. Whatever that meant. As Barbara was straining her friendly sales voice in an attempt to set up an interview with the people on the other end of the phone, 'smug-man' was smirking and nodding to himself, confidence boosted at the sound of how great he was.

'What a wanker,' Ben thought as he caught Barbara's eye and said as much with a dismissive facial gesture. Barbara intuitively acknowledged what Ben had meant and looked down at her desk, continuing to talk down the phone, but with a suppressed smile on her face. 'Smug-man' looked round at Ben who gave him a big friendly smile in return. 'Smug-man' looked him up and down as if sizing up his worth before looking away with the air of a man who had just stepped in something unpleasant. 'Not just a wanker, but a rude wanker,' Ben concluded. Ben had become bored and was no longer in the mood to put himself through the charade of chasing a job. The day did not feel right. Now was not his time. The vibe was not right. He'd try again another day.

Barbara was still on the phone when he got up to leave. 'I'll only be a couple of minutes,' she called out in a cheerful voice, indicating for him to sit down again.

'Don't worry,' he said, loud enough for all the other staff and customers in the office to hear. 'I can see you're gonna need some time to find this one a job. I'll come back some other time.' With which he winked, causing Barbara to suppress another smile, before leaving. Ben noted that Barbara was probably about the same age as his Mum – not in his age group, but not exactly old either – and he was pleased that he had managed to make her smile while she was working. He considered it his random act of kindness for the day. It must be difficult having to be pleasant to arrogant prats all day long, he thought.

Ben had laid off the dope the past couple of days but decided it would be a good time to remedy that and headed towards the Crypt with the aim of picking up a few more slivers of gear and going on to Mo's for a catch-up. Some more focus was needed with his job-hunting and the days were passing quickly. A bit of mind-expanding chat and some of Mo's sound advice would be just the tonic he needed to kick-start him into real action.

As he approached the Crypt he instinctively followed his personal safety protocol by checking up and down the street to see if he was being watched before jumping the perimeter fence and disappearing into the basement, lifting the big black door off its hinges to let himself in. Ben inhaled the damp stale air deeply and welcomed the familiarity of the place he hoped would always be there for him. However, he did not welcome the faint shuffling sound he could hear coming from somewhere in the distance. It was sufficiently real and disturbing for Ben to decide not to switch on the light on his mobile phone and to leave the door slightly ajar to let in a sliver of light and provide him with a quick exit should he need it.

He edged his way down the corridor, running his hands along the bare brick for guidance as he pigeon-stepped his way deeper into darkness. His hearing became increasingly acute, increasing the volume of the scraping sounds in the distance, as his visual senses were blacked out. Low unrecognisable voices were added to the mix. As he took the final left turn towards the den he froze in reaction to seeing a stream of light shining out from within. Safe in the knowledge that he was hidden in silent darkness, he edged closer and peeped round the slightly open door.

The light was not good and the door's gap did not give him a clear line of vision to distinguish who was there or what was happening. But this void of information was enough to spook his nerves. The sounds coming from within were low and not totally audible – a mixture of grunts and whispers. There was an unfamiliar and unpleasant stench in the air which played on Ben's sense of insecurity. It smelt metallic, like the fumes given off by a soldering iron left to burn for too long. The fumes stung the back of his nose. The unfamiliarity of the odour was enough to shift his shallow breath up a couple of gears into a series of deep inhalations. His stomach was churning which he put down to the feeling that the smell was evil. He felt as if he had unknowingly walked onto the scene of a horror film, about to walk in on the anti-Christ in the middle of some horrible sacrificial act.

Before he could take another step forward, his fear of the unknown caused him to follow his now familiar routine of tracing the lines in his palms and stroking the sun pendant round his neck for luck. The ritual had the effect of reminding him of his special status and helped prepare himself for a state of heightened awareness to deal with what might lie ahead. He could not explain how or why, but he felt he was becoming engulfed with a greeny black aura being emitted from within the den.

He reached up and stroked the bump above his eyebrow. It no longer hurt and had healed well. He took one further deep breath for luck before stepping forward and placing his hand on the door to move it open slightly and peep inside. To his relief, he was not set upon by a gang of intruders and was pleased to see that the den did not appear crowded as he surveyed its left hand side, from the far corner inwards. However, he was shocked to see Chloe sitting on the table in the middle of the room snogging Dave who was standing in front of her, her bare legs wrapped round him while he dispensed short fast thrusts between them. He had to take a second look to make sure it was them because the sounds they were making and the tones of their whispers meant they were almost unrecognisable. And that smell...what was it?

Although the angle at which he was watching them meant he could see nothing of what they were actually doing, the sight of Chloe sitting with her skirt hitched up, knees held out in mid-air and her feet hanging limply at the end of her exposed legs provided him with a dose of relief, shock and arousal in equal measure.

They were obviously engrossed in the act and oblivious to his presence. In the same way that one cannot bring oneself to look away at a road accident, Ben was rooted to the spot, mesmerised by the sight of them bouncing back and forth off each other, with distant, screwed-up expressions of ecstasy on their faces. Chloe had her back to him and broke away from Dave to tip her head back, leaving Dave free to look downwards admiringly at himself. Ben felt uncomfortable watching his friend Dave but curiosity made him unable to resist taking in every detail of Chloe's exposed flesh. Her top, although probably low to start with, had been pulled further down to expose her firm breasts which, even from where he was viewing behind, could be seen wobbling with each thrust, steadied only by her grip in the side of the table. Her short black and white checked skirt was creased up around her waist exposing the milk-white flesh of her thighs.

Suddenly they stopped. Ben's legs turned to jelly as he thought he had been noticed, but he remained where he was and looked on as Dave ordered Chloe to turn on her front while he geared himself up to continue from behind. Chloe complied submissively as Dave gripped her round the waist. A moment later he continued sniffing and grunting, his eyes closed and head rolling from side to side.

Ben had had a healthy, uncomplicated appetite towards sex for as long as he could remember and, although his own experience was limited - contrary to some of the tales he had told - he was quite used to seeing seductive images in lads-mags and, of course, the internet. But this was different. Watching Dave and Chloe panting over each other introduced a whole new sense of seedy reality to Ben's previously held fantasies of desire and sex. The sort of images he was used to seeing, or lusting after, were glossy airbrushed beauties, designed to entice, tempt fantasies, create a pathway to escapism or, more usually, a packaged sexy scenario designed to steer a desire towards spending money on whatever product was being advertised. Even the dregs of the web had not presented him with the brutal reality of the sight before him now. It was totally at odds with that world of glamour and romance. Dave, grunting and snorting as he pumped away selfishly from behind, grabbing and groping round the front and sides of Chloe in animal-like fashion. But Ben found it impossible to avert his gaze from the scene even though he knew he should before getting caught, and risk being labelled a peeping tom.

Chloe's face, upon closer inspection, was different, distant almost, and she looked totally disconnected from what was happening behind. Her eyes were screwed up tight and her top lip was curled up into a sort of sneer, while she chewed on her bottom lip. Ben moved his head forward slightly to view her from a different angle and noticed a ripped open drinks can on the floor below them.

'What had they been up to?' Ben wondered to himself. The thoughts did not preoccupy him for long though, as the sight of Chloe's exposed bottom demanded his attention. Her skirt was gathered unceremoniously over the top of her back and she had pointed her legs out wide, standing on tip toe, to accommodate Dave. Her white bottom (bigger than he would have predicted) looked almost luminous in the faint light and displayed red finger marks where Dave had adjusted his grip and shivered in waves from the force of action. There was no glamour in it, and he felt embarrassed by the fact he was unmistakably aroused by watching silently, but Ben could not help the rush of male hormones rushing round his body. He was becoming light headed with desire.

Judging from the expression on her face alone, it was impossible to tell whether Chloe was having sex or having a leg sawn off. She looked as if she could have been living out her own fantasy somewhere else in her head, and that Dave's presence at her rear was merely incidental and nothing to do with any pleasure she was feeling. Her face did not even give any indication that it was pleasure, for that matter.

Ben touched himself through his jeans and could feel that he was leaking. As he continued to watch, he thought it strange that they were sharing such an intimate and special act – something he had yet to experience - yet both looked as if they could have been carrying out any other sort of physical activity, like running or doing sit-ups. Aside from the obvious physical connection taking place, there appeared to be no indication from either of them that they were sharing an experience. It was almost as if they both appeared to be doing their own thing which just happened, by sheer coincidence, to require the other's presence. Individually, they were lost in their own worlds.

Ben's emotions and all sense of rational thought flew out the window when Dave opened his eyes and stared right into his face. Ben froze at being caught at his voyeuristic activities, feeling his heart was going to jump out of his chest. Without stopping or slowing down at all, Dave smiled and winked at Ben, and waved him into the room and pointed towards a spot on the floor in front of Chloe. In whispered instructions Dave then told Chloe to take care of Ben while he continued from behind. Chloe opened her eyes for the first time and looked surprised to see Ben and shocked at what Dave was telling her. But only momentarily. Dave continued talking in low tones to her and reassured her not to worry and that she was lucky to have two for the price of one. As she propped herself up onto her elbows, leaving her hands free at the end of the table, she appeared to withdraw into her own world.

Ben's mind was racing with thoughts, weighing up his options: 'Should he?' 'Shouldn't he?' 'What about Isabelle?' 'What would the others say?' And all the while he continued to sight glimpses of Chloe's wobbling breasts and naked behind being pummelled by Dave with increasing frequency. His procrastination was overtaken by the heat he was feeling in the pit of his stomach and by Chloe's greedy hands unzipping his jeans to release his leaking cock. The relief he felt at being exposed was immense and took away the need for any further decision. There was no turning back. It would be like refusing an after-dinner brandy; just not the done thing. It might not have come with the romance or glamour Ben imagined his first experience would involve, but the urge to comply with the situation was stronger than the urge to resist. He stood still and watched as Chloe put him in her mouth. She did not even look as if she was aware of what she was doing, but Ben's feelings insisted he stop thinking and accept the situation for what it was.

Chloe gripped him around his base with one of her hands and applied her mouth with constant, soothing pressure. Ben watched avidly as he took in every detail of his first action for his photographic memory to replay in future before his face started to contort, his eyes closing tighter. Wet, messy, slurping sounds were all he could hear as his heartbeat increased and his breathing became deep and noisy. Any self-consciousness he felt disappeared quickly. He did not care. He too had withdrawn to his own place of pleasure. The thought of Isabelle, the sight of Chloe's exposed body parts, the feeling between his legs and even the stimulation of Dave's animal-like actions had become too much for him. As his breaths deepened into bursts of 'oh, oh, oh' and his moment approached, he opened his eyes to see that Dave had stopped his rhythmical movements in and out of Chloe and was standing still with his arm outstretched, grinning broadly. His mobile phone was in his hand and aimed towards Ben. Ben's eyebrows frowned deeply in response, his eyes burned with anger at Dave, he shook his head from side to side before releasing a big 'aahhhhhh' at which point Chloe began gagging, spat his semen out of her mouth onto the ground and called him a bastard, as if she had herself just woken from a bad dream.

As he stepped back from Chloe, Ben felt his spirits crash back down to reality. Everything looked different. Everything felt different. Dave was laughing at him in a way which could only be interpreted as being at his expense, and he was preparing to continue where he had left off with Chloe, despite her apparent wish to stop. Ben was left out in the cold again. The whole scene looked dirty now. Ben could now clearly see burn marks inside the ripped open can lying on the floor which, he thought, was clear reason as to why their eyes were so wild and distant and perhaps why they were behaving so wildly. The foul odour in the room combined with Ben's strange feeling of disbelief at what had just happened. He wiped himself dry on the inside of the sleeve of his sweat top, took one last look at them both – they were, once again, oblivious to his presence - and left them to it, feeling overwhelmingly regretful and nauseous over the whole event.

After making sure he had closed the door to the Crypt securely, he ran down the street and found a low wall to sit on. He felt confused and upset and needed to work through what it was that had happened to him. Tears were welling up inside him and he had a lump in his throat - which even he could see the irony of - although on this occasion he did not feel like laughing. He had always thought that it was only girls who could be left feeling cheap and dirty, yet the fact he felt he had been used was inescapable. The feeling of euphoria he had always led himself to believe lay at the end of a sexual experience was instead quick, cold and grubby. And any relief he had felt had been quickly overtaken by disgust before any real satisfaction could set in. He felt empty.

A tear trickled down his cheek as he recalled his date with Isabelle and how he had dreamt that one day she could be his wife. He remembered how he had described their dream house, garden and lifestyle, and felt a complete fool. A fantasising idiot. Whether he felt like that because he believed that one day he could have all those things, or whether it was because he refused to accept that 'this was it' for him, he was not sure. Either way, he felt cheated and responsible for behaving in a way which left him feeling let down. He desperately wished he could have a hint of the future to see which way his destiny lay, but immediately felt cross with himself for not accepting that his future was up to him. Crying might have relieved his feelings if he could have released more than a single tear, but he felt so low he couldn't even cry and he sat alone on the wall until emotional exhaustion suggested he should return home to the safety and security of his bed.

****

Chapter 17

The episode at the Crypt pushed Ben to withdraw into himself for a period of retrospection. Dave had not contacted him since the episode in the Crypt, and Ben was not keen to be the first to make contact. It was not so much that he still felt angry about what had happened, more that he was not sure how to break the ice between them. He just wanted to forget the whole thing and was also worried that a development in the relationship between Chloe and Dave might change the dynamics of the group. He was also worried about the repercussions his involvement might have.

To occupy himself, he'd kept himself busy at home, clearing his room of some of the junk he had hoarded over the years and reorganising the few possessions he had. Old children's books had been removed and taken to the local charity shop and the contents of all of his drawers had been streamlined in preparation for his starting a new working life. The simplicity of his room meant that this had not taken too long and he had spent the rest of his time reading and re-reading library books on careers and studying as many interview technique advice leaflets as he could lay his hands on.

He'd been in touch with Mo who had been intuitive enough to pick up on the fact that something was troubling Ben and tactful enough not to press him on it. But Mo had noticed Ben's withdrawal and reluctance to organise anything involving Dave and Luca and was concerned that he was developing unhealthy signs of introversion. He'd done his best to interest Ben in the drawings and designs he'd been working on, which had been mainly focused on architecture and site plans, but Ben had seemed preoccupied and more interested in smoking the next joint. Another concern of Mo's was Ben's shift in focus from the future to the past.

To Ben it was not as simple as a shift to the past but a feeling that in order to find a way of forging his way forward in the world he needed also to work out where things were going wrong. On more than one occasion Ben had reminisced fondly over times when the carefree and popular Shady Boys had met up without worry, and without trouble. How they would spend days on end in the park, skating, lying in the sun, laughing and joking with each other. Without looking over their shoulders at who was following them. Ben recalled with amusement the time Luca was skating round the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens and, having performed a half turn to land skating backwards to impress a group of attractive young girls, had misjudged his manoeuvrable space and ended up falling backwards into the pond, arms circling wildly as he realised his mistake, and creating a hell of a splash on the way in. His vain error had the passing girls bent over into flirty fits of laughter while Mo, Dave and Ben, who were watching from their seated position on the grass verge, were left rolling about with tears rolling down their faces as their mate crawled out of the pond on all fours, drenched from head to toe and his gelled hair lying flat across his face. They had laughed for weeks over that, even going so far as to stage mock re-enactments on dry land more than once. Now that would have been a moment to record on a phone, Ben thought. How times change.

Ben had been careful not to tell Mo about what had happened in the Crypt and Mo, in return, had been patient with Ben's changing moods. Mo was concerned enough with Ben's withdrawal, however, to arrange for everyone to get back together for a catch-up at the Crypt. He could see that summer was not going as planned and hoped that they could return to familiar ground to help get back in touch with their roots and learn how to enjoy themselves together again. Mo had even talked it through with Dave on the phone and they were both agreed that it was becoming ridiculous just how much more fun they used to have when they were within the constraints of school than now, when the ride was not as smooth, despite them having a free hand on life.

It had become public knowledge that Dave was seeing Chloe although Luca and Hannah – to the best of everyone's knowledge - remained just good friends. That knowledge did nothing to curb Ben's feelings of apprehension upon entering the Crypt to meet up with them again. The feelings of security he usually felt by instinct within the Crypt were no longer there. But nor did he feel the sense of evil he had experienced on his last visit. He felt totally neutral. He was inside a smelly, desolate, decrepit place which was cold, with a strong odour of damp and contained more a sense of history than anything else. In the knowledge that the Shady Boys were in full attendance and that there was safety in numbers, once inside they headed straight for the Den with little regard for the usual security precautions.

The scene inside was familiar yet, to Ben at least, felt alien at the same time. Luca was coolly slouched on a cushion in the corner; Hannah, looking as lovely as always, kept her distance from him on the other side of the room while Dave and Chloe held central court. They were sharing a bottle of Peroni lager and a joint, laughing theatrically and using over-tactile gestures in a visual display of their togetherness. Their effect on others was more isolating than bringing a sense of togetherness.

'Wassup Dave,' Ben said neutrally upon entering. Mo smiled to see Ben step into the same central arena area as Dave.

'Good, good,' Dave replied, winking. 'Business still good, girl still good...,' he stroked Chloe's hair while she made a point of smiling at him. Ben found it nauseating; others seemed indifferent. '...and we've got an afternoon off and a bag of weed to get though. Where you been?'

Ben felt all eyes fall on him. He felt pressure in the air. The joviality of their last time together was not present and there was a different, challenging mood to deal with. 'Nowhere. Just sorting a few things out at home.'

'Well, you're here now. Fancy some of this?' Dave offered the joint out to Ben, but smiled in a way which indicated he might have been talking about Chloe. Chloe stared at the ground and looked subdued, like a submissive animal in the presence of Dave.

'Thanks,' Ben said, taking the joint from Dave and immediately drawing deeply from it. Mo kept supportively close to Ben. Avoiding the chance of prolonging eye contact with Dave or Chloe for fear of any awkwardness, Ben averted his gaze towards Hannah while he smoked. He smiled at her, but was met with daggers in return. She squinted her eyes at him and had her arms folded across her chest. Her make-up was immaculate and she was well dressed for the occasion with well-fitting jeans and a loose top, but her face betrayed her anger.

'Wondered when you'd show your face. Bastard.'

Ben was taken aback by the challenge from the usually demure Hannah. He was not aware that Dave had said anything to anyone about what had happened with Chloe. Playing it cool, he asked 'why?' innocently, focusing on the joint as if it would provide adequate distraction from the elephant in the room. As Ben exhaled smoke from his mouth he looked round at the others. Luca had his own joint and was curled up in the corner suppressing laughter, while Chloe continued to stare blankly at the ground and Mo gave Ben a supportive look. Dave was the odd one out who was grinning at everyone, like a puppeteer in control of the whole show, while Hannah continued to stare back defiantly at Ben.

'What?' Ben repeated.

Hannah held her mobile phone up and played out a clip panning between the back of Chloe's head and Ben's screwed up face, head swinging from side to side. The clip was accompanied by a piece of Benny Hill music. Ben looked over at Chloe. She looked frozen, like a statue, not looking up at anyone. He turned his attention to Dave.

'You cunt,' Ben spat. 'You total cunt. What's the matter with you? Wadja have to do that for?' He had a lump in his throat. He looked round and realised that the clip must have been sent to everyone apart from him. Mo was obviously aware of it, judging from his lack of surprise. Luca's phoney attempts to suppress his laughter showed that this was not news to him either, and Chloe's total lack of movement indicated that she knew it was coming. Dave continued to laugh while Hannah continued to stare challengingly at Ben.

'You total bastard Dave. You have to spoil everything.'

'Me?' he replied dismissively, laughing all the while.

Ben was lost for words. One of his best friends had just stabbed him in the back for no apparent reason and he saw no way out of his embarrassment or shame other than to leave. Nothing he could say would alleviate the situation and he had no wish to stay and be further humiliated. He was hurt at Hannah's look of disappointment in him, if only because he shared the feeling in himself. Mo's indifference to the situation and Luca's insensitivity just made it worse. Although Chloe had not moved throughout the exchange he could see that there were tears pouring down her cheeks. Dave patronised her further by making light of the situation, putting his arm around her and telling her that she would be alright, it's only a laugh.

Ben was not so sure everything would be all right, but did not have the energy to do anything about it. He flicked his unfinished joint against the brick wall sending sparks flying.

'I'll see y'all around, then,' he said in an attempt to maintain some face while escaping the situation. In a final show of control and independence he held his palm out to Mo to prevent him from following him out. Mo understood and blinked back slowly at him, just as a cat does to transmit a silent message, signalling to him not to worry. The gesture was appreciated. Ben left, relieved to be on his own once again, but was left wondering whether he'd ever find a way of avoiding or adjusting to the roller coaster of emotions that life was throwing his way.

****

Chapter 18

Ben left the Crypt feeling totally let down, alienated, lonely and generally disappointed with human nature in total. Why did people always have to turn bad and let him down? Why was Dave acting like such a shit? Why was Chloe acting like such a doormat? Why couldn't Luca take anything seriously? Even his best friend Mo had said little during the scene, preferring to cop out and take a back seat, leaving him to ride it out on his own. He didn't blame Hannah's reaction towards him though. At least she was up-front and honest about her feelings. Why did everything have to change? And more to the point, why hadn't Isabelle replied to any of his texts yet? These questions, and more, ran round and round his head unresolved.

He'd exhausted all known tactics with Isabelle; sweet and lovely, aloof and friendly, jokey. He'd suggested films, places to visit and they'd all been ignored. He hadn't seen her around either and could only imagine she'd been taken away on a family holiday at short notice. He did think it would have been polite of her if she'd have let him know first though.

There was no avoiding it. Ben was frustrated and lonely. Summer wasn't going to plan and he was struggling to find ways to make it happen. He pulled his hood over his head for some warm, secure, private thinking space and ambled up and down Queensway and Westbourne Grove considering his next move. He was disappointed with the direction the changing dynamics within their group were heading. The introduction of Hannah and Chloe earlier in the year had been a welcome and an exciting addition. But it was true that girls did always seem to create drastic changes within groups of boys – some for better, some for worse – which caused decent people to act like complete arseholes and thugs to act like complete gents. He knew from the depth of his feelings for Isabelle that their influence should never be underestimated. What he didn't understand was how such a long-term good friend like Dave could be so loyal one minute – evenly sharing profits, for example – only to completely turn on him the next for no apparent reason. It just didn't make sense. Deep down, although he had no intention of seeking to patch things up with Dave, he hoped the current friction would pass. Time can a great healer and he knew that failure to get over it would spell the death of the Shady Boys.

As he walked, he chain-smoked Marlboro Lights. They helped him think. He was in no rush, and heading nowhere in particular, so he strolled at a leisurely pace, taking in the detail of all around him. There was not a cloud in the sky which was an uplifting shade of turquoise. The air was clear and fresh; almost cleansing. It seemed to have an effect on everyone else because he couldn't help noticing that no on was rushing, they all looked calm and relaxed. The mood was serene. He felt that there was something in the air which was de-stressing everyone, tranquillising them, making them more placid, more responsive. The usual aggressive air of shoppers was pleasantly absent.

He passed by the recruitment agency and paused to look at the latest job ads in the window and to neaten his fringe with his fingers in the reflection. 'Technical Assistant' and 'Researcher' were new and might be worth checking out at some point, he thought. Beyond the cards he could also see Barbara, the recruitment agent, sitting behind her desk with a client in front of her. She stopped what she was doing to smile and wave enthusiastically at him. He reciprocated and promised himself to return and try again when he was better prepared, and in a more positive mood for job-seeking.

A bit further up the street he spotted a couple of girls his own age approaching him. They looked strangely familiar although he was sure he hadn't seen them before. They looked as if they were tourists or new to the area. But out of a crowded pavement of over a hundred people they stood out as being special. Not by their attractiveness – they were average lookers – but there was something magical about them which he couldn't quite put his finger on. As they got closer it became clear that they were looking at him. Ben looked over his shoulder to see if it were possible that they were looking at someone else behind him but, no, it was him they were looking at and his glance behind his shoulder had given them reason to lean their heads together, giggling and whispering. They looked as if they could have been sisters although it was just as likely that they were simply good friends who chose to style their clothes and hair similarly. Both had magical, sparkly eyes and, as they passed, they both straightened their faces to smile a matching pair of flirty smiles at him. Ben could not help grinning from ear to ear in return. 'How bizarre,' he thought, and turned round to sneak a second look at them only to see that they had also turned to check him out for a second viewing. They started giggling again and quickened their pace, disappearing into the crowds. Ben stood still for a minute to see where they went but did not manage to catch sight of them again.

He needed to pee so went across the road towards Whiteleys shopping centre. Upon entering the complex he waited to hold one of the big heavy glass doors open for a small old lady who was shuffling towards him at snail's pace, dragging her shopping trolley behind her. He didn't realise she was going to take quite so long reaching the door, otherwise he might have been tempted to leave it and rush to the loo instead when he had the chance. But he was glad he did wait for her. She grabbed his forearm tightly as she passed and said the warmest 'thank you' he'd received in a long time, telling him that he'd been the first person she'd come across that day who had an ounce of manners in them. Ben knew exactly what she meant and could relate precisely to her mood. She held her grip on Ben's arm for a few moments longer, just smiling at him and looking trustingly and reassuringly into his eyes. Ben could see why eyes were sometimes described as being the windows to people's souls and it struck him that by simply holding that door open he might have actually made that old woman's whole day. It made him feel good. He thought that perhaps humankind wasn't so bad after all.

It was certainly turning out to be a day of strange coincidences. Something different was happening. Usually he was frowned upon, avoided, ignored, even despised when he was out and about. But today, even though he was trying to keep himself to himself under his hood, he had no doubt that there was something about him which was attracting attention from others. He saw it in the faces of those he passed. For one reason or another he was being noticed; people were looking him squarely in the eye, as an equal. He had 'it'. And whatever 'it' was was provoking a reaction.

His final encounter was one which really set him thinking though. He hadn't even seen the woman coming when she grabbed him excitedly from behind, calling out his name. Actually, at first, Ben was quite embarrassed by the attention she caused. It was the mother of someone he used to go to junior school with. Apparently. He couldn't even remember Ranjeef when she first mentioned him, but this small old Indian woman knew who he was and was able to recall the names of all his other classmates. She went into some detail about how grateful she was that Ben had befriended her son Ranjeef and taken him under his wing; reminding him that he had joined the school late and was struggling to settle in when most others had already formed groups of established friendships. Ranjeef was always talking about Ben when he got home from school. Apparently.

Anyway, although Ben's memory might have been a little hazy on the detail of past friends, the thing that really got him was when she took hold of his shoulders and looked him up and down, her head tipping from side to side as she did so. She said, quite carefully and distinctly (and causing other passers by to slow down and watch out of curiosity), that she had always known Ben was special, and here he was, looking more special than ever. In retrospect, Ben had no idea what made him just stand there so compliantly while this strange woman inspected him. She went on to blatantly embarrass him when she said she always hoped that Ranjeef would turn out more like him. Then she took her to a different level and said she had psychic powers and that she could see a fantastic yellowy orange aura around Ben which made him stand out from everyone else in the street. She'd spotted him before she even knew it was him, she said. Ben treated it as a bit of a joke at first, wondering why it was that 'they' always seem to seek him out; if there was a nutter on the bus, they would always work their way to the seat next to him even if the rest of the bus was full of empty seats. But he couldn't resist playing along and asking her what colour everyone else was. The sincerity of her reply convinced him of her seriousness. Apparently fewer than 10 per cent of people carry a visible aura at any one time, most being too preoccupied with the mundane matters of life to spark up any discernible emanations. And of those who do, the colours mostly vary between blues, reds and purples. Only very rarely does someone shine out so brightly and peacefully with a yellowy-orange. Considering some of his recent deeds and the mood that he was in when he first set out on his walk, Ben was more than a little impressed with himself. And the salutary way with which the old Indian woman spoke gave him no reason to doubt her. She parted by taking one of his hands in both of hers and telling him – in the way that only old women are able to get away with imparting advice to young men – that he should learn to harness his powers and use them to good effect. Her genuine appeal, the trustworthy look in her eyes and the way the whole of her wrinkly leathered face creased into a smile gave him every faith in her words.

'Powers?' He mulled this over. Everyone likes to think they are different; special in some way, but how can you tell what's reality and what's perception? He had always felt different, that was for sure, and it was true that his passion and enthusiasm for life had always exceeded that of those around him, but 'powers'? This was a new, but not unwelcome, concept to him.

That night he lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, working his mind round who he was and what lay ahead for him. The merged heart and head lines on his palms. His 'aura'. Why couldn't he see others' auras himself? The old Indian woman had said it was not something you can teach but something which had to be learnt. What 'powers' did he have? How could he use them? Could they help him find a job? Why the fuck hadn't Isabelle texted him back? These questions and more ran round and round his head.

He was becoming desperate to find a path to a successful future for himself, or even just to find something to say he was doing when everyone else went back to school in September, and the day's events had left him feeling very strange, but positive. He'd spread a few smiles and received some more insight. Without applying any logical thought he instinctively felt something great was about to happen. His destiny was arriving. His huge moment was almost upon him. He had no doubt that he was at a junction in his life. A turning point. All the signs around him were positive. And he remembered Old Joe saying that he needed to learn how to read the signs. It was all starting to fall into place. Success was imminent. The difficulties with Dave seemed insignificant and temporary compared to the permanence and prominence his future held. He eventually fell asleep feeling the whole world had become a beautiful mix of intertwining misty shades of pastel pinks and blues.

****

Chapter 19

For the next week Ben ignored Dave's calls and texted apologies. He was enjoying himself at Mo's place too much, just lounging around listening to music and sending off completed application forms for jobs. Mo mostly sketched and reading aloud from books, chatting endlessly about nothing in particular and sharing his views on the world while Ben listened. Mo never once directly mentioned the incident with Chloe, nor even hinted that it had ever happened. They were enjoying their time together without the others. Uncomplicated fun came easily to them both and they agreed that giving Dave a bit of the silent treatment for a while wouldn't do any harm. And Ben, in particular, knew how frustrating ignored texts could become. While his days were full, and he was enjoying the simple life with Mo, he was in no rush to make amends.

He eventually gave in a week to the day when he was woken up by the sound of his phone buzzing. It was Dave sending through his latest text: 'Cmon Hoodie. BIG sorry! Need 2 xplain. Call me wen ur up.' It was signed off with a winking smiley face. Ben smiled to himself that it was not he who was having to do the chasing for a change. Deep down he was not sure if he would ever have bothered to get in touch with Dave again if he hadn't been so persistent. And at 7:20 in the morning, he must be keen, Ben thought. He turned over and went back to sleep, safe in the knowledge that any cracks in their relationship would be smoothed over by the end of the day.

When Ben did finally get up and call him back he was pleased to hear Dave speaking to him in such humble and apologetic tones. He didn't actually say sorry as such, but there again, he didn't try any of his usual one-upmanship or mention Chloe or the mobile phone clips either. He sounded more like his old self and said he had missed Ben and wanted to meet up with him as soon as he could. Their conversation left Ben remembering the insecurity which lay behind the tough sportsman and the number of times he had helped Dave overcome his nerves and fear of failure before a big match. The Dave who was a good, appreciative and loyal friend. The Dave he hadn't seen for a while.

They arranged to meet up after lunch, which was becoming more like breakfast time with each passing day to Ben. By the time he was ready to leave, Dave was already waiting outside Ben's flat. They walked. It was not important were they were heading. It was being together again which mattered. There was a hesitancy and stand-offishness about them both at first, not to mention an underlying feeling of embarrassment at recalling recent events, but Dave was seen to be making a real effort to stay non-confrontational and repair their friendship. After a brief pause in small talk, Dave opened right up, his eyes pleading at Ben for acceptance.

'Listen, Hoodie man. You da best. We all know dat. I don't know why tings 'appened da way dey did but I didn't mean nuffin' by it. Serious. I never meant to cause no trouble between us. Mo woz right wiv wot 'e said after you left da Crypt. I 'as acted like a cunt and I am truly sorry bro.' Talking frankly did not come naturally to Dave who swung his head awkwardly from side to side as he spoke and put his fist to his chest to emphasise he meant what he said. Ben mumbled 'it's alright' in response.

'I ain't got no control, see? No self discipline. If it's dere I'll take it. I'll do it. Whatever it is.' Ben decided just to listen while Dave continued to spill open; he obviously had stuff he needed to get off his chest.

'Don't matter wevver I'm supposed to or not, I just don't fink and I fucked up big time. I fought I could 'andle it, but I can't 'cause it pissed tings up big time between us. You know dem rocks of Papa Tee's?'

Ben nodded. He already knew what was coming next.

'Well, each time I went to da Crypt to top up supplies dey kept begging me to try dem. Poking me in da side dey were. Calling me. So one day, when I 'ad Chloe wiv me, I tried burning and smoking one and I tell you Hoodie, dat shit woz fockin' fantastic. I mean really wicked.' His eyes widened and his speech quickened with enthusiasm.

'Straight away everyting seemed better. I mean, everyting. I know I'm fit and strong but I felt like Superman or sumting. I could 'ave taken on da world. Chloe was da same. Really assertive, man. And dis was weeks before you walked in on us. We went for walk down da street and, I'm telling you, everyone looked great, kinda happy and beautiful. All da lights and sounds went all weird, kinda like funky and exciting. Even da High Street looked like an interesting place to be.

'And we was talking really fast to each other as well and it was really funny 'cause we started to rhyme when we spoke. And it was really easy and funny. You would have laughed, Hoodie. It was so funny.' Dave looked happy at the recollection but had a seriousness about him which showed all was not well. Ben had always agreed with Mo's views that crack and coke were not worth bothering with but was interested in what Dave had to say from his first-hand experience of it.

'Dat's when tings kicked off for us, bro, and boy, it woz really hot.' Dave puffed his cheeks up and blew out to emphasise his point. 'But after da next few times tings weren't so great, you know. Da highs were shorter and less intense. And da lows dat followed left me feeling really shit, man. I just couldn't pick myself up for a while. I didn't even know where I woz sometimes. And now it seems like I've changed da boundaries for everyting. Anyfing less dan how I felt wiv dat first high leaves me feeling flat, kinda let down. Which is every time now.

'But while I'm chasing doze highs, I feel like anyfing's possible and nuffin' can stop me. I'm like...like a speeding train on a destination to nowhere. I guess dat's why I tried to spice tings up wiv you, bro, but believe me, I - am – so - sorry. We still cool?'

Ben let him off the hook quickly and easily. He had lost some respect for his friend who now seemed more pathetic than anything else, not just because he had no control over his temptations, but because Mo was right about his fake Jamaican accent getting stronger and becoming part of his natural speech. Ben told him to forget about the whole thing, get rid of the phone clip and ditch any crack he still had. Dave promised that he already had and was keen to agree to anything else Ben suggested. He confessed he had even been buying more crack for himself from Stevie. No wonder that guy was so seriously rich if he was wholesaling all that shit as well, Ben thought. Ben also made it clear that he had no personal designs on Chloe and that he just wanted to forget the whole thing, reaffirming his ambitions for Isabelle.

Relieved that their friendship was still intact, Dave eased up. 'Never mind da crack tho'. Dat skunk really fucked me up too. Gave me some really weird trips and scary rides. Didn't you 'ave any?'

'No,' Ben lied, wondering if any of his recent dreams might have been helped along by it. 'It was strong stuff though and needed some taming but my mind is strong and that which does not kill me only makes me stronger...'

'Dat's wot I mean about you Hoodie. You're always on top of it. On da button. I lost it and you don't. Anyway...,' Dave continued, '...I bin trying to clean my act up a bit lately. I went straight to doctor's after Mo had a go at me in da Crypt last week. But he woz right to. What wiv dat super strength skunk and da rocks I didn't know what woz real and what woz not anymore. I woz getting flashbacks to trips when I woz sober and even 'ad panic attacks a couple of times when I woz up a ladder working wiv me Dad so I had to make sumfing up. Told him I must be suffering from some sort of post-examination-stress-disorder or sumfing and he woz already nagging me to get down the doctor's so I did. Didn't tell him 'bout no drugs or nuffin', obviously. Even when he asked. I just said life woz becoming a bit much and that I kept feeling down and panicky so he's given me some Prozac now. It's great! It's only a week and I'm almost as chilled as you and Mo already!'

Ben laughed. 'Chilled? If you think I'm chilled then something really must be working. S'funny though, how you take drugs to make the world seem a more fun and interesting place and then end up being given Prozac to make the world seem more normal again. Might as well have cut out the middle man!'

Ben's point was lost on Dave though who was keen to talk more about himself. 'While I woz at the doctor's I also got 'im to 'ave a peep at me piles. Bin killing me lately dey 'ave, so I fought I'd get myself sorted from da bottom up, like.'

'S'all them burgers you eat.'

'Whatever. Anyway, he said I should try some cream first so wait here for a minute.' Dave disappeared inside Boots, leaving Ben to trail in behind where he hung back a discreet couple of aisles away from the front counter where Dave was heading. Dave stood out from the crowd of mainly pensioners with his white shell suit and baseball cap. He couldn't have come across more chavvy if he'd have tried, but it didn't seem to bother him.

Ben was idly browsing deodorants when he was interrupted with the sound of Dave's confident and extremely loud voice booming out over everyone else's. The Prozac really had seemed to give him a boost.

'Hi, I'm Dave and my doctor's recommended I try some cream for my piles. What have you got?'

Ben looked up to check his ears weren't deceiving him to see Dave standing before a young female sales assistant whose face had just gone bright scarlet. Ben broke into fits of laughter as the poor girl foolishly said 'Excuse me?'

'I said,' continued Dave. 'Have you got any cream for my bum please? I've got a couple of ripe blackberries down there which need some urgent attention.' Dave's voice had increased even further in volume as if that would somehow help the shrinking sales assistant better understand his ailment. She looked totally flustered as all eyes in the store turned to watch as she put a tube of cream into a bag for him, her hands trembling as she did so, and the rims of her eyes burning with embarrassment.

'Ta very much, love,' said Dave, taking the bag from her and in blissful disregard of the watchful crowd surrounding him as he pulled out a fistful of twenties from his pocket and paid. Ben followed him out of the store, tears still rolling down his cheeks and shaking with laughter.

'You're gross, Dave. Everyone was looking at you, you know,' he said, in between laughs and clearing his lungs with a flob of phlegm into the outside gutter.

'Man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, Hoodie. C'mon. I got something to show you.'

They continued walking and talking until Dave came to a halt in a nearby estate to show Ben his surprise for the day. His new electric blue Peugeot 206 GTI. Actually, it was not new, but an eight year old car bought off his aunt. In spite of that, it looked good and the fact that Dave had become the first to own a car amongst his contemporaries was achievement in itself.

True, he was still technically not old enough to drive, but his acquisition was admirable nevertheless. A car was always worthy of a bit of respect. With smart shiny cars came status amongst boys and a ticket to ride with girls. Dave was keeping it in his aunt's name until he was eligible to drive and register it in his own name, which was only a couple of months off. In the meantime, he explained, his Dad had taught him to drive and had always been happy to trust him behind the wheel of the work's van while he had the odd pint or two at lunchtime. This had Dave confident enough to drive unaccompanied, despite the false assurances he'd given to his aunt that he'd wait until everything was legal following his birthday and test before driving it on his own.

Dave showed it off proudly to Ben, running over all the technical features (which Ben nodded at in blank agreement), explaining how cheap it had been and what work he had arranged to be done on it since. It was a neat little family run-around before he got hold of it less than a week ago and since then he had completely transformed it by shelling out on blacked windows, interior electric blue lighting, floor mats to match, rear spoiler, wide-rimmed chrome exhaust pipe and, of course, an 800w output amplifier sound system with extra bass at the touch of a button. Ben admitted he did not know a lot about cars, but was impressed and keen to examine the interior. Once inside, he dared not touch anything, but let Dave have his moment by showing off the internal controls and fittings and blasting out the newly fitted bass speakers in the boot.

'Must have cost a fair bit?' Ben asked out of curiosity.

'A few grand with the refurbishments, but me aunt gave me a good price and me mate at the autoshop did all the upgrades at cost. As a favour like. I'm telling you, though, this baby is gonna pay for itself in gold. A guy like me has gotta have a decent set of wheels, innit?'

Ben was not sure what Dave meant by that. 'A guy like me?' What sort of guy did he think he was? A drug dealer? A mate? A flash git? A windows fitter? A Pimp-My-Ride contestant? He wondered how much of the money he'd used to pay for the car had come from what was supposed to be 'theirs', but thought better of pressing the point. It was not the money which troubled Ben as much as the state of their friendship and that of the Shady Boys, and if it was out of their money, good luck to him. There was nothing to be gained by creating further waves between them. Life was too short.

There was also no need for Ben to think twice when Dave offered to take him for a quick spin before picking up the others. In the expectation that Ben would not refuse, Dave had been presumptuous enough to arrange to meet Mo, Luca, Hannah and Chloe later for an evening hanging out with some other cruisers. Given Dave's honesty over his drug difficulties, Ben was ready to go with the flow and looking forward to a fresh start between them all. At times he had wondered whether they would ever be able to get together again for something so simple as a good laugh and he had a deep wish to recreate some of the fun times they had shared together in the past. A cruise, in good company and with some good music might be just what they all needed.

Dave took as much care over the selection of the right drum and bass mix as he appeared to take over the safety checks, before accelerating off at impressive speed. 'Whoa,' shouted Ben. 'Easy tiger. Lemme get used to it first.' Ben was unaccustomed to regular car travel and uncomfortable with the speed although Dave appeared to be a good, if not a little risky, driver. Their ribcages shook in time to the bass pumping throughout the car from behind the rear seating. Dave joked that the stereo he had had fitted was probably more powerful than the car itself. It certainly sounded and felt it. The engine could barely be heard underneath the bass. They took a short circular route over the Westway flyover, giving them a view of Bayswater rooftops, before coming back down through Shepherds Bush, up through Holland Park, where they took the opportunity to slow down and admire the houses as they drove past, and back towards Bayswater, before coming to a stop where they had started. Ben staggered out of the car, as much shaken from the bass as from the ride itself.

'Wow. That was really something. Good driving, mate.'

'No worries. I told you. I'm well practised from me Dad. C'mon. Let's get da others before it gets too late. There's a meet somewhere in North London tonight I wanna take you guys to.'

After a quick cigarette break they climbed back in and Dave drove round the corner first to pick up Luca, then Mo, and then Chloe and Hannah. Ben was relegated to the back to join Mo, Luca and Hannah to make way for Chloe once she arrived. She made a point of kissing Dave on the cheek before buckling herself into the front. Ben said nothing to her.

It was a tight squeeze in the back and Ben was jammed against the side window with Hannah pushing against him. He noticed that she'd had her hair done again. It was shorter at the back, with wisps caressing the sides of her cheeks and dyed red streaks blending into her natural brown. Without staring, he snuck regular glances at her, trying to work out what it was that made her look so different on each occasion he saw her. She seemed to have the gift of being able to constantly change her appearance. Each time she moved she released a waft of perfume in Ben's direction which he found irresistible. She had also made the same mistake as before of wearing a short skirt which she kept tugging to ensure it was pulled down far enough - which only increased Ben's attention in that direction. He fought to avert his gaze and respectfully said nothing to draw others' attention to her. The boys had developed an unspoken sense of respect for Hannah which had increased - since they had lost any for Chloe. To Ben's mind at least, she was undoubtedly one of the most attractive girls he had ever seen.

Conversation was sparse in the back, partly because it was so uncomfortably squashed, and partly because they had to shout into each others' ears to make themselves heard over Dave's bass speakers. The four of them were jostling for position as Dave started the engine. Hannah set Luca off in a sulk after slapping his legs and telling him to close his legs and shift over. Ben laughed and put his arm round Hannah's shoulders, more to create some space than for any other reason, while Mo just stared out of opposite window complaining about Dave's choice of music.

Dave played the compromising host by turning the volume down just enough for Ben to be able to chat quite comfortably with Hannah but not to stop Mo's continued grumbles. Mo's frustration and impotence at not being in control of the sounds was getting the better of him, much to the amusement of the others. In an obvious show of displeasure, he pulled out a joint of his own, sparked up, and inhaled deeply in search of relief. Thick, sweet, herby smells filled the car, spreading a Mexican wave of a smiles as it wafted across.

Ben sensed that something was troubling Mo as he continued to mumble to himself about the lack of decent music while blowing thin streams of blue smoke through the small gap at the top of his window. Looking across at Mo, all squeezed into the corner and looking moody; and then at Dave sitting in the front enjoying being in control, it struck Ben just how different they were. And not just in appearance either, although Dave's regulation-cropped hair and synthetic sportswear were a million miles away from Mo's loose curls, softer, less aggressive features with loose-fitting funky shirt and cords. But if appearance does reflect personalities to some extent, then their difference in clothing emphasised just how essential Ben's presence was to bridging the gap between their personalities and keeping the Shady Boys together. Luca had just opened his contribution of wine for the evening and was swigging merrily from the bottle. Ben smiled at the sight of their good-looking clown spilling wine down his chin, wetting his goatee in the process. Luca's uncomplicated charm meant he could get on with almost anyone. By contrast, Ben could not imagine Dave or Mo wanting to spend too much time together without his own presence in addition.

'Can't we have some decent fuckin' music?' Mo eventually blurted in an uncharacteristic display of impatience from the back. 'I can't put up with any more of this shit.'

'Here,' said Dave, laughing. 'Plug yer wotsit into this.' He passed back a lead which fed into his system, allowing Mo to hook up his iPod through the speakers.

'Lovely!' said Mo with an obvious sense of relief at being put back in charge of sounds. 'That shit was starting to do my head in. And to show my appreciation I'm gonna choose something to wish your new car well.' Mo was smiling again as he scrolled up and down his playlists to select an appropriate tune.

'Hey! Here we go guys. Something to launch Dave's new ship,' he said as the sounds of _Fools Gold_ by _The Stone Roses_ vibrated throughout the Peugeot's shell.

'Fools Gold?' mouthed Ben, leaning across Hannah. Mo winked in return and commented with deadpan delivery that he thought it was a very apt tune for Dave's new car. Ben laughed and Hannah giggled girlishly as she quickly picked up on the subtlety of Mo's humour.

'And I thought it was girls who were supposed to be the bitchy ones,' she said tartly.

Luca joined in the back row laughter although Ben, Mo and Hannah were sure he did not have a clue precisely what they were laughing at, which only set them off more

'What's funny, guys?' shouted Dave, breaking his concentration from the front.

'Nuffin' Dave,' Ben struggled to say without laughing. 'Just enjoying the ride...keep your eyes on the road, yeh?

'Hey Dave,' Ben continued, seeking a diversion from laughing at _Fools Gold_. 'I got a joke for you. Two chavs in a car with no music...who's driving?' Ben paused for effect before answering. '...the policeman...'

Dave laughed, but nothing in comparison to Luca who was curled up again into another over-enthusiastic fit of giggles, waving his sprawled arms and legs all over Mo and Hannah.

'Move, will you,' tutted Hannah, slapping his hands down for the second time. Mo kissed his teeth and continued to stare through the blacked out windows.

'Alright Luca,' said Ben leaning forward. 'It wasn't that funny.'

'And no more police jokes, okay?' said Dave. 'I got me shooter stuffed down da back seat so be careful, yeh?'

'You what?' said Ben, poking his hand to feel the gun's barrel behind him between the seats. 'Are you crazy? What if it goes off?'

'Don't worry. It's not loaded. I got da ammo in da front, but I can't leave it at home in case me Dad finds it.'

News of the gun's presence immediately set Mo off on another trail of moaning. 'Great, so now we're not only being driven around in a chavmobile by an underage, unlicenced driver, but we've got a fuckin' gun poking up our arses as well. Tsss. Don't expect me to know anything about this when you get stopped, Dave, 'cause you'll be on your own.'

The more Mo complained of the situation, the more others seemed to worry less about it. Especially seeing as Dave remained so calm in response, making everyone laugh when he joked that the stash of hash in the glove compartment would keep any nosey coppers busy before they got round to thinking about searching for a gun in the back. It seemed more fun than a worry.

Chloe managed to change the subject by breaking her own silence.

'I got a joke for you, Hoodie,' she piped up, half grinning, half sneering. 'What do you say to a Hoodie with a job?'

Ben had no idea, but could tell from the smug tone in her voice that he was about to find out. 'Dunno. Surprise me.'

'Big Mac please,' she replied, in mock customer voice before burying her face behind her false nails in shrieks of over-emphasised laughter. No one else laughed. Nor did anyone else dare intervene to diffuse the tension created by the obvious dig at Ben. Ben knew that - Dave aside, who was pretending not to hear by squinting in concentration on the road - the others were watching him to see how he'd react to the provocation and to him, given the known difficulties he was having in finding a job. The 'joke' was considered simply not funny and totally unnecessary. He also considered Chloe to have crossed a line with him which now made her fair game - Dave's girlfriend or not. So he decided to react by not reacting and instead stared coolly ahead singing quietly along to _'Fo-oo-oo-oo-ools Gold'_ until he received his own flash of inspiration.

'Hey Chloe...what's the difference between a chav boy and a chav girl?'

Chloe's face dropped, her smugness lost in one fell swoop as she realised she was about to be dealt one of Ben's verbal blows.

'I don't know,' she said in staccato, exhaling heavily in anticipation.

'Chav girl's got a higher sperm count,' said Ben coolly, without letting an ounce of emotion slip through into his voice.

Chloe's face tightened sharply as if lemon juice had just been squirted into it and she struggled to find a suitable retort. Dave frowned but decided to ignore the joke, instead making a concerted effort to keep his eyes focused on the road. It was Luca who gave in first by laughing a little too enthusiastically. Ben did his best to maintain his air of coolness, but broke out in laughter upon seeing Hannah biting her cheeks, her shoulders shaking vigorously, giving the game away. He discreetly winked at her and gave her a knowing smile at their shared humour. She wriggled closer into his arm as Luca continued to thrash about in wild hilarity. Moderation in behaviour always was an alien concept to him.

The closeness between Hannah and Ben demanded his attention. Her thigh was heating up against his; her arm was draped across his leg; her sweet and constant scent and the fresh smell of her hair was continuing to distract him with each turn of her head, making it difficult for him to avoid constantly looking towards her, catching her glance and prompting an exchange of sheepish smiles. Her warmth and proximity reminded Ben that he had not been touched so affectionately by anyone since his night out with Isabelle. The thought of Isabelle, and the constant unknowns associated with where she was and why she hadn't contacted him, prevented him from totally relaxing in Hannah's presence, despite the obvious attraction and chemistry between them.

Ben's thoughts were interrupted when Hannah reached across Luca to Mo and told him not be so tight with the joint. Without making eye contact, Mo pulled a face and held the joint out without a word. Something was obviously still troubling him.

Ben watched Hannah intently as she put the joint to her lips, pulled on it gently and exhaled, smiling and licking her lips to moisten them before passing it to him. His peripheral vision couldn't help notice her chest swell with each breath, but he tried not to embarrass himself by gazing in that direction. He took just one draw at the joint to be sociable before handing it back to Mo to share with Luca.

Ben could not help feeling as if Hannah could somehow read his mind as he admired her, and felt embarrassed at the possibility. Maybe it was just because she was finding Luca's childlike persistence annoying, but her attention seemed to be focused solely on Ben, making him extra cautious with his actions. As if he was somehow in her spotlight. More than once he found himself blushing in response to her smiling at him, causing him to pretend he was finding it hot in the car, which made her laugh. Ben was not sure if she was playing some sort of cat and mouse game with him.

The evening was not hot though. The sun was low and calm, the clouds few, and the air still. It was the sort of mid-July evening which seemed to go on forever, with everything very gently getting dimmer with the slow passing of time. As they drove down Marylebone Road and past Regents Park, Dave, maintaining his role of perfect host for the evening, apologised to Mo for needing to switch to the radio. It was approaching seven and he said he needed to hear the news.

'Where we going, anyway?' asked Hannah.

'Ally Pally,' replied Dave. 'There's a meet taking place with some of da others tonight. Should be fun.'

After fiddling with the controls to rid the system of interference, Dave eventually turned up the volume for the sounds of FatherMucker FM, a pirate station run by a couple of older West London friends of his, known to the cognoscenti as _'the station that plays only futhermucking hits'_. Ben was not a regular listener, preferring instead to select his own tunes, but Dave explained that all the local cruisers tuned in to find out details of raves, meets and who's who. It was in the middle of playing a hardcore trancestep mix which set Mo back into 'tut-and-stare-out–of-the-window-mode' again. His tuts got louder and more animated each time the DJ spoke over the track to 'send out a shout...' or 'big it up to...'.

Ben thought the station was fun but knew Mo hated it for the lack of variety in its playlist and constant chat over the tunes, which he described as 'mindless bollocks'. Mo's protestations were ignored though. When it came to music he was known for being a little too precious.

'Listen, listen, listen,' said Dave holding his hand up to gain everyone's attention. 'Dis one's gonna be for us.'

The tune faded out to the sound of the DJ shouting down his mike: _You 'bout to go uptown kids, right here on the station that play only fuvvermucking hits. That's 87.4 on your fuvvermucking dial. So lemme her dem SoundFX on doze souped up monsters you got as "da four-wheel mob" head Norf for da after party...'_

'It's coming, it's coming...' interrupted Dave excitedly. Mo kissed his teeth.

'... _and we wanna hear some noise tonight so tune in and turn up and welcome me good mate Dangerous Dee...'_

'Das me,' cheered Dave.

'You don't say,' said Mo sarcastically.

'... _and da Shady Boys into da fold wid some classic four-wheel-mob no-oise!'_

Dave flashed the car's headlights on and off and pressed the horn repeatedly. To the surprise of them all, a number of cars surrounding them did the same. They were no longer alone. There was a whole series of dazzling flashing headlights around them - some accompanied by blue underlighting, making them look more like spaceships than cars - and imitation police-siren sound effects. Ahead of them were more flashing, honking cars. Pedestrians on the side of Camden High Street looked on, mostly in curiosity, but some with obvious looks of distaste.

'Cool,' said Ben.

'Haven't you even heard of these before?' sniped Chloe.

'Wicked, isn't it?' interrupted Dave. 'Sometimes they manage to get over a hundred cars together. Jams things right up sometimes.'

Mo rolled his eyes back and exhaled loudly. He didn't need to say anything.

' _Just got a text from one a me "foot soldiers"...'_ continued the radio, _'...oo tells me you's just 'itting Camden area now so I fink it's time to wind dem winders down and let those scruffy grungers hear some proper noise._

'... _Now I don't normally do dem, but dis one's a special dedication request going out to "Hoodie" from Dangerous Dee..._

'... _a bit of old skool for "da arch Hoodie", so wind dem winders down and let's make some no-oise...'_

Ben grinned from ear to ear with embarrassed approval as Dave turned up his souped up bass and wound his windows down and rolled the sun-roof back to the sound of _Eminem's The Real Slim Shady_. All, aside from Chloe who stared ahead without showing any response at all, looked round at Ben and cheered.

'C'mon Hoodie. Stand up and show dem who you are,' said Dave, as the trail of cars came to a standstill in the traffic.

Pulling himself up by clutching the backs of the front seats, Ben struggled to his feet to stand upright through the car's sun-roof, view all around him. There must have been thirty to forty cars in the procession, nose to tail and riding side by side. Mostly short, low-riding chunky hatchbacks, all competing with each other to be the loudest, brightest, shiniest, sportiest and glitziest. The combined volumes from their collective sound systems, all blasting out _The Real Slim Shady_ from their vibrating deep bass boosters filled both sides of the street, broken only by the occasional sound of horns blaring and strangers – or new friends – staring and waving at him. Some called out his nickname and sent approving hand gestures in his direction. The combined sound was exhilarating.

As he stared round in wonderment at the alien spectacle around him he finished off the ends to each of the sentences to the Eminem lyrics he had heard so many times before: _'...Will Smith don't gotta cuss in his raps to sell his records; well I do, so fuck him and fuck you too!...'_ He felt great. From inside the car he could hear the boys, including Mo, shouting the words out in time to the music – their theme tune of old. The procession started to move again, sparking a chorus of revving engines to accompany the blare of music. Cars accelerated at speed towards each other and then braked hard behind the vehicle in front of them.

Few actually 'cruised'. Every now and then one of the cars would break rank and race past the jam on the wrong side of the road to gain attention and trigger a further cacophony of car horns. Some would shout and make gestures on the way past. There was plenty of showing off and flirting going on. One girl had her t-shirt pulled over her face, exposing her breasts out of the passenger window as she sped past, provoking the loudest return of approving car horns. It was followed quickly by another car which had some guy's arse stuck against the rear window, with his bollocks squashed up against the window. Ben could just make out Mo muttering something about 'classy' from inside.

Riding through the streets viewing his captive audience from his very own Popemobile started Ben imagining what it must be like to be famous; to achieve adoration from hundreds – no, thousands – of fans. Not that he had ever had any ambitions towards fame before - in fact he had positively shunned any overt form of attention - but he could not deny that he was quite enjoying so many eyes on him, their waving hands and passing cheers as they drove through Camden. Ben noticed that the neatly groomed occupants of the cars were in harmony with, and reflected the external shiny, polished, exteriors of their cars - and were in total contrast to the styles being worn by those on the Camden pavements where unbranded, punk, gothic, grungy individual fashions were being worn with style and pride and where the expressions worn on their faces carried the look of invaded occupants in curious bewilderment.

Ben caught the stare of a shaven headed, heavily tattooed punk shopkeeper with eye-catching piercings through his nose, eyebrows and ears. For no reason in particular. Ben decided to stare him out with as mean a look as he could put together while Eminem continued to blare out and fill the surrounding air:

' _And there's a million of us just like me  
who cuss like me; who just don't give a fuck like me  
who dress like me; walk, talk and act like me  
and just might be the next best thing but not quite me'_

Ben mouthed the lyrics out while staring darkly at the shopkeeper, who promptly responded by mouthing 'wanker' very slowly and very clearly back to him with an over descriptive accompanying hand gesture. Ben fought the temptation to throw the finger and made a point of looking down at the deeply etched lines running across his upturned palms before looking pointedly to the clouds, and then outstretching his arms and tipping his head forward to cold-stare back towards punk-man to let him know that he was totally unfazed by his gesture. As hard as he could he also willed the word 'wanker' back to him, which obviously threw punk-man to such an extent that he dropped his aggressive stance and stared quizzically at Ben until he was out of sight.

'... _Check it out now boyz and girls...'_ interrupted the DJ before the song had finished, _'...we have a public information notice for you: watch out for dem speed cameras on da way coz we don't want none of you picking up any fines, y'hear? Be safe and travel slow. Till you pass dem dat is...tee hee. Anyway, we're gonna leave wid a bit a "Dizzee Rascal's Sirens" as a reminder...'_

The road opened up, allowing them to pick up some speed for the first time. The bassline to _Sirens_ pumped out hauntingly, shaking Ben's bones to their core, the backing sound effects of police sirens and helicopters on the track causing him to look round to check there were no real police cars or overhead helicopters following them.

'You coming down now?' shouted Mo, tugging at his trouser leg.

'In a minute. Slow down and pass me your gun, Dave.'

'What?' said Dave.

'Don't worry. I've not gone crazy or nuffin'. I just wanna sort out those speed cameras for you.' Even as he spoke, he knew it was a bad idea, but he couldn't resist riding the moment for maximum effect.

'Come down Ben. There's no need,' Hannah pleaded in support of Mo, but she was ignored by Dave who was quick to ask Luca to pull the gun out from the back seat, while digging out a couple of cartridges for Luca to load and pass on to Ben.

'You remember the drill?'

'No probs.'

'Release safety catch, take aim with marker sight and slowly squeeze, okay? And don't fuckin' shoot anyone, will you?'

'I'm safe. Don't worry.'

Hannah and Mo sat bolt upright in a mix of disapproval and rigid anticipation but, in the knowledge that a loaded gun was being brandished above their heads, did not know how to intervene without upsetting Ben's concentration and creating a further risk of the gun going off by accident. Ben crouched down low to conceal the gun as much as he could and to rest his arms on the car's roof while he took aim at the oncoming speed camera. Dave slowed down to a steady 20mph cruise while Ben concentrated on the backing music still working its way through his body and made sure his sight was lined up correctly. He squeezed the trigger releasing a 'BANG' which made him jump. He'd missed and had no idea where the shot had landed. A fresh chorus of car horns started up from his surrounding followers.

'Is there one more?' he asked.

'Yup,' shouted up Dave.

'Slow down for another shot.'

Ben rested his arms on the gun until the next speed camera approached, making sure he was fully supported with his elbows on the roof and his knees pressed against the front seats of the car. Once again, he let the sound of _Dizzee Rascal's Sirens_ fill his body with a strong shot of adrenaline, took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. 'BANG! Success! A shower of glass rained out from the small yellow box at the top of the passing pole. He raised a fist in the air in triumph as, yet again, a chorus of approving car horns started up.

'Fuckin' idiot,' said Mo as Ben wiggled his way back into seated position, while Luca disposed of the empty cartridges out of the window and slid the gun back under the back seat.

'What?' replied Ben smiling, but acknowledging that he had gone too far.

'Amazing shot, Hoodie. You'll be a hero now. There'll be no messin' wid us now,' encouraged Dave.

Ben realised he had gone too far but was too proud to admit that he had let the adoration go to his head and allowed himself to get carried away. Besides, it had been fun and judging from the waves, thumbs-up and appreciative horns he continued to receive from fellow cruisers pulling up alongside them, he had done good. Notoriety had been achieved even if he had not set out to achieve it.

Inside the car, the mood was more mixed, with Dave and Luca enthusiastically commentating on each step of the shot with fine detail and making mock shooting movements with their hands as they passed other targets they'd like to hit. 'BOOM' to the cyclist jumping the lights; 'BOOM' to the taxi driver pulling over without indicating, and so on. Chloe remained silently adamant that she was not going to acknowledge Ben at any cost, while Mo and Hannah both looked at him with sombre looks of disappointment.

Mo continued to badger Ben about his inability to think through the consequences of his actions:

You actually trying to get yourself put away? Damn fool! Your life'll be over before it's even started. He was upset with Ben and refused to let it drop. Ben listened to Mo, taking in all of what he was saying and not disagreeing with any of it. As he came down from the euphoria of being the centre of attention he started to wonder how long it would be before they were stopped and all charged with a string of offences.

'I'm sorry,' he eventually admitted sheepishly. 'It was stupid.' His apology wasn't even acknowledged by Mo, but Hannah gave him a sympathetic smile and put her hand back on his knee. The rest of the journey to Ally Pally passed without further conversation between them; Dave and Luca did their best to gee things up but to no avail. A further joint and more of Luca's wine was passed round in silence, although Ben resisted both in a show of attempting to display a shred of self-control.

The mood among them all was similarly restrained when they parked up at Ally Pally, but by contrast the other cruisers were buzzing and were keen to greet them as they unfolded themselves from the back seat. Dave was keen to remain seated in the driver's seat with the door left open, music still playing as a succession of hangers-on arrived to salute him and show respect. Mo disappeared, making the excuse that he needed to get some fresh air and find a can of coke. Hannah took Ben's hand, pulling him in her direction, suggesting they leave the others with the car while they looked at the view.

As they walked away, Ben found himself at the receiving end of pointing fingers and whispers from some of the other cruisers. Only one of them was brave enough to approach him, pat him timidly on the back in a show of respect and say: 'You got some balls guy'. Ben was embarrassed by the compliment and turned his attention shyly to Hannah instead.

'Not sure I'm cut out for this sort of thing after all.'

'It's just a bit of fun, isn't it. Look at them all. Boys with their toys again. It's what they do. It's their thing.'

Ben turned back to see the mainly male crowd admire and fuss over each other's cars, boots open and speakers on display, accompanied by only a handful of garishly made-up, scantily dressed girls – Chloe included in this description.

'The view's worth it though, isn't it?'

'Yeh. It's nice,' said Hannah squeezing his hand. 'I've never been here before. We should get out a bit more together.' Ben said nothing, but squeezed her hand and smiled in return. Before he had time to think, Hannah squeezed his hand again and pulled him towards her so that they were standing face to face. She put his hand on her waist, smiled gently, and cupped the side of his head with her other hand to pull his lips to hers. Ben closed his eyes and lost himself in the most natural act of harmonious and mutual affection he had ever encountered. It was just a kiss, he told himself, yet it felt as if their unspoken togetherness had finally been acknowledged, allowing them to become one. All layers of shame and modesty were instantly stripped away, allowing them to lose body, heart, mind and soul in one hit. Ben peeped his eyes open during the kiss to sneak a look at Hannah whose eyes remained closed. He felt dizzy and confused between how perfectly right it felt, and frustration at how he had not once before envisaged his relationship with Hannah taking such a turn. An overriding fire of inseparable togetherness and comfort lit up within him.

Of course, Ben had in the past had his choice of girls to snog at the end of the night at house parties and when out clubbing, but this was the first time he had ever felt anything so intense and pure, which left his head spinning. And all that without any alcohol or weed in his system, he noted.

The kiss came to a natural end as they both needed to break for some air and they took a moment to stare deeply into each other's eyes, all the time smiling silently at each other. Ben's mind could not help but conjure up an image of Isabelle, which he immediately fought to dismiss as his hopes and dreams in that direction continued to be unresolved. Instead he basked in Hannah's warmth and took the initiative to kiss her again. He put his arms carefully and gently around her waist and moved towards her moist lips slowly before kissing her. Their heads turned from side to side in synchronised rhythm, eventually broken by Ben pulling away to softly kiss her repeatedly around her cheeks and forehead while she smiled up at him. The happiness Ben felt radiating from within the centre of his chest sent a lump of emotion to the back of his throat. For a moment, he did not know whether he was about to burst into delirious laughter or into floods of tears, but was relieved to find his emotions were kept in check and hidden by a simple, but very broad grin.

Their moment was disturbed only when they heard a group of loud cheers coming from behind them. It was the rest of the gang cheering and smiling at them, and signalling that it was time to leave. A couple of police cars had been spotted on their way up the hill and everyone else was revving up and getting ready to move on. Dave was keen to get out of the area before a stop and search.

'Come on. Back to the chavmobile,' shouted Mo.

'She never even gave me as much as a fuckin' peck on the cheek,' grumbled Luca into Ben's ear as they climbed back into the car.

They rode back in silence with Ben and Hannah grinning inanely at each other the whole way, Ben reflecting on what an amazing day it had turned out to be.

****

Chapter 20

Ben was first to be dropped off. He was closest to the door and got out on his own, shouting out 'see you guys' to them all and whispering 'see you soon' to Hannah who smiled back. Ben stood on the corner of his street and watched the car disappear down the street. He saw Hannah turn to wave at him just before the car turned out of sight and raised his hand to wave back just a little too late for her to see.

Ben stared at the point at which the car had disappeared for long enough to smoke one more cigarette before going home. The sky had turned a deep blue and was fuller than usual with stars twinkling down on him. Blackbirds hidden in the trees and on the rooftops sang out into the twilight, heralding the night ahead.

Reflecting on the evening's events, Ben wondered what it was which had made the whole day feel so different, so much more positive and uplifting. He felt as if something had changed within again; in some indefinable way he felt a more mature person than when he had woken up in the morning, despite getting carried away with the gun in Camden.

The kiss with Hannah was firmly lodged in the forefront of his mind and gave him a huge feeling of both excitement and fear. Excitement at what might be, and fear of the unknown. It had felt so right, so natural, so good, so pure and so affectionate. Yet it was unplanned; he had not seen it coming, and they had not had the chance to talk about it afterwards. 'Was it a one off?' 'Why had she chosen him over Luca?' 'Or Mo even?' 'Did she want to be his regular girlfriend?' 'Was he ready to give up on Isabelle?' 'Could he have been caught at any time on camera with Dave's shotgun?' 'What was bugging Mo?' Although he was sure Dave would not say anything, there was a possibility the police could quite easily trace him through Dave's numberplates. 'Why was he so foolish?' 'What would his Mum say?'

These questions and thoughts ran round his head against a background image of Hannah's face, framed by her auburn highlighted hair and her deep, mysterious, hypnotic green eyes smiling up at him. A faint trace of her scent clung to his hoodie.

His thinking was interrupted by his cigarette burning his fingers, having reached the butt. He flicked it into the middle of the road before shoving a handful of polos in his mouth, rushing through his front door and running straight up the stairs to his bedroom, dismissing his Mum's offer of a chat and a cup of tea on the way under the pretence that he 'had stuff to do'.

He closed his door behind him after shouting down to his Mum that he'd eaten – a lie – and that he was going straight to sleep after finishing what he was doing. She viewed Ben as being no different to many other boys his age and was used to giving him the space he needed so left him to it, but not before letting him know that she'd fed Snoop and that there was some dinner in the kitchen if he changed his mind.

Within his own four walls, Ben could find nothing to do but think. Emotionally, Ben was confused by his deepening attraction to Hannah after being so dedicated to the idea of being with Isabelle. He wished he hadn't been so quick to jump out of the car and leave Hannah before he'd had a chance to talk to her some more. Why hadn't he offered to walk her home from there? Had he just experienced love at first kiss? He wondered whether he should ring Mo to get his take on things, but could predict his likely response without the need to ring him and so decided to take his time and get used to the idea of Hannah over Isabelle himself before discussing it with anyone else. Be cool; don't stress, he told himself. 'Take a leaf out of Mo's book and just chill.'

He rummaged around underneath his bed and took out the last remaining cellophane-wrapped lump of hash from within an old trainer and climbed out though his single-pane bedroom window onto the rooftop for his last smoke of the night. Access to the rooftop was still a relative novelty to him. Apart from a tiny upper pane wich opened to allow air into his room the window had been nailed shut until his fourteenth birthday to prevent him from climbing out and falling off the edge of the roof. There was not a lot of room to move about and if he stood upright the surrounding ledge only just came up to his waist and so an element of safety-consciousness was required, but it was undoubtedly an excellent late-night spot for a solitary smoke and a think. And the views of the surrounding roofs and tree tops always helped put things into perspective.

Although still slightly mixed up and confused inside, Ben felt overwhelmingly happy and positive at the recent turn of events as he lay back against the grey slate roof and lit his loosely rolled joint. He looked up and noted that the night sky was magnificent in its display of brightly shining stars. One in particular shone much stronger and brighter than the others. Probably the North Star, he thought, although it seemed much bigger than usual. He noticed that the longer he held his gaze, the closer and brighter it appeared to become. He squinted his focus through the sticky sweet aroma of smoky hash circling above his head and, although he was firmly seated, found himself feeling quite dizzy.

Perhaps I should have had some food before coming up for a smoke after all, he thought. But it was too late to go back downstairs now that he smelt so strongly of hash. His head started to spin faster, making him feel as if he was spiralling backwards, so he concentrated even harder on the bright star – now emitting a warm yellow glow – and thought it might just be a positive sign from above, especially for him, to let him know that everything was going to be all right. He shuffled down from his leaning position to the complete safety of lying on his back gazing upwards, and diverted his thoughts back to the highlights of the day. The Shady Boys were back together; the popularity he'd received over the airwaves and from the other cruisers; still all quiet on the Papa Tee front; and, of course, his kiss with Hannah. Only Isabelle and his outstanding job applications remained frustrating unknowns but were not significant enough to detract from the relaxed and positive mood building up within him although the hash was having the unfortunate effect of blurring his vision. Whichever way he turned his head, the bright star seemed to be as bright as the sun and getting closer all the time.

To give himself something else to concentrate on and break his single-track thought processes he connected his mobile's MP3 headphones and selected Mo's recommended _Heroes_ by _David Bowie_ , touching the jewel in the sun symbol around his neck for luck as he did so. It seemed an appropriate tune for his mood, although he did wonder whether the incident with the gun and the speed camera earlier in the day made him a hero or a fool. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that it was often only luck which separated one from the other. Whatever, though. It was done history and not the time to over-analyse, so he closed his eyes and just listened, hoping that his vision and dizziness would calm down. He started wondering about his simian lines on his palms and whether he was destined to follow the eminence of the likes of Muhammad Ali and great leaders, or whether he was destined to turn out as some sort of psychopathic criminal. It seemed a close race at times.

Emotional exhaustion set in almost as soon as his eyes were closed and he lost himself in the lyrics of the song: _'I/I wish you could swim/Like the dolphins/Like dolphins can swim/Though nothing/Will keep us together/We can beat them/For ever and ever/Oh we can be Heroes/Just for one day'_. Just before he drifted off to sleep it seemed that even the lyrics were leading him to think about Hannah, although he hoped they would have much more than just the one day together.

He awoke to the sounds of squeaks, squawks and splashing, and to the brightness of a warm sun shining down on his back. SPLASH! He broke the sea's surface to find himself submerged in clear turquoise warm salty water, being propelled forward at frightening break-neck speed. He tried to move his arms but could not. He had none. WHOOSH! Once again he was above sea level with the sun shining warmly on his back and with the sound of splashing all around him. He dipped his head forward and looked down at the sea to catch sight of his broken reflection just before he fell for the second time below the surface. Without surprise, he had seen that he was unquestionably a dolphin. Long, sleek and in majestic control of his every movement as he continued to power himself upwards and then dive back through the waves with such power, agility and total control as to create minimal splash as he twisted and turned playfully underwater.

His skewed vision took some getting used to as he repeated the pattern, but his hearing was acute (despite having only holes on the sides of his head for ears) enabling him to be able to pinpoint the precise position of every squawk and squeal above, below, to his left, right and behind him.

He quickly realised he was in front, leading the noise coming from the thirty to forty dolphins diving up and down behind him, reaching speeds of up to forty miles per hour, each gracefully holding their position in the air for a few seconds before corkscrewing downwards into a warm and bottomless playground. Above them flew seagulls, squawking and flapping around scrappily, seemingly envious of the fun the dolphins below were having. Beyond the immediate crowd of dolphins were smaller watchful fish attempting and failing to keep up and match their acrobatic stunts.

Ben explored his new body by experimenting with his agility and swimming technique with each surface entry, twisting half-twists, flicking himself upright and bouncing forwards on his tail, and diving aggressively downwards, mimicking the corkscrew drilling movements he had seen some of the others perform.

With each success came a chorus of approving squeals from the other dolphins which came accompanied with a never-ending feeling of elation and well-being. They swam closer and tighter together, increasing in speed as they shot through the oncoming waves. Laughing, clicking and squealing, nudging noses in playful displays of affection, while all the time Ben remained the leader. He turned to his right to playfully nudge another dolphin who had been swimming alongside him since the beginning and flicked his tail vigorously to escape further forward, initiating a frisky game of tag.

Before he even had time to turn his head to see how far behind other dolphin was, he felt its presence against his side, effortlessly keeping up with his speed. They had, however, managed to break away from many of the other dolphins during this game as they continued to take turns to nudge and escape from each other, leaping over and under waves as they went.

Suddenly, Ben thrust himself upwards in an over-ambitious leap which took him higher than expected and which was naturally followed by a deep dive which left him all alone in a darker, stiller and much colder water. It was deep and dark and he slowed down to get his bearings, allowing his tail to gently propel himself forward while he searched for the others.

There was no one else around.

He let out a couple of exploratory squeals in hope of a response but they faded away unanswered. In an instant, his feeling of elation and fun turned into a chilling sense of isolation, loneliness and fear. Fear at the sudden coldness of the sea which was causing him to shiver. Fear at the darkness closing in on him and fear at the addition of sinister looking rocks, caves and a black seabed to the seascape, replacing the bright turquoise waters of a few minutes earlier. Sunlight could no longer be seen through the sea's surface as he twisted back and forth in search of warmth and friendlier waters.

Whichever way he turned he thought he could see larger silent shadows following his every move from below. He could not see them but was sure there were dark shapes lurking. Then, just as he was turning 180 degrees back on himself, he saw a wide, thick and powerful looking 20 foot-plus long shark, with three ugly rows of bared teeth visible along its side profile.

His blood ran cold; the sense of danger left him numb but he forced himself to stay in control by escaping upwards to the surface. Perhaps then he could see where the others were. More shadows appeared from below, revealing themselves to be sharks. Conspicuously, he was the only dolphin amongst them and they were organising themselves into a mean-looking circle around him, cutting off his escape routes. He positioned himself upright towards the surface and, in attempt to use his superior agility to escape, flicked his tail back and forth to get moving. But no matter how hard he flicked and twisted his body, he just couldn't shift himself. He was trapped, and the sharks were tightening in on him. He started choking as water filled his lungs and the sensation of dizziness returned to him once more.

Instead of passing out as he expected, Ben woke with a frightening jolt to find himself still on the rooftop, in the middle of the night, in human form - cold, shivering and coughing throatily. He sat bolt upright in a state of shock from his dream and held his hands before him to see that they were shaking. His palms were sweaty but cold and the veins on the backs of his hands were protruding. Although he couldn't stop shivering, he was drenched with sweat. Clouds had moved in and not a single star remained above him. He coughed hard and brought up a salty mouthful of phlegm which he shot over the side of the building.

He looked at his phone. The earphones had fallen from his ears and the time read 02:37. He must have been asleep for over three hours. The extinguished roach from his joint was lying next to him. He picked it up and flicked it over the edge before climbing back inside to the comparative safety of his bedroom. Cold, sweaty and still frightened, despite realising that he must have simply had a bad dream, Ben pulled the duvet over his head and tried to go back to sleep. Snoop watched protectively over him from the foot of his bed.

****

Chapter 21

Ben checked his mobile. It was 06:03 in the morning of 31 July, the half-way point of the summer holidays. The first streams of the morning sun's rays had just started to break over the opposite rooftops and spill through Ben's open window, hitting the wall above his head. Birds singing and fluttering around each other could be heard in the trees outside while the sweet scent of fresh morning air seeped into the room, giving every indication that a glorious summer's day lay ahead.

After a long period of simply staring at his feet from between his knees, Ben lifted his head up off his folded arms and lit another cigarette. The bright summer's morning was doing nothing to lift the darkness which had settled into the core of him. Even Snoop's affections - twisting and purring on his back at the foot of Ben's bed - had done little to lift his spirits. He'd been unable to sleep since his dream on the rooftop. Looking back at him from across the room was his refection in the wardrobe mirror at the side of his room. Black rings had formed around his sunken red eyes and his face had taken on a different level of ashen gauntness. He looked and felt ghostly. A flake of his former brash self.

He'd been unable to shake off the mood with which he'd woken from his dream. If anything, his feelings of fear had increased throughout the night, leaving him panicky, shaky and light-headed. More than once he had heard footsteps on the roof only to find no-one there, nor any rational explanation for the sound when he investigated. There were also times during the night when he was sure he could hear his Mum outside his door, causing him to lie silent and still pretending to be asleep – the last thing he wanted was a late night chat about why he was still awake.

But the lack of sleep had left Ben feeling confused and disoriented. He had tried to analyse the root of his dream and figure out what it meant but without success. In any case, a bad dream – no matter how real it felt, and it had felt SO real – could not justify the intensity of fear and perplexity swirling round inside him.

Why, when he'd such a great day and had every reason to be optimistic did he feel so low? Why are feelings of such happiness always followed by such fear and depression? Why can't life just be enjoyed for what it is? More of the 'pink and fluffy' and less of the 'black' stuff?

While these questions circled round his mind he recalled feeling like a lone – and very, very small – dolphin in a big, deep, wide and cold sea with no friends within sight or sound. Just shadowy predators. He felt as if he was a mere, tiny insignificant speck in a never-ending alien sea-scape; trapped, just waiting for meteor a thousand times bigger than he was to come crashing down on top of him, crushing him to oblivion and dispersing the sea into all directions. Nothing made sense. Only a few days previously he had felt on the cusp of something amazing and here he was, huddled up and shaking on the edge of his bed, feeling as exposed as if he was naked at the top of a cold windy cliff edge looking down onto jagged rocks with no other direction to turn.

At a loss with what to do with himself – sleep was impossible, and he was struggling with his own company - Ben decided to get dressed and go out before his Mum got up. Perhaps a walk and some fresh air would help, he thought.

On his way out of the house he texted his Mum: 'Early start 2day. C U l8r. B x'. He did not want her worrying about where he was and was keen to avoid an inquisition when they next spoke – 'job hunting' had provided him with a good excuse for his recent erratic comings and goings.

Outside, the brightness of the rising morning sun and the clarity of the crisp morning air made the colours of the shop fronts and cars parked on the side of the road extra loud. He paused to appreciate the scene, coughing to clear his lungs and firing out the resulting mouthful of phlegm into the road. He took a couple of deep puffs from his asthma inhaler before lighting another cigarette. They always tasted better against the freshness of a clear day. He made his way slowly down Westbourne Grove, peering through closed shop windows as he went. It was quiet. There were never more than two cars to be seen in the street at any one time and there was hardly anyone else about. He nodded 'good morning' to the Iranian newsagent ('I'm Persian,' he'd always state when asked where he was from - which the boys always did) on the way past as he was taking in the neatly packaged piles of newspapers delivered to outside his shop.

A bit further up the street Ben could see Old Joe shuffling around. The sight of him lifted his mood slightly, and gave him reason to pause and watch him for a while as he meticulously folded up his jigsaw of cardboard boxes and slid them into the sides of his shopping trolley. Joe then went through his bizarre early-morning routine of stretching up tall and then swinging his arms round one by one. Followed by rolling his head violently around his shoulders.

Standing still, Ben was aware that his hands were still shaking and his stomach was still churning with fear – perhaps its acidic juices were starting to eat himself, he wondered, and made a mental note to put something in his stomach at some point. But he found watching Old Joe comical and it gave him a welcome alternative focus. It got Ben thinking how nice it would be if only everything in life was as simple as unfolding and packing away a few cardboard boxes each day. He looked at his phone. 06:37. So Old Joe was an early riser? That explained why he slept all day. Although, on second thoughts, that was probably the drink that did that.

With no one else around and Old Joe providing the only other visible form of life present, Ben was yet again inexplicably drawn to him. He wondered if another one of their conversations might shed any light on why he was feeling as he did. Joe often had a way of approaching things from a different angle so Ben bounded over towards him and sat down next to him on his step. Old Joe started smiling as soon as he caught sight of Ben approaching.

'Hiya Joe. Just got up?'

'Been up for a while now. Just tidying away. I don't sleep in the mornings once the sun's up. I always have my deep sleep during the day when there's more people about. It's safer.'

'Or when you've filled yourself up with cheap whisky,' Ben thought to himself.

'Anyway,' Joe continued. 'What are you doing up so early and where have you been? I haven't seen you for ages.'

Ben tried to find his voice but felt a suffocating, misery tightly gripping his throat. 'Been around,' was all he managed to squeak.

'Found yourself a job yet then, boy? And did you ever go after that girl...what was her name? Isabelle?'

The mention of Isabelle's name and the reminder that he had yet to find a job, or even secure an interview set Ben's head off into a spin again. Images of the prior few weeks flashed before him as he struggled to construct a coherent sentence to respond with. 'I don't think...I don't know...Everything's changed...' He looked down at his feet and turned his head away from Joe as his eyes started to well up with tears. Seeing Ben was upset, Joe turned his head to look straight ahead to avoid creating any embarrassment on Ben's part.

'Looks like something's troubling you, boy. Do you want to tell me about it?'

Ben nodded but said nothing for a few minutes while he took a series of deep breaths and did his best to discreetly wipe away the relentless tears which flowed down his cheeks. For the first time in a long time, he felt like a child again. Joe sat patiently on the step beside him, just staring blankly ahead - an older, smellier mirror image of him.

'I don't know what's wrong,' Ben eventually spluttered. It's just that...everything's changed and I don't know what's happening any more. I mean, there's no reason for me to be like this and I should be happy. But I'm not. In fact, everything's going great really. But...I didn't sleep last night...perhaps that's it...maybe I'm just hungry...I don't know. Something's missing...but I don't know what.' Ben dried up again, realising he wasn't making much sense and not sure whether he was directing his speech at Joe or himself.

'Cigarette?' he offered Joe, after lighting his own.

'Don't mind if I do, thanks.'

They sat in silence for a few drags, blowing thick satisfying streams of smoke out towards the pavement in unison.

'Well, I'm not sure I know what the problem is,' said Joe eventually. 'But sounds like you got it bad, son. Have you tried talking to anyone about it?

'Not really.'

'What about your mates? Can't they help?'

'Dunno. Mo maybe. But we don't really talk about stuff like this.'

'What about your mother? Have you talked to her yet?'

'Nope.'

'Why not? I'm sure she'd be a good listener.'

'What do you know about her?' snapped Ben. He did not disagree with the suggestion that she might be able to help, but had become so used to defending any mention of his Mum at school that any mention of her from a relative stranger like Joe was to be automatically thwarted.

'Just a suggestion, boy. Take it easy.'

'Sorry. It's just that... Oh, I don't know what to do. I had this dream last night. Tsk...I'm probably being really stupid, but...' The invisible grip around Ben's neck had tightened again and a lump had developed in the back of his throat, preventing him from speaking. 'It's just that...I know I'm not perfect, and I'm definitely no angel, but...' he wiped his eyes and gulped down the wedge of emotion jammed in his throat. '...I really feel like the walls are closing in on me. I feel boxed into a corner and don't know which way to turn. When I'm with my mates, everything looks okay on the surface, but I can't help acting out of control and deep down....I'm so...alone.'

Ben stopped abruptly as the silent stream of tears found its way down his cheeks again. He glanced sideways at Joe to gauge his reaction and felt reassured by the warmth twinkling back at him from his eyes and the way the lines in his face creased up as they turned into a sympathetic smile. He might just be a smelly old alcoholic tramp, but he cared, thought Ben. He wiped his tears away and forced a smile.

'That's better,' said Joe. 'It's not healthy to let life get on top of you like that. There's always something to find to smile about. And you're special, remember?'

'I wish I was ten again,' said Ben without reason.

'Why? What's so great about being ten?'

'Oh, I don't know. Innocence. Friendships that last forever. Hope. Fun. Excitement. Everything to live for...'

'So what's changed,' interrupted Joe holding his hands out in the air. 'If I could wave my magic wand, what would you wish for? What would make everything better again?'

Ben had already started to relax and calm down at having the opportunity to talk to someone after having been cooped up in his room all night, and the thought of being ten again lifted his mood even more. The attentiveness of Joe was also helping. Thinking about being ten made Ben wonder how it was that in just over five short years so much could have happened. So much had changed. Where had he taken a wrong turn? At which point was innocence lost? He couldn't pinpoint precise moments, but whenever it was, it all seemed to have been outside of his control.

'Hmmm, let me think,' replied Ben. 'I dunno really. Just got diverted somewhere alone the line. So much fighting, bullying, crap teaching, time wasting. No fun learning. I wish there wasn't so much shit to put up with for so little gain. The balance in life is all wrong.'

'You took your exams though, didn't you?'

'Yeh, but so what? What for?'

'So you might actually get something out of it yet.'

'Mmm...maybe.'

'What about home? What would you wish for?'

'What?'

'Home. You know. Family. Friends. Are you ever missing anything there perhaps?'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'You get on with your Mum right?'

'Yeh, of course.'

'But is it enough?'

'I still don't know what you're getting at,' Ben fired back defensively.

'Lemme show you,' said Joe twisting his weathered face into a mischievous smile, his eyes alive with all the promise of a magician.

'Remember, I've always told you how special you are?'

Ben frowned back in curious wonderment. Joe put his hand on his junk-filled shopping trolley to lift himself to his feet, releasing a pocket of air trapped inside his coat which sent an invisible cloud of stale cigarettes and alcohol in Ben's direction, assaulting the back of his already battered throat. Involuntarily, Ben started to inhale faster and deeper through his nose, which only made things worse.

Joe took off his heavy dogtooth overcoat and threw it on top of his trolley. Then came the worn green cloth jacket beneath it, followed by a dirty threadbare cardigan. Ben was gripped with what he was doing and couldn't help wondering how long it had been since Joe had last washed or even changed his clothes. The stench got worse and worse with every unfolding layer. It must have been at least a couple of years, he thought.

Now down to his stained checked shirt, Joe unbuttoned and started to roll up his right sleeve. Slowly, slowly, up past his elbow and then further to his shoulder when he stopped and just stood there, smiling down at Ben.

'There. Now you know.'

Ben's cigarette dropped to the ground as his jaw fell loosely open and he stared in disbelief at the tattoo on Joe's arm: ' _Ben 9~September~'91_ ',complete with accompanying tacky little cherub. It stared back at him like a visual punch in the face, rendering him unable to think, feel or speak. He tightened his toes' grip on the pavement to prevent himself from reeling off into space. Joe just stood there grinning, holding his sleeve up proudly and admiring the fading tattoo on his grimy arm.

Ben was slow to confirm and make the connection between the tattoo on Joe's arm and the crumpled photo of his father at home. It seemed incredible. But just as one is always slow to accept the apparently impossible, the detail of the tattoo, its gothic script, its position on his arm, were all unmistakeably identical to Ben's recollection of the photo he had. He quickly exhausted all possible alternative explanations – for there simply were none – and was faced with the reality that this old dishevelled alcoholic tramp before him was his father. The blood drained from his face and made him tingle down one side, as if having a stroke. His scalp tightened and his head felt cold as his hands fell to his sides like dead-weights, heavy and numb. He continued to stare at the tattoo while his tongue seemed to swell to the point he thought he was choking, making any attempts to speak even more challenging. An instant piercing headache started to burn from behind his eyes where pressure was becoming unbearable. At that precise moment, there was nothing which could have shaken Ben's life any harder. As his stomach contracted, twisted itself into knots and worked its way up his torso to the back of his throat, he felt as if he was being ripped apart. He started to dry-retch.

Such a simple tacky tattoo, he thought, but of such enormous significance. He had seen it so many times before in the photo in his bedside, but the sight of it in the flesh triggered memories previously buried so deep he had almost forgotten them. Almost. As he looked into Joe's face he felt distant recognition. The years had not been kind to him and had pushed his appearance into the fifty-plus age bracket, whereas he must have still been just under forty. His skin was blemished, darkened, thin and wrinkled; not smooth and full like in the photo. But there was now no mistaking that it was him. How could he not have noticed before? What a fool I've been, he scolded himself. 'Why did I ever waste my time talking to this man?'

As his head continued to spin and his stomach turned somersaults, and the sight of 'Joe' with tattoo exposed burnt a permanent image into his mind, Ben blinked and saw flashbacks of a past scene in the flat they once all shared of Joe drunk, smashing up the front room, hitting his Mum, knocking her down...and then the scene was lost. The feelings that accompanied the scene were not, however. They were still raw. Still retching, he stared hard into Joe's eyes. Seeing him in the flesh conjured up something which looking at a simple photo of him could never achieve. The painful flashback scene replayed itself in Ben's mind, causing Ben to recall how, even though he was just three at the time, he'd sworn 'he'd fuckin' kill him' when he got big enough (the colourful language having been added to the memory as the years passed). If ever he was brave enough to show his face again. And here he was right in front of him. A pathetic, drunk, smelly little tramp. Knocking him down would have been too easy but finding the right words to express his feelings was too difficult. Emotionally, Ben felt naked and too weak and powerless to react.

The silence between them lengthened and Ben could find no logical order of words to break Joe's proud and stupid grin. In any case, there could be no words sufficient to express how he felt. His mind went into overdrive. What could he have been thinking? Where had he been? Why was he here? Why return? Why now? Why deceive me like this? Why reveal himself to me now? What the fuck did he expect? Happy reunion? Ben's thoughts were interrupted only by his twisted stomach causing him to bend over double, his dry mouth having suddenly filled up with saliva. Although he had not eaten since the previous lunchtime, he forced out what little fluid was left in his body onto the pavement.

'Sorry son, I didn't mean to shock you,' said 'Joe' noticing for the first time the look of shock on Ben's ashen face.

'AAAARRRRRRRGGGGGHHH...' screamed Ben with all the strength he could muster, waving his arms wildly at each side of his face before running off as fast as he could. 'Joe's' face fell as he rolled down his sleeve and watched him run off.

'There runs a river with a ocean behind it,' he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

Once Ben had run clear of Westbourne Grove, turned a couple of corners and was sure that he was out of sight he collapsed onto the ground, sobbing. Not knowing where else or who to run to, he sent a simultaneous text to the Shady Boys, Dave, Luca and Mo: 'HELP ME! NOW. CRYPT'

****

Chapter 22

Ben double checked the Crypt's door was shut properly behind him, keen to lock the outside world away. Inside, the cold, damp, stillness of the air provided his frantic state with a dose of immediate anaesthetic as he made his way down the familiar corridor to the den. Once inside, he carefully lowered himself into a cross legged position in the far corner and waited for his friends to arrive. At first, he couldn't stop shaking. His hands had gone from feeling numb and heavy to feeling light and shaky. He looked at his palms and hated the fated lines which 'Joe' had pointed out to him as being so 'special'. Greatness, or destined to a life of pain and misery? To Ben, at that moment, it seemed to him as if his fate had been realised.

He continued crying into his folded arms with panic and confusion, wishing that his only problem was the previous night's bad dream. But he soon stopped when he realised how futile it was and when the echoes of his sobs round the small brick-walled room started to annoy him. Besides, crying was only making his head feel worse. He lit another cigarette. Inhaling the smoke into his compressed lungs was an effort so he took a couple of puffs from his asthma inhaler to open his chest. The quiet and familiarity of his surroundings and his inability to see any detail clearly in the limited light sent him into a state of zombified calm. Out of curiosity more than desire he fumbled around in the cavity in the corner of the room to see if any of the hash they'd stashed away at the start of summer was still there. It was empty. He rested his head on his arms and waited for company to arrive.

Dave and Luca were first, crashing through the Crypt's main door laughing and joking noisily together.

'Hooooodie...where are yooooou? We're he-ere...' they called out down the corridor.

Ben, by this time in an exhausted state of semi-consciousness, lifted his head but did not call back. He remained curled up in the corner of the den waiting silently for them to find him.

'Hey...Hoodie, my man, whassup?' asked Dave switching on the torch. 'Why you sitting in the dark?

'Shit, what happened?' he asked in response to seeing Ben's drained, swollen-eyed, tear-stained face. 'I ain't never seen you like dis. Was da matter? Who did it?'

'Where's Mo?' was all that Ben could manage as he stared back blankly.

'He's on his way. I wanna know wa's tho',' said Dave as he squatted down to peer at Ben closer. 'If anyone's caused you trouble, I'm there for you, bro. Just say the word. Was it Papa Tee?'

'No. Lemme wait for Mo.'

Dave paced furiously up and down the stone floor, disconcerted by the fact Ben would not talk without Mo being there. He started speculating over what might have happened:

'Was it Smudge?' 'Is it da police?' 'Is it money?' and promising to sort whatever it was that needed sorting. Dave's heart was in the right place, but his impatience was not helping Ben who was conserving what little energy he had left for when Mo arrived.

Luca sat down and pulled out an open bottle of Peroni lager he had concealed inside the top of his track suit. He took a sloppy swig from it and offered it to Ben. Ben took a mouthful to stop his dry tongue from sticking to the roof of his mouth before spitting it out beside him. Just the smell of it made the lump rise once again to the back of this throat.

Dave and Luca had come straight from an all-night house party and Dave in particular was getting himself more revved up by the minute about what was wrong with Ben and what action he might have to take. He was full of undirected threats and bravado, whereas Luca just looked very tired and drunk. Ben welcomed the company that Dave and Luca's presence brought but had become too emotionally exhausted to get up, speak, or even think logically any more. He knew he had just passed a moment in history which had forged a lifelong memory into his soul and although he wished he could go to sleep never to wake up again, his mind would not switch off or slow down. For comfort, he rocked back and forth, concentrating on saving his powers of communication for Mo's arrival so that he would only have to tell the boys what happened once.

When Mo finally sauntered in (which, to be fair, had only taken twenty minutes since Ben's text) Dave was keen to take charge of the situation.

'Mo, sit there. C'mon Hoodie. Mo's here. Tell us wot 'appened now.'

Ben took a deep breath and looked up at them, smiling at the sight of Mo looking so calm and relaxed in his freshly washed white corduroys and an open-necked shirt. There were times when Ben wished he could be more like Mo. He always seemed to take everything in his stride. Looking up at the three of them from his corner position in the room Ben wondered where to start. They had finished the night so well and yet so much had happened since, the dream...the fear...Hannah...Isabelle...'Joe'. Confronted with his friends standing before him, he realised he was not even sure if he was ready to tell anyone about 'Joe's' revelation. Even to his closest friends. He had barely got his head round the whole thing himself. He even wondered whether he should ever tell anyone about it – having a smelly old drunk as a father is not exactly something to be proud of, after all. Looking up at his friends he realised he also found the discovery embarrassing. He even wondered if he really wanted all of his friends with him at that time. Perhaps he should have just called Mo. Or gone home alone even. The decision was too late to question though. He'd texted them and they had come to his aid and were now demanding to know what had happened and what was wrong.

In an attempt to avoid telling them about Joe, he started telling them about his night on the roof, the star and the dream which followed instead. He came to life and became quite animated when he described how he felt he was a dolphin, twisting playfully in the sea before waking up feeling so alone, stalked and hunted. Mo, Dave and Luca all listened avidly to Ben, full of concern for his obvious distressed state, but confused at the fact that they had been called out so early to listen to what appeared to amount to a nightmare.

'Ccchhh...' Luca kissed his teeth and looked away. '...and to think I rushed here to listen to fuckin' dolphin stories when I was about to get jiggy ...'

'Shut up Luca,' snapped Mo. 'Can't you see something's wrong here? Ignore him Ben. Carry on.'

Ben felt belittled and was even less sure about telling them about 'Joe' so went on to describe how the unexpected kiss with Hannah had messed with his mind a bit, after he'd been so set on Isabelle. Deep down, this had become much less of an issue than it felt the night before and any hesitancy he felt towards taking things further with Hannah had disappeared, having been put firmly in perspective by 'Joe'. Nevertheless, he talked up the choice between Isabelle and Hannah to detract from what had really thrown him.

It was now Dave's turn to express visible disappointment with what Ben was telling them at this point. He was still keen to find reason to get stuck into some remedial action.

'So what? Seriously, Hoodie. You telling me dat dis is all 'bout a nightmare and da fact dat you got lucky wid Hannah last night? Chill out bro and enjoy dem both while you got the chance. Wa's da problem?'

It did sound ridiculous when said out loud back to him, but Ben was still frustrated with his friends' apparent lack of sympathy. Even Mo had chosen not to say anything. Although he had decided he would rather not, Ben felt compelled to tell them about 'Joe' to save face. The words did not come easily and the recollection of the scene and the tattoo brought tears back to Ben's eyes, much to the embarrassment of the boys, who were not used to seeing such a reaction from their 'arch-Hoodie'.

'The real problem is Old Joe,' he confessed looking down at the ground.

'Old Joe?' asked Mo to break the silence Ben had fallen into.

'I don't know why, but after the night I'd had I just felt a little mixed up and left home early this morning to go for a walk. I saw Old Joe and went over to him for a smoke and a chat. Nothing else.'

'So what happened?' asked Dave impatiently, leaning forward.

Ben looked up at Dave and noticed traces of white powder lining his nostrils and saw that his pupils were dilated to the point that they almost filled his irises. What a bloody fool, he thought, but decided that he did not have the strength nor inclination to switch from dealing with his own problems to trying to take on Dave's. Bloody fool. Dave was a big boy and would have to deal with his own problems. Ben was still struggling with his own feelings which demanded his full attention just for him to remain functioning at his present low level.

He continued: 'Well, we were having a cigarette together and it was quiet. No one else was around. We were just sitting on the step talking. And then he starts taking off his coat. I didn't know what he was doing. And then his jacket. And he smelt bad. Then he took off his cardigan till he was down to his shirt, standing above me looking down at me. My mind was on the night before. I wasn't concentrating properly. I should've worked it out before...'

'What? What?' hurried Dave. 'We can sort it. What?'

Ben looked up at them and felt the walls once again closing in on him at the thought of Joe standing in front of him proudly displaying his claim over him. The tears rolled unashamedly down his cheeks until he was openly sobbing again.

'...I felt sick...I couldn't do anything...I felt powerless...it was horrible.'

Mo bent down and put his arm round Ben's shoulder as he sat scrunched up sobbing.

'Don't worry, Ben. We're here now. You're with friends. It'll be okay.'

Ben was comforted by Mo's presence and words.

'I don't really want to talk about it. I just want to forget it.'

'That's okay,' replied Mo. 'Just take it easy, yeh?' Ben nodded in response.

'Ben, d'ya want something to drink?' offered Luca, extending his bottle in Ben's direction.

'I don't think now is the time, do you?' said Mo gesturing his head towards the door.

'C'mon Luca. We gotta do something about dis,' said Dave, relieved at last to have something to react to. 'Hoodie has always been dere for us, so now it's time for us to be there for him. No way is we gonna let dat pervert get away wid dis. We gotta sort it.'

Ben looked up through his tears and shook his head. 'Leave it,' he breathed. 'It's over.'

Dave and Luca said nothing but held their fists out to Ben to knock in camaraderie. Dave bent down and gave Ben a half hug, imitating the American habit, but with so much awkwardness they were both left wondering if it was worth it.

'You coming, boys?' asked Dave.

'No. I'll stay here with Ben. He's not ready to go anywhere and he shouldn't be left alone.'

'Don't worry. We're gonna sort everyfing. We'll come back later and pick you up when you're ready, yeh?'

'Whatever,' replied Mo.

'You a bit better now?' asked Mo after Dave and Luca had left.

'A bit.'

'You don't have to, but if it would help to talk about what happened, you can.'

'He's my Dad, Mo. I should've worked it out before. Showed me the tattoo he's got on his arm. Same one as a photo I've got at home. Got my name and date of birth on it.'

'Shit. Did he say anything? What did he want?'

'Dunno. I was too freaked out to hang about. Can you imagine?'

'Yeh. Did he do anything then?'

'Not really. Jumped back when I was sick in front of him. I just ran off.'

Mo, disregarding the fact that his white corduroys would get dirty, sat down beside Ben on the cold stone floor. He continued rubbing Ben's shoulders until he was sure the tears had stopped and – although a completely different scenario - tried to provide him with reassurance that everything would be okay by talking about the difficulties he had experienced when his own parents had split up. Ben found Mo's voice soothing but was not listening too closely to what he was saying. His massaged shoulders had also started to relax his breathing and helped release the urge to sleep within him for which he had been yearning for so long. Ben closed his eyes and leant towards Mo, eventually toppling over and falling asleep on his lap. Unable to move without disturbing him, Mo reached forward to conserve the torch's batteries by turning it off, sat back and relaxed, stroking Ben's hair in the hope of encouraging some peace for him.

****

Chapter 23

Ben woke to the sound of Mo shuffling around. From his sideways view lying across the cushions on the stone floor he could see Mo picking up old crisp packets, bottles and cans which had been left lying around from previous sessions: happier times. He must be bored, thought Ben, pulling his stiff body upright. 'Whadja doing?'

'Just tidying up a bit. I've been waiting for you to wake up. It's a tip down here.' Mo looked at Ben and laughed.

'What?'

'You've got a red line down one side of your face where you were lying on the floor.'

Ben shook, and then rubbed, his face. 'How long was I asleep?'

'Over four hours. It's coming up for lunchtime now. How do you feel?'

'Much better, thanks.' Ben yawned and stretched before coughing deeply, bringing up a mouthful of phlegm which he then aimed inside the brick cavity in the corner of the den.

'That's gross,' said Mo.

'Better out than in.'

'Do you know how many congealed lumps of phlegm were holding old fag butts to the wall in this dump?'

'Nope,' replied Ben, laughing at the indignant expression on Mo's face. 'Tell me.'

'Too many. I had to scrape them off with a can. I was nearly vomiting.'

Ben face creased up with laughter at his friend's compulsive domesticity.

'Should've left them. They'd have made good insulation if we ever got to cover all the walls.'

'And be surrounded by germs? It's bad enough down here with the damp without adding to it. You hungry?'

'I should be, but I'm not.'

'Here, I saved this for you.' Mo handed Ben a half finished bar of Galaxy he had in his pocket. It was one of Ben's favourites and he wasted no time in crunching pieces of it into a big gooey chocolatey mess in his mouth.

'Mmmm. Simple pleasures.'

'How are you feeling about your Dad now?'

'Don't call him my "Dad". Call him "Joe" if we have to talk about him - he's nothing to me.'

'Okay. "Joe" then. You feeling any better about it?'

'Better than I was before, and better for this chocolate as well. Thanks for staying, Mo. You really help.'

'It's nothing. What else are friends for? We've been through everything together. Don't think I'm going to quit on you now. You should tell your Mum about him though.'

'I know. I will, but not yet. I've gotta think it through properly first. Anyway, what's happening with Dave and Luca? Are they coming back?'

'Not sure, they didn't say. Hang on. I'll find out.'

Mo rang Dave who handed his phone to Luca to speak because he was driving. The line was bad and the music blaring from the car did not help. Mo strained his ears to hear what was going on. He could just about make out that Dave and Luca sounded excited and in good spirits, laughing and shouting at each other, apparently having forgotten the tone of the mood they had left behind in the Crypt. Luca was still slurring from the night before and sounded cagy about what they'd been up to, especially when he let slip that they'd been busy sorting out a little surprise for Ben to cheer him up. They were keen to drive straight round and pick them up for a drive-round but Mo put them off on the grounds that although Ben was feeling slightly better, he would benefit from a few more hours chilling and catching up on his rest before going out anywhere. That was his excuse anyway.

'Plenty time, plenty time,' laughed Luca down the phone. 'We'll come by and pick you up later, right? You're not getting out of it that easily.'

'Okay. Laters then.' Mo relayed the message to Ben but omitted to tell him about any 'surprise' until he could find out more. Ben was content to take the afternoon slowly.

With a few hours of free time bought before Dave and Luca were due to return and disturb the peace, Mo suggested they make the most of their time together by going for a walk round the Italian Gardens in Kensington Gardens. His restlessness gave away the fact that he was clearly uncomfortable in the dark, damp windowless pit (as he often referred to it) and was keen to get some fresh air and some food on the way. Ben, although still weak and shaken-looking, had started to feel much calmer in Mo's easy-going company and was happy to go along with whatever was suggested. Some proper food would be good, he thought, the chocolate having sparked up his appetite.

Mo grabbed the bagful of rubbish he'd collected, picked up the torch and pulled Ben up by his arm. As they left the den Ben looked round. It was spotless. The last time it had looked so tidy was when they had first stumbled upon it. Mo might have even left it cleaner than then. Empty of any sign of them ever having been there, the den looked strangely unfamiliar and lifeless. Like it was just part of just another dirty old derelict building awaiting demolition. Ben was amazed that Mo had actually knocked all their old cigarette butts off the walls from where they'd been stuck up with saliva. It must have been disgusting.

Steering clear of any possibility of passing 'Joe' on the way, or any other unwelcome disturbances, Mo led the way through the back streets, stopping only to pick up some pitta bread, hummus, olives and a couple of cans of diet coke from a small supermarket on the way.

Once in the park, and without needing to speak, they both instinctively headed for an empty bench at the far end of the Italian Gardens – the bench towards which they had gravitated for rest breaks in between burning off energy during the long days while they were growing up. Mo unpacked the food and passed Ben a slice of pitta bread to dip into the open hummus.

'Better here, isn't it?'

'Yeh, it's nice,' chewed Ben.

'It's not good to spend too much time in that Crypt. You can forget there's a whole world out here for us. And look at it. Lovely, heh?' Mo turned to admire the stillness of the Serpentine and to watch a variety of geese, coots and ducks being fed by old couples, mothers with babes in buggies and tourists, smiling and taking pictures of each other. It was quite idyllic and very calming.

'You know what I like about here?' asked Ben.

'What?'

'It reminds you how easy it is to be happy and enjoy life. It's impossible to feel down here.'

'I know what you mean. But the company adds a lot though, wouldn't you say?'

'Oh, of course. It goes without saying.'

'You know what? As long as we stay together, everything will be alright. Friends for life, right?'

'Right,' replied Ben smiling. 'Friends for life.'

'We're like Peter Pan, you and me,' Mo continued dreamily.

'Whadja mean?'

'You know. Never-ending youth. It doesn't matter how old we get together whenever we come here it always feels like we're about eight years old or something. We've been friends a long time. All my memories have been with you.'

Ben helped himself to another slice of pitta bread, scooped up a huge dollop of hummus and stuck an olive on the top before shoving it in his mouth. 'D'ya reckon everything will work out okay though?' he asked, churning the Mediterranean mix round his open mouth. 'I mean, you're sorted for September, but I still haven't really got a clue what I'm gonna do.'

'It'll all work out, don't worry. And if it doesn't, then you're coming back to school with me right?'

'Nice try, Mo. I just sometimes wonder what my fate is. Something great or a life full of shit...?'

Although Mo was a big believer in fate – or kismet, as he often referred to it \- he was sceptical about the continual emphasis that Ben appeared to place on a couple of lines on his palms. He had even put his bread down to look at them again.

'No doubt, Ben. If I've got to choose one or the other you're heading for greatness one way or another, but it ain't gonna be because of any lines on your hands. It'll be because of who you are.'

Another goal for common sense, thought Ben of Mo's consistence. Changing the subject completely, Ben told Mo about his meeting with the old Indian woman in Queensway and asked if he remembered Ranjeef.

'Yeh, course I do. You must remember too. Joined our class late in the year and had trouble settling in. Mrs Brown nominated you to look after him. You used to make sure he joined in with everything in the playground, even when he didn't want to. Don't you remember we used to play 'had' and he was never able to catch any of us. He'd chase us round for three playtimes a day sometimes without catching anyone. Until you used to give in and let him.'

'Oh yeh, I remember now. Quiet boy. Small. With glasses. He was alright wasn't he?'

'He was once you'd helped him out. What about him anyway? I haven't seen him since Juniors.'

'Nothing, but his Mum stopped me and said she could see a fantastic yellowy orange aura around me which made me stand out. Said I had special powers, she did.'

'Like what?'

'Well, I don't fuckin' know, do I? I'm just saying, that's all.'

'Well, you're not one of the Fantastic Four if that's the sort of special powers you're thinking of. You have always been more in touch with your emotional side than most, though. Perhaps that's what she meant?'

'Who knows.'

'You sure you hadn't had a puff before going out?'

'No.'

'Maybe she had then.'

They both laughed and looked out at the sun reflecting brightly off the Serpentine. It had started to lower, casting long shadows from the statues on each side of them. They put their feet up on the railings in front of the bench and watched it hit the horizon just as they had done since they were young boys together, without a care in the world.

****

Chapter 24

By the time they got back to the Crypt, Dave was leaning against the chavmobile waiting.

'Urry up. Where you bin? I bin trying to ring yer.'

Ben checked his phone. It had been switched off. Mo pulled his out of his pocket. It had six missed calls.

'Sorry Dave. I had it on silent. I didn't know. What's news?'

'Jump in. We're late. I said I'd pick up Luca half an hour ago.'

Neither Ben nor Mo was in the mood for another cruise but there seemed no reason to turn him down so they jumped in. Mo climbed into the back while Ben sat in the front. Dave smiled and gripped Ben's knee tightly.

'Ave I got a night of surprises for you, Hoodie.' He winked at Ben which, rather than have the effect of giving him something to look forward to, made him feel rather uneasy, although that was based on instinct more than anything else. Dave had changed into fresh clothes and looked as if he had showered as well, his wild-eyed look of the morning having gone.

'What have you done with Luca?'

'He's waiting for us. And he's got a little pick-me-up for you.'

'What have you got?'

'You'll see when we get there. Trust me. It'll be a nice surprise.'

Ben looked round at Mo for any clues he might have. Mo rolled his eyes, shrugged and curled his knees up under his chin to fit comfortably into the back seat. Dave drove down towards the park and past the Italian Gardens. Ben looked in as they passed. It was almost empty and completely blue in the fading light. He looked round again at Mo and smiled - spending the day there had helped him forget his worries for the time being. The last few dog walkers were leaving the park and the streets were calm and empty too. There was little conversation in the car. Dave kept smiling mysteriously at Ben, who was curious to find out what the 'surprise' was while Mo sat silently in the back. For once, no one mentioned the lack of music playing.

As they approached Notting Hill Gate, Dave pulled over to the side of the road and beeped his horn. Ben and Mo peered through the back window to see Luca emerge from the shadows, half-drunk bottle of wine in one hand, Isabelle in the other. They were laughing and smiling together as they tottered from side to side towards the car.

'Heeyyyyy, look who it is,' said Luca, more to Isabelle than Ben.

'Hi Ben,' she giggled flirtatiously. 'Nice to see you again.'

Ben got out of the car to let them in. Although he responded to Isabelle with his usual charm and polite smile he was not impressed with Dave and Luca if this was supposed to be their idea of a nice surprise. He had only just managed to shake her out of his head and the last thing on his mind was getting his emotions stirred up again. Mo leant forward from the back and frowned at her, saying nothing.

'After you two,' said Ben, pulling the front seat forward and gesturing to them both to get in.

'No, no, no,' said Luca, bleary eyed and breathing hot inflammable fumes in Ben's face. He had traces of crisps caught on the sides of his normally immaculate goatee. 'Isabelle's gonna sit in da back wid you, Hoodie. Right Izzy?'

'OK Luca,' she said winking at him. 'What about you? Are you not going to squeeze in with us?'

'Er...no, I'll be right here in the front, okay?'

'OK then.'

Ben noticed her unsubtle wink at Luca and stared at her in amazement as she brushed past him to climb into the back. Where had she been all this time? Why hadn't she ever replied to any of his texts? Why the hell had she chosen to come out with them now? How could Dave and Luca think that setting him up with Isabelle would solve anything? How could they think that something as major as Old Joe's revelation could be swept aside by the added complication of Isabelle's presence. Just when he had started to relax he felt his mind racing with unanswered questions again. Dave and Luca's actions made Ben even more grateful for Mo's efforts to level his mood during the day through simple company and friendship. And despite whatever feelings he might have had - or still had - for Isabelle, he could not understand how they could be so thoughtless as to stab Hannah in the back by overlooking the closeness between Hannah and himself just the night before. Were they blind, or just stupid? Their kiss might have been brief, but Ben felt a sense of loyalty to her which he was not prepared to overlook.

Mo pushed his seatbelt in to create a firm barrier between him and Isabelle when she sat down and stared out the window in the opposite direction to avoid having anything to do with her. It was clear to all he either did not like her or was in one of his 'strops' again.

'What's up with him?' Isabelle asked.

'You been drinking?' interrupted Mo before anyone had a chance to answer her.

'Yeh, why?'

'Cause your breath stinks, that's why,' he spat, putting his hand to his face as he continued to stare out the window.

'Mo, c'mon guys and gal. Let's chill together. No bad blood right? My man, Hoodie's had a bad day so we're out to cheer him up, right. C'mon. Climb in and let's go for a ride. The night is young,' said Dave, keen to defuse the tension. 'C'mon Mo. Here. Plug you i-wotsit in and let's have some music, yeh?'

Ben and Luca climbed back in and buckled up while Mo withdrew behind his iPod, scrolling up and down with intense concentration, until eventually selecting and singing along to _Jimmy Cliff_ singing ' _Many rivers to cross, and I can't seem to find, my way over...'_. Ben looked across at him singing, feeling that it was perhaps his turn to comfort Mo for a change; he did seem to be finding it increasingly difficult to relax in the company of Dave and Luca. His clear and soft voice sent out a soothing vibe as he sang with his eyes closed, oblivious to whatever anyone else thought.

'He's style, Mo is,' thought Ben.

Isabelle pulled a face that seemed to say 'what's up with him?' again and leant forward between the front seats to take the bottle of wine off Luca and take a swig from it. Ben watched as it dribbled down her chin and onto her top. She still looked fantastic. Hair magnificently red and wavy, teeth bright and white framed by full red lips and curves so plentiful it was difficult not to stare.

He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something about her elegance which was missing – and not just because she was swigging from the bottle. He couldn't fault her looks or style, but there was definitely something missing. The dizzy, burning urges he had felt for her in Holland Park were not there. He smiled at her limply when she looked round at him, but did not otherwise know what to do or say, so he kept quiet and let others take the lead.

'So where we going boys? Where's the party?' she shrilled over Mo's continuing soft vocals.

'Gonna go for a little whiz round da 'hood before heading up town for a night out. Sound okay?'

'Fine by me, boys,' replied Isabelle.

'You haven't got to be back early tonight then?' asked Ben sarcastically.

'No, not tonight Ben,' she replied putting her hand on his knee, but again winking in Luca's direction.

Dave revved the engine up, turned up the stereo and closed the windows before speeding off round Notting Hill Gate. Isabelle was thrown backwards, elbowing both Ben and Mo and apologising for spilling her wine over Mo's lap, leaving him trying to wipe his trousers clean with his hands before it seeped through.

'Careful Izzy,' shouted Dave from the front. 'He's kosher down there, you know.'

'Kosher's jewish, you berk,' Mo shouted back. Looking across and smiling at Ben, he said: 'Shit. Must be something about these cords, heh?'

'Don't worry. At least it's only white wine this time,' laughed Ben, annoying Isabelle at the fact they were sharing a private joke.

'Don't mind me, will you?' she said indignantly, clearly unused to not being centre of attention.

'C'mon Mo, can't you liven the music up a bit. Enough of this depressing shit. Let's have some bass,' shouted Dave from the front.

Mo was determined not to submit to Dave's demands and taste for heavy garage so decided to delve into his retro section for something more to his own taste. 'Here you go Dave, turn it up.' The, leaning over Isabelle to talk to Ben: 'You'll like this, Ben: _"Jimi Hendrix"_ ; _"Crossroads traffic"_. Let's have some volume, Dave.'

Dave obliged, volume being the one aspect of music he could agree on with Mo, as the sound of Jimi Hendrix's electric guitar intro changed the tone and soon had all the boys singing along in harmony to the _'...do do doodle do doo doo do...'s_ and laughing in between. Isabelle continued to knock back mouthfuls of wine from the bottle while screeching in delight at the chaotic fun. To add to the jollities Dave started swerving the car from side to side, causing Isabelle to fall on top of Ben and then Mo as if she was on a fairground ride. Mo would just coldly push her back towards Ben when she fell in his direction; Isabelle screamed in mock distress, enjoying the attention.

Dave put his foot down as they entered the top end of Westbourne Grove and accelerated to overtake a hatchback on the left hand side which had been slowing him down. He was clumsy, and had not seen the cyclist who was ahead of him and caused him to swerve up onto the kerb, leaving the rider red-faced and waving furiously at them as they sped off, wide rimmed exhaust roaring behind them.

'Easy Dave,' shouted Mo over Jimi's continuing vocals. 'Someone's going to get killed like this.'

'You mean some other perv is,' slurred Luca. Dave shot Luca a reprimanding look.

'What do you mean by that?' perked up Ben, suddenly waking up to the fact that they were in Westbourne Grove and that they were about to pass Old Joe's spot outside the NatWest bank. Dave slowed the car right down as they neared his patch. It was impossible for Ben not to look out of the window as they approached.

As the building came into sight, the familiar feeling of fear and sickness returned to his stomach with a vengeance. The pavement around the whole block, from one end to the other, had been cordoned off with police tape and had a policeman standing guard at each end, while various firemen and other officials milled about behind the tape. The outside wall of the Bank and Westbourne House next to it was blackened and there was a sickening stench of burnt metal, rubber and something indistinguishable in the air. Flakes of black ash were being blown across the road, some sticking to the windscreen of the car. Ben stared in disbelief as he noticed Old Joe's burnt-out shopping trolley, completely blackened and dripping with the remains of hot melted plastic. It was impossible to see what had happened to Joe's bedding of cardboard and old newspapers, or even whether Joe was amongst the throng somewhere, but it appeared as if it was in the process of being covered over and cut off from public view. Ben stared silently with frozen anticipation.

'Pooh. It stinks here. What is it?' asked Isabelle.

'Seems as if dat pervy old tramp managed to set himself alight this afternoon,' said Luca, laughing. 'Someone told me dere were six-foot flames licking round dat cardboard bed of his. Schupid alcoholic old perv must have fallen asleep wid a cigarette or sumfing.'

Ben couldn't breathe or move.

'He always was a deep sleeper after a bottle of whisky, eh Ben?' said Dave turning round, grinning proudly.

Mo sat up rigidly, wide-eyed and concerned for Ben. 'Dave, tell me you didn't...'. Dave said nothing in response but continued to grin proudly and started again humming along to Jimi Hendrix with Luca.

Ben's heart - once again – nose-dived into a depth of pain he hoped he would never reach again and felt his stomach contract into a tiny ball as if it was about to rip itself out. 'The complete pair of fucking fools,' he thought as the blood drained from his sunken gaunt face for the second time that day, leaving him choking on a lump the size of an orange which had appeared in his throat.

'What's wrong Ben? You're not going to be sick are you?' asked Isabelle. He bent over double to hold his twisted stomach and stared angrily up at her insensitivity, but could not find the words to express himself.

'AAAAARRRGGGHHH!' he screamed. 'BASTARDS! LET ME OUT. I'M GOING TO BE SICK.' His shaky hands rattled the handle of his door until he managed to work it open.

'No Ben! Wait till we're outta here,' shouted Dave from the front. The commotion from inside the car was attracting attention from the policemen standing guard at the cordon.

'YOU BASTARDS!' Ben screamed from the pit of his wretched stomach. 'I'M GONNA FUCKING DIE!' he said, swinging his door open and trying in vain to release his seat belt.

'Wait Ben. Lemme get outta here first. Please,' pleaded Dave again, getting nervous at the sight of a policeman approaching the car to investigate the commotion. 'BEN! LAST TIME! CLOSE THE FUCKIN' DOOR, QUICK!' Dave wrenched the steering wheel to the right, jerking his way onto the right hand side of the road to pass the traffic building up at the lights in front of him. He put his foot down hard, accelerating away from the scene as fast as he could. Ben's door slammed itself shut from the velocity.

'Weeeee,' shrilled Isabelle, falling backwards onto Mo.

'Slow down!' shouted Mo.

They whizzed past a queue of cars stuck at the lights, leaving the policeman talking into his radio as they sped off at increasing speed across the junction with Queensway, swerving violently to the left to narrowly miss a taxi which was turning into the road from the opposite direction. Isabelle was thrown across Mo's lap – this time, screaming for real. The bottle of wine she was holding jerked its way from her hand and spilt over their legs.

'HOLD ON!' shouted Dave, continuing to accelerate, lurching the car into the inside lane to avoid crashing into the fast-nearing back of a lorry and overtake it from the left. The view from the side windows was a blur.

'STOP!' demanded Ben when he saw that their path ahead was blocked by traffic turning in from the left.

Dave put his foot down even harder and attempted to zip past the lorry in the inside lane, which had itself started to turn left, leaving them little room to manoeuvre past. He almost made it, but his available gap tightened too quickly. The front of the car clipped the turning wheel of the lorry and threw them off-course into the kerb-side railing, crushing it and the front of the car in an instant, and wrenching the steering wheel out of Dave's hands, stealing his final piece of control of the car away from him. The speed at which they continued to travel, and the angle of the twisted railing, propelled the shiny electric blue Peugeot 206 GTI car forward like an unguided missile onto the other side of the road where it landed back on its wheels, momentarily safe.

The impact from the fast-moving oncoming traffic was tremendous, and sent pieces of glass and metal flying in all directions. Traffic in both directions was brought to a crushing halt as vehicles continued to pile into their unexpected obstruction.

At the same time as Ben hit his head on the back of Luca's seat, he was aware of a loud crunching sound; of breaking, snapping, and splintering glass; of the stench of petrol and an intoxicating smell of burning electrics. He could take no more. His spirit was weak and did not have the strength to fight to stay awake. As commotion around him became a steady carnage, he let his head fall forward onto his chin and closed his eyes.

****

Chapter 25

When Ben did manage to open his eyes he could not see. It was dark. With effort, he was able to lift his hands to his face in an attempt to rub his eyes but could only feel a warm sticky fluid which he could only assume was blood. It felt static as opposed to flowing, which Ben took as a good thing. The deathly stench surrounding him was unbearable, and burnt the back of his throat and nostrils. He wanted to get up and walk away but - his head confused and disorientated - just thinking about lifting himself up seemed to take an eternity and when he eventually tried to move he found he could not.

The best he could manage was to raise his hands up and down off his lap. He thought about speaking to see who else was there but could not manage to part his dry lips, let alone find the breath to speak. He accepted the fact that he would either have to wait until his strength returned, or until someone came to the rescue. He would have to be patient. Although his strength had gone and his head really hurt, causing him to worry what damage had been done to cause the sticky mess on his face, he could feel no pain elsewhere. He felt lucky.

He inched his hand across the seat to the space next to him where Isabelle had been sitting. It was empty. He groped around as far as his arms could reach but she had disappeared. Perhaps she had already got out, he wondered. He let his hand rest on her vacant seat and let his body lie limp.

He heard a whisper: 'Ben.'

'Ben,' he heard again. Although he was still not able to see he turned his head in the direction of the whispered sound and lifted his hand up.

'Ben,' it came again, this time with a strong hand gripping his. 'It's Mo. Are you alright?'

'Urrrm,' was all he could manage, holding onto Mo's hand as tightly as he could.

'You're covered in blood. Can you move?'

Ben shook his head from side to side in response.

'I'm gonna get you out of here. Lemme know if anything hurts, okay?'

Ben nodded. Mo took hold of Ben's arm and put his other arm around his back and under Ben's shoulder to edge him towards the door.

'Where's Isabelle?' Ben whispered as his head rested against Mo's shoulder.

'Shhh. Don't worry. Let's just get you out of here first.' Mo continued to drag Ben towards the edge of the back seat until he was able to swing his legs round onto his own lap and stand up with him in his arms. Ben concentrated on clinging around Mo's neck while he was lifted up to safety. Although he felt hollow, he was reassured to be in the arms of Mo's solid strength and determination to find them safety.

'I can't see, Mo.'

'Okay. We'll soon fix that,' he said, kneeling down with Ben on his knee and using his sleeve to wipe his eyes clear of blood. 'Blink now and it'll soon clear. It's probably worse than it looks.'

Ben blinked and looked up through a pink bumpy film of clotting blood to see Mo looking reassuringly down at him. Despite all his anger, all his pain, all his loss, the sight of Mo gave Ben the strength to stay awake. And even smile.

'C'mon Ben,' said Mo continuing to trace a finger over Ben's blood-soaked eyebrows. 'Let's get away from this mess.'

Mo stood up with Ben draped across his arms and strode away from the wreckage to the side of the road, stopping twice to adjust his grip and make sure Ben was comfortable. Ben looked up dependently into his eyes, hanging onto his every whispered word of reassurance. He was aware that a crowd had started to gather and was watching them although no one had yet intervened or come to their aid.

Once on the comparative safety of the pavement, Mo knelt down and sat Ben up against the wall, continuing to wipe his face dry and stroke his face soothingly with his hands.

'Thank god you're safe. I thought I'd lost you back there. I told you that pendant would save your life one day.' Even in a crisis, Mo could find humour in something to lift Ben's spirits. Ben smiled, but could not hold back the tears which had started to flow as the memories of what preceded the crash started to flood back.

'Shhh. We're together now,' said Mo, gripping his hand tightly. 'It'll work itself out, you'll see. Nothing can come between us. Friends forever, right?'

'Right,' said Ben hopefully, through tears.

Mo cupped the side of Ben's face and kissed him on the lips. 'I love you, Ben.'

'What?' asked Ben, looking up at Mo through a mixture of blood and tears.

'You heard. I love you,' said Mo again, smiling tenderly.

Ben heard him right the first time but had asked him to repeat himself to check that his mind was not playing tricks with him. It wasn't. He was taken aback by Mo's actions and words and was not sure how to react, but did not feel at all uncomfortable with the situation. Under normal circumstances, a thousand and one questions would have raced round Ben's mind, but Ben accepted Mo's statement without question. He was his best friend and he needed him more than ever before. It changed nothing as far as Ben was concerned, although he was becoming aware that their behaviour was attracting some attention from the gathering crowds.

'Where's Isabelle?' asked Ben to divert the course of direction of the exchange.

'In the car. Don't worry.'

'We should get her, but I can't move.'

'There's no point, Ben. Trust me.'

Ben looked up and down at Mo, noticing for the first time that he too was completely covered in blood, dirt and sweat but towered above him like a pillar of strength.

'Did you just say you love me?'

'Yes,' he replied with all the relief of a man having just set himself free. 'I've always loved you and I know you can feel the same. Think about it. Life's too short to waste another moment.' Mo had bent down and was about an inch away from Ben's face, whispering into his ear. Steam and smoke billowed out from the wreckage behind him, emitting the same foul smell of death which Ben had noticed inside the car. From somewhere in the background, sirens could be heard fighting their way forward. The crowds continued to stare, some holding their mobile phones out at arm's length to take photos. Mo stroked Ben's face from his eyebrow down to his lips.

'Dave and Luca?' Ben asked.

'Trapped in the front. There's nothing we can do for them,' Mo said. 'We'll have to wait for help.'

'But...Isabelle,' repeated Ben. 'If we can move her we should save her. We can't just leave her in there.'Mo lowered his gaze and shook his head slowly from side to side. 'Mo, would you do anything I ask of you?' Ben pleaded with him as his tears cleared the remaining blood from his eyes.

'Anything, Ben. I trust no-one more.'

'We need to get Isabelle out of there. Please.'

Mo let go his grip on Ben's hand as he bowed his head before looking back into his eyes, his own now filled with tears to match Ben's before whispering: 'Just wait here. Stay safe. I'll be back in a minute.'

Ben watched as Mo walked through the parting crowds assembled around the smoking wreckage. Despite all he had been through, he smiled at the sight of Mo's silhouette against the final light of the day, safe in the knowledge that he had such a solid friend in Mo. And any minute now he would be hailed a hero for saving Isabelle; a true rock.

'Mo,' Ben called.

Mo stopped in his tracks and turned his back in expectation: 'What?'

'Your cords are dirty.'

They exchanged a knowing smile before Mo continued towards the wreckage, shaking his head as he went, and wondering just what he was going to have to return with to satisfy Ben.

Ben jumped in reaction to the sudden explosion and flash of bright light which shot across the road, sending the crowd running in all directions for cover. Shreds of metal and beads of glass popped and flew out across the road. Flames, taller than the top of the lorry the front of the Peugeot was wedged beneath, licked every corner of the wreckage indiscriminately like a furious red-hot tornado.

Through his squinted eyes, Ben watched in disbelief, desperately wishing what he saw before him was not real. He feared he was dying for the pain he felt in his chest. He felt as if, with every passing nanosecond, his insides were finally disintegrating within him. Any second now, Mo would emerge with Isabelle in his arms, he imagined.

But he did not.

As Ben closed his eyes to look away, he heard a scream. Deep and masculine. Definitely not Isabelle. 'I LOVE YOU, BEN. I. LOVE. YOU.' He knew it was Mo's voice calling him, although it was barely recognisable. The sound was raw, haunting, primeval. In pain. Last words.

Ben dipped his head in an instantaneous mixture of shame and regret as warm tears increased in pace down his face, stinging the open grazes and mixing with blood as they rolled down his cheeks and neck. To where Mo's hand had been just a minute before. He lifted his own hand up to mimic Mo's. Never before had he felt such regret with such certainty and definiteness.

His spirit battered beyond repair, and the last remaining feelings of hope deserting him with each passing moment, fragility set in, leaving his torso feeling like a soulless cavity. He closed his eyes as tightly as he could, subconsciously wishing that his nightmare would end but his mind only accelerated in pace, flashing up images of 'Joe' – his 'lost' father, Isabelle, Dave, Luca and Mo. Mo. Mo. Who had sacrificed himself in the most unselfish act he could ever have been asked to commit. At Ben's request. In the flood of emotion which followed, he wished – and felt immediately guilty for doing so – that he could have chosen to trade another's life for the sake of saving Mo. Life without him was unimaginable; hollow. And he had so many questions he wanted to ask him which he would now never know the answers to. He had irretrievably missed his chance to find out.

Ben summoned up the courage to take one last look at the burning wreckage just as firemen were running towards it with unravelling hoses trailing behind them, before closing his eyes and letting himself slip into unconsciousness.

****

Chapter 26

Well, that was just over three weeks ago and when I consider 'Hoodie' to have died – or killed off at least. I know you might find that a little strange and everything, because I'm still here – breathing and thinking - but I just don't feel the same person I was. Yes, if I pinch myself it still hurts the way it always has, so that hasn't changed. And my memories are all still intact but I just don't feel like me any more. Or know who I am. Still, I know they say that only the shallow ever get to really know themselves, but part of me really did die by that roadside. A big part. So – for now - I've reverted to being plain simple Ben. The same, but different. Calmer, more stable. That's all I can cope with for now. It took me some time to get my head round it at first but it's quite difficult to get into the mindset of being 'Hoodie' when you're stuck in bed all day or in a hospital gown flapping open at the back and your bum hanging out. It's just not 'street', you know?

Anyway, how could Hoodie possibly continue to exist without the rest of the Shady Boys? It just wouldn't be right. And I don't think the old boys across the ward are much up to the Shady Boys lifestyle – they don't look too healthy if you know what I mean. But then they wouldn't be here if they weren't would they? So I've left 'Hoodie' and my past life and pain behind me. And who knows what lies ahead.

It felt like I was sitting on the roadside for hours waiting for the emergency services – or someone - to attend to me. I kept my head bowed and my eyes closed but could not escape the sound of sirens, rescue workers shouting instructions at each other, and police chattering around me – some even joking with each other about passengers 'losing their heads' – sick fuckers. The ambulance men were great though. Understandably, their priority at the scene was to assess the potential of fishing any remaining life out of the twisted wreckage and - they explained - to attend to others injured at the scene. I was relatively okay aside from needing a good clean up, some dressing on a head wound, a frozen shoulder and the lack of any feeling below my waist. Due to a fractured vertebra, I subsequently learnt. But my greatest source of pain went completely undiagnosed. It was not visible to anyone but myself. It was within.

When I first woke up in here I was really frightened. I didn't know where I was, what had happened, or anything. The first thing I became aware of was the brace around my neck when I realised I couldn't turn my head. Then I noticed the lower half of my arm was in plaster. It didn't take long for me to work out that I was in a hospital - St Mary's, Praed Street, to be precise.

But it was my inability to move my legs which really freaked me out. I can feel my feet now, even if I still can't move them, but at the time the fear triggered a really bad feeling in my chest and set me off crying. In front of everyone! I didn't even know why at first. The sequence of events was all jumbled up in my mind. It took a while for me to work out what happened and in what order. And each time I remembered something - often quite a small detail, like 'Joe's' tattoo haunting me, or me groping around inside the car for Isabelle – I'd feel another punch in my ribs. By the time full recollection had returned I was screaming and shouting so much (what, and at who, I can't remember) that they needed to come and inject me with something to calm me down. All quite usual for someone in my position, apparently, although I wouldn't have thought it was every day that they admit someone who's just found out his father has been burnt to death and then to have then survived a car crash in which all his best friends die, one of them having just announced his secret homosexual love for the survivor. But there were good intentions behind the 'all quite usual' comment, so I let it go. Whatever they injected me with worked. It knocked me out for a few hours and calmed me down. I'd have probably ended up throwing myself off the side of the bed onto the floor otherwise.

When I came round my Mum was sitting at my bedside with Becky – she's the nurse who's been assigned to monitor my wellbeing. She's specialising in psychiatric mental health. Apparently, I fall within the hospital's description of what they would call an 'at risk patient' so she's been assigned to this ward to fulfil the hospital's 'Vulnerable Adults' Policy' and assess and monitor my state of 'mental health and risk of self harm' and to generally assume personal responsibility for my 'physical, social and spiritual needs'. At least, that's what she told me and they apparently do this as standard procedure these days. Like I'm going to try and hang myself with my pyjama cord or something. Not that there's anything wrong with me, but I reckon you could find an excuse to cart most people off if you observe them for too long.

I'm on a general ward - men only – which is not ideal, but at least being a 'Vulnerable Adult' qualifies me for a relatively private corner next to a window and near to Becky's office for observational purposes. It does mean I have to watch what I say and keep up the pretence 24/7 to make sure they don't call in the men with white coats and throw away the key though.

Anyway, my Mum was overjoyed when I opened my eyes and hugged me and kissed me a number of times on my forehead. All a bit embarrassing in a general ward, and a bit uncomfortable with the neck brace and all. It was the first sign of life I'd shown for three days and no-one had been able to provide her with an explanation as to why I wouldn't wake. I was a case of 'we'll have to wait and see'. All the obvious physical injuries had been treated but my lack of response really had the experts flummoxed. In retrospect, I'm not sure that I wasn't just catching up on my sleep, or maybe I was just too scared to wake up and face the reality I knew would be waiting for me. I think I might have been subconsciously trying to hang on to the last bit of control I had over my life: my responsiveness.

Although the public show of emotion was a tad embarrassing it was good to have Mum there when I woke up. She hadn't been home since I was first admitted and has visited every day since I woke - sometimes even twice a day. It's messed things up a bit with her work, but she says she wouldn't have it any other way. I'd feel a lot lonelier if it wasn't for her. I'm really very grateful.

None of the other patients really talks much to anyone else in here. Apart from when they're talking about who's visited them, or who's coming to visit next. They never talk about themselves, but I reckon they're worse off than me. You can see what's wrong with me, but them? Their problems are all internal or hidden beneath the sheets and that's where they're staying. And you won't hear me complain about that.

If I have got any complaints it's not being able to smoke. I'm dying for a ciggie but I can't ask for one, not just because I know they'd refuse me, but also because I know it would get back to Mum. Even though I'm sure she knows anyway, I feel any open admission from me would be disrespectful.

I haven't been shy about accepting whatever drugs they've got on offer here though. After the first week awake I really started to crave a puff on a decent 'secret agent' washed down with a nice cold glass of wine. Some days it was all I could think about. I worked out that it must have been the first week in about five years that I'd gone without a bit of weed or a top-up of wine. But even a cigarette would have done. The days were passing completely 'unpunctuated' but as they did, so my mind became sharper and brighter, and my senses more alert. It wasn't long before I was so awake I couldn't sleep. So I hammed up the acting a bit and managed to get myself some Valium for my 'violent flashbacks' (which were quite fun to act out), morphine for the 'pain' (which subsided after the first week) and some Prozac for depression (despite the fact that, perversely, all things considered, I was starting to feel great). The only real problem I've got is my asthma. My chest feels weak and my breathing has been tight ever since I first woke up so I've been put on a course of oral steroids (Prednisolone) to supplement my inhalers. And with all that rattling around inside me it still feels like I'm cleaning up my act!

At first I hoped that they'd tell me that by some miracle Mo, Luca, Dave or Isabelle was in the next ward recovering, but they're all dead. Or, in the soft language they use with me in here; 'they didn't make it'. 'Didn't make what?' I wonder. They all smile sympathetically and talk soothingly to me as if I've regressed to being a five year old again, but I know what they really mean; smashed to bits, ripped apart, burnt alive – so why don't they just fucking say so? Do they think I'm that stupid? Or that sensitive? First 'Joe', then Dave and Luca, poor innocent Isabelle and Mo, so special. Mo. Do they really think their choice of words is going to make a blind bit of difference to how I feel? Idiots.

I had to ask Becky what happened to Joe. Unknowingly, she said she'd read something in the local paper about a tramp setting himself alight. I asked her to bring it in for me to read, claiming an interest on the basis that I knew him. I was careful not to let on to her who Joe was to me – it might have aroused suspicion, or worse; she might have told Mum, and I wouldn't want to see her upset or hurt. She's been so great.

The paper confirmed that Old Joe was actually David Chapman, ex-convict and only recently released into the community, having spent twelve years in a mental secure unit after originally being jailed for ten years for dealing drugs and associated charges of international money laundering in 1995. Only means of identification was from some prison dental records. I can't understand a) why he hadn't woken up and done something, and b) how he could have been left to burn for so long to end up with his teeth being the only remaining means of identification. He must have been left in a really bad way. It doesn't quite make sense, but I know I'll never have all the answers I want now. It's too late. And there's no-one left to ask.

I reckon he must have sought me out and confirmed who I was by my unique palms. After all, so much time had passed it would have been impossible for him to recognise me from the toddler he left behind, or trace me through any other means. These palms of mine have a lot to answer for. And even immediately after the crash they stood out as being the only part of my battered and bruised body to remain unscathed.

Sometimes I wish I hadn't run off from him so quickly, but had stayed to find out more about him. I had no idea he had been in prison. As far I knew – or had always been told – he just upped and left one day, and good riddance to him (and I remember feeling that too now). Time distorts memories though, and to me he always was dead, so nothing lost, nothing gained.

Coming to terms with the loss of the others has been much more difficult although I'm no longer under any illusions about Isabelle. Her loss is - of course - to be mourned, just as anyone feels a sense of regret and compassion towards the loss of a life so short, but I now realise I was never really in love with her. It was just the idea of being in love. Call me fickle, but everything's fallen into perspective now.

Dave and Luca would not have suffered. They were crushed upon impact and killed instantly. I shall never forget the good times spent with them. True, if sometimes misguided, friends.

But Mo's pain haunts me still. His final words. How can you ever get over things like that? I don't think it's possible. I want him here with me now. I want to talk to him. I miss him. What really gets me is that if it were not for him, I would not be here and if it were not for me he would still be here. It just doesn't seem right. I'm still wearing the leather necklace he gave me for protection. I've vowed never to take it off. Even with my neck in a brace, I've refused to take it off. It stays with me. In an 'Obi Wan Kenobi' sort of way it is the 'security blanket' that Mo's friendship always gave me. I've accepted the rest – as he would – as fate: kismet.

It's all getting easier to live with now. Well, not easy exactly, but better than it was. I have good days and bad days, but all in all it's getting better. The pain's still there though. Right at the back of my throat and inside my chest. I don't think that feeling will ever leave me.

When I first got here I used to wonder whether I was going mad. But then I started wondering whether I was slipping from sanity to madness or madness to sanity. The more I thought about it, the finer the line got between the two, until I realised that the very fact I was able to reason the point with myself meant that I was definitely sane, and probably a better person for having thought it through. There's a lot of time to think in here. Actually, even when I'm reading or watching telly, I still can't stop thinking things through. There's little else to do. It's been a chance for me to get to know myself again.

Oh, I almost forgot. How could I? I must tell you about a dream I had when I first woke up. What is it about dreams? Where do they come from? What do they mean? Are they metaphors reflecting life's events, or do they predict the future? A preview of things to come, or glimpses of a life already lived in a distant place and a different time? Do they contain clues for us to follow? Who knows? But this one's a real cracker and was so weird it's been playing on my mind ever since.

I was being led down a brick-walled corridor with a low ceiling by two floating angels, each draped in fresh white cotton robes. The angels were in stark contrast to the damp dirty walls. I asked them where we were going. They told me that they were taking me to see the boss so he could tell me what he wants me to do. I told them I was very excited about meeting him, and that I had been anticipating this day for some time. We left the corridor and passed through some fresh breezy floating clouds which led us to an open arched entrance to a garden.

The angels stood on either side of the entrance and pointed inside, indicating that I should go on ahead. Alone. Inside I saw an old man who I thought looked like 'old Joe' might have done after a good scrub, shave and haircut and 15 years younger. The twinkle in his eyes was where the likeness was indisputable. I could not speak at that point, but he spoke to me and I listened. He told me not to feel guilty or worry about what had happened and that as long as I learnt from the experience I would achieve my destiny: my kismet. He told me that my life contained a pre-determined role and all that remained was for me to act it out for others to learn from for the greater good. I remember being told that as long as I could take the lessons from my experience, I could do no wrong and would be free to forge my own way forward. The future was in my hands.

I looked around; there was little to see. An ornate wrought iron archway appeared which led the way to more secluded and more beautiful gardens. The two angels had appeared on the other side, floating and beckoning me forward. Although I was aware it was a garden, it appeared empty to the eye. All that could be seen were clouds, sky and Joe. And an overpowering surrounding scent of freshly washed linen, drying in the sun. It was quite a beautiful feeling and more of an experience than a definite place. Then I saw Mo standing in the middle of the garden, glowing, urging me to join him. His clothes were pristine. I remember feeling reassured about that at the time; it always mattered to him that he was well presented.

I called out to him but no sound came from my mouth. He couldn't hear me. I jumped up and down waving, but he seemed not to see me, he was looking beyond me. I tried to run towards him but was unable to shift myself from the spot where I was standing. The harder I tried to run, the less impact I appeared to be having. Any effort I made was futile, leaving me unbearably frustrated. Then, as I was about to give up, I managed to take one step forward only to be interrupted by Joe behind me. His voice sent a rush of emotion to the pit of my stomach. I looked round but could not see him. And when I looked back towards Mo, he was gone too. Then I felt myself falling backwards and spinning out of control as I was overcome with a mixture of loneliness and an overwhelming sense of desire. I closed my eyes and held my head to steady myself as I continued to fall.

I spun round and round for what seemed like ages until I landed with a soft painless crash and opened my eyes. I was in a desert. Totally alone with no sign of life in any direction. Just dunes with wisps of sand being whipped up off their peaks which were silhouetted against the sunset. There was music playing. Eerie, unfamiliar sounds, like flutes, whistles and bells. Someone was calling me but I couldn't see anyone. It sounded adult and female. The sound of calling, coupled with my frustration at not being able to see where it was coming from started me crying. At first, there was just one hot tear burning its way down my cheek, but that was quickly followed by another. And another. And another. Until I was sobbing uncontrollably.

I sat down and curled up into a ball. And then, as suddenly as I had arrived, the music and calling stopped. As did my crying. And, in what I can only describe as being a moment of realisation, I stood upright on my spindly legs, spread my wings and started to fly.

It was effortless. I was hollow, light and empty and able to glide across the dunes with no more than the will of my mind and heart, escaping the closing sunset and following the light with a tilt to the left and then to the right until I could see vegetation and towns ahead. My speed increased as did my altitude. I was rising higher and my view became wide. I could see the sea approaching and followed the coastlines until I recognised Europe and the direction of England. As soon as London became visible I decided to descend - and automatically came in to land on the fourth floor windowsill of a dirty grey-looking building.

When I looked through the window I saw a thin, gaunt, bandaged boy lying in a hospital bed with his mother beside him. It was obviously a dream, but felt SO real as I stared in at myself, wondering how I could be in two places at once. There was no movement from the boy and the mother had her head bowed away from me. Then I blinked, felt a rush of blood to my head - blinked again – just in time to catch sight over my Mum's shoulder of a small bird flying away from the windowsill.

I was so confused when I woke up that I had to pinch myself and look at my palms to check it was still me.

Strange thing is I've not dreamt at all since. Which is unusual for me.

****

Chapter 27

Sunday, 31 August, and I'm really pissed off today. There's no two ways about it - this place is driving me mad. This was supposed to be the best summer of my life, the summer which got everything started and when my freedom should be at its height. But I'm still cooped up in this freakish place with these cheap nasty peeling magnolia walls and the stench of disinfectant everywhere. It's full of miserable people shuffling up and down the corridors in their dressing gowns feeling sorry for themselves or nurses being over-cheery to compensate. It's all so false; emotionless.

I'm managing to shuffle about myself now, though. My back still feels very stiff and my legs are really weak but I can make it to the toilet and back, which at least gives me a certain amount of independence and dignity back.

It's been thirty one days exactly since the crash now and it's nine days to my seventeenth birthday. I've told them that – I don't care – I'm just going to get up and go home on my birthday, regardless of what they say. Forty days of isolation from the outside world is enough for anyone. It's like a form of imposed wilderness, supposedly for my own good, but I can't see why I need to stay any longer. Apart from being a bit unsteady on my feet and needing to sleep a lot, I'm fine. There's nothing wrong with me.

I'll tell you what's also bothering me. It's a really sunny day out. I've been awake since 05:20 and watched the sun light up the sky and get hotter and hotter to make the most perfect clear blue fresh day. I just want to be out in it. This time last year – to the day – the Shady Boys were all at Notting Hill Carnival together, dressed to impress, flashing the cash, skanking to sounds, eating curry goat, flirting, getting out of it. It was about the best weekend we ever had together. We all had enough attention from girls although, looking back, I now view Mo's reserved coolness towards them in a different light. Funny, the more he must have tried to appear uninterested, the more he attracted them. If I knew it was that easy then, I could have really reeled them in. Anyway, it's only up the road and I won't be going this year. I'm stuck in this dump. Hannah told me not to worry about it, that there'd be plenty more Carnivals for us to go to in the future. I smiled and said 'you're right,' but deep down I know it won't be the same. Some things just can't be recreated.

I still feign sleep quite a lot as well. It gives me an excuse to close my eyes and think without being disturbed, or inviting someone to ask what I'm thinking, which is so annoying. I'm all right when I'm reading. I just get left alone. But I can't read all day long just to be left alone so I pretend to sleep. I'm building my strength up for when I get out of here.

Mum still visits every day, which I really look forward to. I don't really talk much when she's here – I don't know what to say, but I listen a lot. She tells me stories of all the good times we had together when I was younger. How she used to take me to the park almost every day, or how she taught me to swim and how I would scream and cling to her. She never complained about me, even then. I'd forgotten so much of what she's been telling me, sometimes it's like listening to stories about another person. It all feels like a very long time ago.

When she runs out of stories involving the two of us, she sometimes tells me about her own childhood, how she was never allowed out after school and how strict her parents were. She said she was always proud to be able to give me a bit more freedom, but I could tell from the sorrow in her eyes that she was wondering whether she had given me too much. It can't be easy being a parent. Especially to someone like me. I feel guilty about how much I've ignored her over the past few years. And I don't even know why that was. It's just the way things worked out.

I haven't mentioned her ex-husband to her, or even loosely referred to the burning of 'Old Joe', and I'm not going to. She's been treating me with such amazing strength, there's no way I'm going to do anything to hurt her now. Besides, what could be gained from telling her? As a father and ex-husband he was already dead anyway. Events just confirmed his status.

On a good note, Mum brought me GCSE 'O' level results in last week. I had originally planned to pick them up from school, but Mr Wiseman had heard about the accident (everyone local and from the school had heard about the accident – the side railings had become a shrine of flowers as soon as the road had been swept clean) and been round to hand-deliver my results to Mum. Apparently, he was really upset to hear about my condition and spent quite a bit of time talking to Mum about what he could do to help. He said that he could smooth things over at school and arrange to keep a place open for me in the sixth form to do 'A' levels if I changed my mind. In a way, I felt reassured to know he hadn't given up on me. And now that I've got the time to think about it, I can appreciate how much effort he used to put into helping me when I was at school as well. So I've asked Mum to pass on my genuine thanks for trying, and that I'd think about sixth form. I might. Anyway, I managed to get four GCSE 'O' levels. Which I was quite surprised about given what little effort I'd put into them. And that was when I was there, which wasn't often! English lit. (B); English language (A), Maths (B) and Geography (B). Enough for me to keep my options open whichever direction I go in.

Mo got ten. All 'A's and 'B's. Mrs Mo came in to visit on Friday. It was horrible. I couldn't help but feel guilty for being alive. She was crying as well. Told me how quiet it was at home without Mo. She also said I should keep in touch and pop round and see her when I can - that I was like a second son to her. I said I would. I might. I'm not sure if I could bear it though.

She'd brought in a present for me. All wrapped up with my name on it. She'd found it in Mo's room and said she'd thought twice about bringing it for fear of upsetting me, but then thought it would have been what Mo would've wanted. He always was organised. Can you imagine wrapping a birthday present for someone over a month before their birthday? I don't usually even remember to get people a card in time. I opened it once she'd left. There was no card and no message, but a brand new pair of Armani white elephant cords. They must have cost him a fortune. Although I liked them on Mo, I'm not really sure they're my thing. But I will wear them. He'd be hurt if I didn't.

Hannah's been visiting regularly as well. Every other day, in fact. And not just in some morbid wish to share a sense of grief with someone - or any other ulterior motive for that matter - but just to be a good friend. And because she thinks I'm worth it. And I've loved it. When she first came, I wasn't sure what reaction I'd get from her so I used to pretend to be asleep, just peeping out at her occasionally to gauge her mood. Her scent and presence made it impossible for me to really fall asleep anyway. She looked as lovely as I remembered at Alexandra Palace that night we first kissed and stirred up the same feelings within me as she had done then. It was enough for me just to just lie there, eyes shut, listening to her breathing and basking in the knowledge that she was next to me, but after a while she started stroking my hair and talking to me about things. You know. Everyday things, like shopping, what's on telly, what's in the news. Sadly, no talk about who's doing what though.

However, her voice was so warm and inviting that I decided to open my eyes and look at her but not speak. She returned a smile which shone like a real ray of sunshine. Familiar, warm, caring; loving even. Aside from giving the occasional word of acknowledgement I let her do most of the talking on her visits and it's great just listening to her - her hopes, her thoughts and feelings. She's more similar to me than I ever knew or imagined.

She always manages to find something interesting to talk about and it's impossible not to get drawn in by her. She's totally irresistible. Hypnotic almost. Occasionally, we'll hit a silent moment when we just look at each other and I know that we're both thinking about absent friends. I think we both understand that talking about them wouldn't make either of us feel any better, so we don't. It's possible we might also be a bit scared of raising the subject for fear of upsetting the other. Things are going so well otherwise.

Sometimes, when she's talking about things we can do together – like a short break away or even just a night out - I can see that she gets close to talking about the others and there's obvious sadness in her eyes; even the hint of a tear at times, but I can see her hold it in for the sake of wanting to appear strong in front of me. Although I haven't said as much to her, I really feel a close bond has formed between us since we've had the chance to talk. This might be partly due to the fact that we're the only two friends left (she told me in detail about her fall-out with Chloe, who she describes as having gone totally off the rails since she took to hanging round with a different group of boys from Harrow Road area – so much for loyalty!). But I think there's a lot more to it than that. She could be my soul mate. And to think that she was there the whole time without me even knowing it. Time will tell. There's a lot of feelings churning around inside so we'll take it slowly, but I can't wait to get out and see how it goes. We both agree we're 'special' together.

The police have been in a couple of times to see me as well. Berks, with their blunt, aggressive questions. It was easy to ignore them and pretend to be asleep - satisfying even, when I saw how much it would wind them up. But being an innocent back seat injured party meant it was not too difficult for me to pretend I had absolutely no recollection of what happened other than getting into the car for an evening drive.

They persisted though, asking questions about a concealed firearm in the car (they didn't use the word 'shotgun' and I was careful not to fall into their trap of letting on that I knew what sort of 'firearm' they were asking about) but my silence was my best guard, my protection. They were also interested to find out more about evidence of drugs being present in the boot. I started laughing at that point when I wondered whether they'd actually found any physical evidence of drugs or just got high when they stood next to the burning wreck. I had all these images of spaced out coppers dancing to Jimi Hendrix dancing round my head. Eventually, Becky's intervention saw them off.

Other than that, I've spent a lot of time just lying here thinking. Even when my eyes are closed, my mind's busy working through where it all went wrong and what comes next. In that respect, I've been quite happy in my self-imposed isolation. It's a chance to reassess and plan properly.

I can't remember what the structure of my days used to be like, or what they felt like. I try to, but I can't. Time has lost all meaning to me now. I find it gets to night time and it's just impossible to sleep. Even when I try, I just can't stop my mind going into overdrive, thinking of the past, the future, and it won't switch off. Sometimes it all gets too much and I wish I could just pass out - to find a peaceful oblivion. It's times like that when it feels as if I'm surrounded by darkness. Big black clouds and suffocating fog closing in on me, leaving me unable to breathe. I mentioned it to Becky once when it got really bad and she summoned a doctor who put it down to exacerbated asthma caused from the stress of the crash. He upped the strength of my inhalers and put me on a different course of steroids to strengthen my lungs.

None of which has actually helped get me off to sleep though. Even with the other cocktail of different coloured pills I'm swallowing at various intervals during the day I seem to have developed a habit of waking at precisely 02:37 each night and not being able to get back off to sleep until sunrise. Which is not much fun as there are only the shadows for company at that time of night, or the occasional sound from Becky or whoever else has been put on night duty.

But during the day, the sleep I get is heavy. Like I've been hit over the head with a sledgehammer. I mean, in total, I'm sleeping around ten to twelve hours each day which is five or six more than I was used to. Straight through in the morning, wake up at lunchtime for Mum or Hannah, then a couple more hours in the afternoon and then a few more in the evening. Until 02:37. Precisely.

This leaves me with a sort of lack-of-sleep-hangover during the day which makes my limbs feel as heavy as lead. Not good when my legs feel so weak to start with. It feels as if I have to carry them round rather than they carry me. And this 'sleep-hangover' leaves my feet and hands feeling cold – sometimes numb - as well. Other senses have changed too. My sense of smell is far more acute than it used to be. Perhaps it's because I haven't smoked since I've been here. I'm always aware of the clinical, sterile smell of the hospital; it sticks to the inside of my nostrils and I don't think I'll ever get used to it. Flavours have become much more intense now as well. The raisin and biscuit Yorkie bars Mum and Hannah have been bringing in for me have left my taste buds tingling in delight for over an hour after eating them. I've not been eating much else though. I've not had much of an appetite for proper meals which has left me looking a bit too thin – even more so than usual, that is - but I don't suppose that's a bad thing in this day and age. It gives me plenty of room to catch up with when I get out of here – I'll be able to get away with eating all the Twix and Twirls I can get my hands on without worrying.

The music in here is total crap. I'm not in the mood to listen to Mo's megamix on my phone so I plug into the hospital radio every now and then. But listening to the constant shit it churns out just reminds me of how much I miss Mo, and his ability to find a tune to fit the mood of any situation.

That said, I heard _Here Comes The Sun_ by _The Beatles_ the other day. I'd heard it before, of course, but never really listened to it. It's a beautiful song, and fitted my mood at the time so perfectly it could almost have been chosen by Mo himself from beyond. The lyrics were so warm, so protective, they made me reach for the sun-shaped pendant.

It also got me thinking about a conversation I'd had with Mo about the value of The Beatles' musical contribution not long before the accident.

We'd always agreed that The Beatles' place in musical history was indelible and deserved but if you had to pick a favourite from that era, The Rolling Stones' music mashed up the Beatles' more commercial sounds any day. Especially some of the crap Paul McCartney churned out – Octopus's Garden and Frog Garden being cases in point. And, although Mo was a confirmed fan, John Lennon always struck me like a bit of a hypocritical, egotistical spaced out hippy, especially singing about _'imagine no possessions...'_ from his pristine multi-million pound mansion funded from a steady stream of royalties funded from those he was preaching to. Elton John had him sussed when he sent him a 40th birthday card greeting with the message: _'Imagine six apartments / It isn't hard to do / One is full of fur coats / The other's full of shoes'_. Fucking hypocrite. And I'd rather listen to Mo's home-strummed versions of _The Rolling Stones' 'Honky Tonk Women'_ or _'Sympathy For The Devil'_ any day over anything The Beatles' ever came up with.

Anyway, that said, I listened to the words of _'Here Comes the Sun'_ carefully for the first time, and when I closed my eyes I could almost visualise Mo sitting in the corner of the room, strumming along on his guitar, filling the air with his smooth voice. It was part memory and part imagination, but the image moved me to tears. When I opened my eyes - it must have been a culmination of all the feelings of loss I'd been suppressing up to that point – I found I couldn't stop crying. And once I started, the floodgates were open and I couldn't stop. Not gentle weeping either, but increasing, gasping, huge sobs. I couldn't stop myself.

It was such a simple song, but it managed to strip all my defences away, draining my remaining strength from me. The full force of everything I had loved and lost suddenly hit me with maximum impact. Like being involved in a second crash. Becky heard my cries and came rushing over to pull the curtains round my bed. She put her arm round my shoulder and encouraged me to 'let it all out'. So I did. All my memories, all my pain, everything. In the sixteen short years I'd been alive it felt as if life had already thrown everything it could at me. There couldn't possibly be any more. That's what I told myself, anyway. I couldn't believe that fate could dish out any more pain to one person in a lifetime. So while I cried with all my heart, I vowed that when I stopped I would never shed another tear. Like Hannah, I would hold it in and carry my loss and pain with silent dignity.

I also decided that it was selfish of me to cry and indulge my pain when there were so many others who did not have such luxury. Especially as I am so responsible for them not being here. My own father would not have died were it not for me creating confusion in Dave's mind. He probably would not even have returned to the area if it were not to search for me. Luca and Isabelle would not have been in the car if it were not for me.

And Mo. Mo! If I had not asked him to return to the wreckage and rescue Isabelle he would still be by my side now. Why could I not accept that there was no chance she was alive even then? I had sent Mo to his death. My poor, unfulfilled, most trusted friend. But gay? I had never considered it possible.

I had no idea he felt that way about me. I had no idea he could ever have any feelings – in that way – towards another boy. In retrospect, I don't suppose he ever hid it though. He just didn't say anything about it one way or the other. He was aloof. But I think I can understand the pain he must have felt to be in the company of someone who had no idea of how he felt and who would never reciprocate. If he felt towards me the same dizzy blindness I used to feel towards Isabelle, then I know how tormented he must have been. I wish he was here now to say sorry to and to tell him I understand. I think I'm carrying his pain and frustration round with me now. As if I absorbed his soul when he died. I yearn to be able to speak to him.

Some days I miss him desperately, and knowing I will never see him again hits me with renewed shock each time. Every time I experience something even slightly sad or emotional the memory of him is triggered. It's like being haunted. His spirit is within me. I'll think of him in reaction to silly things – seeing someone with curly hair, for example, or overhearing the guy across the ward talking to his wife about how he missed his kids and to make sure that she kissed them for him before they went to sleep at night. I even saw a hungry looking bird staring through the window the other day and wondered if it could be him.

I was at the water tap filling my jug the other day when Mo suddenly came into my mind – for no particular reason. But I was stuck with the image of him looking into my eyes at the roadside telling me that he loved me and I just wanted to burst into tears. I sucked it in, just as I'd promised myself, but it felt like my insides were being ripped out all over again. Everyone else in the ward must have wondered what was going on when I dropped the jug and collapsed onto the floor. They all just stared blankly from their beds. Becky rushed over to help me up on my feet and take me back to bed. As soon as I realised what a scene I'd caused and how concerned she looked, I laughed it off, blaming it on the fact that my legs were weak and had given way. It wasn't that though. It was Mo.

That fall was also a turning point. As Becky was helping me back into bed I instinctively knew that something wasn't right with my heart and mind. Something had changed again from within, I wasn't sure what, but I felt as if I was morphing into someone different. But I told no one. Not that I'd have known how to express what was wrong even if I did want to. Yes, I was still riddled with guilt, with shame, and overflowing with grief. I also knew, without doubt, that if I tried to open up and talk to anyone the tears would start to flow again and might never stop. And I know their game in here. Once they've got you, they like to hang on to you; find something wrong with you and keep you in. And I don't want to give them the excuse to keep me here any longer than I need to be. So I said nothing. To no-one.

****

Chapter 28

Day thirty-eight in here now and I'm feeling so much better than I was this time last week. Euphoric, almost. I'm still aiming to be out of here in two days' time – my birthday - so I've been making an extra effort to show that I'm physically, mentally and spiritually capable of taking care of myself. I had a psychiatrist visit me yesterday for 'a chat' (I think he was verifying Becky's assessment of me) and everything seemed to go okay, so no problem. Since the incident with the water jug last week – to all intents and purposes – I've got it all out my system. No more falls, no more tears. And it's not all pretence either. I really do feel refreshed and raring to go. Whether it's all down to me, or whether the drugs have started to kick in, who knows, but whatever it is, it's working.

I can't see they'll have any excuse to refuse discharging me. I can get about okay. My neck brace is off and the flexibility in my back and legs is increasing each day. I can even manage short walks round the hospital on my own now. And my appetite's returned – especially for chocolate - so outwardly I'm in control. Hannah's increased her visits to daily now, often combining them with Mum's, which is nice. We're like a proper little dysfunctional family now, spending most of our time talking about when I get out. So my release seems inevitable. I can't wait.

Mum brought in a new hooded top for me this morning, knowing how attached I was to my old one. It's an early birthday present. I haven't put it on yet 'cause I've got nowhere to go, so it's just been hanging from the back of the chair next to my bed like an empty shroud. To be honest, it's been haunting me hanging there all empty and hollow and I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to put it on. I meant it when I said I'd laid 'Hoodie' to rest. I don't want to take any more backwards steps in life and things have been going really well with Mum now - I feel we've really reconnected. I've managed to rediscover that bright, optimistic and innocent ten year old boy within myself again, which has left me wondering why our relationship had ever become so distant. Just lost touch with who I was, I guess.

Anyway, each time I see her I make a point of asking her all about her day and try to stop being so self-centred. Now my own energy is so strong I really feel a need to try and help others, especially those who've been so good to me. We're planning a day out to the seaside when I get out. Don't know where yet, but somewhere new. We've joked that we'll go whatever the weather's like, as long as we go together. We used to go to the seaside out of season a lot when I was younger, when all the summer tourists and day trippers had gone home. Some days there would be howling gales and we'd still have a good time. The prospect of some fresh air and a walk by the sea even if the sun's not shining, has given us both something to focus on and look forward to. I'm quite excited about it. Just the simple pleasure of something like a cup of tea in a tea shop, or eating a bag of chips along the sea front will be enough for me. And the company of course.

I think I've managed to piece together a few loose ends now as well, which has put my mind to rest on a couple of things. You know that dream I had when I first entered hospital? Well, I'm sure now that it was all a message, a voice pointing the way forward for me. A lesson to learn from. A deliberate step closer towards my fate. I'm still analysing exactly what it means, but I'm sure I was chosen to become the sole survivor of that crash for a reason. My friends' deaths will not be in vain and my survival will not be without reason. I'm here for a purpose.

I remember how fierce, how energetic, how keen I used to be for the future to arrive. Life seems so short, so valuable. If life had a pause button to press, I'd press it now. Or better still, a rewind button. I used to think of myself as someone fun, brave and courageous. Now I'm not so sure. I'm still someone to be reckoned with though, of that I am convinced. But who? I still don't know.

The fact that the accident took place at a junction was also a deliberate symbol placed in front of me to recognise and learn from – I mean even the tune playing when the crash happened was 'Crosstown Traffic'. Coincidence? I don't think so. It was a message telling me I had reached a crossroads in life and needed to choose the right track and change to put things right. And I have changed. And learnt. I now know how fortunate I've been to have had such friends, to love, and be loved (whether I was aware of it at the time or not). So I'm truly grateful for my Mum's daily presence, and for the fact she's always been there for me whether I appreciated it at the time or not. And I know I'm lucky to have found such a good friend in Hannah. There's a lot for me to be grateful for and I'm going to appreciate every drop of it from now on.

But even though I appreciate their love and friendship I also realise that these one-to-one connections will never be enough for me. For my true destiny - and it still lies hidden somewhere – to be realised, I will need to reach out and connect with many. I feel it. It will come.

Becky has really helped. Even though I've never let my guard drop entirely with her, she's helped turn me round from being someone who at first didn't want to wake up or ever leave this place into the happy(er) lad I am today. I call her 'my angel of mercy'. A sort of personal guardian. I understand it's part of her job to ask me lots of questions, which is a bit of a pain, but I decided early on to play along out of interest in what she was doing, and to see how she was interpreting what I was saying.

She thinks I'm a really interesting case study and scribbles away in her little notepad for hours on end after our conversations together. Reckon she must have written enough to fill a volume already and although I've been very careful about which of my thoughts and feelings I share with her, I don't feel at all threatened by her presence or inquisitions. Quite the contrary, in fact. She seems really pure and genuine, and must have unlimited patience to spend such long days rushing around from one ungrateful patient to another and still find the time to sit with me and talk until I'm too tired to continue. I especially appreciate her being there when I get bored late at night; when all the other patients are snoring. She'll come and ask me how I've been sleeping, how I'm coping, that sort of thing. I've been asking her about her work and mental health generally. She's really very knowledgeable and I've been testing myself out on her by playing a few mind games to see how she reacts. It can be good fun. The other day I asked her whether she's ever tried any recreational drugs herself to explore her own mind a bit deeper. She was very black and white about it. She said: 'I don't do drugs. If I want a rush I just wait until my buzzer goes. I couldn't cope if I took drugs as well.' It does make me wonder how well she can get to know others' minds if she hasn't even explored her own to its full potential.

So I'm doing a sort of assignment of my own on Becky without her knowing and without the need for a notebook. You see, she has this most fantastic, glowing bright yellow aura which is quite incredible. It sends out such glowing warmth and protection from wherever she is. I can even sense her presence approaching the ward before I'm able to see her. It's completely awesome, and I want to find out whether she's similar in any way to me, or whether there's some other reason why she transmits such a reassuring glow.

She's not the only one in here with an aura either. There are quite a few others. Patients have little else to do but focus on themselves and concentrate on getting better, which might explain why a higher than average number of auras are visible. Although they're mostly much darker, dimmer and altogether less interesting than the bright yellowy, swirling hues of Becky's, this insight I've got into their souls has given me the power to see who needs help most, and where to direct some of my overflowing energy.

This inner connection I can achieve with others means that I not only have my own twisted memories and pain to deal with, but I can feel the pain and loss of everyone else as well. It's as if the crash somehow subsumed the spirits around me into my own soul. I can feel Mo's love, loyalty and ultimate loss; Isabelle's regret at never having lived long enough to enjoy her glittering future; my father's sadness at not having got to know his son. I can also feed off my mother's continuing love and concern for her son.

It's an amazing sense of total awareness and clarity of purpose I've been given, not just visually, but spiritually as well. I can read people's minds. I can judge what sort of mood Becky is in, and whether she's having a good day or bad day before she's even told me. I can tell from looking at Mum or Hannah whether they're genuinely happy or sad, or just making an effort for my sake. This becomes even easier when they talk as I can see colours being emitted from them which give away even more clues. Strands of orange, turquoise and yellow for peaceful happiness. Smoky black purplish clouds for deep moods of sadness. I can't describe how amazing this is, and I haven't attempted to share this phenomenon with anyone else yet. I don't want to threaten my release.

There was this old guy in the bed opposite and along to the left who stank and kept making loud belching noises. I think it was air release from some sort of valve concealed under his bedclothes actually. Anyway, I could almost see his light fading throughout the day and I remember thinking at the time that he wouldn't have long to go. He never spoke much anyway, so I wasn't getting any clues from anything he might have said. He just stared blankly ahead, eyes dull as a dead fish. Looked like he'd given up before he'd even gone. I saw his light flicker out towards the middle of the night and a couple of hours later saw the night duty nurse call a doctor to his bedside before pulling his bed sheets over his head and wheeling him out. I made out I was asleep the whole time, of course.

And last week there was this other guy who actually looked okay, and had just spent the day with a stream of gift-bearing well-wishers kissing him and making plans for when he was discharged. He'd laughed and joked throughout the whole day, telling everyone how well his operation had gone and how he should be back home within three or four days. Even while he spoke I knew from the speed with which his light was fading that he wouldn't make it. His dull, flickering aura just didn't match the loud, jovial person, laughing with his family. Once his last guests had left and he was on his own, his light faded to a dim shade of bluey grey and started flickering like a gas hob left on in a breeze. His face went white and he looked really scared when he pushed the panic button next to his bed. A team of nurses arrived immediately - Becky included, whose aura was shining brightly by contrast - to whisk him away for emergency treatment. Post-op complications apparently. He'd bled all over the sheets and was admitted to another specialist ward after that. I asked Becky what happened. She wasn't so sure of the events after she'd handed him over to the operating theatre, but it was internal complications of some sort. He had decided to upgrade to a private wing, and was now expected to stay in for at least another six weeks.

If I thought it would help, I'd let someone in authority know when I saw someone's light fading but I don't think they're set up to treating spirits here. Sure, if it's a physical or mental problem they'll find a pill, a drip, cut you open, patch you up; but when your spirit gives up there's not a lot they can do bar rush around prolonging the inevitable. So I've not said anything. Plus, I don't want Becky to start thinking I've gone all weird on her or they might never let me out. Might find myself indefinitely checking into a 'private' (and secure) ward of my own somewhere till the men in white coats decide to let me out. So I'm keeping quiet about my powers and biding my time to make my own plans for when I get out.

I mentioned the colours I could see around people to the psychiatrist they sent round to talk to me yesterday. He said that the colours I see aren't really there to which, at the time, I replied that I already knew that deep down but thought I'd just mention them. But I can see them. Really. I just don't want to talk about them to someone who can't. After all, it's his job to assess my mental health and I don't want to give him any reason to detain me in this clinical prison for any longer than I have to be here. I've got things to do.

Anyway, it's not my mental health which needs watching, it's my chest. It still feels really tight and tense, which makes it difficult for me to breathe some days. My throat's not so good either; feels like it's got a permanent lump wedged in it. But my mind's razor sharp now. I've had plenty of time to answer all of those questions we never get round to addressing. You know: What do we want out of life What are we aiming at? What do we really want to be, have and do? What gives us our greatest sense of purpose? What should or could we change? What are we prepared to do to get there? Can you forgive anyone who has ever hurt you in any way?

Turning these questions over in my mind triggered a big turning point for me. They got me wondering what 'it' is all about. You know. Life. Every time I looked at my palms I used to wonder what sort of 'gift' I'd been blessed with. I started to pick up any book I could find on the hospital trolley which could help provide some answers. Even flicked through copies of the Bible, an English translation of the Koran, Buddhism, whatever I could lay my hands on to try and increase my understanding of myself and others. None of them provided all the answers, but in the end I didn't need them. It all became crystal clear. It was all a matter of being able to read the signs, just as my father had said (it now seems churlish not to call him 'father'; after all - he was - and who's to say I wouldn't have ended up like him if I'd have carried on as I was?). My palms, my aura, my survival from the crash. Everything was a pre-determined journey to provide me with the signs to help me discover who I really am.

I started to question why it was that I was being kept in for so long while so many others around me had healed much quicker (aside from the ones which gave up faith) and been allowed to go home so quickly. I realised that it must have been all the positive energy I was emitting which was healing them and leaving me feeling so weak. I figured out that if I was to safeguard my own continual strength so that I could channel it into healing others and making the world a better place, I would have to learn to harness it more effectively. I'd have to use my power wisely. And that was the point at which I received instant realisation. The point at which I think everything finally fell into place. When my purpose, my destiny, my kismet, became clear.

That was when I realised I was the new Messiah.

****

Chapter 29

I'm not crazy or stupid enough to think that this self-realisation will be easy for others to accept. If you're reading this and thinking I've gone a bit weird, I wouldn't blame you. This sort of shit doesn't happen every day. It's not an easy concept to get your head round, I know. That's why I haven't told anyone about it. Not yet anyway. I'm going to have to save my revelation until the time is right. It needs careful planning, and I need to make sure I can build up a support base of followers before I reveal myself to the world. Day 40 tomorrow, and I'll be outta here.

But, I tell you, the feeling of change within me is magnificent. I really feel like I've shed my old skin and become someone new. I've got a new level of insight into others that borders on the gifted. My past life under that worn-out, sweaty old hood feels like just a distant, but necessary journey towards achieving my current level of being. I've discovered the secret of life, the path to happiness and fulfilment for all, and I can't wait to get out there and share it. If there is such a thing as the meaning of life, then I've either found it, or I'm so damn close to it that I'm going to find out soon enough. It feels like I'm holding the key that will unlock the world from its troubles and change it for the better. For the past few days I've been bursting to tell someone, but I've fought myself to resist. The time's not right yet.

I'm dizzy with excitement though - the opposite of being drunk. All my senses have come alive; colours are brighter, scents are stronger, my ears pick up and recognise every little sound and my mind is clear as crystal. I'm like a finely tuned animal, at one with the world and ready to pounce. Finally, I feel sure I'm on the brink of something big. Really big. And I'm almost ready to share it. Any impatience I've felt in the past has been replaced with certainty that my time is here. Now.

It's like it's all come together and I've become this huge force of energy. All those various forms of energy I could see circling round the hospital and beyond built up and accumulated into this great big outer force which swirled around me entering my body and fusing with all the strength building up inside me. It was like a cosmic Big Bang when it finally happened, and left me with a new power which transcends mortality. I am the chosen one. The new prophet.

I've come to realise that believing only in myself would never have been enough to realise my dreams, and yet blindly submitting to some invisible outside force was never really plausible either. The key, the secret, is the combination of the two forces - engage both mind and heart together. And to think that the secret lay hidden in my palms – my 'simian lines' - all along! Deep down I think I always knew that this was my destiny even before I became aware of my genetic intuitive gifts. And ever since my 'big bang', I feel unstoppable, invincible. My head reels every time I think about it but the fusion of my heart and mind, the combination of my inner self-belief and respect for and submission to the greatness of the outer world is just too marvellous not to be shared. I've got to spread the word to as many others as possible. As far and wide as possible. The time is right; there are great forces at work in my favour.

Mr Wiseman visited me yesterday. I was really surprised that he'd taken the time to come all the way just to see me. The fact that he was even bothering with me after all the trouble I'd caused him while I was at school left me quite speechless to start with. He was really different from how he is in the classroom environment though – normal, funny, human, caring and understanding. I could see behind his glasses that his eyes were sad to see me lying alone in hospital, and the way his hands shook slightly when talking made me see that he was actually quite a shy person. It was the first time I'd really seen him as a person over being a teacher, and he's all right really. We probably even have something in common in that he's not had a particularly easy time at Paddington Comp either, but I'd never thought about it from his perspective before. He was nervous talking to me and, although he appeared to talk freely about how I was feeling, I could see he was being careful not to mention the others. He clearly wanted to talk about my future and after congratulating me on my GCSE results he also said that he'd held a place open for me to return and do my 'A' levels. I could hardly believe my own voice when I heard myself say 'thanks, I'll be there'. I'm still not sure what made me agree.

I said I'd go back on one condition though. That if I went back, he'd let me speak to his Year 10 students about 'Positive Change' (he suggested the wanky title) to help motivate them to do the best they possibly can in their final year before exams. He was really excited about the idea and said he thought it would make a huge difference if I could share my experience with others. Everyone in the school knew me and what I used to be like so there'd be no better person to show them how to turn themselves around, he said. He was so happy when I said I'd do it that he started glowing right before my eyes: the same bright orangey-yellow glow that Becky has. It was swirling around him like a thin misty mini-tornado.

From my point of view, I also think it's a fantastic opportunity to start making amends for past mistakes and build up a base of support for my mission, before moving on to bigger and better things. To give a little for the greater good. It made me feel good to know that I'd made him feel so elated after all the grief I'd caused in the past. Finally, I had a chance to put right some wrongs. With no selfish wishes, needs or wants. Just a wish to give and make the world a better place. And if I manage to prevent just one person from following the road I had been on then it'll be worth it.

I told Mum and Hannah about going back to school this morning. They were both overjoyed as well, especially Hannah, as it'll mean we'll be able to spend more time together between lessons. I also told them that I'm still going to take an evening or weekend job to earn some money and gain independence. After all, I've got to save a bit of face, considering the amount of fuss I made about getting a job in the first place.

We're all getting excited about tomorrow now. My fortieth and final day in here, as well as being my seventeenth birthday. Mum's going to make a cake and Hannah's been invited round for some dinner. Small and cosy. I'm really looking forward to it. And I'll have a week at home to relax and prepare for going back to school. Nice and simple.

With only a week until I go back to school, I've been giving some thought to how I'm going to approach the talk to Mr Wiseman's class next week. The thought of standing up in front of a whole group of people and speaking is a bit daunting and I need to get my thoughts in order and work out how best to influence them all before revealing my true self and purpose to them. It's not as easy as it sounds because although my mind and heart are in total harmony and my faith in my sense of purpose is rock solid, working out how to translate this belief into a set of convincing words is more difficult. It's not as if I've ever done this sort of thing before.

So far, I've worked out some topics I think I could talk to them quite easily about and which they'll quickly relate to which will give me something to build on. A 'quick win' I think they call it. Stuff like: we're only on this earth for a finite span of time – some of us longer than others - and if we're going to make the most of it, it's up to each of us individually to make sure we know our minds and look inside our hearts to find out who we really are and where we're going. No matter whether we're rich, poor, black, white, gay, straight, old, young, part of a loving family, or on our own, we were born equal in the sense we were given one life - one chance to find happiness. Or something similar. A bit cheesy perhaps, but who could disagree with that?

I'm absolutely convinced that there are too many people out there who are either struggling or unhappy because they've lost touch with their inner energy, their life force. And instead of helping each other, they're only creating more stress and conflict. But it doesn't have to be like that. We can change. We can learn to look for the positive in each other instead of constantly seeing each other as threats. Respect for ourselves and respect for others. I don't think it's difficult, but it's going to be my job to lead the way. If they'll listen to anyone, they'll listen to me. I've been there. Sharing this knowledge will be my path to immortality. I'll make this happen if it takes the remainder of my life. I feel it.

I might have had my troubles in the past, but I'll tell them they've been a gift to me. My story and my purpose are proof of how opportunity has a habit of slipping in the back door, often disguised as misfortune, or as a temporary defeat. All my loss and pain turned out not to be the end, but just the beginning. I'll show them hope.

I'll tell them that it's never too late to rediscover ourselves and each other. The future is ours and we are young. For the sake of humanity we cannot allow ourselves to overlook the urgency of the moment. I'll encourage them to delve deep into themselves and discover who they really are. And then get to know each other again. That way, no one will have the right to judge them. This is my hope - that we apply what we have hidden within us to each other and let our collective inner faiths merge to bring a new ray of hope to life. To help others rise above aspiring towards the maintenance of a thing-orientated society and return to living a people-oriented existence once again. To create a shared sense of purpose. Where people, love and happiness can regain their ground over the race for property, profits and salaries. I'll replace their stress with relief.

If they ask me how, I'll ask them what it is they desire. Once they admit that, the rest will be easy. I'm living proof that there are no limits to what can be achieved except those which we acknowledge. They very fact I'll be standing at the front of the class smiling at them will prove it.

I'll teach them how to be honest about their thoughts and combine them with their feelings to create a state of mind that will enable them to achieve whatever they want. Total faith in themselves and each other. I'll teach them to give before they can get. I'll replace any self doubt with total belief. My survival will be testament to my resilience.

And once this level of belief has been achieved, I'll help them respect their new-found knowledge, and more importantly how to apply it. I'll bring out their creativity. The sort of imagination we all had as children, but lost somewhere along the way. Our natural ability to create ideas, dreams, goals – to form our own aspirations.

If they ask me how to make dreams come true, I'll be honest and won't leave them under any illusions. They must make plans to make them happen. Which might require tough decisions on their part. Once dreams are discovered and plans put in place, the next stage is taking the decision to make it happen. Lack of decision is all too often the reason for failure. And fear of trying, because often the only thing which separates a genius from a fool is the courage to take a decision and speak up.

Finally, I'll teach them that, as with any achievement, sometimes great sacrifice must be made to get there. Once faith has been achieved, fear of criticism will no longer exist. It may not happen first time, but it will happen. Persistence is key.

It's still all a bit jumbled, but the class will give me a chance to practise my teachings in a safe environment. Today's world presents everyone – particularly the young – with such a steep mountain to climb that it seems only right that I should start where it all ended for me. Paddington Comprehensive. A chance to face my demons and test and hone my word-spreading methodology before revealing my purpose to the world. It'll be my first small step, and once I've finished there I'll spread my thoughts and feelings to every group of people I can find until the collective energy is so great it can spread without me even having to be there. My imagination, faith, enthusiasm, decisiveness, ingenuity and planning will pull it all together and teach others to do the same. It'll change the whole world.

I have total belief. Success requires no explanations; failure no alibis. By the time I've finished, they'll be screaming 'Free at last! Free at last!'. They won't know what's hit them. Then they'll know who I am.

And by the time word spreads I'll eventually achieve what every Imam, Pope, Archbishop, Chief Rabbi...even the Dalai Lama has failed to achieve. A love and respect of each other and for life itself. I'll bring them together. And without the need for any mythological miracles, healings, births or resurrections. Just plain old me to start with, and by the time I've finished, my message will transcend every culture, language and creed without any need for silly uniforms, robes or ceremonies.

I'll show them.

****

Chapter 30

After much anticipation on his part, Ben's big day finally arrived. The First Day Of The Rest Of His Life,' he had mentally billed it. Tuesday, the sixteenth of September. Back to school for his sixth form first day introductory talks on 'A' level English Literature and Social Science. But first, as promised, the delivery of his proudly titled 'Positive Change' motivational talk to Mr Wiseman's new Year 10 pupils.

He'd thought of little else since leaving hospital the previous Tuesday - his seventeenth birthday. He'd spent the day with his Mum and Hannah who had made a dinner and baked a cake between them, and spent a tame, but very enjoyable, evening drinking tea and playing cards together. As the following days had passed, he'd built himself up into a state of dizzy euphoria in anticipation of standing up and speaking to an audience of pupils plus Mr Wiseman.

In the past, such an event might have encouraged him to think up ways in which to crack jokes or disrupt the class, but today was different. He was looking forward to sharing his past misguided experiences and losses, and influencing anyone who needed it from straying down the wrong path. Life was too short to waste. He wanted to make sure that everyone he could possibly reach was made aware of the realities surrounding them and encourage them to grasp every opportunity presented to them constructively. Simple messages.

Despite the fact he had not fully worked through exactly how he was going to achieve this, nor decided precisely how much of his own experience and past mistakes he was prepared to share, he was completely confident of his ability to piece his messages together through ad-libbed discussion. He would engage the class, root out the rebels, talk to them on their level, challenge their views, their attitudes, their ambitions, their direction. Suggest alternative possibilities. Stimulate debate. React to their thoughts. Their feelings. He would not present the answers, for the answers would lie within each of them and in any case would each be different. But he would shake them and wake them up. Explore their hearts' desires and connect with their minds. Prepare them. Increase their chances of a better, happier future.

Of course, he would not reveal his true self to them. Not at first at least. He'd designed today to be the first small step of his thousand-mile journey; an exploratory toe in the water; a pilot for the bigger and much grander plans he had for reconnecting people and society with themselves. The first step towards a fresh awakening. A new dawn. Later would follow the reconnection between individuals and communities. Respect for the individual would override any label stuck on them by others by the time his job was finished. The potential filled him with hope.

Ben had laid out his freshly ironed clothes out the night before. He'd opted for a plain t-shirt, the white cords which Mo had bought him for his birthday, a pair of trainers and the new hooded, zip-up, grey top his Mum had brought him in hospital. To signify a clean break from his past Shady Boy life as 'Hoodie' he had initially decided not to wear it at all. But on reflection, and for the benefit of those who knew him only as Hoodie at school, he'd decided that it would be fitting to wear it for a first and final time today to be immediately recognisable (and to stimulate the class into respecting or despising him) and then to discard it in front of his audience to show that there was more to him than first met the eye. When he revealed who he really was. That bit was all worked out.

His mood alternated between nervousness and excited anticipation all the way to school with Hannah, but it was the nerves which took over as the building towered into sight. He was thankful for the breakfast his Mum insisted he share with her before leaving home as it gave his stomach something to hold on to. He had not seen the school since he fled the building with Papa Tee in hot pursuit. Which seemed like a very long time ago.

Ben froze for a moment at the recollection of the day and reached inside his pocket for a cigarette, momentarily forgetting that he had stopped smoking and had none. Hannah saw this and gave his hand a squeeze, telling him that the first day was always the worst and that it'd soon be over and they could go for a pizza that evening. Ben calmed down immediately at her reassurance and easy going attractive smile. As long as he had her, how could he possibly worry, he thought, smiling back. Anyway, a lot had happened since he was last at school and he also drew strength from the memory of his lost friends and the sense of purpose bringing him back to school. He took a couple of puffs from his asthma inhaler, followed by a few deep breaths and strode back through the school gates with as much confidence as if he owned the school. He had not totally forgotten about the need to maintain a certain image.

After waving Hannah off to the sixth form building, Ben pulled his hood over his head and bounced through the playground towards Mr Wiseman's class in the far block, ignoring the silent stares and sneaky whispers being exchanged among other pupils as he passed. There was no longer anything anyone could say to him or about him which could hurt him as much as he had already been hurt, and so ignoring them was easy.

It was a crisp day. Clear, fresh and bright. Not exactly warm, but comfortable. Typically September. The school looked grey though, as did the pupils. I'll put some colour back into them, Ben promised himself.

He was relieved to be out of the playground and within the safe four walls of Mr Wiseman's classroom. Mr Wiseman was on his own, preparing neat piles of exercise and text books to hand out for the first lesson of the day. He greeted Ben with a huge grin, giving away his doubt that Ben would actually turn up or not. Ben saw this and could not help but smile knowingly back. Before they had even said hello to each other, Ben saw a field of bright yellow light surround Mr Wiseman to coincide with his smile.

Good. That's my first positive change of the day, he thought. And good to know I have a friend here to support me. Let's hope the rest of the class will be as easy.

Ben found Mr Wiseman alone sitting on the edge of his desk. He welcomed Ben warmly, explaining what his plans for the day were. His class had already been back at school a week and would start piling into the classroom in about ten minutes, the register would be taken, after which he would explain a bit about the importance of Year 10, what they could expect, and then would hand over to Ben to talk about 'Positive Change'.

Mr Wiseman was excited about the positive influence that someone like Ben could have over his contemporaries. He hoped he could succeed where the teachers had failed. Mr Wiseman went on to say that he would facilitate any discussion and manage the flow of any questions which emerged – protecting Ben from any unruly behaviour, if necessary, but essentially made it quite clear that he was happy for Ben to say whatever he wanted to. He had complete faith in him. This, coming from one of the school's most highly respected Year Heads, gave Ben's confidence the further boost it needed. He was eager to get started.

As the school bell rang pupils flowed through the classroom door. Ben sat down on a chair beside Mr Wiseman's desk and faced the class. He adjusted his hood to shield his face and stared downwards to avoid any eye contact with anyone until it was his time to speak. The class was quickly full and, to Ben's surprise, sounded more cheerful and contained much more laughter than he could recall from his own class. He also noted that, that unlike his class, which managed to maintain a consistent ten per cent of absences on any given day for the last year, this one was packed with over thirty pupils in attendance. There wasn't a single spare desk.

Just as Mr Wiseman had outlined, he called the register out to a chorus of 'Yes Sir's', politely but authoritatively welcomed them into class, and went on to underline the importance of Year 10. Ben recognised the spiel word for word from the previous year. When he had finished he held his palm towards Ben to introduce him:

'Before we start with today's first lesson you – no, we – are extremely lucky to hear from one of last year's Year 10 pupils. Someone who somehow managed to scrape through with just enough to give him the option to return to 'A' levels. And someone who some of you may recognise. Some of you may know him as "Hoodie". All of you will have heard during Assembly last week of the tragic car accident over Summer in which three of our pupils – three of his closest friends – and one other friend lost their lives.

'It has taken a lot of bravery for him to come here today. Not least because his original intention was never to return to this school to further his education. But events have changed his mind and so here he is to further his education and to educate us. An so, without any further fuss, let me please introduce you to the name I know him by, Ben Chapman.'

A thin, and very short, slow-clap applause stretched across the classroom.

Mr Wiseman's words echoed round Ben's head, increasing in volume as his time to speak approached. Butterflies tickled his stomach as he stood up slowly. But he felt strong. Purposeful. In control. He stepped forward towards the centre of the blackboard – hood still up deliberately – and turned to face the class. He smiled at all the expectant faces fixed on him. His twitching nerves were still there and his legs felt weak but were silenced by the strength of hope he felt at having been given the opportunity to share his recent realisation and increased awareness with others.

As he looked round the class he was met by a range of apathetic, defiant, and even challenging expressions. He recognised a few of them but could not recall any names.

'Good morning everybody,' he said slowly and carefully, cautiously eying the enthralled class of different shapes and sizes in a range of dress from scruffy to smart. 'My name – as Mr Wiseman has just said – is Ben.'

The statement was more for Ben's benefit than for the rest of the class. A boy near the back, sprawled forward across his desk, let out a loud yawn in response. Ben ignored it. Mr Wiseman cleared his throat and stared hard in the boy's direction.

'Today.' He paused. 'Today, is my first day back at school and – to be honest...and unlike how I expect most of you felt last week – I feel extremely lucky to be here.'

Despite the class's deadpan expressions in response to his introduction, Ben was pleased to get his first few words out although he felt his fingers had settled themselves into the lines in his palms for security.

'But I'll tell you about just how lucky I am in a few minutes. First, I want to tell you about "Positive Change".' Ben paused for effect and to straighten himself up before continuing. He glanced round at Mr Wiseman who gave him a smile of encouragement in return. Ben blinked. Mr Wiseman was still positively glowing bright yellow and it was clear that no one but he could see it.

'At the end of term last year,' he continued. 'I was adamant I wasn't going to come back.' A slightly built cocky boy in the third row mutter 'good' in response. Ben acknowledged but dismissed the comment with the raise of an eyebrow. He knew how they felt. He knew how easy it was to feel disconnected from the world and that was his whole reason for being there. The boy in the third row continued to stare at him, face frowning, jaw clicking audibly from the frantic pace of gum being chewed, and leant back defiantly on the back two legs of his chair.

'You,' Ben said breaking the calm atmosphere in the room, stepping forward and pointing straight at the boy. 'What's your name?' he asked more softly.

'Mickey Mouse,' the boy lied, laughing. The rest of the class turned their heads towards him, reserving judgement for the time being on whether to laugh along.

'So. You're a bit of a "player", are you?' Ben challenged. The boy smirked dismissively back, maintaining his eye contact with Ben but saying nothing.

'That's good...very good,' continued Ben. 'So tell me. Why are you here? You come to learn or do you know it all already? 'Cause this is a place to learn. And maybe - just maybe - you might take something away from what I have to say today which might just help you one day. So what? You wanna listen to me, or what?'

Mickey Mouse, still defiant in pose, shrugged and indicated he was ready to let Ben continue. The rest of the class turned their attention back to Ben.

'You all might feel a bit stupid coming to me for advice, but not as stupid as you'll be if you don't take what advice I have to offer for free.' Looking round the class Ben relaxed and broke into a smile as he realised he had won the attention of all. The whole class seemed to have sat upright in expectation. Safe in the knowledge that he had managed to connect with them Ben was about to launch into an overview of his over-ambitious dreams and emotional roller coaster of a summer – warts and all – before detailing how his heart finally engaged with his mind to realise what he really wanted and how to get it. And depending on how that went, Ben was even toying with the idea of revealing his true self to them.

Just as Ben was about to translate his thoughts into a powerful monologue he was disturbed by the sound of shouting from the main assembly hall beyond the classroom door. Doors banging. Some muffled arguing, and then: 'I DON'T FOCKIN' CARE, YOU HEAR ME?' followed by the crashing sound of another door. The class appeared to freeze in unison as they pricked their ears towards the direction of the noise.

Ben watched Mr Wiseman walk towards the door to find out, when the door was suddenly kicked open towards him, almost ripping it off its hinges and making an almighty bang which shocked the whole class into cowering submissively, staring at their desks. The individualities were lost – their fear and reaction was pack-like. Mr Wiseman stepped back as calmly as he could manage. Ben retreated to his seat and pulled the sides of his hood closer to his cheeks to obscure his face in the hope of passing unnoticed.

Papa Tee filled the doorway, his face wild with rage. He stamped his foot towards Mr Wiseman, raised his arms above his head and screamed in his face, spraying saliva everywhere. Mr Wiseman's glow disappeared instantly in reaction to the obvious fear which overcame him.

'YOU,' Papa Tee screamed, waving his arms and pointing at Mr Wiseman. 'YOU FOCKIN' PUSSY. YOU FOCKED ME UP. IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT.' His booming voice and strong physical presence sent obvious shivers down the spines of everyone in the room as he towered above them. Ben, however, remained calm at peace with himself. He could almost smell the fear which had swept the classroom – fear he himself had experienced before. He could see Mr Wiseman searching to reconcile the fear in his heart with his mind's desire to regain control of his class.

And he could see and sense Papa Tee's loneliness and desperation. For the first time, Ben felt he could see the world through Papa Tee's eyes. Big. Scary. Full of painful obstacles to overcome. All from the perspective of being trapped in a constricted corner.

As Ben peered more bravely from underneath his hood, he could see and understand it all. Not only had he discovered himself, but the ability to discover others also.

Papa Tee was an awesome sight. His surrounding steely greyish-black aura showed Ben just how deeply ingrained his pain was. Beads of sweat were trailing down Papa Tee's forehead into his wild, unfocused, bloodshot eyes which themselves were watering. Or had he been crying? Although fearsome and unpredictable in the manner with which he swayed from side to side, there was something very sad and pathetic about the big glob of snot which was running down his top lip and onto his white-crusted lips unnoticed. And Ben could not help noticing that his jeans were unbuttoned and open at the front, completely soaked. Had he wet himself? he wondered. How humiliating.

In reaction to the stillness of Mr Wiseman and the submissiveness of the rest of the class, Papa Tee appeared lost as to what to do next. His grand entrance appeared to have fizzled out into pointlessly swaying, wild-eyed, back and forth.

'Sit down, Trevor. Let's talk about what's bothering you,' said Mr Wiseman calmly, desperately searching beyond the classroom entrance for signs of help arriving.

'I DON'T WANNA FOCKIN' TALK, MAN. NUFF FOCKIN' TALKING ALREADY. FUCKIN' WASTE MY TIME.'

'Alright Trevor. Let's stay in control shall we? What do you want to do?' Mr Wiseman was trying his best to project a calm presence, but was clearly nervous in the absence of any help arriving.

'YOU. THAT'S WHAT I FOCKIN' WANT.' Papa Tee lurched forward, pulling his fist back as if he was about to deliver a crushing punch. Mr Wiseman gasped, flinched and held his hands up to his face. Papa Tee laughed deeply, baring his flashy gold tooth, but the tears continued to stream from his eyes.

'FOCKIN' PUSSY!' he scoffed. Until that point, Papa Tee had seemed oblivious to the rest of the boys in the room, but as soon as he became aware of their presence he appeared to enjoy having an audience to play to.

'TINK YOU'RE SUCH A BIG MAN, HUH? LOOK AT YOU. FOCKIN' PUSSY! WOT ARE YOU? ...I CAN'T HEAR YOU??' Papa Tee paced backwards and forwards in front of Mr Wiseman, who by now had sat back down at his desk and was staring at the floor to avoid upsetting Papa Tee any further with any misinterpreted eye contact. Mr Wiseman was, however, clearly concerned at the apparent interest Papa Tee had started to show in the rest of the class, fearing for their safety, and Ben in particular who was particularly conspicuous sitting at the front with his hood up.

'Come on Trevor,' said Mr Wiseman in a fresh effort of appeasement. 'You've made your point. Let's not let this get out of hand. What say you leave now and we'll say no more about this?' Papa Tee cocked his head to the side and looked blankly back at Mr Wiseman. Mr Wiseman rose slowly, hands held out open and avoiding direct eye contact by looking downwards.

'FOCK YOU!' screamed Papa Tee, bursting back into life and pulling his gun out from the back of his jeans. Ben hadn't even noticed it before that moment. 'I BROUGHT YOU A LITTLE PRESENT.'

Mr Wiseman froze and appeared to choke on air. Papa Tee gripped the butt of the gun and pointed it squarely towards Mr Wiseman's pale forehead. Mr Wiseman cut a sad and deflated figure as his whitened face drooped. A sharp intake of breath could be heard across the classroom. No one moved. No one spoke. No one did anything.

Papa Tee was evidently enjoying the power holding a gun towards Mr Wiseman's head gave him. There was only a couple of metres between them and there was no chance of Papa Tee being challenged without first having a chance to squeeze the trigger. His swaying had stopped and looked focused for the first time.

Ben was surprised at how calm he felt. He had seen Papa Tee in action before and knew how dangerous he could be, but also knew what a showman he was. And this was all about show. He also knew how difficult it was to actually go through with squeezing the trigger when presented with a live target.

His fingers stroked the lines in his palms as he recalled 'old Joe' – his father's – words about him being special and having the potential for great success. He reached round his neck and held the sun-pendant which Mo had given him for protection. He thought of Dave, Luca and Isabelle and how their lives should not be lost in vain. He briefly thought of his mother, Hannah and his future, and then of the first step he must take towards it.

There was no question of him not intervening to rescue Mr Wiseman and Papa Tee from their corners of despair. With each intake of breath he felt stronger as the knowledge that the time to reveal himself had thrust itself upon him. He realised that words alone never would have been enough to convey what he wanted to teach the class anyway. Leading by example was what he did best. If others were to believe in him, he would have to reveal his inner strength before explaining how it could be found. In part, he was pleased with the situation as he could never have dreamt up anything which could present him with such an opportunity to save so many lost souls.

His thoughts returned to Mo – the friend he missed more than anyone - as he reached once again to stroke the sun-pendant round his neck for luck. Ben's force of energy was already strong, but the thought of Mo brought the feeling of being invincible back to life again. As he stroked the face of the pendant, he thought he could hear Mo's voice, accompanied by his gently strumming guitar, singing _Heroes_ by _David Bowie_ : _'...Though nothing/Will drive them away/We can be Heroes/Just for one day/We can be us/Just for one day...'_.

Mo's invisible presence brought a familiar lump to the back of his throat but he let the lyrics play themselves out in the back of his head before standing up and stepping calmly between Mr Wiseman and Papa Tee to look his adversary peacefully in the back of his bleary eyes.

Papa Tee appeared to relax, lowering his weapon from its aim at Mr Wiseman's head towards Ben, but less tensely. Ben searched the depths of Papa Tee's eyes and read his soul. He sent him silent messages of hope and peace, of reassurance and understanding.

Both Ben's head and heart told him there was a mutual understanding between them. They were not so different. Just at different stages. They both knew what it meant to prefer the life of a lion for one day than to live a lifetime as a sheep. Papa Tee tipped his head from side to side, animal-like, searching Ben's eyes in return in wonderment at this brave small flake which had stepped before him.

The room was filled with anticipation and a deafening silence – at which point Mr Wiseman changed the pace by quietly whispering 'Ben, no'.

This interruption distracted Papa Tee who started flicking nervous glances over Ben's shoulder, and then turning his head behind him to ensure he was not about to be pounced on. Ben knew it was time. His energy was bursting from within. Careful to ensure he did not come across as threatening, he raised his hands very slowly to his face and drew his hood back to reveal himself.

'Hello Trevor.'

Click.

****

Chapter 31

It's surreal, but I am floating effortlessly at the top of the classroom, hovering from side to side, beside an electric cable cord, itself leading to a dirt-stained fluorescent light bulb in the centre of the room. I have no idea how I ended up suspended in mid air in this way, so don't ask me. I can only tell you what I know to be true. I have no physical form but I feel no different from before. And I can still think quite clearly.

I look down below me just in time to see my crumpled, lifeless flake of a husk collapsing backwards onto Mr Wiseman's desk and bouncing forward into the floor, twitching, my head ripped open and my face carrying only the slightest resemblance to the devilishly good looks I had yet to cash in on in my mortal life.

Yuk! What a mess. I can see a thick dark torrent of blood oozing out of what remains of my face. Brighter red splashes of blood and small pieces of flesh have been sent in all directions; onto the walls, over Trevor and even onto the faces and desks of some of the poor unfortunate pupils who chose to sit at the front of the class – there never was any reward for sitting at the front. Oh no, and there's blood and small pieces of flesh all down the front of my new hooded top and clean white cords. Such a waste...

Chaos fills the classroom. Distress, fear and screaming. Boys are flying in all directions in blind panic. In their haste to escape, desks and chairs have been pushed aside and kicked upside down. Some boys are crouched in the corner, their hands over their faces to avoid seeing the reality of the situation. Sheep. The wails are mostly coming from the pupils, but above them all Trevor can be heard screaming wildly, hyperventilating and in an obvious state of extreme shock. It sounds as if he might even be choking on his tongue.

I can also see swirling greenish-black waves shooting out of Trevor. I can sense every feeling being experienced in the room: the fear, the panic, their confusion, their pain, their disgust at the sight of me. And there is nothing I can do to alleviate their distress.

I watch Mr Wiseman pick up the gun from the floor where Trevor had let it drop. Trevor, 'Papa Tee', the 'big tough man' must have been shaking too much to hold onto it after pulling the trigger. In fact, he looks as if he's totally fallen to pieces now, judging from the way he's on his knees, screaming and snivelling, holding his hands up to his face in horror at the consequences of his actions.

If only he'd have sat down and listened to what I had to say. It could have been so easy.

But I'm not angry with him. I feel nothing towards him. All I carry, as I waft from one end of the ceiling to the other, surveying the chaos below me, is a sense of sadness and disappointment that my journey ended where it was supposed to start. That bad timing prevented the dawning of a new era. I didn't even get the chance to utter one word of motivation, of inspiration, of revelation.

No chance to share my insights; to prevent the next generation from following the same path as me. My journey had been cut prematurely short and was over before it had even started. A total waste.

Although, perhaps this was my fate? Perhaps this was the pre-determined lesson? Perhaps the new dawn had started long ago without me being aware of it? Perhaps it already ended? Perhaps it has yet to end. Who knows? Time will tell.

I try to scream 'But I was not ready to die...'. But nothing comes out. I have no body, no breath, no mouth and no voice. No palms, no pendant, no more luck and no more pain. I am just a collection of lonely thoughts and feelings intertwined with each other, emitting that effusive yellowy orange glow I have become so used to seeing.

Mr Wiseman is emptying the gun of its remaining bullets. I wonder where he learnt to do that. He is standing authoritatively over Trevor with one hand firmly on his shoulder. His other hand holds his mobile phone and he's gesturing the remaining pupils out of the classroom into the hall. As the last pupil leaves the room, Mr Wiseman removes his glasses and looks up and stares directly at me - I mean my spirit, not my corpse. He smiles a wide, warm, understanding smile and blinks at me with his big sad eyes, staring out from the hollow, panda like cavities left behind from his glasses.

I am amazed. I have no body, no shell, no visible presence to gesture back, but I can feel an everlasting strong connection between us. Can he see me? Then hope is not lost. I can see. I can hear. Perhaps I can still show others the right path to follow? He is mouthing something but I can't understand what he's saying. There is too much noise from outside.

Even though I cannot hear him, I know it doesn't matter. I can sense that Mr Wiseman has stepped into the eye of the storm where it is calm and he is in control. From the top of the class – the first and last time I can claim to have attained that position - I can see a group of boys playing football in the yard outside, blissfully ignorant of the chaos that has just taken place in Class 5W. Beyond them, I can see passing pedestrians, traffic and rooftops. I can see pockets of light glowing from various points in the distance and, although I cannot pinpoint their precise position, I am drawn towards them. To connect. To help. To find a purpose.

There is nothing left for me here. Willpower alone propels me slowly towards an open gap in the window and I breeze through it, floating higher upwards over the school playground. I can see for miles. It is a beautiful day - bright, crisp, blue and full of life and hope.

The perfect day for a fresh beginning.

****

Chapter 32

Can you see me?

I came alive  
With the beat of my heart  
I could see, smell and hear  
Touch, laugh and cry

My head became a mind  
And found love, compassion and equality  
Where hatred, prejudice and false assumptions once stood

My heart and mind fused to form a spirit  
Strong enough to replace dark with light  
Despair with hope  
Temporary with eternity

Love made me crazy  
Crazy enough to be blind  
To lose my heart and mind

Love brought me surprises  
Happiness and harmony  
Pain, loss and sorrow

I got high, drunk and sober  
But my head was clear  
My heart was pure

I got lost but love stayed with me  
And brought me sunshine  
Light and warmth

Love said:  
You are a flame, a ball of light  
Burning brightly for all to see

My mind found the truth; I had to speak  
My heart was brave; full of courage  
I stepped forward to lead the way

Love said:  
Tell them, show them, teach them  
Spread your light and help them see

But I am no more  
My shell is crumpled, used and spent  
But I'm still here, around you all

My head is cracked  
My heart pulled apart  
Overflowing with a new force, a new light  
Spilling towards a fresh life

My spirit is alive, its strength is stronger  
I have no body, no head, no heart  
No hands, no palms, no lines

I am no more  
But a force of thoughts and feelings  
A ball of light, floating, seeing all

Can you see me?

****

Chapter 33

"Two rival drugs gangs' reign of terror ended yesterday with the shooting of Ben Chapman – known locally as 'Hoodie' – when a feud spilled over into in a packed classroom in Paddington Comprehensive School. Chapman, 17, died instantaneously from a single bullet fired to the head. No one else was hurt. A youth was detained shortly after the event and is undergoing psychiatric testing pending charge. The teacher in charge of the class was unavailable for comment, described as being too distressed to speak.

Mr Peters, the school's headmaster, issued the following statement in reaction to the shooting: _'I very much regret that one of our pupils today fell victim to a criminal and callous act of cowardice and our thoughts and sympathies go out to his family. Paddington Comprehensive does not tolerate drugs or violent behaviour on its premises and will be implementing new security measures as an immediate response to this heinous crime, including the installation of CCTV cameras, weapon screening on the school gates and the banning of hoodies on the school's grounds.'_

London Standard – 18 September 2008"

** The End **

### About The Author:

Brendon Lancaster lives in London, married with two daughters. He grew up in the Paddington/Notting Hill area.

'Hoodie' is Brendon's first novel. He was prompted to write it because after spending 25 years in steady, albeit successful, civil service employment he felt it was time to stretch his creative potential.

His relatively newfound passion for writing reflects his long held desire (identified at an early age) of finding a way of getting paid to daydream. He is currently working on a second novel.

Brendon is keen to emphasise that 'Hoodie' is entirely fictional and any characters or events are purely the product of his imagination. He is proud, however, to admit to – like 'Hoodie' - having simian lines on both of his palms – a rare genetic abnormality shared by drug addicts, mass murderers, scientific researches and religious fanatics (and, by sheer coincidence, Tony Blair). Brendon has shown no sign of possessing any of these traits. Yet.

Connect with me online:

Well, you've almost made it to the end, and I hope you enjoyed reading Hoodie as much as I enjoyed writing it.

If you did, please take the time to post a review, tell all your friends how much you loved it, or simply click 'like'or 'share' next time you're online to share Hoodie with others.

Please also feel free to contact me direct via my website with any feedback or random thoughts you might have. I'd love to hear from you.

**Website:** <http://www.brendonlancaster.com/>

**Facebook:** <https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1437288367>

**Smashwords:** <http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BrendonLancaster>

###  Acknowledgements:

Writing this book has, like life itself so far, been an exciting journey. A journey which may not have even started had it not been for the love, support and encouragement I have received from my Mum, without whom I would never have had the self-belief and motivation to express my ideas in written form. She has always encouraged me to experience life to the fullest extent – no excuses. So me finishing this book is testament to her ability to achieve this with someone who is naturally lazy. And easily bored. I have thoroughly enjoyed the experience of conceiving a plot and watching it unfold on the following pages and am grateful for the push it took to get me started. Her whole being has been a source of constant inspiration to me throughout my life and will always be. So thank you, Mum. I hope reading this book will, in return, provide some form of reward for all your patience with me and stress I may have caused you in the past.

I also extend this thanks to my wife, whose love, warmth, (occasional) patience, friendship and common sense approach to life has been key in providing me with the atmosphere and environment in which to write this book (and, of course, the time to write in between being a husband, father and full time stressed out employee).

I must also acknowledge the constant presence of my two little girls. Watching them grow up and helping to steer them safely through life's ups and downs is like experiencing life all over again with fresh eyes. Being a father is the richest experience I have yet encountered and can only be described as being the most satisfying reward for one's efforts whilst simultaneously being the biggest single threat to my sanity.

Of course, I could not complete these acknowledgements without mentioning the influence of my brother who, in true schizophrenic psychopathic style has provided me with the double-edged sword of good-natured one-upmanship and unswerving friendship that only a sibling can provide. It's great to have a mischievous likeminded soul who can reduce a serious discussion into fits of childhood giggles and bring it back again within seconds.

There are too many other friends who have provided me with a positive influence along the way to individually acknowledge, but it is the company of the risk takers I would single out – you know who you are. We only live once, so it is only right that we seek to fit as much into it as we can into it and enjoy it (and each other) while it lasts.

Brendon
