

## A TEENAGE ODYSSEY

## by

## David Brining

Smashwords Edition

Copyright David Brining 2012

"We must condemn a little more and understand a little less."

John Major, British Prime Minister 1990-97

"I still say that some of the biggest criminals are those that turn their heads away when they see wrong and know that it's wrong."

Bob Dylan, singer/songwriter

### Please note that this book includes scenes of violence, substance abuse and sexual activity as well as language and behaviour that some might find offensive. If you are easily offended, please do not read this book.

### Contents

### 1. Telemachos

### 2. Nausikaa

### 3. The Trojan Wars

### 4. Proteus

### 5. The Council of the Gods

### 6. Nestor

### 7. The Lotus Eaters

### 8. Laistrygonians

### 9. Kalypso

### 10. Sirens

### 11. Circe

### 12. The Oxen of the Sun

### 13. Wandering Rocks

### 14. Elpenor

### 15. Cyclops

### 16. Demodocus

### 17. The Games of the Phaiakans

### 18. Aiolus

### 19. Hades

### 20. Tiresias

### 21. Skylla and Charybdis

### 22. Eumaios' Hut

### 23. Penelope and her Suitors

### 24. Odysseus in Ithaka

1. Telemachos

WHEN I was twelve, my father took me on holiday. He only managed a couple of visits a year and I hadn't seen him since Christmas. Eight months is a long time for a kid. Sometimes I'd meet him at his mother's in Sheringham. Mostly we'd meet in the city, in the park by the river, but he never came to the house. He always seemed uneasy when we met, as though he sensed what was happening to me at home, and would silently press his thick fingers into my shoulders. I wished he would hug me. But he didn't.

We hired a two-berth cruiser, The Neptune, from a boatyard in Reedham and spent a week in the Norfolk Broads. It had a gas cooker, chemical toilet, hot shower, TV, sofa and fridge. It was made of wood and stained in chestnut and magnolia. The cockpit was in the centre, the bedroom in the bows. The bathroom led off the cockpit. The galley and living quarters lay to the rear. Aft was a lilac-painted well where you could sit in whatever sunshine managed to bleed through the August cloud-cover.

Whilst I chatted about school and exams and Scouts and the tennis team I'd just got into Dad steered us gently into the river. Neptune's prow pushed through the murky grey water, churned up mud and sent a steady grey wash rippling into the yellow-green reeds. We chugged downstream at five m.p.h. I stood in the cockpit, the sun's weak warmth on my face, drew in the scent of vanilla pipe tobacco and watched the acres of breeze-rippled reeds stretch away as far as I could see. That's what I love most about Norfolk. The open spaces. The open horizons. Nothing but sky. And water. And silence. And emptiness. It's comforting.

When dusk drew in, the sun appeared to vanish in a rose-lavender glow. We moored up, fastening the ropes loosely with land-lubber fingers. Some silver herons swooped in the sunset and a kingfisher flashed past in a brilliant moment of azure and emerald. A dilapidated windmill stood nearby, a blackened hulk surrounded by rusty scaffolding and choked with weeds and rustling reeds. The cap and sails were long gone. It was utterly desolate, deserted and lonely. It reminded me of a favourite book, The Scarecrows. I put on my cherry red baseball cap, zipped up my apple-green anorak and trudged through the reeds and murky light whilst Dad cooked a Vesta curry with Uncle Ben's rice and I wondered whose Uncle Ben was.

Two huge lengths of rotting wood, the skeleton of the sails, lay half-buried in the stifling reeds. They were riddled with woodworm. I traced a pattern over the tiny holes with my fingertip. Were they still burrowing inside? If they were, what they could hear when my finger brushed over their homes? I tried to picture a woodworm city. How to entice them out? With wood, I supposed. A nice juicy table leg or grandfather clock. Or a boat...

I glanced at The Neptune swaying gently on the glinting river surface, its magnolia roof glowing faintly in the starlight, its thick ropes creaking softly. The smell of chicken curry seeped through the soft evening air. I pushed myself up from the spar and circled the shadowy bulk of the mill. A rusting padlock secured the door and the windows were bricked up. It wasn't as interesting as I'd hoped. I returned to the boat.

Later, after dinner, we stood on the chestnut gunwale to look at the darkness. I was nearing the end of my Jurassic Park phase and my pyjamas bore a red and black skeletal dinosaur. My fingers were numb and I shivered slightly. Moonlight reflected in the water. That was all. No house lights. No street lights. No car lights. Nothing. Just water and moon and a few pinpricks of stars. It was an ultimate, eternal darkness.

"That's Orion," said Dad, pointing skywards with the stem of his pipe, "Those three stars in a line. And that W shape's...," He turned me slightly with his fingers, "Cassiopeia." He frowned slightly at the stars.

George, my Dad, had been a clerk in an insurance company but, when I was five, the company "downsized" and made him redundant. He'd joined his father running a fishing boat out of Sheringham and delivering crabs to Cromer and flatfish to Norwich until EC quotas had driven them out business. Nanny blamed the loss of boat and business and the death of her husband five months later squarely if not entirely fairly on the French.

Dad had then worked on a pig farm near Attleborough, forking through silage and slopping out swill, but the pay had been shockingly poor and he'd struggled to support us. So he had moved to London in one last, desperate gamble. He worked as a labourer during the week and came home on Fridays with whatever cash he had managed to scrape together. He would sleep through Saturday and shout at Mum on Sunday. I loathed the weekends. Everyone was tired, cranky and constantly bickering. Then Mum had met Nick Byrne and everything changed.

During the night, I listened to the world beyond my bed. The wind was whispering busily in the reeds, the water lapping gently against the wooden hull, the ropes creaking softly - I found the sounds comforting. I turned my head on the lilac pillowcase and listened to my father's heavy, regular breathing and wished for the thousandth time that he'd taken me with him. My fingers were cold when I pulled the blanket up to my chin.

By morning it was drizzling hard and I sweated inside my mandarin cagoule. We were running with the ebb tide as we passed the Berney Arms, possibly the loneliest pub in the country, to enter Breydon Water, the huge grey expanse which lurks behind Yarmouth where water and sky converge in one long steely sheet.

I steered the boat between the stakes sunk into the silt bed, green and black to port, red to starboard and leaned on the lever, pushing the speed up to 25 m.p.h., to cover the four miles of Breydon as quickly as possible. The wash would be absorbed by the glistening slabs of mud lying exposed and naked on either side. The drizzle whipped into my face and my fingers chilled against the wheel. A couple of tatty, bedraggled cormorants occupied one green silt-sunk stake. They looked like drenched black rags.

Breydon Bridge loomed out of the mist. "Take the side arch." Dad pointed it out with the stem of his pipe, settled his woolly hat more firmly over his thinning brown hair and brushed some droplets of drizzle from his ragged moustache. By the time I'd got us past the Yacht Station and into the Bure, I was as shiveringly wet as the cormorants and my damp black jeans clung to my calves.

When Dad took over, I sat in the galley drinking tea, eating bread and blackberry and apple jam, reading Empty World by John Christopher and listening to Blur on my Walkman (I got my head checked/By a jumbo jet/It wasn't easy/But nothing is) until he called down that we were at Acle and stopping to refill the water tank. Time to get wet again. Woo Hoo!

I uncoiled the hose from its wheel on the wall and dragged it across the shingle to the boat. When Dad turned the tap on, the hose bucked and flapped in my fingers like a tangerine snake. Later I had a hot shower. I looked at myself in the mirror. The bruises on my shoulders and back were beginning to fade from blackberry to apple and lemon. Only the ripe-cherry welts on my bottom remained clearly visible. I ran my fingers over them. They were less swollen today.

The next morning was sunny and warm. As we headed for the River Ant, luxuriant woodland gave way to wide open fenland and I settled down in the well in mint green shorts and a water-melon-pink T-shirt and let the sun warm me gently whilst the world idled past at 5 miles per hour

\- prominent, dominant How Hill Centre,

\- twin mills on opposite banks,

\- Toad Hole Cottage,

\- the hamlet of Irstead with its small wooden quay and church just visible through the thick tree branches,

\- another mill, black with four white latticed sails, poking its head above the swaying green and yellow reeds on the port bank

It was a sleepy, hot August day. I kicked off my trainers and socks, stripped off my T-shirt and stretched out my legs. A couple of ducks and a majestic white swan with a huge orange beak glided beside us. I nipped some bread from a slice with my fingers and dropped it into the water. A coot jostled the swan and received a single, sharp flap of one great white wing. 'Keep your greedy beak out of my bread,' honked the whooper. In beautiful Barton Broad, I waved to people on other crafts, to life-jacketed people struggling to keep their dinghies sailing in the dying breeze, chucked bread to the mallards and moorhens and felt almost happy. Almost, because I knew that, at the end of the week, I would have to go home, and home is where the hurt is.

My stepfather, Nick Byrne, was ten years younger than my mum. He was an occasionally employed double-glazing salesman and a heavy gambler who had once blown ₤1000 on a single horse-race. He borrowed from my mother, borrowed (and stolen) from me and indulged in lonely, intense drinking bouts when he lost, which was often. I hated him from the start, and he hated me.

Dad suddenly cut the engine and called me up to the cockpit. "There." He pointed. "Great crested grebes. A pair." They were beautiful birds with orange throats and black tufted crests. They were floating on the water and occasionally dipping down to bob back up a few yards further away.

Dad was a bit of a 'twitcher'. He had joined me into the Junior Section of the RSPB for one birthday present and dragged me off several times to places like Strumpshaw, Cley and Stiffkey to watch the birds. We had been at Minsmere observing oystercatchers and a godwit when he'd broken the news that he was leaving us. I was ten.

He slipped away in the darkness one night. Left me with an awkward hug and an even more awkward brush of the moustache. Not good with affection, my father. Though in the hide at Minsmere on that warm summer's day, he had held me close for a long, long time, rocking me against his chest.

I remember I forgot to enter the godwit into my bird-spotting book.

The grebes ducked their tufted heads playfully under the water. I leaned my elbows on the hot wooden roof and wished for a camera. Suddenly I felt my father's finger touch the still tender patch just beneath my shoulder blade.

"What's this?" he said.

"Nothing," I answered. "Just a bruise."

"And this?" He touched another one near my left kidney. I held my breath, stared at the grebes and blinked rapidly. "Is he knocking you about?" The grebes bobbed again. "Adam! Does he hit you? Adam? Adam."

"Sometimes." I stared at the grebes. "Sometimes he hits me."

"Does your mother know?"

"Yes," I muttered.

I felt his weight slump into the driver's seat. "Well," he said.

And that was all. I expected him to rant and curse but he didn't. He didn't say anything. He didn't do anything. He just sat there, his big hands hanging between his knees, face lowered, eyes glassy. He suddenly seemed smaller.

"We'd better push on," I said, as brightly as I could manage. "Dad? Ranworth?"

He shook himself like a dog after a dip in a pond. "Oh aye. Push on. Right." He shambled to the dashboard. "Ranworth. Right." He gave the ignition key a sharp twist with his fingers and the engine roared back to life. The grebes took to the air in a frightened flurry of feathers. "Ranworth."

A shadow passed across the boat. I felt suddenly cold. I went to get my T-shirt and socks.

We cruised to Ranworth in near silence. The weather was becoming oppressive but despite the midges gathering in huge clouds around the trees on the banks, I couldn't wait to get off The Neptune. I put my foot on a tree root and lashed the ropes around the grey-brown trunk.

"'M off for a walk," I said. "See you later." He looked quite forlorn. I tore a switch from a bush and swished viciously at leaves and gateposts as I headed up the tarmacked hill towards St Helen's Church.

I knew what I'd wanted him to say when he'd seen my bruises. I'd wanted him to say "come and live with me, come to London with me." And he hadn't. Maybe he was thinking it over. Maybe he was wondering how he could get custody. Maybe he was wondering about the police. Maybe ... maybe I should ask him directly.

The need for a view, for the wide open spaces, urged me to climb the steps to the top of the tower and look out across the landscape. Just below the church stood a triangular house with a small conservatory tacked on. Next door was a small white cottage with several cars parked on one side and several boats pulled up on the other. A hedge ran between the garden and a ploughed field. A steady breeze stirred the weathercock whose black finger pointed North West. I gazed out across the Broads, placid sheets of water surrounded by woodland, a potential Paradise. I tried to identify The Neptune but failed. There were several other boats stained chestnut and magnolia.

That Whitsun Wedding was the loneliest day of my life. I was eleven. I combed and gelled my short dark hair and polished my best black shoes. I wore a plum waistcoat, soft white shirt, grey flannel trousers and a peach cravat. Mum wore a peach suit and a wide-brimmed feathery hat which resembled an explosion in a parrot farm. We crowded in the Norman doorway of the church, forcing smiles for the photographer's flash. I stood in front of Mum and Byrne. His fingers dug into my shoulder like a hawk's talons. I was uncomfortable, hot, and miserable. I missed my father.

As soon as was decent, I broke away to seek sought shelter among the gravestones suffocating in their thick mossy coats. Byrne followed me, calling "Adam, Adam, where art thou?" An old and tedious joke. I ducked under an apple tree and crouched behind a headstone. "Adam, Adam, where art thou?" He scanned the churchyard and laughed. "Art thou naked, that thou dost hide from me?"

I hope to God you're not God, I thought, glancing at the chiselled words under my fingers

### DEARLY BELOVED FATHER,

### GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

I grunted at the irony and crept round the side of the headstone, fingers fixed on stone, eyes fixed on Burns. He lit a cigarette and flicked the dead match onto a grave.

"Everything's gonna be OK," he said. "You'll see. We'll be OK." He drew on his cigarette and flicked the ash away to rest in peace on some fallen apple blossom. "Don't come out, then," he said, "But you'll miss the party." He ground the dead ciggie on a gravestone and strolled away.

When we got home, late, very late, I was half-cut. The Best Man and my new father had decided it would be amusing to lace my apple juice with vodka. I wobbled unsteadily and grinned stupidly as I dug my fingers into my shoes to prise them off. Mum smelt my breath suspiciously. "Have you been drinking?" I simply stared at her, uncomprehending. She wiped a stain from my cheek with a wet fingertip. "Get ready for bed, clean your teeth, then come down and say goodnight," she said and retired to extricate her head from her hat. Unsteady, unbalanced and fuzzy-headed, I fumbled downstairs for the glass of water I decided might help dissolve the fog in my brain.

Byrne sat coiled on the edge of an armchair, the family photograph album on his lap, a stack of photographs beside him on the floor. He was staring at one page in particular, a photo of Dad and Mum and me under the apple tree in Nanny's garden.

"Whatcher doin'?" I said.

"Sorting things out," he replied, lifting the picture away from the page. "She's my wife now." He slowly tore the family photo to pieces.

"Don't!" I shouted, reaching for the album.

Casually he slammed his fingers into my stomach. I lay winded on the carpet, gasping and choking. Through the tears which were flooding my eyes, I watched him rip up all the photographs, sometimes one at a time, sometimes several together, his fingers sorting, gripping, ripping, rhythmically, mechanically, methodically, until he had generated a heap of torn celluloid, our family, our history, my father's history, his history, his story, gone, erased, except from my mind.

Dullness descended, the clouds crowded in. I looked up at the weathercock. He was swinging round in the gathering wind, creaking eerily on his black iron perch. I ought to get going, I told him. The rain's coming in. But by the time I'd got down the tower and out of the church, it had arrived. I stood in the porch and watched grey slanting slashes hammer the headstones. I would have to stay in the church or make a dash for the boat. The rain, bouncing off the peak of my cap, splashed my nose. Bollocks, I thought, and ran for it.

As I dashed along the wooden quay, the rain was driving against me, thunder and lightning were splitting the sky and the boat was bobbing on the water like a discarded apple core. I was drenched to the skin. My clothes stuck to me like cling-film to fruit. I jumped for the gunwale and clattered down the wooden steps into the cockpit. Dad emerged from the galley. "You're soaking," he said.

"I know," I said grumpily and removed my sopping red hat.

"I got something special for dinner," he said, "For a special evening together." My heart leapt. He was going to ask me to live with him. It was there in his smile.

"I'll get out of these clothes," I said, "Quick shower, then I'll give you a hand."

I hauled off my water-filled trainers and wrung my socks into the Broad. Then I folded my T-shirt and jeans over a couple of wire hangers and hung them on the lintel. I had no dry clothes left so I lay my Jurassic Park pyjamas on the lilac bedspread, hung an apple green towel on the engine lever so it wouldn't get wet from the shower and went naked into the bathroom.

I looked in the mirror. My eyes resembled rain-washed roof slates. My creosote-coloured hair trailed over my face in limp strands. I craned over my shoulder to look at my bruises and noted some insect bites on my arms. Little bastards. The hot jet of the shower would blast them away. I scrubbed myself with a bar of lemon Zest and sluiced myself down. "I'm a twentieth century boy, hanging on for dear life," I sang, elated. He was going to ask me to live with him. I had seen it in his smile.

He had also changed into a lavender shirt and a daffodil tie. Modern Life is Rubbish was playing from my tape recorder. "You don't mind my borrowing your tape, do you?" he asked, uncorking a bottle of straw-coloured wine. A Hawaiian pizza with extra chunks of pineapple and a blackcurrant cheesecake sat on the table.

We chatted about Ranworth Church and kingfishers and great crested grebes and drank some wine and listened to music. I was beginning to fret. Then he smiled and said "I don't like to see you miserable, son." He poked at a pineapple chunk with his fork.

I couldn't wait. "I want to come and live with you," I blurted, "In London."

"I know." He avoided my eyes.

"Well? Can I?"

"It's not so easy." He avoided my eyes. "Not right now."

"You don't want me to, is that it?"

Damon Albarn's voice cut through the silence: "He's a twentieth century boy, with his hands on the rails/Trying not to be sick again and holding on for tomorrow".

"He beats me, Dad!" I hurled a torrent of emotion at his head. "He beats me! Look! I'm bruised all over! Don't you see? Don't you understand? He hits me! He dislocated my shoulder! He makes me bleed, Dad! He hits me till I bleed!" I struggled to control the rising tide of frustration. "Dad .... He hurts me ... so bad ... you don't know what it's like ... I'm.... frightened ... all the time... my life is so.... awful..."

My father rubbed his moustache with a fat index finger.

"Dad ...please ..." I whimpered, "He hurts me, Dad. You have to help me. Please, Dad... help me."

"I can't," he mumbled. "Not yet. Not now. The time isn't right."

"But one day?" I asked.

He said nothing.

"Can I live with Nanny?"

"She's got angina," said Dad.

"Every time he hits me, every time he makes me cry, I'll think of you," I said bitterly, and rushed out of the living room. I clambered up on to the roof. The rain was hammering down. It merged with my tears. Nobody wanted me. Not my Dad, not my Mum, not my grandmother. The only person who wanted me was Byrne and that was so he could hurt me. I raised my face and sobbed wildly. Nobody wanted me. The rain beat on my head and soaked through my pyjamas. I cried for an hour.

2. Nausikaa

IT was nearly morning. Outside the rain was crashing against the window pane. The boy in the bed coughed harshly. His slender figure rattled and shuddered and beads of sweat studded his crumpled forehead. His breathing was rasping and laboured. Beneath the blankets, he curled himself into a foetal position. He had spent the past hours sleeping, bunched up in the bed, head half-covered by the pillow, one arm flung out across the pale blue bed sheet, the fist clenched, the jaws clenched, the muscles knotted beneath the sweat-sodden skin. Whenever he coughed, his whole body convulsed. Once or twice he muttered. Once or twice he mouthed silent words. Once, frighteningly, he had uttered a desperate gulping sob.

Lucy Cruikshank lowered her book, leaned forward and pressed a damp cloth against his creased forehead. It was still very hot. She gazed at the sweat-dampened, creosote-coloured hair and the ragged white scar over the right eyebrow.

The sickly light of morning seeped through the pale blue curtains, staining the sheets and the sick boy's face with a dead fish-belly white. The rain washed over the roof tiles, cascading down through the gutter on its way to the drains.

The boy coughed again. Lucy wiped a dribble of spittle away from his face. He had a nice face, she thought. Open. Honest. Trusting. The door catch clicked gently. It was her father, creeping quietly into the sickroom.

The boy moaned. Lucy placed the cloth on his forehead again. "Fourteen hours," she said. "He's been asleep for fourteen hours."

Kenneth Cruikshank kissed the top of his daughter's blonde hair. "You should sleep too, my love. Mrs Humble and I can minister to his needs."

The boy twisted in the iron-framed bed, gave another low, guttural groan. Lucy took the knotted hand and twined the fingers in hers. Cruikshank raised his face towards the ceiling and prayed.

"Perhaps he's worse," Lucy muttered. "He might be worse." She touched his fevered forehead.

He mmmed through cracked lips and his slate grey eyes struggled to focus. Blue jeans. Dark blue chunky-wool sweater. White socks. Golden hair in a shower round her shoulders. Must be...

"Luce ..." he whispered.

She smiled. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

He plucked at the dark blue T-shirt stuck to his skin. "Wet," he said.

"You've been asleep for a long time," she told him.

"Mmmm." He screwed his eyes closed and pressed his fingers to his forehead. "Mmmm. My head's killing me."

"Do you want an aspirin?" asked Lucy.

"Mmmm." He nodded, feeling the clamminess of the pale blue sheets against his legs. "And a drink. Water." He swallowed. "Please." He lay still for a moment staring at the pale blue ceiling, listening to the gusts of rain driving fiercely against the window pane. He could imagine the wildness beyond the walls. He struggled to sit up. The room was spartan, was functional, plain pale blue wallpaper, pale blue curtains, a battered dresser, Lucy's chair, this iron-framed, fairly uncomfortable single bed, a damp pale blue flannel in a bucket on the floor ... He noted the book upturned on the chair - C. S. Lewis. The Problem of Pain.

Lucy returned with a glass of tap water. "The doctor's here," she said. "She'll be up in a moment."

"Uhuh." He took the glass in both hands and sipped. The water tasted stale.

"And Mrs Humble says she'll bring you some soup. Would you like that?"

"Mmmm." He nodded, and sipped again.

"Poor boy." Lucy smoothed his hair away from his forehead. "You're so hot, aren't you?"

"Where are my clothes?" he asked.

"In the wash. Mrs Humble took them away."

"How long have I been here?"

"Three days, three nights." It was a simple statement. "You've been very ill."

"How did I get here, then?"

Lucy's father and Mrs Humble, the housekeeper, had half-dragged half-carried the unconscious boy out of the tent, across Clapham Common and into the Battle Bus. Back at the church, Mrs Humble had summoned Dr Keen who had diagnosed bronchial pneumonia.

The boy did not seem surprised. He described his damp flat, the water which had streamed over the bedroom walls and bubbled through the paint and floorboards, the permanent smell of rotting wood, the refusal of the landlord to undertake any repairs.

"We were running with water," he said. "I sometimes thought we were going to drown." He shivered at the memory of his fevered, sweat-sodden nightmares.

Lucy's father had carried him up the stairs. His legs had dangled over the preacher's arms, his head flopped against his chest. He had muttered deliriously, kicked violently as they'd prised off his split, ragged trainers and stripped away his soaking wet socks. He had come out of his fevered ranting briefly whilst they'd wrestled with his coat and stained, baggy sweater and sat on the bed coughing and choking, face rived and grey whilst they had manipulated his arms as Lucy had once done with her dolls many years earlier. Then he had fainted again and fallen insensible across the pillows.

Lucy had sat by the bed for nearly four days, had slept in her chair. She had listened anxiously to every frame-tearing, lung-shredding cough, had held up a bucket to catch his vomit, swilled it away down the toilet, had mopped the dribble and spittle and phlegm and the trickles of sick away from his face, had supported his weight as he'd stumbled out to the toilet shivering wildly, struggled to change the bedclothes when they had become too stained or dampened with sweat or with sick.

The boy glanced towards the chair. "C. S. Lewis."

"What?"

"You're reading a book by C. S. Lewis. The Problem of Pain."

Lucy laughed. "Oh, yes. The Problem of Pain. Have you read it?"

"No." The boy touched the cooling glass to his forehead. "I've read Prince Caspian and Voyage of the Dawntreader, stuff like that."

"It's one of his theological works," Lucy explained.

"So were they," said the boy grumpily. "God, I'm hot. And these sheets are soaking." His gaze wandered towards the window. Rivers of rain ran down the glass.

"It's about why God allows pain and tragedy," Lucy explained. "Why he allows aeroplanes to crash or famines and hurricanes to happen."

"Market forces," the boy said bitterly. "God leaves it all to market forces." He watched the raindrops dribble down the window pane. "He's totally non-interventionist."

The door handle rattled again. Cruikshank was back with a briskly efficient black woman doctor. "Hello Adam," said Dr Keen, dumping her case by his sheet-shrouded knee. "How do you feel?"

"Rotten," said Adam. "When can I leave?"

"Not for a while," said Dr Keen, slipping a thermometer under his tongue.

"You must stay as long as you need to." Cruikshank leaned against the closed door. "Our home is your home. Whilst you are sick, you will find comfort with the Family Cruikshank."

Dr Keen withdrew the thermometer and asked him to sit forward. He felt as though his face were bursting. The doctor tugged the hem of his T-shirt up to the nape of his neck and pressed the cold stethoscope against his back. Adam shivered. He focussed his eyes on the blue painted window frame and listened to the rain pattering on the roof of the house.

Lucy noticed again the ragged lines scored on the lower back which ran into the waistband of his pale blue boxers, and, on the jutting triangular point of his right shoulder blade, a very white round scar the size of a penny. There was another scar, thinner, longer, on the inside of his left knee.

"There's still some rattling." Dr Keen pulled down the T-shirt. "Phlegm and mucus, but he's over the worst." Adam sank back onto the pillow. He was breathing hard, his thin rib-lined chest heaving. "He needs some nose drops to clear his head," the doctor continued. "Lean his head right back and squirt four or five drops up each nostril twice a day. It'll clear the spaces behind his face."

"I'll help him," said Lucy, flashing a smile.

"You ought to rest, my dear," said Cruikshank. "I can do it." He directed a face-splitting smile at Adam's pale face. "We can get to know each other better." He patted the bump of Adam's knee.

"I'll get some food then," Lucy said, skipping away from the bedside.

Adam listened to the murmured conversation between Cruikshank and Dr Keen, his eyesight fading, his hearing dimming, his mind fogging. Everything was touched with the sharp stench of sweat. Everything seemed damp. He felt as though a giant had put his body through a mangle. He cautiously spread his hands over the damp sheet but he couldn't tell whether it was sweat or something else. He coughed and plucked half-heartedly at the stained, discoloured sheets.

He thought about Kim stuck in the flat with the baby, not knowing where he had gone, not knowing he was stuck in the hostel with the stiflingly earnest but utterly gorgeous Lucy Cruikshank and Father Ken, her sad, mad, bad Dad. Oh shit. He shifted his legs between the damp sheets.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Mrs Humble, the housekeeper, was swabbing the sink with a strong-smelling disinfectant. The fixed lines of her face softened into a fleeting resemblance of a smile when Lucy bounded brightly through the door, her long golden hair bouncing round her shoulders.

"Adam's awake," Lucy announced. "The doctor says he's going to be all right."

"Good." Mrs Humble swilled disinfectant into the plughole. "Poor little mite. He'll need a change of sheets and a good hot bath after all that sweating."

"It'll take time." Lucy rummaged in a cupboard. "He still needs nursing." She peered at the packets. "I'll make him some soup. What do you think? Tomato or chicken?"

"A vegetable broth would be better," said Mrs Humble, chasing the last swirls of disinfectant down the drain with her cloth, "Something substantial." Mrs Humble smoothed her blue, nylon housecoat. "Making soup means making soup, not pouring water onto a heap of coloured powder."

Lucy opened one of the packets. "Tomato, I think."

"Perhaps your father might like a cup of something himself," Mrs Humble suggested. "The poor man's worn himself ragged. Praying all night, pacing the floor. He's a good man, and that's for sure." She gave the tap a short, sharp twist. "The way he brought you up after your mother had gone ... he's secured his place in the Kingdom, that's for sure."

Lucy agreed. Her father had been her friend, her constant companion. For most of her eighteen years, it had just been the two of them, and Mrs Humble, their housekeeper. Cruikshank had been a missionary in Africa, preaching and teaching, administering aid and running the schools. In Mozambique, he had held services on beaches and native children the colour of ebony had run barefoot to be there. Lucy had been especially friendly with the local children. She had gone to school with most of them. Her father had taught them to read and write, her and the natives together. They had been happy in Mozambique, for a while. They had lived in a village, set up a school, taught the Gospel. Her father established a small choir who rehearsed in the old wooden church. Mboto, the ten year old who headed the choir, had a beautiful voice. Cruikshank would allow him to sing parts of the Mass then ruffle the boy's woolly head and give him milk and cookies. Lucy, then thirteen, had learned the guitar and every Sunday she played at the service.

She had celebrated her fourteenth birthday with a traditional English party, paper hats, jelly, sandwiches, pass the parcel, musical chairs, cards and presents, but the best present had been the news that a London-based charity had agreed to fund an underground cistern and water pump. Waves of excitement rippled through the community whilst workers from the charity and people from the church dug a pit big enough to swallow a lion. A huge steel container was lowered into the ground to store any rainfall and a gleaming blue pump was set into concrete over the top. Water from a tanker was piped into the cistern to give the village a start. Although the pump clanked and groaned with every crank of the handle, it worked wonderfully well and dispensed water on a regular basis. It was little short of a miracle. Cruikshank was hailed as a saviour. All the villagers called him Father. They had been visited by a diplomat, Algernon Featherlehaugh, who had stayed a few days, befriended the villagers, joined in the mission.

Then the militia had arrived and their little quasi-colonial world was swept away on a tide of Revolution. The guerrillas' God-hating leader, Nkrumah, was a huge man the colour of tar who wrapped a lion skin round his shoulders. The villagers said he had killed the lion by ramming his arm down its throat and tearing out the still beating heart. Nkrumah confronted her father in the dusty village square, yelling in Russian and Portuguese about "filthy colonials" whilst her father held out the Cross and prayed for deliverance.

Many images from that day were seared in her memory:

Nkrumah striking the crucifix from Cruikshank's hand;

African faces contorted with contempt;

Cruikshank steering the jeep through the village;

Her friend, the lovely Mboto running up to spit on the windshield;

her first period starting as they'd bounced through the village,

the blood

soaking through

her pale blue dress

to stain

the leather seat

of the jeep.

Algy Featherlehaugh had got them home. He was a lord now, a Peer of the Realm, and had served in the Government as a minister of state. He was also chairman of London Rescue, the charity Lucy was hoping would finance the hostel.

She still loved Africa. She loved the people, the countryside, the animals, the sunsets, the wide open spaces. She had decided to return to Africa to continue her father's work. She had finished school in July with A Levels in Maths, French and Religious Studies and gained a university place to study International Development. She had deferred entry for a year so she could work at the hostel with the homeless, running the soup-kitchen, teaching basic numeracy and literacy, assisting her father's missionary ministry up until Christmas before going on to Malawi with Africa Aid, another charity chaired by Lord Featherlehaugh.

The soup boiled over with a sudden fierce hiss. Lucy snatched the pan from the heat with a mumbled apology to Mrs Humble and carefully poured the tomato soup into a blue china bowl. As she entered the bedroom, her father rose from the bed with a smile and welcomed "The Broth Bearer". Adam's face, she noticed, wore a troubled expression.

"It's tomato soup," she told him, "And you must drink it while it's hot."

"Enjoy it, my child." Cruikshank touched Adam's cheek. "Adam. The Father of our Race. The first of men, the directly created Son of God. A wonderful name. A.D.A.M. is Man the Microcosm, the World, the Galaxy, the Creation in miniature."

A puzzled frown rippled Adam's forehead as Lucy placed the tray with the blue bowl on his lap, put a spoon in his hand.

"ADAM is traditionally taken as shorthand for the points of the compass in Greek," she explained. "Anathole is East, Disis West, Arecton North and Misinbrios is South. A.D.A.M. The name thus signifies Adam's role as the symbol of God's whole Creation and all his people. Is the soup good?"

"It's hot," said Adam. There was a smear on his face. Lucy smiled. He looked even more vulnerable for a moment, till he wiped it away with a drag of his wrist. "Are my clothes dry yet?"

"Almost," she answered. They'd been difficult to wash. The grey sweater had soaked for hours and they'd washed the jeans twice. "But you heard the doctor. You can't leave yet. You need to rest." She crossed to the window, parted the curtains. Between the clouds, the sky was a pale, washed-out blue. "Besides, where will you go?"

"Home," said Adam.

"To that damp flat?" Lucy was horrified.

Kim, thought Adam. Kim won't be able to pay the rent. And then there's the baby. The baby's sick. Kim can't afford medicine. They need me at home.

"I want to go to my father's. If I can find him." He slurped the soup softly. "I brought some stuff ... just in case ... I did."

"Did you run away from him?" Lucy asked softly.

"No!" The protest was sharp. "No." His face twisted with torment. "No."

"But you are a runaway, aren't you?" she said.

Adam said nothing. She recalled his rucksack. They had had to search it for a contact address or some indication of next-of-kin or family home. They had found nothing, except a page from the London telephone book for the surname Lycett, two T- shirts, two pairs of socks and two pairs of boxer shorts, an A-Z of London, a blue toothbrush and toothpaste, a can of cheap deodorant, a blue, nylon sleeping-bag and an old blanket covered in Scout badges.

"You are a runaway, aren't you?" she persisted. The silence was palpable. Eventually he nodded. "And you're fifteen."

"Yes," he said. "Well, nearly. February fifteenth."

She looked at him sitting up in the bed, all humps and bony bumps under the pale blue bed sheets. The darkness of his sweat-stained blue T-shirt accentuated the paleness of his face. The sweat-straggled brown-black hair tumbled towards the slate-grey eyes. His face was drawn and exhausted, huge blue circles daubed beneath his eyes. His chest heaved laboriously each time he took a breath.

"You were having a lively time with my father." She returned to her chair and put her blue-socked feet on the edge of the bed. "What were you talking about?"

Adam sipped another spoonful of soup then muttered "God."

"He is a Preacher," Lucy laughed.

"Nutter, more like it."

"He wants to save you."

"He talked about sinking ships and drowning," said Adam. He was making out I'd got pneumonia because I'm a sinner." He coughed sharply. The soup slopped against the pale blue china.

Lucy tapped the cover of her book. "Perhaps I should lend this to you."

"Does it explain why I'm to be punished?" said Adam angrily, "And others are not? Others who get away with obvious.... wickedness ...?" Another cough shook him.

Lucy put her hand on his forehead. "You mustn't get agitated," she said.

He laughed bitterly. The soup-stained spoon drooped towards the bowl. "Your father ... knows all the answers ... but he doesn't know me, anything about me.....but he still condemned me." He pushed the tray away. "I can't finish it. But thanks ...."

Lucy set the tray on the floor. ""Where are you from?" she asked.

"Norfolk," said Adam. It sounded like 'Naaarrrfolk.' "An' I'm not going back!"

He coughed again, a shattering cough which shook him so much that he had to clutch hold of the mattress edge. He felt his face split and his forehead explode, a huge lump of phlegm break away from something inside him to force its way into his throat.

Lucy held his thin shoulders firmly, feeling the bones beneath the thin T-shirt as he shuddered, then held a tissue to his lips whilst he hawked and spat. She wiped his face, felt the tempest storm through him once more.

"I lived with my Mum and step-dad," he explained when he'd got his breath back. "My dad left when I was ten." He fingered the stitched hem of the blue sheet and fixed his eyes on the window pane just visible through the chink in the curtains and the lightening sky beyond. "My stepfather knocked me about."

"Oh, Adam ..." She reached for his hand.

"See this scar?" He gestured to the small, ragged line by his lip. "Gash from his wedding ring. I forgot to strain the tea an' he got a mouthful of leaves."

Lucy's breath caught in her throat. "He hit you? For that?"

"I needed stitches," he said, "Only a couple. I needed eight for this one." He touched the jagged scar on his forehead. "He smashed my face into the kitchen table." A cloud blotted out the faint, filtered sunlight, casting his face into shadow. "He was shouting at my Mum and I told him to stop."

"Why didn't she call the police?" Lucy asked. "I would've."

"She didn't want me taken into care," said Adam. "She gave me notes for P.E. saying I'd fallen out of a tree or crashed my bike 'cos I was always bruised or marked. Anyway, nobody noticed." Adam's voice became bitter. "The teachers were too concerned with league table ratings an' inspections to notice. I told some of my friends though. They were kind." Adam stared at the rain-spattered glass.

He remembered once being locked in the shed for kicking a football into the neighbours' garden.

He remembered the cold, the discomfort, the shivering, the hopping from foot to foot, and the plant-pot he'd turned into a slop bucket.

He remembered pressing his forehead against the frost-scored window pane, feeling the skin sticking, his face numb and blue, his fingers and toes frozen.

He remembered huddling inside his clothes, crying because of the cold.

He remembered his release in the morning, stumbling into the sunlight, blinking at the sudden surge of pain in his eyeballs.

And he remembered his stepfather laughing.

He remembered the day his shoulder was dislocated. He was thirteen. Andrew Fairbrother had broken some flowers with a tennis ball. Byrne had said it didn't matter and winked at Adam, who'd turned sick with fear. When Andrew had gone, Byrne grabbed hold to give him a beating. Adam had pulled away and wrenched his shoulder clean out of its socket. He had fainted with pain. Byrne had taken him to the hospital where the nurses had reset it and given him a lecture on being more careful when playing in trees. Once they were home, Byrne had walloped him again for not being able to take his punishment like a man.

The worst of the many beatings he had suffered over the years had happened the year before, when he was twelve. He could remember every detail. Byrne had dragged him out of the bath and beaten him so badly the blood had run down his legs and dripped into the water.

He remembered slipping and sliding in his stepfather's hands as he'd wriggled and kicked. The soap had made it difficult for Byrne to hold him properly.

He remembered squirming along the bottom of the bath, looking for shelter and finding none.

He remembered screaming "Don't hurt me, don't hurt me, don't hurt me".

He remembered his forehead hitting the taps, cutting his face.

He remembered plunging into the water, taking a great gulping swallow of soapy bathwater which had made him choke and cough.

He remembered seizing the taps, clinging on like a drowning man to a rope,

until

his stepfather had grabbed his wrist and lifted him clear from the water,

kicking,

squirming,

screaming,

choking,

screaming again,

sobbing,

a desperate cry,

a desperate gulp,

a desperate scream,

the thick leather belt cutting him, tearing him, shredding him, slashing him,

and through it all his stepfather shouting, a terrible, terrifying, muffled shout of

### CUNT

### CUNT

## CUNT

His stepfather's shirt had been soaked through with soapsuds and blood. He'd lost his temper and thrashed Adam again with the buckle end, lashing the boy until his split skin shredded.

When Byrne had satisfied whatever demon was driving him, he dropped Adam on the bathmat and tossed the belt onto the tiles. Adam squirmed, a gasping, dying fish lying in a lukewarm puddle on the floor, aware as the blue tiled wall swam into focus through tears, pain and blood that he was utterly naked, bleeding profusely and frightened. He had crawled into a corner behind the blue china wash basin, streaking the floor with blood, soap and water, wrapped himself in the pale blue bathmat and hid himself, shivering and crying with fear and pain.

When his mother returned from her church council meeting, she carried him to bed, daubed a soothing ointment on the cuts and bruises and dabbed the blood away with a sponge. She had cried over her son's broken body but she had never asked his forgiveness and he had never offered it. He could never excuse her for staying with Byrne and he could never forgive her for loving the man.

"I can never understand," he said softly, "How people can treat children so cruelly. I mean, however bad things are, you don't do that to a kid."

Lucy followed his gaze to the window and the pale, washed-out sky beyond. "You should have told the police," she said, "Rung Childline, anything."

"Byrne said they'd take me into care," said Adam, "Into one of those homes for kids that nobody wants ... I didn't want to go into care. Anyway, how could I admit he was beating me? That I let him beat me?" His expression was bleak.

"That's ridiculous," Lucy said softly.

"I know that now," Adam replied. "But when I was twelve ..... Every Sunday he'd trot down the road to church to ask for better luck in the Whitbread Gold Cup or the 4.40 at Sandown. I used to sing in the choir and I'd pray for God to save me, to make him change, but every Sunday, when we got home, he'd find another excuse to beat the hell out of me." Adam's face was set like stone. "So how does your Problem of Pain justify that? How does your God justify what happened to me? And don't give me that Original Sin bollocks because if that is true, your God is bloody unfair. I was eleven when Mum married that man. Eleven years old." He swung his glare from the window to Lucy's pale face. "Eleven. Why should Satan smash me around? What the hell had I ever done?"

Lucy recoiled from his cold anger, his flat, bitter voice, the hard, granite eyes. "You should talk to my father," she murmured gently. "He might help ..."

"I have been talking to your father," ground Adam. "He didn't."

A cough burst through his chest. "For God's sake!" He exploded into a barrage of watery-eyed coughing. "Fucking hell," he choked. "Fuck huhuk huk huhukhukhukkkkk." Lucy grasped his shoulders and felt the turmoil inside the chest. "I'm sorry," he gasped. "I'm.... sorry." He fell back against the pillows again, weak and exhausted. Blue marks smudged the pale skin under the dark, dilated eyes. He drew a hand across his forehead, brushing away a tumbling lock of bruise-blue hair.

"Byrne really hated me," he gasped. "I mean, really hated me." He looked at the window. "He must've done." The expression on his face was one of pleading. "Mustn't he? To do what he did?"

"You're safe now, '' Lucy murmured, "Don't worry, Adam. We'll heal you.''

He sighed and sank back on the pillow. He turned his face towards the window. Outside, the rain clouds were moving away. The blue sky was slowly emerging.

### 3. The Trojan Wars

THE sandstone Cathedral stands proud in its Close. Within its walls, flowing through the sweeping nave, washing round the soaring arches, flooding from pews to pulpit, surging together in one swell of noise, some six hundred voices sing:

And did those feet in ancient time

Walk upon England's mountains green

And was the Holy Lamb of God

In England's pleasant pastures seen

Adam Lycett rushes into the playground. He hoists his rucksack further up on his shoulder. His schoolmates sing on, oblivious to the world beyond their walls:

Bring me my bow of burning gold,

Bring me my arrows of desire

Adam stops by the wrought iron gates and looks up at the huge stained glass window at the imposing West End. "Shit," he mutters.

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand

Sprinter-like he takes off again, determined to get under cover before he is spotted.

Till we have built

"Adam Lycett!"

Je-ruuuu-sa-lemmmm

"Stand still, boy!" He skids to a halt in front of the grey iron railings. He is drowning inside a dark grey blazer a size too big for him.

In England's green and pleasant land.

From the grey interior darkness of a cool Cathedral morning slides Dr Bland, Adam's Head Master. He is everything a Head Master ought to be, tall, imposing, ash-grey hair, chronically, terminally middle-aged, even as a teenager. If those who can, do, and those who can't, teach, then those who can't teach surely become Head Masters.

"Mr Lycett," the Head Master says smoothly. "A trifle tardy this morning." Adam mumbles incoherently and fixes his stare on the grey hymn book clasped in one grey hand protruding from the cuff of one grey sleeve. "Late," says Dr Bland, "Again."

"Only five minutes, sir," says Adam.

"Five minutes too late," Bland insists, "Is the same as five hours too late. If you were a train, you would have a hundred angry passengers banging on your doors." Adam tries not to smile. "Your being late puts everyone else out."

A tide of grey-blazered boys swells from the cathedral. They blink and shield their eyes against the sun. A curious few glance over and share one thought - Adam Lycett in trouble again.

Aware of the audience, Adam lifts his chin. "Doesn't put me out, sir."

"You do not matter," replies Dr Bland. Adam stares at the dark grey cobbles. "Long ago," Bland continues in a jovial tone, "When you first began troubling us with your punctuality, I endeavoured to acquire a full awareness of your bus timetable." Bland smoothes his grey, pin-striped lapels. "The bus arrives at half past eight. It is now ten to nine. The period of time it would take you to walk from the bus station is hardly twenty minutes. The bus was not late. I telephoned the station."

Adam's rucksack starts to slide off his shoulder. "I stopped at the bus station cafe, sir. For breakfast. A bacon roll and a cup of tea. It was all I could afford."

"And why," Bland says, happy now he has caught Adam out, "Did you not eat breakfast at home?"

Adam's parents had rowed furiously that morning. He couldn't get a lift to the bus stop until his Mum had thrown a fried egg at Byrne. They were always shouting, about money mainly, sex often, his real father sometimes, and Adam always.

"When I tried to get some food for myself, my stepfather threw the breadboard at me. I can't cope, sir," Adam states simply. "I don't know.... how to cope with it all."

Bland smoothes his gown. It is inappropriate for pupils to bring their family problems into the school lest the school be asked to take sides. He hooks a thumb inside his lapel. "Pull yourself together," he says crisply, "That is how you cope. For God's sake, Adam, look at yourself. Your shoe-lace is undone, your collar's unfastened, your tie is crooked, there's a button missing from your shirt, your hair's a mess, your shoes haven't seen polish for days ..." Bland inhales the fresh morning air and looks round his school. "Get a grip on yourself. Look smart, act smart."

"Yes sir." Adam stands in the shadow of the great Cathedral and stares through the iron grey railings at the school's low grey buildings. He feels he's been greyed. He looks down at his uniform, dark grey trousers, dark grey socks, dark grey blazer, white (but often grey) shirt, the grey and white crested tie ..... The worms are beginning to churn in his brain. He buries his face in his dark grey blazer sleeve and drowns in despair.

### *

Adam lay on his sleeping bag. His feet ached. He'd taken his grey socks and trousers off and was sitting in his boxer shorts and dark grey T-shirt. The grey darkness which had shrouded the campsite had also brought a soft, steady drizzle which pattered lightly on the dark grey canvas over his head. His arms were curled round his bare shins. He drew clumsily on a cigarette and sipped cider from a grey plastic mug. The grey playing-card backs were distinctly unhelpful. Perhaps his Full House (three queens and two tens) would be enough. He drew on his cigarette again and glanced round the circle at his opponents, the other members of the Dolphin Patrol of the School Scout Troop. To his right, by the grey aluminium pole and a heap of rucksacks, boots and cagoules in front of the zipped canvas flap, covered with his many-badged dark grey Scout blanket, lay Patrol Leader

Andrew Fairbrother,

straw-coloured hair flopping over his freckles, Adam's best friend. Andrew had taken responsibility for the expedition to the village off-licence. Under cover of darkness he had squeezed through the hedge and walked briskly down the road, jingling the proceeds of the within-the-tent whip-round, Adam at his heels.

"What if they ask how old we are?" Adam had whispered, trying to control his trembling knees. He shuddered to think what would happen if he got arrested.

"Just mellow, Adi," was the helpful reply. "Leave the talking to me."

Andrew pinned the two bottles of cider against his dark grey fleece so he could count the coins. Fucking hell, thought Adam. If the old buffer isn't suspicious already, he will be now.

"Great," said Andrew, "Enough for some ciggies. Twenty Marlboro please, mate." Before the shopkeeper could ask for ID, Andrew looked at his watch and said "How much longer on that pay and display? Five minutes? We'll have to jog to the car. Can you put the cider in a bag for us, mate?" And the old buffer did, a nice grey and white striped carrier bag, the handles of which cut into Andrew's knuckle as it swung. Outside in the drizzle Andrew had grinned, slapped Adam's back and set off for the campsite.

"C'mon, Andy. Make your mind up." Elliott was getting impatient. ''You're not choosing a bird for the night, you know.''

Adam turned to his left to look at

Elliott Marr,

who poured the cider into plastic beakers, dished out the Marlies and dealt the cards. Elliott Marr, who shared the post of Deputy Patrol Leader with him, sprawled fully clothed, minus boots and cagoule, on his sleeping bag, winding a soft brown curl round his knuckle. He wanted to work in motor racing. Obsessed by fast cars, he worked part-time at the Snetterton Circuit.

Beside him, facing Adam, Elliott's strawberry blond brother seemed more interested in the blisters on his heel than in his cards. Sitting in a "Better Dead than Smeg" T-shirt and boxer shorts, cross- and bare-legged, and listening to Chapterhouse

Jamie Marr

had moaned all the way down the ridge and begun applying an assortment of sticking plasters as soon as they'd got back to base.

"Do you think I should burst it?" He nudged one of his plasters with a knuckle.

"No," said Adam, "It might go all septic."

"If you push it the fluid makes it bubble," said Jamie.

"Bollocks," Elliott muttered. "It's bad enough being saddled with your kid brother for a weekend, but when he's a spawny, obnoxious little git..."

Adam had just split up with Vicki Marr. Having both her brothers in his tent was a bit of a trial. Elliot was his normal solid presence but Jamie, a neurotic eleven year old, was more highly strung. "Yes," Vicki used to say. "He should be." Jamie had been utterly neurotic, for instance, about the sleeping positions inside the tent. He hadn't been able to decide whether it was better to be next to the flap in case of a fire or at the far end in case of an axe-wielding murderer. Eventually, driven to distraction by the indecision, the others had bundled him into the tent and wedged him somewhere in the middle. Now his blisters were causing concern.

"Think your whole body could turn into a blister?" Adam rested his chin on his knees.

"His already has," grunted the brother. "Full of pus."

Jamie tried to blow smoke from the cigarette he was sharing with David Bell into his brother's face.

"Little kids trying to be hard," said Elliott dismissively.

"Oh, I can get pretty hard when I need to," smirked Jamie. "Your ten and another twenty."

Down by the tent-flap, violet eyes fixed on the cards, his very blond hair like vanilla ice-cream,

David Bell

had snuggled into his sleeping bag and turned it around so he could lay full length on the groundsheet facing into the circle. He was leaning on his elbows, running the tip of his tongue over the brace on his teeth. Adam wondered idly what it would be like to snog someone who had a mouthful of metal. He also wondered idly about snogging David Bell. A ridiculously cute, slender boy with a very strong forehand, the captain of the Under 14 tennis team, his Dad had died when he was four, he lived with his Mum, flirted outrageously with every man he met and had a massive crush on Adam who felt mildly uncomfortable about it. Nonetheless he liked the younger boy and found him amusing company. Today, for example, he had made the Patrol laugh by revealing an affinity with a large cow when he'd stopped to say "mooooo", an utterance which, to the delight of the others, had brought the cow wandering across to the dry stone wall. David held out his hand to touch the wet nose and called it a "nice cow", and it was.

David had been in foster-care and said it was okay. He'd gone to a family with three kids for a fortnight when his mother had gone into hospital for a hysterectomy. He'd had to share a room but it had bunk-beds, which he liked, and he said the food was delicious and the family were kind and had taken him to Duxford Air Museum. "They tried," he said. "They were nice to me."

David took the cigarette from Jamie. "I'm out," he said, placing his cards on the grey groundsheet.

"Me too." Andrew opened the second bottle with a sharp twist and an angry fizz.

"Mmmm," said Adam, looking at his cards and squinting at the Marr brothers' fixed faces. He had hoped the cider-swilling younger boy would be losing control of his game by now. Fat chance. Twenty years from now, Jamie Marr would be sitting at a baize-covered table in a dingy back-room with a litre of whisky and a carton of cigarettes cleaning up in a late-night poker session.

"C'mon," said Elliott. The rain tapped gently on the tent.

"How's Vicki?" Andrew's idea of distracting the players.

Adam scratched his ankle. He had been out with Vicki for a couple of months, mainly to the cinema or parties, only once for a meal. He had saved his pocket money for five weeks to pay for it. She had unceremoniously dumped him for a Parisian art student. Firstly the phone calls had stopped then a brief letter had arrived saying how much she cared for him but the age gap (three years) was insurmountable and besides Claude (Claude, for God's sake!!) was wonderful and Adam would like him and.... well, be happy, Adi.

"She didn't want to hurt you," Elliott said. "She still likes you, Adi."

"So why did she write me a note? Couldn't she say it to my face?"

"She knew you'd be disappointed," said Elliott.

"I'd have been okay," Adam insisted.

"You'd have fallen apart," said Andrew. "You did fall apart."

He had. He'd cried bitterly, angrily, filled with frustrated desire and the necessary stifling of emotion that comes with rejection. He had loved her. Deeply.

"She's flighty," said Elliott. "She likes the chase but she doesn't like being caught."

"Were you crowding her?" Andrew crawled from his blanket to pull his sleeping bag from the pile by the pole. "Pushing her too quickly?"

"Were you shagging her?" chirped Jamie. "Claude is."

"Shut up, Jamie," chorused the others.

"We only kissed," said Adam, "And she led it."

"Urrr," said Jamie, "Snogging my sister. Urr." He made a vomiting noise.

"Shut up, Jamie," chorused the others.

"I meant moving into a Relationship," said Andrew. "Girlfriend, boyfriend. That kind of thing. Bollocks. Where's my fleece?"

''I thought we were in a relationship, '' said Adam plaintively.

"Here." David dragged the fleece from beneath his elbow, tossed it to Andrew.

"You usin' it as a pillow, Bell?" Andrew demanded. "Bloody fifty quid fleece?"

"Wondered why you spent so long looking' at those sheep,'' said David. ''Wondering what else you could wear."

"Least I wasn't wondering which one to shag." Andrew pulled on his fleece. "This geezer from Paris. What's he like?"

"Cload," said Jamie, in a mock French accent, "Cload. Rhymes with toad."

"He's a twat," said Elliot, "A pretentious pillock. Talks a load of old wank.'' He toffed up his accent. ''The place of classical sculpture in a post-modern mythology. Load of old bollocks. I'm out."

"He's a total tosspot," Jamie added. "Your twenty and another ten."

Adam fixed his eyes on Jamie's. "Just you and me, squirt," he said.

"I reckon so," Jamie replied in a husky Clint Eastwood drawl.

Three queens and two tens. Full house.

"Your ten and another," said Adam.

Jamie grinned over his fan of cards. "Your ten and twenty."

A low moan escaped from the others.

"Must be good cards," muttered Andrew, squinting at Adam's.

Adam pondered his full house. "Your twenty and another thirty."

"Jaysus."

Jamie flicked an eyebrow. "OK. Your thirty and another thirty."

"Fuck." Adam reached for his jeans. Coins jingled. "Raise you fifty."

"Fifty?" Jamie wrinkled his nose. The air in the tent was suddenly thick with cigarette smoke and the strong smell of cider and the dampness of drizzle. "Sure." He tossed another fifty pence piece onto the heap in the middle. "And another."

"Oh God," moaned Elliott. "He must have five aces or something."

'' 'Less it's a bluff," said David, anxiety in his voice. "How much in the pot?"

"Nine quid," said Andrew.

Jamie grinned and sipped his cider. Adam felt the pound coin warm against his palm. A wild recklessness swept through his system. "Yeah," he said, "What the hell?" He tossed the £1 onto the pile. Another moan, tinged with excitement.

"Don't let him off the hook," Elliott crowed. "Make the squirt suffer."

"Your pound," said Jamie, "And another."

"He's pratting about now," said Andrew irritably. "Call him, Adi."

Adam watched the boy closely. Jamie's eyes were fixed on his.

"No," he said, finally. "I don't think so," and folded.

"Yee ha!" Jamie whooped, and laid down five nothings. The highest card in his hand was the eight of clubs. Adam buried his face on his knees with a low, keening moan. The others reacted with a mixture of laughter, gasps and despair.

"You're a regular shark, you are," David told Jamie with some admiration.

"What did you have?" said Andrew, wresting the cards from Adam's numb fingers. "Full house! I don't believe it! Bloody full house! You folded with a full house?"

Jamie whooped again and raked the coins across the groundsheet.

"Cleaned me out," said Adam, still not quite able to grasp that he'd let ₤12 slip away, that he'd been bluffed by an eleven year old, that he'd lost his nerve.

"You're buyin' breakfast," Elliott told his brother. "Winner's privilege."

Adam moaned. "Full house! I folded with a full house."

Jamie threw himself onto his sleeping bag with another crow of delight.

"Bloody bad winners," growled Andrew. "Can't stand 'em."

"Throw him out of the tent," said Elliott, seizing his brother's arm.

Andrew grabbed an ankle, David grabbed a foot, and together they heaved the struggling Jamie towards the tent flap.

"No, no, it's raining ..." shrieked the boy, laughing and yelling.

"Are you ticklish?" Andrew demanded, running his thumb over the sole of Jamie's foot. Another writhe, another giggle and a total collapse of resistance. They bundled him out into the drizzle.

"Bloody full house." Adam just stared at his cards. ''And I folded.'' He shook his head.

### *

Andrew and I have been friends since we were eleven. When we first joined the Scouts, two or three baking hot Augusts ago, we cycled through the flatlands to camp in my grandmother's garden. We put Andrew's grey, two-man tent on the lawn by the apple tree and spent three golden days romping on the beach, splashing in the sea, lying awake till two a.m. telling ghost stories from the huddled, quilted security of our sleeping bags.

Every morning, the same routine occurred. I'd shake Andrew's sleeping bag - "Andy, it's half eleven. Are you gonna get up yet?" Andrew would lift his head, blink sleep-sticky eyes, go "Mmmm", and bury himself back into his sleeping bag. I'd laugh and let him sleep till midday, then yank the pillow away and cause such annoyance that he'd have to get up just to chase me away. Then we'd put on our swimming trunks, smear sun cream on our legs and go down to the beach. One day, we discovered a rock pool, a tiny, microcosmic world inhabited by starfish and limpets clinging grimly to the rough rock surface. We knelt on the grey rocks, the sun warming the backs of our legs, watching intently as a small grey soft-shelled crab crept out from a crack, antennae shimmering, claws wavering, pincers flexing. It didn't do anything, merely scuttled to another crack, but I still remember it.

We built sandcastles, patting walls and shaping turrets, digging out moats with plastic spades and pieces of driftwood, sharing the bucket, taking turns, and then, after all the co-operative effort, hurling shells and pebbles at each other's constructions. Andrew's castle had crumbled first. With a whoop of triumph, I jumped on him and we tumbled together on the sand until I broke away and danced into the breakers, Andrew in pursuit, splashing and shouting and kicking surf at me. We faced each other in the hazy heat, gasping and giggling. Our hair was caked with sea-salt and the relentless rays of the summer sun had scorched our skin. Diamond glints of light reflected from the sea until our dancing feet dashed the mirror. When we returned from our final swim, the sun was beginning to melt into the ocean in a blaze of golden and purple. We stood in the breakers and rinsed the sand from our feet, dragged the towels, T-shirts and trainers from the bag we'd left by the crumbled castles and went home. It may not sound much but it was the most magical day of my life.

Most of my magical days involved my friends. I'd recently partnered David in an Under 14s tennis match. I played some great forehand passes and won my singles set 6-3. The doubles was trickier. At 3-1 down we changed from offensive positions to defensive base-lining. My ground-strokes and serve are consistent and reliable whilst David's game is more mercurial. He volleys well and has a speciality stroke, a rising backhand half volley hit about ankle-height and carrying lethal backspin. A crowd gathered to watch as we raced back to 5-3. Kids trailing back from the nets or five-a-side soccer or that bloody tedious running-round-a-cinder-track, watched the grey tennis ball hit the court and skid away at something close to a right angle.

I enjoyed tennis. We had good courts just behind the Cathedral. We had nice people in the squads. Even the Under 13s were generally okay. Mr Bright was in charge and he didn't care about anything except us. The school's caterers provided orange juice, roast chicken sandwiches and chocolate cake which we always shared with our opponents, like the cricketers did with their teas. I had spent many sunny afternoons on courts all round the county. I had drunk gallons of tea, scored several matches, made a training video, played as Mr Bright's partner in a doubles match with another school's coach and reserve, chased wind-scattered cups across playgrounds and, once, driven the minibus through a car park in Diss to the fish and chip shop we always stopped at on our way back from the south.

The ball was served, hard and fast to David's left. He stretched for it, somehow skidded and crashed to the concrete with a yell of pain. I ran towards him and saw blood dribbling down his shin. Several lumps of gravel were embedded in his knee and his ankle was swollen under his white tennis sock. Bright was nowhere in sight. I seized a bottle and sluiced water over his leg to clean the blood, wiping it with a tissue, and then set about picking the gravel out of his knee. David kept swearing "Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it." I dug around in my bag for a plaster.

Suddenly Bright was back. He'd had to take a phone call. Quickly I told him what had happened. He knelt on the court, stroking David's hair telling him he'd be OK whilst I removed his grey trainer and stripped off his sock. His ankle was badly sprained.

Bright and I lifted him off the court. His legs dangled helplessly. He had tears in his eyes. Bright stroked his vanilla hair again and whispered something I didn't hear. David "You can ring my" Bell "Any time" laughed and seemed to brush his neck with his lips.

Rumours of a "thing" between David and Bright had been rife for some months. Neither seemed bothered. David even seemed flattered. He played to the gallery so much anyway that playing up to this gossip wasn't a problem. I reckoned the whole thing was bollocks. I could see why Bright might be interested in Bell - he's stupidly cute, if you like that sort of thing - but why would Bell be interested in Bright? I mean, I like the guy, he's a good bloke, and a bloody good teacher, but he's an adult, you know? He's twenty-something, for God's sake. He's practically ancient.

Ben Taylor came on as substitute. I faced the serve, fired a rasping return and won the match. David crowed somewhat pathetically and we all shook hands. I pinched the grey shock-absorbers from the strings and buried the racket in its charcoal grey cover. Mr Bright told me it was my best performance this season as he sluiced orange juice from jug to cup and held it out to me. He also congratulated me on my quick reactions to David's injury and said he would pass the story on to Dr Bland. Then he took David to the hospital for an X-ray on his ankle. David stayed the night at Mr Bright's house. So David told us. We didn't ask. It wasn't our business. Anyway, all Dr Bland wanted to know was why I had played in a dark grey T-shirt. "Correct tennis attire is white, is it not?" he said. "A boy should represent this school in the correct clothing. It presents a very poor image." I sighed heavily, swigged some water from my bottle and swished it round in my mouth. I flipped over my racket and, cradling the head against my hip, pointed the handle towards the school and riddled the low grey buildings with imaginary bullets.

Now, as I look at David curled up in his grey nylon sleeping bag, I realize how close I am to him, to all of them, to Andrew, my dearest friend, to Elliott, even to Jamie, with whom I washed twenty cars as part of Bob-a-Job week. I crawl out of my sleeping bag, out of the tent and stand in the grey half-light of the hour before dawn. The other tents of the Scout camp are pitched round the dark grey ash- and-charcoal remains of the fire. The Union Flag hangs limply from the flagpole above me. The grass is damp and cool under my bare feet. When this is over, I will have to go home.

The night before camp, Byrne and Mum had talked. I'd stood at the top of the stairs and listened.

"I wanna be somebody," Byrne had said, "Somebody. People respect you if you're somebody. But I'm a nobody. An occasionally employed double glazing salesman. I can do better than that. I would do better than that if someone gave me a chance."

That's why he gambled. Winning money would make him Somebody.

"You're not a Nobody," said Mum. "You're my husband and I love you. You're Adam's stepfather. He loves you."

"He hates me," said Byrne gloomily.

"Because you take your hurt and frustration out on him," said my Mum. "But he could love you."

"He doesn't respect me," Byrne said bitterly. "He thinks I'm a loser."

"Then show him you're not," said my mother. "Show him you love him."

"But I don't," said Byrne. "I don't love him. I don't even like him."

"He's a nice boy," said Mum. "He's gentle, he's kind..."

"That won't get him anywhere," said Byrne, "I wish it would. I was a Scout, I sang in the choir, the world at my feet, and got shafted. Good guys, kind guys, nice guys don't win."

The drizzle patters on my bare legs. I shiver slightly and look at the dark grey bruise on my thigh. I know he's wrong. I believe he's wrong. Life is not a war. Life is not about winners and losers. There must be more than that. Good guys can win.

Can't they?

4. Proteus

I get off the train at LIVERPOOL STREET. I take a deep breath. Feeling the cool silver metal of the door handle in the palm of my hand, I hoist my rucksack on to my shoulder and plunge into the sea of faces.

## LONDON

My destination. My destiny.

The streets are paved with gold and silver.

Swirl with the crowd.

Pivot.

Turn.

There's a flower stall and a restaurant and a bunch of people sitting round a small table outside a bar, smoking cigarettes, reading papers, looking miserable.

### Arrivals and Departures

The train at 4 has come from Cambridge.

The train at 2 is going to Ely.

But the most important arrival in London is

## ME!

I

feel like shouting,

feel like clapping,

feel like laughing and running and whooping and jumping -

Now arriving at Platform Five,

ADAM LYCETT,

who has come to London to seek his fortune. He will work hard at any job, won't complain if you treat him well and doesn't eat much.

I push my way past the stationary train and see the driver staring sullenly through the silvery window. I wave. He ignores me. I need a slash. I see a little silver man and a squat blue arrow, and tread down the steps. A second sign reads 20p. London must be a very rich place if people have to pay to use a toilet. I fumble in my pocket for a twenty pence piece, drop the silver coin into the slot and lean against the barrier. The toilets reek of disinfectant. As I stand at the silver urinal, I think about what to do first. Food? Job? Bed? And where should I start? It's a massive place. Perhaps a sandwich, then I can start on the job search. I zip up my fly and step away. A bloke in a shell-suit takes my place and the drumming sound resumes.

I run some water from a silver tap into the basin, splashing it over my face. I drag a hand through my creosote hair and look at myself in the silver-backed mirror. The marks under my eye are beginning to fade and my cut lip is healing. Soon the marks of my stepfather will be gone for good. Only the scars will remain.

Suddenly I spot Shell-Suit watching me in the mirror. I wash my face self-consciously. A miniature image of me is reflected in the silver button on the hot-air hand-drier. I hit it and feel a fierce rush of warmth over my skin. Shell-Suit takes my place at the basin and leans against the tap. I hoist my rucksack up on to the shoulder of my thick black coat, push my way through the silver barrier and return to the platform.

I stare at the map of the Underground. It's a criss-cross of colours, lines and circles, a blur of names:

### Moorgate, Barbican, Farringdon, Bank,

### Bakerloo, Central, District, St Paul's,

### Clapham, Tooting, Wimbledon Park.

So where should I go? I like the sound of some of the places - Lime house sounds pleasant, Heron Quay could be a nature reserve, West India exotic and Island Gardens an adventure playground or maybe a theme park. Cross Harbour, Custom House, Prince Regent, Gallions Reach sound historical but I'm not so sure about Mudchute.

A hand taps on my rucksack. It's a sad old geezer cadging money. I hear the scratching as he rubs at his stubble. My stepfather says the best way to deal with losers is to set the "dorgs" on them. But then my stepfather's a bastard.

I give the old geezer some silver coins. He puts them in his pocket. Suddenly I sense that I'm being watched. I feel the stare on the back of my head. He flashes a silver smile full of fillings as I turn - it's the bloke from the slash-house. I crumple the map back into my pocket and hunt nervously for the Underground. Shell-Suit jingles his silver and strolls towards me. I hitch up my rucksack, stride sideways and get a sudden earful of metal and an eyeful of silver chain as I collide with...

"Easy, tiger." Oh, bollocks. It's a copper, 'bout fifty, silver hair, kind eyes.

"Sorry," I mumble. "I didn't see you."

"Got to keep yer eyes open round 'ere, son," says the copper.

"Yeah," I mumble, glancing over my rucksack. Shell-Suit has vanished.

"Where you goin', son?" asks the copper gently. He's got a kind face.

"Err ... city centre," I say. He can tell from my accent that I'm not exactly a native. "I'm looking for work," I tell him. "I've come from the country." ("Oi've caaarm fraam the caaaaaan'ree." You don't say, drawls my mind.)

"How old are you?" he asks.

"Eighteen," I lie.

He shakes his head. "You got somewhere to stay?"

"Sure," I lie, "My brother's."

"And where does he live?"

"Mudchute." The copper gives me a hard stare. Bollocks. Wrong answer. I look up with a 'Don't run me in, Mister' kind of expression. "I mean Moorgate." He looks sceptical. "He's meetin' me in Trafalgar Square later." I decide the best tactic is to hurry on. "How do I get there please?"

The copper clearly doesn't believe me but he tells me which tube train to catch. I'd rather walk though. It's a nice sunny day and I want to explore. Besides, walking is free. So he gives me some directions.

"Thanks," I say, turning to leave, but the copper catches me by the sleeve, gives me his name, tells me where he's based and says that if I need any help or I get into trouble I'm to contact him.

"Watch out, son," he says. "There're all sorts of villains round here."

"Cheers," I say. He was nice. For a copper.

And now

at last

I've arrived

in

## LONDON.

It's so cool.

Silver glass,

mirror glass,

shining windows,

tower blocks,

The Stock Exchange,

The Bank of England,

the splendid dome of St Paul's Cathedral,

cool red buses

cool black taxicabs,

Tower Bridge, and the Tower of London, the Evening Standard piled on steps,

Horseguards' Parade and Downing Street's railings separating leaders from led

The Houses of Parliament, stately, majestic,

cruisers and dredgers,

Westminster Bridge spanning the silver thread of the great River Thames,

hundreds of things to see and to visit,

St Martin's Church,

Admiralty Arch,

the National Gallery with posters of pictures by some dead painter pinned to the doors,

Trafalgar Square,

with its the huge shiny lions and silvery fountains and silver grey pigeons pecking at corn

I love this vibrancy.

I'm swept along by the tide of tourists surging around Nelson's Column but I am different. This is MY capital city. It is MY new home. And these are MY people. I shiver with pride. London is a shiny city. London is a silver city.

I am in

## London.

I had been just once before. I had found it exciting, glamorous and dangerous all at the same time, a cocktail both heady and thrilling to a twelve year old boy. I had come with Nanny for a few days. We stayed at my father's flat in Wood Green. He took us to the Tower of London where we photographed solemn-faced Beefeaters and ragged, strutting ravens and marvelled over the glittering silver and gold of the Crown Jewels, to the British Museum, where we photographed mummies and colourful coffins, and to St Paul's Cathedral. Nanny was horrified because we had to pay to get in. When she said she wanted to pray, we were directed to a side chapel and told that "you either pay or pray". Dad started on about turning "the Father's house into a den of thieves" and they sent a couple of stewards to bundle us out with a threat that they'd "set the dorgs on us" if we came back. Some doddery silver-haired old git in a dog collar started bitching that Dad was "setting a poor example". It was a shame. I'd wanted to see Nelson's Tomb and the Wellington Memorial (I was in Wellington House at school) and I'd wanted to go into the Whispering Gallery but we couldn't afford ₤15 or whatever they were charging. Nanny said thirty pieces of silver.

We went instead to Horseguards' Parade and photographed the Household Cavalry. Their plumed silver helmets and bared silver sabres shone brilliantly in the soft summer sunshine and the horses snorted and stamped and tossed their manes and swished their tails and I wished I'd learned to ride. Then we went to the Cutty Sark and the Greenwich Museum which were brilliant but a bit too shippy even for me, and I was pretty well obsessed by ships and the sea when I was a kid. I had in my bedroom an Airfix model of The Bismarck that I'd made, and at Greenwich Nanny bought me a model of HMS Victory which I never managed to complete. It was so bloody fiddly, all that rigging and tiny little plastic cannons and tiny little marlinspikes and stuff.

Best of all was the Planetarium. It was there under that silver dome that I changed my career ambitions from Submarine Captain to Astronomer. I watched the night skies revolve, the stars rise and fall, the planets in orbit and I sensed instinctively that even my problems weren't that great after all, that there was something bigger than me, bigger than Byrne, bigger than any of us, a kind of cosmic force that if it could design the heavens could surely make Byrne stop beating me. The silver stars circled over my head and I felt myself a part of it all, a part of this immense and awesome universe, a tiny part, a tiny star, but a star nonetheless since we all are made of stardust and are all therefore indissolubly linked to one another, a part of one another. I joined the church choir as a result of that experience and, although I was never entirely certain in my Christian faith, I rejoiced when I sang in Haydn's Creation:

"The heavens are telling the glory of God"

God? Karma? Nirvana? I don't know. But I believed then, and still believe now, in a universal, natural justice. It may all sound pretty mystical but it's what I believe, although Dr Bland dismissed it as "space cadet nonsense" and my stepfather as "hippy-dippy bullshit" whilst my friends asked what I'd been smoking down in London. But the stars are amazing, the Universe is amazing, the Milky Way is amazing ... okay, okay, I'm drivelling now.

I became a vegetarian ("That'll be nice" said Mum) until my stepfather's sarcastic remarks ("Eating a sheep'd be cannibalism for you, wouldn't it?" and "you don't have enough meat on you to start with to be doing without it") and his habit of concealing pieces of ham in my food made it too difficult. I also wanted to become a Buddhist and wear love-beads and friendship-bands ("That'll be nice" said Mum), but I'd have been expelled from school. I did join Greenpeace though, and Community Action, a society at school which raised money for charity and helped the underprivileged ("That'll be nice" said Mum), a society dismissed by my stepfather as a "bleeding hearts club" aimed at supporting scroungers and layabouts.

Like handicapped children.

And blind people.

And bombed out kids in Bosnia.

"As though we don't have enough brats of our own to feed," he said when I presented him with a War Child sponsorship form. See. I told you he was a bastard.

Last year I was elected to the Community Action committee. We did a sponsored soccer match for Shelter and I got a load of bands together for a War Child Benefit Gig in March. That was so cool because there were also bands from other schools, from the local college and even the university. We got loads of coverage in the Press and I did an interview on the local radio. It was my fifteen minutes of fame.

I was so nervous before it started. Backstage, my knees trembled, my senses swooped, my stomach churned. Standing near Dog Tag hadn't helped. Dog Tag, the first (metal) band, consisted of three leather-clad head-bangers from the Sixth Form. They kept darting sarcastic remarks at me because I looked a bit camp. Elliott Marr had persuaded me to dress up for the occasion and, because I fancied her like crazy, I'd allowed Vicki Marr to daub my eyelids with silver eyeliner, paint my fingernails with silver glitter and generally transform me into David Bowie. She fired back Dog Tag's comments with Amazonian spirit as she covered my face with a pale foundation, checked the "war paint", sprinkled my hair with silver "stardust" and adjusted the silver tie and matching headband which she reckoned set off the black of my shirt and jeans and the black of my hair to perfection. Being dressed by Vicki ... that made my knees tremble! I just wished she'd undress me afterwards! Vicki was seventeen and a goddess. She was beautiful, poised, cool, and confident, had a stunning figure, wore stunning clothes, was studying Fashion and Design at the Art College, and, at the time, she was quite, quite out of my league.

"There," she said, flicking the bronze fringe that fell across her hazel eyes, "You look quite beautiful, darling. Go out there and pierce a few hearts."

Mrs Marr said I looked "fantastic", Andrew said "cool", and David Bell said "sensational" (I'd pierced a heart all right. His.) Dr Bland kind of snorted and muttered something about my appearance being "inappropriate". My stepfather said I looked like a "faggot". I glanced in the mirror. "Fantastic" was more accurate, and fluttered my silver-stained eyelids. Vicki gave me a good luck kiss on the cheek and although I spent most of my time in the spotlight trying to stop my legs shaking and most of my time in the wings trying to stop my thoughts about Vicki rattling my focus (did she really think me "beautiful"?) I won my private battle with those feelings of terror. Although I clung to the silver microphone stand like a shipwreck survivor to a lifebelt, I got a few laughs and a bit of a cheer, felt my confidence swell and got through the gig. I won much acclaim from the bands I'd presented, great applause from my friends in the crowd and large cash donations for the War Child fund. When it was over, the school hall rang with

a burst of noise,

a babble of voices,

a bustle of movement,

lots of shouting, lots of singing, lots of twanging, lots of drum bashing, lots of keyboard, lots of arms flung round shoulders, lots of pats and kisses,

joy, relief, congratulations...

Dr Bland sidled up to me and hissed a brief speech along the lines of "Now you've got that out of your system, you can concentrate on your studies again." He really disliked Community Action. He thought the name and its activities were too 'political'. He was also aware of the absence of a "donations to charity" column in the schools' league tables. I remembered when Andrew and I went to see him about organising a sponsored twenty-four hour famine for the children's leukaemia unit at the local hospital. He had shifted in his armchair and looked through his window at the cobbled Close. The trees were webbed in a light silvery mist. He had hunched his shoulders and laced his knuckles and coughed a little and grudgingly agreed, so long as it did not 'intrude on our studies'. Two hundred pupils joined in. We collected ₤1100. He never mentioned it in Assembly. He seemed faintly embarrassed by it, yet the rugby and hockey teams were lauded to the skies. When I said it was unfair, he settled in his squeaky leather chair and said ''Life isn't fair, Mr Lycett.'' To be honest, he was a bit of a wanker.

My mother said "Don't be too late, will you? Here's some money for the bus." She gave me a dry peck on the cheek and bustled away. My stepfather had already gone to wait in the car.

Drained, I slumped in a chair in the wings and slugged down half a bottle of Lucozade. I was too exhausted to take off the war-paint. I merely stared from my silver-lined eyes at the release of energy around me. Mrs Webb, Vicki, Elliott and Shelley, Andrew's girlfriend, appeared through the crowd, all smiles and shouts and bottles of wine. The girls kissed me whilst Elliott thumped my shoulder and invited me back to his house for an after-gig party.

"Sure," I said, feeling numb, feeling a smile plastered onto my face, feeling desperate to ask Vicki to go out with me (did she really think me "beautiful"?) when suddenly, through the chaos, parting the sea of flesh and faces, came Andrew and David. They were pushing a silver-framed wheelchair and in that wheelchair sat Marc.

Mrs Webb believed that it was often more important to give people time than money and had arranged for a group from Community Action to visit a special school on a regular basis and for a dozen or so handicapped children to come to us. Most of these kids had cerebral palsy and needed varying degrees of help but the exchange programme allowed us the privilege of enjoying the simplest of achievements. One of my proudest possessions for instance was a colourful, crayon-drawing of a garden packed full of large, bright flowers and bushes. I'd helped one of the boys draw it. That boy was Marc. He dribbled silver saliva all over his clothes, laughed a lot, gave me his picture and became my friend. We went to their sports days and to art clubs and took them to ride roller-coasters at Pleasurewood Hills near Great Yarmouth. We took them also to our school pantomime and to our annual carol concert in the Cathedral. Sadly their presence had caused controversy. Many parents and some teachers complained when Marc had joined in "Hark the Herald" in a wild, shouting, tuneless drone. They had called it embarrassing, especially at Christmas. Andrew and I wrote to the newspapers saying they had clearly missed the point of Christmas and calling Dr Bland Herod. We got detentions.

Anyway, undeterred by the Christmas Controversy, my friends had brought Marc to the War Child Benefit. He stared at the posters, the children staring from bombed-out houses, sprawling in hospital beds awaiting attention, nursing wounds and shell-shattered limbs, and he crammed some coins into Elliott's palm.

It made me cry.

So when I saw him in his wheelchair that night, laughing, grinning, dribbling slightly, trying to form words, reaching to touch the silvery glitter on my face and in my hair, struggling to tell David I looked like "a spaceman" and saw the others grinning affectionately, I felt a spurt of warmth. I was valued, loved by people who mattered more to me than my stepfather, my mother, and certainly more than Bland and his dim-witted cronies.

I'm afraid I rather basked in the glow and got mildly drunk. I sought out Andrew and Shelley in the garden, told them I loved them both, that Andrew was the brother I'd never had. Then I met David who gazed at me with shy adoration. I'd sensed for some time that he was gay but I'd never figured I was the object of his affections. I didn't really mind. It didn't really matter. His eyes were violet and his silver brace flashed every time he smiled. I felt sorry for him, a young teenager locked into feelings he couldn't express, discuss or even really understand. I hugged him and held him for a while and kissed his cheek, and then I saw Elliott.

"Hullo, Adi," he said.

"Elliott," I slurred, leaning drunkenly against him, "I wanna tell you something."

"What's that?" he said, tugging one of the wood-shaving curls he hated so much.

"Your sister," I moaned. "I think she's ... fantastic."

"You fancy my sister?"

"No, man... No. Yeah... Yes," I moaned. "I think I'm in love with her." Elliott laughed gently. "Ask her out for me. Please. I love her. I really.... love her."

And there she was, cool, elegant, poised, in control, while my passions raged and my feelings fluttered and my stripped nerves jangled. Amusement glinted in her soft hazel eyes.

"Oh," I said. The blood surged hotly into my face.

"Hi, Adi," she said, laying a cool hand on my cheek. Oh God, I thought. I'm gonna die. "My, you're hot." Not as hot as you, baby. And suddenly this war broke out in my brain, like Lust versus Honour. She smiled again, fully aware, I'm sure, by my burning face, that my knees were weak and my tongue tied as fuck.

"Do you want to go out with me then?" She murmured it softly into my ear.

"Yeah," I gabbled, "But only if you want to. I don't want to impose on you. Or ask out of turn ..." Blushing, I drowned in a wave of adolescent embarrassment.

"Sure," she said, and kissed my nose. "I'll go out with you. Might be fun. Nothing serious, mind. Just a bit of fun."

### *

I walk for ages, hoping to become submerged in the crowd, subsumed into London. I don't want to be an outsider. I want to shed the shroud of Newcomerness and not being able to find a job or a room is depressing me. I'm not sure where I'll sleep tonight. I have some money and my Youth Hostel card and that's probably where I'll go. According to my map there's one near St Paul's.

It's getting dark when I pass by a window packed full of glistening silver bottles. I'm somewhere in Soho. I press my nose to the glass and feel like a kid at Christmas. I have never seen such an exciting array. I'll be back, I mutter, when I have some spare cash. Next I pass a door with the words LIVE SHOW spelled out in silver lights above the frame. A Chinese woman lounges on a stool in the entrance. She is buffing her nails and is dressed in a silver bikini and black tights. When she sees me looking, she pouts her silver-glossed lips and says "Wanna come in, love? Only a quid."

"What is it?" I ask, feeling the warmth of coins in my hand. I've always liked shows.

"Bed-show," she says, "Velly good, velly sexy."

I don't know what a bed show is and don't want to ask in case she laughs

so

I stumble away.

A geezer in a long, leather coat takes hold of my elbow and hisses into my ear: "You wanna girl? Nice girl? Any type. Asian, Chinese, Thai, French, anything you like."

I take in his ruined, blackened teeth, silver fillings falling away, the thin silver strands of hair, the seedy, ratty little face shadowed by the peak of his cap. "Nice girls, clean girls," he insists. "Any country you like. ₤50."

"No," I stammer, "No, thanks."

He squints around at the swirling, rushing faces and lowers his voice. "Under age then? What do you want? 12? 13? Very nice. Very clean. Thai? Indian? Chinese? Very nice. Don't go for under-age gels meself. Too tight 'n' dry. But each to his own an' all."

''You're all right,'' I say, walking backwards with my palms out-spread.

''Or something kinky, mebbe.'' He follows me. ''I got a saucy little black bitch'll dress up as a nurse and slipper you. Sixty quid.'' He squints at me, takes my elbow again and lowers his voice. ''Or maybe you're looking for a job yourself? Blow-jobs? Hand-jobs? What could you do for fifty quid?''

''Fuck off!'' I snap, wrenching my elbow free. ''Just fuck off, you creep!''

''Jesus Christ,'' he says, coming over all huffy. "I'm only trying to make a living, squire. If you ain' interested, why didn't yer just say so?" He immediately latches onto some other poor sod.

I feel myself trembling all over, wanting to tear him up and throw him in the trash can, but the whole of Soho has heard this exchange. I hurry on feeling slightly ashamed, slightly soiled, up the Strand for a while then past the Waldorf Hotel, through Aldwych, into Holborn. Although the names - Drury Lane, Covent Garden, Charing Cross - are vaguely familiar, I know I'm lost. I stop to fish the A-Z from my rucksack. It's buried under a load of stuff. I set the rucksack down on the pavement so I can rummage under the socks and the T-shirts. My feet hurt and my eyes are sore. My ears are thrumming with the roar of traffic and the thunder of engines and a disturbance behind me. A young girl is shouting at an apron-clad man.

"I'm not working here any more, you fat twat! Stuff your job! I'll take you to court!" Behind me is a restaurant called CHEZ ANDRÉ.

"See how far you get then, you cheap little tart." The apron-clad man shakes a silver cleaver at her.

"I'll set the police on you!" she yells.

"Yeah? An' I'll break yer fuckin' face," shouts back the chef.

A young bloke in his twenties appears in the doorway. He's trying to make peace. "It's not 'er fault, Charlie. She's on the rag..."

The girl looks at him scornfully. "Oh, I am, am I? Thanks, Rick, you spineless bastard. Grabbing my breasts. It's ...," She explodes, "Indecent assault."

Charlie laughs raucously, slams the silver dustbin lid with his cleaver. Metal clashes on metal. "Sling yer 'ook before I set the dorgs on you." He goes back inside. Rick shrugs his shoulders. The girl stands for a moment outside the restaurant, then shouts at the top of her voice so everyone can hear "Three Star Café? Three Star Craphole, you mean." One or two people laugh. This encourages her to add - "Chez André? Chez Arsehole!"

''Come on, Debs, '' says Rick placatingly.

''If he'd had his greasy fat mitts all over Kim's tits, you wouldn't be defendin' him,'' said the girl. ''An' if it was me period, I'd have cut his cock off with his own carving knife and shoved it up your arse by now. Bastards!''

She flings a tea towel at the door, then a single high-heeled shoe. It clatters down on the dustbin. There is a banging and shouting from inside the restaurant as Charlie smashes his way through the tables and chairs. The girl thinks better of chucking the dustbin through the polished plate glass and legs it instead.

Charlie stands in the doorway, breathing hard. I can see tiny silver beads of sweat on his face. He sees me watching him. "What you lookin' at, yer little bleeder?"

I hoist my rucksack onto my shoulder and ask for her job.

5. The Council of the Gods

A bunch of brown-blazered boys bundled across the square, tie knots tugged down and collars pulled open. They were smoking cigarettes and drinking Coca Cola.

"Fucking Gladstone," said one of the boys, "Fucking History."

They glared at Thorneycroft's 1905 statue of the Grand Old Man which faces Australia House.

"Gob on you 'cos I hate your guts!" a second boy chanted

The third did. A spray of brown, cola-infused saliva projected from his mouth to dribble down Aspiration's thigh.

Aspiration was one of four supporting sculptures depicting, perhaps, the four values Gladstone had championed:

Education \- a seated woman holding an open book, a child in a belted knee-length tunic standing by her side. The woman's left hand pointed towards QANTAS.

Courage \- a woman wielding a scimitar in her right hand, grasping a serpent in her left, a child with its face turned away, shielded by her shoulder.

Aspiration \- A figure alone, a closed book on the knee, the right hand reaching towards the sky.

Brotherhood \- a woman with a little girl sitting on her knee and a naked boy standing to her right, left knee bent, hands clasped over his buttocks.

What did they signify for Britain at the end of the millennium?

"Victorian Values," snarled a boy called Hal, mashing his brown cigarette butt against Education's foot. "Hey, Fred." He turned to the fourth boy, a very thin, walking bush of blond curls, and jerked his head towards the Royal Courts of Justice. "Your old man working today?"

"Dunno," Freddie replied. "Why?"

"Get a lift home," said Hal. "Can't be arsed with the tube. Full of peasants, paedos and Pakkies, so my Mum says. I ain't strap-hanging to Hampstead with some poof perving on me or some curry-breathed Pakkie stinking the train out."

"Gob on Courage," said the first boy. "Go on, Freddie. Gob on Courage."

"Why?" said Freddie.

" 'Cos it's a laugh."

Freddie glanced around, hollowed his cheeks and sent a brown spray of Coca Cola onto the serpent's head. The others cheered and whooped.

"And his arse," said Hal, nodding at Brotherhood's son. "See if you can hit his arse from here. Get it in the crack."

"Hey!" shouted Oliver Bonsor, a pint-sized, vicious-minded boy with razor-sharp intelligence and a father in the Cabinet. "Bomber fucking Harris." He had been inspecting the statues outside St Clement Dane's church. "Murdering bastard. Gob on him, 'cos we hate his guts ..."

"He only bombed fucking Germans," said Hal, ''Boche bastards.''

### We love you, Harris, we do,

We love you, Harris, we do..."

"Hey, Fred!" yelled Hal. "Go see'f your Dad's in. Get us a lift home."

"Or we'll ... Gob on you, 'cos we hate your guts ... " chanted the boys, "Gob on you, Kick you in the nuts!"

They piled in, spitting cola fountains over Freddie's blazer and rucksack and kneeing him in the balls.

Freddie's father was not in the Royal Court of Justice. Neither was he in his chambers. Instead he was in the restaurant off Aldwych which bore the legend Chez André stencilled in brown on its plate-glass window.

The dining room was formal but comfortable, giving the impression that the patron was indeed at Chez with André. Huge framed photographs were suspended on the walls. Shots of London, of Tower Bridge, of HMS Belfast, of Westminster Abbey alternated with pictures of Paris, of the Tour Eiffel, of the Sacre Coeur, of the Pantheon. Dominating all, a vast glossy aerial photo of Marseilles Harbour next to the kitchen door drew all eyes so that, as shoes sank into thick, brown carpet and bottoms into soft, brown cushions, murmurs were exchanged praising André's amazing escape from a stink-hole environment.

Mr Hawker, Freddie's father, his ample bellies concealed behind a brown satin cummerbund, several chins buried beneath a matching bow tie, was having a business lunch with

Mrs Hawker, elegantly fox-furred Gaga Saga novelist, yumsy mumsy and full-time wife

and

Mr Leech, sparse and spare, ascetic and balding, with a lean and hungry look.

The tuna-steak starter had been superb, lightly seared with a soupçon of brown butter sauce and now they were awaiting their special order.

"You are willing to underwrite any loan my bank might make, are you?" said Leech.

Mrs Hawker was disappointed that Mr Leech had come to lunch in a brown lounge suit.

"Oh, not me personally. Good gracious no." Hawker's laugh was a hearty 'ho ho ho'. "I am merely a lawyer, a poor public servant. I don't make that kind of money. Anyway," he continued, "I'm sure you can arrange a capital rate since my firm always channels its business through your branch."

Mr Leech considered. "It depends upon our trade in insolvency cases."

"Capital," said Hawker, settling himself comfortably in the velvet-covered chair as the main course arrived, a basted, browned, glistening duck, brown roast potatoes and a dish of spiced red cabbage. The diners murmured appreciatively as the carving knife sank through the crisp brown skin to the succulent flesh. They crammed the soft brown flesh into their mouths, grinding and munching and crunching and crushing, rhythmic, mechanical grinding machines, swilling it down with browny-tinged wine, slurping, slopping, gulping, glugging....

''Of course,'' Hawker mumbled through a mouthful of duck, ''We'd prefer to re-let properties to the repossessed families themselves. They'll have a greater stake in looking after the properties if they once were the owners. Paying more, naturellement." He chuckled fatly.

"Quite," said Leech. "Mr Swindells will arrange that. Through Flint, of course."

"So you foreclose on the mortgage, Flint chucks out the tenants, Swindells repossesses the property, I purchase it for a nominal sum and rent it back to the tenants through Flint. They get a loan off you and everyone's happy. Capital." Hawker crammed cabbage into his mouth.

''And the tax is paid in the Cayman Islands,'' added Mr Leech, ''Or written off against start-up costs.''

''Ha ha ha,'' chortled Hawker, stuffing a roast potato into his mouth.

"We're considering a move to the country ourselves," Mrs Hawker said. "Hampstead is so crowded these days and Charlotte's getting to the age when she really does need her own paddock."

"We could build Freddie an assault course," scowled Hawker, "Toughen him up for the Navy. Make a man of him."

"Freddie's delicate," murmured the mother. "Always has been."

"Delicate, my arse,'' Hawker snorted dismissively. "He's got an attitude problem. Even the school says so. His last set of reports was not encouraging. Third in Latin, seventh in English, and I'm paying thirty thousand pounds a year for that kind of bollocks."

"He's doing well," Mrs Hawker cut in. "His teachers think very highly of him."

"Sadly," said Hawker, "I don't think highly of them."

"It's a difficult time," Mrs Hawker continued, "Fourteen's a difficult age."

"You're always making excuses," Hawker said. "He needs to pull his socks up. Too busy with his computer or 'hanging out' with his 'mates'. Rory Cheatle's so polite and well mannered. They don't 'hang about' with their 'mates' round Aldwych all evening. Look at Hal. A proper gentleman, polite, articulate, a credit to his father. And Oliver Bonsor. Such an intelligent, charming young man. Freddie's surly, that's his problem, and I know what 'delicate' really means, by the way, and I'll have that taken care of soon." Hawker dabbed his lips with a starched, brown napkin and patted his belly.

Dessert was welcomed to the table by Mrs Hawker's ecstatic cry of "Tiramisu! Tiramisu! What would we do without tiramisu?" and a comment from Hawker concerning Italians generally and Italian food specifically, along the lines that it was fortunate for diners' hearts that Italy's food wasn't as greasy as Italy's cooks.

"We always have fresh parsta," said Mrs Hawker. "I make it myself since Charlotte bought me a parsta machine for my birthday. It's wonderful, like the caf'etière and grinder Freddie bought. We have freshly ground coffee every morning."

"And the juicer's capital," Hawker continued, "Except it uses so much fruit."

"Very useful for our breakfast meeting with Swindells and Flint," Mrs Hawker remembered. "Gosh, remember poor Flint had never seen pancetta before? Had no idea."

"Flint's an ignoramus," Hawker said. "But he keeps his tenants in line, ha ha."

"This tiramisu is purely heaven," yummed Mrs Hawker, licking the white and brown cream from her spoon. "Perhaps a few white chocolate beans, just to garnish..."

Hawker prodded the cheese with the tip of the cheese knife. "Bit hard," he told his wife. "Not sure it's ripe."

"We eat our camembert with spoons," Mrs Hawker told Leech. "It's so runny the cat could drink it, haw haw."

"Go for the cambozola," Hawker advised Leech. Mr Leech declined.

Nut-brown brandy arrived and Hawker lit up the fattest, brownest cigar he could hold. A thick cloud of smoke drifted across the empty dishes, the half-gnawed bones, the grease-laden platters, the fallen napkins, the tablecloth splashes and settled in a pall over the brandy bottle. Mr Leech felt mildly sick. He reached for his glass of tap water.

"Marvellous lunch," sighed Hawker, patting his cummerbund.

"Did I not praise André's cooking?" said Mrs Hawker.

"You certainly did," agreed Mr Leech. He was stone-cold sober.

"Was not the duck simply divine?" said Mrs Hawker.

"It certainly was," agreed Mr Leech

"You see why we think André's is a gold mine? Capital food, first-rate wine, soothing ambience ..." Hawker exhaled a great cloud of smoke. "And he doesn't go in for all that ethnic muck," he said, "Snails and slime and bits of amphibian like most of these Froggy chefs. He also has capital little waitresses. Nice little bottoms. Firm. Compact. You know?"

Mr Leech did not know.

"Oh but they're so common, dear," Mrs Hawker objected. "Mothers with laddered tights, varicose veins and blotchy faces, fathers serving time in some prison, dragged up on some God-awful estate in some God-awful dump like Notting Hill... they can't appreciate such cooking after a lifetime of boiled cabbage and lumpy mashed potato."

Hawker took up the tale. "They start by filching five quid from their granny's purse to purchase fags or glue and before you know it, they're standing in the bank with a sawn-off shotgun stuck up your nose. Heard it a million times in court. Problem with this country is too many bleeding hearts running the country into the drain." Hawker slurped at his brandy. "All these drop-outs, all these beggars ... lock 'em up, I say. But what can you do when your country's run by a bunch of loony-lefty queers, butch Lezzas and paedo tree-huggers? Give 'em a damn good haircut and a spell in the Army. That'd sort 'em out. Can't take your handbag on an assault course, after all, ha ha.''

### *

Freddie raced down some unknown side-street thanking God he was a fast runner. Those countless cross-country competitions had been worth it after all. Hal and the others were in hot pursuit but Freddie was confident he'd shake them off. Until tomorrow at school. But hopefully by then Hal would have forgotten the slur.

They had been leering at Harold Parker's sculpted reliefs of semi-naked women adorning Australia House and deciding which one they would shag when Rory had said that Freddie's dick was so small no woman would be able to feel it.

''Like getting poked by a matchstick,'' cawed Rory.

"That's right, you dickless wonder," crowed Hal, "Freddie, the dickless wonder."

And they'd started chanting-

### Dick-less won-der

### Dick-less won-der

"At least I'd like to shag a woman and not a statue," said Freddie. "You can only shag something that's standing still. Anything else would leg it. 'Cept a dog maybe, a nice brown dog you could grab hold of. By the way, how's your dog, Hal? Thought he had a strange smile on his face yesterday. Dogfucker! Dogfucker!"

Nobody took up the chant.

Instead they chased him.

He rounded a corner and collided hard with a brown, plastic bin. The contents, soggy, brown potato-peelings, crab-shells, lobster-claws, stinking innards of fish, ruddy brown giblets of duck, curling brown scrapings of carrot, all of the stinking, festering, soggy brown mass cascaded over the pavement. Freddie, off-balance, skidded to a halt. He knelt by the fallen bin and picked up something brown with his finger and thumb, his mouth firmly closed, his teeth and jaws set, trying to decide whether it was animal, vegetable or mineral. All he could tell was that it was small, soft and squashed. Behind him he could hear the other boys shouting. Suddenly a gate opened, someone seized his shoulder and yanked him into a small yard with a loud "Sssshhhh!"

Hal, Oliver and the others whooped. "He's knocked over the bin, the nonce."

"He might have hurt himself," said Rory. "You know. Like twisted his ankle?"

"Good," said Hal. "It'll slow him down. When we catch him, we'll shove some of this garbage into his mouth. Teach him not to speak garbage by making him eat it."

"We could shove some of it down his keks," said Oliver, "Or fill his pockets up."

"No," said Hal. "His Mum'll smell it and get suspicious. It'd be just like the little poof to grass us up."

"Where the fuck is he?" said Rory angrily.

"Hopefully lying in a gutter with a broken leg," snarled Oliver, "Crying for his mammy."

"Last one to kick him's a homo!" yelled Hal. They whooped again and ran off.

Freddie, who was kneeling beside the brown-bricked wall, looked up at his rescuer, a boy of about his age with very dark hair and eyes. He was wearing a long apron round his waist and brown rubber-gloves on his hands

"Thank you," he said.

"Who are they?" demanded the other boy.

"Friends," said Freddie.

"Friends?" The boy laughed scornfully.

But they were. They were Freddie's only friends. He felt himself crying silently inside as he had done so often before. They were his only friends, and they were bastards who treated him and everybody else like shit.

"What's your name?" said the kitchen boy. "Mine's Adam Lycett. I work here. It's a restaurant. Called Chez André."

"Freddie," he said limply. "Freddie Hawker."

''Come in and get cleaned up,'' said Adam Lycett, leading him inside.

6. Nestor

ADAM stretched and groaned as his stiff joints eased. The scraping clash of drawn-back bolts had woken him from another restless sleep and another bad night. The concrete floor of Charlie's kitchen was cold and hard. Although the sleeping bag was warm, it was thin, and the old, badged Scout blanket thinner still. He was beginning to bruise. He rolled out from under the long kitchen table and knelt up in the sleeping bag. Charlie's kitchen. His place of work, and, since he had left the youth hostel, his place of habitation.

Stainless-steel worktops, pristine tiled walls, pans and cutlery hanging from hooks, huge, swirling fans to extract the steam, the cold, flag-stoned floor - Adam knew every inch of the floor by now. He had spent hours on his knees scrubbing the flags with a hard-bristled brush dunked in a pink bucket brimful with Vim. This was Charlie's version of "Kitchen Assistant".

Rick Wildman's keys landed in a clattering heap on the table. "Christ, man. You bin 'ere all night?" he said, pulling a packet of crumpled cigarettes from his pocket. By way of an answer, Adam ruefully rubbed his vertebræ. "Well," said Rick, the pink head of a match flaring above his thumb joint, "Don't let Charlie find out. He'll break yer bones."

Adam blinked. The smell of the cigarette caught at his throat.

"I thought yer said yer was in a bed 'n' breakfast." Rick flicked his spent match into the sink.

Adam grinned tiredly. "Well, it's a kind of bed and breakfast." He flicked the blanket away from his shoulders. He hated sleeping in his clothes. The discomfort of not removing jeans or socks for three days and nights was beginning to tell, especially since he had always prided himself on his personal hygiene. "I ache all over," he said, pressing his hands into his back. "Bloody stone floor." He had felt the cold creeping up his numbing body all through the night. "Makes me bruise."

Rick grunted. "Wanna coffee?" Adam nodded and slid out of his sleeping bag.

Rick was nineteen. He lived in a flat near Caledonian Road with his girlfriend Kim and their four month old baby Holly. Money was tight. The salary paid by Chez André barely covered the weekly rent and basic foodstuffs and as for holidays, dental care and eye tests, these were unimaginable luxuries.

"Makes yer wonder," said Rick, stirring the coffee, "Why yer bother workin'."

Adam perched himself on the edge of the table, the mug cradled in his hands, feeling the heat seeping into the joints of his fingers.

"Charlie'll be here in a minute or two," said Rick, "So get yer blanket out o' the way." He started laying out Charlie's pans and utensils. He had begun, like Adam, as the dishwasher and had risen over the months to become Charlie's assistant. Rick said the job was 'shit'. "Three fifty an hour." He flicked ash on the flag-stoned floor. "Fair day's work fer an unfair day's pay." Adam cradled his cup. He was on ₤2.80. "Sixty hour week just ter pay the bleedin' rent," said Rick.

"Can't you get another job?" Adam felt shattered. He hadn't slept properly for days and all his bones felt out of joint.

Rick laughed harshly. "Yeah, right. There're so many jobs out there." He tossed the smouldering cigarette butt casually into the sink where it hissed angrily. This much was true. Adam had been to a Job Centre. Or Employment Agency. Or Benefits Office. Or whatever the hell it was called now. Whatever it was, they didn't have any jobs. The girl behind the desk jotted down some details with a pink pen then shook her head. He was tempted to give a false age but doubted he'd pass as eighteen anyway, and then there was National Insurance and all that to get round. He didn't have a number, and he didn't have an address.

So

he went to the Housing Office who laughed in his face. There wasn't any social housing left. It had all been sold.

Adam sipped at the coffee. It was throat-strippingly strong. This had been his fifth night at André's. It really had become a 'Chez', though he was perpetually terrified that Charlie would catch him sleeping under the table so, unless he knew Rick would be opening up, he would hide in the toilet then slip out with his stuff, lurk around the bins for half an hour, then stroll in with a cheery "Good morning."

"Yer don' need all that stuff to wash dishes," Charlie would nod at the rucksack and sleeping bag.

"I'm in a youth hostel," Adam would say, "Can't leave anything or it'll get nicked."

"Sort it, yer bleeder," Charlie would say, hammering a square-bladed cleaver into a pink joint of lamb or a slab of pink beef or simply into the thick kitchen table.

"Yes, Charlie," Adam would say, stashing his stuff, and every evening he would conceal himself in the toilet again to emerge when everyone had left to set up his camp in the kitchen. He would spread out his blanket, kick off his trainers and slide into the warm cocoon of his sleeping bag. He'd read for a while, Chocky, or Empty World, or The Dark is Rising, or The Scarecrows, books he'd brought with him, books he loved, then, when it got too dark to see, he'd try to sleep. There was nothing to eat. Every item of food was locked away but he did, as the nights went by, feel happier at helping himself to tea and coffee. Besides, food wasn't really a problem. Charlie usually provided a supper of leftovers and, when he was in a good mood, he would allow Adam a couple of hot rolls for breakfast. Adam suspected Charlie knew of his nocturnal arrangement and had decided to let it ride for the moment. He seemed to quite like him, even though his favourite term of endearment was "yer little bleeder".

Adam's job description was brief and pointed.

Mop the floor.

Wash the dishes.

Empty the bins.

And that was all he had done for nearly a week.

On his first night in the infernal kitchen, he had stood at the sink, an apron wrapped round his hips, soapsuds up to his elbows, and scrubbed sauces from pink-flowered plates. He had Fairy foam smeared on his forehead and the pink rubber-gloves were leaking water through a rip at the wrist when Rick had appeared.

"Bloody scoffers," he'd muttered, piling dishes into the sink and splashing a spout of dirty water onto the apron. "Charlie sez can yer mop the floor when yer've a minute? Mop's in the corner."

"Jesus," said Adam. It felt as though the stone floor was crushing his heels.

Charlie had appeared, incandescent, in the doorway, his cheeks pink and wobbling. "What are you two daisies up to?" he'd bellowed. "I pay you ter work, not jabber! Get those bleedin' dishes washed. An' you ..." He jabbed towards Rick with his cleaver. "Shift yer arse back to the restaurant. There's people waitin' an' they don' wanna die of old age before they get served!"

"Chef's privilege," muttered Rick, "Ter be a soddin' misery."

"I wanna see those dishes shine!" thundered the chef.

"Yes, Charlie," Adam said meekly.

Yet only an hour or so earlier, Adam, dragging a tired, drooping mop over the flagstones, had heard the manager chatting to some of his customers in an implausibly heavy French accent.

"Divine," said the woman, "Absolutely divine."

"Merci, Madame. Merci beaucoup. Et le sauce brandie?"

''Capital,'' said the man.

"Merci, Sir Benzhameen." André bowed towards the boy. "Et Master Olivair? 'Ow did you like ze pan-fried scallops with framboise drizzle?"

"Fine," said the boy abruptly. "Fine. Bit too pink for me."

André's Frenchified bray was ridiculously exaggerated against Sir Benzhameen's generous guffaw and his lady-wife's delicate giggle. " 'Ave a safe zhournie, m'sieu," said 'André' as the Bonsors stepped out into the night. Adam flicked his wrung-out mop across another foot of flag-stoned floor. 'André' turned and snapped a savage "what are you starin' at, yer little bleeder? Get on an' wash the floor."

Charlie Maguire, aka André Leconte, claimed to have been born in Provence, studied in Paris and owned a restaurant by the docks in deepest Marseilles. His signature dish was a lobster surprise which involved the mixing of meat with juicy pink prawns, saffron and bacon. Rick said the real surprise was that Charlie had never even tasted lobster until he'd set up his Holborn eaterie. Charlie's story was printed on the reverse of the menu, next to a bright pink decorative bow, so that the clients could digest this commentary along with their dinners. One lonely night, when he'd had enough of scrubbing the wall tiles, Adam had picked up a menu and read

The Cook's Tale

The genial owner of _Chez André_ in Holborn is as much a master of mystery as he is of fine cuisine. Over a superb Roussillon from André's private cellar and a mellow Roquefort, he spoke to us about his culinary roots. His childhood in the rougher, tougher parts of Marseilles and his mother's hearty soups and stews for his docker father are clearly the inspiration behind the dishes which form the backbone of the menu in his exclusive London restaurant. André said little about his parents, his schooldays, or even his college. But clearly, his rise from rags in Marseilles to riches in London was a difficult struggle, a mixture of talent and sheer hard work, and André's story serves as an inspiration for all young people who want to get on.

This story was not entirely fictional. "André's" father had indeed been a docker, and his mother had cooked up hearty stews, but nearer the Medway than Marseilles. Charlie Maguire had learned his trade jellying eels on the pier in Southend and flattening fish in a Camberwell chippie. He had, it is true, trained at a catering college but he had failed the exams. A swift change of name and a trip to the library had furnished "André Leconte" with enough information to start up in business, supplying sandwiches to builders, before he decided that "Exclusive Eats for Exclusive People" was the way forward in the Ethic-less Eighties and thus opened his Chez to the public in 1988.

Adam watched Charlie jointing a pheasant, roughly cleaving through pink flesh, hacking through bones and sinews alike, then he turned and said "Give us an 'and wi' me lobster surprise. Yer might learn about cookin'." Charlie put a large pan of water on to boil. Adam felt his insides quiver. He knew what was going to happen. "Fetch some garlic from the rack an' peel it," Charlie instructed, "An' fetch me some saffron."

As he moved around the kitchen, Adam sensed the lobster's beady antennae twitching behind his back. He didn't dare look. The lobster, claws secured with elastic bands, sat motionless on a bed of crushed ice, waiting to die.

Adam rubbed the skin from the garlic whilst the water clattered noisily inside the pan. Charlie lifted the lid and let out the steam. It hissed viciously. Then he picked up the lobster. The bound claws dangled with limp resignation. Adam watched with a fascination close to horror. Charlie grinned and told him to crush the garlic. As he turned away to his chopping board, Adam heard the lobster being dropped into the scalding water. Whilst the creature died, Charlie prepared the pink strips of bacon and the powdered saffron and Adam crushed garlic. The lobster rattled the sides of the pan with its scrabbling claws. Would it die of drowning or boiling? Did it matter?

Adam tried to imagine the lobster's struggle but

boiling to death was beyond his imagination

Thank God.

Charlie removed the pan from the heat and the lobster from the water. He shattered the underside with a blow of his cleaver. Grunting as he worked, he stripped every shred of meat from inside the pink shell. "I'm gonna mix the meat with the bacon, the garlic and the saffron and then pile it all back into the shell," he explained. "Looks magnificent." He gestured at the boiled, cracked shell and snapped the claws. Adam thought it had looked magnificent when alive.

Charlie slapped Adam's hip with his rolled up hat. "We're off up Billingsgate," he said, "Get some supplies."

The array of fish was dazzling, the smell overwhelming, the plastic trays and stacked wooden boxes piled high. Adam followed Charlie past herrings, haddocks and cod, watched as he sorted through a basket of pinkish red snappers, hunted for sea bass and pink-spotted plaice, drew up pints of juicy pink prawns and negotiated for a box of pink soft-shelled crabs. They pushed through hard-faced, hard-bargaining restaurateurs and supermarket stock controllers. Charlie seemed to know everyone and steered a course between cheery "Bonjours" and "ça vas?" and advising Adam to "avoid that fat bastard" and "watch out fer that miserable sod".

"Bonjour, André," called a voice. "Comment allez-vous?"

"Bien," said Charlie, waving and smiling, "Trés bien. Filthy bastard. 'Ad a salmonella scare at 'is place. Bleedin' death trap. 'Allo, 'allo, 'ow are you, my friend? Just wave, an' act friendly, an' he'll soon bugger orf."

It seemed to Adam that Charlie had a cleaver to grind with virtually every chef and restaurant owner in the market. Every time he grinned and waved, he muttered some comment to Adam about E. coli or filthy conditions or general incompetence or shit cooking, and, in return, these rivals fired their comments about the "bloody French stealing our fish", but normally they waited until he was out of earshot or distracted by a tray of octopus or squid or shellfish stalls.

"You 'ad any breakfast, kidder?" he asked suddenly.

"No," said Adam, hoping his stomach hadn't been grumbling too loudly.

"What's yer favourite fish?"

"Mackerel," said Adam.

"Right," said Charlie, holding out a five pound note. "Choose a couple o' mackerel an' I'll cook 'em fer yer brunch."

"Oh, cool!" Adam exclaimed, and felt the pink flooding into his cheeks

Charlie grinned. "Look fer bright eyes, pink gills, shiny scales. Make sure it's fresh. Firm to the touch. No smell."

Adam located a table groaning under the weight of a wooden crate and hovered whilst the trawlerman moaned to another buyer.

"Fishin' grounds're almost exhausted," he said, wiping his hands on a pink-stained apron. "Quotas, sure. I can see that. Preserve the stocks. But what sense is there in lettin' other countries fish in 'em? Yes, mate?"

"Could I have a couple of mackerel, please?" Adam piped shyly. The trawlerman was enormous, in his thirties, with huge shoulders, a Buzz Lightyear chin and a collection of tattoos running from his wrist into the rolled-up sleeve of his sweater.

"Heads on?"

"Er .... guess so."

"Politicians sell you out an' all," said the other, a wiry man with a round fuzz of hair enclosing his face.

"Quota-hopping," said the trawlerman bitterly. "Can't see where it's gonna end. I'll be out o' business, I do know that. D'yer want me to fillet 'em?"

"No, thanks," said Adam. He felt a sudden desperate surge of solidarity with these people. "My Dad was a fisherman. Up at Sheringham."

"Where's that then?" said the trawlerman, slapping two large, stiff-tailed fish into a piece of greaseproof paper.

"Norfolk," said Adam.

"Thought Sherin'am played for Totten'am," said the wiry customer.

"Ha ha," said the trawlerman. "Good one. ₤3.65, son."

"He went bust," said Adam, holding out the note. "EC quotas."

"Bloody French," said the trawlerman. "No offence, mate." Charlie had materialised at Adam's elbow. "Call it ₤3, for a fisherman's son."

"Never knew yer old man was in the trade," said Charlie.

"Never asked," Adam grinned.

"Guess yer come from fish stock, then," said Charlie, and laughed.

Back in the kitchen Charlie swiftly filleted the fish. Adam watched closely as the sharp blade slit through the dappled skin and lifted the firm flesh away from the backbone. His own attempt was fair. A little clumsy, a little awkward, and the fillet was smaller and more ragged than Charlie's but he was terrified of cutting himself and terrified of disappointing his teacher. Charlie said it wasn't bad for a first attempt.

The smell of frying fish made Adam dizzy with hunger and when the sizzling oatmeal-dusted, pepper-crusted fillet was presented on the restaurant's best pink-patterned china with a side serving of gooseberry sauce, he almost passed out.

"This is fantastic, Charlie," he blurted through a forkful of flesh. It was the first decent meal he had eaten in days. Charlie smiled and turned to his vegetable delivery.

### *

Sizzling oil madly spitting

"One crab confit, one niçoise ..."

strips of meat tossed in a cast-iron pan

### "... One salami, one smoked oyster"

sweet smell of onion caramelised

### "reduce the pink sauce a little more"

Flame-melted castor sugar

### "It's port, red wine and redcurrant jelly"

crushed garlic, ground nutmeg

### "Two rocket and flat-leaf side salads"

flames leaping inside the pan

"One fillet mignon, lightly seared, pink in the middle!"

clattering pans

slamming doors

rushing bodies

shouting

yelling

cursing

papers speared on spikes on the table

plates slapped down and whisked away

empty plates and dirty knives and gunge-covered spoons piled into the sink

Standing at the sink, dish mop in hand, stoically scrubbing,

Adam Lycett, the still point of this frantically whirling world.

Sweat pours down his pink flushed face. His heels and knees ache with constantly standing. The heat is intolerable. The flames leap around him. The hacking, the frying, the boiling, the basting, the roasting, the mixture of smells, the bodies contorting round racks and counters and tables and trolleys - it's a miniature Hell. The very air is scorched, the oxygen burning.

"I have to get out," he says, "Just for a minute." He stumbles blindly into the alley, stumbles blindly against the bins. Thank God for a breeze. He sits down, rests an ankle on his knee, runs his fingers round the inside of his trainer. He plucks wearily at the T-shirt sweat-stuck to his skin. He cannot recall ever feeling so physically drained, hour after hour, day after day, so utterly bone-weary.

From inside the kitchen -

Rick's well-worn "Adam, Adam, where art thou?"

and Charlie's yell of "Where the hell's that little bleeder got to?"

prompts him into a smooth single leap from dustbin to door. He almost collides with Rick, who swings his tray and body aside in another sinuous action. A dollop of rhubarb coulis slops onto the floor.

"Bugger," he mutters, staring at the pink gob of goo.

"No use cryin' over spilt coulis," Rick advises. "Fetch yer mop an' clean it up." He dances his way through scurrying figures and leaping flames, tray held aloft.

"Keep out of the way," a sous-chef suggests when he has cleaned up the spillage. "Or Charlie'll break your kneecaps." Adam feels himself steered by the hips to the sink. "Just stay there and keep out of trouble."

Adam rests his elbows on the edge of the sink and stares into the dirty water. The half-submerged crockery peeps through the scummy grey surface like the tips of icebergs and, like icebergs, what is concealed is far more bulky and dispiriting than what can be seen. The pink rubber-gloves hang limply, empty skins, pointing lifelessly at the plughole. He lets out a very deep sigh, slips them on once again, takes up his sponge and plunges his hand into the depths once again. He is tired, he is stressed, but yet he is happier than he has ever been.

7. The Lotus Eaters

I am sitting on a bench in a park in North London waiting for Rick to return. The skyline is developing a golden glow as the streetlamps are lit. I can see the pale moon through the gold autumn leaves. The evening is chilly but my coat is warm.

Kim was disappointed. The rent was due and the baby needed medicine. Then she'd served up beans on toast and Rick went mad and Kim got angry and said she couldn't afford proper food and had a rant about silly cows on the telly bleating on about healthy eating and organic veggies but 'try it on a shoestring budget!' The baby started screaming. Rick went out. I got my wallet and followed him.

I shiver slightly and my stomach rumbles. Beans on hot, golden, buttered toast would have been fine. Perhaps I should look for my father tomorrow. Trouble is, I don't know where he is. I've brought a photograph. Someone might recognise him.

We live in a flat in a three-storey terraced house off Caledonian Road. That's on the Northern Line, the black line on the map. There are lots of big, old, terraced houses, some shops and a market. Rick says there's a prison nearby but I don't believe him. This is a nice park. There are lots of trees, lots of grass, lots of benches for people to sit on, and it's all railed in with pointy-tipped bars. All the litter bins have golden crests painted on them.

I moved in with Rick when Charlie caught me sleeping under the table. "This ain't a doss 'ouse, yer bleeder. Sling yer 'ook. An' don' be late for work tomorrer." It was a bad moment. He'd just been served with a notice of inspection by the Food Standards people.

The flat isn't much, just one bedroom, a living room, bathroom and kitchen. The soles of my trainers stick to the torn, faded lino. The tiles are cracked and dirty, falling away in patches from the cracked, dirty walls. The sink is stained and the dishes chipped. The double-ringed Baby Belling is splashed and smeared with congealed fat. In the living room, the battered, tatty sofa is covered in stains and cigarette burns and the beanbag oozes its stuffing onto the thin carpet. There are patches of damp underneath the bubbling, peeling paint. But it's only temporary till I find my Dad.

My stomach squeaks as it squirms. My chin is buried inside my collar. The grass at my feet lies flat under my trainers. I move and watch its attempts to stand up.

What's the time? I shake my watch down to my wrist and see that it's nearly 8. I like my watch. It's got a golden bracelet. I got it from Nanny for my thirteenth birthday. It leaves light indentations on my wrist but I don't really mind. It keeps the time and doesn't have to be wound up. Some kind of quartz crystals, I think.

It's getting colder. I blow on my hands and shove them deeper into my pockets. I touch my wallet. Another present. Real leather. I pull it out to count the coins. I have six gold-coloured pound coins. It's a lot of money.

I lean against the bench and listen to my stomach moaning. I slip my palm under my clothes to the warm skin. I don't carry much fat. When I lie on my back, my stomach looks like a smooth hollow scooped out of my body.

Rick's back. There's a pretty heavy carrier bag in his hand. I wave and call out.

"Next time you c'n go." He dumps the bag on the bench and gets out four golden cans of beer and a bottle of vodka.

"I don't think I'll get served," I say.

"All they want is yer cash," he says, ripping the thick, golden foil from the bottle. "They don't care if yer under age." He takes a swig and passes it to me.

I laugh nervously. "Vodka. I've never had vodka before."

"It'll do yer good," says Rick, "Warm you up."

I gulp some down. I can feel it burning in my belly. I cough a little, wipe my eyes.

"Bloody hell, man. Fourteen year old 'n' never 'ad vodka." Rick lights a cigarette.

"Life in the sticks," I gasp. "Daft innit?"

Rick laughs. "'Loife in the stiiiix.' Well, let's get blasted to celebrate." He offers me a cigarette. I hesitate. "Go on. It won't kill yer." I hesitate again. "Look," says Rick, "Am I dead? Am I bollocks!"

I take one. The smoke knots itself deep inside my stomach.

"What do you want out of life, Rick?" I ask, shivering. "What would you do if you had more money?"

"First thing I'd do," he says, "Is go down ter Charlie's, order his lobster surprise 'n' surprise 'im by shovin' th' claws up his great fat arse."

I laugh. He wants the same as me, it seems - nice house, nice car, nice clothes, money in the bank, a decent job. I guess everyone wants the same, just some can get it, and some can't, even though they try.

"I'd like to go to Australia," he sighs. "England's finished, mate. Oz is the future. Watch Neighbours. You'll get the picture. Sun, sea, sand, sex - that'll do."

We sat back and drank more vodka. I smoked my cigarette. I felt cold. I thought about Kim and the baby, who had a cold. Kim had waited for two hours before Dr Keen had seen her, and she had walked four miles there and back.

"Do you know how much the bus fare is?" she had snapped. "We can't afford to waste our money on luxuries. Not with food and medicine and clothing to buy." Then the baby started crying and Kim had gone next door to settle her down.

It seemed a fairly miserable life. I drank more vodka and smoked my cigarette.

### *

That lippy cunt Wildman's sat on th' fuckin' bench larke sum fuckin' ole cunt. 'E's got sum sad cunt wiv 'im.

"Hey, Ninja!"

Fuck. 'E's sin me. "Rick, y'ole cunt," ah sez, crorssin' th' park. "Y'orl roight?"

'E stands ter attention 'n' salutes. "Stand at ease," 'e sez.

"Yer lippy cunt," ah sez, "Yer'll gerra slap. Gi'e uz a drink."

'E 'ands me th' voddy 'n' tells 'is ma'e "Ninja useter be in the army."

"Ninja?" Th' li''le cunt larfs. "Japanese geezers in black suits and masks?"

"Mayte o' yours?" ah arsk coolly.

"Adam," sez th' sad cunt. "Adam Lycett."

"Nah," ah tell 'im, 'n' pu' me 'and on 'is belly. "Martial arts experts oo c'n rip yer guts aht, 'n' brek yer neck wi' one twist," Ah put me 'and on 'is 'ead, " 'N' be ahtta th' winda 'fore yer know 'e's in th' fuckin' room wi' yer. 'Ow's Kim?"

"Fine," sez Rick.

'' 'N' th' rugra'?"

"Gorra cold," 'e sez. "Fuckin' prescription..."

"Ah told yer, man. Yer shdn't've 'ad 'er." Ah knock back th' voddy. It's shit. Fuckin' cheap stuff. "Woman gets up th' fuckin' duff. Woman 'az th' fuckin' bebby. She 'az ter look arfter i'."

Rick teks th' bo''le orf of me. "Don' drink i' all, ma'e."

"Howay, man." Miserable cunt. "Gi'e uz a beer then." 'E chucks me a can. Ah rip off th' golden ring pull. Ah poke th' sad cunt wi' me toe. "Shift over, young 'un." 'E meks room 'n' ah siddahn. 'Fore me arse touches base, Rick's on at me fer blow. "Ah got sum Gold Block," ah sez. "Wanna buy sum?" Cunt never 'as no munny.

"Ain' go' no dosh," 'e sez. "Yer could share one wi' us."

Cheeky cunt. Ah put me can 'tween me boots 'n' dig arahnd fer me stuff, me combat knife, sum packsa Rizlas, a boxa matches 'n' a plastic baga blow. Ah poke the sad cunt wi' me elbow. "Shift up, kid. Ah need sum space." 'E moves ter th' grarss 'n' leans against a tree. 'E's drinkin' 'n' smokin' 'n' 'e's strugglin' wi' both. "Gi'e uz a fag, Rick." Cheeky cunt's already rippin' a fag apart ter get th' baccy. Ah soften the 'ash in th' flame of a match 'n' crumble it intera coupla Rizlas. Ah'm smoothin' it aht when ah feel th' sad cunt watchin' me. "Yer new in town?"

"Yeah," 'e sez.

"Yer larke me knife, kid? Tek it." Ah'm rippin' a roach orf me Rizla pack. " 'Ave a good look." 'E reaches acrorss 'n' lifts th' knife orf me lap. "Gorrit in Bosnia."

"Really?" Sad Cunt's runnin' 'is thumb along th' blayd.

"Oh, ah've bin everywhere, man. Belfarst, Bosnia, Falklands, Gulf ... dun 'em all. Fer Queen 'n' Country. Keepin' th' li''le ole lay-dees safe in their beds. Defendin' th' naytion. Riskin' me life fer yer ...." Ah lick up th' gummed partza th' payper.

"What unit?" sez Sad Cunt.

"Paras," ah sez, sealin' th' joint 'n' twistin' the end.

"C'mon, Ninja," sez Rick. "Ah'm gaggin'." Lippy cunt.

"Were you really in the Falklands?" arsks th' kid, wide-eyed 'n' 'ero-worshippin'.

"Sure," ah sez, sparkin' up 'n' takin' a toke. Feels good. Fuckin' good. Ah parss i' ter Rick. "Sure. Fuckin' Goose Green. Kicked the Argies' arses orl roight."

"What's it like?"

"What? Th' Falklands? Fuckin' awful, man. Fuckin' bleak. Sheeps, rocks, fuck all else. Fuck knows why we wannit."

"Oil, innit?" sez Rick. Clever cunt. "Same as fuckin' I-raq."

"Dunno," ah sez. "Didn' arsk. Still, fuckin' good rumble, man." 'E's lookin' at me, all round eyes 'n' open maarf. "Norras good as Ireland, mind. Bea'in' th' shit ahtta th' micks. Bloody Bogside barstards." Ah spit out a shreda tobacco. "That knife, man, cut sum cunt's fingers orf." Th' kid drops th' knife wiv an 'urrgh. ' Soppy cunt. Ah pick irrup. "Well," ah sez, " 'E chucked a stone at the AV. Won't chuck nuffin nah." Ah larf. "Fingerless cunt."

Rick parsses th' joint acrorss ter th' kid. "Good stuff," 'e gasps.

Th' kid 'esitates. "I'm not sure," 'e begins. Fuckin' 'ell. It's Mary Fuckin' Poppins.

"Go orn," sez Rick. "Won' 'urt yer. Good fer yer. Let yer worries float away."

'E looks arrit burnin' in 'is fingers. "Go orn," ah sez. "Tek a drag. Won' do yer no 'arm. Do yer good."

Th' kid teks a drag, orl tentative-larke. 'Is fayce twists. 'E don' larke th' tayste, but 'e presses on 'n' 'as another. 'E goes green. Soppy cunt.

"Bosnia weren't such a larf," ah sez, "But good pay, man, good pay. Ah'd left the army be then. Fuckin' cu'backs." Ah tek th' joint off th' kid. 'E's starin' at me wiv a fuckin' frahn. Cunt. "Ah joined mercen'ries wiv sum ma'es, dinnah? Free marke', man. Sold uz skills ter the 'ighest bidder, di'n't we? Sarf Afrika, Mozambi-Que, Rooanda, Bosnia, anywhere. Bri'ish soldier's th' best in th' fuckin' world, man."

Th' kid looks up again. "Didn't you find it hard? Killing, I mean?"

Oo is this twat? "Killin'?" Ah larf 'n' spi' on th' grarss. "No way, man. Piece o' piss." I 'and th' blow back to Rick. "Killin' peasants. Piece o' piss. It's a larf, innit? Fuckin' terrified, man. Yer walk through their fuckin' villidge 'n' all these cunts in smocks're watchin'. Yer drag 'em ahta their ahses, fling 'em ter their fuckin' knees, muzzle o' th' gun ter th' centre o' their for'eads, 'n' ..." Ah points me forefinger at the young 'un's pale fayce. "BANG!" 'E jumps. Sad barstard. Rick larfs 'n' gives 'im th' joint. "Yer shoot parst their ears. 'N' they shit thumselves." Ah blow pretend smoke from th' tip o' me finger. " 'N' when they've recovered," Ah point me finger at th' kid's belly. "BANG, gi'e 'em a slug in th' belly. Fuckin' blood 'n' guts all over th' ground. They look dead surprised."

"Aye," sez Rick, "They look dead." Lippy cunt.

Th' young 'un giggles 'n' teks a toke on th' larst o' th' joint.

" 'Olin' up in th' mountains ain' much fun, though," ah sez. "Yer freeze yer bollocks orf." Th' young 'un larfs again 'n' turns ter 'is beer. "One o' me ma'es got frorstbi'e, yer know. Turned ter gangrene. Man, th' smell jus' stunk uz aht." 'E giggles again. Fer fuck's sayke. Cunt carn' 'old 'is beer or th' dope. Poof.

"Ah remember when we met one o' they barstard sniper cunts. Fayce ter fuckin' fayce. Ah raised me gun 'n' sed 'Go ahead, yer slit-eyed motherfucker. Mek my day.' 'E smiled 'n' lowered 'is pistol, th' stoopid barstard, so ah shot 'im in th' guts. Fuckin' blood sprayin' all over me fuckin' boots, th' cunt. Ven 'e's orf bleatin' 'n' whinin'. Ah sed 'Be a man.' Burre crahd fer 'is mammy, jus' larke the others. So ah sed 'Fer fuck's sake die, yer miserable cunt,' 'n' ah sho' 'im in th' neck. Pu' 'im ahttavis misery. Ven ah levered 'is gold teef ahttavis maarf. Piece o' piss."

There ain't much call fer my kinda skills in Civvy Street. Yer finish yer tour 'n' yer chucked on th' shit'eap. Ungrayteful cunts. Yer risk yer life ter protect their fuckin' money 'n' fuckin' jobs, 'n' when you arsk fer a job, they tell yer ter fuck orf. Only use fer my skills iz a bitta TWOCing 'n' a bitta robbin'. Mebbe that kid'd 'elp. 'E's a bit on th' skinny side. Might get through th' windas o' cars. " 'Ey, kid," ah sez, "Wanna a job?" 'Is eyes're wanderin', glarssy, 'n' a bit unfocussed.

"Sellin' dope in pubs 'n' clubs?" sez Rick. "Enterprise culture 'n' all that shit?"

"Aye," ah sez. Cocky barstard.

"Innit dang'rous?" th' young 'un slurs.

"Not fer me, irrain't," ah sez, 'n' clench me arm. "Feel tha'. 'Ard as a fuckin' board." Li''le cunt tries ter span me biceps wiv 'is 'ands. 'E carn'. "Body-buildin' champ in the army, 'n' tae-kwondo. Ah c'd cutyerin 'arf wi' one kick."

"Gosh," 'e sez, grinnin' 'n' girly-larke. Soppy cunt.

"Ah c'd build yer up a bit if yer larke," ah sez. "Git sum muscles on yer, teach yer a bit abah' fightin', 'cos yer a bit pewny, ain'tcha, a bit wimpy larke."

"I'm just slight, that's all," 'e sez, all defensive, 'n' sups from 'is can.

"Wharrever yer say. Bu' yer'll never pull a bird wiv a body larke that." Ah larf 'n' reach acrorss fer Rick's voddy bo''le. Tek a swig. 'And it acrorss. " 'Ere. Get this dahn yer neck. Puts 'airs on yer chest." 'E teks a big swig 'n' coughs a bit.

"Let's have another joint," sez Rick. Cheeky cunt.

"Yer'll 'ave ter pay," ah sez.

"I've got some money," th' li''le kid goes, pullin' sum gold coins ahttavis pocket.

"'Sorl right, man," ah sez, "Yer c'n 'ave it fer free 'cos ah larke yer."

'E grins 'n' blushes, larke a fuckin' virgin bride. Ah start skinnin' up again. Th' kid picks up an 'andfula leaves 'n' kinda scrunches 'em up. 'E watches th' golden dust drop through 'is fingers. Then 'e looks at uz. "Isn't it amazing?" 'e sez. "Nature. How the leaves change colour as the chlorophyll drains out, and then, every spring, it floods back again. Don't you think it's amazing? That cycle? Every year the trees and the grass and the leaves and ... everything grows again, new, fresh, different, but ... same roots." 'Is face is flushed 'n' 'e seems exci'ed. "It's amazing." 'E 'as one leaf 'eld close ter 'is fayce. "You can see all the veins that carry the sap," 'e sez. "All the veins an' this spine thing..."

"All right," sez Rick, "So yer've found an old leaf. Don't have an orgasm."

Ah larf bu' th' kid keeps on babblin'. "No, Rick, no. You don't understand. It could be a symbol of ... us, of ... I dunno, of the world." 'E lays th' leaf on th' grarss, larke it's a bebby. "Nature's Gold."

Fuckin' 'ell. 'E starts on abaht th' trees, then, suddenly, 'e shuts up. 'E gasps 'n' touches 'is belly. "I don't feel so good," 'e sez, 'n' leans all 'is weight on 'is right 'and, flat ter th' grass. "Everything's spinning." 'E swallers 'ard, 'n' blinks a bit.

"Good," ah sez. "It'll shut yer up, yer marfy cunt."

"I wish I had more money," sez Rick, lightin' another fag.

"Yerwanna mek munny?" ah sez, tearin' orf another roach. "Why dontcha put Kim on th' gayme? Yer'll mek a fortune, man. An' all she 'as ter do is lie on 'er back."

"Mandy says she c'n get two grand in a night," sez Rick. "One year she brought in sixty grand, tax-free, 'n' one of her punters bought her a car, a brand new Mondeo. Kinda company car, like. Jus' fer lyin' on her back."

"Easy munny," ah sez, sparkin' up.

"She's not a piece of meat." Fuckin' kid pipin' up. 'E's sat on 'is arse under th' tree bu' 'e's still sorta swayin'. 'Is fayce is very white, wiv a greenish touch. 'E's starin' inter nuffink. "She's not a piece of meat." 'E sez it again 'n' drinks more vodka.

Jaysus. Pussy. "Nah," ah tells 'im, tekin' a toke, "She's merchandise fer traydin'. Skills fer sellin'. Larke a doctor. Or a lawyer. Or a fuckin' soldier." Ah parss th' joint ter Rick. "Yer c'n mek 'er dress up," ah sudjists. "Lorra call fer that, man. Girl Guide, French maid, princess ... customer's choice." Rick 'ands th' spliff ter th' kid. "Free market, man. Competition. Yer rivals offer Girl Guides, she duz summat be''er, larke Judy Garland. Or whips 'n' caynes... 'n' chaiyns ... hur hur." Ah look at th' kid. "Yer c'd start 'er orf wi' yim. Yer c'd gi'e 'im a discahnt, since 'e's yer ma'e."

Rick larfs. "Beginner's rate," he sez. "What about it, Adam? Kim's first client."

Young 'un's embarrassed an' 'ides behin' th' vodka bo''le.

"Whorrabaht it kid?" ah sez. "Nice bi' o' minge fer th' nigh'."

"No, thanks," 'e sez, swayin' on 'is arse 'n' blinkin' 'ard. Poof.

"What's up?" ah sez. " 'Is bitch not good enough fer yer?"

"Eh," sez Rick, "Mind yer manners, yer lippy cunt. My bird yer talkin' about."

"No ...," sez the young 'un, swayin' a bit.

Ah pu' on a poncy voice, all cun'ry, larke 'iz. "Oi guess a well-maannered boiy from the caaarn'ree is disgahsted boi this koind of taaark, eh, Richaaard?"

"No...," sez the young 'un, sluggin' more vodka. Th' bo''le's fuckin' empty. 'E turns it upside dahn ter get th' larst drops aht. Greedy cunt.

Th' kid puts 'is 'and fla' on th' grarss again, breathin' 'ard fru 'is nose. 'Is eyes're all over th' playce. "No ..." 'e sez, "Nurrrrr ..." 'E's swayin' again. "I feel sick ...." 'E keels over 'n' spews on th' grarss.

"Fuckin' hell." Rick's orf th' bench 'n' kneelin' on th' grarss. Ah stand up meself.

"Wimp," ah sez, proddin' th' cunt wiv me toecap. 'E don' move. "Wallet! Quick!"

"What?" Rick looks up. Stoopid cunt.

"Gerron wi' it."

"He's me mate, Ninje," sez Rick. "I ain't robbin' him."

"Yer owe me fer th' dope, man," ah remind 'im. "'Sides, 'e ain't gonna need any munny tonigh', is 'e?" Rick 'esitates. "Yer soft barstard. Soft as shite." Ah run me 'ands over 'is coa' 'n' ah feel sum munny. Golden coins. Enuf fer sum Es.

Rick stands away. "His watch'll fetch a bit," 'e sez.

"Good finkin', man." Ah undo th' farstenin'. "Use this fer skank."

"I was jokin', man!" sez Rick.

Ah slap 'is face softly. "Never joke where munny's concerned. C'mon. Let's go 'ave sum fun." Ah turn away towards th' gate. Rick stands still. 'E seems to be worried. Soft cunt. " 'E's a borin' cunt, Rick," ah sez. "Li''le kid. Cramp yer style. Leave 'im on th' grarss, fer fuck's sake." Young 'un lies stretched out on th' grarss bi th' tree.

### *

Ring of steel encircling my skull, crushing, tightening.

Breeze in the trees.

Golden leaves rustling.

Traffic rustling.

Cellophane rustling.

Cool on my face. Wet. Damp. Cool.

My fingers are Heavy Lead Weights.

The damp cool wet on my face is grass. I'm lying on my stomach.

I raise my head. Lead weight. A circle of steel tightening, a crushing vice.

My stomach's on fire. Raging. Clashing. Heavingheavingheavingheav .... my stomach explodes through my mouth.

## "Bleeeuuurrggghhhhhh!"

The smell is revolting. I throw up again with a retching that feels as if it's tearing out my stomach lining. My whole body bucks as a golden stream of liquid spatters on the grass. Then a tidal wave smashes me, a crashing, heaving wave through my stomach.

God o god o god o god. I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die.

## "Urgggghhhhhhh!"

I start shivering, shuddering, trembling all over. My face is numb. I can't feel it.

Misery.

I think I'm dying. Save me, God. Save me. I didn't mean to be bad.

My stomach hits my Adam's apple and there's another eruption of liquid.

A Vomit Volcano

I let myself fall away from the stinking puddle of sick. The cool damp might help my head. As I lay on the grass, I become aware of somebody stooping over me, murmuring something. It sounds like my name. They're trying to lift me. I flap my arm. It's all I can do.

"Adam, Adam...." Leave me alone. "Adam ...."

Oh God. I puke again, then again. How many more times?

I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die.... Ohhhh G o d.

My face feels like ice. My guts are on fire.

"It's Kim," says the voice. "Kim. Try and sit up."

She tries to lift me. I can't resist. I feel so weak. My head spins. My eyes are all over. The sky and the trees and the leaves explode into movement, whirling swirling twirling skirling o h G o d.....

"Bleurghhh!" I puke on Kim's arm.

"I'm sorry," I say, "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry...."

"You're such a mess," she says. "Where's Rick?"

"I don't know ..." The tears are prickling at the top of my nose. "Don't know."

"Nice of him to stick around." She wipes my vomit from her sleeve with some torn blades of grass. "You could've choked, but he ran out on you to have a good time. That's so typical."

I notice my hands are dangling between my knees. I am sitting on the grass under a tree. The ground is littered with gold-brown cigarette butts, gold foil from the packets, gold-coloured ring-pulls from beer cans, the end of a joint - there's a terribly sweet smell, sick, alcohol and cannabis, I suppose. My stomach convulses again but this time nothing comes up. There's nothing left to come up. Oh God.

Kim is kneeling beside me, her arm round my shoulders.

"I feel so...cold, all over, you know? Sort of tingling." My skin looks like marble. "My stomach ... hurts ... an' ....my face is all numb."

Kim taps the empty vodka bottle. "Dope and drink," she says, "Do not mix." I try to smile but the circling crushing steel vice round my head won't let me.

"You've got sick on your face," she says, giving me a Baby Wipe. I blow my nose, clearing out a golden goo of snot and sick then I dab at the vomit dribbles round my mouth. Kim pulls out another Baby Wipe. "There's some on your eyelashes and in your hair," she mutters, cleaning me up while I sit feebly on the grass.

"Where's the baby?" I ask.

"Left her with Billy," she says. "Bringing a pram in here is like doing a dog-turd slalom. By the time you get out, the wheels are clogged with litter and shit."

"How did you know we'd be here?" I feel a bit better now though the taste in my mouth is quite revolting.

"Rick always comes here when we've had a row," she says, "Though I nearly missed you. It's your black coat. I'd have gone straight past if I hadn't trod on you."

"Trod on me?"

"Yeah. Don't you remember? I trod on your arm. You just moaned." Kim smiles gently. "You were going on about a tree."

"A tree?" I can't remember any of this. Oh God.

"Yeah. You were saying how much you fancied that tree." She smiles again.

All of a sudden, I need a piss. Urgently. I can't stand up and fall against her. "What?" she says, sharply concerned. "What's up?"

"I need a .... a slash," I mumble, fumbling at my flies. "I ... I can't get up."

Kim heaves me up on to my knees. I daren't get any further from the ground. I look at her over my shoulder. I feel embarrassed. She might see my cock....

"I won't look," she says, smiling slightly and turning away to stare at the moon.

I unzip my trousers, feel the engraved fleur-de-lys 'Be Prepared' belt-buckle against my thumb, fumble for my cock.....A steaming stream of golden piss hisses onto the grass. Some of it splashes on my jeans. Oh God. But what else can I do? I'm kneeling and swaying and my fingers are trembling. I feel Kim's fingers tighten on my shoulders. " 'M all right," I say desperate to finish. My hands are shaking."They've nicked my watch," I say miserably, "An' my wallet."

"He's a bastard," cries Kim, "An' Rick ain't much better." She puts her hand on mine. "You don't wanna hang about with them. They'll just bring you trouble."

I look up at her and feel a sudden surge of tears. Please, God, don't let me cry. "I'm gonna take you away from all this, Kim," I hear myself saying. "I don't know how, but I'll find a way. When I find my father, you an' Holly can move in too."

"You're sweet," she says gently. "Let's go home."

I feel the tears stinging my nose and pricking at my eyes. My stomach aches. But Kim cares. She really cares. When I look up again, my eyes are wet.

## 8. Laistrygonians

RICK was waiting in CASUALTY, perched on the edge of a crimson plastic seat nursing his lacerated fist in a blood-soaked handkerchief. Nearby Ninja was cursing and trying to coax the splashes of blood out of his combat trousers with a wet paper towel. Rick's recollection of the evening was hazy so he wasn't sure who the blood had come from. Maybe the taxi driver. Maybe the girl. Maybe Ninja. Maybe Animal. Maybe it was even his own.

Rick hated hospitals. He hated the cleanliness. He hated the disinfectant, the puréed carrot, the smell of sickness. He hated the brisk starched efficiency. He hated the whiteness, the sterility, the incessant heat. He hated the solicitous attitudes. He hated the soothing voices. But more than that, more than any of that, he hated waiting. Especially for someone else to be treated whilst he himself was in pain. He tried to flex the fingers out of his fist and winced at the pain. The crimson patches on the handkerchief blossomed.

He'd come to this very same hospital when Kim had given birth to their daughter. He'd spent the night drinking whisky with Ninja and had been so drunk that he'd thrown up as soon as the elevator had left the ground floor on its rocket ascent to MATERNITY. He later told the Sister he was terribly nervous. The sight of Kim drenched in sweat, racked with pain, clenching the pillow in her fists and pushing and screaming and kicking and yelling, mostly abuse aimed at him, had set him off once again. He struggled against the rising tide, and together he and Kim had struggled, the one to suppress, the other to release. As the midwife wielded her syringe for an epidural injection, Rick had lost his battle and been sick in a basin. They had shuffled him out, clucking and fussing, and left him alone in the corridor until it was over and the baby was born. Unfortunately, the blue and crimson wrinkly-skinned bundle with its fat little fists and its screwed-up face had made him sick yet again. Rick had concluded that the whisky had been a mistake but perhaps not as much of a mistake as fatherhood.

A clipboard-carrying nurse bustled through from the treatment cubicles. Ninja grinned and ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. "Orl roight, darlin'?" he said.

She glared at him and spoke instead to Rick. "What's your friend's name?"

"Dunno," said Rick, feeling the pain return to his fist. "When yer gonna look at me hand? I think I've busted me knuckles."

"We'll attend to you when we've stitched up your friend," said the nurse.

"He's no friend of mine," muttered Rick sourly, recalling the evening.

He and Ninja had gone into town but few bouncers had been prepared to admit a hulking, crew-cut giant dressed in camouflage gear. Rick figured Ninja might get into a gay club in Old Compton Street but valued his face too much to say so.

Then they'd met Animal, Ninja's mate, a five foot one stack of muscle, shaved head, no neck, all pecs and biceps. He had a British Bulldog T-shirt and steel-capped boots and a tattoo on his forearm which read "Eat lead, copper." His barrel-like torsos was covered in tattooed graffiti, like a subway wall in a particularly violent neighbourhood. The first time Rick had met him, Animal had shown him how to kill with one blow of his huge hammer-like fist. Sternum, stomach, either would do, although Animal's preferred target area was the throat.

" 'Kin 'ell, Ninge," he said. "Club dahn 'ere. Finger-lickin' minge, hur hur."

He led them down a flight of piss-stained steps to a dingy basement. Crimson paint flaked off the iron handrail onto their hands and clothes. Lit with a single, naked bulb, the area at the foot of the concrete steps stank of vomit and urine. Animal rapped three times on the door frame and they were admitted to a dark and scruffy club, a handful of tables and chairs, torn lino, puddles of beer, flashing lights in blues and crimsons and eye-searing yellows, music so loud it rendered any conversation impossible unless it was shouted. Everything, the shapeless huddle of shifting dancers, flickering arms rising out of the mass, fallen bottles and broken glasses, everything was shrouded in the fog of a thousand cigarettes.

"Get beers," roared Animal to Ninja.

"Get sum beers," roared Ninja to Rick.

"Yer bastards," whispered Rick to the ripped crimson lino. "Sure, Ninja," he yelled and worked his way to the bar where he roared his request at the sulky-faced barman. Animal and Ninja were already conducting negotiations with their supplier. Adam's money would not last the night. Rick clenched some coins in his fist and placed it on the beer-soaked crimson towel on the counter.

"Go' sum'n else," said Ninja, holding out Adam's gold watch. The dealer whistled in appreciation. By the time Rick returned with three pints of lager, the deal was closed and Adam's watch had purchased several tabs of crimson, strawberried acid and a dozen dove-engraved Ecstasy tablets.

"Sell 'em on," said Animal.

"Sure," said Ninja. "Don' tek 'em meself. But kids dahn me road'll go fer 'em."

"Try that school playground." Rick placed the glasses on the stained, battered table. "That primary. They won't know any better."

"Good thinkin', Batman," said Ninja. ''Kids're stoopid enuf to tek any ole shite.''

" 'Kin' children," said Animal, pouncing on his glass. " 'Ope they orl choke. 'Ow's your sprog, Rick? Still shittin' 'n' pukin'?"

Rick shrugged.

" 'E's gonna put that whinin' bitch Kim on th' game," said Ninja.

" 'Baht tahm," said Animal. " 'N' as fer th' sprog... gorra joke fer yers. Wha's pink 'n' whi'e 'n' goes all crimson? A sprog in a blender." He laughed. "Wha's pink 'n' whi'e, goes all black 'n' taps on glass? A sprog in a microwave." He laughed again.

"Mind that bebby in Bosnia?" said Ninja. "Yer speared it on yer bayonet."

"Yeah. Shat on me 'and, li''le bleeder."

" 'E wuz tryin' ter rescue it," Ninja explained. " 'Ouse wuz damaged, abahter fall dahn. So 'e lifts it ahtter th' cradle an'...,'' He laughed, "It shat on 'is 'and."

"So yer killed it," said Rick.

"We weren' tekin' it wiv uz," said Ninja, "Not arfter that. Ungrayteful cunt."

" 'Kin blood spurted everywhere. Blood 'n' shite. 'N' then we raped the mammy 'cos she screamed arrus."

Ninja and Animal laughed heartily at their shared recollection. Rick drank his lager. He wished he'd gone home or stayed with Adam.

"See that cunt?" said Animal, nudging Ninja and leering at a young woman out on the dance floor. "Cunt on legs." Ninja grinned his appreciation. "Ah'll go feel 'er up in a minute," said Animal, swilling more lager. "Ah telt yer abaht th' bitch ah 'ad last week. 'Kin' 'ell. Fucked 'er tits. Big 'uns, 'kin' yuge, man, bouncy, yer know? Got me tool 'tween 'em 'n' gev 'em a right seein' ter. 'Kin' ell, man. Spunked orl over 'er titties, man."

Rick turned his glass around in his fist. He felt quite uncomfortable.

"Ah'd give 'er one," said Ninja, nodding at the dancing girl. "Righ' up th' Gary 'n' all. Larke th' bitch ah 'ad last month." He hawked and spat. A glistening globule of sputum hit the floorboards. "She 'ad a rag on so ah gev 'er one up th' Gary." He looked reflectively into his lager. "Spli' 'er ring. Blood and spunk everywhere. Fuckin' awesome."

"Might as well've spli' 'er muff, then," said Animal, "Fer all th' diff'rence."

They both laughed.

A youngish man with spectacles and short brown hair moved in front of the girl and smiled. She smiled back and said something to which he nodded happily.

"Four-eyed fucker," Animal growled. "Ah'll 'ave 'im."

"D'yer 'member them skin'eads?" said Ninja.

"Ten of 'em," said Animal. "Motherfuckers."

"One of 'em drew a fuckin' Stanley knife. Stoopid cunt."

"We 'ad a baseball ba' 'n' battered 'im ter shite."

"An' 'is ma'es," laughed Ninja. "One of 'em shat 'isself 'e wuz so fuckin' scared."

"Fucked up 'iz kneecaps," said Animal. "Fucked 'im up proper."

" 'E'll never walk again," said Ninja, lighting a cigarette. "Serves th' cunt right."

Rick tried not to yawn. He'd heard the story half a dozen times and each time the number of skinheads increased. Rick had heard there'd been two, not ten, and they had been teenaged college kids, not skinheads.

A girl emerged from a dark corner. She wore a crimson apron over a clearly pregnant belly, held a quartet of glasses with the four fingers of one hand and clutched a damp, grubby dishcloth in her other fist. Her expression was sullen.

"Hey, Slapper!" yelled Animal, "C'm'ere." He grinned and revealed a series of chipped, broken teeth and black, empty spaces. "Yer c'n eat my meat whenever yer reddy!"

The girl whipped round. "Whatcha say, yer ignorant fuck?" she rasped.

"Ah larke it when they tork dir'y," leered Ninja. "Yer know yer int'rested," he said to the girl.

"Why do you think I'd be interested in you?" said the waitress.

"'Cos we've bin abaht," said Animal, "All over th' world."

"Forces, luv," said Ninja, "Foreign Legion. Bin in th' desert shootin' A-rabs."

"Milit'ry men, eh?" said the girl, "Uniforms an' that?"

"Yeah." Ninja's tongue was hanging out. "Foreign Legion. We're on th' run, larke. Deser'ers. They wuz too fuckin' soft fer uz. Bunch o' pussies."

"Yeah, right," she said, and turned away.

"C'm'ere, yer bitch," said Animal, groping her buttocks. "Gi'e uz a feel. That's whatchyer 'ere for, innit?"

The pregnant waitress detached herself with some dignity. "I'd ask to feel yer knob, pet," she said, "But I doubt I'd find it."

The people within earshot, including the dancer and her companion, laughed appreciatively. Rick too felt a tide of laughter welling inside him. Animal, however, seemed on the verge of a stroke. He heaved himself upright and grabbed at her arm. She swivelled and slapped his face with the dishcloth. Everyone laughed. Animal clenched his fist. It looked enormous. "YER GREAT FAT BITCH!!" he roared, and punched her in the face with all his strength. Her jaw fractured in three places. She dropped to the floor like a stone. The glasses splintered to fragments beneath her weight. The skin on her hands and arms tore and crimson blood welled up and out. As she screamed and swore, Animal swung his steel-toed boot into the V of her crotch. She moaned and passed out. A crimson patch swelled between her legs.

"Jesus." This was the spectacled young man. He moved to help her but Animal stopped him.

"Yer wan' sum 'n' all, der yer?" He reached for his glass and smashed it against the edge of the table. "C'm on then, yer nonce." He waved the ragged, jagged rim.

An explosion tore through the club. Plaster cascaded from the ceiling, cloaking the glass, the blood, the beer, the people in fragments and dust. The barman had fired a sawn-off shotgun into the air. Now he swung the barrels towards Animal.

''You!" he barked, "Yes, you, yer slap-headed cunt. Fuck off out of here. An' tek yer poxy mates wi' yer. Unless yer want 'alf a ton a lead in yer face."

" 'E's bluffin'!" roared Animal, and, for a moment,

Time Stood Still.

Ninja and Rick caught him by the shoulders. He strained and snarled and Rick understood why his mates in the Army had chosen that nickname. The barman waved his sawn-off at them and shouted "Aht!!" Somehow, and Rick was not entirely certain how, Ninja hustled Animal out of the club. Rick whispered "I'm sorry" towards the girl who was pressing her bleeding hands against her bleeding crotch and moaning "My baby, my baby", and darted out into the darkness.

Animal's fury exploded onto the streets. He stormed up the steps, snatched up a dustbin and bounced it off the pavement into the wall. He raged on the kerb, cursing the barman, swearing to tear off his head and shit down the stump, promising to send them a Molotov Cocktail, kicking and punching all the parked cars, denting the panels, snapping the aerials, till he came to the end of the line and an old crimson Audi.

" 'Kin' German shite!" he bellowed and, with a high sidekick, put his boot through the window. "Oo won th' fuckin' war anyway?" Glass shattered. An alarm wailed. Further on up the street, a police siren howled.

"C'mon, man," said Ninja, clutching at Animal's sleeve.

They ducked down an alley towards the Marchmonts. As they passed Great Ormond Street, Animal went into another tirade of abuse, this time demanding the extermination of sick children. " 'F ah 'ad my way, ah'd tek a fuckin' machine gun ter th' lorrov'em," he spat. Then he spotted a large concrete block lying in the road. "Ah. This might be useful."

"Fer what?" asked Rick.

"Dunno ye'," said Ninja, taking out another cigarette.

"Ah though' 'e was gonna lose it, Ninja," said Rick anxiously.

"Nah," said Ninja, striking the crimson match-head against a brick wall. The flame flared. "Animal's all right. 'E knows wharr'e's doin', man." He flicked the spent matchstick into the night.

"C'mon," said Animal, the concrete block tucked under his arm.

"Whatchyer gonna do?" asked Rick nervously.

"Chuck it through somebody's winder." Animal grinned.

"Why?"

" 'Kin' 'ell, Rick," Animal snarled. " 'Sup wi' you? Be a larf, won' i'?"

"No, it won't," said Rick. "It'll be dangerous."

"Ha," scoffed Animal. "Car win'screen. Tha'd be dangerous." His eyes lit up.

Jaysus, thought Rick. "Have an E," he suggested. "Make yer feel brighter."

" 'K off," said Animal. "Ah don' tek that shit." A crimson taxicab turned the corner and headed up the road towards them. "This'll do," said Animal. He hoisted the block up to his sternum.

"Don't be a twat," said Rick urgently. "Yer'll kill someone!" The taxi was slowing down. The driver clearly thought he might get a fare. "Animal ... please ..." said Rick, wondering whether he should just walk away.

Animal heaved the concrete slab up to his shoulder. The taxi drew level.

"Animal ...." Rick whimpered and visualised the smashing blood, the smashing glass, the smashing steel, the smashing bone.

The taxicab passed. Animal let out a yell and a laugh and lowered the concrete.

"Yer though' ah wuz gonna chuck i'," he said. "D'yer think ah'm a nutter?"

Rick's legs were trembling. He leaned against the lamp-post and lit a cigarette.

"Well ...," said Animal slowly, "Ah am!" He twisted on his boot heel and hurled the slab of concrete over a wall. Something on the other side shattered. Ninja laughed hysterically. Rick simply sighed.

"Wonder whatchyer broke?" said Ninja. "Sum cunt's greenahse, mebbe."

Maybe. Maybe it was a garden gnome or a birdbath.

"Ah'll 'ave a look," said Animal. He slapped his palms on top of the wall to heave up his weight, then swore loudly and reeled away. The skin on his hands had been torn to shreds. Blood dripped in large crimson splotches on the road. "Fuckin' 'ell!" he screamed. "Fuckin' barbed wire! Fuckin' broken glarss. Fuckin' cunts!!"

Ninja howled hysterically. "Sorted you, yer cunt!" he said.

" 'Kin' 'ell!" Animal crammed his fists into his armpits. " 'Kin' 'ell!" He danced on the pavement. "Get me to an 'orspital!" he bawled. "Get me to an 'orspital. 'Kin' barbed wire! 'Kin' barstard cuntin' broken glarss!"

Ninja, doubled over, was choking and snorting. "Yer fayce!" he howled. "Yer shoulda seen yer fayce, yer barstard!"

Rick shook his head. Animal screamed, sobbed, and squeezed his fists. From a doorway further up the street, a drunken voice slurred for quiet. Animal cocked his ear then thundered up the pavement. Rick and Ninja followed. They found a tramp curled up on a step. He was asleep and wrapped in a blanket.

"Yer cunt!" screamed Animal, and kicked the tramp in the stomach.

Again And again. And again.

The chest and the head.

Again And again. Until something broke.

Then he clenched his shredded palms into blood-spraying fists and pounded the blood-soaked blanket, screaming and yelling.

Ninja and Rick tried to manhandle him away. He thumped Ninja in the face and blackened his eye and caught Rick in the jaw with a flailing elbow when Rick decided he had to put him down. He swung a heavy haymaker which landed on one misshapen cauliflower ear. Animal staggered, came again. Rick drove a firmly clenched right fist into his face. Animal reeled and fell, looking somewhat puzzled at the blood spurting from his nose in a crimson fountain. Slowly, Rick became aware of an intense throbbing in his fist where his knuckles had disintegrated against the skull.

Surprisingly, CASUALTY had been quiet, even for 2 a.m., and the receptionist had been dozing under a newspaper. Animal had waved one blood-dripping fist and been whisked away to a treatment cubicle for stitching. Rick and Ninja had been left to wait among the spotless sterility of hospital tiles.

"Mr Wildman," called the nurse.

"Yer lucky day, man," said Ninja, flashing a salacious grin towards his companion. "Be'ind them curtains, woman in yuniform ... hur hur."

Rick noticed Animal in one of the cubicles. He was sitting on a bed, laughing his head off, whilst a young, tired-looking doctor attempted to sew up the gashes. "Sit still," the doctor was saying. "For God's sake, sit still..."

"He's fallen off the bed twice so far," the nurse told Rick. "Is he drunk?"

"God knows," said Rick.

The nurse unwrapped the blood-sodden cloth to expose the mess beneath. The bloody, raw skin was stripped from the crushed, pulverised knuckles. Rick felt his legs wobble and he sat down heavily.

"How did you do that?" The nurse was preparing a painkilling injection.

Rick sighed wearily and nodded towards the raucous laughter. "I hit him."

The nurse raised her eyebrows. "Who? Mr Pitts?"

Rick laughed. "Pitts? Is that 'is name?"

"Leslie Pitts," she said, slapping at the inside of Rick's elbow. "You're not his friend, are you?" The needle poised over the vein. "Did you hit him hard?"

"Hard enough," said Rick, "To stop him killing someone."

"In that case," smiled the nurse, "I'll be as gentle with you as I can." That made him laugh too. Perhaps they weren't so bad after all. He drew a breath through his teeth and clenched his undamaged fist as the needle slid into his vein. A crimson drop welled out of the hole. "We'll let you rest for a moment," said the nurse and flicked the curtain to close off the cubicle.

Rick sat on the couch, swinging his feet and reflecting that he should have told the nurse about the drink and drug cocktail he'd already consumed. Along with the numbness in his arms, a sense of self pity crept into his mind. What had he done to end up in hospital with losers like these? Okay, he'd sold dope for them, and bought it from them. Sure, he had a bit of an attitude, but that didn't make him evil. Not evil enough to be stuck in here anyway. He should have gone home with Adam. A quiet drink, maybe some dope, maybe even teach the kid how to do blowbacks, then to bed with Kim. Kim. Sure, she got on his nerves sometimes, nagging about money and Holly and paying the rent but he still fancied her like crazy. Kim and Holly were the best things that had happened to him. They had saved him from becoming his father.

His father. He remembered his father. Huh. Adam kept going on about his. Thought the world of him. But Rick's Dad was a poor, sad bastard, a steel worker who did thirty years at the same factory, who bought his own house and his own private pension and his own life insurance and his own brand new car, television, golf clubs, holiday timeshare and so on and thus spent his whole life working to pay for it all. When the Government had closed down the plant, they had chucked him out onto the dole. Fifty-four and totally screwed. He could only face the night by getting pissed first. Thirty years of paying his taxes and doing his job and keeping his nose clean had given him a place on the scrap-heap of Life, a semi in the suburbs and a nagging heart condition. Not like that, Rick would mutter. Don't let me end up like that. A Wage Slave for thirty years.

School had been a total waste of time. Eleven years of being told he was inadequate, of being told he was not good enough, of his school being told it was not good enough, low in the league and facing relegation, as the Deputy Head had once put it. An inner city slum with peeling walls and crumbling ceilings ignored by the council, cash-starved by Government, and two thousand kids condemned, like the building, to a second-rate existence with a curriculum of total irrelevance. Logarithms. Periodic Tables. Poems. Computers. Instead of tax returns, low budget shopping, bringing up a baby in a damp flat on the dole... real life skills.

Like Adam, Rick had come to London looking for work, hoping to better himself, improve on his prospects. All he had found was part-time, temporary, non-contracted and appallingly paid exploitation. To make matters worse, he couldn't buy a house because he couldn't get a mortgage and he couldn't rent because the councils had sold all their property. Rick felt little these days except an unremitting and bleak hostility. Dope dealing and part-time kitchen jobs weren't exactly the career he had wanted. Ninja and Animal weren't exactly the kind of friends he wanted. Kim ... yes, he wanted Kim. And the baby too. He supposed.

"Mr Sweet .... Mr Bryan Sweet...."

Rick raised his chin. The receptionist was calling Ninja.

The stillness was shattered by a howling siren, screeching tyres, shouting and clattering, a terrible commotion in the waiting area ... the paramedics were bringing in an emergency case. Medical phrases tumbled into each other, over each other, drowning each other in their urgent insistencies, demands for adrenaline, demands for oxygen, demands for an X-Ray, demands for stabilisers ... the orderlies had the casualty up on a trolley and were wheeling it frantically down through Reception.

Curious, Rick drew the curtain aside and peered into the corridor. White-clad doctors, green-clad paramedics, blue-clad nurses, bottles of fluid, an oxygen cylinder, snapping questions... "where was he found?" - "somewhere off Marchmont...."

Slow realisation seeped through. Rick felt suddenly very cold and very sick. The figure, muffled in a crimson blanket, face obscured by a transparent mask and streams of thick blood, was the tramp from the doorway.

Rick felt a sudden surge of anger and fury. What the hell was he doing there? Why did he have to get in Animal's way? Why the hell had he not been at home? Stupid twat deserved to get kicked.

"Some people," sighed the nurse, preparing the plaster in which she would bury Rick's fist. "We had a young girl in earlier, a glass collector from a club. What a mess."

Rick felt the closed curtains pressing around him, the walls of a cell, the sides of a coffin. "What was wrong with her?" he asked, hoping the trembling in his voice would not alert suspicion.

"Lacerations all over her arms," said the nurse, "Broken jaw, and a miscarriage. She was pregnant, you see. And somebody kicked her in the vagina ... she lost the baby and nearly bled to death." She shook her head again. "Some people are animals."

She started to sponge the crimson blood from Rick's smashed fist.

Suddenly, without warning, he threw up.

9. Kalypso

ADAM is sitting on a table in the EEZYKLEEN launderette. The table is covered in a cracked, scored light purple laminate. He is watching his washing go round and trying to write a letter to his grandmother. The launderette is pretty seedy. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and the patchy, fading purple lino, cracked and chipped, is strewn with old, fading newspaper pages listing long-run races at Kempton and Windsor, ads for dog tracks and second-hand prams, and yellowed, outdated horoscopes for Cancer and Virgo. There is gungy white stuff caked all over the powder compartments and someone has spilled a purple conditioner in the broken purple washing basket.

Adam doesn't have enough money to do separate washes, so he has brushed the cigarette ends away and heaped the powder from the wall dispenser onto the crumbling damp cake already compacted inside the compartment and put everything in together, his clothes, an orange T-shirt, a dark blue T-shirt, socks, boxers, jeans, Kim's clothes, a purple sweater, a blouse, two bras and three pairs of white, very skimpy panties, Holly's clothes, a romper suit, a couple of bibs. He contemplated the choices - VERY HOT, HOT, WARM, COLD \- shrugged, and pressed HOT. Then he sat on the edge of a purple laminated table and watched the clothing tangle, turn and tumble.

He sighs and massages the back of his neck. The purple sofa is uncomfortable but at least it isn't yet spilling its innards across the floor like the poor old beanbag.

He has been in London about six weeks. The job at André's has finished and now he washes cars at a garage for £1.90 an hour. André's was bought by a development consortium and closed for renovation, so Adam and Rick were laid off. Charlie was reasonably apologetic and paid them a week's wages but Rick had yelled and stormed and threatened to tell health and safety about the roaches. They had got a bit drunk and returned later to chuck a dustbin through the window, right through the centre of

### Chez André

"Here!" Rick had shouted, ''Renovate that!'' The glass had showered onto the carpet inside and the bin crushed one of the tables. Rick had punched the air and danced away down the pavement crowing "Sorted!"

Over the next few days, Adam walked for hours, asking for work in restaurants, pubs and shops, until finally Flashman's Garage had offered him a car-washing job. He's good at it and quite enjoys bringing a gleam and a sparkle to the Beamers and Mercs that cross his forecourt. It's late October and beginning to feel cold but he's got a thick sweater and a thick overcoat, the warmest things he ever got from school, and lots of hot water.

Rick, by contrast, gave up looking for work almost immediately. He spent a lot of time lying on the sofa cursing Charlie, cursing Kim and cursing Adam. He came, and he went. Sometimes he'd be gone for several days. Adam had mentioned his missing watch once. Rick had just laughed and told him to "chill".

Adam feels resentful. He is now the main breadwinner. Most of his meagre salary goes towards the rent and the food. More to the point, Adam is the one who always seems to be changing the child and getting her to sleep, especially when Rick is around, because he says they need time alone and they leave him with the baby whilst they disappear into the bedroom. Kim calls him Uncle Adi. She says he is good with the baby. He can get her to sleep when Kim can't. He supports her neck and thinks she's amazing. He'd like to have a child of his own one day.

Kim asked him why he stays, why he looks after her and Holly. Adam told her that it is in lieu of rent, but his feelings run more deeply than that. He likes her, really likes her, perhaps he's even falling in love. She is seventeen, perhaps eighteen years old. He isn't sure. She looks under-nourished, sallow, "peaky", as Adam's grandmother would put it. Her short dark hair has a purple tinge. Her black jeans, black T-shirt and purple Doc Martens are past their best, scuffed and fading. Adam wants to protect her and wants her to need him. Sometimes all he really wants is a smile.

His neck is aching. He stares across the rim of a cracked, stained mug of tea that the launderette attendant, a nice old lady in a flowery head-scarf, curlers and purple slippers, had brought him.

"My mother resented me," Kim had told him, "First because I got in her way and later because she was jealous that her pox-ridden boyfriends might be more interested in me than in her. That's why she threw me out. One of 'em actually did try to get into my knickers when I was twelve. Mum had been with him for ages, about six weeks, an' I thought she was gonna marry him. She thought he was wonderful 'cos he brought her some purple flowers, irises I think. That's something my Dad never did, the bastard."

Kim's Dad was in prison. Theft and rape.

"Anyway, one night, I got up for a drink of water. I was in the bathroom when the door opens and this bloke, I can't even remember his name, comes in. He sat on the toilet seat and stroked my hair and told me not to be scared. Then he took out his prick, this fat, bloated, purple sausage. I started to laugh, especially when he asked me to touch it, but then he shoved his great hairy hand into my pyjama bottoms, broke the elastic and stuck his finger in my fanny. I threw the water at him and ran to my room. When I told my Mum, she reckoned I'd made a move on her man, called me a slapper an' broke my nose."

He stares into the depths of his tea and recalls his stepfather, the anger and violence, the purpled eyes, the black-purple bruises, the blood and the tears, the lies to his teachers so he could keep his shirt on for PE and get out of swimming and keep the marks hidden, their failure to act when they finally saw the purple bruises for themselves, and remembers again the night he'd tried to kill himself.

A year or so ago he had come home from school and found the house empty. Mother was working, Byrne was gambling. The night before, Byrne had beaten him up because he had put too much milk in the tea.

Adam had fetched a chair from the kitchen and positioned it in the hallway under the banisters, knotted his leather Scout belt round the handrail, stood on the chair, slipped his head into the noose. Pulling it tight around his neck, he felt his heart hammering at the base of his throat, and felt suddenly overwhelmed by a tidal wave of desperate sickness and terrible fear....

He touched the belt and wiped his nose,

and

then

he pushed away the chair.

The belt cut into his windpipe, choking him suddenly, as

he jerked in the air.

Gasped,

Gargled,

feeling his breathing cut off in one terrible jerk,

feeling his windpipe crushed, pressed remorselessly against the back of his throat,

feeling his head beginning to thump,

feeling his lungs beginning to burst,

feeling his heart hammer and hammer and flutter and hammer...

feeling a desperate, searing burn in his bladder and a building, pulsing erection

feeling his tongue lolling out of his mouth

feeling his face exploding with heat as blood vessels ruptured

He had mumbled a prayer through spittle-flecked lips, a kind of "ohgod ohgod ohgod ohgod" prayer, then he jerked again and swung again and he tasted blood in his mouth as he bit his bottom lip into shreds.

His legs kicked furiously in mid-air.

His heels crashed through the stair panel; the wood splintered, splitting the skin.

He swung, kicking and helpless.

He twisted one way, twisted another, out of control.

His six stone body jerked and snapped at the end of the belt.

He clawed at his throat,

clawed at the Scout belt, a tightening leather vice,

clawed at his school shirt, tearing the buttons...

sensed his senses sliding away

as grey descended and fog swept into his brain

And then the knot had slipped

and

Adam had crashed to the floor with a bone-jarring crunch.

Gasping desperately, gulping painfully,

a tremendous aching

swelled through his brain,

until it

exploded

inside him,

and he passed out.

He had woken up in a hospital bed, hooked up to a battery of beeping, blinking monitors, shrouded in a loose gown, tied round his back. A nurse was ticking something on a chart. He couldn't see clearly. His sight was obscured by the transparent mask of a ventilator. He tried to speak but the vocal cords failed and his voice emerged from the bruised, battered larynx as a croaking whisper. The nurse glared at him, tutted and left.

His fingers looked like bloated purple sausages, his neck hurt terribly, and his heels and ankles felt as though someone had stabbed heated needles into them. A desperate thirst burned in his throat and his lungs were sending out searingly intense jabs of pain whenever he breathed. Adam had barely survived. Had he been heavier...

Then his mother had arrived and hurled a range of emotions at him.

Hysterical anger.

Tearful confusion.

Blank stupidity.

She kept asking "why".

He had looked at his mother, a faded, dispirited forty year old with sagging breasts and drooping bags, all lines and marks and purple smudges, a purple shopper perched on her knee, and wondered why she could not see his pain. He heard her bleat another feeble "why", decided she must be a fuckwit, and gave up on her.

She had come home from the supermarket, bone-weary, dying for a long hot bath. She had opened the door, her shopping bags balanced on one lifted knee, called for Adam to come and help her, and, as the door swung open, she had seen him, sprawling on the parquet in a broken heap, his belt dangling from the banister rail, the wooden panelling of the stairs smashed into splinters where he'd kicked it through. His face was purple, his shirt was wet, one grey flannel trouser leg was rucked up to his splinter-torn calf, blood was seeping through his socks...

The shopping had fallen, a s l o w m o t i o n

e g g-s p l a t t i n g, f l o u r -b a g-s p l i t t i n g, m i l k-c a r t o n-b u r s t i n g, o r a n g e-b o w l i n g fall....

When they gave him a mirror, he was able to see for himself his drained, white face, his dark eyes like holes cut in a paper bag, his chewed, torn lips, the fierce purple weal round his neck, the cuts on his throat. His heels had been shredded and his tendons strained from where he had kicked so wildly. He had sticking plasters all over his feet and his calves. He looked like something from a horror film.

They moved him into the Children's Ward for a couple of days. Once there, he had plunged into a deep depression. Woken at six every morning, lights out at eight every evening, nothing to do but sit in bed watching Rosie and Jim and Power-Rangers and other cartoons, eating mush till his seared throat was able to cope with solid food, listening to the same half dozen tapes, Parklife, Whirlpool, Hysteria and Dangerous on his Walkman, playing Patience over and over, reading comics, drinking Ribena, staring at the ceiling.

The other kids depressed him too. Kids with cancer, kids with asthma, kids made bald by a radiation therapy which made them as sick as the leukaemia they were fighting. But it wasn't their sickness that depressed him. It was the incessantly chirpy 'keep your spirits up, never-say-die'-isms that resounded round the Ward.

He lay in bed, desperately hoping his father would come to see him. But he didn't.

Nanny saw how dispirited he was and bought him a purple Gameboy Advance out of her pension. She came to see him every day, travelling in on the train by herself. Every day she stroked his hair and held his hand till he went to sleep. Every day she battled the twenty miles back to her home, through weather and commuters, wishing she was able to take him home, but knowing that, at seventy-seven, with a plastic hip and arthritic fingers and grieving for her own son missing in London, the roles would reverse and the grandson would end up looking after the grandmother until she died.

Andrew Fairbrother organised a collection round the class and he and Elliott brought him some more tapes, Oasis, Sleeper and Carter USM, and a "get well" card. Marc sent a drawing of something resembling a horse in a field. Dr Bland sent him schoolwork, essays to write, equations to solve. Nothing, not even an attempt at suicide, could interfere with the school's drive up the League. His message was simple - "sort yourself out before your exams."

A child psychiatrist once perched uneasily on the edge of the bed. The brief interview had focussed on sexual abuse, glue sniffing and drug taking. Adam told him little. What was the point? What could they do? Take him into care?

Most depressing was his mother's self-pity. She sat by his bed , shopper on knees, chewing purple grapes, turning the bedside bottle of Ribena round in her fingers, sobbing whenever a nurse passed by, repeating her litany

They'll think I'm unfit to be a mother

You never gave a thought for me

What were you trying to prove?

I don't understand how you could do this to me

Adam's crushed, bruised larynx finally found its strength. He grated out his reply - "How could you do this to me?" - and silenced her for ever.

After an age, they discharged him from hospital. He stood outside clutching his meagre belongings, watching his breath turn to mist in the raw cold of morning, reflecting on the doctor's verdict that he "had been lucky", waiting for the taxi to take him to Nanny's and his recuperation by the sea.

Adam's grandmother lived in Sheringham. He had spent most of his happy times there, every summer and sometimes at Easter. When he'd got older, he'd taken the train or cycled. She had a neat two-bedroom cottage which smelled of baking and wood polish and Windolene. The walls were smothered with photographs. Adam liked looking at them. They put him in touch with his family. There were pictures of his rather fat aunt, uncle and cousins who lived in Bradford, of his dead grandfather sitting on the gunwale of a fishing boat mending a net, of his brain-box cousin who worked for BP in Indonesia, of his father as a small boy sitting on a swing, and pictures of himself.

One of the photos of Adam had been taken at primary school. He had a gap-toothed grin and a gently flushed face and his fringe was ragged because Dad had cut it himself with the kitchen scissors to save some money. Another photo, rather more serious, more studious, taken at secondary school, showed him in his grey blazer and grey and white tie. Another showed him with Mum and Dad under Nanny's apple tree one May Day. Pink and white blossom lay scattered around them. He wore a rainbow-striped T-shirt, purple knee-length shorts, white socks and sandals. Dad was smoking his pipe and wearing his cardigan. Mum was in her purple slacks. There were no pictures of Adam after Byrne.

Adam had been clinically depressed so, in an effort to pull him out of his misery, Nanny invited Andrew Fairbrother to stay. She liked Andrew. She liked the support he gave her grandson. It was uncomplicated and unconditional. Andrew had tried hard, teaching him golf on the cliff-top greens, patiently helping him master the swing, feeding coins into arcade amusement machines, chatting up girls by the soft drink dispensers. He had tried hard to make Adam's birthday enjoyable by treating him to fish and chips and buying him Pulp's Different Class as a present. But Adam had remained silent, solitary and withdrawn.

His fourteenth birthday.

Adam had wrapped himself in his coat and wandered off to the beach on his own.

Andrew found him standing on the foreshore, shielding himself against the chill, the wind sweeping the spray-soaked, salt-caked strands of dark hair across his pale face. He was holding a piece of bladdery seaweed and systematically bursting each purple blister. He was crying.

Andrew put a hand on the back of his neck, pulling him close. Adam buried his face in his friend's jacket and cried desperately. Andrew said nothing. Instead, he listened to the rhythmic shirr of the shingle being dragged away by the ocean's frothy fingers, listened to Adam crying quietly, listened to the seagulls as they screamed and wheeled overhead. He kept his hand on Adam's neck, stroked his hair and held him until the crying was exhausted.

"If he hurts you again," Andrew had whispered, "Elliott and me ... we'll break his neck."

Adam drags his attention away from his past to his present. He is wearing that Scout belt with his jeans. Almost unconsciously he touches the leather and the fleur-de-lys 'Be Prepared' buckle which had cut into his neck just a year ago.

Be Prepared. He'd been prepared all right. Prepared to die.

The launderette door swings open and a boy with rusty hair comes in. It's Billy from downstairs. He nods at Adam and loads jeans, socks, an Arsenal football shirt, bed sheets and towels into a machine. Adam smiles weakly. He realises he doesn't really know anyone else in the house. Billy, for example. He always nodded or smiled, but never said hello. He seemed to smoke a lot. He was twelve or thirteen, Adam guessed. He had a mother with motor neurone disease, Kim had told him. His father was dead. Dr Keen visited every week, and the men who Adam had seen coming out of Billy's might have been his uncles, the old man his grandfather, so he wasn't totally alone.

And then there was Mandy. She lived upstairs with her two children. Mandy was a huge and frankly terrifying woman with a busy social life. She was always going out or having visitors and sometimes asked Kim or Adam to look after Craig, four, and Jodie, eight, which was OK because they were nice kids who liked drawing pictures with crayons. She was a massively breasted, brassy woman, purple lipstick, masses of rouge, lots of mascara. She had shoved past them in the stairwell clutching a reeking package of cod, chips and vinegar buried in a bundle of newspapers against her leopard-print coat. Adam had noted the broken nails on her short, stubby fingers.

"Carn' stop, Rick," she had said. "Fish 'n' chip supper fer th' kids." She had heaved her bulk up the stairs. Somewhere, up on the top floor, a child whined as a door opened. "Shuddup, yer brat," she screamed. The door had slammed shut.

"Handy Mandy," Rick had remarked, ''The Missing Part-Tart.''

The landlord, Jimmy Flint, is a weasly individual who smokes incessantly and has a voice that sounds like gravel churning inside a cement mixer. Whenever he calls, there is a sharp exchange of views about the state of the flat. Kim maintains it isn't healthy to bring up a baby in a place that needs urgent redecoration, solid window frames and a new damp-course. Flint maintains she can always move. Rick is nearly always absent when Flint calls round. Adam keeps quiet. It isn't his flat.

Billy inserts coins, starts the cycle and leaves the launderette with a cheery "Just off for some ciggies, Mrs H."

"Right-o, love," is the cheery reply.

Adam takes a photograph out of his wallet. It is the only one he had salvaged from the wreckage of his last night at home. During that last, terrible, storm-ravaged evening, when he had stuffed as many clothes as possible into his rucksack, whipped his Scout blanket and old nylon sleeping bag from his bed, grabbed his bankbook, crammed his Walkman and as many cassettes as he could into the side pockets, slotted his toothbrush and a can of deodorant between socks and scarf, he had, as an afterthought, seized the one photo Byrne hadn't destroyed, the one he had hidden in a drawer with electrical wire and Lego bricks, a soldering iron and a book on origami, while Byrne rampaged through the albums with his scissors.

The photograph shows his Dad twining coloured lights around the spiky branches of the tree at their last family Christmas when Adam had played King Herod in the village school's Nativity Play and Dad had made him a crown out of baking foil and a sheet of cardboard and arrayed him in a purple dressing gown. Adam feels a pang of nostalgia. He has seen his father half a dozen times since.

The washing cycle finishes with a loud iron clunk. Adam fights a self-conscious blush as he tugs out the jumble and unravels a bra from his boxers. But he cannot prevent his cheeks from purpling hotly when he notices that the colours have run.

It is Kim's purple sweater. A pinky purple has suffused Kim's once-whites, a bra, knickers, socks and a blouse. Even worse, most of his own clothes are OK.

He stands by the dryer, the damp clothes heaped in his arms, and feels like crying.

Trying to cram it all into the dryer, he drops Kim's panties, a bra, one of his socks and his T-shirt on the floor among the fag butts and spilled powder and blown-in leaves and cries out in frustration.

"Don't worry, dear." Mrs H. shuffles over and helps pick it up. "Oh, you've had a little accident. You should have separated whites and colours, you know."

"So I see," says Adam, tears prickling his eyes. "What can I do to get the whites white again?"

"Bleach?" says Mrs H., cigarette ash cascading over Kim's panties.

Sod it, Lycett, he thinks. You can't even wash clothes. Worse, you've failed Kim, and that is almost unbearable.

Dear Nanny,

I thought I should write you a letter so you know I'm okay. I know you'll be worrying but I couldn't stay at home any longer, not with him knocking me about all the time.

I've got a little job washing cars at a showroom. It doesn't pay much but it's OK. I did have a job washing dishes at a posh French restaurant, but it closed. I'm looking for something better but it's really hard. I don't have any qualifications and everyone says I'm too young to work, but I've got lots of skills – I can organise stuff, and I think I'm good with people. You'd think one of the charities would give me a break, wouldn't you?

London's brilliant. All the places I'd heard of, but never seen, are here on the doorstep. All those places from Monopoly are here too. Did you know the Angel Islington is a pub? And Pentonville Road has a prison? And Euston Road has a railway station? They don't say that in the game, do they?

I'm living in a house near Caledonian Road. That's in the North. We have a flat in a terraced house, with a bathroom, a kitchen, a lounge and a bedroom. Everything's purple. I sleep in the living room. It's okay. There's a sofa, which is a bit lumpy, and a purple beanbag which has burst \- I keep treading on polystyrene beads - and there are a few purple blotches on the wall by the window - damp, I think. Well, it smells damp. Kim and Rick and their baby sleep in the bedroom.

I've got a slight cough, but I don't think it's serious. I just need to keep warm. I've got my thick sweater, the grey one you gave me last year, and my thick coat from school, so I should be OK. Well, I guess that's all I have to say for now. I'll be in touch again. If you see Mum, tell her I'm OK. I miss you.

All my love, and don't worry about me, I'm fine.

Adam xxxx

## 10. Sirens

Monday - got up, went to work, came home, went to bed

Tuesday - got up, went to work, came home, went to bed

Wednesday - got up, went to work, came home, went to bed

Thursday - got up, went to work, came home, went to bed

Friday - got up, went to work, came home, went to bed

Weekend - got up, cleaned the flat, bathed the baby, went to bed

Monday - got up, went to work, came home, went to bed

Tuesday - got up, went to work, came home, went to bed

Wednesday - got up, went to work, came home, went to bed

Thursday - got up, went to work, came home, went to bed

Friday - got up, went to work, came home, went to bed

The pattern of life

get up, go to work, go home, go to bed get up, go to work, go home, go to bed

get up, go to work, go home, go to bed get up, go to work, go home, go to bed

get up, go to work, go home, go to bed get up, go to work, go home, go to bed

retire

and

## die

I wrung the dirty water into the bucket with a twist of the sponge then tipped the gunmetal water into the gutter. It swirled down the grate. I went to collect my coat and pay. I'd done a good job. The car was gleaming. "See you next week," I called to Mr Flashman who was locking the gunmetal shutters. He waved as I pushed my pay packet in my jeans pocket and stepped out onto City Road. I counted the gunmetal coins. Great. I had enough to take the Tube.

Usually I'd walk the four miles from here to the house but I loved the Tube. I loved the smells, the sounds, the people flooding the platforms, even the crush in the carriage. It was a symbol to me of having arrived. Sharing a carriage, sharing a strap, it made me feel a part of the workforce. Me and them, we had a bond. Sure, I got shit wages. Sure, I only washed cars. But I was a worker like them, travelling home, grown up and responsible, just like them. I entered Moorgate Station, slid my ticket into the slot and leaned against the gunmetal barrier. And then I was through, joining the crush on the rickety-looking, slatted-stepped escalator, swallowed up in subterranean darkness.

I had to go down into the depths for the Northern Line. There were the wonderful smells of electricity, the sounds of hissing doors and clattering trains. I looked around at the suited gents reading their papers, the skirted women engrossed in their books, the students returning from lectures, brightly coloured college-scarves blaring their newness, at everybody heading out of the centre. I squeezed between the sliding gunmetal doors and wedged myself into a seat facing some Oriental students. I smiled amiably as the train gave a huff and a hiss and clattered away from the platform, Caledonian Road next station-stop. I studied an ad for Singapore Airlines and decided I would begin the quest for my father the following day at the Library near Highgate Cemetery.

There were seven Lycetts listed but only one 'G'. I jotted down the Streatham address and the other telephone numbers. Whilst I realised that my father might not have a telephone, or might be ex-directory, I didn't know where else to start. He had never been very good at forwarding changes of address. Still, G. Lycett of Streatham might just be him.

"If yer dad wanted yer ter find him, he'd've given you his address," Rick said, levering the gunmetal cap off another bottle of beer. "Where's he live then?"

"Streatham," I said.

"Streatham!!" he crowed. "It ain't Stret'am, yer bumpkin. It's Saint Reatham, after the Patron Saint of London." Rick drank some beer. "He was shot dead by arrows 'n' then had his head cut off by some Roman general near the Common. They named it after him. Christian martyr, Saint Reatham. Fourth century. Did him at school. Bloody 'ell. Yer don' know nothin', you divvy."

I thanked him. I'd have felt like a total tool asking the bus driver for Stre't'am.

Kim and Rick spent the weekend drinking beer, eating chips and having sex. I spent the weekend watching their baby, doing their shopping, staring out of their rain-spattered window and wondering when to set out on my quest.

I didn't sleep well on Sunday night. The baby kept grizzling.

### Monday

I entered the hallway and pushed on the light. It was chilly outside. Leaves and litter swirled in the breeze. Autumn dusks - bonfire and wood-smoke and rotting leaf smells and the smudges of streetlights in early night mist. I gathered the skirts of my coat round my calves and jogged up the stairs. Behind me, Billy's flat and his old, crippled mother. Ahead of me were Jodie and Craig and the Missing-Part Tart. In between, Rick holding court with Kim in attendance. "Hello, Adam," called Jodie. I replied with a cheerful wave and turned my key in the gunmetal lock.

Rick was lying on the sofa listening to my Walkman and reading Empty World. When I came in, he removed the earphones and closed the book. My ears could just pick up the tinny sound of Oasis \- "Don't look back in anger/I heard her say."

"Here," said Rick, twisting the cap off a bottle with one violent movement. "Thunderbird. Fortified wine. More like Chunderbird." He produced a crumpled cigarette. "Take yer coat off, have a drink."

I sloughed off my overcoat and sat on the threadbare carpet which covered the floor. The lighter flared and I blinked as the acrid smoke curled into my nostrils.

"Borrowed yer book," he said briefly. "Christ, I'm bored." He kicked at the beanbag. More polystyrene beads spilled onto the carpet. "I'm nineteen 'n' sod all ter do. Can't even get a poxy job washing cars. Where's it gonna end?"

"Dunno," I said, tasting the Thunderbird. It was sweet, faintly pear-flavoured.

"Stuck on the bleedin' dole all me life." Rick stabbed the air with his cigarette. "It's you I can't figure out. Yer went ter a decent school." He held up Empty World. "Yer like readin'..."

"Yes," I said, retrieving the bottle and chugging more Chunderbird. "But the school didn't encourage me to pursue my interests."

"Yeah, well ... it was better than mine. Damp walls, crumblin' ceilings, no fuckin' books, thirty-five in a class, teachers too busy tryin' ter keep us in order ter teach anythin', 'n' those who weren't didn't give a toss 'cos they knew there wasn't anythin' out there fer council-house kids like us."

"All my teachers cared about,'' I said, ''Was funding and tables and fucking exams. They weren't interested in us at all."

"Huh," grunted Rick. "Yer young, yer fit, yer bright, 'n' yer stuck here, changin' shitty nappies fer a kid that ain't even yours. There's a whole city fer you ter explore, a whole world waitin' .... Yer spend every hour workin' ... One day, yer'll wake up 'n' it'll be too late. Yer'll be one more sad old bastard who wasted his life."

I blew a cloud of smoke and stubbed out the cigarette. "At least I've got a job," I said.

Rick scowled. "Yeah. One pound ninety an hour. Tenner a day. Wage-slavery, mate. Marx had it right."

get up, go to work, go home, go to bed get up, go to work, go home, go to bed

get up, go to work, go home, go to bed get up, go to work, go home, go to bed

get up, go to work, go home, .............

I went to bed.

### Tuesday

I entered the hallway and pushed on the light. It was colder than yesterday. My hands had looked raw in the steam from my bucket. Leaves and litter swirled in the breeze from the fast-rushing traffic. Autumn dusks - bonfire and wood-smoke and rotting leaf smells and the smudges of streetlights in early night mist. I gathered the skirts of my coat round my calves and jogged up the stairs. Behind me, Billy's flat and his old, crippled mother. Ahead of me were Jodie and Craig and the Missing-Part Tart. In between, Rick holding court with Kim in attendance. "Hello, Adam," Jodie called down. I replied with a friendly wave and fitted my gunmetal key to the lock.

Rick was lying on the sofa, listening to my Walkman and reading Autocar. When I came in, he removed the earphones. My ears could just pick up the tinny sound of Radiohead \- "rows of houses all bearing down on me"

"Here," he said, twisting the cap off a bottle with one violent movement. "Cider, 'cos it's better inside yer. Hur hur." He produced a crumpled cigarette. "Take yer coat off, have a drink."

I sloughed off my overcoat and sat on the threadbare carpet. The lighter flame flared and I swallowed a cough as the acrid smoke crept into my lungs. Kim arrived with some cracked, chipped plates and we sat on the floor and ate the bacon and beans I'd bought coming home, then they went for a shag leaving me to bath the baby.

I had to empty the dirty pans and food-crusted plates from the sink then wipe the thick grease layer from the steep gunmetal sides whilst Baby Holly gurgled and dribbled all over her rompers. Getting the temperature right worried me. I'd never bathed a baby before and had no idea how hot or cold the water needed to be but I'd seen it on EastEnders so how hard could it be? I decided on caution and went for something very, very tepid.

"C'mon, darling," I murmured, lying the baby on the channelled gunmetal drainer so I could undress her. "Bath time, Holly. That'll be fun, won't it? Won't it?" I lowered her gently into the sink, supporting her head with my hand, clucking and cooing as I scooped warm water over her head. "Holly's in the water, Holly's in the water," I chanted. She splashed once or twice and laughed. I dabbed water on the tip of her nose, shampooed her hair, then rinsed her and lifted her clear. I laid her on a towel spread on the gunmetal drainer and patted her dry.

"Who's a clean girl?" I said. "Who's a clean girl? Eh? All clean and fresh ... yes you are. Oh yes you are." I reached for the talc and suddenly noticed Kim standing in the doorway. She was wearing a long striped shirt and a look of amusement. She must have thought me a right twat. "Hi," I said, burning up with embarrassment.

"I've brought her a clean sleep-suit," said Kim. "Haven't I, darling?" I pulled out the plug and watched the water swirling round in the sink. My T-shirt was wet from all the splashing. I heard Kim clucking as she dressed her child: "Uncle Adi's been bathing you. Looked like fun. Oh yes it did. Looked like fun."

"I'll make a start on that washing up," I said.

"No, you won't. Uncle Adi'll sit down with a beer, won't he, Holly?" She was cradling the baby against her shoulder. I couldn't help noticing that the shirt, which reached to her knees, was the only thing she had on. I could see the soft curves of her breasts and her hips beneath the cotton ... "You'll come and say goodnight?"

I tried to smile. I was still conscious of my cretinous drivelling, of Kim herself and my rising desire. "Course," I replied, shaking talcum powder from the towel. It fell like snow on the gunmetal drainer.

"Any beers in the fridge?" called Rick. "Hiya, mate." He put a proprietorial arm round his girlfriend and tweaked her ear playfully. "Baby ready fer bed? I'll take her then." He prized the child away. "An' my other baby can go back ter my bed." He paused in the doorway. "Aintcha done the washin' up yet, mate?"

Kim padded round the kitchen for beer and cigarettes whilst Rick put the baby down in her cot. "Thanks, Adi," she said. "You're sweet." She laid her hand on my arm and kissed my cheek. "You'll make a smashing father one day." She touched the wet patch on my chest. "You need to dry off yourself," she said.

I stifled a moan and scuttled off to the living room to peel off the damp T-shirt.

### Wednesday

I entered the hallway and pushed on the light. It was colder than ever. Leaves and litter lay in the gutter weighed down with dirt. Autumn dusks - bonfires and wood-smoke and rotting leaf smells and the smudges of streetlights in early night mist. I gathered the skirts of my coat round my calves and jogged up the stairs. Behind me, Billy's flat and his old, crippled mother. Ahead of me were Jodie and Craig and the Missing-Part Tart. In between, Rick holding court with Kim in attendance. "Hello, Adam," Jodie called down. I replied with a wave and fitted my key to the gunmetal lock.

Rick was lying on the sofa listening to my Walkman and tapping the plastic jammed in his ear. When I came in, he removed the earphones and grinned. My ears could just pick up the tinny sound of Nirvana \- "Polly says her back hurts".

"Here," said Rick, twisting the cap off a bottle with one violent movement. "Limonnaya." He produced a crumpled cigarette. "Take yer coat off, have a drink."

I sloughed off my overcoat and sat on the threadbare carpet. The lighter-flame flared and I choked back a gasp as the sharp lemon-vodka bit into my tonsils.

Kim arrived with some cracked, chipped plates and we sat on the hard floor and got stuck into the sausage and eggs I'd bought coming home.

Rick bathed the baby whilst I listened to Oasis \- "Maybe I don't really wanna know/How your garden grows" - on my Walkman and read Empty World.

Then Rick and Kim went for a shag. I went to the bathroom.

I could hear them grunting and groaning, the bedsprings squeaking.

I could hear Rick crying: "Squeeze me, squeeze me, tighter, tighter."

I could hear Kim crooning: "yeah, yeah ... I love you ... I love you ... uh .. uh..."

I could hear the bed creaking: "creak creak creak creak"

A picture of Kim formed in my mind. That knee-length shirt, the curves of her breasts, the soft lines of her hips, the gentle slope of her back and thighs, her smooth, broad buttocks ... I gasped and shuddered as semen spattered the back of the bowl. Then I shook my head. I had to get a place of my own.

### Thursday

I entered the hallway and pushed on the light. It was colder today. Leaves and litter mulched in the gutter, turning to sludge. Autumn dusks - bonfire and wood-smoke and rotting leaf smells and the smears of streetlights on early night mist. I gathered the skirts of my coat round my calves and jogged up the stairs. Behind me, Billy's flat and his old, crippled mother. Ahead of me were Jodie and Craig and the Missing-Part Tart. In between, Rick holding court with Kim in attendance. "Hello, Adam," called Jodie. I replied with a curt wave and fitted my gunmetal key in the lock.

The reek of cannabis made my head reel.

"Hiya, kid." Ninja was sitting on the floor, his crew-cut scalp bristling the peeling, damp wallpaper. He was smoking a joint, scratching his ear with the tip of his knife.

"Here," said Rick, twisting the cap off a bottle with one violent movement. "Scotch. Only a cheap gut-rotter." He produced a crumpled cigarette. "Take yer coat off, have a drink."

I sloughed off my overcoat and sat on the threadbare carpet. The lighter flame flared and I damped down a wheeze as the fumes seered my larynx.

"Adam," Rick told the short, bullnecked, shaven scalped man wearing a Union Jack T-shirt and assorted tattoos. "Animal." I could believe it. His ears were flat and misshapen, like dried-out leaves. His nose was almost totally flat. His head was the shape of a bullet. The gunmetal stubble on his scalp resembled iron filings standing up on a magnet.

"Fuckin' Lincoln," said Ninja. "Barstard screws beat me up 'cos ah kicked one of 'em in th' bollocks. Jist fer a larf. Beat th' livin' shit outta me 'n' broke me harm, burrit wor wurf i' ter see th' cunt writhin' on th' fuckin' floor ......" He crushed the remains of the joint into the carpet.

"Ah worrin Waykefield," Animal said. " 'Kin Yorkshurmen all ovver th' wing." He barked a laugh. "Wusst sentence yer c'd git, bein' locked up wi' them cunts."

"That wuz yer armed robbery, man," said Ninja.

"Yeah. Five fuckin' years." Animal sounded aggrieved. "No-one gorrurt, fer fuck's sake."

"What was yours?" Rick asked.

"Arson, ABH," Ninja grinned. "Broke sum cunt's nose 'n' burnt dahn 'is 'ouse. 'E looked at me bird, th' dozy cunt." He turned to me. "You ever dun a stretch, kid?" I wasn't sure what kind of tone I could safely adopt so I simply shook my head.

"Yer wudn' last a nigh'," said Animal, assessing me scornfully. "Sum poof'd shag yer 'fore yer fust nigh' wuz up. Yer stood in th' shower, 'kin fresh piece of ass, 'n' 'fore yer know it, bang, yer eatin' th' taps 'n' they're tekin' turns ter shove yer shit up yer arse 'n' yer cryin' fer yer mammy 'n' bawlin' 'rape' 'n' one's spunkin' in yer arse 'n' one in yer gob 'n' yer bleedin' 'n' cryin'." Animal spat into the gas fire. The globule of sputum hissed angrily. "Seen it menny tahms. Ain' priddy."

"Sum cunt in Lincoln tried i' on wi' me," said Ninja. "Figgered 'e wuz 'ard, th' sad cunt. Sez 'e fancies soldiers. Chucked 'im dahn th' stairs 'n' broke 'is fuckin' pelvis."

"Ah metta perv in Waykefield," Animal added, "Dun fer diddlin' li'le gels. Bit 'is fuckin' ear orf. Ripped it orf wi' me teef." He growled through tightly clenched jaws, shaking his head like a dog with a bone.

I decided I would kill myself before I went to prison.

Kim arrived with some cracked, chipped plates and we sat on the hard floor and got stuck into the fish-fingers I'd bought coming home.

"Howay, Kim," said Ninja. " 'Ow's yer ankle biter? Still pukin' 'n' shittin'?"

" 'Ey," said Animal, stuffing two fish fingers into his mouth. "Wha's pink 'n' small 'n' crawls in a circle? A sprog wiv its 'and nailed ter th' floor."

We finished the whisky. I felt queasy and my head ached.

"Hey ho," said Rick, standing and stretching. "Two a.m. Time to turn in. Yer don't mind kippin' in here, do yer?" said Rick. "Adam usually kips in here, dontcha? Finds it comfortable."

" 'S okay," said Ninja, swinging his boots up on the sofa. "Ah'll be okay."

"Ah'll 'ave th' floor," said Animal, stretching his limbs in front of the fire.

"Fine," said Rick. "See yer in the mornin'." And he went to bed.

I stood there, anxious and depressed as Ninja sprawled on my sofa and Animal snorted and snuffled as he tried to get comfortable with his head on my beanbag, the tattooed slogan Eat Lead, Copper rippling in the fire glow. Normally I slept in my boxers and a T-shirt. Tonight I didn't dare take off my jeans. I knew for sure that they'd laugh at me. Besides, I felt they might kill me, "just fer a larf", so I buried myself, fully clothed, in my sleeping bag, lay down on the hard floor and tried to sleep. Every so often, the still night air would be stirred by Ninja twitching, Ninja muttering, Ninja cursing softly under his breath, or by Animal grunting and, once, kicking, so hard he caught my arm and raised a bruise. My scattered dreams revolved round prisons and beatings. I felt utterly miserable and quite afraid.

### Friday

I entered the hallway and pushed on the light. It was drizzling today. Leaves and litter rotted in gutters, clogging the grates. Autumn dusks - bonfires, wood-smoke and gunmetal skies and the smearing of streetlights on the early night fog. I gathered the skirts of my coat round my calves and jogged up the stairs. Behind me, Billy's flat and his old, crippled mother. Ahead of me were Jodie and Craig and the Missing-Part Tart. In between, Rick holding court with Kim in attendance. "Hello, Adam," called Jodie. I replied with a flap of a hand and fitted my key to the lock.

The reek of cannabis made my head spin.

"Hiya, kid." Ninja was lying on the floor, his crew-cut scalp scraping the woodwork. He passed the joint to Animal.

"Here," said Rick, twisting the cap off a bottle with one violent movement. "Gin tonight. Only cheap Grandmother's Ruin." He produced a crumpled cigarette. "Take yer coat off and have a drink."

I sloughed off my overcoat and sat on the threadbare carpet. The lighter flame flared and I stifled a sneeze as the perfumed scent flooded my nose. Why the hell were they still here? Had they been here all day?

I had twisted the sponge and watched the gunmetal water swirl down the grate. Then I had gone to collect my pay. I counted the gunmetal coins in the packet. I had enough to take the Tube but wasn't sure I wanted to get home so quickly. I loathed the Tube, the smells, the sounds, the unending crush of stale bodies, the sweaty masses invading the platforms, crowding my space. It was a symbol of my imprisonment. Strap-hanging, trapped in a carriage, it made me a prisoner.

I would have to go down to the Underground depths for the Northern Line. There was that nauseating smell of old electricity, unbreathably musty air, the Underworld gloom, the vicious, serpentine hissing of doors, the threatening clatter of rickety trains. Bodies trapped in a speeding coffin of metal and wood hurtled headlong into the darkness, crashing through tunnels and then under arches, Under Ground, Under World, doomed to darkness for ever and ever. This was Hell, and I was in it. I had walked home. Slowly.

My meeting with Flashman had not been encouraging. "You want some more?" He had pulled at his fat, heavy earlobe. "I can't pay you any more."

"I need to get a place of my own," I said. What with Rick and Kim noisily screwing, Holly waking and crying, Animal and Ninja grunting and snoring ... all the sounds were driving me crazy.

"I'll see what I can do," Flashman had said. "Let you know on Monday. Maybe you can help Sandra in the office. You're a good worker, Adam. Not sure I could replace you."

You couldn't, I thought. Not for £1.90 an hour.

I accepted the bottle and sat on the floor. Billy, the thirteen year old from downstairs, had joined the court for more jail tales. He drank his gin from a chipped Arsenal mug.

" 'Kin postmistress," said Animal, " 'It th'alarm. Brough' th' Plods."

"Shoulda blown 'er fuckin' 'ead orf," said Ninja.

Animal brayed with laughter. "Only 'ad a replica, man."

''Fuckin' amateur,'' scoffed Ninja.

''Young 'n' stoopid, '' Animal sighed.

"Didn't stop th' ARV chasin' yer dahn the 'Igh Street, though," Ninja remarked, clicking his fingers for the gin bottle.

"Ho!" said Animal. "Cornered me close ter fuckin' Sainsbury's. For'y plods wi' fuckin' 'andguns poin'ed straigh' a' me fuckin' 'ead, man." I sipped at the gin and felt my senses starting to slide. "Ah chucked me gun in one plod's face, bi' orf an ear, then they crashed inta me legs 'n' 'ad me ovver onta me back. Some barstard Plod boo'ed me balls in. Still," he added proudly, "Took ten of 'em ter restrain me."

"D'yer remember that car chase?" said Rick, "When we nicked that Escort from that garage in Barkin'?" He turned to Billy. "Fuckin' ace, man. Ninety mile an hour through a fuckin' estate. Dustbins everywhere, litter flyin', tyres a-screechin', blue lights flashin' ... like summat off th' telly."

"They only caught uz 'cos o' th' chopper," said Ninja, "Trackin' us through fuckin' Ilford. All those fuckin' streets wi' little fuckin' 'ahses. 'Enley Road, 'Ampton Road, Kingston Road..."

"Winston Way," said Animal. "Namin' our streets arftera fuckin' jungle bunny."

"Thought we'd lost 'em when we got on to Ilford Golf Course," said Rick.

"Nah, yer silly cunt," said Ninja. "Yer drove uz intera fuckin' bunker. Sand flyin' everywhere, inta the engine, skiddin' on th' fuckin' grarss..."

"'E wuz mekin' fer th' cemet'ry," Animal said, "Fer a larf. Drive th' bleeder over a loaduvole gravestones, churnin' up th' fuckin' coffins..."

They laughed tenderly at the shared recollection.

"Serves th' barstards right fer bein' dead 'n' tekin' up space," Ninja said.

"Why did you nick it?" I wanted to know.

The three of them looked at me as though I said I'd come from Mars.

Kim arrived with some cracked, chipped plates and we sat on the hard floor and got stuck into the mini-pizzas I'd bought coming home.

"How's your mother, Billy?" she asked. "Still house-bound?"

"Yeah," said the boy. "I'm gonna try get her out to the park for some fresh air."

"She any better in her mind?"

"Not really." He shrugged. "She rambles a lot. Sometimes she makes sense, but other times it's just babble."

"Yer shd 'ave 'er put dahn, fuckin' veggie in a wheelchair tekin' up spayce." Ninja slurped back the rest of his gin and threw the glass out of the window. It smashed on the pavement below.

Animal and Rick taught us how to do blowbacks. I felt the cardboard roach between my lips and, through the gunmetal smoke, saw Billy close his lips round the burning tip. He blew hard and I felt a rush of smoke hitting the back of my throat and flooding into my lungs. My head span and I felt very dizzy. "Now you do it," said Billy, taking the joint from my dry, numb lips and knocking the gunmetal ash from the glowing tip. He sat up on his haunches, the joint in his mouth. His face was out of focus and I felt the joint burning my lips, but I focussed and blew hard. Billy reeled and flopped on the floor, his arms out-flung, the joint glowing in his fingers. "Wow," he murmured. "Wow. Fucking wow.... man ..." Everyone laughed.

" 'Ey," said Animal, "Wha' der yer do if yer see a Paki drownin'?"

"Put yer foot on 'is 'ead," chorused the others.

We finished the gin. My stomach felt queasy and my head ached. Somehow I knew they were staying again so I was quite prepared when, several hours later, Ninja spread himself on the sofa and Animal stretched himself in front of the fire. Billy and I looked at each other. He was slighter even than me. I shrugged and smothered myself in my sleeping bag down on the floorboards and gave Billy my blanket. He muttered a "cheers" and wrapped himself up in it on the floor a couple of feet away. Every so often the still night air would be stirred by Ninja twitching, Ninja muttering, Ninja cursing softly under his breath, or by Animal grunting and farting, and once kicking so hard he caught my shoulder and raised a bruise. Occasionally, I heard Billy sniffling, occasionally whining, occasionally scratching ferociously under his shirt. I felt utterly miserable. My scattered dreams revolved round tactical vehicles, policemen with guns shouting "STAY STILL! DON'T MOVE!" and Rick pushing me across a golf course in a wheelchair.

### Saturday

I entered the hallway and pushed on the light. It was raining today. Leaves and litter blocked up the grates, causing huge puddles to form on the road. More than once a car had splashed past and showered my coat. Autumn dusks - soggy leaves, damp feet and gunmetal mud and the smoky-hazed streetlights in gunmetal fog. I gathered the skirts of my coat round my calves and jogged up the stairs. Behind me, Billy's flat and his old, crippled mother. Ahead of me were Jodie and Craig and the Missing-Part Tart. In between, Rick holding court with Kim in attendance. "Hello, Adam," called Jodie, but I failed to hear as I unlocked the door.

The reek from the flat made my guts lurch. Stuffing my nostrils, the nose-clogging smell of stale sweat, stale feet, stale body odours, stale fried food and congealed food grease, stale cigarette smoke, stale cannabis, stale alcohol, and all this staleness trapped beneath layers of stale, greasy clothing.

"Hiya, kid." Ninja was sitting on the floor, rolling a joint, his crew-cut scalp scratching the sofa.

"Here," said Rick, twisting the cap off a bottle with one violent movement. "Peach schnapps. Weekend treat." He produced a crumpled cigarette. "Take yer coat off 'n' have a drink."

I sloughed off my overcoat and sat on the threadbare carpet. The lighter flame flared and I fought off fatigue as the soothing smoke calmed me and the fiery booze warmed me. I was utterly knackered. I'd swept the forecourt, hosed down cars, washed the plate glass showroom windows, even polished the gunmetal shutters. Flashman had pressed a fiver into my palm. I'd asked him about working tomorrow but he'd said no, take a day off. I decided I'd go to St. Reatham instead.

The floor of the flat was littered with dirty plates, empty wrappers, empty bottles, crumpled packets, stubbed out fags, burned out joints and ripped up Rizlas. Among all the garbage Billy was doing push-ups, struggling and straining to lift all his six or seven stone with his weakling biceps. The fraying, torn jeans and fading stained T-shirt hung from his frame. His trainers were tattered and ripped. His copper-coloured hair flopped as he rose and fell unsteadily. At one point he wobbled. His weight-bearing fingers, spread on the carpet, looked like twigs. Finally he gasped and fell on his face among the rubbish. Everyone laughed.

"Ah'll show yerse, yer muppet," said Animal, stripping the Union Jack away from his torsos. Inked on his chest was a blue and red British Bulldog. His party piece was making the jaws close by twitching his pecs. These days the once mobile muscles and ironing-board stomach were starting to sag but his shoulders were huge and his biceps moved like pistons. His neck existed after all. It was thick and flat, like a brick. "Tahm me," he said. "Two minutes. 'Undred a minute."

I smiled sympathetically as Billy sat up on the floor, recovering his breath and wiping the gunmetal sweat from his face. "Peach schnapps?" I offered him the bottle. For the first time, he smiled in return. He had dimples in his downy cheeks.

" 'Ow's that?" said Animal. "Two 'undred press-ups in 'ow many minutes?"

"Dunno," said Ninja, "Didn' tahm yer. C'dn' be arsed. Let's tork biznizz."

"I don't like it," said Rick. "Never shit on yer own doorstep."

"Yeah," said Animal, burying the bulldog in the Union Jack T-shirt. "We shd go ahtta tahn. Orpin'ton, Guil'ferd, 'kin' Reiga'e."

"Fuckin' cunts," said Billy suddenly. He flushed fiercely, drank more schnapps.

"You must know some fuckin' big houses," Rick said to him, "Workin' out Hampstead way."

"Fuckin' Heath Road," Billy took the joint from Ninja and inhaled deeply.

"Do one o' them," said Rick. "Why waste time wi' a bank when yer can do some cunt's house 'n' be off on yer toes before the owner comes down? Get the gear out 'n' Bob's-yer-fuckin'-Job, as the Boy Scouts say."

" 'N' if 'kin 'ouse'older gets in th' way," scowled Animal ominously, "Bang! Pick yer brains outta yer fireplace, yer stoopid cunt!"

"No shooters," said Rick.

"Yer wimpy pussy cunt," jeered Animal. He mimicked the actions and sounds of a shotgun. "Eat lead, copper!!"

Kim arrived with some cracked, chipped plates and we sat on the hard floor and got stuck into the tomatoes, tuna and pasta I'd bought coming home.

"What's green 'n' goes red when i' croaks?" said Animal. "A frog in a blender. What d'yer call a dead Plod? A good start. What d'yer call a jungle-bunny in a suit? The defendant. 'Ow d'yer stop a Paki...?"

The evening wore on. More racist jokes. More prison stories. More housebreaking plans. More alcohol. More cigarettes. More dope. Lots more blowbacks. More push-ups. Ninja and Animal arm-wrestling. The embarrassment of being beaten by Billy.

"Kill yer boaf wi' one punch." Ninja lurched to his feet. "A sharp dig 'ere ..." He jabbed his stiffened fingers towards my solar plexus. "Or ... 'ere ... busts yer windpipe ... or..." He turned to Billy and put the heel of his hand against the boy's snub nose. "Shove it up through yer brain...."

Billy and I exchanged uneasy glances. I felt numb with drink and dope and the force of the blowbacks. Billy's pupils were so dilated in his chalky face they looked like black holes. All of a sudden, he started to laugh uncontrollably. Ninja cuffed us both. The blow stung my right ear. Billy reeled and collided with me and I was forced to hold him upright as he began to slide to the floor. I found him a few minutes later throwing up into the kitchen sink. He was gripping the gunmetal drainer and heaving a thin, reeking liquid into the plughole. The sweat on his face was cold. His balance was crumbling and I had to hold him up again.

"All right, Billy," I murmured. "You're all right." I'd been there.

"Oh, Jesus," he mumbled, lowering his face to the gunmetal sink to throw up again. The vomit splashed back onto the drainer, Billy's face and his T-shirt. I dabbed his mouth with the dishcloth then wiped the sick from the drainer.

"Bill's chucked up," Ninja crowed. "Whadda poof!"

He frowned, started to speak, then collapsed in a heap of limbs and clothes with a gentle "fuck it". Everyone laughed.

We finished the schnapps and the gin and the vodka and the dope and called it a night. Rick staggered off to bed with Kim, Ninja sprawled out with my sleeping bag - I didn't have the courage to argue - Animal, Billy and I took the floor.

" 'N' ah'll 'ave yer blanket," said Animal. "Be prepared, hur hur."

Fucking hell. Billy and I glanced at each other and cuddled into the beanbag. He was almost unconscious anyway and I was so stoned my eyes wouldn't focus. There was a dull rushing sound in my ears. The last joint had blasted my brain to buggery but I couldn't pass out.

Animal farted. Billy giggled. Ninja muttered. I sighed.

Animal kicked. Billy whimpered. Ninja grunted. I scratched my face.

Animal farted. Billy snuffled. Ninja laughed. I sighed.

Animal snorted. Billy cried. Ninja farted. I scratched my ear.

Animal grunted. Billy whined. Ninja snorted. I sighed.

My ankle itched. My ear tickled. I scratched my ankle then cuddled the beanbag against my ear. I could hear the polystyrene beads shifting and grinding inside.

### Sunday

I entered the hallway and pushed on the light. It was pouring today. Leaves and litter dissolving away, cars sloshing by, wipers flailing, my trainers leaking, my jeans soaked through. Autumn dusks - rain, rain, rain and more rain, and streetlights snuffed out in the afternoon gloom. I gathered the skirts of my coat round my soaking calves and trod up the stairs. Behind me, Billy's flat and his old, crippled mother. Ahead of me were Jodie and Craig and the Missing-Part Tart. In between, Rick holding court with Kim in attendance. "Hello, Adam," called Jodie. I ignored her completely.

I had intended to go to St. Reatham to see G. Lycett but I had no money. I thought of ringing first but I don't like the telephone and anyway, a 'phone call would only take a minute or two whilst the bus ride, a coffee and a "Move in here, son. I'll take you back to collect your things" would fill up the day.

I set off to walk but the weather closed in. I got soaked and I didn't actually know where I was going anyway. I got as far as Russell Square and decided to visit the British Museum. It was warm, it was dry and it was free. My bedraggled state drew a few 'looks' from a cranky attendant but I spent the whole afternoon browsing through mummies and gunmetal coins and ancient bones and a new display on Mythical Quests which featured Sinbad and Jason and Rama and Alexander the Great and the Quest for the Grail, with pictures and stories from Indiana Jones and Monty Python and King Arthur. For the first time in days, I enjoyed my day.

Then they closed and I had to leave. Depressed, damp and lonely, I walked home. Puddles occupied every street and every gutter. Occasionally a passing car hammered through these gunmetal sheets and showered me with dirty water.

I opened the door.

Silence.

Absolute silence.

I peered into the living room. The rubbish had gone, and so had the court. The window was open in spite of the rain. Kim was sitting on the floor cramming rubbish into a sack which was leaning drunkenly against the beanbag.

"Where are they?"

"Gone." She dropped a beer can into the sack. "Rick an' me, we had a row." Her voice was brittle. She'd served up baked bean sandwiches for dinner. Rick had complained so she'd told him he should get a job, get a haircut, get a life. He had accused her of nagging. She had accused him of sponging. Ninja had told her to go on the game. She had called him a cunt. Rick had told her to watch her mouth. It had spiralled and spiralled until he and Ninja and Animal had gathered their things and left the flat.

"I can't cope." She started crying and I knelt beside her, hesitantly holding her. "I don't know what to do any more. For the best. For any of us. I can't think ... and the baby ... she's poorly ... and ..." Her head fell against my shoulder. I cradled her gently, stroking the hair above her ears.

"I'll light the fire," I said, "And heat up some water and we'll have some tea and feed the baby..." Her sobs hammered my eardrums. "It's all right," I said, feeling inadequate and some desperation. "It's all right. It'll be all right. We'll sort something out. I'll sort something out."

She gave me a wavery, watery smile, clung to me like a drowning woman clings to a lifebelt. "You won't leave us, will you, Adi? Don't leave us, please..."

I stroked her hair and stared at the wall. "No, I won't leave you," I said.

11. Circe

Ohhhhhh.

Ahhhhhh.

### Ohhhhhh.

### Ahhhhhh.

### ahh. Ohhhhhh. Ohhhhhh ahh.

Bump and grind

Slip and slide

Slurp and slap

Hush hush, tremble and jerk,

Mandy McCall is going to work.

breathe breathe breathe breathe

then

a pause

then

start again

Ohhhhhh

Ahhhhhh

### Ohhhhhh

### Ahhhhhh

## Ooohhhhh

"Come on, yer fat sow," the punter cries.

Unnhh. Unnhhh. Unnhhhhh.

"Yer fat old slapper!" the customer cries.

Sitting astride him, tits hanging down like deflated balloons, the orange dye beginning to run from her sweat-streaky hair, the whitely caked cheeks and the tinted lips of the painted face of the painted lady beginning to crack, Mandy McCall is hard at work.

"C'mon, yer slag, c'mon yer bitch. Squeeze yer fanny. Squeeze me cock. Let me feel yer SQUEEEEEEEEEEZE me cock."

She tightens what muscles in her vagina still function after all these years.

"Oh yeah, yeah, unhhh."

He obviously feels something but she cannot. His penis, perhaps five inches even after a hard-core mag and ten minutes of kneading has failed to fill the parts a thousand other penises have filled before.

"Yer bitch, yer bitch, yer bitch, yer bitch"

He digs his fingers into her buttocks and bucks his hips off the broken-springed mattress as Mandy slides down his length.

Unnhhh

### u nn hhh

### u nnn hhhhh

## u u uu nn n n hh h

She guesses from the sudden halt and the piggish grunt that the client has come. She levers herself away. The client lies gasping, a silly grin on his silly face. She picks up a cigarette, lights it, blows gently on the glowing orange tip and looks out from the lumpy mattress. Suspenders, knickers, voluminous bras (her Over-The-Shoulder-Boulder-Holders), orange leather miniskirt scattered over the floor with the suit, the tie and the grubby, orange-stained Y-fronts. Mandy draws in a mouthful of smoke. She glances at her client's dying erection, at the sheeny droplets oozing out as the organ sags sideways, slowly subsiding.

Mandy collects penises, metaphorically speaking of course, although she has occasionally constructed fantasies in which the collection becomes literal. Some people never forget a face. Mandy never forgets a cock. Each one is different. And she has touched them all....

long ones, short ones,

water spouts, sausages,

ones like maggots, ones like worms,

ones like fingers, ones like thumbs,

squat ones, flat ones,

spade-headed, squab-headed, square-headed, flat-headed,

ones like flower-bulbs, ones like microphones,

brown ones, black ones, coffee ones, pink ones, white ones, purple ones,

weeping ones, scabby ones, smooth ones, hairy ones,

wrinkled ones, shrivelled ones,

straight like carrots, curved like bananas,

a host of swaying, dangling cocks and every owner convinced beyond doubt that theirs is the biggest, the best in the land.

Mandy knows they're all the same and that none is as good as a plastic vibrator.

The man dresses quickly. "I can't hang around," he says. "Me lunch hour's finished. I've gotta get back or the boss'll go mad." Mandy nods, takes one final drag and puts out the fag. "Same time next week?" He pushes ₤50 under the pillow.

"Sure," says Mandy. He steps out into the warming sun of a mild afternoon whilst she sighs and goes to the dresser for a new pack of condoms, a packet of pills, a lipstick and an orange. She sits on the mattress and peels the fruit. An orange a day keeps the pox at bay.

Tonight will be special. She has made an arrangement with her favourite client, the man who bought her a brand new Mondeo, the man who sorts out her rent and her money, who despises his wife and resents his two children and cries when he comes. Sometimes he stays the night. Then she feels she's more than a living sex toy, that he wants her companionship as well as her cunt. It means she will have to pack off the kids. Billy might do it but he has enough on his plate looking after his mother. Mandy sighs. She'll have to ask Adam and that will piss off that snooty bitch Kim. She sighs again. Fancy being despised by someone like Kim.

Mandy pops another segment of orange into her mouth. At least she is working. A job is a job, though she hates the stigma and despises her clients. She's been spat at and mauled, kicked at and cut, insulted and beaten for the pleasure of men. They paw her body with hard, coarse hands, dribbling drool down sandpaper chins. They whisper their fantasies, confide their desires, turning her stomach, making her choke. She clenches her jaw, gritting her teeth, feeling them moving inside her, wanting to scream but holding, caressing, whispering words, encouraging, soothing because there are children to feed and the rent's always due and Flint's always knocking..... a job is a job.

The women's groups and feminists find her outrageous. It's your body, they tell her. Respect yourself. You have a choice. You don't have to do it. But Mandy knows that if you don't have the money, you don't have a choice. Her body's an asset to be sold in the market of King's Cross and Soho like other people sell stocks and shares and pieces of property. She's skilled at sex and sells those skills like a lawyer or doctor or City accountant and, like those people, she charges a fee that reflects her worth. Sometimes she earns around ₤200 for one evening's work. This is the Free Market. It is very competitive and every year Mandy must work a little bit harder to keep her business alive. A whore in her forties, going to seed, with two fingers missing, is going to struggle to make a good living. Mandy eases the glove and flexes the fingers. An industrial injury involving a printer destroyed her secretarial career along with her hand. All her training and years of experience counted for nothing. As the medics cut through the mangled tangle of flesh and machine, severing fingers to release her from one trap, they condemned her to another.

The other women call her The Claw. A sullen, spotty, whey-faced little cow, at fifteen years old a mere babe on the tough King's Cross streets, had coined the name with coarse, brutal laughter. "Why would anyone go with her?" snigger the girls, "With Handy Mandy, with Mandy the Claw."

Mandy the Claw. She has seen little children tease Jodie and Craig, hooking their fingers and hunching their shoulders. "Yer mother's a cripple," one of them shouts. "Yer mother's a slapper," bellows another. "My Dad says she must 'ave a fanny like an 'orse's collar," guffaws a third. "My Dad says it must be like fuckin' a toilet seat," adds a fourth. Craig just stares, letting the snot ooze out of his nose, but Jodie, she understands.

Mandy the Claw. Handy Mandy. The Missing-Part Tart. The Clap-Happy Slapper.

She picks the thin, orange condom up off the bed. She will flush it down the toilet and into the sewer then touch up her lipstick, remake her face, replace her glove and go out again.

### *

Adam sits on the edge of the broken-springed mattress chewing chips and watches the children breaking the bubbles of batter which coat the fish. Back to the Future blares from the telly. Mandy had waved the glove-covered claw in front of his face and asked if he'd watch the kids for the night. "Ah called on Billy but 'e's busy." She had leaned her fur-clad shoulder against the door frame. "Poor lirrle love. 'Is mother's no berrer. Dunno 'ow 'e copes." She heaved one huge breast with her hand. "Yer don't mind, der yer, love?" Ah'll see yer olright." Her teeth were masked by an orange fur. She laid the Claw on his hand. "Ah'll give yer the key." As she fumbled in her purse, he noticed the fleshy thighs barely covered by the orange leather miniskirt. "Yer know where the crayons are," she said. "Bring some fish 'n' chips fer yerself 'n' the kids. Ah'll pay yer later."

Adam was slightly afraid of Mandy McCall. She was without question the brassiest, most intimidating woman he had ever known. She was also a prostitute. He had, of course, heard many jokes, tales and stories about prostitutes and seen them in cheap, second-rate TV dramas but he had never actually met one. He had occasionally fantasised when younger of a prostitute shagging him witless in the back of a car and of her being so impressed that she paid him for his efforts, but when he had learned that one lived upstairs, and that this particular one was Handy Mandy, the Missing-Part Tart, he had been quite unmanned.

Mandy McCall was as good as her word. When Adam arrived at 7 o' clock, the children were changed and ready for bed. Craig was sitting on the mattress in his Spiderman sleep-suit doodling with an orange crayon on a piece of old paper. Jodie was standing by her mother's dresser helping her select some appropriate ear-rings. The girl had her long brown hair tied in a ponytail. She stood on one thin foot and reached up to the mirror with one thin, pyjama-clad arm. Adam had never noticed how leggy she was.

"What's the picture, Craig?" He craned over the little boy's shoulder and made out a scrawl, a scribble, a muddle of orange. The little boy stared at him.

Mandy fussed about, patting her much-sprayed carroty hair, dabbing some more fixing powder on to her cheeks, and drawing on the cigarette clamped between her orange glossed lips. " 'Ow do ah look, love?"

"Great, Mum," said Jodie.

"Yeah," mumbled Adam, thinking she looked like a cheap, painted doll.

Mandy beamed. "Ta, love," she said. Craig suddenly, wordlessly held out his picture. "Oh, Craig," said Mandy. "Is that Mummy?" Craig stuck the crayon in his mouth. "It's lovely, darlin'. Ah'll show it ter Dairve then purrit up 'ere." She gestured to the dresser. Somewhere outside a car horn blared. Mandy snapped shut the clasp of her capacious handbag and gathered her fur coat into her bosom. "Gorra go. 'Bye, loves."

Jodie gave her mother a peck on the cheek. "Ta, love. Craig? Give yer mother a goodnight kiss. That's a boy. See yer tomorrer." Mandy turned her head. "Jodie'll look after yer, Adam." The little girl smiled coquettishly, standing on one foot, the other clasped by the ankle against her right buttock.

The room reeks of fish and vinegar, the orange batter is soggy and there's too much salt on the chips. Jodie smiles a gap-toothed smile and fetches a glass of weak orange squash from the kitchen. Adam cups the glass in both hands acutely aware of Jodie standing beside him. Eight years old, she is already rehearsing her pick-up techniques. In five years' time she'll be out on the streets, allowing, perhaps, her Mum to retire.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Jodie kneels on the mattress behind him and curls a lock of hair round one orange-varnished fingertip.

"No," says Adam. There had only been Vicki who'd dumped him for Claude, the Parisian artist. He hadn't got anywhere with her. They'd snogged a few times and held hands but once, when they were in the cinema, he sent his hand on a breast-ward drift. She'd slapped his wrist and said he was too young. "Not really," he said.

"What about Kim?"

"She's not my girlfriend," says Adam, screwing the fish wrappers into a ball.

Jodie sits back on her haunches. "I've got six boyfriends," she declares. "There's Luke and there's Richard and Tommy and Harry and...," She pauses to remember. "Peter and Mark." She leans closer to Adam to whisper, in confidence, that Luke was her favourite because he'd shown her his willy. After a while, she picks up a teen magazine and reads about emotional blackmail as a relationship lever and how to have more interesting sex in an illustrated item called 'Weekly Position'. Craig returns to scribbling and drawing, pausing occasionally to seek out another bogey with a probing finger.

Time passes. The film passes. Adam nods admiringly at each of Craig's squiggles and listens attentively to Jodie's confessions and when bedtime arrives, neither child complains. Jodie says he's "nearly as nice as Billy" and slips under the blanket on the mattress with her brother. Adam switches off the lights and sits on the draining board. There's nowhere else to spend the evening. Except for Mandy's bed. Music from the film:

'Don't need a credit card to ride this train....That's the Power of Love'.

### *

Mandy McCall kneels on all fours in front of a mirror in a cheap hotel bedroom. Her breasts sway forwards and backwards. Above her shoulder, she can see the perspiring face and lank straggly hair of 'Dave', her latest client. He is fucking her from behind, his hairy thighs slapping rhythmically against her fleshy, flabby buttocks. The position makes him feel dominant. He starts to snort like a pig

Hggrr

Hggrrr

### Hnnnnnggrrrr Nrrrggggghhhhh

### Nrrrrrr Nnnnnnnn

## Nnnn

and pushes into her harder, faster, his testicles swinging up to clatter her clitoris.

"Take off the glove," he cries. "Take off the glove."

Fearing she will collapse under the insistent pushing, she nevertheless manages to grope for the glove and peel it away.

"Ohhhhhh.....," he groans as he sees the withered-up hand and the crushed, withered stumps. "Hold it up. Ohhhh. Capital.... capital..... ohhhhh." He mumbles and snuffles and snorts as his ample stomachs slap her buttocks and his penis jerks and his semen squirts thickly into a thin orange condom... he lets out a howl

## "OWOOHH!"

Mandy raises her head and looks in the mirror. The rouge is running, the orange dye smudging, the lipstick smeared and the eyeliner streaky. The ruined face of a Painted Lady. A clown's face. A cheap face. She feels tears beginning to course down her cheeks. As the client withdraws, she senses his loathing. From lust to disgust is a very short step.

### *

"Eurgh!" Jodie sits up sharply, "Eurgh! You animal!" Adam drops the magazine onto the draining board and crosses to the mattress where the girl is pinching her brother awake. "He's wet the bed," she shouts. "Look at me!" She leaps from the mattress and brushes at the damp marks on her pyjamas. "I'm covered in piss."

Craig sits in the centre of a wet orange circle, wide-eyed, his thumb in his mouth. Adam tucks his hands into the little boy's armpits and lifts him off the mattress.

"I bet there's no hot water," grumbles the sister, "And I've no other pyjamas."

"All right," Adam says, "I'll sort that out later. We'll have to change Craig and the bed first." He feels the sopping circle. The urine has soaked right through to the mattress. He strips off the sheet and looks at the large orange stains underneath.

"Adam, I'm wet," says Jodie, beginning to jog up and down. "Adam. Adam...."

He gathers the sheet in his arms and smiles reassuringly. "I'll sponge it out."

"Adaaaam ..." She jiggles faster, wringing her hands and beginning to cry.

"I'll give you my T-shirt," he says. "You can sleep in that." Bearing the damp bundle in his arms, he manoeuvres the boy into the kitchen. "He needs a bath."

"There's no hot water," says Jodie, beginning to wail. "Adaaaaaam...."

He puts his finger under the running tap. She's right. It's lukewarm, just.

Decision. Sort Jodie out first, then she'll calm down.

He hauls off his sweater and bright orange T-shirt. It's Xtra Large, baggy on him. It will probably drown the girl. He passes it across. "You can wear this," he says, struggling back into his sweater.

She brightens considerably so he picks up a ragged, dirty towel from the lino and holds it under the running water. "Can you wash him while I change the bed?"

"Sure," she says. "C'mon, Craigie. Lift up your arms." She drags the Spiderman top over his head. Adam goes to the dresser on a search for fresh linen. As he drags a patched cotton sheet from the top drawer, something comes with it and clatters on the linoleum floor. It is a vibrator. It nestles against his foot. About ten inches long, it's a dull orange plastic, shaped like a penis, with a bulbous head and thick, raised, bulging ridges resembling veins. Away in the kitchen, the children are squealing. Jodie is tickling her brother, cheering him up. Adam peers tentatively into the drawer. An assortment of pills, a thick orange rubber disc, a tube of spermicidal cream, a bumper pack of assorted condoms, flavoured, ribbed, studded - these are the tools of the Missing-Part Tart. Adam tears his stare away and picks up the dildo. His penis, even when rigidly stick-of-rock Flamborough Lighthouse erect, looks nothing like this huge monstrosity. Thankfully.

"Adam, we're ready." Jodie steps from the kitchen, her brother held by one sticky hand. "I like your T-shirt," she adds. "I think it suits me." She gives a little half-turn, lifting the hem from her goose-pimpled thigh. "What do you think?"

"Yeah," says Adam, slamming the drawer shut. Her upfront sexuality and the fact that she is only wearing Adam's own T-shirt makes him uncomfortable. He remakes the bed and resettles the children and, when he's finished, returns to the kitchen to spread the damp sheet over the floor. He soaks the tea towel in the cold sink water and dabs at the stain. The smell is quite overwhelming.

He recalls those awful times when he had wet the bed, twice, sometimes three times a week. He had been so insecure, so nervous, so frightened of his violent stepfather. Eleven and twelve years old. He could remember the slow awakening, the realisation, the warm damp seeping inside his pyjamas, the moans of despair, the turning back of sheets, the warm orange stain, the humiliation of stripping the bed, having to change and bundle his stained pyjamas into the laundry, all in silence, all in the dark, even when Mum had woken and come out to help.

Byrne would lean against the door frame jeering whilst Adam and his Mum scurried about. "Your middle name should be Bed-Wetter," he said, and that's what he told Adam's birthday party, it's what he had written in icing on Adam's birthday cake, it's what he had written in the card - "To the Birthday Bed-Wetter." But the time Adam had wet the bed three nights in succession Byrne lost his temper. He had grabbed the boy's hair, rubbed his face in the puddle and thrashed him with a stick till he bled.

"Adam ..." Jodie is calling him from the mattress. "Adam, I'm cold."

''Just a minute,'' he calls back, dunking the sheet into the sink and scrubbing it roughly. Years of practice have made him an expert. Byrne always made him wash his own sheets.

"Adaaaam... I'm cold..." Two pairs of eyes shine up through the darkness. "Leave it till morning," pleads Jodie. "My feet are freezing."

''Okay,'' he says. It might be better in soak overnight. He clicks on the gas fire and waits for the orange glow to spread behind the grid, then clambers onto the mattress. The kids snuggle into his body.

### *

A nearby clock is striking seven when Mandy McCall unlocks the door and creeps inside with a jar of coffee, a carton of milk and a packet of cornflakes. As she enters the kitchen, she smells the urine, sees the sheet soaking in the sink. Poor Craig. She peers through the doorway at the motionless tableau and a smile steals across her face. The children are lying together on the mattress, clinging to each other like shipwreck survivors. Adam, in his jeans and grey sweater, lies on his side with Craig, snuffling occasionally, burrowing like a baby animal into his stomach, and Jodie twined like a creeper around his back, her arm round his neck, the T-shirt she'd borrowed rucked up round her thighs.

Mandy peels an orange, breaks up the segments and studies the sleepers. Then she sighs. She's had a night of some satisfaction from the men's feeble fumblings. She has brought home ₤500. Just one more thing will make it complete, for here there are no lusts to satisfy, no urges to purge, except her own. She draws the curtain to close off her children, places the breakfast goodies on top of the dresser and takes out her dildo.

12. The Oxen of the Sun

SHHH, baby, shhh. Come on, Holly. Shhh. Shhh.

I circled the lumpy, battered sofa gently jiggling the baby in her red blanket. She'd been crying for nearly ten minutes. "Come on, baby," I said, "What's the matter, eh? What's the matter?" A church clock chimed twice. I held her away from me. Her face was red and screwed-up, her red lips puckered, her legs kicking through the blanket. "Uncle Adi's got you now," I soothed. "Come on, Holly. Shush now."

I looked longingly at the sofa and my sleeping bag, rumpled and open where I'd flicked it aside to see to the baby. Kim continued sleeping. I sighed. I'd just got one of them settled when the other had started.

"Come on, baby," I murmured, jiggling her again. Slowly the shrill, piercing screams gave way to a gulp and a hiccup and a soft, sputtered sob. "That's better," I soothed, "Nothing to worry about."

I stood by the sofa in my red and white boxer shorts and white T-shirt and looked at my clothes piled on the beanbag. I had at last managed to get the contents of my rucksack out into heaps in the corner. I had been glad to get out of the sweater, the T-shirt, the jeans and the socks. They had felt like cardboard.

The baby stopped crying and rested her face against my shoulder. "Good girl," I said, "Good girl," and sat with her on the edge of the sofa. "Go to Sleepyland, Holly, go to Sleepyland."

Kim was fast asleep in the old double-bed she had once shared with Rick. Her hair was sticking up on the pillow. I held the baby and watched. Her breasts rose and fell as she breathed. She looked very peaceful.

We had taken the baby to the Health Centre in Crowndale Road then gone for a long walk by Regent's Canal, pushing the pram along the towpath towards the red brick rear of St Pancras Station, the two red and black gasometer skeletons and the looming, shining erection of Telecom Tower. Three dirty-faced, snotty-nosed, shaven-scalped kids were fishing in the murky water, crouching close to the dark entrance of the Islington Tunnel. A red Coke can floated in the water. One of the kids was pelting it with pebbles and determined intent, his lips a thin line.

"Rick's so irresponsible," Kim was saying, "So unreliable. He takes off for days at a time, sits around drinking, doesn't seem bothered about getting a job... doesn't want to look after the baby... he leaves it all to me."

And me. I buried my hands in my pockets and looked across the dingy water at the canal basin and the red-brick bulk of the London Canal Museum. A row of gaily painted narrow-boats bobbed on the water, straining at their moorings as if they wanted to be away up the cut. I hadn't known there was a canal in London until today. We settled ourselves on a bench facing St Pancras. Kim rocked the pram. Holly was asleep under the red blanket. "Do you think he till loves you?" I asked.

"I'm not sure," she said. "I'm not sure he was ever in love with me. In lust, yes, but love? I wonder if he knows what it is. He's totally selfish," she said, "Even in bed."

"That's terrible," I murmured. "I thought sex was a partnership." She grunted.

An aeroplane headed across the sky on its pre-ordained flight past Telecom Tower. Away by the narrow boats, one of the kids snagged his hook on a tyre and swore loudly. If I were your lover, I wanted to say, things would be different.

"You're still a virgin, aren't you?" Kim's question startled me. How did she know? I flushed red and bit my lip. Virgin. Yes. But not by choice. "You ain't missing much." She kicked a pebble into the water. "It ain't all it's cracked up to be."

"But with the right person ..." I shuffled on the bench. A red narrow boat left the daylight and open space of Regent's Canal for the dark interior of Islington Tunnel.

"I lost my virginity when I was thirteen. It was crap. Lots of pushing and fumbling and feeling wet." She rocked the pram gently. "I done it with five lads by the time I was fifteen. Sometimes it was fun, mostly it was just something to do. Then I met Rick. I was seventeen, got pregnant and, because he's her father, decided to stay with him." She kicked another pebble into the canal. "Don't get trapped, Adam. Don't rush into something and end up trapped."

Back in the bedroom, Baby Holly grizzled and dug her tiny fingers into my lips. "Shhh," I whispered. Kim snuggled further under the blankets and murmured a sleepy "Thanks, Adi."

I jumped suddenly. The baby shifted in my arms. I clung to her tightly as someone outside rattled the lock and kicked at the door. For a fleeting moment I thought it was burglars or Ninja and Animal back for the night. I felt terribly vulnerable, dressed in a T-shirt and holding a baby. I didn't really know what to do. My lips seized up. My legs seemed to freeze. A rough voice shouting "Take that, yer cunt," was followed by a splintering crash. I almost wet myself, especially when Holly puckered her lips, screwed up her fists and let the screams explode.

## "WAAAH! WAAAH!"

"Sshhhh!" I said, holding her, jogging her, suddenly frightened.

Rick lurched unsteadily into the room. "Soddin' hell," he said. "Whadda racket."

His speech was slurred. He was obviously drunk and probably stoned. His leather jacket was stained with rain and his boots were muddy. Jesus, I thought, but relaxed nonetheless.

"Here's your Daddy," I said to the baby. "I'd just got her back to sleep," I said to her father.

Rick leaned against the door frame. "So?" he said. "She ain't your kid."

For a moment, I felt angry. I had a job to go to and now he had woken the child I had already spent the night putting to sleep. I rocked her gently and suggested that he might like to stay in and look after his daughter every so often.

"Fucking hell, man," he said, "Yer sound like Kim. Bleedin' ole woman. Yer bin takin' lessons off 'er?" I gave him the baby. He seemed shocked. He stared at his daughter as if seeing her for the very first time. He held her at arm's length. He seemed very uncomfortable. "She fuckin' stinks, man!" he said.

I'd changed her twice already. Shitty nappies. Puke-covered romper-suits. But the terrible smell was Rick himself. Fags, booze, a bit of sick, he reeked like a piss-sodden dustbin in a sick-sodden alley by a booze-sodden pub.

Kim arrived, rubbing her eyes, wearing a white knee-length nightshirt with red hems and red hearts. Rick watched her stumble past the beanbag. He licked his lips and a ravenous light flared up in his eyes. He ran his hands over the front of his jeans and said she looked "ripe for a fuck." Kim merely blinked. "Well," he said, "In that case, yer can shut yer own fuckin' baby up." Kim took the bundle, blinked again. Her lips moved and, barely opening, formed the word "Adi".

"She's your baby," I said harshly. "One of you can look after her for a change."

The baby's feet kicked in the air as she struggled and screamed. I felt upset. It wasn't Holly's fault that her Dad was a shit.

"C'mon," said Kim, rocking her gently, "Back to bed." Rick watched her go, the look of lust dying into one of sharp disappointment.

"Yer turnin' into a nag, mate." He turned his narrowed eyes on my bare legs. "Yer'll be puttin' curlers in yer hair 'n' wearin' pinnies before yer know it." He flung himself down on the sofa, swinging his great muddy boots up on to my pillow and rubbing his wet, leather coat on the blanket. The sneer on his face said "I'm walking on your bed, you shit." I rubbed my cold arms, shivering slightly. I only had a T-shirt and shorts, after all, and it was one of those cold nights in late October.

"She's quiet now," said Kim from the doorway. She smiled at me gently. At least she valued my efforts. "Thanks, Adi."

"Fuckin' hell," said Rick, "Listen ter yerselves. Spew City. Like listenin' ter Th' fuckin' Archers." An angry edge crept into his slurred, drunken voice. "Mr 'n' Mrs Ol' Married Couple. Yer gotcher slippers by th' fire, mate?"

I bit my lip and felt myself starting to boil. I stared at the sneering lips, the lounging figure, the muddy wet boots perched on my pillow, then I felt, from hundreds of miles away, Kim's hand on my arm.

"Aye aye," said Rick, swinging his boots off the sofa, "Always wondered what there was between youse two." He grabbed at Kim's wrist. "C'm 'ere, yer bitch!" She dodged aside with a squeak and Rick suddenly exploded up from the sofa, raising his arm. Jesus, I thought. He's going to hit her.

"Stop it," I said, stepping between them.

"Adam Lick-It," he jeered, "The Virgin Queen."

I felt suddenly weak, and very self-conscious. If only I had a bit more muscle, a bit more flesh.

All I could see was his sneering lips.

All I could hear was his mocking tone.

All I could feel was his hatred and scorn.

All I could sense was the violence and anger about to erupt,

and all I could do was to hit him hard and land the first punch.

I crashed my fist against his cheek.

It hurt like hell. Pain exploded in my knuckles. The shock jarred my arm, travelled right to my spine, but it put Rick down. He sat on the sofa shaking his head. I heard Kim scream, saw her press her fingers to her lips. I flexed my fist to ease the hard-spurting pain. "All right?" I said. "Finished now?" I shook inside, afraid of his answer.

"Go to bed," pleaded Kim, "Sleep it off. We can talk in the morning."

Rick touched his jaw gingerly and sat forward on the sofa. "Yeah," he said. "Sorry, mate." And he held out his hand. I hesitated. Was it a trick? His gaze was fixed on the carpet. He was my friend. He didn't want to fight. Neither did I. I stared at his hand then forced my lips into a half smile, reached out and grasped it. Before I knew it, he yanked me towards him and tripped me. I landed on my elbow and felt that sudden sharp numbness and that unpleasant tingling in the little finger that comes from a smack on the funny bone. Ouch, I said, trying to sit, rubbing my elbow. "Never help yer enemy, man!" he crowed, and sat on my chest.

My head rocked as he slapped me. I saw nothing but black with a few red flashes, then he thumped me in the stomach, then the head. I tried to get my hands up to take the blows but he knocked them aside and jabbed at my face.

I was suddenly crying. The pain was building with a sickening feeling of sickness. My cheek ground against the threads of the carpet as I writhed, then he jammed his knee into my balls. My boxer shorts gave no protection. I sobbed and yelped and everything dimmed into red haziness. He punched me in the side of the head, then the other, and I flopped. I tasted blood. I could hear the sounds of Kim and Rick screaming at each other. The sounds were muffled, as though I were underwater. Slowly my senses swam to the surface. I felt my lips moving, touched them with the tip of my tongue, got the warm salt taste of blood. I was sprawling on my face, my knees drawn up to my chest, a throbbing soreness in my balls, cuts and bruises all over my face, a terrible dryness in my mouth, a near-suffocating tightness in my chest and a burning, building anger sweeping through me. I felt totally humiliated, weak and pathetic. I should have been used to it. After all, I'd been beaten up and humiliated and made to feel weak and pathetic so many times in the last four or five years.

I saw Kim sprawling on the sofa. There was blood on her face and blood on her nightshirt and her lips were torn. Rick was holding her by the hair. He was beating her systematically, methodically, fuelled by a cold, hard anger I'd seen before. My stepfather had done this to me and I knew Rick had to be stopped before Kim was damaged as I had been damaged.

I felt the adrenaline surge through my body and hurled myself forward. As he went down, I crawled up over him, hitting him as hard as I could. The pain had gone, submerged in the red mist of anger and the desire to hurt. We rolled on the carpet and I managed to slap him hard several times. I knelt on his arms and slapped his face. He twisted his head and shouted "Gerroff, yer mad bastard!"

"I trusted you, you bastard!" I shouted, hitting him. "You ripped me off. You an' Ninja, you nicked my watch." I hit him again. His lip started bleeding, started to swell. He was twisting his head, first one way, then the other. "You take advantage," I shouted, and slapped him again. This time he squealed. "And you hit your girlfriend." I jerked my head towards Kim, who was sitting stone still, her face like a chalk mask. I mash his lips against his teeth and yell again. "You low-life scum!" I hit him again.

The look in his eyes was one of hurt, of fear, and suddenly I felt ashamed. The anger, the strength, all the power that had driven me to do this started to fade, to ebb, to die. I became aware of his body beneath mine, of his ribs heaving hard against my thighs. I was no better than him, no better than my stepfather, no better than anyone who inflicted pain to make a point. I sat back on his stomach, gasping.

"Adi," he said, licking blood from his lips. "Fuck off 'n' die!" He laughs loudly.

"You let me down, Rick," I said quietly. "I trusted you, and you let me down."

"So?" He looked into my eyes, full of contempt. The tip of his tongue flicked over his cut lips. "I'm not perfect. I'm sorry fer that." His face was cold, hard. "I'm sorry .... I'm so fuckin' ..." He heaved against my legs, making me wobble. I knew that if I let him go, he would probably kill me. I clenched my thighs to retain my balance, pressed my knees against his arms. He yelled. I studied his face for a second, hating myself as much as I hated him, drew back my fist, and hammered it down against his nose. The crunching sound terrified me. It seemed to echo through the room. I felt the bone give way, felt the nose crush. Blood exploded over my knuckles and on to the back of my hand, spurted over his face and chin, pumped onto my T-shirt. He screamed shrilly, like a wounded rabbit caught in a trap, wriggled and writhed under my weight and then started howling "Jaysus ... Jaysus, yer've busted me nose."

"No mercy, mate," I said viciously, raising my fist to hit him again.

"Jaysus ... Jaysus ... Kim, Kim ... e's busted me nose ..." Rick tailed off into sobs and gulps and whimpering moans.

I stared at his ruined face, the pain and hatred and sudden alarm in his blue eyes.

He spouted a blood-fountain. It spattered my T-shirt. Some splashed my lips.

I hammered my forearm into his cheek. Something else cracked. And I lost it again, smashing him over and over again round the face and head until Kim dragged me away. "He's had enough," she said.

Shakily I stood up. My legs had gone numb. As I recovered my balance, I hauled Rick to his feet. He wobbled. Blood splashed on the carpet. He pressed a blood-reddened hand to his crushed nose and sobbed, moaned and snuffled. The blood trickled through his fingers. He was muttering something. Kim pushed him towards the door.

"Get out, Rick," she said. "Just get out."

"Yer'll be sorry fer this, man," he blubbered. "I'll be back, wiv Ninja 'n' wiv Animal, 'n' then yer'll be sorry. Yer well out of order...."

"Ah'm wettin' meself," I said, in my best Lahndan accent.

"You," he spat, "Yer fuckin' mental. Yer need lockin' up, yer mental..."

Kim pushed him again. He swayed towards the door. "Just go," she said. The door clicked shut.

A sudden spurt of pain, like an electric shock, shot up my arm and the cuts on my face started to sting and my bottom lip throbbed and my knuckles ... as for my knuckles, they hurt so badly I thought they were crushed. I looked at them, battered, bruised and covered in blood, then looked at myself. I had blood-streaks on my thighs, spots on my feet, splashes on my T-shirt and stains on my shorts. Blood all over. I started shaking.

"I'm sorry," I said, "Sorry..." My hands were trembling, my lips started trembling and I felt a sudden surge of tears. Don't let me cry, I prayed, don't let me cry.

"The shit had it coming," said Kim. She touched her cut lip gingerly.

My legs started trembling. "I'm a bit of a mess," I said. They gave way suddenly and I found myself on the sofa and my whole body was shaking and out of control. Oh God, I thought. Oh, God. I started crying. Shit. Oh shit, oh shit, shit and fuck.

I felt Kim's hand on my knee. She started wiping the blood from my foot with a damp tea-towel. I felt her touching the rough scar on the inside of my thigh. I put my head in my hands to stop them shaking, to stop myself crying. Everything hurt. Everything pounded with pain. "I can't stop shaking," I stuttered.

"You'll be all right soon," she said, dabbing at my face and lips. I winced. "Get that shirt off," she whispered, "Blood's hell to shift."

She stripped it away, lifting my arms, shifting my hands. I felt exposed, suddenly anxious. What would she think of me, of my pathetic little body, the jutting lines of my ribs, my scars, my invisible muscles? I felt myself start crying again. A sob heaved its way through my quivering lips and an ache in my head started to spread. She sat on the sofa and cuddled me till the shaking stopped. We clung together, bloodied and bruised, like road-crash survivors. She ran her hand over my hair and smiled at me. "You'll be bruised by morning," she said.

"Wouldn't be the first time," I replied.

She smiled gently and kissed my lips. I tasted blood and salt and warmth. I held her tightly and kissed her back. She parted her lips and I felt my heart leap as her tongue touched mine. Her fingers ran over my chest, tracing my ribs, brushing my nipples, making me shiver. I barely dared imagine what might follow.

All of a sudden, she broke from me.

Disappointment. Frustration. A gulp.

Bollocks.

"You have beautiful lips," she said. "Warm, soft, crying out to be kissed..." She kissed me again and hauled her nightdress over her head. It fell in a crumpled heap on the floor. I saw her hips, her thighs, her dark pubic triangle and felt the blood surge violently into my cock. She knelt on the sofa and leaned over to kiss me, pushing her fingers into my shorts. I was so hard it hurt.

As she slowly peeled the foreskin away

fucking hellllll

from my quivering, shivering knob,

ohhh fuckkk

I thought I might come then, in her hand.

I buried my face in her breasts as she eased my red boxers down.

Fuck she's looking at my dick looking at my dick my dick

My penis lurched drunkenly upright.

Is it bigger than Rick's? Don't let it be smaller.....

I kicked up my feet so she could drag the shorts over my ankles.

don't let her laugh don't let her laugh don't let her ....

We held each other,

her tits, her ... bum smooth in my hands,

explored each other,

her lips against mine, her hand on my cock,

touched each other,

she's squeezing my balls! oh jesus, where the fuck is her clitoris?

kissed each other,

she's wanking me. she's wanking..... me. Jeeeesussss. (don't let me come)

nuzzled each other...

I've got my finger inside her vagina. It's slippery. Very slippery. Dripping wet...

She sat astride me and squeezed my hips with her thighs. I felt like crying as she reached between us, grasped my penis and tried to manoeuvre it into her.

And then,

overcome by

my heartbeat, (hammering)

my pulse rate, (racing)

my nerves, (shredding)

my anxiety, (screaming)

I lost my erection.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit

I felt myself go red. Kim just smiled and touched her torn lips to my nipples.

oh god.

Then her tongue and lips slid away down my chest, over my stomach,

jesus jesus je....

and down to my

... sus

penis.

She closed her cut lips round my dick

close your eyes close your eyes

Her tongue ran over me,

oh god, I'm dreaming

licking,

this can't be happening

dabbing,

not to me

lapping

oh, ohhh

darting,

god it's so wet, so warm in her mouth

leaving a red smear of blood from her torn lips

and I felt my penis grow rigid again.

She lay back, pulling me on top of her, between her thighs, reaching, reaching

touching me touching

guiding me into her warm, moist...

oh god at last at last at la.....st

My heart pounded. I thought I might pass out. And nervous? Jesus, I've never been so nervous in my life, not about anything, but this ... I was terrified, really terrified. In case I got it wrong, made a mistake, made a fool of myself. My virginity hurt.

I moved against her, moved within her,

ohh, myyy god. that's what it's like let it be good, god perlease

tight fit held her globed buttocks

umm. don't let me come. not yet not yet not yet not yet

felt myself drowning,

yes yes no not yet not ..... yet

ohhh Kiiiim

pull her into you can't hold it can't hold....

drove against her and felt her squeeze her thighs and arch her back

we're doing I

at last i'm doing it i'm fucking doing it!!!

i'm pulling her into me into me into me

### Kiiiimmm i...

heard her cry,

felt her grasp at my hips,

oh jesus can't hold it can't....

claw at my buttocks,

yes, Kim clench your arse hold it back hold it....

as she bucked against me furiously, raising herself from the sofa

i'm doing it at last

and i'm not a virgin any more

She cried out my name - "A-DAM! AD-AM! A-D-A-M!"

oh, Kim, i...

and dug her fingers into my flesh

...love you

a little moan crept out through my lips - "Kiiimmmm"

i love you

and buried my lips

i love you pulse

against her neck "Kiiiiimmmmmmm"

paaaa uuuuuuse

then

pul...

and felt myself

...se

torn apart

### pulse pulse pulse pulse

by a wild ejaculation

spurt, spurt, spuuuuurrrrrrrrt

I never thought possible.

im coming im coming im coming

oh jesus oh jesus

oh

o

o

o

kim

We collapsed on the sofa in a sweaty tangle, gasping, grinning, nuzzling each other gently with our torn, blood-stained lips. A string of sticky juice stained my Scout blanket, running in a shiny smear over the Handicraft and Entertainer badges and the Dolphin Patrol flash. Our lips touched tenderly.

The first time.

At last.

Virginity Lost.

Oh Kim.

Oh God.

Oh Adam.

Oh boy!

13. The Wandering Rocks

IN Hampstead, looking over the Heath towards Parliament Hill,

Mrs Hawker peeps from behind her net curtains through the lead strips on her window at yolk-coloured sunlight struggling through rust-laden trees. When she thinks she's been spotted, she ducks behind the rust-tinted frame, waits for a moment, then peeps out once more.

Billy the Odd-Job Boy is dragging a rusty-pronged rake across her lawn. His skin glows a soft russet sheen in the soft autumn light. His hair is the colour of flaking rust and his eyes a deep emerald green. He is slender, long-limbed and coltish like Freddie her son. His soft bronzed skin ripples gently.

The garden is desolate. They have 'put it to bed' for the winter. Billy has piled the leaves into a now-empty flowerbed, a heap of rust waiting to burn.

Mrs Hawker pays Billy Land ₤10 an hour. In return, Billy Land

mows the lawns,

sweeps the leaves,

paints the fences,

cuts the hedges,

prunes the branches

and carries out a hundred other odd-job tasks for the odd-job people of Hampstead.

Recommended initially by their friend and neighbour, the former Social Security Minister and merchant banker Lord Featherlehaugh, people have found him friendly and likeable, honest, hard-working, reliable and cheap. The Hampstead householders pass him on to their friends and neighbours. Today he has brought a colleague with him. Mrs Hawker remembers Rick Wildman, from André's chez in Holborn: eighteen or nineteen, ragged brown hair, frosty blue eyes, an ear-ring, a certain rough charm. Now he is trimming her hedge with rust-bladed shears. The muscles ripple under the skin as the blades open and close. Billy lifts one slender arm, laughs at something the other has said, swings his hand down for a fallen branch.

Mrs Hawker is writing a book. The Gardener's Touch, a gentle saga for the genteel south, tells of a rich housewife and her love for a poor but charismatic young gardener who brings happiness into her sterile, suburban existence. Thus 'research' is the reason for watching the gardeners at work from behind her net curtains.

Mrs Hawker is pleased with her symbolism. The growth of plants reflects the growth of the housewife's spirit. The young gardener's touch nurtures new love as it nurtures new life, and new life for flowers means new life for housewives.

### *

By City Road, approaching Moorgate,

### FLASHMAN'S GARAGE.

Adam Lycett smoothes the rust-coloured chamois over the chrome in soft semi-circles. He glances around at the posters proclaiming

0% FINANCE, BUY NOW, PAY NEXT YEAR.

In this city, the billboard rules, the ad screens glare with coloured eyes, blaring slogans, logos, things-

soft drinks,

white goods,

shoes and clothes,

shops themselves

and lots and lots and lots of CARS, shiny, gleaming, more-than-machines. The advertisements scream from the skies with the voices of gods:

## HEY YOU! YES, YOU!

### You want us. You want us. You want to possess us.

### And if you can't buy us, you can get us on credit.

Advertisers are industry's pimps.

Out of reach behind plate glass, removed from touch if not from sight, Flashman's motor vehicles gleam like beacons for those with the cash, mobile megaphones through which the owner can broadcast his status. Flashman himself, all teeth and smiles and rust-coloured suit, is trying to persuade a young blonde girl to buy a car. He is waving at a rust-coloured Metro, pointing towards his tempting slogans, but the girl smiles and shakes her head. Flashman mutters something, indicates Adam and stomps away to lurk again behind his desk with the two egg-and-cress sandwiches he brings for his lunch.

The girl walks towards Adam.

She looks to be around eighteen years old.

She is wearing blue jeans, a rust-coloured sweater, purple mittens and a long, bright scarf, all reds and yellows and russets and greens.

Her hair tumbles onto her shoulders in a shower of gold.

Her eyes are a deep ocean-blue.

Her clear-skinned face glows healthily in the crisp morning air, and as for her smile... Adam thinks she is the most beautiful girl he has ever met.

"Good morning," she says. Adam's heart melts. He mumbles a "morning" and drops the leather at her feet. She looks at the polished chrome. "This is shiny." She touches the bonnet. "I can see my reflection in it."

And what a fantastic reflection it is, Adam wants to say, but, for the sake of good taste, keeps this thought locked in his brain. Instead, he scoops the leather up from the concrete and scuffs at the stain with the sole of his trainer.

"He offered me a car-phone, free of charge," she says, "As an incentive to buy, but I only popped in to see if the Battle Bus is ready. Mr Flashman said you could help me. It's in the Repair Shop. You're not a salesman as well, are you?"

The Battle Bus? Adam blinks. It is a rusty old Dormer with yellow flowers painted on its pale blue panels. "No," he replies, wishing he were. "I just wash cars and sweep the floor. No-one important."

"You mustn't say," the girl says seriously. "Everyone's important. Everyone's equal in the eyes of my Father."

"What does he do?"

"Pardon?"

"Your father. What does he do?"

The girl laughs. Her teeth are beautiful, perfect, and her laugh.... "No, silly. I'm talking about God. God the Father." Adam fixes his eyes on a spot of rust on the wing mirror and swallows his disappointment. "My earthly father's a preacher," she's saying. "His name's Kenneth Cruikshank. He runs the Church of the Evangelical Pentecost of the Holy Lamb. In Clapham. Maybe you know it?"

Adam coughs, a gasping, rasping, guttural choking cough. The fit shakes his frame so savagely he has to lean for support against the car. He doubles over, feeling the phlegm shift in his chest, the weight in his head slide to one side.

The girl places a hand on his heaving back. "Are you all right?" He gasps and catches his breath. Beads of sweat break out on his skin. "It sounds bronchial," she says. "You should see your doctor and you shouldn't be working."

Adam takes

a deep

breath,

feels himself stabilise,

feels the liquids in his head stop surging.

"I'm Lucy," she tells him. "Lucy Cruikshank." She holds out her hand.

"Adam Lycett." He feels the soft, woollen mitten against his skin. "If I don't work, I don't get paid, and the rent's due."

"Where do you live?"

"Just off Caledonian Road. With a girl called Kim and her baby." He blushes suddenly. "She isn't my baby," he adds hurriedly. "The father's run off. I used to live with him." He feels his skin glowing hotly. "Not ... like that ... you know? Not ... together ... Kim was there too. We all lived together."

Oh God. Just... stop talking, Adam.

Lucy flicks at a lock of her long blonde hair. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen," he replies. "Well, I am in a few weeks..." More coughing slams his body, leaves him exhausted, wrung out and sweating coldly.

"You ought to come back to the hostel," says Lucy, "Hot food and a rest."

"Thanks," says Adam. "Maybe later?"

She smiles brightly. "I only want to give you a meal."

Adam smiles at last. "Okay," he says.

Lucy claps her mittens together. "Good. We have a marquee on Clapham Common. A roving rally. Jesus In The Park. We'll be there for the next few days."

Flashman calls out "The Battle Bus is in the Body Shop, young lady."

Another radiant smile shines as she flicks the end of her scarf over her shoulder and heads towards the Body Shop. The rust-coloured leather droops in Adam's hand and he thinks about home. Home.

Home with Kim.

Home with Holly.

Second-hand baby. Second-hand girlfriend. Second-hand home.

Adam Lycett. The second-hand Dad.

### *

In a garden in Hampstead

Billy bundles the fallen leaves, discarded twigs and rusty-brown conkers into a large plastic sack. He bends and stoops and straightens and kneels, graceful rhythms, flowing limbs, skin shimmering in faint autumn sunshine.

The Hawkers' house is

Grade II listed

red brick, white stucco,

six ample bedrooms,

a nice, warm conservatory with cane garden chairs,

a summer house set in immaculate lawn cut by Billy a few days ago on a motorised mower stored in a shed surrounded by flower beds,

thick stems of roses,

tall privet hedges,

ivy,

wisteria,

rusty red creeper,

bristling green holly,

rustling rusty copper beech hedges

"C'mon, Rick," says Billy. "I want to get the sweeping up finished."

Rick presses his hands into the small of his back. To be bossed around by a kid whose voice has only just started breaking adds insult to injury. But needs must as the Devil drives. Rick has a mission to complete. He lights a cigarette and hands it across, hoping this might mollify his younger employer. Billy takes it and flashes a grin from his startling green eyes. "You're not doing badly," he says, "For a first time gardener." He leans on the long handle of his rusty rake and puffs on the cigarette. Billy is paying Rick ₤3 an hour out of his own earnings. In return, he expects some commitment. He flicks ash on to the flowerbed. "We have to get on. Sweep up the leaves, then bag 'em all up..."

"All right," says Rick, "I'll just have a slash. Nip ter the bog." ('N' while I'm there make a note of the locks.)

### *

From her sun-bathed study, behind her thick curtains,

Mrs Hawker observes the young gardeners moving round her lawns. She has received a generous offer for The Gardener's Touch. This is despite

the absence of rhythm,

the absence of structure,

the absence of purpose,

the absence of any feel for language, for words or their sounds,

and

the total utter absolute absence of an original thought.

An old school-friend's brother's wife works as a publisher. "We'll get a couple of sub-editors to rewrite the text," the publisher told her. ''Piece of cake. No book that comes across our desk ever goes out as it's written anyway. It has to fit the formula. The important thing is to get it on Richard and Judy, then you'll be laughing.''

Mrs Hawker had spent her youth being groomed for the right husband. She had learned a range of domestic skills, from cooking to housekeeping, and had been introduced to Hawker at a Pony Club meeting by their respective fathers who had decided this would be a good match. She had been eighteen, Hawker twenty-one. There had never been much love in their marriage. Or sex. She wondered where he was getting it then decided she didn't want to know. She wasn't getting it. That's all she knew.

She gazes out through the window, stirring the rust-coloured coffee with an old, bent spoon. Her next novel will cover satanic rites in a well-to-do suburb and climax in a frenzied orgy with a gardener and a chef in a rich work-widow's summer house.

She jumps as the study door opens. It is Charlotte, her daughter, who has

a bundle of black,

some dress-making scissors,

several pots of glitter and glue,

and some rust-coloured stars she has fashioned from foil.

Mrs Hawker has promised to help Charlotte create her costume for tonight's "trick or treating". Charlotte Emily Jane, named after her mother's favourite authors, has opted to travel the streets of Hampstead dressed as a witch. Charlotte tips her hands.

Needles,

cotton,

tape measures

and pins

cascade

onto the blotter.

Halloween.

Spirits and devils and witches and ghosts.

Tricking and treating.

Evil stalks abroad on the Heath.

### *

In an ice-cold bed in an ice-cold room in an ice-cold city

Adam lies still.

He stares into the darkness of a cold, dark night,

repressing the cough that is rising relentlessly from the depths of his soul.

The sweat that films his pale skin has turned cold.

His face is grey.

There is a constant pain in his head which shifts from time to time and he can hear the fluid rattling his lungs like water boiling in a rusty old kettle.

He stares at the wall.

His mind is focussed on the rust-coloured patch directly ahead where the mould has broken through the plaster.

In the kitchen, and in the living room,

the rain has seeped through the cracks in the brickwork and, in heavy storms, it runs down the wall, sometimes in torrents. Under the sink in the bathroom,

Adam found fungus, furry, hairy, rust-brown mushrooms, a little like the sea anemones he once saw on a beach.

Black patches on

window sills,

window frames rotten, so damp they are soft to the touch, and, if pressed firmly, ooze water on to the skin.

The baby has developed a near-permanent chill. Kim seems immune.

Adam resolves to buy the biggest bottle of Parazone he can afford and slosh it all over the flat.

He chokes back his cough.

Sweat springs out on his skin.

His fingers press into

the sweat-sodden sheets, hot nylon sleeping bag and rough Scout blanket. He feels the edge of the Dolphin Patrol badge. He turns his head sideways, feeling a tidal wave of pain sweeping through him, and looks at Kim sleeping quietly by his side.

His cough had kicked in around one a.m. Tonight, his body racked and shaken by fits and sweats, his head exploding with internal motions and huge tidal waves, he had barely been able to move. Kim had wheedled and pleaded and finally sulked, but Adam....

...Adam is beginning to regard this illness as a Judgement from God.

His body trembles.

He pulls the duvet further round his ears,

shivering,

shaking,

feeling the goose bumps springing out through his skin,

the sweat on his face.

He wants to take tomorrow off work. Flashman noted his grey skin and machine gun-like coughing. He might be sympathetic. Adam, however, doesn't get sick pay. Flint expects Kim to pay the rent at the end of the week. They do not have it yet.

Adam suggested withholding the money until Flint makes repairs and cleans up the damp. Kim relayed this to Flint. He told them to move.

Adam cannot repress the cough.

It erupts from his chest in an explosion of noise, pain and phlegm.

His body is shaken upright and he

clutches the edge of the duvet with all the strength that remains in his arms.

He hangs on as he breathes with all his might,

hearing the fluids knock in his chest,

like the water in some ancient, decrepit, rusting old boiler,

and then

and then

he lets go again.

The pain in his brain swells,

and the iron circle screws ever more tightly around his skull.

He senses the sweat beginning to pour down his skin, to soak sheets already through-sodden,

and the shivering shatters his body again.

He hawks the lump of phlegm from his throat and spits it into a rag of a tissue.

It is grey and congealed.

Kim has been woken. She sits up beside him and strokes his skin. It feels like ice but he tells her he's burning.

He swings his legs over the side and sits naked in the cold night air, breathing deeply, shivering wildly.

The baby starts crying. Adam ignores her.

Kim kisses him on one of the rust-coloured moles on his shoulder as she gets out of bed. The coldness of his bare skin worries her.

He coughs again as she scoops the baby out of the cot and shushes her gently.

The patches of damp have grown larger, advancing steadily across the ceiling. The entire room will soon be black.

### *

In a pub near Pentonville Prison

Ninja and Animal are making their plans. They have made careful notes, drawn careful maps, walked out their route, sent out their spies and reached their conclusions.

"You git th' car," Ninja tells Animal.

"Ah'm no drahver," says Animal.

"Yer drove wi' th' Legion aht in Algeria."

"Yeah, burrah turned th' jeep over."

"Yer shoulda run it over," says Ninja, "Fuckin' camel."

Ninja remembers the last excursion, over in Orpington, when Animal had pissed in the fireplace, slashed the pictures and smashed the owner's face with his crowbar.

"Yer pussy," jeered Animal. "Yer'll be tekin' that poofy nonce-bait Billy...."

"'E'd be even more of a liabili'y than you," says Ninja. "Ah know 'e's fuckin' skinny 'n' c'd crawl through the eye of a fuckin' needle but 'e'd be wettin' 'isself 'fore we got ter th' door. 'Sides, kid might be recanised, fuckin' gin'er workin' rahnd there. Nah. Rick'll do. 'E's knows th' business 'n' 'e knows the territ'ry."

"Shoo'ers?" asks Animal, "Knives or nail-guns?"

"Nail-gun," says Ninja, "More fuckin' fun!" Their guffaws are loud, their backslapping joyous.

"Trick or fucking treat," says Animal fondly. "Hur hur hur............." He reaches down for his bag of nails. ''They'll shit thumselves.''

### *

Sitting up in bed

Mrs Hawker is leafing through a holiday brochure whilst her husband flicks through articles on hunting, shooting and fishing in The Field. He chortles at something that suggests a future Labour government would ban fox-hunting. ''Like to see 'em try,'' he scoffs, then admires an Alexander Martin box-lock shotgun on the next page. Meanwhile, Mrs Hawker is admiring the shining skin of a male model posing in front of a pristine swimming pool in the sun-soaked Bahamas.

''I think we'll get Freddie this gun for Christmas,'' says Hawker. ''Nice and light, thirty-inch barrel, comes to the shoulder easily. He can try it out at Carnoustie's.''

Lord Carnoustie has invited the Hawkers to join him for Christmas on his Highland estate. The festivities will include a Boxing Day hunt and stag-stalk. Hawker loves

The Hunt-

Scarlet-coated horsemen, breath steaming the air on a crisp winter's morning,

Waiting horses, with harnesses jingling and iron hooves clattering,

Scrabbling, wet-nosed, rust-coloured hounds leaping with excitement,

Starch-collared staff standing by with glasses of punch,

The leap over hedges,

the thud of the hooves,

the blare of the trumpet,

the wind in his hair,

the chill on his skin...

It is quite intoxicating.

The highlight, the prize is waiting up on Rannoch Moor, solid, majestic, magnificent, a great red-deer, with slab-solid flanks, rusty-brown hair and soft velvet covering over its iron-hard antlers. It will raise its heavy head from the heather and fix the men with a steady, unwavering, unblinking stare.

Hawker thrills. He will help Freddie nestle the stock of his loaded gun against his Barboured shoulder, will whisper advice, about training the gun above the stag's muzzle, aiming between the eyes, squeezing the trigger as one squeezes a sponge, gently, slowly, unhurriedly, savouring the sensation as Hawker will savour each moment knowing that, for his son, each was new, and each a thrill,

the moment when the aim is firm, when deer and hunter exchange steady stares,

the moment when the one communes almost telepathically with the other,

the moment when the world stops turning, when time stops ticking, when the air stops swimming, when Nature stops breathing, and everything, the air, time, Nature, the heather holds its breath......

the moment when the trigger is squeezed and the gun explodes......

the moment when the stag falls, a great gush of blood and a harsh gash of bullet opening skin and the heavy, heavy thump of blood, of heart, of falling, of death....

the moment of triumph, the moment of killing, the moment when they smear the rust-coloured blood of the stag on Freddie's skin and mark him as a Man. Hawker thrills. It could finally bring father and son together.

''What about the Caribbean for our winter break?'' asks Mrs Hawker.

''Sure,'' says her husband, ''If you want to get robbed by a gang of gollies. Best stick to Tuscany. We can borrow Bonsor's villa again. This is a nice gun.'' He shows her a picture of a Dickson box-lock.

''Nice,'' agrees his wife. ''What about Egypt? We could go diving.''

''God,'' splutters Hawker, ''Surrounded by swindlers, two weeks on the crapper, wearing gloves to handle their filthy, germ-ridden bank-notes... no, Tuscany, dear. You know how much you enjoy the food and the weather. Stick to what you know, eh?'' He closes his magazine, switches off his bedside light and pecks his wife on the cheek. ''Nighty-night, old thing.''

''Nighty-night,'' says his wife, admiring the well-packed pouch in the briefs of the model..

Outside, in the shadow-filled garden, Rick notes the time the lights go out then scuttles away to report to his friends.

### *

In a freezing cold room, a baby cries. A young man curls into a ball, head half-buried under the pillow, hands bunched into tight fists. He cannot sleep. The baby cries some more.

## 14. Elpenor

FREDERICK Hawker stretches as the warm water laps at his body, easing the aches and muscular pains that had chewed up his legs half an hour earlier. He dangles an arm over the side of the navy blue bath, watching impassively as a fungal mass of soapy bubbles slides down the back of his hand towards the navy blue bathmat. He flexes his fingers and, through the foam, observes the sinews and tendons, the muscles and bones moving mechanically to hasten the final descent of soapsuds to floor. He twists the knob on the cassette player squatting on the bathroom scales. Nirvana. Kurt Cobain. 'Aneurysm'. He taps the rhythm out on his stomach in a series of flat, hollow sounds then he closes his eyes and lets himself slide down in the bath till his chin rests on the surface of the water.

Running for School on Hampstead Heath in early November was madness. He had fought against the cold, clammy fog insinuating itself through the trees shrouding surroundings in ghostly grey. He had fought the goose-bumps as he'd stood by the starting tape in a navy blue singlet and navy blue shorts and thin running shoes. He had rubbed his arms and hugged himself but the chill wind had still cut through the cotton into his bones. After the starting gun had spat its instruction to "Go", he struggled with stitches, contended with cramps, battled the pain blasting into his muscles and fought to control his breathing through grimly gritted teeth.

He had run without socks. The brambles had clawed his bare ankles, tearing, pricking, ripping the skin whilst the mud had splashed up his calves and face covering his skin in grey scabs of sludge.

Freddie tried hard. He always did. He had chugged through the mud breathing harsh, full-throated clouds of steam, hearing the grating outside his own head, his mud-matted hair flicking into his eyes...This is Life, Freddie reflected, or at least Life According to his Father. A grim dance, a sweat-stung haze, a gruelling, tough, long-distance race. Freddie had grinned as he'd hurdled a moss-covered tree trunk and landed lightly on a soggy leaf pile. His father had sporting comparisons for every occasion. Life was a race. Marriage was tennis. Family was a scrum.

Hawker had tried desperately to get Freddie into rugby. He had coached him from about the age of six in their back garden, hurling balls with tremendous force into his midriff. He had tried Freddie at scrum-half and fly-half, persuaded the House Master to give him a trial as a wing-three-quarter and failed to accept the verdict that Freddie was simply no good at rugby not just because he was small, underdeveloped and skinny but mainly because he was unable to catch the ball. Suffering his father's bitter disappointment that he would never win a Rugby Blue at Balliol nor play for the Navy, Freddie had let himself be channelled towards cross-country running and never revealed his true sporting interest, which was table-tennis, something his father dismissed as a 'girl's game'.

"Running," Hawker had grunted. "Not exactly a first-rank sport but at least it will get you fit for the Forces." And the School Cadets.

Freddie hated the School Cadets. He didn't mind the navy blue uniform or the steel-capped boots and didn't even mind the beret - some of the girls said he looked cute - and he particularly liked the guns. What annoyed him most were the drilling and marching, the stamping and wheeling. If the cadet force spent its time stripping down guns or, better still, shooting at targets with the guns, it might be palatable. As it was he found it largely boring. Worse still, on the assault course he had slid down a rope and seared his hands and shouted with pain and been labelled a wimp. Worse even than that, on a sailing expedition, he'd been mildly seasick in the mouth of the Thames somewhere near Tilbury and been labelled a fairy. Hawker had swallowed his disappointment once again and promised Freddie it would be easier at Dartmouth when he went for his commission.

He knows he will have to suffer his father's disappointment again tonight when he reveals that he didn't win the cross-country race. That he beat his own personal best for that distance will be dismissed as irrelevant. Whatever he does, Freddie Hawker will never satisfy his father's expectations. Charlotte doesn't have these problems. Even when she went vegetarian and announced her solidarity with the Eco-Warriors of Newbury by demanding a tree-house in the garden, she remained Daddy's Little Girl.

The tree-house. Freddie had watched Billy Land struggling to build it. He had wanted to help but Mum hadn't let him. "We pay Billy to do jobs like that," she had breezed. Still, he had used the tree-house several times already, most memorably with some of his mates on Bonfire Night. They had perched on the planks, dangled their legs over the ledge and flung fireworks into the fire-watching, beer-guzzling, parkin-scoffing people below. A Roman candle had fizzed and sparked and bounced off some fat neighbour's fat shoulder. Firecrackers landed unlit in the hot heart of the fire and exploded with whizzes and hisses, and a couple of bangers had threatened to shatter the panes of the greenhouse.

Hawker had bellowed at them to desist so they'd retired out of sight and opened the cider, guzzling copious quantities greedily, spilling liquid over their chins and their clothes. Then, unsteadily, queasily, exceedingly merrily, they had descended from the tree, yanking small, sour crab apples from the branches as they passed to hurl at the Guy who shrank and smouldered in the midst of the flames.

Ashley Moore, barrel-chested, gravel-larynxed, acne-pitted, caught a small child by the navy blue hood of its navy blue anorak and tugged it away from its parent's grip so he could drop a firecracker into the fur-lined hood and laugh as the explosions made the child jump and wail and the parent shout.

Charlotte and her friends, Tamara and Genevieve, scowled at the boys as they drew patterns of fire against the dark blue backcloth of the chill November night with their sparklers. Freddie stuck his tongue out. Charlotte pushed her thumbs into her ears and waggled her fingers. Ashley chucked a banger towards Tamara. Hawker delivered a lecture on safety and sent them inside.

Freddie led the way, kicking at leaves piled high by the lawn edge, shoving the heavy roller, overturning a dustbin, and then Ashley had found the hedgehog. It was curled in a tight spiny ball under the hedge, quivering, shivering, frightened by the explosions and fire and the autumn smells of rotting and burning. The boys prodded it with broken-off twigs, jabbing, poking, pushing, needling, hoping for something to happen. But the hedgehog didn't move. Then Ashley poked it with the toe of his boot and laughed. "Spiky football," he said, and kicked it.

It travelled perhaps eighteen inches in a shower of leaves and bounced onto the patio with the boys in whooping pursuit. Freddie caught a fleeting glimpse of a tiny nose and bright black eyes peering out of a sea of fine hairs then the hedgehog returned to its tight spiny knot. Ashley kicked it to Hal who trapped it with his instep before sending it skidding across the brickwork to Freddie who flicked it on to Ashley who delivered a mighty kick, roaring "GOAL!" at the top of his voice.

The hedgehog burst. Spraying blood and trailing intestines, it hit the hedge and fell with a soft thump in the dahlias.

"You killed it, you twat," said Hal. "You've ruined the game."

"If my Dad sees that on his patio, we're screwed." Freddie felt sick.

"Stick it on the bonfire," Ashley suggested, kicking the burst animal again.

"Bit suspicious," said Freddie, "Dead hedgehog..."

"Fucking Jesus," said Ashley. "Put it in a bag then."

So they did. Freddie held it open whilst Hal transferred the hedgehog's remains from the bricks to the bag. Then they tied the handles together in a nice, neat knot and tossed it casually into the bonfire.

Slumping on Freddie's bed, they passed round cigarettes and cider whilst Hal skinned up. He reckoned he had a mate who'd been in the army, Bosnia, Ireland and other outposts, and that this hard, slap-headed geezer supplied him with everything he wanted.

Hal and Ashley reeled around Freddie's room, playing and discarding CD after CD, examining videos, -

("Got any porn?" asked Ashley)

checking out magazines, -

("Got any hard-core?" asked Hal)

and dropping ash on the navy blue rug.

"I got a great pin-up," said Hal. "Huge titties on her." He illustrated with a movement of his hands. "My brother got some photos from Holland. Fucking hell, man .... Shows people actually screwing, and one of 'em ..." He lowered his voice, "Doing a blowjob. Man, I was wanking all night, I can tell you. Could hardly walk by morning."

A Roman candle whooshed in the night sky and burst in a silver-gold star shower.

"Fucking fireworks," said Hal. "Use 'em as dildos. Give a girl a good banging."

Freddie found this concept hilariously funny and rolled around on his bed, convulsed with hysterical giggling till his muscles screamed 'stop'. Perhaps the grass had gone to his head, but even now, the comment is funny. And the picture of a girl inserting a fizzing firework into her fanny...

### Rat tat tat

Someone's knocking on the bathroom door.

Shit. Freddie pushes himself upright and shouts "Yeah?"

It's his mother. She wonders how much longer he is going to be.

"Can't say," he calls, turning up the volume a shade further for Therapy?'s 'Screamager'. "I'm washing my hair."

He squirts some blue Head-and-Shoulders into his palm and rubs it into his soft, wet curls. He can feel the bones of his skull beneath his fingertips. " 'I got nothin' to do'," he bawls through the sudsy cascade into the shower-head, "'Cept hang around and get screwed up on you'," and turns the shower-head upside down to play as a guitar. The tiny needle jets sting his chest and make him gasp. His body is marbled with the shadows of suds. The bumps of his knees and the knobs of his hips, the narrow, rib-lined chest and his large, flat nipples, the smooth plain of his stomach broken by the deep dimpled gash of his navel, the soft, blond down on his shins floating gently in the undertow, the soft, light brown fuzz of his newly emergent pubic hair swaying like the fronds of a sea anemone, his ankles, bony and lined with long scratches, his feet, slim and long.... he flexes his toes, watching the tendons and sinews which run through the ankle contract, then relax ... and reaches for the soap and his navy blue flannel. His body. His.

Ashley is fat and Hal is robust but Freddie is one of those boys who bear the brunt of lard-ass humour. His father has one or two favourites which he usually saves for family friends, comments of the "Freddie has to run around in the shower just to get wet" variety. He slides back under the surface and hears the water slapping the sides of the bath in the resultant tidal wash. He is BIG where it counts. Chloë told him so. At Hal's party. On Trafalgar Day.

Chloë. Beautiful, bubbly, fifteen year old Chloë.

She had plonked herself on the bed beside him, shared the cider, shared a joint, stroked his thigh and called him cute. Fumbling, trembling, clumsy, heady, feeling his bones turning to water, Freddie kissed her, unfastened her blouse, felt the soft warmth of her breast in his hand, felt her touching, stroking, stoking his knob. They had struggled from the bed and, twined round each other's limbs, lips glued together with spittle and cider, lurched for the bathroom. Locked the door. Lain on the floor. Part undressed. Dived to the depths and soared to celestial sensation as Chloë had taken his cock into her mouth. He had almost passed out. The warmth. The wetness.

Then someone had hammered on the door and they dimly heard Rory Cheatle shouting he needed the toilet, he was going to throw up

and, regretful, reluctant,

but rushing to replace removed and scattered pants and bra,

whilst Rory made retching noises beyond the door,

they had separated.

On opening the bathroom door, Freddie's face crumbled. Rory grinned and other kids whooped as Oliver Bonsor's camera-flash exploded.

Freddie had approached the House notice-board through a crowd of ribald grins. The photograph showed Chloë, one shoe on, one in her hand, blouse unbuttoned, hair dishevelled, and Freddie himself, barefoot in the doorway, belt hanging loose, shirt badly fastened. Boy and girl, hand in hand, alarmed and startled.

Humiliation heaped on embarrassment.

But Hal and Ashley made up for it with a litre of cider and a 'teenth of pot.

More hot water crashes into the bath. Freddie twists the volume control for Bad Religion –

### I'm a twenty-first century digital boy

### I don't know how to read but I got a lot of toys

Under cover of dusk on All Soul's Day, they had crept out of the house, into the garage and 'borrowed' Hal's father's new BMW M3. Hal had turned the key, ignited the engine and revved a few times before easing the beautiful navy blue motor away down the drive and into the street. Ashley sat in the passenger seat, opening cans and passing out fags. Freddie was belted into the back, gripping the ceiling strap, staring fixedly at hedges and fences and street lamps and gates blurring past as the car hit sixty. The car screamed out of Heath Road, past Jack Straw's Castle and into North End Way.

"Yeehah!" Ashley howled, shouting along to an Offspring cassette.

"Where we going?" Freddie dug his fingernails into his forearm.

"Hendon," yelled Hal. "To the Piggy College. Buzz up the Fuzz!"

They hit a hillock in the tarmac and jolted skywards. Ashley whooped once again. Hal tightened his grip on the steering wheel and Freddie tightened his on the door-frame. His stomach lurched and he felt the rising sickness brought on by the swaying, the lurching, the jolting, the sporadic unevenness of motion.

"If you're gonna chuck," said Hal, squinting into the driving mirror, "You can get out and walk, an' if you shit yourself, I'll make you eat it up."

"Just lie back and think of England," yelled Ashley, turning up The Offspring's driving guitar riffs.

### 'Dog eat dog, every day ... hope you like my genocide'

As they reached ninety, Hal pressed the buttons to open the windows and sunroof. Freddie felt himself pressed into the soft, navy upholstery, his eyes streaming and his blond hair flowing as the tearing wind howled through the car. The BMW hurtled towards a junction and Hal crunched through the gears. Tyres squealed. Freddie clenched his rectal muscles. His sickness was rising. He tried to bury the pictures that darted from the shadows of his mind but they scuttled fleetingly into the light then flitted away again, pictures of car wrecks, car smashes, car crashes,

Death.

Bones scrunching, sickening clarity, jagged ends through shredded skin.

Muscle tissue flapping as it ripped.

Slit tendons and severed sinews whipping like hawsers snapped in a hurricane.

Tearing metal.

Tearing flesh.

Bone from muscle, muscle from skin.

Blood. Blood. Blood. And Pain.

Cars were coffins on wheels.

"Fantastic!" Ashley bounced in the passenger seat. "I love this car!"

"J-turn!" yelled Hal, executing the action without any real skill or grace. The acrid, nauseating smell of burning rubber slunk inside Freddie's nostrils.

"What about Hendon?" asked Ashley.

"Can't be arsed," said Hal, accelerating away again. They careered through a chicane, jolted over the sleeping policemen and lurched round the curves of the kerb. The song 'Bad Habit' roared out of the speakers and Ashley joined in.

### They say the road is a dangerous place

Hal was in control and yelled his favourite lines out of the windows at an elderly woman walking her dog -

You stupid dumbshit goddam motherfucker!!!

He carefully eased the BMW into the garage. It scraped the door-frame and juddered to a halt. Hal examined the scratch. "He'll think Mum did it at the multi-storey," he said.

Freddie slides down under the water, his eyes closed, his breathing suspended. He can hear his heart beating, blood rushing in his ears and the muffled booming thump of Nirvana. The bottom of the bathtub feels hard against his backbone. Hal had promised to take the car for another spin some time next week, and this time, Freddie could sit in the front.

As he dries himself, he watches his stick-like limbs jerking in the steam-clouded mirror. He is thankful that his figure is obscured by the mist. Hal reckons he looks like an X-Ray photo. The skeletal look is not in fashion, at least not in his world. He turns one way and then the other. His bones are very prominent, especially those jabbing out from his shoulders and hips. He punches towards his clouded reflection, a short, controlled action learnt in a self-defence class some months ago. Then he takes a step back and places the ball of his foot on his reflected face. He can feel the tendons and ligaments stretching. He holds the position for a moment then jumps away. A wet footmark is left in the steam on the mirror.

He yanks out the plug. The mud and water swirl down the drain leaving a thick residue of dirt in the bath. He gives the hot tap a sharp twist and sloshes the sludge away down the plughole then he turns back to the mirror to examine his spots. The ones on his face aren't so bad. Even the ones on his chin and the corner of his mouth are fading. He gives the one on his chin a sharp squeeze. A clear fluid oozes from the broken skin. He swivels his hips to crane at his back. There is a large, angry and uncomfortable spot on his shoulder blade. He reaches round to scratch it, pushing his bony elbow up with his left palm. Hopefully the hot water has opened the pores a little ....he'll dab some TCP on the spots when he comes back to clean his teeth. He wraps the navy blue towel round his waist, unlocks the door and goes into his bedroom.

He aims a snap Van Damme-style kick at the clothes piled on the end of his unmade bed. Socks and his navy blue school sweater flop onto the carpet. His room is

\- a heap of comics, Superman, Judge Dredd and others scattered on the rug

\- discarded blue boxers, shirts and navy blue socks

\- his school blazer hanging emptily over the desk chair

\- his school tie coiled like a snake on the carpet

\- a handful of CDs and videos

\- a Sooty glove-puppet

\- a handful of Tazos and some pieces of Lego

-plastic models of the Starship Enterprise and a Romulan war-bird

\- his mud-daubed shorts and scab-spattered singlet waiting for washing....

Freddie inserts Death Warrant into the video player and relishes once again Van Damme kicking The Sandman so hard the skull is impaled on the spike of a wheel. The bones make a satisfying crunch. Van Damme ripples his glistening muscles. There is a poster of the star of this film flanked by Kurt Cobain and "I Like the Pope, the Pope Smokes Dope" tacked to the wall over his bed.

He flicks a kick at the heaped-up duvet then jumps on the bed, the towel coming loose as he aims a roundhouse at Van Damme's bulging bicep. He wobbles slightly as the springs in the mattress give way. He walks down the bed, shoves his toes under the pillow in its navy blue case and flicks it up in the air so he can kick it across the room. The pillow hits the wardrobe and slumps to the carpet.

"Sayonara, pillow." Freddie flexes his muscles. ''Yeah.'' He stands naked on his bed for a minute then hops off and slips into his navy blue dressing-gown.

He turns back to the bed to tug the navy blue sheet straight. Suddenly he notices, with a spurt of horror, that there is a large, sticky, semen-stain on the sheet. He'd masturbated that morning, as he did every morning, and every night, and come on the sheet because he had run out of Kleenex. He conceals it by hauling the duvet over the bed. Then he scoops a spoonful of soggy Sugar Puffs from the dark blue cereal bowl on the desk and reaches out for a book on Queen, Country and Imperial Conquest. He has some homework to do, some reading for History on The Scramble for Africa but a dry comparison of German, Belgian and British exploits and exploitations in East Africa over 100 years ago fails to hold Freddie's attention for long. He boots up the PC on his desk and plays a few rounds of Doom 2, blasting away at Imps, Revenants and Cyberdemons. He got the cheats off Hal so he's playing at the higher levels. Without them, he gets blown away at Level 3 almost every time.

''Go ahead,'' he growls as a red-scaled, one-eyed, flying head Cacedemon rises over a wall and spits a lightning ball at him. ''Make my day.'' He hits a key and rips the Cacedemon apart with a chain-gun. ''Sayonara, Cacedemon.'' he snarls.

Once he has emptied the barrels of a Super Shotgun into the exposed brain of the Icon of Sin and won the game, he realises an hour has passed. He reaches for his school books, but still cannot focus on the 1911 Agadir Crisis. He wants a wank but his dad's on the bog. He punches a button on his CD player and swivels away from his desk, feeling the soft, dark blue carpet twisting under the bare soles of his feet as he dances across the room to Pulp's Common People:

### 'cos everybody hates a tourist, especially one who thinks it's all such a laugh

### and the chip stains and grease will come out in the bath

### and you'll never understand how it feels to live your life

### with no meaning or control

### and with nowhere left to go

Frederick Hawker, aged thirteen and three quarters, feels his life too has no meaning or control. From school to the Navy, from the Navy to Balliol, from Balliol to the Bar, everything is mapped. And no-one has ever asked him, not ONCE, what he wants to do.

Frederick Hawker aged thirteen and three quarters

is living in Hell. Bloody History. Bloody family. Bloody hell.

He slumps at his desk and rests his chin on his knuckles.

15. Cyclops

RAPTUROUS faces, ecstatic expressions, voices singing, tongues moving. A large crowd. Expectant. Excited. Inside the Marquee, a vast cream-coloured tent. Tongues of flame from cream-coloured candles. Softly strummed sounds shimmer together.

Father God, I wonder

How I managed to exist without

The knowledge of your parenthood

And of your loving care,

But now I am your child,

I am adopted in your family,

And I can never be alone,

'Cause, Father God, you're there beside me:

I will sing your praises,

I will sing your praises,

I will sing your praises for evermore,

I will sing your praises,

I will sing your praises,

I will sing your praises for evermore.

A simple stage made from old planks. A plain, wooden lectern. Several banners. Cream canvas with letters picked out, some in red, others in green.

## JESUS IN THE PARK

(is the one in green, over the entrance.)

## THE CHURCH OF THE EVANGELICAL PENTECOST OF THE HOLY LAMB

(snakes its way redly around the marquee, winding from one pole to the next.)

## HEAVEN OR HELL? IT'S YOUR CHOICE

(in flaming orange behind the stage)

A graphic illustration of the Lost Souls being harried through the very jaws of Hell and greeted by tongues of fire supplements the message inscribed on the hymn sheets laid out on every cream plastic chair. To one side of the stage stands a long trestle table piled high with books, tracts and pamphlets. Next to it sits Lucy Cruikshank. She is wearing a very simple, cream-coloured dress and has a cream Alice-band holding her blonde hair in place. It is she who is playing the guitar.

Soft candlelight. Soft music. But hard words. And hard choices.

The crowd stands as one. The Preacher has arrived.

He smoothes his balding pate and displays a worn Bible. The crowd yells acclaim. Lucy rattles and hammers the cream skin of an old tambourine.

### Alleluia! Praise the Lord!

### *

Rick blows on his hands. The Hawkers' garden is shrouded in shadow, drowned in the darkness.

He needs a piss. Desperately.

He may have to go in the rusty water-barrel under the sill.

Ninja presses the rusty tongue of his crowbar against the kitchen's window-frame. The creamy paintwork crackles, the wood creaks and crushes and the flakingly rusty lock snaps with a crack.

In the still night-air it sounds like a bomb

Exploding

Out on the Heath.

Rick stands in the flowerbed frozen with fear.

The hinges squeal as Ninja prises again at the stiff window-frame.

Rick experiences another overwhelming desire to pass water.

The window slides up.

Ninja hefts the crowbar and pulls a Donald Duck mask over his face whilst Rick adjusts the elastic holding Mickey Mouse's features in place over his.

The breathing is harsh. Rasping. Deafening.

Visible clouds are etched on the darkness.

### *

I noticed a thousand faces and heard a thousand tongues shaping their prayers.

I noticed the points of light, pure and white, flickering from thousands of candles of smooth creamy wax.

I noticed the banners strung from pole to pole.

I noticed the soft, gentle humming, the harmonious music of thousands of tongues in perfect concert.

I noticed the preacher, a balding man in a sour-cream shirt.

I noticed Lucy up there on the platform, guitar on her knee, tambourine in her hand. She seemed to glow in the shimmering candlelight.

Through the sea of faces, through the sea of waving arms, through the sea of clapping hands, Lucy observes the cream canvas flap of the marquee shift to one side. Mrs Humble purses her lips, flashes her spectacles towards the latecomer. It is Adam Lycett. He looks nervous, his dark hair glossy like a conker in the afternoon rain. He is wearing a heavy black overcoat and carrying a rucksack on his shoulder. The grass under his feet is scuffed and faded. He coughs violently and leans against the thick tent pole for support. Lucy smiles.

She lights a taper at one of the tall cream candles up on the platform and moves through the audience, passing her light to the others. In this way, light from a thousand cream candles spreads through the tent. When she reaches Adam, she gives him a candle, folds his fingers gently around it. The flame illuminates his face. He coughs gently. The tiny candle tongue flickers but is not extinguished. The fire is reflected in Mrs Humble's glasses.

"I'm so glad you're here," she says softly. He grins uncertainly.

The Preacher is telling the crowd about his days as a Cathedral chorister, how his eight year old tongue was trained and schooled to sing psalms and hymns, how his boy's body was shrouded in robes and given its place in the solemn, funereal procession which snaked through pillars and aisles. He tells them of his training for the priesthood, Divinity at Oxford, curacy in Leicester, incumbency in Somerset, twenty-six years in the service of the Anglican Church, until the day when he realised that God was not in their rites and not in their rituals and not in their incense and not in their bells and the words turned to ash on his tongue. Kenneth Cruikshank began to search for God elsewhere.

### *

Freddie Hawker is woken by a strange clicking sound.

He slips his dressing-gown over cream-coloured pyjamas and treads downstairs.

The beam of a torchlight sways in the kitchen.

Rick hands a stereo unit out through the window. Ninja adds it to the video and CD player in the sack on the grass.

"Jus' tek the electricals." Ninja's instructions. "TV, Video, anything we c'n sell."

Corporate raiding. In the Free Market. Nick the family silver and sell it on to the highest bidder. Hur hur.

Sudden soft thump at the foot of the stairs.

Rick jumps, then freezes.

Breathing. Harsh. Rasping. Deafening.

He needs a piss.

The crowbar finds its way into his hand.

"If yer meet anyone, knock 'em on the 'ead wi' this."

### *

Give thanks with a grateful heart,

Give thanks to the Holy One,

Give thanks because he's given

Jesus Christ, His Only Son.

They raise their hands towards heaven in ecstatic supplication. Lucy cups her hand, smiling, eyes firmly closed, lost in emotion.

Adam remains where he is, shy, uncertain, holding his cream candle, watching the shadowy patterns flick on the canvas.

Cruikshank makes his appeal over the singing.

Come unto me, all ye that are weary and I will give you rest.

Come unto me, all ye that are broken-hearted, and I shall comfort you.

Come unto me, all ye that are sad and dejected, and I shall raise your spirits.

Give up your old ways. Reject what is past. Look to the future. Save yourself from pain. Come to God's Family. Come back today. Be at peace with Him and at peace with yourself. Become his child once again.

The hands reach out.

Adam feels himself drawn.

Be like a sheep. Follow Him blindly. Be like a sheep. Ask no questions.

### *

Light bleeds

through a chink in the door.

Nausea. Sickness.

He feels very sick. He needs to pee.

His heart hammers violently at the base of his throat.

He's dragged by a force towards the door.

His stomach flips over. Several times.

Flipoverflipoverflipoverflop

A figure in black from head to foot, a Mickey Mouse mask, cheap, plastic, garishly coloured, looking absurd. Donald Duck peeps through the window.

He has to laugh. He wants to scream. He has to scream. He wants to laugh. His throat constricts. His bare feet stick to the tiles. He feels the skin sticking. He wants the toilet.

Badly.

"Fuckin' kid," says Donald Duck, " 'Oldin' 'is dick."

Freddie becomes aware that he is pressing his hand into his groin.

" 'It 'im!" Mickey Mouse has an iron bar in his hand. " 'Kin 'it 'im! Smack th' cunt!"

Freddie screams.

### *

All ye who have the ears to hear me,

All ye that have the eyes to see me,

All ye that have the hearts to feel me,

Come unto me, I shall give you shelter, I shall give you comfort, I shall give you rest

Most of the crowd falls to its knees, arms uplifted, hearts uplifted, hands uplifted.

And now let the weak say "I am strong"

Let the poor say "I am rich"

Because of what the Lord has done for us.

Come Come Come

A woman cries out "Come Lord Jesus" and everyone shouts "Alleluia."

Cruikshank's eyes pierce Adam's soul. "There is someone out there filled with pain, someone out there searching for answers, somebody out there who is sick, who is lonely, who is lost, someone out there who is looking for home."

Adam feels a prickle of tears in his eyes. Lucy gives him a push and gentle "Go on. Don't be afraid." And slowly, like an automaton, like a lamb to the slaughter, he finds his feet taking him up through the sea of bodies and faces and candles and singers...

"Come, my child." Cruikshank holds out his hand. "Jesus wants you to come home. Jesus loves you. Come to him now."

Adam clasps the outstretched hand. The crowd roars its approval.

"One more sinner found and saved!" shouts Cruikshank, triumphant. "One more lost sheep safe in the fold! One more soul snatched from Satan!"

### HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH!

### PRAISE THE LORD! PRAISE HIS NAME!

Cruikshank gestures for silence. The crowd remains on its knees. From the platform, Adam surveys them. Faces, flushed and excited, wet with tears, lost in wonder, lit by candles, a sea of cream-coloured faces. If he should fall, he will drown in that sea.

### *

"Don't hit me, Mister," begs desperate, kneeling Freddie. "I'll help you. Tell me what you want. I'll fetch it for you. Don't hurt me, that's all."

A rush.

A rash.

A clash.

Of words.

Donald Duck slides in through the window. "Fuckin' safe! Where's th' safe?"

Freddie points to the portrait of his mother.

Wavering.

Shaking.

The crowbar is pressed against his face. He can taste the metal, taste the fear. A dribble of urine escapes down his leg dampening his pyjamas. He's going to cry. He clenches all his muscles. His anus and bladder contract.

"Combination?" snaps Donald Duck.

"Wha..... Wha ...?" Freddie shakes his head. Heavily. Slowly.

"Safe combination," snaps Donald Duck.

"Duh ... duh ... duu ... don't know."

"Fuckin' 'ell." Donald Duck produces a knife. A combat knife. A wicked knife. ''Yer'd be''er know, or ah'll 'ave yer bollox fer a neckliss.''

Freddie feels his bladder giving way. He concentrates. Desperately.

Legs - jelly.

Face - ashen.

Skin - damp.

Knees - sinking.

Urine – dribbling.

Somewhere upstairs, a million miles from the kitchen, a light comes on, flooding the hall and the stairwell. A voice calls sharply. "Freddie! Is that you?"

The cold eyes behind the Donald Duck mask light up. He sniffs loudly. ''Ah smell pussy,'' he growls, ''Fresh pussy, warm pussy, young pussy.''

Freddie feels sick. "There're lots of people here tonight," he says faintly.

''Sister?''

Freddie fights a tide of vomit but nods almost involuntarily.

''Yum,'' says Donald Duck. ''Yum yum.''

''She's twelve,'' squeaks Freddie.

Donald grunts. ''Fancy a poke?'' he asks Mickey.

"Nah," says Mickey Mouse. "We got the loot." He flips the cord of Freddie's dressing-gown with the tip of the crowbar. "Give my regards to your mingy old mother."

Your mingy old mother.

A laugh bursts out,

an

hysterical

laugh

and

control

is

lost.

A steaming piss-puddle forms around the bare feet of the dressing-gowned boy.

The querulous voice shouts out again, this time about "all the noise".

It's his mingy old mother.

Donald Duck quacks a harsh laugh as he slides into the garden.

''We'll be back,'' he promises, ''Fer yer sister and mother.''

### *

"What's your name?" Cruikshank asks gently.

"A .... A ...." Clear the throat. It's full of phlegm. "A...Adam."

"Why are you here, Adam?" asks Cruikshank kindly.

Adam surveys the cream sea again. He can see Lucy now. She is next to the table, smiling, willing him, helping him. He runs his tongue-tip over dry, cracking lips. "I'm looking for my father," he says.

### *

They are legging it

across the lawn

through the darkness.

Valuables clink.

The sack is heavy.

Rick stumbles.

He staggers.

He lurches.

He falls

in a heap of ash,

the remains of a bonfire.

Ninja yells "C'mon" as he passes the summer house.

Rick staggers upright and brushes the ash from his face as he runs.

Animal guns the engine as all the house lights burst on together.

A searchlight beam floods the garden.

Ninja and Rick charge through the hedge and leap for the car.

Animal hammers his foot to the floor.

Squeal of tyres.

Scream of metal.

Screech of engine.

Scrunch of gears.

Smoke Rubber. Smell Noise.

And then the most rapid acceleration Rick can remember.

Presses.

Him.

Into.

The.

Back.

Seat.

Roof sways. Tree branches whirl.

"Wharrappened?" snaps Animal.

"Kid kem dahnstairs," says Ninja, flinging the Disney masks out of the window. "Pissed 'isself, though. Gev uz a chance ter geraht."

Animal hurls the steering wheel to the left. The car screams sideways. Ninja produces a black cardboard hat, pointed and covered with silver stars which he'd picked off the kitchen floor. He puts it on his head. "Trick or treat, hur hur."

### *

"You have found your Father!" Cruikshank declares. "God is your Father. You are His Son. For ever. And He will never desert you, never abandon you. Adam, my child, you have come home today!"

Cream-coloured faces. Sea of smiles. Cream-coloured teeth. Adam stares at them, lost, hypnotized, like a rabbit by a snake. A wave of pain sweeps through his head. He leans against Cruikshank. The sea of faces lurches and swells, the noise crashes inside the marquee, and then he is falling, drowning in a sea of faces, in a sea of fire. Lucy struggles to hold him but his body sags towards the planks. Tongues of ecstasy babble above him. Candles flare brightly. The people shout loudly

## Praise the Lord!

Adam collapses into Cruikshank's arms.

## 16. Demodocus

I slopped the mop over the beige tiles of the shower and chased the whirling water pools into the plughole. Saturday, yesterday, had been the first day I'd felt strong enough to get out of bed. My cough had almost cleared up, I was breathing more easily, my head wasn't swimming quite so often and my nose seemed to have stopped running. Dr Keen's drops seemed to have worked.

The Cruikshanks had looked after me well. They, Kenneth and Lucy and Mrs Humble, their housekeeper, lived in a rambling four-bedroomed terrace next to their church. They had put me up in the spare room, fed me and nursed me and kept me warm. The least I could do was offer to help round the hostel. Cruikshank had beamed with delight and put me under Mrs Humble's tutelage.

The hostel was actually the crypt of the Church of the Evangelical Pentecost of the Holy Lamb, a strikingly modernistic, octagonal building which stood out from the surrounding brick-terraces partly because of its unorthodox shape, partly because of its tall, narrow windows and partly because of a large sign on the wall crying

### THE SHIP IS SINKING.

### ARE YOU ON IT?

The interior was modelled on the once-popular "Theatre in the Round" concept, hard wooden seats arranged in concentric rings around a central altar. The crypt was a labyrinth of rooms, passages, staircases and offshoots from the main room, a large cellar containing long wooden tables and long wooden benches and a raised wooden platform at one end. It reminded me of a German beer-cellar I'd seen in a film. There was also a small, basic kitchenette and a small, simple office containing a telephone, an electric bar-fire, some comfy chairs and a beige filing cabinet crammed with pamphlets. Those covering secular matters such as benefit entitlement, housing allowances, legal and medical matters, marriage and relationship guidance jostled for prominence with those covering more sacred topics. Kenneth Cruikshank was devising a series of tracts outlining "What the Bible says" about drunkenness, smoking, drugs, fornication, homosexuality, redemption and charity. So far he had only completed the one on charity. It basically said "Give a lot of money to my Church."

The Advice Centre was staffed on a rota basis by Cruikshank, Lucy and two or three volunteers. A beige camp-bed in the corner provided the volunteer on night duty with somewhere to sleep. Beyond this there was a small chapel for private prayer, store cupboards crammed with packets of soup, tins of coffee, powdered milk, granulated sugar, beige-coloured biscuits, loafs of sliced bread and tiny tubs of butter, a cleaners' store cupboard jammed with shaggy-headed, beige-coloured mops, tin buckets, scouring powder, jay-cloths and gallons of disinfectant, and a four-sprinkler shower unit, all beige ceramic tiles and discoloured, grubby grouting.

The hostel provided shelter, a shower and food twice a day for the homeless and destitute. Lucy had plans to expand the range of services by acquiring a washing machine and tumble-dryer and was currently in negotiation with a charity called London Rescue for a grant. She also had a vision of providing basic literacy and numeracy training. She had already suggested that I help her develop this. Kenneth too seemed keen to involve me in the hostel's work. On Friday morning he had settled himself on the edge of my bed with his oily smiles, his moist, rubbing palms, and his treacly persuasion. He had smothered his hair in Brylcreem.

"My daughter is devoted to your welfare," he said. I caught the sickly scent of peppermint on his breath. "Before she returns, there are matters requiring urgent discussion. Ever since you entered our tent, drawn by the sound of voices in harmony, drawn by the Spirit to find inner peace, drawn by your need to be at one with yourself, ever since you gave yourself to the Father and collapsed in His sight, my only child has sat by your side..."

"I don't have much money," I began, "But...

"My dear boy," he oiled, "My dear, dear boy. It is not your money we want. Oh, no. If you had not been in our presence, you might well have died. And so in life. Without the Father's Love, you are spiritually dead, and, in the very near future, when the Father's Wrath will burn the world to a blackened cinder, you will be physically dead and dead for all eternity, unless you come out of the shadows of sin." He placed his hand on mine. It felt damp and greasy. "The ship is sinking, Adam, and you are on that ship. We can see you calling for help. We have thrown you a lifeline. Will you grasp that lifeline, or will you go down with the sinking ship, will you drown in the murky depths of sin and despair?"

I smelt the peppermint wafting towards me. "I'm a Christian already, I guess." I felt somewhat awkward making this admission. "I went to a cathedral school."

"That means very little." Cruikshank stroked my hand with the back of his finger. "Do you know Jesus personally? Do you talk to him as you would to a friend? I do, Adam. I've been talking to Jesus all my life."

"Well ..." I said, feeling embarrassed, "I used to pray every day."

"Good boy," said Cruikshank. "The Lord hears your prayers."

"He didn't hear mine," I grated, suddenly annoyed by his oily manner, his syrupy voice, his greasy fingers covering mine. "And if he did, he chose to ignore them." I glared at him. "I used to pray that he'd make my stepfather stop beating me up. I used to pray that he'd make my father come home. None of it happened. So I guess when I prayed that he would make my stepfather drop dead in the street, there wasn't really much of a chance of that happening either."

"The Father would not hear your prayers because He only listens to those who are Pure. The churches, the schools, they don't teach you properly. They want to keep you at a distance from the Father, keep the channel of communication firmly closed, in the hands of the few." He paused to allow his words to sink in. "All this kneeling on dusty hassocks in draughty old barns. All those boring old hymns, staid Victorian tunes and quaint Victorian sentiments. All that reverence, hushed voices, stifled coughing, people stiff with fear in starchy collars and furry hats.... Churches should be ringing with joy with young people in jeans dancing in aisles, flowers in their hair, not in their buttonholes..."

"The old hymns are impressive," I said dreamily, "And the buildings. The Cathedrals with their soaring arches ... the stained glass windows ... the silver ..." I suddenly felt a tide of nostalgia, a longing for home.

"Blinding people by appearance," said Cruikshank, "To the reality of their corruption." The treacle had hardened. "You don't need towering arches or fancy pictures to have a church. The church is the people. And you certainly don't need a load of vicars in their expensive, embroidered, gold-infused robes, or Bishops with their silver crooks and silver tongues and pointed mitres..."

"I was a choirboy," I murmured. "I loved the music. My Mum said I looked sweet." I was lost inside my memories now. Thank God for some good ones.

"Helloooo." Lucy bounded into the room, her blonde hair rain-wet, her cheeks glowing with healthy vitality, her button-nose bright. "Helloooo," she called, dumping a load of shopping bags on the bed and brushing the rainwater from her beige raincoat. I had given her my old address and asked her to let Kim know I was safe and coming home soon. I had also asked her to contact this G. Lycett in Pretoria Road. Lucy had laughed and called me a silly boy when I said it was in Saint Reatham. I felt an utter dickhead. Cheers, Rick.

The news had been bad. G. Lycett had turned out to be Gina. She had never heard of George. Nobody had. Lucy had telephoned all the numbers on my list and come up with nothing. She suggested trying the new occupants of his old house for a forwarding address. I grunted. My Dad wasn't the kind to leave a contact number. She had also been to see Kim and told her I was fine and coming home soon. The baby was fine and Rick was back. Dammit. Rick was back. That could make things very difficult.

"I got you some new things," she'd said, pulling from her bags with a conjuror's flourish an assortment of clothes from Marks and Spencer, Next and Debenham's, a couple of shirts, a new pair of jeans, four T-shirts, five pairs of socks, a black and white Adidas sweatshirt ...." I looked to see what sizes you took," she'd said, and blushed as five pairs of boxer shorts tumbled onto the bed. I'd fingered the Bugs Bunny motif on the shorts. What was I getting into here?

I worked the mop into the other corner of the shower unit's floor. What had happened to Kim? Why the hell had she taken Rick back? 'Cos I left her? 'Cos I'd gone to the Jesus in the Park rally? What if he was still hanging round with Ninja? What about my stuff, my books, my tapes, my clothes? I twisted the mop and watched the dirty beige water oozing out of the tangled strands. I was Kim's partner now, not Rick. I had looked after her and her baby. I had been a better father than Rick had ever been, even though I was only the substitute. I had been prepared to stick with them. All he'd done was nick my watch and beat her up. It wasn't fair. I gave the tap a short, sharp twist. A jet of hot water leapt from the outlet, chasing the remaining pools of cleaning fluid and dirty water down the drain.

A wave of men surged into the crypt. Grimy, tatty, unshaven, weary, these men trudged to the trestle on the platform where Lucy and a volunteer from the church were ladling lumpy, beige, mushroom soup into plastic mugs.

"You could help," Mrs Humble tugged her nose, "By handing out bread."

Lucy welcomed me with a warm smile and indicated a beige cardboard box filled with bread-rolls but I felt awkward as I pressed them into the filthy, blackened palms. Not a single person met my eyes.

The hostel was financed by donations from the congregation. The food was bought at cost-price. Each meal came to about thirty pence. "We don't accommodate," Lucy went on, "Partly because of security, but if someone's sick or elderly we allow them to stay. If it snows, we stay open all night."

"And spend the next morning cleaning up," sniffed Mrs Humble. "That's the trouble with soup kitchens." She twisted the tap on the large steel urn and poured herself a cup of steaming, stewed tea.

An old man marched briskly through the door. He had a maroon beret crammed over his thinning hair and a battered, paper poppy pinned to his dirty, beige mac. "Remembrance Sunday," he wheezed. The energy that had propelled him into the crypt seemed to have drained away and he leaned against the trestle to catch his breath. "Went to the Cenotaph to pay me respects."

"You could have come to our service this afternoon," said Lucy, leading him to a nearby seat, "Our service for peace."

"I will," he gasped, "But the Cenotaph ... the Queen and Prince Philip."

Remembrance Sunday. I had forgotten all about it. In towns and cities across the country, old soldiers with medals were marching behind their regimental colours to lay poppy wreaths at the base of concrete, name-inscribed monuments. I pictured the Cenotaph with its solemn inscription

### THE GLORIOUS

### DEAD

and Whitehall and all the statues, Haig on his horse in the centre of the road, some other old buffer behind him, and, lining the road opposite the Cabinet Office, Montgomery, Slim, Alanbrooke and a tiny Walter Raleigh.

I'd been to many Remembrance Sundays in my time, first as a choirboy straining to sing the solo in Ireland's anthem "Greater Love Hath No Man" and then of course as a Scout. Last year I'd carried the Union Flag at the head of a procession which wound through the cobbled Close past the tourists and the Great West Window, past the beige sandstone into the cool darkness of a Cathedral interior. I'd kept my eyes fixed on the beige shirt of the Venture Leader in front of me. The voices swelled in my memory

O Valiant hearts, who to your glory came,

Through dust of conflict and through battle flame;

Tranquil you lie, your knightly virtue proved,

Your memory hallowed in the land you loved.

Shining medals, fluttering flags, brassy buttons, polished boots, blood-red poppies, solemn silence, trumpet fanfares, the sobbing Last Post, the Binyon poem, funereal drum-taps, presenting arms, taking salutes, marching bands, The British Grenadiers, The Dambusters' March, Beethoven's Funeral March-

Hush, hush, and lower your head:

The Great British public remembers the dead.

I had felt an electric thrill of pride as I'd handed my country's flag to the Bishop for blessing and a thrill of pride as I'd stepped back between Jamie Marr and David Bell, the Flag Escorts, and taken my seat with the rest of the Scouts. I'd felt a prickle inside my nose as we sang the National Anthem with solemn verve and fiddled with my necker and the leather cup of the flag-holder and the strap which covered the badges and unit insignia on my Scout shirt. Remembrance Day and Patriotism and vowing to serve Great Britain meant something to all of us then, and I really believed that "Greater Love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends."

"I wouldn't do it again," said the old man, "No way."

"Was it that terrible, Joe?" Lucy murmured sympathetically.

Joe fixed a watery gaze on the middle distance. "There wouldn't be any point." He'd worked for thirty years in the shipyards of Liverpool and Plymouth, a welder then riveter. Thirty years of paying taxes, thirty years of union dues, thirty years of dutiful voting. "Didn't do no good. I still lost me job," he said. "You know what I fought for? Homes fit for heroes. Cradle-to-grave social welfare. A health service, prescriptions, eye tests, pensions, support when you're sick, protection at work, rights for workers, rights for the poor. And we had it. We built it. With our own hands. A country to be proud of. Then Murdoch and Maggie knocked it all to cock. An' they sat back and let her." He shook his head wearily. "No, I wouldn't fight for them now."

"I wouldn't fight," said the volunteer. "I'd go to prison first."

I was shocked, utterly shocked. "You'd stand by while your country was threatened?" I looked at Joe. "You fought for my, for our freedom!" I said.

"Freedom?" The volunteer laughed, "Freedom to do what? Live in a cardboard box? Sign on for hand-outs? Freeze to death in your own flat? Some freedom."

"Would you fight for your country?" Lucy asked quietly.

"Of course!" I was incensed. "It'd be my duty!"

"What about the country's duty to look after its people?" asked the volunteer. "Nothing for nothing, mate. If the Government wants you to fight for it, let it feed and clothe and shelter and care for everyone and not just the bankers, the fat-cats and the super-rich."

"Joe ...," I appealed to the veteran, "You know what I mean."

He finished his soup and set the cup on the floor with a tap. "I haven't seen you here before, son," he said to me. "What's your name?" I told him. "I'm seventy-eight, Adam. I served my country, got wounded, won the Military Cross. I can't heat my flat 'cos the VAT is crippling and I can barely feed myself on my pension. I come here for warmth and a bit of food."

"Military Cross." I was impressed. "Where did you serve?"

"Italy. Heard of Cassino?"

"The monastery? Sure." I sat down next to him. "The battle went on for days."

"Kiwis bore the brunt of it." He fixed me with his watery stare. "I can still hear the guns, you know. When it's very quiet and I'm lying awake in the dead of night."

He told me how he had dug a foxhole with a bayonet and scrabbled at the earth with his hands like a dog.

He told me how he and his comrades had sheltered and shivered in that hole for six days with only two tins of meat and a helmet of water, with shells screaming through the air and bullets zipping and zinging off rocks and boulders, with dust-clouds erupting every few minutes to blind them all with grit and soil.

He told me how his nose had run almost incessantly with black, liquid grime, of the dirt and dust which had stained his beige battledress.

He told me of the vicious hand-to-hand combat in the monastery courtyard, of splitting a German's nose with the edge of a shovel which he'd sharpened on a boulder for precisely that purpose.

He told me of the statues in the chapel, medieval carvings of saints and cardinals, defaced and defiled, noses smashed flat, eyes gouged out.

He told me of British soldiers pissing on prayer-books and German prisoners, Italian prisoners burned to death by the tongue of fire from a Canadian flame-thrower, of the pal blown up by a landmine, the right leg severed below the knee and hurled ten yards whilst the shoulders and innards whirled through the air, raining blood and gobbets of flesh over the soldiers nearby.

This was war. In its reality.

I asked him about his Military Cross. His platoon commander had been caught in a barbed-wire fence and he, Joe, had gone across the churned-up, mashed-up, ripped-up mud-scape to tug and yank him free. "Left scraps of skin, lumps of meat and his most of his nose behind," Joe said, "He screamed all the way but we got him home in the end. He recommended me for the MC." He rolled a cigarette between tar-beiged fingers. "I had to sell it to pay last year's gas bill."

Up on the platform, Cruikshank clapped his hands. "My dear, dear friends," he oozed, "A prayer and a song to give thanks to the Father for His bountiful provision of food and of shelter. Today is the day on which we remember the soldiers who fought and died in world wars. But today we are soldiers, soldiers of Christ, armoured in faith." Mrs Humble's nose nodded slowly. Lucy looked radiant. Joe was rapt. His cigarette fizzled out. I broke a beige Rich Tea in half and sucked on it like a child.

Cruikshank prayed for a vagrant who had been badly beaten in an attack in Holborn and had since lapsed into a coma. He prayed for Mrs Humble and, to my absolute horror, he prayed for me, that I might see the light. I squirmed and felt my face glowing. I crammed the second biscuit-half into my mouth.

Lucy strummed a couple of chords on her acoustic guitar and swept into

### Give me oil in my lamp, keep me burning,

### Give me oil in my lamp, I pray

A middle-aged vagrant, shabbily clothed, muttered something like "Adam'll put oil in your lamp any day, baby." I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle but I didn't look round.

### Sing Hosanna, sing hosanna, sing hosanna

### To the king of kings

Joe clapped his hands in time to the song whilst the vagrants mumbled, off-key, hoarse and guttural, so self-conscious and lacking in rhythm that it was probably a blessing that Cruikshank and Lucy and Holy Joe drowned them out.

"Come on, Adam." Lucy held out a tambourine. "You can help my rhythm."

The ripple of ribaldry provoked Cruikshank to frown. I felt immensely self-conscious, sitting on that platform timidly tapping that rattling tambourine.

As I showered later that day, I reflected that the problem with these Clap-Happy Christians was their lack of both humour and humility. And the problem with religion? My stepfather's Sunday worship would end in tears and blood - mine. I hope you will forgive me therefore if I am a touch sceptical about religion.

I peeled off my T-shirt, placed it on top of my jeans, trainers and socks on the office camp-bed. I supposed I had put up with the beatings because I thought my mother loved me. I couldn't find my father. Basically I'd had nowhere else to go.

I slipped off my boxers, wrapped my borrowed beige bath-towel round my waist and padded barefoot to the showers. I decided that, when I'd finished, I should wear some of the things Lucy had bought for me. The Bugs Bunny shorts, the T-shirt in a kind of biscuity colour and some soft, white socks awaited my return. Gyrating under the jet of hot water, revelling in water-on-skin for the first time in weeks, the water bounced off my shoulders and the shampoo I had borrowed from Lucy poured over my face in a frothy, soap-foamy cascade. My muscles eased, my tensions ebbed, all the sweats and sickness, the phlegms and the fluids flowed out of the pores and out of my nose. I wiped it with one soapy hand as I danced and splashed in the water. Something had been released. I felt like singing.

I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above,

I thought of Joe, who had fought for his country in the Second World War,

### Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love:

and had been awarded the Military Cross, buried in his armchair in his scarf and mittens, afraid to put the gas fire on because of the VAT.

The love that ask no questions, the love that stands the test,

I thought of Kim Cook and her baby and taking Rick back after what he had done

That lays upon the altar the dearest and the best,

because the rent had gone up and under-25s were no longer eligible for Housing Benefit and no employers had suitable crèches so she couldn't get a job and care for Holly....

### The love that never falters, the love that pays the price,

I thought of myself, fifteen years old, unemployed, stuck in a hostel with nowhere to go...

The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice.

And I thought of my stepfather, tucked up in front of a nice warm fire, having beaten me senseless more times than I had had communion.

Maybe, I thought, as I kicked the beige soap against the beige tiles, we ought to give more thought to the living than the dead, blew my nose into my forefinger and thumb and changed my tune-

### We shall overcome, we shall overcome, we shall overcome, one day

When my father had bathed me, when I was very young, he had invented a whole world beneath the bath, peopled with friendly trolls made out of slivers of soap, and fairies made from chunks of sponge, and gnomes made out of shampoo suds. There was the Talcum Knight and the Bath Crystal Dragon and a little boy called Adam explored this world with his Lego submarine every Sunday and Wednesday. I blew my nose into my forefinger and thumb and raised my face to the tumbling water. Life had been so much simpler then. Why did it have to be so difficult when you got older?

### Oh deep in my heart, I do believe

My eyes were smarting. I gripped the showerhead and rubbed them. The soapy water cascaded down the tiled unit wall and chased the soap towards the plughole. I stepped on it, curling my toes to hold it down, and remembered how, when I was a child, I used to put my heel over the plughole as the water swirled into the drain, feeling the pull of the suction, and imagining sometimes what it would be like to be sucked right down through the grid to the drains. I shut off the shower and stood for a moment kicking at the scummy puddle forming round the plughole before skipping away from the towels and smothering myself in Lucy's fluffy beige towel.

### That we shall overcome one day.

17. The Phaiakan Games

BILLY drew in a sharp, shallow breath. It was a cold afternoon. Liquid leaked into the tissue as he squirted thick, yellow mustard over his food, drowning the pale yellow onions which in turn buried the semi-hard hotdog. His eyes watered as he choked down a mouthful of hot sausage. The onions burned his chapped lips.

The crowd streamed in through Highbury's gates. He had merged with the people, swarmed with the people, become a single entity with a single mind, a single purpose, the crowd flowing together across the railway, down the hill, herded together like so many sheep through turnstiles and gates to Arsenal F.C.

Billy loved the Arsenal. The only real memories he retained of his father were centred on Highbury, coming to matches at six or seven years old, having a soft drink and sitting on his father's shoulders, bouncing around when Dad got excited. Dad had smelt of cigarettes and sweat and bonfires and cheap aftershave. They had been good years. Trophies, victories, great celebrations, Dad dancing him round the garden breathing the familiar, comforting smells of smoke and whisky into his face, flushed with the victories in Championships and Cups.

Then he had died.

Billy became a season-ticket holder. Every time he entered the stadium, he would stand for a moment in silent tribute to the father he'd lost. Every time Arsenal won, Billy would go to the grave with yellow flowers, sit on the grass and read The Pink 'Un match report to the silent earth and the chiselled stone. Then he would add the cutting carefully to his father's old scrapbook. Every so often, Billy looked at those cuttings. Some of them, from the '71 Double season, for instance, had yellowed with age. Billy would turn the pages reverently, but, if his mother called out, he would hide them away. It only upset her. Martin Land was just thirty-eight when the braking system on his lorry had failed and the ten-ton truck had torn through a crash barrier on the Al(M) to plunge through the concrete bulwark of a bridge into the River Trent. The company's drive towards cost-reduction had led to the regular programme of maintenance checks being "downsized". Billy's mother had gone to court. She had lost. It cost them the house and destroyed her health.

Billy finished his hotdog and tossed the stained napkin into a bin. He licked the juice from his fingers and assessed the queue at the tea-stand. This was his Saturday ritual, his Saturday treat, the football, a hotdog, a mug of strong tea. When he had money, he followed Arsenal all over London, to Palace, to Chelsea, to Tottenham. He'd been to Watford and, once, to Birmingham, for a match against Villa, but the best of his trips had been to the FA Cup Final against Sheffield Wednesday.

After Martin's death, Mr Mason, a kindly old neighbour, had taken Billy to matches, bought him hot pies and chocolate and yellow lemon-sherbet, encouraged his enthusiasm, smiled at his childish excitement, enjoyed the company of a surrogate grandson. Mr Mason had been in his eighties. He had seen Arsenal play in the 'thirties when their only rivals were Huddersfield Town. He had been to every home game in the '71 season, knew George Graham, knew Pat Rice, knew Terry Neill. It was Mr Mason who had got him into the FA Cup Final.

Mr Mason's was another grave Billy visited on his way home from matches.

Billy drew his Barbour more tightly round his yellow Arsenal shirt. Mother had been fretful. Although she was used to her son going out, especially on a Saturday afternoon, she was becoming whinier, more possessive, more demanding. This morning, as he had struggled to lift her out of her wheelchair and into the bath, she had clutched his shirt with skeletal fingers and wailed that she would drown if he left her. He never left her, never, but it had taken several minutes of patient reassurance to persuade her. Even then, as Billy had soaped her back with yellow Cold Tar and rinsed her off with the pale yellow sponge, she had flopped and shivered and failed to sit properly so that Billy had ended up soaked. He had towelled her dry, trying hard to be gentle, whilst she sat on the bathmat twisting the primrose tufts into tangles.

"I'll be off in a while," he had told her. At once, she had stopped her game and fixed her narrowed, cunning, foxy gaze on her son's rusty hair.

"Are you going to work?" she asked. The effort of speaking brought a string of saliva to Mrs Land's chin and a prickle of tears to Billy's eyes.

"Yes," he said, dusting her with talc. "Then I'm going to the football." He put the cap on the powder container. "It's Leeds."

"I'll be all on my own," said his mother, speaking with desperate difficulty.

"Mandy's going to sit with you," said Billy, starting to dress her.

"That ginger slapper," snorted Rose.

"She's good to you," said Billy.

"She hits me," whined Rose.

Billy knew this to be a lie. Mandy treated his mother like a queen. She was the only person he trusted to look after his mother while he was at work. Kim had done it once or twice but she wasn't so patient and little Holly needed so much attention, although Mum liked having the baby to play with. The deal he had struck meant he would have to mind Jodie and Craig again. Not that he minded. They weren't any trouble. Craig would simply stare at the TV from his very round eyes and not move until Mandy came home. Jodie would practise her feminine wiles and seduction techniques.

Billy smiled in spite of himself and in spite of the cold. They would play Monopoly, although last time Jodie had promised to swap him all the yellow cards (Leicester Square, Coventry Street, Piccadilly) for a flannel-kiss. He had declined. A flannel kiss was, apparently, one where both faces got thoroughly wet. Billy's considered opinion was that, if he wanted his face licked all over, he would go buy a dog. Jodie told her mother she fancied Billy. His rusty-red hair and his striking green eyes made him attractive. He knew this, but Mandy McCall also knew him and knew her daughter was safe in his care.

During the half-term holiday, he had looked after the kids for a day. Mandy had given him money for food, fares and a film and they had gone up to Camden Town. Jodie reckoned Craig's yellow T-shirt made him look like a buttercup and she kept calling him "Buttercup, buttercup" and screaming with laughter. The little boy merely stared at her.

They had emerged from the Underground and blinked in the sunlight. Billy knew the pubs, the Halfway House and farther down the road the Elephant's Head, a boisterous, rowdy, exciting place, and the Cobden Arms, where you could get Caffrey's on draught. He'd decided to start with lunch and took the kids down towards the yellow arches of McDonalds. They settled over their Cokes and fries and Billy darted in front of a grey-green No. 24 Hampstead Heath bus to feast his eyes on the CD Roms displayed in Game Station's window. He decided to buy one later, maybe yet another Football Management game. Then he wiped a yellow smear of mustard from Craig's face and took him off to the toilet whilst Jodie waited impatiently for her trip to the market. They loved Camden Market. Carried on a tide of shoppers and tourists up and down the aisles, they spotted the latest fashions, the trendiest garments, and soaked up the atmosphere. They didn't have much money but Billy had earned enough edging up the Cheatles' lawn to be able to treat Jodie to a pair of yellow platform-shoes and Craig to a Power Rangers T-shirt. Jodie had nagged at him to splash out on himself (for a change) but Billy had loads of clothes, yellow jeans, Adidas jackets, expensive Reebok trainers, but she was such a persistent little girl he had crumbled and bought a Chicago Bulls cap, a bag of lemon sherbets and a packet of Premier League soccer-star stickers. He had torn it open eagerly, hoping to find some Arsenal players. Bloody hell. Ian Wright. Another Ian Wright. To go with the poster on his bedroom wall. Ian Wright Overkill. Billy decided to buy another pack on his way home. The Premier League album on his bedside table was getting quite full, but he still hadn't got a Paul Merson.

They had traipsed up to Camden Lock and sat on a bench sucking lollies whilst people swarmed across the bridge or up and down the towpath. It had been a warm October day. A small boat had been coming through the first lock. Two lads had hand-cranked the sluice wheels to let the water rush out of the lock into the cut. Students, perhaps, like many of the bright young things rushing by. Billy had explained how the lock system worked, how the water-level was raised and lowered. Craig had stared spellbound, Jodie had stared in admiration.

"You don't half know a lot, Bill," she had said, twirling a curl round her fingertip. They finished their lollies and started on the lemon sherbets which made them thirsty so Billy had gone to get some more Pepsis. As he paused on the bridge to observe the boat negotiating its way into the lock, he had recognised one of the men. Billy had painted his fence. Their eyes met across the water. The client smiled, stepped down to the towpath.

"Who's that?" Jodie demanded.

"Someone I work for," said Billy. "Hi."

"Hi, Billy. Lovely day. Just on my way to view a property." The client was wearing a sunflower-patterned tie. "What you up to?"

"Babysitting," said Billy. "Neighbour's kids."

"Right." The man looked disappointed. "No chance of a quick one, then."

"Not really." Billy saw from the corner of his eye the prow of the boat nudging tentatively out through the huge wooden gates. "We're going to the pictures."

"Right. Can I get you a drink at least? Hooper's Hooch okay?"

"Sure," said Billy. He liked alcopops.

When the man returned, he persuaded Billy to come next week to clean the windows and tidy the leaves and squeezed his shoulder affectionately.

I've got a nice set of customers, Billy had reflected. They genuinely like me.

"Can I have some, Billy?" Jodie had poked him in the ribs. "Can I? Billy? Perleeeeezzze..."

"No," he'd said, taking a slug from the bottle. "Your Mum wouldn't like it."

"Mum's special friends let me drink," the little girl had announced. "And not that baby stuff. Proper cider and things. Mum's special friends are nice to me."

"Well, I'm not one of your Mum's special friends, am I?"

"Bet you are," said Jodie.

Bet I'm not, Billy had thought, scuffing the concrete with the sole of his foot.

She had sulked all the way to the cinema and called him a 'fairy-arsed fag' but ninety minutes at a holiday screening of The Lion King had replaced her resentment with thoughts of "Kings and Vagabonds" and Billy had thought about his mother.

Rose Land was forty-four, and dying. She had motor neurone disease. Her once yellow hair was a poor, faded grey and she was confined to a chair. Every morning Billy got her up, washed her and dressed her, and every evening he put her to bed. In between, he sat with her, talked to her, or arranged for someone to 'mother-sit' when he was working, but he always tried his best to be home in time to give her a good evening meal. He would kneel on the floor by the wheelchair spooning whatever he'd prepared into her mouth, a thick, yellow pea-soup or soft-boiled carrots and mashed potatoes, watching the dribbles, watching the spills, watching the poor, wasted muscles working to swallow, chatting softly, telling his mother about his day and the people he'd met.

Angela Keen, the young GP at Community Outreach popped in once a week to dispense advice and medicine. She kept a careful eye on Billy's health too. Once, in May, he had come down with 'flu. Everyone in the house had come down with 'flu. Kim from upstairs had just had her baby and was whining about cracked nipples whilst the terry-cloth nappies could never be dried and the baby's bottom was red-raw and sore. Jodie and Craig had some kind of bug and were flushing the toilet every half-hour. The house was in uproar. Mandy had taken on every patient, running from flat to flat, changing beds, heating drinks, feeding, comforting, changing nappies, soothing Kim, bathing Rose, and running herself ragged. Billy had sat in bed, his eyes streaming, his blankets tucked round him, sweating and burning, sneezing and snuffling, when Mandy arrived and perched on his bed.

"Eh, Bill. Yer look a fright."

"Th .... thanks.... tchoo." He dabbed his sore nose with a sopping-wet tissue.

Close yer eyes," said Mandy mischievously, "'N' open yer mouth." In spite of his aches and his shivers and sneezes, Billy experienced a slight disappointment when a metal thermometer slipped under his tongue. "Ah'll make yer some soup."

Then Mandy had got sick and Dr Keen had taken over. She had wrapped him in blankets, dosed him with lemon and honey, put him to bed and taken over the role of carer for the rest of the day. It had been a Sunday, her day off. In return, Billy painted her fence, screwed a plate to the surgery door, turned over the soil, swept up the yellowing leaves from the lawn, put some chicken wire over her pond. He liked Dr Keen. She knew he worked outside. She also knew of his second job, from the neighbours and the more indiscreet. One day, she had taken him into the surgery, asked him if what they had told her was true. In spite of his shame and squirming embarrassment, she had merely told him to be careful and given him powder, some cream and an HIV test. It had been negative.

The coldness from the hard plastic seat began to permeate his jeans. He burrowed further into his jacket, tugging the ski-hat, a gift from Mrs Hawker, over his ears. The stand was full. He surveyed the sea of faces. Some he recognised, most he did not. Every so often he bumped into clients. Some looked embarrassed, others looked hunted, the Hawker family had bought him a pie, one or two had begged him for business, but Billy's Saturday soccer was sacred, though once he had been with Lord Featherlehaugh. They had sat in the Directors' Box then gone up West for a Chinese dinner and a 'Show' to get some ideas. As Billy flicked through the programme, the great crowd rose to its feet, a one-minded beast roaring approval, howling endorsement, bawling support, directing its hatred towards the invaders, the men from the North, one tribe aligning itself to combat another in ritualised conflict. Leeds United's all-yellow kit seemed to glow as the soft autumn mist settled over the pitch. He lit a cigarette.

The players jogged out, clapping their hands. The crowd roared again. Billy stood up, his eyes searching for his favourite players, Ian Wright, Tony Adams and Merson, Paul Merson, men he admired beyond any others except his late father, because of their frailties, because of their failures, because they had had the courage to confront their demons when most men failed even to acknowledge their existence. They had the kind of courage Billy hoped he himself would have when it came to his turn to look in the mirror.

Within a minute, Arsenal scored. The net bulged as the ball struck home. Everyone leapt to their feet in excitement. A great swell of noise welled round the ground. The players congratulated each other. Leeds's stood stunned. Billy, unable to believe his eyes, stabbed at the air with his rolled-up programme and grinned widely at his fellow tribes-folk. The chant was joined. Moments later, a second goal came. Two-nil and Leeds were crumbling.

Billy sat down. The hard edge of his seat dug into his flesh. He grinned again. This time his mind wandered back to that 'Show'. He and Featherlehaugh had scuttled down a rain-lashed Rupert Street, avoiding the puddles, avoiding the calls and hissed invitations, hurrying on to a private party. The poster, a garish yellow with wobbly black lettering, had advertised BANANA SPLIT, a seedy below-stairs bar. Yellowing fly-paper hung from a smoke-yellowed ceiling and all the mirrors behind the counter were pitted and pocked. The crowd had been a swelling mass of flushed, sweaty faces, limp, lank moustaches, denims and leathers, the smells of maleness, another tribe, a gathering-together for another ritualised pastime, another spectator sport. But this crowd stood silent, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the small, raised stage, except when, every so often, a blink or a wink or a casual glance had been directed at him. He revelled in it and camply brushed his copper hair away from his eyes.

The performers had done some remarkable things with a bunch of inflatable yellow bananas. Erotic banana-based tableaux had been fashioned and dissolved in rapid succession, appetiser to the main course which at last provoked a vocal response from the insensate beast. A figure clad in a life-size banana-skin costume appeared through the plastic-bead curtain. A low growl ran round the room. The crowd was stirring, roused to consciousness. The banana tossed a dying cigarette into a glass of alcoholic lemonade where it fizzled angrily and began his performance. To a Take That medley, the banana peeled itself, suggestively, invitingly, teasingly, succulently...

The crowd clapped and whistled, jeering or cheering when the performer paused to fondle the cheek of one of their number with a banana-skinned hand. The men in the bar held their breath, never taking their eyes from the stage, watching intently, focussed relentlessly on the yellow skin, sliding, falling, flopping sideways, revealing the white flesh within, first a back and shoulders, then, through a split in the seam, a tempting flash of leg. Finally, to "Relight my Fire", a well-oiled, well-muscled young man wearing only buttock-tight, stud-adorned black leather shorts stepped from the slough of discarded skin which lay like a limp, yellow condom on the bare, splintered planks. The crowd howled approval.

Kicking the yellow banana away, the dancer moved on to dessert. He slow-danced round the stage, fellating suggestively a real banana, peeling and stripping, caressing and sucking, whilst the crowd dribbled and moaned and fell on each other. Then he slipped off his shorts to stand in a yellow, ball-cupping thong. The ice had been broken, the party begun. Featherlehaugh had pressed a glass of fizzy yellow lager into Billy's hand and tried to shield his boy from the eyes that stripped, the hands that pawed. Everyone had wanted to buy him a drink. Everyone had asked about him. Everyone had slurped and dribbled. Billy hadn't worked that night but he had made several contacts and met several of his more imaginative customers at Banana Split. Thanks to Lord Featherlehaugh.

Billy was fond of the Queer Peer. He'd been kind. Sure, he'd exploited him as much as any casual punter picked up at a bus-stop but he had also helped with odd-job contacts and introductions. He had been a driving force behind Billy's business, "Odd-Jobs and Blow-Jobs", one providing gardening and maintenance round Hampstead's old homes and the other sexual favours round Hampstead's old Heath.

Rose Land had fallen sick two or three years ago. Billy was eleven. He had resolved to get by. He had taken paper-rounds but had been unable to generate an income sufficient to cover medical expenditure. As Rose had deteriorated, he had taken the decision to emulate Mandy and earn mega-bucks. He had still been at school, only just twelve when he'd gone to King's Cross. He had worn his school uniform sensing by instinct rather than knowledge that men would pay big money to go with a schoolboy. Several shame-laden, guilt-ridden, fumbling encounters in dirty, dark corners had stripped away his inhibitions and uncertainties. Gradually he had acquired new skills. The stammering, muttered enquiries, the hesitant glances, even the blushing were replaced with confidence, firmness of purpose, a street-wise approach born of experience and of the knowledge that Billy Land was good at his job, at both of his jobs. Rose Land had a comfortable life. She was clothed and fed and dribbled soup on her blouse in front of EastEnders whilst men dribbled semen on her son's school sweater in cars, parks or toilets.

Algernon Featherlehaugh (pronounced 'Fewley') had been one of the first. He had arrived at King's Cross from a trip to Leeds and fallen instantly for the stunning young 'chicken' with the striking green eyes and the rust-coloured hair. Initially he'd engaged the boy for a series of quick, fumbling wanks in the back of his Bentley but later suggested Billy could make a living from his most marketable skills, his youth and his looks.

Featherlehaugh had proposed some modelling work at his Hampstead home. After an initial 'artistic' shoot, when Billy had been photographed in black-and-white under soft-focussed lighting in various nude and semi-nude poses, he had been paid excellent rates for modelling-

his football kit, blue and yellow socks rolled down to his ankles,

************

his school uniform, grey flannels, blue sweater, yellow striped tie

************

a Scout uniform, with blue/yellow neckerchief and drab green shirt,

************

bikers' gear, jacket and trousers in squeaky black leather,

************

a tight pair of bright yellow swimming trunks,

************

and had been photographed against various backgrounds-

standing in a muddy garden,

************

sitting at a desk lit by soft yellow candlelight,

************

straddling a gleaming chrome motorbike,

************

lounging across a wicker chaise longue,

and

emerging from a Jacuzzi.

Billy didn't mind. The sessions were fun. He never felt threatened, never felt pressured. In fact, it was a little like a game, a dressing (or undressing) game. Each shoot began with Billy downing a large gin-and-lemonade or an alcopop of his choice, dressing in whatever costume provided the theme and concluded, after a number of poses, with him lying naked on a rug whilst Featherlehaugh manipulated his equipment, breathing heavily, playing the voyeur. Most of the photos were for his private collection but one or two had found their way into a magazine and a couple of sets (the Scout uniform and the motorbike sets) had found their way to some of his friends in Parliament. The Duke of Somewhere-or-other had fallen madly in love with the motorbike photos and was badgering for an introduction.

Featherlehaugh arranged artistic soirées and was currently organising a Bolly and Nibbles supper for the Duke, one or two high court judges, the virulently moralistic editor of a tabloid newspaper, a City banker, a high-ranking general, a prominent, traditionalist Bishop and several Parliamentarians. During the course of the supper, Billy and a Spanish boy called Pépé who worked the Piccadilly beat would model their costumes, parading down a makeshift catwalk before the log fire, the eyes of the audience and the unblinking eye of the camera, then play together, wrestling nude on the sheepskin rug, before sixty-nining for the crowd. The evening would conclude with a game to determine which boy and which costume each guest got to play with. Unfortunately, Pépé was proving obstructive. He told Billy over a coffee in a café off Carnaby Street that he didn't want provocative pictures "getting into some pervert's grubby old hands". Billy suppressed a comment that Pépé didn't mind his body getting into such hands and merely reflected on his responsibility to persuade the young Andalusian to fall in with the plan.

Billy recalled this morning's session as the floodlights came on, the bright yellow glare softened by mid-Autumn mist. He had dressed in a World War II major's uniform. The cap was too big and the peak had kept falling over his eyes but the uniform suited him so much that he'd even fancied himself. He felt almost sorry for these men. He had so much sex appeal, and they were so romantic, believing he loved them in a way they had never experienced before. He exploited and abused them shamelessly, grooming them for sex, for money, for gifts. He didn't care. It paid the rent. He lit a cigarette.

Featherlehaugh had sighed and recalled his adjutant, a beautiful young man straight out of Cambridge, a man he had loved, a man who'd been killed in the heat of the Malaysian jungle, a man who had broken his heart, a man whose death had left a gaping great void only now being filled by young Land, who was parading in front of the mirror, adjusting the cap, examining the medal ribbons, touching the crowns and the badges of rank. Then Billy stripped slowly, teasingly, the camera recording every move through its unblinking eye. He had lain on the rug and played with himself to create an erection. Featherlehaugh had stroked him, kissed his nipples, kissed his navel, kissed his penis, kissed his hole, but really Featherlehaugh just liked watching. Seeing the stripped, erect teenager excited him greatly. He had gazed on those beautiful, wide, oval eyes, that wonderful hair, the gorgeous, flushed face, the half-open lips, the delicate skin, the soft, downy hairs on those long, slender legs, that beautiful, slender, willow-stick penis, the gently stroking hand, the colourless ribbons of thin, sticky boy-juice dribbling down to the sparse copper-wire hair.... the Queer Peer shuddered and came with a sob, drops of sperm dripping on Billy's pale chest. At half-past twelve, the final Saturday ritual had been enacted. Billy had collected his two hundred pounds and gone. Featherlehaugh, left alone, had collected the costumes and wiped up the juices.

An Arsenal corner drew Billy's attention back to the game. The ball veered away from the goal-line to be met by a firm header back towards the stranded 'keeper. Cheering, clapping, whistling, chanting, the mob roared its encouragement to the men dressed in costumes playing a game for the paying spectator.

Soft yellow floodlights filtered gently through the pitch-shrouding mist. Billy focussed his eyes, dug around for a pineapple chunk. He liked his job. He liked playing games. He liked being the centre of attention. He liked the modelling, he liked the clothes, he liked the photography sessions and he liked the pictures. He revelled in the knowledge that he had the power to stir and rouse, to awaken in men a force and a passion of which they were often unaware and almost always ashamed. He enjoyed bringing to the surface lusts and longings they would rather have buried. Having sex was incidental. He didn't mind it. Sometimes he liked it.

Billy had rules and all his clients knew them. He did blowjobs and hand-jobs and would bugger them if they wanted, and some did like being buggered by a boy, but he didn't do kinky, he didn't do kissing, at least not with tongues, and he didn't take it up the arse, although he let Featherlehaugh tongue-fuck him. He'd been buggered once, when he was just starting out and learning the game. He was twelve but he'd told the client he was ten so the client had paid him ₤500, but he hadn't enjoyed it. Someone behind him, out of sight, in control, made him uneasy. More to the point, he'd felt sore afterwards and a sudden, unexpected leaking of semen into his pants in the middle of Maths had made him uncomfortably wet.

Suddenly Arsenal scored a third goal. The crowd roared. Billy cursed. He had not been watching. At 3-0, had he lost interest? He dug around in his pocket for a lemon sherbet. The sweet was stuck to another packet of Soccer Stars. He tore it open and slid out the pictures. Bloody Stuart Pearce and another Teddy Sheringham. Then he grinned. He couldn't believe his eyes. At last! He'd got a Paul Merson!!! An Arsenal win to go top of the league, a job well done and another lined up, money well earned and stashed in the bank, and a Paul Merson sticker! It couldn't get much better than this.

He settled back to watch the rest of the game and wondered whether to call at the estate agent's Islington flat on his way home. He could earn £50 from a quick 69, bare-back and swallow, and get a drink. The estate agent usually had some wine in the fridge. He could buy some flowers for his father's grave, get some ciggies, get Mandy a little gift for the mother-minding... fifty quid. Hmmmm. Maybe. Maybe not. Mother would need her tea. He had mashed swede and carrot ready to reheat and some puréed apple with custard for pudding. Yum. He himself would probably grill a chop, oven-bake some croquettes, boil some peas, make some gravy, watch a film then Match of the Day. Or he could head down to PopStarz in Holborn, meet Pépé and Sid, a fifteen year old who worked out of Victoria Coach Station. He could drink Hooch and dance to the latest indie tunes. He could shut his eyes and snog some city boy or an off-duty copper or a student or anyone else who was only gay on a Saturday night. He could even, maybe, just for once, have sex for fun rather than money. Or he could have a quiet night in with his Mum.

The whistle blew for full-time. Billy stood to clap his heroes off the pitch. He noticed the gaze of a middle-aged moustachioed man resting on his package, saw the surreptitious wink, the tip of the tongue poke through the corner of the mouth, and sighed. A quick one in the bogs then, just to tide him over the weekend. And a quiet night in. Maybe.

The floodlights pierced the darkness and the fog smothered the grass.

18. Aiolus

A sudden gust of wind caught the corner of the poster Kenneth Cruikshank was attempting to fix to the billboard outside the Pentecostal Church and tried to tear it from his grip. Inside his dark green jacket, he hunched his shoulders and pressed the poster against his chest to subdue its struggles. Raising his eyes to the green cladding, he prayed for assistance in his battle with the Devil who, in the guise of the wind, was disrupting the proclamation that JESUS SAVES.

Inside the church, Mrs Humble snapped the green stalks of flowers and drove them down into a large green vase to penetrate the filmy surface of the water within. She had two vases to fill and stand on either side of the plain wooden cross that occupied the centre of the altar table. She gave her cloth a short, sharp squeeze and swept away a small puddle of spilled water.

The Peace Service had been a great success. Mrs Humble still felt moved a week later and the congregation still seemed inspired. The church had been full, all two hundred seats occupied with many others squatting in aisles, perching on window sills, sprawling on dark green cushions round the altar. Lucy gave a wonderfully stirring guitar accompaniment, the volunteer had bashed out tunes on the piano and even That Boy had rattled the tambourine with more gusto than usual.

After many (many) verses of "My God is a Strong God" and "Make Me a Channel of Your Peace" and "Shine, Jesus, Shine", the Reverend had delivered his sermon on war and peace. He had covered the evils of abortion, the perils of contraception, the wickedness of co-habitation, the depravity of homosexuality and the satanic rites of divorce. He had concluded that war arose when the world was in conflict not with itself but with the Father's rules. Then he had moved into his traditional attack on the United Nations, an instrument of Satan which appeased tyrants, Muslims, Jews and other terrorist groups, and then the little children went unto the Reverend with wreaths of green leaves. The congregation had hummed "Foot-soldiers of the Father". The Reverend patted each tiny shoulder and placed the wreaths on the altar as a token of peace.

Mrs Humble, a one-time psychiatric care-assistant, had come to the Church late. Lost, confused and grieving when Mr Humble had surrendered in his three-year battle against Satan in the form of stomach cancer and had passed on to the Kingdom Beyond Our Comprehension, she had fled the world of psychiatric care to seek refuge in the bosom of the Church. The forty-eight year old widow had raged and wept until Kenneth Cruikshank had refocused her rage on the true target, SIN. Gradually it had become clear that the pain her husband had suffered had been the outward symptom of a terrible internal struggle for possession of his soul between the Devil and God. She had been a witness to this struggle, to the pain and the suffering that she might know and fear the strength of Satan and prepare herself for the fight yet to come. Emotionally charged and spiritually secure, Mrs Humble had dedicated her life to serving the Reverend as his housekeeper.

The wind buffeted the tall narrow windows of the church. Mrs Humble returned to her task and turned her spectacles towards that part of the building where That Boy was polishing the songbook cupboards with a duster. He had done several stints in the office and helped Lucy with the Literacy Programme. He even seemed to be coming around to the ways of worship at the Pentecostal Church. During one service, he had helped the Reverend baptize a new family into the faith. The Father and mother, shiny, happy people in their thirties, two little daughters and a son had all held hands whilst, clad in white baptismal shifts, they had knelt together in the pool as the Reverend poured water over each head, murmured his blessing, immersed them singly, one after the other. That Boy, barelegged and waist-high in warm water, had helped Lucy with the immersions, supporting the candidates' shoulders. But his little-boy-lost looks did not speak of innocence to Mrs Humble, oh no. All boys were wicked deep-down inside.

The church door opened, allowing the wind to chase a couple of song-sheets across the green carpet. Cruikshank, in his dark green wax-jacket, fought to close the door whilst Adam stooped to catch the papers. The Reverend beamed his thanks but Adam turned away and flicked the cupboard with the corner of his duster. His face was troubled. When Mrs Humble asked the Reverend if everything was well, he merely said in a tone of disappointment that "boys will be boys". Outside in the street, the wind strengthened, tossing the litter into the road and occasionally flinging a can against the dark green wall of the church.

Adam was uncomfortable. It wasn't anything he could firmly identify, just a creeping unease. He had decided that, after his illness, he needed to get fit, so he had begun a daily round of stretching exercises, press-ups and sit-ups. The press-ups had been a strain. The recent pneumonia still lurked in his chest and the sweat stood out all over his face and shoulders. He shuddered to a halt at twelve, gasped, slipped off his T-shirt and wiped his face with it. Then he had tucked his feet under the bed and begun a struggle with the sit-ups.

Cruikshank had entered as Adam was sweating again, a jagged pain sharp in his chest. He sat with hunched shoulders, his chest heaving, breathing heavily.

"You're sweating," Cruikshank observed.

Adam gasped something incoherent, then froze. Cruikshank had touched his shoulder, tracing a slow, deliberate line through the film of perspiration to the mole on his left shoulder-blade, then further down to the base of his spine and the dark green waistband of his boxers.

"You don't need to build yourself up. You're fine as you are." Cruikshank's breath had stirred his hair.

"I only weigh seven stone," Adam had told him.

"Still..." Cruikshank placed his hands on Adam's shoulders. "You feel quite solid."

"I'm all bone," said Adam, wishing he'd never removed his T-shirt in the first place, or, better still, not done the sit-ups. He'd shivered and twisted away. He'd felt like a piece of meat in a market, and now, in the church, running the duster over the window sill and bathed in the pale green light cast through the tall, narrow windows, he could feel Cruikshank watching him and again felt uncomfortable.

He switched his mind to other matters. He wondered how Kim and Rick were coping, whether Flint had reduced the rent, whether she'd managed to convince the council they couldn't find cheaper accommodation, whether he should call round and get his stuff...maybe Billy or Mandy could get it for him, or Dr Keen. She might go. But he wanted to see Kim. He missed her badly.

The last walk they had taken together along the towpath of Regent's Canal had been blighted by the twin shadows of Flint's final demands and Adam's creeping pneumonia. He had coughed several times and been forced to rest on a bench facing the green sign of a BP garage. Kim had sat beside him, her arm round his shoulders. " 'S okay, Adi," she'd said. But they'd both known that he would have to stop working sooner or later. Struggling into the garage was becoming too difficult. He had to take the bus despite the cost because he could no longer manage the journey on foot. He had to pause for breath every few minutes. Each fit of coughing shook him so severely his head reeled. Each great lump of green phlegm he spat into his tissues made him feel sick. He only kept going because there was no sick-pay, and no pay meant no rent and no rent meant bailiffs. He had buried his head in the hollow of Kim's shoulder and stared at the sluggish green water of the canal. "'S okay, Adi," she murmured, "We'll get by." She had scuffed at some sad little weeds sprouting from the crumbling tarmac and held him tightly.

"When I get a job," he said, "An' some money," He coughed violently, "We'll start saving. For the future. We.... we could get married. I'd like to ...," He coughed again.

The three scruffy kids were fishing again in the dull canal, their nylon lines submerged in the murky green waters. Their shoulders rested against the cracked wall, their trainered feet swung gently, their broken fingernails and dirty hands twitched on the reels. Overhead, above the twin skeletal gasometers, a 'plane circled Telecom Tower and made its approach to Heathrow Airport. The kids eyed them warily and paused in their gum-chewing to spit at a slimy rat which crawled from a hole in the concrete. Kim and Adam had cuddled each other against the autumn chill and worried about the future.

The wind drove against the panes of green glass. Adam's mind returned to the empty chapel. He reached up to rub at a greasy patch with his duster. He felt Cruikshank watching him.

"When you've finished there," Mrs Humble called sharply, "You can restack the hassocks and sort out the songbooks. I have to make a start on lunch for Lucy." She too had seen how Cruikshank watched The Boy. She had seen it before.

Lucy was bustling along the pavement, the stiffening wind tugging at the fringes of her long, green skirt and grabbing at her swinging, leather shoulder-bag. The wind hurled dust up into her eyes and made her blink. She was going to be late for the Visitors but she smiled as she rounded the corner and saw that her father had succeeded in pasting the JESUS SAVES slogan to the billboard. She was already devising the next poster, for Advent. It would say CHRIST IS NOT JUST FOR CHRISTMAS.

The wind seized some loose strands of hair and flung them across her face. She curled the strands round her forefinger and poked them back under her woolly hat. She decided she would take the visitors from London Rescue round the crypt first and discuss the literacy programme over lunch. That was her particular interest. Not that the actual hostel, the soup kitchens or the advisory centre were less of a priority. Far from it. But the Literacy and Numeracy Programme had been her creation, her 'baby'. She taught basic numeracy and writing and now that she had Adam for the reading strand, she would be able to really expand the Outreach aspect of the mission and that in turn would add more substance to her application to work with Africa Aid. Adam was a good teacher. He was patient and encouraging, listening with respect to the often halting, sometimes broken, occasionally painful attempts of the vagrants to form letters and match sounds. Consequently Lucy had decided to pay him a small salary, London Rescue's grant permitting. It wouldn't be much, a token payment really, but it would enable him to feel a little less dependent on the kindness of strangers. Together they made a good team, an attractive team. Several people had said so. Mrs Humble had warned her with a dark "I know teenagers" that Adam had "feelings" for her. Maybe he had. Lucy didn't know. She liked him a lot but he was three years younger than her. And he wasn't one of the Chosen, at least, not yet.

She skipped down the steps into the hostel. Singing a jaunty version of "Oh Happy Day!" she pushed open the door to the kitchen. Lunch was ready. A bowl of chunky bread rolls and four plates of fish and salad waited on the table. The salad was very green and rather swamped the herrings which were drowning in wine vinegar. Limp, flat-leafed lettuce, wrinkled out-of-season cucumber, flat, green watercress, a couple of green spring-onions with bulbous white heads, some quartered tomatoes for splashes of colour... It would have to do, she sighed.

Cruikshank was watching Adam, who was crossing the church, half a dozen hand-embroidered dark green kneelers cradled against his chest.

"You have done very well," the preacher observed.

"I'm only tidying things." Adam piled the kneelers in front of the cupboard.

"No," said Cruikshank, "I meant generally. The people like you. They find you sympathetic. They find you a Listener. They find you a sensitive teacher."

"I enjoy it," said Adam, "Hearing them read. It's... rewarding."

"Splendid." Cruikshank moved across the church to where Adam was shuffling song-sheets. "You know that Lucy is meeting some people from London Rescue to try to secure a grant for the educational programme. There's a judge, a former social security minister and a local novelist whose husband is a prominent lawyer. Well, she tells me that if she gets the money, she will be able to pay you for your work. It won't be much, but still..." The preacher dropped his hand on to Adam's left shoulder. ''You can be earning, and when Lucy goes to Africa, who knows? You might take over the programme from her. I'm sure London Rescue would rather have someone we know in charge.''

Adam fixed his eyes on the words printed on the uppermost sheet:

### Give yourself to the Father.

"We have all grown very fond of you," said Cruikshank, massaging his shoulder. "Lucy is fond of you. I am fond of you, very fond indeed." Adam's throat was scratchily dry and his heart was beginning to thump. He heard the wind outside tearing at the cladding, tearing at the poster, tearing at the billboard, grumbling and rumbling its way round the building. ''Very fond.''

''Good morning, Mr Cruikshank,'' called a voice from the door. The Visitors had arrived. Letting Adam go, Cruikshank strode through the church, outstretched hand and beaming smile signalling 'welcome', enthusing, effusing, oiling and smarming whilst Mrs Humble flapped her duster and shooed Adam away to the kitchen.

''Make yourself useful,'' she hissed, ''And make some tea.''

What the hell was going on? Adam banged his head against a cupboard door. So Cruikshank fancied him? Was that why he had taken him in? Because he fancied him? But he was a preacher. He said gayness was wrong. He said it in his sermons. But he fancied him, he wanted to..... oh God. Cruikshank was after him and was going to make his move. He banged his head on the door again, and once again.

''Adam?'' Lucy stood uncertainly in the doorway with the Visitors.

At lunch, Adam poked at the limp lettuce with little enthusiasm and kept his eyes downcast whilst Cruikshank and Lucy gushingly outlined their plans for the hostel and Mrs Humble glowered at him and the well-spoken, elegant woman in the emerald dress who had been introduced as Mrs Hawker, asked questions about the literacy programme.

''This is what Adam does,'' Lucy explained. ''He is one of our volunteers.''

''He was lost and sick,'' Cruikshank continued, ''And the Lord brought him to us so we could heal him.'' He beamed at Adam. ''All we ask is he surrender himself heart and soul to the Father and let His Love in.''

''What about his education?'' asked Mrs Hawker. ''Should he not be at school, or at home with his family?''

''Oh,'' said Cruikshank, ''He is serving the Lord and helping his neighbour, and we are his family now.'' He patted Adam's hand.

The elderly man who had been introduced as Lord Featherlehaugh smiled. ''And is he a good boy, Kenneth? Does he do as he is told?''

''Oh yes,'' said Cruikshank.

''No need for... ah... correction?'' Featherlehaugh half-winked at Adam.

Cruikshank paused, seemingly uncertain of the answer expected.

''Perhaps Lucy might show Mrs Hawker the reading books you use,'' said Featherlehaugh, ''While we men talk, eh?'' Adam got up to leave but Featherlehaugh smiled, half-winked again. ''Remember Mozambique, Kenneth? Great days.'' Cruikshank seemed uncomfortable.

''That black boy...,'' said Featherlehaugh.

''Mboto,'' said Cruikshank.

''Like a dog on heat,'' chuckled Featherlehaugh. ''Mouth like a Dyson.''

''Never saw the appeal myself,'' said Cruikshank.

''Come on, Kenny,'' said Featherlehaugh. ''Oxford. Sebastian Spencer. Little Paulie. Doggy Donald. Great guys. Great days. I miss that old boathouse.''

''You were our coach,'' said Cruikshank.

''Indeed,'' said Featherlehaugh, ''And I taught you everything I knew. Honestly, you were such a lot of hothouse flowers.'' He finished his tea. ''Your new boy. He's a bit of a slummy yummy but he's got a nice arse. His hair is like tar and his eyes are like coal. He'll do well out at Kilburn or Maida Vale. Set him up in a little flat, like we did that other one, Kelvin...''

''Kevin,'' said Cruikshank.

''Yes,'' said Featherlehaugh, ''Kelvin.''

''He might not be interested,'' said Cruikshank.

Featherlehaugh laughed. ''Everyone's interested, for the right price. I learned a long time ago you can rent any arsehole you want.'' He pushed back the chair. ''If you're so concerned, test him out. Better catch up with the tour, eh?'' He patted Cruikshank's shoulder. ''Don't fret, Kenny. What is he to you? Another street-kid available for hire.''

Adam was polishing the brass cross on the altar. He smelt of Duraglit.

Cruikshank seemed uneasy as he laid a hand on Adam's shoulder, massaging gently with his strong, steel-trap fingers. ''I need something from you,'' he said softly.

Adam felt the preacher's breath warm on his ear. ''I'm not interested,'' he grunted.

"You do want to please me, don't you?" said Cruikshank. "After all, we have given you shelter, given you love ..." He slipped his hand under the sweater, under the T- shirt. "You are a good boy, Adam." He traced the line of a rib then brushed over a nipple. Adam's head lolled against Cruikshank's shoulder. He clutched the brass crucifix against his chest. The waxy smell from the dark green jacket made his head reel. "Surrender yourself," sighed the preacher. "Surrender to me."

Adam was weakening. He closed his eyes as Cruikshank's hand dropped down to his stomach. He held the crucifix more tightly. Cruikshank's left hand pressed against Adam's thigh.

"Leave me alone." His voice was a croak, his throat sandy dry. ''I'm not gay....''

''But you are hot,'' murmured Cruikshank, ''So hot, and I want you.....'' He moved against Adam's buttocks. "Surrender yourself," he whispered. His hand slid inside Adam's jeans, past the waistband, past the buttons, into the boxers. Adam felt the preacher pushing against his buttocks, rubbing, pushing, pressing, touching, groin against buttocks... Cruikshank's fingers brushed his pubes. Slowly the crucifix slipped through his fingers, clattered on the floor. His shoulders slumped against Cruikshank's chest. Cruikshank's fingers gripped his cock......Cruikshank's fingers cupped his balls........

''Adam.... I love you,'' the preacher breathed in his ear. Adam tried to break loose. "I need you," Cruikshank said pleadingly. "I need you so much. I'm tired of being alone." He thrust his groin against Adam again. "I've been alone for so long now..."

"I'm not... interested!" Adam wrenched himself free. His elbow knocked over one of the vases. Flowers and water spilled over the carpet. "I'm sorry. I'm... sorry." He ran out of the Church into the street. He accidentally kicked the fallen crucifix as he went. It skidded under the Altar.

In the frozen stillness of the moment Mrs Humble made a decision and entered the kitchen. ''Fifty pounds has been taken from the office tin," she said bluntly.

"Fifty pounds?" gasped Lucy. "Does my father know?"

"Not yet," said Mrs Humble. "I didn't want to worry him with the Visitors here."

"Have you looked in the office?" said Lucy, "Under the table? On the floor? In all the cupboards?"

Mrs Humble nodded dolefully. "It must have been stolen," she said.

"Now, Mrs Humble," said Lucy, "We shouldn't jump to conclusions."

A quick search turned up the money in Adam's room. It was concealed inside The Voyage of the 'Dawntreader'. Lucy looked shattered. Her shoulders slumped. "If he wanted money, he only had to ask," she said despondently.

"I knew he was up to no good," said Mrs Humble triumphantly. "It doesn't pay to take in these waifs and strays from the streets. That's the fourth to rob us this year."

"I thought he was different," Lucy said quietly.

"You always do, dear." Mrs Humble folded the girl against her chest and patted a shoulder. "You've a trusting nature. And better that than a doubting one."

When Adam returned he merely looked at the money and said "I didn't take it."

Cruikshank said nothing.

"I didn't take it," Adam repeated.

Cruikshank said nothing. His eyes were sad.

"I think you'd better go," Mrs Humble said quietly.

Adam's shoulders slumped. "I'll get my things," he said.

Cruikshank remained at the table. Still he said nothing. Outside, the wind hammered the windows and howled in frustration as it raged against the billboard.

19. Hades

### IN LOVING MEMORY

### OF A DEAR SON

WE are the Shadow People. We are Unseen. We are Invisible. We are the Dispossessed. But we are still People.

Walking feet, walking past.

Shoed. Booted. Trainered. Feet.

Walking.

Past.

black shoes, brown shoes, grey shoes, red shoes,

shoes with buckles, shoes with laces,

high heels, low heels, sling-backs, broken backs,

thigh boots, ankle boots, scuffed boots, polished boots,

Cat boots, Doc boots, Kicker boots, Para boots

Adidas, Reebok, Converse, Nike

black and grey and purple and white,

three stripes, one stripe, no stripes, stars

always rushing, hurrying past

Sometimes you glance as you hurry along, occasionally curious, sometimes compassionate, usually contemptuous. More often, you stare through me, past me, over me, staring at nothing. You pretend you don't see me, pretend you don't hear me, pretend I'm not there; crouched in my Shadow, I am non-existent.

And I don't exist, not in your world. In your world, I am a Shadow. I am the one you don't wish to see.

I sit on the steps. The cold of the concrete worms into my skin, burrows through my clothes to my bones as I chant the Beggar's Refrain:-

\- Can you spare any change for a cup of tea?

\- Can you spare any change for a cup of tea?

\- Can you spare any change for a cup of tea?

\- Can you spare any change?

\- For a cup of a tea?

My clothes are tattered, my trainers are splitting and letting in water, my socks are damp, my face is grimy, my hands are filthy, my hair hangs in strands. The fog clings to my body. I am cast in the shadows.

I am lucky. I haven't been on the streets for long, just a matter of days. It is very cold and the benches are hard and the frost covers you over but I at least have a good sleeping bag, a blanket, a thick coat and a hat. I find a doorway or a bench and huddle down. My guts churn all night. I rarely go to sleep. I don't dare to.

The first night was bad. I spent most of it walking, just walking. I didn't have the courage to stop. During the day, I had passed the great chimneys of Battersea Power Station and wondered where the Dogs' Home was, wondered why they were warmer than me, better fed than me, better housed.

I trudged across the bridge. The Thames oozed beneath me, a colourless, featureless slab. The tide was out, the mud slopped up in layers against the crumbling stonework of the Embankment. I stood on the bridge and watched a boat struggling through the colourless water, churning up mud, chugging through sludge, sending out currents to slap at the slime. A December fog was beginning to ghost the furthest buildings enveloping London in its suffocating gloom.

I had had no pre-determined destination when I'd fled from the church. I was too scared to go to the flat in case I met Rick and/or Ninja. I didn't want to sleep in the street but, until I got a job, it would have to do.

I wandered along the Embankment with the river on my right. I had only a vague idea of where I was. Someone had told me that Knightsbridge and Kensington were up to my left. Knightsbridge! Kensington! Dressed like this? I didn't think so. I felt that if I deviated, left the course of the river, plunged off into the streets, I would end up hopelessly lost. My A-Z was on the desk in Cruikshank's office. I decided the best option was to press on along the Embankment until I came to a landmark from which I could take my bearings.

The fog swirled off the river, shrouding everything in a colourless mist and, as the night closed in, even the bright coloured lights hanging from the skeletal trees were blotted out. My feet hurt, my bladder ached, I was desperately hungry but I couldn't stop walking. London was dangerous. I didn't feel comfortable, didn't know my way round. I had read terrible stories of violence and robbery and murder and rape and knew that if I did stop it would have to be in a quiet, deserted area where I might be safe. But worse, and I think it was this that drove me onwards, was the feeling that if I sat down and got out my blanket, I would be admitting that I had nowhere else to go, admitting that I was homeless.

I walked until my legs gave way. I was so tired I could barely find the strength to drag my sleeping bag and blanket out of my rucksack. I didn't sleep. It was too cold and the ground was too hard. I rested my eyes, rested my head, fell asleep for maybe an hour or so then, at six-thirty, a janitor chased me away.

The second night was, if anything, worse. This time I knew I was homeless. This time I sought out a doorway. This time I withdrew into the shadows. This time it was real. I only coped by approaching it as an adventure.

Thus, by the third night, the humiliation, the self-pity, the feelings of shame were beginning to fade. If you let them rule your mind, dominate your thinking, you've had it. You need food. You need money. You need charity. And if you want to swallow bread, you have to swallow your pride. Even then the fear, apprehension and insecurity remain. Those feelings never really leave you. It isn't just the weather, the hunger, the fear and the sense that the people who bustle past you with their carrier bags from Harrods and Fortnum's and Hamley's regard you as something subhuman. There is also the boredom.

I had never considered the boredom before. You don't, do you? But when you're living rough, there is nothing to do. There's nowhere to go. No work to do. No garden to tend. No telly to watch. No house to furnish. Nothing to do. Except sit and stare.

There's an old Blues song, "Nobody knows you when you're down and out", that sums it up. You don't exist any more. You become a colourless shadow, a part of the colour-drained, hue-leeching fog that swirls and drifts through the city streets.

I am sitting on the steps of the Queen Victoria Monument facing Buckingham Palace. This is my latest landmark, this monument to a dead sovereign standing guard over her city. Queen Victoria, dead these one hundred years, is less than a shadow even in memory. Victoria is dead. So is her time. But Victorian Values live on...

I shift the fog from my throat. Colourless spittle bubbles on the pavement.

Buckingham Palace. Very nice. I wonder if the Royal Family ever looks out of their windows. Do they see the shadow-people, those who have nothing? I read somewhere that the Queen worries about poverty, homelessness and destitution. Well what's she gonna do about it? We have been made destitute. By her Governments. In Her Name.

Bugger. There's a Plod coming this way. I bundle my blanket into my rucksack.

There is one place I know, where all the other broken people go. I set off again.

### IN LOVING MEMORY

### OF A DEAR SON

### *

Fingers of grass, chilled rigid, reach out from frost-marbled gravel-beds

stark black fences nailed to iron earth

row upon row of granite and marble, black and grey, lettering fading, effigies breaking, outlines shading, vaults crumbling-

Shrouded in fog, the cemetery is cold.

I blow on my chilled fingertips and thrust them into my overcoat pocket. I used to be frightened of graveyards. Those faceless headstones, chiselled words, drooping flowers, shadows, darkness, the Unknown, the Beyond-Human-Understanding of Death. But as I grew older, I learned that Death is merely an inevitable fact of human experience and that graveyards are merely repositories for bones. I also learned that it is not the Dead but the Living who cause havoc and hurt.

The headstones reveal the drama of the Final Cut. Fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, children, "taken from us", "untimely ripped", "fell asleep", leaving behind the "Forever Mourning", monuments to the Past in the home of the Dead.

I had explored earlier, squinting through the fog at the chiselled names and fading inscriptions. One of the stones belonged to Dickens' old schoolmaster from some long demolished establishment in Hampstead Road. I grunted. Next to it was the monument to some geezer called

William Godwin,

Author (apparently) of Political Justice.

We could do with a book about Political Justice today, and a visionary to publish it rather than the likes of The Gardeners' Touch. Once upon a time, books changed the world. Now they keep it cosy and warm.

Within a tiny circular hedge, tightly circling a gnarled old tree, stood a series of old stones in tightly packed concentric rings. Like Dante's Inferno. I look at the broken-off tree branch. I had had to push it aside when I entered the graveyard, passing the sentinel blocks of chipped, flaking bricks. I'd let it go and it had whipped back across my cheek, making it smart. I rub at it ruefully. I've had worse after all. The frost and the fog had made the branch brittle. I reached up and tore it away from the trunk. A kind of colourless sap oozed from the wound. I pick at the bark with my fingernails until crunching gravel disturbs me. It's Roddy. He's accompanied by a scrawny brown dog called Jasper.

"A'right?" I say. Roddy's a mate. He and some of the others look out for me because I'm a kid. Jasper dribbles a colourless stream of steaming liquid over a headstone. It spatters on a transparent cellophane wrapper containing flowers. "How yer doin'?"

He tugs at his thin, threadbare scarf. "Blisters are burstin'. I walked six miles today." He perches on the steps of the war memorial. Jasper approaches for an ear-scratching. He's thin, his ribs are showing, he's got a coat like a yard-brush but he's a friendly dog. I scratch his ears and blow on his cold, twitching nose.

Roddy lights a cigarette. "Some kid give me a couple of ciggies," he says. I draw in the smoke gratefully. We tend to share things like ciggies and food 'cos we're all in the same boat. It was Roddy who had ferried me into the graveyard three nights ago. He found me sleeping in the doorway of a bookshop in The Strand and told me he knew somewhere safer where there were several people like us and everyone looked out for each other. "It's a regular community," he had told me, "A bit of a family."

He had once managed a printing firm. He'd employed six people. He went to work in a three-piece suit. The business went bust. Six people were sacked. The receivers seized all the equipment, the computers, the paper, even the ink, and handed all those assets over to other receivers to repay the bank's Small Business Loan. The Government abolished housing benefit for home-owners. Roddy's house was repossessed. He wishes he had burned it down, done an insurance job. He would have gone to prison but at least it's warm in prison. His wife walked out and took the kids. Roddy learned that only bankers win in a market economy.

Roddy plays the banjo. He busks in tube stations and outside McDonald's. I was with him one day in Leicester Square. People were dancing and children were jigging and giving him money and a young girl had come out with two cups of hot chocolate and some water for Jasper. There is kindness sometimes, but when he does his Billy Bragg medley

The Party that became so powerful by sinking foreign boats

Is dreaming up new promises, 'cos promises win votes

the police turn up to move him along.

Jasper's head jerks up, the ears stiffen, the nose bristles, his button-eyes brighten. A shapeless shadow is lurching towards us through the fog. "Oh, shit," says Roddy, "It's Crazy Mary."

She is tied into a drab raincoat. Her stockings are laddered and loose-fitting. Her hat is battered beyond semblance of shape. She hugs a capacious Carlton Shopper to her shrunken breast. She's in her sixties, a raddled, addled alcoholic who smells of urine and surgical spirit.

"Hiya, Mary," says Roddy.

"Piss off," she replies.

"It's us," responds Roddy.

A glistening, colourless globule of spit lands on my arm. "Bloody hell, Mary."

She lashes out with her Carlton Shopper. I raise my rucksack to ward it away. "What's wrong with you?" I say. "It's Adam. ADAM. And Roddy." She hits me again. This provokes Jasper into a yelping frenzy. He dances round her ankles and Roddy has to hold him till he's calm. Fortunately the dog's performance has distracted Mary from battering me with her bag. She plonks herself down and rummages through her capacious pockets. We know what is coming. The colourless fluid. The surgical-spirit.

"Mary!" I try to reason with her. "Don't drink it, for God's sake. It's terribly bad for you." She raises the bottle and grins. "Mary ..." I plead.

"That's me name," she cackles. "Don't wear it out. Or I'll have to buy a new one. And I can't afford that, can I? Not when I'm saving for a new racehorse."

"Might win the Lottery, Mary." Roddy gives me the remains of the cigarette.

"Maybe I'll sell my swimming pool," says Mary. She takes another swig of colourless, throat-searing, stomach-strimming surgical-spirit.

"It'll kill you," warns Roddy.

"That's the idea," says Mary. "The sooner the better." She takes another deep draught then offers the bottle to me. "Go on, young 'un. Have a sip. Shorten your bleeding life. Do yourself a favour." Suddenly she screams "You're all in it together, you bastards!"

"Yeah, yeah," sighs Roddy. "Jasper... come here." The dog is sniffing at the fog.

"Do you want some string?" Mary is rummaging in her bag. "Very useful is string." She giggles. "Tie things up, tie things down. So they can't get away." She spits balefully. "Get away to piss on the flowers."

"Hard to picture her as a company secretary," says Roddy, "All power-dressing, memos and dictaphones."

Her freshly privatised employers had made two hundred people redundant to cover the cost of an ex-gratia ₤450,000 'Golden Hello' for their new CEO. Unemployed for the first time in forty years and with little chance of a new job at fifty-seven, Mary had had a breakdown. Poor Mad Mary. No money. No home. No job. No future. Nothing but her Carlton and her rotting, meths-drowned innards and a place in a London cemetery waiting to die. Care in the Community, I believe it was called.

I return to my book, Lucy's copy of The Voyage of the 'Dawntreader', and read for a while. Even though it's a children's book, it has got me something of a reputation as an intellectual. I have to squint because it's getting dark and the fog is beginning to creep through the graveyard, swathing the headstones in colourless scarves. The skeletal St Pancras gasometers rule the skyline.

Jasper yelps a couple of times as Mary drifts into an off-key rendition of "We're a couple of swells". She tries to get Roddy to dance with her. He refuses politely. I have been nursing a can of Pepsi for two days. It's flat, totally and utterly flat, and pretty well tasteless but a drink is a drink, and however flat it may be, it's better than surgical-spirit. I offer Mary the can but she knocks it away saying its poison and we're trying to kill her. I curse as I mop the spilled liquid from my wrist but I can't be angry because suddenly she says sorry and touches my face.

"I'm sorry, my darling, I thought you were somebody else." She strokes my cheek with an arthritic finger. "You're nice to me and I'm so horrible to you." She wraps her arms round me and breathes fumes in my face. "I'm horrible to everyone. I'm just a horrible person." As I struggle to extricate myself from her clutches, she begins to cry. The tears are scented with surgical-spirit. "I'm a horrid old woman." I shoot a desperate glance towards Roddy. "Everyone hates me." Awkwardly, I pat her back.

"We don't hate you, do we, Roddy?"

"No," says Roddy, scratching Jasper's head.

"My budgie's dead," wails Mary.

"Come on," I say soothingly, trying to prise her away. Like an air-crash survivor, she clings on tightly. "Come on, Mary."

"You're good to me," she says. "You're a good boy, Adam, a kind boy."

"We have to stick together," I tell her. "No-one else'll look after us."

"Like a family," says Roddy, "Me, Mary, Adam, and Joe."

"And Jasper," I add.

The little dog cocks his ears at the mention of his name. I wave my fingers and he comes over, sniffing. I feed him a chunk of biscuit then ruffle his ears.

Mary rocks on her heels and softly croons some old song about white cliffs and Dover.

"Gonna be cold tonight," Roddy remarks, "But there won't be a frost."

One or two figures emerge like ghosts from the shadows.

-Terrible foggy up West. Real pea-souper.

-Buses're struggling. Grid-locked.

"When it gets really cold," Roddy says as I pull my hat from my overcoat pocket, "We'll go to the lorry parks, sleep under a truck. Warm exhausts, see?"

"Or sleep over a grate. Restaurants are the best," says somebody else. "Warm air an' bins. You can get some decent grub out of their bins."

"There's a good spot down Chinatown," contributes another. "The Chineses are warm. And the smells are a bonus." He grins. "If you get lucky, you might get some food. The Silver Dragon'll usually let you have leftovers."

Roddy senses my depression and grins through his stubble. "Don't worry, kidder. We'll look after you. We'll see you're all right." He pats the little dog. He seems to be sleeping. "Won't we, Jasp?"

Mary takes another draught of surgical-spirit. Roddy winces. "I tried it once," he says. "Felt as though someone was pouring boiling water down my throat and grinding my guts with a red-hot mincer."

One or two more cigarettes are lit and shared. Jenny has had a good day. She has managed to buy some food. She heaps what she has on the steps. Two egg and bacon sandwiches (₤1.20), a lemon cake (79p), four packets of salt and vinegar crisps (₤1.04) a Crunchie bar (27p), and a bottle of rough cider (₤3.15). Solemnly she divides everything up and hands it round. There is a barely a mouthful of each.

I managed to buy myself some chocolate, some bread and a tin of tuna. These items are stashed in my rucksack. I debate keeping quiet but my conscience gets the better of me and I add the bread to the pile, keeping a couple of slices back for breakfast. Bread is cheap and filling. I tend to live on nothing else although I do sometimes find bruised fruit rolling in the gutters of the street markets. You have to be quick, mind you. Some stallholders charge you even for damaged goods.

Roddy heaves the sleeping dog over his legs. "G'night," he says.

I get up for a piss. It's bloody cold as I turn the flap of my coat aside and unzip my jeans. My bladder is bursting and the steaming colourless water cascades over the regimental crests on to the plinth of the war memorial. The crown on the summit is submerged in fog. The jet turns to a trickle then a dribble and a colourless puddle forms on the steps. I zip myself up and return to the group. I can just make out the hazy, shadowy humps of the people and the glowing cigarette tips pulsing like beacons away in a sea-mist.

I slide into my sleeping bag, dragging the blanket up to my ears. I ought to go to the health centre. I need some stuff for my chest. It feels tight again. I also think I've got athlete's foot. I could pick up Mary's pills whilst I'm there. I glance at the bodies heaped on the steps, at Jenny who is finishing her cigarette, at Roddy, at Jasper, who grunts a little. A paw twitches and his eyelids flutter. I wonder what dogs dream about. Bones, perhaps. I ask Mary if she wants to come to the health centre. She winks and dribbles. A colourless string dangles from her chin. It drips onto the Carlton which rests on her knee.

Time passes.

The light from Jenny's cigarette is extinguished.

"There'll be bluebirds over

The white cliffs of Dover"

Mary is singing again.

"Tomorrow just you wait and see"

Christ, it's cold. I move closer to Roddy and Jasper. One night we'll all freeze to death. They'll find us lying straight and stiff, like so many fish fingers. That'll solve the problem of homelessness. I think they'd be happier if we did die. At least we wouldn't embarrass them in front of the tourists.

I shiver. In the stillness of the night, I can hear the roaring and hooting of traffic, though it's muffled by the blanket of fog which smothers the city. I scratch at a flea bite under my clothes. Blood-sucking bastards. Then I feel Crazy Mary stroking my hair. Tenderly. Carefully. Maybe affectionately.

In spite of everything you do to us, to strip us and rob us, to confine us to the fog and the darkness, to make us the Shadow People, we still care for each other. We're a family, you see, and families stick together.

20. Tiresias

EVERY day, when he passes through the Old Bailey's ancient portals, His Honour Lord Justice Sir Jeremy Bircham glances up at the injunction inscribed in the lintel to

### DEFEND THE CHILDREN OF THE POOR

### AND PUNISH THE WRONGDOER

and further up to the famous statue of Blindfolded Justice standing proudly on the dome, scales in one hand, sword in the other. It reminds him that Justice is blind, not, of course, in the sense that "she" is impartial, free from fears, favours or friendship but more that Justice should be blind to circumstance, context, opportunity and environment. Everyone is to be tried in the same way under the same law by the same people and justice dispensed without consideration of factors that might muddy either the clear precision of the minds of the judges or the righteous citizens who serve on juries. Neither should 'extenuating circumstances' prejudice the flesh-scouring Furies of the tabloid Press, the ghouls, harpies, head-bangers and revenge-obsessed crazies who sit in the public gallery and condemn the prisoners from the safety of their own moral rectitude, certain, absolutely certain, that the line dividing guilt and innocence is as sharp and clear as the guillotine-blade they would happily use to decapitate the non-conformists. Like elderly groupies, they follow their favourite judges and barristers from case to case and bench to bench. Better than Corrie and Brookie and even EastEnders, it is free entertainment with a stellar cast and they are the critics. They perch aloft in the gallery, casting glares at the heads down below and click-clack their laptops as the guillotine women click-clacked their needles, obsessively knitting bonnets and bootees for babies their dried-up wombs that can never conceive and counting each severed, blood-gushing head into the blood-soaked basket at the foot of the steps.

Today these Gallery Groupies will enjoy a capital show from their favourite barrister. Mr Hawker Q.C. gets their blood pumping. When he appears, smooth, suave, checking his appearance in a small hand-mirror, poking a scarlet handkerchief into his breast pocket, straightening his wig, smoothing his gown, the groupies cheer and he responds with a wave, like a rock star or a sportsman. With a suitably theatrical flourish, he unwinds the scarlet ribbon that binds the case file and displays it to the audience like a trophy, like the garter of some female conquest. Today his wimpy son Frederick is in the Gallery and Mr Hawker Q.C. is keen not just to impress but to cow the boy with his brilliance, to force his submission to the yoke of his destiny, that he too will go to Balliol and into the Firm, and be damned grateful for it. Mr Hawker Q.C. bestrides the court as he once bestrode his sixth form debating club and the Oxford University Drama Society. This court, like life itself, is his stage, and he will strut and fret his hour upon it. That the law deals with weighty issues of life and freedom, death and liberty is not of interest, for, in this adversarial system, the law, like government, is more a matter of scoring points than right and wrong.

Cynical sorts, unpatriotic anarchistical sorts, might suggest that the English legal system now punishes the children of the poor whilst defending the wrong-doer, particularly if that wrong-doer is filthy rich, but not Lord Bircham. He believes the poor and the wrong-doer are one and the same. To this venerable eighty-five year old, there is nothing wrong with the English legal system that the sacking of a few mealy-mouthed, vote-seeking, headline-conscious politicians would not solve. Aware that the majority of men his age have been retired for two decades at least, Lord Bircham suggests that his great age has brought wisdom and experience. This may be so. Sadly, he rarely brings these qualities with him into his Court Room. Perhaps this is why he, like Mr Hawker Q.C., is also a Groupies' Favourite.

Jemmy Bircham's fondest memories involve Hawker's father. They had been soul-mates at Balliol, beer-mates, essay-cribbing-mates, peasant-baiting mates and no dinner hosted by Bircham could be called complete without one or two amusing tales from the vast repository contained inside the Judge's head. They all involved the consumption of copious quantities of ale and/or brandy and the heavy petting of girls from the Town or Somerville College. One particular incident had secured Hawker Senior's reputation in the annals of Fame. The love-lorn undergraduate had been so desperate to impress a young Somerville lady that he had sunk two bottles of brandy and circled the Sheldonian on his bicycle wearing nothing but a pair of wire bicycle-clips round his ankles and a mortar-board on his head. The young lady and her friends had been amused whilst feigning to be scandalised, Bircham and his friends had been greatly entertained, the porters had been horrified, the crustier dons mortified and Hawker Senior rusticated for a term. The incident had not counted against either Hawker or Bircham, who had, in fact, supplied the bicycle-clips. Indeed, it was seen as "boys-being-boys" and certainly helped round the Chambers when it came to seeking employment. By the time Hawker's son went up to Balliol, the tale had passed into the college's collective folk-memory and had been embellished so much that the Sheldonian had become the crenellated roof of Magdalen College.

Young Hawker had emulated his famous father in the drinking stakes but had channelled his testosterone into rowing and rugby. Times were different. Winds of change were blowing. No longer could an aspiring barrister be appointed to a chamber simply because of his college antics and his ability to hold his own in a food-fight. No. In the harsh climate of Harold Wilson's Socialist Seventies, it was becoming necessary to have a Blue or two as well, but Hawker was a brilliant orator and Bircham had taken him into his own chambers. More because of his father's friends and his rhetorical flourishes than his knowledge of the law, which was generally accepted as 'hazy', Hawker had risen rapidly to become a Queen's Council before heading off to start his own chambers with Cheatle at about the same time Bircham was called to the bench. As a token of gratitude, he had asked Bircham to be Frederick's godfather.

Bircham cannot decide whether he likes Freddie or not. He is, of course, set fair for Balliol and a place in the Firm, and he seems fairly clever, but he lacks what Bircham terms 'finesse'. He recently took the boy to Figaro at Covent Garden. He'd sat throughout the performance curling hair round his finger and yawning. He'd decreed the music 'rubbish'. Moreover, he seems to have some unsound ideas. For example, he had recently asked how one defended someone you knew to be guilty, or prosecuted someone you knew to be innocent. Hawker and Bircham had merely stared, uncomprehending, until Hawker had apologised for his son's 'queer' notions.

"You just think of the fee," Bircham said, for Bircham was a judge, and a good judge too. In the Robing Room, he puts on his costume. The heavy, scarlet robe drowns his bent, wizened figure, and the powdered white wig buries his bald, melon head. The long ear-pieces swing as he moves across the chamber, his dresser (or clerk) checking that everything is ready, that the props (his gavel) are to hand, and the script (or Statutes of Law) is available should His Honour forget the lines.

The Groupies like 'Birch 'em' Bircham, and he likes them. A thrill of expectation runs round the Gallery as he totters uncertainly into the courtroom. He adopts his 'judicial voice', which is both quavering and querulous. Whilst everyone sits down, he goes through his pre-trial rituals, shuffling the papers, looking over his half-moon spectacles, emitting several sputtering machine-gun-like tuts, tapping the papers and clearing his throat. He is ready. So now.... on with the show. The defendant is brought to the Bar. It is one Kimberley Cook. The Groupies bray: ''Boo! Boo! Bloody little young person! Bloody little poor person! Away to jail!''

Bircham bangs for silence. ''Now then, young man...''

Hawker corrects him gently. ''It's a girl, m'lud.''

''What?'' Bircham consults his papers, scratches his head and looks over the top of his spectacles at the girl in the dock. ''Are you sure, Hawker? I mean, it's so difficult to tell these days. Fashion, I suppose they call it, but these garments, well, they are neither flattering nor sensible.'' He smoothes his scarlet robe and appraises Kim once again. She is wearing a patched black denim jacket and faded black jeans. These are her best clothes. She has borrowed some scarlet lipstick, some blusher and some scarlet nail-varnish from that veteran of courtroom appearances, Mandy McCall. It contrasts sharply with her pale, pinched features.

''I mean, look at the hair,'' Bircham continues, appealing to the gallery. Kim's purple rinse is fading to black. ''In our day, girls looked like girls and boys looked like boys. Now we have this androgynous look, this...'metro-sexual' appearance, with girls dressing like boys and boys dressing like fairies, all hair and ear-rings... I blame that James Bean. He invented teenagers. And Marvin Brandon...''

''My Lord,'' coughs Hawker discreetly, ''May we proceed? Luncheon approaches.''

''Indeed, Mr Hawker. Who is Counsel for the Defence?''

''She doesn't have one, m'lud.''

This does not go down well. ''And why not?'' says the judge severely.

''She has no money, m'lud,'' shrugs Hawker.

''No money?'' Bircham is puzzled. ''What do you mean, no money?''

''I mean no money, m'lud,'' says Hawker. ''She cannot afford a lawyer.''

''What, what? How can that be?'' Bircham is seriously confused now. ''I do not fully grasp your statement, Mr Hawker. What do you mean, she cannot afford a lawyer?''

''I mean, m'lud, that she cannot pay a lawyer's fees.''

Bircham shakes his head. ''But she must.'' He turns to Kim. ''You must have a lawyer, my dear. The right to a defence is a fundamental part of our legal system. It is your duty as a patriot to mount a defence. I do not want a lot of busybodies from Europe poking their noses where they do not belong, interfering in good old British justice with their human rights and social chapters and directives, eh? Tell those Brussels Sprouts to stick their directives up their Jacques Delors, eh? Bloody French coming over here and mangling around with our fine, honourable and ancient traditions. Just because we won the war and saved them from the Jerries....never forgiven us for Dunkirk, you know.''

''M'lud,'' Hawker intervenes tactfully, ''She says she will defend herself.''

Bircham tuts disapprovingly. ''That will not do, young lady, that will not do. You are denying our colleagues the opportunity to make a killing.''

''Living, m'lud.''

''What?''

''Make a living, m'lud.''

''What are you blithering on about, Hawker?''

''The opportunity to make a living, m'lud,'' Hawker explains. ''You said 'killing'.''

Bircham looks confused again. ''Could you not sell something?'' He addresses the girl in the dock.

''Sell something?'' she repeats.

''Yes,'' says Bircham, ''Sell something. Honestly. What is wrong with you people? Everything I say you repeat. Good Lord. I thought I was the deaf old buffer. Yes, sell something. Everyone has something they could sell, an asset, something of little worth and little value ...

''I could sell my body,'' says Kim defiantly. ''That's of little value.''

There is a gasp from the Furies. The knitting needles stop for a moment, then click clack in a frenzy of righteous indignation as the Furies pronounce her a

### Common little tart!

a

### Cheap little whore!

a

### Brazen huzzy!

and a

### Cheeky monkey!

Bircham considers her suggestion. She may be tarty and a little bit pasty, but she's also sparky and a little bit tasty. Strong thighs, he imagines. The scarlet lipstick is a little common, a little too vivid, but also quite exciting. If only she'd pout instead of scowling all the time, she would be quite attractive. He is about to tell her so, when he realises Hawker, blast his eyes, is clearing his throat in a manner that resembles a drum-roll. He makes a mental note to remove the pheasant from the Christmas hamper.

''My Lords, my ladies and my gentlemen,'' he begins, bowing to the gallery and quelling the swelling storm of applause with a gesture as flowing as the sleeves of his gown. ''This young woman stands accused of the most appalling, the most heinous, the most abominable crime against Society. What she has done is an affront to every right-thinking and healthy-minded citizen of this great nation. Her infamous deed will linger in the memory long after she has passed away into another sphere, where a higher justice even than that dispensed in your own court-room, m'lud...''

Bircham notes with alarm that Hawker is clutching some twenty postcards adorned with bold, declamatory, scarlet-inked statements. Besides, he is showing off, playing to the Gallery and trying to impress his son. He obviously thinks he's still in the Oxford Union. Bircham will not indulge such behaviour. They have, after all, a pressing luncheon engagement with Frederick at their Club in Pall Mall. He twitches his scarlet robe impatiently and cocks his head to one side, like a bird of prey testing the wind.

''Mr Hawker,'' he says.

''M'lud?'' says Hawker, stopping in mid-sentence.

''Would you mind getting a move on?''

''M'lud?''

''Just tell me what she has done, Mr Hawker.'' The Gallery seems restless. They like Hawker's embellishments, digressions and pomposities. ''Luncheon,'' adds the judge, ''At the Club.''

The pound drops. Luncheon at the Club. Aha. ''M'lud, she has defaulted on her rent,'' Hawker declares.

The Furies howl their sentence:

### Put her in the stocks!

Clickety-clackety clickety-clacket

### Bring back the birch!!

clickety-clack clickety-click-click-clack

### Give her a damn good licking!

Bircham voices an enthusiastic agreement. ''Yes, a damn good licking!''

Now the dentures join the knitting needle chatter in a unison chorus.

### Flog 'er!

### Hang 'er!

### That'll teach 'er to be a slapper.

Bircham suppresses a mental image of the girl seated in the stocks, her legs firmly padlocked and her blouse provocatively missing a couple of buttons. Hawker is saying something about soliciting round the parked cars of King's Cross and being caught by a dogging, off-duty policeman.

''Has she no redeeming features?'' asks Bircham. In his mind, Kim has two particularly redeeming features. If, perhaps, he could confirm the worthiness of these features by burying his head between them... he shakes himself. ''I see from this report that she is a single mother.''

There is a frisson of suppressed rage from the gallery.

''Hardly something of which she can be proud, your honour,'' says Hawker.

''No, certainly not,'' says Bircham, ''But she has brought up a child on a low income single-handed. That is a testimony to her determination.''

''Indeed, m'lud,'' crows Hawker in triumph. ''Her determination to cheat the hard-working taxpayer!'' The applause from the gallery is greeted with a finger raised dramatically for silence. Clickety-click say the needles. ''Yes, m'lud, her determination to swindle the honest, decent working man and woman! Her selfishness is clearly demonstrated, is it not, by her reliance on state support. Why should you and I work hard for a pittance, paying our taxes, so she and her lower-class layabout friends can sit around swilling cider, smoking pot and popping out babies they expect us to feed? This birth-giving out of wedlock, m'lud, is the filthiest and most appalling vice of the lower class. It must be stamped out!''

Bircham has no answer. He is wrestling with the next cinematic treat unfolding in his head, of the girl locked in a ducking stool, water streaming over her head, scarlet lipstick smudged and crooked, her thin cotton blouse clinging to her skin, revealing the curves of her breasts and...the banshee-howl from the demented avengers of injured public sensibilities cuts through his head.

''Send her to jail!'' the Groupies howl.

Bircham suppresses a moan at the new mental picture flashing through his head, a picture of the girl lashed to a post, the tightness of the scarlet ropes highlighting those curves....

''My Lord,'' says Hawker, ''Whilst you and I support our families and pay our mortgages, she is loafing about and spending our money on her Pampers and Pernod! She is undermining family values, the very foundation of our society, and she must be punished, as an example to others.''

His performance is faultless and draws ever greater applause from the Gallery Groupies, who conclude that here is a man at the top of his game. Bircham clears his throat, which has suddenly become very dry.

''Now then, young lady ....'' Kim stands up. She radiates resentful reluctance. ''There's no need to be afraid of all these people,'' says Bircham, ''Not whilst I am here to protect you.'' He smiles reassuringly. ''Perhaps you could tell the court how you came to be in such a predicament.''

''I ain't got no money,'' says Kim. ''I couldn't pay the rent.''

''But why, my dear, did you not move to accommodation you could afford?''

Kim stares at him. ''I can't afford any accommodation,'' she says.

Bircham has no personal experience of the rented sector but he did once meet a landlord at the Augustan Club and found him both upstanding and honourable.

''Do you not have a job?'' he asks.

''No, your honour.''

''And why not?''

''I have a baby.''

''My dear,'' says Bircham, ''Many people have babies. This does not prevent them from taking up work. Mr Hawker, for example, has two children, fine, upstanding young people, and that did not prevent him from pursuing a successful career at the bar.'' He taps his fingers on the bench. ''The father of your child. Where is he?''

''I don't know,'' says Kim. ''Dead, or in prison.''

''But why did you not marry him?'' asks Bircham.

''Do you know how much a wedding costs?'' counters the girl.

Bircham shakes his head. He was evidently mistaken. The girl is clearly an inveterate villain with little regard for the basic building blocks of English society.

''My baby is sick,'' she is saying, ''I needed medicine. I don't get free prescriptions.'' She appeals to the judge. ''People talk about choice. They always tell me I have a choice. Well, I did have a choice. Whether to pay Flint for a damp room with crumbling plaster and cockroaches scuttling over the bathroom floor, or whether to listen to my baby coughing and crying. And I chose to heal my child.''

Bircham is hungry. He decides to finish proceedings. The girl is a scrounger and a sponger. She lowers the moral tone and makes the place look untidy by lounging around on street corners in her black denim clothes and her clumsy great boots. She is ungrateful and morose. If he had his way, he'd birch her thoroughly and put her in the stocks for a night. That'd teach her to be a single mother.

''My Lord,'' says Kim, ''I've never hurt anyone. I've never thrown anyone out of their home, or refused to carry out a life-saving operation, or put someone out of work, or stolen their money or sold their property, or locked someone away for something they didn't do, or sold arms and weapons to foreign powers to use on their own people, or sent young men away to be killed in vanity wars, or walked by on the other side of the road when someone was hurt, homeless, dejected or depressed...these are crimes, my Lord, not defaulting on your rent.''

Bircham shakes his head. Her concept of crime is wholly misguided. But she is fairly articulate and quite attractive, in a peaky, under-fed kind of way. He will fine her £500 and bind her over to keep the peace.

''The real criminals walk free,'' says Kim, ''The people who rip off pensioners, who steal from pension funds, who defraud their friends, who bleed their employees, the fat cats who build their empires on the backs of the workers, the financiers who bankrupt the nation and walk away with millions of pounds in bonuses .... they all go free. They offend against decency, but they are protected by the rich man's law and the rich man's law-makers.''

This is outrageous. Bircham is a judge, and a good judge too. He bangs his gavel. ''Silence!'' he shouts. ''None of that Communistical talk here, if you please. Or I shall send you to prison. The law...''

''The law?'' cries Kim. ''What about justice?''

Hawker laughs. ''The law has nothing to do with justice, young lady,'' he chortles. ''The law is about protecting public decency.''

The applause from the public gallery is warm and generous. Hawker bows modestly as the guilty girl is taken down.

They step from the Bailey into a smothering fog. They always go to the Club after a Case. Today, with Freddie broken up from school for Christmas, they had asked him along as A Guest Young Gentleman. They felt the boy needed to get out of the house after the incident with the burglar. Although he had not said so openly, Hawker had implied that his son had let them all down, that he should have stood up to these men or raised the alarm. After all, ''you're always playing that game or watching those films. Don't you learn anything from Sub-Zero and Mr Van Damme?''

Mrs Hawker had been more sympathetic. ''He might have got hurt,'' she'd snapped as she'd bundled his wet pyjamas into the washing machine. ''He might have been killed. And then where would we be?'' We'd have a family martyr to boast about, Freddie had thought. ''Better a lost VCR than a lost life,'' said Mrs Hawker.

They are guided through Covent Garden by the smudges of streetlamps smeared on the mist. Bircham has praised his protégé's performance and is now passing on the latest salacious gossip. It mainly concerns Algernon Featherlehaugh and the new boy in his life.

''He's your gardener,'' Bircham says, ''The ginger lad who rakes up your leaves and trims your wife's hedge.''

''Good God,'' says Hawker, ''You can't tell he's a bender, can you? He works really hard.'' Freddie has seen Billy at work. He has nice muscles. ''Have you met him?''

''Once or twice,'' says Bircham. ''He's nice enough. Very quiet. Smokes too much. Algy's absolutely head-over-heels about him.''

''Well,'' says Hawker, ''Algy's a romantic. He always falls in love with them. Remember when he was in the Cabinet and had that choirboy tucked up in... oh, dammit... where the hell was it? Chelmsford? Cheltenham? Chelsea? Somewhere beginning with Chel.''

''Abingdon,'' Bircham says. ''He was very pretty.''

''Named Timothy, I think,'' says Hawker, ''Timothy Something.''

''That's right.'' Bircham chuckles softly. ''He was blond. A tennis player. Algy was smitten. Gave the boy a motorcycle, I think, and a security pass for his office.''

''You were at school with him, weren't you?''

''He was a Prefect,'' says Bircham. ''Feely Fewley we called him. Had a fag called Potts who became some kind of newspaperman. Buggered him senseless every night for a year before he went up to Caius.''

''Ah,'' says Hawker, ''Cambridge man.''

''Inevitably,'' says Bircham. ''Anyhow, I hear that he's considering leaving his estate to the wretch. I don't know what this country's coming to. It's a capital estate."

And indeed it is. There are babbling brooks, and lush hills, little stone bridges, and fine country churches weathered by wind and mellowed by age. There is a quaint country pub with old oak beams and open fires and several farms. There are winding country lanes and little cottages draped in ivy. It has been in the Featherlehaugh family for three generations and their summer seasons were essential fixtures on the social calendar when the Featherlehaughs' guests could enjoy the smack of leather on willow, the sweet-sugar smell of newly mown grass, croquet played out on the lawn, Buck's fizz and punting, boaters and blazers, Panama hats, the smell of honeysuckle, lupins, climbing scarlet roses. An English summer is the greatest joy an English chap can ever know.

They arrive at a tiny scarlet door in a tiny street behind the market. The Augustan Club was founded in 1784 for 'Professional Gentlemen' and modelled itself and its baths on Roman tradition. Its name derives from the Golden Age of the Emperor Augustus and the Augustan Age of English Culture, the eighteenth century of Dryden and Pope, when words were valued and satirists skilled. It identifies itself with a discreet little plaque set below a push-button intercom. A scarlet-liveried bouncer peers at people through a grille. The club is Members Only but there are no cards. Everyone is known to the doorman. Everyone in the Club is known to everyone else. Indeed, one only becomes a member on the recommendation of an existing member and that recommendation has to be endorsed by the Committee which is chaired by Lord Featherlehaugh. Once inside, however, discretion surrenders to opulence.

The lobby is furnished with a thick, scarlet carpet, long leather sofas, potted plants and sparkling chandeliers. An inscription from Pope's translation of Homer's account of Odysseus' return to his homeland:

All hail! Ye Virgin Daughters of the Main,

Ye Streams, beyond my Hopes beheld again!

To you once more your own Ulysses bows,

Attend his Transports and receive his Vows.

is set among painted pastoral idylls evoking Virgil's Eclogues and scarlet and gold-lettered extracts from Ovid and Horace, mainly stories of shepherds and flutes and nymphs and such like.

A wide, plushly carpeted staircase leads up to the first floor on which there are a number of small, rather cell-like bedrooms for Members who need somewhere to spend the night 'Discretion Assured'. On the ground floor is The Smoking Room. Here members can settle themselves into their chairs by the roaring log-fire, summon up a brandy or three, peruse the goings-on in the outside world, draw on fat cigars and sigh that the country has gone to the dogs since the 1832 Great Reform Act and the introduction of free milk in schools. One senior Anglican bishop died in his leather chair from an apoplectic stroke brought on by the admittance of women priests to the Church of England. The Library contains several potted ferns, a large marble fireplace, large leather armchairs, oak coffee-tables and, under a glass-domed rotunda, a bookcase crammed with volumes of classical poetry, works in Latin, Greek and French, tomes by Addison, Steele and Dr Johnson and a number of law-books. There are also copies of The Spectator, The Daily Telegraph and The Financial Times. No other papers are permitted. Once upon a time, The Times had also been a paper of choice, but since Murdoch had reduced it to the level of the Mail and other tabloids, the Committee had cancelled the subscription and ended two hundred and thirty-four years of reading tradition. The swimming pool, sauna and steam-room are housed in a marble-lined cavern in the basement. Swimmers approach the tepid waters of the subterranean pool from the changing room through steam-wraithed, scarlet-streaked Corinthian columns. The colour, originally intended to add a splash of brightness to what is, in effect, still a cellar, is now fading and peeling and darkening with age and merely serves to heighten the gloom. After their swim, they can bask, lizard-like, on wooden slats in the dry, arid sauna or open their pores in the wet mist of the steam-room before enjoying the bubbling cauldron of the Jacuzzi and finishing off with a cooling shower. There is also a full-time masseur to pummel the flab and pound the flesh. The Augustan Club is a neo-classical building for the neo-classical man.

Freddie is always slightly uncomfortable in the Club, even in the Smoking Room when he nurses a scarlet can of Coca Cola and listens to his father and godfather reforming the world. He feels intimidated and weak in the shadow of his brilliant, intelligent, articulate, hugely successful prop-forward father, and since his lamentable, weak-kneed failure to apprehend their burglars, he feels even more the disappointment of his father. Worse than the conversation is the changing room trial. He is such a midget. His ribs stick out and his stomach's scooped out and his knob juts out and his hair's like candyfloss and his dad seems so strong. Even though he loves swimming, he hates the towel-flicking and the laddish banter and being told not to "preen like a cheap tart in front of the mirror" when all he is doing is drying his hair. He always blushes scarlet and tries to squirm in and out of his shorts inside his towel whilst his father parades his bloated nakedness proudly round the sauna. Just remember, Freddie tells himself. They are fat, flabby, old bastards with saggy muscles, wrinkled flesh, dead man's hair, watery eyes, bloated bellies, shrivelled skin, Saggy Old Bags with shrunken knobs who will soon die. I am young, fit and the future. I can plant my seed and my seed is potent.

"How's your house-hunt progressing?" Bircham enquires over his port.

"Capital," Hawker replies. "Swindells and Leech are being most co-operative. A couple of nice properties are coming on to the market, repossessions, very cheap. We think we'll let them out to the previous owners. At least they'll have due respect for the properties."

"You have a co-operative landlord?"

"Flint," grunts Hawker. ''The guy that girl you tried this morning ripped off.''

"You don't rent to the unemployed, or those other benefit types, do you?"

"Wasters and drop-outs," Hawker declares. "Rent the house out to claimants and they'll steal everything that isn't nailed down. Can't trust 'em an inch."

"And are you considering a move?" asks Bircham

"We may move to the country, to Buckinghamshire, perhaps."

"You have a beautiful house," says Bircham.

"Soiled," says Hawker, "Since the burglary."

Freddie wants to crawl away. He knew it was his fault the VCR had been stolen.

"Any thoughts on your donation to my wife's foreign aid fund? It's a capital cause. Clean drinking water for the Sudan. Those people suffer so much. The poverty is dreadful, you know."

"What about the poor in this country?" says Freddie.

"There's no poverty in this country, just laziness," Hawker declares. "You earn what you're worth, and if you earn nothing, well, there you are. There's a reason why people lose their jobs, and it isn't to do with economics."

''Mummy says people are really poor,'' Freddie persists. ''She's working with Lord Featherlehaugh to raise money for the homeless charity, London Rescue.''

''It runs out of Cruikshank's church,'' Hawker explains. ''The Pentecostal Hostel guy. The ship is sinking, don't be on it. Jesus in the Park. You know. Cruikshank.''

''Oh yes,'' says Bircham. ''Kenneth Cruikshank. Worked with Featherlehaugh in Mozambique when Algy was a diplomat there. Nice man. Very helpful.''

''Well,'' says Hawker, ''He had to be, didn't he? He was in a missionary position, ha ha.'' He taps his glass on the table. ''Last one to the pool's a screaming queen.''

The fog closes in.

## 21. Skylla and Charybdis

Billy's bedroom was an Arsenal shrine. The bed was buried under a Gunners duvet and the black-and-white zebra-patterned wallpaper was masked by posters, some depicting Arsenal players and one advertising 101 Dalmatians with a small black-and-white spotted puppy wearing dark glasses. I grinned. The puppy was cool. An Arsenal scarf hung limply on the back of the door beside an Adidas jacket. The drawers of an old wooden dresser were crammed with clothes. A white, canvas director's chair sat near the bed, seat bowing under the weight of more clothes. An expensive stereo-system squatted silently on the dresser-top, two LEDs blinking steadily. A football programme for Arsenal v Everton lay beside it. A black Sega Megadrive and a black Scalextric box were shoved on top of a battered old wardrobe. A framed snapshot of Billy showed him wearing a black leather jacket, black leather trousers, a tight-fitting white T-shirt and dark glasses. He was straddling a motorcycle and looked great.

We had met in the Health Centre. Billy was hunched on the edge of a white plastic seat smoking a cigarette and waiting for a blood test. I was waiting to see Dr Keen. Kim, it seemed, had been fined and evicted for non-payment of rent. She had moved to a council flat in Hackney. Mandy had the address. Rick had not been seen since the night I had fought with him.

''Lucy told me....'' I started to say.

The receptionist called Billy's name. He crushed his dying cigarette beneath his white trainer and invited me back for a cuppa.

Kim was safe. That was all.

Billy's blood-test was negative. Then I went in. Angela Keen was a lovely woman, a great doctor, but I felt ashamed of my filthy clothes and the street grime which stained my skin. I prised off my once-white left trainer. A dirty, ragged split ran along the inside. The laces were blackened and fraying and wet. I stripped away a tattered sock. A ring of dirt circled my ankle and a long, dark stain of grime smudged the side of my foot.

"I'll give you some cream," she said, and winced as I dragged the sock back over my foot. ''Are you still at the Cruikshanks'?''

''No,'' I said. ''I had some trouble there. I'm looking for Kim. Bill says Mandy knows where she is.''

''Oh,'' she said. ''Well when you find her, tell her it's time for Holly's MMR.''

It felt strange, standing on the step of that big old house and knowing that Kim and Holly were gone and the middle flat was empty. A skip rusted quietly into the tarmac next to the kerb. Among the dead branches, the sopping heaps of cloth, the rotting struts of wood, I could identify the curtains from the bedroom, the old battered sofa and the poor, split beanbag. Small polystyrene beads lay in the gutter, forlorn and forgotten. I felt a twinge of sympathy for the discarded furniture. Especially the sofa. I had lost my virginity on that sofa.

"I'll drag it out for you," Billy commented sourly. "You can put it in your family museum."

I sat on his bed wrapped in a fluffy white towel. The hot bath had been great, a luxurious wallow I had forgotten. I'd washed my hair. It had felt like strands of rope, thick with dirt and grease.

Billy returned to the bedroom. He was wearing a silky, black dressing-gown and balancing a half-smoked cigarette between the fingers of his right hand. His mother had deteriorated. She spent most of her time buried in a white shawl in her chair staring vacantly at the television set. Her face was riven with despair and frustration. I'd once read somewhere that the eyes are the windows of the soul. I hoped, for Rose Land's sake, that it was untrue. Her pupils glittered insanely and the fading irises were drowning amid the discoloured whites. All she could produce was a series of guttural, incomprehensible noises. He leaned across his bed and switched on a white baby alarm plugged into the wall socket. A soft peaceful rhythmic breathing could be heard. "I have one by each bed," he explained, "So I can hear she's okay."

He slipped off his dressing gown and tossed it into his chair. Naked but for a pair of white boxer shorts decorated with spidery black zigzags, he flopped down onto his duvet and balanced his cigarette on the side of an ashtray. Smudges marred the glass surface, like the marks on the crooks of his arms, the entry-scars of all the needles which bore silent witness to months of blood-tests.

"It must be difficult for you," I said, "Looking after her and that."

"I cope," said Billy curtly. "She'll probably be dead by the summer. There's nothing I can do except make her comfortable. If she gets really bad, I'll give her an overdose. Help her out of it. Help her die. She'd want it that way." He leaned across and ground the cigarette butt into the ashtray. "I mean, what's the point? She dribbles, she shits herself, she can't communicate- what's the fucking point?"

"What happened to your father?" I asked, scrambling into the sleeping bag spread on the carpet.

"He died. In an accident. When I was six."

"Mine buggered off," I told him, "When I was eight." I turned over in his sleeping bag so he could see Billy sitting on the bed. His green eyes seemed to have a luminous glow. "My Mum got married again, to a total bastard. He used to beat me up." Billy grunted and slid under his duvet.

I was losing track of the number of places in which I had slept since September. The room was plunged into darkness but for the sickly moonlight filtering through the Arsenal-cannoned curtains. Billy scuffled and thumped his pillow. I cradled my face on the carpet. Maybe I could stay with Billy till Christmas. I could help him out with his mum. And Mandy still lived upstairs. I could baby-sit for her and earn some money then go and find Kim, and my dad. This chance meeting might turn into something good. I sighed and thanked God for Billy.

In the morning, after a night of fitful sleep, he brought me a mug of tea.

"What's the time?" I mumbled, feeling the hardness of floor-against-bottom.

"Half-ten," said Billy, lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply. His silky black dressing-gown hung open. He was still in his spider-web shorts. I curled my hands round the Arsenal mug whilst Billy flopped back on his bed, ciggie in hand. He had been up since seven looking after his mother. We chatted a little about Mandy. I asked if he'd ever done it with her. He shot me a look of utter contempt. Later, we lay in our boxers on the bedroom floor and played Scalextric, racing the cars round the black, plastic track. It was great to feel like a normal boy again but really I was thinking about the party. Billy had offered me £100 to help him serve drinks. I glanced at my clothes heaped up on the floor. I had nothing to wear. My grey sweater was just about finished. The wool was strained and fraying and the shape had gone. My favourite T-shirt was holed and splitting. My black, hooded sweatshirt smelled of the street. All my boxers were stained. My socks were cardboard-stiff. None of my clothes were clean. Even the things that Lucy had given me were ruined already. They had been inside my airless rucksack for too many days.

"You can have some of my clothes," Billy said. "Put all yours in the washing machine while we're out. It'll all be clean when we come back. We'll go black-and-white. Bring your Scout blanket." He levered himself up and hauled some stuff out of the dresser. Black socks, black slip, black collarless shirt, black jeans, crotch-huggingly tight.

Billy got dressed. A flash of half-egg globed buttocks as the shorts sloughed down from a narrow waist, then he drew on a black and white zebra-patterned slip. It was too small. His buttocks screamed "LOOK AT US!" Strutting to the wardrobe, he took tight, buttock-hugging white jeans and a tight, pectorally clinging white T-shirt.

"It's only a party," he said, squeezing himself into the buttock-hugging jeans, "Some friends of mine who live in Hampstead. Don't sweat about it. Just follow me. I'll talk you through as we go."

The mother-sitter, to my surprise, was Dr Keen. She stood on the doorstep, her thick coat shielding her from the biting wind. She smiled at me.

"We might not be back till very late," said Billy.

"That's okay," she smiled. "You can return the favour by clearing my gutters and melting the ice on my pond."

The skies were darkening when we left and the frost of an early December evening was beginning to smother the parked cars under a glinting, steely sheet. Through the soft mist hanging over trees and roofs, the brightly coloured lights of Christmas winked temptingly. We ran across the frost-sprayed road towards the 73 bus. Billy jumped for the running board and seized the pole. "C'mon!" he yelled, holding out his hand to heave me aboard.

I drooled outside McDonald's in Tottenham Court Road but Billy insisted there was no time and dragged me off down Charing Cross Road. As we waited for the stream of black taxis churning down Oxford Street to part, I took in the Christmas lights, the shoppers shoving their way along the frost-coated pavement, their breath exploding in great cloudbursts of steam, their hands clutching carrier bags which bulged with the weight of presents and parcels. The lights which the council had strung up overhead reflected brightly in the frost. Christmas was coming and the fat were getting fatter.

Billy flicked his cigarette into the gutter and, turning down Dean Street, strode purposefully towards the bright lights of Soho. We entered Old Compton Street, passed Gerry's, passed Clone Zone, walked towards Brewer Street. I had not been here before. I took in the multi-coloured plastic strip curtains and the advertising slogans blazoned across the glass windows, to which enterprising shopkeepers had added, in white spray-on snow, Merry Xmas.

Billy was back from the shadowy gloom of one of the shops. "They haven't got everything we need," he said. "We'll have to go to Gerrard Street." He held a small bottle of liquid up to the streetlight. "Poppers," he explained, "Keep us going." He shoved the bottle into his pocket. "Come on."

We arrived outside an amusement arcade. More winking, blinking coloured lights set in more metal boxes standing in more dark, shadow-shrouded corners.

"I'll be back in ten minutes." He grinned and pushed something hard and square into my hand. "Might as well take yours now. Don't lose them."

I opened my palm and stared at a tube of KY jelly and a black packet of eighteen Extra Strong condoms. The white jeans had already been swallowed up in the darkness. I lurched into the amusement arcade and put a hand against the cool metal of a Mortal Kombat machine. What kind of party was this? Extra Strong condoms. Lubricating jelly. Zebra-striped knickers. I had a sudden, terrifying vision of being buggered in front of a crowd of drunken, cheering, clapping old men. I remembered Cruikshank's wandering hands and shuddered.

In a sudden spurt of anger, I slammed the side of the box with the heel of my hand. Fuck it! ₤100! Fuck it! I slammed the machine again.

"Yer cunt!" exploded the man who was playing the game. He bobbed up his head and glared at me. Oh fuck. My heart sank. "Yer cunt!" And then he smiled, revealing a row of broken-down teeth. "Howay, man! 'Ow yer doin'?"

It was Ninja.



When Adam surfaced from his sleep, he found himself staring at a car ceiling. He was stiff and aching and bursting for a piss. He was also freezing cold. He scrambled up and gazed out of the cracked window at a scene from a movie.

Tattered, bulging black bin bags were scattered amongst smashed up, burned out motor cars spilling damp clothes, soggy pizza boxes, crushed tin-cans and broken bottles on to the dented hubcaps, steering wheels, rusty oil cans and ragged black tyres. Puddles of dirty water were sunk deep into gouged troughs of mud. In the cold morning air, the water was frozen, its icy surface scored and crazed, dirty frost forming a rind round the stiff, ragged edges. In between the wrecks and the rubbish, small fires burned steadily. A few dirty seagulls circled overhead, occasionally diving to snatch up some titbit of garbage with their cruelly hooked beaks. The yard was enclosed within a thick, black wire fence with vicious-looking, skin-ripping razor-wire on top. A small shed huddled by the gate. At the rear of the yard was a derelict building, black holes battered into blackened red bricks acting as doors and windows.

Adam stepped out of the smashed-up black Escort and rubbed his temples with his hand. During the night, the frost had crept stealthily over the black metal roof, chilled him to the bone and coated everything in a thin white film. He pissed on the ground. A steaming cloud billowed up as the urine splashed onto the mud and melted the frost. Behind the building, behind the fence, he could see rusting railway tracks with broken sleepers and rusting old vans overgrown with weeds. Then he wandered inside.

The cracked concrete floor was piled high with electrical goods. Large black stereo systems in one corner, slim black video recorders in another, car radios, heaps of CDs, television sets, Walkmans, computers, PlayStations, monitors, printers, fax machines, telephones, everything you could want, for office or home. A paper-littered desk crouched near the door. Ninja's wire "In Tray" contained his knife and a black-handled hammer. Ninja, dressed as usual in combat trousers and black leather jacket, was counting money into the upturned hands of a couple of young boys, aged about twelve. As they turned away from the desk, Animal appeared and handed them each a polythene bag of white tablets. The kids laughed merrily and scampered away.

"Howay, man!" called Animal.

"Adam," hailed Ninja, lighting a cigarette. "Welcome ter Aladdin's Cayve, hur hur. Wha' d'yer fancy?" Adam hesitated. " 'Elp yerself. Anyfink yer wan'. Perk o' th' job." Ninja smiled. "Personal CD player? 'N' summat ter play." Adam turned the black machine over in his hands. "Perk o' th' job." Ninja surged out of the shadows. " 'N' there's more ter come if yer do well."

Adam turned the Discman over in his hand and looked at the Underworld and Prodigy albums in his other. "What do you want me to do?" he said.

### *

The extent of the community Ninja had created only emerged when nine or ten kids crawled from the bundles of rags, the burned-out cars, the rusting heaps and gathered together in the gloom.

Adam sank onto a heap of perished rubber tyres, eased his hand round the inside of his trainer and sighed. He had spent most of the day at Ninja's heels getting a whistle-stop tour of the buyers, men in black suits with names like Vince and Tel who called Ninja "Gav'nor", barked instructions into mobile 'phones and said "Sorted" a lot. Now eight, nine, maybe ten pairs of eyes were fixed on him. He could see them glowing in the gloom. Some were curious, others indifferent. He smiled limply and said hello. Some of the kids came hesitantly, carefully, towards him. Their ages ranged from twelve to sixteen. They were pale, undernourished, ghostly faces pasted above black leather jackets or black sweaters which were all but invisible in the all-engulfing darkness. Occasionally the pinched, crabbed features were illuminated by the glowing tip of a drawn cigarette.

A young boy, about thirteen, skinny, scrawny, sallow, long rents in his jacket, black fingerless gloves on his long-fingered hands, introduced himself as Sonic.

"'Cos he does sod all," said a girl, " 'Cept play Sonic the Hedgehog. Right?"

"Right," he grinned.

The girl was Spangles, so-called because she had a series of glittering sequins sewn into her black denim jacket and glittering rings through her left eyebrow and earlobe. She said she was fifteen but might have been younger and spoke with a soft Scottish lilt. Her dirty-straw hair stuck out from her head like a scarecrow's. She chewed gum with rapid, aggressive jerks of her jaw. Polo, a black kid with a rather diffident demeanour, said he was seventeen. He had a black woolly hat jammed on his closely shaved head and a double ear stud. Spangles called him Polo because, although he wasn't white, he was good to suck.

Most of the kids had been recruited by Ninja from hostels, amusement arcades, bus station cafés... the list went on. They smoked and chatted in darkness. Adam picked at rips and tears in the perished black rubber whilst the boy called Sonic pressed buttons with broad, flattened thumbs. Animal arrived with a carrier bag. The kids leapt from the tyres as he distributed several stained paper packages of fish and chips. Afterwards Polo gathered the rubbish into a rusty black dustbin and set fire to it. The kids squatted around and warmed their hands. Adam glanced at Spangles. The glow of the fire was reflected in the sequins on her jacket.

The night wore on, the darkness thickened, the kids felt frost forming over tyres and tarpaulins. Adam wrapped himself in his blanket. Lights blinked, cigarettes glowed, braziers and dustbins were stoked. "Where do we sleep?" he asked.

"You can sleep in the car if you like," said Spangles.

"Most of us just kip here," said Polo, "Round the fire."

"An' two bodies're warmer than one," grinned Sonic, placing his hand high on Spangles' thigh. She grinned back, and kissed his hand. During the night, they had sex on some bin-bags – Adam, waking in the cold, had seen them- so next morning he was in high spirits and the conversation was animated. He played his computer game as they strode along the frost-crusted pavement. Ninja had appointed him Adam's teacher.

"Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go," he sang in his creaking, breaking voice.

Sonic had a zebra-crossing ritual. He would only step on the white stripes. A black taxicab rounding the corner disrupted his pattern as the driver leaned angrily on the horn with the heel of his hand. Sonic waved two fingers, then the boys scuttled away through an iron gate to the safety of a public garden. The gate swung shut behind them.

"Where are we?" said Adam.

"Somewhere in London," came the reply. "Who cares?" They found a quiet cul-de-sac. "This'll do," said Sonic, placing a hand on the roof of a parked Ford Sierra. He peered through the window. "Yeah, this'll do. Fuckin' Sierra. Piece o' piss." He produced a bent black coat hanger from under his jacket and grinned at Adam. "Watch carefully." He shoved the hanger into the black rubber strip between door and window. "The locking mechanism's contained in the door panel," he explained. "You can trip it..." He grunted. "Like this." He opened the door, grinned and scrambled past the steering wheel to heave the radio out of its socket.

Adam was hopping from foot to foot, glancing up and down and around and about, utterly terrified. Things had happened too quickly. He had not been able to assess the risk. He had not even known what Sonic was going to do until the bent coat-hanger had slid inside the door panel. "You gonna nick it?" he stammered.

"Nah," said Sonic, "Fuckin' Sierra. Heap o' shit." He turned to Adam. "Shove it in yer rucksack." And before he knew it, Adam was carrying a stolen stereo. Sonic clapped his gloved hands together. "Next one," he said.

One hour later, Adam had learned more about breaking into cars than he ever thought possible. He also had six stolen radios in his bag.

"Avoid Saabs and Volvos," Sonic said over a breakfast of tea and bacon rolls in a seedy cafe. "Really hard work gettin' into them. You can't even smash the windows 'cos they use reinforced glass - Scandinavian winters, you see. Nah, British and Japanese. Flimsy bodies. Flimsy metal. You can break into them with a fucking tin-opener."

Sonic had a strong moral code. He never stole from old cars or small cars. He figured that people who drove battered old Fiestas or VW Beetles or anything more than eight years old were struggling. He would try to identify the owner from the car's contents and then make a decision. Nurses, students, people with loads of children, pensioners were all off-limits. He had argued with Ninja and Animal, who believed that anyone was a viable target, but he had got his own way because he was the best in the business.

"We gotta eat, AdMan," he said, stirring more sugar into his tea. "If they can afford to drive a big car, they can spare a car radio. You mustn't feel sorry for them, man. Their fucking insurance pays."

Sonic had started when he was eight. "Sweets from the corner shop then clothes and other stuff. I learned how to break into cars when I was twelve. 'Nother kid showed me when I was in the detention centre."

"Why did you get locked up?" Adam asked.

"Got caught shoplifting," he said. "I was shoplifting me fucking tea in Tesco's, 'n the fucking magistrate said I was out of control. Put me away. Mum didn't want me back. Told me to fuck off. Didn't want me blackening the family name. Didn't wanna live with her anyway. She was a total pisshead."

"What about your Dad?" asked Adam.

"Halfway through a twelve stretch for aggravated burglary," said Sonic, grinding out his cigarette. "ABH, money with menaces, TWOCing, loads o' stuff, but he got caught 'cos, unlike me, he's really shit at it." He pushed another button, started another game. "It's a great feeling," he said. "It's like playing these games. You get a real buzz, man, 'cos you've achieved something through your own skill. You've cracked their stupid fucking locks without setting off the alarms." He twisted the console, following his Stealth Bomber. "Yessss! Yer fucker!"

When they returned to the yard, they delivered the radios to Ninja who gave them ₤100, of which Sonic gave Adam £20 "for keeping a look out." Get some clothes, he decided. Sonic folded the remaining eight ₤10 bills. "Decent food tonight," he said drily. "Welcome to the family, AdMan."

### *

Ninja drove through the streets in silence. Animal sat in the passenger seat. AdMan sat in the back listening to The Prodigy on his Discman and observing the slowly awakening communities through which they were passing. He had been woken at dawn by Animal jabbing his ribs with an aluminium baseball bat. A sickly, pale, washed-out light was beginning to peep through the chicken-wire into the inky darkness of the yard. Sonic had muttered and burrowed further into the heavy, black tarpaulin under which they had spent the night.

"Goin' aht," said Animal. "Git yer stuff."

The street names were all unfamiliar. Newspaper boys with huge plastic bags, shopkeepers rattling up metal shutters and folding back iron grilles, one or two joggers pounding the pavement, a couple of dogs nosing round fallen, black rubbish-bags, a vagrant in a doorway.

### Charley says ''Always tell your Mummy before you go off somewhere.''

They arrived on an estate and parked in front of a stained concrete building disfigured by narrow balconies protruding from the walls. They looked like broken teeth. Ninja led the way through a stairwell which smelled of piss then down a dingy, poorly lit passageway past the logo of Ice Baby graffitied in black and white on the balcony wall to a dingy, mean little door with a cracked, pitted window. Animal tapped his aluminium bat against the black balcony rail. The aluminium glistened in the early dawn light. AdMan's stomach lurched and he suddenly felt sick.

Animal grinned. "Stroike one, hur hur."

Then Ninja kicked down the door.

And

everything passed

inablurofshoutingyellingchargingthroughahallmeetingablackmaninthemiddlewhowasnakedhiscockswingingheavilyagainsthisinnerthigh

"Wha' th' fu ..?" he stuttered as Animal swung the baseball bat into his head.

Blood sprayed from somewhere, sprayed over Animal, sprayed over the white distempered walls of the passageway, sprayed over AdMan, who grimaced. Through an open door, he saw a woman sitting up in bed, dragging crumpled sheets over her breasts. She was screaming.

"Shut th' fuck up, Marlene." Ninja slammed the door shut and twisted the key. "As fer you, yer fucker ..." Animal dragged the injured man across the floor as the woman beat the door shouting "Yer bastards, yer bastards" over and over.

The man got up on his hands and knees. His face was a mask of blood and his jaw looked broken. He spat a snapped-off tooth into the black blood-pool. "Fuckin' 'ell," he stammered, "Fuckin' 'ell ...." His eyes were fearful, his face like chalk. AdMan could smell the sharp stink of Fear.

"Noice playce yer go'," said Animal, "Noice bi' o' cant in yer bed 'n' all..."

"You ain' been clever, Ches'nu'," said Ninja. "Yer bin a bit norty."

"Yer fergot ter send uz lars' lorra tellies," said Animal, "Arftah we paid 'n' all."

"Yer a two-tahmin' slag," said Ninja. "Shut the fuck up, Marlene!" he bellowed at the hammering from the bedroom. Then he swivelled on his heel and kicked the man in the face. The cheekbone fractured, stabbed through the skin, the blood glistening blackly on the ragged, white bone. AdMan's stomach heaved and the man called Chestnut screamed like a dog being run over. AdMan felt sick. He turned up the volume on his Discman, looked straight ahead at the fireplace, the small shelf with family photos and little souvenirs from Spain whilst Animal and Ninja beat the man called Chestnut with cold detachment. When they were through, Ninja unlocked the bedroom, told the woman to call a doctor and wiped his bat on her bed-sheets, leaving a long, red-black smear.

''Wot 'appens if yer crorss uz,'' Ninja said coolly. ''Be warned.''

### Charly says 'Always tell your Mummy before you go off somewhere'

### *

The trembling won't stop. Whatever he does, the trembling won't stop. He sits on the black toilet seat and stares at the scratched, white cubicle-door. He can smell the vomit that had splashed over his hands as he'd knelt over the iron-slatted grate and been stomach-splittingly sick. He presses his face between cold, trembling hands, stares more fixedly at the metal door and tries to unjumble the blurred, confused events of the day.

AdMan and Sonic had been waiting in an alley. The rain had splashed noisily into the gutters and drummed on the corrugated tin sheets which roofed the low buildings behind the rain-stained wall. Sonic had put away his computer game and drew nervously on a cigarette. The white paper was marked with wet spots. "Don' like this," he kept muttering. "I really don' like this."

Ninja had called Sonic, AdMan and Spangles in for a briefing. As they'd huddled in front of the desk, AdMan had noted, with considerable anxiety, the return of Rick, who had glared at him with a tight-lipped and barely concealed anger. In fact, it was only Ninja's restraining hand on his arm that prevented him pulling a knife.

Spangles was to cruise Kensington High Street. She would join the queues at the cash machines, identify suitable targets for mugging from the amount of cash withdrawn and mark that target with a chalk cross on the back. Polo would shepherd the target away from the shoppers into a quieter area where AdMan and Sonic would carry out the robbery. Sonic had protested that he didn't "do" people.

"Mebbe not," growled Animal, "Bu' we do, hur hur."

"It's Christmas," spat Ninja. "There's loadsamoney aht there."

"I don't want to," said Sonic. "Cars is one thing, but this ... it's heavy, man."

Ninja was off the desk in an instant. He took Sonic's jaw in a vice-like hand. "Yer do it, Sonic, or ah'll shove me knife up yer arse. As fer you....," He turned on AdMan. "You 'appy?"

"N... nno," stammered AdMan. "I agree with Sonic ..."

"Dontchoo fergit where ah fahnd yer," Ninja looked at the others, grinned, and kissed AdMan's mouth brutally. AdMan tasted cigarettes, stale beer, garlic, and felt quite nauseous. "Yer li''le poof." Rick scowled and fingered his knife.

A middle-aged woman was trudging down the alley weighed down by bulging carrier bags. She wore a head scarf and kept glancing over her chalk-dusted shoulder. Fifty yards behind her, Polo was balancing a half brick in his hand. The woman's pace picked up.

"Oh, Jesus," whimpered Sonic catching AdMan's sleeve.

Her eyes flitted rapidly from one to the other, then over her shoulder, then on to the exit. As she drew level, AdMan could see the white cross on her sleeve. His hands were shaking.

"I can't do it, AdMan. No fucking way," muttered Sonic. He smiled at the woman. "All right?" he said as she passed by.

AdMan felt the breath burst from his lungs. He dragged a trembling hand across his mouth and glanced at Sonic. The boy was shaking violently.

"We'll do the next one," he stammered.

But the next one was a black giant whose glare made them cower, and the one after that a young girl who might have been a student, and the next an old woman with white hair, probably a pensioner, and after her a couple of Japanese kids with rucksacks. Spangles had marked all of them.

"They're gonna kill us, AdMan," said Sonic, shivering again. His black hair was plastered to his skull. He looked thoroughly miserable. "Cars I can do. No worries. But this... I ain't cut out for mugging." The rain on his face glistened like tears.

"Let's do a runner," said AdMan again. Rainwater was seeping into his trainers. He blew on his hands and blinked the drizzle from his eyelashes.

"They're my family, AdMan. They're all I have."

Desperate. Pleading. Anxious. Confused. Urgent.

The mixed feelings of the soon-to-be-runaway.

I've been there, thought Adam.

"Stay with them, Sonic, you'll end up in prison, just like your father."

"If we leg it," said Sonic, "We'll wind up in hospital, jus' like Chestnut."

"C'mon," said AdMan. "London's a big city. We just have to lose ourselves in it."

A series of nervous, over-the-shoulder glances. Everyone was out of sight.

Sonic made his decision. He slapped AdMan's sleeve and said "C'mon then."

They had hurried down the alley, skipped over puddles, scampered past fallen bins, scurried through scattered rubbish, crushed tin-cans, screwed-up paper, torn black bags, and out onto the pavement. Coloured Christmas-lights blinked from shop windows. People, heads bent against the weather, crowded the kerb. Cars crawled through puddles beneath a row of lights strung across the street.

"Where are we?" said AdMan.

"Fuck knows," said Sonic. "Let's just walk to a tube station and take it from there."

Suddenly they saw Rick and Animal heading towards them. Rick. Shit.

"Stand still!!!" It was an Animal roar. Charley says......

Trapped in a moment of indecision, rabbits caught in headlights, Sonic and AdMan clung together, AdMan feeling Sonic's panic descending like a lead weight, feeling his own fear turn his bowels into liquid.

"Look arrem," jeered Animal, "Queer cunts." He jabbed Sonic with a rigid hand.

Rick blew a kiss at AdMan. " 'Ello, sweetie. Long time, no see. I been lookin' fer you, yer sneaky bastard."

"Fuck off, Prick," grated AdMan, "We're out of here." His voice quivered with a mixture of fear, anger and rising passion. "Me and Sonic. We've had enough. We're not robbing for you, we're not mugging for you, we're walking away."

"Larke fuck you are!" Animal reached for the rucksack.

Years of playing tennis had made AdMan light on his feet. He swung it aside, skipped a yard and watched Animal stagger. "What yer gonna do?" said AdMan. "You ain't the Krays, you know. You're just two rather sad, slap-headed twats."

Behind him, above him, miles overhead, Sonic whimpered. AdMan felt himself place a protective hand on his sleeve.

"Yer lippy cunt!" said Rick, a note of admiration creeping into his voice.

"Just ... leave us alone," AdMan said.

"Whatcha gonna do?" sneered Animal. "Yer gorraeat." He grinned mirthlessly. "Yer gonna tek 'im ter Billy's poofs' par'ies? Eh? Sonic? Yer wanna be shagged by some old fucker at a party?"

"What we're gonna do is none of your Goddam business," said AdMan, feeling a reckless courage flooding his body. "Is it, Leslie? You come after us, or even look at us, and we'll grass you up." AdMan looked directly into Animal's shifting eyes. He felt fantastic. "An' if you think I'm bluffing.... try me."

Animal hesitated.

But Sonic didn't. With a yelp of terror he darted into the road.

Everything sl o w ed d o w n,

almost to fr e e ze fr a me

The Metro hit Sonic

Very hard

In the centre of his thigh.

He was hurled several yards along the road.

The games console span through the air.

He landed on the black tarmac with a sickening smack.

His head bounced twice, like a cricket ball dropped on concrete.

He rolled onto his back.

The black Sega crash-landed nearby.

It shattered into a thousand sparking circuits.

The Metro's tyres squealed, brakes locked, black tracks scored on tarmac.

Sonic lay motionless in the road.

A glazed black puddle of blood was spreading around him.

His curly hair was already stiff with goo.

His flickering eyes were clouded with pain and anxiety.

Thick black fluid oozed from his ear.

"Adam ..." he murmured, "Adi...." He coughed. A thick black thread trickled out of his nose. Adam dug his nails into the palms of his hands. "Jesus, it hurts...." A sob and a whimper. His face was stark, eyes black holes torn in a white paper bag.

Adam saw Rick on the kerb, saw people gathering, heard a woman, the driver, screaming, saw a man holding her arms in firm square hands. Then he heard Animal shouting "'E did it! 'E pushed 'im! Someone grab 'im!"

And somebody did. Someone, everyone, plucked at him, reached for him, seized him, pulling his clothes, tugging his hair, shouting and hitting and yelling abuse, and somebody spat and called him a murderer ... he slipped in Sonic's blood but remained upright until...

"Yer cunt," spat Rick, ''Yer murderin' cunt.'' His knee crashed up into Adam's chest. A rib fractured. Adam heard himself cry out, felt the pain jab through him as he was shoved towards the pavement. A voice seemed to hiss into his ear "Run for it, Adam! Run like fuck and don't look back!" Rick pushed him away. Clutching his rucksack, he scrambled from the road and ran, staggered, stumbled and ran as he had never run before, ran, ran, ran away, vision blurred, eyes unfocussed, lungs heaving, heart bursting and everything blurring.

He ran towards Holland Park. The rucksack bounced on his shoulder. He ran fast. Then he stumbled and fell and skidded along the pavement, tearing the skin on his hands to shreds as he slid. He dragged himself onto his knees then his insides exploded as he vomited desperately into the gutter. His broken rib stabbed him, jabbed him, making him sick again and again as the rain swirled the liquid into the drain.

### *

Adam straightens his back against the cool porcelain of the overhead cistern. He can hear the water hiss through the pipes. A metal box with "Ten inch cock 0171-5743289" scratched into the flaking white paint on the door and a small hole drilled into the partition a couple of inches away from the paper dispenser has become his sanctuary. He shakes himself and emerges from the cubicle to wash his face. The basin is stained and black thread-like cracks disfigure the enamel. The mirror above it is pitted, as though someone has furiously hurled a fistful of gravel into the glass. He runs some warm water into his palm and splashes it onto his chalky face. Swollen black smudges mark the skin beneath his grey eyes. Sonic is dead.

A man comes down the steps. The rain has turned to snow and melting flakes glisten on his black umbrella and matching black briefcase. He glances at Adam and goes to stand at one of the urinals.

Adam's stomach growls. He tips some water into his mouth to swill away the taste of vomit and semi-digested food. How much money has he got? He spits a waterspout at the black rubber plug and feels around in his pocket. Two ₤1 coins. Perhaps the other pocket. His fingers touch the cardboard condom-carton. His eyes focus on the man in the mirror. Who is glancing over his shoulder.

Adam yanks the plug from its hole. The man smiles lazily and approaches the next washbasin. Adam keeps his eyes fixed on the swirl of water. Carefully, slowly, the man washes his hands. "Terrible weather," he says, "Just started to snow."

Adam says nothing. He looks at the man from the corner of his eye. About forty, well dressed, well groomed, nice suit, white shirt, black silken tie, quite athletic, very self-confident. Adam spots a wedding ring glittering brightly under the tap.

"Twenty quid all right?" The man is drying his hands.

"What?"

"Twenty quid." The man turns now and looks directly at Adam. "OK," says the man, "Thirty. 'Cos it's Christmas, I've had a good day and you look like a nice kid."

Three ten pound notes appear almost magically in his hand.

"OK," says Adam, feeling his heart crash against the base of his throat.

Afterwards, Adam sits on the toilet seat, his face in his hands, staring at the black leather shoes of his first-ever client. He feels depressed.

"You weren't very good," the man remarks, wiping his cock on a sheet of toilet paper. "Some customers'd refuse to pay you."

"I've never.... done it before," Adam says brokenly. "I didn't know how..."

He'd tried his best but his face had ached and every mouth-filling, throat-blocking thrust had threatened to choke him. He had found it difficult to control his breathing and to co-ordinate the sucking with the sliding with the tonguing. His chest hurt from the sharp pressure of his fractured rib, the cock had slipped out of his mouth several times and he'd gagged once or twice. When the man eventually ejaculated, Adam had felt himself drowning, floundering in waves of warm, sticky semen. It had filled his mouth, bubbled over his chin. He'd gagged and choked but the semen kept coming and the man kept pushing inside Adam's mouth until it all stopped. He had had to swallow some of it. Otherwise he would have choked.

"Don't cry," says the man. "You'll get better with practice." The man shoves the three tenners into his hand. "Cheer up. It's nearly Christmas." He looks into the tear-filled grey eyes. "If it's any consolation, I think you're an angel." He puts his hand on Adam's head. "I'll see you again, I hope." He buttons his coat, unlocks the cubicle, opens his black umbrella and strides up the steps into the dark London night.

Adam tastes the sticky sweetness on his lips. Rinsing his mouth with cold water, he spits the last globs of white fluid into the basin. Most of it had gone into a bundle of toilet paper while the man had zipped up his flies. He has become little more than a human condom. However, he does have ₤30 in his hand. Sonic is dead.

The snow has set in properly. Huge white flakes drift gently, lazily down to the ground. Some settle on his dark hair. He brushes them away with his hand. His rib hurts like crazy. He hitches up his rucksack and heads towards the glow of a fast-food restaurant. A pizza perhaps, then a Bed and Breakfast, maybe for Christmas. He doesn't care if it snows all night so long as he is warm and dry and very drunk.

### Charly says 'Always tell your Mummy before you go off somewhere'

22. Eumaios' Hut

buh BUM buh BUM buh BUM buh BUM

I listen intently.

buh BUM buh BUM buh BUM buh BUM

It's my heart beating.

There is snow on the ground today. I push back my blanket and burrow through the curtains to the window. The pane is covered with the crazy scribbles of a manic midnight frost. I lean my forehead against the window frame, trying not to puncture the swelling blisters on the maroon paint skin and squint through a dramatic ripple-on-a-pond etching. The small square of lawn and empty, frozen strips of soil are buried under several inches of snow. Morning sunlight strikes rainbow glints from the hard, white crust. Snow at Christmas. My heart leaps.

A couple of sparrows hop across the snow to the concrete birdbath in the centre of the lawn. There's a frozen sheet of water across the shallow bowl. Some impurity has created an iridescent rainbow sheen which shimmers on the surface. A robin pecks at a bacon rind. Mrs Fox must have thrown out the breakfast scraps already.

Around sixty, a short, ferocious woman, perhaps five feet four, with a huge bosom supported by stays and corsets, a square, florid face, maroon blood vessels offset by maroon lipstick, her dyed-black hair wrapped in a headscarf, Mrs Fox is a tad on the raddled side. She shuffles round the house in a pair of maroon carpet-slippers, a glass of gin grasped in one slack-skinned hand, tipping cold ash and crumpled butts from ashtrays to dishcloth and barking at the staff. But her heart is in the right place. Apparently.

Her partner, in bed as in breakfast, is prim and austere, a very tall, very slim woman called Miss Lake. She cooks the meals, churning the contents of huge steel pans, a look of intense concentration etched above the tightly compacted maroon-coated lips. A cigarette in a lacquered holder rests between her fingers. Fragments of ash occasionally break away to cascade into the chilli con carne or spaghetti or cabbage beneath. We guesstimate her age to be somewhere, anywhere, between forty and sixty, although Mrs Fox's daughter, Stella, the third member of this curious bed and breakfast owning trio, has told us that Miss Lake is fifty-two.

Stella herself is thirty-nine, suffering with housewife's knee, cellulite, hot flushes and general frustration. She changes the beds, cleans the rooms, scrubs the communal bathroom and empties the bins. A glorified chambermaid perhaps, but she does possess a third share in the

### RIVERSIDE

### GUEST HOUSE

Riverside is something of a misnomer. It is cut off from the river by the A4, Ravenscourt Park, Goldhawk Road and most of Chiswick. A rambling establishment, kitchen, lounge, dining room on the ground floor, six bedrooms on two middle floors, with the family's two rooms on the fourth and final level, it is a crumbling Victorian pile of peeling plaster and fading paintwork, moss-covered steps and overgrown gateposts. But, however rambling the hedges and however overlong the grass, it is still the first garden I have seen for months.

The robin is having trouble with its bacon-rind prize. It snakes uncontrollably around in his beak. I watch as the glistening length of fat flops against the heart-shaped splash of maroon on his breast. Then, patience exhausted, he drops the rind back on the snow, chirrups once and flies up into the apple tree.

I let the curtains drop and turn back to the gloomy interior. The bedroom is dominated by an enormous wardrobe fashioned from huge slabs of deep, dark wood. A large pitted oval mirror surmounts the almost equally enormous and equally dark-wooded dresser. Behind the glass, the silver is fading. The walls of the room are covered in maroon flock-paper. The single bed is concealed beneath a maroon flock counterpane. There is a soft but uncomfortable armchair and a bedside cabinet upon which stands a lamp with a fringed, maroon shade masking its dusty 40-watt bulb.

I half-sit, half-lean against the maroon radiator beneath the window and savour the warmth seeping through my T-shirt and shorts. My rucksack sits in the armchair. My poor old Scout blanket lies crumpled on the canvas camp-bed the Foxy Ladies, after much discussion, had allowed us to erect in the bedroom. My few remaining possessions, the Discman and a handful of borrowed clothes are scattered nearby. Everything else, including my sleeping bag, is still at Billy's.

I wince as my rib gives a slow, aching throb. The bandage round my chest is suffocatingly tight. Miss Lake and Stella had perched me on the edge of the bathtub and consulted their previously unopened First Aid for Mothers. As I lifted my arms and stripped off my T-shirt, the cracked rib jabbed so sharply I felt my heart was being stabbed and I had to grit my teeth as they wound the bandage tightly round my chest and secured it with a safety-pin.

Dad is still asleep, the maroon bedspread drawn up to his chin. I look at his ragged moustache, at the flabby, maroon-mottled cheeks quivering gently as he snores. He was one of those strong, silent fathers. I'd never sat down and talked to him but in those days he hadn't needed to talk, just be a presence, and he had been exactly that, a comforting, reassuring presence, someone to go to with scraped knees, a tear-stained face, someone I could go to for all those comforts children need. I would sit on his knee, bury my fingers in his maroon knitted cardigan and breathe in the scent of tobacco and wood-smoke and aftershave as he shushed and hushed and soothed my frayed heart. He reminds me of a walrus, snuffling inside the bed.

When he walked out, my world fell apart.

I told him I didn't mind the camp-bed, since he was paying for the room and older than me, but he had insisted on taking it in turns. He seemed to sense that I'd spent the past six weeks sleeping on rubber tyres, threadbare carpets, concrete doorsteps, soggy grass and granite gravestones and therefore needed a comfy bed more than he did.

He had changed somehow. It wasn't just that his wispy hair was even thinner and his moustache more ragged. It wasn't even the fact that his face seemed to have been invaded by maroon splotches beneath the skin where veins had swollen and capillaries burst. It was more to do with his attitude. When I'd seen him in the off-licence, a coincidence beyond coincidence, I swear my heart had stopped beating just for an instance. He was looking at bottles of vodka and gin, presents, he said shiftily, for the Foxy Ladies.

Dad. George Lycett. My father. After two years of silence. What to say? How to say it? Should I hug him? Should I? Would we? In the middle of Threshers?

I shrugged and sidled up to him, my heart in my mouth and beating so fast I thought it would choke me, and said, as casually as I could, "Hi, Dad."

He turned his bloodshot eyes towards me, blinked once or twice, then said "Hullo, Adam." It wasn't exactly the joyous, enraptured, hug-laden reunion I'd imagined. Nonetheless, he took me for a pizza then back to the Riverside Guest House and we sat on the maroon bedcover drinking vodka from chipped, cracked tooth-mugs.

He's unemployed again. He's forty-eight, with a CV so chequered that he's all but unemployable. In the two years since I'd last seen him, he'd been a telephone operator, a glass-collector in a pub and a ticket-collector on the Underground. He'd tried window cleaning but was frightened off by the Odd Job Mafia who had signalled their objections to competition by breaking his ladders and had ended up humping bricks on a building site with a load of Irishmen. This came to a premature end when he went to hospital with chest-pains. His mates on the site had told him his face was the colour of the bricks. So add a dodgy heart to his other disadvantages and Dad is fast fading away from the job market. He is also fading out of the housing picture. Unable to work, confined to a ward for several days, he'd been unable to pay the rent and the landlord had terminated the contract. When he left hospital, he'd found his flat occupied by a thrusting young executive who had promptly thrust him away down the stairs.

Drifting round London, staying in bed and breakfast accommodation, sometimes working, mostly not, engaged in a struggle for disability benefit not helped by his lack of a permanent address, my father's in a worse situation than me. Yeah, I know I've been reduced to nicking car radios and sucking off blokes in toilets, but I'm young and fit and it's only a matter of time till my life turns around. But Dad.... he's finally washed up at this crumbling Goldhawk Road residence. I felt my heart breaking as I stared at the maroon label pasted on the vodka bottle.

"We can start again, together." I shuffled up the bedspread towards him. "You're not alone any more. You've got me now. We can work together and live together. Just as I always wanted us too." I put my arm round his cardiganed shoulders.

The following day we went window-shopping Up West. We bought most of Fortnum's with our imaginary money. In fact, we were going to ask the staff to deliver the hamper to our imaginary country-home but the surveillance cameras and uniformed guards reminded us of the dangers of exhibiting humour at the expense of the wealthy. Outside Hamley's I looked through the window, observed the Lego and dolls and soldiers and Airfix aircraft, noted the children swarming in and out of the doors and heard the Mantra Chant, the Children's Prayer, the particular Incantation for that particular Christmas, the collective cry of the name of Buzz Lightyear.

I laughed quietly. I'd seen Toy Story with Vicky, Andrew and Shelley and enjoyed it very much. Falling.... With style had become our catchphrase.

Further along Regent Street, the Salvation Army band was drowning the chatter of shoppers with "Hark the Herald Angels Sing". Their long, dark coats and maroon cap-bands stood out against the soft afternoon mist which was beginning to creep around the standard lamps. We stood in shallow puddles of softly melting snow-water and listened to the flood of the music. It jolted my heart and I sang quietly with one or two of the other listener-spectators. A woman rattled a plastic box. I smiled and dropped a fifty pence piece through the slot. It crashed among the other coins. The woman said "Bless your heart," and stuck a small paper label on my lapel. Help the Aged, it read. I wondered how Holy Joe and Crazy Mary were spending Christmas.

### Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,

### Glory to the New-Born King.

Talk of the cinema prompted Dad to shepherd me back down Regent Street, across Piccadilly Circus and into Haymarket to the Odeon for a Christmas Eve matinée showing of 101 Dalmatians. I remembered Billy's poster of the puppy in shades. Poor Billy. His father was dead and his mother was dying. I told Dad about him after the movie. The story saddened him. Later we joined the throng at the Haymarket McDonald's for burgers and fries then back out into the cold crush of people, a tidal rush of Christmas in London. I revelled in the simple pleasure of doing simple things with my father, things most kids took for granted, especially on Christmas Eve. It was great. I was with my Dad and it was Christmas.

Back at the Riverside, we found Mrs Fox, a glass of Kir in one wrinkled hand, trimming the tree. Rainbow lanterns snaked through tinsel-smothered branches.

"Ah, Master Lycett." I hadn't been called that since primary school. "You will join us for dinner tomorrow, won't you?" It was more a command than an invitation.

I perched on the edge of the bed to wrap Dad's presents. I had used the money I'd earned in the toilet to buy him a pouch of tobacco, a small flask of Scotch and a chocolate orange. I hadn't really known what to get him. I didn't really know him.

The carol service from Cambridge crackled from the radio. To my delight, a note cracked in the opening verse of "Once in Royal David's City". I'd never done that once in three years, not even when my voice had been breaking and I'd struggled so much in rehearsal that the choirmaster had primed a substitute "just in case". Bloody cheek. I had still hit the note in performance.

A strand of Sellotape snaked from the reel and stuck to the bedspread. I ripped it away. Half the fluffy, flocky stuff clung to the underside. Scrunching it into a sticky, heart-shaped knot, I flung it towards the waste-bin. Then I pressed a fresh, clean strip down with my thumb. The paper was a rather nice shiny maroon with bright little rainbows. Not particularly festive but I thought it was cool.

I had bought some cheap little cards. I wrote to Andrew and Nanny, the Marrs and David Bell and, after some deliberation, to Mum. I told them I was well, had met up with Dad and was spending Christmas with him. Then I wrote a card for Lucy and one to Mandy and the kids and another, again after some deliberation, to Billy Land explaining that I'd met Ninja and gone for a drink and not to take it personally and I hoped his party had gone well and I'd be in touch.

The radio hissed and spat fiercely as it went off-station in the middle of the choristers' chirping of "Adam lay ybounden, bounden in a bond." Very apt, I reflected, having already absorbed the First Lesson from Genesis with which various schoolmates and masters had tormented me over Christmases Past.

They heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the garden and Adam and his wife hid themselves and the Lord God called unto Adam and said unto him "Adam, Adam, where art thou?" And he said "I heard thy voice in the garden and I was afraid because I was naked"

Adam's naked! Arf Arf! That was always Byrne's favourite line.

The heat from the radiator burns through my boxers and the pain in my rib makes me catch my breath but a rainbow has formed over Shepherd's Bush. My heart soars. It's going to be a good Christmas. Somewhere over the rainbow is London. Me and my Dad are together again. The future is bright. The rainbow says so.

### *

Christmas Day. Christmas Future.

I'll sit in my comfortable armchair warming my slippered feet in front of my fire, stirring only to pour myself another glass of double malted Irish whiskey. I'll watch the snowflakes gently drifting against the window pane and wait for William to bound into the living room. He'll have sung sweetly in the choir at last night's Midnight Eucharist. He'll be late getting up because we didn't get home till one in the morning. I'll think about taking him a warm Ribena. He'll be so happy when he opens his presents and finds the Scalextric set and the plastic model of the Starship Enterprise that he asked for, and as for his special present...

I'll smile and savour the whiskey, a present from my father-in-law whilst Bryn Terfel on the television sings on a Brecon hillside with members of the Sally Army band, their long black coats and maroon-banded caps stark against the snow

Yet in thy dark streets shineth

The everlasting light,

The hopes and fears of all the years

Are met in thee tonight.

I'll remember carol-singing in the village two evenings ago. I'll have stood with the Vicar and his wife among the huddled crowd of village children, scarfed and gloved and woolly-hatted against the weather, all maroon cheeks and clouds of hot breath. I'll have held Vicki by one mittened hand and William, my maroon-hatted son, by the other, singing for Mrs Cox at the village shop and the Fernleys housebound in their postcard thatched cottage and then we'll all have gathered beneath the huge Christmas tree on the village green.

It came upon a midnight clear,

That glorious song of old,

From angels bending near the earth

To touch their harps of gold:

Faces glow in the lantern light. Little white candle-shapes blink from the fir tree. The village pond is frozen over and the ducks waddle between our Wellingtoned feet. The snow continues to fall in the crisp, clear light from a full winter-moon and Vicki brushes a snowflake from the tip of my nose.

Everyone will have come up to our house, past the tree at the gate, up the gravel-strewn drive and into the kitchen for mulled wine and mince pies. Vicki will have spent the whole afternoon making the pies and a mountain of sausage rolls whilst I will have heated the wine. It will be my Christmas tradition, to have the villagers in after carol singing for mulled wine and mince pies. It is a skill I will develop into a fine art - just the right amount of cinnamon, just the right number of cloves, and just the right temperature so the fumes knock my head off as I lean over the big steel pan we use for jam-making to stir the viscous, maroon liquor. Will and his friends, bundles of energy and childish excitement, will race round the house whilst the Vicar and I warm the backs of our legs in the glow of the fire and feel the heat from the wine in our palms as we discuss his forthcoming sermon.

See amid the winter's snow

Born for us on Earth below

See the tender Lamb appears

Promis'd from eternal years.

Dad'll be coming on Boxing Day. William'll be very excited, especially since Nanny is coming as well. Uncle Andrew, his godfather, will come over on Boxing Day. We'll take a long walk along the snow-covered riverbank and scramble up the hill for our reflective end of year view of the country down in the valley below.

Hail thou ever blessed Morn

Hail redemption's happy dawn

William will appear in the doorway, clad in his rainbow-striped pyjamas, his mother behind him, her hand on his tousled blond hair, a broad smile on her face. "Happy Christmas Dad," he'll cry, running to my side to fling his arms round me.

"Happy Christmas, darling," I'll reply, kissing his forehead, my heart swelling.

Sing through all Jerusalem

Christ is born in Bethlehem.

William will rush towards the tree to burrow into the parcel pyramid for the gift he has bought me. He'll ignore his own presents to hand up the aftershave or whatever he's chosen, his face split with a grin. I'll catch the reflection in the crystal sparkle of one delicately dangling maroon bauble. Then he'll yelp sharply. He'll have knelt on a pine needle. My heart will ache for my child's discomfort, but his pain will soon be forgotten when, with a sharp, high-pitched bark, his special present, unable to remain concealed any longer, will scamper into the room. His face will light up and he'll yell out ''Aw, cool! It's a puppy!"

Sing through all Jerusalem

Christ is born in Bethlehem.

My heart will be full.

### *

There is a scattering of applause and Stella Fox whistles. Adam, somewhat embarrassed, bows slightly and scurries away from the heart of the rather frayed maroon carpet to his seat by the door. This is Charades, the post-Queen's Speech, pre-Christmas Dinner tradition of Riverside Guest House, chaired by a Kir-soaked landlady and performed by a steady string of unsteady non-performers. Adam had been asked to mime One Foot in the Grave. His heart had pounded and he'd felt his cheeks flushing as he'd dug an imaginary grave with an invisible shovel to lower an imaginary coffin.... the elderly couple on a Christmas break had guessed it with laughter and a croaking chorus of "I don't belieeeve it". He swirls the gin and tonic round his glass and grins at Stella who winks and nods towards the mistletoe skewered to the ceiling. He feels himself blushing again and buries his nose in the gin. Mrs Fox had forced the out-facingly large drink on him when he and his father had entered the lounge shortly after Judy Garland had begun her journey along the Yellow Brick Road to the Emerald City and The Wizard of Oz. Miss Lake had grimly wished them a merry Christmas.

Follow the yellow brick road

sang the Munchkins.

Follow follow follow follow follow the yellow brick road,

We're off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz

"Adam and George!" Stella bawled, "A very happy Christmas to you both!" She caught them in a crushing embrace. Adam felt his rib shifting and cried aloud.

"Oh, your poor rib!" she clucked. "I'm ever so sorry." She pulled him into the heart of the room. "Let me apologise properly." She pressed her lips against his. Gin fumes wafted around his nose and he turned his eyes up to the ceiling. There was the mistletoe, lying in wait, like a predator, ready to strike.

### I'll get you, my pretty

The booming of a huge brass gong proclaims the Arrival of Dinner.

"Sit next to me, my dear," croons Stella, hauling him into a seat by her side. "We can enjoy our dinner together." She sloshes a prodigious quantity of white wine into Adam's glass and bats her eyelids flirtatiously.

Dinner is something of a nightmare. It could have been titled Carry on Christmas. He keeps expecting Kenneth Williams to pop up with the odd "Ooh Matron." The guests are enthusiastic consumers not just of turkey and trimmings but also of double entendres. Adam, the youngest at table, is the main victim of the ribaldry and suffers a barrage of comments ranging from the harmlessly lewd-

"Do you prefer legs or breasts, Master Lycett?" ho ho

and "Would you give me stuffing, dear?" tee hee

and "Is your sausage big enough, young man?"arf arf

\- to the downright crude-

"Here's a little cracker for you, Master Lycett" hmmm

and "Give it a good hard pull, Mrs Fox." oo-er

and "I'll bet you can make a big bang, my dear" fnarr fnarr

In addition, he has to contend with Stella Fox's determination to feed him up. Mountains of potatoes, huge piles of sprouts and great slabs of turkey surrounded by seas of gravy and glass after glass (after glass after glass) of dry white wine. Adam senses how Hansel must have felt being fed by the Witch.

### I'll get you, my pretty.

"You need fattening up." Mrs Fox slurps her wine and dabs at the gravy streaking her chin. "You're all skin and bone."

"How do you spend Christmas usually?" asks Stella.

Usually? Nick Byrne would drink himself into a stupor, punctuating his consumption by bouts of feeding, laughing at the television and screwing my Mum. They'd give me my presents and we'd sit down for Christmas lunch, which would be marked by Byrne's knocking back most of the wine and making sarcastic digs at my expense, especially if we had company. Then I'd go out and cycle moodily round the empty, deserted streets.

"Oh, you know," he says

After the meal, everyone sits round the table nursing brandy and cigarettes. George Lycett slumps in his chair snoring gently whilst Mrs Fox stares glassy-eyed at the tattered remains of a maroon paper crown. Adam sips a brandy and represses a touch of heartburn as Cliff Richard sings from the television:

Many have come from the valleys, many have come from the hills

Many have started their journey home

To be with someone, with someone, On the Saviour's Day

Open your eyes on Saviour's Day, Don't look back or turn away...

### *

The empty bottle falls from my fingers into the crumpled paper on the carpet. Kind of Adam to buy me whisky for Christmas. Warmed me up.

I pull at my moustache then scrape at the stubble on my chin. I'm struggling with heartburn. Or perhaps it's the booze churning up my dinner.

His turn for the bed. I'm sat on the camp bed. He's fast asleep. He's grown up so quickly. I hardly recognised him in that off-licence.

I watch him as he shifts slightly, slipping a hand between his cheek and the pillow. He's so thin. I'm not sure how he cracked a rib. He talked about an accident.

I press some tobacco into my pipe. I swear if I keep very still and listen very hard I can hear his heart beating.

Buh-BUM There it is. Buh-BUM

Buh-BUM buh-BUM buh-BUM buh-BUM

I get off the canvas camp bed and lean over to listen.

buh-BUM buh-BUM buh-BUM

His eyelids flicker. The lock of dark hair tumbles away from his forehead. I touch the scar he got when he hit his head on a table. His brow crumples briefly.

He talked a lot during the evening. He hasn't changed. When he was little he'd chatter all the time, in the bath, getting ready for bed, rattling out the things he had done and the things he wanted to do, and that was his theme tonight. He thinks we're going to get a place together. I'm too old to work and I have angina.

"Next Christmas, you can come to mine," he said, steadying himself against the bedside cabinet, " 'Cos I'm gonna have a house ..." He frowned. "An' a car an' a dog." He removed the maroon paper crown, swayed and sat down on the bed. " 'Cos in the New Year, I'm gonna get a job. You know? A job."

"Doing what?" I said.

"Anythin'," he blurted, "Anythin' at all." He frowned again and tugged at one of his socks. "So long as it's legal. I ain't nickin' stuff again. Or givin' blowjobs..."

"It'll have to be well paid if you want somewhere to live," I told him.

"Yeah," he said, peeling off his T-shirt. "But there's you an' all. If you get a job, or if you get benefit 'cos of your heart, that's two ... we'll cover the rent easy." He grimaced. "My rib aches again," he said. "I need something to rub on it."

"You should go to the hospital," I advised him.

"Huh." He stood up uncertainly and unfastened his jeans. "This bandage is bad enough. They might put me in plaster just to finish the suffocation." He tossed his jeans into the armchair and sat back on the bed, inspecting his foot. "I'm a wreck, Dad. But not for long." He flung himself into bed with a chirpy "Night, then."

I poke the tobacco in the bowl of my pipe and brush some crumbs off the blanket. He ought to go home. He'd be better at home. I can't help him. I never could.

I look down at him, recording every feature, every detail, every mole and freckle, every hair, every eyelash, so I will never forget, because I know, as I watch my son dreaming of the future, that I will not be part of it and that I will never see him again. Stooping down, I kiss him gently in the middle of his forehead. My lips are very dry. I push the letter and a ₤20 note under the pillow.

### There's no place like home.

### There's no place no home.

I swing my holdall onto my shoulder and close the door softly behind me.

Adam's heart beats steadily on in the darkness and silence.

buh BUM buh BUM buh BUM buh BUM

23. Penelope's Suitors

stand upon Westminster Bridge. Across the deep indigo Thames, the shadowy shape of the Houses of Parliament squats on the bank like a bunched predator, waiting, always waiting. Westminster Abbey is hidden, swallowed up in the indigo blackness of night. Rain patters lightly into the melting snow turning it slowly to sloppy axle-clogging slush.

Kim Cook stares at the stars, faint pricks of light stabbed into the indigo cloth of the sky. The baby, wrapped in a dark blue blanket, is cold, wet and grizzling. Beside her, spear-brandishing

### BOADICEA, QUEEN OF THE ICENI

stands in her chariot, a lasting symbol of failed defiance. Monuments to the Dead. Monuments to Failure. And, stranded in the car park of the Houses of Parliament, bizarrely out of place and out of Time, the horse-backed figure of great English hero

### RICHARD I

### Coeur de Lion

who spent just nine months in England in his ten year reign and taxed the country to bankruptcy. She steps onto the balustrade of Westminster Bridge, the baby in her arms, and

looks

into the water.

Silence

Snowflakes drift from an indigo sky onto the river below.

### *

The interior of the indigo Bentley is warm and comfortable. Walnut panelling, soft leather seats, electrically controlled windows, this is a tin-box with style. Billy Land luxuriates in his surroundings. He glances through dark blue tinted windows at the slush heaped on the cracked, worn pavements. Events have moved swiftly.

Two days ago, numbed, chilled and desolate, he had sat in the cold wind sweeping through Highbury whilst Arsenal played Aston Villa. He had been vaguely aware of the match, had heard the cheers which greeted Ian Wright's twenty-second goal of the season in the thirteenth minute crashing round the ground in a tidal wave of noise but faintly, dimly, muffled, as though he were under water.

He had gone to the match partly by instinct, partly through routine, partly to diminish his anguish and partly because he sensed that it might be his last visit to Highbury but a sense of guilt had gnawed within him even as he tried to enjoy the spills of Lukic, the thrills of Bosnich, the goals from Milosevic and Yorke and the utterly breathtaking 25 yard drive from Paul Merson to secure a 2-2 draw. He didn't really care. Rose Land was dead. She had died in the bath. She had died on Christmas Eve whilst he was at a party........

### ~~~~~~

Billy leaned over the sink and forced the air from his lungs through his teeth. He ran cold water from the tap to splash his face and bared arms. He watched the water swirl down the plughole and decided he would have a flute of champagne before he returned. Being dressed as a pixie did not help and neither did being pawed by a lot of sweaty men dressed in Father Christmas costumes. The little pointy hat was irritating and, although the jerkin was made of very soft leather, the belt needed loosening and the indigo tights were stifling.

He noted Pépé's sulky expression. The Andalusian was struggling with a load of crisp-breads, pickled herrings and lettuce leaves. For fuck's sake cheer up, thought Billy. It's Christmas Eve and you're earning a stack of cash here. All you need do is sit on Santa's knee from time to time.

Billy had already been tickled by several beards, subjected to seasonal jokes of the "coming up your chimney" and "toys in your sack" variety and propositioned several times, mainly by those familiar with his photographic portfolio but also by a priest whose fantasies were so filthy Billy thought he should be ashamed to have that kind of stuff inside his head.

The kitchen door flapped open and another Father Christmas lurched in. "Ho ho ho, little boy. Come and sit on my knee and I'll empty your sack."

Billy said nothing, just drained his flute.

"Guess what I'm wearing under here," slurred Santa, promptly giving away the answer by opening his robe and presenting the last turkey in the shop. "You could make my rooster crow," Santa said drunkenly, groping around under the boy's jerkin. "You've got a fabulous arse, Billy. Five hundred quid for it."

Billy accepted the burning joint and sucked the dope-smoke deeply into his lungs. He felt his face go numb.

### ~~~~~~

Rose was quiet as Mandy sponged warm water over the emaciated figure buried in soapsuds and tried to make conversation, inviting the Lands to join the McCalls for Christmas lunch. She looked at the sagging, empty-balloon breasts, the wrinkled, uncooked-turkey-textured skin, the fading wispy night-mist hair and thought about the promised end. Was this it? In the upstairs flat, Jodie suddenly screamed for her mother.

### ~~~~~~

on the sheepskin rug in front of the fire

Billy and Pépé

oiled Greek Olympians

wrestled naked

mound of buttock

rounded knee

slab of thigh

broad expanse of

light brown back

hollow

of shoulder

a knee

on a chest

the

swing

of a cock

A dozen Father Christmasses groaned in masturbatory communion.

### ~~~~~~

Blood from Craig's nose splashed over his chin and open mouth, staining his lower lip and teeth and spreading over his indigo pyjamas. He was bawling from the depths of his lungs, gulps of air drawn deep then expelled in noisy howls.

### ~~~~~~

The bottom of the bathtub was slippery. Rose was soapy. She felt herself slipping.

Water filled her eyes.

Water streamed into her nose.

Water filled her open mouth.

### ~~~~~~

One of the Santas lay

tethered to the wrought-iron frame of a kitchen table. His wrists and ankles were

fastened with rough, chafing, weal-making ropes to the legs.

The robe fell away

like a frozen cascade of blood.

### ~~~~~~

Jodie said he had been picking his nose.

"Poor lamb," said Mandy, cradling him against her bosom.

Jodie pressed a pad of toilet paper soaked in cold water to her brother's face.

### ~~~~~~

Soap-scummy, tepid water.

In her mouth.

She failed to splutter it out.

Her lungs began to fill.

### ~~~~~~

Flabby body

lifted from the bench, arcing, straining, flopping back like a dead fish.

Huge cock

fatly, thickly, grossly erect,

Indigo ribbon,

tied very tightly around the balls, enlarging the organ, cutting supply

Huge, thick, violet vein,

wriggling worm-like into the bush, throbbing and pulsing with a regular

beat.

Billy stroked the head with feathers and Pépé rammed a vibrator into the rectum. Featherlehaugh was filming. He kissed Billy's mouth. He tasted of dope and champagne.

### ~~~~~~

Everything swum.

Vision.

Swum.

Roaring in her ears.

Rushing in her brain.

Knocking in her lungs.

### ~~~~~~

"Poor little lamb," repeated Mandy, rocking slightly. "All better soon. Mummy's here now. Who's a brave little soldier?"

### ~~~~~~

Billy filled his mouth with ice-cubes and slipped the huge blood-gorged penis inside. Santa jerked against his bonds and whimpered again. Other Santas, watching, panted for breath as they wanked. Featherlehaugh moved in for a close-up.

### ~~~~~~

The light-bulb glowed intensely from the ceiling. A large crack had appeared. The tap was encrusted with lime-scale. The light-bulb seemed to get

brighter.

### ~~~~~~

Santa's cock

### ~~~~~~

And brighter.

### ~~~~~~

exploded

into thick

ribbon-gobs

of sperm

### ~~~~~~

And brighter.

### ~~~~~~

Santa sobbed as Pépé ejaculated on his face, sperm and tears mingling together. All round the room, the dozen Father Christmases moaned with desire and spurted their semen over each other's cotton-wool beards.

### ~~~~~~

Until it burst.

### ~~~~~~

Billy came in Pépé's mouth. His juice dribbled over the Spanish boy's lips. Algy Featherlehaugh took a photo.

### ~~~~~~

The intensity dimmed a w a y

When Mandy returned, Rose Land was semi-submerged and dead in the water.

### *

The indigo Bentley swings out of Piccadilly and around Hyde Park Corner to growl round the rear of Buckingham Palace.

Four mourners in a line beside the open grave: Dr Keen.

Mandy McCall.

Mrs Hawker.

Billy Land,

who bestowed a brave, watery smile on the women ranged on the far side of the grave. His lungs felt as though they'd been grated. He had smoked too many cigarettes. Tears prickled the top of his nose.

The three women

Angela Keen,

the doctor, who worked with the rent-boys and down-and-outs, professionally saddened, personally concerned

Mrs Hawker,

the barrister's wife, in twin-setted mourning-weeds complete with veil, who kissed his cold cheek with colder lips,

Mandy McCall,

the prostitute, her anorak leaking padding onto the gravel paths of the cemetery,

had clung to each other, mutual lifebelts in the storm of existence and mutual comfort in their grief for the boy they all loved.

The snow had swayed down gently as the black-clad bearers bore the cheap plywood coffin towards her late husband's headstone onto which her name had lately been chiselled. Billy had visited the grave on his way home from the football and told his Dad that Mum would be joining him before the end of the week. He somehow felt easier. This was at last a Finality. Conclusion. Completion. A Sense of an Ending.

So what had he felt?

Sorrow?

Not really. She had been dying for years.

Regret?

A little, that there was so much left undone, so much that had never been possible.

Relief?

Yes. That her pain was over. That his burden was lifted.

Guilt?

Yes. That he felt relieved. And free. At Last.

He had mumbled his way through a single verse of "O God our help in ages past", shuffling his shoes in the thin sheet of snow, squinting into the fine drizzle that was turning to sleet, scraped up a lump of frozen soil to drop on the coffin lid where it fell with a thud, and turned away.

The car cruises past Victoria Station. Billy recognises some of the kids hanging about, hoping for a pick-up, hoping for work. Billy himself will never work the streets again. He is being taken away to a new life on a country estate and when Featherlehaugh dies, young Billy Land will inherit the earth. The peer has willed it.

The car's engine growls then roars as the machine leaps onto Vauxhall Bridge and powers across the indigo Thames.

Goodbye London.

Goodbye Billy Land.

### *

Tower Bridge loomed up in the darkness, a ghostly haze in the misty scattering of snow flakes drifting towards the river. Away on the far side the low grey bulk of HMS Belfast squatted on the ebbing tide. The disused Docks, Wapping Pier and Shadwell Basins lay away to the left as Ninja brought the BMW to a halt. He punched Rick in the chest, forcing air from his lungs, and ordered him out.

"Yer doin' my 'ead in, yer noisy cunt!" he bellowed, pushing Rick into the hard white wall of the Tower of London.

"I'm sorry," said Rick, snivelling a little. He glanced at the BMW on its precarious pavement-edge perch and drew smoke from his cigarette into his lungs. Ninja stalked about, pausing occasionally to kick at the wall.

"Fuckin' cunts! Cunts! Fuckin' cunts!"

The Tower of London remained impassive. A passing motorist, approaching the Bridge from the south, slowed down.

"Fuck off, yer cunt!" Ninja ripped his knife from the inside of his boot. "Or ah'll cut yer fuckin' throat! Yer cunt!"

Rick pushed himself away from the wall. "Hey, Ninj... no... Don't want the bastard ter talk ter th' Plods"

"Nah," said Ninja, and narrowed his eyes. "Nah torkin' ter th' Plods."

### ~~~~~~

Freddie hated his friends. Hal and Ashley were fat bullies, Rory and Oliver just nasty, but he grinned. He would soon pay them back.

### ~~~~~~

The motorist accelerated away. Rick flicked his cigarette towards the river, noticed the entrance to "Traitors' Gate", recalled that, in the old days, people had been taken up there to Tower Green to have their heads lopped off, and shivered.

"I never said nothin'," said Rick again. "Fuck knows 'ow they found us." Ninja said nothing. "Weren't my fault I got taken down the Bobby Shop an' it weren't my fault Sonic had a bag o' stolen gear." Ninja said nothing. "Fuckin' Sonic's lyin' in th' fuckin' road, leakin' blood an' brains 'n' th' fuckin' Plods rock up. Animal's off on 'is toes, so it's me givin' the statements. An' when they picked up his bag, these busted stereos fell out."

At the station, they'd told Rick that the dead boy is Simon Young, a thirteen year old runaway with a string of offences, in and out of detention centres from the age of ten, Dad in jail, Mum disappeared, a sister somewhere up North.

They'd shown Rick photos. "Do you know this man, Leslie Pitts?" a.k.a. Animal.

"Nah."

"Or this man? Bryan Sweet..." Ninja.

"Never seen 'im,"

"What about the other lad?" they asked, "The lad who was with Simon at the time, the lad who ran away."

Rick shrugged his shoulders.

Back at the yard, all Hell broke loose.

### ~~~~~~

They had been in Hal's bedroom after school, drinking cider and watching a hard-core porn-film which Hal claimed he'd got from his ninja drug-dealer. A forty year old guy with long blond hair was screwing a girl with big jugs. So far, so predictable. The four boys, still in uniform, were grinning and sweating when Oliver had unzipped his fly and tugged out his erection. "Last one to cum licks up the jizz."

### ~~~~~~

Fuckin' Plod Wagon crashes through th' fuckin' gates 'n' screams across th' Yard 'n' there's fuckin' tyres 'n' bricks 'n' bins 'n' tins 'n' bits o' cars, fuckin' hubcaps 'n' number plates 'n' other shit flyin', 'n' all these fuckin' Plods in fuckin' body armour jumpin' out 'n' yellin', 'n' th' kids're screamin' 'n' runnin' for cover 'n' this big fuckin' barstard's shoutin' that it's a raid...

'N' there's baseball bats 'n' truncheons 'n' fists 'n' boots 'n' blood 'n' I'm fightin' wi' this big bastard 'n' ah see Ninja's bat smash a plastic shield 'n' then crack th' Plod's skull, 'n' Animal jus' goes ballistic 'n' leaps at this other Plod 'n' bites th' barstard in th' throat, like a fuckin' dog, 'n' all these Plods pile in wi' their truncheons.

Some fucker shouts "Armed police!"

Ah leg it through th' fuckin' wire fence. Me fuckin' shirt gets caught 'n' I get these great big scratches down me fuckin' back, but I'm runnin' like fuck, me lungs bustin', across th' fuckin' railway tracks. I stumbled 'n' fell in a load o' junk, soggy boxes 'n' bits o' cloth 'n' that sort o' shit, but I got through these rusty ol' vans 'n' broken down wagons, 'n' go' out 'n' away. I'm runnin' down th' road when this great dark blue Beamer pulls over 'n' Ninja's drivin' 'n' 'e yells "Gerrin" so I do 'n' we're off, 'n' all I can see behind uz is flashin' blue lights.

"Where's Animal?" I shout.

"Nicked," says Ninja, 'n' puts 'is foot down.

"They must of followed me, Ninj. I never said nuthin'. They must of followed me."

"Sure," says Ninja. He points th' Beamer's nose up Tower Hill.

### ~~~~~~

"I'll give you a hand," said Oliver softly and took hold of Freddie's dick. "Imagine it's Chloë.'' Freddie gasped briefly and ejaculated on Oliver's hands and shirt. Oliver smiled, caught his breath and spurted spunk over Freddie's trousers. "What will Chloë say?" he gasped, "If she finds out her boyfriend's a fag?" Everyone laughed as Oliver wiped his hands on Freddie's face. Rory took a picture for the notice-board.

### ~~~~~~

"C'mon, Ninja. Let's fuck off." Rick buried his chilled, chapped hands deep in his pockets. "I'm freezin'." Ninja said nothing. "C'mon. Animal won't grass. He's sound. We'll set summat up ..."

"Ah'll set summat up," Ninja said slowly, " 'N' wivaht your 'elp too. Yer a liabili'y, Rick. Yer feud wi' th' kid made it 'ard ter control 'im 'cos 'e never trusted us."

"You sayin' it's my fault?"

"Well, i' ain't mine."

"You brought the cunt along," said Rick. "I wanted ter rip his lungs out."

"'E'd've dun wha' 'e woz told," said Ninja. "'E shat 'imself when 'e saw me or Animal bu' you ... 'e knew 'e could smash yer face an' fuck yer woman. 'Cos yer soft, Rick, yer soft. 'Member that bullcrap at the 'Awkers? Yer shoulda caved the kid's fuckin' 'ead in. You 'ad a fuckin' crowbar 'n' 'e wuz wettin' 'is fuckin' knickers 'n' yer did nuffink. Yer've become a risk, man, too big a risk fer me."

"But we're brothers-in-arms, Ninj," Rick stammered. "One for all an' all that."

### ~~~~~~

Freddie opens the front door and smiles coyly at Oliver Bonsor's mix of shock, delight, fear and desire. ''Happy Christmas, Ollie,'' he says. He is wearing his sister's pleated, indigo school-skirt, which touches mid-thigh, and a matching crop-top which shows off his navel. ''I got you a present.'' He places Oliver's hand under the skirt. Oliver gulps.

### ~~~~~~

Ninja grates a gob of phlegm from his throat to the river below. "Bollocks," he says, and punches Rick hard in the lungs with his knife.

### *

Kim has fought.

She fought with Flint when he bundled her baby's clothes and toys and cot and pushchair out onto the pavement.

She clawed at his face when he hurled the beanbag out of the window and laughed as it burst on the pavement scattering beads in the gutter.

She screamed and spat when he overturned the sofa and ragged the mattress from the bed and threw the crockery round the kitchen.

She followed him outside, screaming and cursing, the baby kicking in her arms and yelling with all the force of her lungs, whilst Mandy and Jodie and Billy stood on the steps and watched in mute, silent sympathy.

They watched as she tried to gather the beads back into the split, sundered beanbag.

They watched as Flint ordered his men to go in with the planks and the hammers.

They watched as Kim punched him full in the face and broke his nose in three places.

They watched as Flint dabbed a blood-soaked handkerchief to his blood-spouting nose.

They watched as the police piled in, kicking her, jabbing her, driving the breath from her lungs as they crashed her on to the road and cuffed her wrists. She sustained severe bruising to her breasts, her buttocks and her thighs when police officers had to 'restrain' her in the back of their van.

### ~~~~~~

Lucy wept.

### ~~~~~~

Kim had fought.

Kim had lost.

She stares down into the freezing indigo water and hugs the baby tightly. She gulps. Snowflakes flutter round her head. Her breath stains the sky. She stares into the Thames. She hugs the baby. Snowflakes flutter.

Kim and Holly.

Stare.

Down.

Into.

The.

Water.

and shiver.

## 24. Odysseus at Ithaka

im sitting in a box on the embankment. if i squint through the grey sleet curtain, i can see hungerford bridge. behind me, above me, pointing sharply into the drizzle-filled sky, that great grey obelisk, cleopatras needle. before me lies the grey slab of the thames and a concrete pier jutting aggressively into the water. on the opposite bank i can see the glowering bulk of the festival hall and the national theatre. to my left, the dome of st pauls and to my right the houses of parliament, Church and State, squatting malevolently in the shadows.

i found the box in an alley behind covent garden. It has

### GOOD FOOD, GOOD CHOICE

stencilled in green on its water-greyed sides. its large and its sturdy with great steel staples through the base but its not quite large enough for me to be able to get my legs in. my old trainers, already leaking through rents in the seams and splits in the soles, are held together by a few strands of nylon. i can see the soaking grey sock on my left foot through one of the splits. my jeans are wet through. i fear that my pneumonia will return. im also afraid that the cardboard will disintegrate and leave me homeless again.

i turn the collar of my coat up round my ears and burrow into the warmth like a small animal. i scratch jaspers head. he is sleeping on my lap. i pull the stained, torn scout blanket round us both. all those badges mean nothing now.

its new years day.

i don't really know where to go from here. i am bruised all over.

the tangy smell of salt drifts in as the thames washes against the seaweed-shrouded steps. i could drown myself, i guess, walk down those twenty or so steps into the river. no-one would notice, no-one would worry, except perhaps the two grey, rain-ravaged pigeons who are scavenging in the weed for whatever pigeons eat.

new years eve had been the worst day of my life. when i woke up, roddy had died. it was seven o' clock. a grey sheet of drizzle hung over the city. the snow had turned to a sloppy grey slush which covered the pavement. i was bitterly cold and my fractured rib hurt like fuck. we had huddled together in a shop doorway somewhere up the strand to shelter from the sleet that had slanted in from the river. roddy's eyes were closed. his expression was troubled. he was cold as stone.

the dog was sniffing around roddy's hands. there was a kind of puzzled expression in his eyes. his rough tongue rasped against roddy's cold grey face and cold grey lips and greyish stubble.

i called the police then crouched in another doorway on the other side of the road holding jasper against my damp thigh and watched as a couple of grey-suited morticians lifted the corpse into a grey plastic bag. two coppers stood nearby, rain dripping from the peaks of their caps. jasper whined gently as they zipped closed the bag and slid it into a large grey van. the coppers blew on their hands.

i didn't know what to feel. i think id forgotten how to feel. roddy had been my friend. now he was just another dead vagrant in another dead city, just another meaningless statistic on another meaningless chart.

i hugged jasper fiercely and blew some raindrops from the tip of my nose.

"C'mon, boy," i said. "Come with me." two strays together, in a city full of strays.

roddy had had a little money in his trouser pocket so i went for some breakfast. i went to THE LITE BITE he himself had taken me to the night before last. it seemed appropriate. i felt slightly guilty about taking those coins. corpse-robbing, i think they call it, but i knew roddy would have called me a "daft sod" if i hadn't. he would have wanted me to have a feed. besides, who would have got it otherwise?

THE LITE BITE was one of those places where the tables are sticky and the floors unwashed and the mugs are chipped and the plates are cracked and the lights are blinding and dead flies litter the window sills but it's cheap and the tea is hot and the bacon rolls filling and you can spend an hour warming yourself and keep an eye on your dog when he's tied to the litter bin next to the door. from the kitchen, the sound of the old band aid single issued from a tinny radio.

### feed the world,

### let them know it's christmas...

hooray for the africans.

i raised the mug of steaming tea and said a silent thanks and goodbye to my friend.

since dad had walked out on boxing day my life had turned to shit. his mean little note, scribbled in a cramped mean script in grey lead pencil said:

dear son, i cant look after you. i can't stay with you. im no good as a father.

your better off without me. ive left you some money. you can get a train home.

dad.

the foxy ladies were sympathetic but too drunk to help. miss lake's sympathy did not interfere with her sense of business. i think she knew about me and stella doing it in the bathroom on christmas day. she followed me into the bathroom. i barely had time to react before she was on me, kissing me, pulling at my shirt, pushing me onto the toilet, straddling me, squeezing me, guiding me in, riding me, stickily clinging together, sliding and writhing...she had moaned something, someone else's name i think... i didn't care, i still don't....i just wanted sex and she was willing....anyway, they allowed me to stay through boxing day, stella and me did it again a couple of times, and then they threw me out. i wandered through the slush and sleet. i had nowhere left to go. i'd pitched everything on finding dad but i'd never figured for one minute that he'd desert me again. i sat on a bench in hyde park. my trainers were leaking and i could feel my grey socks sticking to my feet. rain fell like a curtain across the park dissolving the slush, sending it sliding into the grates and the drains. i plugged in the discman and listened to underworld's "To dream of love".

"Mar fuckin' bench."

some old tramp loomed towards me waving a bottle. he looked fifty or so. grizzled grey hair clung in strands to his skull and a huge grey beard bristled aggressively. he reeked of booze and urine and dirt and damp.

"What?" i said.

"Mar fuckin' bench. Fuck off, yer cunt. Fin' yer own, yer cunt."

i shifted my rucksack onto the glistening grey pavement. i'd rather have a wet bag than a fight. "Plenty of room for two," i said.

"Fuck off!" he lurched towards me pulling a knife from his pocket.

"Jesus!" i jumped to my feet as he swung wildly at me. "You mad bastard!"

"C'mon!" he mumbled. "Cunt." he slumped on the bench and glared at me. "Fuck off, or I'll cut yer, yer cunt. Mar fuckin' bench."

"Okay," i said. "Jesus." i picked up my rucksack and dragged myself off through the drizzle. mad bastard.

i'd had a lucky escape from the wino. the thing about the booze is that although the winos are aggressive and violent and would kill you if they thought there was any profit in it, they're unsteady and slow. they make up for it by being crafty and devious and completely untrustworthy. other street people stay away, and with good cause. i'd been warned about winos. they cut you for kicks.

i trudged through the mist and the slush and the drizzle looking for a night shelter or a bed in a hostel. the first was full. the second was full. the third had one space and i booked it. the bed was one among twenty in a long, dingy dormitory. the grey greasy lino on the floor was cold. each bed had a pillow, a couple of washed out grey sheets and a grey blanket. i dropped my rucksack on one of the beds, battling with a wave of despair. at least it's dry, i consoled myself.

dinner was a mug of lukewarm soup, bread, some bits of grey turkey leftover from someone's christmas dinner and a glass of water.

i remembered the cruikshanks and their pentecostal hostel, how i had served similar meals and chatted to some of the people. i hadn't known then that i'd become one of them. i hoped i'd been patient, understanding and kind.

i sat on a bed by the window and took off my trainers. the laces were so wet they were beginning to disintegrate. my socks were dripping. i held up my left shoe and examined the jagged split that ran down the inside. it was nearly finished.

the sleet was still driving against the window pane when i lay down on the bed and dragged my blanket and the grey one provided up to my chin. other men were peeling off their greasy clothes. they snuffled. they shuffled. they farted. they belched. they grunted. they snorted. the air was thick with the smells of rotting feet, of stale body odour, of damp clothes, of grease and filth. the stench of humanity. the sink of humanity. i was in that sink, being sucked down the drain.

i tried to imagine my bedroom back home. i wondered if they'd left it alone in case i came back or whether they'd rented it out as byrne had always threatened to do. i wondered if the bed was still covered with the grey batman duvet which had replaced the jurassic park cover which had replaced mickey mouse. i wondered if the desk still supported the weight of the sega megadrive and the television and stereo system. i wondered if they'd moved my things from the pegs on the back of the door. my grey school blazer had one peg, my dressing gown the other. i pictured the wardrobe. mum used to hang my school clothes on the door handle on a sunday night. by thursday morning the shirt would be slung on the chair back, the grey trousers piled in a heap on the seat. i used to sling the grey and white tie on the angle-poise lamp by my bed, loosely knotted so i could just loop it, noose-like, over my head. i later broke that habit - it reminded me too much of my attempt to hang myself. i wondered if they'd left my books on the shelf, my toys in the cupboard, the board games on top of the wardrobe, my tennis racket propped in the corner, my family photos on the desk, my posters, oasis, the x-files, batman, and a pig looking over a gate on the walls, my grey rug on the floor.

i wondered if they knew what i'd taken, which cassettes, which books, which pictures, the blanket, my sleeping bag. now, i reflected, as i drifted into sleep, many of these things were gone, scattered through london like pieces of myself marking the course of my journey. unfortunately, in the morning, my rucksack too was gone. i sat at a long grey table with a breakfast of lumpy grey porridge and listened to the wind and the rain battering the walls and rattling the windows.

i was sitting on the steps of an underground station when roddy and jasper found me. wrapped in my stained, torn blanket, i occasionally held out a grimy hand for change, not really looking, not paying attention, wandering, drifting, part of a different world, certainly not part of this one. then jasper had buried his warm wet nose in my palm. i hugged him joyfully. but the joy has died and with it my hopes.

they threw me out of THE LITE BITE around elevenish.

"Got any work?" i asked.

"Bugger off," said the woman.

"I've done kitchen work before," i said, "At Chez André. In Aldwych. You know?"

"I'll call the police," said the woman.

"Happy New Year," i said, untying jasper. rain water glistened on his bristly coat.

she slammed the door behind me. i couldn't blame her. i smelled pretty bad. the other night somebody pissed on me. i'd been sleeping in a doorway when the sounds of drunken singing broke through the fragments of my dreams. then there was a grunt and a giggle and a stream of warm urine splashed over my blanket and over my legs. some of it even sprayed over my face and into my hair. for a moment, i thought i was dreaming. then i received a sharp kick in my thigh and i struggled to get up, but he was already running away with his mates, laughing and jeering and zipping up his flies. i had to move on of course. the doorstep was swimming in piss. there was nowhere to wash at that time of night. i felt dirty and sticky. being pissed on - i couldn't quite believe it had happened.

i spent most of new year's eve on the steps of st martin-in-the-fields. one or two people gave me money, one or two gave me sweets or cigarettes, one or two paused to pat the dog. one told me to wash and spat at me. the buildings crowded in, threatening to fall with the skies and the sleet and bury me in their darkness.

i drifted aimlessly into leicester square, drifted into a huge mass of people working their way to theatres and nightclubs and cinemas, people clad in fine dresses and suits, chattering brightly, laughing infectiously. they glowed with vitality.

someone tossed a half-eaten cheeseburger into the bin. when she'd passed, i scuttled across and fished inside. it was buried under a load of bus tickets and fag ends and soggy grey paper but still warm. i brushed the grey ash away and sank my teeth into the burger. then i noticed a family huddled together under a large brightly checkered golfing umbrella.

"Mummy, Mummy," said the little girl, tugging at the tall, elegant walking grey fur at her side. "That boy's eating from the bin."

"I do wish he'd hurry," said the fur. "The show was wonderful but we'll get soaked if we stand here much longer."

"Mummy ..." persisted the child, pointing at me.

"Oh, do shut up, Charlotte," said the boy, a mass of candyfloss curls.

"But Mummy ..."

the boy detached himself from the group and approached me.

"Freddie!" called the woman, her voice sharp with anxiety. "Freddie ..."

"Hi," he said. "How you doing?" i stared at him over the half-eaten burger. "Bit wet, I s'pose." he waved a hand over the dark suit that hung on his thin frame. "My father says I need to run around if I want to get wet."

"My father's buggered off," i said, "Again. What've you been to see?"

"Oliver," the boy replied, "At the Palladium."

"Any good?" i said, picking at a grey smudge on the bread bun.

"Yeah, I guess so. Fagin was good, and the kid who played Oliver." the boy prodded the base of the bin with his scuffed grey shoe. "We're going on to Trafalgar Square in a minute. For Big Ben and the party."

a man came striding through the rain. sleek grey flannels clung to his plump, well rounded calves as he kicked through the puddles. grey smoke curled sinuously from the fat cigar cradled in his plump, well-manicured fingers. his fat, rounded jowls quivered as he bellowed:

### Oliver, Oliver, never before has a boy asked for more

### Oliver, Oliver, won't ask for more when he knows what's in store

"That's my father," said the boy. "He'll chuck a mental 'cos I'm talking to you. Arrogant shit."

i chewed the last morsel of burger. "I'll change places with you," i said. "Least you have a home."

"Frederick!" called the man urgently. "Frederick!"

"What's your name?" said frederick, half turning away from his family.

"Why?" i demanded roughly.

the father arrived at the bin and seized his son above the elbow. "Frederick, come away from that beggar."

"I'm Freddie Hawker," he said and held out his hand.

"Adam," i said. "Adam Lycett." as i reached out, he buried a crisp note in my palm.

"Ten quid," he said. " Buy some food." he must have seen me gawping. "someone once helped me," he said, "when i was in trouble." then he was running through the rain towards his family.

i almost cried again. a little act of kindness on a desperately awful day. i went to a fast food place for fries, a burger and a hot chocolate. they refused to serve me.

"But I got money," i said, waving the tenner.

"Stolen, no doubt," said the bitch behind the counter, giving me a snooty look.

"No ..." i said.

"We don't serve the likes of you," she told me firmly. "Now clear off or I'll call the police." as i stumbled back into the rain-soaked night, i heard her say to the people around her "Did you smell his clothes? Jesus Christ. Must've wet himself."

"Fuck you, bitch!" i yelled, then i found myself swept by the tide towards trafalgar square, towards the huge grey lions and towering column, the national gallery, the cold stone face of admiralty arch and the christmas tree tastefully decorated with glowing white lights. the square was full of people. some of them were dancing in the fountains, laughing, screaming and splashing. i could see a couple of coppers pushing through the crowd to a chorus of catcalls.

i stood at the base of nelson's column and examined the great grey panels which depicted battles fought nearly two hundred years ago by people long since forgotten in a fleet commanded by a man who had died in the process and thus became a legend.

"Everybody needs somebody ..." roared the crowd. "Everybody needs somebody..."

i sat on the plinth in the lee of a lion and watched the people enjoying themselves. party poppers sprayed strings and ribbons into the night. fireworks fizzed from st james's park. i was deeply depressed.

new year's eve. my friend was dead. my soul was dead. the countdown began.

### FIVE!

### FOUR!

### THREE!

### TWO!

## ONE!!

and............

big ben began booming. britain was booming. everything booming -

### HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!!

the kids around me slapped my shoulder, a girl threw her arms round my neck, arms were linked and the singing began.

### should auld acquaintance be forgot

i felt profoundly ashamed for all of them.

### we'll take a cup of kindness yet

### for the sake of auld lang syne

as the singing drew to an end, i dived into the sheltering anonymity of the shadows. i scurried down the alleys, keeping my head down. i decided to get a box from covent garden market.

three blokes passed me, jostled me, swore at me. i stumbled blindly forwards, feeling their hands and boots punching me, kicking me, felt a crack on my shin, a thump on my head which made me reel, made my head spin, my vision blur, heard them laugh and shout something about "zero tolerance" and "beating beggars off the streets". they kicked me and called me a thieving cunt and sent me sprawling on the pavement.

"Cunt!" yelled one of them, kicking me in the thigh.

just don't kick my rib, i prayed, and curled over like a hedgehog, shielding my head with my hands. one more kick and then they got bored and left me to crawl into the gutter. i crouched, trembling, on all fours and threw up over the grate.

we'll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne. Nice.

now the rain is pattering gently on the roof of my box. i've been crying. i caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window. i am an image of horror. my clothes are stained and tattered rags. my trainers are falling to pieces. my dark grey blanket, once a proud possession displaying the trophies and badges of my career as a scout, is greasy, stained and sopping wet. my face is filthy, the grime cut through by tears and rain, and streaked with blood. i have a black eye and my lips are cut and swollen. my hair is greasy, straggly and stiff. but what frightens me most are my eyes. they are dead. there is no sparkle, no fire, nothing. they are empty. they stare back at me. like stones.

my wandering days have come to an end. the journey is over. i have travelled so far in four short months, have fallen so far.

i came to London to seek my fortune. all i found was pain and abuse.

i came to London to find my father. all i found was another betrayal.

i remember the night when i left home. a storm had been raging, the rain lashing the house. i should have taken it as an omen. we hurled abuse at each other for twenty minutes, mum in the middle trying to mediate. byrne said i was ungrateful.

"Ungrateful?" i screamed. "You bet I'm ungrateful. You expect gratitude for the scars and the bruises and all the fucking pain you've inflicted?"

he punched me very hard in the face, cutting my lip to bloody shreds.

mum screamed. i staggered but for the very first time came back at him and hit him hard. he laid into me with his fists whilst i fought with anything i could lay my hands on, a dinner plate, a tray, a kitchen chair, whilst mum alternated between trying to pin byrne's arms and clutch at my wrists. then i threw the magazine rack at him. he fended it off with his arm but it was enough to knock him down. he lay stone still on the carpet, buried under colour supplements and good food guides.

"You've killed him!" screamed mum. "You've killed him!"

"Good!" i returned. blood flowed from his head into a pool on the carpet.

she reached me with two swift strides. "You poisonous little bastard," she spat. "You've always hated him. You've always tried to make us unhappy."

"Mum ..." i tried to take her arm.

she swung round, slapping my face. "I hope you burn in Hell," she hissed.

i ran up the stairs to my bedroom and, while mum was dialling for an ambulance, i wrenched open drawers and cupboards, ragged out clothes, dragged the sleeping bag and blanket from my bed, crammed clothes, bank books, toothbrush, photographs into the rucksack. i was going to london to live with my dad.

now i peer from beneath the flap of my covent garden box towards the night sky hoping to see some stars. i used to think of the stars as my friends but the moon and the stars have been blotted out by the thick grey clouds which mass over parliament and westminster bridge.

my rib hurts. i clear a grey lump of phlegm from my throat and spit it onto the drizzle-greyed pavement. breathing is difficult because of the pain when i cough.

a seeping fog is beginning to creep in off the thames. it swirls around cleopatras needle, blurring the monument, smudging the outlines. everything is grey.

i cram myself into the box. my height of five feet eight, my weight of seven stone, my shoe size of eight, my 36 chest, my 28 waist, my 30 leg, all in this grey cardboard box. im measured, packaged and ready to go.

It is finished.

through the fog, i see a girl running along the embankment. her feet splash in puddles, sending a grey spray over her wellingtons. water streams down her cagoule. it looks like lucy. it might be lucy. she's running towards my box. the rain seems to be stopping.

"Lucy ...," i call, tentative, frightened, stifling a cough.

the girl stops in front of me. her face glows bright in the darkness. she smiles.

"Adam. Take my hands," she says. "It's time to come home."

a song by underworld flashes into my mind-

blue and red and white and blue and red and white and red and grey and grey and yellow and yellow and black and green and red and grey and white and blue and white and pink and red and red and green and white and blue

and blue

and grey

and

## END

About the Author

The author has lived and worked in several different countries and has been, variously, a camel jockey, a tennis coach, an underwater photographer, a motivational speaker, an opera singer, a pantomime dame, a cat-sitter and a ghost-buster. He is the author of the following books, also available as ebooks or in print:

Tombland Fair

Norwich 1272. Nicolas de Bromholm lives with his parents and baby sister in 'The Mischief Tavern'. When his father's best friend is murdered by a monk, Nicolas' life is turned upside down. Under siege, their world in flames, Nick and his friends must choose which side they are on, that of the rulers, or that of the people.

A Teenage Odyssey

This epic for a new millennium describes teenager Adam Lycett's journey from comfortable home to cardboard box when he flees his violent stepfather to find his real father somewhere in contemporary London, a Dickensian cityscape populated by gin-swilling, pill-popping juveniles bent on burglary, mugging and sex, by fat-cat lawyers and bankers swindling their clients, by an idle aristocracy abusing the poor, and by people living, and dying, in doorways.

Dead Boy Walking

When Iraqi teenager Ali Al-Amin's parents are killed by a terrorist bomb, he is recruited by Arab Intelligence to infiltrate a school for suicide bombers in Syria. There he is turned into a human bomb, a dead boy walking, and sent to murder 3000 people with sarin nerve gas. Ali has just three days to save himself and the world from total destruction.

J.

A Veritable Jackdaw's nest of a book containing secret societies, conspiracies and counter-conspiracies, Jacobites, Inquisitors, artists and dramatists, jays and jackdaws, velcro jumping, Jewish Zen Buddhist blues, mathematical opera, Jacobean theatre, folk and jazz, kings and popes, Jason and JASON, Bedekeepers and Beadkeepers, tarboys and jumbucks, curious ceremonies, arcane rituals, bizarre coincidences, eccentric characters, lots of fascinating but utterly useless information, plenty of ovophiles and the quest to crown a King.

Out: A Schoolboy's Tale

When 15 year old Jonathan Peters falls in love for the first time, it is as unwelcome as it is unexpected because he falls in love with another boy. As his love deepens, his internal struggle with being homosexual spills into the open, impacting on his relationships with family, friends and teachers, who must all adjust their ambitions for him and the way they relate to him.

Yo-yo's Weekend

While spending a weekend in York, schoolboy Yo-yo's ring is stolen by Mr Vanilla, a forty stone jewel thief so he gathers together, among others, Lily Gusset, the reverse drag-artist, Mrs Lollipop, bed-ridden these forty years, Baby the talking blackbird, the custard-pie flinging Lettuce Brother clowns, an angry ichthyosaur, a weed and a pebble, a copper named Kipper, a professional Scotchman named Wee Jocko McTavish and the severed head of the Ninth Earl of Northumberland in a quest to retrieve it.

