Touching Wood: The Woman's Complete Guide to the Kid Inside Their Man - Part One, Stories for boys

WARNING: Contains material some may consider offensive.


Special thanks go to my beautiful wife Lynette Neilson for living with me and supporting me throughout the time I have written this. Also a big hug goes out to my sister Debbie Radford who is one of the few people to sit down and read all this from a computer screen. Her wise words and encouragement helped me to finish the book, and rethink the title, which may have been more important than either of us knew at the time. I'd also like to thank Kerry Rainer, Jo Stapleton and Martin Taylor who have over the years kept me inspired and suitability supported.

I hope you enjoy these stories.

Alan

Prologue...... 1977........... Timetable

Author's Note

None of this is true; it is just the way I remember it.



The Prologue

It is 1976, Robert Small is sitting in the bath, staring at a huge turd that is floating on the surface of the water before him. Robert is surprised to be faced with the small floating stool and even though he is alone, he looks around as if to find the guilty party. His gaze falls on the toilet, which sparkles spectacularly across the room. He knows the sensible thing to do would be pick up his poo and flush it down the toilet, but his ten-year old mind is confused and he feels sick at the thought of defiling the gleaming porcelain that has only recently been lovingly scrubbed by his mum... so instead he removes the bath plug and as the water drains away, crams his shit into the plughole.

Across the other side of town, Noel Turner waits patiently with his sister for his dad to return home. When they hear a key in the door, Noel runs to meet him. Noel’s dad looks worn out, but he has a wide grin across his face. He tells his son and daughter that they now have a baby sister.
Noel is gutted, he wanted a brother.

At exactly the same time in West Germany, in a small town east of Hanover, Martin Noone is watching Musikladen on the television; a programme that preceded MTV by playing popular music with videos. It is late in the evening and Martin, who is also only ten, would normally have been sent to bed hours ago. He yawns heavily when the rhythmic intro to “Jeans On” by David Dundas begins. As the music starts, the video shows a young women asleep in bed. Martin is tired, his eyes are sore and he closes them momentarily. As his eyelids open again, the woman is now out of bed, naked accept for a pair of white, cotton briefs. Martin is wide awake now, his heart thumping in time with the music. As the songs suggests, the woman pulls on her blue jeans and still bearing her perfect breasts, proceeds to go motorbike riding down country lanes with her man.
Martin does not fully understand the unconscious decisions he is making as the video plays, he just knows that this is the best thing he has ever seen, and although he had never thought about his sexuality at all before, he is aware that he is hypnotised by the naked body of this young brunette.
Martin never sees the video again, or anything like it. However, whenever the song is played on the radio (which is a rare occasion in the forthcoming years), Martin feels the blood racing through his body and a warm tingle all over.

Billy walks his dad home from the pub, having spent the last four hours sitting on the kerb with a glass of flat lemonade. He holds his dad upright as the alcohol pulsing through his old man’s veins weakens every muscle in his wiry body. Billy’s dad curses his son as he feels the contents of his bladder empty down his leg.


Over the next two years Martin’s dad’s job moves the family back to England. Noel and his mum, dad and two sisters move to a bigger house a couple of streets away from Martin’s, to accommodate their new arrival (the house was picked specifically by Noel’s dad because it had a large attic). Robert’s mum is forced to move to a smaller house across the estate from Martin, after missing a few rent payments. And Billy, by staying exactly where he has always been, finds three new boys of his own age on his estate.


There were days before fizzy drinks had the prefix 'diet-' and orange squash had extra sugar added rather than its inherent sweetness removed. There was a time before tobacco companies dreamed of reducing tar in their cigarettes.
During the time prior to twenty four hour interactive digital TV, with its excess of shopping channels, porn channels, holiday channels, news channels, game shows, chat shows, talk shows, cooking shows and can't cook cooking shows, soaps and docu-soaps, dramas and docu-dramas; and long before VCRs, CDs, PCs, DVDs and CFCs became an every day part of living. In the years preceding AIDS, CJD, and the millennium bug; before Thatcher and Murdoch gripped the world in its self-centred, self-promoting, self-congratulatory autocracy. Before the fall of communism and the Berlin Wall, and before any effective remedy for the prevention of cold sores, there were four boys.
There has always been, and there will always be four boys. Four friends that grow up together; who learn, laugh and cry together.. four boys whose world stretches only as far as the estate where they all live, never considering the complex network of human life beyond their own back doors-they are blissfully unaware of the crumbling Labour government, or of the country's slow silent swing to right wing conservatism that would dominate the political arena for almost two decades. The names Carter, Brezhnev, Begin, Amin, Botha, Callaghan or Thatcher mean nothing to them, and are only sounds shaped in the mouth of John Craven. Their world is edited by their limited attention spans; they are extremely selective and fickle, controlled primarily by their five senses, which are developing day by day..

A group of friends is like a living organism. It changes and grows. It is governed by the strength of the individuals within the group and how they interact with each other.
When Martin meets Robert for the first time at school, he likes him because he is also a new face in class and they immediately have common ground. However, more importantly for Martin, he immediately feels superior to Robert because Robert is a chubby boy who is poor at sport and so self-conscious about his weight that he is nervous in company. Martin is not especially out-going and it is an effort for him to make friends, and it is for this reason that the two boys feel drawn to each other.
Noel had been searching for the brother that his mum and dad had been unable to provide. Billy has a wickedly dry sense of humour that attracts Noel immediately. Noel reminds Billy of his younger brothers, and his fraternal instincts are so overwhelming he feels compelled to take this fresh-faced new boy under his wing.
Later Noel and Martin become friends and through their relationship, the four boys begin hanging out together. Although Billy and Noel initially see Robert as something of an embarrassment, they eventually come to tolerate his company... and as four people not wholly suited to each other can easily become acquaintances, so it is with the four of them.





Nineteen seventy-seven.

It looks like the Cheshire Cat, but with more of a grimace than a grin. The lips stretch tight over clenched teeth, nostrils flare wildly, a grunt, a shuffle, the expression changes, relaxes and then contorts again.
It looks like the Cheshire Cat, but it isn't.
The grinning face hangs in the bush, its body obscured by shrubbery. Bright teeth flash in the dense thicket, the teeth become the thicket and then disappear. This is not the Cheshire Cat; we are not in Wonderland.
The teeth belong to Robert, a chubby boy of eleven. He is crouching in a bush, with his trousers pulled down around his flabby white legs. Robert scrunches up his face and strains, his dark eyes disappear into a line of folds around his cheeks and two rows of teeth grind together. He shits, and the expression of pain across his face changes to one of relief.
"Oi Robert!" A voice is heard a little way off. "Come on, you'll miss this."
Robert opens his eyes and looks around. In the distance beyond the bush, three boys are standing solemnly in a dark corner of the woods. One of them kneels and begins to dig a hole in the dry ground. Noel, small and ferret-faced, turns away from the scene and shouts again, "Robert, hurry up."
Robert pulls a leaf from the bush and drags it across his backside. He tosses it to one side and then takes another.
He whispers to himself: "Okay, okay. I'm coming.. Ugh, oh no, shit." Robert looks down at his hand to find the leaf has disintegrated and there is shit all across his fingers. Leaves are not known for their absorbent qualities-they are smooth and then they are brittle. Smooth leaves do not soak up shit, they move it around from your arse to the small of your back; brittle leaves crack and break up in your hand.
Robert tries to flick the fragments of leaf away but they stick to his fingers. He wipes his hand into the ground and the shit mixes with the dirt and crumbles away. Robert pulls up his trousers and sniffs the fingers of his dirty hand, he gags momentarily, but runs to join his friends anyway.
Bumbling across the small clearing in the wood, Robert tries to fasten the belt around his waist. He stops, connects the two ends of his snake buckle and shuffles on. Robert is overweight for his height and he is breathless when he reaches the others. He takes a moment to compose himself.
"Sorry about that," he puffs out. "When you've got to go, you‘ve got to.."
"You almost missed the action," Noel interrupts.
“...go.” Robert finishes his sentence, but is conscious that no-one is listening anyway. He is used to this level of commitment from his friends.
"Can't you control yourself big fella?" Billy says. "You're worse than my little brother." He turns and looks his friend up and down with contempt, but Robert ignores him; Billy's insults fly with such frequency as to render them harmless.
"Hurry up Martin, I'm bored." Billy spits out.
Martin, the boy kneeling on the ground, holds onto a small box sombrely. He makes the hole in the dirt a little wider and tests the box for size. The grave is too small, so Martin scrapes at the soil again.
Billy explodes: "Just put the stupid fish in the ground Mart and let's go."
Martin looks up and says sadly, "Leave me alone, my fish isn't stupid; it meant a lot to me."
"But not to me." Billy turns and walks away.
"You've got no respect," Noel shouts nervously after him.
"Oh bollocks!" Billy calls back and disappears into the trees.
Robert wipes his dirty hand on his thigh and kneels down next to Martin. "Hey Mart, shouldn't you have like a cross or something?"
"Nah, can't."
Robert is slightly confused by the insufficient answer but does not press his friend as Martin pulls the soil over the coffin of his dead pet.
"Aren't you gonna say anything?" asks Noel.
"Like what?" Martin answers as he stands up and brushes the dirt from his knees.
"I dunno.. mum said some stuff when we buried our cat."
"That's cats though."
Noel shakes his head and pats Martin on the shoulder. "You're weird mate," he says.
The three boys walk away from the modest grave and follow Billy through the trees and out of the wood. Robert huffs and puffs trying to catch up with Noel, he calls him and says: "It must be the grief."
"What are you on about?"
"You know?" Robert replies. "Martin." Noel shakes his head as Billy and Martin join them. Robert looks from the face of one friend to the next, they all stare back blankly.
“What is he saying?” asks Billy.
“I don’t know,” replies Noel. “Something about Martin.”
“What about me?” Martin asks, worried now.
Finally Robert sighs deeply and says, "Oh it doesn't matter."
Suddenly Billy jumps back violently, clutching his throat and gagging. "Jesus you stink fat man!" he shouts.
"Yeah," adds Noel. "You smell of shit."
"Piss off!" cries Robert. "I don't." Robert sinks the guilty hand into his pocket.
"You've kacked your pants again Rob," Noel continues. "Look, it's all over your T-shirt."
Robert reaches around his back and feels the top of his trousers. Shit has collected around the waistband and stains the hem of his top. Robert's face clouds over and his heart sinks, he tries to inspect the damage by pulling his T-shirt around to one side. His friends step away, trying to put a little distance between themselves and the foul stench.
"You're polluting my air space," Billy calls back. "Run home to your mum."
Noel is laughing now. "Yeah," he says. "She can hose you down like they do with the elephants at the zoo."
Martin is still lost in the recent ceremony of his pet's funeral, the drama playing over and over in his mind. He hasn't the enthusiasm to bait his friend but nonetheless he whispers to himself and smiles: "Skid marks."
Billy, Noel and Martin are running away now, leaving Robert alone at the edge of the trees. He tries to call after them but he feels the words catch at the back of his throat as he tries to suppress the tears welling up inside.
"I'll.." Robert swallows hard, willing himself to control his emotions. He finishes the sentence but no-one hears; his friends are away across the field, still giggling amongst themselves . "I'll see you later then." Robert walks away in the opposite direction towards a housing estate and he hears Billy's voice echoing off the backs of the houses.
"Fat man?" Billy shouts. "When are you gonna learn to use a toilet like everybody else?"
"You animal," calls Noel.
Robert doesn't cry anymore; like the Cheshire Cat he grins when he is breaking inside. He can hold himself together even when his back is caked with his own faeces and he can still hear the cutting words and boyish giggles of his friends as they fade away to nothing. He has incredible strength for one so young, but the ridiculed are always the first to build emotional barriers, protecting themselves from within-barriers that take years of affection to tear down again, and even then not completely. It's the price you pay for shitting your pants on a regular basis in full view of your peers.

As time rolls on, and the solar system ages silently around us, the human race finds it more and more inconceivable to believe that in a universe so expansive and a sky so full of stars, we can be the only intelligent living beings-because it is equally inconceivable to believe that we could be that lucky.. that special.. or that unique. It is a way of thinking adopted early on in our lives during childhood, and reinforced by all around us-it's the philosophy that human beings stink and that we're eternally damned, cursed by sins invented by our forefathers; that there must be more to the cosmos than our own wretched lives, and that there has to be something better out there.. something worthwhile.
And so for thousands of years, in our twisted arrogance, we attempt to complete an imperfect design and create a more well-rounded universe, by inventing and believing in gods. We have erected temples for them, made sacrifices to them, waged war, and conquered civilisations to bring salvation to the ignorant.. and all as a way of promoting and reinforcing the notion that there is something else out there, that we are at the mercy of higher beings, who have in some way, control over our destiny. It is a way of shifting the responsibility from our own shoulders as our self-confidence becomes progressively weaker.
As the human race looks out onto the universe at the end of the twentieth century, with its superstitions, prejudices, fears and faiths all fully intact, there is a slight but noticeable shift in our understanding and we believe less in the possibility of the existence of God, and more in the existence of ghosts and aliens: it is time we started believing in ourselves. It is time to celebrate humankind, with all its faults, neuroses and behavioural problems.. and even though we are caked in our own faeces, we are precious and need to be handled with care; after all there may well be nothing else...

Robert approaches his house with a heavy heart, dragging his feet through every step; the sound of leather scraping against concrete carries throughout the estate and Robert feels the universe watching and pointing. He does not want to go home, he does not want to face further humiliation; but where else can children go but home?
Robert has lived alone with his mother Celia for five years. He does not remember his father at all, and every trace of his presence has been removed from the house. The story goes that he was kicked out into the street after a blistering row, but Robert has no memory of that day. He only remembers his dad through his mother's recollections; a drunk, a layabout, a good-for-nothing. The image of his father has been manufactured; Robert has no way of knowing for himself... (the truth is that Bob senior is a small, nervous man who was dominated by his wife and her obsessions-a man who writes often to his son, knowing full well every letter is intercepted by her and hidden away. Past, present and future history being written by the winning side.)
Celia is standing at the back door smoking a cigarette. She is a deeply attractive woman with black eyes and a long, elegant face; her clothes hang from her slim body with style, in stark contrast to her podgy, shit-encrusted son. Celia holds onto a small ashtray and taps the end of her cigarette on the lip, careful to catch all the ash. She watches as Robert approaches the house still dragging his feet, and takes another long drag, sucking the tobacco down to the tip. Robert looks up at the last moment as he reaches the back door, the stream of smoke spewing from his mother's lips catching his eye.
"You'll ruin your shoes walking like that," she says.
"Sorry." Robert touches the waistband of his trousers and feels the shit begin to harden; he has become used to the stink, but knows with his mother’s sensitive nose he will be found out in moments.

..these are the days that never leave you; this is one of the memories that takes pride of place in your mind, its images surfacing again and again. The reason you can't remember important names and dates in your 1983 'O' Level History exam, is because your brain's finite capacity for information is already packed with images of your mother's tranquillizing glances-her dark eyes reflecting your acute embarrassment, the there-there smile placing you both there in space, and there in time. This memory takes precedence over the disposable data that is an 'O' for ordinary level of education. We should be excused for forgetting anniversary and birthday dates, phone numbers, PIN numbers, names, times and meeting places.. it is perfectly understandable to misplace your lover's name amongst the A to Z directory of your past, or to lose yourself in your own street.. there is a reason why all this is beyond your recollection, it is because your brain is far happier and more willing to recreate for you, the glorious day you shat yourself.

"Are you all right love?" Celia asks, stubbing the cigarette into the ashtray and then stepping back into the house. "You seem a little tense." Robert remains rooted to the spot, afraid to move and reveal the horrible secret he carries on his back. Celia pops her head back out of the house. "Have you had a bad day Robert?"
Robert clears his throat and says, "Martin buried his fish."
"That's nice... be a darling Robert; come in and wash the poo off yourself. I don't want it to dry into your clothes. We'll never get the smell out of them."
Robert had anticipated this. He had hoped this time he could contain the shame-his shame; pretend the incident had never taken place. But now they both will have to pretend; something else never to talk about.. another family secret. Robert lowers his head and shuffles through the back door. Celia is already filling a bucket with boiling water and soda.
"Let's get you out of those filthy clothes," she says and Robert feels like a leper. He pulls his arms out of his T-shirt and Celia peels it from his round body, plunging it into the steaming water. The trousers are unbuckled and they drop to the floor. Celia whips them up quickly and shakes her head when she notices a small brown stain on the lino.
"Can I have my snake belt?" asks Robert as the trousers, belt and all join the T-shirt.
"Give me your pants too, we might as well do the lot." We. WE. Shame, when shared is never halved, only doubled.. tripled.. quadrupled.
Robert is naked except for a pair of old Christmas socks. He consciously hangs his hands over his wrinkled genitals, waiting to be dismissed.
"Hop in the bath then," Celia says softly. "Get yourself cleaned up." Robert turns obediently and heads for the stairs. "I'll scrub up in here."
Wash this day from our memories.. disinfect and sterilize.







Timetable.

Five PM. On the dot. Tea time. Seventeen hundred hours. Seventeen hundred and one.. and he's late. Martin will learn the value of good time-keeping; he will understand how his lack of respect upsets his mother (when his mother actually loves him enough not to give a shit); punctuality shall be drilled into you young man.. The long hot summer days of youth cut short by curfew.

Today for once, Robert is not the target for ridicule and derision; he can laugh with Billy and Noel as Martin winds his watch back half an hour.
"Your hands are shaking you big girl!" Billy says, always the first to open up a gaping wound and pour salt into raw flesh. "You should count yourself lucky mate, at least he won't batter you."
No, Martin thinks. You're right; not physically.. but mentally.
"They don't actually go for that story do they?" asks Noel. "About your watch stopping?" The thought of a timetabled life bewilders him.
Martin looks up at him as he snaps the winding mechanism back into the watch. "I don't know," he replies. "I've never used this story before." Martin smiles wearily. "I'll see you all tomorrow, yeah?"
"Aren't you coming out later?" Robert inquires.
Billy cuts in before Martin can answer: "This girl will be tucked up in bed before seven. He's a dead weight."
"Sneak out Mart!" Noel offers. Martin doesn't speak, he just shakes his head firmly, already picturing the stern face of his father; his lecture about respect; his valuable insights.. the blurred vision of the tyrant.
"You baby!" Billy says. "Let's get out of here lads."
"Yeah, I'd better go." Martin drops his head and runs. Every minute now is precious; maybe today is the day tea is late, maybe the carrots are still firm.. maybe the match went into extra time and Anfield is lifted by a ninety-second minute winner.. Maybe I'm not late! ...Martin's gravy slowly congeals; steam has long since curled from his carrots; mashed potato cracks and dries up; a skin forms over the white cliffs of a Dover sole; a deep frown sets and stiffens across a granite grey face, eyebrows lower over cold eyes.. a silent oppression is often more intimidating than a blazing row or a smack in the mouth..

Noel and Robert watch Martin disappear into his street, and then follow Billy. Noel talks softly to Robert: "Our family would fall apart if we had to face each other across a table every day."
"Yeah?" asks Robert. "I think it'd be nice to be a family."
"You've got your mum," says Noel.
"I mean a normal family."
"What the hell's normal?"
Billy breaks up the conversation. "What are you old women whispering about now?"
Robert eyes him hesitantly and says, "Hey Billy, would you say you had a normal family?" Billy laughs and pushes into Robert, grabbing his head he ruffles his well-groomed hair.
"One day I'll show you the bruises you little slug," Billy says.
"Get off me!" cries Robert laughing.
Noel launches himself at his two friends and the three of them drop to the ground with a thud.
Billy says: “You fight like your little sister Noel.”
“Oh yeah?“ Noel replies. His thin, bony arms pull back and jab at Billy's side. Billy brushes him away easily.
"Is that a butterfly I can feel?" Billy says. He stands up and Noel jumps onto his back, grabbing him around the neck. Billy laughs: "The slug and the butterfly! I don't know why I waste my time with you lot."
Robert crawls along the floor and takes Billy by the ankles, upsetting his balance. Billy crashes to the floor on top of Noel.
"Get off me!" cries Noel. "Get off you lump."
"Blame the slug!" Billy shouts and kicks out at Robert, dislodging him easily. "Come on let's go, this fighting is for girls." Billy jumps to his feet once more and brushes the dirt from his clothes.
Robert and Noel look at each other and smile: "Defeated!" they say together. Billy looks back at his two friends and shakes his head.
"Yeah?" he says. "Well who's still on the floor?"

Seventeen twenty-three.. Martin is trying to answer the machine gun questions that fly from his father's mouth; he has yet to understand the term rhetorical.. no, Martin thinks, I don't know how long it took mum to cook tea.. yes I do consider her feelings.. and I realise how hard you both work.. yes of course I'm grateful.. Grateful? For what; this weight of guilt?
"Well, we're waiting young man," says Martin's dad. "Have you anything to say?"
What could I possibly have to say, Martin thinks. You told me yourself I'm an idiot-I have nothing to contribute. Unless you want to hear my broken watch story.. or that I'm only playing out a role passed down to me by centuries of a male dominated society.. I'm just a boy. "Sorry dad.." he says finally.
It's funny how a tiny gesture, the slightest movement of flesh around an eye socket can indicate so much. We are taught to read this body language, with its intricate and unruly vocabulary no dictionary could ever document; each user defining their own criteria. We instinctively know how and when to react. The twitch of a muscle; the minute movement of an eyelid, closing or opening across an eyeball; a line creasing at the bridge of the nose; or an eyebrow raised-they are gestures that demand a response.. not the invented broken watch story, not the twenty-three minutes misplaced somewhere in the woods, or the one thousand three hundred and eighty seconds lost today while Martin's mother and father and younger sister tucked into their fine fish supper. No. This calls for a tactical retreat; you win, I lose.. you're right, I'm wrong.. you're the adult, I'm just a boy. An idiot.
Let me go to my room hungry, Martin thinks. I want to get out of your sight. I want to lay awake at night dreading the atmosphere tomorrow. One day you'll be sorry.. but for today, if it makes you happy and a little bit superior, I'll be sorry.
"..sorry mum."
"Okay," she replies.
"Right," says Martin's dad. "Now get to bed."
Martin leaves the room, careful to have the correct expression of woe playing across his face; not overplaying it, but just enough to let his dad think he has won. When Martin is out of sight he curses under his breath, and wishes for the day when his dad is old and infirm, and he can leave him to rot in a pool of his own piss. The thought stays with Martin as he pushes open his bedroom door and steps inside; it gives him some contentment and he manages a smile. He closes the door softly and stands against it-placing a barrier between himself and the outside world.
Martin has his own world and it is populated by his own ideas, dreams and ambitions; he rejects his timetabled family life and everything it stands for. He feels alone in their world and has become withdrawn and introverted, but still he is entirely practical. He dwells in a world of his own invention-a world where he is not bound by the rules of others, where he is free... and it is a real world; it is his own future. Martin sees himself as a grown up, with a job, a house and a life free from his family; not as a spaceman or Peter Pan-he doesn't dream of the never-never, his goals are far closer to earth. Martin's heroes are not actors, pop-stars, painters or writers, but marine biologists: the Frenchman, Jacques Cousteau; the Australian couple, Ron and Valerie Taylor. Real people, achievable targets.. a positive direction. Martin knows exactly where he is going, and that is why he is submissive. The present doesn't matter, it is time to be endured-sacrificed for the good of the overall scheme.
Martin's peace is disturbed once again as his dad's voice echoes up the stairs: "I'll be up to check on you in half an hour," he shouts. "Don't let me catch you still awake."
"Oh piss off." Martin whispers and slumps onto his bed, grabbing a large book on marine life from the shelf above his pillow. He flicks through the pages; poising over porpoises, browsing through barracuda, dipping into dolphins.. dreaming of the days to come.
When he awakes, the door is opening slowly. Martin's reaction time is hampered by the weight of sleep pressing him into the mattress, and he is only just able to stop the book falling to the floor. He wipes the stream of saliva from his chin and straightens his hair, awaiting the disappointed look and the disapproving shake of his father's head.
"Are you awake love?" It is his mother's voice.
Martin breathes deeply and says, "Yes.. sorry."
"Don't worry," she says with great tenderness. "I didn't think you could sleep on an empty stomach." She steps over to the bed and hands Martin a plate of sandwiches and a glass of milk.
"What about dad?"
"Don't worry; let's just keep it our little secret." More secrets. Little secrets, large repercussions.
"Where is he?"
"He's asleep in front of the tele."
Martin takes the glass of milk and drinks it quickly, his ears trained on the door. He looks up at his mum and then at the glass, a white moustache forms over his top lip. She strokes his head gently and smiles.
"Have a sandwich," she says.
Martin takes one and bites into it. He says almost inaudibly through white bread and lemon curd: "I think I hate him mum."
"Ssshh. You don't mean that." (Does the sshh mean, don't say what you don't really believe, or does it imply something else, like; sshh, be quiet, he'll hear us?) Martin's mum can understand her boy's feelings, but she also appreciates the intense moral logic of the man she has lived with for fifteen years. It is a difficult balancing act-protecting both sides; supporting them both equally. "Go to sleep love. You'll feel differently in the morning."
Martin says nothing and feels nothing; not even the warm lips of his mum as they press against his forehead and kiss him goodnight. Martin finishes the sandwiches, undresses and then climbs into bed. He falls asleep instantly and dreams of beating his father to a bloody pulp.

Oh eight hundred hours. Reveille. Martin is still asleep, throwing one last punch-his fist makes no impact on his father's face, and this fuels his rage all the more. Bang! Bang! Stop smiling you bastard. Bang! Each jab rings in Martin's ears. BANG! The noise reverberates around the room.
"If I have to come in there and drag you out of bed Martin, there'll be trouble." BANG! Martin wakes and the sound remains-back to life; back to right now. The door slams open as Martin emerges from his sanctuary.
"Did you hear me?" Martin's dad stands in the doorway.
"I was asleep," Martin says, as if it needed to be explained.
"Get up, get downstairs, and get your breakfast." Martin's dad turns to leave the room, but stops; he has noticed the plate of half-eaten sandwiches. He explodes: "Where on earth did you get them?"
Martin is silent.
"You're walking a very fine line my boy." Martin's dad calls out to his wife and she steps into the room. "He's deliberately defied me," he explains. "Look at that.. he must have crept downstairs in the night."
Let's see if she can keep them all up in the air now.. she's a diplomat; an ambassador; a juggler.
"Love," she explains. "I made him the sandwiches."
There is a short silence, filled only with disbelief.
"Well that's great isn't it?" he says eventually. "I try and teach the boy discipline.." and mum suspends the sentences. "..I don't know why I bother." Martin's dad stamps from the bedroom. "You'll ruin him."
There he is; Martin, a boy of eleven-ruined.
Martin's mum smiles: "Come on love; get ready for school."
Martin smiles back reluctantly and nods his head. "Okay," he says.

Alma Mater......... Readers' Wives

Alma Mater.


“If these are the best days of my life,” thinks Martin, “I have absolutely nothing to look forward to.” Martin looks up from his book of sharks across the stark greyness of the concrete and steel library, in which he now shares detention with his three friends and a collection of half-wits and misfits. “Ever,” he concludes.
“Hey listen to this,” Robert whispers, reading from the encyclopaedia on the table before him. “Icebergs today are made out of snow that fell around 500,000 years ago.”
“How do they know that?” asks Billy sharply.
“I dunno,” answers Robert. “But if it wasn’t true it wouldn’t be here in this book would it?”
“I suppose then that the world is flat, as that interesting fact was once in a book?” Billy continues to goad Robert.
“Your twisted logic only serves to substantiate the view that you are a complete imbecile,” Robert says quietly.
“Yeah,” spits Billy, angry now, “but at least I don’t shit my pants fatboy.”
Martin looks up from his book as he notices the tone of their voices begin to get hostile. “Come on lads,” he says. “Calm down.”
“Well he gets on my nerves,” Billy continues. “No one is interested in what you are saying fatso.. no one is listening. I don‘t even know why you are studying, the teacher doesn‘t care. As long as we are here for an hour, he doesn‘t care what you do. It‘s bad enough being here at all, without you swotting up like some girl.”
“It’s your fault we’re doing this detention anyway.”
Robert is right, Billy’s short attention span during the hour of geography earlier in the day had caused him to experiment with the sneezing powder he had stolen from a joke shop at the weekend. The four boys had spent the morning laughing and sneezing through the entire lesson. The disruption caused led to a half hour spent in the corridor and an hour’s detention at the end of the day.
“Well I didn’t think that powder would be so powerful.”
“No,” Robert agrees, rubbing his sore nose, which is still red hours after the prank.
Noel laughs and Billy looks over to the end of the table to see Noel with his head buried in a big world atlas. Noel is holding the book open in front of his face so he cannot see Billy silently approaching along the table. Noel sniggers again, but his chuckle is cut short as Billy slams the book shut onto Noel’s face.
“What’re you doing?” Noel splutters as he pushes the musty pages off his face. “You knob Billy.”
“You bloody bookworm. You’re worse than big Rob. What the hell is so funny about an atlas.”
“He’s probably found Titicaca or Poopo,” Robert offers dryly.
Noel opens the book, desperately flicking through the pages trying to find something. “Here,” he says at last. Noel holds up a comic.
“You baby,” Billy laughs.
“No, no, no,” Noel says seriously. “This is 2000 A.D., it’s not a kid’s comic. Check it out, you’ve got dinosaurs eating people.. look at the blood!”
“It’s a bloody comic!”
Billy pushes the comic away and Martin slides it along the table where he opens up the pages and smiles, “This is good actually.. really good.”
Noel nods, “Yeah, it’s better than Action.”
“No, nothing beats Hookjaw,” Martin says, shaking his head as he considers the comic strip that features a great white shark, with not-surprisingly a huge hook sticking out of his jaw.
“Look at Dredd, it’s the best thing I have ever seen,” Noel continues.
“Babies,” says Billy and moves back up the table to get away from them. “Hey, Robert give me another amazing fact.”
“The summit of Mount Everest is marine limestone,” Robert replies.
“Amazing.”
“It is isn’t it?” Robert looks up to see that Billy is being facetious.
Billy suddenly looks serious and checks to see if Noel and Martin are listening. “Robert?” Billy extends his hand indicating that he wants to use the encyclopaedia. “Rob,” he continues, “can I look up Uranus please?”
Billy rests his head on the table laughing loudly, he bangs his fist and repeats, “Your anus!” Noel and Martin crack up at the other end of the table and Robert cannot keep his face straight, although he tries to maintain his composure. Billy lifts his head and he now has tears streaming down his face. He tries to suppress the laugh that is causing his stomach muscles to ache, until finally he cannot contain it any longer and he opens his mouth, releasing a deafening sound that is somewhere between a laugh and a barking dog. The noise reverberates around the building, bouncing off battleship grey concrete walls.
“Oi, you lot.” A teacher’s voice is heard in the adjoining office. “Keep it down in there, this is detention not a bloody holiday camp.”

To Martin, Robert, Billy and Noel, school is an irritation. It is something to forget quickly after the home time bell rings and is certainly not discussed or dwelt upon. When school is out, there is only one thing on their minds-fun. They do not waste their precious free hours interrogating the mind-numbing hours of grammar, comprehension, multiplication and countries and their capital cities.. except perhaps for Robert, who always thinks too much about everything.
As the four boys walk home after their detention, Martin is deep in thought. Having had a momentary glimpse of Noel’s comic, he is now visualising his piggy bank and wondering whether he has the eight pence spare to go and buy a copy.
“Are you coming out later Mart?” asks Noel.
Martin thinks for a moment, “It’s Monday isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” answers Billy. “So you’re all right; it’s not a bath night.”
Martin considers this and nods, not realising that Billy is subtly making a disparaging remark about Martin’s overly regimented home life. Martin then shakes his head. “Nah, can’t.. I’ve got to watch ‘Poldark’ and then it‘s ‘Oh No It’s Selwyn Froggett!’.”
“You spend your life watching tele,” Robert says. “It’s not healthy.”
“Yeah,” adds Billy, “you should be up in your room reading books like fatboy here, or playing with your willy like Noel.”
Martin smiles nervously, not really taking in what Billy has said. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” And he is gone, running in the direction of his house.
“He’s in his own little world, bless him,” Billy laughs.
“A perpetual daydream,” agrees Robert.
Billy shakes his head and says to Robert, “Have you got a dictionary permanently shoved up your arse?”
Although Robert knows this is a rhetorical question, out of some pre-programmed protocol, or just plain fear, he answers, “No.”
“Maybe we should pull his pants down Billy, just to make sure,“ Noel offers, making a move towards Robert who tries to shove him away. Billy begins to walk home. “Aren’t you gonna help me?” Noel shouts after him.
“No way; you don’t know what’s lurking in his shreddies .”
“Only a small willy,” Noel laughs before giving up his game. “Probably stinks anyway.”
Robert looks down at the floor; sometimes there is nothing a young soul will not do for companionship. Robert will put up with an endless tirade of abuse, jokes about his size, his mother, his willy, his intelligence, all as a way of feeling part of something.. a group, a gang. As an only child in a one-parent family, Robert is lonely and he craves the company of his peers, regardless of how badly he is treated by them. And so he endures, and so he perseveres...
When Robert finally arrives home, Celia is waiting in the hall. There is a smell of burnt potatoes drifting through the air. His mother’s face is a mixture of concern and displeasure.
“Where have you been?” And before Robert can answer: “Your dinner’s ruined.”
Robert closes the door behind him as quietly as possible and puts his schoolbag on the floor.
“That doesn’t live there, does it?”
Robert picks up the bag again.
“Put it away, put it away.”
Robert moves to the small cupboard under the stairs.
“And when you’ve washed your hands, you can come and eat your tea.”
Again Robert moves, almost unconsciously, obeying orders that although he understands, actually make no sense. The emotional gulf that separates the two of them prevents any level of rationality; this is the reason Celia does not wait for Robert to give an explanation and also why she proceeds to feed them both with cold, burnt mashed potato and sausages. Robert, of course, will do anything to avoid a confrontation.
The two of them sit at the fold-up dining table and silently eat their dinner. Robert sprinkles salt on the white and dark brown lump of mash that squats on his plate, and crystals bounce off its stiff exterior and dance onto the table. Without thinking, Robert wipes them onto the floor with one movement of his hand. Terror grips him as he suddenly realises the mess he is making, and he gingerly lifts his head to meet his mother’s stern expression. He awaits the lecture that is sure to follow, about how hard it is for her to keep the house tidy on her own with a full-time job and how useless he is, but instead her features soften and she just says softly: “That’s bad luck, you know.”
“Sorry.”
And Celia knows he really means it. And she also knows that she should not weigh down her son with her own demons.
“Don’t worry; I suppose it could do with some flavour,” she says.
“It’s lovely,” Robert says, trying to swallow a badly mashed piece of burnt potato. “Really.”


The following morning, Celia is in a good mood and after making Robert’s breakfast she helps him get ready for school. Robert hates the attention he receives from his mum, particularly after they have had a row, when she becomes overbearing. Robert drags his coat and bag from the cupboard, ready to leave the house.
“Not so fast,” Celia says. “Look at the state of your hair, you look like you’ve been dragged backwards through a hedge.”
Robert licks his palm and tries to flatten some of the strands of hair that are sticking out from his head at wild angles.
“Don’t do that; let me get my brush on it for you.”
“It’ll be all right mum.”
“I can’t let you out looking like that.” Celia laughs, “you look like Einstein.”
Robert considers this, and is comforted for a moment by the thought that maybe he too could end up being the cleverest man of his time. The smile that forms on the young genius’s face is quickly removed, however, as the hard plastic bristles of Celia’s brush dig into his scalp.
“Ow!”
“Don’t be such a baby.”
With mathematical precision, Celia proceeds to brush conformity into the head of her young son. Each stroke of the bristles beats the eccentricity from every individual hair; she brings order to the disorder, and with each pass she feels more and more at ease, more complete. Celia knows she has a problem, or more precisely, she knows that she is only truly content when everything is in its place.
Celia plants a kiss on her son’s head, and from that distance Robert’s hair looks like a well-ploughed field or the grooves on a record-perfect parallel lines.
“Isn’t that better.”
It is a statement, so Robert does not feel compelled to answer, but still he says softly: “Thanks.”
“Now you have a good day at school.”
“I won’t,” Robert replies.
As Robert leaves his house, he sees Martin approaching up the street. Robert waves and Martin runs to meet him. They walk along in silence for a moment.
“Rob,” Martin asks tentatively. “Could you lend us three and a half pence?”
When Robert is out of sight of his house he pulls a hand out of his pocket and runs it through his hair, messing it up and undoing his mother‘s work. “I don’t have any money on me,” he replies. “Ask Noel, he’s always got money.”
“Never mind.”
“What do you need it for?”
“Well, I’ve only got four and a half pee, and I need eight.”
“Sorry.”
Robert itches his backside and then says, “I need a poo.”
“Why didn’t you go before you came out?”
“I’ll go when I get to school.”
“You’re joking.. I can’t use that toilet paper, it’s shiny and cuts your bum.”
“Maybe, but it doesn’t bother me.”
The two boys walk on, joining up with other children all dressed in shades of grey, all heading towards the school gates, like grubby, charcoal droplets draining into the gutter.


Somewhere there is a big file with your name on it. It contains every fact and figure about your life: your birth date, mother and father, your place of birth, your blood group, lists of inoculations, allergies, distinguishing marks, your achievements at school, driving license records, vehicle ownership, accidents and insurance claims, criminal records and court summonses, bank accounts, black lists, electoral registers, marriage and divorces... they know everything about you, and yet simultaneously they know nothing.. just another name on a never-ending list; a meaningless title.. a nothing.. a noun without an adjective-a what, but never a who.
On paper Robert looks like a loser. His confidence is affected by those around him, and those around him generally either don’t like him or are not interested enough to form an opinion about him. Consequently, although of high intelligence, Robert finds himself deliberately trying to underachieve in an attempt to conform, to stay with his friends and not grab the unwelcome attention of brain-bashing bullies. Most of Robert’s teachers are satisfied enough with his achievements, he is an average pupil and causes no trouble; and in a class of almost thirty kids, he is one less to worry about. And so his file is marked with a C and the obligatory “could try harder”-but Robert is not a C, he is not a file, he is not a collection of dusty papers, he is a boy, bursting with potential. But he is not understood and Robert will inevitably be overlooked; the best he can ever achieve is to surprise those around him with his future accomplishments.

After a dull day at school, Martin and Robert walk home together. Martin tightly clutches a tattered comic, whilst Robert holds onto a paperback copy of H.G. Wells’ “The Time Machine”.
“So you got enough money then,” Roberts says, indicating Martin’s comic.
“Well not really,” Martin begins. “Noel sold me his old copy for 4½p.”
“You sucker!”
“It was worth it,” says Martin, a little hurt by Robert’s tone. “It’s only a bit knackered.”
Robert laughs loudly, “A bit?! It’s a right mess! Look, it’s all ripped, there’s stains on it. Ugh! What’s that? Oh no, there’s a bit of chewie stuck on the corner.”
Martin pulls a face, slightly embarrassed now. “Well.. I don’t mind.”
“Why didn’t he just give it you? He was finished with it wasn’t he?”
Martin does not answer, he just tears off the corner of the page soiled by the chewing gum and throws it on the floor.
“Oi losers!” Billy and Noel shout in unison as they catch up with their two friends. “What’re you up to?”
“Going back to mine,” answers Martin.
Billy notices the book that Robert is holding and snatches it out of his hands. “I didn’t know we were doing this in English.”
Robert tries to get his book back, but Billy is too quick. “We’re not, I’m just reading it,” Robert explains.
Billy drops it on the floor in disgust, “Reading?” he says sounding appalled, “Out of school..? Are you mad?”
“I like reading.” Robert picks up his book and wipes the dirt from its cover. “You should try it some time.”
“Up yours.”
Later in Martin’s bedroom, Robert devours the closing chapters of his book while Martin, already bored of his new comic, flicks through the well-thumbed pages of his mum’s old Freeman’s catalogue. Robert is shaking his head in wonder at the inexplicably original ideas presented by the author, until with great satisfaction he reaches the last word and closes the book.
Martin meanwhile has moved from the women’s underwear section and is now carefully scanning the toy section, which as it is the previous year’s Autumn/Winter collection, is brimming with toys for the Christmas market. Martin flicks between pages quickly, his eyes wide open, consumed with desire; back and forth the pages fly, Martin’s sticky fingers moving between Action Man and his jeep, and the huge Scalextric car-racing sets.
Robert places his book carefully back into his bag and says, “If you had a time machine Mart, what time would you go back to?”
Martin thinks for a moment, looks down at the catalogue and pointing at a picture of an Action Man tank says, “I’d go back to last year and get this out of the catalogue.”
There is a moment’s silence as Robert processes the information.
“So let me get this straight,” Robert begins, stunned, “you could go back and watch Jesus giving the Sermon on the Mount, or watch Newton sitting in the apple orchard, or The Beatles singing in The Cavern, and you want to...?” Robert’s voice fades away as he watches Martin pawing over the glossy pictures of toys.
“Look at it though Rob,” Martin says, jabbing his finger at the page, “it’s amazing.”
Robert stands up and lifts his bag onto his shoulder, “I’ve got to go Mart, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Without looking up Martin says, “Yeah, yeah.”

On Saturday afternoon the four boys meet up in the small shopping precinct at the centre of their estate. The square is an unending mass of concrete, broken only by the weeds pushing their way up through the cracks. Colour has been drained from every inch of the estate and replaced with a single shade of grey; architecture for the people, designed by the colour-blind. The precinct is made up of only a handful of shops including a newsagents, barbers and a supermarket, but they are the only shops for miles and so satisfy the desires of four sticky-fingered boys.
Martin has his hand in his pocket, clutching onto his weekly pocket money; he has come to buy the new 2000 A.D. He jingles the five ten pence pieces with great satisfaction and considers what he will do with the remaining forty-two pennies.
Billy, as usual, has come out with no money, but he has other ways. Robert also has nothing to spend, but he is only there to get away from his mother‘s ritual weekend cleaning schedule. Noel has plenty of money, but he keeps it to himself.
Martin says, “Rob was saying the other day about having a time machine, when would you two go back to Noel?”
“I’d go back and see the dinosaurs, see them eating people like in the comic,” Noel spits out excitedly.
Robert thinks to himself that dinosaurs and man were never actually alive at the same time in history, but remains quiet in case he receives any further abuse.
Nevertheless, Billy, who will always seize an opportunity to take the piss says, “Well, I would go back to the day that Rob’s mum let Rob’s dad put his willy inside her and say, don’t do it Mrs B you’ll only give birth to this useless fat lump!”
Robert smiles in an attempt to show that he is big enough to take a joke, but still it wears him out. He wishes that he had a sharp enough wit to instantly come back at Billy, but Oscar Wilde he is not, and it is usually hours later that he thinks of a cutting retort and kicks himself for not thinking of it sooner.
“What about you Rob?” asks Noel.
Robert answers almost immediately, having already thought long and hard about it since posing the question days before: “I’d go back to the beginning of time and see the universe being created after the Big Bang or whatever it was that started it off.. imagine being witness to the birth of galaxies and solar systems and..” Robert stops mid-sentence realising he has said too much; knows he has given something of himself, something personal-he waits for the jokes to start, but there is nothing, only nods of thoughtful agreement.
“Nice one,” says Martin.
“Smart,” says Noel.
And from Billy: “That’d be something all right, Rob.”
The four of them walk to the newsagents in silent contemplation. Robert laughs: “Hey, you could see the instant my anus was formed.. I mean your anus.”
“No, that doesn’t work,” Billy interrupts, “you’ve got to practice your delivery.. and improve your material; it’s shit.”
“If I had a time machine,” Martin begins, “I would go into the future and see if we were all still friends in the year.. I dunno.. 2000 A.D.”
“If we are,” Billy begins, smiling, “and you see me in the future, hanging around with you lot, in our flying cars and spaceships and stuff... kill me.”
Martin and Billy enter the newsagents. Martin heads straight for the magazine shelves, where he scans the comic section and finds the new edition of 2000 A.D. He picks it up and walks to the till. Billy is kneeling down pretending to look at the magazines on the bottom shelf. As Martin picks his change off the counter, Billy steps up to the shop assistant and with an exaggerated aristocratic voice, asks: “Do you have the subscription for Small, my good man?”
Martin sniggers as the weasel-faced man behind the counter gives Billy a puzzled look.
“Mr Small,” Billy states. “Mr Robert Small.” Billy continues, “I ordered copies of Men Only, Fiesta and Playboy; all paid for in advance.. so if you’ll be so kind... I‘d like them now.”
The shop assistant realises he is being taken for a ride and jerking his thumb in the direction of the door says, “Piss off, you little sod!”
Billy looks astounded, but continues: “Well, okay.. I’ll just have a packet of twenty Embassy then please, and make it snappy.. my chauffeur is waiting.”
“I’ve told you once; get out of my shop before I kick your arse.”
“Okay, okay.. just ten cigars then.. Henry Winterman’s please.
“Get outta of it! I won’t tell you again.” The shop assistant begins to move around from the counter and Billy and Martin run from the shop.
“Up yours mister!” Billy calls as he races from the shop and out of the square. Martin, Noel and Robert look at the shop assistant as he reaches the door of the shop and then at Billy’s fleeing figure: “Scarper!” they all cry and run after Billy.
The four boys stop running when they are out of sight of the shop and stand shaking with uncontrolled laughter.
“Anyone hungry?” asks Billy and then sits down.
“Starving,” replies Robert.
“I wasn’t asking you Rob; I knew you would be,” Billy says and then hands Robert a Curlywurly.
“How...?” Robert unwraps the chocolate bar and crams it into his mouth before he can finish his question.
Billy rolls up his trousers to reveal his socks are pulled up to his knees and crammed with sweets. He carefully removes each chocolate bar from his socks and lays them on the floor. “Help yourself,” Billy offers when his socks are empty. “Just leave me the Texan, that’s my favourite.”
“You are unbelievable,” Martin says as he picks up a Marathon and a Nutty bar.
“Yeah Mart, and thanks for your help; I couldn‘t have done it without you.”
“My help!” Martin chokes on a nut. “I didn’t do nothing.”
“You were my diversion, idiot!” Billy explains. “While he’s serving you and pissing about with the change, I am filling my boots.”
“Literally,” Roberts adds, “and that makes you an accessory Martin. You could both go to jail.”
“And you’re a receiver of stolen goods,” Noel says.
“We are,” Robert corrects him.
“But you’re the one they’ll want to bum in the showers big boy, so eat your Curlywurly and shut up.”
“It’s not right though is it?” asks Martin somewhat naively.
“It’s only wrong if you get caught,” Billy laughs, “so destroy the evidence quickly and don’t shit in the woods, they can trace this stuff.”
“Are you listening Robert?” Noel pushes Robert, as he finishes his Curlywurly and picks up a Topic.
“Yeah, funny,” Robert replies.
“Oh, I forgot to show you this,” Billy begins, delving into his trousers.
“We’re not interested in seeing your willy again, thanks,” Noel giggles.
“No, no.. check this.”
From the darkest depths of Billy’s trousers, like a beacon in the gloom, Billy lifts out a shining magazine; the colours of which only ever associated with catalogues and pornographic publications. Billy opens out the cover to reveal a beautiful half-naked woman sprawled on a beach, with sand sticking to her chest accentuating the curve of her breasts, dark wet hair tumbling down her back, the sea crashing onto the shore behind her, and the magazine title: ‘Fiesta‘.
“The finest porno mag money can buy,” Billy declares.
The three boys stare at the cover in silence for a moment, and then quickly chew the contents of their mouths and swallow; the sound of their simultaneous gulps causing them all to look at each other and laugh
“Do you want to come over to mine tonight and check this out?” offers Noel.
“Good idea,” Martin says immediately.
“Oh,” laughs Billy, “no ‘Starsky and Hutch’ for you tonight then?”
“Well, “ Martin is embarrassed now. “I’m making an effort for you guys obviously, you know, in the circumstances.. I wouldn’t want to let you down.” And then, “Besides, I should be back in time to watch it.”
“Yeah, I know,” Billy grabs Martin, putting his head in an arm lock, “always thinking of your small willy.”
“Get off!” Martin says trying to squirm away from Billy‘s grip.

The four boys cannot remember a time before they knew about the existence of magazines like Fiesta. They have never consciously considered the moral implications of their interest in this tidy collection of pictures of women in states of undress; right or wrong, they just know they like it.
After all, porn is the second oldest profession in the world and it has come a long way since it’s humble beginnings. The word ‘pornography’ originates from the Greek word, ‘pornographos’; meaning literally, the writing of prostitutes: porné, harlot or prostitute and graphos, writing. For over two millennia, boys have had to make do with the written word and their limited imaginations, or make do with hand-drawn illustrations. With the arrival of the camera in the mid-nineteenth century, the female-form was presented in all its glory.. and later still in true Tecnicolour.
By the nineteen-seventies porn has been taken out of the hands of whores, out of the brothels and bordellos, and legitimised; it is available in every newsagents up and down the country, it even has the top-shelf dedicated to displaying its depraved delights... and this deliberate division between good and bad-the good available to those of all heights, the bad, only accessible to the tall, is representative of society’s feelings towards the ways women are portrayed: it is accepted, but as long as it’s kept at arms length. It is symbolic of a society so unsure of itself, that the signals it sends out to its populace are confused, and so Billy, Noel, Martin and Robert, and every other kid in the country, grow up accepting that porno mags are good.. as long as your mum doesn’t find them under your mattress.
Porn is big business and as long as there is an audience, there will always be a place for it-and there are a lot of wankers in the world, and they are taught from a very young age





Readers' Wives.

Except for the light from four torches, it is dark in Noel's bedroom. Noel, Billy, Martin and Robert are lying on their stomachs in the centre of the floor facing one another. Their beams of light are all directed at Noel and more importantly the magazine that lies before him. He is reading aloud in hushed tones, much to the delight of his friends..

..she holds the base of his stiff cock between her teeth. She begins to nibble and lick her way up his shaft to the throbbing helmet.. Noel stops to look up at the three pairs of eyes around him, they are shining; eager for more.
"Don't stop now!" Robert cries. "It's just getting good."
"Yeah," adds Martin breathlessly, "keep reading."
Noel continues.. Placing her mouth over his knob, she gently caresses his swollen balls, to groans of delight. He hooks his thumbs into her lace knickers and rips them off exposing her wet....
"Cor!" Robert cuts in. "This really gives me the horn."
"Stop interrupting fat man," shouts Billy, "I'm trying to picture this big dripping minge, and all I can see is your fat face."
"Keep it down will you," Noel says, "mum'll hear you; she's only in the next room."
"Keep going Noel," whispers Martin.
"Okay, where was I?"
"Big, dripping wet fanny," says Robert.
"No," Billy interrupts, "it wasn‘t. It wasn‘t fanny, it was.."
"Yeah, yeah, I've got it," Noel carries on reading.. Aren't you a bad boy she says, turning around and pushing her backside into his face. He slaps her buttocks playfully and she screams with delight. Turning her head, she asks: Do you want some of this? and then she forces her gaping pussy over his massive prick. Maybe, he says smiling and then begins to thrust back and forth watching, transfixed as her full, bouncing breasts swing freely to and fro. She reaches behind her, helping his cock in and out, and then she puts her fingers inside herself massaging her....
"I don't know what that says." Noel stops again, pointing at a word. He tries to form the word, his mouth moulding the sounds, but he just shakes his head finally and says: "No."
"You're hopeless Noel," says Robert. "Where did you learn to read?"
"You read it then if you think you can do better!" Noel shouts, flinging the magazine across at Robert violently, its journey captured in the beams from Billy and Martin's torches, like an escaping prisoner caught in searchlights.
"Okay then, I will"
"Just get on with it," insists Billy impatiently.
"So where did you get stuck?"
"There," Noel indicates with his finger, jabbing at the glossy page, "that word."
"Clitoris," Robert states.
The four boys look at one another, their eyebrows rising on their foreheads.
"What's that?" asks Martin.
Billy laughs and says: "Don't you know, you baby?" Martin curls up with embarrassment.
"Well what is it then Billy?" Robert says.
Billy hesitates and looks around at his friends nervously. "Well.." he begins, "it's.. erm. It's something.. well, I don't know exactly. But it's inside a woman's, you know..?"
"Well I think we should thank our resident doctor of gynaecology for that insight," Robert laughs, happy that he has finally managed to beat Billy at something. "That's all a lot clearer now."
"Piss off fatso!"
"Well what's it for then?" Martin asks again.
The boys are silent, their only answer is an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders.
"I dunno," they all mumble into the carpet.
"It doesn't matter anyway," Noel says, "just get on with the story."
"Okay then." Robert clears his throat.. She feels the climax building inside and tightens her grip on his erection as he pumps rhythmically from behind. Harder, harder! she wails, feeling his big hairy balls banging against her body. He holds her by the waist and pulls her firmly onto his cock, his body shaking with anticipation. She feels the full length of his shaft inside her as it explodes and spurts up her continued on page 63..
"What?" cries Noel. "What did it say?"
Robert begins to flick through the magazine frantically. "It's on another page," he explains.
"Bloody hell!" Billy whispers. "You really know how to ruin the mood."
"Right at the crucial moment too," Martin adds, his legs waving excitedly in the air behind him.
"It's not my fault," Robert whines. "It just stops there, and now I can't find the finish.."
"And you said I was no good," Noel says.
"The page must be missing," Robert continues, "it's not my fault." The three boys shake their heads and reposition their balls in their pants.
Robert licks the tips of his thumb and forefinger to get extra purchase on the smooth pages and quickly flicks past full colour images of naked women, legs in the air, smiling manically. Robert disregards the pictures, searching instead for the continuation of the story, scanning pages of columns, picking out the occasional headline: big bush, great tits, aching balls, pull your pud, amongst the array of articles, letters, stories, advertisements and jokes that fight for space in a magazine, which sole purpose after all is an aid to masturbation.
"I give up," Robert says at last, pushing the magazine away.
"Well," Billy says stoically. "At least we can guess what happened next."
The three boys nod, trying to disguise their disappointment, while Martin slides the magazine over towards himself and begins to quietly turn the pages.
"Shagging is ace," whispers Noel.
"How would you know?" Billy returns.
"I mean it sounds ace."
"It doesn't really happen like that you idiot," Billy declares.
Robert and Noel look up shaking their heads, quizzical expressions forming on their faces.
"No," Billy continues, "for a start off, the bloke's gotta work harder than that to get a shag; he never gets it on a plate. And even when he's got the all clear, it's still the woman saying something like, 'Pull my nightie back down when you're finished cos I'm off to sleep now!' So all that talking and moving about is bollocks, you're lucky if she keeps her eyes open while you hammer away. And you never see anything either cos it's all dark or covered with sheets and stuff, you might as well be putting your cock in a bloody mincer for all you know about it!"
Robert and Noel look at one another totally disillusioned.
"I don't believe you," says Noel after a long thoughtful silence.
"That's how my mum and dad do it," Billy maintains, as if that were proof enough to confirm his opinion.
"Urrrgghh!" Robert exclaims. "That's disgusting."
"Well you'd never hear any action in your house would you?" states Billy. "Not with your mum, the old maid there; she probably bangs away on her finger every once in a while to keep it all well oiled." Billy and Noel snigger behind their hands.
“Or a cucumber,” Noel adds.
"Shut your face!" shouts Robert.
"Ssshh!" says Noel, placing an upright forefinger against his lips to emphasize his point. "My mum will.."
"Yeah," interrupts Billy, "we know about her.. your mum is the worst of all Noel; we've seen her, walking the streets with no knickers on."
"No you haven't you bloody liar."
Billy does not reply, but he laughs to himself and Noel cannot work out whether Billy is laughing because it is the truth, or just because Billy has succeeded in making his blood boil. Noel turns to Martin, who is quietly studying women in their most unnatural of positions.
"What about your mum and dad Mart?" Noel says, trying to quickly change the focus of the attention away from his mum and her strange nocturnal habits, which are a never-ending source of embarrassment for him. Martin does not look up, his eyes are fixed on a set of photographs and he stares intently at them, oblivious to all around. "Oi Mart!" calls Noel again. "Put your helmet down for two seconds will you!"
The three boys stare at Martin, and little by little, as the silence in the room becomes more and more suspicious to Martin's delicate sensibility, he looks up slowly from the magazine. Feeling the weight of three pairs of eyes boring into him, Martin's expression communicates the sick feeling growing in his stomach: "What?" he says at last.
"Are you happy there playing with yourself?" asks Billy.
Noel smiles and says: "Martin, you are one lonely old tosspot."
"What d'you mean?" Martin answers, exasperated. "I'm only looking like you all were before."
"We're having a discussion here, you ignorant shit," Billy roars. "We want to know how your mum and dad have it off and you're just ignoring us."
"Sorry lads," Martin begins to apologize, although for what, he is not entirely sure. "I was just looking at this.."
"We know what you're looking at," Robert laughs, trying for once to feel a part of a winning side, rather than always the underdog.
"No, listen.." Martin attempts to make his point over the waves of laughter washing over him. "I was looking at this woman.."
"Yeah, yeah," Billy giggles, "we know; the beef curtains."
"The meat-fest!" screams Noel, holding his sides and rolling backwards out of the circle and then cracking his head on the bed. "Ow!" he says, rubbing the tender spot.
Martin breaks into a subtle smile for a split second at Noel's misfortune and then refocuses his attention on the magazine. "Will you listen to me?"
Martin's mouth moves and he is sure he heard the words leaving his lips a moment before, but he watches his friends writhing on the floor, their faces contorted with mirth and notices how his demand fails to make an impression on them. Martin often feels this way, with something important to say and all around assuming he has a trivial and uninteresting mind; he will usually persevere for a short time and hope to catch someone's attention and then mumble to himself and withdraw further into his ever-increasing invisibility. "Noel's mum is in the Readers' Wives section," Martin murmurs almost inaudibly.
Somehow over the gurgling and giggling of the boys' laughter, Billy's acute hearing picks up Martin's whisper and his jaw drops to the floor. "What?" he shouts.
Noel and Robert stop laughing and stare at Billy and then follow his gaze towards Martin.
"Noel's mum is in the Readers' Wives section."

Noel feels his face begin to burn deep red; bright enough to illuminate the room, as his friends stare down at five full-colour printed Polaroids of his mother's sagging chest, her wrinkled neck and backside, and brilliant smile.
"Well she looks happy enough," Robert says, breaking into a grin.
And they can't deny it, there is a definite sparkle in her eyes; not a professional, clinical cheesecake grin, but an amateurish love of the assignment.
"There's no doubt it's her," Billy points out, "cos there's your settee, and there's that big pot plant in the front room and the painting of the Indian girl on the wall."
"Yeah," adds Martin, "it's her all right."
"'Susan, Portsmouth'," Robert reads from the magazine. "I didn't know your mum's name was Susan."
Noel is silent, he just raises his eyebrows over his sad eyes and twists his mouth nervously.
"Why does it say she's from Portsmouth," asks Martin. "She doesn't live in Portsmouth: we don't live in.."
"The magazine makes it up," interrupts Billy. "You fool, they're not gonna say where she's really from are they?"
"I dunno," replies Martin.
They all stare at the page, lost for words.
"Bloody hell," whispers Robert at last.
"You said it," adds Billy.
“Well, fair play to your dad, I say,” says Martin. “What a bloke!”
Robert agrees: “He’s certainly captured your mum’s...”
“Arse?” offers Martin.
“I was gonna say aura.”
“She’s got massive nips, hasn’t she?” says Martin.
“Yep,“ Robert agrees, “you could hang on your hat on that.”
“Your hat and your coat,” Billy adds, making a clicking noise with his tongue as he mimes hanging up the two items of clothing.
There is silence for a moment, and then Noel says: "You won't tell anyone will you?"
The three boys look up from the magazine to face Noel and see the look of terror and shame in his eyes. Suddenly it occurs to them all at once, how sick he must feel, and they try to imagine their own mothers in the same positions, and how gutted they themselves would be. They all say nothing, but shake their heads sombrely.
Noel reaches over for the magazine and slides it away from his friends. He closes the pages and as they fall together concealing their salacious secret, there is a slight tap at the door before it opens. Noel quickly shoves the magazine up under his T-shirt and gazes innocently at the doorway. Momentarily blinded by the light flooding in from the hall, he can just make out the silhouette of his mother before his eyes become accustomed to the light.
"Hello boys!" she says.
"Hi mum," replies Noel.
"Hello," says Billy, and then much quieter, "Susan."
Billy, Martin and Robert snigger softly amongst themselves and then turn around to face her.
"It's very quiet in here. What are you up to, all sitting in the dark?" she asks playfully. "It's very suspicious."
"Er.." Noel thinks quickly while his friends stare at his mother, looking her up and down, undressing her in their minds, trying to fit the photographs to the physical presence now standing before them in the flesh. "We're just telling ghost stories."
"Ooh scary!" she laughs. "Can I get you boys anything? Milk? Or sandwiches? Biscuits?"
"No thanks mum," Noel answers for his friends, desperately trying to get rid of her. "We're all right."
"Okay then," she says pulling the door to, "don't be getting nightmares."
And the four boys are alone again.
"That was close," Noel says, retrieving the magazine and hiding it away in his pants drawer. His three friends are silent and just stare at the space where his mum was moments before.. fascinated by her, infatuated with her, positively drooling over her.
"I can't believe I've seen your mum's fanny," says Martin softly.
"Neither can I," Noel replies.

Later that night as Martin, Robert and Billy are tucked up in bed, the images they have witnessed tease them, and Noel's mum features heavily in their dreams. Martin pictures the two of them caught shagging in his own mum and dad's bed; Robert sees her dressed in a negligee serving him milk and sandwiches; while Billy dreams of an elaborate love affair forcing them to desert their families and run away together.
They had all heard the stories about her walking the streets during the early hours of the morning, and the one in particular when she was seen wearing a long coat and little else-but they had passed it off as myth, however funny the scene may have been. But now everything has fallen into place, and all the three of them can wish for is to find themselves within the folds of Noel's mum's coat.

Noel finds that his three friends make the effort to visit his house more often over the following weeks, and this is some consolation after his initial embarrassment, although he fails to realize they are there solely to try and catch a glimpse of his mother, not delight in his company. But the fascination dies down eventually as her naked image is replaced by the naked images of others, and life goes on as before.. the boys are left with little more than their dreams, made up out of fractured images and teasing smiles and suggestive winks from Noel's mum, which they mistake for come-ons when she is simply being friendly, in that over-zealous way only the lonely can fully appreciate.

Steel......... Louise........... Billy

Steel.

“They always check your pockets,” Billy tells Martin as they push through the glass swing-doors and enter the supermarket, “you just have to stay calm.”
“Cool like Fonzie?” asks Martin.
“No, calm,” Billy says sharply, “it’s not cool to live in the room above your mate’s dad’s garage and hang around with teenagers when you‘re thirty; that’s not cool. What’s cool is having nerves of steel when the security guard is feeling your backside and you‘ve got three Curlywurlys down your underpants.”
“I don’t know if I can go through with this Bill, it doesn’t seem right.”
“A big supermarket chain like this isn’t gonna notice half a dozen bits of chocolate going missing are they?”
“No, but it’s the principle.”
“Listen,” Billy begins, “you didn’t have any principles eating the chocolate I nicked the other week; you’re just too much of a coward to do it for yourself. Well I ain’t doing your dirty work anymore; if you don’t nick it, you don’t eat it.”
Martin is scared-he has been brought up on a diet of television cop shows, and knows that to become a shoplifter is to cross a line, a very clearly defined line, even when no one is hurt and there is no victim, accept maybe a stockholder’s profits. Martin doesn’t want to be a thief, but the thought of reward without sacrifice is a powerful motivating force, especially when his body is crying out for Caramacs.
“Are you listening?” Billy whispers as they amble along the aisle to the sound of ‘Don‘t Give Up On Us‘ playing soullessly on electronic keyboard all around them. “Never put anything in your pockets; if it’s small enough put it in your socks, but make sure it’s secure, you don’t want your stash falling out of your trouser leg.”
“That would be bad,” Martin agrees.
“And most importantly,” Billy continues, “always buy something; a handful of half-penny chews, black jacks, drumsticks-something cheap obviously.. there’s nothing more suspicious than just walking straight through the shop.”
“I haven’t got any money Bill.”
“Don’t panic; I nicked ten pence off Noel.”
“Well he won’t notice that; he’s always got money.”
“Right. Now Mart, don’t mess it up now. Here’s the money, go over to the counter and pick some sweets.. don’t spend it all because you want them to give you change. When they’ve turned around to put your money in the till, pick some bars off the counter and keep them in your hand, but make sure you keep them hidden in your sleeve, you get it?”
“Uh huh.”
“Then get the change, pick up your bag of little sweets, and look around, I’ll be right next to you-then we walk out of the shop together, dead casual like.”
“Where are you going?” Martin asks nervously.
“Don’t worry about me, just do what I‘ve told you; by the time you’re done, I’ll be there, waiting.”
Billy pushes Martin in the back in the direction of the sweet counter, while he disappears down an aisle. Billy passes shelves stacked with sugar and caffeine-soaked fizzy drinks, chocolate biscuits and crisps; he ignores delicacies that would have interested every other eleven year old in the Western world and moves to the end of the aisle to the chilled meats section. A security guard appears from the next aisle, watching Billy closely. Billy turns and sees the guard, and then casually pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, studying it and cross-checking with the array of meats on display before him. Billy has studied his craft well and knows to an adult, particularly a grizzled old security guard, a boy with a shopping list is a boy on an errand, and therefore not considered a menace.
There is an announcement over the supermarket PA by a woman with a cold, about a special offer on steak and kidney pies. When the music returns, it is the theme from the TV detective show, Van der Valk. Suddenly, the guard turns and moves quickly up the aisle out of sight. In the cold, bright light of the chiller, Billy hastily grabs a handful of steaks and chicken breasts and shoves them into his socks; the cold of the meat against his skin causes him to breath in sharply, and when he exhales, his breath is released in clouds of condensation. Billy then pretends to finish tying his lace, stands up and casually moves towards the exit.
As Billy reaches the end of the aisle near the door, he notices that Martin is nowhere to be seen. Undeterred, Billy moves to the exit, desperately trying to hide his anger and frustration that Martin has let him down. As Billy pushes through the doors and touches the pavement, he feels a hand on his shoulder. Billy freezes and waits for judgement.
“Billy.”
It is Martin.
“What the hell are you doing?” Billy explodes.
“I went to find you,” Martin replies sheepishly.
“I told you to fuckin wait!”
Billy turns to confront Martin, but instead his face drops as he sees the old security guard coming through the doors, beckoning the two of them back into the shop. “Stay calm,” Billy whispers, “it’ll be all right.”

Martin and Billy are led through the shop, their heads hanging down on their chests; their eyes looking up under their eyebrows at the shoppers who have stopped to shake their heads at the sight of two boys being escorted to the manager’s office. Billy is collecting his thoughts, thinking of ways to answer every possible question that may be asked. But most of all he prays to the god of shoplifting that Martin doesn’t crack, and they don’t check his socks. Martin holds tightly onto his small bag of sweets; he thinks that he has let down his family and for a split second he pictures his mother’s face. Martin is praying that his dad never finds out, and that he doesn’t piss himself.
“What’s going on?” Billy asks the security guard brightly, as the door to manager‘s office closes behind them. Billy tries to disguise his anxiety, but his mouth is already dry and he chokes, the last word clicking off his tongue. Although he is not furnished with an answer, Billy and Martin are directed to two chairs and told to sit down.
“Brothers?” the guard asks and before Martin can speak, Billy nods his head and pats Martin’s knee affectionately. Martin looks up blankly. The guard nods as the door opens and the store manager strides into the room. He is much younger than the guard, but his face already shows the signs of stress associated with long hours of work away from his young family. Billy and Martin see right away that the manager is the figure of authority here; an adult, not the geriatric security guard who looks like their grandads, but the man in the suit with a sombre expression already frozen on his face. The boys do not consider that he was young once and had ambitions like them, although now unfulfilled, and he certainly never dreamed that he would end up the manager of some shitty supermarket in the suburbs-the years of disappointment and regret are etched on the manager’s face, and have made him cold and heartless. He stares at the two boys, who are much like his own, and shakes his head having already judged and convicted them.. they are just two thieving little bastards from the estate after all. He points at Martin and indicates with his finger that he wants him to stand up.
“Let me check your pockets.”
Martin stands up, his knees shake and his tiny balls withdraw into his body. He lifts his arms up while the manager pats his coat and trouser pockets.
“What’s that in your hand?”
“My sweets.. I just..”
“Yeah, he paid for them,” the guard confirms.
“Okay sit down,” and then to Billy, “you, stand up.”
Billy obeys the command without question, not only because he knows he is guilty and therefore does not want to appear uncooperative, but Billy reacts because he has been conditioned to behave this way-he is a minor and he has been taught that adults always know best, no matter who they are. Billy has learnt obedience through years of canings, cracked knuckles and beatings; this is the age of corporal punishment, a time when kids do not have a voice.
Billy lifts his arms waiting to be searched, his eyes are fixed on a calendar hanging on the wall of the office; the picture for the month of April is of a big-breasted brunette wearing a yellow safety helmet and holding a lump hammer. “Nice nips,” Billy thinks.
There is a moment’s silence while hands move up and down Billy’s clothing. He considers that if he were innocent, how unjust this treatment would be and how little power a boy of eleven actually has. The manager sniffs the air, and Billy suddenly considers the possibility that the raw meat next to his ankles is rotting in the heated office. Billy swallows hard awaiting his fate, when suddenly the door bursts open.
“We’ve got him!”
A boy of nine is led into the room, tears streaming down his little red face. The shop manager turns away from Billy, as one of the security guards pulls up the boy’s T-shirt to reveal half a dozen chocolate bars shoved down his trousers.
“I thought you were packing a bit too much down there, kid,” the guard laughs. “Here, sit down,” and then to his boss, “his mates scarpered, but I managed to grab this little one.”
“You two can go,” orders the manager turning to Billy and Martin, slightly disappointed that his initial feeling about them is wrong.
The two boys step carefully out of the office, and they are half way to the exit when the manager calls them back.
“You two, come back here.”
Billy considers making a dash for it, but although he knows he could outrun the old security guard, the young manager would almost certainly catch them. Nevertheless it is now academic, as Martin has automatically obeyed the command, stopped and already turned back. Billy shakes his head and awaits his fate.
“You left your bag of sweets on the chair,” the manager says.
“Thanks,” Martin murmurs, carefully taking the sweets.
“That was close,” Billy says when they are finally back out in the street, forgetting any argument he had with Martin for failing to follow his usually flawless plan.
“Sorry about that,” Martin whispers, “but when you left me, I saw that security guard follow you.. I went to warn you.”
“Don’t worry; you did your best.”
Martin smiles bashfully and says, “I did better than that Bill.” Martin’s hands are shaking furiously as he retrieves five chocolate bars from within the folds of the right arm of his coat.
Billy laughs loudly and pats Martin affectionately on the shoulder, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Me neither.”
Martin thought that he would feel differently about this; he had considered that his actions would lead to an overwhelming sense of guilt, but instead he feels elated-the sickness he had felt in the manager’s office has now subsided and his initial relief has now turned into pure, unmitigated joy.
“And what did you get?” Martin asks.
Billy kneels down and pulls up his bellbottom trousers.
“What’s that; meat?”
Billy nods, “My dad had some gambling debts to pay, so he didn’t give mum any money for food.”
“You got no food in the house?”
Billy shakes his head. “Mum had no money,” he explains, “all we got is potatoes; any money in the house, dad finds and spends it on drink.”
Martin listens carefully, shaking his head. He cannot imagine a life in which the family completely lacks any kind of basic bond; there is no support, no love.. there is barely any relationship at all. This is something alien to Martin, whose family, although tedious and predictable, is a loving unit.
“I want you to have these,” Martin says finally, placing his stolen chocolate bars in Billy’s hands, “give them to your brothers or something.”
“No, no.” Billy tries to gently push Martin away. “You earned these Mart.”
“Bill,” Martin begins, “I don’t need them; go on, please take them.”
Billy finally concedes, “Okay,” and then, “thanks Martin; really.. listen, I’d better get home before this meat goes past its sell-by date.”
“Yeah,” Martin laughs, “see you tomorrow Billy.”

When Billy arrives home he is surprised to hear laughing coming from the kitchen, a sound usually absent from the house, and the smell of fish and chips. He passes his brothers Gavin and Alastair who are watching television in the living room.
“Mum?” he calls, opening the door to the kitchen, to find his mum and dad sitting at the table eating their fish suppers straight from the newspaper.
Billy’s mum Sheila looks up, slightly embarrassed and says, “We’ve saved you some, but I didn’t know when you’d be back.” Billy looks confused and his mum continues, “your dad had a big win on the horses, love,” she smiles nervously looking at her husband William, “he thought he’d treat us.”
Billy looks at his dad shoving the last few chips in his mouth, and recognises the vacant look in his eyes, knowing that after picking up his winnings he had gone straight to the pub and spent almost all of his money buying everyone there a drink. Billy pictures Will stumbling from the pub to the chippy, and in his inebriated state suddenly remember his loving wife and children. He would then arrive home bearing gifts as if everything was all right with the world.
“Let me get you something together,” Sheila says, picking up some pieces of fish that her two younger sons could not finish, along with a pile of cold chips. Billy then notices that his dad had only bought enough for the four of them.
“Thanks mum,” Billy says, “I got some meat too, we could have it tomorrow now I suppose.” Billy walks to the fridge and kneeling down begins to remove the steak and chicken fillets from his socks.
His dad looks over and choking on a chip he roars: “What the hell are you doing?” Billy does not answer, ignoring his dad. “I’m talking to you,” Will shouts, “where did you get that meat? Have you been thieving again?”
“I got it for our tea,” Billy explains softly, “there was no food..”
“I look after this family,” William explodes, “I’ll put food on this fuckin table; don’t come here with your stinking meat again.“ Will stands up, grabs the meat out of Billy’s grasp and hurls it across the kitchen. “And if I catch you stealing again..” Crack! The force of the smack on Billy’s head sends him flying across the kitchen and onto the floor.
“Will!” Billy’s mum screams. “Please don’t.”
William staggers a little from the alcohol swirling around his body, and holds his wavering forefinger in the air in front of his wife, “Don’t get me started,” he says, “just sit down Sheila.”
Billy remains on the floor and watches his mum back down and take her place at the table. Will remains rooted to the spot for a moment and then turns and leaves the kitchen, muttering to himself.
Sheila remains seated for a moment, unable to look at her eldest son. Billy stands up, rubbing the red mark on his forehead and approaches his mum. She looks down at the floor; her hands are shaking. Billy kneels down and takes her hands in his own.
“I’m sorry Billy,” she whispers, and then, “but he’s right, she shouldn’t steal; it’s not right.”
Billy closes his eyes, fighting back the tears. He wonders how he has managed to disappoint his mum again and tries to work out how he always ends up the villain. He looks up at his mum’s face, but she is looking out of the window.




Louise.

The world is full of pictures of naked women.. and in front of every picture, there is a man, full of admiration and desire, with his hand in his pocket jiggling his testicles.
The world is a breeding ground for sad men of all ages, who are unable to let go of their belief in woman as image (and therefore a controllable commodity) and embrace woman as a human being-a living, breathing, thinking, feeling, belching, farting person, who can smell of sweat and shit as much as anyone, but never like the pages of a freshly printed magazine. Maybe men continue to perpetuate the myth of female perfection (as they wish to understand it), because with the printed image, there isn’t a dialogue between the representation and the spectator, and consequently there are absolutely no risks... so men can portray women in all manner of situations; always good and always fulfilling a fantasy, but never as something foolish or unsexy; whether positive or negative, the image is always there to please and titillate-the whore, the schoolgirl, the cowgirl, the scuba-diver, the nun, the car-mechanic.... created by men, for men, to add to the illusion and strengthen their delusion that they are in some way in control.
Boys have no understanding of the overwhelming battle faced by billions of women everyday, as the female population of the world attempt to make their way through life without having their tits touched or their arse grabbed by strangers, who are still unable to distinguish between the tits on the page and the human being behind the tits.
Martin and Robert are being brought up in a world that promotes the concept that men have complete control and are at liberty to touch, invade and violate with total impunity... and moreover, the women the two boys know of and adore most (conveniently contained within the pages of a magazine) are all perfectly and literally two-dimensional anyway, and consequently they have nothing concrete on which to base their limited understanding of how they should act and react to the opposite sex.. so Martin and Robert exist in blissful ignorance of the gaping holes in their awareness of real women, and are content with the invented image, which sadly, is more complete in the boys’ minds than it could ever be in real life.

It is a day like any other, as most days usually are. A day that always seems better in retrospect, but in fact is ordinary in every sense of the word. Martin and Robert are walking home through the deserted park that borders their estate. They are not unnecessarily concerned when they see in the distance, the pink skin of a naked girl. The two boys unconsciously rationalize the situation immediately; their brains cannot make sense of the information that presents itself-they believe they have been deceived by a strange trick of the late summer light. The girl had appeared from nowhere, a little way off across the park, and then seemed to vanish.
“Did you see that?” asks Martin.
“Uh huh.”
“What did it look like to you?”
“A large rabbit, or a small kangaroo.”
“Yeah, I thought so too.”
“We’d better check it out.”
As Martin and Robert approach the place where the figure had been moments before, they notice a blanket lying in the tall grass covered with dolls, all in various states of undress, along with a pile of girl’s clothes. It has been carefully laid before a thicket made up of a couple of young beech trees and a cluster of thick leafy bushes. Martin rubs his forehead hoping an answer will present itself, while Robert looks all around searching for any signs of life. Suddenly the leaves of the bushes shake and a young girl of about ten emerges from within the dense shrubbery; she wears nothing except a pair a long white socks pulled up to her knees.
“Hello,” she says. “I’m Louise, what’s your name?”
Martin and Robert look at one another feeling as if they have just won the Pools, but are too sick with celebrity to enjoy it fully. Martin quickly checks the horizon to see whether they are being watched-like a man who spies a wallet on the street and picks it up, feeling both elation and guilt in equal measures. Robert then answers Louise, and like a true gentleman stares into the distance, too shy even to keep up eye contact, and too scared in case his gaze should fall across her light pink nipples: “I’m Rob and this is Mart.”
Martin satisfies himself that they are not being watched and he turns to take in the sight of his first live, naked female. He is surprised to find himself not feeling a surge of animal lust bursting through his body, only the tingling thrill of being in the presence of the opposite sex. His eyes wander unchecked up and down the straight lines of Louise’s body-he is intrigued by its lack of dangly bits and its incredibly tidy design. He tries to process and memorize the information being soaked up by his eyes, but is aware that he is staring quite blatantly at a naked girl, and this prompts him to say something to her. However, Louise has lost interest in the two boys and she now sits down amongst her toys, while her small but attentive audience continues to watch every curve of her tiny, undeveloped body as it moves around the blanket.
“This is without doubt the best day of my life,” whispers Robert, cupping his hand around his mouth to conceal the sound from Louise.
Martin nods, but he cannot fully disguise the slight disappointment that is building up inside. He is unsure whether it is because after a thorough inspection, it is obvious that Louise’s body is very similar to his own, or because she is so comfortable with her nakedness that there is no element of sex in their innocent encounter.
Suddenly Louise turns her head and Martin and Robert avert their eyes conspicuously, desperately pretending that they were looking into the distance. She asks the boys, “D’you want to play?” and there is no hint of a double entendre (and although Martin’s eyebrow raises slightly on his forehead, he knows the invitation is clearly anything but of a sexual nature).
Robert and Martin kneel down at the edge of the blanket, careful not to violate her personal space. Louise sits up and hands out two of her dolls. Martin holds his doll by the waist and walks her along the blanket towards Robert’s doll, where he head butts it innocuously. The boys snigger and act out a play fight with the dolls. Louise looks across at them and snatches her toys back furiously. “That’s not the game,” she says indignantly. “If you’re not going to play properly, then don’t play at all.”
Martin and Robert find themselves apologising and asking to stay, only to remain in the presence of this girl. There is something within the two of them that they do not recognise or understand, which holds them there and demands they suffer any humiliation or dull moment, simply to be a part of this girl’s life. To share a few moments in the company of a beautiful girl, so many men would sacrifice so much.. their time, their careers.. their wives. However, Martin and Robert are content only to waste an afternoon watching Louise’s socks slip down her smooth legs, and then watch as she stretches out one leg at a time to pull them back up to her knee. On each occasion, two pairs of eyes bulge in their sockets and strain to see the space where Louise’s thighs meet, and then try to match it to the pictures they have seen in magazines.. but they cannot, as Louise bears little resemblance to those models, whose bodies are fully developed, and innocence, manufactured.

And all the time Martin keeps checking the windows of the houses that back onto the park for anyone that may be watching, while Robert still fails to understand why Louise continues to remain undressed in their presence, without any sign of unease-Robert cannot bear to be naked in company; showers after P.E. at school hold him in constant dread, he will either pretend to have washed, but always remain wrapped in his towel with his pants still on, simply splashing water on his hair and face, or bypass the charade altogether with a forged sick note from his mum.
Robert is ashamed of his own body-his round belly and fat thighs sicken him as they close in around his small willy, and the mass of flesh surrounding his genitals seems to accentuate their stunted appearance. Robert scans the private parts of his classmates and is staggered to notice hair growth around the bollocks of his contemporaries. This knowledge makes him feel more inadequate-and after failing to kick a ball straight, or run for more than a minute, or manage a full press-up, the shower at the end of the lesson is the final humiliation.

Martin and Robert do not understand girls. They are quick to make assumptions and wild generalisations about them before recognising one simple truth; girls are human beings, and as such are as much individuals as they themselves, full of confidence and bravado on some occasions, and sick with insecurity and apprehension at others-desperate for attention one minute and frantic for solitude the next. The two boys watch Louise happily playing, and make snap judgements about her and her kind, based on the women they know best.. their sister and their mother (women they actually know nothing about); so they believe that girls want to play with dolls and plastic babies that piss themselves, rather than with Star Wars figures or Micronauts; they prefer to listen to Abba and David Soul over The Clash or the Buzzcocks; and that they’ve never heard of Asimov or Tolkien or Arthur C. Clarke or 2000AD... moreover, Martin and Robert feel that the world has shown them two types of women, the first are doe-eyed and do their homework, they walk with enormous poise, appearing to the world as if all of their treasures are locked away deep within their clothing, they look away bashfully when a boy‘s gaze falls across them, and they will not engage in meaningless small-talk.. while the second type have the confidence and knowledge to be aware of their sex, and be comfortable with their bodies, fully recognising the power they have over their male peers, they look men straight in the eye and crush them with their lack of attention. Up until this moment Martin and Robert had believed that this kind of woman only exists in celluloid and top-shelf magazines, however, they have discovered this type in Louise-she certainly appears to be at ease with herself and her nakedness, and for this reason she is like no other living girl they have ever met. Louise is like the women in the magazines, she doesn’t scream or giggle or try to cover her modesty with Marks and Spencer’s old granny knickers. Martin and Robert had understood that these women did not live among normal working class people, but there she is, within touching distance.. and this begins to raise questions in Robert and Martin’s enquiring minds, like maybe there is a chance for two small boys with two small willies in the wide world and maybe, just maybe, they will match real-life with the fantasies whirling through their sick little heads...
...and so with this very much in mind they are both surprised and distressed, when from nowhere Louise says with absolute lucidity: “If you don’t go away now, I will tell my mum you were watching me.”
And that’s all it takes to send two small males hurtling across a field, as if their very lives depended on it. A simple request, weighed down by a threat that strikes terror into their hearts. Although completely free of guilt and innocent of any crime, Martin and Robert have judged themselves through the eyes of society; a society which lacks their European neighbours‘ open-mindedness, is unemotional and puritanical, and does not approve of young boys ogling naked girls, regardless of whether the situation is instigated by the girl in the first place. Martin and Robert are being moulded by the world in which they are growing; they respond to their instincts which tell them that: they shouldn’t be spying on little girls; if their mums found out they’d be in for a really good hiding; and most importantly, the boys feel that by obeying their petite naked mistress, they will be treated with similar offerings in the future. What they have yet to appreciate is that Louise has already forgotten them and when their paths cross again, they will again be two faceless, nameless boys. They will soon understand that as submissive males, they are really in no position to make any demands on womankind.
Martin and Robert are faced with a bleak future in which they set themselves up for a choice between women with whom they would not want to share their time, but do anyway, and women who will look right through them, barely recognising their existence.

“Wouldn’t it be great if all girls were naked.. all the time?”
Robert considers Martin’s question for a few moments and then replies: “Nah, I think you’d get bored seeing it on display everyday. Part of the attraction is because the best bits are concealed.”
“Yeah, I suppose.. it is a greater thrill when you finally get to see them, even if it’s only for a while.. or it’s in a porno mag or something.”
“Definitely,” Robert agrees. “Woman’s greatest asset is man’s imagination.”
“That’s good that is.” Martin slaps Robert on the back and laughs as he repeats the phrase in his thoughts, mouthing the words silently. “Did you make that up?”
“No, I read it somewhere.”
“You read too much Robert.”
“You don’t read nearly enough,” Robert retorts.
“Poo off,” laughs Martin.
“See what I mean!”
“Anyway, you don’t need to read to be a marine biologist,” states Martin angrily.
“Of course you do dummy.”
“Huh? I just thought you needed to be a good swimmer and know the different fish and that.”
“And that... and that!?” laughs Robert. “You need to do degrees and stuff.. go to university.. and to get to university you need to be able to read.”
“I can read.”
“Yeah, 2000 AD and dirty magazines.”
Martin considers this while they walk home, his forehead crumpling up as he reassesses his life‘s direction. He had thought that his ambitions were achievable, now it dawns on him that he will have to work to realise his dreams.
“Shit,” he says at last. “Rob? How much do you think those photographers get paid.. the ones from those magazines?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“They make a living though, don‘t they? I reckon that’d be a top job.. and you wouldn‘t need to read to take pictures of fannies would you?”
Robert remains silent, he has something more important to attend to and he pulls his underpants out from the itchy crack of his backside.
“What d’you think Rob..?” No answer. “Hey, are you all right?”
“Martin can I go for a poo at your house?”
“Get lost!” Martin shouts, pulling a face. “I don’t want your massive log blocking our bog. Why don’t you sod off home and have a dump there?”
Robert does not answer, he just sighs, screws up the side of his mouth and looks down at the floor sadly.
“I know your mum can be a bit moody,” continues Martin, “but she ain’t that bad is she?”
“No,” replies Robert, “you’re right.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
Martin runs off in the direction of his house and when he is out of sight, Robert ducks behind a bush. Safe within the fingers of foliage and hidden by shadows, Robert lowers his trousers, squats down like a dog and relieves himself.

Louise is not an exhibitionist, although she does crave the attention not lavished on her by her family members. Louise is not completely naive, and she recognises the thrill she derives from being naked, is not wholly innocent. Louise just enjoys the feeling of a cool breeze against her unprotected body, and the freedom that comes from being unshackled from the trappings of a civilised world.
With a wry smile, Louise acknowledges the power she has just wielded over the two unsuspecting boys. She had been in total control and she had liked it; she had manipulated them the way she twists the heads and bends the arms of her dolls.. and most importantly, when she had tired of their company, she had sent them scurrying away with their tails between their legs, knowing that their hearts were aching to remain at her side.
Louise is experimenting; she is testing the water; she is getting prepared. Louise has two older sisters and she has seen them grow up and desert her for young men who have the same sycophantic, fawning facade as Robert and Martin. She has witnessed her siblings rushing to their bedrooms with cheeks stained with mascara from tears cried on the bus home after a fight with their boyfriends. Louise is making sure that she will never be reduced to this blubbering mass of lipstick, hairspray and blue eye shadow.. she will not bow down, she will resist the seemingly unstoppable tide of male control and she will defy her oppressors by making them weak at the knees. She has found that men are vulnerable and she will kick them where it hurts. Louise will stand firm, while her admirers remain flaccid.
And by adopting this clinical approach, she will find her perfect partner-a partner who is capable of matching her on every level; physically, emotionally, spiritually. Much of Louise’s actions are not instinctual; she has learnt from the mistakes made by her sisters and the thought of repeating their tragic errors, both sickens and inspires her.
Louise does not want to be a victim and so she begins to strengthen her defences; and the best way she knows to achieve this is to gain information about her enemy, and Louise is under no illusions that her enemy is man, even when it is in the form of two small and very scared boys, for she knows only too well that these two timid children will one day grow to be men.
Louise is aware of the world around her and the struggle that awaits her, and she is getting prepared.





Billy.

Breathe.. breathe deeply. Focus on life. Concentrate on who you are; where you are; what is important.. Cry. Cry now.. let it out. Control your fear.. and just survive. Survive at all costs. Think about your mum, your brothers, yourself.. the time will pass and you will find one day that you are still alive, but somewhere else-and the strength you feel then, will have been shaped here today.
Billy senses the nausea building in his stomach, feels it moving up through his chest as it rocks his whole body. He sucks air through his nostrils into his lungs, attempting to subdue the sickness by directing his attention to the otherwise unconscious act of staying alive.. breathe in, breathe out, breathe in.
Billy finds himself alone in his bedroom, the red mark across his face starts to fade as the bruise on his belly blackens and begins to ache. Tears roll down his cheek unchecked, but he doesn't sob, he has learnt to weep quietly not wishing to disturb the oppressive silence that develops after another blazing row. Billy brushes the line of teardrops from his face with the back of his hand and stares at his room through bloodshot eyes-he can still picture the afterimage burnt into his retina, and he winces at the unprovoked attack again and again, until it too, along with the pain, has faded.
Billy's mind clears and the process of repair begins. He doesn't try and analyse his beating because he knows from experience beatings are too random and unpredictable to even contemplate. They are usually fuelled by alcohol and carried out in a whiskey haze that clears with the hangover, leaving his father’s conscience clear as the events are never remembered.. except by Billy, who now tries to direct the focus of his mind away from the house altogether, away from his father, away from his own life. He doesn't think about his past, about good times with his family because there are no good times, only a succession of sulks and smacks. Instead Billy lifts his head, turns his attention from the room and gazes out of the window. He stares between the gathering clouds into the deep blue of the sky and out into space. He remembers the detention at school a few weeks ago and laughing with his friends about Uranus. Billy smiles to himself finding some solace in childish innuendo. He says the word out loud, knowing well the sound will vibrate in the stale atmosphere and clear the air.
"Your anus."

There is a tap on the window and Billy wakes from his day-dream. Outside, a tiny stone rises into the air, arcs towards the house and cracks against the glass for a second time. Billy stands up and peers out of the window. His three friends are standing below; Noel is searching for another stone but Martin pokes him in the back when he sees Billy. Robert waves and Billy holds up his hand extending his thumb upwards.
"Shit," he whispers to himself and slumps back into the room away from the window. Billy approaches the long mirror set into his wardrobe and examines his reflection; he is looking for telltale signs of the tears he has cried-he is the leader of his small gang, and any sign of fragility would be seen as a major weakness and exploited by his friends.. so Billy spits on his hand and wipes the marks from under his eyes, ruffles up his hair, pulls on his trainers and opens the window. He hops onto the ledge and lowers himself out of the room. Below Billy's window is the front porch of the house, he drops softly onto its roof, closes his own window and then jumps to the ground, greeting his friends with a wave.
"What's going on?" asks Billy, quickly moving away from the house and out of sight.
"There's gonna be a fight!"
The four boys spread out in a line and fill the pavement, walking down the road with a look of cool arrogance. Noel bounces along like a young Cassius Clay, acting out the fight to come, punching out at an imaginary figure in his way; in stark contrast, Martin walks head down, with his hands wedged tightly into his pockets; Billy strides a little ahead of his friends, both to appear in control and also to keep his red and swollen eyes out of sight; Robert is behind the group as usual, trying to keep up, finding the pace a little uncomfortable for his fat, stubby legs.
"Slow down will you," he mumbles.
"Keep up fat man!" Billy calls back.
Noel turns and faces the group. He keeps up his bouncing and launches himself backwards down the street, throwing his fists towards his friends. "Come on Robert," he shouts. "I can still go faster than you."
Robert tries to increase his speed and huffs and puffs, forcing his flabby legs into action. Noel laughs and looks for a reaction on the faces of Billy and Martin, he notices Billy's bloodshot eyes and directs his derision at this new target.
"Hey Billy," Noel says, "have you been crying?"
Martin looks up from the grey concrete pavement for the first time and examines Billy's face. "Are you all right mate?" he asks. Billy does not answer, but Noel begins to laugh.
Billy's emotions erupt. He looks from the face of one friend to the other-he wants to smother Noel's smirk, or smack it off his stupid mouth, and simultaneously hold Martin to his chest and weep-both friends have touched an all too sensitive nerve; Martin offers support in an otherwise unsympathetic world, and this touches Billy.. Noel is a smug prick, but he is an innocent child and totally unaware of the damage he causes his friend. Billy controls himself, lets his emotions level out and directs his energy to a suitable solution. He wants to answer Noel without betraying his own feelings; he doesn't want his friends to know how fragile he can be. Billy looks across at Martin and nods slowly, he then turns his attention to Noel who is still giggling like a baby and bouncing backwards down the road. Billy smiles-Noel's tiny victory is passing into history; Billy knows he has won now, and his wide grin throws Noel's concentration. Noel did not expect this; a mouthful of expletives or a smack in the mouth maybe.. but not a smile. Noel becomes unsteady on his feet as he continues to bounce backwards and a look of total confusion floods onto his face.
"What?" he cries out. "What are you grinning at?"
Billy glances down the street and now Martin begins to laugh. Noel looks quickly over his shoulder, throws his arms out for balance and then smacks straight into a tree. Billy and Martin double up with unrestrained laughter, while Robert reaches them and winces-the pain felt by Noel as his head thuds against the tree is communicated across the space and rushes up through Robert's legs into his body. "Ooh, I felt that," he says, rubbing his own head in sympathy.
Noel stands up gingerly, steadying himself against the trunk of the tree: "Shit, that hurt!" he says.
"Are you all right Noel?" Robert asks.
"Of course I am," snaps Noel-the embarrassment of the situation far outweighing the actual pain he is feeling.
"I can see stars circling your head." Billy is laughing so hard his bruised ribs begin to ache again. "Or those little cartoon birds!"
"Yeah," adds Martin. "Tweet, tweet!"
"Yeah, yeah," grumbles Noel, "laugh all you like." Noel looks up and returns Billy's gaze; their eyes meet for a split second and Noel looks away quickly, feeling slightly intimidated. He curses to himself and looks up again; Billy is gone, walking away with Robert and Martin. The show is over, the audience are gone, and the star brushes the dirt from his trousers and hobbles onward.
"Wait for me!" calls Noel, his voice is sugar-coated now, suggesting a sweet appeal, an apology.. a rapid withdrawal of an offensive statement, but remorse is only implied; Noel is far too young and stubborn, and too boyish to offer a full and frank retraction. The nearest any of them ever get to saying sorry, is a rare, hushed "Soz!" followed by an awkward silence.
"Where are we going?" asks Billy after they have been walking through the maze of streets of their estate for ten minutes.
"We heard it's gonna happen down there by the football pitch," Robert answers, pointing to an empty field in the distance.
"And where did you hear it from?"
"Noel's big sister," replies Martin. "Tell him Noel."
"Yeah," says Noel, "a couple of blokes from Ruth's class were expelled for fighting."
"They smashed up the classroom," interrupts Robert excitedly.
"I was getting to that!" Noel barks. "Anyway, they're meeting tonight to finish the fight."
Billy seems unconvinced.
"No word of a lie," adds Noel.
"But I don't see a fight," Billy says softly. "I don't see a thing..."
The football pitch lies below them, naked and unused. The goalposts stand bare, their nets lost or stolen. The chalk line of the six yard box has long since been eroded by the feet of boys and men, leaving an intermittent mark like a message written in Morse code. Much of the grass is dead, and the earth has been left battered and scorched; lifeless...
"Maybe we're early," offers Martin.
"Well let's walk down there at least," says Robert "they might just be keeping out of sight."
The four of them begin walking down the hill towards the deserted football field. In the distance police car sirens wail. Noel turns to face the far off sound, trying to determine their direction.
"Are you sure it's this field?" asks Billy again moments later. "There's definitely no-one there." Billy stops walking. "This is stupid," he says and turns to face Noel, "where exactly did your sister say the fight would be?"
Billy, Martin and Robert all turn on Noel, their eyes questioning-their body language threatening. Noel is silent as he looks from one friend to the other.
"I dunno," he replies at last, "well, not exactly.. but she said it was here, somewhere." Noel swallows hard, as his best friends try and swallow his story; unconvincing as it may be.
Billy finally says, after surveying the field one last time: "But it's not here Noel."
"Then I don't know where.."
"That's not very helpful," Robert interjects.
"Piss off!" shouts Noel. "You didn't seem to mind before, you said it was a good idea."
"It seemed like one.." retorts Robert, and then adds, "..at the time."
"Sod this, it's a waste of time. I'm going back," Billy says and begins to walk away.
"Oh come on Bill," pleads Noel, "let's try the park then; maybe Ruth meant the field there." Noel begins to walk after Billy, he grabs at his jacket, trying to pull him back. "We can't miss this fight, it'll be brilliant."
Billy looks around and brushes Noel's hand from his jacket. "Yeah, yeah," he says, "I'll come."
Noel looks at Robert and Martin, awaiting their own decisions. They shrug their shoulders, look at one another and then say together: "Okay then."
As the four of them reach the outskirts of the park, Robert laughs to himself. Martin looks over at his friend and says, "What's funny?"
Robert ignores Martin, and rushing to catch up with Noel, laughs again.
"What?" Noel asks. "What are you laughing at?"
"I was just thinking," Robert begins, and then changes the tone of his voice to deliver his gag: "Hey Noel, are you looking for a fight?"
Noel's face creases up into an image of confusion and he looks for help from Martin and Billy. "What's he talking about?" he says, and then to Robert; "Are you taking the piss?"
Robert laughs again and says, "Don't you get it?"
Noel looks deep into Robert's eyes and says with a conviction that leaves Robert shaking: "One day I'm gonna bust your head fatman."
"It's a joke idiot!" calls Billy, coming to Robert‘s aid for once.
"I know," Noel says indignantly, "he's just getting on my nerves."
Robert is silent, still a little stunned by Noel's outburst, and he stares at his feet. Martin steps in to defuse the hostile situation.
"Look," he says, "down there." The three boys forget their argument for a moment and turn their attention in the direction of Martin's forefinger. Noel smiles.
"There," he says triumphantly, "I told you."
Beyond the rusting metal and rotting wooden frame of a run-down roundabout, past swings strung up by their own chains and wound around the crossbar leaving them out of reach, stranded and useless.. along from the deserted slide, stained with saliva, piss and birdshit.. there, on the far side of the park, huddled together like conspirators, stands a group of boys.
Noel turns to his friends with a supercilious smile dancing on his lips. Martin and Billy shrug their shoulders not at all interested that Noel is right, just that they have finally found the fight. Robert quietly follows his friends as they run to join the others, his heart still pounding ferociously in his chest.

"What fight?"
The smiles on the faces of the four boys droop and wither, and then straighten out into frowns and scowls. Billy puts his hands on his hips and sighs. The small crowd gathers around him, all ears pricking up at the magic word.. fight. The lights behind a dozen pairs of eyes flicker on, awaiting a response. Billy is silent. He just stares at the faces before him and then at the floor. He pictures the brutal face of his father, and it is reflected in the eyes now focused on him. There is something sinister about the sensation of joy felt by the male sex at the prospect of watching two men beat the shit out each other.. it is something primeval, yet wholly barbaric.
"There is no fight.." Billy finally whispers and pushes his way through the crowd, trying to distance himself from an atmosphere bristling with hatred.
"What does he mean, no fight..? You just said there was a fight..? What are you talking about? Where is the fight anyway?" The questions fly as the excitement builds, but Noel, Robert and Martin begin to feel deflated and withered like balloons after New Year's Day-the expectations of great things that have kept them motivated up until now, have rapidly turned to disappointment.
Wild rumours circulate through the crowd quickly about where the fight is taking place, who is fighting, when it is taking place.. stories spread by boys berserk with the possibility, however remote, of watching two of their contemporaries beat each other senseless.

A hand clenches to form a fist and simultaneously rises in the air. Drawing back, it gains momentum and then crashes forward with enough force to knock the boy to the floor, where he remains, adopting an air of submission, only to be dragged to his feet again. He raises his hands to protect his face with open palms, but they are brushed aside with ease and the bruised skin above his eye splits as bare knuckles plough into his head once more. Bloodstained fingers withdraw from the swollen face, and the boy's eye closes with the pressure from the swelling. Again Billy sinks to the floor as his knees give in and he breathes deeply and carefully, praying to his omni-impotent God for deliverance.. or at least for a minute's peace from his father‘s drunken fury-but the answer he receives is silence, interrupted only by his own laboured breathing.

Billy breathes heavily as he walks away from his friends, and the sound of his breath roaring through his body fills his ears, blocking out everything else around him-the shouting from the boys as arguments break out within the group; the soft pad of Robert's feet on the grass as he breaks away from the bickering crowd and follows Billy; and the sob trapped in his own throat that squeaks as he tries to suppress it. The cry has choked Billy since the moment his father crashed into his bedroom and showered him with punches.. now Billy is ready to spit it out and unleash his pent up emotions on an unsuspecting world. He is desperate to rid himself of a sickness in his stomach that is sucking the life from his very being. He wants to spew out the bile that represents his painful position in society of the abused child.. he wants to shout out 'Help me.. fucking help me!' but although he despises his father and wants him out of his life, Billy, like his mother, knows his family wouldn't be a family without him and Billy does not want to be responsible for the break up of his nearest and dearest, picturing his brothers separated into foster homes or taken into care.. so he holds himself together, hoping the pain will pass, but it doesn't.
Robert runs to catch up with Billy, calling his name as he reaches him, but Billy's mind is clouded over and he cannot hear his friend at all. Robert taps Billy gently on the shoulder and Billy wakes with a start, the pain he feels quickly turning to anger. Billy's fist clenches defensively and he turns and swings blindly at Robert, his knuckles impacting on Robert's cheekbone with a thud. Robert's knees crumple and he drops to the ground like a felled tree, his arms still at his side.
Billy is suddenly consumed with a dreadful mixture of embarrassment and sickness. He is embarrassed by the brutality of his unprovoked attack, and feels sick as he stands over his friend and watches the shock drain the blood from Robert's face. Billy wants to apologize and comfort Robert, but he is aware of the group of boys across the park who witnessed the punch and is now moving quickly towards them, hungry for more.
"What was that for?" Robert mumbles.
The word sorry, hangs on Billy's lips, but to express regret would only confirm his mistake and he is not about to lose face before so many of his peers. The crowd of boys has descended, headed by Noel and Martin who stare at the scene in disbelief.
"Shut up!" Billy spits out at Robert. "Stop following me around."
A murmur begins in the throats of surrounding boys and builds to a chant.. fight, fight, fight, fight. They have found it at last. The blood rushes through their veins and they are desperate for Robert to stand up and retaliate, especially if they can watch him being knocked to the floor again; and suddenly without notice, the boys lose their grip on their inherent humanity and their understanding of good and bad. Their pack instinct causes the blood lust to escalate out of control, and suddenly two boys become a focus of extreme hatred if the fight continues, and especially if it does not; expectations raised, and then so cruelly let down.
Billy raises his hand to Robert and the crowd gasps: hitting a man while he's down.. this just gets better and better! But Billy extends an open palm not a fist, and he pulls Robert to his feet. Disappointment roars through the veins of every boy, and little by little their humanity returns, but it is tainted by cynicism and frustration.
"I'm really sorry," Billy whispers, finally giving in to his better nature. He then turns and walks away, deaf to the taunts from the crowd.
"What happened?" Martin asks Robert as the crowd begins to break up.
"I dunno." Robert shakes his head and presses a soft hand against his aching cheek, "I dunno."

Billy feels ugly, inside and out. He feels the influence of his father beginning to shape his emotions and his actions, and he hates himself for being so weak and easily manipulated. He feels the lines around his mouth and at the corner of his eyes, stiffen and straighten out as he becomes hardened to a brutal way of life.
Billy walks home, his life altered. He has yet to have any control over his circumstances, but he is more aware of his place in the world and he is beginning to understand he does have a choice-to care or not to care. And beneath Billy's sometimes cold and harsh exterior, he does care; his problem is hating to admit how much he does care and wishing to uphold his 'hard man' mask, mistaking it for a show of strength when it is nothing of the kind. The strongest amongst us are the ones who are not afraid to show their real selves and stand exposed, aware of their merits as well as their faults, and are still confident. Billy will understand this one day, but at present he has a more immediate problem ahead-getting through the weekend without another beating.
Billy is a survivor. He has seen and taken enough shit in his first decade of life to give him a deeper understanding of the world; he has no illusions, he knows the sting of reality and this is his major strength, if he only knew it.