THE IMAGES

MONDAY DECEMBER 13TH 1976
DANBRAY – OXHILL : MORNING
The radio-alarm in Sto’s bedroom went off with such a banshee-like cry that it simply demanded attention. ‘The Things We Do For Love’ frittered away twenty seconds of his existence that he would never relive again. With an effort he rolled over, hair sticking out in untidy Gollywog clumps and limbs that were barely able to function. The taste in his mouth was reminiscent of the aftertaste one has following some hefty vomiting and it was only with some difficulty that he managed to open his eyes.
Noel Edmunds was already cutting the record short and whining on about 10cc, somehow linking it to some tedious anecdote about his own, miserably uninteresting life – somehow it made Sto understand the taste in his mouth! A naked arm slipped out from under the warmth of the blankets and he smashed his fist against the noise machine a little more than half-heartedly. It was clearly time to get up and go to school.
This was too early for anyone to become animated and his body was very sore – not the way it had been after Joanna’s, this was a good type of sore! When he could focus a little clearer he looked about himself, he was in his own bedroom but he somehow expected to see the outrageously wild Hellen, painted up to the nines and swinging from the chandeliers in nothing more than stockings and suspenders. Sadly for Sto he was wrong, that ticket had clearly expired and he was now back in reality… for whatever that was worth. The red electric clock with its flip down numbers said it was drifting towards seven thirty AM – he’d only been back home for four hours.
Sto groaned aloud as he shifted in his bed, glancing over to the dimness outside and assumed it was raining or something. With a deep breath he began to move the covers back and then simply dropped them again. It was Monday and there was a week of school left before the Christmas break, this was the last Monday he had to attend school in the year nineteen seventy six. Sto told himself he could do it, he could get up, get washed, get dressed, have some breakfast, look at the papers, see his family disappearing to the places they disappeared to, leave the house, trudge down the road, drag his arse in the school gates, go to registration class, have some mindless banter and then face two periods of P.E. with one of the most demented teachers in the school - ‘Mad Mike’ Docherty – he could do it, he had the power!
But, on reflection, he quickly assessed the merits of attending that level of torture first thing in the morning when all the prelims were already finished and decided that, no, actually he couldn’t do it! So he simply pulled the covers back around him, shut his eyes and promptly fell asleep again.

DANBRAY – BELLSTREE : MORNING
The ugly greyness of the street looked even worse than usual today, the neon lights were still on and the darkness of the sky was pretty representative of how she felt today. Across the road the identical houses were speckled with lights indicating activity was beginning here and there… in the homes where people had jobs and were getting ready to go to work. Some of the houses had twinkling coloured Christmas lights as if to provide some artificial cheer and festivity to the hideous estate, but there was little cheer in her heart today.
Christene pulled the flimsy white night-gown closer to her skin as the light snow tried to saturate her body even where she stood within her narrow doorstep. Suzanne’s coat was blowing in the chilly wind that was caressing Danbray as it brought the early signs of snow to helpfully make the ugliness of Monday just a shade more unpalatable. With arms folded she stood in front of Christene, the little blue MG providing the backdrop to the scene, parked neatly and directly in front of the doorway where Harris had left it in the early hours of the morning. She was more reserved than usual today, much more so – shy almost. The women looked at each other in silence, neither of them saying any of the things they actually wanted to. Their eyes locked for what seemed like a long time, reflecting some level of the discomfort which they both clearly felt.
Almost simultaneously they moved forward to one another and stiffly embraced each other briefly before pulling back a little and locking eyes once more. Something indefinable passed between them and they immediately hugged again, gripping each other tightly and rubbing the other’s body for what seemed like a much longer time before they parted once more. Both their faces portrayed tight smiles and both sets of eyes mimicked the other’s disquiet. With a brief kiss, Suzanne took her leave and stepped off the pavement to go round to the driver’s side of the car. They shared a last smile before Suzanne opened the door and slipped into the car, turned the key and started the engine. Christene stood watching as Suzanne drove off with a last glance to her cousin and, in what seemed like a second, was gone out of sight!
Christene turned back to the house and, suddenly feeling the cold penetrating, shut the front door on the outside world. The thought of going to work held no joy for her at the best of times but today especially. Immediately she walked upstairs and into the tiny bathroom where she quickly ran the bath, adding a sticky blue liquid that swiftly began to foam. Steam promptly filled the small black and white tiled bathroom, clinging to her like a mist. Her night-gown was dismissed with a toss of the shoulders as she turned to face the mirror. An elegant hand flicked across the cold glass and her face was once again discernible although her postured body was a mere blur. Little trickles of condensation and accumulated mist she had newly wiped dripped down the reflective surface like tears, not unlike those that seemed to burn in her own electric blue eyes. Christene closed her eyes tightly and shook her head at the private thoughts locked in her own tortured mind. It was only the eyes which revealed her feelings, the windows to the soul as the saying went… and if you couldn’t see them then nothing could be divulged. Unhesitatingly she immersed herself into the hot water and allowed the dampness to consume her.

THE WEST COAST TRAINLINE : MORNING
It was the hateful Monday morning yet again. There were never good Monday mornings but this one was already shaping up to be even more pain filled than usual. It all looked exactly the same, just the same as always, thought Mhic, but he knew that this was an uglier one than most. Very strange indeed because it all appeared to be exactly the same.
The busy carriage was filled with the usual Monday morning people who were really pretty much the same every day of the week anyway. The same type of faces and clothes, the same collection of newspapers being examined to allow the readers the illusion that they weren’t heading to another eight hours of tedious, repetitious and pointless misery, the same lack of communal conversation, the same yellow, green and magenta striped seats, the same hideous scenery passing in the same depressing winter darkness. All of it looked the same.
Looking around the packed compartment Mhic could see all the stereotyped people who lived their lives only from the moment they left their workplaces in the evening. The same people who had sold their souls for the price of a mortgage, a colour television, this year’s Ford, the two week holiday in someone else’s misery, the children’s Christmas presents, the new bathroom suite that was oh so different from the old one and, of course, the ability to have enough money in their pocket to get insensate on whatever their drug of choice was, so that they could forget the dreams and ambitions they once cherished and had willingly pawned for a fraction of the value of their souls. Life had just taken them up, chewed them over for a moment or two and spat them away when the taste began to seep out – it had simply crushed them already and so many of them were still young.
All of it looked exactly the same.
The cross section of the compartment was quite divergent and yet with a common theme and bond between them. Old people, young people, men, women, fat, thin, big, small, attractive, ugly, interesting, humdrum, black, white, Catholic, Protestant, Muslim, Hindu – none of it was of any real consequence because the tiny differences that separated them in observable scrutiny was utterly insignificant compared to the huge thing that had them all by the ballocks! All of them were trapped on the wheel of the rut and no-one escapes that ride without a few scars or perhaps even being utterly crushed.
It, too, was exactly the same.
Mhic pulled out the gold packet of B&H ciggies, flicked his lighter and sucked on his cancer stick, let it fill his lungs and then exhaled quite a lot of it to join the same drifting cloud others had started long before on the depressing train ride. The taste itself was refreshingly sick, doping him out as the first of the day.
It too was another absolute replication of the short everyday journey, but there was just something not quite right today.
True, the daily routine was an ongoing reminder that the whole situation they all lived in was completely disgusting to him and how he desperately hoped that he would never become one of them… but, still, there was some tiny change today.
The sound of Roger Daltrey mouthing Pete Townsend’s words flashed into his mind like someone had suddenly placed their ghostly fingers into his head and left the little tag from ‘My Generation’ inside – ‘Hope I die before I get old!, Talkin’ bout my generation!’ Well, here they were, Mhic thought, nice work! And the true irony was that if the purveyors themselves don’t end up becoming fat, self indulgent, parasitic autocrats, voting Tory and living in some hugely offensive country estate with the amassed riches of a lifetime spent mindlessly and still bleating on about equality and coming from working class roots that they’ll never forget… it’ll be a bloody miracle because human nature drags everyone down the path of least resistance and it’s a helluva lot easier to preach than it is to do!
Again Mhic reaffirmed to himself how desperately he hoped that he would never become like them. This wasn’t simply his personal dogma, each and every one of them, Harris, Macklin, Rosser and Storey, all of them firmly believed that these concepts were the absolute foundation stones of belief that both drew them and held them together. And that was it, that little concept that he and all of his friends carried about like Knights of the Round Table displaying this conceptual badge of honour in place of shining shields was exactly what provided the clue.
Today he had begun to wonder if he had already started to become one of ‘them’, started selling out for an easy life, avoiding conflicts, taking the easy road, following that path of least resistance, running away from the problem and pretending it was happening to someone else or that it wasn’t his fault.
But the worst of it was the stinking, corrosive sensation that was infecting his every fibre like a heavy hangover, except that this one was a deplorably intense psychological hangover and he knew it wasn’t going to dissipate with some Alka Seltzer and another stiff drink. This one had to be solved from the inside out, not the other way about – he had to face up to his own cowardice, not just yesterday but for quite a number of accumulated yesterdays.
Guilt was a wonderful equaliser, it humbled and folded the offender and left only two options… the easy way and the hard way. The first was one that most people on the train had probably perfected – just pretend nothing was wrong and eventually, hey presto, the problem has disappeared because one day you just wake up and can’t remember what it was that made you feel so bad in the first place. The disadvantage of that was merely that all the crap stayed with you but you don’t know why – and because of that, it was impossible to fix. And then there was the hard way, taking the shit right on the chin and dealing with it, putting your hand up and saying ‘Yes, I did that!’ and then paying the price for the mistake in the hope that it leads to some kind of resolution… no matter how much it hurts for a while! But better that than never having the chance to sort it and just losing all the things you really care about, the things that truly matter.
Mhic acknowledged his crime, at least to himself, but how he could properly atone for it was quite another matter.
The big blue, yellow fronted BR train careened headlong like a mechanical slave trader, taking him on his way to work. Tiny, pale flakes of snow fluttered past the train window, adding an extra layer to his sense of depression even though they didn't look as if they would lie. Mhic sucked on his cancer stick again, letting it warm him, distract him from this line of thought. It was only then he realised that this journey on this different day had taken mere seconds – a tangible representation of how his life was rapidly slipping away with no development of the things he genuinely desired.
So now he had all the ammunition, had all the sins and crimes assessed and neatly stacked up for investigation – only he could assimilate them. And the burning question was not could he but would he?
The train pulled into the mustard and green paint flaked Danbray Central station, two minutes late and Mhic promptly jumped off tossing the cigarette stub behind him somewhere. Moving swiftly ahead of the crowd he entered the descending stairway leading to the Main Street exit and resumed his daily subterranean identity.

NOTRE DAME HIGH SCHOOL – GLASGOW : MID MORNING
The Biology classroom was a bright blue colour and all the desks were neatly arranged in rows and columns pointing to the front of the class. Human effigies with sections peeled away to reveal the inner workings were positioned about the room with posters and vivisection equipment constantly on display. The educational laboratory had large windows that looked onto the school playing fields and further out to view the tall structures of nearby domestic buildings and commercial workplaces. All of the visible architecture betrayed the signs of the festive season, detectable even at a distance as evidenced by the glistening Christmas lights which brightened the dull grey day.
Michelle, immaculate in the white blouse, school tie and short gymslip, looked down to her black covered, red spined exercise book and was unaware that the strains of the biology teacher were no longer getting through to her.
Admittedly, she considered, the pace of everyday school life slows down as the holidays loom but her own disposition seemed to have little to do with the upcoming Christmas season. In real terms, schoolwork was becoming more boring by the minute while the allusion of getting out and into the real world had started to consume her with a surprisingly violent passion.
Today was a different Monday for her, true it was the last one of the term but this was not what made it notable. This Monday she had awoken with a clarified mind quite unlike the manner in which she had fallen asleep last night, although there were still some aspects of confusion that needed a final assessment and amendment, she had realised something of equal importance – her life was more than being part of a couple. Michelle doodled to give the impression of taking notes as she quantified her state of mind for her own benefit. If she were only significant to herself or others as part of a couple then what did this say about her as an individual? Would she one day awaken to find her partner gone and realise that she was now alone and that the person she took herself to be was only a mere fifty percent of what she thought she really was? Ridiculous! If she could not be happy with being herself then it was utterly impossible for her to be happy with someone else. Clearly this did not mean she would spend her life in a convent, devoted to God and forsaking the touch of men – that was too silly to contemplate – instead she had to get more at ease with her own skin and what was inside that frame.
Looking up briefly to check what was happening around her, Michelle once again returned to her assessment. There were so many things she was unsure of, did she want to go on to university because she wanted an education, a qualification, to satisfy her mother, her family’s expectations, to remain part of a group of friends or simply because it was precisely what was expected of her? A little giggle unconsciously escaped her lips as she realised she didn’t have the remotest idea what the answer to that question was.
Suddenly she remembered where she was as she looked up and saw the middle aged woman in a white lab coat turning to ascertain who had laughed during her lesson. Michelle looked round like the other girls as if trying to locate the culprit as well.
Gazing at the desk in front of her she looked at Ruth, who was staring back with a broad grin on her face and Michelle almost burst out laughing as her friend contorted her face into a bizarre expression she couldn’t help but be amused by. Even more amusing was the teacher’s reprimanding cough which demanded that Ruth pay attention and, by implication, stop giggling in class! Life could be so unfair!
Once again Michelle turned to the important issue on her mind… Mhic - no, her future.
The thought of the modelling offer, test shots or not, was appealing more and more to her - after all how many young girls get the chance to access a glamorous life without even asking. It was disappointing that Mhic hadn’t been a bit more supportive of the opportunity because she herself always encouraged his music – both the saxophone and the keyboards. But should she expect her partner to encourage her in something if he didn’t really believe in it or was dubious about some aspect of it? Wouldn’t that be hypocritical? There were always more questions than answers. The song began to play in her head but she couldn’t remember who sang it. Her fingers played with the white streaks of hair as she tried to remember who it was – Mhic would know, he knew nearly every song that had charted from nineteen seventy until now… Mhic knew lots of things! There again there were clearly lots of things that he didn’t know… Dandy Livingston, that was who sang it… or was it Johnny Mathis? Now she was just confused again.
There was one thing she was not confused about and that was the photographic opportunity, that was something she wanted because it might give her back more than she had asked of her life. Christene was much more casual about things like this, she simply decided that she would do it and if something came of it, all well and good and if not then there was little lost by trying. She was always so smart about real things… but maybe that was because she’d had to face up to real things much earlier than all her friends. Sometimes Michelle found herself wishing she could do something to change things for Christene, or even that Christene would let her do something for her… but that wasn’t her way, she was a bit like Jonn in that respect. For some reason it was something that hadn’t really occurred to her before.
With a little mental shrug, she once again returned to the important issue, she was going to do what she wanted, when she wanted and she was definitely going to do this modelling shoot no matter who thought what about it, especially as Christene would be with her in the venture and if Mhic didn’t like it then she’d…
Suddenly Michelle heard Ruth hissing back to her and quickly realised that the biology teacher was asking her a question. Michelle looked directly toward the dried up, middle aged crone and smiled before replying.
“Yes! Yes, Miss!”
The rest of the class burst out laughing and Michelle was completely clueless for the reason.
The stern faced teacher repeated her question once more.
“I asked, ‘Am I boring you, Miss Kaye’?”
Some of the other girls laughed again and Michelle grimaced.
“Sorry, Miss, it must be this… head cold I have. I thought you asked, ‘Could I call on you, Miss Kaye?’ I really didn’t hear you very well!”
The biology teacher sighed and turned away with a shake of her head, grateful that the school term ceased at the end of the week because it would be such a relief to escape this daily tedium and get three weeks of peace from these fluffy headed teenagers who had absolutely no idea where they were going in life.

DANBRAY – ALL SAINTS SCHOOL : MID MORNING
Jack Lyons was the Department Head of Art at All Saints, a tall, dapper man with his own sense of style that rarely let him down. To all intents and purposes he seemed like an ex-RAF flier with his stiff upper lip speech and elegant demeanour. Jack Lyons was one of that rare breed who was both popular within the school hierarchy and within the student body – Lyons had been blessed with a substantial amount of the truly elusive gift of cool! The artist was in his mid to late forties but in a Dorian Grey like manner, looked substantially younger. He was extremely tall and slim with a distinguished look and disposition that was amplified by his dark goatee beard, strikingly intent eyes and immaculately coiffured hair that was just long enough to be trendy and just short enough to be acceptable to the school establishment. It was also no great secret that he was something of a ladies man without venturing into territory that was the domain of either cads, for want of a better term, or Lotharios.
He was financially well off and had long ago grown weary of teaching over privileged adolescents about issues they would never functionally use in their preordained futures. Jack Lyons genuinely cared about his chosen career, about art and about style and had categorically rejected the private education system in a manner not dissimilar to Harris and his friends.
It was inexplicable to most of the upper school why a man of his abilities and inclinations would take any post in a school like this, after all he had exhibited his work in a variety of prestigious London galleries and more than occasionally penned witty and entertaining pieces in the intelligencia popular ‘Modern Art’ publication. But for Harris and his associates it was as clear as day as to why he was here – he liked what he did, liked encouraging disadvantaged groups to strive for things the system claimed were out their reach. The man enjoyed being a maverick and deflating those he deemed overly pompous, pretentious and enforcers of the establishment. He was a law unto himself, a subversive free spirit who chose to do what he chose to do… and he also got away with doing a mass of stylish and creatively gratifying poster work from both Glasgow and Strathclyde for a very healthy profit!

It was almost eleven AM and he was running out of time. Glancing about the class Jack scanned his watch impatiently, he expected his slaves to have arrived by now to give him a hand with the new order of posters he had received for the Glasgow University Mad Hatter’s Ball. He muttered something incoherently to himself, ignoring his class, then disappeared into the store room, pulling at his goatee beard spasmodically, to give himself peace to think.
Harris and Macklin strode along the corridor of the Extension Building, probably the only part of the school where its’ white, plastic walls were still untouched by the scribbling of idiots. As ever, Macklin wore the big blue RAF coat and Harris was draped in the old brown duffel coat that he had utilised for winter wear for the past couple of years. Dave kicked disinterestedly at a piece of crumpled paper discarded to the shiny, plastic floor, alternatively passing it over to Harris who seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time rubbing his left shoulder today for some unspecified reason… maybe old age was kicking in well before he hit eighteen. They casually wandered along the empty corridors, carefree, while in the classes they passed, pupils worked relentlessly – well, perhaps not relentlessly but they were working.
Lyons sat at his desk and wondered if it was all worth it. He tried to find some students in his Higher class who seemed to have some real talent worthy of moving on to the Glasgow School of Art or even the London School of Art but increasingly that was a rarity, so he tended to settle for encouraging those who had a good chance of passing the exam. As he looked down the unending list of names he gave up to the feeling of despair which always descended upon him at times like these, the run up to Christmas. Even the host of pupil constructed seasonal decorations that hung in a complex web across the ceilings and from wall to wall provided no great sense of hope, but it did occupy the more enthusiastic and eager students with some practical outlet for their skills and did make the classroom feel more festive in some manner. The door opened discretely and he was pleased to see Harris and Macklin stride in, their usual casual selves.
“Aha, good morning, men! How are you?" Lyons asked as was formal for him. His grin was warm and wide although masked slightly by his artistic beard.
“Dandy, sir!” Dave grinned, closing the door behind him and taking a quick look at the sea of faces staring from behind the wooden easels.
“Ready for duty, Mien Captain!” Harris responded simply with a clipped salute and a click of his heels.
The Department Head shrugged his shoulders and removed his jacket, slipping it over the back of his chair, rubbed his hands together and approached the two youths as they stood gazing around the class to see just what kind of pupils were here. The modern beatnik teacher towered even over Macklin’s six foot two frame and Harris was a mere Thunderbird puppet size in comparison.
Lyons nodded to Jonn with a grin he knew all too well.
“I’m nipping off for a few minutes." the tall man said to them. "Look after the class, will you? If any of them give you any trouble - execute them. Grab the printing stuff and set it up. Usual thing – and yes you can indeed move onto your own print work for your entrepreneurial disco dance after the real work is done – at an almost insignificant cost!”
Harris looked up to him and raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“Aaah, of course. what was I thinking? You’re working for free today aren’t you? So there’ll be… No Charge! Except a pair of tickets of course, just in case there are some little charmers over twenty one suitable for myself and Mr Dali! Okay dokey, and we’ll get started on the business when I get back, righty-right? Won’t be too long. Carry on, men!” Lyons slid out the door with an expansive grin across his face and the two sixth formers were left with a fascinating challenge.
Harris let Dave fetch the paints and gather frames together while he inspected the work of the third year ‘D' grade class. Harris cruised round the warm, colourful classroom with his hands thrust deeply into his dark trousers with the coat flicked behind making him look a little like a well postured Groucho Marx. A trace of a smile played around his lips as he looked over some of their work. One or two of them have a few grains of talent, he thought, as he walked the obstacle course of tables and easels, but it shouldn’t take much longer for the school to firmly stamp out the seeds of hope and individuality. I984 is here already and no-one really seems to notice or even care, he thought sadly. As he continued his assessment he had cause to reconsider the value of the Orwellian concept. There were clearly some cases where wanton creativity was rightly held in a disciplined check, he decided as he approached the back of the class where the two chubby, unkempt boys sat like dribbling madmen.
“What’s this meant to be, McKinley?” Harris asked gazing at the scrawl which seemed to resemble a bloated pig with a carrot stuffed up its arse.
"It's Kelly. A portrait!" the boy replied clumsily and with some candour.
The rest of the class laughed with malevolent glee as Kelly tried to decapitate McKinley with the pot of paint brushes.
Harris grabbed the pair almost playfully by the scruffs of their scrawny necks, pushing them ahead of him.
“Right, you two. Out to the front of the class, pronto!”
They slouched ahead, secretly a little amused to be the focus of attention for a change. The figures hung their heads as they passed the huge windows which looked onto the red glaze football pitch and gazed open eyed at the towering Fallowhill high rise flats which stood haughtily in the distance.
“Right, it’s Crackerjack time for…” Harris began.
“Crackerjack!” the chorus of voices responded with a swift echo of laughter.
Dave turned away from the scene, grinning widely. Harris walked right into that one.
“Very good, gentlemen. Now, you two Andy Warhols… Both of you get to work on the portable blackboard. You've got five minutes to come up with some real artistic work or you'll be dissected and fed to the rest of the class. Go!"
The rest of the class laughed good-naturedly, amused by the substitute teacher’s edict.
The two boys picked at the pieces of chalk and looked blankly at one another. Suddenly the door flew open and 'Big Stan’ came in. Stan was a large sixth former who was a key man on the school basketball team, along with Macklin, and whose appearance was a cross between a deranged slimline Billy Bunter and a malevolent Flashman character. He was so called because he bore no resemblance to Stan Laurel and was nowhere near as amusing. The name made as much sense to Stan as it did to everyone else, its origins were now lost in the mists of time. No-one used his real name, as few knew it anyway, because Stan was simply Stan and no other name could suit him as well as this ingenuous pseudonym. The Third Formers taunts fell on Stan like rain as he stood committing each of them to memory, every face reserved for future retribution.
Harris beckoned the class to be quiet.
“Hoy, Give order! You shouldn’t condemn someone just because of how they look, pick on one of his many other faults. Besides there's probably worse things in life than being zeppelin shaped, isn’t there, Stan?” Harris cackled in harmony with the class.
Stan eyed him coldly while Dave sniggered and continued mixing the paints.
“You're a real wit, Harris!” Stan said coldly. “…well, you’re halfway there anyway!”
"Awfully good, Stan, have you got someone writing material for you now? Or did your Daddy tell you that one… to hurt the feelings of the horrible, bad boys who pick on you?”
The big guy put his bag down and folded his arms, suddenly looking suspiciously like a slimmer Oliver Hardy – but without the moustache.
"I think for myself, thank you! I don’t need help like some people I could mention!" Stan said looking pointedly over at Dave, who blew an exaggerated kiss back to him.
“You have to let go of this anger and your sense of persecution… it’ll just hold you back, later in life!”
"Oh, who rattled your cage this morning, Harris?"
“Your mother, right after I gave her an early morning boffing!”
“My mother would sooner nail her head to a tree than be in the same room with you!”
“Now that’s weird, she told me that’s exactly what she wanted to do right after you were born!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah… at least I was born, not put together out of spare parts!”
“Not according to your mother!”
Stan shook his head with a sigh and gave up, he’d been through these routines too many times to think he would win one day – especially when Harris had an audience. He simply turned his back on the witty joker, removed his coat and started inspecting the screen printing gear which was now almost completely transferred from the store room.
Realisation hit Dave like a bucket of cold water on a sunbather.
"Christ almighty," the Brummie said as though Stan were a million miles away. "I'm not working with him unless they give out gas masks."
“Don't be smart, Macklin, I don't like working beside you either - but at least I'm doing an Art qualification, not bunking classes like you."
“The nearest you’ll ever get to being a painter, Stan, is when your Granny wants her walls emulsioned!” Harris grinned to Dave.
The big youth gazed over in disgust. “Old as the hills that one, Harris, my grandfather died laughing at that joke!”
“Which is why your Granny will be glad you’ve taken up painting when she needs her walls emulsioned.” Harris continued without pause, turning his back to Stan.
"Speaking of interior decorators, let's see what Messers Kelly and McKinley have accomplished!”
“Crackerjack!” the class shouted once more.
Harris smirked, these kids were a high class act. “Stan, give them their Crackerjack pencils!”
“Crackerjack!” the third year class shouted again in loud unison.
The three sixth formers shook their heads in polite despair as the class laughed at their own razor sharp wit and waited to see what their classmates had created.
Stan’s smile spread across his face as Dave turned the board to face the class. McKinley stood proudly beside his drawing. Kelly stood fidgeting, eyes never resting, looking at the rest of the class to see their reaction.
McKinley's picture could only be equated to a contortionist performing cunnilingus on a female drummer in the ‘56’ position. Dave looked over to his comrade and saw that his face mirrored his own look of total incomprehension.
Kelly’s drawing, which had a pleasing simplicity to it, appeared to be a large screw in light bulb with a long, single filament running from the base to about three quarters of the way up. To the right of the big bulb was a reasonable facsimile of a bowler hat.
Harris looked suspiciously, almost reluctant to ask the words he knew he was going to regret.
“Okay, Mr Kelly, would you like to explain this… interesting rendition to the class, please?”
Kelly grinned as he spoke the words. “It’s a portrait!”
The class snickered.
Harris and Macklin exchanged puzzled glances and Stan just grinned a bit and shook his head.
“And it would be a portrait of…?” Harris inquired slowly.
“Stan!”
The class laughed and Harris made a wave of his right arm in request that Kelly elaborate on this avante garde interpretation.
“Well, it’s Stan, right? From the back, after he’s taken a dump and that’s him pulling his trousers up!”
The entire classroom just guffawed with laughter
Stan's smile disappeared swiftly as he moved towards the boy. Putting up with crap from your peers was one thing but tolerating these scruffs was quite another.
Dave stepped between the human bulb and his potential victim sending the two third years back to their seats since Harris was now behind the large blackboard, creased up with laughter.
As Dave watched the pupils return to the back of the class he was secretly grateful that McKinley didn't have the chance to explain the significance of his work.
Harris finally straightened out and returned to MC the class again.
“I don't think Picasso or Dali will have too much to worry about, but God help the public if you two ever get an exhibition – and send me a ticket if you do!" he laughed with a hint of despair. “I’m confident Mr Lyons has clearly outlined your work, so please press ahead – any problems, just ask! And no roaming about… We are not Israelites wandering through the desert.”
The class settled down again and the three sixth years began to prepare the stencils for the silkscreen work.

About fifteen minutes later the dark brown door closed with a click as Jack Lyons returned with table tennis bats stuffed under his arm. The class had now moved on, leaving a distraction free space for the production run to begin and that in itself brought a smile to the tall man but his broad grin extended even further when he saw Stan.
“Aaah, Stan the man, morning Stan! What kept you? Back trouble? Couldn't get off it?" he chuckled.
Stan’s eyes rolled up as a reply.
"Right, on the subject of money, Stan…” Lyons announced as an introduction.
“What?” questioned the well built boy.
"How about that quid you owe me?
“Yeah, you still owe me a tenner from last week’s run!”
“Hmmm, shame about that, Stan – a very promising career in the art world might be at stake here!”
“The cash will help me drown my sorrows!” he replied swiftly, flicking an open palm to the teacher.
“Just been marking some of the Art prelims… yours looked a bit borderline at best. Want to try some bribery on me?”
Stan wandered into the large store room indignantly and Lyons laughed as he disappeared, leaving a crisp ten pound note on the table for the sulking student.
“Look, men," he said, “something's come up – so can you two handle the doings and I’ll be back as and when? Top notch!”
“You playing the Chinese Ladies Naked Table-tennis champions?" Harris said amiably.
“Oh the pain, the pain” Lyons laughed in an astute Zachary Smith tone. “Stout fellows, later!”
Lyons caught sight of the blackboard drawings as he slid out of the door. As he strutted along the corridor he wondered whether it was all worth it, teaching art to kids whose best work was on lavatory walls – but he assumed it was better than gutting fish for a living!
Back in the class Stan emerged from his hiding place and looked at the money on the table.
“Is this mine?” he asked the other two.
Harris and Dave exchanged a glance and then a little smile.
“Yeah, we thought that was bad form for big JL to stiff you, so… there you go!”
Stan stood back from the money as if it was going to explode.
“Really?”
Dave nodded seriously. “Sure, we thought you could buy another couple of suits like the one you wore to the dance in August!”
“Listen, one of my suits probably costs more than your entire wardrobe, Macklin!”
“That’s not saying much, Stan, Dave keeps his clothes in an apple box – just like me!” Harris smirked
“Keeps them crispy fresh, Stan, you should give it a go. Probably save you a fortune in Brut!” Dave suggested.
“Yeah, about that, big man, you know that advert where Henry says ‘You get a big handful and splash it all on!’ Well, he didn’t mean for guys with your size of hands… that’s why you have to buy yours in big, green, gallon bottles!”
“Right, that’s what I was getting at earlier, Stan, about the gas mask thing!”
“What your best friends won’t tell you! If you had any.” Harris returned.
“So maybe just cut back on the stuff, cut it down to a half pint when you splash it all on!”
“It’ll last longer and people won’t be able to follow you so easily when they’re searching for who raped their sheep! And you’ll save enough money to buy more sugar and carrots to lure your four legged victims into your clutches.”
“Or buy a big set of Wellies so that when you get a really nice, clean furry one you just pop the front legs into one boot and the rear legs into the other and it can’t get away!” Dave added helpfully.
“Doesn’t work on your family, of course, well most of them anyway, the two legged ones, because they can just clump off and you’ve lost the super wellies and have to go back to coaxing the sheep with your witty banter!”
“Which is why you’ve not got a sheepy friend at the moment… any more than you have any witty banter!”
“Or a pass in your prelim by the sound of it!” Harris concluded.
Stan looked from one deadpan face to the other. “So, is this my tenner?” he asked.
“With our love, Stan, from Dave and I – Merry Christmas!”
Stan’s eyebrows raised and his hand slowly reached out to the money.
“Well, thanks, I’m pretty strapped so… thanks, Dave and you too, Jonn!”
“Hey, don’t call me Jonn – only my friends get to call me Jonn, you can refer to me by my school name… Harris!”
Stan was taken aback, holding the note in his hands. “I see, well, thanks, Harris!”
“Jeeze, Stan, I don’t address you by your surname, do I? Have a bit of fucking respect, please, we’re old friends now, you’ve taken money from me. It’s Jonn!”
“Are you at it?” Stan asked.
“Golly gee, what do you think? Tell me ‘bout the rabbits, George!” Harris said in a good impersonation of Lon Chaney Junior. “Bloody sure! I wouldn’t give you my hard stolen… I mean hard earned money, I’d hardly do that with my friends, never mind you. Shit, I wouldn’t give you a nod in the Sahara!”
“Big Lyons left the money he owed you, Stan!” Dave stated honestly. “You’re lucky we didn’t nick it!”
“And we only did that because of the high regard we hold you in, big man!” Harris smiled back as he began to place the squeegee’s on the silkscreen frames, ready to begin work.
Stan’s face was an apoplexy of rage as the other two stood laughing their heads off. “I fucking hate you pair!”
“I hate you, Butler!” Harris mimicked, a la ‘On The Buses’.
“No, I hate you, Blakey!” Dave responded.
“Put some music on, Stan, and let’s get to work. We can’t spend all day cheering your miserably bleak life up, you know!” Harris ordered.
“You can buy us a drink with your winnings later, Stan the man!”
“Pricks! You’re a pair of pricks!” Stan muttered as he went to switch the record player on and the other two mimed chastisement to each other for being so nasty to poor Stan.

The sounds of Baba O’Reilly from Stan’s favourite album in the world was playing again and filling the room as they worked, running off sheet after sheet of post modern psychedelia to advertise Glasgow University’s Christmas Bash featuring a group of women in animal costumes in starkly coloured, deep contrast photographic exposure against the backdrop of the Easter Island Atomic Mushroom explosion splintering out to the edges in a Day-Glo cascade of thrown colour reminiscent of Jackson Pollock. They looked pretty striking, Lyons was a bit of a creative Diva when it came to this stuff and all of them had learned from him – they should have, they did enough of his work for him and it always provided a few quid to spend just when it was needed.
Print after print went through the three screen process before finally being left to dry and the large classroom was covered in posters making the air heady with the acrylic scent of paint. Little conversation transpired for two reasons, they were busy and this required concentration and secondly, Stan was clearly still miffed at the ribbing he’d endured earlier that day – he had little sense of humour at the best of times but absolutely none when it came to the issue of money.
Harris was finding that the repetitive drawing of the squeegee with the appropriate pressure was making his damaged shoulder feel painful but there was a job to do and all of them were maintaining a good pace that meant there was only about another hour or two until the entire run was done. After that they could get down to work on the promo posters and tickets for the Inter-school dance they were running on the day before Christmas Eve.

The little record player now churned out Beck, Bogart and Appice’s version of ‘Superstition’ as audio background atmosphere while they worked. Stan watched the paint run dry and decided to risk speaking again, feeling Macklin was the best bet to be alerted to this fact. Dave twitched every time Stan opened his mouth and did his best to ignore the hefty one's ravings. Stan adopted a more tolerant approach with Dave because, generally, there was no point at all in trying to talk to Harris unless you were one of the people on his deranged list that deigned who was worth speaking to or not.
“Look,” Stan sighed as he began. "I don't want to bore you with details…”
"Go on, it's never stopped you before." Dave replied.
"…but there's no paint left."
"Wow, really? What shall we do? Jeezus, Stan, go and get some more for God's sakes instead of standing around doing nothing. We don’t have all day you know, some of us have things to do."
The big guy walked off to source some more Cobalt Blue and Harris called out to him.
“Look I’m sorry, Stan, l know it must be rough for you, feeling like the odd man out and still being the ugly duckling at eighteen - but think of it this way… one day you’ll grow up to be an ugly duck!”
Stan shambled into the store room shaking his head.
Harris shouted over to him. “It’ll fall right off one day, Noddy."
"Fuck you, Harris!" came the muffled reply from deep within the store.
"Especially if you keep playing with it!"
They heard the sound of his thumping feet, angrily thudding out.
Harris and Dave ran to the door holding it shut so Stan couldn’t escape. The huge fists pounded against the dark door relentlessly.
"I'm gonna mash you, Harris!” Stan squealed.
“Dream on, Fat Man… your mother might be butch enough to pull that off, but not you!”
Harris and Dave laughed to one another, deciding when to shift their weight and let Stan splatter out. It was then Harris caught sight of the abundant decorations which spanned the room and realised that the door’s arc would trash them when it swung open. He opened his mouth to speak and Dave misinterpreted this as the signal to move, shifting his weight to flee when Stan threw an extra thrust of pressure which caught everyone on the hop.
The door burst open ejecting both Harris and Macklin in an unbalanced stagger that tripped them up and left an interwoven mass of limbs on the floor. Behind them Stan’s human cannonball act ended in an even more ungraceful tumble as he too succumbed to gravity, his impact tossing the door aside and ripping the decorations from both the roof and the walls before it rebounded back to thump the big cannonball with a resounding crash. The huge tangle of decorations fell on them like a New York ticker tape parade as they all succumbed to a stupid laughter jag.
“I bloody well hate you, Harris!” Stan said in his very best Inspector Blake ‘On the Buses’ impression.
Dave and Harris looked at each other, their eyes wet with laughter, it looked like Stan had a sense of humour after all.
Their laughter echoed through the room as they looked at the ungainly sight each and every one of them made, flopped on the floor and entangled in coloured paper and tinsel - it was a pretty good way to head toward the Christmas break.

NOTRE DAME – GLASGOW : AFTERNOON
Michelle and Ruth stood in the shower room of the Notre Dame gym after Netball practise. Steam lurked along the ceiling in thin wisps and the sounds of running water filled the brightly blue tiled chamber. There were a few girls standing around. chatting and drying themselves, engrossed, generally oblivious in their nakedness to the cold. Michelle discarded the last of her sports wear neatly in the grey steel locker before she unclipped her seamless white bra and leaned forward to catch it in one hand then tugged her smooth pants down and placed them both beneath the other clothes in the locker.
“Sorry, Michelle, I can’t hear you!” Ruth said, turning to look and interrupting her head movements designed to saturate her hair.
Michelle moved into the booth and joined the other girl under the influence of the hot water and rising steam. Her face was a study of puzzled curiosity.
“I said, how can you be Stevie’s girlfriend and then go around sleeping with other people?" she said in a hushed but audibly tone.
Ruth's rounded face peered at her, drips of water rolling straight off the hints of waterproof make up around her eyes.
“I like Steve, he’s fun. It's simply that he's not much good, well, experienced in a kind of… well, in the physical sense. He knows where everything is but… doesn’t seem to understand how to, how can I put this? How to please a woman in bed. It’s all very ‘Wham, Bam, Thank you, Ma’am’! I used to think he was scared or something but now I just think he, well, he doesn’t get it really!”
"Even so, Ruth, if that’s the case you should help him, tell him! Surely?” Michelle said with a hint of scorn and uncertainty. Her eyes almost involuntarily flicked over Ruth as she was soaping her torso and she felt self satisfied within herself as she mentally compared their bodies. It was odd but she was almost amused at how the other girl’s body seemed older, not so much adult, but kind of used and oddly worn out before its' time - at least in impression if not fact. Ruth wasn’t quite as well toned or delicately proportioned. But after the thought had lodged in her mind she felt a little guilty for looking at her friend that way and thinking such uncomplimentary thoughts. It made her take another look at her friend’s nudity. It was quite different to hers, maybe that was the real difference because she was certainly well proportioned and there were no obvious defects. It was that assessment that made her wonder what the men or boys Ruth had been with had thought about her body. Staring again she decided that there would probably have been very few complaints, it was quite… womanly!
“Michelle? Michelle! Are you staring at me, because you’re not listening!”
Michelle felt her face flush and she suddenly felt awkward.
“God, I’m sorry, Ruth… I was just thinking about…”
“Forget it, I don’t think you’ve suddenly gone all lesbian or anything… not like Karen and Lucy, now they are definitely Sapho girls!”
Michelle’s mouth fell open. “Really, are you sure. How on earth do you…”
Ruth leaned in and spoke in a hushed tone so that the girls standing by couldn’t possibly hear their conversation. With a little final glance out the booth she leaned even closer.
“After one of the matches last year, Karen was showering beside me and I saw her watching, not like you just did, she was looking at me the way I might look at… well, some guy. It was the same look and…”
Michelle pulled back a little to find Ruth’s ear.
“But, Ruth, one can’t help looking when they’re in the same cubicle, can they? That’s not proof – well, you know, it doesn’t mean she’s a lesbian!”
“I haven’t finished yet!”
“Sorry. . . ”
“I thought the same as you at first, Michelle, everyone looks and all that. Same way when you go to high school and you’re in the showers and some girls are more developed and some less, all of that stuff – yeah, everyone looks but that’s not being a lesbian, that’s trying to get your head round what’s happening with your body and comparing it with other people to see if you’re normal, whatever that is. I don’t think any of us haven’t done that at some stage. No, this was really different, I just thought she’s insecure about something and comparing herself to me or whatever it was… Anyway, I took no notice and ignored it but we were the last two left in the showers and she just started soaping my back, which was a little odd and I didn’t feel very comfortable but I also didn’t want to seem like some paranoid little girl so…”
Ruth paused and waited until Lucy had walked past, smiling as she did.
“Talk about coincidence!” Michelle said with some amusement.
“Yeah, sure. She was checking to see if we were…”
“No! No, I don’t believe that!”
“Really?” Ruth said, raising an eyebrow as she watched Michelle turning round to press the shampoo dispenser and found herself smiling at Lucy getting dressed one or two lockers down.
“My God, I never even suspected!” Michelle breathed as she began to lather her hair.
“There, you go. I mean, Karen’s nice but I told her it wasn’t my thing, but she obviously thought I was and that was why she tried it on - da da da da…”
“You mean more than the soaping you back?”
“Americans would call it ‘copping a feel’! So, yeah. Karen was really upset because she thought I’d tell everyone… but I didn’t care, if every guy who had tried it on with me was being broadcast on gossip radio there’d be a lot of embarrassed faces. She’s nice enough and I don’t care who she wants to sex it up with – I’m in no position to judge.”
Michelle smiled as Ruth leaned forward to get some shampoo herself, noting that she admired her attitude because some of the other girls in class were really mean and bitchy about things like that. Ruth looked at her and Michelle smiled back.
“So, Michelle, why the look, you’ve been in showers with me before, we’ve been together getting changed during the holidays… what gives?”
Michelle gave a little laugh that was still a shade uncomfortable.
“It’s this photo thing I’ve got, I’m suddenly looking about at everyone in a different way as if seeing how all the people around me are such a variety of shapes and – actually just as you said earlier… it’s like when you’re growing up and you compare yourself to others, well this is the same idea and different reason. It’s stupid isn’t it? Sorry if I was staring, it was just when you were talking about Stevie and him not being very… I wondered what he thought when you were in bed together and..”
“Do you think he doesn’t like my body? Is that what you’re saying?”
Michelle was horrified. “God, no, Ruth. Far from it! No - I was wondering why he didn’t want to spend more time… sort of exploring your body is what I mean really!”
Ruth laughed as she began to rinse the shampoo out, flicking her head back and staring at Michelle.
“Because Stevie’s pretty clueless, he makes out he knows what he’s doing but – well, that’s not fair, he does know what he’s doing he just doesn’t know what he should be doing for the girl, that’s all!”
Michelle ducked under the nozzle and washed the foam from her hair.
“Why… have you ever told him or asked him or tried to get him to do what you like in bed?”
“You know Stevie, what’s the first word that comes into your head when you think of him?”
Michelle bit her lip and looked a little awkward. “Nice?”
Ruth raised her eyebrows and smiled before she laughed.
Michelle got more shampoo and began to massage it into her hair and Ruth just waited for Michelle to say…
“Fine, he’s a stoner, a loadie, but I can’t believe he’s always so wasted you can’t get some sense out of him.”
“Course not , Michelle, but guys are so vain about it all. Talk about fragile? They want to think that they know it all – sexual giants and all that. I’d love to help him - don’t you think I want to? But men want to be the strong ones and independent, they think they should lead and be the dominant ones. It's ridiculous really, the whole thing's blown totally out of proportion – I mean, a lot of fuss about nothing really. Instead of a simple pleasure the act is glorified to the point where if you don't come on like an Olympic champion then you think there's something wrong with you, or at least you're meant to at any rate – if you listen to them!. It’d be a lot better for all concerned if people played it straight, without any bullshit, it’d get rid of half of people's hang ups and let women have much better sex."
"That's strange, Jonn said something like that to me a while ago." Michelle said as she rubbed against the smaller, auburn haired girl beside her.
“Jonn? Jonn Harris do you mean?”
"Yeah, why?”
"Mmmm…very nice. Very nice, indeed. He is so cool, I wouldn't mind entertaining him for an evening." Ruth said lathering up her hair for the second time and revealing the stubble of her armpits.
"Why?" Michelle said with inexplicable indignation.
“Why what?”
“Why him, what makes you so…keen? He might be like Stevie and you’re just falling for the same problem but in someone else!”
“Wrong answer. I have it on very good authority that he's most worthwhile. Not because he’s a fantasy figure but because he’d probably be able to give me what I want – from what I’ve heard anyway. That's two entirely different things." Ruth replied noting how pale she was compared to Michelle's splendid semi-tanned colouring.
"Perhaps you wouldn't get on with him, what if Jonn couldn’t talk about it – how would you fix it then?”
“I’d make sure his attention was drawn to the issue one way or another. But with Stevie it’s just not worth the effort and I don’t mean that unkindly. Stevie needs someone who tells him what to do and when to do it and I want someone you don’t have to do that with. Stevie’s great for getting wasted with and as far as spending time with him…? Well, he has a lot of good qualities but, for me, having sex with Stevie comes pretty far down the list of reasons to spend time with him.”
“Would you chase Jonn when you were going out with Stevie?”
"Michelle! It was only a silly throwaway comment. I don't think I'm his type. He seems to go more for your type, doesn’t he?"
Michelle continued washing her hair, the lather clinging to her as it slithered down her back and shoulders.
“That’s never crossed my mind, you know about his type. The girls I’ve seen him with are all different. He’s nice, if you get to know him and he understands an awful lot of things, even things you wouldn't really expect a guy to know about."
"Apparently so." Ruth said suddenly curious about Michelle and Mhic and why she seemed so interested in Harris. "…but I still wouldn't mind spending the night with him, talking over my problems or something, if you know what I mean? So there!"
Michelle laughed in return at her smiling friend whose face was upturned towards the shower nozzle as though she were its’ disciple.
"Ruth?”
“Yeah?” she replied as she rinsed herself down for the last time.
“Why do you do it so much? With all these guys, so often?"
Ruth’s eyes flicked downwards for a second.
“I need it. It makes me feel good about myself, like being one of the best in the Netball team. It’s hard for me to explain, it’s just something inside me! I like anything that makes me feel good and also to feel good about myself! Doesn’t everyone?”
The other girl didn’t respond but nodded non-committedly.
“You done, Michelle?”
“Yeah, all done here!”
“Then we should get dried or tongues will start wagging!”
At that moment both Karen and Lousie walked past, dried and dressed, smiling to Michelle and Ruth as they went.
“Don’t say a word, Ruth!”
Ruth mimed zipping her lips and they both giggled as they left the showers.

DANBRAY - ALL SAINTS : LATE AFTERNOON
The snow dribbled against the building and melted in little slithery streaks against the windows very slowly. In the maths classroom Storey sat and doodled a 'Dougal for President’ banner beside his Womble sticker. The gnarled little man at the large warped desk rambled on about consequences and futures and all sorts of similar subjects related to the failure of examinations. Sto yawned as the man delivered his ultimatum about the miscreants who had failed the prelims when the results were announced after New Year.
Ben Ferris, the antiquated maths teacher, approached Storey with chalk in hand. Sto yawned yet again, he was still tired from last night’s exertions and he really hated this fucking class. Maths classes were always about as interesting as a repeat of ‘Crossroads’, but his were especially tedious – it was as if he’d taken two degrees, one in Mathematics and the other in transmitting terminal boredom. There was no doubt the diminutive little stench knew his stuff but he was also a born trouble maker – the kind of guy who could start a fight in an empty house.
His progressively expanding balding patch shone with the reflection of the ugly overhead lights as he peered above his glasses at Sto.
The little man smiled artificially as he began one of his ‘look I’m doing an amusingly witty act of sarcasm for your benefit to get a really deep and significant message over to you’ performances. Somehow the smile automatically wrinkled his forehead and made the rest of his face look like a dehydrated tangerine.
“Oh, eh, sorry to disturb you, Mr. Storey, but the rest of the class are doing some mathematics and we wondered if you’d like to join in?"
“Do I have a real choice, Sir?”
The man sighed, paused and took a deep breath that indicated he was clearly prepared to reply at length so Sto decided to save himself the pain and just capitulate by saying what the demented midget wanted to hear.
"Yes, I would. I’ve been doing my work – look!” he said turning to a scrawled page of unintelligible rubbish as if presenting evidence at the Old Bailey.
“Look, this boy, you're going to have to pull your socks up. There’s work to be done if you’re prepared to do it.”
“Yes, sir, I appreciate there’s always work to be done.”
“You won't pass your exams by drawing on your books!”
"No, sir!”
"Where are your partners in crime today? I don't see them in class."
Sto looked about as if to assist him in checking before agreeing on the last statement. "They're sick…I think."
"I thought I saw them this morning?"
"I thought they were sick." Sto replied innocently.
“I’ll have a few words for them when I see them. Just remember and tell them today’s homework when you see them. You’ll be doing them a favour in the long run!"
"I won't."
"What did you say?"
"I said, ‘I won't’. See them, that is. I won't be seeing them for ages, they’re sick, sir! I don’t know if it’s contagious but with Christmas looming and having little sisters and a brother back from Boarding School as well as all my relatives coming over to the house for Boxing day… well, I’d really be foolish to risk being contaminated and communicating it to all those people. It’s like the advert says, sir, ‘coughs and sneezes spread diseases’! And it’s true, isn’t it?”
Ben shook his head and just gave up. Moving like one of Ken Dodd’s Diddymen, the poisoned dwarf walked to the front of the classroom and once more returned to the holy altar of the sanctified blackboard.
Sto smirked, technically he hadn’t lied both Harris and Macklin were indeed sick – sick of listening to this little, second rate Arthur Askey. It was one of the few times in his life that Sto wished he’d been more art orientated, not because he was very interested in art per se but more because he would be up in Jack Lyons classroom hiding out from this droning turd bleating on about Trigonometric Functions or Calculus Calculations or whatever the hell he was gibbering about. Right now he really wished he’d stayed in bed all day instead of getting up at the crack of noon to make an appearance in a few afternoon classes of which this was mercifully the last.
Sto turned again to the window to concentrate on life on the outside because every time he thought about Hellen he started to experience that weird stiffness she seemed to induce and there was no way he was walking home with a tent protruding from the front of his trousers.
The snow was still falling lightly but as it touched the ground it dissolved into slippery water. On the red glazed pitch Sto watched the old man running round in an attempt to keep a once-young body fit. The snow and the strain seemed to make no difference to him, or to Sto for that matter.

DANBRAY – FALLOWHILL : NIGHT
The bedroom was sparse with furniture which had seen better days, but it was scrupulously clean under the dull red light. The large bed faced onto the window looking out over Danbray from high on the Fallowhill border. The night sky beyond twinkled intermittently with stars in between the billowy clouds and the crescent moon that painted the architecture of Danbray in a ghostly, luminous silhouette relieved by the glow of yellow, tangled streetlights. The girl looked out, wondering about something or perhaps someone.
Behind her sat the long haired youth watching her every move as he smoked the long joint and carelessly flicked ash on the floor but somehow always avoided the half empty Whisky bottle by his chair. Peter’s eyes were deader than normal, somehow devoid of the sparkle that passed for humanity. The cadaverous orbs briefly flickered about the room he knew all too well, the wardrobe, dressing table, mirror, chairs, a compact stereo, the naked electric fire and the pictures on the wall. Once again he looked at her tall, scantily clad body and the long blonde hair hanging halfway down her back. She was in good shape, long slim legs and narrow hips with prominent, rounded buttocks and best of all - she was his as and when it suited. ‘The Dark Side of the Moon’ was playing its second side out, making the red light in the room seem more intense somehow.
Anita turned round, the flimsy underwear revealing everything beneath, the lustre of her dark brown nipples, the ample breasts pouring over the almost transparent white lacy effect bra, the wild mane of blonde pubic hair apparent as a differing tone to the tiny white lace knickers - all contrasting to the little black stockings that had slipped down her thigh just enough to look pleasingly used. She leaned against the window ledge and smiled at him, a false smile she had long ago learned to perfect. Her eyes were a radiant greeny blue, highlighted by dark mascara and a mixture of pale brown toned eye shadow making a sharp contrast to the vivid red lipstick used to accentuate her full, wide mouth. Anita’s face was thin with almost harsh cheekbones and an overly strong jawline but she was very attractive. She had always been a pretty girl and she grew into a prettier woman, everyone had thought so – certainly all the boys and men she had been with or, moreso, who had been with her. It was her mother who had first said that one day she’d be a model or an actress or something, anything that would help her escape the trappings of Fallowhill – escape the trap that had already snared her mourned for parent. It didn’t happen, not yet, probably not ever because she too was trapped in this little outpost of hell and somehow she had to make the best of it – not for herself but for Emily.
For Anita there was no man to bring home a regular pay packet, to pay for the things a child needed – not for her, she didn’t care if she starved, but for her little baby… dole money and the benefits system didn’t supply enough to keep a dog never mind a child. So she had to put up with the things she had to put up with. That in itself wasn’t so bad because anyone can live with unhappiness, that was easy… but living in fear and hate wasn’t.
The blonde youth with the past shoulder length hair sat there getting stoned and getting excited as he watched her, that was why he brought things like the underwear – it wasn’t for her, it was for him. He was good looking but the ugly cancer inside him tainted the image so that all anyone could see was the festering, animated corpse that was wearing someone else’s skin. Anita looked at his body, naked but for the striped boxers he always wore and she wondered if he would ever get round to stealing another style of underwear for himself one day.
He waved his hand, dropping ash and little burning embers of dope onto the carpet where they smouldered just long enough to add to the numerous other pock mark burns he had kindly given her. Anita slipped her thin arms up to cup her own breasts, feeling the warm flesh as though it were someone else’s, squeezing the curvaceous tissue and digging her nails into herself before tugging the material she despised down to offer a glimpse of the deep brown areola. The automatic smile manifested and she closed her eyes and pushed the taut flesh up, caressed the cheap lace and finally unhooked the catch between her breasts. The long fingers clutched the rounded flesh, now devoid of support and hardly changing form, as she pulled the cups aside and, with a practised shrug of her shoulders, dropped it behind herself. Peter grinned, a leering, hideous smile that reminded her of a death’s head and she smiled back then ran the tip of her tongue over her reddened lips. Anita bent forward, hitched her thumbs into the sides of the tiny knickers and dragged them down her thighs to her ankles before daintily stepping out of them. With a flick of her foot she launched the briefs into the air towards him wishing they were made of acid as they landed on his crotch. They smiled at each other and she touched her sex, fingers leaving little furrows through the abundant mane of blonde pubic hair. With a brief swallow she moved her hand back and forth between her legs feeling the harshness of her dry vaginal lips and, closing her eyes, she thought of someone else, the person she wished was with her. Anita remembered his touch, the way he kissed her, made sure she was happy, made sure she felt good, the way he played with her, the things he said, the way his tongue felt when he went down on her, the silly little things they said when making love, the way he held her and the pleasure he gave her… the sheer thought of him made her wet. With open mouth she made a moan and then lifted her hand from between her legs and flicked it into the air, launching a little streaky projectile of her fluids into the air.
Peter withdrew his erection from the striped boxers. The ugly, vein ridden cock was sticky with his own fluids, glistening in the redness of the light as he began to masturbate… slowly at first and then faster as Anita peeled herself open for him, genuinely trying to be as provocative as possible, wanting to arouse him, wanting him to get harder, praying he found her body and degrading exhibition truly exciting. How she wanted to make him feel so horny, pushing her finger into herself and then jamming another in as she let out a long, sensuous moan that made him pull on the ugly penis with an aggressive enthusiasm. Anita closed her eyes and moaned aloud, pushing a third finger in as she thought of her lover, wishing he were the audience, wishing the growing wetness inside was for him. The red nailed fingers slithered out of herself and, with her eyes still closed, she couldn’t see the clinging streaks that fell between her stocking clad thighs as she pushed her fingers deep into her opened mouth and pretended she relished it like rich people savour Caviar. His moans were suddenly distracting and she opened her eyes to watch him furiously masturbating as a huge grin spread across her face and she licked the blood red lips in a vulgar manner for him – her only desire was to excite him more and more, she just hoped her eyes didn’t reveal this fact too blatantly. All she could think was how much she wanted him to be so excited – too excited… so the hideously evil animal would blow his stinking spunk all over the room and spare her the sense of utter degradation and depravity she would feel if he mounted her and spent himself inside her body. She could see the little bastard was almost there as her fingers touched her naked skin leaving long glistening streaks of her juices all over her torso.
There was a loud click and the record stopped… and so did he!
“Get another record on!” he ordered in his guttural tone.
Anita bit her lip and felt the world crash down on her, another minute and he would be spent, useless for hours and perhaps even sparing her from any copulation on this visit. Reluctantly she padded over to the little record player and knelt down, his eyes watching her all the time. The red nails flickered through the box of records and she sadly found something she hadn’t listened to in years, the last record she bought when she was still in school, the last record that reminded her of being happy. With disappointment crushing her like a vice she removed the Curved Air record from its white sleeve and dropped it onto the record player moving the needle directly to the second track - ‘Back Street Love’ because she couldn’t listen to the first track… the last thing she needed was to be reminded of being a young mother. The sounds of the wild washing keyboards kicked in and she walked back toward the window when he grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him.
“Are you being a funny cunt?” he said aggressively.
For a moment she thought he meant because of the title of the track but the hook wasn’t on yet.
“No… of course not, what do you mean?”
“That album, I know that – Fuckin ‘Curved Air’, innit?”
“Yeah… so? I don’t know what… ooowww, you’re hurting me!”
“Nick played that all the time, loved them, never had it off the fuckin’ Dansette!”
Anita felt her heart racing, fear rising and all ability for duplicity fading.
“I didn’t know, Foxy, I’m sorry… I’ll switch it off, put something else on, ‘The Lamb Lies down on Broadway’… you like that, don’t you?”
“Too fuckin’ late!” he said angrily as he twisted her arm until she knelt on the floor at his side. “That was the last thing he gave me before…”
“What, Foxy? You’ve never talked about Nick very much – tell me, I’ll listen!” Anita said desperately.
“Fuck you! Tellin you nothin’, bike!” he shouted without releasing his grip.
“Foxy… please, don’t shout – you’ll wake Emily!”
Fox stood up and threw Anita aside with a savage shove that sent her to the floor, limbs akimbo.
“Fuckin Emily, wee bag of shit! I’m talking about Nick, my fucking brother not some bastard who doesn’t even know who her father is!”
Anita crawled over to the record player and reached up.
“Don’t touch it, don’t fuckin’ touch it – let it play!”
The girl was scared now, she had seen these rages before and knew that alcohol made him nothing less than a dangerous psycho. It seemed safer to switch it off. As she reached up he ran across to her and kicked her in the side, a harshly brutal blow that made her scream aloud. Anita’s body flipped over almost and she lay wheezing close to the door.
Fox paced the room, his boxers hanging halfway down his hips and his hands constantly running through his greasy blonde hair.
“Fucker, fuckin’ fucker, you fuckin’ dirty cunt – playing that, playing his record, you fucking fuck!”
Anita was scared but she didn’t want Emily to waken… what would he do if he heard her crying and went in? Emily was all she cared about, it didn’t matter if anything happened to her but not her baby. The naked girl got on all fours, her side burning, and struggled to get up.
“Peter, please don’t…please, please just let me make it good for you!”
Fox ran across the room and kicked her in the stomach as she almost got to her feet
Anita’s scream was repellent, a mixture of pitiful whining and rasping breath being involuntarily exhaled. Fox’s bare foot kicked her again and she fell against the wall but she refused to cry… he liked that and it would only make him even crazier.
Fox picked up the Johnny Walker Whisky and gulped it down, mouthful after mouthful until it ran over his face and down his chest. Anita crawled into the corner and pulled her limbs round herself.
“Just fuckin’ disappeared, not a word, fuckin’… just fuckin’ gone! Nobody knew – just bang, just… nothing, zip… nobody knew, just away like fuckin’ that!”
Fox stomped round the room, throwing the chair aside and drinking more Whisky as Anita shook in the corner thinking of Emily - only Emily, looking for something she could kill him with if he moved to the door.
“Two years… two years and ten months! No fuckin’ word, just fuckin’… nothing – in nearly three years. Bang – gone!”
By now Fox’s voice was so loud that the baby began to cry. Anita’s heart went into spasm as he turned and looked at the door.
“No!” she shouted, springing forward to block the door as best she could.
Fox pounced and grabbed her by the hair, looking into her eyes and then punching her as hard as he could in the mouth – cutting knuckle as he broke her front teeth.
Anita screamed, she just couldn’t help it but she never moved an inch… just blocked the door as he screamed in her ear and threw the bottle away.
“You want to listen, you fuckin’ want to cunting fuckin’ listen about my brother. Fuck you, you stinking, useless fucking shite!” Fox squealed as he dragged her up by the hair and kneed her between the legs. Anita felt vomit rising as he threw her aside and stepped back looking for the discarded Whisky again. She began to puke in long belches of stinking orange vomit, splattering everywhere, trying to get to her knees but just falling down again and again until she stopped trying and just crawled through the minging spew to block the door again.
Fox drained what was left of the bottle and then threw it into the big mirror with a shattering crash as he began to stagger and move aimlessly, clutching his hands to his ears to block the baby’s screams.
“Shut fucking up, squealing fuckin’ stinkpot… I’ll fuckin’ tell you about Nick!” Fox screamed and stomped over to Anita sticking his face into hers.
“If I took that fuckin’ turd you shat out and smashed it off the wall again and again and again – that’s what it feels like, that’s what it’s like, ya stinkin cunt, when your brother just fuckin’ isn’t there… just fuckin’ gone, you spunkfuck!”
Anita shook her head and tried to get up but he just punched her in the face again and again until she stopped moving, blocking the door. Fox tossed her away and smashed the record player, throwing it into the little dressing table and tearing at the big pictures of the dreamy beach and the sunny forest her mother had given her just before she died… just to make her house have a sense of something more then Fallowhill and to give her a look at the future she could have. That was the thing that almost made Anita cry.
“Right after Valentine’s day… three years in February, three cuntin years! Fuck, fuck, fuckin’ gone and my Ma still cries, still fuckin’ cries at night coz she fuckin’ knows… just knows something happened, fucker, fucking something happened – he’d never leave us – fuckin’ never!”
All Anita could taste was puke mingled blood and all she could feel was pain but she couldn’t die and she couldn’t let this bastard get near her baby.
Fox crouched down at the window and began crying, not for his mother, not for Anita, not for Emily and not even for Nick – he was crying for himself.
Anita tried to get up, stumbling and slipping in the blood and vomit all around her. Fox looked up, she tried harder and he ran right over to her, tears all over him like an evil baby… the face all scrunched up and twisted like something inhuman, almost. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her. Anita clutched his wrists to save having her scalp ripped off. Fox tugged the top sheet from the bed and began to wipe her down.
“You’re fuckin’ stinkin, dirty fuck, how could anybody want to stick their cock in you lookin and smelling like that, you fuck!”
Anita’s eyes rolled and she raised her hands and he slapped her again and again and again until she stopped moving. Fox started to wipe her clean, ignoring Emily’s screams, pulling another sheet from the bed when the first was sodden - and he just kept wiping and wiping until she was rubbed clear of the old blood and sick.
He was breathing hard, in her face, his eyes were somewhere else.
“You’re still stinking, you dirty fuckin’ bike!”
Fox picked her up by the neck and threw her on the bed where he ripped the stockings from her. Anita was almost sick again when she saw the hard bulge protruding from the striped boxers. Fox jumped from the bed to the smashed dressing table, throwing her makeup and precious bottles aside as he looked for something. Anita was scared, scared she might be killed, that she might die… and leave her baby defenceless, leave Emily all alone with him or even just all alone – it almost made her cry.
She heard him laugh and come back to her, breaking opening the bottle of perfume and pouring it all over her naked body and hair - the stench of Stevie B filling the room in a sudden flash flood.
Fox pulled his shorts down and sat astride her chest, grabbed her by the hair and pulled the broken face to the sopping erection.
Anita felt sick again but held it down as her eyes began to roll and she opened her mouth. Fox threw her away as she did so.
“Fuckin cow, old fuckin’ shit – your stinkin, busted teeth’ll rip my dick to bits, fucker!”
He slithered down her and kneed her thighs apart as his hand slipped down between her legs and he began to stick his finger into her.
“Listen, cunt, fuckin’ listen – I’m talkin here, are you listenin? Can you hear me, spunk bag?”
Anita nodded.
“If you tell any fuckin’ body what I told you tonight, tell anybody or go to the pigs… I’ll fuckin’ bring the team round… hey, fuckface? Do you hear?”
Anita nodded.
Fox pushed all his fingers into her and she screamed. He just laughed, an insane detached laugh.
“The team, fuckin’ here havin’ you, up your arse, two cocks in your cunt, in your mouth, in yur eyes, in holes you don’t have yet… are you fuckin’ listenin’?”
Anita nodded as he rammed his fist into her, ripping flesh and making her scream.
“You’ll get what that fuckin’ redheaded cunt got in the Park… but worse - and then we’ll get ‘Wee Emily’ and fuckin’ ride the stinkin' fuckmunch right in front of ya and then rip it apart with Mighty Hill cocks! D’ya fuckin’ hear, pisscunt?”
Anita could barely speak. “Yeth!” she lisped.
Fox mounted the injured girl and rammed himself into her, blood seeping from the genital and vaginal wounds already, filth pouring out his mouth, disgusting, filthy, degrading, horrifying, unspeakable acts that she stopped hearing as she listened to her baby cry – that was all, just Emily crying, not even her own screams of pain.. and he just kept hammering his filthy dick into her again and again and again and…
Her eyes focused on the torn poster of the tropical beach her mother had bought, wishing she were there with little Emily and Jonesy - the only person she could remember really caring for. With an effort she tried to pretend she was on the beach and happy but the feel of her broken teeth and the ugly tang of the blood in her mouth kept spoiling the taste of her delusion and she couldn’t escape the hideous reality of who she was and where she was and worst of all who she was with. If she could have only one wish in the whole world, in her whole life, it would be that Peter Fox was dead, killed in the most painful and agonising manner possible. But in the end all she could think about as he pummelled her insides again and again was how much she hated being alive.