the morning after

Shit, shit, shit! So much for good intentions! Why am I waking up to wallpaper I don’t recognise? Why do I feel like I’ve just fallen from the top floor of Bakers and Macey? And why am I in bed with someone who is definitely not Sophie, in fact, someone who bears more than a passing resemblance to Samantha Hughes?

There is, of course, a simple answer to these questions. I am Newton ‘fuck-up’ Driftwood, and I have just fucked up again. There is also a more complicated answer. I stare at unfamiliar pink wallpaper and try to recall how I came to be in this room. And, sure enough, the events of the previous hours begin to unravel slowly in my mind.

To be fair, at first everything went pretty much to plan. I put on my shorts and trainers and headed out for my inaugural run. It was a grim, grey morning, but not too cold, and I was surprised how comfortable I felt jogging along past parked cars, dodging dog mess and puddles. I hadn’t done much exercise in the past year, other than walking to the shops and back, and playing the occasional game of football. And, as I trotted down the steps from the house, I anticipated a certain amount of pain and stiffness ahead. So, I was pleasantly surprised at how easy it was to get back into my stride. Maybe all those years of playground football and working on building sites had left me fitter than I thought I was. Maybe the long walk from Sophie’s had limbered up my calves and hamstrings.

Sophie, Sophie, Sophie. I open my eyes and look at the pale shoulder emerging from the duvet beside me. As if sensing my gaze, the body shifts and an arm reaches out instinctively to touch me. One breast is revealed. A veil of soft brown hair slips from her face, and I can see it definitely is Samantha. She smiles and emits a small grunt like a satisfied piglet. She looks lovely, but as her hot fingers touch me they turn to the tentacles of an anemone, and I pull away and cover my eyes with my arm.

Sophie was right about one thing. The running did make me feel better. Not physically - my stomach, a pillow of lager and cheap pies, still rolled over the band of my shorts, engulfing my belly button in a pale fold of flesh that wobbled with every stride. And I was not impressed when I glimpsed my scrawny white legs reflected in the window of the Spar. But as I ran, I did feel myself start to relax, like an angry cat slowly subsiding into a jumper.

God knows, I know I need to lose a little anger (the way other people know they need to ‘lose a little weight’).

Most nights, to get revenge on Adrian for leaving his unfinished loaves in the cupboard, me and Paul shake up one of his cans of Boddingtons. Adrian has this little routine, you see. He comes home from work on the bus at around 6.35. He changes into his jeans, and then he shoves a Somerfield ready meal in the microwave. And while he’s waiting for it it to go ping, he cracks open a can. He must have a twenty-three hour memory. Because each day he opens the can without thinking, and gets covered in foam. And every time there’s this look on his face of shock and mystification. The weird thing is, he still hasn’t twigged it’s us. He reckons there’s something wrong with the fridge. Sometimes I have to leave the room because I’m sniggering so much. But Paul plays it totally straight.

“You ought to get the landlord onto that,” he says.

“I have,” says Adrian morosely, “But he says there’s nothing wrong with it.” Then he washes down his microwave dinner with half a glass of foam.

It seems cruel. But we’re not really being nasty. It’s just a habit we’ve got into. Sometimes we play a game of impromptu rugby with the can (seeing who can spin it the most, as we pass it back and forth over the fridge). Sometimes, I dance an ungainly salsa while shaking. Either way, the result is always the same.

The point is, my head is like a can of Adrian’s beer. From the outside all seems normal, but inside there’s this massive pressure, and as soon as someone or something pulls my tab. Wooshhhh. I let rip, freak out and storm off . And then people look at me, just like Adrian looks at his can, thinking what the hell happened there?

The trouble is, once the pressure’s released there’s no going back. The anger just gushes out, showering everything in its path. I try to control it. God knows I try. But it’s like when you put your hand over that can of beer. It justs keeps spraying out between your fingers.

I admit, often my reactions are well over the top. But other times I feel quite justified in getting angry about things. For instance, when Brett called Clem a nigger, and started mouthing off about Paki this and wog that, I couldn’t just ignore him. I know, I know, I didn’t help anyone by launching into an all out attack on Brett. I just made myself look a twat - like some drunk on a train screaming random curses, causing discomfort to all around me, and transforming Brett from bully to victim. But I just couldn’t stop myself. And if he said that shit again, I’m sure I’d react the same way.

Still, enough of all that. As I say, I found my run quite calming. And when I got home, I felt relaxed enough to ring mum from the pay phone in the entrance to the house.

The phone is a bit of a nuisance, but if you press the reject button just as the call is answered, you normally get your money back. On this occasion, mum answered after a couple of rings, catching me unawares and sending my twenty pence clattering into the cash box.

“Hello Newton,” she said. “How are you?” It sounded like she was talking to her neighbour’s pet Pekinese.

“Yea, yea fine,” I said. I felt slightly awkward having not rung for a few weeks (and I was still pissed off about that twenty pence).

“Everything’s OK is it?”

“Yea, yea. Just thought I’d ring and say hello,” I said, still pressing away at the coin reject.

“Right,” mum said.

I could sense her brief happiness at hearing from me was rapidly giving way to her usual state of annoyance.

“I was thinking maybe I could pop over some time.”

“That would be nice,” she said. I definitely sensed sarcasm.

“Yea, I thought maybe tomorrow night.”

“Fine,” mum said. “If you can spare the time.”

“Yea, sorry it’s been a while. It’s just what with the job and moving house and everything, you know, the days turn into weeks and all that.”

“Your grandad’s been asking about you,” said mum. “Wanted to know how you were.”

“How is he?”

“Tired.”

“Not been out on his bike then?” I felt guilty working the bike into the conversation at that point. But I sensed there wasn’t going to be a ‘good moment’.

“What? Oh, that old thing. No. I’m not sure we’ve even still got it. Why? Did you want to borrow it?”

“Oh, no, no. Just wondered if grandad was still going to fetch his paper on it.” I paused, before adding nonchalantly. “Mind you, I wouldn’t mind taking a quick look at it, see if it’s worth doing up. It was quite a good one wasn’t it, a twelve speed racer or something.” I laughed. “Thought he was entering the Tour de France, when he got it.”

I had this sudden mental picture of grandad, a few weeks after his first stroke, cycle clips over nylon slacks, straddling the gleaming racer like an excited ten-year-old as he prepared to pedal the hundred yards to the shop, never once changing gear. Daft bastard.

“Well, I haven’t seen it for months,” said mum. “It’s probably in the garage somewhere, but I don’t want you taking everything out and creating a mess. You know what your dad’s like if you touch any of his things.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I said. “It’s just that I’m thinking of entering this triathlon, and thought the bike might be OK for doing a bit of training on.”

“A triathlon?”

“Yea, it’s down on the coast at the end of October. You have to swim a mile in the sea and then run...”

“Swim a mile?” interrupts mum. “In the sea?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Oh Newton, why do you always have to do everything to extremes? Why can’t you ever do anything sensibly?”

“What, like Max...?”

“Now, that’s not what I meant...It’s just it sounds very dangerous to me and you know you’re not cut out for that kind of thing.”

“How do you mean?”

“Look, Newton, I’m not going to argue with you about it. If you want to go and drown yourself ...”

“Thanks for your support,” I said.

“Now Newton, there’s no need to be like that, both me and your father have given you every...” I took the phone away from my ear and watched woodlice trundle through the carpet until she’d finished ranting on.

“OK mum, whatever,” I mumbled wearily.

“Now, really, Newton...”

“Look mum, forget it,” I said, before she could launch into another tirade, “I just thought it might be nice to come round and say hello to Reggie. If it’s a problem then...”

She sighed grudgingly.

“Well, what kind of time were you thinking?” she asked. “Jenny has her course on Tuesdays, and she won’t be home until seven. So if you want something to eat, it won’t be much before half-past.”

“Don’t worry about that,” I said. “I’ll have something before I come round.”

“I don’t mind cooking you dinner. It just won’t be until seven thirty, if you can possibly manage to wait that long.”

“Look mum, I’m on the pay phone in the house, and my twenty pence is nearly up, but yea, seven thirty would be great.”

Mum’s voice mellowed slightly.

“What would you like? I was thinking of doing pasta maybe or I’ve got some cold chicken left. I could do that with baked potatoes and I can get some salad or...”

“Yea, sounds good mum. Sorry, I’ll have to go. It’s going to start bleeping in a second. See you at seven thirty, yea?”

“Yes. All our love, Newton.”

“Yea, yea. Bye then.”

I pushed down the buttons on the cradle to abruptly cut off the call, then sat on the stairs for a moment. Partly because I was worn out from my run and partly because I was thinking of myself playing football in the garden of my grandad’s old house when I was about seven, apple trees for goal posts, the sun gleaming off his greenhouse.

I was still sat there when one of my housemates Paul came in. The rattle of his key in the door making me half get to my feet. He kind of jumped back, startled, and we both laughed sheepishly.

“Hi ya mate,” I said.

“Shit, didn’t expect to see you there.” Paul glanced up and down at my shorts and sweatshirt, damp with sweat and drizzle. “You been playing squash or something?”

“No, just a bit of a jog.” I patted my belly. “Trying to do something about this.”

“Yea, the battle of the bulge.” He laughed.

“On an early?” I asked.

Paul works shifts at this factory where they make sensors used on oil rigs - quarter of a million a throw, and they get him to check the wiring.

“Nah, I took a sickie today,” he pulled a face, as if to say ‘but so what’. “Had a bit of a sesh last night, round at Alan’s. Great gear. Bought a slice off him, as it happens.” He pulled a Mars Bar sized chunk of resin from his pocket. It was wrapped in a sandwich bag. “Fancy joining me for a swift one? It’ll knock your fucking socks off!”

It was a major temptation, but I fought it valiantly.

“Uhm, no, not just now. I’m going to go and have a shower and a bit of a rest.”

“Ah, you see. Too much exercise. Not good for you.”

I nodded. “Yea, you’re probably right.”

After I’d had my shower, I decided to have a lie down, and crawled naked under the duvet. I had this really vivid dream about my grandad’s tortoise. It was weird because, until that moment, I hardly remembered that he’d ever had one.

Alfie

Reggie’s tortoise was called Alfie, because it looked a bit like a young Michael Caine. Each winter, Alfie (who was actually a girl) would hibernate in a box of shredded paper in the greenhouse. In the spring, we would get Alfie out of her box beneath my grandad’s seed trays, and sit with her on the lawn beside the vegetable patch, which at that time of year was just a bare rectangle of earth. Then we would borrow lettuce leaves from the bottom of my Nan’s fridge to feed her.

We used to have this competition to see who could get Alfie to move the quickest. Me, Max and Jenny would each take it in turns to use the lettuce to entice Alfie along a race track - a two foot strip of lawn marked out with bamboo bean poles. It wasn’t a case of just putting the lettuce down and waiting to see how long Alfie took to find it. Oh no. There was a real art to tortoise enticing. We’d wave the lettuce in front of her face, or tickle her lips with it. We’d stroke her feet and drum our fingers gently on her shell (the tortoise equivalent of a jockey’s crop). The only thing we weren’t allowed to do was actually feed Alfie en route to the finish line. One nibble of lettuce and you were instantly disqualified.

Sometimes, my Grandad used to join in (mainly to make sure we didn’t torture the poor tortoise too much). He had this really old wind-up stop watch. And I can picture his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal a weathered forearm with a tattoo of a mermaid melted into his skin like a doodle on blotting paper. I could always smell my Nan’s lavender soap off his hands, mingling with his aftershave and the freshly mown grass, as me and Jenny sat cross legged on the lawn, counting down from five to one (in Thunderbirds style) before screaming ‘Alfie is go’ and getting to work with the lettuce, until one of us won and was awarded with one of Grandad’s special golden toffees.

The waking of Alfie from her hibernation became an annual ritual, on a par with Easter and Christmas. Every other weekend we would go round to my Nan and Grandad’s bungalow and persistently badger them to wake Alfie up. “Is it time yet Grandad? It’s warm enough now.” And each week Reggie would get all fierce and say, “You keep away from that bloody greenhouse.” He had a habit of swearing when my mum wasn’t there, which me, Max and Jenny actually found quite thrilling.

One March, I must have been eight or nine, I guess, I decided I was old enough to have a quick peek at Alfie. Mum and dad had taken Jenny to a dance competition, and Max was round at a friend’s house, so I was on my own in the garden, and my Grandad was up a step ladder painting the bathroom.

Seizing the opportunity, I unhooked the greenhouse door and carefully slid it open, shivering with excitement as it grated against small stones in the runner. Then I sidled over to Alfie’s box. The box was on it’s side, and I could sense straight away that something was wrong. I slid my hand into the shredded paper and straw inside but could feel nothing but cardboard. My heart thumping I turned the box up onto it’s base and peered in. It was empty.

Guiltily, I pushed the box back onto its side and rushed into the house and down the hall to the bathroom. I knocked on the door.

“Grandad, can I have a look at Alfie.”

“No, I’ve told you not ‘til next week, mate.”

“Yea, but can I just have a look now.”

“Nooo.” He sounded tetchy. “Go and see mum,” (meaning my Nan).

I pushed open the door and clattered it against the step ladder.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” muttered Reggie, who was reaching over the bath to dab a bit of magnolia under the corner shelf where my Nan kept a vast array of Yardley toiletries. I took a deep breath.

“Grandad, Alfie’s gone.”

He looked down at me, puzzled and annoyed.

“What do you mean?”

I looked down at my feet, and started to blush.

“Jesus wept!”

Grandad jumped down from his step ladder, and hurled his paint brush onto the old sheet he’d used to cover the bathroom floor. Then he pushed roughly past me and strode down the hall cursing. “If anything’s happened to that fucking tortoise...”

Ten seconds later he was back inside, seething with rage. I’d never seen him like that before.

“What have you done with Alfie?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I whined. “I just went to look and he wasn’t there. Honest.”

Grandad looked like he was about to explode. He gripped me by both shoulders. And his hands really hurt.

“I’m not going to ask you again. What have you done with her?”

“Nothing, I just wanted to look and...”

He gripped me even harder and I dissolved into tears.

“Reggie?” my Nan suddenly appeared from the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

“He’s lost the ruddy tortoise.” Grandad started to shake me, like a lurcher with a baby rabbit.

“Reggie!” My Nan shouted and grabbed my Grandad’s arm. He pulled roughly away from her and - accidentally on purpose, I think - thwacked the side of my face. I fell over. Reggie stormed out of the front door, and my Nan gathered me to her chest as I sobbed hysterically.

Normally, I would have shuddered at the thought of my Nan so much as giving me a peck on the cheek. But as she cuddled me and stroked my hair, I dissolved into her bosom like a three-year-old, whimpering “Alfie, Alfie,” over and over again.

After a few minutes, Nan dried my eyes with corner of her apron, gave me a clean handkerchief to blow my nose into, then did me some squash and a Mint Club as we waited for Grandad to return.

We heard him at the front door about half-an-hour later (although it seemed like about three days). I hid in the kitchen as my Nan went to meet him. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen but then my Nan’s face appeared through the serving hatch. She was grinning like she’d just won a Yardley gift box in a raffle.

“Your grandad’s got something to show you.”

I hurried into the dining room, and there was Reggie sitting proudly at the dinner table, with Alfie walking slowly across the table cloth. Grandad looked at me, I looked at him and we were both so elated at Alfie’s return, I just ran over and threw my arms round him. He put an arm round my shoulder and gave me a massive hug.

“You know what I went down Grange Road, into Pepper Lane and all the way round Saltern Close looking in the bloody hedge, and do you know where I found her?”

I shook my head.

“Only in the bloody greenhouse. Hiding she was, hiding in the grass collector. Silly girl.” He relased my shoulder and gently stroked the back of Alfie’s shell.

My Nan looked slightly puzzled.

“In the grass collecter?”

“You know the bucket that goes on the front of the lawn mower. Beneath all the dried bits she was!”

Nan looked at me.

“Did you put her there Newton?”

“No,” I protested, eyes pricking with tears again. “I never touched her.”

Grandad looked at Nan. She looked at me. And I looked at grandad.

“Oh well,” said Reggie gruffly. “There’s no sense crying about it now. Alfie’s back and you mum’ll be here soon. We don’t want her to see you like this hey?” He chuckled. “Now you sort yourself out and I’ll go and pop Alfie back.” Then he looked across at my Nan. “And you better do something about his face.”

Grandma held a fresh cold flannel against the swelling on my cheek, while I watched Grandad dig earth into a hollow beside the greenhouse, and stuff gaps with screwed up pages from the News of the World. Then my mum and dad arrived with Jenny. I could hear my Nan talking to mum in the kitchen.

When my mum came into get me, she held my chin in her hand and looked at the mark on my face.

“I’ve told you not to climb those trees,” she said. “I told you, you’d fall off one day and now look.”

I looked up at Nan. She scurried off into the kitchen, while Grandad stayed out in the garden, digging his vegetable patch.

When we left, Nan gave me a whole bag of grandad’s golden toffees.

“These’ll help you feel better,” she said.

I smiled sadly and nodded. It didn’t matter, anyway. Alfie was back. That was the main thing.

pimply pale pyhton

Resisting the temptation to share a spliff or two with Paul, I spent the evening watching European footie on telly in my room. Next day I was up bright and early, feeling very virtuous, and caught the bus into town to buy a pair of trunks. I got back just in time to catch the lunchtime lane swim at Sidney Preece Sports and Leisure. That was when things started to go a bit prickly (as in prickly pear cactus, as in decidedly pear shaped)!

The Sidney Preece Pool was inside a huge glass extension that had been tagged onto the original sport centre in the mid-1980s like some vast municipal conservatory. It was a bright, clear day and the poolside was flooded with light. For most people this would have been a good thing. But when you’ve just suffered a serious dose of depression and have not sunbathed or exercised properly for a couple of years, the last thing you want is light and space.

As I squeezed into my new black lycra Speedos, I yearned for the old style sports centres with their gloomy labyrinths of lockers and cubicles and the dank brick-walled pools like flooded barns. The receptionist at the swim centre had not helped my mood either. Sensing my nervousness, she’d spoken to me really slowly, emphasising each syllable, as if I had special needs.

“The swim session is from twelve fifteen to one fifteen, that’s one hour, OK? Here’s a token which you can put in the locker to help you keep your things safe. Bring it back to me after you’ve swum and I’ll give you your pound back OK?”

Yea, I thought, and ‘be careful, the water is wet’, you patronising old cow.

I realised, as I put the change in my pocket that the receptionist had charged me the discounted rate for the unemployed and disabled. Great. After I’d got changed, I decided to have a quick piss before I got in the pool. I didn’t really need one, I just guessed there’d be mirrors in the toilet area, and I wanted to check my appearance, to see if I really did look work-shy and/or simple.

I really wish I hadn’t bothered. I was not a pretty sight - skinny as a sixteen-year-old and white as a vampire, with that hairy inner tube of lager and pies spilling over my tight black trunks - a pimply, pale python who’d swallowed a bike tyre. I almost didn’t make it into the water. Luckily, there weren’t many people about to see me, as I hurried to the poolside. And after I’d done a couple of lengths I started to feel a bit better.

The good thing about swimming (even more so than running) is that your mind goes totally blank. It’s as if all your blood gets diverted to your arms and legs and heart and lungs and there’s none left for your brain, and so you go into auto pilot. You just pull and kick against the water, take a gulp of air and immerse yourself again, over and over and over, until you’re no longer conscious of who, what or where you are. You just swim.

After I’d done a few lengths, I surfaced spluttering at the deep end, and heard a commotion in the changing area - a clatter of lockers and excited shrieking. Suddenly, about fifty teenage schoolgirls appeared wearing matching blue swim suits.

It was the kind of scene I’d sometimes conjured up on lonely nights when I couldn’t sleep. Unfortunately, the girls were a little bit younger than the ones in my dreams - about thirteen or fourteen I guessed. Also, in those dreams I’m a gold skinned Adonis who all women from fifteen to fifty find irresistible, not a pimply, pale python, bedraggled and panting as I tried not to loose my grip on the end of the pool.

Determined to impress, I broke into a futile attempt at front crawl, while the schoolgirls leapt into the water like lycra clad lemmings. Suddenly it was like a scene from my Triathlon and Adventure Racer magazine. One hundred thrashing arms, as the schoolgirls steamed past me, tearing my ego to shreds with a pirahnalike frenzy of youthful vitality. Just when I thought I couldn’t feel any more pathetic. I heard one of the lifeguards shouting out.

“Oi you. Get out of there, now!”

I assumed one of the school girls was doing something dangerous, dive bombing or ducking. The lifeguard continued to holler. I paused at the end of the pool, and looked around. The lifeguard was pointing at me. I pointed to myself and look enquiringly at the lifeguard, whose physique resembled that of an Olympic freestyler. He beckoned at me with a muscular, tanned forearm.

“Are you deaf mate? Get out now!”

Confused, I eased myself from the water and walked round the pool edge, flabby and dripping. The fifty school girls watched silently, then started to giggle. As I reached the lifeguard, I held my hands up in confusion. He tapped his watch. I looked at the clock on the wall. It was definitely still only twelve forty-five.

“I thought the session lasted till one fifteen?”

“It’s Tuesday,” he said.

I looked bemused.

“School swim,” he said.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know. The lady in reception said....”

No flicker of emotion showed on the lifeguard’s face. He just turned and strutted back to his raised chair, with a wink to one of the more shapely fourteen-year-olds.

“Pervert,” shouted some pubescent comedian (although I’m sure the comment was aimed at me not the lifeguard).

As the laughter of fifty schoolgirls echoed around the pool, I scuttled back to the changing area. Then I hurried home, too embarrassed even to claim back the pound on my locker.

a swift one

“How’s training going?” asked Paul, as I dripped into the kitchen clutching my swimming gear.

I grimaced. “Don’t ask.”

He’d just lit up a large spliff, and I gratefully accepted it from him. I took a long hard toke, savouring the rush as the smoke burned into my lungs, then passed it back, immediately feeling much better.

“Fancy coming for a pint tonight then? We were going to have a bit of a session down at the Albert.”

“I was meant to be going for tea with my mum. I haven’t seen her for ages.”

“Oh well. If you fancy a swift one on the way.”

“Yea, why not,” I said. I smiled as the gear reached my head, caressing my brain like a warm cat. “Why not indeed?” I purred.

I’d decided that the Hellathon was a crazy idea. OK, I could jog a couple of miles. But I was a crap swimmer and hadn’t even been on a bike for five years. The only reason I’d even considered giving it a go was to try and impress Sophie. But I knew she didn’t fancy me. So what was the point?

I decided I’d ring my mum and postpone my dinner engagement until the weekend, then go out and get shitfaced with Paul. I’d do a couple more weeks at Bakers and Macey, and then look around for something new. I didn’t know quite what. But, Christ, there had to be some alternative out there somewhere.

I padded downstairs in my socks to use the pay phone. But when I picked up the receiver, the display flashed 999 Only.

Then I saw the landlord had tucked a note into the phone.

Coin release mechanism jammed again!!!!! Do not press coin release button when call has been answered!!!! Phone out of order until further notice!!!!!

Shit. Rumbled again.

I wandered down to the phone box at the corner, but some git had set fire to it, and the hand set had gone all Salvador Dali. Still, I took the opportunity to stock up on pies and Stella from the Spar.

When I got back to the house, I borrowed Paul’s mobile, promising to pay for the call to my mum’s. But first it was engaged. Then five minutes later there was no answer. I decided I’d ring from the pub. I knew it’d be short notice. But, hey, I’d tried my best.

When we arrived at the Albert I discovered there was a band on. They were called Catesby (after Robert Catesby, who led the gunpowder plot). Really, Catesby should have been more famous than Guy Fawkes, but he got killed resisting capture - which is why we have a Guy on our bonfires not a Robert. Which is just as well, as it would seem funny saying ‘a penny for the Robert’, although a ‘bob for the Bob’ might work.

According to Paul, Catesby were a ‘neoanarchist folk band in the Levellers mould.’ But I really didn’t give a fuck if they were thrash metal Peruvian panpipers. I just wanted to get through to mum and cancel dinner, so that I could drink myself into oblivion with a clearer conscience.

I tried the phone by the bar. But the place was packed and I could hardly hear myself over the punk anthems that blared out from an array of wall mounted speakers. Not that it made much difference as mum’s number was permanently engaged. I gave up in the end and joined the queue for drinks.

“Bloody Jenny,” I said as I sat down beside Paul with our pints. “Her boyfriend’s moved to Bristol. She’ll be on the phone at least until nine.” I took a sip of my Kronenbourg. “Maybe I’d better nip over there after I’ve sunk this one. Then pop back later.”

Paul frowned. “I wouldn’t worry about it mate. You’ve been trying to get through to them all afternoon. It’s not your problem.”

“Yea, I guess not,” I sighed, and gulped guiltily at my pint.

I stayed for another and was just leaving the pub, when I felt this tug at my arm. I looked around, expecting to see Paul, and there she was. I didn’t recognise her at first - partly because of the large amounts of alcohol and cannabinoid chemicals swilling round my head, and partly because her hair had grown longer, and she was wearing much more make-up than usual and a figure-hugging jumper. Then, with a surge of excitement, I realised it was Samantha, Samantha Hughes from college.

“Bloody hell,” I said. “You look fantastic.” I was so pleased to see her, I gave her a huge hug. She held me for a few seconds and I could feel her heart thumping through her top, or maybe it was mine. Either way, I sensed a frisson of unexpected chemistry.

“You’re not going are you?” she said, when we finally eased apart.

“Well, I was just nipping out for a few minutes. Are you going to be here for a while?”

“I don’t know,” she said vaguely, “I’m with some friends.” She acted non-plussed (but still appeared slightly flushed).

I looked at my watch. It was half-eight.

“Do you fancy a quick one?”

She raised her eyebrows.

“I meant a drink,” I said.

She pulled a disappointed face.

“Ohhh. I thought you were finally going to make me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” She smiled. I smiled back. She steered me to the bar, her hand half on my back, half on my bum.

An hour and three pints later, we were still standing together watching the band. She had her back to me, and was really getting into the groove, her bum pushing against my groin with every beat of the bass. I tapped my foot and swayed enthusiastically back and forth, fuelled by alcohol. If we’d been naked, she’d be expecting triplets by now. But it was half-past nine and I knew I really should be making my way round to my mum’s. There was a lull between songs and I leaned down to holler in her ear.

“I’m sorry. It’s really great being here with you, but I need to make a move in a bit.”

She turned round. “Why?”

“Well I promised my mum I’d pop in and see my grandad.” I grinned. “I was meant to be there at seven thirty.”

“You’re a bit late,” she hollered back at me.

“Yea.” I grinned. “I got distracted.”

“What?”

“I got a bit distracted.” I shouted louder.

“By what?”

“Oh I don’t know.” I looked around the room, as if searching for something. Then I reached forward to tickle her beneath the ribs.

She squirmed and reached back to grab my hand.

“Get off,” she said, giggling, but she didn’t let go of me, and started to caress the soft skin on the underside of my wrist.

Mum, Grandad, Sophie. Mum, Grandad, Sophie...

Names and faces marched through my mind like nagging nuns. But then I felt the swell of Sam’s full breast press against me through her soft blue jumper. She was all nipples and warmth and arse. Mum, Grandad and Sophie were losing the battle. I knew I couldn’t just not turn up for dinner, and I liked Sophie so much. But I couldn’t resist. I’d had three spliffs, five pints and I needed someone. I drew Sam tighter to me, feeling her ribs against my flexed forearms. I softly kissed the back of her neck and whispered,

“Shall we go?”

We made our way hand-in-hand through the crowd. Outside the Albert we kissed again, properly this time. Her breasts and crotch pushed into me. My head spun and my cock flooded with warm treacle.

I’d forgotten all about mum and grandad never mind Sophie or even Paul, who‘d search for me in vain come closing time. I didn’t give a shit. I was on my way to heaven, stiffening against Sam’s squirming crease. Someone wolf whistled. Our passion had passed the legal limits for a crowded public place. But we were both too pissed to care.

Sam’s house was only ten minutes walk away (and even stopping for a couple of snogs) we managed to do it in five. Not a word was spoken as we climbed the stairs to her bedroom. I slipped my hand onto her bum, and slid two fingers against her soft cords, rubbing between her bottom and her pussy. We almost ran into her room, and leaving the door half open, we fell onto the bed, sucking at each others mouths like starving piranhas.

Her thighs were wide open and it was like we were fucking with our clothes on. I turned her over, unbuttoned her pale beige cords and pulled them down to her knees. She was wearing a thong. It wasn’t fancy or frilly, but a large damp patch seeped out from her excited pussy, and I could see the pinkness of her lips play against the stretched cotton as she gyrated.

Her movements became stronger as I pressed my hand against her wet gusset, pushing her lips apart and rubbing the fabric against her swollen clit. Sam bent over further as I pulled her trousers down to her ankles. I pulled her thong to one side and her gaping cunt looked like a burst pasty. I greedily spread her flaps and got stuck in. My tongue was everywhere - her bum hole, her clit, deep inside her cunt. I didn’t care and she loved it.

We manoeuvred round so that her thighs were spread wide above my face, and her head was directly over my groin. She unzipped my trousers and, I swear, her pussy quivered as she slipped her hand down the front of my pants to grip my stiff shaft. As she took the swollen head of my cock in her mouth, I reached up to spread her juices between her clit and her arsehole. She sucked harder and I slipped a finger into her bum, filling her cunt with my thumb and reaching beneath her jumper to feel her breasts bounce against my palm.

She started to moan and move back and forth more violently, sliding up and down on my finger and thumb. I eased myself from beneath her, then kneeling behind her I slipped my cock into her pussy. She was hot and tight, but opened up easily and I buried myself up to the hilt. I sat back until my heels touched my arse, and she was speared in my lap. I reached inside her jumper once more to smear my slippery fingers over her nipples, and reached down to finger her clit.

“You fucking bastard,” she said, “you total fucking bastard.” But I think she meant it as a compliment, and she rode harder and harder, and I fingered her faster and faster until she exploded on me, a dam-burst of hot stickiness pouring out as I bucked beneath her, the rim of my swollen head rubbing against the top wall of her flexing cunt until I shot my load, and her arse spasmed against my thighs like maybe she’d come again. And we collapsed on the bed wrapped in warm waves of mutual relief, and gratefully fell asleep...

So here I am the next morning, watching the rosebuds on Sam’s wallpaper slowly spin on their briars. I know, I don’t really love her, the way I could love someone like Sophie. But I’m glad I’m here. I am. And, to be honest, the only guilt I feel is that I never turned up at my mum’s. But I guess grandad will understand. From the rumours I’ve heard, I guess, given the choice, he’d have done the same.