sparklers

Still wearing his school trousers and shirt beneath the long green coat which hung down almost to his knees, Ian propped the bike up against the wall of the house and scraped open the side gate.

"Half an hour," his mum shouted from the kitchen, her voice muffled by bricks and boiling saucepans.

"Yea," he shouted, scraping the gate shut and wheeling the bike across next door's drive and onto the pavement outside the house. Before sitting on the thin saddle, he tucked the coat in beneath his bum, partly for extra padding and partly to prevent the dangling fabric from catching in the spokes or chain. He'd wanted to wear his black jacket with the badges, but his mum said it was too dangerous.

"Wear the coat," she'd shouted, as he'd sneaked out through the front door. "The cars won't see you otherwise."

Ian'd gone back upstairs to his room taken his jacket off and slung it on top of his rucksack in the middle of his unmade bed. He'd taken a couple of the badges off his jacket and stuck them on the coat. But they did little to improve it.

The coat was so awful he'd almost not bothered to go out in the end. But having gone down to the shed to look at the bike he couldn't resist the temptation to have a quick ride round the estate.

Even though it wasn't yet properly dark, Ian, unable to ignore his mum's anxiety, switched his lights on. The front one was brand new and instantly snapped on satisfyingly bright. The back light, a scratched grey plastic affair which had come with the bike, was less satisfying. Even though he'd bought a couple of new Duracels and spent a good half hour on Sunday evening using his penknife to scrape the rust from the contacts inside the casing, it still took a couple of hefty thwacks from his small fist before it flickered on.

Looking back over his shoulder to check that the weak red glow didn't fade away completely, Ian set off down towards the other side of the estate where new houses were being built and mounds of earth had been piled-up, perfect for practising wheelies.

Ian hadn't had a bike for years (unless you counted his old green Raleigh, which was much too small to ride properly and had been buried beneath junk at the back of the garage since they'd moved into the new house). The 'new' bike, a third-hand ten-speed racer, had been given to Ian's dad by someone he worked with at the new office. When Ian had first seen the bike in pieces in the boot of the Marina, he hadn't been overly excited. But, once the bike had been reassembled on the patio in the light from the kitchen window, and he'd had a chance to wobble up and down the drive on it a couple of times, clanking awkwardly through the gears, he was filled with an unexpected burst of pleasure. That night, he'd lain in bed for quite a long time grinning as he imagined all the places he could go. And since his first ride early the next morning he'd been out on it almost every day.

Although the beginnings of rush-hour traffic had started to build up, Ian decided to take the bike quickly round the two-mile circuit of roads surrounding the estate. As usual, he turned left out of the estate, nervously checking that the rear light was still on and cycled close to the gutter towards the bottom of the hill.

The first part of the hill was quite easy - a gentle slope that flattened off into a brief plateau by the newsagents and the Spar. Looking over his shoulder, he pedalled round a blue Cortina, which was parked half on the pavement, then stood up on the pedals, building up momentum as he prepared for the steeper part of the climb. He only just made it, jerking from side to side, calf muscles (tired from break-time football) straining tighter and tighter as he focused on the oak tree that marked the brow of the hill.

He imagined the tree was a powerful magnet attracting the bike's metal towards it. But even so, he was struggling by the time he reached the top and enjoyed the slow, breath-steadying pedal along the hill's narrow brow. As he tucked his flapping coat tails back beneath his bum, a lorry came up behind, brakes hissing. Ian obligingly increased his speed to reach the corner where the road widened, pulling in to let it overtake him. The driver waved and Ian leaned forward to follow the lorry down the other side of the hill.

He freewheeled, chin on handlebars, with the air rushing faster and colder against his face, until he reached the bend at the bottom of the hill, where with a screech of brakes, he skidded an 'angelwing' into a wide gravel drive shared by three posh-looking houses. In one of the houses dogs barked and a curtain twitched, but he was already gone, rapidly pedalling along the quiet side lane that wound slowly back up and round towards the council estate where he bumped up the curb and disappeared into its anonymous maze of paths and cul-de-sacs.

It was still quite light and Ian decided, before going home, he would make a quick detour to the building site to ride the mounds of earth. He was pedalling slowly along the footpath, lazily dodging dropped glass and dog turds, when suddenly a boy jumped out in front of him. The boy was about the same size as Ian - perhaps slightly shorter and wider, but only slightly. The boy's hair looked as if it had been dipped in motor oil - a greasy fringe touched his eyebrows and it straggled down to his collar at the back. He wore dark school trousers similar to Ian's and tatty black trainers with two white stripes down the side. Although the evening was turning quite chilly, the boy wasn't wearing a jacket or even a jumper. The top two buttons of his blue shirt were undone and his were sleeves rolled up as if were the middle of summer.

There was something rather menacing about the boy, as he stood blocking Ian's path. It wasn't that he exuded the aggression of a fighter nor the slow, witless cruelty of a bully. But there was a kind of wildness about him, the kind of untamed, unpampered quality which distinguishes stray cats from those who sleep in jumper-lined boxes and are fed daily with fresh milk. He immediately reminded Ian of a character from Lord of the Flies (which they'd just been reading at school) - one of those boys who'd turned savage after being stranded on a desert island for a few weeks.

"Give us a go on your bike then," said the boy, gripping the middle of the handlebars with his free hands, his legs straddling the front tyre.

"I've got to get home," said Ian. "Sorry." With his feet on the ground he tried to 'walk' the bike backwards but the boy's grip didn't yield. It were as if the wheels had been glued to the tarmac. Ian was suddenly conscious of how sweaty he'd become after struggling up the hill, his shirt feeling cold and wet against his ribs.

"Get off," he said, reaching out to try and prise the boy's fingers from his handle bars. But the boy's grip was like iron. He just stood there, showing no sign of strain or discomfort as Ian tried unsuccessfully to loosen the hold with his own skinny fingers. After a few moments Ian grabbed hold of the boy's wrist and tried to pull the hand free that way, but the boy just stood there, implacable as before. Ian leaned forward to grab the boy's bare forearm with both hands, and suddenly the boy let go, causing Ian to fall sideways, the bike crashing down between his thighs. Before Ian knew what was happening, the boy had pulled the bike from beneath him and was sitting astride it.

"Hoi, get off," said Ian struggling to his feet, but the boy just laughed and pedalled off down the path pulling the biggest wheelie that Ian had ever seen, the front wheel a good three feet off the ground as the boy leaned back, arm outstretched to one side, mimicking a cowboy on a bucking bronco.

Ian gave chase down paths and across cul-de-sacs, yelling: "Stop, stop. Give it back." But the boy just ignored him. After a couple of hundred yards, Ian gave up shouting and just concentrated on trying to keep up with the bike, the old coat slapping against his knees and flapping out behind him as he ran.

As the boy headed out of the estate and up the main road, Ian trailed further and further behind, his sprint slowing to a jog and then a walk as the flickering red glow of the rear light disappeared up the hill. He soldiered on, slow and despondent, ignoring the traffic that rushed past him in the darkness, picturing dad's face when he told him the bike had gone.

"What do you mean someone took it?" he imagined dad say. "Where on earth did you leave it?" He tried to think up some excuse. He knew that dad couldn't afford to buy him a new bike.

It wouldn't have been so bad if it had been new. If his parents had been able to afford a new bike in the first place, they would probably just have scolded him and claimed a replacement off the house insurance. And it wouldn't have mattered. However, things were never that simple in Ian's family. There were principles involved. For starters, it hadn't cost anything, so his dad would not claim for it off the insurance, even if he could. He was too honest, too honest for his own good his mum had said when dad had finally lost his old job after refusing to get involved in some dishonest business transaction.

Although Ian didn't know exactly what it was all about he'd often heard his parents arguing about it in low voices at night.

"What about us?" his mum would say. "What happens to us if you have no money? Aren't we being exploited?"

"I'm sorry. I just couldn't do it," he'd say. "Someone had to take a stand."

"But why does it always have to be you?" his mum would say.

"I'm sorry," his dad would say. "I just couldn't."

They'd been having the same argument for months until dad finally got the new job. He'd been so pleased. Ian remembered his dad waltzing in through the door after the interview with a huge smirk, a bunch of fresh carnations and a Chinese take away. He'd had the same smirk on his face that day he'd brought the bike home in the boot of the Marina. How could Ian tell him it had gone?

To lose the bike was bad enough. For it to have been physically taken from him, was just too much. He'd rather tell dad he'd left it somewhere than admit some other kid had ridden off on it.

He trudged miserably on up the hill, not really going anywhere, but not wanting to return home. He was in tears by the time he reached the shops. He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of the coat, his lungs leaden from all that running and sobbing, the coldness of the night and the hopelessness of his situation. Then, like a miracle, outside the Spar he saw it; his bike, the lights still on, just leaning there.

He dashed over to it, hardly able to believe his luck.

Filled with relief, Ian's tears turned to anger, and, glancing back over his shoulder to check that no one else was about who might take the bike, he stormed into the shop. He saw the boy by the counter. There was nobody serving and the boy was reaching out to the tobacco display to grab a pack of Embassy King Size.

"Hoi," shouted Ian. "You bloody thief."

The boy turned round unashamedly slipping a pack of fags into his trouser pocket. He didn't seem worried to see Ian. In fact he seemed relieved that it wasn't someone else who'd seen him stealing the cigarettes. The boy winked and grinned.

"I was just coming to find you," he said.

Ian angrily pushed the boy in the chest.

"Bloody thief," he said.

"Leave off will ya," he said, nodding his head towards a tired looking lady in a blue cleaner's overall, who emerged through a doorway of coloured plastic strips at the back of the shop. She was holding two pint cartons of milk and an unopened box containing forty-eight packets of Trebor mints.

"I knew we had some somewhere," she said in a very broad Westingshire accent. She smiled and put the milk down on the counter. "Anything else?"

"No that's it please," said the boy sweetly.

She tapped at the till.

"Right," she said tearing open the box of peppermints and putting a couple of rolls on the counter. "That's eighty four pence, all together."

The boy delved in his trouser pockets and his face fell.

"Oh no, I've lost my money," he said. He looked on the floor, eyes frantically searching for dropped coins. "She'll kill me."

The lady behind the counter looked worried.

"How much have you lost," she asked.

"About a quid," he said.

The lady looked as if she were about to offer to buy the milk for him, then thought better of it

She turned to Ian enquiringly, as the boy scrabbled frantically on the floor looking for coins.

"Oh yea right," said Ian, feeling guilty (even though he hadn't actually done anything wrong). "I'll just have a pack of peppermints please."

The woman looked at him suspiciously, as if he might have a week's shopping concealed under the folds and flaps of his oversized coat.

"Are you sure that's all?" she asked.

Ian felt his cheeks burn red as he nodded and handed over sixteen pence. He took the peppermints and hurriedly left the shop. The boy followed him still looking at the floor muttering, "She's going to kill me."

As soon as he got outside the shop, the boy took one of the boxes of cigarettes from his pocket. With a grin he ripped off the cellophane wrapper and tossed it onto the concrete next to the Walls ice cream litter bin. He offered Ian the packet. Although Ian had never smoked in his life before he took a cigarette. He held it awkwardly and lifted his bike up.

A few moments earlier he'd felt like half-killing the boy. But suddenly all his anger had vanished and he actually felt quite sorry for the boy, especially as he'd lost all his money.

"What's your mum going to say?" asked Ian, as they walked together, wheeling the bike down road back towards the estate.

"What about?" asked the boy.

"About the milk?" said Ian.

The boy looked at Ian in astonishment.

"You thick shite," he said.

He took a red plastic lighter from his pocket and paused, turning his back to the breeze, to light his cigarette.

"But what about the money you lost?" asked Ian.

"I never had no bloody money," said the boy patiently as if struggling to explain simple arithmetic to an imbecile.

"Oh right," said Ian. He smiled uncomfortably, suddenly understanding the boy's deception. "Right," he said, pretending to be impressed. "Nice one."

The boy grinned.

"Want a light?" he asked.

"Oh, yea," said Ian, not wanting to accept but not knowing how to refuse the offer. He lifted the cigarette to between his lips, trembling as the lighter's flame danced between the boys hands cupped in front of his face. The end of the cigarette glowed briefly then went out. The boy repeated the gesture and again the cigarette went out.

"Give it here," he said impatiently, pulling the cigarette from Ian's mouth and lighting it with his own half-burnt fag end. He gave it back to Ian.

"Thanks," said Ian politely. He stuck the cigarette between his lips and removed it quickly without inhaling, hoping that the boy wouldn't notice.

They reached the edge of the estate.

"I better get home," said Ian.

"Where do you live?" asked the boy.

"Number 43," said Ian. "Lansbury Way, it's the main road that runs through the middle of the..."

"I know," cut in the boy. "I'm not thick or nothing."

"No, I know," mumbled Ian.

The boy started to walk away.

"My name's Ian," by the way, Ian called after him.

The boy stopped and turned. He had a last drag on his cigarette and flicked it into the gutter. Ian copied him, spilling ash onto the sleeve of the coat as the half-smoked cigarette spun quite successfully from his fingers into the road.

"Justin," said the boy prodding himself in the chest. He took out another cigarette and lit-up slowly before strolling casually away.

"See ya," said Ian and wheeled the bike home, sucking peppermints.

"Where have you been," his mum asked, waiting for him as he came in through the back door. "You've been gone over an hour."

"I went to get some Trebor mints," he said, not minding being shouted at now that he'd got the bike back and had safely locked it in the shed.

"I thought I told you no sweets until the weekend."

"Sorry mum," mumbled Ian. "I forgot."

His mum sniffed at him as he pulled the coat off.

"Have you been smoking."

No of course not he said.

"There was people smoking in the shop," he said looking away. "I had to wait for ages because this boy had dropped his money. I helped him look for it."

"What boy?" said his mother.

"Justin something or other," I said.

His mother looked at him disbelieving.

"Who's this then, someone who goes to your school?"

"No," said Ian. "He lives over on the other estate."

She turned her nose up, disapprovingly.

"Well, I hope you don't make a habit of going over there," she said.

"No," said Ian.

"And I hope this Justin boy wasn't smoking," she said.

"No, of course not," he said, and went to hang his dad's coat up, three peppermints dissolving beneath his tongue.

Ian didn't see Justin again until the weekend, Saturday lunchtime to be precise. Ian's brother had got up early and taken the bike to go and see some friend who lived miles away. His sister had gone shopping with his mum and dad and he was alone at home, slumped on the carpet in front of the settee, wearing his blue tracksuit top and birthday jeans (the trendy, black ones), flicking the TV between cartoons, pop videos and an Open University engineering module on suspension bridges.

His parents were as usual arguing when they got home, snapping at each other as they carried bags of shopping in from the car. Lorraine disappeared upstairs with the latest issue of Just Seventeen (which she read every month even though she was just thirteen). Ian went into the kitchen to help pack the shopping away, grabbing a pack of Wotsits from one of the bags and hiding them in the inside pocket of his tracksuit top.

He went to the boiler cupboard by the front door and slipped on his dirty, green flash tennis shoes (which were, according to his mum, a cheap and practical alternative to the 'overpriced and garish' trainers that everyone else had) and went outside.

The bonnet of the Marina was up, and his dad was bent over the engine, hands delving into its oily mechanical innards. His mum was standing next to the car, holding a roll of kitchen paper. They were arguing about a clunking noise the car made in third gear which his mum said she could definitely hear and which his dad said he definitely couldn't.

"Where are you going?" his mum asked as Ian walked past.

Ian shrugged.

"Just out," he said.

"Well I hope you're not thinking of going over the road," she said snootily (meaning the council estate).

"No," said Ian belligerently (meaning he might or he might not, depending on whether there was a game of football on over there or not).

"Just leave the boy alone," said his Dad from beneath the bonnet.

"Fine," said his mum angrily, turning her back on Ian. "Just do what you like then."

Ian sauntered off, his mum shouting after him, "And keep away from those new houses," as he headed towards the building site.

Ian turned and raised his hand (to signal that he'd heard what she'd said) murmuring to himself that he was never, ever, ever, ever going to get married.

The building site was always deserted at weekends. Stacks of bricks and timber covered in tarpaulins were piled carelessly around half built houses. And yellow diggers rested on rutted tracks beside oil drums of smouldering ashes. The houses were all detached four bedroomed affairs, for which planning permission had been granted just as the economy started to shrivel. The construction of the houses seemed to have taken for ever - slow and chaotic like a film of an explosion played, frame-by-frame, in reverse.

Normally, Ian would never had dared venture onto a building site, but it had been there so many weeks it had become like a permanent fixture, a public amenity, an unguarded adventure playground with its own cycle track and assault course of scaffolding, half-built stairs and roof beams.

Checking that none of the killjoys who lived nearby were watching from behind their net curtains, Ian climbed the mound of earth at the edge of the site and followed a walkway of wooden planks over the mud to the hidden arena between the houses; an anarchic paradise which offered a range of activities - wall hurdling, putty modelling, brick hurling, timber tossing, puddle jumping and more.

Generally, quite a few kids gathered there at the weekend to muck around away from the prying eyes of sensible adults. But it was midday and everyone else was inside eating soup and sandwiches or whatever it was they had for lunch. Ian went into one of the houses which had a broken door and climbed the stairs to what would eventually become a bedroom. Leaning out of the unglazed window frame, he peered between the houses that were being built opposite, and across to the main road.

Justin was half-sitting, half-leaning, about fifty yards away, against the green sign that said Lansbury Way. He was wearing the same black trousers and blue shirt he'd had on the night he'd taken Ian's bike, and was smoking a cigarette.

"Hoi," shouted Ian. "Hoi, Justin."

At first, Justin didn't (or pretended not to) hear Ian calling out to him, so Ian whistled. He couldn't do a proper wolf whistle with his fingers in his mouth, but it was still quite a loud whistle which carried above the rooftops and made Justin turn around.

Justin gazed across at the nearby houses and then shifted his focus to the building site, moving his head slowly back and forth like a submarine periscope. His eyes met Ian's twice before the slow swing of his head suddenly halted and (with feigned surprise) he pointed up at Ian as if to say, 'so there you are.' He took one last, long drag on his cigarette, dropped the stub in the short grass by the Lansbury Way sign and trod it into the dirt. Hands in pockets he made his way over towards the building site, past the neat private lawns and Volvo estates, with the swagger of a navvy who's been invited to the architect's ball.

After greeting each other (rather sheepishly) they played a variety of brick throwing games. Justin was by far the stronger of the two, and excelled at lobbing bricks clean over the houses into the fields beyond. Ian's attempts at long distance throwing generally resulted in failure. And Justin jeered and whooped with laughter as tiles rained down, guttering split and bricks shattered. However, Ian had quite a good aim and managed to beat Justin three times out of five when they skimmed tiles (like Frisbees) into an oil drum of smouldering ashes.

Justin said he was bored then, so they went and sat in the cab of the JCB for a while, relishing the mechanical smell of metal, plastic and oil, taking it in turns to clunk the levers back and forth. When it came to Ian's second turn to take the controls, Justin jumped down from the cab and went to explore the houses. He came back a few minutes later clutching a tin.

"Glue," he said gleefully. "Come on."

Without realising what Justin wanted the glue for, Ian jumped down and followed him through the mud to the edge of the building site, which backed onto a small field where a couple of dirty, long haired ponies, hoof deep in mud, lazily chewed weeds and stripped the bark from trees with their yellow teeth.

Between the back of the houses and the ponies' field was a long hedge of holly, hawthorn and hazel, which Ian followed Justin into. They crawled on stomachs, like soldiers on an assault course, through a snagging tunnel of briars which led to a dark holly-domed cave of bare earth deep within the hedge.

"This place is great," said Ian, panting and sweeping away spiny brown leaves to make himself a place to sit. Justin said nothing. He picked up a piece of twig and greedily levered the lid from the tin, filling the holly-dome with the head-spinning stench of industrial strength glue.

"That stuff stinks," said Ian. "What did you bring it in here for?"

"What do you think?" said Justin. He wafted the pungent vapours from the tin towards his face, nostrils flaring with pleasure like a wine connoisseur above a glass of particularly fine Chardonnay. "This stuff's the business," he said pulling a clear polythene bag from his pocket. "Come on give us a hand."

He passed the bag to Ian who held it scrunched up in his hand.

"Come on hold it fucking open," said Justin, his eyes bright and excited as a boy on a birthday morning impatient to open his presents.

Ian did as he was told and Justin slopped a dollop of golden treacly glue into the bag. He dropped the tin and snatched the bag from Ian's hand, raising it to his face like an oxygen mask. It was only then that Ian realised what was going on. He felt shocked and guilty, and wanted to reach out and snatch the bag from Justin's face. But at the same time he felt left out and slightly stupid, as Justin sucked expertly on the bag, the plastic clouding over with little droplets of sticky, damp breath.

After a few seconds Justin took the bag from his mouth and fell backwards onto the brown leaves, impervious to the sharp spines. With his eyes closed and dried glue round his nostrils, he grinned up at the roof of the holly dome. Then he stretched out his arm, offering the bag to Ian.

Ian took the bag, and even though Justin couldn't see him, he lifted it to his face and sniffed, inhaling weakly the way he smoked cigarettes. The smell of the glue was not unpleasant but hurt his throat and made him feel slightly sick. Ian put the bag down and watched Justin lying there, nervously checking the rise and fall of his chest, the small movements of his encrusted nostrils that showed he was still breathing.

After a couple of minutes, Justin turned on his side and looked across at Ian. His eyes were bright pink. "Fucking great, eh?"

"The business," said Ian awkwardly.

Justin offered Ian the bag. Ian shook his head.

"I've had some," he said.

Justin sniffed and propped himself up on one elbow. Dead holly leaves were stuck into his shirt. He peeled the dried glue from his nose and sucked on the bag again for a few more seconds, then collapsed to the floor with his eyes closed.

"You all right?" asked Ian.

"Mmmmm," murmured Justin and grinned.

Ian picked up the bag and sniffed it from a distance. He put the lid back on the glue and buried the bag in the dirt. He sat there for a few minutes until Justin opened his eyes again. He searched around for the bag.

"Wheresit?" he slurred, drunkenly.

"I don't know where it is," said Ian.

Justin groaned and sat up. He moved closer to Ian. His breath smelled strongly of glue and his eyes were so red and watery it looked as if he were crying tears of blood.

"Wheresit?" he said, gazing vaguely at Ian as if he hadn't heard his first reply.

"Don't know," said Ian.

"Do' no," repeated Justin nodding. "Do' no."

He took his cigarette lighter from his pocket and started flicking the flame on and off, giggling uncontrollably. Even though Ian didn't have a clue what Justin was laughing at, he joined in. And soon they were both rolling round in the dirt laughing and laughing.

Justin picked up a large dry holly leaf and set fire to it with his lighter, holding onto the stem as it flared up so that it looked as if the flames were shooting out of his fingers. Ian flinched and rubbed his hands together as if he could feel the flames burning his own flesh.

Then Justin grabbed a sprig of holly, a brittle branch with about six or seven leaves attached, and set fire to that. He started to giggle again. Ian ducked out of the way, shielding his face with his arms, as Justin waved the burning branch above his head. Then suddenly the whole bush was alight, the dry inner roof of the holly dome crackling with flames. Ian crawled to the entrance of the dome.

"Come on," he said tugging at Justin's shirt, but Justin just lay there on his back looking up into the flames, giggling. A burning leaf fell down towards him. "Come on," said Ian. He started to crawl out of the hedge, and suddenly Justin clambered over his back like an animal and tore out through the brambles.

They scrambled clear of the hedge and lay there for some time among the weeds on the bank of earth at the back of the building site, watching a plume of smoke spiral up from the holly bush which seemed much smaller from the outside than it had seemed when they were inside. Ian shuddered imagining being trapped among the flames. It was only then that he looked across at Justin and saw him clutching the charred sleeve of his shirt.

"What have you done?" asked Ian.

"Nothing," said Justin stubbornly. He spread his fingers to cover the blackened cotton, as if masking the burn on his arm would somehow magically make the pain disappear.

"Lets have a look," said Ian, reaching out.

Justin pulled away, but then cried out in pain and let his hand drop. Ian carefully reached out to peel back the charred shirt.

"It's OK," he said. "I won't touch it."

The burn was quite small, but very red. The skin had been completely removed and the flesh beneath was blistered and glistening like a partly grilled sausage.

"Is it bad?" asked Justin.

"Not too bad," said Ian. "But you better do something with it, otherwise it'll probably go all gungy."

"Not me arm," said Justin, tearfully, "the shirt, the shirt. Could you mend it for us?"

"It's knackered," said Ian.

Justin looked crestfallen.

"You can put on a different one can't you," said Ian, grinning slightly, bemused that Justin should be more concerned about his shirt than his arm.

Justin turned away, scowling, and pretended to scratch his smoke-smudged cheek.

Ian bit his lip. It hadn't occurred to him that someone might only have one shirt.

"It's all right," he said. "I've got one you can have if you want."

Ian left Justin sheltering in the house with the broken door on the building site and ran back home. As soon as he got inside he ran up to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror above the sink, he saw that his face was covered in a thin layer of sooty grime, like a black and white minstrel half way through putting on his make up. He washed his face and dried it on a yellow towel, inadvertently covering it in black hand prints.

The door handle rattled.

"Are you going to be in there all day?" his sister asked.

"I'm just coming," he said and rummaged in the medicine cabinet above the bath for a length of bandage which he put in his pocket. The he shoved the blackened towel up his T-shirt and walked quickly out of the bathroom, one arm across his stomach to hide the bulge. His sister was reading her magazine and didn't seemed to notice the oddness of his posture.

In his bedroom, Ian shoved the towel in a drawer took a clean shirt from the cupboard and thumped downstairs.

"Ian," his mum shouted from the living room as he opened the front door, "Ian?"

He pretended not to hear her, jogged down the drive and then ran back to the building site.

Justin was sitting where Ian had left him, on the floor of the half-completed house. He was shivering slightly as he loosely clutched his wounded arm, and still smelled strongly of smoke and glue.

"How're you doing?" asked Ian.

"All right," said Justin.

Ian handed him the clean shirt. Justin looked dejected.

"Sure you're OK?" said Ian.

"It's the wrong colour," said Justin.

"I've only got white," said Ian.

Justin nodded and held the shirt surprisingly carefully in his lap as Ian peeled the charred sleeve from his arm.

"Fucking hell," shrieked Justin, wincing, as Ian pulled the blue fabric gently across his burn."Shit, fuck off, fuck off."

"Sorry," said Ian. He took the roll of bandage from his pocket. "This is probably going to hurt a bit," he said.

Justin shut his eyes and raised his arm. "Fuck off," he snarled through gritted teeth, "fuck right off," as Ian gingerly wrapped the bandage round the shiny, red flesh.

Ian helped Justin put on the clean white shirt and used the old blue one to wipe his face.

"I better go home now," said Ian. "Are you going to stay here for a bit?" Justin nodded and sat there with an empty sleeve draped over his bare shoulder, staring vacantly at the unplastered wall of the half-built house as Ian, with a final wave, clambered out of the broken door.

It was Tuesday evening when they heard the sirens. The entire family was sat in the living room watching Eastenders. Ian's dad was in his armchair, Lorraine was on the sofa next to Ian's mum, Stewart was perched on a foot stool and Ian lay on his front on the floor, his face less than two feet from the screen.

"Get away from that TV you'll damage your eyes," said Ian's mum.

Ian wriggled backwards and lifted his head.

"I can't see now," said Lorraine.

"Sit down properly," said his dad.

"There's nowhere to sit," said Ian.

"Well go and get a chair from the kitchen then," said his dad.

"Shut up," said Stewart. "I can't hear what Arthur's saying."

"Just be quiet all of you," said his mum. She got up and left the room.

"Where are you going?" asked dad. Down the corridor the kitchen door slammed. "Now see what you've done," he said. "Now sit down properly."

Ian sat back against the sofa, legs crossed lazily across the carpet. At first he thought the sirens were on the television, wailing distantly to authenticate the East London setting, police cars rushing to a mugging, a racial attack, a 'bust up in a boozer,' or something of that sort. But as the sound of the sirens grew louder he realised that it was coming from outside the house.

Ian got up and went across to the window, his dad grumbling as Ian blocked his view of the telly. He drew back the corner of the curtains and saw the fire engines, blue lights flashing and men in yellow helmets unreeling hoses through the darkness as smoke poured into the sky by the building site.

"Shit," said Ian. "There's a bloody great fire down the end of the road. He stood inside the window, the net curtains draped over his head and shoulders as if he were a bride. His dad and Lorraine stood on either side of him, pulling back the curtains to watch what was happening. Stewart thumped upstairs to get a better view from his parent's bedroom.

"What are you doing in there," asked his mum, the sound of Radio Four adding to the cacophony of TV, shouts and sirens as she opened the kitchen door.

"Come up here," shouted Stewart excitedly. "You can see the flames and everything."

Before school the next morning, Ian took the bike out and rode down to see the burnt house. A few kids from the estate across the road had wandered over from the bus stop and clambered up the mounds of earth by the building site to survey the damage. Ian joined them, standing silently, his nose twitching at the acrid stench of burnt chemicals.

The windows of the house were broken (some by fire, some by firemen) and the walls inside were blackened. The roof had caved in and several pigeons were already perched on the charred beams (as if the fire had been started purely for their benefit to create a giant charcoal dovecote).

At first, Ian didn't notice Justin skulking on the edge of the group. Partly this was because Ian was so engrossed in looking at the burnt house, and partly because Justin was wearing different clothes; a frayed, grey v-neck jumper with a T-shirt underneath. Even though he'd seen Justin half-a-dozen times before, Ian had to look twice before calling out, "Hoi, Justin! Over here."

A few of the other kids looked up and pigeons flapped into the air. Justin wandered over, dragging on the inevitable dog end.

"How's your arm?" asked Ian.

He shrugged as if it were nothing.

"Did you see the fire?"

"It weren't me," hissed Justin beneath his breath.

"I never said it was," said Ian, startled by Justin's coded admission.

"Well it weren't, right!" Justin stared hard at Ian, and stabbed a finger violently towards Ian's face as if he were poking out an eye. "Get it?"

Ian nodded.

Justin offered Ian a puff of his cigarette. Ian declined. He'd got quite used to smoking in the previous days and enjoyed it in a guilty kind of way. But there were too many people watching.

As Ian looked across at Justin, he suddenly realised that Justin had a nasty black eye, the pupil all bloodshot as if he'd been sniffing glue again.

"You been in a fight?" asked Ian, unconsciously raising his hand to feel his own eye.

"Naa," said Justin matter-of-factly, "that was for the shirt."

Ian looked startled.

"You know for burning it and that," said Justin.

"What?" he said. "Your mum did that?" (even by Ian's mum's standards the injury was pretty horrendous).

"No," said Justin. "It was her fault though. Stupid cow. Told 'er not to tell me step-dad." He sucked on the cigarette and grinned. "He thought I'd nicked your shirt. Couldn't believe no one'd give us nothing."

"Sorry," said Ian, wishing he'd had a blue shirt. "I only wear white ones."

Two days later Ian heard the sirens again. He was sat on the sofa doing his homework whilst his parents watched the nine o'clock news. Dropping his geography book he went to the window and peered out at the blue flashing lights. They were on the main road this time, beyond the building site and the paddocks.

"Not another fire," said his mum impatiently (as if the emergency services had been called out simply to spite her).

"No," said Ian's brother, joining him at the window. "It's a different kind of siren."

It was some months before Ian saw Justin again, although, of course, Ian had seen his picture in the Westing Chronicle. Justin looked much younger and fairer in the photo, with neatly brushed hair and a new jumper, his eyes staring out from the page, strange and piercing.

The eyes of criminals always look weird in those newspaper photos. Sometimes there is not actually anything unusual about the way they look. It's simply the descriptions of evilness associated with their faces that makes them appear so menacing. However, in Justin's case, there was actually something sinister lurking in those eyes of his. It wasn't a cruel or evil strangeness, but rather that reckless wildness which Ian had sensed the first time Justin had leapt out at him as he'd cycled past in the dark.

The day the paper arrived, Ian sat at the table in the kitchen for ages looking at the picture and reading the story over and over again - how Justin'd been dragged from the hedge by a man walking his dog who'd seen smoke and heard his screams (and how the police were trying to track down a gang of glue-sniffing youngsters to help them with their enquiries regarding vandalism and a series of arson attacks on the building site).

"Wasn't that boy you said you knew called Justin?" Ian's mum asked him as he sat hunched over the page, pale and sweating.

"No, it's not him," said Ian, and added hurriedly, "there must be lots of people called Justin."

Ian's mum nodded and slowly sipped her tea.

Ian went up to his bedroom, feeling sick yet empty, and waited for the police to arrive. But the knock on the door never came, and, gradually, as the weeks went on he worried less and less.

Just after the accident had happened he'd considered going to visit Justin in hospital, but he was frightened that doing so might link him to the vandalism (for which he was responsible) and the fires (for which he wasn't).

One afternoon, when he was alone in the house, he rang the hospital up pretending to be a concerned cousin. They told him that Ian had been transferred to some special burns unit miles away.

Soon summer came and Ian cycled almost every day (although never again round his previous route past the shops and up the hill). Autumn crept up unusually dry and mild that year, so as he hardly noticed it's arrival. The months blurred together until suddenly it was Halloween and everyone was making masks at school, and he had a nightmare that all of the skin had been burned from Justin's face. It was the first time he'd thought of him for weeks.

On bonfire night, Ian's mum sent him to the Spar to buy a pack of sparklers.

"They might not let me have them," he said, partly reluctant to visit the shops because it was freezing cold, but mainly because the lady who worked there might recognise him as being a friend of Justin's.

"Don't be stupid," his mum said. She handed him a fiver from her purse. "They know who you are."

That's just what I'm bloody worried about, thought Ian. But he tried not to let his anxiety show.

"Why can't Stewart go?"

"He's doing his homework," said Ian's mum. She thrust the fiver into his hand. "Don't be too long, otherwise we'll be too late for the fireworks."

"Oh what a shame," said Ian sarcastically, but took the money and went into the hall to get his scarf.

Justin was stood outside the Spar, smoking and limping slightly as he shuffled about in the cold, as if the last eight month's hadn't happened and it was suddenly March again. His face wasn't burned but he looked quite different. He'd had a crew cut and was wearing jeans and a bomber jacket and seemed much older.

Ian had the hood of his jacket up and a scarf over his face and didn't think that Justin had recognised him. However, after he'd left the shop with his sparklers (having discovered with great relief that there was a new woman working there), Justin followed him down the road.

"Hoi Ian," he said. "It's me."

Ian pretended not to recognise him at first.

"Hi," he said nervously. "You're back then."

Justin nodded and automatically offered Ian a drag of his cigarette.

"No thanks," said Ian. He coughed falsely. "I've got a cold coming on."

They walked back towards the estate together. Justin's limp was quite pronounced.

"What happened to your leg?" asked Ian. "was it burned or something?"

They stopped beneath a streetlight and Justin rolled the leg of his jeans up. A wide, pink scar, like a slice of undercooked chicken, ran down his calf.

"Shit," said Ian. "That must have been bloody agony."

"That's nothing," said Justin. He stood up and unzipped his bomber jacket. He was wearing Ian's white shirt. Seemingly oblivious to the cold, he slowly undid the buttons and revealed his chest. One side of his torso had been badly burned. A ragged scar the size of a large dinner plate covered his rib cage and one nipple had been melted completely away. The texture of the scar reminded Ian of his grandfather's shoulders when he took his shirt off in summer, wrinkled like the skin on custard, like an elephant with a skin a couple of sizes too big for it's body - only worse.

"Shit," said Ian, wanting (but not daring) to reach out and touch the scar. "Does it hurt?"

Justin shrugged in a bravely casual kind of way and rebuttoned his shirt.

"What have you got there?" asked Justin, pointing to the brown paper bag which Ian held.

"Just some sparklers," said Ian (realising it was a mistake the instant the words had left his lips).

"Lets have a go," said Justin grabbing greedily at the bag.

Ian stood helplessly and watched as Justin tore the end off one of the blue packets. He took out a couple of sparklers and lit them with his cigarette lighter. He handed one to Ian and they stood at the edge of the road, giggling and writing obscenities in the darkness with the cold, white sparks - dragon spit, brighter than stars.