Sach sat by himself on the wheelchair ramp. His toes pointed together, a black school bag between his knees. It was covered in Tippex. He raised his eyebrows and went back to staring across the playground. Nicky gave the Tippex a read, then nudged the bag with a toe.
“D’you like all those bands?”
Sach shrugged, bowl-cut flopping in his eyes. Nicky sat next to him on the ramp and they gazed across at the fence, watching the mob chuck stones at each other.
Nicky looked at the bag again. “Slayer. Are they any good?”
“Affirmative.”
“What about The Cure?”
“Miserable bastards. It’s my brother’s old bag.”
“I’m in a band now.”
“What’s your instrument?”
“Drums.”
Sach tutted. “Shit. I’ve been seeking a drummer since time began. What’s your combo called?”
“Fuck Trumpets.”
“What?”
“Fuck Trumpets.”
Sach rubbed his chin. “Good name. Think I’ve heard of yous. You won’t be allowed in the papers. The DJs’ll have to call you Eff Star Star Star Trumpets.”
“What’s your band called?”
“Princess Diana’s Backstreet Abortion.”
“That’s worse.”
“Mibbe.”
The bell went and they slung their bags on and trudged towards the entrance. “Where’s Pete?” Sach said. “Heard he had to go to hospital. After yesterday.”
“It was just a bit of pen.”
“I hate Purdy. Wish I could pen him.”
“What’d you write?”
“I am a fat waste of skin. Please exterminate me.”
Nicky laughed. “Teachers keep loading me up with Pete’s homework. As if I’m his nurse or something.”
“Is he mad at you? Cos you didn’t jump in?”
“Would you have jumped in on Purdy?”
Sach shrugged.
He left the sheets lying in the porch, went down the steps and stopped on the path. There was a chance someone would trample them or kick them under the doormat. If Pete didn’t get them, he’d get the blame.
The curtains were drawn tight and the room flashed with colours from the TV. Pete didn’t say anything when Nicky knocked, or when he snuck his head round the door. The room stank. When he asked if he was feeling better, Pete swore and chucked the playstation controller on the floor.
“Is that new?”
Next to his bed a massive poster of Pammy stretched to the ceiling. They both gazed at her. The top half of her tits bulged out the swimsuit, which made a red V between her legs. She half-smiled, teasing because this was the closest you’d ever get to her, her lips fat and pink and her hair golden and tangled from rolling around in the sand. It hung over one eye. The other followed you around the room, icy blue and lined with black.
“I’ve got homework for you.”
It was too dim to see any black smudges left on Pete’s forehead.
“Just leave it there.”
“Sorry. They made me take it.”
“Just leave it.”
“Coming in tomorrow?”
Pete reached for the controller. “Mibbe.”
Nicky left the sheets on the desk and started flicking through an old Loaded.
“So is that it?”
“Yeah.”
“See you later then.”
Nicky nodded, took one last look at Pammy and left.
At the play park, older folk smoked by the swings and tried to set the bin on fire. The football pitch next to it used to be ash, before they turned it to grass and fenced it up.
Years ago, Pete and him would ride the bikes across it, practising skids and covering each other in red dust. Some kids used to do the ghostie. You cycled fast between the goals and at the last moment grabbed the cross bar, hanging while the bike kept going then crashed in the mud. Nicky tried it once, when Pete dared him and some girls were watching from the side. He’d cycled fast, stood on the pedals but wasn’t tall enough. His fingertips caught the goals, knees knocked the handlebars and the bike collapsed. He landed smack on top. Blood blobbed out where the cog bit into his leg and he covered his face, arm jammed between his teeth. Pete got him to his feet and limped him home, and he sobbed the whole way. Later on, the bike appeared, leaning against his house.
The folk were crowded round the bin now, flames licking up and sending out black smoke. One of the boys stood by the swings, trying to smash a bottle on the red spongy floor. He flung it hard but it just bounced.
Nicky turned back the way he’d come. He had headphones in, the yellow walkman playing Sid’s tape. The song was called “White Riot”. He tried to walk in time with the drums but quickly ran out of breath.