#and putting in my pitch to be school councillor

[egyptianking]

In just a few days I have gone from "wish I was back in uni :(" to "wish I was back in sixth form" to now, somehow "wish I was back in year 3 :("

[funnyfolk]

The Tent

I was lucky enough to grow up in the sleepy countryside further North than I am now. My days were filled with big fields, meandering streams and local pubs who would serve a 12 year old a pint if they knew who their dad was (like a farmers Masonic lodge, there’s straw everywhere and a faint smell of cow). One of the highlights of my youth was a festival held deeper in the depths of the countryside, into the picturesque valleys of closer to wales than anyone will admit. The valley provided the perfect backdrop for consuming large amounts of brightly coloured alcohol until you couldn’t see, cow tipping and sourcing your red diesel. Legend had it there were panthers and all sorts lurking about up there but then there was also some fairly strong psychotropic mushrooms going around at the time so that was taken with a pinch of salt. I never went in for psychotropic drugs, the thought of suddenly being surrounded by shapeshifting rabbits and jumping out of windows was unappealing. I digress.

Festival time rolled around again and I was working in the local hardware shop (I stand by this shop being integral to the functioning of the village. I was a hero in a blue polo neck). During my time of employment in the house of the never ending lightbulb (a nightmare to organise) a young man used to come into the shop fairly regularly, for the purposes of this story we shall call him Peter. I had known Peter for a great many years, he had been a couple of years above me at the substandard secondary school we both attended. I used to find Peter and his friends lurking in the back lane to my house, smoking and talking about boobs (I imagine, they were 15 year old boys. I can’t think what else they would have to talk about). I had an adolescent crush on Peter so naturally used to berate him for his smoking habit, a memory we later shared over several pints whilst working through a pack of tobacco like a pair of poorly swept chimneys. I was such a self righteous adolescent until I discovered alcohol, cigarettes and my ability to adopt the roll of the class clown (much to the annoyance of most teachers, my parents and the librarian) that I had somehow convinced myself that acting like a 40 year old parish councillor would make Peter fall in love with me. It did not. Peters semi regular visits to the shop used to be the highlight of my fairly mundane existence.

The weekend of the aforementioned festival arrived and I had planned to attend the event with friends for what I had built up in my mind to be the night of the year. The vodka had been bought (and smashed, then subsequently re bought) there was beer and brightly coloured spirits with labels written exclusively in polish and we had picked outfits suitable for being in the middle of a field but still retaining an air of nonchalant style. As i worked away in the little shop- one hour feeling like 4- in came Peter. It transpired that he also would be attending the weekends frivolities and as such I gracefully hinted that I might see him there. He told me that he would have to get in in the boot of his friends car because he hadn’t bought a ticket, which was probably the sexiest thing seventeen year old me had ever heard, my insides turned to mush and I spent the rest of the day looking misty eyed into the distance thinking of all the romantic ways we could meet up and declare our undying love for each other (full of cheap alcohol, yet still able to speak without dribbling. High hopes.).

The time finally came for to leave for the festival and we piled in the car of a friend of a friend who was frankly far too old to be ferrying around a load of excitable 17 year olds. On reflection I question his motives. We arrived in the picturesque valley, and within three minutes I’d seen four vaginas, a penis and a poorly hidden sexual act. I was having the time of my life. The next forty minutes were spent filling ourselves with as much cheap alcohol as possible and busily speculating about the evening, whilst sat in the caravan of another man who looked as though he shouldn’t be around children. As I stumbled out into the vast expanse of fields, I followed the sounds of alcohol induced vomiting to find the toilets. As I wandered through the field in an alcohol haze , who should I bump into but Pete! What luck! Words were exchanged and I must have been both coherent and persuasive because we tripped off into the field to sit together and listen to music we didn’t like whilst drinking alcohol that made us feel sick.

The evening wore on and at some point, magic happened. Pete kissed me. Or I kissed Pete, whatever, his face was on my face and things were looking promising. We made our way back to his tent (which, on reflection was exceedingly lucky because I hadn’t actually worked out where I was supposed to sleep). What followed was classic drunken fumbling in the dark. Pete had managed to pitch his tent (pun intended) on a slope, which lead to many a polite and slightly trepidatious “Um.. sorry... could we just... my neck is at a funny angle...” and a number of awkward stop starts, as we retreated back up the slope to the top of the tent. Now, I look back at this evening with a sense of regret. Not for Pete, I liked him very much for quite some time and indeed I still see him occasionally when I return back to the promised land of trees and cow shit (he has a delightfully tiny girlfriend now.). No, I regret not actually going ahead and doing the deed. In my adolescent hormone riddled brain, filled with the advice of Mizz magazine (excellent free gifts, fantastic problem page) I decided that in order for Pete to foresee a future with me, I best not sleep with him. Hand stuff was fine, oral was maybe crossing a line but I’d risk that, but no full sex. Put me in this situation now, and I would have already been well into round three without so much as stopping for a rejuvenating cup of tea (judge as you will, I know what I like), but all those years ago my abstinence did not waver. The fumbling continued until we heard voices outside... and the unmistakable sound of the outer entrance of the love tent being unzipped. Loud protestations followed as I made myself decent and after scrabbling around I managed to put some clothes on. It was one of Peters friends inviting us to sit by the fire and enjoy the bohemian sounds of a poorly played guitar. The offer was accepted and I sat by a fire with people I didn’t know wondering when I could get back to fumbling. It was a delightful experience and I thoroughly enjoyed myself, Petes friends were just as lovely as he was and I basked in the warm glow of the fire thinking “this couldn’t have gone much better”. Eventually we returned to our abode for the evening, fumbled some more and then fell asleep (it wasn’t very romantic, I’m an unattractive sleeper and I’ve often been compared to a corpse that occasionally twitches and speaks. Evil dead style.). The next day rolled around and everyone hazily stumbled around, still half drunk from the night before and wondering if there was any chance of a full English in the heart of the sleepy countryside on a Sunday morning (there wasn’t).

Peter very kindly offered to drive me home, which, on reflection probably wasn’t really that kind as he only lived three minutes away from me. He was pretty much obliged I realise now. On the way home through the country lanes my favourite song (Jamie T- Sheila) blared out of be radio (with a tape deck) and I confidently recited every single word perfectly without missing a beat, until I realised it was a radio edit and an entire chunk was missing from the middle of it, I was too late and had already launched into the verse before I realised. The wind was rushing through my already out of control hair (I looked like a lion) and the sun was blazing down upon the lush green countryside. Life was looking good. Peter dropped me off home and said a casual hello to my mother who was loitering about in the kitchen with a glint in her eye. The sly old dog knew exactly what I had been up to but spared me the humiliation of ever asking about it. As we walked down the garden to put my camping equipment (a sleeping bag) into the shed Peter pulled me in for a snog as soon as we were shielded by the large and fairly out of control ivy bush. I was stunned and more than a little excited- this was the morning after! Maybe this was something? Maybe I could replay my drunken fumblings with Peter for real? repeatedly? It was not. Peter and I crossed paths romantically a couple of times after that however, the romance burned quite considerably brighter on my side than it did his. In the end, his sister, who was also the local barmaid, informed me that maybe he would prefer someone who was more conventionally attractive (thin). I gave up after this. The moral of this story is, always fuck on the first date if that’s what you feel like. You may never get another opportunity.

[harrison-abbott]

Straw and Clamour

On the train platform, Laine’s Dad even manages a hug. Hasn’t seen his lad in four years, and he was nineteen when he went away. Dad speaks about football and Laine’s little sister during the ride home.

 After miles of countryside they arrive to their hometown. At the house, Mum delivers superbly; red-faced and crying, she holds her baby; how smart Laine’s soldier’s uniform is. Even Danielle, his sister, is a little emotional. It surprises Laine but touches him also. Last time they were together they still hadn’t developed from basic sibling dislike.

 The nuclear family fidgets in the living room, not knowing how to edge community forward. Mum has made dinner and they’re all summoned to the table like the old days. Laine wishes he could remove his military gear when he sits down, but he suspects they want him to keep it on.

 “Here’s to our son!” Dad announces with a raised glass. “Proud to serve his country.”

 When Laine drinks his ale, its flavour and sprite seem to re-define his situation. He’s been in the desert for nearly half a decade and now he’s back – presumably to live permanently – in little-England. The earthly zap of a local ale at least offers some kind of bridge between the two worlds.

 None of them ask Laine about the army as they eat. Why would they? After food, they lounge in the evening summer garden, drinking. Danielle has become a character, has moxie; Laine teases her about her boyfriend. His quiet humour mimics his Dad’s, who in turn circuits around Mum’s extroversion. They all get drunk. It’s fun to pretend.

 Laine is the last one to fall asleep that night. That’s when his first dream comes.

 He’s in the back of the jeep, pounding rounds across the sand. A farm-boy comes up to the jeep whilst Laine is firing, holding a balloon. Laine can’t hear anything apart from the boy, and he can’t see what he’s shooting at. The boy’s face then merges with the oval balloon, and he screams before the balloon explodes.

 Laine wakes up not knowing where he is. Dehydrated, he goes downstairs to the bathroom. Everything is just as sterile in the house as he left it. Yet nothing is tangible, real.

 As he surfaces again by proper morning, Mum is in the kitchen waiting. She has breakfast ready, but the first thing she says to him is:

 “So, you thinking about getting a job? Your Father said you could help out at the Butchers’ with him?”

 Laine nods and says this sounds good. He’d like to chill out a bit for the next few days, and see Robbie his old friend.

 “Oh, of course you can, babe.”

 He walks out into the town in the morning to see what’s changed. Nothing has, really. One person – an old woman he’s known since he was a kid – greets him in the street. She’s probably forgotten he was away in Afghanistan, maybe developing dementia. Laine doesn’t take it badly. Somehow, he doesn’t want to go into the newsagent, though, where he’ll definitely be recognised. Doesn’t want the fame, so he decides to circle around and go home again. But suddenly something jumps on his back and wraps his neck.

 Laine nearly flips the body on his back up and over, ready to knock it out, before he realises it’s Robbie – his best mate.

 “Lainey! You bastard!” Robbie’s laddish essence looming, and they embrace with real brotherhood.  

 “How are you, my man?”

 Laine gazes at him.

 “Well, don’t just look at me: speak!”

 “Jee, Robbie. It’s actually you. You look so …”

 “I look great, right?”

 He looks overweight, smells of alcohol. But Laine nods; Robbie brightens him.

 “I was going to come surprise you at your house, Lainey. But I want you to come down to The Mayflower tonight, okay? I’ll have the old group there: we’ll through you a party. You coming?”

 “Definitely, I’ll be there.”

 “8 pm. Bet you never had any parties over there in rag-head country; we’ll show you a good time! I got to head over to work, man, but see you later on!”

 Laine watches him lollop away into the town, his smile waning. He turns and looks out over the countryside beyond the town. Navy hills and hooker’s green woodlands zap in non-colour; the cattle are minute and terminal on the fields. There were never any such colours in the desert; there was no structure to the land.

 ***

 He’s smug in aftershave as he walks into The Mayflower tonight. A flurry of whiskey shots beforehand was supposed to make Laine less nervous: it’s made everything worse. He’d half imagined flags or some corny ‘SURPRISE’ gag; instead he’s met with Robbie doing another mock rugby-tackle on him. It’s a jest but the force winds Laine’s lungs, annoys him. Robbie’s already drunk, as well.

 “It’s Private Lainey – come sit with us at the table, boyo!”

 “Can I get a drink first?”

 “Yeah, yeah, I’ll come with you.”

 The clashing pop music is so loud Laine can’t hear Robbie’s voice. His friend’s physique has sagged, his hair grown grey in parts, and he’s only 23. He gets Robbie a pint. Robbie wants to drink quickly, and recommends they get shots. The heat gives him a little spark, and he looks back to where Laine’s friends are.

 “Hey, Robbie: I don’t know most of your mates. But, isn’t that …” and here he sees a lady who delved his history, once, “isn’t that Carla – the girl from our school?”

 “That’s her, yes my man.”

 “Wow, she’s still hot as hell! How’s someone like you hanging out with her?”

 “Wo, wo, Lainey. That’s my bird! Carla and I have been going out two years now!”

 At first Lainey thinks he’s joking, then the embarrassment seeps in that he’s not. He blushes but it’s too orange in the pub to notice.

 “Ha, ha, well done Robbie! Sorry for saying that she’s hot …”

 “No, no I took it as a compliment. Come, mate, let’s go.”

 Laine keeps his chin down in his shirt as he follows Robbie to the table. The men are all crush-and-no-movement handshakes and the women wave and giggle as Robbie toasts the soldier returning home. Apparently not all of them have been told he’s a soldier, and there come the wows and oh gosh, the army exclamations and conversations clatter apart.

 “So are you leaving the army?” one very drunk woman asks Laine.

 “Well, no. The war is actually over …” Laine laughs.

 “Which war?”

 “Afghanistan …”

 He can’t look at Carla, who’s sitting opposite with Robbie. She has her hair curled and blinks a lot. Five minutes in a bar and he’s already had a jolt of fancy, erotica, dejection and now envy all snatched together with spirits and beer. And can already feel himself beginning to get angry. God, these people probably didn’t know England was at war …

 But someone invites him up to the bar and by another few he can enjoy himself. Eventually he’s playing pool with one lad and makes sure to beat him exactly well. When they leave the pub he’ll vaguely remember Robbie pulling him away from the bartender. He’s shouting at the man for some reason and the anger seems perfectly overpowering. The friends are a bit silent for a while when they walk home but Robbie cheers them up.

 The party will continue at Robbie and Carla’s house. They put on a CD from the mid-1990s and take cocaine lines whilst Laine falls about deliberately. His nickname is Trooper, tonight, and everything he does seems to conjure a laugh from the others. After one final fall he busts his shoulder in and decides he should sit down for a while. Robbie helps him up onto the sofa and he falls asleep.

 He sees the black plumes across the countryside; they stagger up monstrous above the hazy lands. He’s in his gear, again, waiting for his battalion. The sky’s growing darker behind the burning oil, and there’s another army there, resurfaced. They’ve regrouped since Laine’s Division left, and they must be stopped … But Laine’s men aren’t coming, they’re too slow. He loads his weapon up and begins to tread the land, pitching towards the smoke, the enemy …

 There’s sweat across his forehead when he wakes up. He’s alone in the living room apart from Carla, who is standing over him.

 “Hello, Carla.”

 “Hi, honey. I think you had a bad dream; you were saying strange stuff.”

 He sits up as she sits next to him on the sofa. Pizza, vomit and bottles across the floor. Small-eyed, polystyrene Carla is watching him, smoking a cigarette. She gives him one.

 “Was a fun night …” he tries. He should be drunk but the adrenaline within sitting next to Carla channels him.

 “Yeah, Robbie knows how to throw a party … They’re all upstairs sleeping.”

 “What time is it?”

 “Like 3 a.m.”

 “I really missed you guys when I was away.”

 “I know Robbie did too. He talked about you a lot.”

 He wishes she wouldn’t mention Robbie’s name. Laine remembers Carla; she was in his year then; lots of boys had liked her, yet she had that elitist popularity/coveted beauty which separated the possibilities of countless males. He’d never even spoken to her before. All kinds of fantasies were ricocheting.

 “What was your dream about?” she says.

 “Was a nightmare. About the military. It gets a bit crazy out in the desert … Plays with your head a bit.”

 “So, were you in, like, combat?”

 “Yeah …”

 “You ever, shoot anyone?”

 Laine doesn’t answer.

 “Sorry, that was a mean question!”

 “No, no … It’s just hard for folk back here to understand.”

 “You could always go and speak to a councillor or something.”

 “It’s nice just talking to you.”

 Laine leans across and strokes her hair. Carla drops her eyes and moves away slowly.

 “But are you not glad to be back?” she says.

 “Uh hu …”

 Laine thrusts himself over and kisses her on the cheek. Carla winces, and steps up away from the sofa.

 “Sorry, Laine, I think you’ve got to go to bed. I’ll see you another time, okay?”

 She’s leaving the room already as Laine calls out:

 “Please come back … I didn’t mean to …”

 She shuts a door upstairs. Humiliation combined with confusion. Was what he just tried wrong? Was it instinct, to want to kiss a beautiful woman? Laine feels lethal, now, as he finds his coat, arming himself with a half-empty whiskey bottle. He gets to the front door and hurls out into the fresh morning air, dark and balmy.

 Laine sups down gulps of the liquor, wondering how to get back home. He chooses a direction, but then a voice calls to him from above. It’s Robbie, protruding from a window.

 “Lainey, where are you going?”

 “Home.”

 “In this state? Why don’t you stay here for the night?”

 Laine begins walking. Robbie calls again. When Laine won’t stop, Robbie comes downstairs and rushes out to him on the street.

 “What’s with you, Laine, you look upset …”

 “I’m good. You want to come a ride with me?”

 “Where? We can’t drive like this.”

 “Anywhere. Up to the hills.”

 “We could take the bikes? Cycle up?”

 “Let’s do it.”

 They cycle up past the town border and through the pine tree roads, with nothing to energise them save alcohol. Laine hoots and laughs with his old friend. Something’s going to be destroyed tonight. They pass a chain of the rich houses which lie on the outskirts, manors with long gardens. Laine halts his bike by one of the driveways, and motions for Robbie to keep quiet in the gloom.

 “Robbie!” he whispers. “Do you see that Mercedes? The little yellow one?”

 “Yeah I see it. That’s worth like four grand …”

 “You want to jack it?”

 “What do you mean?”

 “Steal it. I learned how to boost wires in the Army.”

 Robbie enjoys the crazed expression on his friend’s face. It seems like a terrific idea.

 After hiding their bikes in the trees, they quietly open the gate, leaving it wide. Laine instructs him to keep a look-out, whilst he finds an ample boulder. He doves the driver’s window in and the car alarm begins shrieking. Robbie wants to bolt away, but someone can’t not watch. Laine remains nonchalant, busting the wire-box open with a fist, fiddling therein. The night hoods their criminality; they’re invisible tonight.

 Lights are turned on inside the manor; someone’s shouting and a dog howls. Everything happens quickly – the engine sparks and purrs and Laine reverses out the drive, nearly knocking Robbie over; he yanks open the passenger door. Laine rams the accelerator and then they’re fluming through the dark roads, the beam of the headlines slicing the hills apart.

 “Woo-hoo! That was brilliant, Lainey!”

 Laine grins, mindlessly shooting ahead. Broken glass layers his seat. Robbie holds onto the roof, pretending he’s not afraid. The roads are silent, and soon they’re already miles from town. Laine’s keeping the speed around 60, and the engine’s too loud to hear Robbie hollering at him to slow down. The trees then fall away as they lunge further up the hillside, and then the road veers left in a sharp turn.

 “Watch out, Lainey – there’s a drop coming up!”

 But Laine keeps hurtling forward.

 “Laine! Make the turn, else we’ll go over the cliff!”

 Robbie drags the wheel sideways and the car pirouettes, its trunk careering into the fence above the cliff. Laine sits there laughing with the car stopped, Robbie watching him incredulously. Robbie turns the engine off and puts the keys in his pocket. They’re in darkness on the hill.

 “Laine, get out the car, come on.”

 Robbie pants outside. The flashy car is wrecked by the back-side. Laine steps out and looks out distantly over the layered fields. He’s stopped laughing, only stands looking, at what, Robbie can’t tell. The thrill has vanished; Robbie’s scared of Laine; when he started shouting at the bartender earlier was scary, but this car theft is complete madness. They aren’t just mischievous boys, now.

 “What are we supposed to do with this, Laine?”

 Laine breaks from his stance and inspects the fence where the car impacted.

 “Well, we have to put it over the hill.”

 “Why?”

 “Why’d you think? ‘cause our DNA’s in it. Got to burn it up.”

 “But they’ll find it …”

 “They’ll find it anyway. Help me move it back down the road.”

 They roll the thing manually a number of metres back where they’d come. Laine asks Robbie for the keys.

 “What are you going to do?”

 “Put a brick on the accelerator, let it drive itself over the edge. Old-fashioned style. Find a rock or boulder or something.”

 Robbie dutifully finds a slab by the roadside and lugs it over. I’m technically a criminal he thinks, as he hands it to Laine’s calculating frame. Laine gets inside the car again, and Robbie madly expects him to drive off the cliff with the car. Laine is thinking the same thing. He positions the boulder just above the pedals, and alights, shuts the door. “Stand back, Robbie.” He thrusts the boulder down and the car jerks forward, zooming askew, spluttering ahead against the fence.

 There it snags, the bonnet jolted upward, wheels spinning in the air. Both men watch, transfixed. The back wheels push it slowly, and then the balance lop-sides, and plummets from view. They hear nothing until a distant smash and rumble.

 Laine believes he sees a flare illuminate the panoramic fields, if only in an instant. That and the funk of gasoline burning. Perfect. Robbie sees and smells nothing.

 ***

 After three days of working with his Father in the Butchers, Laine knows he must work elsewhere, must do something else with his life. Dad teaches him to hack the meat in the back-room. White sinew and muscle, pulpy red carcasses hanging on hooks. He can’t face the customers in the front room. Dad is the affable community man, not his son. Laine asked his Dad not to tell people he was in the army. This hurt his father, because it was only through pride that he told, but grew cautious of Laine’s insistence, and now respects it.

 Dad’s also noticed Laine’s strange moods, of late. He’s pretty sure the lad has nightmares, each night. A few nights ago he came into Laine’s room, finding him screaming on his bed, naked, with his eyes closed.

 It’s the Wednesday since Laine robbed the car with Robbie last Friday night. Laine works solidly, with method. Only his silence bothers his Dad. But this night Laine comes to him with a brighter air.

 “Hey, Dad. I appreciate you taking me on here. But I think I want to get into football again. Maybe do some coaching. At schools, maybe … What do you think?”

 Dad ponders.

 “Hmm. Well, you always were a pretty good player yourself. A lot of teams were looking at you, but you decided to go to the army instead. They’ll respect your profession, your history. Yeah, son, that sounds like a good idea. What do you have to get for it? You do training?”

 “I already have the football training. I got to get this certificate to work with kids. But that shouldn’t be difficult.”

 Dad nods, smiling a little. Well, this is a relief. Laine being a football coach: that would work.

 “Go for it, son. You can finish up for today and head home. I’ll see you later for dinner.”

 Laine walks out into town. It’s early evening. He takes his usual route down the back-street which is quieter than the main square. Music is on full-volume through his headphones, and he’s happily imagining what football-coaching could be like, when something roughly jumps on his back. Once again, it’s Robbie.

 “Robbie, what’s up?”

 Robbie swings a punch at Laine’s face. Laine just dodges it, quickly realising that his friend is not play-fighting. He swears; Robbie stands before him, panting, shoulders vibrating.

 “What’s with you, Robbie – what is this?”

 “How dare you go near Carla like that?” he comes towards Laine and propels another fist. Laine dodges it again, and takes hold of Robbie’s body-weight to knock him over. He skids on the concrete, and makes to rise again, but Laine’s holding his palms up.

 “Mate, mate – I don’t know what you’re on about! Carla, what?”

 “She said you tried to kiss her!”

 This is the first time Laine has remembered that.

 “That’s not true at all: why would she tell you that?”

 “She’s no liar.”

 Robbie stands up again, wiping gravel from his hands. He smells of old alcohol again. But he threatens Laine; they’ve had fights before, but not like this.

 “Laine. You’re my old friend. But ever since you’ve come back from Afghanistan you’re totally different. You’ve gone crazy.”

 “Of course I’m different, Robbie. What’d you think I’d be like? Still like you? Why would I want that?”

 “What about that shit with the car? You know the police are looking for us.”

 “Shut up about that. They’re looking for some car-jacker, not us.”

 “I was that close to turning you in earlier, after I head you kissed my girl.”

 “Why would you do that considering you stole it with me? I can easy tell them where your bikes are in the woods.”

 Sheer rage by Robbie.

 “I can see how stupid you are, Robbie. You’re actually attacking me because you think I did something with Carla! How long have we known each other?”

 “You’re not the same Laine. And, you got it: I am breaking our thing. If you rat me out to the cops, I’ll rat you out.”

 “I can see how stupid everyone is in this town.”

 “But you stay away from my group, okay?”

 “Okay …”

 “Watch your back. Your commando moves can’t keep saving you.”

 Robbie walks away.

 ***

 A St. George Cross flag wavers above his Father’s Butchers. The town-square is overlooked by the Edwardian white-plaster and black-beams, the thatched roofs which oversaw the same English fields, turning in centuries; where bluebottle flies fumbled dazed in warmer summers, whence the clouds were not as erratic, the rains moderate, and a tempest for straw-and-clamour writers to head the world.

 Nowadays, the Empire is different, yet the peoples are just as unperturbed. Soldiers are cast from the alleyways of the countryside as they were upon great ships long ago, to rape and reap the distant lands, far beyond the license of this small island.

 Laine steps off the bus by evening into his hometown, which he’s grown to detest. He’s taking classes in the city to secure his coaching certificate. It shouldn’t take long, really; he has a moderate knowledge of football, and the legal box-tick is pending but should come through soon. Mostly he just wants to leave this town. He walks back home in the wispy heady air.

 Nothing has happened since he stole the car, three weeks ago. He goes to the city college in the morning, returns at night. Now and then helps with Father in the butchers, hacking the meat. The nightmares stopped as well, a while ago. The police ruled the car-jacking as an attack conducted by foreigners. Many of the townsfolk took this literally, as some Polish pair of men who stole the car for no reason. How they came up with Poland, or even misinterpreted the Police report as meaning foreign nationals, bemused Laine, but at least he wasn’t going to be caught.

 The bus station is about a mile out of town, where thin pavement takes you down an allergic road as cars rip by by any speed they choose.

 It’s around 9 pm and the sun is by its last douse, calming the green-needle woods by apologies for fume and chemical.

 A car races up from the horizon with a billow of dust, morphing from the heatwaves. Laine watches it with his headphones in thinking why’s it going so fast at this time of night? And from the town? and as it gets closer he takes his music out. The car approaches, slows, but then crosses over to the other side of the road, and stops a few metres in front of Laine. Three men are inside. Two of them wear masks. One of them doesn’t: that man is Robbie.

 Laine twirls his headphones around his iPod and takes his bag off. He hadn’t expected things with Robbie would be over. He wonders who the goons in the car are … Are these Robbie’s new loyal brothers? The fickle, typical fable of soul-brother-turned-to-foe amazes Laine, but he’s also ready to join in. He’s already flexing his knuckles as the men come out the car. Looking around, there is nobody else for miles.

 “Ho, ho, there, Lainey boy!” Robbie’s trying to sound cinematic.

 The men’s masks are made from football-scarves; one has a balaclava, probably taken from an old Halloween costume drawer. Laine’s manhood is straining here: this is a slight to his four years of grinding shelling; the dead children; the lizards scarpering through the hard mud and sandy rock; the insurgents blowing themselves up, hollering chants from a text most of Laine’s boys didn’t know the name of; Laine’s boys blowing them up, with scattered aim, collateral damage, mistake upon mistake of things they didn’t have to report themselves for. Robbie’s jealous insecurity really has no comparison.

 “Anything you want to say, Lainey?”

 They crowd around him in a square. The situation seems fairly decided.

 “Robbie, I didn’t touch your girl. Is that what this is even about? Why would she even say something like that, huh? I’m leaving in a few weeks from this town. You won’t even see me again. Why don’t you and your lads just leave.”

 “Big tough army lad returns home and thinks he can grab another man’s girl?”

 “You know nothing about the army, Robbie. What’s it you’ve been doing since I’ve been away anyway? Drinking beer with these lads? Who are you anyway – take off your masks. I don’t want to fight you.”

 One of them lunges at Laine. Some square pelt to under the cheek-bone which he lets himself catch. The move that never works; Laine cuffs the attacker up by the jaw-bone, flattening him in the road with an ominous thunkk of the skull on the concrete.

 “Just leave me alone!” Laine yells, but they’re all rushing him. Limbs of England, white flesh, pink spirits, groomed in salt diets, where many a chip-shop promenade casts each the kingdoms of counties, to let the peasants grovel by their tight-legging’d superiors, oh, to let rip those bulge-breasted corsets, to sediment caste and genocide alike, for all the cornfields and oak-brilliance to return again, reforming the definition, encasing the page.

 What are nations within the scrap of five young men? One’s already knocked out, and three others are reduced to ravenous creatures with teeth, claws and lazy windpipe-intentions. But they have rage, and at one moment they have Laine on the floor, freely kicking him in the face. Laine imagines what intentions they have in their violence. Odd, how, if he were them, and didn’t have the experience with the Afghanistan War, he would have kicked with the same mindlessness.

 By a glimpse he sees the opportunity to dent a kneecap in – he does so with his boot, and that person falls over with a cracked bone by the sound of the agony. He sits up, and as another of the masked men comes forward, tips the body up and hurls it over. Laine merely stands up as the last one poises on-guard.  His face is bloody; one of them tore his jacket collar, but the other masked man looks the more afraid despite not having a face.

 “Would you just leave it?” Laine says.

 The masked man backs away; the one he just threw away behind him isn’t getting up. The kneecap Laine cracked belongs to Robbie, who holds it, an embarrassed infant, looking down.

 Laine steps forward and brings his heel down on the kneecap, suspended as videogame-glee-kill for him to break further, which it does. Robbie bawls. Laine’s victory was never in question. His three attackers didn’t come close.

 Laine looks out over the fields. The sun is just about down. That doesn’t matter. Even when it’s fully up, and even now that the modern sun blazes England like it’s never done before, it will never be the same as the desert. The hills and fields are flat, yet the crops are tame, and laced synthetically; even the farmers have lost their art.

 Robbie stops crying, and the sun buckles under the horizon. Laine wishes he could jump up to the diamond stars, the first few shining, to live by different lights, where people can’t exist. He hasn’t thought anything similar since he was a boy.

 ***