mean it like that. It will be great, just great.’
‘We’ll unpack in the morning.’
‘Fine.’
Mickey towelled himself dry and collapsed on the bed while Andi pottered in the en-suite bathroom.
He started to drift off, the horrors of the day subsiding.
He was on the brink of deep sleep when he felt a gentle tingle in his groin. He opened one eye and looked down as Andi ran her tongue between his balls and up the shaft of his cock.
‘I’m sorry, love, I haven’t got much energy,’ he apologized, though he felt himself responding.
She looked up at him, doe-eyed, squeezed hard and lightly kissed the tip of his now engorged dick. ‘You just lie there. This one’s on me,’ she said as she took him in her mouth, her eyes still locked onto his, which by now were both wide open.
‘What have I done to deserve this?’ he asked, desperately trying to delay the inevitable.
‘Everything, lover. You’ve heard the expression: when in Rome?’
‘Uh, uuugh,’ Mickey grunted in acknowledgement.
‘Well, as the lady said,’ Andi smiled as Mickey’s scrotum tightened, ‘welcome to Goblin’s.’
Tyburn Juvenile Panel
Wayne Sutton dug deep into his left nostril with the long nail on the index finger of his right hand, which had HAT tattooed, or rather Biro-ed, on the knuckles in erratic, pre-school letters. Wayne thought it spelled HATE. Spelling had never been his strong point, which, since he had rarely attended school, was no great surprise. He was once moved on for begging outside Tyburn tube station with a cardboard sign reading HUNGREY AND HOMLES.
Wayne dislodged a large, crusty bogey. He rolled it between his right thumb and forefinger, examined it, popped it in his mouth, toyed with it with his tongue, threw back his head and propelled it into the air.
‘Wayne. Please pay attention,’ said the plump, middle-aged lady sitting opposite him.
Wayne shrugged and tugged his right earring. He had the body of a man and the mind of a moron. He wore his lack of education on the sleeve of his designer shell-suit, which he had stolen at knifepoint from another kid on the Parkgate Estate. Taxing, he called it.
Ever since he was ten, he had terrorized the estate and its environs, leading a semi-feral existence. He was no stranger to the courts, but since the law granted him anonymity he was known to readers of the Tyburn Times only as Monkey Boy, owing to his ability to scale drainpipes and gain entry to premises through upper-storey windows.
Wayne never knew his father, who could have been any one, or all, of a gang of bikers his mother had obliged in a caravanette in Clacton. Or a travelling salesman she had screwed on the end of Clacton pier in return for the price of a bottle of sherry.
Wayne’s mum was a slag. There was no other word for it. She had stumbled through a succession of drunken, violent relationships, existing on benefits and a few extra quid selling her favours to old men in the derelict bowls club, which had been closed since Wayne’s first, bungled, arson attempt.
She would meet her punters in the pub opposite the Post Office and, after a couple of milk stouts, would relieve them of their sexual tensions and a substantial part of their pension money. She even charged one old geezer an extra 50p for tossing himself off without permission while he was waiting in line.
It had been obvious to all that Wayne was being neglected and was in desperate need of a stable home environment. But social services, in their wisdom, rejected fostering on the grounds that it was best to keep the family together.
Family. That was a laugh. The only family Wayne had ever known apart from his mother was whichever feckless thug was currently punching his mum’s lights out in between bouts of heavy drinking, drug taking and thieving.
‘Mr Pearson, please continue,’ said the middle-aged magistrate.
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Mr Pearson cleared his throat.
‘January 16. Abusive behaviour to staff and customers at Patel’s Minimart and Video Library.
‘January 22. Breaking a 14-year-old boy’s arm at Tyburn fairground.
‘January 23. Smashing a plate-glass window at Corkeez wine bar.
‘January 28. Throwing stones from the bridge above the underpass in Nelson Mandela Boulevard onto passing vehicles.
‘February 4. Shoplifting at Waterhouse’s department store.
‘February 7. Breaking the windows of a number of premises on the Parkgate Estate. The list is attached, ma’am.’
‘I am obliged to you, Mr. Pearson.’
‘February 11. Setting fire to a tramp behind the Odeon.
‘February 14. Abusive behaviour, criminal damage to St Valentine’s flower display at Buds the florist in the High Street.
‘February 21. Criminal damage to bus shelter.
‘February 22. Shining a laser beam into the eyes of a cab driver in Roman Road, causing him to swerve and career into a fruit and vegetable stall, hospitalizing the stallholder, a Mr Bunton.
‘March 2. Kicking over litter bins in High Street. Graffiti spraying on wall of Town Hall.
‘March 6. Shoplifting in Waterhouse’s again.
‘March 9. Attempted burglary at SupaTalc the chemist’s.
‘March 17. Thrown out of Toy Town for attempting to steal Buzz Lightyear dolls.
‘March 19. Threats made against cashier at Continental Stores in Market Road.
‘March 25. Burglary of homes on Parkgate Estate. You have the list, once again, ma’am.
‘March 31. Possession of controlled drugs, cannabis and Ecstasy tablets, with intent to supply.
‘April 1. Urinating from walkway on Parkgate Estate onto the head of PC 235 Watkins, home beat officer.’
‘I think we’ve probably heard enough, Mr Pearson. Thank you. I have read all the relevant papers and social reports.’
‘Then you will see that over a five-month period this year, Wayne Sutton has committed no fewer that seventy offences, ranging from assault and robbery to taking and driving away motor vehicles, culminating in a high-speed chase through the Parkgate Estate in May. He is also in breach of a curfew order, imposed by this panel last December.’
‘Indeed, Mr. Pearson. I am most grateful.’
‘In addition to the evidence in your file, we also have
