until he wets himself. I remember during that carol concert when that girl wet herself doing a solo at the front in the church and you could see her trousers go dark and then there was wee on the floor. It was amazing.’
‘Thanks, Hattie,’ I say. ‘That’s thoughtful.’
‘Why do you have a knuckleduster?’ Aslam says.
‘It’s shiny. I like it. Elliot bought it for me. He said I was so pretty that everyone would try to rape me at sixth form.’ Elliot’s the only one of us who isn’t going to go to sixth form in the town next door to ours. He’s going to work as a plumber with his dad, who smells of orange peel and cries when football players sing the national anthem before matches. ‘He says I should be prepared to fight them or kill them and he didn’t want me to ruin my knuckles because they are the nicest knuckles he has ever seen.’
‘Gay,’ Aslam says. Gay doesn’t mean homosexual. It means something else. It means sincerely saying the kind of things our parents would say.
‘Sorry for being nice.’
‘Gay.’
The rest of the rum disappears into the coke and I screw on the lid and mix everything up. We pass it around.
‘Have you ever hit anyone before?’ Hattie says. ‘Loads,’ I say. ‘Once. No. Never. Zero times. Have you?’
‘All the time. I hit Ella last week because she said I use Brillo pads for tampons, which I don’t. It’s easy. The secret is to pretend they’re your dad.’
‘I like my dad.’
‘Someone you hate.’
‘I don’t hate anyone.’
‘Then you can’t really expect to be punching people.’ ‘He has to,’ Aslam says, putting his hand on my shoulder and grinning. ‘If he doesn’t, everyone will start fingering Alice.’ I roll a cigarette and light it, feeling unsure and insubstantial. Aslam makes a cupping motion with one hand. ‘Feeding his pony.’
*
A girl I almost recognise opens the door of the house on Huntsdon Street. She has cropped blonde hair and is smiling and holding a bottle of WKD blue against her chest. She tells us to come inside. We come inside. People are scattered throughout the house. People are sitting and standing and talking and kissing. We drop onto an empty island of carpet next to the electric fire.
‘There,’ Aslam says, pointing at a group of three boys sat on the stairs. ‘That’s him. The middle one.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Facebook.’
‘Is it really definitely him?’ The boy is wearing stonewashed jeans and a white v-neck so low that one of his nipples is visible. There is a tribal tattoo around his forearm. ‘Like definitely is it that one?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Doesn’t he look a bit tall?’ He looks extremely tall. The boy on his left looks like a tiger and the boy on his right looks like an aubergine. ‘He has an actual tattoo.’
‘He’s probably a fucking pussy. I’ll take his knees and you take his face.’
‘I think we should talk to him first.’
‘And say what? Thanks for raping my girlfriend. Fuck that. Let’s smash his back doors in.’ A girl to our right wrinkles her nose and raises an eyebrow. I try to smile but my face fails to make the right shape.
‘Aslam, that means bumming someone.’
‘I thought it meant punching the back of their head.’
‘Why would it mean that?’
‘I don’t know. Just go. I’ve got your back.’
‘I’m scared.’
‘Just drink.’
‘Fine.’
We take turns downing as much of the rum and coke as we can. It makes my belly pinch itself a little but I get more brave. When we are drinking I feel like my body becomes more solid and I am less likely to float into the sky or sink into the ground or disappear into nothing.
More people arrive and the house shrinks. It gets loud. Someone tells James that there’s nitrous upstairs and he takes Hattie and they go.
‘Ready?’ Aslam says. We’ve been watching two people flirt with insults by the TV.
‘Yeah.’
I stand up and fall to one side slightly.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ he says.
I right myself. My chest feels wobbly. I dig my fingernails into my hands until it feels like they’re going to go through the skin. It takes twelve steps to reach the staircase. Twelve tiny steps. When I arrive, I panic. I stare at Aaron Mathews’ shoes. They are white-and-blue Nikes. They are big. They are bigger feet than anyone I know has. I should make new friends. I should make new friends with atypically large feet and intimidating physiques.
‘Hi there,’ I say. I don’t understand why I said ‘hi there’. I have never said ‘hi there’ before in my life.
‘Hi there,’ Aaron Mathews says. He’s smiling. He looks at his friends and his friends look at him and they all do little laughs. I think about my bed and how I don’t understand why I’m not in it.
‘Hi there,’ I say again. I have no idea why I’m saying ‘hi there’. He should hit me. I would hit me. ‘Nice shoes,’ I say. ‘Very cool shoes.’ A reason I don’t like talking to strangers is because I find it difficult to simulate casual chat with them. Sometimes I memorise sporting news for use while standing next to men at urinals, checkouts and bus stops. Or quotes from films to fill in silences. But nothing seems relevant to now.
‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘No way, hoselay.’
‘What?’
‘Um.’
‘Is there something you want?’
‘Are you Aaron Mathews?’ I say. I look up at his face and his face is scary so I look back at his shoes. His nice shoes. His massive, nice shoes. I wish his face was a pair of nice shoes that I could put my feet into and jump up and down in until he apologised for what he did.
‘Yes.’
‘Great,’ I say. ‘That’s great. Do you know Alice Calloway?’
He laughs. ‘Yeah,’ he says.
‘Did you rape her with kisses at all?’
‘Did I what?’
‘Did you force yourself on her?’
He
