by Trevor Hoyle
The scene suddenly brightened. A wash of light illuminated the pens, the waiting lads, the necking couples as a huge full moon, its topographical contours plainly visible, rose in state above the rooftops of Cayley Street; even as they watched, it cleared the slates and chimney-pots and rose into the sky, flooding the landscape with a hard white light.
‘The night of the full moon,’ Spenner growled in his throat.
Terry shivered and stared, bewitched. He felt as if his brain was lifting out of his head, his mind drifting away from his body.
‘No—’ Laura said in a muffled voice. ‘No.’ There was a brief struggle.
‘All right,’ Colin Purvis said easily, ‘don’t get in a sweat. I’m not going to force you.’
‘Don’t do it then.’
‘Okay, keep your knickers on.’
‘I will,’ Laura Parfitt said defiantly.
Now that the lads could see clearly what was going on, how the couples were making out, they could also see the bulge in Colin Purvis’s trousers. Mitch nudged Terry, Terry nudged Spenner, and all three held their silent laughter in their stomachs, quivering and shaking in an effort to contain it. Spenner said, ‘Let’s have a go with Sandra,’ and Alec Bland stood aside to let him in.
Colin Purvis looked over his shoulder, his face broad and thick-lipped in the moonlight, and said in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘D’you fancy having a go with Laura?’
‘I don’t mind,’ Terry said, trembling.
‘He’s a randy little bugger on the quiet,’ Colin Purvis murmured to Laura Parfitt. ‘I caught him earlier on touching up that other tart – who is it, Doreen?’ He stepped back and Terry took his place. The trouble was that Laura Parfitt’s mouth was level with his forehead. When he put his arms round her they encircled her buttocks. She lowered her head and he stood on his toes but it wasn’t very satisfactory.
‘Stand on something,’ Laura said, looking round for a suitable stone or house brick. She spotted one and they manoeuvred towards it, Terry raising himself up so that their faces were level. He couldn’t meet her eyes, he was too embarrassed, but in one quick movement inclined his head and kissed her on the lips. She was expert, no doubt about it, and Terry thought he detected a keener urging in her kiss than with Colin Purvis. And Laura was enjoying it: the way she snuggled deeper into the embrace, soft little sounds at the back of her throat.
‘The randy little bugger’s making a right meal of it.’ observed Colin Purvis to nobody in particular. ‘Save some for the rest of us.’ His laugh was forced.
Terry didn’t want to let her go, and to savour the full magic of his triumph he opened his eyes so that he could see as well as feel that he was actually kissing Laura Parfitt in the moonlight, standing on a stone at the bottom of the Figure 7 in Denby, Lancashire, Great Britain, the World, the Solar System, the Universe.
Laura too had opened her eyes, and for the tiniest fragment of time they looked, eye to eye, beyond the superficial glassy stare into the depths of the thing called Laura Parfitt and the lump of stuff labelled Terry Webb: thrilled, fascinated, frightened, shocked even by the naked contact, fierce as electricity.
It was soon over, in less than a moment, their two bodies tensing momentarily before yielding once again to the passive embrace. He was astonished; that this girl who had always seemed to him so distant and aloof should be so warm and alive. And so near. It was like encountering a Martian only to discover beneath the alien outer layer a real live human being lurking inside. And it was eerie with the moonlight washing over everything, a flat bland illumination making the pointed fences throw corrugated shadows across the rutted track and hummocks of coarse grass.
The faint cry of somebody calling ‘Alec!’ came from the direction of Kellett Street and Alec Bland said, ‘I’ll have to go, that’s me dad.’ When he had gone Colin Purvis said: ‘Four against two now.’
Terry’s heart lurched in his chest; for a nasty moment he had the wild notion that Eddie and Shaz were concealed somewhere nearby, waiting for the signal to pounce. And then realised that Colin Purvis meant four lads against two girls. Fluid gurgled somewhere inside him and his legs on the flat stone went weak with relief.
‘Laura,’ Sandra Weeks said, ‘I’ll have to be going in soon,’ and pulled away from Spenner’s embrace.
‘Not yet,’ Colin Purvis said. ‘Not till you’ve paid your forfeit.’
‘What?’ Laura said, stiffening.
Terry stepped down off the flat stone as Colin Purvis moved in.
‘You’ve got to pay a forfeit before you can go.’
‘Who says?’
‘Four against two.’
‘Oh really?’ Laura Parfitt looked at him in the moonlight with perfect cool detachment.
Mitch said, ‘Sandra’s got to pay one too.’
Colin Purvis grinned and placed his large heavy hand on Laura’s shoulder, and when she didn’t immediately shake him off Terry was inspired by the sudden realisation that girls not only required but actually desired an element of force: he could see it in Laura Parfitt’s eyes, the conflicting emotions of rejection and submission, fear and desire, and he was seized by a dreadful gathering excitement.
‘What they gonna do for a forfeit?’ Colin Purvis mused to no one in particular.
‘We’re not doing anything,’ Laura said.
‘Come on, don’t be chicken.’ Colin Purvis’s hand slid from her shoulder to just above her right breast, his broad flat thumb stroking the material. He said softly, ‘Take your blouse off, let’s see how big they are.’
Laura stared at him.
‘We’re not going to hurt you. We just want to have a look.’
‘I’ve got to go now,’ Sandra said.
‘I said not yet.’
‘I’ve got to go, honest.’
‘You,’ Colin Purvis said, ‘have got to take your knickers off before you go anywhere.’
‘I won’t,’ Sandra said. ‘I won’t.’ It was beginning to dawn on her the predicament she was in. ‘I have to go. Me dad’ll be out looking for me.’
‘Take your knickers off first, then you can go.’
Terry said, ‘Or we can always take them off for you.’
Colin Purvis said silkily, ‘Or we can do what Terry says.’ His hand was touching Laura Parfitt’s breast. She was standing very still, breathing the lightest of breaths. Was it fear that held her, or temptation, or a slow boiling anger that would suddenly spill over into flying fists and stinging blows?
Terry watched and waited, his throat dry, the sweat gathering in the palms of his hands. He felt just as he had done that afternoon in Doreen Hartley’s kitchen when there seemed to be a giant pulse beating in his head, jarring his skull. The air seemed to have in it a peculiar kind of intensity as though a high-pitched sound beyond the range of human hearing was vibrating the molecules to a frenzy.
Another sound – a real one – infiltrated the silence: Sandra Weeks’s muffled sniffling sobs, like the noise a mouse or a small timid creature might make, caught in a trap. Terry experienced the warm enveloping glow of deepest satisfaction.
Laura Parfitt said, ‘Don’t let them scare you, Sandra. They won’t do anything.’
‘I have to go,’ Sandra wailed. ‘I have to, I have to.’
‘You go then,’ Laura said. ‘They can’t stop you.’ She was staring levelly into Colin Purvis’s eyes; it was an attitude finely balanced between defiance and an outright challenge; they were an even match, her stare said so, and they both knew it.
‘Are you staying if she goes?’ His hand hadn’t moved from her breast.
‘No I’m not,’ Laura said, and coolly, ‘Not with you here.’
Terry expected Colin Purvis to react violently to this: what he did in fact was to drop his hand and turn away with a contemptuous shrug, muttering in a low voice, ‘Piss off then. I’ve kicked better slags than you into touch.’
Laura tucked her blouse back into her skirt. She took hold of Sandra’s arm and pulled her up
the Figure 7. Terry watched them go. They were gone in a trice, even before his disappointment could register itself. Mitch said:
‘Bloody Nora, I could’ve poked Sandra Weeks tonight.’
Colin Purvis laughed harshly. ‘What with, your little finger?’
‘I could do it as well as you, any road,’ Billy said heatedly, and rather unwisely. He was six inches smaller than Colin Purvis, which should have been warning enough.
‘Let’s have a look then,’ Colin Purvis said, encircling Mitch’s shoulders from behind so that he was held captive. ‘Get the bugger out and let’s see it.’
Mitch struggled but Colin Purvis held him powerfully, without undue strain. They scuffled this way and that in the dirt, tripping over each other’s feet.
‘Get off,’ Mitch said irritably. ‘Bloody get off.’
‘Not till we see this ten-inch prick of yours.’ Colin Purvis increased the pressure, crushing Mitch to the point where it began to hurt.
‘Don’t,’ Mitch said in a whining voice. ‘Stop it, please, Colin.’
With a fury and savagery that took Terry’s breath away, Colin Purvis flung Mitch across the track and into the fence. Mitch rebounded and lay in the grass. Terry didn’t say anything. He didn’t dare approach Billy to see if he was hurt or not.
‘This is what you call a dick,’ Colin Purvis said, opening his trousers and pulling it out into the open. The long thick shape was plainly to be seen in the moonlight, standing up from his trousers. He stood with his legs splayed and masturbated. There was the sound of sucking flesh.
‘Come on,’ Colin Purvis said, breathing heavily.
Terry undid the buttons on his trousers and felt a surge of release as the cool night air touched him. He was already hard. Spenner did the same; the three of them stood in a circle.
‘Let’s swap round,’ Colin Purvis said to Terry. ‘You do mine and I’ll do his and he can do yours.’
They grasped each other in a chain and worked them back and forth, panting, with intense concentration, lost to everything. Colin Purvis felt enormous, and burning hot: the flesh was hard and yet pliable in Terry’s hand. They worked on each other for a while, no other sound but steady breathing, and Terry knew he was getting nearer. The feel of Colin Purvis shocked him: such bigness, rock solid: he had never imagined an experience like it in his life before.
As he was doing it to Colin Purvis another hand was doing it to him so that he thought he would explode if nothing happened soon.
‘What’s her name, that girl?’ Colin Purvis said, his voice slurred.
‘Laura Parfitt.’
‘Laura fucking Parfitt,’ Colin Purvis said, his breath rasping. ‘Laura, I could fuck fuck fuck you. Oh yes.’ He said, ‘I could rip your blouse off and feel your tits. Oh yes.’ He said, ‘Laura, I could open your legs and push it in and shoot up you. Oh yes. Oh yes.’ He said, ‘If she was here now I’d get her on’t grass and shag her till green sparks flew from her arsehole. I would. I would. Oh yes. Oh yes. Oh yes. Oh yes. Oh fuck—’
He jerked, groaned and pulled away, quivering.
Terry felt himself go in the next moment, the sweet pain rushing through his thighs to be swept clean out of him and lost in the dirt at the bottom of the Figure 7, the bright-as-day moonlight washing over everything. He was weary and content and not afraid of Colin Purvis any more.
When he had buttoned his trousers he went to see if Mitch was all right, lying motionless in the grass. His trousers were open; he had tried and failed.
The four of them walked through the pens towards the gaslamp on the corner near Wellens’s shop. Terry was scared at the thought of what time it was. If it was gone ten – and it must be at least that if not later – he would get pasted. Spenner turned off to go down the back-entry, saying, ‘See you,’ and Terry walked on with Mitch and Colin Purvis. Dolly Bland went clacking by in her high-heels, giving the three of them an old-fashioned look for being out on the streets at this time of night.
As he left them to go along Hovingham Street, Colin Purvis said, ‘Be seeing you. Next time we’ll get Laura Parfitt on her own and we’ll all shag her one after the other.’
Terry went on to number 77, shivering, despite the warmth of the night, with thrilling anticipation.
The next morning he came to the tiny square landing at the top of the stairs in response to his mother’s call and she threw the brown envelope up to him. It landed on the second step from the top. Terry stood in his short vest on the landing and squinted in the poor light at the printed form – with his name typed above the dotted line – which informed him that on the basis of examination he had been selected for the High School for Boys, and that if his parents wished him to attend they should confirm acceptance in writing to the Education Offices, Fleece Street within fourteen days.
Terry ran into the street in his vest and short trousers and met Male Smith (also wearing vest and trousers) pelting out of his front door followed by Bessie. The two lads held one another and danced in their socks in the dirt while Barbara went to stand with Bessie, their arms folded across their pinnies, discussing the cost of uniforms, satchels and sports equipment.
‘I’m dead glad you’ve passed for the Tech, Male.’
‘I’m glad you’ve passed as well, Terry.’
They began to realise they’d passed, dancing in the dirt, singing a song to the tune of D’ye Ken John Peel about passing for the High School and the Tech.
More than half of the class hadn’t passed for anything. Terry considered feeling sorry for them, even a bit sad, but that didn’t last long, because in all honesty it didn’t matter; he wasn’t staying on at Heybrook in the Seniors and he wasn’t going to the Tech where they made joiners and plumbers and sheet metal workers. Terry Webb was going to the High School, as he’d always known he would: he was one of the cream of the cream, as he’d always known he was.
Part 3
First Term
TERM STARTED ON SEPTEMBER 3RD. TERRY HAD arranged to meet Roy Pickup on the corner of Good Shepherd Church and they walked together to the town centre where the High School was scattered about several buildings, sharing premises with the Technical College. Roy was in the Third Year, and starting today he wore long trousers over his lanky legs. Terry felt proud to be walking beside him: the only two lads from Denby who went to the High School.
Terry was a brand-new boy, with his new green blazer and cap, new striped tie, white shirt and grey pullover, new black shoes, new brown leather satchel, new short haircut and new scrubbed face. He looked like a little cherub.
In the assembly hall the First Year were divided into three forms, 1A, 1B, 1C, and to his shock and disappointment Terry was put in 1C. He simply couldn’t understand this. He had never been bottom of the class in anything, except sums. He felt insulted, and thought to himself: just wait till the first lot of exams at Christmas (when the top and bottom half-dozen in each form were re-allocated) and then we’ll see.
The neat green line of boys with gleaming satchels was led across the road and past Ivesons’ furniture warehouse to the rear of the Champness Hall, an old building used by the town for choir concerts and speech days. It was a dreary, draughty barn of a place with grey-washed walls and stone floors. The windows were of coloured glass in abstract patterns with wire screens to protect them. The classrooms were featureless square boxes, thirty-odd desks in 1C, marooned and forlorn in the middle of the vast room. It always felt cold, even in summer.
The first couple of weeks were strange and a bit daunting for all of them. Terry expected this and was prepared to put up with the strangeness, the new regime, the inexplicable customs because everybody else, he realised, was just as lost and at sea as himself. But it didn’t take long for him to begin to hate the High School. It wasn’t just that the lessons were hard and required painful and sustained effort, nor that he had to grapple with the mumbo-jumbo of Latin and the weird logic of Algebra, nor even that the masters in their billowing chalk-smeared gowns frightened him
with their harsh standards of discipline. All this did have its effect, it was true – but really it was the feudal hierarchy of the class that shrank his soul and put fear in his heart. Within a few days this had established itself as a regime of two or three boys and their lickspittle cronies who terrorised everyone who didn’t belong with them or were physically smaller, or could be intimidated.
By the end of the third week Terry, along with a dozen others, was being victimised daily. Arriving in the mornings was torture: edging nervously into the classroom, his eyes everywhere at once, expecting somebody to be lurking behind the door, or that when he reached his desk in the second row to find the pencil box his Auntie Martha had bought him filled with ink or smashed to pieces on the floor.
And it was no good complaining to the masters, who it seemed were themselves staunch advocates of the law of the jungle and the survival of the fittest. It was not only useless but fatal ever to complain to authority, because if Leach and his pack got to hear about it, or even faintly suspected, they would show no mercy, making an example of the informant by means of a cunningly-planned ambush and fiendishly-executed torture. No one ever complained.
Terry was thankful, in his more reflective moments, that he wasn’t the prime victim. Hilton was the name of the unfortunate boy who hardly managed to get through the day – any day – without being kicked, punched, jostled or ‘scragged’ – held spreadeagled by the arms and legs and beaten like a carpet against the ground. Terry had undergone this treatment once (as had most of the others in the class) which had been devised by Leach and his associates as an initiation ceremony. Initiated into what exactly, no one knew; it was merely an excuse for sadistic high-jinks.
Leach himself had a trademark that seemed common to all bullies: he had big teeth. In a way he was a good-looking lad, with a broad open smile and thick dark hair that rose up in a tidal wave at the front and tapered to a neat trim at the back. But it was this openness, this bright-toothed smile, that was the chilling thing about him. The smile was empty, without human warmth, as chill and bare as the classroom they inhabited inside this dank, echoing shell of a building. He took over in Terry’s imagination the role that Colin Purvis had once had, which had been mercifully vacant until Leach came along and filled it like a looming evil shadow. Now Terry woke in the middle of the night with a wide bright smile lodged in his brain instead of a pock-marked crater-face.
