I held the Woodbine like my cousin’d shown me, and pretended to take a deep drag. (Actually I kept the smoke in my mouth.) Ant Little was hoping I’d cough my guts up. But I just breathed out the smoke like I’d done it a million times before, and passed the cigarette to Darren Croome. (Why does something as forbidden as smoking taste so foul?) I glanced at Grant Burch to see how impressed he was but he was looking towards the kissing gate over by St Gabriel’s. ‘Look who it flamin’ isn’t.’
The fighters sized each other up in front of the Hollow Log. Grant Burch’s got an inch or two over Ross Wilcox, but Ross Wilcox is knucklier. Gary Drake and Wayne Nashend’d come as his lieutenants. Wayne Nashend used to be one of the Upton Punks, briefly became an Upton New Romantic, but now he’s firmly an Upton Mod. He’s an utter thicko. Gary Drake’s no thicko, though. He’s in my form at school. But Gary Drake’s Ross Wilcox’s cousin so they’re always dossing about together.
‘Fuck off home to Mummy,’ Grant Burch told Ross Wilcox, ‘while you still can.’ (A dirty opener, that. Everyone knows about Ross Wilcox’s mum.)
Ross Wilcox gobbed at Grant Burch’s feet. ‘Make me fuck off.’
Grant Burch looked at the gob on his trainers. ‘You’re gonna be cleaning that off with your fucking tongue, Piss Flaps.’
‘Make me.’
‘Don’t make shit, it comes natural.’
‘Really original line, that, Burch.’
Hate smells of burnt dead fireworks.
At school, scraps are ace fun. We all scream ‘SCRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPP’ and rush to the epicentre. Mr Carver or Mr Whitlock wades in, tossing aside members of the audience. But this morning’s scrap was more cold blooded. My own body flinched under the punches, automatically, like how your leg hoists itself when you’re watching a high-jumper on TV. Grant Burch body-tackled Ross Wilcox low and fast.
Ross Wilcox got in a weak punch, but had to squirm sideways to not get toppled.
Grant Burch clawed at Ross Wilcox’s throat. ‘Cunt!’
Ross Wilcox clawed at Grant Burch’s throat. ‘Cunt yerself!’
Ross Wilcox punched Grant Burch’s head. That hurt.
Grant Burch got Ross Wilcox in a headlock. That really hurt.
Ross Wilcox was swung one way, swung the other, but Grant Burch couldn’t deck him so he punched Ross Wilcox’s face. Ross Wilcox managed to twist his hand up and sink his fingers into Grant Burch’s face.
Grant Burch shoved Ross Wilcox and booted him in the ribs.
Straight away they head-butted each other, like rams.
They grapple-wrapped each other, garking through clenched teeth.
A crimson streak’d appeared from Grant Burch’s nose. It smeared Ross Wilcox’s face.
Ross Wilcox tried to trip Grant Burch.
Grant Burch counter-tripped Ross Wilcox.
Ross Wilcox counter-counter-tripped Grant Burch.
By now, they’d three-legged themselves to the lip of the embankment.
‘Watch it!’ Gary Drake shouted. ‘You’re right at the edge!’
Knotted round each other, they teetered, clutched, swayed.
Over they went.
At the foot of the embankment, Ross Wilcox’d already got to his feet. Grant Burch was half sat up, cradling his right hand in his left and squinting with agony. Shit, I thought. Blood and soil clotted Grant Burch’s face.
‘Aw,’ mocked Ross Wilcox. ‘Had enough, now, have we?’
‘My wrist’s bust,’ Grant Burch grimaced, ‘yer fuckin’ wanker!’
Ross Wilcox flobbed, dead casual. ‘Looks to me like you’ve lost, then, ain’t yer?’
‘I’ve not fuckin’ lost, yer fuckin’ wanker, it’s a fuckin’ draw!’
Ross Wilcox grinned up at Gary Drake and Wayne Nashend. ‘Grant Piss Flaps Burch calls this a “draw”! Well, let’s carry on with round two, then, shall we, eh? Settle this “draw”, shall we, eh?’
Grant Burch’s only hope was to turn his defeat into an accident. ‘Oh, sure, Wilcox, yeah, with a bust wrist, ’course I will.’
‘Want me to bust yer other wrist, then, do yer?’
‘Oh, that’d be rock hard of yer!’ Grant Burch managed to get up. ‘Phelps! We’re leaving!’
‘Yeah, yeah, off yer go. Home to Mummy.’
Grant Burch didn’t risk saying, At least I’ve got one. Instead, he glared up at his frozen, pale servant. ‘PHELPS! I just told yer, yer deaf-aid, WE’RE LEAVING!’
Philip Phelps jerked into life and slid down the embankment on his arse. But Ross Wilcox blocked his path. ‘Don’t you get tired of that pillock ordering you about, Phil? He doesn’t own yer. You can tell him to fuck off. What’s he going to do?’
Grant Burch yelled, ‘PHELPS! I ain’t tellin’ yer again!’
Phelps thought about it for a moment, I’m sure. But then he dodged round Ross Wilcox and jogged off after his master. With his good hand, Grant Burch flashed Ross Wilcox a ‘V’ over his