kettle. ‘So we spent the night together? We’re both over sixteen, there’s nothing illegal about it.’
James stared into his mug and wrung his hands uncomfortably. Partly James was jealous because he was a virgin, but mostly it just felt really weird being in a room with two people who’d spent the night having sex. It reminded him of the feeling you get when you pull a hair off your tongue and realise it’s not one of your own.
‘I’m gonna clean up,’ James said, pushing his chair back as he stood up. ‘I stink like that police cell.’
The doorbell rang as James stepped out into the hallway. He recognised Max Tarasov through the frosted glass.
‘Hey,’ James said. ‘How’d you and Liza get on with the cops?’
‘They took all of us in one at a time and asked about what happened and that. We all said it was totally the other lot who started it.’
‘That lunatic Patel smacked my head against the car roof.’
Max nodded. ‘He’s a nutter that bloke. I’ve seen him on TV being interviewed and he’s Mr Smooth, but I’ve heard so many stories about him.’
‘Like what?’ James asked.
Max shrugged. ‘Oh, you know, giving kids slaps. Nothing massive, but he’s got a reputation for being a bit handy.’
‘So’d you get in trouble with your dad?’ James asked.
‘It wasn’t that bad,’ Max said. ‘He was pissed off having to leave the pub to come and collect us, but he’s had a few runins with the Grosvenor kids and he hates their guts.’
‘How come?’
‘There used to be this bunch of lads from over there who kept coming down the High Street and raising hell. They busted the pub windows a few times and my dad reckons some of them broke into the car lot and nicked his cash box. Anyways, I came round ’cos some of us lads usually have a kick-about on Sunday morning. It looks like the weather’s settling down. Are you up for it?’
‘Right now?’ James asked. ‘Only, I was gonna have a shower. It makes my skin crawl thinking about all the drunks and dossers who slept in that police cell before I did.’
‘No worries. You know where the pitches are. Just meet us down there when you’re ready.’
James nodded, ‘But I’m warning you, I’m not exactly god’s gift to football.’
‘I’ll make sure you’re on the other team then,’ Max grinned. ‘See you in a mo.’
James pushed closed the front door. As he passed by the kitchen, he noticed Sonya clambering out of the cupboard under the sink.
‘What the hell are you two up to?’ James laughed.
‘I thought you might ask Max inside,’ Sonya explained. ‘I had to hide.’
‘Dave told me everything was legal and above board,’ James grinned.
‘That’s just the law,’ Sonya explained. ‘My dad is an entirely different matter.’
‘Max wouldn’t grass you up though, would he?’
Sonya shrugged. ‘Probably not, but I wouldn’t put blackmail or extortion past the little swine.’
18. LUNCH
James didn’t acquit himself too badly on the football pitch and even curled in a fluky goal from the halfway line. When the six lads got knackered, three of them headed off to the shop to buy drinks, leaving James with Max and a black kid called Charlie. They sat on the remnants of a vandalised wooden bench and had the conversation thirteen-year-old boys always have: football, fit girls and funny stuff that had happened to them, or to other kids.
Charlie was the kind of guy whose story had to top everyone else’s, and James suspected he was making stuff up, or at least exaggerating. Not that he minded. Anything that kept the conversation away from his fictional background was good. Even the most detailed back story requires you to fill in some details on the fly, and the more you invent, the easier it is to forget something you’ve said and contradict yourself later on.
When it got to lunchtime, Max invited James and Charlie for Sunday lunch.
‘Won’t your old lady mind?’ James asked.
‘My mum’s a nutter,’ Max explained. ‘She loves cooking.’
The layout of the Tarasovs’ flat was identical to where James and Dave lived, except there was a narrow staircase off the hallway that led to extra rooms on the next floor up.
Max led the chain of boys into the kitchen. ‘I’ve got two extra for lunch, OK Mum?’
James could hardly believe the amount of stuff crammed into the steaming hot kitchen. There were shelves lined with pickle jars and catering sized tins. Pots and pans hung from a rack over the dining table