6: Every time we touch
LEANING weakly against the white-washed wall, the borrowed racket fell towards the sprung-wood floor as I drew a deep, rasping gasp and lifted my drooping head in dumb submission. Ali was in the school squash team, for fuck's sake, and I'd never played before. Fortunately, there was no-one around this lunchtime to see his steady dismemberment of my pride. He'd won the first two games easily though I had somehow got enough lucky ricochets to take the third. We were into the fourth and I was knackered. I was wearing white shorts and socks, the Green Flash and my pale yellow, sweat-soaked T-shirt and wishing it was the zero-gravity squash I'd seen in the last Doctor Who.
''Had enough yet, J?'' Ali bounced the green rubber ball on his strings.
''What's the score?'' I gasped.
''Six-one.''
''I never played before.''
''I couldn't tell.''
''Just serve, will you?''
Grinning merrily, he like battered the ball with all his might towards these two stark, blood-red lines on the white-washed wall. I sprinted forward, soles squeaking, and slammed it back, trying to win with sheer force and speed of rebound. He sent it over my head so I had to jump. My racket swept through thin air. Bollocks. Another point to him. Mega-bollocks.
We fixed the game when he'd phoned to find out about my face.
''All right,'' I said. ''A bit swollen.'' Despite Mum dousing it with tea-tree oil, it was still a notable bruise and drew comment from teachers and peers alike throughout Wednesday.
''You know what they say? Rugby's a game played by men with funny-shaped balls.''
I called him lame.
Beaky, fondly indulgent, said I was becoming the school's East Clintwood as he declared we would have a 'small quiz'. I was going to reply with my favourite Josey Wales line, ''Don't piss down my back and tell me it's raining,'' but didn't. Instead I drawled he'd 'made my day.' Explaining he couldn't face any actual teaching, he said he'd brought this special treat for us, in a crumpled paper bag which he withdrew gingerly from his briefcase.
''This,'' he declared, ''Is one of Frau Phillips' specialities. It is, without doubt, the most succulent, mouth-watering, golden-brown, home-made fudge my dog… I mean, I have ever tasted.'' The rough cube he held before us looked really solid, stodgy and dull. ''Wouldn't you like a piece? I love it, but I am willing to get rid of it… I mean, share it with you so that you too can… er… experience the lingering taste, the unique texture… Herr Paulus. Could I tempt you with some home-made fudge?''
''Wouldn't want to deprive you of your lunch, sir,'' Paulus replied.
''Herr Seymour?''
''It would be very selfish of us, sir.''
Beaky looked crest-fallen. ''Herr Peters? You won't let me down, surely.''
''You know what they say, sir,'' I grinned. ''Moment on the lip, lifetime on a drip.''
The quiz, on jobs, proceeded, each of us like trying to outdo the other in sheer rubbishness. Sitting on the front row, I could see the answers scrawled across a sheet of paper in Beaky's spidery handwriting, a paper that had been left 'carelessly on purpose' for me and Paulus, but we could also see the fudge, squatting malevolently in its squareness.
We had to match sixteen jobs with their descriptions, like 'eine Sekretärin… arbeitet an einer Schreibmaschine,' if anyone still had a Schreibmaschine, and 'ein Friseur… schneidet Haare.' Deliberately fudging (ha ha) questions j ('ein Briefträger' who I said made underpants – clever, eh?) and n ('eine Verkäuferin' who I claimed mined coal), I finished with twelve out of sixteen. Phew. Somewhere in the middle. I couldn't get zero, that'd be too obvious, but fourteen or better was too risky. No. Twelve was OK, though Paulus, the swotty smug twat, contrived to get ten.
''The lucky winner is,'' Beaky announced ceremonially, ''Is… is… ''
God, it was like Strictly. Tensely I sucked the rubber orange on the end of my pencil and stared at the massive poster behind Beaky's desk of Neuschwanstein Castle (that fairy-tale one from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, my favourite film EVER when I was like 8, even though the Child-Catcher like scared me to death 'cos he snatched kids from their beds and locked them up in cages 'cos Baron Bomburst didn't want any kids in his kingdom?)
''Herr Collins.'' A name greeted with massive grins of relief. ''You, Herr Collins, alone among your peers, may savour my wife's delightful fudge. I hope you don't feel too ill… I mean, want any more because it's the last piece.''
As Collins bit confidently into the cube, twenty people craned forward to watch him turn green, vomit, or simply drop dead. Collins merely glanced at us with a superior look, swept a hand through his thick blond hair and popped the rest into his mouth.
''Lovely, sir,'' he said, licking his fingertips, ''Lovely. Compliments to Frau Phillips.''
Beaky's jaw fell as he gaped, then gulped and stage-whispered ''Is he all right?''
''Looks it, sir,'' said Paulus.
''No,'' hissed Beaky, tapping his forehead. ''I mean, is he all right up here?''
''Well,'' I said, ''That's what we ask every day, sir. So difficult to tell these days, what with medication and therapy and that. Marvellous what they can do, isn't it, sir?''
Beaky, clearing his throat, said page 65, an interview with some guy called Lars Richter, protesting through a unison groan that he had to get on with the syllabus.
''Tell us about German fudge, sir,'' said Paulus. ''Aren't there several varieties?''
''Like their chocolate,'' I added hopefully.
''Ah, well,'' Beaky settled on the edge of his desk. ''I did once visit a chocolate factory in Zurich…'' Lars Richter was forgotten as we settled back for a lengthy lesson-killing, work-avoiding anecdote. Result, eh?
Double Biology, on the other hand, started badly but finished well. Herb's lab in the Jessop Wing was this like freak-show of a dozen jars of pickled nasties, lurid diagrams of human innards and stuffed animals glaring bitterly from the shelves. What the fuck was wrong with him? No wonder we felt so weirded out when we went to Biology, especially since we'd come from Beaky's cosy world of fudge and Yorkies, posters of Brecht and photos of German landscapes, this mini-bust on his desk of Schiller, who'd written Ode to Joy (you know – 'Freude schoener Götterfunken Tochter aus Elysium' and all that - Beethoven's 9th, yeah?). Anyway, someone had written on the board 'GET STONED. DRINK WET CEMENT.' We thought it witty. Herbidacious did not. Glaring wickedly, he turned on us. ''Who wrote that?'' We remained silent. His face darkened with suppressed fury. ''I am waiting for an answer.'' His eyes raked us, searchlights scouring a night-sky for enemy bombers. ''Look, Upper Five H. I will not tolerate...''
''I think it was probably someone in the Lower Sixth, sir.''
Yikes, was that me speaking? Or was it just a timid squeak? I stared at Herbie, a terrified rabbit literally hypnotized by the stare of a snake.
''I beg your pardon, Mister Peters?'' The Mr was heavily stressed. ''Who asked you?''
''Well, you did, sir, kind of. Ask us. Sir.''
Stop talking. For once in your life, just stop.
For some reason that song from The Herbs, 'Oi'm Bayleaf oi'm the gardener, oi work from early dawn' popped into my mind, and I giggled. Christ Almighty, I thought he was gonna have, like, this massive stroke, you know? With frothing an' twitching an' stuff?
''So you find it funny, do you, you half-witted buffoon?''
''Well, not funny as such, sir. More like witty, clever, you know?''
Please stop.
''Which form is it?''
''Lower Six CR, I think, sir.'' That fucking bastard song. I struggled not to laugh.
''Tut. Yet another example of the immaturity of the present Sixth Form. Get rid of it, Peters.'' He chucked a dirty cloth at me. The Lower Sixth or the slogan, sir? Did not tumble out of my mouth. Thank God. My shoulders shook with silent laughter as I wiped the board.
You know, we tried to engage with him. Fosbrook, asking if he'd had a nice holiday, was curtly told to mind his own business and when
Lewis asked if it'd been a sun-soaked place full of bathing beauties, he was sent out, but the lesson itself was awesome. Me, Maxton, Gray and Fosbrook dissected a sheep's eyeball, smeared the jellied gunge on each other's sleeves then slipped the bits into Stewpot Stewart's pocket. Like mega-result, eh?
In Music, we composed and sang a happy birthday song for Jamie Arnold, who was 16 today - we'd given him the traditional class card signed by everyone at Registration - then I got 14/15 on a test on Handel's Israel in Egypt – how could I confuse a cor anglais with a bloody trombone (question 7)? The bloody trombone hadn't been invented then, you soup-for-brains fuckwit. But then I saved my rep with an awesome presentation on Mussorgsky, illustrated with extracts from Boris Godunov (the overblown Coronation Scene and the tsar's desperate, ghost-haunted death on CD) and Pictures at an Exhibition (Baba Yaga and Great Gates of Kiev) on the piano. Using Grove and a biography from the City Library, I'd enjoyed researching the life of this alcoholic military officer turned civil servant who loved 'all things Russian' and had drunk himself to death by the age of 42. Man, there was a lesson! Dead at 42. From vodka. Shit, man.
''Lesson for you, mate,'' Ali said, tying his laces, ''After that party.''
Fucking hell. Even he knew about it.
Hammering the green squash ball at the wall, he darted aside as I lunged too close and crashed down with a bone-jarring thud, my racket clattering to the floor. Instantly he was beside me, asking if I was all right.
''Just winded,'' I said, holding my rib-cage together with my fingers. ''Get on with it.''
The ball, literally blasting into the wall like some mad thunderbolt, shot back past me like a bullet at about a megazillion miles an hour. I like scampered into the far corner, got my racket under it and sort of scooped it back, racing forward for the return, but Alistair, anticipating my move, thwacked it high over my head and back into the wall.
''You should run around a bit more,'' he advised drily, ''Get some weight off.''
''There'll be nothing left.'' I dragged a weary hand through my sweat-soaked hair. ''Just a fucking skeleton.''
Grunting, he whacked the ball again. Recklessly I dived for it, landed heavily on the court, kind of skidded and literally shredded my knee as I cannoned painfully into the wall.
''You're bleeding,'' he observed wisely.
I tugged a tissue from my pocket. ''No shit, Sherlock.''
He promptly declared a draw because I'd retired injured.
''Bollocks, Alistair. You won. You were eight-three up''
''But if you'd been able to continue, who knows?''
''You'd still have won. You're, like, totally brilliant? And I'm, like, totally shit?''
He helped me limp to the changing room then sat me on a bench, gripped the back of my calf and dabbed the deep, bleeding gash with this water-soaked handkerchief.
''Is that better?'' he asked softly.
Man, it was better than brilliant. He was touching my leg. Electricity tingled through me, like when Gray doodled on my hand. Then he like gave me his water-bottle, you know? Where his lips had been. Where his mouth had been. Where his… Shit. I almost passed out.
''Does it hurt?''
''No,'' though it stung like a bazillion wasps were partying in my kneecap.
''Do you think my legs are too thin?'' I asked. ''I think they're like matchsticks.''
''I'll get some TCP from the staff First Aid box.''
Fuck no! Not that fucking molten lava sulphuric fucking acid...
''Argggggghhhhhh!'' Blinded by tears, I dug my fingernails deep into his shoulder.
''Sorry, J,'' he whispered. ''Does it hurt?
''Fucking fuck you, you fucking fuck-witted fuck-wit. Of course it fucking hurts!''
''Sorry, darling.''
Darling? What the fuck?
Abruptly he stood up, flinging the blood-stained hankie at me.
''Anyway,'' he said gruffly, ''You can sort yourself out from here. It's just a cut.''
I want you to do it! Please, Ali… you do it… you hold me… please hold me. Ali...
He stripped off his T-shirt and dumped it on the bench. His chest was narrow but his shoulders were broad. A thin line of fine black hair connected his waistband to a deep pit of a navel. I saw black hair in his armpits. Fucking hell. Why was I such a little weed? You could like count my fucking armpit hairs, you know? I watched enviously as he sprayed himself with Lynx Fever and tossed me the can. I reddened like a winter sunset. God, now he would see just how pathetic my pathetic little body really was.
He was wearing thigh-hugging black hipsters. Not boxers. And black was sooo sexy.
Not on him, obviously.
On me.
''Nice pants,'' I said idiotically, piling my T-shirt on the bench with my shorts.
''Yours too,'' he grinned. They were a nice apricot colour.
I followed him to the toilet. I like really wanted to look, you know? See what his was like? If it was bigger? Or nicer than mine, you know? Though I thought mine fairly nice anyway and kind of big for my body, but his looked thicker, a little longer… Darting this furtive glance to my left, I realised with a sort of horrified excitement that he was totally checking mine out too. Shit! Fuck! Shit.
Blushing like a carnation and feeling like really guilty, I fixed my eyes on the straw-coloured liquid trickling along the stainless steel trough. His and mine, two streams merging… I glanced again, deeply ashamed yet unable to stop myself, and met his lazy smile. I gulped. My piss seemed to have frozen in mid-air. My heart threatened to choke me. My cock was swelling. Oh God! Ali. My darling. Look at it. Touch it. Kiss it. Our eyes met.
Oh Ali.
Oh fuck.
Someone just shoot me.
Then he was gone, looping his gold prefect's tie through the collar of his pale blue shirt and ruffling my sweat-dampened hair, and I slumped on the bench to stick a plaster on my knee and lever off my trainers while my erection subsided. My mood had suddenly shifted from elated excitement to wanting to cry. He had left me, and my life felt so empty.
Moodily I pulled on my grey trousers then the grey shirt and buttoned it, except for the top one, shoved my grey-socked feet into the black Clarks, tied the laces, slung my Adidas backpack over a shoulder and emerged into the soft drizzle and the trees surrounding the Sports Centre where some gimps were playing conkers. The school buildings were on the far side of the cricket pitch. Bollocks. Cutting across the field was punishable by like a gazillion deaths so I'd have to walk round and get wet. Double-bollocks. My hair'd be soaked.
The afternoon brought the mega-yawnorama of Physics. Mr Milton could be a really entertaining teacher. Yeah, I know that sounds impossible, right, in Physics? But Millie, who sported this beard you could lose a bulldog in and horrendous socks patterned with Simpsons characters, was certifiably insane. Virtually every experiment ended in utter disaster. Our form-master in 4M, he'd blown almost everything up and taken us on this mad day-trip to London, to the Science Museum followed by the National History Museum, chasing us round Kensington at like a million miles an hour 'cos he was afraid we'd miss the train home. He'd started this awesome class project of building a fully working crane out of Lego and an AA battery. It even kept me away from Wargames for a while. He'd done this lesson on weather-patterns and ended up miming the whole bloody thing? flicking the lights on and off for lightning, banging his fists on the board to simulate thunder, tapping his fingers on the desk for rain then blowing hard through his teeth for the wind. He'd followed this up by digging his hands into a box of chalk and hurling the contents into the air with this lung-busting cry of 'VOLCANO!' He wasn't like that today. It was all equations and problem-solving. Still, he was like a trazillion tons better than Dr Moss, who was quite possibly the worst teacher in the school. Bald, boring and drily academic, I learned nothing from him except that I should underline stuff in pencil not ink and that I was a total waste of carbon atoms.
My mind wandered back to the squash game. What the hell ha
ppened there? I'd been overwhelmed by such strong feelings again, like in my bedroom that time when I'd wanted, really really wanted him to like hug me, to KISS me. When he'd gripped my knee, my heart had thumped so violently, and my blood had literally caught fire. And when he left me, I'd felt like crying again. Christ, I always felt like crying when he left me.
He had called me 'darling.'
Darling.
What if he was, you know, in love with me? And was I like in love with him? Was that what it all meant?
Shit and bollocks.
Boys didn't fall in love with other boys, at least not in real life, nor in my life. I'd rather fry and eat my own eyeballs with a crisp side-salad and a chilled Sancerre than have some drooling pervert peeping at my boys' bits. 'Cos neither Alistair nor me were poofs. We were just curious. Unlike Paulus who was a total poof. He had gold buckles on his shoes. I mean, shut that door, ducky.
The high-pitched, banshee wail of the fire-alarm abruptly shattered my train of thought. Erection subsiding, I trailed downstairs from the Jessop Wing into the drizzle.
''Typical, holding a drill on a day like this,'' muttered Maxton. ''It's bloody freezing.''
''Probably Leatherface smoking his pipe under the bloody detector again,'' grumbled Stewart. Which our leather-faced tosser of a year-head had actually done, twice, the twat.
The rain wet my face as we lined up on the muddy field between U5S and U5B.
''Shut up!'' roared Bunny. ''Alphabetical order!''
There was a sudden frisson of tension.
''I don't think it is a drill,'' I told Paulus. ''I think it's for real.''
''Peters!'' yelled Bunny. ''I thought I told you to shut up. For God's sake, boy! Don't you ever stop talking? Tuck your bloody shirt in and do your collar up, you lout!'' He started barking out the roll – Arnold, Bainbridge, Brudenall, Burridge, Cooke – I grinned at Wilson in the U5S line –Collins, Crooks, Fosbrook, Gardiner, Gray – then waved at Lees in U5D – Harrison, Huxley, Lewis, Maxton – and nodded at Coleman in U5B – Morreson, Paulus, Peters …. PETERS! The 6' 2 spud-faced brick shithouse that was Kevin Seymour standing behind me dug me hard in the spine so I kind of squawked ''Here, sir!'' like some frightened chicken which North and Rix in U5S imitated till the whole of the fucking Upper Fifth seemed to be taking the piss. Bunny just gave me this utterly withering look and finished the roll with Seymour, Stewart and Walton. God, the man thought I was such a twat.
I wished it would stop raining. For Arnie's birthday. Shit, man. He was 16. I wouldn't be 16 for like ages, like (I worked it out on my fingers) fucking 8 months! Bollocks. And Arnie wasn't the oldest in the form. That was Burridge, on 3rd September. After Arnie was Chris Morreson on 28th then we were into October. At least I wasn't the youngest, though. That was SuperSwot SpecSaver Adrian Huxley on 23rd August. Man, he'd only just turned 15. But anyway, I'd still have to watch (I counted on my fingers again) 14 others reach the age of consent before me, and sign the bloody congrats cards. There were only Stewart (July 14), Crooks, Fosbrook (June 15) and Huxley younger than me, and only Fosbrook was titchier than me and he and Hux were like NEVER getting laid anyway EVER 'cos one had elephant ears and the other a ferrety face so it didn't like matter to them like it did me, you know, young, hot and full of hormones? Life was so unfair, you know? Anyway, as Gallagher appeared with two policemen and a fire-officer, an uneasy silence spread through the 800 boys on the field.
''Away from the buildings!'' Gallagher shouted. ''Get away from the buildings.''
Alistair Rose emerged from the middle door and spoke to the fire-officer then he, Leverett and Chris Crooks started herding us backwards.
''Bloody fire-engine,'' said Maxton. ''Look.''
''Dammit,'' scowled Stewart. ''Isn't it gonna burn down after all?''
Beyond the chapel, blue lights blazing, a gleaming red fire-truck was pulling up. Then we noticed a gas cylinder burning outside one of the workshops.
''Not much of a fire,'' Stewart muttered scathingly. ''Bit of spit would put that out.''
''Bloody rain'll do it,'' Maxton concurred.
Several firemen jogged past. Some Sixth Formers cheered ironically. Bush-head, U5B's form-master, chatting with U5S's Soggy Sugden, he of the paunch, receding hairline and cheap tweed jackets, glared at them.
''Shut up!'' shouted Alistair, tense and anxious.
''God, what's up with him?'' muttered Maxton.
''Time of the month,'' said Gray.
''Drama-queen, more like,'' said Maxton.
''Some kind of queen,'' said Gray darkly.
''Peters!'' bawled Bunny, ''Shut up! One more word, I'll put you in detention.''
''But sir…''
Sugden, leaning across, slapped the back of my head. ''Stop talking, Peters. It's a gas cylinder. It could blow up and take half the school with it. And do your damn collar up.''
Fucking hell. I wrestled the grey button through the hole behind the knot of my tie as everyone waited nervously till the cylinder was neutralised by some kind of foam. Our cheers were sharply cut short by Ash-tray himself.
''The fire-officer tells me that half of you might have been killed if that cylinder had exploded. All you stupid little boys who thought it was a jolly jape might have burned to death in screaming agony on the field. You do as you are told and move away from the buildings.''
''Blimey,'' said Stewart behind me. ''Laying it on a bit thick, isn't he?''
''When you leave the room, the last one out must shut the doors and windows. Rose and Leverett inspected the school and found most of them open. It is not good enough. You have been told time and time again. So do it. And take it seriously. Fire is not a joke.''
Ali, standing beside him, was frowning directly at me. I wondered whether to wave. Just a little one, a discreet flick of the hand. His frown deepened.
Ash-tray made us stand in the rain for a little longer. Fine with me, I thought. Less time in Physics. Mentally I hummed my new favourite song: 'they got a message from the action man, "I'm happy, hope you're happy too…'' Ashes to ashes, funk to funky, we know Major Tom's a junkie…' When he finally dismissed us, and the lines of boys and knots of masters broke up, Ali descended, his expression thunderous.
''What the hell was that?''
''I was just saying hi.''
Seizing my shoulder, he propelled me roughly towards the sandstone wall.
''You stupid little boy,'' he said. It felt like a slap across my cheek. ''You don't know, do you? You never stop to think. 2S were in that workshop with Mr Rutherford. He dragged it outside. He burned his hands and tore a muscle. He's gone to hospital. But if that cylinder had exploded, he'd've been killed. You might've been killed.'' He seemed on the verge of tears. ''You.'' Gulping, he looked away. ''I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you.''
My heart raced. Suddenly my palms were sweating.
''Why?'' I said.
He gulped again, struggling with himself.
''You know why,'' he said finally, his eyes darkening.
''Peters!'' Gallagher was shouting. ''Get back to class!''
''Call me,'' I said breathlessly, squeezing his arm. ''Call me tonight!''
''Peters!''
I was about to blurt out the truth. I was about to tell him how I felt.
''Ali… me too…I…''
But Gallagher was striding towards us.
How did I feel?
''Call me,'' I said again, then ran after the others.
He loved me.
He really loved me.
It was in his eyes.
I was so excited I could hardly breathe. Man alive. He loved me. Nothing mattered now, nothing. Alistair Rose loved me. He was in love with me. With me! I could hardly wait for the first play read-through at 3.45. I'd seen in his eyes. He loved me. Alistair loved me. Me. Could this be, like, the greatest moment of my life? Like, EVER? All the prizes and concerts were nothing to this. That someone so brilliant could love me, someone so stupid and weedy… it made no sense.
Then a cold realisation chilled my blood. If Alistair Rose was in love with me, that would make him homosexual. Queer. Gay. A poofter. Like Wilson and Gray said.
How the hell could he be a poofter? He was so confident, relaxed and clever. I mean, it was like so fucking ridiculous, you know? Poofters mince and wear make-up, don't they?
But he loved me.
God Almighty. How would I face him at the first read-through? Anyway, when I arrived in the Beckwith Hall, he was like sitting in the Headmaster's chair scribbling on a clipboard whilst Bill Laud dished out scripts and rehearsal schedules and Leo Trent hailed me with a piping ''Hey, Peters, can you lend me fifty pence? I lost my bus-fare.''
''Lost it or spent it?'' I demanded.
''I was sooo hungry,'' said Leo, ''Like starvingly ravenous. I had to get something.''
''Do I look like a bloody bank, Trent?'' I dug through the crumpled tissues and chipped, fluff-dusted Polos in my pocket for a coin. ''I only bring what I need then I can't waste it on crisps and sweets like you kids. If you ain't got it, you can't spend it. Here.''
''Thanks, Dad.'' Miming a kiss, he scampered away crowing his latest poem:
Mary had a little lamb, she tied it to a pylon.
Ten thousand volts shot up its arse and turned its wool to nylon.
''Dad?'' said Sonning. ''You sound more like Granddad. You'll be turning into some greybeard, wearing a loincloth and dispensing wisdom from a lotus position under your tree.''
''God, JP in a loincloth,'' said Harry Turner. ''Imagine it. Legs like fucking Twiglets.''
James Warburton cackled. ''Rosie's fantasy, JP in a loincloth. Or less.''
Blushing red as a post-box, I told Warburton to shut his face and flicked through the script. I always enjoyed the house plays. Last year I'd been Sean in Ted Hughes' Sean, the Fool, the Devil and his Cat. Laud had directed and Ali had played the Devil. It'd been good but Firth House had employed a prostitute, so to speak, which had gone down a storm. Ali had clearly learned that, in an all-boys' school, there is nothing funnier than a prop-forward in a dress and had written no less than four such parts. His play was called Last Will and Testament. Turner muttered darkly that he hoped it wasn't an omen for Rosie's career.
My character, Jasper Farthing, was the villain, mad, bad and dangerous to know. The story, such as it was, involved Guy Sharp (Andy Paulus) inheriting a fortune from some dead relative and the attempts of the other characters to get their hands on it. I, Uncle Jasper, and my wife, Penelope, were to adopt Guy as our child. There were two gangsters, brothers called Marco and Giuseppe Sclerotti, played by Harry Turner (Lysander in The Dream) and Richard 'Sooty' Sutcliffe, who employed as their henchmen Herr Lakker, a German barber played by Jason Middleton, and Jock Macabre, a drunken Scotsman played by James Warburton. These two infiltrated the country house during a dinner-party to celebrate the inheritance. The guests at the party included deaf Aunt Clarissa (Sonning in a frock), and Lulu, the nymphomaniac played by Leo Trent, who was determined to marry money and didn't care whose. Bobby Rose was playing Perkins the butler. There was a gardener called Arthur McArthur (James 'Jambo' Hartley from 4M), solicitor Kirby Mills (Mark Burridge) and Marco Sclerotti's wife, Nessie, played by this absolutely enormous flanker called Stuart Anderson from U5D whose thighs were like thicker than my chest, you know? Although the Sclerottis got the loot, they were double-crossed by Lakker who was working for Jasper all along. The climax involved me shooting Lakker then opening the briefcase containing the cash as Sclerotti's bomb exploded in my face. When the grandfather clock tolled midnight, Perkins emerged from its interior, Lulu bashed me over the head with Jock's whisky bottle, North and Whiting, playing these dim-witted, flat-footed Plods, PCs Cox and Bull, dragged me away and Sharp got the money.
Despite it having, in Turner's words, more corn than a packet of cornflakes and a story no-one could really follow, we thought it hysterically funny. The gimps kept snorting and spitting sandwiches all over their scripts, Anderson was perfect as the Dame and every time Sonning opened his mouth, we all cracked up. Leo, loving his part and the chance to hog the spotlight, put on this super-seductive voice whilst Middleton and Warburton adopted outrageous 'Allo 'Allo accents. My sides were aching so much I could hardly deliver my lines. Paulus said he thought he was going to be sick. Alistair's face radiated with joy as we brought his words to life. I gazed at him, happy he was happy. God, my boyfriend was so clever.
Huh? My what?
After the read-through he asked me and Paulus to join the school magazine's editorial committee. Apparently he and Webbo (Mr Webster) wanted some younger boys on the committee to improve contact between the committee and the school, to develop the Features and Original Contributions sections, to get a wider range of contributors and to stop it being this exclusive Sixth Form clique. Ali thought me and Paulus, and then Shelton, Pippy B and some red-headed gimp called Gittins from 3R might spearhead this, write some stuff ourselves and commission others.
The chance to work with Ali Rose on something else was too good to miss. I left on a massive high as Paulus, grinning inanely, blabbered on about these sonnets he was writing and how he could publish them and how ace it was gonna look on our like UCAS forms.
''And Rosie's sooo cool,'' he added enthusiastically.
''I know,'' I blabbered. ''He's fucking awesome. I played squash with him and he like whipped me? but I didn't care 'cos I was like playing with him, with Awesome Ali, and I fell and cut my knee and he was so kind and gentle… man, I thought I was gonna like die, and then at the fire alarm… oh Jesus, he's like so fucking awesome, you know?''
I suddenly became aware of Paulus' narrowed blue eyes coolly appraising me. Equally suddenly, I became aware of what my blurting meant. I was in love. With Alistair Rose.
Yikes. Someone please just shoot me. I'd rather like fry and eat my own appendix with broccoli and a nice Chardonnay than be, well, that, you know?
I hardly slept that night. Even a half-dozen drops of lavender oil on my pillow didn't help and the jingling wind-chimes seemed to be laughing at me. Ali haunted every thought, and every thought alternated between despair and desire.
I loved him. I really really loved him, you know? Yet how do you describe this feeling?
I just wanted to be with him, to be near him, to hear his voice, to feel his touch, to gaze on his beautiful face, to breathe the same air, to feel those lips against mine…
Oh God, help me. Help me get Ali. Help me get the boy that I love so much and I will do anything you ask, anything, just so long as I can have half an hour with kissing him.
What the fuck?
Another boy?
Kissing him? Another boy? Kissing? Like, with tongues? Like I had with Claire? Oh fuck. This could not be happening. Not to me. Other people were gay, Paulus, Trent, even Rosie, but not me, not Jonathan Peters. How could he be a homo? He fancied girls. A girl. Kind of. Maybe.
Savagely punching my pillow, I rolled miserably onto my front. I shouldn't want to kiss him. We're just teens. I'm 15. He's 17. He's another boy. What the hell's wrong with me? Of course I didn't love him. I couldn't love him, could I? I mean, he's a guy, right? A guy like me, yeah? And I am NOT a fucking homo, OK? Imagining its screaming sirens, I stared at the Stuka diving towards my bed. It was heading for me. I shoved my right arm under the pillow and drifted into a dream.
I was walking barefoot through mud. It squelched between my toes as I passed through a rundown street populated with ragged people in ragged clothes. Ali Rose emerged from a house and gave me an umbrella. As I opened it, he hissed 'not here' and dragged me round a corner. Then he pushed me up against this roughly plastered white-washed wall and French-kissed me, tongue on tongue, and I put my hand inside his trousers…