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| Mick’s drunk already. Cheerfully, reekingly drunk. He throws an arm over Jack’s shoulders, as much for balance and support as for comradeship. Jack staggers, regretting his choice already. “Jack! Jack, you’ll never guess what!” “What’s that, then?” “I was just in t’pub over there, wi’ Tom Cox, an’ he’s – he’s –!” Mick explodes into raucous laughter. “What?” says Jack, peering over the road. “Who’s that he’s talking to?” “Dunno, but I reckon Tom wants to do more’n just talk to him!” “Really?” They tease Tom all the time about being a pretty boy, and ripe for taking it up the arse, and so on and so forth, but it’s all just teasing. Isn’t it? Jack squints. Tom’s companion’s black-haired, and pale, and quite ridiculously good-looking. So good-looking that maybe this time Tom’s really onto something... “Let’s go an’ see him,” says Jack, tugging Mick tavern-wards. “No! Fuck off, I jus’ left there.” “Where are you going then?” “Mother Williams’,” slurs Mick, with a revoltingly lubricious leer. “I fancy me a bit of quim. Come on, Jack. Let’s.” “Nah.” Jack’s keen to go and taunt Tom and his girly mate for a bit. ‘Sides, why pay for what you can get for free, with a bit of flattery and smiling? “Ah, come on! Here: I’ll shout ye,” says Mick, cunningly going for Jack’s financial jugular. “Really? Have you got that much?” “Got lucky on a rat-fight. Look!” Jack wrestles Mick’s bulging purse back into his trousers before anyone else sees. He’s not kidding. There’s enough there for... ooh, for most of the evening with wee Flora. And maybe one of her girlfriends too. That’ll scratch his itch, alright. END...
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