It was at the end of the fourth year. Summer arrived not long after Easter that year so by the beginning of July our heads were already in August. The hot weather was no excuse for a lackadaisical attitude toward our schoolwork, the headmaster told us in assembly. I doubt most of them knew what lackadaisical meant.

There was a steep rise in the amount of forgotten homework, but many of the teachers were also winding down for the year, so couldn't be bothered giving out detentions. There were exceptions, of course. Mr Reginald gave out three detentions in one science class alone. He should have given out four, people said, because Owen had forgotten his homework too, but then, Owen was still Mr Reg's favourite.

I wasn't entirely innocent in this regard myself. I didn't forget any homework, but I did forget my sports kit one week. That should have meant an automatic detention. Like Mr Reg, sports teacher Mr Welsh revelled in any opportunity to punish, summer, winter, autumn or spring. And a detention from Mr Welsh was a detention with Mr Welsh. You had to do another hour of sports after school.

I found this out the hard way in the first year. An hour after everyone else had gone home one Friday I was still running around the school field with all the other people who'd forgotten their kit that week, and after that I had to shower with this bunch of strangers, and they were all older than me.

It was after this that Owen noticed Mr Welsh never took a register. The whole year was together for sports and it would take too long to call out all those names. As Owen pointed out, if one person was missing, Mr Welsh wouldn't necessarily notice, least of all if it was someone as unsporty as me.

I forgot my kit several times over the years, but I never got another detention from Mr Welsh. On the way to the changing rooms I would pop into the toilets, and there I would stay until the end of the sports lesson, leaving only those who were honest enough to admit their mistake to face the wrath of Mr Welsh.

I was on the bus to school that Monday in July of the fourth year when I realised I'd forgotten my kit again. Sitting in a locked cubicle for over an hour got really boring after you'd read all the graffiti on the walls, so at break-time I got a book out of the library. And I read about thirty pages of it whilst Owen and the others were doing sports. I also got some maths homework done.

There were about ten minutes left until lunch when I smelt something in the air. At first I thought one of the bogs had backed up the wrong way or something. It was pretty strong. It smelt like a bucket of raw sewage, but as I tasted the air further - as you do - it also smelt like a bucket of raw sewage that someone had tried to sweeten with a gallon of cheap perfume.

I met up with Iain and Owen at the start of lunch.

- How was your rest-cure? asked Iain.

- I think someone let off a stink-bomb or something in there, I told them.

- Maybe someone had beans for breakfast, said Owen.

They both laughed.

- It was rank, I said.

- Why'd they let a stink-bomb off when there was no one else around? wondered Iain.

- Someone must have a grudge against you, Owen said, poking me.

Anyway, they decided they wanted to check it out for themselves, so back to the toilets we went. It was a lot busier now. The smell lingered in the air. Younger kids still wrinkled their noses as they came in, but it wasn't as strong anymore.

Iain and Owen stopped as soon as they were through the door. They turned, grinning, and nodded at each other curtly.

- Pot, they said together.

They spent the rest of lunch ribbing me for thinking it was stink-bomb. Iain had an older brother who'd told him what that smell was at an outdoor rock concert last summer. Owen had smelt it once in the park and seen some guys passing around what looked like a cigarette, so he'd worked it out for himself.

- I wonder who it was, he said.

We were on our way to Mr Slater's English class by that point. Iain and I glanced at each other. We had heard Owen use that tone before.

- Did you see anyone in there?

- No, I said.

Then I went on to explain that whilst I hadn't seen anyone, I had heard whispering on and off.

- It could be anyone, said Iain.

- Yes, but chances are it's someone in our year, said Owen. - Maybe even someone we know!

Iain and I looked at each other again.

- That's a pretty big leap, Owen, I said.

Owen shook his head, waved a finger.

- Think about it, he said. - Sports is the only lesson you can bunk off safely. So if our pot-head was in the toilets at the same time as you, then I bet he was bunking off sports as well. Stands to reason, really.

He had a point, but Iain laughed.

- Owen, he said quietly. - If they're smoking illegal drugs at school, I doubt they really care whether it's safe to bunk off or not.

I laughed, but he had a point too.

Owen looked ruffled.

- Well, then, he announced.

We'd got to Mr Slater's classroom.

- We'll have to cast the net wide to flush them out.

Iain and I swapped the usual looks.

- Flush them out how? Iain asked.

- Or more to the point, I said. - Why?

Owen looked at us as if it was obvious:

- So we can get some pot off them, of course.

And then he went into the classroom.

I sat next to Owen. Iain sat at the table behind. About a quarter of an hour into the lesson, Owen suddenly grabbed my wrist and made me jump.

- I've got it! he hissed.

Then his hand shot up. We were meant to be working in silence on some literary comprehension. Mr Slater was sitting at his desk doing some marking. Eventually Owen had to clear his throat to get Mr Slater's attention.

- Can I go to the toilet please, sir?

- Why didn't you go at lunch?

- I didn't need to go then, sir.

It was a conversation as old as schooling itself. Mr Slater waved Owen dismissively toward the door.

I didn't get any work done whilst he was gone. I sat wondering what evidence, what lead he hoped to find in the toilets. He was only gone for about five minutes and when he came back he had a big grin on his face.

- What did you find? I whispered.

- Nothing, he said.

But he was still grinning.

About halfway through the lesson, there was a sharp knock on the door. We were still working in silence at the time and everyone looked up, including Mr Slater. Mr Wright didn't wait to be invited in before opening the door.

- Here we go, Owen murmured.

Mr Wright had half a dozen prefects with him. He came in and stopped at the front of the class, ignoring Mr Slater:

- Boys, I want you all to stand up, put your bags on the desks in front of you and be ready to empty your pockets when asked.

Everyone looked around as if it was some sort of crazy joke.

- What have you done? I said under my breath.

- Tell you later, Owen replied.

Mr Slater stood up to reclaim his authority:

- You heard Mr Wright. Come on!

So we all got to our feet and put our bags on top of our work. Mr Wright and the prefects started on the front row. They emptied the contents of people's bags onto the tables and then watched as people emptied their pockets. They even made you pull out the linings to prove you weren't hiding anything.

Owen watched all this happening with great curiosity. Mr Wright and the prefects worked their way around the room and by the time they were done Mr Wright was carrying seven or eight packets of confiscated cigarettes and twice as many lighters. I knew that's not what they were looking for.

But they didn't find anything else.

- Thank you for your time, Mr Slater, said Mr Wright. - I'll let you get back to your teaching now.

- Thank you, Mr Wright, said Mr Slater.

I always found it funny how teachers used their titles when talking to each other in front of us.

Mr Wright and the prefects left the room.

I looked at Owen.

And he was still grinning.

- They took my Zippo! cried Iain.

It was after school now and Iain, Owen and myself were heading to our lockers. Everyone came out of Mr Slater's room talking about what had happened, and when we bumped into others from our year who had been in Mr Cockthruster's room for French, we discovered Mr Wright had been into their class too.

- What did you do, Owen? I said.

Owen was chomping on a Mars bar as we walked.

- A not-so-anonymous tip-off, he said.

It had been a long shot, he explained, but a chance not to be missed, because our pot smoker might still have had some on him.

- So I told Mr Wright I'd heard a rumour going around that someone brought cannabis into school today. Which was the truth. Sort of.

I laughed as we went into the locker room.

- That Zippo cost me fifteen quid, said Iain.

We split up to go to our lockers. I opened mine, looked in and frowned. Then Owen appeared from around the corner.

- They been in yours as well? he asked.

- Sure looks like it, I said.

Iain couldn't tell whether anyone had rummaged through his locker too. He used it as a dumping ground, and it was no messier than usual.

- Well, they were certainly thorough, I said.

- Of course, said Owen. - Which is a good thing.

Iain and I looked at him.

- Fifteen quid, Iain was still muttering.

- It means if someone had pot on them this afternoon, Mr Wright will have found it, Owen explained. - And that means, by tomorrow morning, we'll all know who it was.

It was Toby Miller. He was missing from school the next day. Not that we would have noticed normally. Whilst Owen had been right, and our pot smoker was in the same year as us, Toby Miller wasn't in our tutor group, and we didn't know him at all. We didn't even move in close enough circles to know each other by reputation. Until now.

Toby was in Dean Henderson's form. His friends had been with him when Mr Wright found the pot in his bag, so by the time Owen and I got to school on Tuesday, the news had been spread around the entire year.

We might not have heard about it otherwise. There was no announcement in assembly, no letter home to inform our parents, no discussion in tutor time, not even a lecture from Mr Wright warning us about the dangers of drugs. And then Toby Miller returned to school on the Wednesday.

In retrospect, this shouldn't have surprised me. Only a few months previously, Frankie Gillespie had got off scot-free after beating up Sam Ellison. Mount Pleasant didn't have a drugs problem, just like it didn't have a bullying problem.

- Are you going to do it, Iain? I asked.

Iain and I were in geography, the only lesson we could talk without Owen around to lead the conversation.

- Do what? said Iain.

- Pot. If Owen can get some.

Iain just shrugged.

- What about you? he asked.

- I don't know.

It was Thursday when Owen and I finally caught up with Toby Miller. He'd spent Wednesday being the folk hero, but now everyone had grown bored of old news. He seemed glad someone was still showing an interest.

He told us that in addition to a day's suspension, he also had to write Mr Wright an essay on the link between cannabis and heroin, but he told us the only link he could find was that they could both be called dope.

- So how much did you lose? Owen asked.

Toby sighed and shook his head.

- I'd got an eighth at the weekend, he said. - And I'd smoked about half.

- So, a sixteenth, I said.

They both stared at me.

- Anyway, said Owen. - We were wondering whether, y'know, you'd be able to get us some.

Toby looked between us, shaking his head slowly and beginning to grin, as if he'd only just realised our ulterior motive.

- I don't know, man, he said.

- I don't mean give it to us, Owen added. - We're not expecting a freebie. We'll pay.

I liked how he'd said 'we'!

- Don't you know anyone else? Toby asked.

Owen shook his head and chuckled.

- Dude, he said. - My nickname's 'Nice Boy'.

Toby laughed out loud.

- Look, I'll have to think about it, he said.

- Of course, said Owen.

- Can I get back to you?

- Sure. Anytime.

- Great.

- Don't do it if you're not totally happy doing it, dude. I mean, it would make you a drug dealer, wouldn't it?

And at that, Toby's eyes lit up.

- You thought that one up in advance, didn't you? I asked Owen later, as we were walking to class.

Owen just laughed.

Meanwhile, Toby was looking up and down the corridor where we were standing. The bell had just run to signal the end of break and people were pouring in through the entrance.

- Well, we can't do it here, he said. - Not after what's happened. Wright says if he catches me with weed again the head'll chuck me out.

- Of course, said Owen, nodding.

- You going to Simple Brian's?

- This Saturday? Yeah.

Toby nodded. - Okay. We'll do it there.

There were people milling all around us now and Toby looked eager to get away.

- How much will it be? asked Owen.

Toby regarded Owen carefully.

- You have no idea how much it costs? he said.

Owen shook his head.

Something about Toby's expression said 'good!'

- Bring a twenty, he said.

And then he disappeared into the crowd.

Simple Brian was an obvious nickname for a boy in our year called Brian Simple. That Friday it was his fifteenth birthday, and that Saturday he was having a massive party. Iain, Owen and myself had been invited.

We didn't really know Brian that well. He'd only come to Mount Pleasant last September, so he'd missed the first year, when all the social groups were formed. However, that meant he'd also missed it when the social divisions were established, boundaries never to be crossed, so he pretty much got on with everyone.

And at the end of the day, that's the only reason we got invited to his party. Because everyone was. It was rare for one of us, let alone all of us, to get an invitation from outside our little group. And at the end of the day, that's the only reason we were going. At least until Toby told us he was going too.

On the night of the party, Iain, Owen and myself got a taxi together. Even before getting out we knew we were at the right house. We could hear the music from inside the car.

Owen refused to contribute toward the taxi fare.

- I've only got a twenty on me, he told us. - And you know what I'm saving that for.

So Iain and I paid, then we got out.

It was a massive house. It needed to be, seeing as Brian had essentially issued an open invitation to the entire year. The house wasn't just detached; it was halfway down the street from their next door neighbour. There were lights on in every room, and three floors of them, plus a couple more in a loft conversion.

The front door was open, so we went in.

It was like walking into another climate. The noise hit us like a heat blast. The music had been loud outside. Inside, the thumping bass-line reverberated through the floors and into your bones. The hall was lit by streams and streams of Christmas tree lights. In their constant blinking we saw people leaning against walls, or each other, shouting and shouting, but all inaudible against a background of music.

Owen gave a militaristic gesture to proceed and we started through the throng.

We ended up in the kitchen.

The kitchen door blocked out a surprising level of music.

- Ah, fresh meat! said a voice.

It was the birthday boy himself, and he was talking to us; or about us, at least. He was standing at the kitchen table, wielding a stainless-steel ladle. There was a large group of people around him, but no sign of Toby.

- You can only come to my party if you pass the initiation rite, he told us, picking up an empty plastic cup.

On the table was an eighteen litre plastic drum, so new it still had the label from the garden centre stuck to the side. Lying all around were empty bottles of vodka, rum, lemonade and orange juice. Iain, Owen and myself approached the table, and Brian handed us a cup each. It had bits of orange and apple floating in it, and it smelt rancid.

- Drink up, said Brian.

Owen was the first to try it, then we were all obliged to. Those around the table gave a boorish cheer. Actually, it didn't taste too bad.

Brian grinned.

- Three rules, he said. - No pissing on the carpet; you clean up your own puke; and please, lads, avoid getting any semen on the duvets. Apart from that, mi casa so casa.

Just then the kitchen door burst open and half a dozen topless older blokes charged in. Their faces and chests were daubed with Mrs Simple's lipstick and eye-shadow like it was war paint. When they spotted Brian, they started roaring. He laughed and held up his hands in defiance, but they grabbed him anyway, then dragged their captive away.

- Who were they? asked Iain.

On the wall above the table was a large framed photograph of the Simples. Mrs Simple wore large, red Deidre Barlow glasses. Mr Simple looked like he had mutton chops and a goatee by way of facial hair. Brian also had two younger sisters. Something told me none of them were home right now.

- Anyone seen Toby Miller? Owen asked.

With Brian gone, those around the table were starting to drift away. Someone else had taken over ladle duty. Nobody answered Owen.

- I'll take that as a no, then, he said.

Though that didn't mean Toby wasn't already here, he told us. It was an excuse to explore the house, so Iain and I went with him.

We found different floors had been colonised by different groups of Brian's friends. On the first floor it was all older guys, and older girls. We didn't know any of them, so Owen doubted any of them knew Toby.

As we climbed the stairs we became aware of a second bass-line reverberating through the house. As we climbed higher, it got louder than the first. That's how big this house was. Downstairs they could play chart music, upstairs they could play R'n'B, and both could be played at top whack without conflicting.

We found the second stereo on the landing of the top floor. Tim Fletcher and Ed Dawson were sitting nearby with Sam, who acknowledged us with a nod.

There was a lot of a noise, lots of banging and laughing, coming from behind one bedroom door. One of the topless tribesmen was standing guard outside, but he was still letting people put their ears to the door if they wanted to listen.

Iain, Owen and I continued along the landing. To our surprise, there was a second kitchen up here, and that was where most of the Mount Pleasant lot were congregated. But nobody had seen Toby Miller up here either.

- He better show up, Owen said.

We heard the roar of the topless tribesmen again and looked out on the landing. The bedroom door was now open and unguarded. The painted warriors were filing out, swinging the trophies of conquest in time with their war cries. One carried Brian's shirt, another his jeans. They headed downstairs and soon the music drowned them out.

Brian Simple emerged, gingerly, walking like someone who'd just got out of the bath. He was naked except for his boxer shorts. Most of his skin was covered in multiple child-like scribbles; he'd been inducted into the tribe.

- I need a drink, he announced.

He came into the kitchen to a cheer.

- Let's go back downstairs, said Owen. - We might be able to catch him on the way in.

As we left the upstairs kitchen the others were starting to play drinking games.

Owen set up camp at the bottom of the stairs, and there we stayed. It was a very long and boring hour. We had to sit in file so that we wouldn't block the stairs: Owen on the bottom step, me several steps above, and Iain behind me. We couldn't talk; couldn't even shout to each other, the music was so loud. Iain and I took turns refilling all our cups, but Owen wouldn't budge. And all so that he wouldn't miss Toby when he arrived.

The next hour went by quicker. We'd each had six or seven cups' worth by then. Shortly before midnight, Iain went off to find a loo, came back to inform us there was a queue, then headed upstairs to look for another. Twenty minutes later, he still hadn't returned, and Owen needed to go too.

So off he went, leaving me alone to watch the front door. It didn't feel any different from how I'd been spending the rest of the evening, except now my cup was empty, yet I felt no inclination to refill it. Except with water, perhaps. I had had my fill of alcohol for the night. Now I was beginning to sober up; and realise just how crap a party this had been.

I looked at my watch, then I got up and headed into the kitchen. The downstairs toilet was right next to it, by the back door. The queue went around the kitchen table, but Owen wasn't in it. I hoped that meant he was in there now. Sure enough, a minute or so later, the door opened and Owen emerged.

- Why aren't you watching the door? he demanded.

He didn't give me time to respond:

- Wait! Has Toby arrived?

- Dude, it's gone twelve o'clock, I said. - Face it. He's not coming.

Owen shook his head.

- No. He said he was. He'll be here.

I sighed. - Maybe he found something better to do.

Owen glared at me.

- Look, I went on. - Why don't we go find Iain, then put your twenty quid to much better use and call a cab?

Owen snorted derisively.

- If you wanna go, go. I'm staying.

Then he started past me.

- I used all my money getting here, I said. - Getting you here, Owen. I can't afford to get a taxi on my own.

Owen refilled his cup.

- Then walk, he said.

He headed for the kitchen door.

I stared after him incredulously.

- Why are you being such a dick? I said.

- Why am I being such a dick? Fuck you!

In normal circumstances, I would have said:

- Anytime, anywhere.

But this time I knew he meant it.

I watched him go.

Those in the queue for the toilet who had stopped chatting to watch this altercation returned to their conversations.

I placed my empty cup on the table. Iain Wilkins had to be somewhere upstairs, and even if he didn't have enough for a taxi, he might have enough for a bus ticket, I thought. If the buses were still running this late.

- I'm going to find Iain, I told Owen matter-of-factly as I passed him on the stairs.

He was sitting on the bottom step again, cradling his drink in both hands, with his elbows resting on his knees. He didn't say anything. He just shrugged.

I started up the stairs.

As I passed the next floor I caught a glimpse of Sam Ellison through the banisters. There were a lot of people standing around, and Sam was squeezing through them, looking in open bedroom doors.

He might know where Iain is, I thought. So I pushed through the crowd after him.

- Hey, Sam! I called.

He turned, frowning, but his frown disappeared when he saw who it was.

- Hey, good job I found you, he said. - D'you know where Owen is?

It was my turn to frown.

- Owen? Yeah. I was just with him. Look, you haven't seen Iain recently, have you?

- Umm, about ten minutes ago, yeah.

Accompanied by a dismissive shudder of the hand.

- Look, where's Owen? he added.

- Downstairs. Why?

- Downstairs. Great.

- Why?

Sam looked around conspicuously.

- Can you give him a message?

- A message?

- Well, more of a warning, actually: Toby Miller's after him.

This was the most Sam and I had said to each other since that day when we talked him into reporting Frankie Gillespie.

- You mean, Toby's here?

- Yeah. Just got here. About five minutes ago.

Whilst Owen and I had been in the kitchen, I realised.

- Look, Sam went on. - I overheard him saying in the kitchen upstairs; he thinks Owen was the one that tipped off Mr Wright about the weed in his bag.

- Why does he think that?

Sam shook his head and shrugged.

- Dunno. Not true, is it?

I hesitated.

- Yeah.

Sam sighed. - Oh, god. Why'd he go and do that?

- It's complicated.

- Well, Toby's seriously pissed off now. He's talking about getting his own back on Owen. Tonight!

- What's he going to do?

Maybe I hadn't sobered up as much as I thought I had, because I was feeling more curious than I was anxious.

Sam held up his hands.

- I dunno. When I heard that I told them I was going to the loo. And that was just now.

- Well, thanks for letting me know, anyway.

- Look, there's only another week left of term. I think if you can get Owen to go home now, this'll all blow over.

I nodded.

- So will you give him the message? Sam asked.

I thought about it for a moment.

- Sure, I said.

- Great, said Sam.

But first I wanted to know what they were going to do.

- And Toby's still in the upstairs kitchen? I asked.

- Last time I saw him, yeah.

Owen was still sitting on the bottom step.

- Toby's upstairs, I told him.

He staggered to his feet.

- He's here? Owen cried. - When'd he arrive?

- Whilst you were in the bog, I think.

Owen's eyes narrowed.

- See? I told you you should've been watching the door!

- Sorry, I said.

But Owen was already charging up the stairs and the music drowned me out anyway.

I followed him up.

Sam Ellison was lingering on the landing of the top floor. He stopped mid-sip when Owen went past, then glared at me when I followed right behind. I gave him a helpless look. He might even have bought it.

When we went into the upstairs kitchen, everyone in the room fell silent. All eyes watched Owen over the rims of plastic cups. Brian Simple was there. He had found his clothes, but hadn't bothered to button his shirt.

- Toby, hi, said Owen.

Toby Miller was leaning over the table. As he stood up straight I saw he had been rolling a joint.

- Hello, Owen, he said.

And then there was a fraction of a second when they locked eyes where the air froze and the CD player on the landing sounded much further away.

But Toby didn't make a move, didn't lash out to hit Owen. He didn't even look particularly angry. He did, however, look like he'd already been partaking himself this evening.

- Is that for me? Owen asked.

- Have you got the money?

As Owen reached into the pockets of his jeans, I saw Toby glance around the gathered faces. Now they weren't just watching over the tops of their cups. They were hiding grins behind them.

Sam came into the room behind us. There was still no sign of Iain.

- Here, said Owen.

He unfolded the twenty pound note.

Toby took it, held it up as if to check it was genuine, then pocketed it and picked up the joint.

- There you go, he said. - Enjoy.

Owen claimed it eagerly. He held it up length-wise, then quickly popped it into the corner of his mouth. He reached into his back pocket for his lighter. Fumbling from either drink or excitement, it took him several attempts to spark a flame.

But I didn't think that's what the others were finding so amusing. Looks were passed around the room.

Owen took a deep toke, then exhaled noisily, toward the ceiling. His eyes were closed.

- You like? said Toby.

- Oh yeah, said Owen.

He drew on the joint a second time, holding it between his first two fingers. Then he flicked the ash off with his thumb.

- I can get you as much as you want, said Toby.

- Cool, said Owen.

- Twenty quid. Anytime.

Owen watched smoke coiling out of both ends.

- How'd you get it to me? he asked.

- At school, said Toby.

- What about Wright?

Toby paused, glanced quickly around.

- Oh, I don't think we have to worry about him finding it.

The others in the room could no longer contain their snickering. Some of them laughed out loud.

And Owen laughed with them.

- Here, he said.

He offered the joint back to Toby.

Toby almost withdrew.

- No, no. You paid for it. It's all yours.

Owen shrugged.

- Suit yourself.

Then he inhaled another neckful. He was grinning now, and nodding his head. His eyes were only half closed.

- This is some good shit, he finally said. - Could you get me some more for Monday, dude?

Toby sucked in air and clicked his tongue.

- I don't know. That doesn't give me much time.

- Don't you have any more?

- Well, only my own personal stash. And if you want me to dip into that it'll cost you extra.

- How much?

Toby mulled it over.

- Say thirty.

- Cool. And it'd be the same stuff?

Toby grinned.

- Oh, yeah. The exact same stuff.

Even more people laughed this time.

Toby spotted me looking at him, inclined his head slightly to the side and raised an eyebrow.

Owen turned to me slowly.

- Peace offering, he said.

Then he held the joint right under my nose.

I looked at him, I looked at it, then I looked at the others.

- No, I'm all right, I said.

Owen snorted and plugged his mouth with it again.

- Loser, he said under a smoky breath.

After that I decided it was time to leave. Sam was still standing in the doorway, frowning, with his hands tucked into his armpits. He stepped aside to let me pass.

Owen didn't notice me go.

Part of me was actually looking forward to the walk home. I looked at my watch again. It was Sunday morning and the walk was nearly two miles, but it was a mild night, and at least I'd get away from all that noise.

I went downstairs. As I neared the bottom, a group of people came in the front door. There were a load of girls, and topless tribesmen. One of them was Dean Henderson. When I looked closer, I realised another was Iain. All of them were soaking wet. They headed for the kitchen.

I went and caught up with Iain.

- Where've you been? I asked.

- Water-fight in the garden, he said. - Sorry, the 'grounds'.

He rippled his fingers in the air.

- You lost Owen?

- No. I'm leaving. Owen's upstairs.

Iain nodded, not really interested anymore.

- With Toby Miller, I added.

- Holy shit! Toby's here? Did Owen get some pot?

I sighed. - He thinks he did.

- He thinks he did?

I shook my head.

- I don't know what he was smoking, I said. - But it didn't smell like a stink-bomb to me.

- You think Toby duped him?

- Maybe Owen was too drunk to notice.

- Why would -

He trailed off. He was looking over my shoulder. I turned. Owen had come downstairs. He was half staggering, half swaggering through the hallway. He was smoking a normal fag now, and in the other hand clutched his empty cup.

He came in, spotted Iain and laughed.

- What happened to you? he cried.

- I got let in the tribe, said Iain.

Owen didn't even acknowledge my presence.

- Dude, I am so stoned! he said.

Iain gave me a sceptical look.

- No, you're not, I said quietly.

Owen screwed up his face.

- Oh, fuck off! Who asked you, anyway?

I gestured with empty palms.

- Owen, mate, are you sure it was pot? asked Iain.

Owen pushed between us and went over to the plastic drum on the kitchen table. It was nearly empty now but Owen managed to find a ladle's worth to fill his cup.

- Man, I think I might even be starting to hallucinate.

- Owen, I said. - You probably don't want to hear this, but I'm going to say it anyway. Toby tricked you. He found out you're the one that got him into trouble, and now he's taken out his revenge. And what's more, made twenty quid doing it.

Owen came up close, really close.

- Then why I am high?

- Dude, you're not. You're just really drunk.

I looked down at his cup.

- And I think you've had enough.

We stared at each other. It seemed like a long time.

- I thought you were going home, anyway, he said, breaking eye contact first as he stepped around me.

He headed into the hall.

- You'll see on Monday, I called after him. - They're gonna make you look like a right twat!

He gave me the finger over his shoulder, and then the kitchen door swung shut between us.

I looked at Iain.

- I'm going, I said.

Iain nodded.

- I think I'm gonna stay, he said.

Then he quickly added:

- To, y'know, keep an eye on him.

- Right.

- See you Monday, then.

- Yeah.

Five minutes later I was walking down dark streets I didn't know and couldn't hear the party anymore.

NOTES:
As originally envisaged (actually, you can read, for point of comparison, my first draft of this story, unfinished, yet 2000 words longer, here), it was going to be the narrator's idea to dupe Owen with the fake weed. But I thought that made the narrator too integral, whilst the gist of this final story is about revealing just how much distance there is between the narrator and others in his world. It was necessary for Owen to piss the narrator off sufficiently so that he would take an interest in revenge, but I never planned to make him such an arsehole. Single-minded people like that are great if you want to do what they want to do, but they can be a bit of a pain if you don't. So, yeah, I guess there's a bit of me in Owen, though he's based largely on someone else. Overall, I reckon he's just a bad drunk. Similarly, I never thought Sam Ellison was a total bastard in the sixth story, so wanted to offer him a chance at redemption.

At the end of this story I was going to finally get round to giving my narrator a name. Given Owen's phoney stoned-ness, perhaps Holden would be a good choice. My other idea was to give him an Indian name, though not for any specific reason but to further destabilise the reader's view of these characters and their world. I mean, come on, you thought the narrator was white, right?

Naming the sports teacher Mr Welsh was unintentionally ironic. In the first draft of this story I called the narrator Toby Welsh (forgetting I'd already created the character of Toby Miller in "A Cut Above (2)"), coming up with the name Welsh in the usual manner - looking up at the bookshelf and pinching it from a book spine (in this case, "Trainspotting" by Irvine Welsh). As I rewrote, and the sports teacher demanded naming, I thought I'd reuse Welsh. The irony, of course, is that our own communal showering obsessed games teacher at SHSB was Welsh. As in, from Wales. Fascinating, eh?

During the course of reading my daily output of both this revision and the first draft, Jenna noted just how American the party goings-on seem. Half of this I put down to the fact that British teens seem(ed) intent on aping what they see in American teen movies, what with proms and things. I first conceived of a party story a few years ago, and the plotline of that story (a comedy of errors about the various meanings of G-string) made it into the first draft, but I excised it from this one. The party sequences are lifted almost directly from one to the other, so the Americanisms remain. Back when I thought up that plot I still wanted to be the next Bret Easton Ellis. As an e-mail correspondent of mine called Gary Lankford pointed out to me, the world already has enough "rock 'n' roll adventure sex" writers. Quite. Now I'd be happier being the first Jonathan Eyers.

Oh, yes, and the first time I smelt pot was in the toilets at high school, and yes, I thought it was a stink-bomb. Overhearing some older boys in there put me straight, though I was even more of an innocent than my narrator, so didn't really understand until much later.

I really like the last line. Quite a sad ending, really, but feels complete now. Thanks for reading.