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He grabs me round the neck, puts me in a head lock and starts heaving me around. I’m stumbling and choking after him.

  “All right, all right,” I try to say. But my windpipe’s trapped and nothing’s coming out.

  We’re on our way into Cardiff town centre now. Nearly a hundred of us. It’s not about the game. It’s a fucker to lose, granted. But this is something else, this is. This is about letting it all out. All the fuckin’ hopelessness. Take your counselling and anti-depressants and stick ‘em up your arse. A few Stellas and a footie match is the only upper I need.

  Flying high we’ll never die, we’ll keep the Welsh flag flying high.

  After going down on Angharad the first time, it comes to be every time. She calls round on her way back from school when me and Ollie are upstairs on the Wii. No sooner’s she in the door than I have her on the carpet, little grey skirt rucked up over her hips, pants pulled aside.

  In recent days, though, she’s moved on. Her favourite thing now is something else. She still won’t let me shag her. Says she’s saving that ‘til we’re married. But what gets her off now is to have me naked and her naked apart for her pants, with me on top of her. Regular missionary sex, except that it’s not sex because my cock is pushing against her pants. If I get a good thrust at it and I’m dead centre, I can get maybe two, three inches up her, pants and all.

  We’re doing this on the floor of my mam and dad’s bedroom, their 14 inch portable shuddering on its bracket to ‘Location, location, location’. Angharad’s getting well carried away, pulling on my hairy arse so hard I’m either gonna slip inside or blow my load.

  “Stop,” I say. “Fuckin hell ‘Harad. Just wait a minute, will you. Wait.”

  I get up, cock boinging about, and go next door to my bedroom. I take this old johnnie that I’ve had for yonks from my sock draw. I tear the jelly square open and roll it on. When I get back into my mam and dad’s bedroom and see her still on her back rubbing herself, I’m hard as nails. I don’t say anything but I get back on top of her and put my protected penis back on the gusset of her pants. I put my tongue in her mouth and we get back to pretend shagging. But after a minute or two, I put my hand down there and pull her pants aside. The head of my condomed cock’s resting on the hood of her pussy.

  She stops.

  I guide my cock in and she tenses like I’ve stuck her with a knife.

  “What the fuck you doing?” she says. “Get it out of me.”

  “It’s safer like this,” I say.

  “Stop,” she says, her hands on my shoulders, pushing me down. “Get it out.”

  I slip out onto the carpet like a wet trout.

  Then Angharad misses her period.

  After letting Bottomly get hold of me in front of Sean, something flips. We’re on top field with Sammons training us, me one captain and Viv the other. Ferg’s one of Viv’s picks, and the lazy, un-football-minded fuck is filling some imaginary hole between the six yard box and the D. So when Stevie Jennings threads me through, he’s here, coming at me like some lumbering donkey. It’s 60-40 in Ferg’s favour, which is perfect as far as I’m concerned. Just as I hear his heavy breathing and see his tree trunk thighs, I give it all I’ve got, jumping in two-footed hard and fast enough to make him shit his pants. He tries to pull out of it, comes in half-cocked. And if anyone knows anything, it’s that if you back out of a tackle, you’re gonna hurt yourself. My right boot connects with the ball, but I get my left studs on his boot sweet as a nut and take his legs from under him. He goes down like a sack of shit. The ball just rolls back to the keeper, but I don’t care about that.

  Peep goes Sammons’ whistle.

  I get up and trot back to the half way without even looking over my shoulder.

  “Free kick this way,” says Sammons. “Calm down, Mark Jones, or you’ll be watching from the sidelines.”

  But Sammons knows the score, like everyone else does.

  The next week, me and Ollie are having a quiet kickabout on the triangle. Ferg and Bottomly and a couple of others catch us by the railings.

  “I’ll give you first punch, Jonesy la,” Ferg says.

  My stomach turns like the car I’m in’s gone one way instead of the other.

  “Jesus, Ferg,” I say. “What’s all this about?”

  “I’m just giving you first punch, that’s all.”

  I look at Ollie, and he’s looking at the floor. I know he won’t leave me if anything kicks off. But he’s not the handiest fucker in the world by a long chalk.

  “What the fuck’s all this about, Ferg?” I say.

  “I’ve told you, Jonesy. I’m giving you the first punch, that’s all,” he says.

  People have started to mill around us now, waiting for kick-off. I’m wondering what’d happen if I did just lamp him. But I haven’t got the bollocks. Don’t even know if it’s in me. He’d put me in Cardiff General with tubes out my nose.

  “Why the fuck would I throw a punch at you just coz you tell me to? Why d’you wanna fight me?”

  “Too pussy are you, Jonesy?” he says. “Seemed keen on top field last week.”

  “Ferg,” I say. “Football’s football. What you trying to prove?”

  I walk off. I’m shitting bricks as I turn to go, expecting to get the back of my head caved in as we walk. It’s like the feeling you get when you’re in the swimming baths and you tell yourself there’s a shark behind you. Only times a hundred. Ollie walks with me and neither of us says a word until we’re back in the main building.

  “You did alright then,” Ollie says. “That was OK, that was.”

  A beacon of good in a fuck off, far as the eye can see, sea of fuckin’ shit. That’s what Ollie is. But I’ve got this growing sense of impending doom.

  We’re outside the library one Friday near the holidays. A note taped to the door on a sheet of A4 tells us Quiet Please: Exam In Progress. But we’re all arsing around, doing pull ups on the cast iron guttering. Ferg can usually do the most. After ten, the veins on his neck start popping out like he’s Vin fuckin’ Diesel. His shovel hands go white at the knuckles. But he keeps on. Fifteen, sixteen and his face is puce, all snarls and spasms. He makes it to 20 and still has the strength to swing himself back and to before he jumps off.

  “I’m a fuckin’ legend,” he says.

  “Go on, Viv la,” Pavel says. “You’ll piss on him.”

  Viv jumps up and catches hold. We’re all egging him on. But he can’t get near and starts quivering at eight. All this arsing about has brought Pat the librarian out. She puts her head round the door.

  “Come on lads,” she says. “There’s an exam going on in here.”

  Must be in her 60s or 70s, Pat. Does it voluntary. She knows my mam and dad so I always try to be polite and that. Avoid going in with lippy fuckers coz I don’t like seeing anyone take the piss. We quieten down for a bit. Then out of nowhere, Ferg gets hold of my coat and rams me into the library door. He keeps pushing so my head and face are against it.

  “Fuck off, Ferg,” I’m saying.

  He’s still pushing me and I’m this fuckin’ far off flipping my lid, turning on the fucker and lamping him regardless of the consequences. Biting his face off. Then the door opens inwards and he shoves me in. I go sprawling in front of everyone. I end up on my arse in front of Pat’s desk. She’s scared shitless, Pat is. And I just sit there, embarrassed to fuck. Then the rage takes hold. I can see Ferg through the open door, bent double laughing.

  It’s superhuman rage, this is. It’s been building up for months and years. I could drink the fuckin’ sea right now. I don’t give a shit. I’m not gonna stop for any cunt ‘til I’ve knocked the face off him. He straightens up, Ferg does. Stops laughing and looks at me.

  “Want some now, do you, Jonesy?” he says.

  And I’m walking at him like he’s the only thing in the world. So it comes as a surprise w
hen Viv flies in from the left, leading with his knee. Ferg goes down holding his ribs and Viv’s on top of him. All over him, Viv is. Pummelling his face like a lunatic. Doesn’t know what’s hit him, Ferg doesn’t. Spitting blood and phlegm. Big streaks of it getting flung about by Viv’s fists. The staff room door flies open and Brough and Jon Dodd come running over. Trying to fight their way through the carnival, but no one wants to let them.

  I’m stood in the doorway with Pat; both of us shaking like bastards.

  I’m pushing my way out The Star one New Year’s Eve, about to go home. It’s not even twelve yet, but I’ve had enough of all this shit. Hits me like a sledgehammer sometimes. The realisation that what I’m doing is a bunch of arse. Drinking shit, talking shit. Knowing tomorrow will be just as shit.

  I’m threading my way through the crowd. Every fucker dribbling drunk. Happy New Year, Jonesy la. Pap pap fuckin’ pap. Dave Disco with his shit lights. Just like every other Friday or Saturday. A few more people and a bit more booze, that’s all. Every fucker being roused by Get fuckin’ Lucky. Throwing their heads back and belting it out.

  Not me. I’m going home. With a chicken curry and chips. I’m giving pissed-up Gaz from across the road a hug on the way out even though I know he can’t stand the sight of me when I see Ruth with her arms flapping about. My thumb catches the cherry of her fag.

  “Oh my God,” she shouts in my ear, and she’s hanging off me.

  By the door, Robbie Hughes nods at Ruth and gives me a wink. I just want to get back to my mam and dad’s place, I’m thinking. I want to be on my own, walking over the bypass bridge. I like watching the headlights. People going places. Guessing where they’re off too. Every fucker but me. At least it feels better outside.

  “Take me round the back,” Ruth says.

  She tastes of fags and beer and she’s got this short skirt on and these thick tights. I run my hand up her leg and there’s a hole in her tights just where you’d want a hole to be.

  “Not now,” she says. “Text me tomorrow.”

  She slips her hand down my jeans, curls her fingers round my hard-on and pecks me on the cheek. Then she’s off. I go and get my chicken curry and chips.

  Next morning, I’m round Angharad’s. She’s watching the ‘Hollyoaks’, but I’m getting a boner. She’s just come back from chapel and she’s got her little black skirt on. I run my hand up to her pants. Doesn’t even take her eyes off the screen. Just grabs my wrist.

  “No,” she says. “N fuckin’ O.”

  Six weeks now and still no period.

  Seems like everyone’s out tonight. We’ve done well to get this table, all of us with somewhere to sit. Gunther gets up for a piss and I’m getting stuck into my first lager and lime of the evening. Then this lad on the next table tells me to shift up. All Ralph Laurened up, he is. When I say no, he lamps me. Out of fuckin’ nowhere.

  I can’t get out quick enough coz of the table. So I just sit, waiting for the next punch. And here it comes. Dumph, dumph, fuckin’ dumph.

  He’s hammering me over and over, this lad. Your head shudders when you get hit, like your brain’s rattling. There’s a noise that goes with it. This internal noise that’s hard to describe. It’s like some silent bang, an electric shock or something. Not wholly unpleasant actually. It’s only afterwards that things start hurting. But it’s disorientating as fuck. I must take eight or ten whacks before anyone realises what’s going on. Sean jumps up and tries to get hold of this lad. But he gets belted for his troubles and is on his arse before he’s done anything half useful.

  It kicks off good and proper. We’re all up, us lot, pushing our way out. There’s a load of them behind us. Sean tells me who they are. If I didn’t think I was about to be battered I’d laugh my tits off. The Pen-y-bank Butchers. Fuck me. I’ll have a pound of pork chops please, lads.

  Viv turns round to see how long we’ve got to live. But there’s a bottle of Becks coming his way. It smashes on his head and blood globs out like slobber from a mastiff ’s mouth. He’s flailing about, Viv is, coz he can’t see. Blood pissing into his eyes.

  Seems like months ‘til we get ourselves out of there, out into the square by the church. First thing that happens is I almost get run over by one of Cardiff Cab’s Mondeos. I give it legs. Sean’s behind me and by the time we reach the covered market, we’re safe. Poor old Gunther’s still in the pisser.

  When we slink back to the square it’s died down a bit. But right outside the door to The Star, two lads have got Gunther’s hands behind his back. Another one’s jabbing at his face. He’s not struggling or anything, Gunther. Truth is, he can do fuck all. He’s up in court any day for giving little Ricky Evans a slap in the SPAR car park and nearly killing him by catching him in the windpipe. He’s just stood there, Gunther is, taking it. Me and Sean are stood in the shadows, watching, like the brave fuckers we are.

  There’s been a Black Maria doing the rounds and now the back doors fly open. Four coppers sprint over. Everyone legs it, me and Sean included. Gunther doesn’t. I look back and he’s just stood there, calm as you like. Talking to one of the coppers, he is. Sharing a joke.

  I’m blowing now, we all are. Only 50 or 60 of us left, there are. Town’s pretty quiet today. Usually is when Cardiff play Wrexham. People keep out the way. Anyone goes into town after Cardiff-Wrexham needs their head read. That’s what my dad says.

  Eight weeks now since Angharad last came on. I’m pretty certain she’s up the duff. Eight weeks. She’s bang on normally. As soon as I wake up in the morning, it’s in my mind like a boot in the bollocks. All through the day and last thing at night too. Driving me round the bend it is.

  “What’s wrong with you?” my mam keeps saying. “You’ve had a face like a smacked arse these past few weeks.”

  “He takes after his mam,” my dad says.

  It’s looking like I’ll be a dad without even getting my end away properly. Some married fuckers are at it like rabbits for years trying to get knocked up. All I have to do is dip my knob in once. In a fuckin’ condom and all. Must have cum like rocket fuel, me. Maybe it was one of the times she wanted my knob on her knickers. It only takes one sperm to do the job, like Mrs Jones used to tell us in General Studies.

  “One tiny spot of semen,” she says. “One tiny spot.”

  It’s her catchphrase. Imagine that; a spunk-themed catchphrase.

  One time she says it, Viv pipes up.

  “You haven’t even got that, Danny la,” he says to little Danny Robs. “Not even one tiny spot.”

  Donna hears him.

  “You can shut up, you can Viv,” she says. “First time I wanked you off down Ty Coch you were dry as a nun’s fanny.”

  She won’t let me touch her now, Angharad. It’s been three or four weeks since I’ve gone down on her; a fortnight since she’s wanked me off even. Doubt I could shoot my load if I tried with all this pregnant shit on my mind. I can’t keep it out of my head long enough. Like the time Ollie tells me don’t think about your dad when you’re having a wank. Couldn’t come for two months. This pregnancy shit’s in a different league, though.

  “I just can’t believe it,” is all Angharad says. “I just can’t believe this is happening.”

  Over and over she says it. She’ll still be saying it at twenty four weeks or whatever it is and then we’ll be fuckin’ fucked.

  “Mark,” shouts my mam up the stairs. “Phone.”

  It’s Sunday morning and I’m in bed. I was out last night, down the Duke with Ollie. Me and him must have thrown about a tenner each at the new fruity. Speculate to accumulate, that’s what Ollie says. Fast as fuck on fruities Ollie is though. Like Rain Man or something.

  A ‘Transformers’ one they’ve got down the Duke now. Spent all night on the fucker. Instead of game over, it says ‘Robots in disguise’. We had the jackie a couple of times but ploughed it all back in, drinking Foste
rs with double Southern Comfort and lemonade whenever we got a win. First jackie, we both had a quadruple Southern Comfort. Looked at us like we were off our heads, old Frankie the landlord did. He plays music in the back room for us, fair dos, even though we know he doesn’t like us. And you can make tapes and he’ll put them on for you. The National and Bombay Bicycle Club, me and Ollie like. Over and over they were playing last night, so I asked him if he had any Lorde.

  “Lorde?” Frankie says. “Who is he?”

  My dad puts his head round my bedroom door:

  “Your mam’s shouting you lad. Can’t you hear? Shift your arse.”

  I haul myself out of bed and go downstairs in my boxers. When I see my mam in the front room, I give my balls a good scratch.