‘Just get some plonk, will you. And some beer. Don’t want to look too posh.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ I put the phone down with a sigh. Successful booze buying depended on the right pantomime. I had, for example, been buying my mother a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream every year for the last six or seven years without any parental input. She loved the stuff, but didn’t trust herself to buy it, and so birthdays were a doddle. And when a ten-year-old boy walks into an off-licence, where they all know him, to buy a bottle of creamy liqueur, there’s no problem. If a fifteen-year-old with greasy hair and scrubbed-down acne tries to buy a six-pack of Special Brew . . . very different story.

The place for a teenager to buy beer was the supermarket. But you had to pad your basket out sufficiently to prove you were there on parents’ orders. For best results, take a shopping list on which the beers are written, and sandwich them between a bag of frozen peas and some fish fingers. The true artist invests in some female sanitary products, too.

The next call came ten minutes after the time that John had sworn he would arrive by.

‘Did you get it?’

‘Cheap wine, check. Expensive beer, check.’ I’d taken off the hat to exploit any sympathy on offer. I don’t know if I got any, but the teller couldn’t see me through her checkout fast enough. ‘Fish fingers, check. Baked beans, check. Card for Henri, check.’

‘What?’

‘It’s his twenty-first. I got him a card.’

‘I guess.’

‘So, where are you?’

‘High Street. I’m trying to get some condoms, but . . . I don’t suppose you—’

I hung up. Yes, I had to admire the lofty heights of his optimism. No, I wasn’t going to buy them for him if he was too chicken.

The last call came when he was half an hour late.

‘I’m leaving! I’m leaving!’

‘You’re back at your house?’

‘No, I’m leaving. Pay attention.’

‘Leaving your house?’

‘I’m heading for the door. The phone cord won’t stretch much further! Cover your ears. When it pings back it’s going to make a hell of a—’

John arrived an hour late.

‘What? Nobody is ever on time for a party.’

‘My mum’s giving us a lift to Simon’s. We’ll probably walk from there.’

John shrugged then spread his arms and beckoned my attention with wafting fingers.

‘Very nice,’ I said without enthusiasm. He had on a baseball jacket he bought in the States, white and red suede, sporting a large 41. Black trousers and shiny leather shoes. ‘You’ll be able to talk to all the girls about that time you went to America.’ He also appeared to have showered in aftershave, possibly hoping that the fumes would overwhelm the object of his affections and leave her unable to resist his attentions.

Mother poked her head out of the living room. ‘Hello, John. You’re looking very dapper.’

‘Thanks, Mrs H.’

Mother frowned at that. ‘Are we ready to go?’

I picked up the booze bag, each of its contents individually wrapped in a shirt to stop any clinking or clanking. I hoped that when I said ‘party’ Mother’s imagination still ran to images of the ones I went to when I was eleven. ‘I’m staying over at John’s, remember?’

‘I know.’ Mother gathered her car keys. ‘And John, don’t let him overdo it. He really should be in bed by ten.’

I made no protest. If you’ve no intention of obeying, then why not agree. Besides, I felt pretty rough. I could see myself wanting my bed by ten.

Simon’s mother greeted us conspiratorially at the door. ‘He’s pretending to have forgotten all about it, and is also claiming a cold. Take no excuses. I’m depending on you boys.’

We clumped up the stairs in our shoes.

‘Up and at ’em, Si!’

‘Party! Party!’

Simon came to his bedroom door wrapped in a blanket, sniffing.

‘I like it! Great poncho!’ John took hold of one arm.

‘I see the plan is to jump a whole bunch of bases and get the girls under your covers in one step.’ I took the other arm.

‘Wait! I’m ill!’ He backpedalled and started to win. Heavy people can do that.

‘No.’ I pulled off my woollen hat exposing my baldness. ‘I’m ill. You’re just antisocial.’

That at least stopped him reversing.

‘You’re doing this to keep Mia at the D&D table,’ John said. ‘Remember?’

Simon exhaled his defeat and slumped.

‘Come along with us, say hi to Elton, wish his brother a happy birthday. Swig a coke. Dance if you want to. Duty done. You can come home.’

‘Alright.’ And Simon let us lead him down the stairs as though he were walking the last mile on death row.

The walk to the Arnots’ flat was long, cold, and dark. We talked about the microchip more than about the party. John had found his father’s list of passwords with astonishing ease. They were written on a piece of paper folded into his wallet and helpfully labelled ‘passwords’. He had seven of them and Simon surmised that he was probably just given them because of his seniority, as a backup in case of emergency. As far as John knew, his father couldn’t tell one end of a computer from the other.

‘He sometimes needs help using his programmable calculator, and I know for a fact that’s one calculator that has never had a program written on it!’

We crossed the Arnots’ local high street, a parade of smaller shops with a pub at each end. A figure detached itself from the blackness outside The Spotted Horse as we approached.

‘They let you little ones out after dark then?’ Ian Rust tilted his head in question. The lamplight painted his hollow face in shadows. Beneath his right eye, an angry three-inch scar ran parallel to his cheekbone.

None of us spoke.

‘Heard you kicked a friend of mine, Hayes.’ Rust showed his teeth. Perhaps he thought he was smiling. I doubted that he really knew what a friend was. ‘I want hold of that girl you were with. My Mia. She’s been keeping a low profile. But you know where she is, don’t you, Nicky?’

‘I’ve not seen her.’ My voice shook.

Rust’s smile broadened. ‘You’ll tell me, Hayes. Little Nicky Hayes. Number 18 Redhill Road. Minus one father. Not feeling too well of late.’

‘Fuck off.’ I realised that it was John who’d said it. It was pretty much the bravest thing I’d ever seen.

‘I’m bigger than you.’ It wasn’t exactly witty, but he had called me Little Nicky, and I couldn’t leave John hanging.

Simon kept his eyes firmly on the ground, frowning intensely, but he did step up to take his place between us.

Rust’s impression of a smile slipped just the smallest fraction. I imagined that behind those shark-dead eyes of his he might be considering just knifing all three of us as a serious option. A bunch of men chose that moment to emerge from The Spotted Horse, light and laughter spilling into the street with them. Rust snarled, and instead of attacking he sketched a bow.

‘Ladies.’ He waved us on. ‘I’ve got a busy night planned. Can’t stop to play just now. Catch you later.’

We walked a hundred yards before anyone spoke. ‘Is he following us?’ Simon asked.

I looked back. I was still trembling. Ready to fight or run, with heavy odds on the running. ‘No.’

‘Jesus! I may need a new pair of trousers.’ John shook his head. ‘I just told the worst head-case in the school to fuck himself. I’m dead.’

‘He’s not in school anymore,’ Simon said. ‘He got expelled. For pulling a knife on a teacher.’

‘Thanks, Simon, for that helpful reminder.’

‘We’re with you.’ I tried to sound confident.

‘OK . . . we’re dead.’ John started walking again, picking up the pace. ‘C’mon. This makes it even more important that I get laid quickly.’

We felt the pulse of the beat before we saw the crowd outside the Arnots’ flat. We threaded our way through the guests who’d already had enough dancing and drinking to weather the cold and inserted ourselves through the open door. One of the middle Arnot brothers was watching the entrance: Marc, a man of few words and packed with muscle, but always with a smile ready behind a stern exterior. He waved us through, and moments later we were wedging our way into the kitchen to unload our offerings.

The entire ground floor of the flat would have fitted inside either of the two living rooms John had entertained us in a few days earlier. Even so, somehow dozens of people were in the main room, dancing or chilling at the edges. Lionel Richie surrendered to the Pointer Sisters who began to declare, in no uncertain terms, just how excited they were. We took beers from the sideboard and tried to look as if we knew what we were doing.

It wasn’t the music I listened to in my room. It lacked the uptight, self-deprecating introspective angst of my chosen groups, but God, it made you want to dance. The heat made me thirsty and the can gave me something to do with my hands. It was empty before I knew it.

Fingers tugged at my sleeve. ‘Hi!’ Mia in her war-paint, smiling.

‘Hey.’ I had to fit the word past the music.