Dying Fall by Sally Spencer Page A

the chip shop, the gang had drifted aimlessly to the shopping centre, but there was very little of interest there, since lads, unlike girls, considered window shopping to be soft. They had eventually found themselves outside the off-licence, where Big Bazza had held a collection, and – armed with the pitiful amount of money that the entire gang could stump up between them – bought a couple of bottles of rough cider.
    They’d passed the bottles back and forth. Each member only took a small drink – they were all aware that their leader’s eyes were on them – but even with moderation, the bottles were soon empty, and a listless apathy settled over the group again.
    At eleven o’clock, the lights in the off-licence went out, and at ten past eleven Big Bazza said, ‘Well, I’m off.’
    â€˜You’re what?’ asked another member of the gang, who, Beresford had learned, went by the name of Scuddie.
    â€˜I’m off,’ Big Bazza repeated. ‘Any objections?’
    â€˜None,’ Scuddie said with a grin. ‘I suppose if your mum says you have to be home by a certain time, then you have to be home by a certain time.’
    Beresford studied Big Bazza’s reaction, and tried to get inside his mind. On the one hand, Bazza has his position as leader to consider, and Scuddie’s dig at him would have to be dealt with. On the other, what Scuddie had said clearly amused the rest of the gang, and – for the moment at least – they were on his side.
    Bazza had three choices, Beresford decided. He could smash Scuddie in the face and run the risk of also smashing the fragile structure of the gang. He could say he’d decided to stay after all, but that would be seen as a sign of weakness by the others. Or he could tell a lie.
    Beresford was putting his money on the third course of action.
    â€˜I’m not goin’ home at all,’ Bazza said. ‘I’m meetin’ a bint.’
    â€˜A bint!’ Scuddie repeated. ‘What’s her name?’
    Bazza laughed unconvincingly. ‘I’m not goin’ to tell you that,’ he said.
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜Because I’m not just goin’ to
meet
her – I’m goin’ to shag the arse off her. An’ I’ll do the same tomorrow night, as well. An’ the night after that. But if she finds out I’ve been talkin’ about it, she won’t let me get anywhere near her.’
    It wasn’t a particularly good lie, Beresford thought, but it was acceptable to a bunch of lads who, having no opportun­ities of their own, were more than willing to get their pleasures vicariously.
    â€˜Good for you,’ Scuddie said, with mild envy.
    â€˜Give her one for me,’ Little Bazza added.
    Bazza, confident now that he was back on top, smirked. ‘I’ll give her one for
all
of you,’ he promised.
    And then he swaggered off into the night.
    For a moment, Beresford considered making his own excuses and following Bazza. Because though he did not believe the story about the girl, he was convinced that the lad was up to
something
.
    Then he quickly dismissed the idea. Leaving now was too great a risk, he’d decided. He’d only got the barest toehold in the gang, and to push off immediately would open him up to a great many more jibes than Bazza, the established leader, had had to endure.
    â€˜Tell us about this Paki you beat up?’ Little Bazza suggested to him.
    Beresford forced a grin to his face. ‘It was in this pub in Accrington that it happened,’ he said.
    â€˜I thought Pakis didn’t drink,’ Scuddie said suspiciously.
    â€˜They don’t,’ Beresford agreed.
    â€˜So what was he doin’ there?’
    â€˜Sippin’ lemonade! In a pub! Well, if that isn’t askin’ to get the shit kicked out of you, I don’t know what is.’
    The gang nodded their agreement.
    â€˜That’ll learn