The New Neighbours by Costeloe Diney

title music of Vindicator blared out. Oliver looked at Chantal’s legs, encased in skin-tight jeans, and wondered what the skin on her thighs would feel like. He felt himself grow hot and he grabbed at a can of lager, pulled the ring, took a long pull, almost choking.
    Emma and Peter were leaning against the bed wrapped in the duvet, eyes glued to the TV screen. Chantal still leaned against the wall, her eyes closed, wishing the room wouldn’t spin and that the music wasn’t so loud.
    â€œDrink?” suggested Oliver to Chantal, offering the wine bottle.
    â€œGirls relax when they’ve had a drink or two,” Drew Elliott at school had told him. “Everything’s much easier then.”
    Downstairs Oliver had spiked her drink because he was angry; angry with her stuck-up bloody superior pose, the way she’d treated him, the way she spoke to Emma. He’d wanted to take her down a peg or two, to show her she wasn’t so bloody clever, no better than him or Emma or Peter, that she was just a posy kid. Now it was different, she didn’t look like a dressed up kid and he, Oliver, didn’t feel like a kid either. He ached between the legs, he wanted to feel her tits and for her to take off her jeans. He looked down at his sister and Peter, staring at the screen, caught up in the terror of the Vindicator, Emma’s hand already pressed against her teeth in horror, and he saw them both as kids—watching sex and violence, but having no feeling of it inside them, within their beings. Oliver felt both, and as he looked down at them gripped by the film, he saw them as children and knew that he was not. So, he offered Chantal more drink, not from anger any more, not to spite her, or to make a fool of her, but because he thought it might relax her and he wanted to take advantage of that relaxation.
    Chantal opened her eyes and the world swung crazily past her. Oliver was holding out a bottle of wine towards the glass she still held clutched in her hand.
    â€œI feel funny,” she slurred. “Peculiar. Perhaps I’m drunk. D’you think
    I’m drunk, Oliver?”
    â€œNah,” Oliver shook his head. “You’ve only had a couple of glasses of wine. Have some more, it’ll make you feel better.” He settled himself beside her, legs across the bed, back to the wall and filled her glass up before setting the bottle on the bedside table and taking a pull at his lager. He could feel the heat of her body against his, the heat of his own body burning from the heat of hers. He could feel himself grown hard and aching. He swallowed more beer.
    â€œDrink up,” he said, and obediently Chantal emptied her glass.
    â€œHot,” she remarked vaguely. “Hot in here.”
    It was the opening Oliver had needed, been waiting for, offered to him unasked.
    â€œYeah,” he agreed. “Take your shirt off.”
    As a suggestion, it lacked finesse and subtlety, but Chantal was passed the subtle stage. She looked him blearily. “Take my shirt off?” she repeated. “Too difficult.” Her words ran into each other.
    â€œI’ll help.” Oliver reached over and began to unbutton the shirt.
    She pushed him away angrily. “I can do it,” she said, enunciating her words carefully, “I can do it for myself.” With great deliberation she undid and removed her shirt, pulling it down over her shoulders and off her arms, one at a time, until she had it in her hands. With a giggle she draped it over Oliver’s head, but not before he had seen the rounded curves of her breasts pushing up from the lace cup of her bra. He pulled the shirt off his head and looked again. Chantal has closed her eyes again and was leaning her back against the coolness of the wall. Oliver reached out with both hands and touched the skin below the bra. He saw it quiver and the feeling of power, promised by Drew Elliott, flooded through him. He drew his hands