The Reject

By Richard C. Parr

Robert Pittman and Julian Wilkes are two creative and talented friends tormented by notorious school bully Casey Devonbourne. But as Robert slowly awakens his long dormant self confidence by pursuing love and defending himself, he loses touch with his friend, forcing lonely Julian to become increasingly mentally unstable, secluded and determined to carry out the most gruesome revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard C. Parr
• Release date: Apr 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301707485

Richard C. Parr

Frequent traveller, artist, fitness enthusiast, musician, cook and writer. Lover of science-fiction and RPG games.

Book preview

THE REJECT

by

Richard Parr

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY

Richard Parr on Smashwords

The Reject

Copyright (C) 2013 by Richard Parr

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, then please purchase an additional copy for each recipient If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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THE REJECT

A novel in three parts. Odd chapters are narrated by Robert, even chapters by Julian.

For Sarah.

PART I - ATTRACTION

Account 1

My sweet Kimberley,

I was so drawn in that I failed to notice people pushing past me to get to the exit. Crowded and noisy places tended to create irrational thoughts in my mind; usually I'd flee from that kind of atmosphere and retreat to the nearest quiet place, like the park, the botanical gardens or my bedroom. Yet seeing this woman abolished my insecurities. Perhaps it was her gaze or her delicate, shining skin, or her alluring eyes, or her lips. Those lips. I could swear it was you. As I walked closer, I noticed her resting a hand against her chin, and she seemed confined, focused on a single point in the distance. Her eyes met mine, and when I wandered around the room, those eyes followed me like a tracking device. When I walked closer to her, I noticed she was made up of thousands of individual dots and tiny brushstrokes, like cells joining to form an entire body. From that moment, I knew I had seen you somewhere before our school days. You became a subconscious image to me. I took it as a gift from the artist. Most art bores me, and I usually have trouble acknowledging the subtlety of the craft and the story behind each work, but this specific piece was a blessing.

I sketched this picture as best as I could, copying the fine strokes so that I could transfer my inspiration from the gallery to the canvas. As I was finishing the outline and streaming the pen to create the hair, a figure touched my shoulder from behind. I dropped my pen and paper, and after picking them up, I turned to see a girl who worked at the art gallery. You know what I'm like around strangers - especially women. I looked down and saw that she was carrying one of my possessions I had left by a statue - a case containing a treasured instrument. Perhaps I should have played for her, there and then. I know you would have encouraged me to. We stood for a moment in awkward silence - me thinking of something to say, and her probably hoping I would either leave or say something, anything, quick. She asked me not to leave my items unattended, so I thanked her for finding my case and then asked her, shakily, who the writer of the painting was. The writer of the painting. I expected her to laugh at my nervous mistake.

She looked at the immaculate face in the painting and said, 'This one is by Cheng. He was a Chinese artist who moved to America in the 1950s. He painted women in restaurants, cafes, cinemas and parks. He enjoyed capturing snapshots of city life. Would you be able to do me a huge favour? I am desperate to meet my monthly sales quota, and I have asked around all day but nobody seems interested. I have to sell these.'

She produced a leaflet for a yearly membership to the gallery. 'If you buy one of these, I would be so grateful. Would you be interested in signing up for a yearly membership to the gallery? You can save up to twenty percent on special exhibitions. If you're interested, come to the information desk and pay there. Say Eleanor recommended the membership. That's me.'

What happened next puzzled me. She looked over my shoulder and immediately pulled a distasteful face, like she had accidentally tasted the skin on hot milk, or she'd taken a drag from the wrong end of a cigarette. Eleanor decided to suddenly cut and run. She deserted me as I held the guitar case and the half complete drawing, and as a mass of tourists barged past me, I began to wish I was in a more serene place. It was at that moment when a voice from behind me bellowed, 'Knobbert! What are you doing here?'

I knew instantly why Eleanor had disappeared.

I turned to see a familiar face standing at the foot of the gallery staircase. He was wearing his typical permanently polished black shoes, tattered jeans and black overcoat. His hands were deep in his pockets as he barged a woman out of the way. He was the sort of guy that a single grey rain cloud would follow.

'This place,' he said. 'It's full of...you spend too much time in here. Artists serve as a reminder of a solitary, worthless existence.'

He stood beside me and frowned at the painting.

'What an overpriced pile of wank,' he said. 'Why do you waste time staring at this sort of stuff?'

'Hi, Julian,' I said.

'I see you met Eleanor. Did you see her arms? They were covered in acne. She needs a wash. Have you come to a decision on what we are doing tonight? You said you would think about it.'

'I have come to a decision, and I am busy for the rest of this weekend. I have to make some money from performing.'

'Is that what you want to do as a career?' he said with that usual vehement honesty. 'Standing in a lonely city street playing a few golden oldies, then sitting in the park pretending not to notice people? To survive, you have to be high flying, Rob. Earn your money, retire young and get laid good and often. Get a job with one of the banks in London's financial district or make millions on the stock exchange. Then it's possible to retire by forty. Twenty years of struggling and working to get to the top, and then suddenly, it's goodbye daily routine and hello to a big house by the beach.'

'Not a fan of the conventional lifestyle then, Julian?' He followed me to the main reception hall as tourists reeled in to queue for tickets to the latest exhibition. Do you think you can handle the immense pressure of gambling and the risk of losing all that accumulated wealth at any moment?'

'Look at all these magnificent paintings. Art is dreary, I know, but are you aware of the true value of these masterpieces? Get into art collecting or antique dealing. There's an idea, Rob. You could buy and sell art and make a decent wage. Imagine those days where everyone is standing in the rain waiting for a bus in their expensive suits and their depressed, baggy eyes, while you my friend, are sat in your dressing gown, on a tiger skin rug being straddled by a supermodel, and I am sitting on the beach satisfied in knowing that I was confident enough gamble the money and win.'

'But my Saturdays are spent here appreciating these works or outside playing my guitar. This is what I love doing.'

'This is borderline homeless,' he said with a heavy sigh. 'But, if you're happy doing the music and the drawing thing, then how can I complain? My only fear is that we have a few months until the end of school, and you have not yet made a firm decision on a future career. Then university is around the corner, and speaking of which, I don't remember seeing your choices of course. Remember the February deadline, yes?'

To be honest, I had forgotten, too tied up in my sketching and busking, but I had every intention of choosing the right course for me (I can hear you cursing at my disorganisation).

'Hold these,' I said, handing him my guitar case, sketch pad and pens. 'If you watch me play, I will buy you a drink.'

If I could get served, Kim.

Account 2

I worry a lot about you, Rob. Perhaps you are right - getting a well paid job and becoming deadly serious about my future is a little too premature thinking for an eighteen year old. I should be enjoying the last months I have at Lakehouse Grammar school before we part ways. At this point, future is immaterial. The present is paramount.

As we head towards the train station, the place where you will play an acoustic set to an apprehensive or indifferent audience, making me wonder whether you are no more useful than a Big Issue seller when it comes to having salesmanship merit, I look at the case I carry as I walk alongside you. It is littered with stickers, flags and landmarks from various world cities - the sign of a well travelled, free-spirited young man, although I know you have never been outside of England.

While you set up the guitar, tune up and look over sheet music and associated instrument checking, I take a look inside Nottingham train station hall. People are pouring out. They have arrived from various cities as far south as London and as far away as Scotland. Our city has the benefit of being in the middle of the country, so it is unavoidable, and that is what makes it not only popular with tourists, but somewhere I have to escape from once in a while. Standing playing your set in the taxi rank under the shelter of a massive roof, you are the first local these new visitors see. I know you can meet the challenge of performing a master class set. Yet even before you begin the first blues song, I can sense woe in your voice.

You say to me, 'It's difficult to imagine a future when all we are taught at school is to join the military or to become a doctor or lawyer. It's strange how all these professions involve death.'

At that precise moment, I know you and I are almost identical in our general outlook. I have been wondering the same thing about our school, about how it lacks the capability to guide us and craft us into young men with the ability to choose a definite career, and knowing that since the school cannot give us council, you and I become receptive to each other's advice.

'Screw the school career councillors,' I say. 'What a ridiculous job title. How can these people advise us on getting a job when they couldn't find a suitable job for themselves? That is why they became career councillors.'

'I would be an accountant,' you say, 'if I could bear sitting and staring at a computer screen all day.'

You pile the sheet music into an unsteady bundle. A strong breeze comes into our sheltered area and the pile cascades into a miniature tornado, scattering in random directions. I help you rush to gather those volatile sheets, and as I do, I notice the title of one of the pieces.

'Chopin's Nocturno Opus Number 2?' I say, and you pounce on my words: 'It's my favourite piece.'

'Rob, this is funeral music. It's no way to attract a crowd. These people have been aboard a train with no spare seats. The last thing they want is to feel even more depressed. Hey, roll up, everyone! Come and see the wannabe rock star who will remind you of your grandfather's memorial service. Jesus, man. Play an uplifting song, or don't bother playing a set.'

You frown at me and attach the leather strap around the worn Spanish guitar. The strings are old yet piquant, the wood body is aged, but the melodic tune you play is the sign of brilliant craftsmanship and being in control of the fret board, despite the age and cheapness of the instrument. Without hesitation, you launch into this Nocturno Opus, and then you move into Spanish and Gothic scales, and somehow, with clear ease, along comes a transition into a more familiar classic number.

'Do you like Chuck Berry?' you say as I watch your fingers move at an alarming pace and the tune twangs from the dusty old guitar.

'Not bad. Not bad at all.'

For the next few minutes, I enjoy an acoustic interpretation of Johnny B. Goode as a small crowd passes and leaves generous donations in your fedora hat. I picture you on stage in front of a small crowd of maybe a hundred or less, in your element, following your passion and fulfilling your dream. Just then, I am happy for you. It is one of the last times I will ever be happy, and you know why.

Johnny B. Goode slows and transitions flawlessly into Emerson Lake and Palmer's From the Beginning. I play the ringleader, whistling and motioning to emerging crowds of travellers who occasionally stop and take photographs or videos of you. A group of fifteen year old boys approach me and ask if I can buy them crates of beer from the supermarket across the street. I tell them to shove it.

Soon you take a break and count the change in your hat. £20.50 - not bad for a busy Saturday afternoon. We sit, admiring the influx of visitors and the taxi drivers smoking and laughing on their break. You say, 'Look at the architecture and the pleasant people, and all the old streets and shops of our city. What's the attraction in leaving?' I say, 'The mystery of the unknown.'

An idea, a cognitive light bulb, flickers on in my mind. I blurt out, 'Let's go into business together. You as a musician and me as your agent. We can buy and sell art. We can relocate abroad to Germany or Spain where we'll be better treated and there aren't all these social problems. Our wages will be higher and one day we can come back and invest in property with our masses of savings.'

It isn't so much the words you use, it's how you vehemently shoot down my offer, like you would have taken up the chance with somebody else - somebody a little less, say, direct and straight forward?

'I'm not ready.'

'Come on, Rob. You've lived here your whole life. Isn't it time to leave Nottingham behind and move on?'

'Julian, you've only been here for three years. You're used to moving around the country. You've been to Europe and I appreciate how attractive those places are and the great potential there is for expatriating and starting again. But my family history goes back centuries to this very city. These are my roots, and I don't want to leave my family behind.'

'Well, aren't you the lucky one?' is all I can muster. Your apology is accepted, even though I remain sour-faced. My family used to be an indestructible temple, a shelter of kindness and understanding, until my father abruptly left. Now it's me and my independence against my overly-obsessive, restricting mother. A wonderful concoction resulting in an inevitable disaster, wouldn't you say? I read the giant timetable in the station foyer to take my mind off having to go home to an empty house or a mother with her friends, sitting in the living room demonstrating sex toys and a garage full of wine bottles that will be devoured by one particular person.

I raise my eyebrows when you place your hand into your wallet. This is the first time I've received any money from you. This is the first time you've kept a promise to buy me a drink. The aroma from the coffee shop adjacent to the ticket barriers is too alluring for me to ignore, but strong as it is, I would rather have a real drink. While you set up for the final few songs of your performance, I am immersed in a crowd of people searching for their train tickets. I then make a beeline for the coffee queue. The wait gives me time, perhaps too much, to consider what I'm actually doing, and I don't mean by accompanying you as a guy who tries to get people to pay attention to your set. I mean in general, what I am contributing to society. How does my small cog make the other larger cogs turn? What part of my component, if removed, would make a difference to the overall workings of the machine?

Next to the coffee stand, there are books and magazines. There are too many to choose from; there are too many destinations to go to on the train and too many different styles of clothing being paraded around the foyer. In short, I feel like there are too many opportunities. Why can't there just be a few? Right at this point, I forget you are there, still playing and making an effort to overcome your shyness by shouting words of encouragement or thanks to the passers-by. At this point, I am taken in by my own sorrow, my own sudden realisation that I have absolutely nothing to donate to civilisation that will alter the future. The future for me is dead, I am the anvil strapped to your ankles, and the best thing for you to do is to run away from me whenever you see me snooping around. I wish I had told you there and then, Rob, to let me be alone. I wish I'd had the succinctness to come up to you and say five words: 'I'm not your friend anymore.'

Rob, it's nothing personal; I'm nobody's friend.

Account 3

(Robert)

I spent a good hour searching every shop and platform for Julian. I stood and waited in the foyer as hundreds passed me, rushing to get to their train. He would have been one of the only people not in a hurry, helping him to stand out better. I tried, Kim. At first I thought he was sidetracked, probably talking to one of our school teachers or somebody he recognised from our tutor group - you know what he's like when there's a chance for conversation. I called him, but his phone was switched off. I quickly became convinced he'd abandoned me. At the time, I assumed he had received an emergency call from his mother. She was always on his tail. Shrugging the matter off, I packed away my equipment and proceeded up the hill into the city, passing Shelley's Wedding Shop, a place whose window I saw you looking in numerous times. I'm not going to be afraid and say that I tried to ignore what was inside me, as most guys usually do. It's a pathological fear all men have of walking into a woman's clothing store, even standing inside for a brief while. One of the worst fears we have is going inside and having to look around for a gift. A man will normally stand outside, look at the range on display in the window, go in, not check the size of an item of clothing, take it from the display, go straight to the counter, then pay and leave, hoping he has bought the right size for his girlfriend. Mission accomplished.

I thought of you when I looked inside the wedding shop window. There were pictures of brides and grooms, hearts dangling from the ceiling, cakes on display. A couple walked out of the shop, holding hands and kissing. They gave each other a warm, comforting glance. They smiled in unison. You immediately entered my thoughts, and you remained there, serving as a constant daydream on repeat every time I played Nocturno Opus to members of the public who could barely comprehend how much I enjoyed thinking of you when the melodies progressed. Inside the shop, the lady hung up a new white dress. I used to think wedding dresses were identical, that it didn't matter which one the bride chose, that they all looked the same, and they had no appeal to me. Except this one. It glittered. It was so finely crafted. You would look stunning wearing it down the aisle, walking past my family, your family, our friends, before meeting me at the front, exchanging vows, sharing a kiss and spending the rest of our lives together.

The woman caught me daydreaming and I scurried away, down along the near-empty side street and taking in the advertisements overhead. You remember the banners they used to hang between buildings, Kim? They used to crack me up. There was this huge one above me that read:

Ghost Tours! £10 PER HEAD. Every Friday and Saturday, 8pm. Meet in the Old Market Square - IF YOU DARE...

A rowdy group came barging past me from behind, talking about how crap the ghost tours are and how every tourist gets suckered in to meeting at the Old Market Square only to have their pockets picked by whoever runs the event, and then to be apologised to and told that the ghost tour is cancelled, and that they should come back the following week. I knew it was just a rumour, but these guys spoke about it as if it was really happening. When they had gone by me, I watched them closely, taking in their rugby shirts and their school standard issue 'flannels', or trousers as they're more commonly known amongst the common language of those oh so common folk like you and me. One of the guys wore a blazer showing off the Lakehouse Grammar emblem. They'd all got matching haircuts of medium length curly hair with blonde or sandy highlights. One of them turned around and I saw it was Henry.

'Hey, it's Pittman,' he said in a mocking voice. They all turned round, and then I noticed Adam, Stephen, Archie and Kelvin. They looked ridiculous. They all grunted and called me 'loser', 'failure', 'dropout'.

'Must be strange playing a sport where you have your arms wrapped around two guys either side of you, ready to bury your heads into the arse cheeks of the men in front,' I said, but these guys are too peppered up on steroids and whatever the school coaches told them to diet on that they failed to understand the joke. Regardless, I slowed down and allowed the gap between us to increase. There's nothing worse than walking alone in the city with a bunch of jock-types being loud and irritating. I know, Kim. You'd have said, 'Rob, just ignore them,' or 'Rob, let it go. They're a bunch of dicks.' I can't resist fighting back. Had I been fourteen years old I wouldn't have responded, and then I probably would have got a barrage of even more insults for trying to pretend they didn't exist. But I was nearly eighteen. This couldn't keep going on like it didn't matter. A guy can only take so many insults before he cracks.

They continued into the distance, past Harley's gym, past the betting offices and in the direction of Upper Parliament Street and the Victoria shopping centre, using words like 'gosh'; 'majorly'; 'literally' and 'so bad'. I was literally annoyed, Kim. I literally turned down a side street and took a different route home. Fortunately, I encountered a more pleasant scene. You would have loved it, Kim. The trees were skeletal without their leaves. The greenery of the summer had become brownery. A frost veneer covered a park and the untouched ground glistened white and green. If you were there, we'd have made frost angels. You used to tell me how you loved the fresh smelling air of winter, and seeing your own vapour when breathing out, and how everyone covered up in several layers of black or grey with hanging scarves. Gosh, how incredible. You would have whispered to me how ridiculous some of the girls in our year looked, being overdressed or too flashy or too cautious and never knowing how to hold themselves. How true, Kim. When you stood, you stood proud and straight with extraordinary posture like every girl should have.

Walking by Sunnyside Cafe, I checked my reflection in the window, something you would tease me about, saying I was too vain or too effeminate. I wanted to match your prowess, Kim. Your excellent posture meant mine must excellent. If you laughed at a joke, I'd laugh, and so on. That's when my journey home became a torturous affair, and rather than anticipating a lengthy, peaceful walk, I was sidetracked by the biggest moron in our year.

A deafening buzz, like a protesting child being dragged indoors by their parents, emanated from the junction opposite the cafe. A red Porsche convertible travelled directly over the roundabout, completely oblivious to the approaching cars, received abuse from the drivers of the obstructed vehicles and planted itself on the pavement outside the cafe, and just inches from my toes. The head of the male driver, I'll call him initially, expanded as the car screeched to an abrupt halt in front of me, his gaze fixed forwards as two women sat adjacent to him covered in fake tan, sunglasses and giant beads looked on.

'Pittman!' his bulldozing voice hollered at me. He switched off the ignition, leapt over his seat, slid down the trunk and came to a halt with his arms folded. May I present Casey Devonbourne, the eternal prick.

'Casey, you really should be more caref-'

'My Dad bought this for my eighteenth birthday,' he said. 'Isn't she beautiful? So are you, my sweets,' he said, giving a little wave to his two mistresses. He pinched their arses as they walked by and they both yelped like puppies. 'Got my teeth done too. See how white they are? You could never afford that, Pittman. Want me to take you for a spin?'

'Well -'

'Tough shit, 'cos you ain't gettin' one. Hey, where's your bum chum? What's his name?Why do you two hang around together so much? Tell me, what's the secret of a successful gay marriage?' He cackled and walked over to me, placing an arm across my shoulders and leading me inside the cafe.

'Casey, I'm really not in the mood for this.'

'No, no, no. Don't worry. I'm paying.' His girls sat at a table while Casey led me to the counter. 'Those two keep me up all night. Anyway, have you got a car yet? What a stupid question! Your family is poor! How did you get into Lakeside anyway, Pittman? It's a fee paying school. Do you get government handouts? Let me guess: you live near...Castle Boulevard, is it? No family in Sherwood has a combined income of over sixty grand a year. That's not even a tenth of my Dad's yearly salary.'

He grabbed two trays and immediately started stuffing chocolate, packets of crisps and sandwiches on our plates.

'Wealth runs in the family, Pittman. The only thing that runs in your family...is mascara. You great big queer!' He slammed a fist into my ribs and I coughed hard. I glanced over at his girls and saw them rolling money into a straw and pouring white powder into a small pile on the table. There were families in there, Kim. There were kids running past them, peeking up at their table and all those girls could do was smile and pat their heads and give them a fresh dusting of shit.

I imagined myself bowing down as a helpless sheep to the venerable Casey Devonbourne. For some reason, he was the only person in school I feared. His rugby player mentality, his constant high energy, his quick wit, his fearless nature, it all combined to produce this living douche bag machine. He elbowed me again and showed me a very rare kind of credit card. 'You don't want to know how much you have to earn to afford one of these,' he said. 'I could buy entire countries with this.' A waitress juggled cappuccinos, lattes, hot chocolates and teas, spilling an entire cup and fetching another. Casey scowled at her and whispered to me, 'Why do they let all these foreigners in? They can't do shit. You agree, right?' I didn't care, being more interested in finding a way to suddenly leave.

We joined the girls who were now giggling uncontrollably. Casey muttered something and they launched into hysterics. The drugs had kicked in. 'They find me hilarious,' said Casey.

Casey would reach an egotistical mountain peak, sucking your energy completely dry before collapsing in on himself. He would use his own energy like he was a star powered by its own helium and hydrogen. If you gave him nothing, and I mean nothing, he was useless. The moments I feared were when I saw the penny drop in his mind and he'd come up with something else to insult me or my family with or to ask my opinion on an irrelevant issue.

Close up, I monitored the two girls. One was dark haired, the other a redhead. Both had short hair, piercings in their noses and around their lips. They wore tight fitting clothing, including really, and I mean really, short skirts. They had matching cherry and strawberry pattern handbags, which Casey said made them even more cute. Then I contributed to a dire conversation by, once again, letting myself down in front of women.

'Do you both have names?' I said.

Casey guffawed and spat out his coffee. The girls were sent to wildfire laughter heaven.

'Do you have names?' said Casey. 'Duh, we no have names, Pittman. We are lampposts. What a ridiculous question! Girls, you should see him at school. He's horrendous but entertaining to watch, especially around other girls. Wouldn't you say, Pittman?'

'I'm Marilyn Monroe,' said the dark haired girl. 'This is...what's your name again?' she said to the redhead, and they fell into a cackling frenzy.

'Don't be so mean to him,' said the redhead to her companion. 'And you, mister. You're nasty. You're a bad boy. Apologise to this innocent young man.'

'I don't need to say sorry, do I, Pittman?' Casey gave me a threatening look.

'No, you don't.' I sighed and itched my face with both palms, anything to block them out for as long as possible.

'Do you have a name?' said the dark haired girl.

'It'll cost you fifty for me to tell you,' I began, and then Casey interjected, 'Robert.'

The girls rose to go and 'powder their noses' and I was left with Casey, a coffee and a tray full of food I refused to eat. He wasn't interested in whether or not I ate the food. He could splash money around and be completely carefree as to the consequences. It was awkward, having him sat next to me, blocking me in against the window. He sat with his legs sprawled open wide, nudging me further against the glass. He fixed me a stare, bore his teeth and then played around with those brown and white sugar sachets. He let out a soft snort and threw the sachets down in a frustrated manner before resting his chin on outstretched arms like the bored ape he really was.

'Girls are nice, huh?'

I nodded.

'You've never seen my place before, have you? Alfornby House. I recently moved in. You'd have probably heard of it since it is the largest house and it has its own grounds. Loads of space for driving my cars around.'

The last thing I wanted to tell him was about my profession as a gardener at Alfornby House. Man, he'd have a field day with that information.

'Come over and I'll show you the cars. My Dad has a '67 Stingray fully restored. He's letting me bring it into school on Monday. I can pick you up from your house if you want. Imagine that, a ride in a Stingray.'

He leaned in closer and suddenly changed tack.

'How many girls have you slept with?'

'That's really none of your business, Casey.'

'Guess how many I've had. Go on.'

'None?'

'Ha! But seriously?'

'Six?'

'Oh, you're so lame, Pittman, like your bum chum. He thinks he's a playboy. Let me tell you, he isn't a patch on my technique. It's all about who you hang around with and what you have to offer. I get out so much, you know. Nights boozing, cheap whores, tacky nightclubs. I see those wannabe Casanovas strutting their crap on the dance floor, looking to their male friends and making a signal to say they've pulled or they've found a group of susceptible girls. They call their friends over and they inspect them, head to toe, subconsciously, and almost instantaneously they know what to do. The men, they're all miserable failures. Penniless students. Like you. Ha! But seriously, flapping around town with a soppy instrument and a romantic heart and checking out women in the art gallery will get you nowhere. Nowhere, Pittman. Remember that piece of advice, and if you don't drink that coffee, I'll pound your brains out and charge you full price.' The fist conveniently found my rib, the same rib, once again. So I took a sip of the coffee, regrettably, and found it one of the foulest tasting coffees I've ever experienced, and he began cackling to himself.

'You're so gullible,' he said. 'I put salt in that one! Don't worry, all this is free! I don't care if you do or don't eat and drink. Liven up, Pittman!'

One thing that sets me off into a rampage of frustration, one thing that digs into my bones like the sharpened end of a shovel, is knowing that I have done something utterly ridiculous and embarrassing, and having it pointed out to me in plain view by an individual who has picked on me every single day of my school life. But what am I supposed to do, Kim? I feel indebted to him. He's bought me food and drink. None of my friends except you has shown me that kind of genuine hospitality. Was it a desperate plea from Casey, a bribe to keep my attention and to show these hookers that he was a respectable guy and not some drugged up, rugby playing hollow human being? Were there more sinister plans at work? Would he take me away in his car, call up his buddies and perform some horrible prank like strapping me to the car naked and parading me through Nottingham? You know what he was like, Kim. You know he'd have gone a step further than any regular idiot. And speaking of regular, by this point my coffee had become a deathly cold cloudy substance. The milk had risen in swirls to the surface as if it were desperately trying to escape. I could sympathise.

That was when I stupidly tried to fill in the void of silence with borderline senseless conversation. What else could I do? This guy thrived on entertainment. A split second of monotony would send him into a tirade of anger and nasty, stinging jabs designed to wilt your ego and to force you to surrender that last ounce of energy reserved for a real friend.

I said, 'Girls...they take so long in the toilet.'

He said, 'What the hell do you know about those girls?'

'Well, what I was really trying to phrase was, was-'

'Spit it out, Pittman! Man, do you really still have that kiddy stutter?'

He was playing with his blonde highlights in the window reflection. The girls returned at a convenient moment. They no longer smiled. They no longer laughed. They looked like they had already died and were now forced to suffer an eternity of miserable existence. Had it not been for their blouses being adjusted, flushed faces, and how the redhead wore the expression of a person about to be hit by a car in freeze frame, I wouldn't have felt anymore uneasy.

Casey rose and announced he had to go to the men's room. Once he had vanished, the dark haired girl leaned over and said to me, 'Do you want to come back with us?'

'I have to be somewhere else,' I said, rising out of my seat, accidentally knocking my case against the adjacent table where a family were relaxed and enjoying a meal. I apologised and scarpered for the exit.

'Don't you want our numbers?' the dark haired girl called out as her redhead friend stared through the window pane in a piercing glare of oblivion.

Casey once teased me for being the 'biggest loser' in school. He still made fun of me for apparently being unable to string a sentence together, and he'd constantly hover around me with his gang when I spoke to girls in our year, Kim. He'd introduce them to me and wait for me to mess up. Normally I'd cripple under the pressure and they'd leave fully justified that I was useless when it came to dialogue. All those pretty girls and fast cars. He had more than his fair share of quality, except probably for the girls. Why couldn't he have left me alone? Why twist the knife? Especially when it came to a girl who, I have to admit, Kim, got my heart racing. A girl I desired as soon as I saw her. Despite his wealth, status, perceived excellence and popularity at Lakeside Grammar, how ironic would it be if this new girl preferred me, a perceived nobody, a lowlife, commonplace, unexceptional guy, over him?

I'm sorry for what I put you through when the new girl came on the scene.

Account 4

My mother treats drinking like going to the gym, building a resistance to wine and spirits and gradually increasing her intake. The amount she drinks grows in progressive steps with each workout. By the evening, she is inconsolable, incomprehensible, spiteful and fervently sexist. She says, 'Men are responsible for the way I feel and all the woes in this world. They are all cowards and I'm sick of the way they treat women. Women deserve everything.' She collects books on feminism and lays into me any time I bring up the subject of how I feel about a girl. This house is a grave for wellbeing. I have to break away.

'You don't do enough,' she says. 'Women don't want men to be polite to them anymore. Holding open doors and cleaning and cooking and stupid shit like that are things of the past. Here's the deal, Julian. Women only want you for your money, and when they have that, they'll take your house,