Just Boys , livre ebook

Andrews UK - Nic Penrake

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132 pages

English

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A powerful coming of age story told by 'Blue', now twenty years old, who gives a no-holds barred account of how he survived a close friendship with two boys whose deviant ways knew no bounds. What starts as a typical story of boys struggling to get a steer on their hormones and the changing world they find themselves in slowly descends into a nightmarish account of kids committing sex crimes against other kids, of one boy's sexual fantasies veering dangerously and, finally - fuelled by a cocktail of loneliness, pornography and parental neglect, fatally - out of control.

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Erotic literature

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	08 décembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781849892551
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0300€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Title Page

JUST BOYS

By

Nic Penrake

Publisher Information

Just Boys published in 2010 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © Nic Penrake

The right of Nic Penrake to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

New Boy #1

One minute you’re gazing out the classroom window, wistful for a new friend and the next minute he’s right there pointing a gun at your head. Well, OK, not the next minute, right? – but when it’s happening and you’re looking down the end of a rifle, it seems like that. And when you get there, there’s not even time to ask yourself, How did things turn out so wrong? Was it my fault ? You can barely form the thought, Is this it?

Friends can turn so weird, I know that now. That’s how it got to be with Nick and Simon. But I’m rushing ahead of myself, let’s get back to the beginning…

I’m twenty years old now, just dropped out of college – don’t ask – and I’ve had time to think… and so I dug up all the bits and pieces of this story I’m about to tell you and I started putting them together. Seemed like the right time somehow.

I was twelve when Simon appeared and life changed forever. Then, when I was thirteen, Nick entered the equation and I tasted blood and the soil of a grave. I don’t know what I think about the way things turned out. Even now, six years on, I still puzzle over why I got so involved with those two boys. Like, is there something fundamentally twisted about me that I went with them? But here it is, my story. I don’t know what I’ll do with the finished piece. Maybe I’ll paste it on a blog some place, send it out to cyber space like a message in a bottle. That’s what you do these days, right? Give it all away for free?

So, anyway, we’re in one of the science rooms, first floor, a South London comprehensive, September 2002. We just had registration and our form teacher, Tedman, has left us to simmer a while. He’s busy scratching his beard, brooding over some stupid staff letter he just picked up. Me, I’m not in the mood to talk to anybody. I got things weighing on my mind. Like flashbacks of Mum and Dad fighting in the kitchen the night before. First it was shouting – mostly Mum – then it was her slamming things and then I heard them getting physical. It’s always Mum to start things. She’ll throw something, kick my dad, shove him, whatever – to prove her point. For a minute I thought they were just mucking around, but when I opened the kitchen door and I saw Mum’s face red with anger, eyes locked on my dad’s eyes, I knew it wasn’t good.
It’s kind of embarrassing too. Like you caught your parents having sex or something.
Mum’s from Croatia. If she’s not half crazy, you’d have to say she’s passionate, emotional, kind of sad, too. She lost four people close to her in the war over there nearly 20 years ago. She doesn’t hate the Serbs. In fact she has two or three really good Serbian friends here in London. It was just a big mess, she’d say of the civil war. Like a volcano that suddenly erupted. She’s no explanation for what happened. She gets this heavy look like all her blood cells are running to hide in her feet when you say words like Srebrenica and Sarajevo. Having said that, she’s not afraid of getting violent herself. Ironic?
She came to England nearly fifteen years ago to study photography. She met my dad, fell in love, got hitched a year later, already pregnant with me. Another kind of eruption, I guess…
My dad’s kinda cooler – typical British, I used to think, when I was growing up in the States, but now I’m here I think he’s more atypical. He has that rangy way of moving typical of slim English guys, he has their reserve and that uniquely English thing of not wanting to take life too seriously; but he’s more open – and Mum says it too – than your average Brit. He’s not prone to blowing up like my mum, but if he he’s prodded enough, his temper is something of a surprise for such a slim guy – fiery and muscular. And I guess I’m more like him than Mum in that regard.
So anyway, as I stepped into the kitchen, he was trying to talk her down, but she wasn’t having it, she just kept coming at him – she didn’t give a damn about the fact that my younger brother and I were there, no, that was his problem. I could see he was getting tired pushing her back and warning her to calm down and just talk, so when she went for his face with a spatula I guess he felt he didn’t have much choice but to flip her over onto the floor. Even then she still she wouldn’t let up, so he had to pin her down and like, “Will you please quit now?”
That’s when she started crying. Swearing and crying. Cunt, fucker, bastard, loser…
When Mum cries it’s like it’s for the whole world. It really stirs me up. Like we’re suddenly in a war zone. My stomach turned over with the shame of it.
My half-brother, Jay, he’s only 6, was right there almost in the middle of it all, shouting, “Stop it stop it stop it!” That really got to me, too, him standing there, seeing this. So I grabbed him by the forearm and led him off to our bedroom and sat him down on our bunk bed and tried to tell him everything would be OK in an hour or so. I was supposed to be doing Math, but now the numbers were just this stupid noise on a page, so I got down on the carpet with Jay and helped him build his latest Lego spaceship.
“Why don’t they divorce?” Jay asked me, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He can look so concerned and sensitive, but so cool and accepting at the same time. I almost envied how cool he was.
I didn’t ask Dad what had set her off. I knew already. Every ten days or so, Dad disappears for a night and comes home the next morning after stopping round a ‘friend’s place’. Like, even Jay was beginning to work that one out. I’ve heard Mum talk about divorce, shouting the ‘d’ word at him like she really means it, but then nothing happens. Maybe she thinks they can get back together like the last time they split up – New Year’s Eve, 1995, great year that was – when we were living in New York and she went off with some actor wannabe and got pregnant with Jay. I was five back then. “Dad, when’s Mummy coming back?” We’d get Mum’s voice on the phone, Mum’s handwriting on a postcard. Mum in Paris. She spent six months there with this guy, Miguel. Dad described it like she was on a long holiday/photo expedition with a ‘friend’. Soon she’d be coming home.
Strangely enough, she did come home. Only much later did I discover her lover had hanged himself. So much for the wild romance. And she was seven months pregnant with Jay. Cool move, Mom (as we called her back then).
She wasn’t asking Dad to take her back but she did want to see him now. I once came across a photo she had of Miguel. Her face lit up and she said, “Isn’t he handsome?” like he was her little boy or something. It was hard to imagine this handsome guy of thirty-two, a matinee idol beaming confidently at life, going off and hanging himself. He was an upper middle-class junkie, Dad told me years later. The son of a Mexican soap star and an American wife – and he ended up a junkie. Jay inherited some of his dad’s good looks, for sure. You should see the school mums swoon around him.
So anyway, Mum was back in New York, seven months pregnant and crashing on a friend’s sofa bed. She was too heavy to work and she was flat broke. She told my dad she might have to go back to her family in Croatia, but Dad took pity on her and started helping her out with rent and shopping and stuff. He didn’t really have to, she’d left us, remember. So anyway, they started going out together, no sleep-overs, just as friends. Then I was included and slowly the family rift knitted together again. Picture: big long scar like after heart surgery. But, amazingly, they seemed happier than before they split, really chilled – we were laughing again and it felt weird and wonderful like warm sunshine after a heavy downpour. Dad got a new job with more money and just before Jay was due we all moved in to this new place in Brooklyn. Jay was sweet – and I don’t normally like babies, but he was sweet – and for about a year things were so smooth I let myself believe everything’s going to be fine from now on.
But then Dad lost his job and things started to go wrong again. I’d hear Mum complaining about the little amount of money she was making from her photography. We were going to lose the place in Brooklyn – where could we go? Texas. What? Go figure. It would only be for a year, Dad said. But it would get us out of debt. So we had to go.
Right from the start Mum hated the sand getting in her boots all the time. She hated the sweat on her back at 11AM. My dad tried to make the best of things but he never could get used to the sheer vastness of the place. And they pined for New York theatre and exhibitions. I was OK there. I liked the desert and cacti and the lizards scuttling about in the corner of your eye. My New York accent got flattened and rolled out by the Texan twang, but I grew to like it actually, the way you can grow to like handling guns out there. When Dad’s contract ended, he took a job in LA. LA was probably a 2,000 mile step in the right direction. Less heat, a litt