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retrospect, Brenton was certain of one thing: he sure as hell wouldn’t like to visit the park in a wheelchair with a ratchet-designed face.
    For the time being, though, he revelled in the ghetto youths’ excited talk about how he had sent Terry Flynn to the bone-juggler’s. He was aware that his fifteen minutes of fame had put him in some danger, but he reacted to it with a grin and thought of the camping trip Mr Lewis was hoping to organise; now the prospect of rain and no TV was fact becoming an attractive option.
    Thinking time over, Brenton got to his feet then began to trek through the park, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, head high. He passed two elderly women and imagined them in the still of the night being chased by Terry Flynn through a decaying housing estate. He recalled moodily how earlier in the morning Mr Lewis had advised him to go to the Job Centre, but he knew it would be a total waste of time. What employer would give him a job? Besides, filling in an application form was always upsetting because of the question Next of kin ? He was always at a loss about how to answer this apparently simple question, and he hated the sympathetic looks on the faces behind the counter when he explained why he couldn’t.

CHAPTER THREE
Catch a fire
    I t was the last Saturday night before Christmas and Brenton was lying on his bed trying to work out how he would budget his meagre government brass throughout the raving festival. How would he ever afford all the double-priced cab fares for the coming parties and dances? Something else troubled him, too – the glaring countenance of Terry Flynn…but a slap on the door diverted his thoughts.
    “Hey, Brenton, you awake?” asked his hostel-mate Floyd, knowing full well that he was.
    “What if I am?”
    Grinning, Floyd strutted into the room. “I’ve got a pair of legbacks in my room and a few cans of Special Brew, so I need you to kind of match up the situation,” he boasted. “Come on – slap a smile on your boat and follow me.”
    Brenton stood up slowly, grinding his right temple with his palm and unwilling to show too much enthusiasm. He fielded for a box of snouts on the dressing table and fingered inside for a screwed-up ball of betting shop paper. Opening the wrapper, he exposed a sprinkling of cannabis. As he followed his spar out of his room he uttered mischievously: “Well, you’ve got the liquor and I’ve got the good grass.”
    Floyd smiled his anticipation. He guessed that his friend spent nearly as much dough on herbal items as he did on food with his G-cheque.
    The happy duo entered Floyd’s room where a battered suitcase thumped out Dennis Brown’s Money in My Pocket from the top of the dressing table. Brenton acknowledged the two girls, who were nodding their heads in time to the bass, then seated himself beside them on the bed.
    Floyd, still standing up, made the introductions. “This is Brenton – the guy who crucially dealt with Terry Flynn.” After gesturing with his hands he added, “Brenton, sitting next to you is Sharon, the facety one, and next to her is quiet Carol, who don’t say shit, she’s so quiet.”
    Looking aggrieved, Sharon voiced: “Who are you calling facety?” She nudged Brenton sitting beside her. “You all right – don’t listen to what he says.”
    Carol leaned forward and faced the uncomfortable-looking Brenton. She greeted him softly. “All right? How do you manage to live with someone like him?” She concluded her question with a thumb jerked in the direction of Floyd, who was smiling.
    It would take a fool not to find Sharon attractive. Her hair was pulled back in a short ponytail that revealed her clear brown complexion, and her countenance bore the confidence of a newscaster. She appeared very smart in her green suede jacket and black skirt, and the ensemble showed off her Olympic-swimmer build – a build that still pip-squeaked femininity through the medium of her almond-shaped eyes and full