Free The War Zone by Alexander Stuart

over-filled glasses, dark blurs moving at their feet like dogs from hell.
    I’m wasted, I realize that, it’s one of the perks of having Jessie as an older sister. I get a bit of stick from the bunch we’re with now, but they’re all a good few years older than me and basically they treat me OK. Better to be crushed between four drunken bikers and their girlfriends than standing with Mum and Dad at the side of the road where the overspill is, talking to some of the local dead about church fêtes, income tax and point-to-points. Mum and Dad don’t fit in, either. I can see from here the strain involved in talking to these people, the occasional wild-eyed glances in our direction. But that’s their problem; they wanted to come down here.
    At least the mob we’re with have some life in them, a few years of madness left before they buckle down. Only a couple of them have jobs, because there’s nothing much to do locally except work for the grocks, the tourists—us (except Jessie and I are just about beginning to lose this taint)—and they’d rather die first.
    Caz, the heavy, punky girl across the table from me, did it for a while and hated it. She actually prefers working on a register in the supermarket in Sidmouth. John, the hard-looking, big-nosed, cocky bastard next to me who keeps deliberately shoving his elbow in my ribs, is a trained mechanic, but lost his job a month ago for telling his boss to fuck off when the boss kept on about him coming in late.
    Nick, the one who’s winning where Jessie is concerned, is the quietest and also the youngest, yet he’s somehow acknowledged as in control, the one the others listen to and follow. He’s on some government training scheme which pays for his lodging (he’s from North Devon) while he works as an apprentice at the local forge. I didn’t even know what farriers did until I met him, and I’m still not sure, but Jessie goes for that quiet, individual determination, and obviously so does everyone else.
    ‘Did you hear about Potter?’ The greasy-haired toe-rag on my right, the other side of me from John, is trying to get everybody’s attention. My mind is sharp for a moment, but as he speaks it all begins to swim again. I try to fix on Caz, concentrating on her mouth and the spiky black make-up around her eyes in an effort to stop my head from sliding under the table. They think Jessie’s a punk, this lot. Even though she doesn’t go for the obvious trappings like Caz, that’s the only way they can figure her out. They think that’s still pretty dangerous.
    ‘Potter and Martin,’ Toe-rag continues (I’ve forgotten his name—I think I’ve forgotten mine), ‘only go and break into Dr Arnold’s surgery the other night, didn’t they? Totally rat-arsed, they were, drunk about a gallon of Guinness each, and Martin’s dad’s been in to see the doctor the day before. So they thought they’d have a bit of fun, mix his urine sample up with someone else’s or something. Anyway, they’re in there about twenty minutes, nobody bothers them, so they’re pissing about when the fucking Bill arrives. Really heavy, they were. Thought they’d gone in there to score drugs—Potter! He’d shit himself if he took two aspirin. Anyway, Martin’s got about two weeks’ dole money on him, because he’s been painting and decorating a bit, so the Bill think he’s taken that too. Questioned them both for hours, they did, in separate rooms and everything. Bastards!’
    ‘Who was it?’ the girl next to Caz asks. ‘Sergeant Collis?’ ‘No. No one they knew, that was the problem. Took them to
    Colyton. Kept them there half the fucking night.’
    ‘Potter’s a walking disaster,’ says John, draining his glass and knocking me in the ribs again. Drunk as I am, I bring my shoulder up quickly and make contact with John’s arm, cracking the glass against his teeth. His head spins around as he checks his teeth with his tongue. ‘Fucking little—’ ‘Want another one,