Free Call Me by P-P Hartnett Page A

went. A skimpy grey vest was half tucked into the back of his jeans. Here he was, my very own three-dimensional, animated Euro Boy. For a full five minutes he pretended to be just anybody, leaning against the Peter Pan statue, playing a pocket computer game in a bubble of boredom mixed with absorption. The colour of his skin, pale with pink smudged in, smeared up into the air around him. Something was happening inside my eyeballs. A tiny vial was dissolving in each: the contents first freshened then widened my eyes, making them hungry for glimpses to save and replay. It was a struggle to look away.
    To control myself while he decided whether to speak to me, I watched the water as if it were a cinema screen. After what sounded like the end of the world on his pocket game, he sauntered over, skateboard under his arm, and delivered a speech with which he’d often fogged mirrors.
    â€œThe age of consent in Japan is thirteen and it’s legal for any two people over that age to have sex. In Spain it’s twelve. Hi!”
    The removal of a fresh pack of chewing gum from a front pocket depleted what I’d taken to be this fierce child diva’s shapely genitalia by a saddening couple of inches. (Bet that gum was nicely warm, instantly malleable.)
    â€œHello.”
    Pointing to my teeshirt he said that he liked Oasis too (unlike myself) and started reeling off details of his musical tastes and bands he’d seen. Disarming and heart warming with his directness, he had the well developed cunning innocence of an embryonic ’dilly boy. No one would have suspected that we were strangers meeting for the first time. He was my fourth encounter, I was his fifth.
    He said I looked younger than twenty two. He was fibbing. I said he looked exactly sixteen, the truth. Too old to be a child star, too young to take leads. No facial hair dimmed his face. His pupils were shrunk to blackheads in the foggy blue. He was high on something and it wasn’t Wrigleys.
    He had the kind of nipples which didn’t know they liked being played with, yet. He was extremely abuser-friendly.
    I thought he was admiring my single pannier. He wasn’t.
    â€œOh, Carradice Super C. Very flash! But crap. Mine fell to bits in six months.”
    From within the flash but crap pannier came two cans of Strongbow. He’d probably have preferred a Hooch.
    â€œTo your good health,” I toasted, smiling.
    While the boy’s head rocked back to take a swig, I watched his narrow throat. At last he opened the gum, not offering me any though. The drink went straight to his head and he was off, speaking happily in gloomy negatives about lots of things he hated. His step-father, the National Curriculum, Ecstasy and warts were major concerns.
    Most of what he said was aimed at alternate armpits on clear display as he leaned back, arms behind his head. The pose lengthened his body, elongating muscles and giving a lovely definition to the ribcage. Smooth but for a little fuse of fine hair running down from the navel to under the buttons of his Levi’s. I imagined a murderer plucking teenage hairs from these armpits, placing them carefully in a self-sealing envelope marked ARMPITS , to complete a set of three—with PUBES and ARSEHOLE so neatly marked in evenly sized capital letters.
    From tv, films, extensive secret reading, pool changing room chats and the occasional 0898 phone lines (hard on pocket money in payphones) he knew lots about the wonderful world of sex. He knew of the possibilities open to him and he was impatient. He knew he was attractive and he knew that youth was something up his sleeve.
    â€œYour ad cracked me up! Have you seen mine? It goes something like Boyish skateboarding boy next door, recently 18. Blond, 5’ 9”. Slim. Dangerously cute. Inexperienced but keen to learn, seeks  … Well, it varies a bit then, sometimes it says PE teacher type. And it ends Your place, not mine. No clones. No perverts.