Last week Sharon’s brother makes an announcement. ‘Sharon’s down this weekend. It’s her birthday,’ he says grimly.
On Friday night I’m in the pub early and in she walks. She’s wearing a crop top with a glittery number ’69’ on the front. Her boyfriend is expecting her round at his place, she says, pulling her ‘bored and trapped’ face. He’s cooked a meal and got the drugs in and everything, but she can’t face it. Not right now, anyway. What she wants right now is some action.
There’s a dark-haired young bloke sat in an alcove with his mates. Sharon fancies this bloke like the clappers. ‘Godboy’ she calls him. She goes over and chats to Godboy for a minute or two, then she comes back and says, ‘Me and Godboy are going for a drive, Jerry.’
Next morning I’m woken by a commotion going on downstairs.
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