Greg grabbed hold of his neck and pulled him closer. “Did you see the body Moonie? Messy I bet. Can’t be much left after hitting a wall at sixty.” Greg pushed him again and this time Tomas fell, spilling the books from his bag. Before he could pick himself up, Greg shoved him with his foot and he sprawled flat onto his face onto the cold tarmac. He dropped down next to Tomas, grabbing the back of his coat; his rings gouged into the back of Tomas’s neck. Greg hissed into his ear, “You’re weak like your old man, too posh for round here.” Greg stood and dragged Tomas with him, sneering into his face. “Did he leave you any money?” He tried to pull away, but Greg wasn’t going to let him. Greg called over his shoulder to the gathering crowd. “Have you seen his mum? She’s hot.” He turned back to Tomas and leered, “She’ll be needing someone to comfort her eh! Tell her I’ll be over later.” Before he could think, Tomas pushed Greg back and bunched his fists. He froze, suddenly unsure of what to do next.

Greg surged forward. “Oh yeh? Come on then.” Tomas turned to run, but could see no escape through the surrounding mob, keen to see his blood. But just as Greg raised his fist, the booming voice of Mr. Bates, stopped it dead in the air.

“That’s enough Brooks!” Bates ploughed through the crowd, like a dog scattering a flock of sheep. “Leave him alone, can’t you see he’s upset.” Tomas clenched his jaw and kept his eyes on the floor.

Greg turned to leave, the paused. His eyes fixed on Tomas, “We’ll see you later… and your mum.”  The smell of stale cigarettes added menace; Tomas feared it was no idle threat.

“Moone?” The imposing figure of Mr. Bates loomed over Tomas. “Are you alright?”

“Err… fine thanks… sir.” He turned to walk away, but Mr. Bates hadn’t finished.

“You know Moone, if you need to talk to someone about… you know, your troubles, you can always talk to Miss Olonga. That’s what she’s here for.”

Tomas stopped and turned around. “Thanks sir. I’ll think about it.” Behind Mr. Bates, Greg slid a finger across his throat.

4

“How was your day?” Matylda called through from the lounge.

Tomas collapsed back against the door, answering under his breath, “Shit,” but then louder for his mum’s benefit, “fine.” He looked down and smiled at Fudge. His faithful collie sat with his paw in the air, at the usual place to greet him. Tomas squatted and shook it. “Hi Fudge, good to see you mate.” He knew the name didn’t suit the collie, but it was the first thing that had come to mind, when the puppy’s face popped out of the basket on his fifth birthday.