And the kid’s in bed, so Rache pierces my ear with a sewing needle, puts one of her earrings in my ear, tells me it looks cool, squeezes the blackheads on my back, says she likes me in my new blue Adidas tee-shirt, lets me finger her on the front room carpet, then rub my cock on her cunt and up between her arse cheeks, and when I spunk it spits through the air, over the back of her head onto the red settee, which she cleans off with a wet tea towel quick, says What if I’m pregnant? So I tell her don’t be stupid, and she says she’s not stupid, so I tell her she is, her saying Fuck off, so I do do, down the road to The Blue Bell, sink seven quick ciders with Kingy and Skinner, then back babysitting to sort stuff out, but she won’t let me in, says I’m pissed... And when I throw up by the backdoor the kid’s fat mum and dad pull up onto the drive, him getting out the car saying What the fuck’s going on? And Rache’s crying, and I’m saying nothing, the kid’s fat mum saying Go now and don’t come back, me wiping my mouth on my new blue Adidas tee-shirt, throwing them all a two-fingered fuck-it, walking home down the lane under a blue-black blanket of star, full moon silvering the woods, singing Highway to Hell and not giving a fuck, making a promise to myself that I never will, the stink of wild garlic heavy in the hollow as a low-slung fox cuts across to the fly-tip, and I can’t decide whether this is good luck or bad luck, so I piss my name into a pothole, howl moon-mad like a cunt-hungry mongrel at the sky, shout God to go fuck himself, no echo returning.